LIA

“So,” Vernon said, sliding into your usual booth.

“So,” you said, matching his tone. He grinned.

“I’ve got an idea for you.”

“When do you not?”

“Okay, but this one’s actually good, okay? Hear me out.”

“I’m listening.” And to prove it, you took a sip of your coffee, eyes trained on him.

“Okay. Cool. So, picture this: post-apocalyptic zombie romance.”

You almost choked on your coffee, and Vernon burst out laughing.

“Hansol Vernon Chwe –”

“I’m kidding! I’m kidding.”

“You better be. Seungkwan would kill you.”

“Ugh, I know. Okay, but seriously, I have a pitch.”

“Not post-apocalyptic?” you confirmed, and he nodded, serious now.

“Not post-apocalyptic. But a psychological horror-thriller.”

“You and your fake blood,” you sighed, but you gestured for him to continue.

“Listen, fake blood is cool! And pretty cheap. Anyway, yes, it’s a psychological horror-thriller about a girl who has these nightmares. Nightmares where she kills her boyfriend.”

Vernon was grinning. You raised an eyebrow and took a sip of your latte.

“He tells her she could never hurt him. Whatever. But the nightmares keep getting worse, and she’s getting paranoid. Maybe she’s seeing, like, blood on him when the lights are off, but then it’s not there when she turns the lights on. She’s basically going insane. She can’t trust herself not to hurt him. And then it gets to the point where he comes up to her in the kitchen, and she’s cutting veggies or whatever, and she thinks she’s going to hurt him, so she locks herself in the bathroom and stabs herself instead. So that she won’t hurt him.”

He finished with a grin that was too wide and eyes that were too bright to be talking about insanity and suicide. But, what the hell, your eyes were probably just as bright as you leaned in with a grin of your own.

“You know what? Sure.”

The first movie you made together was a horror – or, as you’d come to realize since then, an attempt at one. You were thirteen, you and Vernon, except he went by Hansol then and you had only been friends for six years instead of seventeen.

But he’d knocked on your door one day with his dad’s old camcorder and a Halloween mask in his hands, and soon enough you were in the basement, tripping over your aunt’s graduation robe and lurking in the closet while he waited outside for your grand entrance.

“Okay, go!” Hansol called, the little click of a button cuing you.

“BOO!” you shrieked, throwing the doors open. They clattered against the walls as you burst through, reaching for Hansol and the camera. He bit his lip, face scrunching up to keep from laughing, and backed away, zooming in on your face before hitting the button to stop the video.

“Okay, stop!” he said, breaking into a smile that showcased the braces lining his teeth. You yanked the bootleg Ghostface mask off your head, beaming just as wide, shoving back the long wisps of hair that the mask tried to pull with it. (The static electricity made it a fairly futile attempt.)

“Did it look good?”

“Yes! So now we need a video of the girl running away.”

“Okay!” You tossed the mask aside and swam out of the large black robes, leaving you in just your jean shorts and the tie-dye tank top you’d made together last summer. “Good?”

“Yep!” Hansol moved to stand inside the closet, and you took his place outside it. “Okay, so I’m gonna close the doors, and then when I say ‘Go,’ you’re gonna open them and scream, okay? And, like, back up, and stuff. Be really scared.”

You nodded and closed the doors on him. “Ready?”

“Ready. Okay, go!”

You opened the closet doors to see Hansol’s camera pointed at your face, and you widened your eyes and screamed, backing away. He followed you.

But then the old braided rug caught your shoe, and the floor dropped away beneath your feet. Somehow, Hansol went down too, crashing on top of you, the camera jostling somewhere above your heads.

“Oof,” you said, blinking. He lifted his head and looked into your eyes, and then together you burst out laughing.

“You okay down there?” your mom called, the door at the top of the stairs creaking open. “I heard screaming –”

“We’re fine, Mom!” you shouted back.

“Alright, well, come up for lunch soon, okay?”

“Okay!”

Hansol rolled off you finally, still giggling. “Oh, hey, the camera’s still on!” he said, swinging it up to point at you as you sat up. “Say hi!”

“Hi!” you said with a wave. “Hansol fell on me.” You stuck your tongue out.

“Hey, you’re the one who tripped!” he argued, pushing at your shoulder.

“You’re the one who crushed me! You should apologize.” And you crossed your arms and stuck your nose in the air like the snooty princess from Sofia the First.

“I am so very sorry, your royal highness, can you ever forgive me?” he said, camera wobbling as he bowed forward. His hair flopped with him, almost into your lap, all loose brown curls.

“Huh, I dunno,” you said, tapping your chin thoughtfully. “What’re you gonna do to make it up to me?”

He lifted his head, bangs falling in his eyes, and met your gaze with a shockingly intense expression. “Anything. Anything and everything, for you.”

For a moment, you stared. Then you burst into laughter and shoved at him. “Yeah, sure, I forgive you. Last one to lunch is a loser!”

And you scrambled to your feet and raced upstairs, feet pounding on the rickety wooden steps.

Hansol tracked you with the camera for a moment, sitting still on the braided rug in your basement and just watching through the viewfinder.

The door swung loosely behind you. Then you poked your head back downstairs, frowning.

“Hansol? C’mon, what happened to anything and everything?”

He hit the button and stopped recording.

“I’m coming!”

You smiled again, bright and beautiful, and disappeared upstairs.

Anything and everything.

That was the day you both realized you loved making movies.

And the day Hansol realized he was in love with you.

Vernon glanced around the green, searching for the familiar bright colors that always followed you around. He smiled when he found you, cross-legged on a picnic table, and beelined for you and your bright orange overalls. You were squinting at your computer screen, spine curved once again despite all his gentle nudges about fixing your posture, and judging from the shadowy branches that settled a few inches to your right, you’d been in the shade at one point, but had been there long enough for the sun to push the shadows away.

He quickened his pace just slightly to get to your table faster, setting down the drinks and wiping his wet palms on his jeans. The California sun hadn’t been his friend on the long walk across campus, but thankfully the ice in his coffee and the slushie-blend in yours hadn’t melted too horribly.

Despite the clear appearance of the drinks, he still had to tap the top edge of your computer to get you to notice him. You jerked back, dragged from the void of the screen, and he grinned.

“Hey. Got you your fruity caffeine.” He gestured to the drinks.

Your eyes lit up. “Dutch Bros? Oh my gosh, I love you,” you said in a rush, grabbing the blended Rebel and the straw as he offered it.

I love you. Something stirred in Vernon’s chest, and he just smiled, sliding onto the bench. As you ripped open the straw, he reached over and peeled the sticker off the mouth of the cup, folding it away and tucking it into the pocket of his jeans. You didn’t seem to notice, too busy shoving the straw into the cup and taking a long sip, but Vernon just crossed his arms, leaned on the edge of the table, and waited.

“Good?” he asked when you finally set the plastic cup down, with an inch less drink in it than before.

You nodded eagerly. “Yes. Thank you so much.” You smiled, and Vernon felt his cheeks stretch wide in response.

“So,” he said, clearing his throat and recomposing his face, “how’s it going?”

Your smile fell almost entertainingly fast. “Ugh. Getting there, but, like… it’s not there. Why’d you hafta pick such a weird story?”

“Weird?”

You nodded, and a lock of hair fell into your eyes. You tucked it behind your ear before Vernon could even think about reaching out. (Unfortunately.) “It’s a really cool concept, but trying to figure out the steps that it would take to drive someone insane is hard. I have to get into her head and pick her apart. And then I have to translate it to visuals of specific moments in time. Writing isn’t easy, you know.”

You pouted. (Maybe you thought you were frowning, but Vernon was pretty sure it was just a pout.) It was… adorable, to say the least.

“I’m sorry,” he said honestly, looking up at you, backlit by the sun and beautiful. “I can still pick something else, if that’d be easier. We’ve got some time until pitches.”

But you were shaking your head before he’d even finished. “No, I just need to think about it more. I’ve only been working on it since Tuesday.”

Vernon nodded, pursing his lips. “If you’re sure.”

“Yeah. I’m sure.” You smiled at him, and the butterfly in his chest did a flip. They were old friends, Vernon and Mr. Butterfly. Down, boy, he thought as he smiled back at you. She just smiled. Nothing crazy.

“Alright. Then take a break. Let’s go on a walk or something.” Not that he’d just walked halfway across campus to bring you your beloved Dutch Bros, of course. That was irrelevant. So was the sweat gluing his shirt to his back in the sixty-degree California winter.

Your gaze drifted from him to your computer to the drink in your hand. He watched you weigh the choices.

“We can stop by the café for pastries,” he suggested, and he watched your eyes light up.

You snapped your computer shut. “Sounds good to me. You’re buying, right?”

“Yes, I’ll buy your pain-of-chocolate,” Vernon said, pronouncing it as wrong and as American as possible, and you paused with your laptop halfway into your bag, staring at him with an adorable and slightly scandalized look on your face.

“That is not – oh, whatever. And I was joking about you paying! You already got me Dutch.”

He shrugged, standing and leaning his hip against the table as he waited for you to finish packing up. “I don’t mind.”

“Yeah, well, out of the two of us, you’re the one who doesn’t have a job,” you huffed. He just took a sip of his iced caramelizer something and smiled. “Okay, let’s go.” You swung your bag over your shoulder, pins jingling against the light canvas, and grabbed your drink before turning to him with the most adorable, expectant look – the cutest thing he’d seen all day – and he had to fight a smile as he turned and started to follow.

He let you pay for your pain au chocolat and for his chocolate croissant, but only because you looked up at him with those beautiful eyes, and he couldn’t exactly say no.

Vernon thumbed the thin stack of red-inked papers in his hands, dodging tables and chairs and studying (sleeping) students as he wove his way to the back corner of the campus library. Your favorite spot was there; the little square table by the window that overlooked the green.

Your earbuds were in when he arrived, colorful strings braided around the length of white cord, and he smiled, a little of the tension fading from his shoulders. It had been a while since he’d had the time to hang out with you – ‘a while’ being about 36 hours – but even just seeing the focused pinch of your eyebrows was more than enough to make up for it.

He slipped around behind you and, arms bracketing your head, carefully lowered the marked-up script in between you and your computer.

You jerked back in surprise, and Vernon couldn’t move fast enough – your head slammed into the side of his jaw with a dull thud. His teeth clacked together, and he dropped the papers, reaching to cradle the back of your head.

“Crap, I’m sorry,” he rushed, your hair soft under his thumb as your wide eyes stared up at him.

“Hansol?” you breathed, a hint of incredulity seeping through, but Vernon’s chest fluttered despite it. Hansol. You yanked your earbuds out by the cord. “What…?”

“Sorry,” he said again, pulling himself out of your eyes. “I didn’t think you’d, uh, jump.”

“I didn’t think you’d materialize behind me!” Your own hand reached up to cover his. His skin tingled with warmth, and he pulled his hand away as Mr. Butterfly caused chaos in his chest. “Geez, that hurts! Ow!”

“Sorry –” Vernon cut himself off as the librarian walked around the corner, pushing a cart of books. He lowered his voice. “I’m sorry. Do you need to put ice on it?”

But you shook your head, matching his pitch as you spoke again. “No, it’s fine. I’m just being a baby.”

Nothing wrong with that, Vernon wanted to say, but you were reaching for the papers he’d dropped all over your laptop, so the words stayed in his head.

“Oh, you read through it already?” you said, eyes darting to him as you organized the pages. “I sent it to you, like, less than an hour ago.”

Vernon shrugged. “I had time. I wasn’t doing anything else.” He’d scrambled to finish the last few pages of his media history textbook in order to sprint to the library and print the script, then had huddled in the corner on the floor below you and read it six times over before giving the best, most honest (and objective) notes he could. It 

He watched your lips twitch up in a smile. Then focus settled over your face as you flipped past the title page, eyes scanning the red marks of his pen, and he drew out a chair to sit beside you.

The nice thing about this situation was that he could just… look at you. You were so enveloped in his notes that you wouldn’t be looking up, and since they were his notes on a script for his project, you wouldn’t think twice about his eyes on you. So he could just look at you, admire you, and no one would say anything about –

“There you are!”

Vernon’s head snapped up as Seungkwan’s massive bag hit the table across from him.

“Uh, hi,” he said, blinking as though that would clear away the tingle in his cheeks. “Shh, we’re in a library. Did you need us for something?”

“I need you,” Seungkwan said, his voice at least a little quieter as he sat down and pulled a binder from his backpack. Ah. The Binder. “Pitches are happening in three days and you haven’t given me anything.”

“Well, we’re still finalizing the script –”

“Oh, I know; Y/N sent it to me an hour ago. But you haven’t given me anything else. I need moodboards, Vernon! Moodboards!” Seungkwan hissed. “This is your senior project! And mine, too, unless I ditch you for Namjoon!”

Vernon wrinkled his nose. “You wouldn’t.”

“You’re right, I wouldn’t,” Seungkwan sighed. “But I still need your stupid moodboards, okay?”

“The script isn’t finished –”

“You can make moodboards before the script is finished. Come on, we’re doing this now.” Seungkwan popped his laptop open and spun it to face Vernon. The home page of Pinterest stared back at him, cute puppies and creepy warehouses filling the screen. “Now, Vernon,” Seungkwan said with a harsh poke to his shoulder. Vernon swatted at his hand.

“Fine, fine. Look up, uh, blood.”

Seungkwan’s glare was almost enough to make Vernon crack. (It really wasn’t.) “You are the worst director I’ve ever worked with.”

You looked up at that, frowning. “What?”

“Vernon won’t cooperate,” Seungkwan said immediately as you glanced between him and Vernon. (Mr. Butterfly fluttered.) “He hates your script and wants to pick another one.”

“What?” Vernon blurted, sitting up straighter and flashing Seungkwan the most annoyed look he could before turning to you and your wide, injured eyes. “No I don’t! I love it –”

“Then make a moodboard for it!” Seungkwan whined. Vernon almost hit him.

“I wanna make sure that she’s happy with the story before I do anything else with it,” he said as evenly as he could, shooting Seungkwan a look. “There’s no point in making a moodboard if it’s just gonna change later.”

“I’d rather have something for Friday than nothing, even if we do have to change it later.” Seungkwan crossed his arms.

“I am happy with the story, though?” you said slowly. “I mean, I’ve gotta tweak the script to fit your notes, but I like the notes. They’re good. I’m happy to fix it and then lock the script.”

“Really?” That dang butterfly again. “You like it?”

You nodded, a lock of hair slipping into your eyes. You shoved it back and picked up one of the script pages. “Yeah. Adding the scene with the bloody mouth is a really good idea, I can really see it. And, I mean, it’d freak me out if I kissed my boyfriend and he started bleeding,” you added with a grin. “So. It’s good. I can have it written up in, like, five minutes?”

Right. The script. Vernon nodded quickly, ignoring how Mr. Butterfly writhed inside him. He didn’t have time for that, not with you and Seungkwan both looking at him expectantly. Mr. Butterfly could wait. “Yeah. Yeah, that’d be great. And I’ll start on the moodboard, and once you’re done we can probably lock the script.”

“And then we can finally get started on the rest of the pitch. Great!” Seungkwan clapped his hands (too loudly for the library, drawing a couple glances from other students scribbling homework) and tapped his computer.

“Shh,” Vernon hissed, but he pulled the laptop closer and typed ‘thriller blood aesthetic’ into the Pinterest search bar. Seungkwan’s feed was going to be ruined after this, but that was a regular occurrence anyway.

Seungkwan flipped open his binder. It thwacked Vernon on the elbow.

“Dude!”

“Sorry! Move your elbow!”

“Move your binder!” But Vernon adjusted his seat, maybe shifting a little closer to you. (You didn’t notice. You were typing away, earbuds in, the tip of your tongue pinched between your teeth and just barely visible between your parted lips. Your lips were glossy. They usually were – you liked your lip glosses, he knew; the ones with the little charms dangling off the ends – and today’s pick was something a little red, something that matched your loose reddish sweater, cropped and netted to show the fitted tank top underneath. Light blue cargo jeans somehow tied together the outfit, sandwiched between that berry-red sweater and your matching high-tops, and the way you pressed your knees together and rolled your feet up onto your toes was so endearing and –)

Something smacked into Vernon’s shin, and he jumped. Seungkwan was glaring at him.

“What?” Vernon hissed.

“Stop staring.”

“I’m not staring!”

“You were.”

“I wasn’t – shh!” Vernon shoved his focus onto the computer. There was a photo of a shower drain with water the color of your lip gloss. He saved it to a new folder. “See? I’m doing the stuff!”

Seungkwan just scoffed and kept scribbling in his binder.

Vernon did manage to focus on the moodboard after that, assembling an army of photos that matched the setting and aesthetic in his mind. He’d even started to organize them when you finally pulled your earbuds out, a triumphant smile on your glossy lips.

“Okay, done!” you said proudly, turning your laptop around. “Take a look and let me know what you think.”

Vernon leaned in, scrolling slowly through the script as Seungkwan read over his shoulder. It was good, just like he’d expected; you’d taken his notes and adjusted the script accordingly, even adding the brief make-out scene he’d thought of. He could see it as he read, the shots playing out before his eyes.

Seungkwan clicked his tongue as he reached the end. “Wow. I assume you want to get Junhui and Lei to act?”

“Oh, for sure. I wouldn’t have suggested a make-out scene if I was gonna cast two people who weren’t dating. Or who at least knew each other.” Vernon nudged your computer back to you, smiling. “I love it. I’m happy to lock it.”

The brilliant, relieved smile that broke over your face was beautiful. Mr. Butterfly thought so, too.

“Okay, I’ll go print it,” you said, taking your laptop back. “How many copies?”

“Four,” Seungkwan answered. “Send me the PDF, too, so I can shoot Jun and Lei an email.” You nodded.

“You could just text them,” Vernon pointed out, but Seungkwan’s face screwed up into something weird and scandalized. You stifled a laugh.

“A professional producer would email their actors. Never text.”

“I’m gonna go grab the scripts,” you said, pushing back your chair and standing. Vernon watched your hair swing behind you as you walked away.

Then: “Ow!”

Seungkwan had kicked his leg again. Vernon glared, hiking his knee up to massage his injured shin.

“Dude, stop. You’re gonna give me a bruise.”

“When are you gonna tell her?”

Vernon looked up, eyes snapping to Seungkwan’s for a moment before scanning the room to make sure you were gone. (You were. Mr. Butterfly, however, was going crazy.)

He glared openly at Seungkwan.

“I thought I told you to stop.”

“And I thought I told you that you look like a lovesick puppy whenever she’s around, and I’m sick of it?” Seungkwan leaned across the table, mouth curling in… disgust? Ouch. “You need to tell her or get over her, seriously.”

Mr. Butterfly writhed and tried to hide behind Vernon’s Adam’s apple. Not a great idea. He cleared his throat and tucked his knee back under the table.

“It’s fine. I’ve lived with it this long, and it’s been fine. I’m happy just being her friend and being around her. Okay?” He shrugged. “Seriously, Kwan. I love her for her. Not for, like, romance or whatever.”

“You love her?” Seungkwan echoed, his eyebrows rising dramatically. Vernon frowned.

“Yeah, I thought you knew this?”

“I knew you liked her.”

“Oh. Well, regardless, I’m fine waiting until she’s ready.”

“And what if she’s never ready?” Seungkwan pressed.

Vernon shrugged, leaning back. “Then I’ll probably move on naturally. And I’m fine with that. I’m actually patient, you know.”

Seungkwan just blinked. Then he shook his head. “You, Vernon Chwe,” he huffed, picking up his pencil again, “are incredible.”

“Thank you.”

“Not like that –”

“Shh, she’s coming back. Keep working on your producer-y stuff.”

“You mean your pitch? Keep working on your moodboard, director boy.”

“Hey –”

“Here!” you announced, dropping back into your seat with a pile of papers in hand. “Scripts for both of you. You got the PDF, right?” you added, handing three of the scripts to Seungkwan, and he nodded.

“Thank you. I’ll send out the emails once Vernon’s done with my computer.”

“Dude, just take it. I wanna work on storyboards anyway, I have some ideas.” Vernon nudged the laptop back across the table, making room for the script you set down in front of him. Stapled vertically along one edge, just the way he liked it. He flashed you a smile as Mr. Butterfly ran a cheer routine in his chest. “Thanks.”

You smiled back at him, eyes glittering and lips shining, and Mr. Butterfly did a flip.

Vernon stared in the mirror, something unsettling burrowing into his gut. He swallowed.

Carefully, very carefully, he lifted a hand and prodded at his jaw.

Pain flared from the ugly purple bruise.

Crap.

Maybe sneaking up behind you two days before his pitch meeting was a really, really bad idea. He groaned, rubbing his hands over his face, until that aggravated the bruise and he grimaced.

Yeah. Really bad idea.

At least he could still talk, as evidenced by the brief ‘good morning’ conversation he’d had with Seungkwan – before his roommate started freaking out over the “huge bruise” on his face.

Now Vernon was standing in the bathroom and questioning everything.

He had to pitch his senior project today. His senior project. And he could not go in looking like he’d lost a fight to a small-fisted powerhouse.

So he did the only thing he’d done for the last three years when things got bad: He called you.

“Why are you wearing a mask?” was the first thing Vernon heard when you opened the door to your dorm building. Followed quickly by: “And why do you need my makeup, again?”

He chuckled sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, so, that might be, uh, related. Um. Can we – can we go to your dorm?”

“Sure,” you said, heading towards the stairs. He followed, like he always did. “But you’ve gotta explain. Also, Youngji’s still home, so hopefully that’s alright.”

“Yeah, I don’t mind.”

You looked at him over your shoulder. He locked his eyes on the stairs beneath his feet.

Vernon didn’t think he’d ever get used to the explosion of color that was your room. The decorated front of your door was just the beginning. Inside, a fluffy blue rug covered the cold floor, multicolored curtains framed the window between the beds, and posters and polaroids and all sorts of everything decorated the walls.

And his old hoodie, the rainbow tie-dye one that had somehow become yours over the years, sat draped over the corner of your bedspread. A smile broke across his face, and he let it; you couldn’t see it under the mask anyway.

“Vernon, heyyy!” Youngji said, and he looked over quickly, waving. Your roommate sat cross-legged on her bed, pencil wiggling between her fingers and a messy notebook on the blanket before her. “Don’t worry, I’m out soon. I’ve got Alcoholic History in a few.”

“Alcoholic History?” Vernon echoed, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah, I thought it’d be fun.” Youngji shrugged and glanced at her phone. Her eyes blew wide. “Oh, shoot, I gotta go! Bye!”

She rolled off the bed, grabbed her backpack and shoes, and all but stumbled out the door. Vernon caught it before it could slam, closing it gently with a quiet chuckle.

“Alcoholic History is the study of the creation and history of alcohol, in case you were still confused,” you said, and Vernon’s attention snapped back to you. You were halfway through clearing your desk, a large makeup bag waiting on top of his old rainbow hoodie.

“I was. Thank you.”

“Mhm. No problem. Now, uh,” you glanced up at him, hair drifting into your eyes, and Mr. Butterfly screamed, “do you wanna tell me why you’re wearing a mask and why you need me to do your makeup? Cause I’m assuming you don’t just wanna play dress up on pitch day.”

Ah. Right. Vernon winced, reaching up to tug the loop from around his ear. “Don’t freak out, okay? I know it looks bad, but it doesn’t really hurt. Much.”

“Doesn’t hurt –”

He pulled the mask off, and your jaw dropped.

“Hansol!” you gasped, and then your hands were at his chin, tilting his head to the side, fingers ghosting over his skin. He inhaled sharply. Your touch disappeared as fast as it had come, but his head still spun. “Sorry! I didn’t mean to hurt you – Hansol, what the hell happened? Did you get in a fight?”

“No, uh, nothing like that,” he said quickly, shaking his head and shoving the mask deep into his pocket. “I, uh – remember the library on Wednesday?”

Vernon watched your eyes go round as saucers.

“Oh my gosh, you mean – when you scared me – my head did that?!”

He nodded slowly, wincing. “Um, yeah. But it’s fine! It doesn’t hurt that bad. I just, y’know, would rather not walk into our pitch meeting looking like… this. Can you, like, cover it up?”

You blinked at him for a minute, then sighed. “Yeah, I can. Sit down, dumbass.”

Vernon’s lips quirked into a smile as he dropped into your desk chair. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Go to Minghao, probably. This is much more his line of expertise than mine.” You plopped your makeup bag onto your desk and rifled through it.

“Nah, Minghao wouldn’t let me hear the end of it.”

“And I will?” You rolled your eyes, shoving a lock of hair behind your ear. His eyes traced the motion. He couldn’t help it. “You’re such an idiot. Hang on.” Then your fingers were under his chin, guiding his head to the left again as you held a glass tube against his cheek.

“Yeah, that’ll work,” you decided, and then the burning pressure of your fingers and the cool weight of the glass were gone, and he could breathe again.

Until you turned toward him, another little tube in hand. Was that… green? “Hold still, alright? And let me know if it hurts.”

You gently pinched his chin, tilting his head and leaning closer, and he was done with words for a while. Mostly because he couldn’t talk without moving his jaw. But also because you were so close, and so beautiful – hair framing your face, breath feathering along his cheek as you dabbed green pigment across his jaw. It hurt, a little bit, but not enough that it was worth mentioning. He could suffer if it meant you were this close to him.

After a bit, you pulled away, one hand still resting under his chin as you reached for something else. Vernon swallowed thickly.

“Can you talk to me?” he whispered.

A little smile lifted the corner of your lips. Pink gloss today, to match the little bows that dotted your jeans and the little heart that dangled from your neck.

“Yep,” you said. Your eyes were on your makeup bag, on the brush in your hands, but Mr. Butterfly still seemed intent on wreaking havoc in his chest. “Need something to get your mind off the pitch, huh?”

“Yeah,” Vernon lied. Sure. The pitch. If he needed to be distracted from the pitch, he would’ve pulled out his phone and started scrolling.

“Anything in particular today?”

“No. Just… you. Whatever, I mean.”

“Alright.” You swept at his jaw with a big soft brush, and his eyes drifted shut. “Well, I had waffles for breakfast this morning. With butter and syrup and everything. Youngji and I ate together in the cafeteria. I saw Seungkwan there, but he looked like he was on his third coffee already, so I didn’t bother him.” You chuckled, and it rang in Vernon’s ears like music.

You told him about your morning, about the scene you were trying to crack in your feature, about this absolute dumpster fire of a script that one of your classmates was writing and insisted was good, and he listened to all of it. Your voice filled his head, settling into his bones, grounding him the way it always did.

But also your fingertips burned against his skin. Your shampoo, the honey-rose one you’d used since senior year of high school, filled his nose. He couldn’t get enough of it. Once, you pulled away to swap out your brush, and he had to keep himself from drifting after you. (You returned with concealer smeared across your fingers, and when you began to pat it gently along his jaw, he inhaled so quickly that you apologized for hurting him. He just mumbled something noncommittal and closed his eyes.)

“Okay, I think we’re almost done,” you announced at last, nudging his head from side to side. (The tip of your finger grazed his throat, and Mr. Butterfly lost his mind a little bit.) “Yeah, that’s good. You’re lucky I had to learn how to cover up hickies.”

Vernon’s brain screeched to a stop.

Your hand dropped from his chin, and you pulled away, twisting the cap back onto your concealer.

“Hickies?” he echoed blankly. You snorted.

“Yeah. I would be surprised you never noticed, but that just means I did a good job covering them up.”

“When –”

But you nearly dropped your phone, eyes widening. “Shoot, it’s almost noon! We have to meet Seungkwan!”

“What?!”

Vernon dragged himself to his feet, mind whirling now for too many reasons. You shoved the rest of your makeup back into the case, containers clattering together, and slung your messenger bag over your shoulder.

“Okay, how do I look?” you asked, big eyes staring up at Vernon.

His breath caught, mind short-circuiting somewhere between a thought about the pitch in two hours and who the hell had given you hickies. He blinked.

Glossy pink lips. Perfect eyeliner. Little bows dangling from your earlobes, bows on your pants, white converse with ribbon laces. An oversized pink hoodie.

“Great,” he said, because his dumb brain was horrible with words. Amazing. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Pretty. Adorable. ‘Great.’ Yeah, he was fine. So fine.

But you smiled and grabbed his arm and dragged him out of the dorm.

Vernon had just enough presence of mind during your scramble across campus to, one, shove the thought of you’re lucky I had to learn how to cover up hickies far away into the recesses of his brain, and, two, realize that he’d completely forgotten his backpack and needed to call Seungkwan and ask him to bring it.

Yeah, this was a great start to pitch day.

Vernon stared at the door. The makeup felt cakey on his jaw, but you and Seungkwan hadn’t said anything about it, so it must be fine. It had to be.

Seungkwan had everything in his binder. The slides were on Vernon’s hard drive, stored in the main folder so he wouldn’t have to dig for them, and his hard drive was in his sweaty hand. Ugh. Sweaty. He grimaced and wiped his palms on his jeans, leaving the precious hard drive in his lap for a moment.

It’d be fine. They’d be fine. Wonwoo and Seungcheol were committed to the project, and Professor Kim loved them – for good reason; they were arguably the best DP-gaffer duo in the school – and Seungkwan had yet to produce a project that failed. Vernon was pretty sure that he was one of the better directors, but he didn’t want to bet too hard on that. Besides, it was the script that was really under fire here, more than his directing skills.

The script. Right. Your script.

Vernon swallowed tightly. He’d suggested the idea. He’d made you write the script. He’d had opinions and suggestions and edits for you. Had he infringed too much? Had he gotten in the way? That was the last thing he wanted to do, ever, but what if he’d done it accidentally anyway? What if he suggested something bad, and the script got shot down because of it, and not only did he have to scramble to be on a different senior project but you did, too?

His stomach churned. He was going to ruin your senior year and it was all his fault and you’d just be miserable and upset, and it was all going to be his fault, and you’d hate him, and –

Something settled on his knee. His eyes flicked up to find you watching him, perfect brows knitted together, glossy pink lips pushed out in a little pout.

“Hey,” you said, quiet. “Tell me the logline for the film again.”

“When Nora starts having visions where she kills her boyfriend, Tien, she must choose between protecting his life by leaving or protecting his heart by staying,” Vernon recited easily. It was almost automatic at this point.

You smiled, fingertips and thumb gently pressing into the sides of his knee. Mr. Butterfly gasped for air. “Yeah. Perfect. You’re gonna do great, Hansol. Don’t stress so much. You’ve got this.”

Vernon didn’t know what made him do it. He just did it. He reached out and slipped his hand under yours, against his knee, curling his fingers around the back of your hand.

“We’ve got this,” he corrected with a gentle squeeze. You smiled back at him, and if you’d asked him to fly right then, he would’ve soared.

Seungkwan cleared his throat. “Yeah. All three of us have got this.”

The door clicked open.

“Next?”

Vernon stood up so fast he almost dropped his hard drive. He had to drop your hand to catch it.

But your smile stayed as the three of you walked into the terrifying jaws of the pitch room. And the feeling of your palm against his, your hand on his knee, lingered far longer.

“I’m gonna throw up,” Vernon repeated, staring into his trash can. Seungkwan sighed and swirled the ice in his melting americano. Clinkclinkclinkclinkclink.

“You’re going to be fine.” Seungkwan threw a crumpled index card at him. Vernon didn’t move as it bounced off his shoulder. He just stared at the pile of index cards already in the trash. “The whole board liked it, I promise. Don’t worry. Besides, have I ever pitched a project that didn’t get accepted?”

Vernon swallowed. “The tangerine documentary freshman year.”

“Okay, that was a joke!” Seungkwan complained immediately, another index card flying. This time it hit Vernon’s cheek, and he wrinkled his nose, but didn’t move. He couldn’t. “Listen, it’s a solid project. We’ve got a solid pitch and a solid team. Y/N’s script is amazing. Your moodboard holds together and looks good. Junhui and Lei are on board. We’ll be fine. Nothing to worry about.”

“I’m still gonna throw up.”

“Oh, you’re impossible.” Seungkwan pulled out his phone and gasped. “Three o’clock! Here it comes!”

“Oh, no –” Vernon buried his face in his hands. “I’m not looking.”

“Here,” Seungkwan said, setting down his iced coffee with a clink. “I’ll read it to you, since you’re such a chicken.”

“I am not –”

“‘Hello, students!’”

“Kwan –”

“‘Congratulations on a great round of pitches!’” Seungkwan continued, voice growing even louder. Vernon debated clamping his hands over his ears, but then Seungkwan would just start screaming. That might actually make him cry. “‘We’ve selected the top seven projects for production this year. See below for the full list of approved projects.’”

“Seungkwan, please –”

“‘Number one: Bleeding Hearts, directed by Vernon Chwe!’”

Vernon’s bones locked. All of them.

“What?” he managed, his jaw creaking.

Seungkwan whooped. It almost shattered Vernon’s eardrums. “Number one on the list, baby! What did I tell you? Nothing to worry about! You’ve got yourself a movie!”

Vernon’s heartbeat raced in his ears. He blinked. “We got green-lit.”

“Hell yeah, we did!”

He shook his head and scrambled to find his backpack, digging his phone out of whatever deep recess he’d hidden it in. He needed to see for himself.

But sure enough, after he’d tried and failed to open the email three separate times from how much his hands shook, there it was: Bleeding Hearts, directed by Vernon Chwe.

“No way,” he whispered. 

“Yes way! Woo-hoo!” Seungkwan clapped. “We did it!”

“Yeah,” Vernon agreed, his thoughts drifting back to your hand on his knee and your beautiful eyes on his. “We did.” Oh. You. He should text you and freak out about the good news. Unless you hadn’t seen it yet? Would you rather find out from him or from an official email? Should he wait until you texted him, to make sure that he didn’t spoil the surprise? He didn’t want to spoil it for you if you wanted to find out by yourself. Or maybe he should go get you a pain au chocolat thing from that café and tell you in person? Or would that be too much?

A rapid knock on the door rattled him out of his thoughts. Seungkwan was up and yanking the door open before Vernon had fully processed anything.

Then –

“We did it!” you cheered as you flew inside, flinging your arms around Seungkwan’s neck and hugging him tightly. He hugged you back, but you were already pulling away – with your eyes locked on Vernon, half twisted in his uncomfortable wooden desk chair, the garbage can still between his socked feet.

Your eyes glowed. Glittered, even. Your cheeks were red, from makeup or excitement or running he couldn’t tell, but you looked beautiful anyway. Most of your hair was tied back with a bright yellow bow, except for a few strands that had fallen. You looked almost windswept. Maybe you had run there.

And your hoodie. Oh, oh, you were wearing his hoodie. The tie-dye one. The one that had somehow made its way into your closet so many years ago, and he was so fine with it, he was more than fine with it, because you were in his hoodie and you were beaming at him and breathing hard and breathtaking.

“Hi,” he said dumbly. Mr. Butterfly was well into an acrobatic routine, beating out the rhythm of his heartbeat at a highly unnecessary speed.

“You did it,” you said, breathless, and then you were on him. One knee hiked up on his lap, the other foot on the ground; arms around his shoulders and face in his neck.

Vernon froze. Was this what his computer felt like when he tried to import too many files at once? Overloaded, wired to the point of immobility, tingling all over like he’d been electrocuted –

You laughed, warm breath puffing across his throat, and he swore he nearly died. Oh.

Hug her back, dumbass! Mr. Butterfly screamed through the roar in his ears. Oh. Right. Vernon slowly extracted his leaden arms and wrapped them carefully around you, one at your waist and one across your back. His hands hovered at first, but then you squeezed him and he squeezed back automatically, and oh. The familiar fabric of his old hoodie atop the gentle warmth of your skin, soft and plush beneath his fingers – oh, oh, oh.

He shifted his right hand up, almost to the top of your spine, and soft waves of hair welcomed him, cascading over the hood. His eyes fluttered shut. His fingers moved by themselves, trailing back and forth, weaving through your hair and ghosting across your back with just enough pressure that his fingertips buzzed. He wondered if you felt it, too, and then your hand curled into the hair at the base of his neck and he forgot his own name. Forgot everything but the pressure of your arms and the scent of your honey-rose shampoo.

You squeezed him tighter for one beautiful, blissful moment.

Then you pulled away, and it was like winter slapped him in the face. In the whole body. Gone was your weight, your warmth, your shampoo; everything lingered, but nothing stayed.

His head spun. He watched from behind the camera as you said something, laughed, hugged Seungkwan again. He couldn’t speak. Couldn’t even really think. He just watched, hoping in vain that he didn’t look as wrecked as he felt, like you’d single-handedly unraveled him with a single hug.

Oh. He could still feel the weight of your knee on his thigh, pressing in just the wrong place, sending a horrid twinge up his leg that he would give anything to feel again. The softness of your skin, the gentle scrape of your nails against the nape of his neck… oh.

You looked at him again. He met your eyes – big, beautiful eyes, shrinking in the shadow of your smile. Your laugh. Seungkwan said something and you had laughed.

Then Seungkwan led you to the door, a gentle hand on your back, and Vernon watched in slow motion as you waved him goodbye and disappeared.

The harsh click of the door hit him like a bucket of water. Then something did hit him – Seungkwan’s hand, sharp and stinging against his shoulder. He flinched.

“Ow.”

“Are you okay?” Seungkwan hissed, eyes wide. Vernon stared up at him.

“Uh, are you concerned or angry?” he said slowly, trying to piece his brain back together.

Seungkwan’s already-raised eyebrows raised again. “I don’t know. What should I be? You looked like you were in a coma. And knowing you and your absolute idiocy, you were losing your mind over her hugging you. Right?”

Suddenly Vernon’s cheeks were burning. Seungkwan rolled his eyes.

“Oh, my gosh,” he groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You have so many issues.”

“Wait, why did she leave?” Vernon asked, frowning. “We should’ve gotten In-N-Out or something. To celebrate. Wait, no, she likes Chick-fil-A.”

Seungkwan turned and stared at him with a look that could only be described as incredulous. “She left because I told her you were sick. Because you were as still as a literal tree. She asked why you weren’t excited and I had to tell her that you were sick. Lucky I didn’t say what you were sick with, you absolute lovesick simp!”

He smacked his shoulder again. Vernon winced.

“So yes, I lied to her to make her leave, because you had the functionality of a log!” Seungkwan groaned. “Oh, why did I decide to room with you again? For three years? You are the worst.”

“Hey, I’m not that bad –”

“She hugged you and you froze. I saw the look on your face for a solid three seconds. Like you forgot how to be a normal human.”

Vernon looked down. Mr. Butterfly hadn’t stopped running laps in his chest. Flying laps, whatever. It was still too fast. Too fast. He forced himself to take a long, slow breath.

“And now you’re doing breathing exercises, great,” Seungkwan moaned, faceplanting into his bed. “I don’t have the mental fortitude to deal with this. Unless,” he said, his head popping up from the covers with concerningly bright eyes, “you want me to help you two get together.”

Vernon’s eyes might have popped out of his head. “No! I told you, no!”

“You said you’re fine waiting,” Seungkwan said, narrowing his eyes. “That didn’t seem like ‘I’m fine waiting.’ That seemed like ‘I’m going to die if I don’t kiss her.’”

Vernon choked. Like, actually inhaled wrong and choked on air and had to cough his way back into regular breathing.

When he finally recovered, he faced Seungkwan with the most serious frown he could muster.

“Okay. Seriously. Sure, fine, I want to kiss her,” Vernon said, ignoring the heat rising to his ears at the mere thought, “but I also really want to wait. I don’t want to hurt her. And I especially don’t want to lose her. So, please, Seungkwan, just… don’t do anything about it. Let it happen naturally, or not at all. I’m fine with either option. Please.”

He swallowed and waited and didn’t quite dare to breathe again. Seungkwan narrowed his eyes at him, crossing his arms.

“So you’d rather I let her stay in here and talk until she realized how close to nirvana you were?” he said at last, and the heat in Vernon’s ears spread down his neck.

“No, I mean, that was fine – thank you for that, I guess – but like, that’s not gonna happen constantly, and I just mean –”

But Seungkwan waved his hands in the air, shaking his head. “I know, I know. I’m kidding. But, fine. I’ve got your back. But I won’t do anything about it.” He paused. Vernon raised an eyebrow and waited. “…Except tease you,” Seungkwan finished, and Vernon sighed, dropping his chin to his chest.

“Yep, there it is,” he mumbled. Seungkwan was grinning again.

“Can you really expect anything less from your best friend?”

“Hey, you’re not –”

“Oh, no, Y/N is your crush, not your best friend,” Seungkwan said, shaking his head. “I’m your best friend now.”

“She’s not –”

“Don’t finish that sentence if it’s gonna be a lie.”

Vernon shut his mouth. Seungkwan grinned.

“I hate you,” Vernon muttered. Seungkwan fluttered over and tapped him on the nose before Vernon could swat him away.

“Sure you do. Don’t forget that I’m producing your senior project, lovebird.”

“Seungkwan –”

“SPEAKING of which!” Seungkwan sang, grabbing his binder and dropping it into Vernon’s lap. (Much less comfy to hold than you had been.) “We’ve got details to go over, you hopeless romantic!”

Vernon groaned.

Vernon had finally managed to escape the never-ending clutches of Seungkwan’s binder and was headed for the cafeteria when his phone buzzed with a text from you.

Multiple texts, actually, back to back to back.

Y/N 👻: hey r u doing ok? kwan said ur sick??

Y/N 👻: oh but also congratulations again!!

Y/N 👻: on the project being green lit, I mean

Y/N 👻: told ya you’d kill it :D

Y/N 👻: oh and lmk if I can grab you anything!! Soup or medicine or smth

Y/N 👻: I hope ur not feeling too bad :(

The buzzes finally stopped. Mr. Butterfly did a weird happy dance.

“Stop, I shouldn’t be smiling,” he muttered under his breath, hiking his nearly-empty backpack higher on his shoulder. “She thinks I’m sick.”

>> Seungkwan exaggerated, I just was really nervous n got nauseous

>> I’m fine now tho

>> sorry he worried u

The typing bubble popped up instantly.

Y/N 👻: oh good!! Glad to hear ur not dead lol

Y/N 👻: still lmk if u need anything tho, I can smuggle smth out of the caf

>> oh I’m omw there actually

Y/N 👻: WAIT NO WAY

Y/N 👻: I SEE U!!

Vernon’s head snapped up to see you waving at him from the cafeteria door, his rainbow hoodie tied around your shoulders, the biggest smile on your face, and he had to inhale very slowly to keep his heart rate from skyrocketing. Mr. Butterfly had no such restraint and, apparently, had the zoomies. Vernon plastered a ‘normal’ smile on his face and jogged over to meet you.

“Hey,” he said, blinking at you as he climbed the last two steps. Oh. You looked even prettier in the fading sunlight of golden hour, the glow hitting your hair just right, and your eyes…

“Hi,” you said with the sweetest little giggle. Mr. Butterfly did a flip. “I think it’s chicken finger day.”

“Oh, my gosh, I hope so.”

You turned and headed inside, pushing through the crowd, and Vernon followed. It didn’t take long for him to almost lose you, but then he felt a tug on his sleeve, and there you were, grabbing his hoodie just above the wrist. You flashed him a smile and he floated through the crowd as you dragged him towards the chicken fingers.

Your nails skittered across the keyboard, painting the rainbow as you typed. You’d spent the last half hour before the meeting sitting on the floor of Vernon’s dorm room and gluing the fake nails on, telling him all about how you and Youngji had spent twenty minutes in Target picking out the right ones, and he nodded along and tried to listen but just kept looking at your hands. Your soft, delicate hands. Hands now tipped with fake nails, almond tips, you’d said (his brain had still been functioning at that point). Almond tips, each finger a different color, dotted with little matching flowers. Somehow, just that little touch – the bright pastels tipping your fingers – elongated your hands, made them seem even more elegant and delicate than normal.

Vernon flinched as something sharp pinched his side.

Seungkwan, staring at him with an expression somewhere between exhausted and annoyed. Exasperated, probably.

“Vernon,” he said, his tone slow, like Vernon was seven years old, “can you walk us through the storyboard?”

Vernon had an unpleasant feeling that this wasn’t the first time he’d been asked. Maybe not the second, either. “Um, yeah. Sorry, I zoned out.”

“I know,” Seungkwan breathed, but he shook his head and tapped Vernon’s notebook. “Storyboard, please.”

“Yeah. Right.”

Vernon cleared his throat and flipped through a few pages, glancing at everyone else crammed into his little dorm room. Maybe he should’ve taken you up on your offer to leave before the production meeting started. He didn’t want you to leave, of course, but he also needed to actually focus.

So he tried to ignore you, tucked in the corner of his bed, and smiled at his friends. His crew. Then he looked down at the notebook on his knees to remember what the heck he was supposed to be talking about.

Storyboard. Right.

“So,” he said with a glance at Wonwoo, “the opening shot is going to be the flashback of the knife. The one we cut back to a few times. I’m thinking a slight upward angle, like this.” He bent forward, passing the notebook down to where Wonwoo sat on the floor. Seungcheol leaned over the cinematographer’s shoulder as they both examined the sketch. (It was a bad sketch, but they’d gotten used to his chicken scratch sketches by this point.)

“Which room are we shooting this in again?” Wonwoo asked, glancing up.

Seungkwan beat Vernon to it: “The bathroom. But at an angle where you can’t really tell.” Vernon just nodded. They’d talked out the breakdown sheets already.

“What kind of kitchen knife is it?” Minghao asked, folding his arms across the back of Seungkwan’s desk chair. He liked to sit backwards on chairs. Vernon still thought it was a little weird, but whatever. “Is this a steak knife, utility knife, chef’s knife? Santoku? Please don’t tell me you want a cleaver.”

“Oh. Um.” Vernon frowned. “I’m gonna be honest, I don’t know what half of those look like.”

You snorted from the corner of his bed. Mr. Butterfly spun around to look at you. Vernon didn’t, keeping his eyes on Minghao despite… you.

Minghao, who was pulling out his phone and turning it around to show him something. Vernon squinted across the tiny dorm room.

A picture of a full set of kitchen knives. Of course.

“These are all the fake knives I have. The steak knife is the smaller serrated one,” Minghao began, pointing with one half-painted nail. (You’d joked about giving him your extra press-ons when he’d first showed up. Vernon thought they looked better on you.) “The utility knife is this one; it looks like a larger version of a paring knife –”

Seungkwan’s phone rang, just about as loud and obnoxious as him. He whipped it out and answered the call, pressing it to his ear with a cheery, “Hey, Jun!”

Then Vernon watched his face fall. Minghao lowered his phone.

“What’s wrong?” Seungcheol asked softly, but Seungkwan just shook his head, slipping off Vernon’s bed and darting into the hallway.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Vernon stared for a moment. Then he cleared his throat and turned back to Minghao. “Uh, he’ll be back, I guess? Um. I like the top knife in the photo. That one.”

Minghao nodded with another glance at the photo, turning off and pocketing his phone. “The chef’s knife. A classic.”

Vernon hesitated, glancing at the door. Then over at you. You looked up and met his eyes with a small smile, pushing a strand of hair behind your ear with those pretty new nails.

Then the door creaked back open, and Seungkwan stepped inside – quiet.

Uh oh. That was never good.

“So,” Seungkwan started, shoving his phone in his pocket. “Junhui and Lei broke up.”

“What?” Vernon blinked.

“Oh, they finally did it,” Minghao murmured.

Seungkwan turned to stare at him. “You knew?”

Minghao shook his head. “I knew they were talking about it. My headphones aren’t as noise-cancelling as Junhui thinks. I didn’t want to bring it up if they decided otherwise.”

“Wait, they broke up?” Vernon repeated. His brain was at war with itself, half genuine concern for his friend and half panic for his project. (He felt more than a little guilty about the project panic part.) “I – are they okay?”

“Jun said it was mutual, but I think he was about to cry,” Seungkwan sighed.

“Great,” Vernon said slowly. “Okay. So, um –” How in the world was he supposed to say this? “Uh, not to be insensitive, but, like – are they still gonna act? …Together?”

Seungkwan sighed again, dropping onto the bed beside Vernon. “Apparently, yes. He said they both agreed that it wouldn’t mess with their professional lives at all.”

“Oh. Um. Okay.” That’s good, at least, Vernon wanted to say, but he had enough sense to at least keep that to himself.

It’ll be fine, he thought to himself. Yeah. It’ll be fine.

It was not fine. The tension in the room was tangible, sitting mostly on Vernon’s shoulders as he looked between Junhui, Lei, and the scripts sitting on the table in front of them.

It wasn’t an angry tension, interestingly enough. That was what he would’ve expected after a breakup. No, it was just… sad. Depressing. Off. Like a song that ended a beat too soon.

He exhaled and adjusted his chair, leaning forward over the script. “Okay. So. Wanna run through the last scene now?”

They’d been inching through, scene by scene, with far too many awkward pauses in between.

It was weird. Really weird. Seeing two people who knew each other inside and out, who used to love each other, now afraid to meet the other’s eyes. Vernon had seen them together all the time, laughing with their arms around each other, sneaking gentle kisses and nose pecks when they thought no one was watching, cuddling close during cold nights on set. And now… now they smiled like normal at each other’s jokes, except the smiles fell as soon as they rose. Now they couldn’t even look up from their scripts. Now they sat so stiffly, hands glued to their laps, that Vernon was worried they might get muscle cramps. 

“Ready,” Junhui said quietly, his eyes on his lines. Lei nodded, silent.

“Alright. Action.”

Junhui took a breath, smiled, and said, “Need a hand, darling?”

Vernon swore he saw Lei flinch. “No!”

“Darling –”

“No, I’m going to hurt you!” Lei’s voice trembled, but her eyes stayed on the page.

“You’re not –”

“You’re right, I’m not. Because I’m going to leave.”

“Nora,” Junhui pleaded, “I love you, and I have loved you, and I will love you, no matter what you do or did or haven’t done. Even if you did hurt me, I wouldn’t care.”

Vernon frowned at Lei. Was she still acting? If she was, he’d never seen her this good.

“If I tell you I don’t love you,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper, “will you leave?”

Junhui swallowed. Vernon wasn’t sure he was still acting anymore, either. “If you really mean it.”

Lei inhaled softly. Then didn’t say anything.

Okay, this was a bad idea. Vernon opened his mouth to call cut, but before he could make a sound, Lei’s chair scraped back.

“I can’t do this!” she burst, standing, sudden tears pouring down her cheeks. Vernon’s brain screeched to a halt. “I’m sorry, I – I can’t, Vernon. I’m so sorry.”

She turned to Junhui.

Then she turned and ran out of the study room.

Oh, crap.

Vernon called you. It was the only thing he could think of, the only thing that might get his mind off of everything that was imploding.

He’d steered Junhui into Minghao’s arms, halfway to tears, and beelined for Seungkwan. But two hours of freaking out and calling every actress at the school had turned up nothing. No one was available. Not now, when every other senior project was filming, and the freshmen were speedrunning their weekly film short assignments, and everyone was busy and no one had time to fill in.

Lei texted at some point to apologize for running off, and to officially back out of the project. Great. At least they had an answer. But not having an actress was arguably worse, and Vernon’s throat was thick with so much anger and frustration that he could barely speak.

So he left Seungkwan to his spreadsheets and headed for your dorm, phone ringing against his ear.

You picked up after half a ring.

“Hey there!”

Your voice – even staticky as it was, echoing through the phone – took half the weight from his shoulders. He blew out a heavy breath.

“Can I come over?” he asked, the words forced, his voice far more quiet than he meant it to be.

Your tone changed immediately. No longer bright and chipper, but careful. Concerned. But just as warm. “Yeah, of course. Youngji’s out with Soonyoung or something, so the room’s ours. Should I pull up your lo-fi mix? Or Star Wars?”

Vernon hesitated. Did he want to talk about it? Or just forget? “I don’t know,” he admitted after a moment. “Star Wars, I guess. Maybe… maybe the lo-fi later.”

You make a little noise, something understanding. His feet move beneath him, carrying him closer to your dorm, to you, to the only thing that will let him make sense of all… this.

“Any movie in particular?”

“Anything but Revenge of the Sith. And, uh, maybe not Attack of the Clones, either.”

“Okay.” There’s a hint of worry in your voice, but it’s still overwhelmingly gentle. It wraps around him like a blanket and makes his heart ache. “I’ll have something ready. How far away are you?”

Vernon dragged his eyes up for the first time in a while. He had the walk to your dorm memorized by now. “Three minutes.”

“Alright. You wanna stay on the phone?”

His throat burned.

“…No.”

“Mkay. I’ll meet you at the door.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

“Of course. See you in a few.”

You didn’t hang up. He didn’t either. Something rustled on your end. He kept walking. Half a note of the Star Wars theme music played, then stopped. He dropped one foot in front of the other. Something else rustled, then thudded, followed by quick, steady movements. Each one matched his own footsteps.

Then he stood at the front of your dorm, staring at the heavy wooden doors. He hung up, tucked his phone in his pocket, and waited.

You opened the door a moment later. It was a heavy one, and you were used to it, but he reached out and pulled it open the rest of the way regardless. It was a habit. He’d been opening doors for you since he was fourteen and his mother told him that gentlemen open doors for ladies. He’d been walking on the street edge of the sidewalk since he was sixteen and his father told him that men walk there to protect the women – from mud, from bikes, from cars. All of it. So he walked on the risky side to protect you, because you should never need to worry.

And now you were standing before him, eyes wide and lips parted, taking him in, and you were worried, and he was asking you to help him. And it was all wrong. And he hated it.

But you took his hand, your skin burning against his, and you pulled him inside. Your fingers curled around the edge of his hand and dragged him a little closer to earth. Maybe, he thought as you guided him up the stairs, maybe it was alright. Maybe just for today, he could be… this.

A mess.

Your hand disappeared from his. He was sitting on your bed, his shoes by the door, your favorite blanket over his lap, your computer balanced in front of him with a familiar starry sky waiting to play.

“Here.”

You pressed something into his hand. He looked down at it. A Twix bar. One of the big ones. He looked up at you and blinked, and you smiled, but it was small.

“Youngji and I were at 7-11 last night. I know you like them. I have more, if you want.”

7-11. You were at 7-11 and you thought of him.

His throat tightened even more. He couldn’t even open his mouth to thank you.

But you seemed to know anyway. You sat down next to him, flicked the edge of the blanket over your lap, and pressed play.

Yellow text rolled up the screen. Dramatic, familiar fanfare echoed from your junky computer speakers. They were busted, almost amusingly so, but you refused to get a new computer because you weren’t sure how to transfer all your old scripts over. Vernon had told you that it wasn’t too hard. You had shrugged and said you’d get to it. You hadn’t.

He didn’t really mind. This computer had the little cat sticker next to the mousepad, the one you’d put there while you wrote your college application essays together senior year. He’d been sick of writing – you’d always been the good writer, the one who enjoyed it – and he’d found some of Sofia’s old stickers and started sticking them everywhere. Mostly on you. Your arm. Your face, once he got bold enough. You laughed and told him to stop. He hadn’t. You’d kept laughing.

The stickers started to fall, eventually. They had to. But you’d rescued one, a little stretching black cat with a shimmery layer of foil, and stuck it to your computer. There, you’d said. Now if I don’t get in, I’ll always remember that it’s because you distracted me.

You’d both gotten in. The shiny foil on the sticker had long since peeled off. The cat looked more grey than black now.

But it was still there. A piece of history now. A piece of both of you.

Your speakers were crappy. But he would rather listen to Star Wars through crappy speakers than lose that cat.

He’d rather suffer in silence than lose you.

You shifted under the blanket, knee brushing his. He tried to swallow the burning stone in his throat. It just burned hotter.

Vernon barely saw the movie, just flashes of space and sand. He heard it, vaguely, snatches of dialogue – You’re my only hope. But I was going into Tosche Station to pick up some power converters! These aren't the droids you’re looking for.

But his throat burned, and his eyes watered, and he blinked back so many tears that he felt like a plumber cranking at a leaky faucet. A broken one, maybe.

None of the acting students were able to make it. He didn’t have the budget left to hire a real actor. His project was going to fail, and Seungkwan would fail with it, and you. Your script, the one you’d written for him, at his request, was going to fizzle away into nothing. (He thought it was one of the best that you’d written, even disregarding his investment.) But now it would just disappear into the ether of unfinished projects, and you’d have to scramble to write something else just to graduate on time.

What if that was it? What if that was the thing that split you – what if, despite all his efforts to love you quietly, to wait for you, what if this project turned you away from him, anyway? There was a reason people didn’t recommend dating your coworkers. Tension on set could bleed into your personal lives. Your personal lives could bleed into set work.

I mean, just look at Jun and Lei.

Junhui’s fists, clenched in his lap. Lei’s eyes, anchored to the table. Your eyes, in some future world, turned away from him, refusing to see him, your glossy lips trembling with anger and tears.

Vernon dragged himself out of the idea, blinking hard before the welling tears could fall. He tried to focus on the movie, on Obi-Wan and Chewbacca talking at the cantina, but then you inched closer and he lost track of the screen again, tinny audio turning to static in his ears.

Then it stopped. The movement, the sound, it all stopped. He blinked. Something warm – your hand – was on his leg over the blanket, just above his knee. Your face was close, too close – soft eyeliner and pale pink gloss. Wide, worried eyes.

You were speaking. He blinked.

“Hansol?” you whispered, voice like a dream. The movie was paused. The computer had been pushed away to give you space. His hands were fisted in the blanket, knuckles white. He pried his hands open and let them fall, still as stones, into his lap.

You reached out, fingers light against his palm. You’d finally taken off the fake nails, and now it was just your skin against his, burning him to the core.

“Hansol,” you whispered again, squeezing his hand – his thumb. “You okay?”

Vernon stared into your eyes. Protect me, he begged silently, throat aching. Help me. Catch me. Don’t let me go.

Your frown deepened. You squeezed his hand again. “Hansol, I know talking is probably hard right now, but you’re starting to scare me. Can you say something? Anything?”

He said the only thing he could say.

He said your name. Said it like a prayer, like the only thing that might fix him. Maybe it was.

It wasn’t relief that swept across your face, but it was something close. You nodded slowly, your other hand warm at the base of his spine.

“Okay. Good. Thank you. Breathe with me, okay? In… and out… in… and out…”

You stroked his back with every breath, up on the inhale and down as you blew out, and he breathed along with you as best he could. His breath hitched. Stuttered. He almost broke a few times, but closed his eyes and forced the tears back. He didn’t want to cry. If nothing else, he just didn’t want to cry.

Your touch brought him back from the edge of tears. Slowly. Steadily. His breaths evened out. His fingers curled selfishly around yours, but you squeezed back.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you whispered eventually. Your hand had settled between his shoulderblades, gentle but grounding, fingers moving in small, feather-light circles. He swallowed, but nodded.

“Yeah. I just – I need to rant. That’s all.”

“That’s alright. Music?”

“No. Just – don’t leave. Stay. Here.” Vernon squeezed your hand again, in case you didn’t know what he meant.

You stayed, warm against his side.

He closed his eyes.

“I had a rehearsal with Jun and Lei today,” he started, and he felt your hand hesitate for a moment on his back, but you didn’t say anything. “It was…” Awful. Hellish. Depressing. Frustrating. “…Weird. Tense. Just – they were both so sad.”

His voice ground out of him, tight and scratchy in his throat.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly. Your voice flowed over him, drowning everything out, coaxing his pinched mouth to relax. “Did it go well enough, at least?”

A groan slipped from his lips before he could stop it. Your breath caught, soft and cracking, and then your arm curled around him, your chin settled on his shoulder, and you were so close that Mr. Butterfly stopped crying for a moment and fluttered his wings.

“What happened?” you whispered, thumb smoothing over the shoulder seam of his hoodie, and he dragged in a breath to try and focus again. Honey-rose lingered around you, your hair curling soft against his neck. He exhaled slowly.

“Lei… quit.”

Your thumb stopped. His skin tingled. “What?”

“She quit,” Vernon repeated. The ache in his throat had subsided by now, enough that words began to tumble out. The floodgates had opened, you were undoing him with every breath that feathered along his jaw, and he just… ranted. “I had them read the last scene, and she was supposed to say ‘I don’t love you,’ and she just – didn’t. She started crying. I didn’t know what to do. Junhui looked like stone or something. She looked at him and ran out.”

“Oh my gosh,” you whispered, almost in his ear. His breath hitched. He pretended it was from trying not to cry.

“I got Jun home and found Kwan, and Lei texted that she quit. I mean, she said she was sorry, at least, but she still quit. And no one else can fill in. We were calling, texting, emailing, for two hours – two freaking hours – and every single acting student is busy. We’re shooting in nine days. Nine days!” Vernon’s hands might be shaking. His vision was too blurred to tell. “And I don’t have an actress, and this whole stupid project is going to fall apart, and then what am I supposed to tell everyone?! ‘Hey, my project tanked, go find something else to get you credit for your senior project’? Because I can’t find a girl to act in it?” He heaved a breath, lungs shuddering. Pressure – your hand – squeezed his shoulder.

“Hey,” you murmured, suddenly warmer and closer, tugging your hand from his to place it on his chest. Mr. Butterfly slammed into his heart and dragged his brain to a stop. “Breathe, okay?”

Vernon tried. He tried, but the hitch in his throat was back, and his shoulders wouldn’t stop shaking.

