You hated parties.

You hated parties because they were loud, because spaces with that many bodies on top of each other were too suffocating, because men always tried to hit on you with boozy breath and wandering eyes.

Now you hated parties because they made your boyfriend want to stick his tongue down other girls’ throats.

Jaehyun had managed to destroy nine months within three minutes – that’s the length of time you’d convinced yourself you’d spent standing there, unable to avert your gaze from the horror unfolding in front of you. Three whole minutes that he hadn’t even noticed your presence, too preoccupied. Too focused on kissing this random girl like he had something to claim, as if you weren’t enough. And worst of all, he hadn’t even cared enough to bring it somewhere private. They were in a corner of the living room, tucked away but not hidden. It had only taken a little bit of squeezing between partygoers and quick apologies to make your way to them. 

They had gathered a crowd, too. A few spectators, voices meant to be whispers – drunk people can’t seem to mind their own volume. 

“Yo, is that Y/N?” 

“Nah, I just saw her getting a drink.” 

“Shit…she’s gonna be so pissed.”

At least the alcohol hadn’t made them completely brainless. You were, in fact, pissed. There was the unmistakable heartbreak too, but you weren’t going to let anyone see that. Instead, you blinked back your tears and cleared your throat to make sure the words didn’t get stuck. Each step you took towards him made it more real, until you were close enough that you knew he could hear you over the raging music.

“What the fuck are you doing?” you hiss, far from an actual question. Your voice still broke on the last word, and you hoped he hadn’t noticed. As soon as he registers that it’s your voice, his girlfriend, Jaehyun tries to push the girl away, feigning disgust. It’s almost pathetic in a way, his little act. 

“Shit, Y/N,” he curses. “I didn’t mean to – fuck, I didn’t mean for this to happen, I just – ”

He stumbles on his words as if his mouth wasn’t working perfectly fine just seconds before. When he tries to inch towards you, you step back, refusing to allow him the comfort. 

“You’re fucked, Jaehyun,” you say flatly. That’s as much of your energy as you would give him, at least for now. He’d embarrassed you enough by kissing another woman in the middle of a party; you decided against escalating your humiliation by shouting at him and causing a scene. You turn on your heels and begin pushing through bodies again, away from him, and you can tell he’s following. You can hear your name, barely reaching your ears but definitely there. 

Once you make it out of the most concentrated pool of people, he staggers soon after and latches onto your wrist. The same fingertips that used to run across your skin so gently now felt like betrayal and poison. 

“Let me go,” you snap. His grip loosens slightly, but he still holds you there, determined to defend himself. 

“I fucked up, I know, but please just hear me out,” he begs, as if he has the right to. His excuses are the last thing you want to hear right now, and you know that’s all they would be. Stupid excuses for a stupid “mistake,” and it makes you sick to even think about listening to him explain why and how he ended up making out with another woman in the corner of a party he asked you to go with him to.

“No! Fuck you, seriously,” you spit, words laced with venom you prayed would hurt him even a fraction of the way he hurt you. 

And perhaps they did, or at the very least stunned him, because he drops your arm entirely. Now, you take the final steps towards the door, reaching for the handle. He tries to follow you again, unsatisfied, unrelenting. “And if you follow me out this door, I promise you I’ll never speak to you again.”

That stops him in his tracks. Maybe gives him some hope that if he just lets you cool off for the night, you’ll let him explain in the morning. Regardless of how he perceives it, you lunge at the opportunity to escape, finally making it out the door and into the crisp night air. It hits your skin viciously, your skirt and halter top offering little protection from its bite. You’re cold, heartbroken, and, worst of all, not even nearly drunk enough to mask it. 

Without the vivaciousness of the party, you can only see Jaehyun kissing her in your mind, can only hear the hushed whispers of the onlookers, replaying on a torturous loop. You’d only made it down the steps of the house before the tears began to fall. Now you let them, assuming you were away from prying eyes. 

Unfortunately, you hadn’t noticed someone standing right next to the door while you and Jaehyun had your little spat. A certain someone who would get far too much enjoyment out of such a scene. You had been followed once more, but this time not by your stupid cheating ex boyfriend, but by his equally as stupid “rival.” It was still a mystery to you why they hated each other, and at this point, you didn’t care at all to find out.

“Those were some harsh words,” he chuckles, and you don’t even need to turn around to recognize the voice. The same way you don’t need to turn around to know he’s smirking. You hurriedly wipe your eyes, careful not to smudge your makeup; the last thing you need is him to see you crying, another thing for him to derive sick pleasure in. You wouldn’t dare grant him that.

Because it was an unspoken relationship rule that an enemy of your partner is an enemy of your own. So, for no real reason other than the fact that Jaehyun hated him, you hated Bang Chan. 

“Fuck off, Chan,” you snarl, quickening your pace. It doesn’t matter, since he catches up to you in a few short strides. “Why the hell did you even follow me out here?”

He steps in rhythm with you, making it clear he had no intentions of leaving. Not until he got what he wanted, whatever that may be. The satisfaction of seeing you broken? The chance to remind you how shitty Jaehyun is and how great he is? You aren’t sure, but you keep walking anyway.

“I just didn’t expect to hear you say such things to your boyfriend,” he answers. His emphasis of “boyfriend” makes you both angry and repulsed, then bitter and devastated. Nine months of your life gone in minutes, and now you had the displeasure of dealing with Chan on top of it.

You scoff and finally stop, turning to face him for the first time. His eyes twinkle with something devious, and it infuriates you. “He’s not my boyfriend. Not anymore.”

“Oh?” he draws his head back in shock. He’s silent for a moment, and you fold your arms across your chest, glaring at him in a way he finds cute more than intimidating. “I’m surprised you two lasted this long, actually. Figured it was about time for Jaehyun to do what he does best.”

You blink at him incredulously, his careless words cutting deep. There’s no reason anything he says should bother you, but there’s something about it that stings. And Chan notices, too, watching your entire face shift from rage to sorrow. Your features soften in a way he’d never seen before – you’d only ever looked at him with hatred and annoyance – and it deflates him. 

“I don’t know why you two don’t get along. Seems like you should be best friends – you’re both fucked up,” you retort quickly, though it comes out as a strained whisper. 

Chan hates being grouped with him, especially in your mind where Jaehyun now seems to be synonymous with evil. He never expected to be giving you of all people an apology, but he figures he needs to. For his own consciousness, of course. Definitely not because he felt an odd pang in his chest when you looked at him with something other than disdain for once.

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said all that. Are you alright?” he asks cautiously. He never thought he’d be so relieved to see someone roll their eyes, but when you do, he swears he feels ten times lighter. Your hostility he could navigate, but your sadness was uncharted territory; he was glad to be back to familiarity. And since you hadn’t walked away from him yet, he takes the chance to dig deeper. “What did he do?”

“Like I’d want to talk to you about it. Just give it a few hours, you’ll hear about it from someone, I’m sure,” you shrug, trying to pretend that you’re unbothered. That you don’t care that you’ll likely be the talk of campus, the woeful ex-girlfriend people will look at in that pitiful way they look at small, broken things. 

As much as you hate Chan, you’re grateful he isn’t looking at you like you’re small or broken. He’s looking at you the same as always, like you’re a challenge, a puzzle he hasn’t yet solved. Maybe that’s why you decided to keep standing there, holding more of a conversation with him than you’d likely ever had before.