“It’s gonna crash and burn,” he mumbled, screwing his eyes shut. “It’s gonna suck. It’s not even gonna get off the ground. And everyone’s gonna be disappointed, everyone’s gonna think I’m terrible at this, I’ll never get anything into a festival, I might not even graduate on time, and I – I can’t be mad at Lei, or Jun, cause I know it’s dumb, but – but – I don’t have a stupid actress, and I couldn’t freak out on Kwan, cause he’s already stressed enough, and I don’t wanna make it worse, but I’m just – I’m so mad at this stupid project! It was going so well, and now it’s, it’s, it’s all crumbling in front of me, and I can’t do anything about it because I don’t have an actress, so nothing matters anymore and I’m just going to fail and –”

“Hey,” you cut in, and he stopped immediately, words dying in his throat as he turned to you. You were so close that he could kiss you if he leaned in. He shouldn’t. But everything’s ruined anyway, Mr. Butterfly reminded him. No. No, he had to save at least this. At least you. Your mouth opened again, lip gloss a little faded, and – “I can play Nora.”

Vernon blinked. The world tilted for a moment. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.” Your eyes echoed it – firm, gentle, but confident. “I might not be as good as Lei, but if it’ll get your project made, then I’ll do it. If you want me to, of course,” you added quickly, but of course he wanted you to.

He could kiss you now. He wanted to. He wanted to so bad, wanted to kiss the gloss from your lips, pull you against him, hear you giggle into his mouth –

But he couldn’t. He couldn’t lose you like Junhui lost Lei. Especially not now. Not when everything else was falling apart and you just said you could save it.

“Please,” he whispered, meaning more than he said.

You smiled, gentle and sympathetic and promising. “Alright. I’ll be Nora.”

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” you said, pulling back just enough to shrug. “I’ll do anything if it’ll help. What are friends for, right?”

You smiled, and Mr. Butterfly screamed.

“Right,” Vernon mumbled as you leaned back in and hugged him, cheek against his ear, honey-rose hair brushing his cheek. His lips. “What are friends for?”

Vernon was pretty proud of himself. He’d gotten his act together relatively quickly, that night in your dorm room; he’d sat through the rest of A New Hope and laughed along with you like usual at all the cheesy bits. He’d talked to Seungkwan like a normal person (and watched thirty pounds of stress drop off his poor friend’s shoulders when he said that you’d agreed to act).

And now you were lying on the floor of his dorm room, staring at the script held above your head while you both waited for Junhui to show up.

“I literally wrote this,” you huffed, frowning at the page. “It should not be this hard to memorize the lines. I remember it being so easy in high school.”

“In high school, you weren’t rewriting your scripts fifteen times,” Vernon reminded you, glancing up from the endless photos of clothes that Mingyu had sent him. Somehow Mingyu was wardrobe now, not just crafty; he wasn’t sure how that had happened, but he was pretty sure it was Minghao’s fault. Not that he minded. Mingyu was good with clothes.

“Oh. That’s true. That’d explain why I have an old version of half these lines stuck in my head,” you sighed. You shoved the paper up at Vernon. “Quiz me?”

He set his computer aside immediately, grabbing the script and flipping to the first page. Pink highlighter, just like in high school. This one was pastel, though. Softer. Like you. “From the top?”

“Yep. I’m not screaming, though.”

Vernon grinned. “Probably a good idea. Don’t want to scare anyone. They might think there’s a banshee in here.”

“Vernon!” You swatted at him, but got nowhere near from your spot on the floor. “Just read.”

“Once we get on set you should run through the script with the screams a couple times.”

“Mhm. Now read before Junhui gets here.”

“Alright, alright.”

Vernon dropped his eyes to the page and swallowed. “Darling?” he read, hoping his cheeks weren’t visibly red. “Are you alright?” He waited, eyes skipping down the page to Tien’s next line: “Nora? Are you okay?”

“Just a nightmare,” you replied, voice flat. Right. We’re just running lines. Not acting.

“It’s okay,” he continued, letting his tone flatten, too. “You’re okay. I’m here. You’re safe.”

“No, you’re the one –”

“Nope,” Vernon interrupted, tapping the script. You frowned, glancing at him.

“What is it?”

“‘No, I wasn’t – it was – It was nothing,’” he read, and you groaned, head dropping back to the floor with a thud that made Vernon wince. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. I just keep messing up that line and it’s so dumb. I wrote the thing!”

A rapid trio of knocks hit the door, and you sat up.

“Shoot, that’s Junhui. And I’m not memorized.”

“You started working on this yesterday,” Vernon said, sliding off his bed and handing the script back to you on his way to the door. “You’re doing great already. We’ve still got a week.”

He opened the door, and Junhui beamed at him.

“Hi, Vernon!”

Vernon smiled back, stepping aside to let him in. “Hey, c’mon in. Good to see you again.”

“You too!”

Junhui dropped his bag on the floor as he toed off his shoes. Vernon returned to his place on the bed, hesitated, then joined you and Junhui on the carpet Seungkwan had bought two years ago.

“Okay, first, I gotta apologize,” Junhui said with a little wince, turning half to you. “I had this super spicy ramen for lunch, but I brushed my teeth, like, ten times, so hopefully it’s fine?”

“What?” Vernon said, oh-so-eloquently, and both you and Junhui glanced over in surprise.

“We’re doing the intimacy stuff today, right?” you said, and Vernon’s already-struggling brain screeched to a halt.

“Right,” he echoed hollowly. The intimacy stuff. Right. Why had Seungkwan not reminded him of that earlier? How did you know and not him? And why, why, had he suggested a make-out scene? “Right. Yeah, I, uh, wanted to talk to you guys about that.” Just be a man, Vernon. Let her kiss your friend. It’s not like you haven’t seen her go on dates before. This is fine.

“Oh?” you said, mouth pursing in that sweet little frown, lips shining a little red today, and Mr. Butterfly slapped him upside the head.

“I think it’s too much for this film,” Vernon blurted, pretending your eyes weren’t widening in surprise as he scrambled for words.

“But you –”

“Yeah, but I was thinking about it more, and I don’t like it.” He swallowed. At least Junhui didn’t seem phased. “I think it’d hit harder if you’re just cuddling and kiss once. So it goes from cute to bloody, y’know? Instead of, um, heated to bloody? More of a switch.”

You hesitated, drawing the inside edge of your lip between your teeth, and Vernon wanted so desperately to reach over and pull it free for you. Mr. Butterfly egged him on. He locked his hands around his knees.

“I mean, I guess I see it,” you said slowly, and he nodded fast.

“Yeah, it’ll be better. Trust me, I can see it.” He absolutely did not see it. He still saw Tien and Nora as Junhui and Lei, not Junhui and… you. He could see Junhui and Lei making out, they’d all seen it, in Wonwoo’s weekly last semester, and Vernon’s cinematography final the semester before, and probably a few other projects.

But imagining Junhui and you making out – even just kissing – even just holding hands – made something in his stomach churn.

“Sure,” Junhui said with a shrug. “I don’t mind either way.”

Vernon tamped down the urge to scream at his friend.

“Okay,” you said finally. “You’re the director.”

“Great. Cool.” Vernon blew out a breath. The easy part was done, at least.

Now he just had to… choreograph the scene. The cuddles. The kissing. Because, yeah, if Nora needed to see her kiss make Tien bleed, then you would need to actually kiss Junhui. On the mouth.

Vernon wasn’t a violent person, but he could have punched his past self in the face for ever suggesting this stupid scene.

“Okay. So – first, uh, we’ll just start with eye contact,” he said, suddenly scrambling to remember what he’d learned that one day that they’d talked about intimacy coordination on sets. This is extremely important, Professor Atkins had said, and proceeded to spend forty-five minutes and a single handout on the topic. Then Junhui and Lei had started dating, and Vernon hadn’t needed to look elsewhere for screen kisses ever since.

Those days were over, though, and now he desperately needed to do this right because, like Atkins had warned, a bungled scene can scar someone for years.

Even if he didn’t want you kissing Junhui in the first place, Vernon was going to make sure you didn’t get hurt.

“Face each other,” he instructed, grabbing his phone from the bed and texting Seungkwan a desperate WHAT R THE INIMACY STEPS???? By the time he looked up, you and Junhui were cross-legged across from each other, stifling grins and looking way too calm for this. His own head was spinning, his stomach twisting uncomfortably. “Alright, now just make eye contact and hold it for… a while.”

You nodded, wiping your smile and meeting Junhui’s eyes. He looked back passively. After a moment, Junhui started to crack a smile again. You giggled. Vernon could feel the seconds ticking by. At least he could stare at you like this without being too weird – he could memorize the line of your profile, every twist in your braids, the soft pink that filled your cheeks… from looking at Junhui.

His phone lit up. A photo from Seungkwan, a neat list of the steps for intimacy coordination and a text that Vernon didn’t read. He scanned the list and shoved his phone under his thigh.

“Okay,” he said, probably more clipped than he should be under the circumstances. “Do you feel, uh, connected? A bit more?”

You nodded, lips twisting in a small smile. Junhui nodded, too. Your gazes still lingered on each other. Vernon cleared his throat.

“Great. Next step is boundaries. Where you’re okay being touched and where you aren’t.” I can’t believe I’m doing this. “For cuddles,” he reiterated. “Anything, um, sexual is a given no.”

“I can go first,” Junhui volunteered, and you nodded, eyes on him. “I’m fine with most stuff. Kissing is fine, any type. I don’t really mind if you touch my butt or something. I am ticklish, though, kind of all over my stomach?” He giggled a little, and you grinned. “It’s not like you can’t touch my ribs, just, like, know that I might laugh. Oh, and…” A little pinch formed in his forehead. “Don’t kiss my nose. Please.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. Vernon could spend an hour listing every time he’d seen Lei drop a peck on his nose.

“Oh,” you said softly. “Yeah. I won’t.”

A moment passed. Vernon cleared his throat. It was his job to make sure his actors were comfortable, after all. “Great. Thank you. And…?” He turned to you, but your name stuck in his throat. You nodded quickly anyway.

“Right. Um… I’m fine with kissing, too. Less fine with, um, anything… anything under my skirt?”

“You’ll be in jeans for the shoot,” Vernon interrupted before he could catch himself.

“No, I know, Hao showed me. I just meant the area in general.” Your eyes cut back to Junhui. He nodded. “Waist is fine, hips if you’re careful, but that’s it. And no chest.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Great,” Vernon said, trying to ignore the smile you flashed Junhui’s way. “Let’s move on.”

He hated every minute of the next hour. Yes, sure, you’d dated before, and he’d seen it, but it had been a while. Now he had a front-row seat to the literal show you and Junhui were putting on, and Mr. Butterfly was somewhere between suicidal and homicidal. Vernon wasn’t sure which one he preferred at this point.

He walked you both through the exercises on the list, building first emotional trust, and then the dreaded physical touch. Your hand in Junhui’s. His arm around your shoulders. Your head, tucked into the crook of his neck, while his fingers toyed with the end of your braid. It looked so natural, and it twisted Vernon’s stomach and dragged at his heart and hurt.

So of course he smiled and said it was great. Exactly what he was envisioning.

The end was the worst part. Of course it was. Because you and Junhui had to kiss, and Vernon could not figure out a logical or believable way around it.

“You’re both okay with it? You’re sure?” he checked, but both of you nodded, and he didn’t really have a choice anymore. “Alright. Then I think what we’ll do is, um, Tien, you’ve already got your arm around her. Nora, you’re on his shoulder. So… Nora,” he said, as if using the character’s name would make this hurt less, “you look up at him. Tien, you notice and turn to her. And then… I guess… whatever feels natural,” he finished weakly. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“Ready,” Junhui said after a moment.

“Ready,” you echoed.

“Alright. Action.”

You settled into Junhui’s side, leaning back against the foot of Seungkwan’s bed. His hand curled around your upper arm, fingers tracing up and down over the bare skin. Your head fit perfectly into his shoulder, so perfectly that Mr. Butterfly wanted to fly into a wall. Vernon swallowed and nodded and tried to pretend he was just a camera without a brain.

Then you tilted your chin up, eyes shining even in the crappy overhead lighting, soft and beautiful and not on him.

Junhui lifted his hand to your cheek. Swept his thumb under your eye. Your lashes fluttered shut for a moment. Vernon’s breath nearly hitched, but you didn’t notice.

You just leaned in, guided by Junhui’s palm, and kissed him.

Mr. Butterfly fainted. Vernon clenched his jaw so hard that he felt it in the back of his skull. Your lips moved against Junhui’s, head tilted just enough, and something primal and painful speared him for a moment. He shoved it away and watched through someone else’s eyes as you finally pulled away, stared at Junhui, and inhaled enough to scream.

You didn’t scream, because there were rows and rows of other dorm rooms everywhere. But the near-scream made Vernon feel a little better. (Seeing your lip gloss on Junhui’s mouth, though, made his ears burn.)

Junhui turned to him expectantly. Then you did, too, although your eyes lingered on Junhui for a beat. Your shoulders rose and fell with every short, faint breath.

Vernon wished desperately that he was the reason you couldn’t breathe. Your lips looked so soft, still glossy, and maybe pinker than before? Was that even possible?

And what was that faint smile?

“How was that?” Junhui asked, and Vernon swallowed and forced himself to nod.

“That was great. You both felt comfortable?”

You and Junhui nodded, glancing at each other for a moment.

“Great,” Vernon said. It wasn’t. “I’m happy to leave it there, then. Unless you need practice or… whatever.”

“I mean…” you drawled, sliding your eyes over to Junhui with a grin, and he giggled. You joined him. Vernon forced a smile as Mr. Butterfly beat his wings against his ribs in misery.

“Ha, ha. Seriously, though, do you…?” He gestured vaguely.

“I’m good if you are,” you said then with a shrug. Junhui nodded.

“Yeah, I’m not too worried about it.”

“Cool. Um, not to kick you out, but Seungkwan’s coming soon and said he needed to talk to me about something,” Vernon lied, grabbing his phone and shoving himself to his feet and ignoring the instinct to reach out and help you up, lest you saw the way his hands trembled. He needed to be alone, or at least not staring at you and your lip gloss on Junhui’s mouth.

Ugh. Yeah, no. You and Junhui couldn’t gather your things fast enough.

“Alright, well, I’ll see you later,” you said, flashing Vernon a smile. “Good luck with Kwan!”

“Mhm. Thanks.” He smiled and pulled open the door. You slipped out with a wave.

“See you around,” Junhui said. Then his voice dropped. “And… I’m sorry. About Lei. And everything.”

Vernon just shook his head, smiled, and ground out a barely-convincing “It’s fine!”

Then Junhui turned to leave, and Vernon nearly slammed the door.

Seungkwan had to spend half an hour talking Vernon down from cancelling the rest of the rehearsal meetings, the kiss scene, and then the entire set.

Vernon didn’t really want to shut down the project. He just wasn’t sure how long he’d last watching you cuddle up with Junhui, watching him hug you, watching you kiss him. Seungkwan pointed out that they wouldn’t need to spend too long on the kiss scene, not with the new shotlist and schedule he’d have to draft, and Vernon wrinkled his nose but relented.

They compromised on one more rehearsal, to run through the rest of the scenes. Not the kiss one.

“Just say you don’t have a lot of time and you want to get through everything,” Seungkwan instructed, pacing back and forth. Vernon watched from behind the pillow clutched to his chest, hiding his grimace in it. “They’ll understand. Say a lot of stuff came up. It’s not a crazy thing to say with a shoot happening this weekend.”

Vernon just nodded into his pillow. Seungkwan paused and looked at him, then huffed out a quiet, shockingly honest sigh.

“Look, Vernon, I know it sucks,” he said uncharacteristically softly, perching on the bed beside him. “But you need to just tough it out for a bit. I don’t think we have a backup option if this goes wrong – unless you want Youngji playing Nora.”

Vernon’s grimace deepened. Seungkwan chuckled quietly.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. But we already struck out everywhere else. Y/N volunteering in the first place was enough of a miracle. Don’t expect another.”

Vernon buried his face in his pillow. But he forced his mind back to work, keeping Seungkwan’s voice in the back of his head all week.

He managed to avoid you, for the most part, under claims of last-minute prep work and meetings. (It wasn’t a complete lie. He was swamped, but not more than in earlier semesters. In earlier semesters, he just put more effort into making time for you. Now, his gut clenched and Mr. Butterfly lay desolate atop his stomach, but at least he could think.)

The single last rehearsal came on Thursday afternoon. Wonwoo and Seungcheol were there, for multiple reasons, a sketch of the Airbnb’s floorplan propped up on Vernon’s desk so they could all see where they’d actually be shooting.

It was easier with Wonwoo and Seungcheol there, and Seungkwan popping in and out. It turned into choreography instead of chemistry, at least in the moment, and Vernon was able to focus on his DP and gaffer and the logistics and the planning and the vision, instead of you and the way you leaned into Junhui.

It still bothered him. But he could ignore it a bit better, when the looming threat of you kissing someone else wasn’t quite present.

His shoulders still dropped with relief when you finally left his room. He still flopped onto his bed with a groan. He still tried to ignore stupid Mr. Butterfly, whining in anguish in his chest, tortured by the thought of you with anyone else.

Thursday night he went to bed too early and didn’t fall asleep until too late.

Friday morning, 5am, and Vernon was staring at the back of Seungcheol’s car, Celsius in hand and sleep still clinging to his eyes. Way too much equipment was crammed into Seungcheol’s minivan – not too much equipment for the set, but too much equipment for the poor car. Soonyoung was even packed in behind the driver’s seat, trapped between 400s and c-stands with a pile of sandbags under his shoes.

“Is everyone ready?” Seungkwan hollered, poking his head out from behind Mingyu’s truck and the rest of the light and camera equipment. “Everything packed up?”

“Almost!” Seokmin called back. “I’m still helping Minghao pack up… this.” He gestured to the clutter of household decor around his ankles.

“I’ll finish faster if I have another pair of hands.” Minghao deftly folded up the flaps on a full box and moved on to an empty one, taking whatever Seokmin handed him and fitting it inside. “And I would be done if I’d gotten the boxes earlier.”

“I SAID I WAS SORRY!” Soonyoung yelled from his seat. “THE POST OFFICE WASN’T –”

Seungcheol rolled the door shut, muffling his voice. Vernon cracked a smile through his half-awake daze.

“Chan, help Minghao!” Seungkwan ordered. Chan’s head snapped up, and he hopped off the absurdly large bumper of Mingyu’s truck and jogged over.

“We’re packed up,” Seungcheol said when Seungkwan glanced his way. “Just waiting for the go-ahead.”

“Great. Good job. Joshua?”

“Ready,” Joshua called, arms folded on the roof of his car. Jeonghan was already inside, the passenger seat tilted back, probably asleep.

“Amazing. Mingyu’s done, Minghao’s almost there, and Junhui and Y/N will be driving here later,” Seungkwan muttered, eyes skimming over his phone screen. “Great. And everyone is actually here, right? We have Jihoon?”

“He ran back to his room to get another Coke,” Wonwoo said as he walked up. “He’s been gone for a few, so he should be back soon.”

“Even if he’s late, Mingyu can get him when he runs back for crafty. We’re fine.” Seungkwan nodded crisply and slipped his phone into his back pocket. “We need to move out in the next five minutes, though. Minghao –”

“Almost there!” Seokmin shouted.

“Quiet down, it’s five in the morning!” Chan chided almost as loudly.

“Both of you, shut up,” Minghao ordered, turning and shoving a lamp into Chan’s hands. “Don’t let that break. Seungkwan, I need five more minutes.”

“You have three,” Seungkwan announced. “Everyone – if you’re ready, get in your car. I’ll come check that you have everyone, and then you can leave.”

Seungcheol pushed off the door of his car, walking towards the front. Vernon followed, silently slipping into the passenger’s seat.

“You guys abandoned me,” Soonyoung huffed as they reached for their seatbelts. “You trapped me and abandoned me!”

“You did the same thing to Seungkwan on the western.” Seungcheol pressed a button, and the engine roared to life. “There’s a reason you’re not in his car this time.”

“But that was a joke!” Soonyoung whined. Seungcheol just grinned at Vernon, then leaned out the window and whistled at Seungkwan.

He hurried over, peering inside the car. “Got everything and everyone?”

“All present and accounted for,” Seungcheol reported.

“You have the address?”

Seungcheol nodded, flashing the map on his phone screen.

“Great. Wait, let me give you the key so you can get inside.” Seungkwan dug the flimsy ring out of his pocket and handed it over. Seungcheol dropped it into the cupholder between the seats, and Seungkwan nodded. “Okay, you’re good to go. Vernon, don’t leave your brain behind. Try and be functioning by the time you get there?”

“No promises,” Vernon muttered, voice low and grating in his throat. Seungkwan just waved and hurried over to Joshua’s car.

Seungcheol backed slowly out of the parking spot, eyes sweeping the lot and catching on Vernon for just a moment. “Is that the first thing you’ve said all morning?” he asked, hand spinning around the wheel as he turned the car.

Vernon almost said no, then hesitated. “Yeah,” he admitted, wrinkling his nose. “Ugh. I didn’t sleep well.”

“I noticed.” Vernon glanced up in surprise, and Seungcheol elaborated. “We’re not even on the way and you’ve already downed half the can.”

Vernon paused, Celsius halfway to his lips, and lowered it again.

They rolled past Jihoon, hair hanging into his eyes as he slouched towards the parking lot with… at least one Coke Zero in hand. Maybe two. Possibly three. Vernon wouldn’t put it past him. He didn’t look up despite Seungcheol waving at him out the window, and Seungcheol just grinned and rolled the window back up.

“Are you just nervous, you think?” He turned his blinker on. The GPS told him to turn left.

“I guess,” Vernon mumbled, his voice still gravelly, knowing full well that he wasn’t just nervous. Well. He wasn’t just nervous about the set.

“You’ll be fine,” Seungcheol said easily. “You’ve done this a million times.”

“Factually incorrect.”

“I know, but my point stands. You know what you’re doing. You’ve run a dozen full sets and at least a dozen weeklies. You know this story like the back of your hand. You’ll be fine.” Seungcheol flashed him a grin. Vernon tried to smile back.

“I guess. It’s just…” You. You you you. “…a bigger project than normal.”

Seungcheol nodded and slowed to a stop at an intersection. “Understandable. But there’s always going to be a bigger project. You’ve just gotta rise to the challenge and believe you’re capable – because you are.”

“Right.” Vernon swallowed. “Thanks for the pep talk. I’m gonna, uh, chug this and pass out for the rest of the drive,” he said, lifting his can in the air.

Seungcheol laughed. “Take a page out of Soonyoung’s book. Good plan.”

“Soonyoung –” Vernon glanced over his shoulder. Sure enough, Soonyoung was unconscious, slumped over the massive light case balanced on his knees.

“Yep. He drained an entire Monster on the way from my apartment to my car.”

“That explains so much.”

“Mhm. Now chug your caffeine and nap.” Seungcheol clapped Vernon on the shoulder, and he knocked back the rest of the drink, wincing as the peachy carbonation burned his throat. “Get rid of that funk, yeah? Today’s day one, you don’t wanna have anything throwing you off.”

“Yeah, yeah. Wake me when we get there,” he mumbled. He didn’t wait for Seungcheol’s answer before dragging his baseball cap over his eyes and trying to sleep.

He didn’t. He couldn’t. But he did promise himself that he’d keep his brain in check, at least for the next three days. What he thought once the set was over was a different story, but for now – while the project was on the line – he’d think of you as an actress. As a friend. Not as the girl he’d been in love with for nearly a decade.

Right. Just a friend.

“WE ARE RUNNING LATE!” Seungkwan bellowed through the Airbnb. Vernon winced, but Wonwoo – the victim of Seungkwan’s wrath at the moment – fully flinched away.

“Seungkwan, has anyone ever told you that you’re loud?” Soonyoung called from his spot across the room, one foot propped up on the base of a c-stand. Chan stifled a laugh as he fiddled with a leg of the tripod. Seokmin didn’t even bother stifling it, laughing brightly from across the room.

“Jun and Y/N just got in costume, relax,” Mingyu said, popping his head into the crowded bedroom. He perked up when his eyes landed on Vernon. “Hey, you wanna come check them? Make sure they’re good?”

No. “Yeah, sure. Kwan, you’ve got –?”

“Yeah, yeah, just go. You’re not the one who’s taking forever.”

“Hey, do you know how hard it is to set up a shot when I don’t have the actors?” Wonwoo complained.

Vernon just nodded and ducked out into the hallway after Mingyu, stepping over a handful of cords that hadn’t been taped down yet.

“That’s not what’s setting us back and you know it!” Seungkwan screeched, but Vernon was halfway down the hallway and very glad to be out of earshot. Almost out of earshot.

“Every time I say yes to him, I forget how mean he gets on set,” Mingyu sighed as they stepped out into the kitchen. Vernon grinned.

“Isn’t he mean to you all the time?”

“Well, yeah, but he’s joking then. Usually.”

Vernon snorted as they turned the corner, and then you were there. In your pajamas. Mr. Butterfly jumped so high he felt it in his throat.

He’d seen you already this morning, perched on the couch while Seungkwan ran the safety meeting, drowned in a soft pink sweater and white sweatpants, face bare and eyes sleepy. (He hadn’t looked as much as he’d wanted to. He’d looked far more than he should.) But seeing you already this morning didn’t change the fact that you took his breath away now.

You smiled lopsidedly at him. Minghao’s brush ghosted over your cheek. “Hey. G’morning. What do you think?”

For once, Vernon was supposed to look, and look he did, letting his eyes trail over you. It wasn’t anything insane – just plaid pajama pants that dragged on the ground, and a loose grey shirt actively trying to slip off your shoulder. Your hair hung in a loose, slightly mussed ponytail. Minghao was only applying light makeup, the minimum to look good on camera, but you didn’t need it to be beautiful. You always were.

Especially in the pajamas. If he tried, he could imagine they were his.

“They’re oversized because they’re Tien’s,” Mingyu added helpfully, and Vernon’s idyllic thoughts crashed. Right. Oversized because they were Junhui’s, Mingyu meant. Vernon exhaled.

“Yeah. Great, I love it.”

You smiled. Mr. Butterfly beat his wings. Vernon turned to look at Junhui instead. He had very, very similar pajama pants and a white shirt, both already rumpled as he jumped up from the couch to stand at attention.

“Hi!”

“I assumed you wanted him to have a shirt on,” Mingyu said, helpfully, and Vernon nodded quickly.

“Yeah, I do,” was all he said, shutting that thought down and turning back to Minghao. “How much longer on makeup?”

“Two minutes. Open your mouth?” he said, holding up a neutral lipstick, and you parted your lips.

Vernon turned around and headed back to the bedroom.

“Two minutes on makeup,” he reported to Seungkwan as he tiptoed his way past equipment to stand beside him. “Wardrobe is good, though.”

“Great. We should be ready for actors in less than five, now that Wonwoo’s finally fixed his settings.”

“I told you I was sorry,” Wonwoo muttered.

“Tell that to the schedule you’re messing up.”

“I thought we were on schedule,” Jeonghan said from the corner, behind Joshua’s legs. If Seungcheol’s lighting setup had been any more intense than a few scrims slotted against the windows, they would’ve been completely blocked in; as it was, they probably couldn’t move too much. Jeonghan seemed fine with it.

“We won’t be if you two don’t lav up the actors soon!” Seungkwan reminded, and Joshua’s eyes widened.

“Ah. Right.”

“You can do that.” Jeonghan patted Joshua’s knee. “I can’t possibly get out right now.”

“I’m literally right next to you,” Joshua said, but he just handed Jeonghan the boom pole and began inching his way around the wall of c-stands and Soonyoung. Vernon bit back a grin.

“Alright, I’m set,” Wonwoo announced then. “Ready for actors.”

“Seokmin, can you –”

“On it!” Seokmin chirped, flashing a smile at Seungkwan and dashing down the hall.

Seungkwan turned to Vernon then, and his voice shifted. A little softer. A little more careful. (Just a little.) “How’re you doing? You ready to get rolling on your senior project?”

Oh, geez. Vernon blew out a breath. Yeah, that’s what he should be worried about. “Um. Yeah. I’m ready. Mostly.”

Seungkwan patted his back, nodding. “You’ll do fine. Just do your job and trust your crew.” Yeah. And don’t think about her, Vernon added. Seungkwan was probably thinking it anyway.

“Right. Thanks.”

“Okay, I’m here and lav’d up!” Junhui’s bright voice preceded him into the room, and Vernon turned to him, trying to match his smile.

“Epic. Okay, so go ahead and get in bed – you’ll be on the left, further from the camera but facing it. We’re starting with the close insert on Nora, but we want you there for continuity’s sake,” he added. “You’ll still be asleep for it, though.”

“Okay!” Junhui ducked around Vernon and almost jumped on the bed, crawling to the headboard and tucking himself in.

“I’m here,” you called then, and Vernon tried to wait at least a couple seconds before he turned around. You smiled more timidly than Junhui, but unless Vernon imagined it, something in your eyes softened as he looked at you.

But he was probably imagining it, so he just nodded. Joshua slipped by and wedged himself back into the corner.

“Great. We’re gonna start with the close insert on you waking up, so go ahead and get in bed so we can frame it, yeah? We’ll run through action once you’re set.” He smiled, like a normal person. You smiled back, a real smile, and whatever Mr. Butterfly did in response was not very much like a normal person but Vernon just nodded and watched you climb into bed next to Junhui. (Junhui held the covers open for you, and you laughed and smiled at him.)

“How much movement are we capturing here?” Wonwoo asked, and Vernon’s head snapped to the side.

“Um, I think I just want her eyes opening. Tight on her face, though, not her eyes.”

Wonwoo nodded and tugged the camera back a bit. “Get her where you want her, and then I’ll be able to set the frame.”

Vernon nodded and turned to you, and his throat went dry for a moment. You looked so soft, cuddled up under the blankets, curled into a little ball just like when you fell asleep during movie nights back in middle school. He’d never wanted to wake you up, the look on your face far too peaceful to shatter.

“Okay,” he said, his voice barely steadier than he’d hoped, inching closer to the bed. “Right. So… okay, let’s run full action. Wonwoo –”

“Yep, I’m watching.”

“Alright. Whenever you’re ready, guys.”

Vernon watched as Junhui inched closer to you, as you stretched your legs out and glanced back at him.

“You ready?” Junhui murmured, nestling into the pillow, and you nodded.

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.” You set your head down and closed your eyes.

“Action on rehearsal,” Vernon said, too quietly.

A beat passed. Then you twitched, spasmed, and his heart lodged in his throat as your eyes flashed open, wild and desperate. His fingers twitched at his side, but Junhui was the one to blink awake and reach for your shoulder.

You jerked away. Junhui tugged at your shoulder, took your hand and brought it to his cheek, and you turned, inches away from him.

“Darling? Are you alright?” he whispered.

But you screamed, yanking your hand free, and Vernon’s heart stuttered. Junhui flinched before reaching across you and turning on the light.

Seungcheol grimaced, muttering something, but Vernon couldn’t rip his eyes away from you and the way Junhui cupped your cheeks. He’d wanted to do that so many times, cradle your face in his palms and hold you close when yet another boyfriend dumped you and you showed up at his door in tears, but he never did. Not the way he wanted to.

Your shaky exhale ripped something out of him.

“Nora?” Junhui whispered, voice painfully tender. “Are you okay?”

“Just… a nightmare,” you murmured. Mr. Butterfly crashed into Vernon’s ribcage in his efforts to get to you.

Junhui pulled you closer with a hand at the small of your back, fingers dimpling the loose fabric of your shirt. “It’s okay,” he whispered into your hair as you pressed against his chest. “You’re okay. I’m here. You’re safe.”

“No,” you said, shaking your head in the cutest way. “I wasn’t – it was –” Your breath hitched, and you deflated visibly. “It was nothing.”

You buried your face between his shoulder and the mattress, and with painful amounts of love in his eyes, Junhui drew the covers back over you and settled against the pillow.

Vernon had to pry his jaw open, but he nodded. “Great. Cut. I love it, I’m happy with that. Can we reset?”

You shifted away from Junhui, shaking your head with a grimace. “Yeah. Wow. Sorry.”

“Are you alright?” Junhui asked before Vernon could, sitting up to peer at you. “Do you need a moment?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” you said quickly, eyes darting between Junhui and Vernon, and he wondered how visible his thoughts were on his face. Hopefully not too much. “It’s just a lot, and I haven’t acted in a while.”

“Well, you’re doing a good job,” Junhui said earnestly. He opened his mouth to continue, but Vernon cut in as politely as he could.

“Yeah, I’m really happy with your performance there. You looked great.” Not quite what he wanted to say, but oh well. Your eyes softened as they met his, and Mr. Butterfly lifted off the ground for a moment. “Let me know if you need time or space or anything, though. If you need to take a break. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you agreed with a small smile. “Thank you.”

“Of course.” He smiled back for a beat too long and only ripped his eyes away when Seungkwan’s finger dug into the back of his hip. He shot Seungkwan a glare, but Seungkwan just tapped his clipboard with a very dangerous expression.

Right.

They were on a film set.

His film set.

“Okay, reset for framing,” he ordered, and both you and Junhui settled back into position. Wonwoo adjusted the tilt on the camera. Vernon glanced at the row of people and equipment crowded between the bed and the wall and wrinkled his nose. “Sorry, Soonyoung, can I swap with you? So I can see?”

“Oh! Sure.” Soonyoung adjusted the sandbag on the c-stand behind him, then slipped out, and Vernon slotted into his place to peer over Wonwoo’s shoulder.

“What do you think?” Wonwoo asked as he locked the tripod into place. The frame showed your face, eyes closed peacefully, the faintest light from the window falling across your skin. A sliver of Junhui’s hair peeked out behind yours. It looked perfectly natural, despite the shockingly great effort that it had taken to diffuse the already-beaming sun into something softer.

It looked, not to Vernon’s surprise, like the awful little storyboard he’d sketched out.

Except with your face, instead of Lei’s, like he’d envisioned.

Your face, soft and gentle and asleep.

Mr. Butterfly swooned like a Victorian woman.

“Perfect,” Vernon said. He nodded. “I’m happy to roll on that.”

“Great! Slate in frame!” Seungkwan ordered, pen rapping against his clipboard.

“Wait, we need to mark focus,” Wonwoo said, and Chan swapped the whiteboard marker for the follow focus, squinting at the frame. “Y/N, is that your starting mark?”

“Yep,” you said, eyes closed. Even with Chan’s shoulder in the way, Vernon could see the way your eyelashes settled against your cheek.

“Could you open your eyes?” Chan asked, and suddenly you were staring directly at Vernon – no, no; at the camera. Right into the lens. Your nose scrunched, you started to giggle, and then Junhui stifled a laugh, and Vernon watched you smile through the camera with the ghost of a grin of his own. “Got it,” Chan said. “What’s your ending mark?”

“Um… I think here?” You inched forward, smile fading as your brows pinched together.

“Yeah,” Vernon jumped in quickly, realizing that this was his job. “It’s gonna be a short shot. Really just you jerking forward. We’ll get the part with Tien grabbing your arm in a different shot.”

“So I don’t wake up in this shot?” Junhui asked, and Vernon shook his head.

“Nope.”

“Cool, I’ll just be sleeping,” Junhui declared, and Seokmin laughed from the hallway.

“Okay, got it,” Chan declared, setting the focus down and picking up the slate again. “Soft sticks?”

“For sure. Wait.” Wonwoo paused, squinting into the camera and clicking through settings. “Sorry, the last project I did was slo-mo. I need to change the frame rate.”

“Are you kidding me?” Seungkwan groaned, but Wonwoo ignored him, clicking away.

“Vernon?” you whispered, and his head snapped up. You look like a dumb puppy when you do that, Seungkwan had told him once, but he would be a dumb puppy for you any day if it just meant you’d call his name.

“Mm?” he said, very eloquently. Your eyes dipped from his, something strangely shy in them for someone usually so confident, and he frowned. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m…” The hint of a smile twitched at your lips, but it wasn’t a real one. Something was wrong. Vernon leaned forward, around Wonwoo and Chan and the camera, bracing himself with a hand on the bed.

“What’s up?” he whispered, ducking his head to search for your eyes. You met him after a moment, tongue darting across your lips in a way he had to try very hard to ignore. (Mr. Butterfly didn’t make it easy.) “Do you need a minute?”

“No, I’m just…” You took a breath, a sort of amused worry in your eyes. “I’m nervous, I guess. I haven’t been on camera in a while, and… I just don’t wanna mess it up. This is your senior project, and I… I don’t wanna be the reason it goes wrong.”

Vernon was already shaking his head before you’d finished speaking, leaning closer to you. “No, you won’t mess it up. Don’t worry about it. Everything I’ve seen you do so far has been perfect, okay? Exactly what I wanted. I wouldn’t have let you act for me if I didn’t trust you. And you’ve never let me down. So don’t worry about it, okay? You’re only gonna mess yourself up more by stressing, I know you. Just relax. It’s okay. I trust you, and you’re gonna do great.” And I love you.

You let out a quiet breath, eyes crinkling just a little with a tiny smile. “Well,” you said, amused, and Vernon blinked.

“Huh?”

“Well. I’m going to do well. Not great.”

“Oh,” Vernon groaned, rolling his eyes. “Right. Sorry. You’re gonna do really well. Better?”

Your smile split into a grin. “Much better.” And then something softened. “But… thank you. Seriously. I feel a lot better now.”

Vernon smiled, and was promptly smacked in the face with the realization that he was nearly on top of you, hands framing your waist against the bed, his face less than a foot from yours. Mr. Butterfly choked and sputtered, and Vernon wasn’t much better, heat crawling up the back of his neck before he dragged himself back from the bed and flashed you the best smile he could muster.

“Great. Well, you got this, okay?” He flashed you a thumbs up. A freaking thumbs up. But you laughed, adjusting the blanket under your arm, and he exhaled.

“Okay,” Seungkwan said with something that sounded like thinly veiled malice. “Are we ready to roll?”

“Yeah, sorry.” Vernon cleared his throat. “Jun, Y/N, you ready?”

You nodded. Junhui, eyes closed, didn’t move.

“I’m going to assume he’s asleep,” Seungkwan said drily. “Slate in frame!”

Chan leaned in front of the camera, slate in hand, and your face disappeared behind Vernon’s name and Bleeding Hearts.

“Sound!”

Joshua hefted the boom over your head. “Speeding,” Jeonghan said with the flick of a switch.

“Camera!”

Wonwoo pressed record. “Rolling.”

“Mark it!”

“Scene two, take one, soft sticks!” Chan tapped the slate, quieter than normal to protect your ears, then pulled back and swapped the slate for the follow focus and settled into place.

“Hold for focus,” Wonwoo called.

A heavy silence settled over the bedroom. Even outside the closed door, the quiet seemed to hang.

The first shot of the first day. Already fifteen minutes late, but as always Seungkwan was smart and baked extra room into the schedule. They’d be fine.

This – this film – was the most important one he’d ever shot. He could feel it, feel the weight clinging to his bones, spiraling through him and making breathing hard.

Or maybe it was you, your eyes closed in faux sleep, your voice echoing in his ear – Vernon? Thank you. Seriously.

“Ready!” Wonwoo announced, and Vernon took a deep breath.

“Action!”

WARNINGS: Graphic violence generally associated with mafia behavior, mentions of murder and blood, on screen murder, themes of codependency and obsession, references briefly to Soonyoung's father being tough on him, a lot of internal angst throughout, Soonyoung discovers his parents bodies on screen, intense depictions of grief and shock, angry Soonyoung for a lot of this fic, lots of thoughts/mentions of difference in social standing between Soonyoung and reader, brutal breakup scene, recreational drug use and drinking, bar fights and jealousy, on screen suicide attempt via drugs, cage fights/violence, mentions of torture that happens off screen but the victim is briefly on screen, Soonyoung not caring if he lives or dies for a bit, a lot of derealization/depersonalization, Soonyoung feeling like he's just a body/not human for the second half, depictions of panic and anxiety, just... lots of blood. Most of this is a recreation of Baby but there are new scenes with added violence, explicit language, explicit sexual content including unprotected sex, oral (f. receiving), a little bit of groveling, fingering, emotional sex.

If our love is a drug You’re the one with the trigger Shoot me down, shoot me down I don’t wanna remember you

KWON SOONYOUNG IS CRYING THE FIRST TIME HE MEETS THE LOVE OF HIS LIFE. He hates crying because his dad hates when he cries. Soonyoung’s father has told him over and over again that crying isn’t a way to solve his problems, but Soonyoung can’t help it.

He twists his fists tighter in his mother’s skirt, clinging to her. He knows he’s here because he’s supposed to make friends, but the last time he’d tried to make friends had been at school and they’d hurt him. He hates being hurt - it makes him cry.

Everything in the unfamiliar foyer seems too big. The floors are impossibly shiny, the high ceiling stretching upward in what feels like a never ending spiral. It smells faintly of flowers - not like his house that smells like vanilla when his mom bakes. His house is large too, but not like this house, with its sprawling jungle outside and massive bulk of building.

Sighing, Soonyoung’s mom crouches down. Her eyes soften as she brushes the tears from his ruddy cheeks, her touch warm. He sniffs, trying to catch his breath as she gives him a look that he knows means enough. It’s not as scary as when his father does it, but Soonyoung knows his mother is giving him the opportunity to collect himself.

Soonyoung loves his mom. He tries not to let it dictate everything he does for fear of his father calling him a momma’s boy, but he can’t help it. His mom is the smartest and most loving person Soonyoung knows, and she knows exactly how much vanilla to add to his cookies and when to give him time to process emotions.

Emotions have always been hard for him to process, which is why he cries all the time.

“You’ll be fine, Soonyoung,” his mother promises. Her voice is gentle but firm and he sucks in a breath and nods. “You’re here to make friends with the Choi family. You remember they’re friends of ours, right?”

Soonyoung does. He’s never been here before, but he’s seen the Tower before, a terrifying man who frowns a lot and makes even Soonyoung’s dad bow with respect. The Tower is the most important person to Soonyoung’s father - besides Soonyoung and his mother, of course. It is his father's job to protect the Tower, to be his most loyal friend, to be the sword and shield.

Movement catches Soonyoung’s eye. He glances over to see you peeking from behind your mother, who gives you a sharp look. You sigh and step around her, staring at Soonyoung with your nose scrunched. You link your hands behind your back, watching Soonyoung with the prettiest eyes he’s ever seen.

He thinks you’re an angel. He doesn’t know much about angels, but he’s heard they’re supposed to be the most beautiful creatures in the world. When he looks at you, he thinks you must be an angel. It’s the only explanation.

A boy steps out of what Soonyoung thinks is the kitchen. He’s older than both of you, his stride confident and self-assured. He walks like the kids at school with money and parents in high positions. His eyes narrow when he looks at Soonyoung up and down, unimpressed. Soonyoung stands a little straighter, realizing this must be the Tower’s son.

Soonyoung doesn’t understand a ton about the Choi family, but he does know the Tower is number one, which makes the Tower’s son pretty important. Soonyoung immediately feels a need to be careful around this boy, knowing that weakness won’t be appreciated.

“Seungcheol,” your mother chides. “Don’t be rude to our guests.”

The boy - Seungcheol - glances at you. Soonyoung watches you and Seungcheol exchange some sort of silent communication and realizes you must be siblings. There’s a little bit of Seungcheol in your face, though you’re softer and younger. You shrug at your brother and Seungcheol sighs, turning to face Soonyoung. He bows politely, not too low, not too high - the perfect, practiced bow.

“It’s nice to meet you, Soonyoung.” The Tower’s son straightens, his eyes dark. “Are you here to play video games?”

No, he almost says. He’s here to become friends with the Tower’s son. Even at a young age, Soonyoung understands this. His entire purpose here today is to become what Soonyoung’s father is to the Tower, but to Seungcheol. To love him, to protect him, to honor him.

Soonyoung straightens a little. He can do this. He’s always been up to any task - albeit, after a little crying - and when he looks at his mother for permission, he sees that she’s pleased. “He is,” she tells Seungcheol. “We thought it might be good for you to become friends. All three of you.”

Soonyoung looks at you again. His heart soars. He didn’t realize that he would get to be your friend too. If he’s being honest, he enjoys that prospect better. Seungcheol looks a little too scary and like he takes everything too seriously, where you look quiet. Kind. Pretty.

“Do I have to?” You ask your mom, frowning.

That makes Soonyoung deflate a little. You don’t seem eager to be friends with him and it stings a little. Thankfully, your mom tells you that you do have to get to know him. It makes it a little better, but Soonyoung shifts from foot to foot, suddenly angry that you don’t want to play with him. Makes him feel like the kids at school.

“Why don’t you want to play?” Soonyoung asks, a little frustrated.

“I’m not any good.”

Oh. That makes sense to him. He doesn’t like things he’s not good at either, but he wants you to stay with him, so he says, “That’s okay. I’ll let you beat me.”

Seungcheol groans. “Ugh, don’t let her win. Come on. I got the new Grid Fighters game on the Reality Rift console!”

“No way!”

Grid Fighters is hard for anyone to get a hold of. No one at Soonyoung’s school has been able to get it - much less afford the Rift console - and he’s been watching videos online of cool streamers playing it, living vicariously through them. The idea that the Tower’s son has it sends Soonyoung running after Seungcheol, excited to try it out.

When you don’t follow, Soonyoung stops at the door. You’re rooted to the spot next to your mom, mouth down turned. Soonyoung recognizes the look on your face - fear. Fear of not being accepted by others when forced to interact with them, fear of not being good enough. Of someone hurting you.

Soonyoung never wants you to feel that way around him.

“Come on,” he whispers. “I’ll let you win, I promise.”

Your smile lights up the room. Suddenly, Soonyoung decides he will let you win no matter what, so long as he gets to see you smile like that again.

-

Training with you is going to be the end of him. It’s the final thought Soonyoung has as you fling him over your back, sending him sprawling to the mat. You’re small but you’re strong, your fighting skills incredibly deceptive. Anyone who doesn’t know you might see the polite and curated daughter of the Tower of the Choi Syndicate, but Soonyoung knows you’re more than that. You can smile and say thank you, but you can also throw a nasty right hook.

Of course, Soonyoung lets you win. He’d decided that the first day he met you. Nothing has changed from the first time Soonyoung saw you smile - except, perhaps, he knows that you’re not an angel. You’re something better, though. Something real and divine in your own way, and as he blinks stars from his eyes from being thrown down to the mat again, he can’t help but grin.

“Holy fuck,” he wheezes, rolling over. He’s covered in sweat, watching it drip onto the mat as he pushes himself up. “Can you let me win for once?”

Soonyoung gets to his feet and looks at you. It takes everything in him not to groan at the sight. You’re not doing anything specific - you’re just existing, covered in a sheen of sweat, little hairs sticking to your temples as you guzzle down water. He watches the bead of sweat slide down your throat as you gulp and Soonyoung’s stomach flips.

Everything you do drives him insane and it’s a testament to his self control that he manages to ignore the way he feels when you’re looking like that, sweaty and disheveled and grinning at him wildly. Soonyoung is grateful that Seungcheol ignores the two of you, working on weighted sets as Soonyoung trains you in hand-to-hand combat.

A single glance at the digital screen across the training room monitors Soonyoung’s vitals. He notes that he’s in the orange zone and winces, knowing that the second you clock it, you’ll know he was going easy on you. You hate it when Soonyoung goes easy on you.

You glance at the wall and Soonyoung knows it's coming when you huff, “Maybe if you weren’t afraid to actually hit me.” You cross your arms, giving Soonyoung a serious look. He opens and closes his fist, looking anywhere but you. “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Seungcheol makes a gruff sound as he gets up to swap the weights on his machine. “He’d put you on your ass, Baby. Lucky for you, he always lets you win.”

It makes Soonyoung wince. Seungcheol has never been too keen on the way Soonyoung lets you win. He’s not too keen on the way Soonyoung does anything for you. Even at sixteen, Seungcheol has made it clear no less than a hundred times the various ways he will put an end to Soonyoung if he ever hurts you.

Soonyoung has to refrain from telling Seungcheol just what Soonyoung will do to him if he ever hurts his sister. Thankfully, despite your teenage bickering and the obvious disinterest Seungcheol has in your general life, the two of you get along well and Seungcheol would die for you. It’s something he and Soonyoung have in common, though Soonyoung doesn’t like to mention that bit too much to the older boy.

Soonyoung is supposed to become a guard and confidant to Seungcheol. Not you.

Sighing, Soonyoung walks over to you and sits by your feet. He holds a hand up, thirsty. You pass him the water bottle without thinking and Soonyoung has to hide the smirk as he takes a sip. Though the love he harbors for you isn’t a two way street, he likes that you’re comfortable with him. It makes him feel safe.

“I don’t want to hit you,” Soonyoung tells you, lowering his voice so that your brother can’t hear him. He takes another sip of your water and bumps against your leg. You grin and he smiles up at you. “I just don’t like the idea of you getting hurt.”

“Everyone treats me like a baby.”

Well, that was true. As the youngest member of the Choi family, everyone has handled you with kid gloves your entire life. Soonyoung is as guilty of that as anyone, but he also challenges you when others won’t. You’re the single person he isn’t afraid to speak his mind around, even if it's to disagree with you.

“You are,” he points out. “But it’s not a bad thing. For example, you say jump and everyone asks how high. Even my dad.”

Soonyoung’s father primarily answers to the Tower, but it extends to the Tower’s immediate family, including his daughter. Thankfully, you don’t give the Sentinel or any of his Swords much of a problem. You are fiercely loyal to your family, incredibly well-behaved, and the only person that you give a hard time is Soonyoung.

He doesn’t mind. He likes that you feel free enough with him to push his buttons, that you can ask him to break curfew with you and to sneak bottles of wine from the cellar late at night. He would never tell his father that, of course. The Sentinel would rather Soonyoung spend his time getting to know Seungcheol, not you, but it’s too late for that now.

“What about you?”

Soonyoung looks up at your question. “What about me?”

“Jump.”

It’s such a simple word. Soonyoung isn’t sure you understand its gravity. He wouldn’t just jump for you. He would do anything for you. He’d determined that from day one. If you asked him to jump off a building, he would do it no questions. If you asked him to steal you away from your family and take you somewhere the Syndicate doesn’t exist, he would do it.

Even at fourteen, Soonyoung knows that your life is going to be a hard one. It already is harder than others. All he wants is to make it easier, and if you gave the slightest hint that for a second you wanted something else, he would give it to you with no questions asked.

Grinning and shaking his head, Soonyoung gets up to his feet, setting the bottle of water down. Your smile grows and he feels the pang in his chest, the already sizable love for you growing threefold. Tenfold. He doesn’t know if it will ever stop, this infinite ability to love you.

He knows he shouldn’t love you. His devotion to you makes a wonderful tool to protect you and to give you someone to rely on, but it feels like a loaded gun sitting on the table every time Soonyoung admits to himself that the affection isn’t going away. That he doesn’t want it to.

“How high, Baby?”

-

Rain hisses against the sleek black panels of the family car, tracing silver lines down the windshield. Hyperion sprawls below in a blur of neon, the glow of the city far below the curving road of the Estates District as the car climbs.

Soonyoung presses his sweaty palms to his knees, trying not to fidget. His suit collar bites into the back of his neck, irritating and itchy but if he keeps squirming, his father is going to notice. Tonight will be one of those nights where Soonyoung’s father is watching everything and everyone, even if he’s not on duty.

Which means Soonyoung has to be perfect.

His mother’s hand brushes his shoulder, warm and grounding. “Stop scowling. You’ll get wrinkles when you’re older.”

“I’m not scowling,” he mutters.

“You always scowl. Even when you’re trying not to. Lord knows you get it from your father.”

Soonyoung’s father grunts on the other side of his wife, amused. His mother’s dress catches a flash of streetlight, giving the illusion that she’s spun from the rain herself. Soonyoung’s mother has always been the most beautiful woman to him - besides you - and when he glances at her now, he softens a little.

Next to her, Soonyoung’s father watches outside of the windows, eyes ever vigilant. He stares at the city below like he can pinpoint every person who means to do the Choi Syndicate harm. Soonyoung is pretty sure he might be able to. As the Choi family’s Sentinel, his father is the sword, shield and eyes of the Syndicate, their best line of defense.

Soonyoung is supposed to be him one day. He’s not sure how.

“Remember why we’re here,” his father intoned, voice low. “You’ll represent the family, not yourself. Don’t let your eyes wander where they shouldn’t.”

Soonyoung’s jaw tightens. “I wasn’t planning to cause trouble.

“You never plan it. It just happens.”

Soonyoung’s mother exhales, laughing. “He’s sixteen, Jaehwan. Not a Sword yet. Let him breathe.”

“He’ll be a Sword soon enough.” He hesitates, and then softens, turning from the window to look at Soonyoung. “And I know you don’t make trouble. You’ll make a fine Sword.”

It’s as good of a compliment as any. It isn’t that Kwon Jaehwan is cold or mean to Soonyoung - he’s quiet and a bit distant, but he makes his pride known. Most of Soonyoung’s friends have awful fathers - he shivers thinking about Vernon’s - and parents who pay them little mind. All things considered with the Sentinel’s position, he should be a worse father.

But he’s not. It makes Soonyoung admire him, even when he’s afraid of him. Kwon Jaehwan is a respected man who commands loyalty, fear and admiration all in one fell swoop. It’s why your father made him the Sentinel of the Syndicate after he took over.

The Choi Estate rises from the mountain like a citadel forged from obsidian and light. Soonyoung sees it only for a moment before it vanishes in the inky, dark green of trees and rain. The walls of the estate are high and guarded, and there’s a heavier security presence at the guard house at the gate tonight than usual.

When the driver rolls down the window, the security team realizes it’s the Sentinel immediately. Soonyoung expects to be waved right through, but under the scrutiny of the Sentinel, each sword carries out their full duties, searching around the car with a dog, checking the trunk, and the underneath of the car.

Jaehwan’s mouth twitches, unbothered by the formality of it all. He trained these men and women to be thorough - even with him.

They’re waved through and the car crawls through the gate as it opens. Soonyoung has been to the Choi Estate hundreds of times - he's here almost every day. It’s still just as imposing as always, a dense network of tropical plants and jungle hiding random offshoot roads that lead to smaller guest houses and a winding gravel road that eventually ends up at the main house.

The main house in question rises up in all its grandeur against the night sky. All four stories of windows are lit up, making the house glow with ethereal gold. Dozens of cars line the curving driveway, valets running back and forth from the steps to park cars as guests pour inside.

An attendant with an umbrella opens the door to the car, escorting Soonyoung with an umbrella over his head. It feels strange to be catered to like this. Typically, it’s him doing this kind of stuff. But tonight he’s a guest, and he’s supposed to be treated like a guest, even if he throws an awkward wave to the young Swords of the family that he played video games with a few days ago.

Inside the main house is a wonderland. Chandeliers of molten glass hang above, walls of shifting holo-silk, guards hiding in the shadows in matte black. He can sense the electricity of the party, eyes catching as servers dressed in shifting colors of silver and white walk around, making it look like there are ghosts moving about the home.

Soonyoung follows his mother and father through the crowd. People part for his father like water on rock, spilling to the side and bowing their heads as he goes. He’s respectful about it, greeting those he knows well with a few words, nodding to those he’s unfamiliar with. The Sentinel is a guest tonight, but it’s obvious he’s still on duty - he always is.

There are two ballrooms in the Choi manor, but they’re in the main one tonight. As soon as they walk into the gilded double doors, Soonyoung’s father murmurs to his wife and kisses her on the cheek before departing to find the Tower. He gives Soonyoung a single look that means watch your mother, which Soonyoung happily accepts.

After you, his mother is his everything.

Turning to Soonyoung, his mother touches his lapel, straightening it with practiced hands. “Just you and me. Don’t disappear. Let me show you off first.” He smirks and rolls his eyes but she laughs, kissing him on the cheek. “You look handsome tonight. Come on.”

Inside, the ballroom feels alive with power. Soonyoung isn’t used to being in a room with the full suite of Syndicate powers. The Tower is here, and with him, the gravity of his family commands everything. Seungcheol is near his father, tall and steady, a living shadow of the Tower’s authority. He nods at Soonyoung when he sees him followed by a wink that means they’ll talk later.

Vernon threads through the crowd, briefly catching Soonyoung’s eyes. He nods but is caught up as his girlfriend passes him, her hand catching his as they trail after Yoon Minji, the Wisdom of the Choi Syndicate. Soonyoung tries not to shiver. Of all the people he’s afraid of, Minji might be somewhere near the top of his list - Jeonghan’s mother is formidable.

As promised, Soonyoung’s mother shows him off. She catches up with old friends, her armed linked with Soonyoung as he escorts her. Her job here is to be a socialite and accept niceties with her fine, young son on her arm. His job is to dote on his mother and accept the compliments on his father’s behalf.

It’s a dance he’s familiar with.

While his mother speaks to Lee Yeonseo, the head litigator of the Choi Syndicate’s personal family firm, Soonyoung’s eyes wander. It’s not that he’s not interested in the conversation - he is entirely fascinated by the fact that there is an entire armada of lawyers dedicated to Choi family matters, especially the Lee family who all dedicate themselves as personal litigators for the Tower and his family. But he’s tired and he hasn’t seen you yet and -

He spots you across the room. You’re unmistakable. Even in a room packed with wealth and glittering decoration, you draw the eye effortlessly. You’re in a black dress, the cut sharp and deliberate. Your laughter cuts through the party and Soonyoung’s heart begins to race. He feels the familiar ache for you bloom, an obsession he has not managed to tamper.

You’re here, and he can’t approach you. Not right now, anyway. He wants to close the distance, to reach for your slipping sleeve or to tuck the loose strands of hair back into place behind your ear, but the crowd of people and the knowing flick of his mother’s eyes keeps him rooted to the spot.

So Soonyoung stands there, chest tight, anchoring himself to the conversation and counting down the minutes until he can find a way to slip away and make his way over to you.

Just as Soonyoung begins to turn away, you glance toward him. For a heartbeat, the world stops. He sees the way you light up, excited to see him. You don’t stop your conversation, but yours eyes stay on him, a smile spreading across your face, nose crinkling in that familiar way.

“Don’t.”

Soonyoung flinches to notice his father has slipped up behind him. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You don’t need to,” the Sentinel says, sharp and cutting. “The Tower’s daughter is not for you.”

“She’s not for anyone. She’s for herself.”

His father studies him before signing. “You think so?”

Silence. Soonyoung doesn’t know what to say. Soonyoung would never dream of you being his - unless you wanted him to be. He can’t imagine that you do, but if. If keeps him up at night. If keeps him asking how high every time you tell him to jump. If makes him so lovesick that sometimes he can barely stand it.

“You’ve got your mother’s heart,” his father says finally, voice softening. “Too full. Learn to guard it, or someone will use it to cut you open, Soonyoung.”

Soonyoung swallows, jaw tight. He nods, turning away from you to pretend to key in to the conversation his mother is having. He can’t stop thinking about you, though. The sound of your laughter. The way you play the part of the beautiful daughter of the Tower so well when he knows you’d rather be lounging somewhere on property with a cigarette and ganging up on Chan with Angel.

The conversation at hand fades. Soonyoung senses the shift of power as he turns his head a fraction of an inch to see the Tower approaching. You’re right behind him, grinning at Soonyoung like the cat that ate the canary. He swallows past a lump in his throat, glancing at your father who greets Soonyoung’s family warmly.

“Soonyoung!” The Tower says, voice low but banished. “It’s good to see you.”

Soonyoung bows respectfully, keeping his eyes down. “Tower. It’s an honor.”

“You’re so much taller than I remember you.” The Tower looks at your mother and shakes his head. “He is handsome as the devil. I hear he’s smart, too. A little bit of a temper - reminds me of Seungcheol - but that’s okay. We need that.”

A faint flush crawls up Soonyoung’s neck. You slide up next to your father, leaning on your tip toes to press a quick kiss to Soonyoung’s mother’s cheek. “My mother is looking for you in the billiards room. They’re playing protocol.”

“Ah! She told me she got me a new set of tiles. Will you show me where the billiards room is again, sweet?”

“Let the boy show you,” Jaehwan says. “He knows where it is.”

The Tower laughs and claps Soonyoung on the back. “Keep your mother safe on the way, yeah? You’re gonna make a good man one day, Soonyoung.”

Soonyoung’s father hums. “He is.”

Sighing, Soonyoung holds an arm out to his mother. He was hoping to steal you away. It’s obvious you’d meant to do the same, but just as his mother says her goodbyes to the Tower, you tilt your head toward the west terrace garden. He quirks a brow and you grin, turning away from him as you ask his father something.

Biting his smile back, Soonyoung leads his mother to the billiards room. She knows where it is - she’s been here a million times. The ploy was no doubt for his mother to get you alone to herself so she could talk to the girl that Soonyoung is so obviously in love with, but thankfully, Soonyoung’s father didn’t want that.

After he drops his mother in the billiards room and greets all of the women with their clove cigarettes and gushing compliments, he escapes the crush of guests to find you again. You’re in the terrace garden as expected, shielded from the nonstop rain by a glass dome that turns each drop into suspended silver.

You sit on a bench, propped backward with one hand as you crane your neck to look at the rain on the glass. You have a champagne flute in the other, the drink sparkling with the low light of the glowing stones on the path through the garden.

He approaches quietly but you sense him anyway, turning to grin at him. “That was fast. I thought the old women would keep you longer.”

He snorts. “They tried.”

“Can you blame them? You look all brooding and serious tonight.”

“Have you met my father?”

“I quite love the Sentinel.”