“Probably. But I want to hear it from you. So tell me, what happened?” he asks again.

He doesn’t say it with demand or snark. It sounds almost unsettlingly genuine. It sounds like someone that isn’t Chan, or at least the Chan you’re familiar with. You hesitate, conjuring up another smart remark, but you let it die in your throat. 

“He fucking cheated on me. He was making out with some girl in front of everyone. Can you believe that?” you chuckle sarcastically, forgetting who exactly is standing before you. “Nevermind…I’m sure you can believe it. God, I’m so stupid.” 

“No, you’re not stupid,” he says adamantly. “He’s stupid. An even bigger idiot than I thought, actually.”

It angers him more than it should that you’re degrading yourself over Jaehyun’s horrible decisions, and he has a fleeting thought of going back and telling him off for it. And as the thought passes, he can’t understand why. He knows you hate him. He knows you have likely been fed lies and half-truths by Jaehyun for months. He knows he shouldn’t care about any of this. He can’t seem to figure out why he does. 

“I just can’t get that image out of my head. It’s making me sick,” you mumble, and it replays all over again. The ear-splitting music, the crowd, his lips on hers, that look on his face when he saw you. All your emotions bubble back up to the surface and come out as a loud groan, though internally you just want to scream until your throat is raw. “I wish I could make him feel even half of what I feel right now.”

The idea that pops up sounds ridiculous in his head and likely even more so said aloud, but his mouth opens before he can stop himself. “Well, maybe you could,” he trails. 

“I know it may be hard for you to believe, but I’m actually a good person,” you sneer. “I would never cheat.” 

He laughs dryly and you furrow your eyebrows in confusion, awaiting an explanation. “Believe me, I know you’re just a perfect princess,” he mocks, and you’re certain if you roll your eyes any harder they’ll get stuck like that. “But who said anything about cheating? Besides, you’re not together anymore,” he reminds. “And there’s only one thing I can think of that would drive him just as mad.”

You’re intrigued now, though doubtful there’s anything that could reflect the same level of hurt you currently felt. Anything rational, at least. Still, you wanted to hear whatever silly idea Chan had, if not for your own amusement. 

“Which is what?” you question.

“Being with me,” he answers, too quickly, too plainly, as if it was something entirely normal and not an absolutely insane statement. When your eyes widen, he continues, waving his hands urgently to indicate you had gotten the wrong impression. “Okay, not for real, Jesus. Like faking it, you know? Just for him to see and lose his mind.” 

That was quite possibly the last thing you expected, and you’re forced to laugh at the absurdity of it. You wait for him to join in, to tell you he was joking just to fuck with you. That would have been the Chan thing to do. Instead, he stares at you, a half-smile playing on his lips. 

“Yeah, okay, you’re insane,” you scoff. 

“Is it that insane?” he says smugly, poking his tongue in his cheek. “Think about it, imagine how pissed he’d be seeing us together.”

For a moment, you can’t help but realize how attractive he actually is. It’s not that you hadn’t noticed before – you had perfectly functional eyes – but now being single and also inches away from him, it was an unavoidable fact. It made you almost begin to consider his idea. Almost.

“Yes, it’s insane! Just because I gave you five minutes of my time on a shitty night doesn’t mean I want to talk to you ever again, let alone pretend to date you.”

“Oh, Princess Y/N gave me five minutes of her precious time, thank you so much,” he quips, and this time he’s the one to roll his eyes. “Whatever, I gave you a guy’s perspective on how to get back at him. You’re not gonna get any better revenge than that.”

“And what do you get from it?” you ask, certain there must be some mutually beneficial aspect beneath it. There’s no way he would suggest something so outlandish without thinking of his own gain, and you know that’s true when he grins wickedly.

“Just the satisfaction of seeing his face when he realizes he lost his girl to the one person he hates more than anything.”

You aren’t sure why you hadn’t grasped that from the beginning. All Chan wanted, as always, was to get under Jaehyun’s skin, to take something of his, to win. The idea is still crazy, and far more theatrical than you’d usually approve of, but you’re a lover scorned.

Then, you think back to the unspoken rule, the sole reason and origin of your hatred for Chan. Jaehyun hadn’t even followed relationship rule number fucking one: don’t cheat on your girlfriend. So, you figured you could break some rules and allow some theatrics.

“Okay. Okay, fine, I’ll fake date you or whatever,” you huff, trying to ignore his triumphant smirk. “But nothing weird, alright? And once it’s all over, we go back to hating each other.”

He throws his hands up like it’s offensive you’d even insinuated it. “Believe me, that’ll be no problem,” he agrees.

“Good,” you say simply, a forced tight-lipped smile on your face.

“Good,” he repeats.

The silence that falls over you two is uncomfortable, only disrupted by the sound of the wind lifting leaves along the sidewalk and the faint thumping of music. You can still see the house down the road, and it makes you wonder if Jaehyun is still inside and if he went right back to her. Suddenly, you feel the need to get home and cry in the shower with your carefully-curated sad music playlist. 

 “Well…I’m gonna go back to my dorm now,” you finally speak, shifting on your feet awkwardly.

“I’ll walk you,” he offers without a second thought. 

You can’t help the way you exhale a little too harshly. Truthfully, you just wanted a short walk on your own to process all of the nights’ events, including the proposal you’d just accepted. And you had already spent more time than you’d like with Chan for one night (although you know you’ll have to spend much more now).

“Uh, no thanks. I don’t think we need to start the whole fake dating thing right now,” you reject bluntly. 

He pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head, trying to stop himself from saying the wrong thing. He’s just trying to do a nice thing, the right thing, but you have a way of getting under his skin. The next few weeks are surely going to be a challenge. “It’s not for that, Y/N,” he sighs. “It’s late and dark out. Just let me make sure you get home safe, please?”

The roads are lit only by streetlights and the moon shining above, and you shiver from both the chilly air and the thought of making the walk to your dorm alone. You’d expected to be going home with Jaehyun, definitely not on your own in the middle of the night. 

“Fine,” you agree reluctantly. “But can we just walk in silence? Not really in the mood to talk anymore.”

You deliberately exclude that you feel like if you keep talking, you’re going to break. You’d kept a relatively strong front – far stronger than you thought you’d be after being cheated on – but it was slowly crumbling. Maybe it was all the adrenaline that kept your emotions contained, because now everything was slowing down and soaking in. 

“Sure,” he nods, following closely behind when you turn and begin taking steps forward. Your dorm is ten minutes away, and you walk side by side, arms occasionally brushing against each others. You only make it about two minutes in before he stops, shrugging off his jacket. Then, he holds his hand out, gesturing to it when you stare dumbly. 

“Here,” he offers. “You’re freezing.”

There’s no denying that he’s right, but that didn’t mean you were going to wear his jacket. You could survive a few more minutes of the cold, even though your skin was covered with goosebumps that hadn’t gone away since you’d first left Jaehyun at the door. “I’m not wearing your jacket, Chan,” you shove his hand back. 

Before you can start walking again, he drapes it around your shoulders, ignoring the glares you send his way. 

“Do you always have to be this stubborn?” he groans. “You’re literally shaking, but God forbid you wear my jacket.”