He snorts again and sits down next to you. You offer him a sip of your champagne and he shakes his head. He tries not to go stiff when you shift so that you’re leaning against him, the weight barely there but enough to send his pulse racing. “Dad is serious about me being in line tonight.”

“Same. It’s exhausting.”

Soonyoung hums. The words hover between you. The two of you are from the same world and yet sometimes he can’t help like he’s worlds apart. When he was younger and he realized how serious your role was within your family’s hierarchy, he dreamed himself a prince to steal you away and take you somewhere you could do anything but be the serious, loyal daughter of the Tower.

He still wishes that for you sometimes. He wonders if your family knows that you like to paint. Or that you’re really good with numbers and that your talent is wasted on playing socialite. He wonders if they know that artwork makes you cry, and at more than one gala in the past few years he’s caught you wiping away tears over staring at an old painting.

You’ll never get to be the girl who paints or wanders galleries alone, but Soonyoung wishes he could give that to you.

“You’re too quiet,” you tease him, nudging his shoulder with your own.

“I don’t need to be noticed tonight.”

“Well. Lucky for you, I’ve noticed you. You look handsome.”

He swallows the lump in his throat. You have no fucking idea what it does to him when you say that. He knows that it doesn’t mean anything - not in the way that he wants it to. What you mean is that you notice him because you notice everything. You’re smart for a fifteen year old, and if someone let you, you’d be able to run the Choi Syndicate one day.

That, though, is Seungcheol’s future job.

Noticing is in your nature. In fact, it’s what makes you so good at talking to people and moving in gossip circles. He wishes he had an ounce of your subtlety, and maybe his parents wouldn’t know how over the moon for you he is.

“I hate when you’re quiet,” you murmur.

“I’m still loud. There’s just a time and a place now.”

“I suppose you're right.”

You both let the quiet settle while the part hums behind the glass. The rain drums its rhythm, steady and silver, a world apart from the chaos inside the party. Soonyoung likes this. The silence doesn’t feel heavy, and he senses the soft shift as you tilt your glass back for another sip, your head tilting against his shoulder.

And then, inevitably, Seungcheol’s voice cuts through the terrace, sharp and precise. You straighten and move away from Soonyoung immediately as Seungcheol enters the terrace. He looks relieved only for a split second before his gaze leaves his sister to Soonyoung.

Seungcheol’s eyes darken. Soonyoung says nothing as you stand, sighing dramatically as you ask your brother what now? Seungcheol is here for you, but his eyes are on Soonyoung, narrowing a fraction. Seungcheol is one of Soonyoung’s best friends, but the Tower’s son has finally shifted from the cocky cool kid to the broody, astute teenager he’s expected to be.

And he’s become especially protective over his little sister.

“I’ll see you later?” you ask.

Soonyoung nods and gives you a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He won’t but that’s okay. “You look lovely, by the way.”

You grin over your shoulder as you skip over to your brother. “Bye, Soonyoung.”

He watches you go, chest tight, every instinct screaming at him to follow you. Seungcheol’s stare keeps him rooted to the bench, though. Your brother vanishes behind you, leaving Soonyoung underneath the glass dome alone with nothing but the rain and the distant hum of the party.

The terrace is where his father finds him. Soonyoung glances up as his dad walks in, carrying a wave of silence with him. His dad’s footsteps are silent as he walks over, sliding his hands in his pocket.

“Still out here?”

“It’s quieter.”

His father gives him a knowing look. “The girl was out here.”

“She lives here.”

Eventually, he sighs. “You fight like me, but you love like your mother. It’ll save you one day. Unless it kills you first.”

Soonyoung closes his eyes, feeling every word land heavy, grounding him even as longing twists tight inside. Rain hums above, silver light refracting through the dome, endless. For some reason, he feels like that little boy who used to cry all the time again, the sudden twist in his throat, the telltale feeling of an emotion he doesn’t know what to do with.

“Come on, son. Let’s go home.”

-

The streetlights smear neon across slick asphalt as Soonyoung navigates the empty mountain road, tires splashing through puddles. His chest tightens with each passing second, a knot of dread forming. He is two hours past curfew. On a week night. His mother is going to kill him. Worse, she’s probably going to tell his father and he’s going to kill him.

Soonyoung’s phone died two hours ago - he knows it’s not an excuse. His mother won’t care that Vernon and Chan are bullshit at tracking time, and it won’t matter that they were just playing video games. All that matters is that Soonyoung has broken the rules, and he knows better than to break his mother’s rules.

The Kwon Estate is smaller than the Choi’s by a mile, but it’s still large. It rises like a phantom against the night, black walls etched with faint gold inlays. The gates are closed and silent, but with the press of a button, they roll open for Soonyoung’s car.

Unlike the Choi family, they don’t have active security here. There is an alarm system and advanced measures and a wonderful guard dog that is probably asleep in Soonyoung’s bed, but beyond that, the Sentinel and his son are enough to defend the home.

Both of his parents’ cars are in the garage when he parks. Of course they are. It’s just past two in the morning. His father is usually out later than this, but why wouldn’t he be home on the single night that Soonyoung breaks curfew and needs to have his ass chewed out.

Getting out the car, he hustles to the door adjoining the main house. He pauses when he gets there, hand hovering over the handle. He listens for sound and hears nothing. He’s not exactly sure what he’s listening for - his mom will be asleep and his dad is probably waiting in his study for him to get home.

Something nags at him, though. His chest hammers and he shakes his head. Calm. Just be calm. There’s nothing wrong and you’ve been out all night.

He steps inside, eyes scanning. Nothing is wrong inside. He sags, a little annoyed with himself as he crosses through the kitchen, grabbing a tangerine as he goes. He knows his own anxiety at the punishment that awaits is eating at him, but he can’t help it.

Toeing off his shoes at the door, he jogs to the stairs that leads up to the bedrooms. He takes them two at a time. He gets to the second landing, turning to go to his bedroom, but he pauses. His parents’ room is on the opposite end of the hall, door slightly cracked. That makes him frown.

Soonyoung considers going to his room to shower before facing his father. He should. That is the sensible thing to do. But the opened door doesn’t sit right with him, and the idea that something might be wrong is too much for him to just go to his room.

He moves toward their room instead, steps careful and deliberate. Each step feels too loud in the quiet, his pulse hammering in his ears. He hates the way suddenly, everything feels too loud. Too staticky. He swallows past the lump in his throat as he reaches their door, reaching out a hand to push it open.

A nightmare waits for him.

Soonyoung’s father lies sprawled across the bed. His eyes are open, expression frozen in shock. There’s a gash at his throat, neat and clean. No struggle visible, no chaotic blood spray. It’s deliberate. Pointed. A professional’s work. Bile rises in Soonyoung’s throat as he swivels.

The tangerine in his hand hits the floor.

He doesn’t even register his mother at first. He forces himself to step into the room and the scent of copper hits him, iron-rich with a soft undercut of familiar perfume. She’s sprawled next to his father, half under the cover, one hand curled under her cheek like she had been rising from bed. The other dangles limp - she hadn’t even made it to turn the lamp on.

His mother. The woman who held him when he cried, who laughed until his chest hurt, who scolded him when he ran headlong into danger.

Soonyoung’s ears start to ring. He feels his heartbeat like it is a living, raging thing, pounding in his chest so loudly that he can barely hear his own heightened breathing as he rushes over, hands shaking.

“No,” he whispers. His knees buckle as he drops to the floor, crawling toward his mother. “No, no, no.”

He presses his fingers against her face, brushing darkened strands of her hair from her cheek. They crackle under his touch - dried blood, he realized. Her cheek is freezing. Too cold. His vision narrows, focusing only on her. His chest begins to heave, lungs burning as panic threatens to overwhelm him.

“Mom,” he works out, voice cracking. “Mom it’s okay. Mom.”

Soonyoung’s mother doesn’t move. He leans forward, cradling her head against his shoulders. Tears burn his eyes. His father’s body presses against his vision, a background detail he cannot process yet. His mother. His mother. He can’t breathe, can’t think. Every instinct honed for violence and for danger fails him in the face of his mother’s death.

Right now, he isn’t the son of the Sentinel, the man who reacts. Right now, he’s the son of Kwon Aejeong, the boy that cries.

Grief paralyzes him. He bites his lip, tasting blood. His fingers dig into the fabric of her nightgown, desperate for a connection, for warmth that isn’t there. She’s gone. He knows it. But he doesn’t know what to do now.

Somewhere, thunder rolls in the distance. It makes his head snap up, but he’s alone in the house. Alone. The house is utterly still. He realizes he should call someone. The Tower. Anyone. But his hands are shaking too violently to hold a phone steady.

Soonyoung takes a deep breath and turns to the nightstand. His hands are shaking when he sees his mother’s phone. He can barely get the holoscreen to light up, hands shaking so much he can barely type out the only phone number that comes to mind.

His breaths come in short, harsh gaps, matching the pulse pounding in his temples.

“Hello?” Your voice is rough with sleep.

“Baby.”

“Soonyoung? What phone number is this?”

“You have to…” He stammers, voice cracking. “I need. I don’t know what to do.”

“Soonyoung what’s wrong?” He can hear the sudden focus in your voice. He wishes he felt as calm. “Soonyoung, talk to me.”

“They… my parents.”

“The Tower is coming.” He can hear you on the other line screaming for your brother. “Stay put, Soonyoung. Are you safe?”

“I don’t know.”

“Okay. Stay on the phone with me-” You get cut off, voice muffled. “- tell daddy something is wrong at the Kwon Estate. Get Vernon, we’re going.” More muffled sounds and then you’re talking to him, “Don’t move, okay?”

He swallows, nodding even though you can’t see him. “I can’t move.”

“That's okay, Soonyoung. Stay with me,” you insist. “Don’t leave me, okay? Help is coming.”

Soonyoung leans over his mother again, curling around her small body. He presses his forehead to her hair, the scent faintly clinging. He cannot hold back the sobs anymore. They erupt, violent and ragged, spilling over all his other instinct to try and calm himself down.

He rocks her gently, whispering her name over and over, as if saying it enough might bring her back. His father’s presence looms at the edge of his mind, stern and disapproving in life, now just another cold body to grieve beside.

“I’m here.” Soonyoung glances at the phone in his hand. The call is still connected, your calm voice a tether to reality. “I’m not leaving you, Soonyoung. It’s okay.”

“I was supposed to be here. I could have-”

“No, Soonyoung. Don’t.” He sniffs, nodding. “Just breathe, okay? I'm right here.”

He breathes. He cradles his mother, his body trembling. He whispers apologies and small, frantic words that make no sense. Outside, it starts to rain, a relentless drum against the windows, the world carrying on as though nothing has happened. Yet here in this room, his universe has shattered.

He fights to stay upright, to breathe, to keep some semblance of control. But the sobs continue, echoing in the empty house, a primal sound he cannot contain. His father’s body lies beside her, and he finally allows himself to glance, to mourn the man who was both Sentinel and tyrant, stern but protective.

Gone.

The thread of your voice keeps him tethered, keeps him from unraveling completely. But the room smells of blood and perfume, and he realizes nothing will be the same after this.

Engines and the low rumble of tires on the driveway breaks the heavy silence. Soonyoung lifts his head slightly, ears straining, heart thudding. Floodlights swing across the estate grounds, cutting through the shadows of the house.

Footsteps thunder through the home. Soonyoung doesn’t move, watching as lights turn on and figures flood the bedroom, the Tower among them. He’s flanked by several Swords, guns out and masks on.

Soonyoung doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. His hands still rest lightly on his mother, fingers gripping the fabric of her nightgown. He feels dizzy. Distant. The world seems to have only narrowed to the two bodies on the bed, the smell of blood, the racing of his pulse.

“Soonyoung.” The Tower’s voice cuts through the din. “I need you to come over here.”

He swallows, nodding once, almost imperceptibly. No words come. Nothing seems real yet. His body moves on autopilot, obeying the ritual he’s been drilled in his whole life: step aside, let the leader take control. But the shock makes him mute, a frozen boy in the ruins of his own home.

Footsteps echo in the hall. Soonyoung’s peripheral vision catches movement. The Swords swivel, guns raised at the intrusion but then the Tower yells to hold. Vernon and Chan appear first, face pale in the flood of light. You’re right behind them, hair wet from the rain, eyes wide. Vernon and Chan hesitate but you don’t, crashing through them as you move straight toward Soonyoung.

“No,” the Tower snaps at you. “Leave. Now. This isn’t your place.”

You ignore your father. You reach Soonyoung, sliding into the space beside him, wrapping your arms around him without hesitation. Soonyoung blinks, stunned, as the contact jolts him out of the haze just enough to register the press of your body against his. You’re warm. Not cold, like the bodies on the bed.

“Come with us,” you whisper, tugging. He doesn’t move at first. “Don’t. Come with us. With me.”

“I can’t…”

Vernon appears next to you. He reaches out a hand, grabbing Soonyoung’s forearm. Vernon’s hand is warm and sure, squeezing. “Come with us.”

The Tower steps forward, rigid, fists clenched, voice like steel. “I said-”

“We’re leaving,” you snap back. Your father seems ready to argue, but Seungcheol appears, a real adult the tower can trust. You tighten your hold on Soonyoung and swivel him toward the door. “We’re taking him with us. We’ll go downstairs.”

Soonyoung leans into you, unsteady, shaking, mute except for the occasional ragged intake of breath. He closes his eyes for a moment, letting your presence anchor him. He lets you and Vernon pull him toward the door where Chan is waiting, pale faced and hand outstretched to receive the three of you.

The four of you herd him downstairs, the rain continuing its steady percussion against the glass. Like you promised, you take Soonyoung to the living room. Vernon presses a cold bottle of water to Soonyoung’s neck, relief flooding through him as Chan uncaps water and forces Soonyoung to drink. Seungcheol stands in the corner, half tuned in to what they're saying upstairs and half shielding the three of you from view, fingers twitching.

And you? You hold him through it all. Fierce. Refusing to let go.

His entire world. The only thing in the world that he has left.

-

It’s gray and cold the day Soonyoung buries his parents. The grounds are crowded, faces blurring into a sea of solemn expressions and whispered condolences. It’s all fucking meaningless. Soonyoung sits rigid, shoulders squared, hands clasped tight. No tears come.

He’ll never cry again.

Every gaze that lands on him makes him want to scream. They expect him to react to their sympathy, to do something. He doesn’t bother. His grief is his, not anyone else's. The boy who once would have openly shown his pain is dead.

Fury simmers under his ribs, dark and violent. It coils in him like an ugly, hungry thing, hardening his muscle and sharpening the tension in his shoulders. The only thing that keeps him from blacking out in fury is your warm hand wrapped in his. It’s familiar and solid, an anchor in the sea of his rage.

Death and murder is not a stranger in the Syndicate. Until now, though, Soonyoung always considered himself untouchable. His father was the Sentinel, the highest ranking heavy in one of the most powerful families in the city. Murdered unsuspectingly with his wife by an out-of-town hit man paid for by a low level Syndicate that didn’t even matter.

Had it been one of the Kim or Yong families, it might have started a war. But this was an insult. A no one who managed to sneak up on the fucking Sentinel on sheer dumb luck.

It fills Soonyoung with equal parts shame and hate.

He grips your hand like iron. He’s sure your hand is going numb by now, but you don’t ask him to let go or soften his grip. You suffer with him, the only one allowed to share his grief. To see the storm raging underneath. You’re in this moment with him, the only piece of his life that matters anymore.

The Tower glances at your hand in his. Soonyoung doesn’t flinch. He stares right back at the Tower, daring him to say something. Soonyoung doesn’t care what the Tower thinks anymore, and if he wants to take his daughter away from Soonyoung, he can try.

Today, the Tower decides it isn’t worth it.

Hands reach toward Soonyoung, names and faces he cannot remember whispering condolences. He doesn’t respond. You navigate the ritual for him, bowing and nodding, accepting respect and sympathy on his behalf. You are his shield, an interpreter in a world that no longer makes sense to him.

Time stretches. Faces blur. The ceremony moves on, but Soonyoung remains rigid. Coiled tight. The last guest departs. The gates close. Silence descends like a weight. Soonyoung does not loosen his grip on you. He does not look at the empty rooms, the cold beds. The house is a tomb, but you are solid, warm, alive. The only thing real.

He leans slightly, just enough to rest his forehead against the top of your head. Your warmth is steady against his chest, your hand entwined with his, and for the first time in hours, he lets himself breathe a little.

In the hush of the empty room, Soonyoung’s heart pounds. He loves you. He loves you more than anything else in the world. Fiercely. Silently. Entirely.

He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t need to. His love for you is his burden to bear, not yours. His fingers tighten around yours just slightly, and the weight of that small connection between you is good enough for him. Any scrap you give him, he’ll take.

For now, he’s in love with you, and it’s enough.

-

The training room thrums with the low beat of synth. Sweat glints along Soonyoung’s collarbone, his veins bright beneath skin. The neon strips on the ceiling pulse in time with the music, the screen on the far wall displaying vitals as he punches the training dummy in front of him until he can’t feel his hands anymore.

Soonyoung is keenly aware of Seungcheol and Vernon watching him. He ignores them, breathing out sharply between his teeth as he jabs at the dummy, hitting it hard enough to send it careening. Soonyoung gulps down a few breaths of air as he walks over to it and rights it, shaking out his hands before squaring up to attack his fake enemy again.

Seungcheol’s shadow cuts through the red glow of neon. “We should talk.”

“Why?”

Once upon a time, Soonyoung would have never dreamed of speaking to Seungcheol this way. Seungcheol is going to rule the Syndicate one day, and Soonyoung is supposed to take his side as his most trusted shield. Right now, it doesn’t feel that way. He feels irritation at Seungcheol’s presence, knowing where this conversation is going to go.

He’s known it since last night.

Soonyoung couldn’t help himself. Hearing that you were going to one of your mother’s galas with a date had set him off in a bad way. Picking fights didn’t used to be Soonyoung’s thing, but lately it’s all he feels like he’s good at doing. Plus, the kid he’d fucked up was a bully anyway and had been giving Seungkwan trouble from Soonyoung’s understanding.

He deserved the cracked orbital Soonyoung gave him.

“You need to tell me what’s going on with my sister.”

Soonyoung stills. He keeps his gaze straight forward, the flicker of red across his hands like neon blood. “There’s nothing going on.”

“Let me be clearer, then: what’s going on with you as it relates to my sister?”

“We’re friends.”

“Bullshit.” Seungcheol’s tone sharpens. Soonyoung hears the Tower in Seungcheol’s voice. He has half a mind to be proud. “You think I don’t see it? Every time Baby is near you, you stop breathing. Every time someone else is near her, you look ready to tear them apart. You sent some fuck ass to a hospital yesterday because you were jealous.”

“I sent that fucker to the hospital because he was pushing around Seungkwan who is four years younger than him.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me.”

Vernon exhales and comes over. He reaches to grab Seungcheol’s shoulder. “Cheol-”

“No,” Seungcheol snaps, shaking Vernon off. “He needs to hear this. It’s not just any girl we’re talking about. It’s my sister. The Tower’s daughter. The one person in this world I will not let your obsession damage.”

Obsession. Soonyoung hates the way Seungcheol says it. He makes the love Soonyoung have for you seem like a curse. Maybe it is. But Soonyoung would rather die than let anyone hurt you - doesn’t Seungcheol see that? Doesn’t he understand that you’re the only thing in Soonyoung’s life that feels clean?

“You think I’d ever hurt her?” Soonyoung asks, voice low.

“That’s not what I’m afraid of,” Seungcheol scoffs. “I’m afraid of what others will do because she’s important to you. She’s the daughter of the Tower. The sister of the future Tower. She already has a target on her back. But you? You’re a future Sentinel. Your future is promised in blood and written in violence, and your attachment to her makes her vulnerable in ways I never could.”

Seungcheol steps so close that Soonyoung can smell the cologne lingering under sweat. Seungcheol is only a little taller than him now, but he’s broad. Thick in the arms. He’s a good fighter, but he’s refined in a way that Soonyoung isn’t. Soonyoung knows refinement can be a weakness.

He immediately feels shame for the way he calculates the probability of beating the son of the Tower in a fight. He can’t help it, though. He’s been programmed from a young age to read every threat, and right now, Seungcheol is tracing his fingers along Soonyoung’s fight or flight instinct.

“You know exactly what the threat of being a Sentinel brings.” Seungcheol glares. “You’ve lived it.”

Vernon hisses Seungcheol’s name but Soonyoung doesn’t hear it. All he hears is the hammering of his pulse in his ears as the room narrows to a focus. Flashes of his mothers face splash across his memory. How cold she was. How she hadn’t even made it out of bed. The way her perfume lingered, mingling with iron.

Soonyoung’s stomach roils. The room feels smaller, like the walls are pressing in. He takes a step away from Seungcheol. Vernon’s saying something to Seungcheol, low and steady, but it’s static against the roar in Soonyoung’s skull.

You’ve lived it.

The words loop. He has lived it. He’s lived what being the Sentinel’s son means, what it costs to guard the Tower. He’s lived seeing his father give his life over to the Syndicate to keep it going. His mother and father both had died for that kind of devotion.

Soonyoung’s mother only died for being married to his father. Soonyoung knows that. It was the risk she had taken when saying her vows when they got married. In love and in death. She probably always knew that the reason for her death would be the man she was married to.

A man that Soonyoung is supposed to become.

“Soonyoung.” Vernon’s voice cuts through the buzz. “He didn’t mean-”

“Yes, he did.” Soonyoung’s voice is unrecognizable. He drags a hand through his hair and lets out a shaky breath. “He’s right.”

“I didn’t say it to hurt you.”

Somehow, that hurts worse. Hearing Seungcheol’s deflated voice is worse than if the Tower’s son had been trying to hurt his feelings. He knows that he wasn’t, though. Seungcheol loves you the way an older brother should. He gives you trouble, he picks on you, but he’s protective. Shields you. Is a steady bulwark for you in the chaos that is your life.

It is Seungcheol’s job to tell Soonyoung the truth, and the truth is that Soonyoung can’t love you. At least, not the way he has been.

“I know exactly what my future is, Seungcheol.” Soonyoung’s voice comes out clipped. His heart rate enters the red zone on the wall, flickering as it climbs. “I know the violence. The blood. The way people look at me - you look at me - like I’m an animal almost feral. I already know.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightens. He looks like he wants to argue, but Vernon cuts in first, stepping between them again. “Hey. Enough. Both of you.” His tone is softer, calmer. “All Seungcheol is saying is that you need to be more subtle. He’s not asking you to get over your feelings just... The entire world can’t know, okay?”

Soonyoung stares at Vernon, then at Seungcheol. His throat is dry, his body vibrating with something too close to grief. He moves to the side of the room and sits down on the edge of the mat. The cool floor bites through his sweat-soaked shirt. His heart’s still hammering, but slower now, an ache instead of a sprint.

“I just want her to be safe.”

Vernon comes to sit down next to him. “We know.”

Seungcheol runs a hand over his face. “Just be better about hiding it. I’m not asking you to stop loving her. I don’t think you could, and frankly, that kind of devotion means you’ll choose to protect her over anyone else. I need that. Just. Do better. You have to.”

Soonyoung doesn’t answer. The silence stretches until Vernon stands and claps Seungcheol on the shoulder, pulling him toward the door with a muttered let him cool off. When the door shuts, the room falls still.

He sits there for a long time, breathing in the smell of the cleaner that mists through the ceiling to de-sanitize the room the sweat on his skin. His knuckles are split and bruised, blood welling in tiny beads along the ridge of bone. He flexes his hand and feels the sting, the blood weeping down his fingers.

For a moment, he pictures you - the curve of your smile, the light in your voice, the way you say his name like it means something soft instead of sharp. It calms him down like it always does. He lays back on the mat, staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes as he replays Seungcheol’s words in his head over and over again.

You’ve lived it. You’ve lived it. You’ve lived it.

Seungcheol’s words are all Soonyoung can think about as he leaves the training room and goes to his own bedroom. He’s taken up residence at the Choi Estate now, and living down the hall from you is torture. Vernon and Seungcheol’s rooms are between you, thankfully, but it doesn’t mean that it’s not divine suffering when Soonyoung sees you walk by at night in pajamas or sees you first thing in the morning.

Hot water sluices down his back. He closes his eyes, trying to erase the haunting memory of his parents’ bodies. The Tower’s wife had recommended therapy for Soonyoung, but the Tower had scoffed at that. Blood and violence was something that Soonyoung needed to get used to. Therapy was never going to help him.

Children of the Syndicate were promised a life of violence. He was better off than most because his family was so high ranking, but he knew the lower down the rung you got, the worse it was. He thinks about Angel, whose mother tried to kill her as a child. Only Vernon intervening had saved her life. He thinks about Vernon, whose father had tried to end his life. Angel had returned Vernon’s favor and taken the life of a well-equipped Sword when she was barely a teenager.

Soonyoung has been lucky. The only death he’s seen is his parents. It was enough to kill the soft boy inside of him though, replaced with something that longs to feel. That wants to hurt just to make sure he isn’t numb.

Hair damp and still shaken, he throws himself into a computer chair after his shower. His hand still hurt, but he wants the mindlessness of video games to try and take his mind off the pressing ache of earlier.

Fate doesn’t feel the same way. He hears the knock on the door just before he puts his headphones on, and he already knows who it is. No one else knocks that gently. He stands up to let you in, but you’re already slipping into the door, leaving it open behind you.

Panic and desire crash together in his chest. Panic because you had to pass Seungcheol’s room to get here, desire because you’re dressed in thin pajamas that make him lose his fucking mind, and because he can smell the vanilla perfume on your skin and in your hair.

“I have a favor to ask,” you murmur.

Soonyoung frowns. You’re twisting your fingers together, shifting from foot to foot. You won’t meet his eye, even when he arches his brow and ducks his head to try and catch your gaze. It makes him a little nervous.

“What is it? Why are you so nervous?”

“It’s a weird favor.”

“Are you going to ask me to hide a body?”

“What? No!”

He smirks. You’re cute when you’re annoyed. “Then it’s not that weird of a favor.”

“Fine. I want you to kiss me.”

Soonyoung’s smirk vanishes. He’s glad he’s not in the training room still, or you’d see the way his heart rate enters the red zone immediately.

“You want me to do what?” He’s half delirious, half terrified of the request. He pulls you closer into the room and shuts the door behind you, heart thundering. “Where is your brother?”

You frown. “I have no idea.”

Soonyoung swears under his breath. He moves away from you, trying to put space between you. The room is dim, lit only by the glow of the AetherLink behind him, a frozen streak of color over his bedroom walls. It paints you in a blue light, making you look ethereal - like the angel he thought you were as a child.

“You can’t just-” he sighs, lowering his voice. “Did he see you come in here?”

“Why are you being weird? I’m in here all the time. You live here.”

He laughs once, sharp and hollow. “I’m being weird? You just asked me to kiss you. Neither your brother nor your dad want you in my room in the middle of the night.”

“Since when? Look, I’m sixteen and I’ve never been kissed, and Lin just lost her virginity to Jeonghan. What happened to when I say jump you say how high?”

“Oh, don’t start with me. Who cares if Lin is giving it up to Jeonghan? She blew Wonwoo like two weeks ago. It’s not a competition.”

Soonyoung hates Lin. She’s the daughter of one of the high up Chariots which makes her important enough to be in your circle of friends, but she’s a shit starter. It was Lin who had suggested you take a date to the gala, and it was Lin who often tried to poke fun at Soonyoung’s proximity to you.

He fucking hated her.

The look on your face makes him wince. You fold in on yourself, arms crossing your chest, shrinking in the blue light of his room like you want to disappear. It makes his chest ache - he doesn’t know what you want from him, exactly. He doesn’t know the right thing to say, but he wants to.

You have no idea what you just asked of him, though. You’ll never know how much he’s wanted the press of your mouth against his, the ghost of your breath against his skin. He’s spent years learning to hold his love for you in his fists until it cuts him, and here you are asking him to kiss you not because you love him, but because you don’t want to be outpaced.

He watches your throat work, watches the tremor of emotion building behind your eyes. You turn away before he can stop you. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Guilt crashes through him. He doesn’t know why, but your feelings are hurt. Girls are complicated and though he understands you better than most of them, the hurt that flashes across your face and the telltale sound of tears in your throat make him crumble.

“Baby-”

You try to bolt. Reflex takes over and he snatches your arm before you can escape him, dragging you back toward him. The instinct to soothe your pain and do whatever you ask of him overrides everything else.

“Don’t be like that,” he murmurs.

“I’m not being like anything. It was a stupid favor to ask.”

He groans. You refuse to look at him, leaning away to hide your shame. “Would you look at me?”

“No.”

He exhales through his nose, trying to keep calm. “Why are you being so difficult?”

This is the version of you he knows best. Defiant. Stubborn. Outspoken. You’re not like this for anyone else because you’re not allowed to be, but this is the you he loves the most. The one who refuses to tell him whatever is wrong because you don’t want to. It makes him love you more.

It makes him think of the time you tackled Angel when you were kids because she had punched Seungcheol. You’d been far less refined then, a little terror that made the Tower laugh and tell everyone you had your mother’s fire. You still do - he sees it now as you try to tug away from him - but there’s that Choi mountain coldness to you too.

You twist in his grip, still trying to pull free, but he doesn’t let you. “Well, if I’m so difficult, then let me go.”

“Baby.”

“Just let me go.”

“No.” The word comes out before he can stop it. “Why do you want me to kiss you?”

You flinch, the sound of your embarrassment sharp enough to make him wince. “Forget I even asked, just let me go!”

Soonyoung hears the crack in your voice and he panics. “Fuck - are you crying?”

“No!”

You’re definitely crying and he groans. “Baby, look at me.”

When you refuse, something inside of him snaps. He pulls you to him, harder this time. You make a startled noise and before he can remember how stupid this is, he presses his mouth to yours. The world goes absolutely quiet around the two of you, even the pounding of his own heart distant.

Your lips are tentative, but when you lean into him, his resolve snaps entirely. He presses in closer, the scent of your vanilla and skin flooding his senses. He feels like his blood is on fire as you grow a little more confident, pressing your lips firmer to his.

Soonyoung has kissed girls before. He imagined every single one of them was you. This is nothing like that, though. It feels like his first time taking frostbyte, a high so quick and powerful that he cannot imagine letting you go.

But he has to. All you asked for was a kiss to even the score with your friends, and he’s done that. You don’t need anything else - don’t want anything else from him. So he pulls back, looking down at you. Your eyes flutter open and his heart squeezes. He’s close enough to count all your eyelashes, close enough to bend down and kiss you again if it wants.

He does want.

“You have pretty eyes,” you whisper. He almost laughs at how much it hurts to hear you say that to him. “I’ve always thought you had beautiful eyes.”

Footsteps crash up the stairs, you brother’s voice calling your name. The memory of earlier shatters the moment and Soonyoung drops your arm. He takes a step back from you, needing room to breathe. For you, you’ve gotten what you wanted, a kiss to tell your friends about. For Soonyoung, it feels like his world is on fucking fire.

“There’s your kiss,” he mumbles. “Is there anything else you need from me, or do I need to jump too?”

The words taste wrong the second they leave his mouth. He doesn’t mean to sound angry because he’s not. At least, not with you. He watches your face for a heartbeat too long. Confusion flickers there, immediately followed by hurt before a mask of composure slips over your expression, a skill you’ve learned to use at parties.

You don’t say anything for a heartbeat, and when Seungcheol calls your name, you leave. You give him a single look at the door before slipping out into the hallway, the click of the door shutting loud in the silence of Soonyoung’s room.

For a while, Soonyoung doesn’t move. He just stands there. He can still smell you, sweet and sharp, the vanilla clinging to him. He runs his tongue across his lower lip, tasting the lip balm you’d left there. He lets out a shaky breath and presses the heel of his palm to his chest like he can quell is hammering heart.

He shouldn’t have kissed you. He knows he shouldn’t have. But you’d asked and that was all it took. One look, one tremor in your voice and everything Seungcheol said earlier was meaningless. That’s how it’s always been with you, though. Soonyoung has always abandoned rationale for you, like that time he tackled Angel for fighting with you at your birthday party.

Soonyoung had sworn to himself just hours ago that he would get his head on straight and find a way to start guarding the way he felt about you, and you’d come in and immediately wreck his plans. All that conviction was nothing at the thought of you.

He sinks down on the edge of his bed, elbows braced on his knees. He stares at the blue glow of his AetherLink still paused on the home screen. His hands are shaking. He pressed them together, but they don’t stop. He thinks about how soft your mouth was, the way your breath hitched when he pulled you toward him. The sound you made. It replays in his head on a loop.

“Fuck,” he sighs, falling backward on the bed.

Usually, Soonyoung’s room smells like teakwood. Right now, it smells sweet and cloying, overpowered by the smell of you. He hates the way it makes his head spin. Hates the way that he knows he fucked up. He imagines Seungcheol and Vernon’s faces if they knew. The disappointment and fury, the fear.

The thought of it cuts him deep. Soonyoung already knows what comes next. Tomorrow, he’s going to try to put distance between you. He’ll avoid you and it’ll eat him alive to do it, but he’ll try. And then you’ll come around, bright and unbothered, and he’ll look you in the eye and fall in love all over again.

He’ll fail. With you, he will always fail.

-

Victra’s mouth is hot against Soonyoung’s neck. It feels good and he grins, tipping his head back as she presses herself closer to him. The vibrations from the music pulse through his bones, thumping in beat with his heart. Above him, the neon casts fractured shades of blue and violet over the crowd. It makes the world appear dreamy and slow, though it’s probably more to do with the combination of drugs and alcohol in his system.

The crowd writhes around him, bodies grinding together. Holographic dancers twist and undulate above the floor, skin glistening as though real, beads of sweat catching the lights. He notices details most people would miss, like the way Victra smells distinctly of resin, the way Taps slip through the crowd offering hits of frostbyte and packets of resin, the way teeth gleam too white and eyes flash, too dilated.

Soonyoung tracks every single one of the Taps, but he tracks the other people he knows, too. Even fucked up, he’s aware of everyone in the room. He’s a Sword of the Choi Syndicate, and even though it’s his night off, he’s never really off.

He also notices you.

You’re perfect on the velvet booth like a queen in a gilded cage, a glass of champagne in your hand. You scan the crowd too, your eyes sharp and precise. Even all the way down here with another woman sucking marks into his neck, Soonyoung can feel you. Is drawn to you.

When your eyes land on him, he sees the twitch in your expression. He smirks at the small, nearly imperceptible flare of your nostrils, the way you tilt your head and turn away in frustration. A rush of satisfaction hits him, wild and uncontrollable. You’re jealous and it makes him feel alive. So rarely does it get to see it.

Once he’s noticed, he can’t stop. He knows you’re watching him and he loves it. The world is too bright and too loud, colors flashing in sync with the music, making every surface shimmer. His body hums with the electricity of it and the excitement that you’re watching as he puts his hands on Victra’s hips, as he grinds her into him.

Every instinct at him screams to walk up to the second floor landing where you’re sitting and to press his mouth to yours, to see if you’ll melt into him or fight him. He can feel it in the tight coil of his chest, the way his stomach roils, blood racing. He wants to push you. Wants to see what you’ll do if he presses you.

So he decides to push.

Soonyoung’s eyes don’t leave your booth as he wends his way through the crowd, pulling Victra along. He leads her up the stairs, aware that Mingyu and two of Victra’s friends have fallen into step behind him. By the time he gets to the top and security waves him through, he sees Wonwoo’s hand outstretched toward you as you inhale a small bump of frostbyte off a knife.

Jealousy flares in Soonyoung. It takes everything in him to tamp it down, watching the way your eyes roll back and you scrunch your nose through the burn, trying to keep your eyes from watering. He sits down in the booth next to Vernon, his eyes pinned to you as you sniff a few times, leaning back to talk to your brother, who looks dead next to you.

Victra and her friends help themselves to drinks. Soonyoung stares as you as you turn from Seungcheol, nodding. You’re momentarily caught up in the lights, tilting your head up to look at the lavender butterfly holos floating above. It paints your color in a wash of purple and lilac, and you’re so beautiful in that second that Soonyoung has to bite down on his tongue to stop himself from moving over to you.

Blood blooms in his mouth. Victra turns to him and presses another kiss to his throat. He lets her, leaning back against the couch with his eyes fixated on you, his mouth turning to metal as you come to your senses and drop your gaze to him. His stomach tightens as your eyes drop to Victra, eyes flashing.

Good.

It isn't that you love him. Not like he loves you. But you're possessive, and Soonyoung is your favorite thing. You hate when your favorite thing is under the attention of someone else and not you. It's a game Soonyoung has learned to play recently, knowing that this is all he'll ever get from you - little reactions, little flares of frustration.

Grinning, he leans his head back against the booth, letting his eyelids flutter shut. For the barest moment, he can pretend that Victra’s wet mouth under his ear is yours. The thought makes him shiver, until Vernon is jabbing Soonyoung in the jibs to get his attention.

“Baby is asking for you,” Vernon hollers over the pulsing music.

Soonyoung glances your direction again. You’re sitting stiffly on the edge of the booth’s seat, staring at him with a stormy expression. He nods and peels Victra off of him, happy to plop down onto the booth next to you to see what it is you need. He hopes its him you need, but when you point at your brother and ask for a stim pop, the dream deflates a little.

“Then you can go back to your little public sex session,” you tack on, heated.

Soonyoung grins and makes a cat noise at you. He likes you like this, all fire and heat. Your mother’s side of the family is known for their fire and passion, the phoenix symbol meaning more than just legacy and ash. You’re cold like the mountain of the Choi family too, but this version of you, spitting angry and trembling is best.

It means you care - care about him, specifically.

Soonyoung leans forward to pull a stim pop out of his back pocket. He always keeps them, needing them to stay awake during long shifts. You make a noise of protest when he leans into you and he grins as you shove at him, annoyed but not meaning it. You don’t push him hard, just enough to let him know you’re angry at him.

He presents the stim pop and you snatch it away from him, turning your back on him to shove the pop into your brother’s mouth. Soonyoung looks over your shoulder at the future Tower of the Choi Syndicate and winces. Seungcheol has had way too many drugs tonight, and a stim pop is exactly what he needs.

“Why are you being a brat?” Soonyoung asks, leaning into the back of the booth.

“Go away.”

He smirks. “Baby, please don’t start with me.”

“I’m not starting fuck with you.”

He knows. It’s him starting with you. He watches as you fawn over Seungcheol for a moment. Your brother has opened his eyes as he sucks on the stim pop, cheek round with the candy. Soonyoung is glad. Seungcheol was a little worse for wear, but he looks like he’s at least aware of his surroundings now, his eyes flashing between Soonyoung and you.

“Why are you mad at me?” Soonyoung asks.

He knows why, but he wants to hear you say it. You don’t, of course. Instead, you growl, “I’m not mad at you. Go away.”

“You definitely are. What did I do, hmm? Tell me.”

“Please fuck off.”

Soonyoung rolls his eyes but gets up. He’s more than happy to let you rage in your corner if that’s what you want to do, so he stumbles back to his seat where the girl he’d left behind looks frustrated. He doesn’t blame her. Someone else has had his attention all night. He tries to apologize in his own way, leaning over toward her and pressing his mouth to Victra’s.

She tastes all wrong. He can barely concentrate on the kiss because instead of vanilla chapstick, she tastes like liquor and the bitter taste of frostbyte in her gums. Soonyoung ignores it, dipping his tongue into her mouth, trying to get lost in the kiss, trying to drown himself in the heat of her lips to ignore the fact that she isn’t you.

It’s been two years since Soonyoung kissed you in his room and he can’t stop thinking about it. He’s never tasted you like this, never licked into your mouth or heard you sigh. But he dreams of it. It’s the kiss that never should have happened, but it fucking haunts him, even in this chaotic corner of the club.

You call Wonwoo’s name. It draws Soonyoung’s attention, pulling away from Victra’s mouth. She doesn’t mind, pressing kisses along his jaw as Soonyoung looks at you. You scoot toward Wonwoo, asking for more frostbyte but you don’t need more.

Drugs aren’t really your thing. You dabble in them occasionally, happy to have a high with your friends while you’re all out like this, but you don’t do them often enough to know how to handle them. Soonyoung sees you reaching for more and he reacts on instinct, snapping a hand out to snap his fingers at you and tell you no.

It makes you bristle, turning to him with all snapping teeth and rage. He feels Vernon cringe next to him but Soonyoung doesn’t care, eyes on you as you yell, “Don’t fucking whistle and snap at me! I’m not a dog.”

He hadn’t meant to make you feel that way. He just needed to get your attention on him and not the glittering powder in Wonwoo’s pocket. By the looks of it, you don’t need more. Your eyes are the size of moons, hands shaking, tongue licking your lips over and over again.

“Baby,” he pleads. “You don’t need more. Your pupils are the size of Mingyu’s big ass head.”

Victra goes stiff next to him. “Baby? Are you serious?”

Soonyoung groans. He knows what it sounds like - he has to go through this misunderstanding with every girl he brings around while you're there. “Chill out, Victra. It’s her nickname.”

Whatever you shoot back is lost in Soonyoung’s irritation. Everything feels too hot and Victra’s hands on him make him itch. He leans forward as you move to sit next to Wonwoo, who looks far to excited to ply the daughter of the Tower with drugs. To Wonwoo, this is exciting - you never party like this with them. To Soonyoung, it’s a red flag. He knows you’re mad and the last thing he meant to do was make you snort more shit up your nose to cope with it.

“Wonwoo,” Soonyoung thunders, knocking Victra’s hands away. “Don’t you dare give her that.”

Wonwoo is stuck between a rock and a hard place. No one has ever told you no, but everyone knows Soonyoung is not someone to fuck with. Soonyoung is a Sword - Wonwoo isn’t. He’s not even really a Tap, but he’s somewhere in the middle of the chain without an official title. Which means that both you and Soonyoung outrank him, and he’s not sure who to listen to.

Victra tries to pull Soonyoung back to the seat and it sets him off. “Stop clawing at me.” He turns back to you, your eyes blazing. “Baby, please stop being stubborn for one moment. Just one.” Victra starts bitching at Soonyoung, but he ignores her, eyes on you. Only you. “If you’re mad at me, be mad at me. Stop blowing shit up your nose to prove and point and be a bitch, though.”

Wrong thing to say. Soonyoung knows it’s wrong as soon as it’s out of his mouth. He doesn’t mean to call you a bitch, because you’re not. At least, not in a way that would make him call you that out loud. But the lights are too bright and the sour taste in his mouth is getting to him and his head is starting to hurt, all signs that his high is wearing off and that the long nights are getting to him.

“I’m not proving fuck,” you spot. “And Victra’s right, go fuck her in the bathroom or something and stop telling me what to do.”

“So it is about her?” He asks, caught between pleasure and worry. You’ve never fought about this before - especially not like this, in front of everyone with drugs pumping through you to fuel the rage.

Soonyoung doesn’t even catch what Victra says to you. He’s too focused on the glassy look in your eye and the hurt that he sees there and he feels sick. He hadn’t meant for it to hurt like this - he thought you might get frustrated because you like to hold his leash, but he hadn’t expected the pain looking back at him.

He feels like a fucking asshole - he is a fucking asshole.

There’s not much time to think about it. Whatever Victra said to you sets you off. Soonyoung blinks in surprise as you launch out of the seat toward them, knocking over glasses and bottles. Seungcheol’s arm snaps out to catch you by the waist and pull you back toward him.

Soonyoung’s hand goes to Victra’s thigh to pin her down but she’s up on her feet in seconds as Seungcheol subdues you, seeing a window of opportunity. Before Soonyoung can knock her back, Angel is on her like a rabid dog, slamming the girl into the booth and pinning her knee to the girl’s stomach.

It is chaos that Soonyoung can barely control. Angel pins Victra to the seat while her friends start to rise from the booth. A bucket of ice goes flying, spraying freezing cold water over Soonyoung and the others. He shoots to his feet, arm shooting out to grab one of the girls who was with Mingyu to keep her from getting to you across the table.

You’re screaming like a banshee, feet kicking out and knocking over bottles. Glass shatters and champagne sprays, drawing the eyes of everyone outside of your table. Security starts to come over but Soonyoung is pulling Victra from underneath Angel’s knee and shoving her toward Mingyu, hollering at him to take her.

One of the girls is bleeding, her brow split open from the ice bucket that hit her square in the face. Soonyoung doesn’t cringe. He just blocks them from entering the booth again, ignoring Victra as she throws every curse she can at him. Security helps Mingyu, wrangling the three women toward the steps while trying to assess the blood gushing from the one girl’s face.

Running a hand through his hair, Soonyoung turns back around. Wonwoo is picking glass off of himself while Vernon and Angel clear their side of the booth. An attendant shows up to start cleaning and Soonyoung gives him a nod of thanks, heart hammering and head spinning from the chaos of it all.

You’re talking to Seungcheol quietly, your brother caging you in as he murmurs something to you. Soonyoung sees you deflate and nod, sagging against the seat as whatever Seungcheol tells you lands. You nod and Seungcheol rises, giving you space as you pant through the rage.

Seungcheol gives Soonyoung a look. A few years ago, he would have started a fight with Soonyoung. Now, he just seems tired and annoyed. Soonyoung brushes shoulders with Soonyoung as he goes to sit next to you, your brother body checking him a little as he does. It makes Soonyoung grin - it’s not a threat, but a warning, more frustrated than angry.

Color swims above the two of you, painting you in fuchsia. Soonyoung looks up at the glitter of lights, feeling the anger deflate from you, replaced with something colder and more reserved, the phoenix turning into the mountain.

“Jealousy is crazy on you,” Soonyoung offers. He says it because he wants confirmation that it is jealousy, that the display of rage and chaos is because maybe - just maybe - you like him when he’s only yours. “I kind of like it.”

“Don’t do that to me ever again.”

Soonyoung laughs to hide the flutter in his heart. If he’d known he would get this kind of reaction, he wouldn’t have done it. But now that he knows what kind of reaction you would give, he can’t stop thinking about it.

His eyes drop down to your mouth. He thinks about that night in his bedroom when you asked him to kiss you, when you pressed your lips against his. It has followed him every day for two years, the ghost of your lips impossible to shake. He wants to kiss you now, but he doesn’t dare. Not when he’s still unsure about your jealousy, not when it feels fragile.

“I’m serious,” you continue. “Don’t ever do that to me again, Soonyoung. Not to me.”

Soonyoung nods and leans into you, melting into the seat. It’s small but he lets himself have this, everyone else be damned. You put your hand on his thigh and he nearly groans, feeling the tension bleed out of him as he puts his head on your shoulder, tired and wanting nothing more than to stay like this forever, the scent of vanilla lingering on his skin.

It’s the first time that Soonyoung realizes maybe you like him too.

-

Killing is not at all like Soonyoung imagined. There's no adrenaline rush, no gut-wrenching remorse. There's just the mechanical pull of the trigger and the sound of the electric charge of the gun. The body slumps to the ground like a wet coat, flopping over in the rain-slicked alley. Soonyoung stares at the body, the water in the street turning pink under the blue neon, blood flowing from the mess of skull.

He doesn't care.

The dead man had been a Rook of the Yong family who'd been trying to extort someone in the club thumping behind Soonyoung. Soonyoung had been watching him all night, waiting and gathering information until Old Man Vero confirmed he wanted the Rook dead. So he did exactly that, grabbing the man by the back of the neck and dragging him out here to beat him within an inch of his life before ending it.

Soonyoung looks at his hands. The knuckles are split and bloody, already bruised and growing darker. He flexes them. He can't feel any pain, but there's a popping feeling in his right hand that feels wrong. Broken, maybe. He doesn't really know. The frostbyte eating away as his exhaustion keeps any of the pain in the back of his mind, somewhere dull and distant.

Red and blue glows from billboards overhead. Soonyoung can hear them in the distance, advertising AetherLink upgrades with new virtual reality that makes people forget their shitty lives. He's never tried alternate reality - he doesn't need to. His life is shitty but at least he has you in it. There's no reality in the world that a computer can give him that is better than the one he has with you, even if you're not his.

The plasma gun is heavy in Soonyoung's hand, barrel humming faintly with residual energy. It smells like wet concrete and fried street food from the cart down the block, and he absently realizes that he's hungry. Hunger is the only thing he feels as he stares at the body bleeding out. The fleshy material of meat and white chips of skull don't bother him. He tilts his head, frowning. He thought it would be more splatter, but the rain washes away the gore.

Soonyoung should feel something, probably. His father had drilled it into him over late-night talks in their old house, back when the Sentinel was alive and teaching Soonyoung how to be a Sword.

"A man feels when he kills," his dad had said. "Guilt, rage, even satisfaction. But if you feel nothing, you're no better than an animal. A tool. And tools get discarded when they're dull."

Holstering the gun, Soonyoung stares at the body. He waits for the wave to hit - regret, maybe. For ending a life that had parents, maybe a kid, debts to pay. Or pleasure, the dark kind that other Swords whisper about in the Choi estates billiards room after a job, drinks in hand and eyes glazed.

There's nothing.

Soonyoung turns away and dials for a cleaner to come dispose of the body. He doesn't even do it himself, impersonal, uncaring. He doesn't care where the body ends up, he just knows it needs to be disposed of.

The Lower District pulses around Soonyoung, alive in a way that Hyperion's underbelly can be at this hour. He hears the side door to the club open and looks up, nodding when he sees a cleaning team before he shoves his phone in his pocket and walks out of the mouth of the alley, boots splashing in grimy puddles.

Hawkers shout from their carts at him as he passes. He can see Choi Syndicate Taps moving from club to club and prowling lines to get into clubs, pushing stim, frostbyte, syndust and more. Holographic dancers writhe in the windows of brothels, their forms glitching a little in the rain. He pays them no mind, even when the live girls come out when they see him, calling to him and reaching for him.

He doesn't let them touch him. He has no interest in them. He used to let women touch him and fuck him when he was younger, trying to erase the smell of your hair and the sound of your laughter. He doesn't do that now - not since that night years ago you'd fucked up some girl he brought to a booth with him. You'd told him to never do that again, and he hasn't tried.

Hasn't tried to learn where that jealousy came from, either, whether its the desire to hold the leash or desire for him.

Soonyoung weaves through the crowd, shoulders hunched against the rain as it turns to a downpour. The kill doesn't bother him, still. Not the way it should. What gnaws at him is the lack of response - no pulse spike, no shaky hands. No brief cringe of horror. Nothing.

He wonders if he's broken - maybe fucked up beyond repair. He hasn't cried since the night he found his parents slaughtered in the bedroom of his childhood home, but he's surprised at the total lack of response.

His father would be ashamed, seeing him like this. A loyal Sword who executes without a flicker, who has become nothing but an animal that bites.

Soonyoung ducks into a dive bar called Echo Void. It's tucked under a towering apartment building that's crumbling and probably a single bad day away from coming down. It's the kind of place where low level Syndicate members mingle with partiers chasing oblivion and other dark pleasures.

Dim lights pulse to synth beats from a DJ platform in the corner, VIP booths shrouded in holographic privacy fields that flicker, their shitty quality unable to hold the wall for long. The air reeks of spilled drinks, sweat and the acrid tang of someone smoking syndust in the shadows.

He slides onto a stool at the bar, the worn leather creaking under him. The bartender is a grizzled woman with cybernetic eyes that glow blue. She looks him up and down but she must see something in his face because instead of asking him questions, she pours him a double of whatever nasty ass liquor they serve here. It goes down his throat, turning the inside of his chest into an inferno.

Finally, he feels something. Even if it's the physical effects of rotgut alcohol that could probably make him blind if he had enough. He's not even sure it's alcohol - it could be gasoline for all he knows. He doesn't care much, lifting a finger for another.

One drink becomes two. Two becomes four. Four cascades into something else. The alcohol blurs the edges but it doesn't fill the void. It doesn't make him feel. Soonyoung thinks back to the violence of it, the way he'd split the mans lip, then his nose. Felt the crack of ribs under his boot. He feels nothing, so he signals for another drink, hoping that maybe if he gets drunk enough, he'll feel guilt or pleasure or something.

It does nothing. So he pulls the packet of frostbyte from his jacket. It glows faintly under the neon light, laced with something else illicit and dangerous. He doesn't mind, so he taps it out on the bar's edge, ignoring anyone who looks at him. Most people don't. He snorts it quick, the burn racing up his nose.

The hit slams into him fast - colors sharpen, the synth music throbs in his ribcage like a second heartbeat. He breathes in a few times, the air sharp and cold and damp. He taps out another line, breathing it until his vision swims and his thoughts fractured like broken holos.

The bar spins around him - laughing partiers in booths, someone asking him for a hit. He tosses them the pack, uncaring that there's a solid 300 credits worth of product in it. He can afford to lose it, just like he can afford to kill someone without consequences in a shitty back way alley.

Soonyoung thinks about you. You're probably back at the Choi Estate either curled up reading a book in your room or sparring in the training room to burn off whatever you're pissed off about today. It makes him smile, imagining the way your eyes light up when you fight, the way that your smile lights up the darkest fucking corners of the world.

He wants to go home to you, to stumble through the iron gates and find you in the atrium or in your room with it's sheets that smell like you. He wants to tell you how he feels nothing, how he pulled the trigger and didn't care. How it scares him just a little that he thinks he's the animal his dad gated, that maybe Seungcheol and Vernon were right about him, he's too far gone for you.

You'd listen to him. He knows you would. You always listen to him, with that steady gaze that grounds him when the world feels like it's slipping away. You make him feel. You're the only thing that can.

So he gets up from the stool and transfers credits to the bartender. It's far too many, but he doesn't care. He has a singular focus on his mind, feet slipping and tripping as the world spins. He's too fucked up to get home on his own, but if he calls a car, the driver will tell Old Man Vero how fucked up Sonyoung is. He's like a son to the Tower, every move of his is watched.

Outside, the rain has turned to mist. It clings to him like second skin, neon bleeding into the puddles and turning the streets into broken kaleidoscopes of pink and cyan. His head is a mess, flipping between memories like a broken projector: Dead Rook. You, smiling. His mom, throat slashed. You flipping him in the training room. Dead Rook. The smell of your shampoo as you brush by him in the parlor.

He needs to get home. Home is the estate. Home is you.

The train station is a ten-minute weave through the Lower Districts derelict streets and back alleys. His legs move on autopilot, boots splashing, frostbyte still fizzing under his skin. A Tap tries to sell him something before seeing who he's talking to - everyone knows Soonyoung's face here. Everyone knows he's a Sword.

The underground platform is crowded with late-night club kids in holographic jackets and tired shift workers heading home. Soonyoung leans against a pillar, forehead pressed to the cool metal, breathing in deep. It smells like rot and piss and his stomach rolls. He decides to breath through his mouth instead.

When the train screeches in, he shuffles on and drops into a seat, the cracked pleather sticking to his damp jacket. The train takes off, rocking him on loud tracks, the lights flickering above him making the world flash in and out of reality.

He changes lines. Each station smells worse than the last until he's walking up into the Upper District at the base of the mountain road where the public lines end and the private estates begin.

The climb is gonna be a fucking bitch. He realizes how ill-planned this was. Now Soonyoung has to walk the however far the distance is up winding mountain roads.

With the frostbyte starting to wear off and leaving a sick, cottony ache behind his eyes, he realizes it's going to be a bitch. Still, if he can just get to your door. If he can just hear your voice. He knows the nothing will stop.

So he walks.

The air up here is cleaner and colder, the pine and wet stone replacing city rot. The ascent is brutal, kilometers of switchbacks lit only by the distant city and moon. His lungs burn. His thighs tremble. Every step feels like walking through water. Halfway up, he has to stop, hands on his knees, retching into a ditch while the mist swirls around him. Nothing comes up but bile and the faint shimmer of frostbyte residue.

Soonyoung laughs once, a cracked sound that echoes of the trees. His father would hate this. The great son of the Sentinel, puking on the side of the road because he killed a man and felt nothing and then tried to burn the nothing out with drugs and cheap liquor.

Pathetic.

He keeps walking.

Finally, he gets to the gates. The men working the guard house give him wary glances. They wave him through, though, and he hears them mutter under their breaths as the gates open for him and he passes through, gravel crunching beneath his boots as he walks between dense forest.

The estate grounds are quiet, the main house a fortress of dark glass and stone looming in the distance when he breaks the treeline. Motion lights flicker on as he crosses the courtyard. Only a few windows glow faintly as he walks up the steps and lets himself into the house when the biometric scanner.

Soonyoung doesn't go to his room. He drifts up the stairs to his hall but turns left where he usually turns right. His knuckles are raw when he finally steps in front of your door. He stares at his hand as he lifts it but doesn't knock for a few minutes, his breath shaky and ragged.

The high has mostly bled out of him now, but he's still cross faded on the dregs of frostbyte and alcohol. Swallowing, he knocks and leans against the door, waiting as his heart thuds so loud he's sure you'll hear it on the other side.

Please be awake. Please open the door. Please don't let me be nothing tonight.

The door opens and the entire world goes still.

The lilac glow from your room spills over him, washing the hallway in soft purple. He can't lift his head yet, his forehead pressed to the wall, one palm flat against it just to keep himself upright. The walk up the mountain has scraped the last of the frostbyte out of his blood, but everything else is still there, dragging him down.

"Soonyoung?" Your voice peels away a layer of rot.

He manages to drag his chin up an inch to look at you. He wonders what you see. Does the light catch the sweat in his hair, the dried blood flecked across the collar of his shirt? Your eyes flick to look down the empty hall behind him, then back to him.

"Where are Cheol and Vernon?" He hears the stress in your voice and guilt punches him in the gut. He didn't mean to make you afraid.

"S'cheol's working," he rasps, tongue heavy. "Vernon went to Angel's."

He watches your face shift. You're so god damn beautiful it makes him want to fall to his knees. He would, for you. He would worship you the way Angel's psycho mother worshiped her god, with a feverish devotion. He'd give anything to you - everything to you.

"Are you-" You dip your head to dry and catch his eyes. "Are you drunk? Or high?"

"Yeah."

You don't hesitate. Your hand closes around his, warm and steady. You pull him into your room and he stumbles forward, heavy and useless. The door clicks shut behind him. He's in your room. Safe.

Soonyoung can't look at you. Not yet. He keeps his gaze on the floor while his heart slams against his ribs. You're standing close enough that he can smell your sleep-warm skin and the faint trace of vanilla. You feel like the only clean thing in the fucking world.

You reach for his collar but he flinches. "Not mine."

You don't say anything. He takes three crooked steps and collapses on the edge of your bed, elbows on his knees. The mattress dips under his weight. He wants to tell you sorry for sitting on it without your permission, but he can barely stand. He still can't look up and if he sees your eyes, he thinks he'll crack open and spill the rotted yolk hidden in the fragile shell of his heart.

He hears you move closer, careful, like he's a wounded animal that might bolt or bite. He supposes that's fair. You crouch in front of him. He can see your bare feet, the soft curve of your ankles, the way your sleep shorts ride up just a little to make his chest ache with something.

Finally. Not nothing. He can feel again, and all it takes is this, sitting in your room with you a few inches away.

"Soonyoung," you whisper. "You're scaring me. Do you need me to call Cheol or Vernon?"

He shakes his head. The idea of Seungcheol seeing him like this in your room makes his stomach turn. Vernon would understand, but he'd be wary, still. Neither your brothers would like him here in your room like this very much, the smell of violence and something darker on him.

"Let me call Vernon-"

"No," he whispers. "No. Sorry. I just-"

He can't finish the sentence. The silence stretches for a moment. Your hand settles on his knee, gentle and waiting. He stares at it, suddenly seeing the lifeline. The burden becomes a little easier.

"My dad always said I should feel something." The words slur a little. "Always said that you should feel something when you kill someone. If you don't, it means you're nothing more than a beast with base instincts. Not intelligent or refined."

Your fingers tighten. You don't interrupt. You never do.

"I felt nothing. Fucking nothing."

Soonyoung risks a glance at you and his heart thuds. Your face is tilted up toward him and you're on your knees, eyes wide and fierce, softened with worry. Your mouth is pinched and the way you look at him sends him reeling.

"What do you mean?" You whisper, coaxing it out of him.

So he tells you.

"There was no guilt. I didn't even flinch. It was so easy, like fucking breathing. That's not what my dad wanted me to be. He always said that those who felt nothing were just baser creatures. That we were better because we were made better."

"I think your dad wanted a lot of things. You being alive was the most important of those things, Soonyoung."

His name on your lips makes his eyes flutter. He wants you to say it again. Wants to hear it a million time. A billion. Infinitely.

"I'm just tired of feeling fucking empty," he admits, voice rough. "I don't give a shit that I killed someone, Baby. Honestly? I was fucking looking forward to it. I thought maybe - just maybe - I would feel something, even if it was guilt or horror or satisfaction. There was nothing."

Soonyoung looks up at you. He doesn't know what he expects on your face, but you catch him off guard. You surge forward, sliding between his thighs to wrap your arms tight around his middle. Your cheek presses to his chest, right over the place where his heart is hammering like its trying to reach you.

He freezes. His arms hang useless at his sides. He doesn't deserve this. Doesn't deserve you holding him like he isn't something broken and rotten.

You don't let go.

Slowly, his arms come up. He can't help himself. You are all he's every wanted, and you're here holding him. He circles his arms around you, tentative at first, then firmer. He buries his face in your neck and breathes in, muscles uncoiling. You smell like home.