You click your tongue and pull your arms through the sleeves anyway, mumbling a grudging “thank you.” The newfound warmth was a great comfort, and you’re so wrapped up in it you don’t notice the way he steals short glances over at you. His eyes drag down your body, drinking in how his jacket sits on your shoulders like it belongs there. How the sleeves fall past your wrists and the hem lines your thighs, still mostly exposed from your skirt length of choice. How you look good wearing something of his.

And then he curses himself for even thinking it, tearing his eyes away even though he really doesn’t want to. He clears his throat loudly, awkwardly, trying to ground himself, and you look over wordlessly. Any words you were going to say get caught in your throat when you notice how muscular his arms are now that they’re no longer covered. 

Still, neither of you speak again, both thinking silent thoughts that you’d never let the other know. Once you arrive at your dorm building, he walks you all the way to your door despite your protests, muttering something about you being stubborn yet again. 

“Thank you for walking me home,” you force out, gratitude sounding like exasperation. Your back is pressed against the door, hand wrapped around the handle. All you want is to throw yourself in bed and sob and sleep at this point, but Chan’s presence keeps you in the hallway.

He nods, combing a hand through his hair, wondering when it became so difficult to think of the right words to say to you. “Try not to think about him too much tonight, alright?” he sighs. “I know that’s hard, but just try to get some sleep or something.”

Such gentle advice sounds odd coming from his mouth, and he waits for your sarcastic reply. Counts on it, actually. 

It doesn’t come. Instead, you smile at him weakly, telling yourself you simply don’t have the mental capacity to go back and forth with him anymore. Not that you were actually hating him a little less. 

“I’ll try,” you assure. “Oh, yeah. Here.” 

You pull off his jacket, the one that had begun to feel a little too comfortable, and fold it over your arms towards him. 

“Keep it. You can wear it around or whatever,” he suggests indifferently. It would make your fake relationship more believable, but beyond that, it would appeal to that small part of him that enjoyed seeing you in it. 

Fuck, what had gotten into him?

“I won’t,” you sass, bringing the jacket back to your chest anyways. 

He runs his tongue along his teeth, chuckling. “Of course you won’t. So stubborn.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Stop being that,” he shoots back.

Seemingly, you’d met your match. Someone who could keep up with your quick retorts, your mouthiness. And it came in the form of a man your ex boyfriend hated, a man you hated. You weren’t sure why that made it all the more exciting for you. 

His gaze lingered, a curious glint in his eyes. He was trying to piece you together bit by bit, but you were a more difficult puzzle than most. 

“Have a good night, Chan,” you say, finally turning the handle. When the door swings open, he finds himself looking around unintentionally, another opportunity to figure you out. He can see a few plushies on your bed, posters lined on the walls, and framed photos he can’t quite make out. There’s probably some of you and Jaehyun, and he hopes those are long gone by the next time he ends up at your dorm.

You slip inside hastily, and he realizes he’d been too engrossed in examining your room to respond. The door comes to a close in front of him.

“Yeah, you too,” he breathes out when you can’t hear, standing there just a few moments longer.

Once inside, you wait to hear the sound of his footsteps padding away, and when you do, you crack. The pictures of you and Jaehyun sit on your bedside dresser, mocking you, and you slam them down against the wood. You’re partially inclined to throw them against the wall and hope they shatter, but you don’t particularly feel like cleaning up glass shards through tears. 

At least you let the teddy bear he gifted you stay on your bed, unharmed. An innocent soul caught in the crossfire, a child of divorce even. 

“Fuck Jaehyun, fuck parties, and fuck this whole night,” you curse, though it comes out in choked sobs. And fuck Chan, your brain wants to say, but you bite it back. He had walked you home, given you his jacket…and become your fake boyfriend (soon to be, anyways) within the span of thirty minutes. Still, he was annoying, arrogant, impossible-to-deal-with Chan.

 As much as every fiber of your being yearned for the soft comfort of your bed, you trudge to your bathroom and start the shower, making sure to put on your playlist while the water warms. Because if you were going to be heartbroken, you were at least going to be heartbroken while listening to Cigarettes After Sex.

After thirty minutes of crying and scrubbing your body of any traces of Jaehyun, you finally step out and decide to check your phone for the first time since everything had completely unraveled. Apparently getting cheated on was all you needed to reduce your screen time, so maybe that was a positive?

Naturally, there’s a few texts from people you could hardly consider friends but would now act like you were with feigned sympathy, full nosiness. Among them, however, is a text from a number you hadn’t saved.

y/n? 

who’s this?

I’d say the guy you hate the most but i think someone else might’ve taken that spot

Chan. It was almost impressive that he managed to sound annoying even through texts.

ha. and how’d you get my number…?

I asked someone for it. you think they’ll take the bait?

they’ll probably just think you’re a freak who goes for recently heartbroken girls.

Nah. that’s not really my type.

oh yeah? what’s your type then?

You watch as the typing bubble pops up and disappears a few moments later, and then nothing. Minutes pass and you assume he’s leaving you on read, and that’s fine. It’s late, anyway, and after such a thorough cleansing and crying session, you’re exhausted.

So it’s no surprise when your phone buzzes again just as you manage to get comfortable in bed. 

Just because that’s not my type doesn’t mean i have a type

“Liar,” you mumble to yourself. Whatever, it’s not like you care who or what he’s into. In fact, you’re glad he didn’t answer. Who knows what kind of weird things he’d come up with, if not just to irritate you. 

okay, boring

What about you then? what’s your type?

You’re torn between giving him a genuine answer or something along the lines of “basically the antithesis of you.” Then, you realize you can probably do both at once, since you don’t consider Chan to align with any of your dating criteria.

i like someone who’s warm, attentive, and can make me laugh. someone who notices the little things, too

Yeah, definitely not Chan. But then again….

That can’t be right. i mean, you ended up with jaehyun

Also not Jaehyun. That was something you could admit now, but it was different coming from someone else. Like you were the only one who couldn’t see the flaws, the incompatibility. You feel stupid all over again, trying to ignore the way your throat began to tighten once more.

i’m going to sleep.

Hahaha Aw man. i was having fun.

goodnight, chan.

Goodnight princess

The nickname might’ve been a term of endearment from anyone else, but from Chan, it was a thinly veiled taunt. You save his contact with a very fitting eyeroll emoji just to spite him, finally drifting off to a surprisingly peaceful sleep soon after. 

“What an asshole,” Jihyo hisses. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there, you know I would have ripped into him.”

With all the craziness of the night, you hadn’t even thought to text any of your friends. It was one of the rare times none of them could make it out with you, and now you were being inundated with questions over lunch.

You wave her off, poking at your plate idly. “It’s fine, I promise,” you sigh. 

“Has he texted you today?” Mina asks, glancing down at your phone on the table. You look down too, half-expecting to see another flurry of messages from Jaehyun – he’d already sent about twenty since the morning, all going unanswered. 

“Yes,” you groan, unlocking your phone and passing it to the two girls for them to read the same desperate pleas you’d been spammed with. They scroll through, mouths slightly agape. “Should I answer? I’m worried he’s gonna end up showing up at my dorm if I don’t.”