"I don't feel like a person sometimes," he admits. It's a weight off his shoulders to say it out loud. "It's like the ability for me to feel anything died forever ago. Like I killed it so I didn't ever have to hurt again. Now I only ever feel when-"

He cuts himself off. He can't say it. It's too honest and when you hear it, you'll want to fix it. Because you always want to fix it for him. You spend too much time prioritizing him and he lets you because he's greedily and helpless and wretched, and if he lets you fix it this time, he thinks it'll cross a line.

"You only ever feel when you what?" You ask. "You can tell me if you want. Whatever you need."

You don't ask. Don't demand. You leave it up to him. The fact that you even make it a choice - that you tell him if he needs to unload, he can - breaks him.

"I feel when I'm with you." He sucks in a breath. "I feel most like a person when I'm with you."

And it's true. Soonyoung has only ever felt like he's functioning when you're around. His senses are sharper, his humor comes alive. Without you, he's the quiet blade that makes everyone unsettled. With you, he's his old self, loud and arrogant and wild. But he needs you the way a body needs a heart, and without you, he's something mindless that can only follow orders.

"Okay," you say, like it's the easiest thing in the fucking world. "So stay with me. Be a person with me."

The laugh the leaves him is wet. He realizes he's near tears, the words spilling out of your mouth both his saving grace and his worst doom. If you mean even half of what he thinks you do, he'll never leave you. You'll have to kill him to get rid of him, and he'll let you. If you keep him, he'll never be able to let you go.

Your father won't allow it. It's not proper. The Tower's daughter is not made for the future Sentinel. Soonyoung's destiny is to put Seungcheol first. That's already fucked up and impossible, but at least right now, everyone can pretend.

Soonyoung knew from a young age he wasn't allowed to have you. His father told him. His mother told him. Seungcheol and Vernon even told him. You seem to be the only person in the world who isn't in on it, who doesn't get it. And why would you? No one has ever told you no.

"I'm not made for you," Soonyoung whispers.

"Yes you are," you snap, nails digging into him. "If I make you a person, then how could we be made for anyone else but one another?"

He goes quiet. His heart is pulsing in his ears. You grip him hard enough that he knows he's going to bruise. He stares at you and see's the burning in your eyes, the seriousness of your statement. You're not going to let this go, and not for the first time, he sees that spark of madness reflected in your eyes, a mirror of his own.

No one has ever told you no. Soonyoung can't either.

"If I stay right now," he whispers, resolve fading, "You will never get me to leave. Do you understand? I won't…" He swallows. "I will be incapable of ever letting you go. Ever. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

It's stay or die. He doesn't say it in as many words, but that's what he means. If you ever intend to pull away, he will die. It is that simple.

Your arms tighten around him, a threat and a promise. "Try to leave me at your own peril, Kwon Soonyoung."

- Soonyoung has killed so many people in the last three years that he's stopped counting.

Bodies blur together, some in rain-soaked alleys, some in soundproofed rooms like this one. It smells like blood and cheap disinfectant in the warehouse. A single hanging bulb swings overhead, throwing sickly, yellow light across the the plastic sheet Angel laid down earlier. The man strapped to the metal chair is a nobody - just a runner for some bottom feeder gang that thought they could skim. His face is already swollen and bloody, and as Angel circles him in her rain slicker and boots, Soonyoung knows it'll get bloodier.

Angel makes an art of this. It's why she's a Rook in the first place. Soonyoung understands Angel in a way that no one else does, save for Vernon. Everyone thinks that people like Soonyoung and Angel feel nothing. That they torture because they're sadistic. People don't understand that it's the opposite - they feel too much, and the only time that it really comes to the surface is with the vulnerability of torture or their romantic partners.

Torturing someone requires a strange kind of intimacy. Fishing for information, hurting someone and dragging it out, making them talk - it requires a kind of honesty with oneself that most people can't stomach. If Soonyoung wants to get someone to tell him something, he has to be just as honest, exposing himself in the way he asks questions or the way he comes up with pain and punishment.

He learned that about himself a few months after his first kill.

Soonyoung stands off to the side, arms folded. His hands are slick with blood, shirt sleeves rolled to the elbow. The guy in the chair lets out a wet gurgle coughing on blood and split teeth. Soonyoung is good at this now. He can break fingers in exactly the right order, ask questions in exactly the right tone. The man in the chair is flayed skin away from giving up the name of whoever paid him to skim from the Choi shipment.

Angel flicks her knife shut and wipes a smear of blood on her thigh. "I think I want to use the peeler. Thoughts?"

Soonyoung nods, but his jaw is tight. The phone buried in his pocket buzzes again - the third vibration in ten minutes. He doesn't need to look to know who it is. There is a very angry heiress waiting for him at dinner that he was supposed to be at… an hour and a half ago.

He shifts his weight, boots scuffing the plastic. The motion draws Angel's eye. She tilts her head, sharp as ever. Sometimes, she reminds Soonyoung of a velociraptor from the old movies Vernon likes. Angel always tilts her head when examining someone, sharp eyes missing nothing, pupils dilating as she takes in information.

"You're twitchy tonight," she observes. "Got somewhere better to be?"

He exhales through his nose. "I'm late."

Angel's grin is demonic. She knows exactly what he means. Everyone in the estate knows what that means. The Tower of the Choi Syndicate is who Soonyoung belongs to, but it's not the Tower that holds him by the collar. It's his very impatient, very quick to anger daughter, who he was supposed to have dinner with tonight.

He promised.

But everyone knows how tough it is, these days. The Tower has been punishing Soonyoung for three years straight, sending him on back-to-back jobs, scheduling interrogations that run long on purpose, keeping him bleeding or bloodletting the Lower District while his girl waits for him somewhere else.

Again.

"Go," Angel says, waving a lazy hand. "I'll finish up here. Hansol can help me dump the parts." The man starts to cry when he hears the word parts. Soonyoung suppresses a laugh, knowing Angel did it on purpose. She turns her back to him, a dismissal. "Tell Baby I give her my love."

"She might lock me out."

"She might."

Soonyoung doesn't argue. He heads to the sink and washes his hand, scrubbing the blood with antibacterial soap as the man behind him starts to beg for his life again, telling Angel he doesn't know the name of the person who paid him. By the time Soonyoung is stepping outside and closing the padded door, the man is screaming, his cries for help shut off as soon as the door shuts.

Rain beats down on the warehouse. It's at the edge of the Lower District in what used to be Warehouse District boundary. Now, it's a nondescript building where Soonyoung and Angel have bloody sessions.

Soonyoung's bike roars to life, neon splashing from the wheel well as it turns on. He can barely see out the rain slicking on his helmet but he gases it anyway, peeling out on the wet pavement.

The ride up the mountain is a blur of wet asphalt and trees. It's fucking freezing, his knuckles white on the bike's grips, engine humming between his thighs. By the time the gates open for him, the adrenaline form the warehouse has curdled into something sick and heavy in his gut.

He ditches the bike in the garage, boots echoing as he jogs to the main house. He's almost two hours late now and he needs to shower before heading to the dinner he's supposed to be at you with - some fucking fancy gala that he didn't want to go to, but planned on attending for you.

Most of the house is quiet. He takes the stairs two at a time, heading for your room that he's been living in for three years now. His old room waits empty and dusty, unused since he moved into yours. He heads for it now, pushing open the cracked door and stops dead.

You're sitting on the edge of the bed you share, still in the dress you wore to dinner. He nearly groans - not upset, but in pain. You look otherworldly, in deep plum silk that clings to every line of you, sleeves slipping off your shoulders. Your hair is pinned up in the way that he likes, a few strands loose.

And your eyes are on fucking fire.

He smells the blood and warehouse disinfectant clinging to his skin. He doesn't want to talk to you like this, but he has no choice. There is no waiting - not with you. He closes the door behind him with a soft click that is louder than any gunshot he's ever squeezed off.

"Hi," he says, voice rough. He peels off his shirt and throws it in the corner of the room, trying to put distance between you and the blood. "I'm sorry. I'm here now."

The weight of your anger is like a blade between his ribs. The inky glass of the window reflects back exactly what you're seeing - blood dried on his neck, a bruise blooming across his ribs, the faint red imprint of someone else's teeth as their last ditch effort to fight him. He looks like a weapon that has been used too hard, too often.

"I know," he starts, voice low. You've said nothing but the weight of your silence is deadly. "I know I fucked up. I thought I could wrap up and-"

"Two hours, Soonyoung." Your voice cuts through him. "Two hours after you promised. After I waited for you and showed up late. And then had to explain your absence. After I sat there like some sad little heiress waiting for her Sword to remember she exists."

"Baby-"

"And they all understood, you know what I mean? That's the business and well that's the life. They all felt bad for me, but they said I'm not supposed to expect anything from you - it's the Syndicate first." She scoffs. "Fucking joke."

Soonyoung approaches you slowly. You watch him, eyes flashing, but you don't pull away. He sinks to his knees, palms on his thighs facing upward in supplication. "I know. It's my fault, Baby. I'm a fucking idiot. I don't ever want you to feel that way."

You get angrier. "It's not even your fault! You think I don't know he does this on purpose? Knowing he's been an ass?" Soonyoung tries not to laugh, despite it all. Hearing someone call the Tower of the Choi Syndicate an ass is funny. "I'm going to talk to him."

It lands like ice water over his head. "No." He catches your wrist and cradles it to his chest. He always feels better when you're palm is against his bare chest, like as long as you can feel his heartbeat you'll understand him. "You don't go near him about this. Promise me."

"Soonyoung-"

"He'll escalate. You know how he works. If you confront him, he'll send me out of the city. Somewhere you can't follow."

You frown. "He wouldn't do that."

Soonyoung cannot fault you for the blind spot with your father. To you, Choi Moojin is your father. The man who raised you. Who kissed your scrapes and read you stories. To Soonyoung, he is the law. He is the key holder to the shackles around Soonyoung's wrist. He is the only thing letting Soonyoung have you out of sheer mercy.

The Tower would have sent Soonyoung home in pieces if he was anyone else. He knows this. Soonyoung's father and his longstanding history with the Tower has bought him this tiny mercy, this little sliver of allowance that Soonyoung gets to have you. But it's on the Tower's condition, time, and watch.

You'll never get it - you don't have to. It's Soonyoung's burden to bear.

Soonyoung leans into you. You let him and he presses his forehead to your stomach like he's praying at an altar. "Let me fix it, Baby. Let me make it up to you."

He feels you fold. You look down at him and he sees your shoulders sag. You thread your fingers through his hair and he lets out a pitiful sound, broken and needy. Your nails scraping against his scalp feel good, nearly making him catatonic.

"And how are you going to do that, Kwon Soonyoung?"

"Watch."

Soonyoung rises slowly, mouth brushing the line of your throat as he stands. His hands slide up your arms and over your shoulders, fingers curling into the straps of your dress. The silk sighs to your waist in a dark puddle when he pulls it. You're bare underneath save for lace panties the same color of the dress, and the sound he lets out is fucking wrecked.

With careful hands, he peels the dress off you. As soon as it hits the floor, he kisses you like a man drowning, deep and desperate, licking into your mouth until you're both gasping. His palms skate over every inch he can reach, greedy and worshipful. He drops to his knees again, this time pressing open-mouthed kisses down the center of your chest, tongue tracing the curve of one breast, teeth scraping just enough to make you arch.

"Missed you all day," he breathes against you. "Every second I wasn't with you, I was thinking about you. About this."

He mouths his way lower, slow and deliberate, leaving wet trails against your skin. When he reaches your hips, he hooks his fingers in the lace and drags it down your legs, eyes never leaving yours. You let him slide them off you, shivering under his touch.

"Lie back," he murmurs. "Please."

You do, sinking into the pillows. He follows after you, as though pulled by an invisible tether. He spreads your thighs wide, hands sliding under your ass to tilt you exactly where he wants you. He groans when he sees your shinning pussy, fucking beside himself at the effect he has on you. He's addicted to it - thinks about it all the time.

The first lick to your cunt is long and flat, tasting you from entrance to your clit. He groans, brain shorting out at the taste of you. A shiver ripples up his spine as he does it again, in no rush - never a rush with you.

Eating you out is a type of high Soonyoung can't get with anything else. His tongue is soft as it presses into you, circling your clit as he sucks gently. You let out a sound that makes his eyes roll back into his head, his hands pressing gently against your thighs to open you up further.

He stares up at you the entire time, eyes blown wide. You're devastating, twitching with your hands twisted in the sheets as he fucks his tongue into your hole. You're sweaty at the temples, chest rising and falling as you pant, your nipples pert. He moans into you when he feels you clench around his tongue.

You're a work of fucking art. He sucks your clit into his mouth, tongue fluttering. You groan his name and he presses his face into you further, lazy licks turning into something more hungry. He's messy with it, tonguing at your pussy like he needs you to come - because he does. He needs to hear you fall apart, needs to hear that high pitched little squeak you do - and you do.

Your orgasm rolls through you, thighs trembling around his ears. He hums, lips smacking, his tongue still moving soft and lazy, drawing it out until you're nearly crying. He doesn't stop. He slides two fingers into you, curling them the way you like, pressing right against that spot on your front wall that has you twisting in your bed, trying to escape him.

Soonyoung doesn't let you. He seals his mouth over your clit again, sucking harder this time, relentless until your face is burying into the sheets to muffle the sound of his name as you come again, flooding his mouth.

He drinks you down, pressing his tongue greedily to your swollen pussy. He only pulls away when you start to shiver in a way that he knows he's going to lose you shortly, the overstimulation too much. He presses cum-slicked kisses to your inner thighs, your hips, your stomach.

When he finally crawls back up your body, his lips are shiny, the taste of you heady in his mouth. His thoughts are spinning, light-headed with the taste and sound of you. He leans over you, one hand planted by your head on the bed, the other lifting your legs to press them toward your chest.

"Still not done," he murmurs, voice wrecked.

You let him hold your knees to your chest with his stomach as he leans into you, propping your legs there. His hand slides down between your legs, fingers smearing the mess he's made of you. You whimper when his fingers press the sensitive muscles of your entrance and he grins before pressing in three fingers, thrusting them slow and deep.

"Oh fuck," you whisper, voice cracking. "Fuck, Soonyoung. Fuck."

"So sorry I was late," he pants, fucking his fingers into you. He leans his weight into you, making your legs split to make room for him as he woks your pussy. "I won't make it a habit, okay? I don't want you to feel second to anything."

"Soonyoung." It comes out a whine and he growls.

"Fucking love you," he swears, fingers hammering into the spot that has you thrashing against him, wailing his name. "You are second to no one and nothing."

You come again with his fingers buried to the knuckle, his mouth latched to your neck. He works you through it, crooking his fingers, licking the teeth marks indented in your skin until you're limp and trembling beneath him.

Only then does he crawl higher and pull he's fingers out, leaving you wet and dripping. His cock is straining against his pants, a wet spot already darkening the fabric, but he ignores it, the pain of his dick less important than kissing you. It's slow and deep, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. You suck his tongue into your mouth and he groans - you're gonna fucking kill him one day.

When he pulls away, he rests his forehead against you while you catch your breath. "I'm yours. I belong to you. When you say jump. No one else. Ever."

You reach between the two of you, fingers fumbling with his belt, the metal clinking loud in the quiet room. He shivers, helping you shoving his pants down alongside his briefs. His cock springs free, aching and leaking. When you wrap your hand around him and squeeze, Soonyoung makes a broken, wet sound.

"Please," you murmur against him, pressing your lips to his temple. "Need to feel you. Please."

He groans. "Fuck, Baby. You want it?"

"Yes, fuck."

Soonyoung can deny you nothing. He lines himself up, dragging the head of his cock through your soaked folds, coating himself in your arousal. He pushes in slowly, letting you feel every inch of him as he splits you open. Your cunt squeezes him and he nearly comes right there and then, only years of practice and control stopping him.

When he bottoms out, he feels like he's in another dimension. Fucking you drives him insane - it's an addiction he cannot kick. The way you squeeze him, the way you whisper his name, the way you press yourself closer to him, like you want to live in his skin - it drives him fucking wild.

"Love you," he whispers, capturing your mouth with his. You moan, lips buzzing against his. "Love you so fucking much."

He starts to move, slow and deep rolls of his hips at first, groaning as he drags his cock along every sensitive place inside your cunt. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you up wider, thrusting in so deep that he thinks you might come instantly. You're mumbling nonsense, fingers digging into his biceps as he fucks you.

"So fucking pretty," he pants, picking up the pace a little. "Mine."

"Feels so good," you gasp, nodding. You claw at his back and the sting feels good. "Fuck it's so good, Soonyoung."

He growls, attaching his mouth to your neck. You're beautiful like this, folded beneath him, sweaty and wanting. He can't get enough, driving his hips into yours as you whine and thrash on the bed, overwhelmed and thighs shaking, clenching around him so hard his rhythm stutters.

You shove at his chest and he lets you you flip him, rolling him onto his back. He drags you on top of him as he goes. When you sink down on him, both of you let out a pitiful noise. You're a vision on top of him, tossing your hair back, hands pressed to his chest as you grind into him, chasing your own pleasure.

Soonyoung grips your hips, not to take over but to feel you. He watches with his lips parted, wondering how the fuck he's allowed to touch you. The dim neon light of the room spills over you, turning you into a goddess he's ready to worship every second of the day. He watches you with hooded eyes as you roll your hips in tight circles, then lift and slam back down, spearing yourself on his cock over and over.

"Fuck," he groans. "Just like that. Use me, Baby. Take whatever you need."

You do, his name leaving your mouth in little sounds that make him go insane. He's barely keeping it together, but you finally break, coming hard around him, pussy fluttering. You soak his lap and he digs his fingers in, growling as you twitch on top of him.

When you're done, he sits up suddenly, arms banding around your waist to flip you again. You land on your back with a gasp of air as he thrusts in to the hilt. You wrap your legs around his waist, trapping him to you - as if he would ever want to be anywhere else but right here, pressed against you as he fucks you slow.

"Again," he whispers, dragging his mouth against yours. "Come again, I want to feel it."

Soonyoung drops his head as he fucks you deep and slow, making sure to grind his pelvis against your swollen clit. He attaches his mouth to a pert nipple, sucking gentle as he rolls his hips into yours. You arch into him, digging your nails into the back of his neck as you hold him there, shaking.

"Soonyoung, fuck - I'm -"

"I know, Baby. I've got you. Come on."

You shatter again, harder this time. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes, glowing in the neon light of the bedroom. He's reminded of the first time he saw you, convinced you were an angel. He groans, hips stuttering, fucking you through your orgasm until he comes hard, shaking in your hold.

"Love you," he chokes out. "Love you - fuck."

"Mine," you growl, holding him to you as he rides out his high. "Mine."

Soonyoung presses his forehead to yours, breath ragged. He doesn't pull out right away, staying pressed to you, arms wrapped tight around your back. You stroke his sweaty hair, watching him with glassy eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispers again. "I won't be late anymore."

"Just come to me. That's all I want."

"Always. I'm always coming home to you."

-

Soonyoung wakes up before you do, like always. The room is still gray when he wakes up, the tinted windows blocking out most of the light. He rolls to his back, exhausted and sore. He's got one arm curled around you, your spine pressed to his side, your head tucked under his chin. You're warm to the touch, the scent of vanilla on your skin. He presses his mouth to the crown of your head, breathing you in.

He didn't sleep much. Never does when the Tower keeps him out until dawn. He'd come home barely three hours ago, showering three times to scrub the blood and filth from his skin before he got into your bed and wrapped you in his arms, the only place he truly feels clean.

You shift in your sleep and make a small sound that makes his heart do that stupid thing it always does, like it's cracking open and spilling at your feet. He tightens his arm and pulls you close, burring his nose in your hair while his fingers trail up and down your arm.

Like always, he can't seem to stop touching you. His touch seems to wake you up in stages, first you rolling into him, second pressing the back of his chest. He kisses your head, grinning.

Soonyoung eyes the crushed knockout on the nightstand. He'd been surprised when he saw it - rarely do you struggle to sleep that much. "Have trouble sleeping?"

"What?"

"There's lines of crushed knockout on your nightstand, Baby."

You jerk away from him so fast it startles him. Sheets tangle around your legs, making you fumble as you're up and out of bed before he can grab you. You trip toward the bathroom, leaving him confused, mouth open. You don't pay him any mind, ducking into the bathroom and slamming the door shut.

He's on his feet in a heartbeat, panic clawing up his. throat. "Hey-" He says your name, his palm pressed flat to the wood, heart hammering. He hears you vomit on the other side and before he thinks twice, he enters the bathroom.

You're on your knees, clinging to the toilet, shaking so hard that your teeth chatter. It scares him more than anything else could - he has never seen you like this.

Soonyoung moves without thinking, going to resolution mode. He opens the cabinet and cracks open an anti-nausea inhalant, hurrying over to you and holding it out to you. You snatch it without looking at him, your hands trembling so bad you almost drop it.

Distress claws at him. He's seen a lot of death and killed a lot of people, but nothing has made him nervous like this. He sits back on his heels, feeling helpless suddenly, his hands opening and closing at his sides. He doesn't know if he's allowed to touch you, and it takes more effort than he's proud of to resist.

You inhale the medication, slow and deliberate, shaking as you blow out breaths through your mouth. He wonders if you're sick from the food or the knockout or drinking - you don't do much drinking and drugs anymore, and the knockout might be making you sick.

"Thanks," you rasp. "Just hungover. I need a shower."

You're lying. He doesn't know how he knows, but he does. His heart trips over itself, brain trying to figure out what he missed, what he did. You've never lied to him and you've never lurched away from him, which means something happened in the last twelve hours since he's been away from you. He racks his brain, trying to think of what he could have possibly done.

"Alright," Soonyoung says slowly.

He doesn't know what else to do, so he goes to the shower, fully intending to start it for you. You make a sound and he hesitates, glancing at you nervously.

"Alone, please."

The words hit him like a blade between the ribs. Usually you're the one asking him to come shower with you. You like the intimacy of it, like when you get to run your hands over his shoulders and wash away the blood. He likes it because it feels holy, like each time your fingers sweep away the blood, he's born anew.

"What's wrong?" Soonyoung asks. His voice is small, like he's suddenly a boy again.

"Nothing. I just want to shower."

You're lying. You won't even look him in the eyes. He can't remember the last time you tried to do that, to avoid his gaze because if you looked him in the eyes, he'd see right through you. He thinks it might have been when you were teenagers and asking him to kiss you in his room.

Something in Soonyoung turns feral and screaming. He feels it rising, the animal park of him that tears throats out - but this time it's scared. His fight or flight is kicking in and he feels backed into a corner, hands twitchy.

"You can talk to me-"

"I just want to take a fucking shower, Soonyoung." He recoils like you slapped him. He has to blinked to make sure you haven't, the words stinging like a physical blow. "I don't need you crowding my space every five seconds."

He steps aside. He stares at you, unsure what to do. He thinks about falling to his knees and apologizing for whatever he's done, but you dismiss him with a cool, "You can go."

"Alright."

Soonyoung shuffles out, numb. When the door shuts between you, it feels like a gun shot.

Confused, he sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. He stares at the bathroom door, willing for you to open it and let him in, to say sorry and to tell him what's wrong. He half expects you to. When you don't, he starts to spiral, starts to go through all of the winding roads that could have led here, replaying that last twenty-four hours to figure out where he went wrong.

He comes up empty.

Leg bouncing, he counts down the minutes. He doesn't leave his spot on the bed, staring at the door until he hears the shower turn off. His heart hammers every second he waits for the door to open, and when it does, you don't look at him. You walk straight to the closet, still dripping.

Swallowing, he gets up and follows you because he doesn't know what else to do and because never in his life has he known how to stay away from you. He stops in the doorway, watching you walk through the closet. It's massive - nearly as big as his old bedroom - and filled with clothes that belong to the both of you, one side yours, one side his.

You go to your section of black and start tearing through hangers. He feels his stomach drop - did someone die and he doesn't know? Is that what you don't want to tell him, that someone close to you is dead? It can't be Vernon, he was just with him, right?"

"What's going on?" Soonyoung asks, nausea rising.

You don't turn. "I'm marrying Kim Yijun."

The world turns. Soonyoung braces the doorframe for a moment as his vision tunnels. For one, endless second there is no sound in the entire world except the blood roaring in his ears. It takes him several moments to put together a sentence, the words sticking in his mind like glue as he peels them apart.

"Is that supposed to be a joke?" He can't think of anything else. "I'm not interested in pranks this morning."

"It's not a prank. The Tower has asked this of me and I'll be doing it."

Rage is something Soonyoung is familiar with, but this type of rage is new. It hits him harder and faster than any drug, his vision pulsing red for a few moments as he clings to the doorframe, trying to steady himself.

Of course it's the Tower. The fucking Tower.

"What the fuck are you talking about? You're not fucking marrying Kim Yijun."

Soonyoung walks towards you. He needs to see your eyes, needs to touch you. Needs you to know that he doesn't care what the Tower has asked of you, that Soonyoung can help you, that he can get you out of this. He already has a plan forming, trying to stop the bleeding, reaching out to grab you-

You whirl on him, finger out. "Don't come near me?"

"Why? Because you know you'll lose your resolve? Because the second I touch you, you'll drop whatever the fuck this is and let me help you?"

Soonyoung knows you better than he knows anyone else. He knows every fear you have, every dream, every love, every hate. He knows the sound of your breath, the exact color of your eyes in the sun. He knows what makes you happy, what makes you sad. He knows-

"I will scream," you threaten. His mind short circuits. "I will scream and Seungcheol and Vernon are right down the hall. Whose side do you think they'll take, with your reputation for violence?"

It's the cruelest thing you've ever said to him. It makes his stomach curdle, the bile in his gut burning so bad he thinks he might throw up. His mouth waters, the telltale sign of vomit and his vision blurs a little - with tears or something else he doesn't know.

"Fuck you," he says, voice unsteady. "They know I'd never hurt you."

"Do they, Soonyoung? I hear some of them call you a mad dog because you attack with no regard for anything. Do you really think they trust you entirely with me?"

No. No. They don't. Seungcheol and Vernon have always made that clear, even when they were teenagers. No one trusts you with him. Not entirely. Not even Angel. The world looks at you with him and sees someone who needs a safe passage out, who needs an escape plan.

Suddenly, Soonyoung is eight years old again, standing in your foyer crying because the world is too big and he's too small, and the only person who ever made him feel safe is looking at him like he's an animal, like he's a threat.

He's going to be sick. He's going to vomit. He's going to kill someone - himself - he doesn't know. The urge to hurt, to maim, to do something, to hit something, to break - it nearly makes him sob, every part of him shaking as he glares at you, seeing right through you.

You don't want to do this. If you think you're fooling him, you're an idiot. He sees right through that vicious veneer you're hiding behind, trying to wound him and rage bait him into storming out and leave you to your father's commands.

"You are not marrying Kim Yijun." Soonyoung says this with absolution. He will fucking die before he lets you. "You don't even want to, don't try to lie to me about your feelings or insult me thinking you can bait me. You love me. You are mine."

"I belong to the Choi family and it's what my family needs from me. I will do my duty."

As though from a dream, Soonyoung recalls a conversation with his father years ago. Soonyoung was younger then, and feeling stubborn at a party. She belongs to herself, he'd told his father. The Sentinel's response had been a sad you think so?

It's only now that Soonyoung realizes what his father meant.

"Fuck your family!" He screams, slamming his hands on the marble counter top that stands between you. The impact sings up his arm and the jewelry safes in the counter rattle. "You have a duty to me. I told you I would not fucking let you go. You're not doing it. I'll fucking kill him, you think I won't? I'll murder every last one of them-"

"You don't tell me what to do, Kwon Soonyoung."

Your voice turns to steel. He knows this voice. He hears it only on occasion, and never with him. You speak to him not as you, but as the daughter of the Tower. You speak to him as an heiress trained and bred for ruling, for commanding men and women smaller than you. You speak to him like he's beneath you - because he is.

He knows it. He's always known it.

"I will do this," you growl, voice shaking. "And you will obey." He glares at you, but you don't waver. "When I say jump, you say how high. You've always known that."

No. No no no no no nO NO NO NO NO NO NO.

This is all wrong. This isn't how any of this is supposed to go. Soonyoung begins to panic, licking his lips. He tastes metal - he doesn't remember when he bit through the side of his tongue, but blood blooms in his mouth as he shakes his head, refusing to hear you.

"Don't to this to me." He doesn't know what else to do to stop you. He sees your resolve and he breaks under it. He can't win this arguing with you, so he switches tactics and begs. "I can't - you know I can't. I - please. I can't do this."

It has to work. You have to hear the sincerity, you have to see what this will do to him. He told you - he told you - all those nights ago. He told you that you'd never be able to leave him, that he wouldn't survive it. That it would destroy him in a way that nothing else could.

For a split second, the pain in your eyes is so visceral he thinks he's won. He feels a brief moment of relief, so sure that you're going to crack and let him help.

Then the moment is gone. The stone cold mountain of the Choi family moniker slides into space and Soonyoung watches you kill any sort of hope of fighting this, of letting him get to you. You stare at him with an expression so alien he feels himself take a step back, more afraid of you than he's ever been.

"You can," you tell him, dismissive. "And you will, because I told you to jump, Soonyoung. Now ask how high."

-

Soonyoung's suicide attempt doesn't work.

It's not for lack of trying. He takes so many knockout pills that when he falls down in the safe house he's been staying at, he feels the life start to flicker out of him like the buzzing of a dying insect. His vision whites out. His heart slams once, twice, then stutters like it's trying to tear itself free of his ribs.

For a single, perfect second, there is no you. No Tower. No Kim Yijun. Nothing. Just static and the sound of his own blood screaming.

He wakes up, though. He realizes he's still breathing, still here. There's vomit all over the floor next to him and crusted on his mouth and he groans, realizing his body saved him, at some point.

He tries again.

Soonyoung sits on the floor with his back against a couch, hands shaking. He melts down frostbyte over a spoon, ignoring the acrid smell and the fact that he's never done this before. The flame dances under the spoon's belly, beautiful and clean. When it liquefies, he puts it in the needle.

He ties off his arm with a belt - it's all he has. The needle is dull and he doesn't remember where he got it from, but he doesn't really care. He slides it home in the crook of his elbow, right over the vein that will send the frostbyte right into the bloodstream and straight to his nervous system.

He pushes the plunger slow - the rush is violent.

Soonyoung falls over, needle scattering. He can barely breath, his heart beating so hard that he's relieved - this will work. This will be the end. Except he can't help but roll over and vomit again, puking blue all over the carpet until he's gasping for air.

He screams. Soonyoung has a body built for war, trained to survive Syndicate torture and and conditioned to keep standing long after it should fall. He's conditioned to refuse death and he hates it, screaming his rage into the empty apartment until his throat bleeds and his finger nails are bloody.

When the sun rises, he's still alive. He hates himself for it. He lays on the floor, barely breathing, barely seeing, staring at the gun on the table. He could do it. He could crawl to the weapon and put it in his mouth and pull. He's thought about it a hundred times, a thousand. But something about it feels wrong. Too violent.

Soonyoung thinks you should have killed him. It would have been easier. You've always been stronger than he has. It's why you were able to do what your father has asked, to swallow your pride and grin and bear it. Soonyoung is fucking weak. He doesn't know how to do that. Doesn't know how to live without you.

So he wishes you'd just end it for him, to put your finger on the trigger and the gun to his head. You've virtually done that anyway. Why not just go all the way? Aim it at his chest? Let the darkness take him?

It's a pathetic fucking excuse. He berates himself over and over again, telling himself he's weak. That his father was right. That Soonyoung's love makes him worth nothing, turns him into something useless. A mindless tool to kill.

So he does what he was bred to do.

The first man he kills is a Yong runner who made the mistake of bragging in the Salt about the new foreign guns coming in. Soonyoung finds him outside of a whore house, drags him into the alley, and beats him to death with his bare hands. He doesn't ask the man questions - he isn't looking for information. He doesn't even stop when the man stops screaming. He keeps going until he tires himself out, then he moves on.

Soonyoung burns through the Lower District like a plague. Every night he comes back to the safe house covered in someone else's blood. Every day he gets his assignments from Old Man Vero and goes on a killing spree. He doesn't even get the answers Vero is looking for. He just turns his victims to pulp and moves on.

It's Jeonghan who tries to talk to him first. He corners Soonyoung at a bar, nudging the younger into a shadowy alcove. Soonyoung wants to shove Jeonghan away, but he's just as wary of Yoon Minji's son as he is the step daughter, too much of the Wisdom hammered into Jeonghan and Angel to make them easily dismissed.

"You're going to get yourself killed," Jeonghan warns.

"Good."

"You think dying is the answer?"

Soonyoung scoffs and shoves past Jeonghan. "I died a long time ago. This is just a body. Who cares."

Soonyoung has no mind. Soonyoung has no goals. Soonyoung has nothing to care about.

He's just a body.

-

A few months pass.

- A year passes.

- Soonyoung keeps counting. He hates it. He can't help it.

-

Another year passes and Soonyoung counts every single day the way other people count breaths. He knows exactly how many days it's been since you killed him but simultaneously doesn't know the day at all. He lives in the liminal space between exactness and nothingness, floating back and forth between knowing every detail of his life since you left him and knowing nothing at all.

Tonight is one of the worse nights. He doesn't see you much, but as he stands on the balcony of the Grand Atrium in the Legal District, he spots you immediately. You're impossible to miss, even for someone not as devoted to you as he is. Beneath him, the gala swirls in crystal and silk and holograms, but you could be the fucking center piece.

You're in Kim green which makes Soonyoung sick. The dress clings to every line of you that he used to trace with his mouth. Your hair is swept up, exposing the slope of your neck. He imagines his teeth marks are still there, that he's left something permanent on you, something everyone else has to see.

Yijun's hand is on the small of your back and Soonyoung grinds his teeth. He watches, fingers twitching as Yijun leans in to say something against your ear. You laugh but it's polite, not real. He knows your manufactured laugh better than anyone, and it's both heaven and hell to hear you but know that it isn't real.

You never look up. Not once. He's not sure if he's miserable or grateful for it. He doesn't know if he can stand to see your eyes or if it'll make him feel better, a temporary high. He stands there for four hours and twenty minutes, watching Yijun lead you through the party, watching you tilt your head just so to let your husband kiss you briefly on the cheek.

Soonyoung doesn't move. Doesn't breathe.

He's just a body.

When the night finally ends and the last of the Choi family drifts out into the rain, he rips the earpiece from his skull and stalks away from the balcony. He doesn't have to go very far. He'd selected the girl from the Han family hours ago, keeping tabs on the silver dress and the way she grins at him.

Everyone wants a go at him since you left him. It doesn't matter.

He's just a body.

Soonyoung doesn't remember her name when he coaxes her to his car. She giggles all the while, flashing him a smile. He knows she's thrilled - everyone has been talking about the abandoned Sword of the Choi Syndicate. Sleeping with him is a sort of game the women like to play now, trying to get under your skin and sleeping with him because they think it'll bring them closer to the fold.

Everyone wants to fix him. Every girl he brings to his apartment thinks they'll be the one, that they're different. They can mend him. Heal what's broken. Pick up the pieces. But Soonyoung isn't broken - there's nothing to fix.

He's just a body.

The apartment is bare. Concrete walls. No photos. A bed. He doesn't turn the lights on when he brings the woman in. She says his apartment is nice. He doesn't care if she's lying or not. He just pushes her up against the door first, pulling her dress up to fuck her hard and fast. He closes his eyes and pretends its you.

Soonyoung takes her to the bed next, ripping off the dress. He doesn't care that he ruins it. It's in his way and she's eager, wet and open, begging and whining his name. He ignores her seeking hands and flips her over where she can't reach him so he can spread her thighs and drive into her.

Every thrust is mechanical and disconnected. He doesn't pretend its you anymore - it's not working. Instead, he just thinks of you. He thinks about your mouth, the way you used to gasp his name, the way you used to curl your fingers in his hair when he made you shake.

He comes with your name locked behind his teeth.

After, the woman tries to curl into him. He recoils, flinching away from her. He's on his feet in a second, walking toward the bathroom and turning on the shower. He doesn't care what she does after, he just wants the hot water to wash everything away.

He looks in the mirror. There are red marks all over him - he hadn't even realized he let her touch him. They tear down his chest and around his shoulders, wrapping around his waist. There are teeth marks too that he doesn't remember getting. He ignores them to get in the shower.

He's just a body.

Soonyoung scrubs himself raw. He feels the skin peeling away, the harsh scratch of the sponge painful as he grinds it into himself. The water is so hot he feels light headed, the room spinning until he can't take it anymore and he steps out the shower. He takes a few breaths and looks at his arms and chest. The marks are still there, so he gets back in. Scrubs again.

He doesn't feel clean - he never does. He scrubs anyway, working at the scratch marks until his skin is so raw that the air stings when he steps out. He thinks they're still there, but he realizes it doesn't even matter.

He's just a body.

- The Pit is buried three levels beneath the Lower District in the Under City. Once upon a time, Soonyoung hated the Under City. If you knew he was here - he wipes away the thought. It doesn't matter what you do or don't know. Soonyoung isn't your responsibility anymore - you'd made that fucking choice for him.

It smells horrid in the Under City, a network of black market augmentation clinics, undocumented brothels, and Tap centrals that smell like burnt sugar. At it's inception, the Under City was supposed to be a network of extended living for service workers and for more people to live. The thought of people being force to live underground was barbaric even to Soonyoung, but the Choi Syndicate had blocked the bill for it, forcing the City Council to expand apartment buildings into the Warehouse District for workers.

A single good deed breeding evil unintentionally, as often happens.

Soonyoung sits in the crowded room, the concrete pillars throbbing with violet holo veins. The floor is stained permanently with rust brown, and the cage in the center is warped chain link with razor wire at the top that sparks when hit.

Though it's unofficial, the Choi Syndicate owns The Pit. The fights, the bookies, the Taps dealing syndust and frostbyte - they're all under the Choi banner. It had belong to the Yong family a generation ago, but Yoon Minji has perfected the art of hostile takeover.

Soonyoung comes here weekly now - three, four nights. Whenever he feels like it. The smell never improves and the crowd leaves him feeling dirtier than ever, but he can't stop, a new addiction he can't quit.

He's shirtless, his tattoos slick with sweat in the neon light. His knuckles are already split from two fights he's had tonight, but the grin on his face is wide and sharp. He feels alive, like his blood is singing. Or maybe that's the syndust. The frostbyte. He doesn't know, but he feels like he can breathe and like thoughts of you are farther away here, like you can't reach him, unwilling to step foot in the hell hole he's hiding in.

Junhui walks down the steps from the cage, wiping blood from his split eyebrow with the back of a taped hand. He's the only regular that Soonyoung speaks to - Choi-owned house fighter with sharp cat eyes and reflexes faster than most Swords. He sees Soonyoung coming and starts shaking his head long before the Sword can get there.

"Don't," Junhui mutters. "You're already bleeding all over, man."

Soonyoung grins. "The night's still young, Jun."

Soonyoung spots his next target lounging in the crowd on a couch. Kang Daeho - Reaper - is a Yong family Sword that's been coming here for months. Soonyoung has watched him fight - he fights with the same, mindless rage that Soonyoung does. He's in line to be a potential Sentinel for the Yong Syndicate, and for some reason, that doesn't sit well with Soonyoung.

Mentally unstable members of the Syndicate shouldn't lead the military. Soonyoung would know.

Reaper smirks when he sees Soonyoung coming. The crowd parts around the Choi Sword like water, watching him go, eyes flicking back and forth between Reaper and Soonyoung. They realize the potential of the matchup - and the stupidity of it. But they're in neutral - theoretically - territory, and Soonyoung feels like testing himself.

"Kwon," Reaper grins. "You're here more and more these days. Pretty prince likes to bleed?"

Soonyoung smiles, all teeth. "Pretty prince likes to fight people his own caliber."

Reaper leans forward. "You want the cage, Mad Dog?"

"Yeah, but I'll even make it fair since you like an advantage." Soonyoung reaches into his back pocket and reveals a sleek, matte black karambit. The knife is curved and lethal, shining in the light as he tosses it at Reaper's feet. It spins on the concrete. "I'll get nothing."

"You suicidal, Kwon?"

"Just bored."

Soonyoung turns his back on Reaper. It's an insult. He knows it is and by the sound of the crowd around him, they know it is. Junhui is watching him with a guarded expression, frowning as Soonyoung nears the cage.

"What are you doing?" Junhui asks, growling the question through his teeth.

Soonyoung ignores him.

Instead, he palms the cage door, feeling the faint vibration of the razor wire crackling overhead. The metal is warm from the last fight, streaked with someone else's blood. Maybe Junhui's, maybe Junhui's last victim. He doesn't know. It doesn't really matter. Nothing matters here except the moment he steps into the cage and turns, watching Reaper approach.

Soonyoung's eyes dart to the floor where he left the knife. It's not there, despite Reaper looking unarmed as he steps into the cage, the crowd surging forward to get a good look at them. The door closes behind the Yong Sword and locks shut, the click lost under the roar of the crowd.

He rolls his shoulders, watching Reaper as they wait for bets to be placed. Soonyoung tries to shake the tremor working it's way up his spine. It isn't fear - never fear. It's anticipation, the kind that burns and that makes everything else feel far away, left to fade into static.

Behind Soonyoung, Junhui's voice comes through the chain link, "He's doped to shit, Hosh. Be careful."

Junhui's right. Reaper's eyes are blown wide, nearly swallowing his irises whole. Soonyoung shrugs in repsonse though. He knew that already. He doesn't really care.

The Pit lights dim, leaving only the violent violet glow humming through the pillars and the overhead wires sparking faintly. It throws jagged shadows across Reaper's face, making him look like an ugly gargoyle. The thought makes Soonyoung start laughing and Reaper gets pissed.

He launches himself at Soonyoung, predictably aggressive. Soonyoung slips under the initial punch, feeling the heat of it. He returns with a sharp jab to Reaper's ribs and a blinding hook to the jaw, sending the crowd roaring.

The press of bodies makes the cage creak. Soonyoung grins as Reaper stumbles a half step, rage chewing through him. He spits blood on the ground. "Soft hands, Kwon. Too much luxury."

"Show me how to hit, then."

Reaper obliges, lunging at Soonyoung with a flurry that's more strength and muscle than refined technique. Because that's the difference between Soonyoung's fighting and this wasteful excuse for a Sword - Soonyoung is refined with years of fighting people better than him. Reaper only ever punches down.

Soonyoung blocks the first strike and rolls the second off his shoulder, burying his knee in Reaper's gut. The man wheezes, eyes furious. Soonyoung smiles and presses his advantage, striking upward with his palm to Reaper's chin, followed by a sweep that sends Reaper to the ground.

The Pit goes feral around them. Soonyoung laughs, spreading his arms wide as the crowd presses against the metal, the cage warping under their weight. Reaper scrambles up to a knee behind him, panting, blood dripping from his now.

"You're fucking dead," Reaper spits. "Little cunt."

"Show me."

His hand darts behind his back, quick and practice, the steel karambit glinting in his hand. A wild ripple goes through the crowd as they scream at Reaper to gut Soonyoung. They don't care who wins, they just want to see someone get carved clean.

No one calls off the fight. There are no rules once someone is in the cage, even if they're cheating. Soonyoung circles Reaper, grinning the entire time, adrenaline pumping in his veins. He feels the vibration of the crowd and he comes alive, opening his arms eagerly again as Reaper charges him.

Soonyoung barely dodges the first slash. The second grazes his bicep, opening up a ribbon of red on his arm. He feels the sting and the warmth of blood and his heartbeat spikes with utter clarity. A clean, cool feeling washes over him.

The next swipe catches him across the ribs, opening up a shallow line of scarlet across one of Soonyoung's tattoos. He doesn't care. He slams into Reaper with his entire body, sending the man back into the chain link. The crowd grabs at him, slipping their fingers through the fence, poking, prodding.

Reaper rips away from them, surging forward. Soonyoung stands in the middle of the cage and lifts a hand, flicking his hand in a come hither motion. Reaper charges. He's so angry and off balance that it takes the fun out of it when Soonyoung ducks under the swipe and punches his opponent in the kidney.

The man goes down hard. Soonyoung doesn't stop though. The crowd eggs him on and he gives them what they want, raining a fury of blows onto Reaper, his knuckles splitting, his hands cracking. He see's red - in his vision and on his hands and on Reaper's face. Soonyoung feels the stab of the blade in his thigh but he doesn't stop. He hits and hits and hits until he has Reaper on the floor under him.

Soonyoung goes for the throat. He presses his arm into Reaper's thick neck, leaning away as the man tries to grab for the knife in Soonyoung's thigh, grab for Soonyoung's arms - anything. He thrashes and Soonyoung laughs, leaning over him with blown eyes as he chokes the life from the Yong Sword.

Around them, the crowd frenzies. He hears them screaming and throwing things into the cage as Reaper's legs kick out under Soonyoung. His face goes from red, to violet, to purple. The slaps come slower, softer. Soonyoung presses harder, feeling the crack of a windpipe.

Reaper gives two wet rasps. One.

Then he sags, eyes rolling back. Soonyoung doesn't let up. He counts every thud of his racing heart, his pulse loud enough in his ears that he uses them to track the seconds, to make sure that this isn't a blackout, that it's death.

Finally, he relents. The crowd is screaming for him when he rises and spreads his arms, laughing, face tilted up toward the light. Junhui watches from the crowd, silent and unmoved. Soonyoung doesn't care. Soonyoung lets the crowd scream for him. No - not him. For the weapon he is, not the person he is, because he's not a person.

He's just a body.

-

It smells like rust and wet concrete in the warehouse. Rain hammers the corrugated roof in sheets, loud enough to drown out the low throb of Vernon's music leaking from his earbuds. they're crouched behind a stack of shipping crates stamped with the dragon of the Yong family, watching men and women from the Yong Syndicate load crates unto an unmarked van.

It's a simple job tonight. Confirm the contents of the shipment, tag it, get out. No bodies unless absolutely necessary. Which is why Soonyoung has no idea why Jeonghan has asked Soonyoung and Vernon to preside over this. Their specialty is bodies.

Vernon nudges Soonyoung with an elbow. He glances at Vernon, who pulls one earbud out and tilts his head toward the far exit. Soonyoung shrugs and follows Vernon as they drift along the wall, boots silent on the oil-stained floor. Laughter echos behind them and Soonyoung's jaw flexes.

"That's not the job," Vernon whispers. Soonyoung looks up and realizes his hand has moved to his gun. Of course Vernon noticed - he notices everything. Vernon is as close to a replica of Angel and Jeonghan as anyone outside the Yoon family can be.

And he's right. So Soonyoung breathes through his nose, trying to remember what it feels like to care about orders. Vernon is still watching him in that patient way of his - infuriating.

For once, Soonyoung waits. They watch as the Yong members finish loading the crates and slam the van doors. Vernon takes something out of his pocket and clicks it, looking at the group of workers before he stands to his full height and throws something hard at the van. The ping of the beacon against the wheel well is lost in the sound of rain as it leaves the warehouse.

Soonyoung pulls his phone out and shows Vernon the blinking beacon as it drives away. Vernon nods, pleased. Together, they slide out of the warehouse and into the pouring rain. Vernon's silhouette is black next to Soonyoung as they rush through the dark. The city is a neon smear in the distance, the air of the Warehouse District tinged with salt.

For a while, they don't speak. Soonyoung doesn't know where they're going - he just follows the Rook, their boots splashing in trash-choked gutters as they move block after block.

Finally, Vernon glances at him. "You're off course."

"Tell me something I don't know. She ask you to talk to me?"

Vernon blinks, rain water clinging to his lashes. "No. This isn't about her. It's about you."

Both of them stop walking. Rain drums on the hood of Soonyoung's jacket as he stares at Vernon. The Rook stares back, his face painted red by the neon pharmacy sign, his dark eyes unreadable.

"You're not going to get promoted to Sentinel like this," Vernon says. Simple. Efficient. "You can't turn every job into a bloodbath because you're trying to feel something that isn't there anymore."

Soonyoung's throat works. He wants to laugh - wants to punch something. Wants to disappear into the rain and never come back. If it were anyone else, he would spit in their face. But it's Vernon - Vernon who never asks for anything. Vernon who sat with him the night his parents died and didn't say a single fucking word, just passed him a water bottle and let him cry.

Vernon who has never brought you up to him since you broke up. Ever.

"Yeah," Soonyoung answers eventually. "I know. You think I don't notice they look at me like I'm broken?"

"Then stop breaking." Soonyoung scoffs then. Vernon's eyes flash and Soonyoung is reminded that Vernon isn't a sword, but he is a Rook - and a dangerous one. Beneath the layers of calm, Vernon is lethal, a weapon made for applying pressure. "Man, stop acting like you don't fucking matter."

"I don't."

"Pretty fucked up thing to say to me." Vernon puts his hands in his pockets. "You matter to me. To Angel. To Chan. Even to Seungkwan, usually."

"Yeah, well."

"Well what?" Vernon challenges. It's the first time Soonyoung's ever heard him mad. He steps closer to Soonyoung, challenging him. "You think us caring doesn't count? So what - if we died, you don't give a shit anymore?"

"That isn't what I said."

"It's how you act. Stop treating our love for you like it doesn't fucking matter. Pretty shitty thing to do."

Soonyoung's mouth opens and closes. The rain keeps falling and he stares at Vernon. It's probably the most eye contact they've made since they were teenagers in the training room and Vernon was trying to warn Soonyoung about his affection for you. Now, Vernon is unwavering, his mouth a flat line.

For the first time in a long time, Soonyoung feels bad. If it were anyone else, it might be less effective, but with Vernon, it catches him off guard. Makes him unsettled as Vernon waits, hands in his pockets, shoulders loose like he's ready to stand here all night in the rain. He probably is.

"I didn't mean it like that," Soonyoung finally mutters, chagrined. "I just… don't know how to carry it anymore. All of it."

Vernon rolls his eyes. "Then stop carrying it alone, dumb ass."

It catches Soonyoung so off guard he laughs, a wet and unfamiliar thing. The neon sign above them flickers, bathing them in red, then dark, then red again. Soonyoung's chest feels too tight, like Vernon has wedged a knife in and is cracking it open.

Instead of pushing, Vernon steps back, tilting his head toward the end of the block where the car waits. "Come on. I want ramen. Angel is probably hungry."

"I don't like that one ramen place she likes."

It's such a normal response that Soonyoung blinks in surprise - he hadn't expected himself to go with it. Vernon doesn't make a big deal of it, walking off to the car to leave Soonyoung hurrying after him. Their shoulders brush and Soonyoung doesn't retreat for once, suddenly feeling a little less hollow and a little more him.

"Yeah, well. Too bad. You've treated her like shit. She gets first choice."

"Alright, I guess."

For the first time in longer than he can remember, Soonyoung thinks perhaps he's more than just a body.

Maybe.

-

The Tower is dead.

The words don't feel real yet. Rain sluices across the blacked out glass of his apartment windows, the low hum of thunder in the distance vibrating through the walls. Soonyoung rubs a hand over his face, sitting on the edge of his mattress in nothing but black sweatpants. He stares at his phone, the call from Angel ending ten minutes ago.

It feels weird. He doesn't know how he should react. He's hated the Tower for so long now that he thinks he's supposed to feel pleasure, but he doesn't. There really isn't anything there. All that's left is a what next?

Choi Moojin had been sick for a while. Ever since your mother died, he'd been a shadow of himself. Seungcheol has been slowly taking over for so long that it feels like the transfer of power already happened, like your brother has been the stoic leader of the Choi Syndicate for years now.

There's a lot that needs to happen. Soonyoung has never been through the death of a Tower, but he knows his days are about to become sleepless. Seungcheol will need to weed out anyone who seeks to unseat him or doesn't want him to inherit the title - though Soonyoung can't imagine there's much of that. He'll need to establish his panel of confidants and potentially switch Architects and Wisdoms if he feels like it, and -

A phone rings. Soonyoung looks down at his phone and frowns. His phone isn't ringing - it's still open on the call logs that shows when Angel dialed in. It takes him a second to realize that the ringing is coming from his nightstand.

Dread hits him like ice water. He only keeps his gun and the burner phone he owns in his drawer - his burner phone that he has for you, the only person in the world who knows that number, specifically given to you in case you ever needed him.

Soonyoung dives toward the drawer, ripping it open and fumbling with the device as he picks it up, hands shaking. He answers on the fourth ring, his voice trembling "Where are you?"

"The Kim family has turned on the Choi's," you whisper, voice raw. "They're mobilizing for a full-scale attack in roughly two hours. The Yong family is helping them. They're at the estate and all over the city. Anyone who is important to us regardless of position will need to be warned. The Yong family is handling the Pearl District and the Salt."

The world narrows to a single point of focus. He's already moving, pulling on a shirt. He rips open his weapons locker and the motion lights flicker on, flaring blood red across him. He texts Jeonghan a red alert code on his phone, tossing it aside.

"How many men at Yijun's estate?" He drags his pants on one handed, wedging the phone between his shoulder and face. "Are you armed?"

“There are men at the guard house and one walking the perimeter. It’s just me and Yijun inside, I think Minchan is leaving. I’ve got a knife.”

He straps guns to his leg and slides knives into the holsters at his thigh. “Where are you in the house?”

“Bedroom, second landing to the right and all the way at the end of the hall. There are windows but they don’t open.”

You recite everything back to him with meticulous clarity. His heart is slamming in his ribcage so hard he thinks about that time he tried to kill himself with frostbyte. He feels like that now, like this might send him over the edge, because he understands what you're saying and he can't bare it.

The best he can do for you is keep you calm and tell you exactly what you need to do to survive the next thirty minutes. He doesn't know if you can, but he prays to any god that will hear him that you do.

"Listen to me," he says, voice soft. "The second we start moving into position to accept the assault, they'll know something is off. When that happens, Yijun is going to try to kill you, do you understand?" You say nothing and he slams his weapon's locker shut. "Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"I need you to fight back." He swallows past the sudden sob in his throat. "Either kill him or hold him off until I'm there."

"You need to warn-"

"Don't worry about the fucking Syndicate! We'll be fine." He glances at his phone to see Jeonghan calling him. He ignores it. "You've given us more than enough time. I need you to be entirely focused on yourself."

"Okay."

"Do you have frostbyte?"

"Maybe?" He hears you move on the other end of the line. "Yijun might have it in the nightstand."

"Take some." Soonyoung heads for the door. "Not enough to fuck you up, but enough to pump that adrenaline and make your head clear. I will be there in thirty minutes."

"Okay."

Rain hammers down outside. He flies down the stairs, the phone pressed to his ear. He's not willing to hang up on you. He ignores Jeonghan's call again and pings your location. Twenty-seven minutes. He needs to cut it in half.

"Hey," Soonyoung says when he realizes you're still there, breathing heavily. "Do what I said. Do the frostbyte and kill him if you have to." Jeonghan starts calling again and his heart aches. "I have to go."

"Okay."

"I'll see you in thirty minutes." He says it because he needs it to be true. Says it to will it into the universe. He's never been good at that, but he tries it now. He swallows as he runs to his car, rain warm against his skin. "I love you."

It kills him to say it, but he needs you to hear it. Soonyoung needs you to know it, because if he can't say it to you again-

He can't think about it. Not right now as he dials Jeonghan, peeling out in his car. Jeonghan answers breathless and angry but Soonyoung cuts him off, "Full scale. Kim and Yong family moving on us in two hours. Yong in the Pearl District and the Salt. I'm going to extract the Tower's daughter."

"We're moving." Jeonghan shouts on the other side of the line. "We're sending a team to-"

"I'm faster."

"I'll send medical your way in case."

"Call your mom. They'll target her and Old Man Vero. Probably Angel - she's working-"

"Vernon is on her now. Wisdom is in her safe house already." Soonyoung's car fish tales as he hits the road, flying. "Bring her home, Soonyoung."

He intends to.

Soonyoung barely sees the city flash by. He drives like a demon straight from hell, applying every single trick of street racing Seungkwan has ever taught him. Soonyoung isn't much for fast reflexes behind the wheel, but he tries. For you. He tries for you, because every minute he's stuck in traffic is another minute closer to your death.

He cannot fathom the end of you. So he doesn't let himself. He focuses on the drive and hopes that the information you've risked to give him pays off. Jeonghan and Seungcheol have to handle the Syndicate now - Soonyoung's only concern is you. His friends will need to make it through the next however many hours alone until he can get you somewhere safe.

Safe.

How many times has Soonyoung driven to this exact estate and stared at the walls, thinking of climbing them? How many times has he thought about killing this family, taking you away, and driving you to the safe house be bought for you? The place he painstakingly built for this exact purpose, to extract you and take you back.

Countless, probably. You were never safe so long as you were hidden in the belly of the Kim family, and it was foolish for the old Tower to ever think you would be.

The Kim Estate sits on a hill, dark as cold glass. Soonyoung kills the engine and gets out the car, running in the rain. The gatehouse is exactly where he remembers it, lit with gold light and manned by two guards.

They don't see him coming in the rain. He appears like a phantom, gun raised as he steps into the open door and kills the first guard. He shields his body with the dying guard as the other turns to him, but he doesn't need to. Soonyoung pulls the trigger and kills the other guard before she can stand and she dies in her chair.

He leaves them bleeding as he jumps the fence, hands slick with blood. Wet earth sucks at his boots as he jogs. He slinks past the koi pond and marble statues of some deities he knows nothing about. He knows every inch of the Kim Estate grounds, having memorized it years ago when he used to dream about coming here in the dark and taking you back.

He never did.

Soonyoung finds the guard on perimeter and shoots twice. He falls, dead somewhere in the wet grass. Soonyoung keeps moving toward the house, the inside lit up with lamplight. He goes to the front door and curses when he realizes it's a biometric lock, forcing him back out into the downpour to find the guard on perimeter.

Cutting off the guard's hand costs him time he cannot afford to lose. He curses as he bolts back to the front door, slamming the bloody hand against the scanner. It flashes green and Soonyoung is through the door, tossing the part somewhere on the front long where it fucking belongs.

It smells like cedar wood inside the house. He enters with his heart hammering, gun raise, knife out. He spots the steps and climbs them. He strains his ears to hear anything, but there's nothing but the rain against the windows and his own ragged breathing as he climbs.

He's so nervous he doesn't see the vase near the top of the stairs. Soonyoung crashes into it and curses immediately, knocking it over. He fucks it all to hell and runs down the hallway, forsaking stealth for time.

Please be alive. It's all he can think as he approaches your bedroom. Please be alive, please be alive, please be alive, pleASE BE ALIVE, PLEASE-

You're on the ground covered in blood and for the briefest moment, Soonyoung doesn't see you. He sees his mother, laying in her bed with her palm under her hand, barely away, covered in scarlet. He blinks and he sees you again, panting, knife in hand, teeth bared.

Yijun is behind you, neck gored and bleeding. You're so slick with blood that it makes Soonyoung hesitate for the barest of seconds, taken aback. He's never seen you anything less than perfect and right now, you look like a creature from another dimension, face swollen, nose broken, eyes feral.

You're alive, though.

Soonyoung drops the gun. It's stupid - he doesn't know if he's actually clear the house. But you're alive and you're on your knees and you're alive. He grabs your face, hands trembling as he presses your cheeks between his palm, turning your face side to side to examine you.

"Where are you bleeding?" He asks, trying to find the source of the blood. You don't answer him, blinking up at him, pupils the size of saucers. "Baby. Hey, I need you to answer me. Where are you bleeding?"

You blink at him and your words come out heavy and syrupy. "S'mostly his. Maybe broke my nose."

Fuck. Fuck. He knows you can't feel the pain because of the drugs and adrenaline, but he needs to get you out of here. His finger brushes across your cheek, butterfly soft, as though he might break you. He fears he might - you look fragile right now, delicate like a moth's wing.

"Can you walk if I help you?" You shake your head. "Okay. I'm going to lift you up, alright? Tell me where it hurts so I don't hurt you, Baby."

"Ribs."

"Left or right?"

"Right."

"Okay, tell me if I hurt you okay? I'm going to take you home."

Home. He doesn't mean the Choi Estate. He doesn't mean his apartment - never his apartment, filthy and sullied by other women. He means away from here and with him. Because your home is with him and no where else. It always has been.

"Thank you."

Your voice is soft and broken. He looks at you in surprise, leaning back to catch your eyes. You're crying - he's not sure you even realize that you are. The tears streak through the blood and fuck, even like this, you are the most beautiful creature he's ever seen.

"You didn't have to come get me," you whisper, voice small.

It shatters something inside of him. Don't you know? Don't you know what he would do for you? That even in his darkest moments where he waited to die, all he thought of was you? That even when he tried to hate you and when he tried to burn away every piece of himself, if you had asked, he'd have been there in a second?

You obviously don't know. Stupid. He'll worry about it later. Right now, all he cares about is getting you out of this house and somewhere safe, knowing that the walls are closing in on you both fast. He lifts you gently, trying to be careful with your ribs. You hiss anyway as you lean into him.

"Of course I did," Soonyoung murmurs softly. "When you say jump, remember?"

He's not sure you hear him. You're barely lucid, the fight draining from you now that he's here. You let him lift you and cradle him to his chest and you're so much lighter than he remembers. It makes him sick. He glances at Yijun's body and a thread of savage satisfaction goes through him. You haven't just murdered Yijun - you've ravaged him, tearing through his throat to the spine.

Soonyoung spits on the floor of your bedroom and carries you out. Your head lolls against his throat and he tightens his grip on you, hyper aware of your shallow breathing against his neck. He tries to be as smooth as he can down the stairs, worried about jostling you. If you feel pain, you don't show it. You just cling to him like if you let go you'll die.