“Here, let me answer,” Jihyo says, and you reach over and snatch the phone out of her hands before she can type. It wasn’t that he didn’t deserve whatever insults she’d send his way, but that you worried any response would entice him at this point. 

To satisfy her, you finally text him back, telling him to leave you alone and that you would let him know when you were ready to talk. You truly had no idea when that would be, but any more silence from your end would inevitably have him tracking you down on campus. 

Then, you remembered the other half of the night, the part where you agreed to fake date the same man your friends had heard you complain about more than once. There was no way you were going to keep that from them, nor would you be able to, but you weren’t even sure how to approach the subject. 

Hey, by the way, I’m pretending to date that guy I hate. For the revenge plot of course.

“There’s actually something else that happened last night,” you begin, studying their reactions. They wait expectantly, eyes wide with curiosity. “Chan heard us arguing and we…talked a little.”

“Yeah, well, that sounds like Chan. He basically feeds off of Jaehyun’s misery,” Jihyo chuckles.

Mina catches onto the end of your sentence, the words you had said just a little too quickly and quietly. Intentionally so. “What do you mean you talked? You can’t stand him.”

Now, both girls are staring at you, disbelief etched on their faces. You and Chan had never talked. You insulted, glared, and mocked. Talking? They weren’t even sure you two were capable of holding a conversation without spitting names at each other.

“It’s stupid…” you trail. “He had this idea, and…I don’t know, I guess I just agreed to it because I was so angry and emotional.”

You’re stalling, obviously, and they’re growing more impatient with each delayed sentence.

“He suggested we pretend to be together to get back at Jaehyun.”

It’s quiet for a few seconds, and then Jihyo laughs, a full-body laugh that has tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. Mina just blinks at you, unamused. “Y/N! You can’t make me laugh like that while I’m eating, you know,” Jihyo scolds, still releasing occasional giggles.

“You’re not joking,” Mina says flatly. “Are you?”

Realization strikes both their faces when you don’t answer, swirling your straw around absentmindedly. Next comes their looks of disapproval. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you groan. But what did you expect? You had just thrown into question a fact they knew more concretely than grass being green or the sky being blue: you hate Chan. So did your need for revenge trump your hatred, or was your hatred truly never that deep after all? They suspected the latter – they always did, especially when you would go on about how insufferable he was while eyeing him from across a room.

“Like what? Like you’re crazy? Because clearly, you’re crazy,” Jihyo whisper-shouts.

“And with Chan of all people, seriously?” Mina adds. 

Okay, neither of them were wrong, but they’d also never been cheated on to understand all the complex thoughts and feelings you’re experiencing right now. And yes, with Chan, because the plan simply wouldn’t work with anyone else (nor would anyone else be stupid enough to go along with it). It just had to be your ex boyfriend’s worst enemy.

“I know it’s crazy and you know I’d never agree to something like this, but – ” 

“ – but she just couldn’t resist me,” someone interjects from behind you. Then, he throws himself next to you, leaning back against the table on his elbows.

You aren’t sure how long he’s been there or how much he heard, though you guess not much since one of them definitely would have warned you. Either way, add his stupidly good timing to the list of things that piss you off about him. 

He hadn’t texted you in the morning –  not that he was supposed to, or that you expected him to –  and it almost made you wonder if the whole night was a fever dream. Evidently not, seeing as he was sitting a few inches away with a wide grin plastered on his dumb face.

“Are you stalking me across campus?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

He huffs out a hollow laugh. “You wish. You guys sit in the same spot almost every day.”

Is he right? Yes. Does it make sense for him to know that? Not really. Unless he’d been paying more attention to you than you thought, which also didn’t make sense. 

“Okay, so you’re not stalking me,” you conclude. “Just watching me.”

“Why does it have to be you? There’s two other lovely ladies here.” 

“Ew,” Mina says.

“Don’t be gross,” Jihyo adds.

Now it’s your turn to laugh, though Chan is unamused. You want to poke him further, to find out why he knows the specific time and place your friends typically eat lunch, but you decide to save it for another time. Especially since those two are sitting right across from you and would hang onto every stupid thing he says, pestering you about it later. 

Chan spins forward, now facing Jihyo and Mina. “Do you girls mind if I steal Y/N for a bit?”

“I mind,” you scoff, but he ignores you entirely.

The two girls look at each other suspiciously, knowingly. Then, Mina shakes her head, basically sending you off to your demise (another uncomfortable walk with Chan  – two in less than twenty-four hours has to be considered cruel and unusual punishment). “Sure,” she shrugs. “We were just finishing up, anyways.”

Were you, though? The conversation hadn’t shown any signs of slowing down until he arrived. 

With the approval of your friends, not yours, he clasps his hand around yours and stands up, trying to bring you with him. You can’t move, you can’t function at all with his hand holding your own, and once it hits you, you yank it away from him. 

And then you stand anyway, as if your body was betraying you and doing everything your brain said not to. 

“I hope you don’t plan on hurting her, too,” Jihyo cautions, an unspoken threat behind her words. 

Her intentions are sweet, but you can’t help but feel the need to chide her for making it seem like you two are actually together.

“I’m not going to cheat on her, if that’s what you’re implying,” he jeers, picking up your bag and slinging it over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, princess, you’re the only fake girlfriend in my life.” 

He must think he’s so funny, putting on a show in front of your friends, but you’re not laughing. However, Mina and Jihyo are. Snickering under their breath, actually, and probably going to gush all about this odd interaction after you leave. 

The three of you exchange goodbyes, Chan already walking away from the table. You have to take larger strides to catch up to him, and when you do, you reach for your bag, trying to pry it from his arm. 

“Is it going to kill you if you let me be nice and carry your stuff?” he huffs, readjusting the strap. 

“It might,” you glare, but you can tell he’s not budging, so you resign. You wait for him to speak, to offer an explanation. Instead, he scans your face like he’s looking for something beneath the surface. “Is there a reason you took me from my friends just now?” 

“Are you okay?” he asks, answering your question with…a question? So. Annoying. 

But it sounds sincere coming from him, unlike how everyone else had asked you since last night. You can tell the difference now between girls who asked because they wanted to know if they had a chance with Jaehyun, guys who asked because they wanted to know if they had a chance with you, the complete randoms who asked just to be in the know, and now…this. Someone who genuinely wanted to know if you were okay, nothing more, nothing less, no underlying motives. 

“I’m alright,” you shrug, “just numb, I think.”

He swallows hard, then nods. And suddenly the Chan you recognize is back. “Well, you look good for someone who just got cheated on.”

Maybe the compliment would have felt good if he hadn’t tacked on the last part. You had enough reminders throughout the day, so much so that your phone had been on DND for hours. And the reminders came in other forms, too, like your lonely walk to your first class in the morning, the one Jaehyun would always accompany you on. Or the song that came on shuffle that you two had once added to a shared playlist (which you now had sole custody of). 

“Do you know how to give an actual compliment?” you snap, already knowing the answer. Chan would probably drop dead before he complimented you. 

“So you’d rather I just say you look good?” he questions.

Yes, yes you most certainly would. But there was no way in hell you would tell him that and make him think his words actually mean something to you. You can just picture his smug look of satisfaction already. 

So you lie through your teeth.

“No.”