He gets it. When Soonyoung puts you in the passenger seat of his car, he has to convince himself to let you go. His hands linger for a second and he stares at you as your eyes flutter, barely awake. He runs his fingers across the crown of your forehead, remembering the shape perfectly.

His phone starts to ring and he snaps out of it. Standing, he closes your side of the door gently and rounds the car, getting in and starting the engine. He looks at you again before he puts it in drive, heart fluttering, worried. He's pretty sure you have a concussion, a broken nose, and broken ribs, but you otherwise seem unharmed.

Swallowing, he hits the gas, tires peeling on the road. You sag toward him, like you're seeking his presence. He can't help it - he reaches over the console for you, wrapping his hand in yours. You don't squeeze back but your fingers twitch so he doesn't let go as the phone rings again.

He answers. "I've got her. We're heading to our meet location."

"Do you need a med team?" It's Seungcheol who asks. "Yes. Send one to our location. Nothing deadly. Broken bones."

"We're about to accept assault. Take the long way."

"Heard."

"Soonyoung?"

Soonyoung swallows thickly, tightening his hand on the wheel as rain washes over the window. "Yes, Tower?"

"Thank you, brother." Seungcheol pauses. "I love you."

"Love you too."

Soonyoung drives, his hand in yours after years of suffering, the sound of the rain pattering on the roof of the car as he drives toward the coast. You mumble something and he turns to look at you, split between making sure you're okay and not driving off the road.

"What, Baby?"

"Had to," you mumble. He's not sure if you're actually awake or aware the words are coming out of your mouth, but you continue to mumble. "Had to. Didn't want to. Was gonna kill you, though."

"What do you mean?"

"Dad?"

He frowns. "Dad?"

You nod and groan, like it hurts to think hard. He tries to hush you, but you seem dead set on getting this out. "Didn't want him to hurt you. Hated him for it. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I did it to you."

Slowly, he puts the pieces of what you're saying together. His stomach twists, equal parts rage and regret that he hadn't thought about it sooner. He doesn't know what to say, staring out the rainy dash, the black water of the coast ahead with Hyperion a glowing smudge of neon to the west.

"Moojin said he would kill me?" He asks, cause he needs to hear it for sure. "That's why you did it?"

"Yeah." You sniff. Then, quieter. "I'm glad he's dead."

Soonyoung's heart aches. Not because he feels for your father, but because he knows it isn't true. He wonders how long you've wrestled with hating and loving your father. You'd always been so unaware of the lengths the old Tower would go to, but Soonyoung never faulted you for it - and he doesn't now.

You drift to sleep again, conversation forgotten, and he lets you. He hopes you don't remember saying that you were glad your father was dead. In a better state, he doesn't think you would say it again. He understands the complexity of hating something you held so dear to you - he just never imagined he would get it back.

Soonyoung doesn't let himself think of the past. He decides in that moment he only wants to move forward, that he has his sights set on the what comes next. He has loved you his entire lifetime and he's prepared to love you for hundreds of more - thousands of more. He doesn't care about anything before now. Now, he has you in the passenger seat, driving you to a safe place he carved out for you, like he always knew it would come to this.

As long as he can be with you, Soonyoung knows it'll be enough.

the funny part was that it never really felt like enough. people would assume he was satisfied, like he had it all figured out, but the truth was, after a while, it all started blending together. same kind of nights, same routines, same conversations that ended in the same place. he liked it in the moment, of course, he wasn’t going to lie about that, but he always went home with this weird feeling, like something was missing, and it wasn’t the whole “looking for love” thing either. it was more that he wanted something different, something he couldn’t even name yet.

he wasn’t the type to sit around and analyze himself too much, but he noticed the pattern. no matter how many people he fucked, he’d end up lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking, is that really it?

he didn’t talk about it with anyone, because what was he supposed to say? “yeah i’m sleeping with half the campus but i’m still kind of bored”? that would sound ridiculous. and you knew him enough to know the image he carried, everyone did, but what people didn’t really see was that restless part of him, the part that kept looking for something he couldn’t find. and he hated admitting it, but lately he started realizing that maybe the problem wasn’t the girls or the sex itself, maybe the problem was that he wanted to try things he didn’t even know how to explain without sounding insane.

“you ever feel like… sex is just the same shit over and over?” jake asked, not even looking directly at sunghoon while the fifa match rolled on his tv.

sunghoon paused the game immediately, which already said a lot, because sunghoon never paused fifa for anything. he turned to look at jake dead in the eye. “what the fuck are you talking about?”

“i’m serious,” jake said, sighing. “like, yeah, it’s good, but sometimes i’m just… i don’t know, bored.”

sunghoon started laughing so hard he almost dropped the controller. “you? bored? mr. i-had-sex-in-the-theater-bathroom last week? nah. shut the fuck up.”

“that’s exactly what i mean!” jake argued, leaning forward. “it’s always the same shit. hook up, make out, fuck, pass out. repeat. i’m telling you, i feel like there’s supposed to be more, but i don’t know what the hell that is.”

“okay,” sunghoon said, nodding like he was being thoughtful, but his grin gave him away. “so what you’re saying is… your dick’s tired.”

“that’s not what i said.”

“sounds like what you said.”

before jake could fire back, the door creaked open and heeseung walked in with a bag of chips and a joint between his fingers, looking like he hadn’t slept in two days. he glanced at the tv, took a drag, then looked at them. “you guys talking about gooning?”

“kinda,” sunghoon answered instantly, pointing at jake. “apparently mr. campus heartthrob is bored of pussy.”

heeseung raised an eyebrow, ripped open the chips, and sat down on the armrest. “wow. should we throw you a funeral?”

jake groaned and buried his face in his hands. “you guys are fucking useless.”

“nah, bro, i’m serious,” sunghoon said, nudging him with his foot. “maybe you just need some freaky shit. like, tie someone up, put on a costume, bark a little. switch it up.”

“the fuck are you even saying?” jake shot back, but the way his ears went red didn’t go unnoticed.

heeseung caught it instantly, grinning like a devil. “wait. wait. oh my god. jake wants to bark.”

“shut the fuck up,” jake muttered, ending the conversation.

but the thing is, jake thought sometimes about barking. i mean, not literally standing in someone’s room on all fours going woof, but the thought of something that wasn’t just the usual sex crossed his mind more than once. like, there had to be people out there doing shit that wasn’t just missionary or whatever. he wasn’t about to admit it out loud to sunghoon or heeseung because he knew they’d never let it go, but after that night, the whole “maybe you need to bark” thing kept replaying in his head. and he didn’t immediately shut it down. he laughed in front of them, told them they were idiots, but later that week, lying in bed at two a.m., he actually caught himself googling “unconventional sex stuff.”

that’s how he ended up on reddit. it wasn’t even intentional, he just clicked link after link until suddenly he was in some forum full of people talking about kinks like they were trading recipes. half the stuff freaked him out, the other half made him curious in a way he didn’t know how to process. he didn’t think he was a freak, but then again, maybe he was, because none of this was coming up in regular conversations, and he clearly couldn’t bring it up to his friends without being clowned for the rest of his life.

so one night, after reading through threads for way too long, he gave in and made a throwaway account.

r/TooAfraidToAsk

u/australianlebron127 | 12m

i feel like i’m bored of sex but don’t know what i’m looking for, is that normal?

i’m a 23 year old male and i’ve been pretty active since like freshman year of college. i’ve hooked up with a lot of people, and i guess on the outside it sounds cool, but honestly it all feels the same and i keep thinking i’m missing something. my friends make jokes about “freaky stuff” and once someone even said i probably just need to bark or whatever, which was stupid, but now i can’t stop thinking maybe i actually do need something like that.

i don’t even know what i’m into, i just know regular sex feels kind of… repetitive. i’m not in a relationship and i’m not looking for love advice or anything like that, i’m just wondering if it’s normal to feel like this or if i should be trying to figure out what i like more. and if i should… how do you even start? like i can’t just ask someone “hey wanna let me experiment with you” right? idk.

after he posted it, jake shut his laptop like he just confessed a crime. he honestly thought no one would even read it, but the next morning when he checked again, there were already a bunch of replies. some of them were just people trolling him, like one guy wrote “bro just buy a dildo and stop crying,” which didn’t help at all, but there were also some longer comments from people who actually sounded like they knew what they were talking about.

one person wrote something like, “you don’t have to know your kink right away, just pay attention to what sticks in your head. if something makes you curious, that’s worth exploring.” another person said, “try to communicate with partners, you’d be surprised how many people are also bored of ‘regular’ sex and want to experiment too.” and then there was one comment that just said, “maybe you’re into power dynamics. look into dom/sub stuff, that’s usually a good starting point.”

jake read through all of them with his face buried in his pillow, feeling like if anyone walked in and saw what he was doing, he’d have to transfer schools immediately. but at the same time, it made him feel a little less crazy. apparently, other people were going through the same thing, or at least close enough. he wasn’t the only one who felt like sex got repetitive after a while. still, he didn’t know what to do with that information. he wasn’t about to sit sunghoon down and say, “hey bro, what do you think my kink is?” and he sure as hell wasn’t going to test this out with some random hookup from a party. if he was going to try anything new, he wanted it to be with someone who actually knew him, someone he trusted not to laugh in his face. 

and that’s when he remembered you.

he met you through jungwon and sunoo. you were always around, more like part of the background of the friend group. jake thought you were cool, funny without trying too hard, and yeah, obviously really hot, but he never made a move because you weren’t like the other girls he usually talked to at parties. you didn’t even go to half the parties. when he did see you, you were usually laughing with your friends, completely unbothered by whatever was going on around. you never hooked up, never even flirted, but there was this one time that stuck with him. 

he was walking past in the middle of a random conversation between you and sunoo, and he caught enough of it to never forget. you were holding your phone, laughing so hard, and you went, “who the fuck gets a hundred percent vanilla on the bdsm test? you have to try to be that boring.”

sunoo immediately grabbed the phone from you, yelling, “shut up! you literally got ninety-six percent petplay, you freak! what are you even talking about?”

jake didn’t even know what to do with that information at the time, but he remembered the way you just laughed and shrugged, like it was nothing. he laughed too, mostly because sunoo looked like he was about to pass out from embarrassment, but the conversation burned into his brain. now, weeks later, lying in bed after scrolling through way too many reddit threads about kinks, that memory hit him again, like his brain suddenly pulled out a file he didn’t realize he kept. and you sounded so comfortable with it, like talking about sex wasn’t this big taboo topic.

jake thought about it more than once after that, and now, with all this restless energy in his head, it started to feel like a sign. maybe you weren’t close, maybe you weren’t the person he texted at two in the morning, but you were the only person he could think of who might not laugh in his face if he admitted he was… curious. so he picked up his phone, scrolled through his contacts until he found your name, and stared at it for a solid minute like the letters might rearrange themselves into “don’t do this.” then, because he was jake, he typed something dumb and hit send before he could overthink it.

jake: yo do u know if the cafeteria is still selling those massive cookies or did they stop

you didn’t answer right away, which made him instantly regret his entire life, but then the screen lit up.

you: why are you texting me about cookies at 11pm

you: and yes they still sell them lol

he grinned, already feeling lighter.

jake: good to know

jake: important info

there was a pause, and then you sent back:

you: you’re so weird sometimes

he laughed out loud at that. it was stupid, but it gave him enough courage to type what he really wanted.

jake: hey random question tho

jake: u remember that bdsm test thing u joked about w sunoo once

jake: do u still have the link perchance

he stared at the message after sending it, suddenly way too aware of how insane it looked. but it was too late, it was out there. his brain was screaming at him that this was either the best idea he ever had or the dumbest one, and he wouldn’t know which until you answered, but your reply came quicker than he expected.

you: LMAO jake why are u asking me this

you: are u abt to send me ur result rn bc i wanna see

you: don’t lie i KNOW ur not 100% vanilla

you dropped the link right after, and jake felt his stomach twist because now he had no excuse. he clicked it. the layout looked ancient, like a quiz someone coded in 2005, but it was apparently the same test everyone online swore by.

he started reading the questions, and it was instantly ridiculous. stuff like “would you enjoy being tied up?” or “would you enjoy tying someone else up?” and the scale went from “absolutely not” to “hell yes.” jake sat there, thinking way harder than he expected. some of them were easy to answer—no, he didn’t want to be whipped until he couldn’t walk—but others made him hesitate, like maybe he’d try it, maybe it didn’t sound that bad.

when the petplay questions showed up, he froze for a second. he could practically hear sunghoon in his head going “bro, bark,” and it made him want to close the tab, but at the same time… he didn’t click “absolutely not.” he thought about it, sighed, and picked “maybe.”

twenty minutes later, the results loaded on his screen in neat little percentages, like it was about to diagnose him with something.

100% switch; 98% dominant; 97% brat tamer; 94% pet; 80% experimentalist

jake stared at the screen. part of him wanted to laugh, part of him wanted to throw his phone out the window, and another part of him just thought: yeah, that actually makes sense. he sat there, debating whether sending it to you would make him look confident or like the biggest clown alive. but you had asked to see it, and he kind of did want to know what you’d say. so he did send you the screenshots, three images of his percentages sitting in your chat, and you answered almost instantly.

you: LMAOOO

you: okay i expected switch 100% bc u give off that vibe

you: but 94% pet?? never in my life would i have guessed that

jake felt his ears burn. he didn’t even know what that was supposed to mean, but the way you typed it made him smile anyway.

jake: bro don’t act like u weren’t the one clowning sunoo abt this shit

you: yeah but i didn’t expect u to be secretly into meowing

jake: i didn’t say i’m into that

you: mhmmm the math says otherwise jakey

he groaned and threw his phone onto his pillow, but then picked it right back up. he wanted to defend himself, but at the same time, it felt good that you weren’t making it weird. you were teasing him, yeah, but it was soft, like the way you’d tease a friend. even though jake didn’t know if friend was the right word.

jake: alright then, where’s urs

you: oh i’m not sending mine

jake: tf why not

you: bc it’s funnier to let u wonder

jake: wtf does that mean

you: it means one day maybe i’ll show u in person idk

jake stared at that message for a solid minute. in person? what do you mean “in person”? he had no idea if you were flirting, being sarcastic, or just messing with him for fun. either way, the thought lodged itself in his brain immediately and refused to leave. he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to do with that, but his brain decided to run off with it anyway. like maybe, hypothetically, if one day you actually did drop to your knees in front of him and said “meow,” he wouldn’t hate it. actually, he might really, really not hate it.

so that week jake couldn’t stop thinking about it. so naturally, at three in the morning when any normal person would be asleep, he was hunched over his laptop, typing “what is petplay kink” into google like some dad learning how to use tiktok.

the first page of results didn’t help much. there were a bunch of articles that tried to sound educational but were really just people overexplaining, and then there were forums with way too many details he wasn’t ready for. he clicked through anyway, and five minutes later he was learning that apparently some people actually bought collars for this stuff, and leashes, and there was a whole thing about drinking water from bowls. he sat back in his chair, “no way,” he muttered to himself. “there’s no way i’m buying a dog bowl.” but then another part of him was like… okay, maybe not the bowl, but the collar thing? that didn’t sound as insane.

he kept scrolling. one post talked about how petplay wasn’t always about barking or crawling around, sometimes it was just about roles, like playfulness, obedience, teasing. that part made more sense to him. then he fell into another rabbit hole, this time about “brat taming.” apparently it meant dealing with someone who liked to push back, tease, talk back until you had to put them in their place. jake read three different threads about it and had to close the tab because, yeah, he was definitely into that.

he shut his laptop after an hour of scrolling, face buried in his hands, because what the hell was he even doing? one week ago he was just another guy with too much free time, and now he was sitting there seriously wondering if buying a collar off amazon would be insane or just a solid investment. and the kicker was, every time he thought about it, your face showed up in his head.

so when he saw you for the first time after that, he felt something weird going on around his pants. and jake wasn’t a fucking teen anymore, he wasn’t gonna get hard just by looking at a girl, but somehow he was… semi hard. it had been a long time since that happened out of nowhere and he thought it was kind of strange, like his body was reminding him of things he hadn’t thought about in months.

you looked up from your laptop, saw him, and smiled. that smile — bright, easy — made him immediately forget that anything felt weird. you waved, and jake had to remind himself to actually walk toward you instead of standing there like a moron.

“hey!” you called, motioning him over. “come sit.” you were sitting at a table with jungwon and sunoo, laptop open in front of you. jungwon was typing something, sunoo was scrolling on his phone, “so… did you get the giant cookie from the cafeteria or what?” you asked, a playful grin on your face.

jake internally thanked you, harder than he wanted to admit, for not bringing up the test. one, because he would have died of embarrassment with jungwon and sunoo there, and two, because honestly, thinking about it again might have made him get hard all over again in the middle of the library cafe. “uh… no, not yet,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady and not make it sound like his entire body was having a meeting about you.

“oh, okay,” you said, opening your laptop wider. “we can grab some after i finish this thing.”

he slid into the chair next to you, careful not to get too close, careful not to breathe like he was dying, and just tried to act like a normal human. which, for jake, was hard work when you were smiling at him like that.

after a while, you both got up and headed to the cafeteria. he was quieter, more reserved, but trying to respond, trying to interact without sounding like he was hyperventilating. by the time you got to the display with all the cookies, it was just the two of you. jake tried to act casual while his brain reminded him that he was, somehow, still semi hard and that his body was apparently having its own agenda today. he felt like a complete freak but the thought made him laugh at himself.

“so… chocolate cookie?” you asked, eyes sparkling, and then paused dramatically. “or are you gonna switch to vanilla?” you emphasized the word switch, looking at him like you knew exactly what you were doing.

jake couldn’t help it. he laughed out loud. “oh, okay, i see what you’re doing,” he said, shaking his head. it was ridiculous, and he felt ridiculous, but in a way that made him feel… funny.

“what? i’m just trying to make cookie decisions fun,” you said, smirking, clearly loving that you got a reaction out of him.

“yeah yeah, sure,” he replied, and then couldn’t resist pushing a little. “sooo… you said you were gonna show me your result personally, remember?”

you tilted your head, mock-serious. “wow, curious, aren’t you?”

he felt his face heat up, part embarrassment, part horniness, but he couldn’t stop thinking about how casual you were about all this. am i really getting turned on by a conversation about cookies and some quiz? he thought, mentally cursing himself, and then laughed a little because, yeah, apparently he was. “i mean… i’m not curious,” he said, though he was. “i just… maybe want to see it. for science.”

“mhmm, for science,” you repeated, grinning, clearly reading right through him. you sat down at a table after paying for the cookies, you opened your laptop casually, and started scrolling through your results. “alright, so… brace yourself,” you said, smiling at him, “here.” jake leaned a little closer, trying not to stare too obviously at your face and also trying not to think about other… possibilities. 

switch: 99%, submissive: 95%, brat: 92%, pet: 90%.

jake blinked a few times, and his brain immediately went to the oh shit this is hot mode. he felt his stomach tighten and had to consciously remind himself to breathe. he tried not to picture too much, trying not to lose it right there in front of you. after a beat, he swallowed and forced his voice casual. “yeah… i mean… i kinda imagined your result being something like this.”

you raised an eyebrow, grinning like you knew exactly what he was thinking. “ahh, so you were thinking about my results, huh?”

jake felt his face heat up instantly, but he couldn’t help laughing a little. “shut up…” he said after you teased, clearly enjoying the fact that he was squirming just a bit.

“never thought you’d be into petplay,” you said casually, glancing at him.

“me neither,” he admitted, a little embarrassed. “i’ve never actually done it.”

“oh really?” you teased. “but it’s on your test.”

“yeah… i’m just… assuming i’d like it,” he said, shrugging. “never explored my kinks before. that’s why i did the test.”

you smiled at him, eyes soft. “honestly, i get it. it’s fine. makes sense.”

for some reason, hearing you say that made him feel comfortable, thinking how nice it was to have someone he could actually talk to about it. you kept talking about the results, scrolling through different percentages, laughing at some of the weirder ones, shaking your heads at others, like “who the hell is this person” kind of stuff. jake felt like he could actually breathe a little easier, like maybe exploring this shit didn’t have to be some big awkward thing. 

and then he caught himself thinking about it — again, for the hundredth time — that maybe having you actually… participate in some of it wouldn’t be that bad. like, actually being there while you did the petplay stuff or teased him, whatever. and the thought hit him in a weird way that made him grin like a complete idiot, because yeah, it was exciting, and yeah, he could feel that familiar tightness in his pants again.

so after that, jake found himself doing more research about things you might like. he didn’t even know why he was looking this stuff up. he told himself it was curiosity, like he was just trying to understand a phenomenon or something, but deep down he knew it was more than that.

he was intrigued by the kinks, by the way you’d come across as so… private. he’d never seen you with anyone, never heard stories about your experiences, and somehow that made him hornier and more curious at the same time. the weirdest part was that he felt like he knew a lot about you because of that damn bdsm test, but also realized he didn’t know shit—whereas you probably knew tons of stories about him and his past hookups.

eventually he went back to reddit. of course he did. he found a server for kinks and typed out a post, hesitating over every word, trying not to make himself sound like a total weirdo.

r/kink_advice

u/australianlebron127 | 3m

how do i talk to a friend about mutual kinks?

hi, i’m a 23m and i have this friend (24f), she’s cool, funny, super private, and i think maybe we like the same kinks. we’ve talked a little about bdsm stuff and she shared her results on this bdsm test once, which were very similar to mine. i’m curious and want to maybe explore things with her, but i have no idea how to even bring it up without making it weird. any advice?

the replies came fast. some were generic, like “just be honest and communicate,” or “don’t push anything she’s not into.” but then one comment made him stop scrolling for a second.

comment: if she’s into petplay or praising kink, just call her a good girl out of nowhere and see how she reacts, or tell her to behave.

jake stared at that comment for longer than he should have. he couldn’t believe that the solution was potentially so simple, and also so terrifying. he wasn’t sure if it was genius or completely insane.

so he thought about putting the plan into practice that weekend, at the frat party. he already knew you’d be there because you’d mentioned jungwon and chaewon had been bugging you to go, and for jake, that sounded like the perfect opportunity. when he got to the house, sunghoon shoved a drink into his hand before he could even say hi, and riki was already trying to drag him outside to smoke a joint. jake brushed both of them off with a laugh, sipping the drink just to keep sunghoon from nagging, and then he saw you.

you were across the room, leaning against the counter with chaewon, laughing about something. you weren’t dressed overly flashy, nothing insane, just jeans and a cropped tank top that showed a sliver of skin when you moved, and your hair pulled back like you didn’t even try that hard. but for some reason, to jake, it looked better than half the girls in glitter dresses floating around the place.

he felt his stomach tighten in that same way it had the other day, and he had to stop himself from grinning too obviously. you had this golden retriever kind of energy, the kind of person who always smiled when someone waved, always asked how people were doing, and jake had that too, except his version usually came with flirting and ending up in someone’s bed.

he could feel the stares of other girls in the room, some who he’d already hooked up with, some who he knew wanted to. he caught one or two smiling at him, making the kind of eye contact that usually meant come over here later, and he knew he could. he could pick almost anyone in the room if he wanted. but for once, he wasn’t interested. the whole point tonight was you.

jake took another sip of his drink and pushed through the crowd, his eyes flicking back to you every other second. he was hyping himself up in his head, thinking about that stupid reddit comment and whether he was actually crazy enough to try it out. every step closer to you, the thought kept repeating in his head: good girl. just say it once. see what happens.

so he walked up to you, slid into that little circle, and went, “hey,” giving you and chaewon a nod. you both greeted him back, chaewon with her usual dry smile and you with that bright one that always made him feel like you were actually happy to see him, even if it was just a quick hello at a loud party.

the conversation was easy, just small talk but not awkward. eventually chaewon excused herself to get a drink, and right then minjeong walked past. she gave jake a quick once over and stopped long enough to rest her hand on his shoulder, leaning in with a smile that was way too obvious. “jake, later come find me, okay?” she said in that flirty tone that didn’t leave much room for interpretation. he just gave a small nod, polite enough but already knowing he wasn’t going to.

when she walked off, you tilted your head and started laughing under your breath. “wow,” you said, dragging the word out, “how many girls here have you hooked up with?”

jake immediately shook his head, pressing his lips together like he was trying not to laugh. “not that many,” he said, though even he knew it sounded weak.

you raised your brows, clearly amused. “and none of them made you wanna… what was it again? meow?” you asked, grinning at him like you were way too proud of yourself for remembering.

he froze for a second, caught completely off guard, before he tried to play it cool. “you’re not letting that go, huh?” he leaned in a little, lowering his voice like it might soften the blow of how flustered he actually was. “but, i mean, maybe it’s because none of them knew how to behave like you, i think.”

he said it half teasing, half testing, and his smile was trying to cover the way his heart was picking up. you squinted at him, amused but confused, and went, “what do you mean behave like me?”

jake didn’t even hesitate. “uh, it was in your test. brat, sub, pet, you know what i’m talking about.”

you let out this little laugh, shaking your head. “ok, that’s in my test, but you don’t know if i’m actually like that in real life. you literally said you’ve never done petplay, and you’re just assuming you’d like it.”

he shrugged, leaning back slightly, but his eyes stayed on you. “yeah, but have you done it?” his tone was way too direct for the middle of a crowded party.

you laughed again, but this time it was softer, like you were a little embarrassed. “uh… yeah.”

jake grinned, instantly smug. “then there you go. point proven. you do behave.” you didn’t say anything right away, and that threw him off, because you were almost never quiet around him. you just looked at him for a second, like you were deciding something in your head. so he tilted his head and asked, “what?”

“nothing,” you said quickly, then paused. “just thinking if you’ve ever even talked about this with anyone else before.”

he scratched the back of his neck, a little awkward now. “not really. i mean, sunghoon once told me i should bark at someone to see if i’d like it, but i didn’t take him seriously.”

you cracked up at that, covering your mouth for a second. “maybe minjeong would like that. i don’t know. you could always try it on her.”

and that was the moment it hit him, clear as day. he didn’t want to try anything with minjeong. he didn’t want to test it out with some random girl who was already halfway throwing herself at him. he wanted you.

before he could say anything though, you excused yourself, saying you were gonna grab some water or check on chaewon or something, and then you slipped into the crowd. jake stood there for a second, realizing that if he actually wanted this to go anywhere with you, he was gonna have to be more direct about it. no more hiding behind jokes or waiting for you to bring it up.

after a while, jake found you by the drinks table, leaning against it with a plastic cup in your hand. you were turned, and when you noticed him coming over, you gave him this small smile, the kind you always did that looked automatic. “can you fill mine up too?” he asked, holding out his cup.

“sure,” you said, reaching for the tap and tilting his cup under it.

the words came out of him before he even thought about them. “good girl.”

you froze for a second. like, literally stopped mid-pour. then you turned your head slowly to look at him. “what’d you say?”

he didn’t flinch. “i called you a good girl.”

he had no idea where the confidence was coming from. maybe from the fact that he hadn’t gotten laid in weeks, maybe from the way you’d been laughing at his teasing earlier, maybe from too much beer, maybe from all of that. but he didn’t look away. you held his gaze for a moment, then nodded once, finished filling his cup, and handed it back to him.

he grinned. “what? did you get flustered at that?”

“shut up, jake,” you said, but you were smiling, trying to hide it, and then you turned and walked off before he could say anything else.

he’d said it once, and you didn’t blow him off, didn’t get weird, didn’t shut it down. if anything, you’d reacted. ok, he thought, taking a sip, i need to be even more direct.

later that night, jake found himself outside, because jake was jake and he couldn’t say no to a blunt rotation with his friends. he was leaning back against the side of the house with heeseung and beomgyu, all of them passing around a joint. heeseung was halfway into some rant about how he thinks all stanley cups are potentially weapons when you came bouncing out the door.

“wow,” you said immediately, spotting them. “look at you guys, stoner squad.” you laughed, light and teasing, but not mean.

jake felt that stupid twitch in his pants he’d been fighting all night right away and he hated himself for it. you weren’t even doing anything. you were just smiling like always, tail wagging friendly, and somehow that was enough to get him semi hard again. 

​​he held the joint out to you. “want some?”

you tilted your head, eyes narrowing like you were weighing it. “hm. it’s been a while. i don’t know how i’ll react.” but you took it anyway. your fingers brushed his as you grabbed it, then you brought it to your lips, inhaling slow. jake couldn’t stop watching the way your chest rose and the way you let the smoke slip out through your lips. then you looked up at him, big doe eyes, blinking like a puppy, and it wasn’t just the weed. that was a look, and he knew that look. he saw it tons of times before from other girls he knew that wanted him to fuck them.

“you did good,” he said quietly, the words almost slipping out of his mouth on their own. his voice was low, soft but steady. praising.

you blinked, eyes widening a little, and then, of course, you smiled. not your usual grin, but this smaller one, just for him. you passed the joint back to him, and didn’t say anything. jake smirked, turned, and shoved the joint back at heeseung and beomgyu. then he leaned in closer, lowering his voice so only they could hear. “you two get the fuck outta here.”

heeseung frowned like he was about to argue, but beomgyu caught on quick, grabbed his arm, and dragged him off with the joint still in his hand. jake barely noticed, his eyes were already back on you. he could feel that edge of nervous energy sitting in his chest.

“you know,” he started, voice little lower than usual, “i’ve been thinking a lot about that test we took.” 

you tilted your head, sipping the last of your drink. “oh yeah?”

he let out a quick laugh, scratching the back of his neck. “yeah. like, i’ve always wanted to try some of that stuff with someone, but i never really had anyone to test it out with.”

you snorted, but it wasn’t mean, it was playful. “come on, jake. you’re telling me you’ve had no one to test kinks with? that’s new. that’s not the jake i know.”

he laughed too, shaking his head, stepping just a little closer. “come on, you know that’s not what i mean.”

“how’s it not what you mean?” you asked, raising your brows like you were calling him out. “jake, there are at least ten girls in this house right now that i’ve personally heard say they’d do literally anything you asked. you’ve gotta be more confident.”

“the problem,” he said, this time leaning in slightly, his eyes flicking down to your mouth before back up, “is that i don’t want just anyone.”

you paused, holding his gaze, and your lips tugged into this little smirk. “then be confident and ask the person you actually want.”

you said it so obviously, like you were spelling it out for him, and jake knew you’d already figured it out. you weren’t running from it either, which only made his pulse faster. he forced himself to stay calm, not too flirty, just enough to keep it casual, smug in the only way he knew how to handle this. “look,” he said, “i know this might sound a little out of nowhere, but when i say i’ve been thinking about it, i mean i’ve actually been thinking about it.” you didn’t interrupt, you just watched him, waiting. “and i don’t want it to come off like i’m some fuck boy with weird kinks trying to test them on anyone who’s remotely into the same stuff. that’s not it. but…” he hesitated for just a second, then pushed through, “if you wanted to… if you were down… you could maybe show me the things you’re into sometime. so i can see if i’m into them too.”

he said it steady, without laughing, without looking away, even though inside his stomach was doing flips. you smirked at him, leaning in just enough to make him think that you were about to say something he wanted to hear. “yeah,” you said, dragging it out, “i could try that sometime.”

jake froze for a second, because hearing you actually say that out loud hit him harder than he expected. it had been a long time since he’d felt this type of nervous to hook up with a girl, he wasn’t just anxious but he was also excited, and his brain was already five steps ahead picturing what it would be like. and now you were looking at him with those wide puppy eyes, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t been this gone over someone in a while.

so he leaned in, not even thinking too much about it, just following the way your words had practically given him permission, but right before he got there, you stepped back, smirk still on your face. “sometime”, you corrected, “i didn’t say tonight.”

and then you turned, casually walking off, and jake just stood there, blinking at the back of your head as you went back to the house. he didn’t even know what to do with himself. he could only think one thing: when exactly had he gotten himself this fucked?

after that night, jake couldn’t think about anything else at all. every morning he woke up, the first thought in his brain was basically: when is sometime? it was killing him. his dick was practically on a constant timer, ready to embarrass him at any random moment. he’d see you on campus, just doing normal-ass things, like tying your shoe, talking to someone, sipping your coffee, and then you’d look up, smile at him like you didn’t casually say you might let him try out some kinky shit with you, and instantly his pants got tight. it was torture.

he tried to play it cool, but the truth was his brain was fried. he couldn’t stop thinking about all the ways it could go. you acting like a brat and him finally having an excuse to put you in your place? yeah, he wanted that. you in a collar? he was picturing it. you on all fours, maybe purring at him? his dick didn’t see a problem with it.

the only issue was, he knew there were steps to get there, like he couldn’t just skip straight to “here’s your leash.” but still, he wanted it, and every day it was getting more unbearable. and jake kept replaying it in his head, wondering if you’d been kinkshaming him that night. but no, you didn’t look disgusted. you looked like you enjoyed making him squirm. 

so after days of overthinking, he finally just thought, fuck it, i’m texting her.

he stared at his phone for a second, then finally muttered to himself, “fuck it.” jeans went down, dick out, and he just leaned back against the headboard, taking a deep breath. this was the first time he was sexting someone like this, like really trying to push boundaries, and he never imagined he’d get this fucking horny reading messages.

the thought of you was too much. he didn’t even really see your words at first. his eyes were half lidded, mind spinning, imagining you there, acting like you were challenging him to keep control while he was already losing it. your texts were just triggers at that point—he didn’t need them to imagine every little sound, every whine, every little movement you’d make when he told you to behave. his hand moved on its own, faster and harder, and then he felt finally letting go, spilling all over himself, and it hit him how long it had been since he’d actually come like that just from his own hand and a fantasy. it wasn’t some casual fap to random porn. it was you. the idea of you teasing him, bratting him, letting him call you a good girl, and him slowly building you up in his mind.

finally he wiped his hand, leaned back, and looked at his phone again. the last message from you was there:

you: youre jerking off arent you?

you: hope u have fun thinking about me

you: good night jakey 😊

he just froze for a second, grinning like a complete idiot, and then read it again. and again. and again. every time he did, he couldn’t help himself— his hand went back to his dick, and he was off, imagining your voice, your little smirks, the way you’d act bratty and subby and soft all at once. he spent the rest of the night like that, phone beside him, mind completely tangled up in fantasies about you, and every time he looked at those messages he had to jerk off again, like a fucking teenager. 

and it kinda turned into a routine before he even realized it. every night, somewhere between brushing his teeth and pretending he was gonna go to bed early, jake ended up texting you. it started light, memes, random shit from his day, but without fail it slid into something else. not always full on sexting, sometimes it was just you pushing him with one-liners that had him hard in minutes. like that one time you just sent:

you: good pets beg nicely, don’t they?

and he actually sat there, cock throbbing in his sweats, typing and deleting five different responses before finally sending something he never thought he’d put in writing.

and yeah, he was screwed. because he did like it, he liked you bratty, needy, whiny. he liked calling you his pet. but the thing that really fucked him up was realizing he’d always end up giving in to you anyway. no matter how much he talked big, if you told him to try something, he’d try it. if you wanted him to push a boundary, he’d push it. he was supposed to be the dom, but half the time he felt like a dog wagging his tail waiting for scraps from you. and yeah, the results saying “switch” were not a surprise at this point.

he even got nerdy about it. he continued reading reddit threads, doing kink tests, scrolling through subs at 3am like he was studying for a final exam (he should be studying for a few, actually). the only problem? he still hadn’t seen you in person. and that was driving him insane. 

he could type all the filth in the world, imagine you in a collar, call you his pet until his dick hurt, but at the end of the day you were still just words on a screen. and jake wanted more, he wanted your voice in his ear, your body under his hands, not just a fucking notification making him hard. and the longer it went, the worse it got. he’d go to bed thinking about you, wake up still hard, spend the day waiting for your messages just so he could crash again in that same loop. at some point he realized he was way past curious. 

and jake wasn’t even subtle about it. he’d been walking past your dorm for like the third time that week, pretending to be interested in the vending machine in the lobby. he’d already bought a snickers earlier but here he was again, suspiciously pressing buttons like he couldn’t decide between m&ms or kitkat, when the truth was he didn’t give a shit about chocolate. he just wanted to “accidentally” run into you.

and then it happened. you came through the door, head down, digging through your bag for your keys. he froze with a kitkat half dangling from the machine slot, suddenly feeling like he’d been caught doing something illegal. you finally looked up and your face lit up with that same smile you always gave him, like he wasn’t the guy who called you pet and jerked off every night to your bratty texts. he felt that familiar kick in his chest, the one that made him insane because it wasn’t just sexual. sure, you drove him crazy with how much he wanted to fuck you, but there was more. he liked you, like actually liked you, and that was worse somehow. mutt-level disaster, horny as hell but also weirdly in awe every time you looked at him like that.

“what are you doing here?” you asked, eyebrow raised, smile playing like you already knew the answer.

“uh, just grabbing something from the vending machine,” he said, holding up the kitkat like it was evidence. smooth.

you gave a small smirk, clearly not buying it, but you didn’t call him out. instead, you shifted your bag on your shoulder and said, “come on, i need to grab something from my dorm. sunoo is waiting for me at the library”

he followed, trying to act casual even though his brain was on fire. his heart was racing, not just because maybe something could happen, but because he had no idea how to handle actually being around you in real life. so when you opened the door to your dorm, he stepped inside and it was like stepping straight into your head. everything screamed you.

“you want coffee?” you asked, already moving toward your tiny coffee setup.

“i’m good,” he said, hands stuffed in his pockets.

“well, i’m making some anyway. i can’t function without coffee after lunch.”

he leaned against the wall, watching you move around, trying not to think too hard about how bad he wanted something to happen. like, yeah, he could just sit here and drink coffee with you and that’d be fine, but at the same time, every cell in his body was screaming that he wanted more. he was running through a dozen different scenarios in his head, every single one ending with him in your bed.

you sat down on the couch with your coffee, legs crossed, and jake stayed planted against the wall, staring at you. you looked up at him, those doe eyes soft and ridiculous, and asked, “what’s up? you not gonna sit?”

he swallowed, felt his chest flip, and thought, oh my god i’m about to do something dumb, but then he just did it. he dropped to his knees right in front of you, which made you blink, because nobody ever kneeled in front of you unless they were messing around. now you were exactly eye level with him, and that felt like a weird, intense pause. you raised one brow. “what are you doing?”

he gave that stupid smirk he always used when he wanted to sound like he knew what he was doing. “roleplaying,” he said, like it was the most normal explanation in the world.

you laughed, set your mug down on the side table, and then came back to him, serious for a second. “jake… are you sure you want this?”

he blinked, because of course he was sure. “are you kidding? i think i made it pretty obvious.”

you watched him for a beat, like you were checking him out, “i want you to be comfortable testing something you’ve never done before,” you said.

“i’m comfortable,” he answered, eyes locked on yours. “you comfortable?”

you let out a small, low laugh and relaxed against the back of the couch and spread your legs a little so he had room, shifted so your knees were wider, like you trusted him to handle whatever came next. “very,” you said, voice steady, challenge hiding under the calm.

he smiled, the kind that was more confident than he’d felt in weeks, and slid his hand up to rest on your knee, fingers pressing the inside of your thigh as he edged closer. he kept his touch soft at first, like he was checking the water temperature, then moved a little higher, deliberate but not rough, watching you for every little reaction. “you got me down bad for you,” he murmured, a bit proud, but pissed off at how much he wanted you.

you rolled your eyes, amused and dangerous. “then why are you taking so long to take what’s yours?” you teased, voice quiet and sharp.

so the moment he caught your eyes flicking down to his mouth, he decided he wasn’t gonna make this easy for you. in one quick motion he slid his hands behind your thighs, gripped hard, and just picked you up like you weighed nothing. before you could even gasp he’d flipped the whole situation — he was on the couch now, you on his lap, straddling him. you let out this sharp little yelp, more surprise than anything, and the second you realized the position, you went quiet. his hands were holding your thighs tight, his bulge pressed right under you.

“i’ve been dreaming about you sitting on my lap like this,” he said.

“yeah?” you breathed out, lowering your face closer to his, testing him. you shifted your hips just enough to grind against him through the layers of clothes, and that made his fingers dig in, holding you down so you couldn’t keep moving.

“behave, won’t you?” he muttered, his voice flat but loaded.

that made you smirk. “what, jakey? i thought you wanted this,” you whined, tilting your voice into that bratty little tease you knew would get him worked up. and then you were grinding on him again, slower this time, just to push.

his grip on your thighs went rough, firm enough you’d probably see the marks later, and you leaned forward like you weren’t fazed at all. he was smiling now, biting his lip, annoyed and turned on beyond reason. “give me a kiss before i put you in your place,” he said, like it was some casual request, but you both knew it wasn’t.

you were still smirking when you leaned in, noses almost brushing, clearly waiting to see how far you could stretch him before he snapped. jake thought, yeah, this girl is gonna ruin me, but he wasn’t about to let you see that written on his face. he just held you tighter and kept that cocky little grin, watching you lean in with the most torturous pace ever.

and when you did, you kissed him slow, dragging it out like you wanted to prove a point, and he kissed you back like he’d been training for this exact moment, tongue slipping into your mouth like it belonged there. he’d imagined this a hundred times, maybe more, but in reality it was so much better. when you started grinding down on him again, all drawn out and teasing, he caught your lower lip between his teeth, tugged, then went right back in. he didn’t stop until he had to pull away just to breathe, drunk on you, trailing down your jaw with his mouth, nipping and kissing until he got to your neck.

the second he heard that tiny whimper spill out of you, he fucking lost it. his hand came up, not soft, cupping your chin, tilting your head so you were forced to look at him. you smirked at him, and it made him growl out, “you’re so fucking hot.” before you could toss some bratty reply back, he cut you off. “kneel for me.”

you hesitated just a beat, smirking, like you were about to be clever. but then you surprised him, you actually obeyed, slipping off his lap and sinking to the floor in front of him. his chest felt tight watching you like that, hair a little messy, looking up at him from the floor. he leaned forward, spread his legs a little wider, and let out this low laugh. “good girl,” he said, steady. then he added, “hands on your knees. look up at me.” you did it, but with that smirk like you were humoring him, not surrendering. he arched a brow. “what’s with that look?”

“what look?” you asked, voice all fake innocence, eyes wide.

“the one that’s begging me to make you behave,” he shot back. his hand went to your hair, not pulling hard, just testing. you didn’t flinch, you leaned into it. “say please,” he said next.

you tilted your head, lips parting. “please what?”

“don’t play with me,” he warned, squeezing the back of your neck lightly.

you laughed, bratty and breathless. “you don’t even know what you want me to say please for, jakey.”

he groaned, like you were already driving him insane. “jesus christ, you’re a handful.”

you beamed, proud of yourself. “am i not your favorite little handful though?”

he gave a dry laugh, leaning forward, eyes locked on you. “yeah, you are. and you’re gonna regret milking that.” his thumb brushed your lower lip, pressing down just enough to make your mouth part. “open up,” he said. you stuck out your tongue in response, rolling your eyes like you were daring him to do something. “god, you’re such a brat,” he muttered, shaking his head but clearly loving every second. “don’t worry. i’ll train you right.”

jake already knew he was too deep in this to stop now, so when his thumb pressed harder into your lip and you opened wider, he spit right into your mouth without thinking twice. you blinked at him, a little shocked. “swallow it all,” he’d said, and you did, no hesitation. he could see it hit you too, the way your shoulders shifted, that look in your eyes flipping. that was the first time any guy had done that to you, and jake clocked the moment you gave in a little, the brat suddenly turning pliant. 

he smirked, dragged his thumb out of your mouth and replaced it with his index finger, pushing against your tongue. “suck.” you did, lips wrapping around it, tongue working slow like you wanted to torture him. he groaned, letting you do it, and then switched it up, making you take his thumb. “good girl. now tell me what you want, pet.”

your eyes flicked up, all teasing again, and you mumbled around his thumb, “it’s hurting, jakey.”

his brain stalled for a second. wow, she’s actually kinky as hell, he thought. he softened, brushing his free hand across your cheek. “what’s hurting, baby?”

you pulled his thumb out just enough to pout at him, voice dripping brat, “i need you so much it hurts.”

that one hit him straight in the gut. he was in awe, just staring at you. “aw, princess,” he said, almost laughing in disbelief. “do you need me to take care of you?” you nodded fast, lips pushing out in a little whine. “but,” he leaned down, pressing his forehead close to yours, “you gotta deserve to be rewarded, you know that, right? will you behave for me?”

your nod was eager this time, quick. “i will, i promise.”

“yeah?” he said, standing up slow, eyes locked on you the whole time while his fingers went to his belt. he tugged it loose, the leather sliding through the loops while he bit his lip. your eyes tracked every movement, wide and hungry, those stupid puppy eyes making him feel feral. but the second you started to lift your hands from your thighs like you wanted to reach for him, he snapped. “uh-uh.” he pointed right at you. “what’d i tell you? hands on your thighs, pet.”

you huffed, clearly annoyed, but put them back exactly where he wanted. “good girl,” he said again, dragging his zipper down nice and slow, making sure you stayed right there, waiting. he tugged his jeans and briefs down in one go, his cock springing free, thick and heavy, and the second your eyes widened he almost lost it. you actually drooled a little, lips parted, and he laughed low, cocky as ever. “yeah, like what you see, huh? big, but you can take it, right baby?” 

his hand landed on your head, gentle but firm, fingers threading through your hair. you pouted up at him, whining softly, “i don’t know, jakey.”

he grinned like you’d just said the funniest shit in the world, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “don’t know? c’mon, you’re my good girl. you can take it. i know you can. don’t make me remind you.” and you nodded so fast, eager, like his words flipped some switch inside you. “see? there she is. good girl. now… go slow, pretty. just lick it. like a kitty.” you leaned in, tongue shy at first, just dragging along the tip, and he hissed, hand tightening in your hair. “fuck, yeah… just like that. lap it up for me.”

you licked your way down his shaft, soft little flicks of your tongue, and he was going crazy, eyes screwed shut for a second, trying to hold back. “jesus fuck, look at you. you’re actually licking me like a fucking kitten. do you even know how cute you look right now?” 

you hummed against him, pulling back with a wet mouth and whispering, “maybe i just wanna play with you.”

he laughed again, smug but wrecked already, giving your cheek a few pats like he was rewarding you. “play all you want, sweetheart. just remember who owns you now. okay?” your eyes went wide at that, pupils blown, and you nodded, lips pressing back against the base of his cock, licking slow all the way up. he groaned, the sound broken. “fuck, that’s it. my pretty pet, my good little kitty. keep showing me how bad you need it. you’re making your owner so proud.”

jake never pictured himself like this, or saying those things, not with anyone. he’d had his fun before, sure, but the fact that he was seconds away from spilling down your throat from those innocent little eyes alone? yeah, that was new. he was way more down bad than he ever admitted.

so when your tongue started moving faster, when you got bolder, sloppier, sucking him off with that bratty determination like you wanted to prove something, he groaned, hand snapping down to your hair. a sharp tug, a wet pop leaving your lips as his cock slipped free. you looked up at him, eyes wide, bottom lip sticking out in a pout.

“aw, you want more, baby?” he teased, voice ragged, trying to keep control when he was already losing it. you nodded instantly, needy, and his smile widened. “you’re getting it, don’t worry. but for now…” he leaned back on the couch, cock heavy against his stomach, and patted his thigh. “come on, hop on.”

you did exactly that, crawling up into his lap like the little cat he kept calling you, hands pressing into the cushion as you moved, hips hovering just enough that your clothed core brushed his bare cock. the second you started to grind down, though, he didn’t let you have it, he flipped you fast, pressing you down so your cheek met the couch cushion, ass up high for him. “that’s better,” he muttered, sitting under you. the sight alone nearly ruined him, your ass arched perfectly, skirt riding up.

his fingers slid along your thighs before catching on the fabric, tugging at your skirt. “let’s take this off, mhm?” he peeled it down slow, tossing it aside, leaving you in just your panties. he let his palm rest over one cheek, rubbing soft, soothing circles, like he was calming his pet after riling her up too much. “look at you,” he murmured, voice softer now, almost in awe. “all laid out for me. such a good girl.” his hand smoothed over your ass again before giving it a light squeeze. “stay just like this, pet. don’t move unless i tell you to.”

you whined into the cushion, wiggling your hips like you were trying to bait him, and he laughed low, shaking his head. “bratty already? we talked about this, remember? ass up, face down. behave for me, or you’ll wait longer.” his tone was playful, not cruel, but it still made you still, biting down your whines. he leaned in, letting his cock brush lightly against your thigh, teasing. “good. that’s better. see? my sweet pet can listen. and when you listen, you get rewarded.”

his hand drifted down, slow, lazy, like he had all night to play with you. two fingers pressed against the thin fabric of your panties, dragging along the damp spot he already knew he’d find. the second he felt it, he chuckled, low and pleased, rubbing small circles just to hear you react. “aw, you’re soaked right through, baby. that’s so hot.” his tone was teasing.

you whined, pressing your face harder into the couch, your voice muffled but still clear. “only for you.”

that made his cock twitch, he leaned forward, chest almost brushing your back, lips close to your ear. “oh yeah? only for me?” he pressed his fingers harder against the fabric, not slipping inside, just making you squirm. “then tell me, pet. tell me what you want me to do.”

you let out a frustrated sound, trying to grind back against his hand, but he had you pinned with his thigh under your stomach, keeping you in place. “i want your fingers,” you whispered, needy.

“my fingers, huh?” he dragged them along your slit, slow enough to make it torture. “you want me to make you feel good with these?” he brought one up to your lips, letting you see the damp shine of your own arousal. you nodded quickly, pout forming again, and he laughed, patting your ass lightly like he was warning you. “needy little thing. so spoiled. but since you asked so nicely…”

his fingers dipped under the waistband of your panties at last, the fabric dragging down just enough for him to slip inside and find your folds. you moaned loudly and whiny, and he swore under his breath at how wet you were, coating his fingers instantly. “fuck,” he muttered, curling one finger inside you while his other hand smoothed over your hip, keeping you steady. “there we go. my good girl, taking me so easy. stay still for me, pet. let me play with you just like this.”

his fingers started moving faster, curling and dragging in a way that made your whole body jolt against his thigh. you yelped, louder this time, the sound bouncing in the quiet room. jake immediately leaned down, his breath brushing your ear. “quiet, pet. don’t want anyone hearing, do we?” you bit your lip, tried to hold it back, but the next time his fingers pushed deeper, a sharp whimper slipped out anyway. his voice dropped. “i said quiet.”

you tried again, muffling yourself against the couch cushion, but your body betrayed you, another sound ripping through your throat when his pace picked up. and then, suddenly, he pulled his hand away completely. the emptiness made you groan, frustrated, your hips wiggling back in protest. “ill have to punish you now, you know that right?” he said it calm, almost like he was explaining something obvious, but the way his hand smoothed over your ass right after made you shiver.

you tilted your head just enough to glance back at him, pouty and bratty. “maybe i wanted you to stop.”

he raised his brows, amused, giving your ass a firm squeeze. “oh yeah? is that what you’re telling yourself?”

you wiggled again, pushing your hips back against him like you were testing his patience. “maybe i like it better when you’re mad.”

he laughed under his breath, shaking his head, but there was heat in his eyes. “careful, pet. you’re about to get exactly what you’re asking for.” 

and then his hand came down. not too hard, but enough to make your body jolt, the sound echoing sharp in the room. you gasped, and then laughed breathlessly, almost taunting. “that all you got, jakey?”

his jaw flexed, and his hand landed again, harder this time, the smack making your skin sting. “you really wanna test me right now?” he let out a low groan, dragging both hands over your ass before landing another quick series of spanks, steady and controlled. each one made your body jerk, and each time you made some sound that only pushed him further. “fuck,” he muttered, “you like this too much.”

his hand smoothed over the warmth he’d left behind, fingers soothing, but then he landed one more sharp smack that made you yelp louder than before. he immediately grabbed your hair, tugging your head back just enough so you couldn’t bury your face anymore. “i wanna hear you beg properly,” he said, his tone firm now, “say you’ll be good for me, and maybe i’ll give you back my fingers. if not…” he squeezed your ass hard, “we’re staying right here until you learn.”

the moment you opened your mouth, ready to fire back with something bratty or maybe even give in and beg, the bell rang. both of you froze, staring at each other wide-eyed.

jake blinked, still holding your hair, then muttered, “i think you were too loud?” but the way he said it wasn’t teasing, wasn’t even part of the game, it was just matter of fact, like he really thought your whines had carried down the hall.

you stared back at him, cheeks flushed, and scoffed. “no, i don’t think so.” and then the bell rang again, even longer this time, and you panicked, scrambling, yelling “i’m coming!” towards the door.

jake almost choked, because his brain short-circuited for a second and he thought, god, i wish she’d say that in a whole other context.

everything after that moved way too fast. one second you were half naked, bent over, bratting about his punishment, the next you were yanking your skirt back up and pulling your shirt down, your hair all messy and your lips swollen from kissing. you grabbed his pants and his wrist and dragged him towards your bedroom. he was stumbling after you, his dick still hard, bouncing against his stomach because he wasn’t even wearing pants anymore, which just made the whole thing ten times more ridiculous.

“stay there, quickly, i’ll be right back,” you hissed at him, shoving him into your room and throwing his pants at him while he caught them in the air.

jake stood there, half dazed, half turned on, thinking this was the most chaotic blue balls situation of his life. his cock was throbbing, his shirt was wrinkled, and he was hiding in a girl’s bedroom like a teenager.

he sat there on the edge of your bed, pantsless, staring at the door and he could hear everything clear as day. suddenly he could hear sunoo’s voice carried through the dorm, cheerful and way too loud for jake’s current situation. “y/n! i was calling you, you didn’t answer. i was waiting for you at the library. i got worried!”

you sounded way too casual for someone who’d just been spread out over the couch whining under jake’s fingers. “oh, sorry, i dozed off. i was so tired.”

there was a pause, then sunoo’s suspicious tone: “why are you red? and your hair looks… what happened?”

you snapped back instantly, “i was sleeping, i told you.”

jake, meanwhile, buried his face in his hands. jesus fucking christ. this was ridiculous. that was his cue, he quickly pulled his boxers back up, then wriggled into his jeans. because as much as his dick hated it, it was way too humiliating to sit there listening in with his bare ass on your sheets.

while he was buttoning up, his eyes wandered. your room was… very you. he noticed sanrio plushies stacked in the corner, a little snoopy mug on the desk with pens sticking out of it, and an actual pink and white gamer setup with a keyboard that lit up like cotton candy. he blinked at that one, he didn’t even know you gamed, but apparently you did, and you did it in the most annoyingly cute way possible. it was distracting, like the whole place was a scrapbook of your personality, and he was sitting there in the middle of it half hard, listening to your best friend interrogate you in the next room.

then he heard you again, your voice a little rushed. “let me just go to my room and fix myself up, i’ll be quick.”

sunoo didn’t sound convinced. “i’ll come with you—”

“no, wait in the living room. were you born glued to me or something?”

“what the—are you crazy?” sunoo shot back, baffled.

“sunoo, let me change alone,” you said, sharper now, but still playful enough to throw him off.

jake had to bite back a laugh, shaking his head. you were juggling this so smoothly, meanwhile he looked like an idiot sitting on your bed, surrounded by stuffed animals, pretending this was normal.

and then the door cracked open and you slipped back in, closing it quickly behind you, leaving sunoo muttering to himself outside. jake was sitting there, finally dressed, looking suspicious. you let out this little laugh, low, like you couldn’t believe how cute he looked sitting there stiff on your bed surrounded by your plushies. he stood up, kind of sheepish, and you just smiled at him like nothing was out of the ordinary, whispering, “im so sorry, i have to go,” with a pout that made you look more like a kid ditching class than someone who just had her ass smacked red ten minutes ago. 

he thought you were adorable like that, so he shook his head and said, “it’s okay, i liked distracting you.”

then you leaned over and pressed a quick kiss on his lips. not hot, not horny, not dripping with tension, just a casual kiss. and that’s what fucked him up a bit, because he never did casual kisses like that with anyone. 

“i’ll change, leave, and you can stay here, okay? i’ll leave the door open so you can head out whenever. you can even get comfy if you want to, i don’t mind,” you said like you were inviting him to borrow a hoodie or something. easygoing, no stress. he stood there thinking, wow, you really weren’t trying to make him feel embarrassed, even though you could’ve. you could’ve outed him to sunoo in two seconds flat, but you didn’t.

so you turned around, grabbed clothes, changed right there like it was nothing, and then you were gone, chatting back at sunoo.

and jake just sat there on your bed, hands on his knees, staring at the kuromi plush in the corner like it had answers. his dick was still half hard in his jeans, but his brain was louder than his body this time. he thought, holy shit, i just had the kinkiest, freakiest time of my life and somehow my dick never even got inside her once. 

after that day, things between you and jake definitely got steamier. he was still jake, pretending he just “happened” to run into you on campus, but really he was timing shit out. he knew your class schedule better than his own. sometimes he’d wait outside one of your lectures and play it off like, “oh hey, didn’t know you had class here,” and then two minutes later he had you pressed against a wall making out. subtle wasn’t his thing anymore.

he started hanging around your friends more too. jungwon, who he already kind of knew, turned into his partner-in-crime somehow. jake was showing up to sit at your table like he belonged there. sunoo kept giving him these looks, like he was three seconds away from calling him out, and jake swore the guy had to know something even though you promised you hadn’t told him a word. it was just the way sunoo looked at him– suspicious as hell.

and the thing was, jake couldn’t really keep his hands off you. you’d be standing in line at the vending machine and he’d pull you aside to kiss you like he hadn’t seen you in a year. in between classes he’d tug you down some hallway and you’d laugh, telling him to chill, but you’d still kiss him back. the parking lot was another story. he kissed you once against your car, his hand already halfway down the back of your jeans, when someone walked by and you had to shove him off, both of you laughing.

the thing is, none of it ever went further than hot kisses and some wandering hands. it wasn’t full-on sex, not yet. and that was what was killing jake slowly. he was losing his mind because you’d give him just enough: enough roleplay, enough teasing, enough touching to keep him hooked, but never the whole thing. every time you whispered something bratty in his ear or let him grab your waist in the middle of campus, he wanted you more. and the more he got, the less satisfied he felt, because it only made him hungrier.

so he came up with this plan. he wanted to make it special, and he couldn’t quite figure out why he cared so much. the timing lined up with jungwon’s birthday, just a small gathering at his place with close friends. jake was invited, obviously, him and jungwon were basically glued at the hip now. so he offered to pick you up.

when you got into his car that night, jake didn’t even wait a beat. you barely closed the door before he leaned over, caught your chin, and kissed you. it wasn’t rushed though, he kissed you slow, deep, like he’d been starving all week. you kissed him back, let him taste you for a second, before pulling away with a laugh. “jake, we’re gonna be late,” you said.

he smirked and said “worth it.” then, just to make your stomach flip, he grabbed your other hand and pressed a soft kiss to your knuckles before starting the engine. jake kept sneaking looks at you, thumb brushing your hand where it rested in his. when you arrived at jungwon’s, jake slipped his hand to your lower back as you both walked inside, guiding you.

the whole night, jake barely left your side. if you went to the kitchen, he was there leaning against the counter, sipping from his cup, making stupid commentary. if you sat down, he took the spot next to you, knee brushing yours. it wasn’t possessive, not even official, but he hovered like a guy on a date, even though neither of you had ever said that word out loud. and the thing was, you let him.

sometimes your friends would tease – sunoo gave you this knowing look across the room at one point – but you brushed it off. the real issue wasn’t what people thought. it was that every time jake leaned in close to whisper something dumb in your ear, every time his fingers brushed against yours under the table, you wanted him so bad it made you dizzy. and judging by the way he kept staring at your mouth all night, he was having the same problem.

when the party ended, he offered you a ride back to your place, and at the elevator going down in jungwon’s building, he already couldn’t hold it. the doors closed, the silence hit, and he cornered you right there, pressing you against the wall before you could even blink. his mouth was on yours, hot and messy, your little whine breaking between the kisses making his head spin. you tugged at his shirt, and he groaned into your mouth like he’d been waiting for this all damn night.

he pulled back just enough to breathe, lips still brushing yours, and whispered, “come to my place, please.” he didn’t even think before saying it. it just spilled out.

you didn’t even hesitate. you just nodded, whispered “okay,” and kissed him again like you couldn’t wait either.

the car ride was a whole other mess. his hand was glued to your thigh, fingers sliding higher  and you weren’t doing anything to stop him. he kept smirking at you, leaning close enough to murmur shit like, “you’re so needy, aren’t you?” or “you’ve been teasing me for weeks, baby. you think i’m letting you off easy tonight?” and every time, you’d bite your lip and nod, your bratty side slipping but not disappearing entirely.

by the time he pulled into the driveway, you were both buzzing. he didn’t even bother with slow steps once you got inside. the moment the door shut, he pressed you against it hard, kissing you. one hand held your waist, the other grabbed your wrist and guided it straight to his bulge through his jeans. “see?” he panted against your lips, his forehead pressed to yours. “this is what you do to me.”

and you felt it hard and heavy under your palm, and the way you looked up at him, wide eyed and needy, just about made him lose his mind right there.

he didn’t even give you a second to think. he was now scooping you up, you gasped, wrapping your arms around his neck, and he carried you down the hall like he’d done it a hundred times before. except he hadn’t, and he was going crazy about the fact that it was you in his arms. he kissed you the whole way, sloppy, greedy kisses that landed half on your lips and half on your jaw because he refused to stop even while moving.

by the time he made it to his room, he basically tossed you onto the bed. he climbed on after you, settling between your legs like he was claiming his spot. ​​“open up for me,” he said, and you did, spreading your thighs wide, and the way he looked at you like that nearly made you combust. he grabbed your leg, lifted it, and started kissing up from your ankle, slow and deliberate, leaving wet trails on your skin until he was nipping at your inner thigh. 

“i’ve been dying to have you like this,” he murmured against your skin, and then looked up at you, eyes dark, “you’re mine, aren’t you?” you were too far gone to answer, your head falling back, a whimper spilling out instead. that wasn’t enough for him. “answer me, pet,” he demanded, giving your thigh a squeeze.

you nodded desperately, voice breaking as you whispered, “i can’t take it anymore, jakey. i need you.”

he smirked, brushing his lips right where you were the most sensitive but not giving you what you wanted yet. “i got you something,” he said, and just like that, he pulled back.

you blinked up at him, confused and needy, while he turned to his nightstand. he pulled the drawer open and, without much hesitation, pulled out a pair of shiny handcuffs. “oooh,” you laughed, your cheeks heating, but there was excitement in your voice.

the thing was, jake had been planning this longer than he cared to admit. last week, he had walked into the little sex shop near campus and walked out with a small bag of things he wasn’t sure he’d ever actually use. he told himself it was “just in case,” even though deep down he was already picturing you.

the shop itself had been an experience. he walked in like he belonged there, but the second he saw all the shelves stacked with vibrators, butt plugs, leather collars, and some shit he didn’t even know the name of, he nearly turned around. he swore the old lady behind the counter was judging him, even though it was literally her job. jake had grabbed the handcuffs, lingered a little too long in front of the section with leashes and collars, and even picked up a blindfold before chickening out and putting it back.

he paid fast as hell, shoved the bag in his backpack, and prayed no one he knew would walk past the store. and now here he was, finally pulling the cuffs out. 

he looked back at you on his bed, all spread out and waiting, and thought, holy shit, i actually bought this for her. i’m really about to do this. “do you want that?” he asked, voice low, holding the cuffs up so they caught the light.

your stomach flipped. you couldn’t stop the bratty little grin curling at your lips, couldn’t stop the way your thighs shifted like you already knew what was coming. “yes,” you whispered, your voice just breathless enough to make his smirk turn sharp.

“fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head like you were too much, “you’re so dirty, aren’t you?”

before you could even think of something smart to throw back at him, he was already climbing over you, grabbing your wrists and snapping the cuffs around them, locking them together above your head. the metal was cool, firm, and you shivered when you felt it click. ​​he spread your thighs wider with a slow push, his hand on your knee like he owned every inch of you. 

“stay still, or i’ll punish you,” he said, and it was low, commanding, no room for play in it. you whined, hips already twitching up toward him without your permission. “behave,” he warned, shooting you a look that made you clamp your lips shut, “already told you.”

he reached down, tugged your skirt off, tossing it aside so you were bare under his gaze. he kissed along your inner thigh, slow and messy, lips dragging up your skin, making you squirm even though you tried so hard to stay still like he told you to. when his mouth got close enough to your panties, he pressed his face against the heat of you, inhaling, and you heard him groan low in his throat. “my bunny smells so fucking good,” he muttered, almost like he was drunk on it already.

“your bunny?” you whispered, testing the word, voice shaky.

he smirked against you, looking up through his lashes. “yeah, mine. my pet. my bunny.” something in you melted, and you couldn’t stop yourself from nodding, tugging uselessly at the cuffs. “what does my pet want?” he teased, his voice dropping lower, his lips brushing the fabric of your panties as he spoke. “want me to eat you out, hm?”

you nodded desperately, the words tumbling out of you, “please—jake, please.”

he tilted his head, pretending to think about it, then tapped your thigh. “aw, you deserve it, don’t you? you’ve been so obedient.”

you whimpered, nodding, whispering, “yes, yes, i deserve it, please—”

and then he hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and yanked them down in one quick move, tossing them to the floor. “fuck, look at you,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss just above your heat, deliberately avoiding your clit while you squirmed beneath him. “drooling for me already. my perfect little bunny.” you tugged at the cuffs, frustrated, whining his name. he chuckled against your thigh, the sound vibrating through your skin. “patience, baby. i’ll give you what you want when i’m ready.”

and then, finally, he licked a slow stripe up your folds, and your whole body jolted. you moaned, loud and messy, your back arching as his tongue pressed deeper, as he lapped you up like he’d been starving for it. he groaned into you, “that’s it,” he mumbled against you, licking you again and again, “make those pretty noises for me. let everyone know who you belong to.”

his tongue was everywhere, sliding, circling, pressing against your clit just right before pulling away, dragging down to lick into you, greedy and messy. his hands were firm on your thighs, holding them open wide, keeping you spread for him like you had no choice but to take it. you were whimpering, tugging at the cuffs, your chest rising and falling fast. “please, jake—”

he groaned into your pussy, the sound vibrating against you, making your hips jerk. he pulled back just enough to smirk up at you, lips and chin wet. “say it properly, pet. you wanna cum? beg for it.”

your face burned, but the desperation in your voice gave you away. “please let me cum, i need it, i need you, please, please, i’ll be good—”

he laughed low, then pressed his tongue flat against your clit, making your head fall back. “you’re gonna cum when i say, okay, bunny?”

you nodded frantically, whining, “okay, okay, i’ll wait, i’ll wait—”

but your body betrayed you. the way he sucked on your clit, the way he lapped you up like he wanted to drink you dry, it was too much. your thighs shook, your whole body tensed, and then you broke apart, cumming hard into his mouth before he even gave the word. you cried out his name, the cuffs rattling above your head as you tried to ground yourself, and he didn’t stop. he kept licking, messier now, tongue fucking you while you were still trembling, overstimulated, every nerve raw. you tried to squirm away, but his grip was too strong, holding your thighs wide open, his mouth still working you like you were his.

when he finally pulled back, his lips shiny, his breathing heavy, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then crawled up over you. his hand caught your chin, firm and unyielding, forcing your face up to look at him. “did you just cum without my permission?” he asked, his voice dark, his eyes locked on yours.

you bit your lip, trying not to smile, bratty even with your chest heaving. “yeah, what you gonna do?”

his grip on your chin tightened just a little, his smirk sharp, dangerous. “you’re about to fucking find out, bitch.”

the word made your eyes widen, a flash of surprise mixed with the way your stomach twisted with heat. he saw it, of course he did, and it only made his grin curl wider. without saying anything else, he freed you from the cuffs, and then he reached over to his drawer again, sliding it open, and soon after you felt him turn you over, pressing you chest down into the mattress. his hand slid along the back of your neck as he fastened something firm around your throat. a collar.

“if you wanna act like my bitch,” he muttered close to your ear, tugging on it once to test the fit, “maybe i’ll just put a leash on you.” your body shivered at the sound of it, and you let out a whine muffled against the sheets. he gave you a second to breathe before pushing off the bed, standing tall. “get off the bed,” he ordered, his voice steady but sharp. “kneel on the floor. hands on your thighs. like i taught you.”

you moved quickly, scrambling off the mattress, and the second your knees hit the floor, you dropped into position, head slightly bowed, palms flat against your thighs. you felt the weight of the collar with every breath, heavy, real. jake sat back on the edge of the bed, legs spread just enough, elbows resting loosely on his knees. he looked down at you for a long moment, letting the silence sit, letting you squirm under his gaze. then his hand came out, patting the top of your head like he was rewarding a pet.

“you look so fucking pretty in a collar,” he said, his tone low, rough. “acting so obedient now. not so bratty anymore, huh?” your lips parted, but you stayed quiet, because you knew better now. he leaned back a little, watching you stay perfectly still on your knees in front of him. the collar sat snug on your neck, and he let his fingers trace over it like he was reminding you who put it there.

“good girl,” he said slowly, almost teasing. “but let’s see if you actually learned something.” his hand came down, tilting your chin up so you were forced to meet his eyes. “you want me to let you touch me?”

“yes, please,” you whispered immediately, your voice shaky but eager.

he smirked, clearly satisfied with that, but still not giving in. instead, he leaned closer, his breath warm against your face. “tell me what you are.”

your eyes flickered, nervous but turned on. “i’m your pet.”

his grin stretched wide. “and what does my pet want right now?”

your body squirmed as you shifted on your knees, thighs pressing together, heat pooling low. “i want to please you.”

“hm,” he hummed, tilting his head. “you want my cock in your mouth, don’t you?”

“mhm, yes, so bad.” you said whiny.

he raised a brow, clearly enjoying dragging it out. “why should i let you?”

you whined, the sound spilling out without you meaning to, and he chuckled low. “please, jake… i’ll be good, i promise.”

he leaned forward again, his lips brushing against your ear. “beg properly, pet.”

your hands clenched against your thighs, nails digging into your skin as you whispered quickly, desperate, “please let me suck your cock, i need it, i’ll be good, i’ll do it how you like, just please.”

he smirked like he’d been waiting for that exact moment, thumb dragging over your bottom lip again before pulling his hand away completely. “open my pants.” ​​your hands shot forward instantly, fumbling just a little with the button and zipper, pulling them down slowly, careful, like you knew he was watching your every move. he shifted his hips up to help, letting you slide the fabric down enough, and when his cock sprang free, thick and already hard, he grabbed the back of your head, forcing you to look at it.

“there it is,” he muttered, his tone sharp. “the thing you’ve been begging for.” you licked your lips, eyes wide, but you stayed frozen until he gave the word. he smirked again, tugging your hair gently. “go on, pet. show me how good you can be.”

you started slow, almost too slow, your lips brushing against the tip first, tongue flicking against the slit while your hand wrapped around the base. jake groaned right away, his head tipping back as his fingers tightened in your hair. “fuck… you’re really gonna tease me now?” his voice was low, almost strained, but you didn’t speed up. you flattened your tongue along the underside and dragged it down, taking your time, making him twitch against your lips.

you slowly pushed him deeper into your mouth, hollowing your cheeks, but still holding back, pulling off every few seconds just to lick around his head again. drool was already starting to wet your chin, and the sight made him groan even louder. “shit… look at you. on your knees, drooling for me.” he tugged harder on your hair, guiding you back down, and you let him.

he held you there, watching you take him slow, your throat stretching around him as you gagged softly, eyes watering a little. that sound made him grit his teeth. “fuck, you like this, don’t you?” he muttered, his voice harsh now. “mhm? you like choking on my cock like a good little bitch?”

you moaned around him, the vibrations sending a shiver through his body. he pulled you off suddenly, saliva dripping from your lips, and forced you to look at him. “answer me,” he demanded, his grip unrelenting.

you gasped, your voice weak but clear. “yes, yes! i like it.”

he smirked, his thumb smearing your spit over your lips. “damn… you like the whole thing, don’t you? degradation too?”

before you could answer, he pushed you back down, this time not letting you go at your own pace. he thrusted up into your mouth, using your head like a handle, fucking your throat without mercy. your gagging filled the room, tears streaming down your cheeks as you gasped for breath between strokes. “that’s it, baby,” he groaned, his hips snapping up harder, faster. “take it. take it all like the dumb little slut you are.”

you clawed at his thighs, not to push him away but to hold on, and he laughed breathlessly. “jesus christ, you’re sick for this. my obedient pet one second, my dirty slut the next. fuck, i’m never letting you go.” he shoved himself deeper, until your nose pressed against his skin, and held you there, watching your throat work around him. you gagged, choked, saliva spilling everywhere, but you didn’t fight it, you let him use you, collar tight against your neck, and it drove him fucking insane.

he drove himself until he lost it, groaning your name as he came, and the warm, filthy flood hit the back of your throat. you gagged around him, eyes wide, stomach tightening as his hips convulsed, and when he finally slowed and stilled you swallowed reflexively, shaking, tasting him on your tongue.

he watched you the whole time, chest heaving, and then he pulled out. you were breathing hard, cheeks flushed. he scooped you up with this sudden tenderness that almost felt comical after the roughness, picked you up like you were light as a feather and carried you back to the bed. 

you lay there as he settled down beside you, and his hands were all soft now. he kissed your face like he was making up for everything, trailing from your mouth down to your collarbone, lingering, then along your arm to your hand where he actually sucked on your fingers for a beat, ridiculous and sweet and wildly out of sync with what he’d been doing minutes before.

“my baby did so good,” he murmured against your skin, voice full of something that wasn’t only lust. “you treated me so well.”

you were breathless and whining, voice small and needy. he smiled into your neck, tasting you again, and you felt both stupid and right to be lost in the softness after the dirty stuff. his praise kept coming, until, in a quick motion that made your heart jump, he shifted behind you so your back pressed into his chest. he folded you into him, one arm wrapping under your ribs, the other finding your legs and holding them open wide.

“i’m gonna reward you now, okay?” he said into your hair, voice steady. “i feel bad for being mean to my bunny.” there was a teasing edge but also actual warmth. you could feel him hard against the small of your back, steady.

he cupped your thighs, fingers warm, and brushed a palm over your slick where he’d made you come earlier, slow, deliberate. you squirmed, he kissed the back of your ear, then whispered, “do you want my fingers again? or do you want me inside you?”

you looked back over your shoulder, eyes bright, tiny smirk slipping through the haze. “i want you,” you breathed.

he hummed, pleased, and his hand slid between your legs, fingers parting you easily. he started with one finger, slow, pressing in and curling gently, testing, then adding a second as you moaned into his shirt. his thumb found your clit, rubbing in easy circles while his fingers worked inside you, a steady, confident rhythm that built you back up from the edges. “that’s it,” he praised, low and rough. “such a good girl. take it for me.”

you were trembling, the combination of his fingers and the proximity of his cock against your back making everything too much. you whined, hips rocking, chasing more, and he laughed softly, biting at your shoulder. “you make the dumbest little noises when i touch you. it’s almost embarrassing how much you need me.”

his thumb pressed harder, fingers curling deep, and your whole body shook, forehead falling against his shoulders. he kissed the back of your neck, lips dragging over the collar around your throat, his breath hot against your skin. then his voice dropped darker, meaner, right in your ear. “do you want my cock inside you, hm?” you whined and nodded, and his fingers slowed, teasing, holding you on edge. “ask me nicely, pet.”

you squirmed, chest heaving, and finally whispered, “please, jake, i want it. i want your cock, please–”

he groaned low, his grip tightening on your waist. “that’s my girl. begging so sweet.” he lifted you up just a little, enough to line himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your soaked entrance. he didn’t push in right away. instead, he held you there, rubbing himself through your folds, letting you feel how hard he was. “feel that? all yours if you behave.” you whined and tried to sink down, but his hands stopped you. he breathed against your ear again. “slow. i’m gonna make you take it slow.”

inch by inch, he guided you down onto him, your body stretching around him, every second dragging out. he held your hips steady, forcing you to feel every bit of him sliding in. your moans filled the room, shaky and raw, and he kissed the side of your neck, whispering, “good girl. you’re doing so good for me.”

he bottomed out finally, keeping you still, cock buried deep inside you while his arm locked you in place. his lips pressed to your collar, then your ear. “stay right here. don’t move. let me feel you.” 

you could feel the way his chest rose sharp against your back, the way he was fighting to breathe steady. his forehead dropped to your shoulder, and for a moment he didn’t move at all, just holding you there, stuffed full, his heavy cock twitching inside you. “fuck,” he groaned, low and broken, like he’d been waiting forever for this. his hand dragged down your thigh, squeezing tight. “you don’t know how long i wanted this. how bad.” his hips shifted just a little, not even pulling out, just grinding deeper into you, chasing more of your heat.

when he finally started to move, it was slow, dragging himself out a few inches and sliding back in just as carefully. the stretch made both of you gasp. he kissed your shoulder, your neck, muttering, “fuck, you feel perfect. so tight.” his thighs shifted under you, his body adjusting. he pressed his feet into the mattress, grounding himself, and the new leverage let him sink back in harder. the bed creaked with the movement, his grip on your waist tightening.

his thrusts picked up, still controlled but deeper, faster, each one hitting with more force. the sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, his breath rough in your ear. his rhythm built steady, more sure with every thrust, the need he’d been holding back finally breaking through as he fucked into you from below, hips snapping up against you.

“that’s it,” he growled against your ear, voice ragged. “take it. take my cock, pet. bounce on it.” his free hand slid down your front, fingers finding your clit, circling it with just enough pressure to make you jolt. you whined, back arching into his chest, and he laughed low, mean but so turned on. “look at you– you love when i rub your clit while i fuck you stupid, don’t you?”

your answer came out broken, just a mess of yes and please, and he rewarded you by pressing harder, rubbing tight circles while still driving his cock into you rough and deep. “good girl,” he panted, his lips brushing the side of your neck, wet from his kisses. “you’re mine. my sweet bunny, taking me so well.”

he slowed just enough to shift you, his hands sliding down your sides as he pulled out of you. you were still shaking when he turned you around, moving you onto his lap so you were straddling him, knees on either side of his hips. his cock brushed against you, wet and hot, as he guided you down onto him again, inch by inch, until you were seated fully, face to face.

his eyes locked with yours, dark and heavy. “that’s better,” he murmured, breathless. “i want to see you while you ride me.” he grabbed your hips, steadying you, then started rolling them forward, showing you the rhythm he wanted. “move, puppy,” he said quietly, voice rough. “show me how you ride.”

you began to move, slow at first, your hands pressed to his chest. his palms slid up your sides, then cupped your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they hardened under his touch. he squeezed, played, tugged gently, making you moan. “look at my pretty pet,” he said, fingers teasing your nipples while his hips pushed up into you. “bouncing on my cock so good. does it feel good, pup?”

you whined in answer, head tipping back, and he reached up and caught the collar at your throat, fingers curling in the strap to pull you back down until your faces were inches apart. “closer,” he ordered. “right here. eyes on me, baby.”

his grip on the collar held you steady as you rode him, your breasts moving in his hands. he pinched your nipples again, rolling them between his fingers while he thrust up into you, forcing another whimper from your throat. your nails dug into his shoulders as you tried to move on him, the stretch making your breath come out in shaky little sounds. your forehead dropped to his, eyes squeezed shut.

“jake–-” you whispered, voice breaking. “it’s too much. you’re too big…”

his smirk flickered, a small groan in his chest as he pulled a little on your collar to make you look at him. “aww,” he said, low. “but you can take it, can’t you? slow down, baby. don’t run from it. let it in.”

you nodded, trembling, and started to roll your hips slower, dragging yourself up and down his length inch by inch. the shift made it even deeper, and you gasped, biting your lip. jake leaned back, eyes fixed on you, and put both hands behind his head, elbows out, like he was watching a show. his cock twitched inside you as you tried to keep the rhythm, struggling a little at how full you felt.

he let out a quiet, cruel laugh. “can’t even take all of it without whining. you love it, though. you love how big i am.” you whimpered, hips moving slower, trying to adjust, and he tilted his head, smirk growing wider. “that’s right. ride it nice and slow. so tight around me. so small. look at you struggling on my cock like that, fuck, so hot—”

you slowed down on purpose, hips rolling even slower than before, your hands pressing against his chest like you were testing him. your eyes caught his as you bit your lip, that bratty look on your face making him groan. he tugged at the collar just enough to make you jolt. “don’t play with me, pup.” his voice was low, sharp. “you think i won’t punish you?”

you tilted your head and moved even slower, your nails dragging down his stomach. “maybe i want you to.” your voice was soft, teasing, a little whine under it.

his jaw flexed. “oh, you want to act up?” he sat up, one hand gripping your hip tight. “you’re just begging for it, aren’t you.” he pulled the collar again, making you lean closer to his face. “say it. say you want me to punish you.”

you let out a small sound and whispered, “i want it.”

he smirked. “good.” with a quick motion he flipped you off his lap and onto the bed, stomach down. his palm pressed between your shoulder blades, keeping you down while he shifted behind you. “hands and knees. now.” you scrambled to obey, getting on all fours, the collar still around your neck, your hair falling into your face. his hand slid down your back and squeezed your ass. “stay like that. don’t move until i tell you.”

you were already whining softly, arching a little. “look at you,” he said, voice darker now. “do you want me to punish you for real?” you nodded, still on your hands and knees. “say it.”

“i want you to punish me.”

his palm landed on your ass in a sharp smack, not too hard but enough to make you gasp. “that’s what i thought.” his other hand slid between your thighs, fingers teasing just close enough to where you wanted him but not touching. “my little bunny likes acting up so she can get punished, huh?”

“yes—” you whispered, squirming under him.

“then stay still.” he pressed himself against you, his cock sliding along your folds but not pushing in yet, just rubbing enough to make you moan. “this is what happens when you’re bratty, pup. you get teased until you’re dripping. you want it now? want me to fuck you like this?”

“please,” you whined, pushing back a little.

he grabbed your hips hard. “ask properly.”

“please fuck me, please punish me,” you said, voice breaking.

he chuckled, low and rough. “good girl. now you’re talking.” he gave another slow thrust against you, still not entering, his fingers circling your clit. “tell me what you are.”

“i’m your pet,” you gasped.

“louder.”

“i’m your pet!”

he groaned at the sound, leaning down to speak right into your ear. “fuck yeah you are” his hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he lined himself up, the tip of his cock pressing against you but still waiting, making you squirm even more. his smirk was audible in his voice. “now i’m gonna show you what happens when you’re bratty, pet.”

he slid forward suddenly, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to make you gasp. before you could whine another word he pushed your face down into the mattress, palm on the back of your head, making you arch with your ass up and your cheek pressed to the sheets. “this is where you belong when you’re acting like a brat,” he growled. “face down, ass up.” his other hand came down on your ass again, sharper this time, making you let out a choked moan.

you tried to lift your head but his palm kept you there. “stay down. don’t look at me. pets don’t look at their owner unless they’re told to.”

“fuckk—” you whimpered, voice muffled by the sheets.

he slammed the rest of the way in with one rough thrust, making you cry out against the mattress. “that’s it. take it. you’re just a little bunny for me to fuck, aren’t you?”

“yes—”

he started moving, rough thrusts, his hips slamming into you while his fingers dug into your skin. “fuck, listen to you,” he snarled between breaths. “whining like a toy. you like when i use you like this? you like being my bitch?” he gave another sharp slap to your ass, then slid his hand up to grab your hair, yanking your head back just enough to hear you gasp. “say it.”

“i like being your bitch—”

he groaned and slammed into you harder, his cock hitting deep, his hand still tangled in your hair, and his thrusts picked up pace, rough and unrelenting, his free hand sliding between your legs to circle your clit while he fucked you from behind. “you’re gonna cum when i tell you. until then you’re just a hole for me to use, you understand?” you whimpered something incoherent and he smirked, fingers still working your clit. “what? can’t even talk now? my little pet’s gone all dumb on my cock?”

“yes—” you managed to gasp, hips trembling.

he chuckled darkly and slid his other over until his thumb pressed against your asshole. he didn’t push, just rubbed in slow circles while still thrusting into you. the sound you made was almost a squeak. your hips jerked and he felt it immediately. he pushed a little harder with his thumb, still circling, testing. “ohhh,” he said low, voice heavy with amusement, “you like that too, huh?”

you buried your face in the sheets and nodded. “fucking dirty little puppy,” he growled, pressing his thumb a little deeper, then pulling back to circle again. “getting wet while i play with your ass. you’re so fucking filthy. is that what you want? you want me to fuck your ass too?”

“yes, fuck, jake—” you said again, voice high and shaking.

he leaned down, lips brushing your ear, thumb pressing just a bit harder. “fuck, you’re unreal. begging for more when you’re already full.” you whimpered again, hips pushing back against him without thinking. “tell me how bad you want it,” he ordered, his cock sliding slow inside you while his thumb teased your ass. “tell me you’re my dirty bunny and you want me to take you wherever i want.”

you gasped, “i want you to take me—please—”

“not enough,” he said, thrusting a little harder, his thumb pressing a little deeper. “say exactly what you want.”

“please use me, please fuck me—”

he smirked against your ear. “use you where?”

“fuck my pussy—please—”

“and?” he pressed.

“play with my ass—please—”

his laugh was low and sharp. “you’re fucking unreal.” his thrusts got faster, the sound of your skin slapping together filling the room. his thumb slipped just inside your ass now, shallow, teasing, while his cock filled you completely.

“oh fuck—” you cried out, your voice cracking.

he pulled your head up by your hair, forcing you to arch your back. “look at you,” he muttered, “fucking begging to be filled from both sides. you’re my dirty little bunny, aren’t you?”

“yes,” you whined, “i’m your bunny, please—”

“what do you want now?”

“i want to cum,” you begged, voice shaking. “please, i need to—”

he slowed down, almost stopped, his thumb still moving at your ass. “you’re gonna cum when i say, pet. got it?”

“please,” you cried, hips trembling, “please let me—”

he leaned down to your ear, still holding your hair tight. “ask me right. say you want your owner to let you cum.”

you gasped, “please let me cum, please, please—”

his cock slammed into you again, hard enough to make you cry out. “again.”

“please let me cum,” you sobbed, “please let me cum—”

he finally lost it, his thumb pressing deeper, his cock pounding into you rough. “fuck, you’re so fucking perfect—cum. now. do it.”

you broke with a loud moan, your whole body shaking as you came around him, clenching so hard he had to grip your hips to hold you steady. he didn’t slow down, his thrusts got even rougher while you were still coming. his voice dropped low, almost a growl. “you like this, bunny? you want me to fill you too? want me to pump you full?”

you whimpered a weak “yes—” still trembling.

“say it right,” he said, still thrusting. “say you want me to breed you.”

“i want you to breed me,” you gasped, your voice breaking. “please fill me—”

he bit your shoulder lightly, his thumb still at your ass, his cock slamming into you harder and faster. “fuck—” he groaned, “keep saying it.”

“please breed me, please fill me up, i’m your puppy, please—”

he lost whatever control he had left. his hips snapped hard, one final thrust burying him deep inside you, his breath coming out as a rough moan. “fuck—” he hissed, his cock pulsing as he spilled into you, still grinding against you to push it deeper. he stayed there, pressed against your back, his hand still on your hair, his thumb still teasing your ass while he twitched inside you, panting against your ear. “good fucking girl,” he muttered, voice hoarse.

you were still shaking, whimpering quietly, your body soft under him. he kissed your shoulder once, still holding you there, still buried inside you. “you’re mine now,” he said, low. “so fuckingperfect.”

he stayed there for a while, and kissed the back of your neck, gently, slightly sliding off after a moment. he took off your collar while he still kissed your neck, and both of you went quiet, just breathing. it wasn’t heavy or awkward, it just felt like everything around had slowed down, just quiet in a way that felt right. jake moved first, reaching down to grab the sheet that had ended up at the foot of the bed at some point. he pulled it over you and ran his hand down your arm once, probably making sure you were okay without actually asking out loud yet.

you didn't say anything, just turned your head a little with your eyes half closed. he sat up and reached for his water bottle on the nightstand, the one he always kept there, and handed it to you without a word. you took a few sips and smiled at him, the kind of small tired smile that doesn't need explanation.

he was still catching his breath a little, looking at you like he was trying to process the last hour. it was one of those moments where he seemed caught between wanting to laugh at himself or just stare at the ceiling and think about his life choices. he let out a breath and said, "you good?" you nodded, and for a second neither of you moved or said anything. then he laughed, quiet and almost to himself. "i can't believe i get to do this with you."

you looked at him, a bit confused at first, then smiled. "what, the freaky stuff?"

"no," he said, shaking his head but still smiling. "i mean yeah, that too obviously. but i'm talking about all of it. i never thought i'd actually find someone who'd let me figure shit out without making it this whole weird thing, you know?"

you laughed and turned on your side to face him properly. "jake, we already did enough weird shit to last you the entire semester. i think you've figured plenty out."

"yeah i know," he said, laughing too. "but i'm being serious right now. you make it easy. i didn't know that was even possible with this stuff."

you grinned, half teasing him because that's just how you two worked. "you're getting all emotional on me now."

he grabbed a pillow and threw it at you playfully, and you caught it against your chest while laughing. "shut up," he said. "i'm trying to have a moment here."

"you're doing great," you said, your voice still light but a little softer.

he smiled for real then, the kind of smile that takes over his whole face even when he's trying to play it cool. he leaned over and kissed your forehead, staying there for a second with his hand resting on your side. "just tell me if anything ever gets too much, alright? like anything at all. i don't want to fuck this up."

you nodded, and there was a pause before you said, "you won't. i'd tell you if something was wrong."

that seemed to settle something in him. he laid back down, one arm behind his head and the other still draped over you. the room was quiet except for the sound of the sheets whenever either of you shifted around. you laughed out of nowhere, and he turned his head to look at you with his eyebrows drawn together like he was trying to figure out what was funny. "what?"

"nothing," you said, still smiling. "you just look like you're overthinking again."

he ran a hand through his hair and sighed, then looked back at you. "yeah, i was just thinking about something. i don't ever want to be too rough with you or whatever."

you blinked, a little surprised he was bringing that up now, then smiled. "jake, it's fine. i like it. you know i like it."

“yeah, i know,” he said quickly, his thumb brushing your arm while he talked. “but i don’t want you to think that’s all this is. that i just want that.”

you turned your head toward him, eyes narrowing slightly. “it’s not?”

he frowned, confused that you even had to ask. “no, of course not.” 

you stared at him for a second, quiet, and it was the kind of silence where you both realized you might not have been on the same page about this whole thing. he kept tracing these light patterns on your shoulder with his fingers and said, "i mean yeah, i wanted to try stuff and experiment or whatever. but i don't want you thinking i'm just using you for it. that's not what's happening here." you looked down for a second, feeling a little embarrassed but also not really knowing what to say to that. he reached up and tilted your chin with his hand so you'd look at him again. "you know i could hook up with literally anyone else if it was just about trying shit out, right?"

you rolled your eyes and laughed. "okay yeah, i get it. you're very popular and desired."

he smiled but shook his head. "that's not what i'm trying to say."

you laughed again, softer this time and less defensive. "i know."

he watched your face for a moment and said quietly, "do you want to talk about it?"

"only if you want to talk about it," you said, your voice smaller but honest.

and then neither of you said anything for a full minute. it was funny in that awkward sort of normal way, like both of you knew this was one of those conversations that could get too serious too fast, and you were just tiptoeing around it. he started messing with the edge of the sheet and you started tracing random shapes on his arm with your finger, both of you obviously thinking about the exact same thing but pretending to be casual about it.

here's the thing though: jake had started catching feelings for you at some point, it just happened. it wasn't just about the sex anymore, and honestly it maybe never was from the start. he liked that you didn't treat him like he was this thing people whispered about at parties or like he was someone's weird project. you just looked at him like he was a regular person trying to figure himself out, not like he was some reputation that walked around campus. you made him feel like it was okay to be curious and mess up and not have everything figured out right away.

he looked at you again and said, "you okay?" and you nodded, smiling just a little, like you both understood that things were different now but neither of you wanted to ruin the moment by saying too much too soon. he leaned in and kissed your forehead again, even softer this time, and you laughed under your breath.

so you ended up staying there the whole next day. it wasn't really planned or discussed, you both just didn't mention leaving and it made sense to stay. he tossed you one of his shirts when you went to take a shower, this soft worn out one he always slept in, and he grinned like an idiot when you came out wearing it like it was the most normal thing in the world.

you ordered food later because neither of you felt like cooking anything, and he made this whole big production out of picking a place even though he always ended up choosing the same korean spot every time. he let you take the last dumpling and then spent ten minutes complaining about it just to keep the joke going. by the time it got dark outside, there was still some movie playing in the background that neither of you were really watching, and you'd ended up half asleep on his chest while he scrolled through his phone with one hand and rubbed these slow circles on your arm with the other.

it was all very normal and kind of domestic, which was weird because this was jake, the guy who never really stuck around with anyone for more than a night or two. but there he was, asking if you wanted water every twenty minutes and telling you to stop thanking him so much for every little thing.

heeseung and sunghoon had gone out that night, which honestly made everything easier. jake mentioned they'd probably get back late, and they did. you heard the front door open at some point but by then you were already half asleep in his bed with his arm around you, both of you pretending not to hear them trying and failing to whisper in the hallway.

the next morning though, that's when it got funny. you woke up first and stole one of jake's hoodies because the place was freezing, then went to make coffee in the kitchen. sunghoon walked in first with his hair going everywhere and his eyes barely open, and he just stood there for a second staring at you like his brain was buffering.

"morning," you said, trying to act completely normal while pouring coffee into a mug.

he blinked a few times, pointed at the hoodie you were wearing, and said, "is that jake's?"

before you could even answer, jake walked in behind him, yawning and scratching the back of his neck. "yeah, what about it?"

sunghoon just started laughing, but it was that disbelieving kind of laugh. "nothing man, just wow. didn't think i'd ever see this day actually happen."

later that day you headed back to your place, jake drove you back. he kissed you before you got out of his car, one of those slow ones that made you both smile after, and then when you got inside your dorm, he stood there in the parking lot like an idiot, watching you get in.

the thing was, after that morning, jake couldn't get you out of his head. and not just in the way he'd been thinking about you before, when it was mostly about wanting to try things or wondering what you'd be like. now it was different, now it was everything.

he'd be sitting in class, supposedly paying attention to some lecture about marketing strategies or whatever, and instead he'd be thinking about the way you'd smiled at him that morning when you handed him his coffee. or he'd be at the gym with sunghoon, mid set, and suddenly he'd remember the way you laughed when he made some dumb joke, and he'd lose count of his reps. he'd remember your moans, then he had to immediately shut that thought away because he didn't want to get hard in front of his gym bro.

"dude, you good?" sunghoon asked him one afternoon, watching jake stare at his phone for the third time in ten minutes.

"yeah, why?"

"you've been weird all week," sunghoon said, setting down his weights. "you keep smiling at your phone like a psycho."

jake shoved his phone in his pocket. "i'm not smiling."

"you literally were just smiling."

"shut up."

but sunghoon wasn't wrong. jake was down bad, and he knew it. the problem was he didn't know what to do about it. you two hadn't really talked about what you were doing, if this was just experimenting or if it was more than that. and jake, who usually never cared about labels or definitions, suddenly found himself wanting to know.

he thought about texting you constantly. not even anything important, just random shit like "what are you doing" or "did you eat today" but he didn't want to seem clingy. except he kind of was being clingy, because every time his phone buzzed he hoped it was you, and when it wasn't, he felt weirdly disappointed.

it got worse at night. he'd lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, and his brain would just replay everything. the way you looked in his hoodie, the way you fit perfectly under his arm, the way you'd kissed him goodbye. and yeah, of course he thought about the freaky sex too, but it wasn't just that anymore. he wanted to wake up next to you again, wanted to make you coffee, wanted to hear you laugh at his stupid jokes.

"i think i'm fucked," he said out loud to his empty room one night, and then laughed at himself because yeah, he definitely was.

by thursday, he'd seen you twice on campus. once you were walking with chaewon and you'd waved at him, that bright smile that made his chest feel tight, and he'd waved back trying to act normal. the second time you were sitting in the library and he'd sat down next to you without asking, and you'd just looked up, smiled, and went back to your laptop like it was the most natural thing in the world.

"you're distracting me," you'd said after a while, not looking up.

"i'm not doing anything."

"you're breathing loud."

he'd laughed, quiet so he wouldn't get shushed by the librarian. "sorry, i'll stop breathing."

you'd looked at him then, that little smirk on your face. "don't be dramatic." and he'd stayed there for an hour, pretending to study but really just sitting next to you, and when you finally packed up your stuff, he'd walked you to your next class even though his was in the opposite direction.

friday night, the guys wanted to go to some party, but jake wasn't really feeling it. he was lying on his bed, scrolling through unhinged instagram reels, when heeseung knocked on his door. "you coming or what?"

"nah, i'm tired."

heeseung raised an eyebrow. "you? tired of a party? since when?"

"since now."

"does this have anything to do with y/n?"

jake looked up at him. "what about her?"

heeseung grinned. "nothing. just seems like you've been in your head a lot lately." he paused, then added, "she's cool, by the way. i like her."

"yeah," jake said, looking back at his phone. "me too."

"then maybe stop being weird about it and just tell her that."

after heeseung left, jake stared at his phone for a solid five minutes before finally opening your messages.

[jake]: you doing anything tonight

you answered almost immediately.

[you]: was gonna watch a movie probably why

[jake]: can i come over

[you]: sure :))

so the thing is, jake wasn’t planning anything when he texted you. like, actually nothing. he just wanted to see you, sit around, maybe talk, maybe not. that was it. except, obviously, his brain didn’t get the memo. because the second you said “sure :)” he was already pacing around his room like an idiot, thinking about what shirt to wear, and then laughing at himself because why the hell did it matter what shirt he wore if this wasn’t a date.

he kept telling himself it wasn’t like that – that he wasn’t going over to hook up or whatever. so there he was, caught somewhere between i just wanna hang out and oh god what if i end up wrapping a collar on her neck again, and honestly, it was ridiculous.

the problem was, jake had never really done this before. not the whole “liking someone” thing, at least not in a way that made him feel this normal, it was messing him up. his chest hurt sometimes, but in a good way, and it annoyed him how much he liked it. he wasn’t used to missing people. usually, when things ended, they ended. easy. but with you, it was different. he was basically down bad and self aware enough to hate it.

he couldn't remember the last time he'd done that. gone to see someone just to be around them. it had been years, maybe never. he wanted to be near you, which felt ridiculous for someone who used to brag about never catching feelings.

somewhere between grabbing his keys and pulling on his hoodie, he had this thought that made him stop and laugh. maybe this was his actual kink. not any of the stuff he'd spent hours googling at three in the morning or reading about on reddit. his real kink was apparently just wanting to spend time with you. no expectations, no plan, just you existing in the same room as him. which was possibly the lamest thing he'd ever admitted to himself, but also kind of true.

and for jake, that was kind of terrifying. because yeah, he’d done a lot of freaky things, but this? catching feelings? this was new level freaky. he had no idea what the next step was. he didn’t know how to play it cool, didn’t know what it meant if he just wanted to hang out, didn’t even know if you felt the same. all he knew was that when you said sure :) he felt something warm in his chest that no amount of hookups ever gave him.

so he got in his car, sat there for a second with his hands on the steering wheel, and said, “this is so stupid,” before driving anyway. because no matter how dumb he felt, he knew he’d rather feel dumb next to you than cool anywhere else.

when jake showed up at your dorm, he didn’t really know what he was expecting. maybe he thought you’d tease him for getting there so fast, or that you’d joke about him being obsessed, which, honestly, wouldn’t have been wrong. but when you opened the door, hair a little messy, wearing some oversized hoodie and cute kuromi socks, he just smiled. it was automatic, the kind of smile that happened before he could even think about it.

you went back to the couch and sat down, pulling your legs under you, while he hovered for a second like he didn’t know where to sit. then he just dropped next to you, close enough that your shoulders brushed. “so,” you said, turning toward him. “did you come here for a reason?”

he looked at you for a second before answering. “i just wanted to see you.”

you raised your eyebrows, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “that’s it?”

“yeah,” he said, and that was the truth. he shrugged a little, but his hand found your thigh without even thinking, resting there gently like it belonged. “that’s it.”

you didn’t say anything right away, but your smile softened. you leaned back into the couch, and he followed your movement like gravity. it wasn’t even about anything physical; he just couldn’t help it. his arm went around your shoulders, pulling you a little closer. it was clingy, yeah, but he wasn’t trying to hide it.

you picked up the remote, flipped through netflix for a while, and he watched you instead of the screen. it was stupid, but he couldn’t help paying attention to the small things, like the way you curled your toes under the blanket, how you made tiny comments about every movie title you didn’t like, how you’d glance at him now and then with that small knowing look like you could tell he wasn’t really watching. “you’re not paying attention,” you said, side eyeing him.

“i am,” he said, though he definitely wasn’t.

“what’s the movie about, then?”

he paused. “uh… friendship?”

you laughed, shaking your head. “it’s twilight, dumbass.”

he grinned, leaning in until his chin was resting against your head. “yeah, but maybe there’s still friendship in there somewhere.”

you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t push him away. he stayed there, arm heavy around you, tracing lazy lines with his fingers on your arm. it wasn’t like him to be this still, this soft, but he didn’t really care. after a while, you said quietly, “you’re weirdly touchy today.”

“you don’t like it?” he asked, tilting his head to look at you.

you thought about it, lips pressed together like you were pretending to consider it. “i didn’t say that.”

“so you do like it,” he said, smirking.

“maybe,” you said, eyes still on the screen. he chuckled and leaned in closer, his nose brushing the top of your head, smelling you. you didn’t move away, just sighed in that way that said you were pretending to be annoyed. his hand stayed resting on your leg, thumb brushing back and forth like a small habit. you glanced at him again and said, “you know you don’t have to act all sweet just to hang out, right?”

he smiled, soft but sure. “i’m not acting.”

you gave him that look, the one that was amused but skeptical, but you didn’t push it. instead, you leaned into him more, your head finding its way to his chest. he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. everything felt slower here, quieter. he liked it more than he’d admit out loud.

later, when you started talking about random things, the class you hated, how the dining hall food was getting worse, how sunoo accidentally set off the dorm alarm again, jake listened like every word mattered. he didn’t even try to hide the smile that kept showing up on his face. and if anyone asked him what that night was, he wouldn’t have known how to describe it. it wasn’t a date, it wasn’t anything official. it was just him and you, a blanket, twilight rants (jake laughed his ass off), and a weird sense that something about all this felt new.

after a while the movie was still on but neither of you were really watching anymore. you were warm under the blanket, leaning against him, and he felt your breathing slow down a little. his own eyes were heavy but he didn’t want to move, not when you felt that close. eventually though you stretched, yawned, and mumbled that your neck was starting to hurt from sitting like that. he nodded and followed you when you got up, both of you kind of quiet but in that easy, comfortable way.

your bed was small, definitely not made for two people, but you didn’t even have to ask him to join you. he slipped in right behind you, pulling you close without hesitation. it was a little awkward with all the shifting around, but once you were both settled under your blanket, it just felt natural.

he tucked his chin against your shoulder, one arm wrapped tight around your waist. you stayed like that for a while, just listening to each other breathe, the silence stretching out in a way that didn’t feel heavy. then he said, voice low like he wasn’t sure if he should break the quiet, “i wanted to see you tonight. that’s all.”

you turned your head slightly, trying to look at him. “i know,” you said softly. “i can tell.”

he let out a small laugh, kind of embarrassed. “good. because i didn’t… like, i wasn’t coming here expecting anything. i just wanted to hang out. i like being around you.”

you felt your chest warm at that, even if you tried not to show it too much. “you’re being really sweet right now.”

“yeah, don’t get used to it,” he teased, then got quiet again. his fingers started tracing light patterns on your stomach, like he couldn’t sit still. “can i be honest about something?”

“always,” you said.

he hesitated, then said, “you know how we’ve been messing around… i really like it, what we're exploring, i don't know.” he laughed at the way he said it, but kept going. “more than i thought i would.”

you blinked, but you didn’t pull away. “okay,” you said, keeping your tone even. “you can just say that. it’s not weird.”

“i know,” he said quickly. “i just don’t want it to sound like that’s the only reason i’m here, because it’s not. i figured it’s better to say this out loud instead of keeping it in my head.”

you nodded slowly. “that makes sense. so what about it do you like?”

he smiled a little, though you couldn’t see it. “the control. the way you look at me when i push you like that. it’s… i don’t know. i didn’t think i’d be into it this much, but i am. and i think i want to explore more of it, but only if you’re into it too.”

you thought about it for a second, then said, “i am. i like it too. and i like that you’re saying this, actually. it makes it easier for me to tell you what i like.”

he squeezed your waist gently. “yeah? tell me, then.”

you turned a little so you could face him better, your noses almost brushing in the dark. “i like when you call me names, but not just mean ones. like, the pet stuff feels… i don’t know, kind of comforting? even when you’re rough. it makes me feel close to you.”

his eyes softened. “that’s good. i want you to feel that way. i don’t want it to ever cross a line where it feels bad.”

“it doesn’t,” you said quickly. “and if it ever did, i’d tell you. but i like that you’re not afraid to be rough and that you pay attention when i push back. it feels balanced, you know?”

he nodded, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “that’s what i want. i don’t want it to just be me getting what i want. i want it to be both of us, figuring it out together.”

“that’s what this is,” you said. “we’re figuring it out.”

he smiled at that, leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your temple. “you make it sound easy.”

“it is easy,” you said, settling back against him.

he wrapped you up tighter, holding you close enough that you could feel his heartbeat against your back. “okay, then here’s me being honest again,” he said after a pause. “i’ve never really done this before. not just the kink part, but… like, the after part. i’ve hooked up, i’ve tried stuff, but actually wanting to stay after, wanting to come over just to watch movies? that’s new. and -- it scares me a little.”

you reached back and laced your fingers with his. “i think that’s fine. it doesn’t have to be figured out all at once.”

he exhaled like that was what he needed to hear. “thanks. i… i really like this, i mean.”

you smiled into the dark. “i like this too, jakey.”

for a while neither of you said anything else. his hand stayed tangled with yours, his body warm against yours. you shifted a little, not because you were uncomfortable but because you wanted to see him. when you turned in his arms, he loosened his hold just enough to let you face him, your noses close in the dark. he blinked at you like he hadn’t expected you to move, and for a moment the only thing either of you did was look at each other.

you reached up and brushed your fingers along his jaw, soft and slow. he leaned into your touch without thinking, like it was natural. then you kissed him, and it wasn’t rushed or hungry, not the way you’d kissed before when things were heated and messy. this one was tentative at first, a press of lips that lingered, both of you testing the space.

he kissed you back just as carefully, almost shy in the way he moved his mouth against yours. his hand came up to the side of your face, his thumb rubbing small circles near your temple. it stayed like that for a while, slow and steady, until you tilted your head and opened to him a little more. the change was small but he noticed right away, kissing you deeper, still unhurried but with more intent.

he pulled back just a fraction, enough to whisper, “you feel so good,” before kissing you again.

the warmth built gradually. every time you moved your lips against his, every little sound you made, it drew him in further. he shifted closer until his chest pressed to yours, until there was no real space left between you. you hooked your hand into the collar of his hoodie, pulling him down when he tried to lift his head. when he finally rolled forward, easing his weight over you, it was careful. he braced one arm beside your head so he wouldn’t crush you, letting you feel the solid press of him without it being too much. your legs brushed his, your hands sliding up into his hair, and the kiss turned heavier but not rushed.

he pulled back again, just slightly, breathing against your lips. “you’re perfect,” he said quietly, and it didn’t sound like a line. it sounded like he couldn’t stop himself from saying it.

you kissed him again, harder this time, and he let out a low sound, moving with you, his body lowering a little more until his hips were pressed to yours. still, his pace stayed gentle. every movement was patient, every kiss followed by another, his mouth moving from your lips to your cheek, down to your jaw, then back up like he couldn’t get enough but didn’t want to rush.

“you’re so good to me,” he murmured against your skin, kissing the corner of your mouth again. “i don’t even know if you realize how much.”

your chest tightened at that, and you held him closer, wrapping your arms around him fully now. he pressed his forehead to yours, smiling a little. “i think i could get used to this,” you said, giggling.

“yeah?” he asked, voice low.

“yeah…” you said again, softer this time.

next thing you knew, it was the next morning. sunlight sneaking through your blinds, the both of you tangled up under your blanket, very obviously naked. the night before hadn’t been about roleplay or collars or anything wild. just you and him, a lot of kissing, a lot of laughing in between, and, well, some very unconventional sex. unconventional in the sense that it felt so unplanned and sweet, but also somehow clumsy in a way that made jake whisper “fuck, this might be the best sex i’ve ever had” against your shoulder while you both tried not to laugh.

you both had class that day, but when your alarms went off, you just looked at each other, groaned at the thought of moving, and made a joint decision to skip. you didn’t even say it out loud, jake just reached over, turned off your phone, and pulled you closer.

the day turned into this weird mix of domestic and ridiculous. you made instant noodles together in your dorm kitchen, him insisting he was the “chef” even though he literally almost forgot to put water in the pot. you ended up watching some more twilight movies on your laptop while lying in bed, and he kept pausing it every ten minutes to ask, “wait, so who’s this guy again?” even though you’d explained three times already.

somewhere in the middle of all this, jake got curious and started testing out “soft” versions of kinks he hadn’t gotten around to yet. nothing serious, more like experiments. at one point he asked if he could blindfold you, then immediately ruined it by laughing because he tied it too tight and you complained you couldn’t breathe. another time, he asked if you’d let him feed you chocolate with his hands while calling you “princess,” and you went along with it until you both started laughing so hard the chocolate melted everywhere. he even half joked about barking for you, even though he was actually being very serious.

the point was: it was fun. it wasn’t serious or heavy. just you two being idiots together, seeing what worked, what didn’t, and realizing that sometimes the kinkiest thing was just how easy it felt to try with each other.

when night rolled around, he finally had to leave, which turned into a whole production. you walked him to the door, and he kept stalling like he forgot something: first his phone, then his hoodie, then his keys, even though they were all in his hand. every time you leaned in to give him a goodbye kiss, he found an excuse to kiss you again, until it was basically ten minutes of nonstop kisses.

“okay, i really have to go now,” he said at least four times, and yet he was still standing there, thumb brushing your jaw.

“you’ve said that already,” you pointed out, laughing.

“yeah, but i mean it this time,” he said, leaning down to kiss you again. when he finally pulled back, his voice dropped a little softer. “i had a really good time, you know. like… today. all of it.”

you smiled, brushing his messy hair out of his face. “me too.”

jake kissed your forehead, then your lips one last time, and finally walked out the door. and of course, thirty seconds later, you got a text from him: miss you already.

so obviously you told sunoo about it. what was going on between you and jake. and of course he freaked out, because that’s sunoo. he gasped so loud you had to shush him before someone else heard, then he grabbed your pillow and started smacking you with it, yelling things like i knew it! i knew he liked you! until you had to bribe him with snacks to calm down.

and the thing was, you didn’t even know what you wanted to call it. you’d always kind of liked jake, but in that he’s hot but he’s also kind of an idiot and will probably break my heart kind of way. he’d always been the friend who didn’t take things seriously, the one you swore you’d never catch feelings for because, well, you didn’t want to get hurt. so you built this wall around yourself, kept reminding yourself this was casual, just fun. and you decided you weren’t going to put any labels on it unless jake said he wanted to.

meanwhile, across town, jake had just gotten back to his place. he kicked off his sneakers, flopped down on his bed, stared at the ceiling for a solid five minutes, then pulled out his phone. and, naturally, he opened reddit.

he's typing out a draft for r/Relationship_Advice. the title says friends with benefits situationship except i don't wanna be just friends and i wanna be her pet instead. he’s mid sentence writing about how you wear stupid kuromi socks that distract him way too much, when he decides to scroll the subreddit first.

and then he sees a post. a post that sounds… exactly like you.

r/RelationshipAdvice

u/KeroppiNumber1Lover | 2h

am i overthinking this or is my fwb secretly my boyfriend?

okay so i (24f) have been friends with this guy (23m) for a long time. we were just friends until maybe a month or two ago when he came to me asking for advice about kinks. he remembered i once did that bdsm test thing for fun and thought i’d know more than him, and he wanted to “try some stuff out” and i said fine, why not?? we trust each other, no big deal. so we started hooking up and trying some of those things together.

except now it doesn’t feel like we’re just testing things anymore, it’s different. he still jokes around a lot but when we hang out, it’s not always about sex. sometimes he comes over and we just sit there watching dumb movies. last time we spent hours making fun of twilight together and it was TOO fun. he also keeps doing these little things like he brought me coffee one morning just because???? and then played it off like it wasn’t anything and when i told him i was stressed he hugged me for so long i thought my back would crackkkk sirrrrr that is not fwb behavior omg 

the problem is he is kind of known for hooking up with a lot of people in college?? not in a bad way just he never seemed serious with anyone. he’s always been the type i wouldn’t trust to water my plants because he’d probably forget after one day so i’m scared i’ll be stupid if i start to catch feelings for him. but i think i already am?? i do like him, i just don’t know if he feels the same or if this is just me overthinking it. should i say something, or keep my guard up until he says something first?

jake is lying there in bed with his phone basically falling onto his face. he blinks at the screen, rereads it once, then again. “nah… no way. it can’t be… can it??”

then he hits the part about the bdsm test. his brain short circuits. because he did ask that. he literally asked that. he scrolls faster, sees the twilight part, the coffee, the hug. every line feels like a receipt against him. it’s not even subtle. he groans into his pillow. “oh my god. this is literally about me.” then he makes the mistake of reading the comments.

comment 1: “girl if he used to be a fuckboy, protect your heart.”

jake, out loud, also typed: “I WASN’T EVEN THAT BAD. jesus. can y’all move on??”

comment 2: “sounds like you’re already dating, just without the title. either lock it down or walk away.”

jake: “ok see?? finally someone with a brain. pin this comment.”

comment 3: “guys like that just want comfort without commitment. don’t fall for it.”

jake, furious: “i literally brought her coffee at 8am and watched twilight for her. TWILIGHT. what more commitment do you want??”

comment 4: “if he’s treating you like a gf, he probably thinks of you as one already.”

→ jake: “YES. thank you random internet genius. i love you.”

comment 5: “say something before it drags on. if he’s serious, he’ll say yes. if not, at least you’ll know.”

he sighs. “okay. yeah. fine. i get it. i’ll say something. god.”

he ends up throwing his phone down on the bed and just staring at the ceiling, feeling like the universe is laughing at him. like, of all places, reddit?? that’s where he finds out you’re basically calling him your “maybe-boyfriend”?

but deep down, even while he’s cringing at strangers dissecting his love life, he can’t help smiling. because at least now he knows he’s not the only one catching feelings.

so after doomscrolling reddit for like an hour and basically convincing himself he was the main character in your post, jake sat there and thought, ok i can’t just do nothing. he wanted to make a move, but not the usual dumb moves he always made. he started running through everything he knew you liked. movies. you had a letterboxd longer than a textbook, always roasting his “basic” taste but still making him watch stuff with you. sanrio. you had those socks on, like, every time he came over. your little chococat keychain was hanging off your bag right now. the oversized hoodies you lived in. your pc setup that he still couldn’t get over because he never struck you as a gamer, but then he walked into your dorm that one time and saw a glowing pastel keyboard with little frog stickers on it.

he kept trying to figure out: how do i surprise her? he thought about showing up in a full hello kitty hoodie (terrible idea), maybe making you watch every twilight movie in one sitting (he’d die), or even buying you some dumb sanrio plush and pretending he didn’t spend hours looking for it. none of it felt right.

a few days later he was sitting on the floor while heeseung was baked out of his mind, button mashing fifa with sunghoon. jake was half talking to himself when he muttered, “i just… i don’t know how to ask her without making it weird.”

heeseung, not looking up from the screen, said, “why don’t you just ask her out like a normal person.” jake stared at him. “yeah, like, words. say them. ‘do you wanna go out.’ boom.”

sunghoon snorted. “crazy concept.”

jake groaned, but in the end he thought, maybe they’re right. maybe you’d actually take it well.

so the next day, he pulled the dumbest move possible. he memorized your class schedule. you were sitting in one of your electives, sunoo on one side of you, when jake just strolled in and sat down on the other side. no notebook, no laptop, not even pretending. he just leaned back in the chair like he belonged there.

you blinked at him, whispering, “what are you doing here? you don’t even take this class.”

sunoo leaned forward across you, eyes narrowed. “yeah, what are you doing here?”

jake ignored him completely and looked at you, his voice low. “are you free tonight?”

you laughed quietly, shaking your head. “yeah… why? wanna come over?” you asked, teasing him before he could answer.

but jake shook his head, smiling a little. “actually, i’ve been thinking about taking you out.”

sunoo raised his brows, looking back and forth between you two like he was watching a live drama unfold. you just bit back another laugh, a little caught off guard but also clearly not against it. “okay,” you said softly. “where?”

he hadn’t actually planned that far, but he quickly blurted, “there’s this restaurant off campus. i heard it’s good.” it wasn’t fancy, but it was nice enough that it felt like a real step up from eating cup noodles in your dorm.

you tilted your head, still smiling. “so… a date?”

jake nodded, trying not to look as nervous as he felt. “yeah. a date.”

you tilted your head a little, smiling. “yeah, that sounds nice.”

and in his brain, jake basically blacked out. oh my god she said yes we’re going on a date holy shit this is happening. he wanted to fist pump the air like an idiot but instead he just sat there nodding like it was no big deal. he mumbled something about texting you later, then immediately packed up and left the classroom before sunoo could say a word.

the second he stepped out, he pulled out his phone and typed “she said yes” into his notes app like he needed proof it actually happened. then he drove home and told himself to stay calm. he was not calm. he tore through his closet, tried on three different shirts, showered twice, searched “best first date outfits men” on pinterest. eventually he gave up and picked the cleanest shirt he had, some jeans, and sneakers that didn’t look like they’d been through war.

when he went to pick you up, you opened the door and jake’s brain short circuited again. you weren’t overdressed, you just looked nice. too nice for him, he thought. your hair, your perfume, the way you smiled at him, it all hit him at once. he immediately leaned in for a quick peck, lingering a little too long, his hand sliding down to your waist like he couldn’t help himself. “you look really good,” he blurted.

you smirked. “you too.”

the restaurant was this little italian place just off campus. dim lighting, small tables with candles, the kind of spot people actually go to for dates. he held the door for you, pulled your chair out, doing all the things he never thought he’d actually do. the conversation was easy. you both ordered pasta, and while waiting for the food you ended up talking about random stuff, laughing over the couple next to you who were obviously on a bad date, debating which twilight movie was the worst one.

“new moon,” you said confidently.

“nah, eclipse,” jake argued, shaking his head. “that one fight scene was garbage.”

“you laughed the entire time.”

“exactly. it was trash.”

the food came and you both dug in, joking about how unromantic it was to slurp spaghetti. at one point you teased him about how “un-jake” it was for him to plan something like this, and he shrugged with a small grin, admitting, “yeah well… i wanted to do it right.”

after dinner, he drove you back, and when he parked outside your dorm, the air in the car felt a little heavier, charged but not exactly awkward. he glanced at you, smiling. “you know, i had so much fun today.”

“me too,” you said, meeting his eyes.

jake leaned in and kissed you, slow and sweet, his hand finding your cheek. when he pulled back, he looked at you for a second, then smirked. “even though you’re calling me your maybe-boyfriend on reddit.”

you froze. “what— oh my god. you read that??”

he laughed, nodding. “yeah. it popped up. i knew it was you.”

you covered your face with your hands, groaning. “i’m gonna actually die.”

he gently pulled your hands down, kissing your palm, still grinning. “no, don’t worry, i liked it. i even went through the comments. i might’ve called a girl an idiot for saying you should protect yourself from fuckboys.”

“you argued with strangers about it?”

“yep. full on fighting in the replies. i was on your side, by the way.”

you shook your head, laughing. “you were on your side!”

he kissed your cheek, still laughing, softer this time. “maybe. but i like being your maybe-boyfriend.”

you kind of froze when he said it, like it took your brain a second to actually process. your face went a little hot and you looked down, suddenly shy. he noticed right away and leaned in a little closer, still holding your hand. “hey, don’t freak out. i like you. i’m not trying to rush anything, i swear.” you blinked, trying to figure out what to say, and he kept going before you could answer. “like, i know this was supposed to be a friends with benefits thing, right? but every time i’m with you i feel like… i don’t know. like i’m the one chasing you. and i keep calling you my pet in bed, but it kinda feels like i’m your dog instead.”

that made you laugh, like actually laugh out loud, and he smiled because you finally looked at him again. “you’re ridiculous,” you said, still laughing.

“yeah, but i’m serious. i don’t wanna be just friends.” he squeezed your hand and added, a little softer, “i want more than that.”

you let out a small sigh, still smiling but definitely nervous too. “i like being with you. i like you, jake. i just… didn’t know if you felt the same.”

“well, i do.”

your face lit up immediately. “yeah?”