He chews the inside of his cheek, carefully mulling over what he says next. “You do though. Look good, I mean,” he states matter-of-factly. And to your surprise, he doesn’t drop dead afterwards. 

What should you say in return? Thank you? No, that implies you’re appreciative, grateful he complimented you, which you aren’t. You look good too? Absolutely not, unless you want to have him use that against you for the foreseeable future. Ew, don’t say those things? You’re not even sure you can feign disgust like that. 

You end up not saying anything at all, but your face says a lot. Too much. It heats up and your cheeks dust with red, a far worse response than any of the others you’d contemplated. 

“Aw, you’re blushing,” Chan teases, bumping against your shoulder lightly. “Getting all shy on me, where’s that smart mouth?” 

“Shut up,” you grumble, and then you realize you’ve been following him blindly for the past minutes. You see that he’s led you to the heart of campus, the vast field of green where couples, friends, and classmates alike all congregate. He heads straight for a bench, pulling you down next to him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“When’s your next class?” 

You don’t answer.

“You took me away from my friends to bring me here?” And then you look around, convincing yourself everyone’s eyes are on you. “People are staring.” 

He looks over at you, your bag now acting as a barrier between your bodies, and quirks an eyebrow. “Is that a problem?”

“I just don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea.”

“Yeah, well, newsflash, princess. We’re doing this so they do get the wrong idea,” he reminds, tucking your bag by his side. With the new space, he hooks his arms around your thighs and shifts you towards him, pulling your legs onto the bench and draping them over his lap.

“Chan!” you hiss, trying to move, but he holds you there. 

If you thought people were staring before, they must be drilling holes through you now. Realistically, you’re just being dramatic  – everyone is too entrenched in their own problems, their own conversations, their own world to really notice you. But you know people will talk, because that’s what people do, especially when it involves two individuals who are quite well-known on campus. 

“Relax. The more obvious we make this, the quicker people will see, the quicker Jaehyun will see. And then it can all be over, right?” he explains, and you huff in response. You sit there like that long enough that it becomes comfortable, his fingers tapping idly on your leg while he scrolls on his phone. At the same time, you trace mindless shapes onto the bench, pretending you weren’t melting into him slowly. 

No.

Being like this with Chan shouldn’t feel this normal, and you refuse to accept that it does. So, naturally, you have to say something to ruin it. Almost like an innate reflex.

“I should’ve just stepped out in a revenge dress, but nooo, I had to agree to your stupidity,” you mumble. He laughs, and then his face contorts to something more serious.

“You have a revenge dress?”

He says it hopefully, a glimmer of interest in his eyes. 

“If I do,” you begin, leaning in to whisper in his ear, “you’ll never get to see it.”

His entire body deflates, and you take the opportunity to pull yourself off of him. You had a class across campus to get to and also needed a serious mental debrief to process the last twenty minutes. He hands over your bag, lifting off the bench as well. “Do you want me to like, walk you to your classes and stuff?” 

“Nope,” you decline easily. “Unless you’re willing to walk me to my 8:30 on Tuesdays.” 

It’s supposed to be a joke, and he must know it because he scoffs, shaking his head like you’d just said the most egregious thing ever. You laugh and start in the direction of your class, the feeling of his body so close to yours still lingering.

The weekend comes and goes quickly, with you swearing off any more parties for the time being despite Mina and Jihyo’s pleas. They both mention something about alcohol and loud music being the perfect remedy for a break up. But you already only really went to parties to appease your friends (and Jaehyun, previously), who dubbed them an “essential part of the college experience.” Now, you had the perfect excuse not to. Even Chan texts you to ask if you’ll be going out, though he doesn’t have nearly the same level of disappointment as your friends when you say no.

Instead, you spend your days clearing your camera roll of pictures of your cheating ex boyfriend and boxing up all the things of his you no longer wanted to have in your possession. Maybe you could get Chan to burn it all for you (except for the teddy bear, of course). 

And then Tuesday morning rolls around and there’s an incessant knocking on your door, which is not only irritating but unusual, given the time. You’re in the middle of getting dressed when you answer, top half still in a tank top, bottom half in jeans. 

This person is about to feel all your morning wrath, until you blink a few times and register that it’s Chan of all people.

“What the hell?” 

“8:30, right?” he confirms, leaning against the doorframe. 

You fold your arms across your chest, resisting his charm as best as you can. “That was a joke,” you groan, opening the door wider. “I’m not done getting ready and it’s gonna look weird if you’re waiting outside.”

He steps inside happily, immediately noticing the now barren space on your dresser. You had gotten rid of the pictures, good. He also recognizes his jacket draped along the back of your chair in a way he knows you’ve worn it, or at least moved it recently. It hangs off a little unevenly, one of the sleeves wrinkled in on itself. 

“Yeah, because it’ll look so much better if we come out of your dorm together at eight in the morning,” he chuckles while you walk into the bathroom to change shirts in peace.

“Don’t even think like that,” you shout. Then, you walk out, throwing the tank top at him (which he catches, unfortunately), feeling emboldened. “Everyone knows I wouldn’t fuck you.”

The smirk on your face is wiped away immediately when he grabs your wrist as you bend down to reach your bag. “Yeah? Do you know that?” he whispers. His whole demeanor shifts, gaze intense, grip strong but not painful. You attempt to force out a stammered reply, but admittedly, you’re flustered. Your own body is a traitor, clearly. 

Thankfully, he releases your wrist and breaks the tension with a devilish laugh. “You’re so easy to fuck with,” he says, sounding completely like his usual irksome self. 

Now that you had a glimpse of a different, enticing side of Chan, you craved more and hated yourself for it. After all, you had just said you would never fuck him. And you wouldn’t. 

But can’t a girl just think about it?

You grabbed your bag successfully this time and slipped on a pair of shoes, heading out the door with him right behind. 

“So why did you do this, exactly?” you question, still fighting off sleep yourself. 

“When I commit to something, I go hard,” he explains, though it sounds like a double entendre. “So if we’re going to fake date, I’m gonna be the best damn fake boyfriend you ever had.”

How wonderful. You thought you were agreeing to get revenge against Jaehyun, not to fuel Chan’s ego. Maybe you’d need another fake boyfriend down the line just to knock him from the top spot.

“Well, good thing we probably won’t need to keep this up for very long. I’ve already had people text me asking what’s going on between us,” you click your tongue. “No Jaehyun though.”

“Poor guy’s probably losing his mind thinking his fuck-up made you realize you had repressed feelings for me all along.”

“Oh, I had feelings for you?”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs. “That’s how my story goes, anyways.”

When you make it outside, he wraps his arm around your shoulder, pulling you just a little bit closer. And now that you understand there’s no reasoning with him, you let him. It’s too early to argue, anyways, but you still roll your eyes where he can’t see. 

“God, you’re insufferable. Can’t even give me some dignity in our fake love story,” you sneer. 

“Okay, fine, I had feelings for you,” he relents, and for a second, it sounds like a fact, not a fabrication. “That sound better?”

You hum in approval, satisfied with the change. Whether he would actually follow through with it, you weren’t sure. 

“So, are you gonna stay cooped up in your dorm this weekend, or are you going out?” Chan wonders, seemingly forgetting why you didn’t want to go to another party in the first place. They were kind of ruined for you at the moment, especially when you never really enjoyed them to begin with. 