“yeah.”

you smiled tenderly and that was all he needed. he leaned across the console, kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand cupping your cheek while you kissed him back. it was sweet and warm and a little desperate, the kind of kiss that made it pretty clear neither of you were just “friends” anymore.

so the whole week after that, jake was basically living in boyfriend mode without even saying he was, but oh boy, he was. like, he was picking you up from class just because he “happened to be around,” but then he’d have your favorite snack waiting in the car. you two started having this dumb little routine of going grocery shopping together, and he’d put random stuff in the cart just to see you roll your eyes and then sneak it back when you weren’t looking.

at night, he’d call you even if you’d already spent the whole day together. sometimes he’d just be lying in his bed, rambling about whatever, and then suddenly go quiet like he realized how much he liked hearing you breathe on the other end. he’d come over to yours a lot too, and half the time sunoo would be there making fun of him for being “clingy as hell.” jake didn’t even deny it anymore, he was too busy following you around your own place like a golden retriever.

but there was one night where he was acting especially wild. like, from the second he saw you, he couldn’t stop touching you. his hand on your back, his arm around your waist, kissing your shoulder while you were just trying to make popcorn. he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you were actually there with him, which, to be fair, was how he felt most of the time.

you noticed, of course. you kept laughing at how clingy he was being, but he just smirked like he didn’t even care if he was obvious. he leaned in close while you were sitting on the couch, his voice lower than usual. “you know,” he said, fingers brushing over your knee, “i kinda wanna try something different with you.” you tilted your head at him, curious, and he grinned, eyes way too mischievous. “don’t freak out, i’ll explain. but i promise you’re gonna like it.” 

later that night, you were in his bedroom, and the whole house was quiet. jake was in one of his moods, where he couldn’t keep his mouth off you. he kissed along your neck, your shoulders, down your chest like he was trying to memorize every bit of you. his hands were slow but firm, holding you in place like you were something he wanted to worship. every time you made the slightest sound, he murmured praise into your skin, all soft but teasing. you looked at him, a little out of breath, and asked, “what is it you wanted to try?” your voice was curious, and that made him grin even wider, like he’d been waiting for you to ask.

he sat back on his knees, eyes glued to you, and said, “i got you something. a little toy.” the way he said it was too casual, like he wasn’t basically throwing gasoline on the fire. “thought it’d suit my puppy.”

the second he called you that, you slipped into it without even thinking. you tilted your head at him, playful, already slipping into that pet energy he loved so much. your hands curled against the sheets like paws, and you looked at him with wide, eager eyes. jake chuckled low, rubbing his thumb over your bottom lip. “see? there she is. my good girl.” he leaned down and kissed you again, slower this time, almost smug at how naturally you fell into the role. “you’re gonna let me try it on you, right?”

the way you nodded instantly made him laugh against your mouth. “of course you will. my puppy always listens.” he kept praising you in between kisses, dragging his hands down your sides, his voice soft but dripping with control. 

he reached over to his nightstand, opening the drawer like he was trying to be casual about it, but you could see the way his hands hesitated for a second. jake pulled something out, set it on the bed next to you, and for a moment he almost looked shy. it was a buttplug with a soft little tail attached, and he rubbed the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure if he’d just ruined the mood.

“i, uh… got this for you,” he admitted, glancing at your face quickly, testing your reaction. “it might be a little… freaky. i wasn’t sure if you’d even wanna try it.”

but you didn’t flinch. instead, you smiled at him in that way that always made him feel like his chest was on fire. “i want to try whatever you want to, jakey.”the second you said that, something in his head clicked, the nerves melted into pure want. his whole body reacted before his brain caught up.

he let out a low laugh, shaking his head, but you could see how much hotter he suddenly looked at you. “you’re… insane, you know that? i bring this out and instead of running you’re saying yes. fuck. my perfect puppy.”

he kissed you hard then, deeper than before, one hand cradling your jaw like you were something fragile even while his words were all possession. he left the tail sitting on the pillow beside you, within sight, like a promise for later. “you’re already so good for me,” he kept murmuring against your skin as he started peeling your clothes off piece by piece. every time a new inch of you was bare, he touched it, kissed it, praised it. “beautiful… all mine… such a good girl for me.”

his hands roamed like he couldn’t decide where to stay, gripping your hips, sliding up your ribs, tracing along your thighs. his voice stayed low but steady, every praise making you sink further into the role he loved. “you’re my puppy,” he whispered against your stomach as he kissed lower. “you listen, you let me take care of you, and you make me want you more than anything.”

he stayed there for a second, breathing against your skin. jake looked up at you, and there was that look again, the one he’d had when he showed up in your class, when he asked you out, when he kissed you in the car after dinner.

“you know,” he said, voice softer now but still a little teasing, “when i first started this… all i wanted was to mess around. try things. have fun. i didn’t think it’d turn into… this.” he gestured between the two of you, a small huff of laughter escaping. “you’ve got me completely gone.”

you reached out, brushing his hair back, laughing, “i like being yours. i wanna be yours”. and he exhaled like he’d been holding it in for weeks.

he kissed you then, slow, warm, but still a little desperate. when he stopped, he smiled so wide it almost broke his face, and whispered, “good. because i don’t wanna be just friends. i wanna be yours too.”

the toy stayed on the pillow, forgotten for now. just the two of you, finally admitting what everyone probably already knew.

!! ronnie's notes: i can’t believe i finally finished this fic 😭 i actually started writing it back in june and for some reason it took me forever to get it done lmaoo mostly bc i really wanted to take my time with it and make it feel right. i’ve been planning to post it for kinktober since literally junee, so the fact that i’m managing to post it before october ends feels kinda unreal 😭 this is actually my third kinktober fic this year, i also posted one for jake (which was technically for a sabrina carpenter album collab but it counts 😭) and one for soobin that i wrote like a million years ago. but this one was the fic i’d been planning for kinktober since the beginning, so she’s special to me!!! anyway, i really hope you guys like it. thank you for reading and for sticking around <3

WHOSOEVER SLAYETH CAIN SHALL SUFFER TENFOLD... OR WHATEVER IT IS THAT THE BIBLE SAYS. You haven’t slayed Cain and you’re not really sure you believe in anything in the Bible, but you’re certainly suffering sevenfold. Eightfold. Ninefold. 

Sevenfold had been earlier this morning when you dropped your glass of coffee on the ground, shattering your favorite cup and staining your white tile. Several Clorox wipes later, there is still brown stuck to the grout, looking a bit like you had an unseemly accident in the middle of your kitchen. 

Eightfold had been when you decided to fix your weekend by heading to the bookstore. Surely purchasing books that you were going to let sit on your shelf months before reading would fix your day - until someone rear-ended you in the parking lot, leaving a good dent and an apologetic exchanging of numbers and insurance information.

Ninefold comes when you least expect it, standing in the aisle with a stack of books in your hand, eyes flickering over the different titles and ornate covers. You already feel better than you had this morning. The smell of paper, the whisper of turning pages, and the hum of the cafe brewing coffee in the distance immediately puts you at ease. 

You swear nothing can put a damper on a good hour spent between shelves - until ninefold walks around the aisle corner. 

The stack of books in your arm nearly drops to the ground when you see your ex-boyfriend hand-in-hand with his new girlfriend. You wheel around so fast you slam into the person behind you, which does knock all the books from your hands onto the floor. 

A hissed curse leaves your lips followed by a quick apology. You drop to your knees, picking the books up as quickly as you can. The dude you’ve collided with has also dropped his books, the amalgamation of your soon-to-be-purchases making it more difficult for you to pick up your shit and leave the scene before Minho sees you. 

Minho says your name, surprised. 

“Fuck,” you whisper, fingers going rigid on the stack of books in your hand. You shoot to your feet and spin around, breathless as you come face to face with Minho and the new girlfriend that you definitely didn’t look up on social media a few weeks ago. “Hi, Minho.” 

“Wow, it’s nice to see you not in the marketing department for once.” 

“Well, I work there…” You offer a bit sharply, tapering to adjust to a nicer tone. “Hence, you know - finding me there.” 

“I meant you rarely leave there.” He laughs and you feign a grin, eyes flickering over to the rosy-cheeked and very glossy-haired girl on your ex’s arm.

Good for her, you think. I wonder what hair product she uses. 

“This is Mina.”

“Mina?” You ask, sticking your hand out as you shuffle your books awkwardly to the crook over your elbow. She smiles - god she has good teeth - and shakes your hand. “Mina and… Minho. Easy to remember.” 

“It’s nice to meet you. Minho tells me you’re the only ex he’s ever left things on good terms with.” 

Your eye twitches. 

Good terms was a serviceable way to put it, you suppose. Sure, there had been no fighting or infidelity or long distance that put a strain on your relationship. In fact, you hadn’t been aware that there was a strain on your relationship until Minho was sitting you down on his couch and letting you know that it just wasn’t working for him anymore. 

That had been confusing. You hadn’t asked any questions though, opting to sit and stare at him while clenching your teeth, nodding along while he explained that your inability to leave work at work and enjoy home while at home was wearing down on him. 

You’re not saving lives, he’d said. He had been earnest too, which is the crux of it. You’re in marketing. You need to take a breather. 

As if he didn’t come home in a bad mood after shitty sales calls all day, as if he wasn’t stressed when he didn’t hit quota, or didn’t complain about how long the department meeting went - you know. You were there, too. 

So sure, you were on good terms. But only one of you seemed to have been unhappy with where things were going, and only one of you seems to have moved on to someone with really good hair genes and great dental hygiene. 

Your tongue runs over your teeth, suddenly worried that you’d forgotten to brush them this morning. 

“Yeah,” you agree, clearing your throat and choking a bite. “Good terms are always the goodest - best way to end things.” 

“He’s really hopeful you’ll find someone,” she sighs, looking up at him dreamily. “He’s always wanted the best for you.” 

A vein bursts in your head. Well- no. You wish the vein you feel throbbing in your head would burst and knock you out so you’d no longer have to suffer through this ninefold moment of suffering. Perhaps, even, a very attractive medic with glossy hair and good teeth could come save you and fall in love at first sight. 

The genuine way that Minho and Mina look at you tells you that they’re serious, that they see you as something that deserves love too. Said in a cooing voice, said patronizingly, said with a pat on the head and a firm pout. 

You turn with your free hand, grabbing the sleeve of the man who is hovering behind you and pull him over to you, grin growing sevenfold. Eightfold. 

“No need to worry,” you assure them. “My boyfriend is right here! The stars really did align for me, just like you hoped and dreamed.”

Your seconds-old-star-crossed-lover looks entirely startled, looking between you, Minho and Mina. His books are cradled against his chest, his brown eyes wide. He’s actually incredibly cute, his glasses a little askewand his brown hair a little unruly. 

“You’re dating Vernon?” 

You look at Minho, blank. “What?” 

Minho looks at your Very Real Boyfriend. “You’re dating Vernon? From IT?” 

Ninefold, meet Tenfold. 

“Of course,” you answer slowly, looking at your partner of now thirty seconds. “I am dating Vernon… from IT.” 

Vernon (from IT) looks like he would rather be anywhere else than standing in the middle of the fantasy novel aisle with you at a bookstore, your nails digging tighter into his sleeve and your crazy eyes telling him to get with the program. 

Vernon (from IT) clears his throat and nods, looking over at Minho. “Yeah. Hey, Minho.” 

“Wow. This is really unexpected.”

“It sure is.”

Your nails dig in harder and Vernon (from IT) tries to pull away from you but you step closer, leaning toward him while flashing Minho and Mina a smile. “Anyway, no need to worry about me finding a relationship. I am very happy.” 

“Figures you found someone at work again.” He laughs, but the comment lands like a blow. You feel yourself flinch, smile going too tight. “You really don’t leave enough to find anyone else, huh?” 

Vernon (from IT) seems to notice, shifting toward you to slide his arm around your waist. The move startles you, drawing your attention to his face. He really is pretty this up close, his lips the perfect shade of bubblegum pink, his cheekbones high and hidden beneath the rim of his glasses, the tangy scent of citrus on his clothes. 

“I like women who work really hard,” Vernon (from IT) assures Minho. “I’ll never get tired of resetting her password over and over again because she loses all her sticky notes everytime the cleaning crew comes through.” 

If Minho senses the shift, he doesn’t let on. He’s never been great at social cues anyway, which is what makes him a decent salesman. Still, you’re eager to get out of their way and the glare of Mina’s shiny hair. 

“Well,” You state. “We have to get going.”

“For sure. It was nice seeing you outside of work!” 

With a final nod, Vernon (from IT) tugs on your waist. You both navigate awkwardly down the aisle, steps not quite in time and hips bumping. It’s uncomfortable and uncoordinated, but as soon as you’re around the aisle and away from your encounter, the two of you separate. 

Vernon (from IT) looks anywhere but you. His cheeks are tinted pink as he looks up at the ceiling, shifting from foot to foot while you regain all your books in your arm. Embarrassment and gratitude both well up inside of you, one beating the other out.

“I am really sorry,” you blurt, voice a little loud. The people around you startle and you lower your pitch when Vernon (from IT) looks at you, chewing on his lip. “Thank you - I don’t even know how to say thank you for doing that.”

“I didn’t have much of a choice.”

Your cheeks heat. “Right.”

“Happy to help, though. You can thank me by swapping books with me, though.”

“What?”

He gestures to your books. “I was standing behind you because you grabbed my books after you ran into me.” 

Oh. Right. You look down at the pile of books in your hand and see a few titles that you own, but did not plan on buying today. You divest yourself of his selections, taking the ones he’d collected off the ground from there. 

“So you really work in IT?”

He snorts. The sound is… a little off. You glance up at him, but his face gives away nothing. “Yeah.”

“I didn’t know.”

His smile is off, too. “I know.” 

You’re unsure how to reply to that, but you’re also uneager to let him go, suddenly. Vernon (from IT) stands there for a second, lips pressed in a firm line and studying you. He really is beautiful, the light hitting his eyes in a way that turns them molten gold and-

“Alright well,” he interrupts your thoughts. “See you later or something.” 

The urge to stop him strikes you, your mouth opening and closing. No words come out. You don’t know what to say - or why you want to stop him, just that you do. He walks toward the front of the store to purchase his books, leaving you standing in the middle of the store and wishing you’d met Vernon (from IT) under different circumstances. 

-

Routine is important to you, especially during the weekdays. Wake up, snooze your alarm for at least fifteen minutes, get up when the second one goes off. Groan as you feel every single joint in your body pop after sitting up in bed. Wonder if you really need a corporate job to pay your bills (decide the answer is yes), and get up to feed the furious beast yowling from the bed. 

The ferocious beast in question has a routine as well. Perhaps not as important as yours, the cat knows when he’s supposed to be fed and when it’s even a minute past feeding time. Halloween takes his meals very seriously, which you respect. 

Your morning continues with the monotonous rhythm you’ve learned to appreciate: make coffee, shuffle back to your room into the ensuite bathroom for skin care, start your morning proper. The only thing that isn’t the same thing every morning is your playlist and your outfit of choice, leading both items up to fate to decide. 

A hint of spring is in the air when you step outside. It’s that kind of sunny day with a cool breeze that promises longer days of sun ahead, despite still being brisk in the morning and biting when the sun sets. 

Mornings during the days that hang between winter and spring are your favorite. You roll the windows down a little on your drive to work, fingers drumming against the steering wheel as you crawl along with all the other commuters. 

Buildings shoot up toward the sky on either side of you. Dozens of banks, private firms, buildings with multiple different businesses and food courts become your entire world as you navigate to the parking garage. It’s already full of cars, but you get special parking.

Well - special as of your promotion just a few weeks ago. The designated parking spot and title bump was all that had come with the promotion, though, much to your dismay. 

Still. You’d worked for this particular publishing house in the marketing department for close to a decade now. You weren’t quite as far up the ladder as you wanted to be, but you were trying to get there little by little. 

So close. No cigar. 

The elevator of the parking garage opens to reveal other office workers already filling the mirror-walled space. You step in as everyone makes room, clutching their bags and briefcases a little closer. You see Mingyu from creative and flash him a polite grin, which is answered with a bright one of his own and a small wave.

When the people not associated with your company shuffle off on other floors, Mingyu slides over closer to you. He’s one of the many designers in the art department, and definitely several rungs below your position, but you started the company at the same time together.

“How was your weekend?” He asks, wagging his brows up and down. 

You frown. His questions suggests there’s something salacious to your wild weekend spent reading books with Halloween, but you don’t think burning the bagel you ate for girl dinner or staying in the same shirt for forty-eight hours straight is what he’s looking for. 

“It was fine?” It comes out as a question. “How was yours?” 

“Hm. It was good. We went out to catch the big game. Seokmin got so drunk he vomited, and Vernon won all of the bets we placed before.” 

Mingyu leans forward, looking at you like you’re supposed to understand something. You don’t get it, looking him up and down with a pinched brow. 

“That’s nice?” Again, it comes out as a question. “Not for Seokmin, I guess.” 

His eyes narrow. Pin you to your spot against the elevator wall.

Then the elevator dings, signalling that you’re at his floor. Creative is an entire level down from marketing, all dim lights and glowing screens for the designers hard at work. Mingyu gets off, still looking suspicious as the elevator doors close and you shoot up another floor. 

Instead of focusing on it, you shrug it off. Mingyu has a penchant for being weird - a creative thing, in your opinion. As soon as the elevator door opens, his behavior is long forgotten as you slip into work mode. 

Everyone greets you with a polite smile or small wave on the marketing floor. The main office is filled with grey-walled cubicles, employees popping up to peer over walls with mugs of coffee and protein shakes and breakfast items as they ask their neighbors how the weekend was. 

A glass wall in the far back denotes the executive and director offices. You head for the one in the back, right corner. Instead of turning on your lights, you let the natural lighting from the floor-to-ceiling windows filter in, keeping the ambiance muted and relaxing. The only additional lights you flick on are the monitor light at your desk and a small salt lamp wedged between the books on one of the many shelves behind you. 

Your office is still slowly being decorated. You’d only moved in after your recent promotion, and it’s still bare of personalization, save for the salt lamp and a few things you’d moved in from your cubicle. 

And the coffee machine - your own private, blessed coffee machine in the corner on a small bar cart. That might be your favorite thing about your office. You like your coworkers - for the most part, anyway - but being able to bury yourself in your work without having to interact with all of them every time you want coffee is nice. 

Sitting down, you roll your shoulders. When your monitor flashes to life, you see the number of emails in your inbox and try not to groan out loud. You’re thrilled to be the new Senior Director of Marketing, but you’ve gone and made the mistake of becoming too important at work, most things unable to move forward without you playing some part in it.

In theory, that was one of the reasons Minho had broken up with you in the first place. Too buried in work, too many late nights at the office, too many dates or movie nights interrupted by the blue glow of your phone screen on your face while you answer urgent emails. 

The thing is - you don’t mind. It doesn’t bother you to pause and send a quick email, or to stay late and help get something launched. You like the intricacies of being a problem solver, and with as fast as your company is growing and publishing new titles, you’ve got challenge after challenge ahead of you. 

It’s easy to fall into the monotony of answering emails, joining virtual meetings and striking your pen through your to-do list. It fills three pages, but it feels good to cross something off, even if you’ve only completed two things. 

By lunchtime, someone is knocking on your window. You look up, surprised to see Seungkwan sticking his head in. He’s the Manager of Digital Marketing and Social Media and he’s dubbed himself as your assistant. 

Other duties as assigned, he always jokes, but you are thankful for him. 

“You have to eat,” he reminds you in a singsong voice, crossing his arms over his chest. His glasses are pushed up into his blonde hair. “Maybe you can take me to lunch and divulge every detail about your new romance.” 

That makes you sputter. “My what?” 

Looking like the cat that ate the canary, Seungkwan slips into your office, clapping his hands together. He sits on the edge of the couch in front of your desk, bounding with energy. 

“Come on,” he whispers, looking at you earnestly. “Everyone knows - you don’t have to keep it a secret anymore!”

“Keep what a secret?” 

He rolls his eyes. “You’re dating Vernon!”

You stare. “Who?” 

“Vernon! From IT!” 

It comes back in tunnel vision. Ninefold meeting tenfold, Minho and Glossy Hair Mina, Vernon (from IT). Suddenly you’re hot all over, feel it creeping up your neck and blooming across your cheeks. You clear your throat, leaning back in your chair as your fingers reach for your water. 

“I’m - oh!” You escape answering for a second by gulping down copious amounts of water, trying to cool the panic that is licking flames up your skin. “Right. Vernon… from IT.” 

“Honestly, he’s cute.”

“Ha. Ha. Yes. Um. Yeah.”

“You’re so cute when you’re flustered. How long have you been dating?”

“Uhh very new. Yes. Super new. I’m sorry - how did you hear about this?” 

“Mingyu told me, but Soonyoung told him and Joshua in sales told Soonyoung because Minho told the Always Closing group chat.” 

“The what?”

He sighs. “Ugh, do you keep up with anything? The sales floor has a group chat. It’s where Soonyoung gets all his tea because he and Joshua room together.” 

“Who the fuck is Joshua?” 

Seungkwan stares. “It is a wonder you even know who Vernon is. I swear you don’t know people you’ve worked with for years.” A thought seems to strike him and he gasps. “Oh my god is that why you’re always going to him for your fucked up passwords?” 

Something Vernon said comes back to you vaguely. Something about forgotten passwords when the cleaning crew throws out your sticky notes. Of course, no one would throw out your sticky notes if you weren’t dropping them all over the floor, but that’s neither here nor there. 

Bolting from your seat, you startle Seungkwan, whose brows disappear in his hairline as he stares up at you.

“Actually, I can’t do lunch today.”

He sighs. “Boss, you have to eat.”

“I am! I am going to lunch with my…. Vernon from IT.”

“Oooo.” He leans back, shaking his head and grinning at you. “Go on then. Make sure you wrap it before-”

“If you finish that sentence I will revoke your privilege to my coffee cart.” 

Seungkwan’s grin only gets wider. “Enjoy, boss.” 

In a flurry, you leave your office. Eyes follow you as you go and suddenly you’re unsure if people are looking at you because you’re walking so fast that you’re almost running, or if it’s because they think you’re dating Vernon). 

Your finger nearly breaks as you slam the button over and over again to shoot a few floors down. It doesn’t make the elevator go any faster. When the doors finally close and you begin to descend, you turn to the mirror walls and panic, tucking stray pieces of hair back into place and trying to fix the mascara smudges from staring at your screen for four straight hours.

A knot forms in your stomach. You press your damp palms against your dress pants, wiping viciously to try and keep the moisture at bay. When the elevator dings and the doors open to the silent hum of the IT department, you think you might vomit.

Unlike the marketing floor, no heads turn as you go. You try to maintain a normal pace this time, marching down the rows of cubicles before you realize you have no idea where Vernon sits. You pause awkwardly, standing on your tiptoes to try and see over the walls of cubicles to spot him.

“Can I help you?” A man sticks his head out of his cubicle, his headphones around his neck. He looks you up and down critically. “You’ll have to have proof of submitting a ticket before-”

“Vernon,” you interrupt him. “Vernon from IT? Where does he sit?” 

For a second, the guy narrows his eyes. Then a lightbulb seems to go off and he grins, leaning back in his chair. He looks far too pleased with himself, and there’s something oily and slick you don’t like about his gaze. “You’re her.” 

“I’m a senior director, yes.” 

That changes his tune immediately. He sits up, clearing his throat. “To the back on the left.” 

“Thanks.”

Following his lead, you pass by several empty cubicles, everyone seemingly at lunch. You take the corner as instructed and find a handful of men sitting in the same cubicle, one sitting atop a desk and swinging his legs, another leaning against the cubicle wall, and the last one sitting in the seat.

The one sitting in the seat is the quarry you seek, his eyes going wide when he sees you storming toward him. He goes rigid in his seat, clearing his throat and slapping the leg of the man sitting atop his desk. He kicks at Vernon before spotting you and immediately jumping down, straightening his shirt. 

Nervous energy crackles as all three sets of eyes settle on you. You stop right in front of his cubicle, trying to put on your bravest smile. 

“Hi?” Vernon asks, looking at the two men on either side of him. “Did you forget your password again?”

“What? No. I don’t do it that often.” He looks unsure, brows raised behind his glasses. You huff, putting  your hands on your hips. “Okay, I forget it sometimes. But no, that isn’t why I’m here.”

“Does your software need updating?”

“No, I-”

“Oh. I did forget to give Seungkwan that new phone he asked for on behalf of the social team. It came in last week - I’ll finish setting it up and-”

“Lunch!” You all but yell, startling all three men. “I came here for lunch.”

There’s a long pause. Vernon’s coworkers look like they’d rather be anywhere else than trapped by you. You ignore them in favor of a quick study of Vernon. He’s in dress pants and a button down shirt that is untucked and a little wrinkled. It’s a far cry from the casual way he was dressed at the bookstore, but it’s still not totally work appropriate. 

Still he pulls it off. There’s something casual and cool about it, aloof in a way that still looks good. His hair is even styled neatly, though a brown lock falls over his eyebrow as he leans forward and asks, “Lunch? The cafeteria is on the first floor.”

The man who had been sitting on his desk kicks him. “She’s asking you to go to lunch, dude.” 

“She’s not-” Vernon pauses and looks at you. “Are you asking me to go to lunch?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Your patience narrows to a tight smile, your words pinched between your teeth, “Because that’s what loving girlfriends do, sweetie.” 

The words land and have an immediate effect. Vernon flushes from the neck up, mouth opening and closing as he presses his palms against his thigh. The man who kicked him snickers and tries to hide it with a thinly veiled cough.

Your gaze narrows and he notices you watching, clearing his throat to stretch his hand toward you. “I’m Chan. It’s nice to meet… Vernon’s girlfriend?” 

You shake his head and say nothing, eyes drifting to the man leaning against the wall. He gives you a small salute. “Seokmin.”

“Oh.” You blink. “The puker?” 

His charming smile drops immediately as he looks at Vernon, smacking him on the shoulder. “You told her about that?”

“I didn’t tell her anything.” Vernon stands, shrugging away from both of his friends’ wandering eyes. “Sure, sweetie,” he answers you, giving you a plastic grin. “It’s your treat this week, right? At that very nice, very expensive steakhouse down the block.”

There’s a glimmer in his eyes that tells you Vernon will only play along if it’s by his rules. You’re at a disadvantage, so you grin and nod, willing to go by his rules for now. “That’s so right, darling. Let’s go.”

“Enjoy lunch!” Chan calls behind you as Vernon shuffles behind you, quickly trying to tuck his shirt. “Don’t do anything I-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Vernon warns, quickening his step to match yours. “Sorry about him.” 

“Don’t worry, I’ve got my own version of him sitting in my office.” 

The elevator ride down to the first floor and the walk out onto the busy street is silent. It’s not the comfortable, easy silence you might have with Seungkwan or Mingyu - if Mingyu could wrap his head around silence. It's awkwardly silent, both of you looking anywhere but one another. 

You don’t know where you’re going, but Vernon leads you to a Michelin steakhouse down the block, true to his word. You glare at him when you step into the dark entryway where a host with hair as glossy as Mina’s greets you. 

“Two?” You both nod and she grins. “Right this way.”

Vernon follows her first, shuffling behind her as she leads the two of you into the dining room proper. It’s a beautiful establishment with lacquered floors, rich wooden tables draped with fine tablecloths and the kind of glassware that looks like real crystal. 

When you both sit down with menus in hand, the hostess leaves you and you lean forward, hissing, “How much money do you think I make?”

“More than I do in IT,” Vernon answers breezily, eyes roving the menu. For a second, his gaze flickers to meet yours over the top of the menu. It’s the first time he’s really looked at you since you marched into his office. “Consider it an apology meal for the mess you’ve got us in.”

“Hey! You played along?” 

“You’re right, I guess I could have just super embarrassed you in front of your ex-boyfriend. That would have been very polite of me.” 

That stumps you. You open and close your mouth, feeling a bit like a fish. You suppose that’s fair - what was Vernon supposed to do when you’d grabbed him in the middle of a bookstore and staked your claim? 

Sighing, you lean back as your server gives you a moment of respite, filling your glasses with water and going over the specials. When they leave, you grab your glass and take several gulps of water, trying to cool your head. 

It only works a little.

“I didn’t know Minho was going to tell the entire world.” 

“Really? Minho has the biggest mouth at this company. You should see his Teams messages.”

“You can do that?” 

“On the clock?” He asks. When you shake your head, assuring it stays between you, he nods. “Yeah, we can see everything you do.”  

“Oh.” You think of all the terrible things you’ve searched on your work computer like how to get over a breakup and how to tell if my ex still likes me. “Anyway, I didn’t know he was going to say anything.” 

The server returns to take your orders. You order some sort of steak salad at random while Vernon orders something blessedly modest. As the server parts ways, Vernon leans back in his chair and looks at you again, expression unreadable. 

“Well,” he eventually says. “No harm done once you tell everyone we’re not dating.”

“Once I what?” 

“Well you’ll have to-”

“No way.”

“What?” 

“Do you know how embarrassing that would be?” 

He raises a brow. “More embarrassing than grabbing some dude in the bookstore and claiming he’s your boyfriend.” 

The air leaves your lungs and you melt into the seat, your misery showing. “I already said sorry.” 

“There’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Just tell everyone you broke up with me.” 

You snort. “No one would believe that.” 

“Why?” 

Instead of answering him immediately, you busy yourself unraveling silverware. It’s a hard question to answer, not because you don’t know the answer but because you don’t want to tell him. Vernon is quiet, though. Patient. 

He doesn’t press you for an answer, happy to wait you out until you’ve folded your napkin and placed it on your lap, and once again drained the rest of your water. It does nothing for your nerves as you fixate on a spot atop the table. 

“I don’t… date.” 

“You dated Minho.”

“Yeah. That’s uh… it. It’s kind of a running joke that I am undateable.”

He frowns at that. “Respectfully, I find that incredibly hard to believe.” 

“Thanks. I think.” You pick at a string in the tablecloth. “Anyway, no one would buy that I ended the first relationship I’ve had since Minho. I didn’t even end the last one and sort of clung to it in a way that was sort of embarrassing.” 

“I see.”

You’re unsure if he really does. When Minho had broken up with you, you’d attempt to make arguments to keep him around. Offered less work hours, even said you’d go to therapy to talk about your insane need for success. He hadn’t wanted any of it, and you’d eventually realized that he just… didn’t want you. 

They never did, when people realized what dating you entails. Everyone wants a woman who works hard. They like the illusion of it, the woman who gets up early in the morning and goes to workout before going to her corporate job and girl bossing all day long. They desire the woman who dresses fashionably, who wears designer tags and commands a room all day before coming home to make an effortless dinner followed by a luxurious night routine. 

And you get it. You want to be that too. But the truth is most days you wake up past your alarm and rush to the office wearing shoes that don’t match, and sometimes you come home so late and burned out from your job that you eat a handful of shredded cheese over the sink with a stick of beef jerky, only to do it all again the next day.

That wasn’t what anyone wanted. At least, not in your experience. 

“Anyway,” you clear your throat. “You’re right, or whatever. I should just tell them I lied. I’ve given worse news. Just you know - less personal.” 

For a few minutes, Vernon is quiet. You don’t look up to meet his gaze. Instead you watch the ice cubes in your glass melt, little beads of condensation zigzagging down the curve of your glass. 

A sigh makes you look up at Vernon. “What if we dated for like a month or something?” 

“What?”

“I don’t mean really date,” he offers quickly, sensing your surprise. For some reason, that stings a little. You swallow it down past the knot forming in your throat. “It’ll get people off your back or whatever and we can just mutually end things.” 

“Really? You’d do that.” 

He shrugs a shoulder. “I guess, yeah.”

“You can break up with me,” you promise eagerly, leaning forward with the new promise of a solution to your problem. “Everyone will believe it. Just say I work too much and I’m too obsessed with my career.” 

An uneasy gaze flickers in Vernon’s eyes. “It can be mutual,” he says firmly. “That way it ends nicely.”

“Fine. Everyone will think one thing anyway, you’ll get out without a scratch, trust me. Are you sure you’re willing to do this? I can… suck it up and tell everyone I made it up.”

“Do you really want to?” 

“No,” you admit.

“Then it’s settled.” He shrugs, heaving a heavy sigh. “I’ll give you a month and then we can mutually end things.” 

Sticking your hand over the table, you offer it for Vernon to shake. His mouth twitches a little as he smiles, leaning forward to take your hand. His is warm and softer than you imagined, enveloping yours firmly as he shakes. 

“Deal,” you smile, feeling a glimmer of hope. 

Just like that, Vernon (from IT) becomes Vernon (your boyfriend). 

Sort of.

-

Vernon doesn’t consider himself anxious. He’s never really dealt with anxiety, and there are only a few things that can make him nervous in the world. The few times he remembers being nervous were when he was in a bidding war for a limited edition Millenium Falcon model, in line at a meet-and-greet for his favorite band when he was sixteen, and when he lost his virginity to Carley Waters in his sophomore year of college. 

He’d won the bidding war and managed to not sound like an idiot meeting his idols, but he definitely came immediately after putting his dick inside Carley. Two out of three were pretty good odds, all things considered. 

Vernon is more nervous than all three of those events combined as he checks himself in the mirror for the millionth time. Usually, he doesn’t really think twice about what he wears to the bar on the weekend. He has fifteen of the same shirt in the same colors, and his jeans all look the same, even though he thinks they’re different. 

Now, though, he has the added element of you. He cannot recall a single time that you’ve ever agreed to go out with your work friends - and to your surprise, not his, you do have the same work friends - but tonight is different. 

Tonight, you’re supposed to be dating. 

It’s weird. Chan and Seokmin agree it’s weird. He keeps no secrets from them and had already told them about the encounter at the bookstore. They’ve sworn themselves to secrecy, though Vernon cannot fathom how they just go with it. 

She’s really hot, Chan had said after a few sips of beer. Fuck it, right? 

She’s the third most executive person in marketing, Seokmin warned. Be careful. 

Both are true. Vernon had acknowledged Chan’s point the first time he’d seen you in Information Technology a little over two years ago. You’d been dating Minho then and entirely untouchable - still are, kind of - and Vernon had been the only person at the office early enough to help you out. He’d been new then, and often came in the earliest to get started on the overload of tasks he was always given as the junior employee. 

Even then, Vernon thought you were the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. Sure, you had on mismatched shoes and there was a breathy chaos to you that would probably stress most people out, but he sort of liked it. Thought that it was different in a good way, and spoke to the sort of person who worked really hard and didn’t fake their way through the day. 

Vernon had realized Seokmin's point right after he’d learned Chan’s. As soon as he helped you login to your computer, he’d realized you were a Senior Manager of Marketing. Not a huge title in a company so big, but high enough that Vernon thought twice about his attraction to you. 

Now, both of their points are moot. You’re still attractive but that doesn’t really change the situation - makes it harder, even. Vernon had never really dreamed of an actual relationship with you and now that he’s found himself in a fake one, he’s not really sure what to do with the acknowledgement that he’s attracted to you. 

Worse is that he doesn’t actually know if he’s allowed to date you. Vernon is a senior coordinator in the IT department and you’re a senior director. Perhaps not in his department or directly overseeing him, but it’s a high enough position that Sekomin is right - it could mean trouble if this goes poorly. 

So why the fuck did he offer to fake date you for a month? 

As someone in Information Technology, most people think Vernon is smart. He doesn’t consider himself to be above average intelligence, and as he slides his sneakers on his feet to go pick you up for a night out, he thinks everyone is wrong about him - he’s fucking stupid.

Looking in the mirror one more time, Vernon decides it’s as good as it’s ever going to get. Jeans, a black shirt and a hat facing backward is all he really knows how to style. He shoves his keys in his pocket, a tiny vial of contact solution just in case, and grabs his phone as he heads out the door. 

Your apartment complex isn’t that far from his. He finds it with ease, surprised that you don’t live in one of those high-rise apartments that all the other executives live in. The apartment is pretty modest with only three floors and rows of respectable Toyota Camrys and Honda Civics. 

When he spots you coming down the stairs, his traitorous heart does that same little staccato it had last weekend when he saw you at the bookstore. He hadn’t expected to run into you outside of work and only panicked for a split second before he realized that you didn’t recognize him. 

And then you’d called him your boyfriend. 

Recovering from the memory of it, Vernon stares as you open the door to his car, flashing a tight smile as you slide in. He doesn’t know what he thought you might wear on the weekend, but he’s surprised to see you in jeans, a black form-fitted shirt tucked in, and a simple purse on your arm. 

“What?” You ask, a little breathless. He sees the sticky shine of lipgloss on your mouth and squeezes the wheel, fighting the urge to lean over and taste it. 

Insane, he thinks as he puts the car in gear. He’s gone insane. 

“Nothing. I guess I just thought you’d live somewhere nicer.” 

“Oh.”

Your shift in tone makes him realize how it sounded. “Sorry - not like that. I thought it would be somewhere really fancy. You’re a senior director and all that.” 

“I only got promoted a few weeks ago. And it was not a pay raise, trust me.” 

“Seriously?” You glance sidelong at him, pausing like you’ve said something you shouldn’t. His lips twitch and he says, “Not on the clock.”

That gets you to grin, leaning back into the passenger seat. “Only came with an office and title bump. I was already doing all the work of a senior director so they felt like they needed to bump my title to protect themselves, I think.”

“That’s kind of shitty.”

You hum. “Is it like that in IT?” 

“I think it’s like that anywhere.”

“Good point.” 

A comfortable silence falls over the car. It’s not at all like the awkward, stilted lunch the two of you had at the beginning of the week. He had been sweating through his shirt that time around, though you didn’t seem to notice. He’d been a little angry with you too, for getting the both of you into this mess. 

But… it had been his idea to help you save face. He didn’t have to. He didn’t owe you anything, and he believes you when you say you would come clean and admit you lied through your teeth. Maybe that’s why he offered to help anyway, your willingness to swallow the pain of embarrassment to relieve him of the facade. 

Library is a hole in the wall bar that Vernon and his friends from work like to go to on Saturday nights. It’s sort of a funny joke, a bunch of professionals from the publishing industry getting drunk and eating shitty bar food in a place named for the very buildings they dedicate their life to, in a weird, roundabout, mathematical way. 

Vernon has friends outside of work that come too, but tonight it’s just the usual crowd: Chan, Seokmin and Seokmin’s girlfriend, Mingyu and Soonyoung from creative, and some of the people from the sales team. The sales team is only there by virtue of Joshua, who is the only person from sales Vernon remotely tolerates. 

Vernon isn’t exactly sure what a sales team does at a publishing company anyway. 

When Vernon parks, he sees you take a deep breath. He averts his eyes, feeling like he’s intruding on a moment before you brace yourself and get out of the car suddenly. He makes a noise and panics to follow you. You’re already plunging ahead like you’re storming into battle, and perhaps in your mind you are.

He jogs to catch up. “Wait!” 

You stop, turning to face him with a dubious expression. “What?”

“We should walk in together.”

“Oh.” You blink. It’s a bit cute but Vernon shoves that down. “You’re right. Sorry. I sort of… set my mind to the task and forgot.”

“You can’t approach this like you approach work.”

“I can’t?”

He laughs. “No. Relationships aren’t jobs - so a fake one isn’t either. You have to try and appear like this is natural. If you come in all to-do list and checkmarking the boxes, it’s going to look weird.” 

“Oh.” 

The confidence you had a second before deflates. He feels a little guilty, reaching out to take your hand before he realizes what he’s doing. Your hands are cold in his but he doesn’t mind, wrapping his fingers in yours as you stare at him like he’s grown three heads.

Maybe he has. 

“We should walk in together. Maybe holding hands.” 

“Right.” You lick your lips and he tries to give you a smile more confident than what he’s feeling. His heart is hammering in his chest, both at the way your hand squeezes his nervously and at the preposterousness of it all. “You’re kind of good at this.” 

“I just have a different perspective.”

“The perspective of someone who knows how to date versus… whatever I am.” 

He hears the joke in your tone so he lets himself laugh a little. He starts walking, tugging you next to him. “Not exactly. I just watch a lot of movies, including romances.” 

“Really? What’s your favorite one?” 

“Uhhh.” He thinks about it as you both approach the door. He doesn’t answer for a second while he flashes the security outside his ID. “I really like The Proposal. With Sandra Bullock.” 

Instead the bar is filled with modern music at a reasonable level and small, wooden tables with chipped tops. There is nothing about the bar that actually looks like a library, save the single shelf shoved in the corner with beat up comic books and an insane amount of hentai that Soonyoung put there. 

“You mean the one where the boss fake dates her employee… and they work at a publishing company?” 

As soon as you ask the question, Vernon realizes the irony. He looks at you with a wide gaze, pausing at the entrance to look at you. Your mouth folds on itself, trying not to laugh as you too realize the irony of the movie. 

“Yeah, so that’s weird I guess,” he admits. He tugs on your hand. “Come on, we always sit in the back.”

You follow him wordlessly. The crowd isn’t big inside, but there are enough people that you have to shuffle a little closer to him. He catches the scent of your perfume - it smells like sweet tobacco and vanilla, something that is subtle with a little bit of spice. 

Turning around the corner of the bar, you see a wall entirely taken by booths with pool tables in the open space. Mingyu and Seokmin’s girlfriend are already fighting over the felted green as she points a pool cue at him, threatening. Seokmin is lounging in one of the booths, watching on with a dopey grin that makes Vernon roll his eyes.

Everyone else sits in in a variety of booths, an entire corner dedicated to the dozen or so of them who have made this their home for the last two years. Vernon keeps you close, feeling his hands go clammy when all the eyes turn to the two of you. Despite the rumor having spread far and wide, it’s clear that surprise ripples through the crowd at seeing evidence of your relationship. 

The fake one, that is. Naturally. 

Instead of going directly to the safety - or danger, in this case - of his friends, Vernon heads to the bar. He needs to take the edge off immediately, though he knows he can’t get too crazy. The drive home is short, but even if you weren’t in his car for the evening, he doesn’t like to tempt fate. 

Next to him at the bartop, you drop his hand to press your palms against the sticky wood. You make a face and he laughs before ordering a simple rum and coke. You order the same but with a lime and the bartender flashes you a charming grin.

Vernon glances at you and realizes you don’t even register the bartender. You’re chewing your lip and fidgeting, pulling at the sleeves of your shirt and shifting from foot-to-foot. A pang goes through him. 

“Relax.” You look up at him, eyes wide. “We’re going to do fine.”

“What if I fuck it up?” You ask, voice barely audible as you lean in. “They’re going to see right through me, Vernon from IT. They’re going to have one conversation with us and be like ‘no way is he dating that lunatic.’” 

“For starters, you’re not a lunatic.” You give him a look and he amends, “Not in the way that’s bad, anyway.”

“How do you know? We barely know each other.” 

You’ve got him there. The bartender comes back with your drinks and you take yours, draining half of it before remembering the lime. He watches you squeeze it into the drink while he contemplates his answer. 

“I guess I just have a feeling for these things. You don’t seem very crazy to me.”

“Thanks.” 

“And I guess I’m getting to know you, so there’s that.” 

You sigh. “Right.” 

“You’ll do fine. But maybe don’t call me Vernon from IT.”

“Right.” 

“Come on.” 

With wavering confidence, you follow Vernon over to the crowd from work. Everyone greets you warmly, though a little unsure. He notes the comments about being shocked to see you outside the four walls of your office, a joke you take in stride. 

It’s clear you don’t know how to interact with everyone at first. It’s not to say that you’re stiff or awkward, but Vernon can see the rigid set in your shoulders and the way your eyes follow the conversation but don’t actually contribute. 

You have an effect on others as well. For those who are a little more unfamiliar with you, they can’t seem to puzzle out why one of the higher ups is here guzzling down rum and cokes. And you are guzzling them down, carving a path to and from the bar at a rate that impresses Vernon. 

“How are things going?” Chan slips into the seat you just vacated to march to the bar again. “She seems surprisingly normal.”

“Why is that surprising?” 

Chan gives him a look. “She’s a suit.”

“I don’t think so,” Vernon laughs. “Trust me on that.” 

Chan hums unconvinced, watching you at the bar. “She’s nice, at least.”

“Very.” 

“Don’t fall in love with her or anything.”

“Weird thing to say, man.”

“Yeah, well. She’s attractive, nice, and no offense, a little weird. She’s exactly your type.” 

That makes him frown. “What’s weird about her? Also, would that be so bad?”

“She knew the radius of the sun and the verbatim definition of parsecs. I’m not answering that second question because I shouldn’t have to.” Chan claps him on the shoulder, looking over Vernon’s head. “She’s coming back, but seriously. Be careful.” 

Chan scoots away, flashing Vernon a look that makes the single drink Vernon has had sour in his stomach. Then you’re there, sitting down next to him, swaying a little bit. He smells sweet tobacco and vanilla, his eyelids fluttering for a second as you shift a little too close - or what would be too close, if you weren’t fake dating. 

“What’s that look on your face?” You ask, sipping your drink. He wonders if it’s appropriate to ask if you need water.

“What look on my face?” 

“You know, like-” You try to pinch your brows together and your mouth puckers downward. He feels himself smile and he shakes his head. “Sort of frowny.” 

“Nothing.” You look at him skeptically. “Hey, I have a question.” 

You pause, looking a little panicked. “Okay.”

“What’s the radius of the sun?” 

“Oh!” You visibly brighten and it’s like watching the sun spill over the lip of the horizon, all gold and liquid, warm and bright. “432,690 miles. Surface temperature is about 5,772 Kelvin.” 

Suddenly, Chan’s warning feels very, very real. Vernon tries to hide his smile, looking down at the table. Meanwhile, you start rattling off facts about the sun, not taking a single breath as you explain you memorized them from when you were working on the marketing for a line of textbooks about space early on in your career. 

Vernon lets you talk. Lets you somehow divert back to work, watching as you animatedly walk him through the process of what you do. How you think. It’s fascinating, and he’s not really sure how anyone else could find it tiresome, seeing the way you light up when you tell him about a project that Seungkwan’s team killed it on. 

Your pride is palpable, your energy shifting from unsure to confident. 

Suddenly, you pause, leveling Vernon with a hard stare. He says nothing, watching the way you drink him in, something beneath the surface of your gaze he can’t quite read. “Can I say something?” 

“On the clock?” he asks, grinning. You shake your head and he gestures for you to continue. 

“You have pretty eyes. I still like when you wear glasses, though. They suit you.” 

Yeah. Vernon thinks Chan’s warning is very real. 

-

Running in heels is hard. You don’t know how anyone manages to do it in movies. Not that you think anything that happens in movies is real, but you can’t imagine how they make it work for the scene. You nearly break your ankle three times on your sprint to IT and you’re sure you scare the daylights out of Chan when you come tearing around the corner.

You shout a greeting over your shoulder but don’t stop until you’re hissing Vernon’s name while rushing into his cube. He flinches, turning around to look at you mid-task. You’re heaving, putting a hand on your hip as you straighten, trying to suck down air. 

“Say no!”

He’s visibly confused. “To what?”

“Just say no!”

Before Vernon can ask you another thing, you hear Minho’s voice. Your heart thunders in your ribcage as you try to lean against the wall of Vernon’s cube, nearly missing it. You stumble a few steps and he catches you by the elbow, lightning quick as he helps steady you. 

When he drops his grip, the place where Vernon had held you moments before is warm. You try not to think about it, heart thundering doubletime as you watch Minho approach, a lazy swing to his step and a smirk on his face. 

“Funny I found you here!” 

“Why would that be funny? My Vernon - my boyfriend is down here.” 

From the corner of his eye, you see Vernon wince. You’re not doing a great job at keeping it casual, but you’re also still out of breath from sprinting down the stairs to beat Minho here and warn Vernon. Seungkwan had barely been able to give you the heads up that Minho was going to ask for a double date, and you simply couldn’t have that.

Even as you near the end of your second week dating - fake dating - Vernon, you’re unsure the two of you can get through a date with someone who actually knows you. Vernon might be able to give some details on the surface, but you dated Minho for a year - how could Vernon ever hope to keep up? 

Minho leans against Chan’s cube. Luckily it’s vacant of its usual occupant - Chan hates Mihno, as you’ve recently learned through a lunch with him and Vernon. 

“Glad I caught you together, then,” Minho says, though you think he’s not that glad. But what do you know? “I wanted to see if you were busy on-”

“Yes.” You flash him a too-wide grin with too many teeth. 

“I didn’t even give you the date.”

“We’re always very busy.”

“Ah.” Minho scratches the back of his neck and gives Vernon a look akin to sympathy. “Never has time, does she? Always all work, no play. I wanted to see if you guys wanted to go to dinner with Mina and I tomorrow night, but…” He shrugs. “Same old.”

You try not to let your exterior crack, but Minho’s words cut right through your outer shell to the softness of you. Without fail he manages to highlight this obsession you have with work, making it sound worse every single time. 

Behind you, Vernon shifts closer. You become acutely aware of him suddenly, warmth radiating from him as his chest presses against the back of your arm and his hand slips to the middle of your back, featherlight, like he’s afraid to touch you. He smells like ocean driftwood and salt, something that makes you think of warmer days. Fresh fruit. Cold water. 

Fighting a shiver, you freeze up, hyper aware of him. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Vernon says gently. “She doesn’t work that much. She makes plenty of time for me.”

Minho’s eye twitches, the only sign he’s annoyed. As a trained salesperson, his tells are always subtle, nearly undetectable. But you know him inside and out, can see the sliver of annoyance there.

Satisfaction rules supreme, a smile tugging at your lips until Vernon adds, “We can make time for them, right?” 

You snap your head to the side, eyes meeting his. Vernon has beautiful eyes. You’d said as much the other night when you had a little too much to drink, staring up at him without his glasses. He looks good without them, but you like the way the frames sit on his nose, the way they reflect light against the liquid brown of his iris. 

Now, those eyes are staring back at you straight on. There’s something fierce in them, and though you barely know him, you have a sneaking suspicion Vernon is annoyed. Not with you but with Minho. 

Still… 

“Are you sure?” 

Your question is gentle. For a moment, you forget Minho is there at all. You’re looking at Vernon, trying to puzzle out why he would say yes to something insane again. It was lucky enough he’d offered to participate in this little charade to save your pride, and now here he is doing it again, unprompted. 

Vernon’s mouth twitches. He nods, hand pressing into your back a little firmer before he drops it away. You turn to Minho, who watches the two of you with a peculiar expression. “Alright,” you tell him. “It’s a date.” 

“Great. I’ll send you the details.” 

When Minho leaves, you turn to Vernon, the question on the tip of your tongue. He doesn’t give you a chance, shooting you a sidelong glance as he says, “Why is he always bringing up your work schedule?” 

You wince. Vernon either doesn’t notice or is nice enough not to say anything. Instead of answering right away, you sit on top of Vernon’s desk, feet dangling a little. He makes room for you, turning his chair to face you and give you his full attention. 

He’s dressed the same as always today, but you notice his shirt is ironed and tucked in neatly. Rubbing his brow, he slides his glasses up on his head, pressing his fingers along his eye sockets like they’re strained. 

“What kind of stuff do you do?” You ask instead of answering his question. You gesture to his multiple computer screens. “Besides help me figure out my passwords.” 

“Lots of stuff. It’s mostly small things like remoting into people’s computers to help them solve their issues. I spend a majority of my day showing people how to unmute themselves on their virtual meeting software.” 

“Do you like it?”

He shrugs. “It’s got a rhythm to it that I like. I like having a to-do list every day and I can pretty much always know what to expect.” 

“That does sound nice. And you can spy on everyone’s messages right?”

He raises his brow. “On the clock?” That makes you smile and you shake your head. “I could, but I don’t. There are a ton of people who forget us and HR can see all their shit, though.” 

“Ooo like what?” 

He sucks in air through his teeth, “Man, I don’t think I can tell you.”

You can tell he’s teasing and you scoff, kicking out with your foot toward his knee. He dodges you easily with a playful grin. “Come on!” 

“I’ll tell you off the clock. Real off the clock.” 

“Fine. Speaking of - are you busy tonight?” He raises his brows in question. “We should probably meet up and try to flesh out some details of our uh… relationship. I know some things about you but not a lot. Like, when is your birthday?”

“February 18.” 

You slap your hand on top of his desk. “Vernon! That’s super soon! Are you doing anything for it?”

“Nah. I don’t ever want to make a fuss and it's close to Valentine’s Day so sometimes people are doing things retroactively.” 

You hum, displeased with the answer, but you file it away for later. “So are you free tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool, you can come over to my place. Do you like pizza? You have to like pizza, right? You’re a boy.”

“A lot of boys like pizza, yes. Specifically me.” 

“Good. Seven?” 

“Seven.” 

-

A knock at the door makes you look up from your computer. It takes a second for your eyes to adjust, the light outside the office windows long fading with the setting sun and the only other source the salt lamp behind you and the burn of the safety lights in the main cubicles.

Vernon leans against the door frame, resting his head against it as he peers at you. For a second, you forget about everything except the way he looks leaned against the frame, his glasses perfectly perched on his nose and hair soft with wear from the day. 

Then, you lurch with realization, gasping and looking at your watch. “It’s seven.”

“It’s seven,” he agrees, laughing gently. 

You bolt from the seat, groaning and grabbing things to shove in your bag. In the process, you knock over a cup and a curse flies out your lips. He pushes off the door, walking over to help you tame the chaos. 

“Easy,” he admonishes. “All good here, don’t panic.”

“I’m really sorry. I got stuck working through this media plan that someone asked for and I completely lost track of time.”

“It’s okay.” 

The panic welling up inside you calms down as you look up at him. Vernon says nothing further, picking up your cup and righting the pens that you’ve knocked over. His movements are casual, straightening the things on your desk until he’s satisfied and steps away. 

You prepare for annoyance, for the same expression you’re used to when you’re late to an event or have missed a thing, when you’ve yet again lost track of time holed up in your office and yet… Vernon just gives you an easy smile and a shrug.

No annoyance. No judgment. Just… Vernon. 

Perhaps tenfold isn’t so bad. 

“It’s not pizza, but there's a tiny little bar a few blocks down that I really like. They serve food.” 

“Yeah?”

He nods and hesitates. “It’s… themed, though.”

“That’s okay. I like a theme.”

The theme in question isn’t so much of a theme as it is an entire franchise. You stand in the doorway of Cantina Far Away, mouth parted as you drink in the sights and sounds of the Star Wars themed bar. 

A circular bar sits in the middle of the small establishment. There isn’t a ton of room to recreate the iconic corner of the world where you were first introduced to Han Solo as a kid, but there’s just enough to make the magic work. 

Kegs and other apparatuses hang from the ceiling of the stone top bar. Lights track underneath the bar top and in the ceiling, giving the dim illusion that it’s permanently dusk inside. Small, round tables fill the main space, with three booths lined against the back wall. An R2-D2 replica stands beside C3-PO in the corner, and a familiar soundtrack plays through the sound system.

“If you want to go somewhere else-”

“Do they have blue milk?” 

Vernon pauses. “What?” 

You look up at him, grinning. “Do they have the blue milk?”

“They have something on their menu like that, yeah. I don’t know what it is.”

“I always wanted to drink the blue milk as a kid.”

“Alright.” He gestures to the bar, which is mostly empty. “Let’s get you blue milk.”

Popping up on a stool, you can’t help but crane your neck upward to look at the bar from this angle. It truly looks like every part of it was taken from the movie set. You run your hand atop the bar’s surface to realize it’s actually wood that looks like stone, marveling at the smoothness. 

Behind the bar, two bartenders move in sync, dressed in Jedi robes. When they approach, you both order the blue milk - you, because you demand to know what it tastes like, Vernon, in solidarity. 

Vibrating with excitement, you turn to look at Vernon. “When I was a kid, watching Star Wars was one of the few things my mom and I got to do together.” 

“One of the few things?”

You nod, clapping your hands excitedly when the bartender brings you whatever concoction the blue milk is. It comes in a tall glass and is clear, baby blue and frothy at the top. Leaning over, you take a whiff. It smells vaguely coconutty and you narrow your eyes, leaning forward to take a tentative sip.

Coconut rum hits your tongue and you cringe. Vernon does too, making a face and sticking his tongue out as he immediately shoves the drink away from him. You laugh, not even caring that you hate it. It tastes nothing like you expected and you don’t really like coconut, but it strikes a nostalgic chord. 

“My mom was a single parent and worked really hard at a law firm,” you eventually answer, taking another sip and cringing. Vernon orders something more generic - a rum and coke for you both. “But she always made time on the weekend if I really wanted to do a Star Wars marathon and she took off work for all the prequel releases to take me.”

“That’s cute. My mom was really into it too. Want to know a secret?”

“Yes.”

“My first name is Hansol. A little inspired by Han Solo. I prefer to go by Vernon with everyone who isn’t my family, though.”

That makes you smile. “I like it, though. Your mom has good taste like mine. Think they’d be friends?”

He blushes. “Maybe.” 

You realize how forward of a question it is. You avert your gaze to your blue drink, sipping it and grimacing. Vernon chuckles and says, “You don’t have to drink it.”

“I don’t have to do a lot of things but I do anyway.” 

“Hmm. Like what?” 

“Ugh. I don’t know? Attend meetings all day?”

“I think you do have to do that.”

You scrunch your nose. “Alright, fair.” 

“Tell me about your job.” 

You glance at him, brows raised. “You want me to talk about work?”

“It’s obvious you like what you do, and by the sounds of it, working hard runs in the family. Tell me what you like about it.” 

That makes you sigh as you push the ice around in your glass. What do you like about your job? Well, you like a lot of things and you hate a lot of things. So you start listing them, telling Vernon that you like the routine and you enjoy having a rhythm to your day. You like feeling proud when you can solve a problem no one else can, or when you lead your team through chaos and they look at you like you’re a god who showed them the way.

You like that you can be an authority in the room but you don’t feel like a dictator, and that now when you talk, people listen. Your team is your favorite, loving the way you and Seungkwan work in tandem, and the way the creative department likes to pick your brain. Mingyu and Soonyoung are always asking for your feedback, even if your opinion doesn’t matter in the hierarchy of their world.

The dislikes though… well, you dislike that you never have enough time in the day. That you’re always in a meeting and feel like you leave your team drowning in work picking up the slack. Hate that you get time blindness and sit in your office for hours past dinner to get something right, to get something perfect.

Hate that because you like what you do, everyone thinks you don’t have a life or don’t want a life. And that leads you to the center of the entire issue with your relationship with Minho. 

You pull away like you’re approaching a particularly purple bruise when you near the topic of Minho. Your blue drink is gone and you order something more normal instead. The coke and rum sizzles on your tongue as Vernon looks at you expectantly. 

“I’m doing all the talking,” you mutter, a little defensive. “What’s your favorite color?” 

“Blue.”

“What kind of blue.” 

“Blue like that very nasty milk you just drank.” You stick your tongue out and Vernon smiles. His smile is like a burning star at the center of a solar system, glowing and bright and warm. It gives life. “What’s yours?”

“Deep red. Like… wine or burgundy. What’s your favorite movie?”

“Ah, not that question. I’m a bit of a cinephile.”

“Too bad. You have to pick one.” 

Vernon thinks about it. The tip of his finger traces the condensation of his glass lazily and you hyperfocus on it, watching the way he catches the bead of liquid every time. He has nice fingers, you realize. The thought makes you clench and suddenly wonder if you need to walk out of the bar down to the church to confess the sin of your mind.

Not that you’re religious, but maybe you should be, with where your mind has wandered. 

“I like The Princess Bride.”

You gasp, grabbing him by the wrist and shaking it excitedly. “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father, prepare to die!” 

Vernon’s laughter is infectious. You both fall into a fit of giggles, quoting your favorite parts of the movie. It’s nice - this is nice. It’s unexpected and you’re a little unsure how you got here, but Vernon makes the pressure of getting to know one another in preparation to fake date in front of your ex fade away.

Until, of course, you remember that’s why you’re at the bar and the thought suddenly sobers you. 

Straightening, you ask, “Why’d you want to go on a double date, anyway? You don’t owe me that.” 

“He seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying.” 

You hum, studying him. “It’s a bit risky. I dated him for a year… if there’s anyone who knows anything about me, it’s probably him.” 

“I can always just hack into your data and learn everything about you.” You stare at him, mouth opens. His grin grows. “I’m kidding. I mean I probably could but I’m not a hacker.”

“Are you sure? You’re a bit suspicious, Vernon Chwe.” 

“Hansol.” You frown in confusion. His tone is gentle, eyes soft when he murmurs, “You can call me Hansol. You know… to make it um. Seems legit.”

“Hansol.” You try out the name, liking the way it fits on your tongue. His eyes are dark and you feel like you could fall into them - you kind of want to. “Hansol. I like it.”

Maybe you don’t need to go to that church to beg for forgiveness after all. What you think you need might be divine intervention to stop the butterflies in your stomach when you say his name, or the nervous shake in your hand when you see him smile. 

Not Vernon (from IT) but Hansol. 

-

Hansol (from IT) is late when he picks you up. For once, you’re just glad it’s not you. Your heart beats a little faster when you see him pull up in his nondescript, black RAV4. He waves through the window when he sees you, a shy smile on his face as he reaches to turn down the music. 

Inside the car smells distinctly like Hansol - driftwood, salt, a little bit of the air freshener that has long since dried but still sways under his rearview mirror. He looks good tonight, dressed in ripped jeans, a black shirt and a black leather jacket. He’s sans glasses, and though he looks good, you miss them a little. 

Hansol without the glasses is a little intimidating. Especially this version of him that grins when you settle into the seat next to him, his brows slightly raised as though to ask if you’re good. When you nod, his grin tilts upward again and he puts the car and drive, one hand on the steering wheel, the other on the gear shift tapping to the beat of the music. 

It feels like you’re radiating nervous energy, but you relax as Hansol asks about your day. He’s good at that, eliminating whatever weight is sitting on your shoulders or whatever residual stress you’ve got from work. You don’t feel so… well. On the clock. 

The thought makes you squirm in your seat, pulling the edge of your dress down your thighs a little. You picked it out as a last minute choice, unsure whether you’re trying to dress to impress or dress to show you don’t care what Minho thinks of you.

Hansol notices you fidgeting. “You alright?”

“Kind of nervous.”

“Any reason in particular?”

You blow out air, your head smacking against the headrest. “On the clock?”

“Off,” he says with a grin.

“I feel like I’m going to fucking blow it.”

“How so?”

“What if he asks me to kiss you?”

The words are out before you can stop them. It isn’t until you’re met with silence that you realize what you’ve said. You’ve certainly stuck your foot in your mouth on more than one occasion. You do it often, and quite wonderfully, truthfully. It has taken years of practice to stop flubbing presentations and pitches at work, but that doesn’t mean you don’t say insane shit.

Like right now, when you tell Hansol that of all the things you’re nervous about, the very slim, tiny percent of a chance of being asked to kiss him is at the top of the list. 