“I’m put off of parties for a while,” you wave your hands. “And I need to study, anyway.” 

He squeezes your shoulder, displeased with your answer. “C’mon, Y/N, don’t let him ruin your fun,” he urges.

It was too late for that, though; all “fun” had been sucked out the moment you caught your boyfriend sucking face, and you knew he would probably be there, too. Just because he was playing the regretful, devastated ex in your texts didn’t mean he was depriving himself of his favorite pastime. You wouldn’t even be surprised if one of his “please forgive me, I’m so sorry, I miss you so much” texts had come while he was balls-deep in another woman.

“I’ll have plenty of fun in the library, thank you,” you shoot back.

“Oh? In public? Wow, princess, I didn’t know you were into stuff like that,” he grins, and you shove his arm off of you, staring at him in disgust.

“Oh my god, you’re a fucking freak!”

“I’m the freak? You’re the one that’s going to – ”

“Chan. Stop talking.”

“Okay, okay,” he throws his hands up defensively. “But just so you know, I don’t judge, and if you want some company…”

Fuck this smug bastard, and more importantly, fuck the way he was starting to get into your head. 

The rest of the walk is relatively normal, at least in the sense there’s no more talk about public sex, and you reach your class promptly at 8:28. 

“Well, have a good day,” he says a little awkwardly. “Let me know when you’re planning on grabbing lunch?”

“Unlikely,” you scoff, leaving him open-mouthed as you head inside.

So how you end up with Mina, Jihyo, and Chan at your usual lunch spot, you’re not sure. 

“You guys missed it. Then she goes ‘fuck you, Jaehyun!’ and he looked terrified,” Chan laughs, and your friends join in, loving the cheater lashings. 

“He did not look terrified,” you correct. 

“She’s being modest. Even I felt a little intimidated,” he draws in a sharp breath, “but it was kinda hot, too.”

You’re not sure where that came from, and you kick his foot under the table where Mina and Jihyo can’t see. In return, he places his hand on your thigh, squeezing. 

“You guys sure you’re faking this?” Jihyo questions, her chin resting on her hand while her eyes flicker between the two of you. Like she would be able to figure you out if she just looked hard enough. Impossible, considering you couldn’t even figure out what was going on at this point. He was still annoying, painfully so, but he was also alluring, and the heat between your legs was starting to do most of the thinking.

“Yes,” you and Chan say simultaneously, almost rehearsed. 

“Right,” Mina nods, drawing out the word. “As long as you believe that.”

His hand moves now, rubbing along your thigh softly, and you have to grit your teeth to not snap at him. “I do believe it, because it’s true,” you say harshly (but not convincingly). “I’d rather drink a jean jacket through a fucking straw than actually date him.”

Unfortunately, that doesn’t stop his wandering hand; in fact, it only pushes him further, now sliding lower until his fingertips brush along the inside of your thigh. You shift awkwardly, keeping your eyes locked on your friends. You wouldn’t let him see that he was undoing you. 

“I’m not particularly fond of you either, but a jean jacket through a straw is insane,” he smirks, finding enjoyment in your fidgeting. 

“Then I guess it does a good job of conveying how much I can’t stand you.”

This time, you do snap your head towards him, eyes shooting daggers into him. They gave a silent warning, a threat he didn’t quite think you truly meant. After all, your body had a different message with the way your thighs clenched and shoulders stiffened. 

“So sweet, isn’t she?” Chan smiles sarcastically, drawing his hand back. And you’re grateful – at least, that’s what you tell yourself, ignoring the small voice that said you wanted more. He reads something on his phone before typing quickly and rising from his seat. 

“Anyway, thanks for the invite Y/N, but Minho’s locked himself out of the apartment, so I’ve gotta swing by before class,” he sighs dramatically.

“I absolutely didn’t invite you.”

“Sure you didn’t,” he winks, already gone before you can argue. 

Once he’s out of earshot, Jihyo groans, covering her face with her hands. “God, I think if I’m subjected to that level of sexual tension again, I’ll actually pass away,” she huffs, muffled. 

Bad time to take a sip of your drink. 

“Sexual tension?!” you repeat, nearly choking, completely stunned by her words. 

“We weren’t sure of it when you were with Jaehyun, but now it practically radiates through the air whenever you’re around each other. It’s suffocating,” Mina agrees, only adding to your embarrassment. Your face is heating up quickly, and it makes it hard to deny their accusations. 

“Can you just hate-fuck and get it over with? Maybe you’ll find out you actually do get along in some ways,” Jihyo adds, exasperated. 

You laugh dryly. “Oh my god, do you guys hear yourselves? I’m not having sex with Chan, that’s disgusting.”

“Well then can you two at least not make lunch feel like the build-up of a porno?”

Needless to say you would be informing him he could not join you and your friends for lunch anymore, lest you get lectured again on your “radiating” sexual tension. 

By the time Friday comes, things have quieted. Chan listens when you tell him Mina and Jihyo requested your lunches stay reserved for the three of you (it’s not quite true, but the best excuse you could come up with without mentioning that your friends think you two want to fuck each other). So, you don’t see him much, aside from the couple of times he shows up outside your classes.

His texts, however, are frequent. They’ve developed into something expected, a normal part of your days. You talk about mundane things like grades and annoying lab partners. You talk about personal things like favorite songs and future goals. Each conversation is still filled with sarcastic quips and quick insults, but they don’t hold the same edge they once did. It felt more like comfort – like if you kept up the hatred act, you could protect yourself from what it was becoming.

And at the same time, the texts from Jaehyun had resumed because, although he hadn’t seen it with his own eyes, he had heard that you and Chan were seen together. On multiple occasions. He had even shown up at your dorm finally (the week of freedom you’d had was far longer than you’d expected), and you had slammed the door in his face, telling him it wasn’t any of his business who you hung out with anymore. 

After that encounter, you were grateful for some peace – which was becoming rare in your life – throwing yourself nose-deep in your notebook. With your headphones on and such intense focus, you don’t notice anyone else’s presence.

Until someone makes their presence impossible to ignore. 

“Hey, princess,” Chan greets, a cup of coffee in hand. He slips into the seat in front of you, placing the cup down and sliding it over. You have to pull your headphones back to hear him, eyebrows knitted in confusion.

“What are you doing here?” you ask. 

He shrugs. “You said you were studying, I thought I would bring you some coffee to help your brain.”

He says it so calmly, and you have to fight against the way your heart swells at the simple act of service. Though really, it wasn’t so simple, because this was Chan showing up to the library unannounced on a Friday night, when he would usually be far away from anything academic. For you.

“Well, thanks, because I feel like my brain has basically disintegrated,” you complain, taking a sip. It was your favorite, too – he must’ve asked Mina or Jihyo for your order. “Did you skip out on the party?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t feeling it. Kinda just wanted to chill tonight. I thought a library date might be fun,” he muses.

You scoff, watching his lips curl into a satisfied smile. “Date?” 

Chan blinks at you like you’ve wounded him, although you know it’s all part of his (perfected) act to get into your head. 

“You wouldn’t call it that?” he says, disappointedly, leaning his head against the palm of his hand. 

“No, I’d call it me studying for hours and losing my mind and you showing up uninvited.”

He points behind him with his thumb, turning halfway in his seat, an empty threat. “So, should I leave then?” he challenges.

This is probably the part where you should say yes. You should demand it, actually. But he had brought you coffee, liquid gold for your overloaded brain, and the chances of him listening to your request were slim to none regardless. 

“It’s fine,” you concede, hoping it sounded indifferent. You even shift your focus back to your laptop to play up the act, writing down “notes” that don’t quite make sense. Chan accepts this, tapping his fingers on the table obnoxiously, purposely so. After a few minutes, he straightens in his chair, leaning forward against the table.

“I must say,” he whispers, “I’m a little disappointed to find you actually studying. You had my hopes up the other day.”

It takes you a moment to recall that conversation, and once you do, the realization spreads across your face in red hues. “There is something seriously wrong with you,” you frown.

And there may have been something seriously wrong with you for enjoying it.

“Maybe. But I think you like it. You were basically writhing when I touched you at lunch.”

Now you know you definitely should have told him to leave. He pokes his tongue in his cheek, in that way that could drive you crazy if you let it (which you weren’t). 

“No, I wasn’t,” you argue weakly.

He finds your denial cute, truly, since he remembers your body’s responsiveness so vividly. It was essentially engrained in his mind, spinning it in circles. He could elicit that reaction from just touching your clothed thigh, and it made him feel powerful. And curious.

“Oh, you weren’t?” he chuckles. “So if I come sit next to you now, that’d be fine? And if I touch you like that again, you wouldn’t start to melt under my fingers?”

“I did not melt under your fingers.”

“But you would have,” he says confidently. He drops his voice to a whisper again. “If your friends weren’t there, and I kept going, you would have.”

You’re staring at each other now, wondering who will break first, though his eyes shine with excitement and yours narrow with annoyance. Or rather, desire that you try to disguise as annoyance. 

“You think too highly of yourself,” you snort, scribbling gibberish into the margin of your notebook. 

He releases a small, humorless laugh. “I don’t need to think it,” he corrects. “You’ve shown me.”

You snap now, slamming your laptop shut a little too aggressively. Because you refused to allow him to continue talking with so much confidence, like he knew what you were thinking better than you did.

“I’m sorry, did you forget the part where none of this is real? All of your little touches and stupid remarks have nothing to do with what we agreed on.”

But your boldness only encourages him, biting his lip subconsciously. “No, they don’t. That’s just for my enjoyment. Like I said, you’re easy to fuck with.”

“That's why you decided to come see me in the library on a Friday night instead of going out? To ‘fuck with me?’” you say pointedly, to emphasize how unreasonable it sounded. 

“Well, you didn’t tell me to leave.”

“I asked a question.”

Chan drags his hand along his face, suddenly far less arrogant. For once, he looked like he was struggling to conjure up a smart response. And he was. But you were refusing to back down, finally having a sense of control. 

“I don’t know,” he finally says, and you glare at him. “Really, I don’t. I just wanted to see you.”

You scoff, shaking your head in disbelief. “Don’t be dumb.”

Because there was no way he meant it. Or maybe you had misheard him entirely. But his whole demeanor had changed, and you no longer recognized the Chan that sat before you without his smugness.

“Right. If I tease you, I’m ‘insufferable,’” he recites, “if I’m honest with you, I’m dumb. Tell me, princess, what can I do then?”

You swallow harshly, trying to ignore what his words entailed. Honest. He said that he wanted to see you and he meant it. The air around you had shifted now, thicker, heavier, falling on your chest in a way that almost made your voice get caught in your throat.

“Are you fucking with me again?” you grimace, waiting for him to laugh in your face. To snap back into the version of him you’re familiar with.

But he doesn’t laugh. “You tell me. Am I?”

“You can’t do that!” you groan, exasperated. “You can’t say these things and then act all cryptic after.”

You cross your arms across your chest, and he relents. “Okay. Yes, I wanted to see you. Is that bad?”

“Yes.”

Yes, it was bad. Very bad, actually. Because you were supposed to hate him, and you thought he hated you. Because none of this was supposed to be real, and once you’d gotten vengeance against your shitty ex boyfriend (however dramatic it may be), things would go on like nothing had ever happened.

But is that what you wanted? It should be. It had to be. 

“Huh. I guess I don’t care,” he breathes. “Do you?”

He awaits your answer, though he already knows what it will be. You had become easy for him to read now; he had studied you like you were his favorite subject. The unsolved puzzle he had finally pieced together. 

And though you try to force yourself to lie and say yes, you simply cannot. All your resolve has vanished since he made such an unexpected confession, leaving you dazed.

“No,” you mumble, and your breath hitches. 

His smirk returns, though it’s different now. Less of an attempt to get under your skin, more of an acknowledgement that one day he’ll get to touch every inch of it. 

“Didn’t think so,” he reaches across the table, trailing his fingers along your hand. You snatch it back, ignoring his snickers. 

He would be the death of you, you were certain. And for some reason, you find yourself thinking that it may not be such a terrible way to go out.

Neither of you are sure how to proceed after that night in the library, an obvious tension lingering between the two of you. You knew you weren’t going to be the one to address it, but you were growing exhausted with pretending that it had never happened. 

It seemed like Chan was perfectly content with that, however. He hadn’t even mentioned it once, continuing to text you and show up outside your dorm and classes like it was all still part of a plan. And maybe it was. Maybe he was a great liar, but that didn’t explain the rift that had settled between you two. If he had lied that night, why could he hardly meet your eyes now?

You didn’t ask, because you feared the answer – both possibilities. Though when you turned to Mina and Jihyo for advice, they were adamant. They were convinced they were right all along, that there was a budding romance beneath the hatred. So, it was quite hard to get any sort of unbiased guidance from them. This was something you’d have to navigate on your own.

And by navigate, you meant continuing to avoid it. Hopefully Chan would crack before you did.

After almost two weeks of letting the unspoken words nearly suffocate you, you had begun to believe you really would have to forget it had ever happened. If he wanted to speak on it, he would. Nevermind that he could say the same thing about you; it was him that had started it, so he had to be the one to acknowledge it. It was only fair.

Your phone rings in the middle of the afternoon, during your thirty minute interval between classes. It’s Chan, which isn’t the surprising part (he had learned your entire schedule by now). 

“Let me take you to dinner tonight,” he says only a few seconds after you pick up. 

You roll your eyes, hardly registering his proposal. “A ‘hello’ might be nice.”

“Hi,” he utters. “Let me take you to dinner.”

If you agree too easily, he’ll know you had been waiting for him to say something like this. And with how straightforwardly he had asked (or stated, rather), he clearly expected your agreement. You could make him grovel just a little bit. 

“You wanna see me again?” you quip, the most you’d allude to the library incident. 

But Chan could match your attitude ten times over, so he has a quick retort. “I just figured if we go to dinner you could post a picture on your story, really commit to the bit,” he explains flatly, and then laughs when you’re silent. “What? You wanted me to say I want to see you?”

“Fuck you.”

“You said you wouldn’t,” he reminds. “Remember?”

If he could see you, he would undoubtedly point out how flustered you were, then follow it up with a dumb joke about how the offer was always open. And you would have to hold back from taking him up on it. 

“Really doing a good job of making me want to say yes,” you chide.