And yet, because it’s Hansol, he grins and says, “Damn, Minho’s a freak like that? He likes to ask people to kiss so he can watch?”

Just like that, the tension eases. You laugh, hand flying your mouth to try and suppress it. His eyes are on the road, but they glitter when you catch a glimpse of his face in the headlines, flashing from dark to liquid gold for a split second. 

“Okay,” you admit, laughter dying down. “He’s definitely not going to ask that. It’s just one of those irrational fears, especially with him.”

“Why especially?”

“I feel like he’s always trying to prove that he was right when he broke up with me. Or I guess, in general. He loves being right and sometimes it’s like he’s trying to force a gotcha moment.” 

Hansol is silent as he turns into the parking lot. You say nothing, watching as he navigates to find a parking space. The restaurant is busy and there’s a valet, but Hansol is determined to find his own. He does - very close to the entrance - letting out a happy noise as a car backs out.

Car in park, he turns to look at you. “Can I say something? Not on the clock.”

Your heart skips a little. “Sure.”

“Minho is an asshole.” You smile, looking down at your hands folded in your lap. “And you’re going to get through dinner just fine because he’s an asshole, and you’re not.” 

“Are you sure?”

His laugh is full. “I’m actually pretty confident in this. And if he does ask us to kiss, you have my full consent to lay one on me. Come on.” 

You wish you felt as confident as Hansol seems. He slides out of the car easily, coming around to your side as you get out. He reaches out a hand almost instinctively, waiting for you to grab it. You look at him in surprise to find that he looks equally stunned at his own gesture. 

Grinning, you take his hand. It’s warm in yours and he gives you a squeeze as you drop your linked fingers between you, walking toward the establishment like a real couple.

It feels real. You’re not sure what to do with that. The sudden realization of it churns in your stomach as you approach the dark interior of the steakhouse, immediately hit with a romantic ambiance that feels far too big for this tiny thing brewing inside of you. 

Twelvefold? How many times have you suffered since that first day you ran into Hansol at the bookstore? You think it might continue through the evening, especially when he glances over at you on the way to the table to check on you, hand tightening for a split second. 

As soon as you spot Minho and Mina, you’re glad that Hansol has a steady grip on you. Mina’s glossy hair is nearly blinding under the glow of the soft lighting and her smile is brighter still. You almost want to shield your eyes as they wave you over. 

Neither of them seems to know if they should stand and greet you or what the protocol is. Good, you think, happy to see them as off kilter as you feel by this very weird and very unnecessary dinner date. 

Why had Hansol agreed to do this again? 

“She keep you late?” Minho asks Hansol, immediately reminding you why Hansol had said yes in the first place: he seemed kind of smug. I thought it was annoying. “You’ll get used to it!”

“Actually, it was me,” Hansol answers smoothly. He pulls out your chair for you, startling you again. You try to fein admiration - it’s not hard - and sit, looking up at him with a little bit of awe. Hansol sits, adjusting his seat so that it’s a little closer to yours. “I was working on an infrastructure request and lost track of time.”

That seems to shut Minho up for a moment. Then he laughs his businessman laugh and you wonder if it’s always sounded that way, hollow and fake and… well, annoying. “Damn, so you’re both like that?” 

“Yep.” Hansol leans back in his chair, stretching his arm so that it rests over the back of yours. He doesn’t explicitly touch you, but you feel the warmth of him radiating like a furnace, a shiver snaking through you at how close he is. “Works well for us.” 

You try not to frown. He’s not going to make it easy for your fake breakup. You’d assumed that you’d tell everyone you just didn’t have time for him, but with the way he’s talking to Minho now, you’re worried it’ll make the impending breakup a little less believable. 

“That’s good, then,” Minho says eventually. “Just don’t schedule any vacations or you’ll both miss it.”

“I never did that,” you scowl. 

Before he has time for a rebuttal, the server is there welcoming you to the restaurant. You shift in your seat, feeling irritated. Hansol senses it, the tips of his finger brushing against your bicep as if to tell you it’s okay. You relax, but only a little, still frustrated. 

Again, you can’t help but feel like your faults are being exacerbated, like Minho is drawing them up to be far grander than they really were. You had missed some dinners and cancelled on some things, but you’d never gone as far as to miss a vacation or a birthday - never the big things. Never the milestones. 

If the server can tell the energy at the table has shifted, they don’t let on. They pour glasses of wine that you let Hansol order while you’re spiraling in your head, and leave with the promise of coming back to take orders when the table is ready. 

It’s Mina who restarts the conversation, glancing at Minho who sucks down the entire glass of wine in a single go. “So,” she says. “What is it exactly that you do?”

“Careful with that question,” Minho jokes. “She’ll talk to you about work for hours.” 

“Which is what makes her good at her job.” Hansol’s voice is even. Smooth. Almost severe, a tone you’ve never heard from him before. Tension ripples from him for just a moment before he looks at you and smiles. “Her job is very cool.”

Unlike her blockhead of a boyfriend, Mina seizes the chance for normalcy and asks, “Marketing, right?” 

Mina (with the glossy hair) is really nice. You like her almost immediately and strangely enough, you’re glad she’s there. Minho is like a stormcloud at the edge of the table, a little pocket of pressure that everyone can feel but tries to ignore. 

Hansol makes your fake relationship look effortless. You have to mask your surprise when he recounts a detail about you that you didn’t expect him to know, or makes an observation that has you warming, ducking your face to hide the smile tugging your lips. 

You know little things about him too. It’s almost like you weren’t aware until you’re saying them, all the small things about him bubbling to your lips like an instinct. 

“He’s such an Aquarius!” You laugh, finish the rest of your steak. “The IT department is full of them, even and they’re all so effortlessly cool and have different interests. Hansol has the coolest case full of Star Wars collectibles and-” 

“Hansol?” 

Minho’s question catches you off guard. You blink at him a few times, confused until Hansol interjects, “That’s my legal name.”

“Damn. Should we be calling you Hansol?”

“Nope. Reserved for my mom and my girlfriend.” 

“Wow.”

Minho sits back and observes the two of you. The plates have been cleared away for the evening and the glasses of wine have dwindled. You’re a little sleepy, ready to go home, but the appraising look in Minho’s eyes as they flicker back and forth between you and Hansol has you on edge.

Hansol seems unbothered, finishing his water. His arm rests against your back properly now and you almost melt when his fingers start to trace a pattern on your arm, almost absently. You’re so acutely aware of him that you’re nearly vibrating, telling yourself over and over again that this is just him committing to the bit. This isn’t something to overthink. His touch is for show.

You don’t want it to be for show. God, you don’t want it to be, but you try not to let it unravel right now, instead finishing your water under the heavy and calculating gaze of your ex-boyfriend, who, over the course of dinner, has made you realize you are so grateful is your ex. 

“Huh.”

“What?” you ask, voice coming out a little more challenging than you intend. He has that look on his face like he’s trying to figure something out, like he’s trying to position himself in a way where he’s not wrong. 

“You guys are really together.”

That makes you stiffen. Hansol’s fingers go still on your arm. “What do you mean?”

“You just didn’t really seem like you were dating at the bookstore. It didn’t even seem like you knew who Vernon was.” 

“It was still new,” You lie. “I also wasn’t expecting to run into you both. That’s all.”

“I guess. Just… find it surprising, I guess. Figured you’d never have time for someone.”

It’s Hansol who says, “She has plenty of time for me. Speaking of time, it’s time we head home. I have to finish up some stuff for work tomorrow and she just finished an insane project and deserves some sleep.”

Again, Minho seems thrown for a loop. You could get used to seeing him like a fish out of water, trying not to let an evil smirk take over your face when Hansol beats everyone to the check. 

There is an edge to Hansol’s movements. You observe him quietly, noting the way his mouth is pinched at the corners and the way his eyes darken when he looks at Minho. But when he looks at you, it’s like the world stops. Hansol’s eyes soften and his lips turn up at the corner, a gentle smile for you.

Only you. 

You’re fucked. You’re fucked fucked fucked and it’s nearly all you can think about as dinner wraps up and Minho and Mina thank Hansol for paying. You want to smack him for offering to pay for the insanely expensive bill, but he takes everything in stride.

Outside, it’s a little cold. Hansol shucks his jacket off immediately, wrapping it around your shoulders while giving Mina some sort of computer advice that goes over your head because all you can focus on is the way Hansol smoothes the jacket over your shoulder, his hand dropping to your waist to keep you close.

You’re dizzy with it. Dizzy with him. You can’t recall a single time you ever felt this affected by Minho, much less anyone else. Despite having two glasses of wine, you know it’s Hansol and not the wine that has you buzzing. Hansol who has you warm, Hansol who makes it feel like there’s static in your brain when he glances at you to make sure you’re still okay after you’ve gone silent. 

Hansol gives you a quick smile and turns to say farewell to the other couple. You’re happy to say goodbye - though perhaps you should have asked Mina her haircare routine - and you wave as Hansol leads you into the parking lot, fingers intertwined.

He turns to you, making you look up at him. “I’m going to kiss you,” he murmurs, barely giving you a warning. “Unless you say no.” 

“I - okay.” 

There is the barest of smiles on Hansol’s face before he leans in, pressing his lips against yours. It’s brief and gentle, so quick that you barely register he’s kissed you at all. He’s already pulling away when you blink, nearing his car as he does. 

“He was a dick,” Hansol explains. “And he was staring at us when we left. So. Let him question what’s real now.” 

Minho isn’t the only one questioning what’s real. You’re hung up on the kiss, despite it being nothing more than a peck. Your mouth is warm, thoughts spinning as Hansol helps you into the car. You say nothing, completely consumed by the feel of his mouth, the smell of driftwood and salt, the barest taste of wine. 

The drive home is quiet but not uncomfortable. Hansol’s hand grabs yours instinctually over the center console, fingers tied together loosely as he drives. But there’s no one to perform for her, no one to show off too. No one who needs convincing. 

It’s just you and the burning desire for him bubbling up inside of you.

You’ve lost count of how many folds you have suffered, but somehow, this one is a little less worse than the others.

-

Hansol cannot stop thinking about you. He’s pretty sure the last time he had brain rot this bad about another person, it was Larcy Dodsen in his senior year of college who had blown him to heaven and back. He’s had better (and worse) blowjobs since then, and doesn’t really think of Larcy Dodsen ever anymore.

But you. You. 

You occupy every corner of his mind. He wavers back and forth between thinking about the way you smell or the way you laugh (a little reedy, but cute) and thinking about how bad he fucked up by kissing you that night. 

Things aren’t exactly weird. The very basis of your relationship - or lack thereof - is weird. He’d agreed to be your fake boyfriend for a month, but with zero terms. No contract outline. No do’s and don’ts. No guidelines. No rules. No regulations. Just an agreement and a fucking dream. 

Now, he’s wishing he had something to go off of, because what started out as an agreement to help someone out has turned into something else entirely. 

Chan was right. Hansol is desperately trying to hide that fact from his best friend, but the way Chan side-eyes Hansol at lunch when he stares off into the distance, he thinks that the younger  man might be onto him. 

It doesn’t help that Hansol is buried in Help Desk tickets the weekend following kissing you, and you’re six feet under in a pile of projects. It isn’t until he goes a few days without talking to you multiple times that it’s occurred to him how much he texts you during the day. 

Hansol finds himself checking his phone again at lunch, swearing that he felt it vibrate. This time, Chan catches him, putting down the fork and clearing his throat to gesture at the phone. “So it happened, right?” 

“What?” Even Hansol winces at his own defensiveness. “I can’t check the time?”

“Do you check the time three times every five minutes? I know you can do math.” 

“Just checking to see how her presentation went.”

Chan laughs and crosses his arms over his chest. “Right. So it did happen.”

“You’ll have to be more specific.”

He doesn’t. Chan knows it. Hansol knows it. Chan gets more specific anyway. “You like her. As in, you have feelings for her after… well. This weekend will make it a month. So wouldn’t that be your deal coming to an end?”

Hansol wants to think about anything other than that. “Everything is fine.” 

Chan holds up his hand, a white flag. “You’re an adult. You can do what you want. Just make sure you know what she wants too, is all I’m saying.” 

And that’s the crux of it. Hansol isn’t sure what you want. He assumed that you just wanted to get through this month and your fake breakup, but now he’s not so sure. He thinks of the way you’d look at him during dinner last weekend, the way your expression gets dreamy with a soft smile, eyes glowing. 

Hansol doesn’t think he made it up - his creativity is good but not that good. He had been so sure that you felt something too, swears that you melted into him every time he touched you, every time he turned to check in on you.

And the kiss… it had been brief and born from wanting to rub it in Minho’s face, but Hansol had wanted to do it, too. Wanted it for himself. Wanted to allow himself a single, greedy thing. You’d been surprised but leaned into him, almost instinctual. It had been so short but it haunts his dreams, the phantom press of your mouth keeping him up late at night. 

Even now, Hansol’s fingers trace his mouth, as though he can remember the feeling of your mouth against his. So maybe Chan is right. Hansol likes you - has feelings for you. There is a lingering sense that you might too, but he’s not sure. 

He needs to be sure. 

Finding a window to make sure, is tough, though. He only hears from you once throughout the rest of the day, and it's to shoot him a quick text that the presentation was moved to Monday and that you have to work all weekend on it. 

He feels more disappointed than he lets on. He wonders if you remember his birthday is on Saturday. Not that you owe him that since you’re not actually dating, but in a perfect world Hansol thinks it might have been a good day to tell you how he feels. That he kind of wants to make this thing real. 

On the bright side, you do remember his birthday. On the shitty side, he can’t spend it with you. You’re working on your presentation for the foreseeable future, and Hansol had hesitated to make plans with his friends knowing some of them were celebrating Valentine’s Day late with their partners and because he’d hoped to maybe spend it with you.

It feels stupid, thinking about it now. Of course you weren’t going to spend it with him. He knew what this was when he offered to do it. You were a bright burning star at the top of the company, and Hansol had been someone you barely registered. 

By the afternoon, he’s still sullen. He’s thinking about just spending the evening eating pizza and playing video games online where he’ll get bullied by a bunch of high schoolers when he hears his phone ring and your name flashes across the screen.

Hansol’s heart soars. He all but throws the control across the room, diving to pick up the phone and answer, “Hi!” 

“Please don’t hate me,” you rush out, completely out of breath. “I am panicking right now. My work laptop randomly got the blue screen of death and I’m in the middle of my project and-”

“I’ll come look at it.” He cringes, realizing how down bad he is. It’s his birthday and he shouldn’t have to work, but he’d rather come solve a problem for you than have a bunch of thirteen year old’s tell him that they’re fucking his mom. “I can come over in fifteen.” 

“Oh! Uh… can you make that twenty?” 

Weird. “Sure?” 

“Great! Text me when you’re here and I’ll give you the unit number.” 

Twenty minutes ends up being perfect, because Hansol goes through the mental anguish of what to wear, which is new for him. He showers as quickly and efficiently as he can, hopping with one leg in his jeans and the other missing the hole multiple times. He nearly runs into the wall as he’s pulling on a band tee over his head while also looking for his flannel. 

Hair still damp, he pulls on a hat and twists it around backward, grabbing his glasses because he doesn’t feel like wearing contacts (and because you said you liked them) as he barrels out the house, radiating with nervous energy. 

Hansol wonders if it’s appropriate to tell you how he feels today. It will be face to face but… no. You’d sounded stressed on the phone and he knows how important this presentation is for you, despite not knowing what it’s about. 

He barely remembers the drive to your apartment, blinking and realizing he’s parked and texting you that he’s there. You give him directions to your unit and with shaky hands, Hansol turns off the car. He takes a few steadying breaths before getting out and heading to the stairs, his heart hammering with each step. 

When he finally gets to your door, he double checks that it's the right one. His hands shake when he knocks, and he has to remind himself several times that he’s just here to fix your computer. Sure, he’s thrilled that he gets to see you, but this is on the clock. Not off.

You’re breathless when you open the door. “Hi!” You say a little too loudly. He raises his brows but you open the door and step aside, ushering him in. “Come on in.”

Hansol gives you an amused grin as he walks into your apartment. He’s confused as to why it’s completely dark, a question that he’s about to ask you as you shut the door, but you flick on the lights and he’s met with the world’s loudest shout of surprise he’s ever heard.

He flinches, hand flying to his chest in terror as the lights flood on and Hansol realizes that the reason they were off is to hide the obscene amount of Star Wars decorations covering every part of your apartment. He can’t even picture what your home is supposed to look like, just that it’s covered in streamers and paper Luke Skywalkers and RD-D2s, and filled with familiar faces.

Hansol’s mouth pops open as the crowd screams at him. Chan and Seokmin are at the forefront, phones in hand capturing Hansol as he stands there, dumbfounded. Soongyoung and Mingyu are blowing through noise makers with so much force that the paper on them breaks, and Seungkwan is leading an off-key rendition of happy birthday with Hansol’s friends you’ve never even met.

Slowly, Hansol turns to look at you. You’re standing behind him, hands clasped nervously and tucked under your chin as you watch him, terrified. You’re chewing on your lips, entire frame vibrating with energy. 

He wants nothing more than to walk over to you and kiss you stupid. The flame of desire that licks through him is borderline impossible to tamp down, staring at you like the eighth world wonder as you slip over to him, scanning his face.

“Surprise?” You squeak.

“You did this for me?”

“Well, yeah.” 

You say it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. He wants to pin you against the island counter behind you, but it’s fill with food and beverages and blue fucking milk. “Is that okay?” you ask, suddenly nervous. 

Hansol softens and starts to laugh. “Yeah,” he shakes his head. “It is more than okay.” 

Before he can say anything else, the crowd of people crashes into him. Seokmin and Chan are screaming in his ear, grabbing him and yelling for shots. Mingyu and Soonyoung are chanting his name and his best friend from college manages to squeeze in and give him a hug and a birthday greeting.

How did you even know Minghao existed? Or how to contact him? Hansol has no idea, but before he can ask you any questions about the how or the why, he’s swept into your kitchen for birthday celebrations he thought would never happen, orchestrated by the single person he wanted to see most. 

Fuck was Chan right more than ever. 

-

The thing about being a bad liar is that you found it nearly impossible to hide what you were doing from Hansol. The thing about everyone thinking you’re always busy, is that it was an easy facade to shield the sheer stress of trying to plan a surprise party for him. 

Your apartment is filled with more people than you’ve ever dared to let inside. It makes you a little nervous for all of these people to see this new part of you, but with a little bit of rum and the released pressure of Hansol looking like he’s enjoying himself, you decide it’s worth it. 

Squished in the corner of your couch, you watch as Chan leads a game of cards that he is losing very badly at. Most of these people in your apartment are casual friends, with the exception of Seungkwan who is playing DJ in the kitchen, but they’re all friends that Hansol would want at a celebration for him.

At least, that’s what Chan and Seokmin said. Recruiting them had been pretty easy, but during the process of them helping you plan this, you’re pretty sure they’ve caught on to the AT-AT Walker-sized elephant in the room: you are very much into their friend. In a very Not-On-The-Clock appropriate way. 

Now, you watch as Hansol makes his way over to you, dodging people who stop to talk to him. He seems pretty determined to reach you, clapping someone on the shoulder and moving them aside to continue his journey to you. 

Your stomach flips when he sits on the arm of your couch, perched perfectly next to you. He looks good today, dressed in jeans, a soft looking tee and a flannel. The backwards hat does wonders for you - which you will not be psychoanalyzing now - and his black frame glasses. 

“How did you do all this?” He asks, shaking his head in wonder. “I just… what?” 

“It wasn’t easy, but it worked, right?”

“Is this the presentation you’ve been working on all week?”

“Yes. Please don’t be mad at me for lying.”

He laughs. “I couldn’t be mad at you if I tried.” 

An argument breaks out over cards, Chan and Mingyu yelling at each other about someone cheating. Hansol winces at the noise and you scoot a little closer to avoid the deck of cards Mingyu throws in Chan’s direction.

“Is there anywhere quiet we can talk?” Hansol asks, though he’s laughing at them. “They’re giving me a bit of a headache.” 

You grin. “For sure.” 

Getting up, you lead Hansol down the hall to your bedroom, which is off limits to the rest of the party. The good thing about adult festivities is that no one is a weirdo about going into rooms they shouldn’t, staying exactly where it’s appropriate to be. 

Shutting the door behind you, the noise of the party dies down immediately. It’s dark in your room, save for the single lamp burning in the corner at a low setting. You realize it’s a bit messy, apologizing to Hansol as you kick clothes out of the way. You hadn’t intended on bringing him in here, and suddenly the implication of Hansol standing in your room tingles down your spine. 

“I, uh-” You stammer, looking at him. “Sorry it’s a mess. I didn’t intend on anyone seeing this.”

Halloween yowls, getting up off your bed. Hansol makes a surprised sound and you apoogize again, “It’s just Halloween. He likes to sleep in here. Out, kitty!”

You open the door and Halloween bolts out, going to find Seungkwan who will give him snacks. 

Hansol grins and wanders over to the bookshelf, looking over the titles. You take a few steps to follow him but keep your distance, suddenly very nervous. He points his finger at a title and looks at you, inviting you to step closer to read it in the dim light. 

You recognize the title - you’d bought it the day you’d crashed into him and got some of your books mixed up. 

“This one one of the books you accidentally swapped with me,” Hansol notes, running his finger along the spine. You zero in on his finger - his hands, in general. They’re pretty. You swallow hard, looking up at the ceiling instead. “Have you read it yet?” 

“Not yet. I started one of the others but I’ve been having trouble breeding - reading lately.”

Hansol presses his lips together in a flat line and you can tell he’s trying not to laugh at you. Warmth floods your face and you want to die on the spot, especially when he turns to face you head on, leaning against your bookcase. 

His eyes are dark, drinking you in. Your pulse skyrockets, thinking about that quick kiss he had given you the other night. It’s all you’ve been able to think about, too afraid to ask him if it was just for show and too busy trying to plan this party to work out what to say about it.

Now, alone in your room, the questions fizzle on your tongue at the nearness of him. 

“Thank you,” Hansol says eventually. “For planning this. I… would never have expected you to do that.”

“I wanted to celebrate you.”

He blushes, ducking his head. “It’s sweet. It did make me nervous, though.” 

“Why?”

“I thought you were avoiding me, kind of.”

You blink. “Why on earth would I be doing that?”

“Thought that maybe I took it too far with the kiss.” 

“No. You didn’t.” 

Hansol’s gaze falls on you. It’s razor sharp and there’s something there, burning just under the surface. You swear it’s something like desire, but you’re too afraid to name it. Too worried that it’s just what you want reflected in his glassy gaze, and not his. 

Then, “Did I not take it far enough?” 

The question hangs in the air. You cannot hear anything but the pounding of  your own heart. It’s just Hansol in this dark room with you, looking at you with exactly the same hunger that’s been churning in your gut. 

You don’t know when this hunger started. All you know is that the last few weeks, it’s been there. Every time you look at him you feel it ignite, the desire so raw that you don’t know what to do with it. 

Now, you know he feels it too - see it, in the way he waits for your answer. Patient. Calm. Steady.

“On the clock?” You ask, voice shaky. He shakes his head no. “You could go further.” 

That’s all Hansol needs. He’s gentle when he reaches for you, cradling your face in his hands. You barely get to suck in a trembling breath before he’s kissing you.

This kiss is entirely different from the peck he gave you in the parking lot last weekend. This kiss steals the breath from your lung, his mouth confident and sure as he slots his mouth against yours. He smells like the sea, all driftwood and salt and his lips taste like the tangy drink he’d been sipping on earlier.

Everything else fades to the background. Your hands twist in his flannel. It’s soft, but nothing compared to the softness of Hansol’s tongue as he licks at the seam of your lips. You let him in and he groans, pulling you in impossibly closer as the kiss turns more desperate.

You melt. He kisses you hungrily now, sucking your tongue into his mouth. It makes your head spin, the party long forgotten as you press further into him. The bookshelf wobbles under the weight of both of you leaning against it, making you break, both of you panting.

Hansol’s mouth shines with your spit in the low lamp light and you have the urge to lean forward and lick it. You resist, only for him to give into his urge. He leans forward, tongue pressing to the corner of your mouth gently. 

“What about now?” he mumbles, voice muffled against your mouth. “Too far?”

“No.”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat, hands dropping to your waist. You let him grip you, backing you up toward your bed. It’s a bit clumsy but you don’t care, hands looping around his neck to keep him close.

“Tell me what you want,” Hansol mumbles. Your knees hit the bed and you let yourself fall backward. He follows you, caging you in with both of his planted on either side of your head. “Tell me how far you want me to go.” 

“On the clock?”

“Fuck no. Nothing I want to do right now is on the clock.”

“Good. I want you to go as far as you want.”

He drops his mouth to your neck. A moan slips between your lips when you feel his tongue scrape across the soft skin of your throat. He sounds strained when he says, “You gotta tell me, baby. I need to know what you want.”

“You.” It’s the most honest thing you’ve said all month. “All of it. Everything. But for real.” 

Hansol nods. He presses messy, wet kisses up your neck, along your jaw, stopping at your mouth. His nose nudges yours and he smiles against your lips, giving you a chaste peck. “You’ve got me. For real.” 

Grinning, you slide your hands underneath his shirt. He moans, throaty and delicious. He twitches under your exploration but he lets you brush your palms up the warmth of his stomach, reaching around until your hands are gripping his lower back. 

His mouth attaches to yours again. The kiss is messy and addictive, Hansol filling your senses as he lowers himself so that his weight is rested on top of you. It’s comforting and wanted, your knees squeezing his hips to hold him in place. 

One of his hands leaves the mattress to drop to your hip, squeezing before he scratches his nails against your thigh. You shiver, feeling the stimulation through your jeans. His hand slips under you, gripping the curve of your ass to lift you a little, pressing you closer to him.

A moan slips through your mouth to his when he rolls your hips against him. The stimulation isn’t remotely enough but you like this version of Hansol. His touch is confident, his lips intentful as they leave a trail from your mouth to your collarbone. 

With one last squeeze to your ass, Hansol traces his fingers over the tops of your thigh to drop between your legs. He presses his fingers to the apex of your thighs, working you through your clothes. You let out a desperate sound and you feel the way he smiles against your skin. 

His touch sparks a flame. You tear at his flannel, peeling it from his shoulders. He helps you get it off of him but he’s just as eager to peel you out of your jeans and shirt. A deep curse leaves his mouth when he sees you in just a bra and underwear, your chest heaving as you pant, staring up at him, mouth swollen and tender. 

Reaching for him, you grab the hat and throw it. “Hat is very hot,” you admit. “But I wanted to do this.” 

You slide your fingers in his hair, curling them through the strands to tug him back to you. He smiles into the kiss, tangling his tongue with yours. His hand skims up your thigh, fingers leaving a trail of goosebumps as he goes until he slides his hand back between your legs.

A gasp leaves you as he presses his fingers back to your cunt, pressing the fabric into your aching clit. He whispers a string of curses when he feels how damp you are, resting his forehead against your shoulder for a moment as he teases you over your panties.

“Please,” you whisper, hips rising off the bed. “Want more.”

“Mhmm.” He lifts his head and gives you a quick kiss to the cheek. “I’ve got you.”

Hansol doesn’t make you beg. You like that about him. Your breath catches when he drops to his knees, reaching his arm up to pull the back of his shirt over his head, tossing it. The sight of him between your knees in just jeans, his hair mussed and mouth swollen is enough to make you dizzy.

You prop yourself up on your elbows, watching with hooded eyes as Hansol grabs you by the calves, spreading you a little more. His hands are gentle and warm, rubbing up and down while he takes his time pressing a myriad of kisses up the right side of your inner thigh. 

It feels so good. Your lashes flutter a little, breath coming in quicker. Everywhere his mouth touches tingles, a little path of buzzing electricity as he makes his way closer and closer to your heat until he switches sides.

You make a sound of protest and Hansol looks up at you through his lashes, grinning. He looks smug, leaning forward to bite your thigh playfully. It stings but it feels good, making your fingers twist in the sheets. 

“Feel good?” he whispers, pressing his tongue to soothe the sting. You nod, mouth parted, unable to speak. He smiles again, dragging his tongue down your thigh. You think you might die right there. 

Hansol makes his way back up. He drags his burning gaze up to meet yours, deliberately making eye contact as he presses the flat of his tongue against your underwear. If it wasn’t soaked before, it is thoroughly drenched now. You suck in a sharp breath, knees closing on instinct to squeeze against his shoulders.

He chuckles, dragging his tongue upward where it presses against your clit momentarily. He brings one of his hands up, pressing his middle finger right against your hole. You feel yourself clench around nothing and you know he knows, his grin wicked. 

"What do you like?"

"I... don't know."

He looks at you, pausing. "You don't know? Like what makes you come?" You shake your head and realization lights his eyes. "That jackass didn't make you come, did it?"

You shake your head and he groans.

“Don’t worry,” Hansol promises with another languid lick to the soaked fabric. “I will make up for all the times you didn’t get to come.” 

“Fuck.”

Vernon (from IT) has been replaced with Hansol (the Menace). He hooks a finger in the crotch of your underwear, pulling them to the side. He drags a knuckle against your pussy on purpose, both of you groaning in unison. 

Eagerly Hansol leans forward, giving you a teasing lick. Your fingers dig into the mattress anyway. You can do nothing but stare at him, watching the way Hansol drags his dark eyes up to watch you as he drags his tongue through your folds again. 

“Shit,” you hiss at him, a shiver wracking your body.

He seems pleased, shooting you a quick smile before he brings his mouth to you again, sucking gently. He avoids your clit at first, working you up slowly. Hansol eats you out like he has all the time in the world, like there’s no where he would rather be than tonguing your pussy. 

It drives you mad, his name slipping from your lips in little gasps. His tongue circles your clit, applying pressure indirectly, working you up and up until finally, he closes his mouth around the throbbing bundle of nerves, suckling. 

“Ohhhh,” you laugh, half delirious. “That. Whatever that is.” 

He hums, parting only to say, “You got it.” 

You see God when he fastens his mouth to you, sucking your clit gently. Dropping back against the bed, you twitch and gasp under Hansol’s ministrations. He sets a rhythm, adding his fingers to the mix as they press against your entrance. He doesn’t push in, but rather traces a pattern, making you squeeze. 

Panting, you drop a hand to his hair. He hums in delight as you tangle your fingers in the strands, bringing him closer to your cunt. You feel like you’re burning up, your sheets sticking to your skin, the room spinning as Hansol eats you out in earnest now. 

No one has ever seemed this dedicated to your pleasure. He doesn’t let up for a second, fingers and mouth working in tandem to bring you to a cliff of insanity. All you have to do is jump and dive head first into an orgasm. 

You do. Hansol works you right to the very edge and you topple over, falling into it hard. You go taught but he holds you down, fighting your spasm as you come hard. He doesn’t miss a beat, the obscene sounds of him slurping at you drowning out the pitiful, high pitched whine that leaves you. 

In a wave of exhaustion, your orgasm subsides. You flop on the bed, still shaking as he removes his mouth in favor of pressing slick, cum-stained kisses to your thighs. You lift your head and his eyes meet yours, flashing wickedly. 

He pauses, looking at your wet, messy cunt back to your face. “Want a taste?”

Hansol (the Menace) is going to kill you.

You nod and he smirks. He runs his tongue generously up your pussy, making sure to dip into your entrance just a little before he stands up and leans over you to press a filthy kiss to your mouth. You suck at his tongue greedily, tasting yourself and him, a combination you’ll never get tired of. 

One of his hands snakes up to your chest, tweaking a nipple gently, testing the waters. You nod, breaking the kiss with a gasp, “Yeah.” 

“Gonna work you open with my fingers,” he slurs. He kisses down your neck again, working his way to your chest. “That okay?”

“More than okay.” 

“God,” he whispers. “You sound so fucking good when you come. Want to hear it again.” 

There is no doubt he will. Hansol rids you of your bra before returning to suck greedily at your chest. Your nails bite into his shoulders, dragging down his sides as he presses a finger into your warmth. 

“God damn,” he laughs. He plucks at a nipple with his teeth and you curse. “You’re so fucking wet.” 

“On the clock?”

“Fuck no. My finger is in your pussy.”

“I am really turned on.”

He gives your other breast a playful bite. “Good. Now I want you to come apart on my fingers.” 

That won’t be an issue. Hansol gets you there embarrassingly fast. He finds the sensitive spot inside of you with ease and doesn’t hold back, pressing another finger in. He works you toward another orgasm like it's easy - and maybe for the both of you, it is. Maybe Hansol was meant to have you like this, gushing around his fingers and babbling nonsense as you come again, his mouth pressed against your hammering heart. 

Maybe he was meant to have you fucked out and light-headed by the time you’re helping him out of his jeans, sliding his briefs down his muscular thighs to free his cock. The tip is dark and sticky, weeping with precum when he pins you to the bed, catching you in a bruising kiss.

Gone is the patient Hansol who had started with gentle kisses to your thighs, replaced by his need to have you. To consume you. You let him, willing to let him do whatever he wants. You want his pleasure just as much as he wants yours, slipping your hand between your bodies to palm his cock, heavy and warm in your hand.

He whispers your name and it sounds like a prayer. His forehead presses against yours, letting you pump him slowly. His hips twitch as though he’s fighting to control himself, letting you have your fun before he growls and grabs your hand, lacing your fingers to pin above your head. 

Hansol scoots you up the bed, putting you where he wants you. Gone is the sweet guy from IT, replaced with whatever this is. You like this side of him equally, listening to him when he asks you to lift your hips so he can slide a pillow under your ass.

With a kiss to your brow that feels sweeter than the moment allows for, Hansol lifts your leg, prying you open for him. His cock is heavy against your cunt and he ruts a little, making you both whine in tandem. 

“You still want this, right?” He asks, voice shaking. “For real?”

“Yes.” You squeeze the hand he has laced with yours, pinned to the mattress near your head. “On the clock. Off the clock. Literally all of the hours.” 

“What if I refuse to change your computer password?”

That makes you laugh. He gives you a glowing smile, kissing the tops of your cheekbones. “Even then,” you promise. 

“Good. Try breathing for me when you come this time.” You give him a look and he smiles. “Did you think you were done? I told you I was making up for lost time.” 

He doesn’t give you a second to retort, his cock pressing in at that exact moment. “Ohhh you fucker,” you moan and he laughs, which makes things worse. You squeeze around him hard, barely breathing as Hansol slides in to the hilt, the pressure and stretch divine. “You did that on purpose.”

“I did,” he admits before trapping you into an uncoordinated kiss. 

With one hand holding yours to the bed and the other sliding under your ass to help lift you with the pillow, Hansol sets a slow pace. You continue to kiss him, just as slow as he fucks you. He is deep, cock brushing against your g-spot on every upstroke. 

Your free hand slides to his lower back, urging him to keep going. His tempo is measured, perfect, the angle of his hips just right. You start to feel insane, mumbling his name, whining between kisses, making a pathetic noise when he increases his pace. 

Hansol fucks like he knows exactly how you like it. Of course he does. Even from the moment in that bookstore, he had you figured out. No one else has been able to adjust to you like he has, no one else has been able to understand - to see you. 

“Fuck,” he hisses when you start squeezing on him for harder and longer. He’s pushing you toward that edge again, so close you’re already seeing stars. “Pussy feels so good.” 

He shuffles up the bed more, folding you a little. You make a wild sound, gasping as the angle pushes his cock in deep. “Holy shit, Hansol.” 

“That the spot?” he asks, and you nod. He starts fucking you in earnest, pace picking up. “God damn I could do this all day.” 

“Keep doing that and I’ll let you.”

He laughs and kisses you again, all tongue and teeth. You start to spasm, feeling the way your muscles clench as you near your third orgasm. This one is tight in your stomach, a pressure that is so compact you feel like you’re going to combust.

“Breathe through it,” he reminds you, out of breath as he chases your high. “You can do that, yeah?”

You nod, saving your breath for when he tells you to use it. 

A few more hard strokes and you’re doing exactly as instructed, taking in a deep breath as your orgasm hits. You see white, shaking underneath Hansol as the warmth of your high blooms in your lower stomach and expands. It’s better than the first two, stretching longer, the feeling reaching to your toes. 

You manage to breathe all the way through it, barely hanging on as he fucks you through the entire length of your high. He presses his mouth to your temple, slowing his pace to let you recover. You feel melted, like your bones and muscles have all gone on vacation, leaving Hansol to do the work for you.

“Good?” he asks, breath fanning your face.

You nod and wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him close. “You,” you mumble. It’s not a complete sentence, but he gets what you mean, kissing you quickly before chasing his own high, gritting his teeth. 

As spent as you are, you do your part to help him get there, squeezing with what strength you have left, whispering his name, pulling him in close with a leg around his hip. It works, sending Hansol over the edge and spilling into you within a few seconds. 

He curses into your shoulder, pace turning sloppy until he finally stops, hips pressed to yours, cock sheathed to the hilt. Both of you stay like that, trying to catch your breath in a sweaty pile of limbs.

Hansol recovers first, shifting so that he can lay next to you. He pulls out, a mess of cum and fluid going with him. You don’t care, rolling to your side to kiss him slowly. Softly. He rests an arm over your hip, keeping you connected. 

“This is a great birthday,” he jokes, voice hoarse. “I uhhh, forgot there was a party. No one will think we’re fake dating now.” 

You grin. “Whatever. We’re not on the clock.” 

He kisses you again. “Thank god. Cause I really want to do this again in fifteen minutes.”

You smile, really glad that Hansol (the Boyfriend) is on the same page as you.

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FIC TAGS

i. PROLOGUE

They say the wolf is easy to spot; sharp teeth, wild eyes, a presence that makes the air heavy. But the ones you should fear most don’t growl or bite.

They smile.

You learn quickly that love can be a kind of violence, dressed in warmth, whispered through promises that sound like salvation. That obsession doesn’t always come crashing like a storm, it seeps in like fog, soft and suffocating, until you no longer remember where it began or if you ever wanted to escape.

He smiles at you once, and you understand.

Some wolves don’t hunt. They wait.

And you… you were always going to walk straight into his jaws.

ii. WHEN EYES FIRST CAUGHT

You were born into a world already carved out for you, the youngest daughter of the CEO of one of the largest conglomerates in the country. From the moment you opened your eyes, you were the family’s spoiled and sheltered baby, wrapped in silk and money and expectations you didn’t yet understand.

Your father was a busy man… too busy, always too busy. He threw money at you like it was a cure, like it could bandage over the hollowness his absence left behind.

When you were little and tugged at his sleeve asking to spend the day with him, he would never meet your eyes for long. He’d offer you an excuse about business, the same tired phrases again and again, his tone clipped and distracted.

“Daddy has to work. There’s a meeting I can’t miss.”

“Later, sweetheart, I’ll make it up to you.”

“Don’t pout. Here… tell the driver what you want. He’ll take you anywhere. Buy anything.”

And he always did. He’d return with gifts before you even had the chance to sulk for long. The newest dollhouse, the latest limited-edition toys, dresses that glittered like glass under the light. Anything your little heart desired would appear in your room the next day, wrapped in glossy boxes with ribbons so elaborate they looked like they belonged in a store display.

Growing up, you were fine with it.

You told yourself you understood; your father was an important man, a man who carried the weight of entire companies on his shoulders. He couldn’t be expected to sit and play with you for hours. You accepted the trinkets and treasures as proof of his love, even if it was filtered through his wallet rather than his time.

But as you grew older, into your teenage years and then into a young adult, something inside you began to shift. You started buying the most expensive, most unnecessary things you could find, not because you needed them, but because you wanted him to notice. You wanted his attention, even if it came in the form of scolding.

You remembered the way his face would crease when he saw the ridiculous things you spent his money on. He would sigh heavily, press his fingers to his temples as if warding off a headache, and lecture you in that halfhearted tone that sounded more like habit than genuine reprimand.

“Do you even understand the value of this money? You think it grows on trees?”

“One day you’ll have to wake up and realize the world doesn’t work like this. You can’t just buy happiness, you can’t just throw money at everything.”

And you, leaning lazily against the expensive new car he had technically paid for, would roll your eyes and mumble something under your breath, “Hypocrite.”

You weren’t listening, not really. Because even in his irritation, at least he was looking at you. At least he was talking to you.

You had only one sibling, an older brother named Jaemin. And where your father gave you indifference wrapped in money, Jaemin gave you something sharper. His hatred for you was not the normal teasing cruelty of an older brother; it was a deep, festering resentment, the kind that dripped into everything he did.

He wished you had never been born, and he never tried to hide it.

When you were children, he despised the way you butted in when he had his friends over, your small frame appearing in the doorway with wide, curious eyes, asking questions and demanding attention. He loathed the way you always came out on top of your classes, every report card earning praise from your mother while he stood on the sidelines, overlooked and compared. He hated the spoiled way you lived, how you wore your father’s indulgence like a crown, how you rolled your eyes at lectures and shrugged off reprimands.

Your mother was the only one who truly loved you.

The only one who gave you attention without conditions, who brushed your hair back from your face and kissed your forehead when you cried. She was the one who attended every recital, every event, the one who defended you when your father grew frustrated, the one who clapped the loudest when you succeeded.

She loved you fiercely, openly, without measure.

And then, four years ago, she died.

Her health had been declining rapidly, the illness she had stealing her away from you piece by piece until finally, there was nothing left.

When she was lowered into the ground, it felt like part of you was buried with her.

Your father stood at the funeral like a statue. Stoic. Unflinching. His face was unreadable, his eyes dry. He didn’t cry. He didn’t mourn. It was as if the love he had once shared with her had long been eroded by boardrooms and contracts and time. And Jaemin, your brother had looked almost relieved, his mouth set in a flat line, his gaze wandering, as though the woman who had favored you had been nothing more than a nuisance to him.

So you mourned alone.

You mourned every day.

Because your mother had been the last person who made you feel loved, the last person who made you feel important, wanted. She had been your anchor in a world that otherwise only gave you neglect or resentment.

And when she was gone, it was as if the world had decided you didn’t deserve warmth anymore.

That was true.

Until Choi Seungcheol.

You knew the name long before you knew the man.

He was the Chief Operating Officer of your father’s empire, the second in command, the right hand your father trusted most.

Seungcheol was relatively young compared to the other men that filled the boardroom with their gray hair, thinning crowns, and paunchy middles, but youth had never disqualified him. He was sharp, so sharp it seemed he cut through every problem before it could even form. Smart, hardworking, ambitious, the kind of man who wore discipline like it was stitched into his very skin.

Your father admired him. More than that, he treated him like a son.

A bitter irony, because Jaemin was his real son, and Jaemin loathed Seungcheol for it.

Jaemin believed it was his birthright to inherit the company, to sit on that gilded throne as CEO simply because he was the eldest child.

But your father, for all his flaws, was not a fool.

He had built the company from nothing, brick by brick, deal by deal, and he could see how irresponsible Jaemin was, how his short temper and laziness would ruin years of labor in less than a year.

Your father had considered you, of course. You were everything Jaemin was not; focused, clever, unshaken. But in your father’s eyes, you were still a woman, a woman who gets distracted by shiny and pretty things, a woman who spends money as if it did a matter-of-fact grew on trees, and women, to him; no matter how capable… had no place in a world of men who devoured each other across long tables of glass and steel.

That left Seungcheol, the strongest candidate of all. And yet, every time your father so much as hinted at succession, Seungcheol would shake his head with a calm smile and say, “Sir, you’re still young. Retirement is far away. Jaemin has time to grow. He’ll learn.”

You remembered the first time you met him.

It wasn’t earlier in your life, despite his years at your father’s side. He had been working for your family for so long, but somehow, fate never pulled you into the same room. At company galas you were off somewhere else, still in university, or across the world shopping with your friends.

You never crossed paths, not until a year and a half after your mother’s death.

It had been an ordinary morning when your father called, his voice clipped over the phone. “Your brother forgot his phone and laptop at home. Bring them to the office.”

You had scoffed, irritation curling hot in your chest. Why couldn’t one of the dozens of secretaries do it? Why did you have to be the errand girl for your sorry excuse of a brother? You were about to refuse until your father added, in that cold way of his, “If you don’t, I’ll cut your card in half.”

So you went.

The building your father built from the ground up loomed like a monument, glass and steel kissing the sky, its sleek lines reflecting back the sun. You slipped out of the car with oversized sunglasses covering your eyes, strutting through the lobby like you owned the place… because technically, you did.

Employees turned discreet glances as you passed, your heels clicking a steady rhythm against marble floors. The elevator ride to the top floor was smooth, silent, the air tinged faintly with expensive cologne and disinfectant.

When the doors opened, you stepped into the private floor, greeted Mina, your father’s longtime secretary, with a polite nod, and let yourself into the office without knocking.

The scene inside froze for a second.

Your father sat at his massive desk, stoic as ever, papers stacked neatly in front of him. Jaemin stood across, mid-rant, his hands gesturing wildly as he bitched about something or whined about someone.

And there, sitting in one of the leather chairs opposite your father, was an unfamiliar man; unfamiliar, but arrestingly handsome.

Their eyes all darted to you at once.

“Sweetheart, I’m glad you’re finally here,” your father said, his voice flat, his expression unreadable as always.

“Took you long enough,” Jaemin muttered, snatching the phone and laptop out of your hands with zero gratitude.

“You should be thankful I even came, Jae,” you giggled softly, offering him a smile you knew he didn’t deserve, swallowing down the urge to cuss him out in front of a stranger.

Your father cleared his throat. “Darling, this is Choi Seungcheol,” he said, gesturing toward the man across from him. “My Chief Operating Officer. I don’t think you two have ever met before.”

You turned your gaze to him fully then. His black hair was styled neatly, framing a face both sharp and soft all at once. His eyes, dark and cutting, raked over you with a gaze that was far too deliberate, lingering long enough for you to feel the heat of it travel your skin. A dimple carved into his cheek when he smiled, slow and devastating, as he rose to his feet.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he said, his voice rich and smooth as velvet. He extended his hand, and when you placed yours in his, his grip was firm yet warm.

“The pleasure’s all mine,” you politely smiled back.

He held on longer than necessary, his eyes locked onto yours in a silent exchange you couldn’t quite name, before he finally let go.

Your father continued, almost oblivious to the tension sparking in the air. “Seungcheol has been with me for years. He’s young, but don’t let that fool you. He’s the most reliable man I know. Hardworking, level-headed. If there’s anyone who understands this company inside and out, it’s him.”

Jaemin scoffed under his breath. “Yeah, we all know how perfect he is.”

Your father shot him a warning glance, but pressed on. “He handles operations with precision. Nothing slips past him. If I’m not here, he’s the one people go to.”

“Because that’s not supposed to be me, right?” Jaemin cut in again, his tone sharp with bitterness.

Your father ignored him.

“Don’t you have somewhere else to be?” Jaemin turned to you then, venom dripping in every word.

You tilted your head, smiled sweetly, and said with mock excitement, “Yes, I do! Something very important.”

Your father didn’t even look up from the papers in front of him as he asked, “What is it?”

The question was routine, nothing more.

“I’m going to get a massage, a facial, and my mani and pedis. Maybe even go shopping,” you replied brightly, your tone light, teasing even.

He only nodded halfheartedly, his pen scratching against the paper, his eyes still down.

Jaemin snorted. “Very important. The world would stop spinning if you didn’t.”

You simply nodded, smiling, used to it by now, letting his sarcasm roll off like water.

Unbeknownst to you, Seungcheol had been watching the entire exchange closely.

At first, his gaze had been fixed on you, his attention unshaken, drinking you in as if you had pulled the air straight out of the room the moment you stepped through the door. Then, as Jaemin’s words sharpened and grew cruel, Seungcheol’s eyes flicked toward him, hardening, daggers barely concealed behind his polite expression.

Finally, he spoke, his tone even but laced with quiet conviction. “If it makes her happy, then it is important.”

The words silenced the room for a second. You turned to look at him, surprised, and your smile this time was genuine. He smiled back, slow and sure, that dimple deepening again.

“Well,” you said softly, breaking the silence, “I’ll leave you all to it. Goodbye, Dad. Jae.” Your gaze lingered a heartbeat longer on Seungcheol before you added, “Mr. Choi.”

He inclined his head, polite, though his eyes still followed you as you walked out the door, the click of your heels fading down the hall.

iii. THE WOLF NOTICES

The moment you had walked in, Seungcheol thought the room shifted. You weren’t what he had expected, not that he had been expecting you at all.

For years, he had worked by your father’s side, known of the daughter who lived in luxury, seen your name splashed across tabloids, whispered in passing. But the real thing, the reality of you was sharper, brighter, and infinitely more dangerous than idle gossip could ever suggest.

The sunglasses you wore slid down just enough for him to catch the curve of your lips, the glint in your eyes. You walked like you belonged there, and in a way, you did. Confidence cloaked you like silk, the kind of ease only someone born into power could wear so naturally.

He had thought himself immune to distraction; meetings, boardrooms, negotiations, nothing ever shook him. But the second your laugh cut through the tension, light and teasing at Jaemin’s expense, something inside him bent.

When your brother sneered at you, Seungcheol’s jaw clenched. He had always known Jaemin was reckless, entitled, bitter. But watching him spit that venom at you, watching the way you took it with practiced grace, unbothered, unbroken… he felt something stir in him.

A quiet, simmering urge to protect, to defend, to shield.

And so he had spoken, his words deliberate. “If it makes her happy, then it is important.”

The way you smiled at him in response, it left an echo in his chest.

When you finally left, offering him that final glance, polite but laced with something more, he realized he was still standing, hand tingling faintly from where it had held yours.

The wolf, Seungcheol thought, had just found something worth watching.

From then on, he never really left your side.

Not in the obvious way, not as if he was tethered to you, but in the careful, deliberate manner of someone who knew how to move without being seen until he wanted to be.

It was a shocking development for you.

You had never expected to be close friends with a man who was nearly ten years older, who wore his authority like a perfectly tailored suit. But here you were sharing silences, lunches, and the strange rhythm of companionship with Choi Seungcheol.

After your initial meeting, you found yourself seeing him more often.

At first, it was nothing; polite smiles exchanged in the corridors of your father’s empire, a nod of recognition whenever you crossed paths in the office. It was impersonal, courteous, and you told yourself that was all it would ever be.

Until your father, in one of his rare bursts of paternal insistence, proposed that you intern for him instead of flying off to Paris or Milan again to “waste time and money.”

“You need to do something with your life,” your father had said in that clipped, dismissive way of his.

You had rolled your eyes and countered, “I just graduated. Don’t I get a few years to figure out what I want? Isn’t that normal?”

The truth was simple… you didn’t enjoy business.

You never had.

The reports, the numbers, the endless chatter of investors, it bored you, drained you, made you wonder if you had been born only to be spoiled, to live a life of indulgence without consequence.

And honestly? You didn’t see anything wrong with that.

But the house, the one your mother once filled with warmth, was suffocating now. Each room carried her absence like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing. The silence was oppressive, the marble cold. You needed something to distract yourself, and so, reluctantly, you agreed to intern.

That’s when Seungcheol began to move closer.

At first, he was just there during breaks. Your father was too busy to notice you, Jaemin couldn’t be bothered, and you didn’t care to make friends with anyone else in the company.

Seungcheol filled that space without asking. He would sit beside you in the break room, his presence calm, his attention steady. He didn’t demand conversation, he let you speak when you wanted to, and when you didn’t, he filled the silence with quiet remarks that somehow made the air less heavy.

Sometimes, he’d take you out to eat. “Come on,” he’d say, holding the elevator door for you. “You’ve been staring at that screen for two hours. Food is non-negotiable.”

Other times, when you were too busy or too stubborn to leave your desk, he would appear with takeout bags, sliding them onto your table without ceremony. “Eat,” he’d tell you simply. “You’ll get sick if you don’t.”

And you, strangely, would listen.

It became a rhythm.

Even on his days off, you’d find yourselves together. Sometimes at cafés, sometimes driving aimlessly just to waste time, and sometimes at your estate.

When your father invited him over for meetings, Seungcheol would linger long after, slipping out only to climb up your window like some ridiculous storybook character.

You’d laugh when you saw him, sprawled in your armchair as if he belonged there.

“Do you even realize how insane this is?” you’d whisper, tugging him away from the curtain in case the staff noticed.

He’d grin, unbothered. “Friends climb windows. It’s a rule.”

“Since when?”

“Since now,” he’d reply without hesitation, and you’d roll your eyes, though the corners of your mouth betrayed you with a smile.

Sometimes he stayed until you drifted off to sleep. He’d lean against the wall, arms crossed, watching you breathe until your lashes fluttered closed. Once, when you asked him why, he answered in that calm, low tone of his: “Because that’s what friends do. They stay until you’re safe.”

It was unsettling, the way he listened to you. Really listened. You weren’t used to that. When you spoke, he didn’t glance at his phone or nod absentmindedly. He leaned in, absorbed every word, and sometimes repeated them back to you later, as if to prove he hadn’t forgotten.

You remember one evening, sprawled on the couch with him beside you. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just… existing. My dad is pressuring me to do something just like my brother, but it’s just like I was made to be spoiled and nothing else.”

“You think being spoiled means you’re useless?” he asked, his eyes sharp in the dim light.

You shrugged. “Doesn’t it? That’s what my brother always says.”

“No,” he said firmly. “It means people should have taken you seriously sooner. It means they underestimated you and that you have the all the power to do nothing while everyone does everything for you.”

You blinked at him, surprised. No one had ever said it like that before.

And so, without either of you saying it aloud, your friendship began.

But Seungcheol was always watching.

You noticed it in the little things first, from the way his gaze followed you when you moved around the office, the way his hand would shoot out instinctively to cover the sharp corner of a desk when you bent down to pick something up. The way his shoulders stiffened if someone brushed past you too closely in the hallway.

Once, a junior employee bumped into you, muttering a rushed apology. You brushed it off with a laugh, but Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed into a glare so sharp the poor man practically ran away.

“Cheollie, relax. He didn’t mean it,” you whispered.

“He should’ve been more careful,” he muttered, his jaw tight.

Another time, you struggled with a stack of files that threatened to topple from your arms. Before you could ask, he was there, effortlessly taking the weight from you. “You’re not supposed to carry things like this,” he chided.

“I’m not helpless,” you shot back playfully.

He gave you that look, half amusement, half warning. “No. But why struggle when I’m here?”

Even outside the office, he hovered. At a crowded restaurant one weekend, a waiter brushed too close to your chair. Seungcheol’s hand settled on the back of it, a silent claim, his eyes tracking the waiter until he was out of sight.

You didn’t think much of it, naïve enough to chalk it up to friendliness, to that fierce protectiveness you found comforting.

Seungcheol learned your habits quickly. What drinks you preferred. The way you always peeled the crusts off your sandwiches. The exact moment your mood shifted from amused to irritated. He adjusted himself around you with subtle precision, guiding you with a hand at your back, distracting you when the air grew too heavy, steering you away from things that would darken your expression.

You never noticed how deliberate it all was. You only knew that he was there, always there, quietly absorbing, quietly guarding. And when his eyes lingered too long, you told yourself it was nothing.

After all, friends watched out for each other.

iv. THE COMPANY YOU KEEP

Your father noticed first.

He always noticed more than you thought. His eyes had been on you for years, sharp as knives and cold as stone, the kind of gaze that could slice through silks and pretenses alike. You thought you were careful. You thought the friendship, the hours of laughter, the stolen moments, the lunches tucked away in quiet corners was yours to keep.

But he saw.

He always saw.

It happened late one night, in the quiet of his home office.

The room smelled faintly of whiskey and paper, the heavy oak desk drowning in documents you doubted he ever actually read. He was in his chair, back straight, hands folded, his face an unreadable mask. You stood before him, already feeling too small, too much like a child again despite being a woman grown.

“Sit,” he said, calm, commanding, as though he were addressing another executive and not his youngest and only daughter.

You sat, the leather of the chair cold beneath your palms, your stomach twisting as you realized this wasn’t just one of his endless talks about “responsibility.”

His eyes bored into yours, heavy, deliberate, suffocating.

“I’ve been observing something,” he began slowly, his voice low and even. “Your… relationship with Seungcheol.”

Your throat went dry. Your fingers curled against the chair’s arms. You forced your voice to stay steady.

“We’re just friends,” you said, the words tumbling out too quickly, too defensively.

It was true.

At least, it should have been. But you felt the guilt the moment it slipped past your lips, the way your chest tightened, the way your gaze faltered. Because it wasn’t the full truth. There was a part of you that wished it wasn’t just that, a whisper in the back of your mind that admitted only to yourself that you were drawn to him, that he was almost too good to be true.

Your father’s mouth pressed into a thin line. He leaned back slightly, his eyes narrowing.

“That better stay that way,” he said firmly. His voice wasn’t raised, but it was enough to cut through you like glass.

Your heart sank, your lips parting, but he didn’t stop.

“You will not be a good influence on Seungcheol.”

The words stung before you could stop them. You opened your mouth, but his hand lifted in warning.

“He is a serious man,” your father continued, each word deliberate, cruel in its control. “A man with a future. He will need a strong and serious woman by his side. And you,” his eyes locked onto you, unyielding, “are none of that. You will ruin him.”

Your breath hitched. The sting behind your eyes burned as though your tears were waiting for permission to fall.

“Do I make myself clear?” he asked, his tone sharp now, cutting away any chance of argument.

You swallowed hard, blinking furiously, the tears refusing to fall in front of him. You nodded, your voice caught in your throat, unable to say anything more.

“Good. You may go.”

Dismissed like an employee at the end of a meeting.

You stood on shaking legs, the unshed tears burning at the corners of your eyes. You turned, hand gripping the doorknob as though it was the only thing tethering you to yourself.

When you opened it, the world outside the office felt too wide, too heavy.

And there he was.

Seungcheol.

Leaning casually against the wall, his phone in hand, dressed sharp but relaxed in a way only he could manage. He was waiting for his meeting with your father, his head bent, scrolling through something. He hadn’t heard. Relief hit you for a fleeting second.

But then he looked up.

His eyes widened, shock flickering across his face as he took in your expression; the damp shine at the corner of your eyes, the slight tremble in your lips. His phone dropped to his side instantly.

In two strides, he was in front of you, his hands cupping your face, his thumbs brushing instinctively against your skin.

“What’s wrong, angel?” His voice was low, urgent, laced with something close to anger and worry all at once.

You shook your head quickly, forcing a smile so brittle it hurt.

“I’m fine,” you lied softly. “I was just yawning, and it made my eyes water. That’s all.”

“Don’t do that,” he pressed, brows furrowing, his grip steady on your face. “Don’t pretend. Tell me.”

Your heart twisted, but you pushed the smile harder, shaking your head again.

“I’m going to bed,” you said firmly, gently pushing his hands down. “And my dad’s probably waiting for you. You should hurry in.”

He searched your face, as though he could tear the truth out of you with just his stare.

“Baby—”

“Goodnight, Seungcheol.”

You turned before he could say more, your steps quick and uneven as you retreated down the hall. Behind you, you heard him sigh, frustrated, but he didn’t follow.

In your room, you shut the door, your chest heaving. You changed quickly, hands fumbling with your clothes, grabbing the first satin nightgown you could find; blue, the fabric clinging soft against your skin. You brushed your teeth, washed your face, your movements too rushed, too desperate to outrun the words echoing in your head.

You will not be a good influence on Seungcheol.

He needs a strong, serious woman.

You are none of that.

You will ruin him.

The sting burrowed deep.

It wasn’t just the insult, it was the way your father had said it, so certain, so final. As though you were doomed to be a disappointment not only to him, but to the one person who had made you feel seen in so long.

What hurt worse, what made your chest tighten until it was almost unbearable, was the thought of someone else, another woman, strong, serious, perfect; standing at Seungcheol’s side instead of you.

You didn’t understand why that image made your throat close, why it hollowed something in you.

You curled into your bed, eyes squeezed shut, fighting the tears until exhaustion pulled you under.

You didn’t hear the soft scrape of your window opening.

You didn’t hear the careful footsteps across your room.

A few minutes later, Seungcheol was kneeling beside your bed, his tall frame folded in the dark, his hand reaching out to gently brush a lock of hair from your face. His gaze caught the faint wet trail across your cheek, a tear that had escaped after all. His thumb followed its path slowly, and then, with a deliberate motion, he lifted it to his lips, tasting the salt of your sorrow.

His eyes darkened.

He watched you sleep, his gaze heavy, drinking in the sight of your body rising and falling with each breath. The satin of your gown had ridden up, baring the length of your thigh to the cool air, and still he stayed, his hand twitching with restraint.

Minutes passed before he bent down, pressing a kiss to your forehead, lingering there longer than he should. When he pulled away, his jaw was tight, his expression unreadable.

Seungcheol left as quietly as he came, but the storm inside him followed into the night.

Behind the wheel of his car, his knuckles whitened as his grip strangled the steering wheel. His jaw locked, muscles tense, eyes burning as the memory of your father’s voice replayed in his mind; every insult, every dismissal, every word that made you cry.

He had heard it all.

And it lit something dangerous in him.

Something that whispered he needed to do something.

Something soon.

It was as if fate had heard the vow that burned in Seungcheol’s chest that night.

A domino effect followed, one piece tumbling after the next, each obstacle pushing the two of you closer and closer until there was no more room to pretend.

A few days later, you sat in his office during your afternoon break, a cup of coffee in your hands as though its warmth could shield you from the memories of that night with your father.

You had perfected the art of pretending by now; eyes bright, lips curved into a smile, laughter slipping past your mouth like nothing had ever happened.

You were fine. You were well. A master at pretending.

But Seungcheol saw right through you.