“Please let me take you to dinner. I’ve been thinking about our library date, and I wanna take you on a real one.”

You huff loud enough for him to hear over the phone. “That wasn’t a date,” you correct. “And I’m busy tonight.”

A lie, but he didn’t need to know that yet. There’s shuffling on his end, and then his voice comes out sharply. 

“Busy with what?”

“That’s really none of your concern,” you can’t help but grin at your own mischief. “But if you must know, I’m seeing someone tonight.”

“Y/N,” he growls, and it’s hot. You try to imagine the look on his face (why couldn’t he have FaceTimed you?), and it makes you weak. 

“So, what time are you picking me up?” you ask, voice syrupy sweet despite your antics. Like honey masking poison. 

He exhales loudly, and you can hear all the unease release from his body. If he was going to be so wound up about you even potentially seeing someone else, why had he taken so long to address your ever-present tension?

Maybe he was just as confused as you. 

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he groans. “I’ll be there at seven.”

He hangs up before you can hound him about the first half, not even sparing a second to confirm the time. No, you don’t know what you do to him, but it was inevitable that you would find out. And he would make sure that you understood to the fullest extent. 

It’s difficult for you to decide on an outfit for dinner with Chan, one, because you’re still tossing with the idea internally and two, because you aren’t sure what’s an “appropriate” amount of dressed-up. If you look too good, he’ll think you’re trying too hard to impress him, and you’ll never hear the end of that.

Though, you had already agreed to going to dinner with him, so you probably wouldn’t hear the end of that, either.

Mina and Jihyo choose an outfit over FaceTime (and so kindly remind you to “at least make him wear a condom”), one that teeters right in the middle of simple and dressy, and you’ve fixed your hair at least a dozen times by the time he’s knocking on your door.

When you open it, he stares at you, and then tears his eyes away to roam all over your body. He draws in a sharp breath, shaking his head in disbelief. 

“Wow,” he rasps. “You’re beautiful.”

The compliment comes with no snarky follow-up, and he doesn’t even tease you when you feel your face heating up. He takes your hand and holds it the whole way to his car, only letting go to open the door for you; you would have never taken him for such a gentleman.

He doesn’t tell you which restaurant he’s picked, but the drive isn’t long before you arrive and are seated, his hand finding its way back to yours while you walk through the aisles.

As you sit there scanning the menu, you can’t help but realize you’re at fucking dinner with Bang Christopher Chan. And he’s staring at you like you wouldn’t notice.

“What?” you question, and he drops his head, chuckling.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just can’t believe how much things have changed.”

“You’re still annoying, don’t get it twisted.”

“Yeah, well, you still agreed to get dinner with me,” he shrugs.

He thinks he’s won with that, turning his attention to the menu. But even if he’s right, you aren’t letting him shame you so easily. “You would’ve begged me if I didn’t,” you smirk.

His eyes snap back to yours, the mischievous glint forcing him to fight back the more impure thoughts. “You know, that mouth is going to get you in trouble one day.”

“Yeah? By who?”

“Careful, Y/N,” he warns, words coming out through clenched teeth. 

You flash him an exaggerated smile, thanking the waitress when she returns with your drinks, and Chan curses himself for being turned on by how quickly you switch from a temptress to the sweetest angel. He stumbles over his words while giving his order, and you giggle softly without even knowing you’re the cause of it. 

Considering Chan had brought you to dinner, you felt confident enough to bring up the subject of what the hell was going on between you two. Specifically the Friday night you’d left unaddressed. “So, is it finally time we talk about it?”

“Talk about what?”

“This,” you motion between the two of you.

He doesn’t even pause to think about it. “We’re having dinner,” he replies coyly.

You figure admonishing him for his feigned ignorance won’t bring you closer to an answer, so instead you push further. 

“But why?”

“I told you, you can post it on your story or whatever. I’m sure Jaehyun still stalks your socials.”

You’d seen quite a few random spam names in your story viewers, so you knew it to be true, but you also knew that couldn’t be his reasoning. 

“You also told me you wanted to take me on a ‘real date,’” you mention, and he throws his head back against the booth.

“Jesus, Y/N,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Can we just have a nice dinner and worry about the semantics later?”

Obviously, the answer was a resounding no, which he should have expected since he understood your stubbornness better than anyone. “Oh, for you to pretend it never happened and leave me wondering for weeks? Sure thing, Chan,” you sneer.

You probably should have excluded the part where you admitted you’d still been thinking about that night, because he latches onto it and uses it to evade answering any more questions.

“I really get in that pretty little head of yours, huh?” he grins.

“Or maybe I get in yours,” you shoot back. “What did you say? Something about ‘I don’t know what I do to you’?”

He rubs his jaw, exhaling through his nose loudly. Because you really didn’t know what you do to him.

“Princess, you don’t get into my head. You’ve never fucking left it.”

Your food is brought over moments later, right on cue, leaving you sitting idly, stunned. Chan pretends not to notice, already moving past his previous admission. 

“God, I am starving,” he groans. He takes a bite of his meal, and then blinks at you when you haven’t even slightly shifted. “What’s wrong? You wanna take that picture for your story now?” 

If you heard the word “story” one more time, you were convinced you’d actually implode. And you’d take him with you, just to annoy him in the afterlife. 

“Don’t do that,” you hiss. “Don’t act clueless.”

“Well sorry for trying to be a believable fake boyfriend.”

Nothing about this felt fake anymore, and when he says it, it feels like a harsh reminder. That vicious awakening from the middle of a good dream, pulled to the surface of reality when you’re in such a deep slumber. 

“That’s all you are, right? My fake boyfriend? So why do you say and do all these things that make it feel so real?” you demand. 

Your meals are all but forgotten now, and the booths around you are probably getting more of your argument than any of you would like. You swear you can see the lady in the booth to your right staring at you and then leaning over to whisper in her daughter’s ear. Hopefully she’d give her some advice to never get involved with idiotic men like Chan. 

He rubs his temples, growing more exhausted by the minute. “I’m trying to figure that out. I came up with a stupid plan, and somewhere along the way the lines got blurred.”

“You blurred them!” you whisper-shout, eyes widening in disbelief.

“You let me,” he says simply, and you can’t deny it. Though he’s still far more culpable for your current situation. “Listen, we can talk about it more on the way home, yeah?”

It’s his cop-out, and you should know this, yet you relent anyway. You aren’t surprised when he refuses to discuss it further in the car, either, and when he tries to put his hand on your thigh, you push it away. 

He deserves that, but it still makes him sulk internally. If he couldn’t offer you answers, you wouldn’t offer him any more of yourself. At least, you’d try your best not to (easy to say, harder to do). 

When he drops you off, you hardly give him a goodbye, so he knows he’s fucked up. His chest tightens at the thought of not being able to make it right. Of letting you go without telling you everything he’s been thinking for the last month. 

He isn’t even sure you’ll give him another chance, but he figures he needs to sort his mind out before he faces you again, for both of your sakes. 

The texts slow and then stop altogether, and you don’t see him at all for another week. Maybe you had pushed him enough that he had been scared off (still, he could at least fake break up with you). Though you had never taken Chan for someone who could be scared of anything, especially with his constant arrogance. 

“That’s just how men are. They run when shit gets too real,” Jihyo says, fixing her top. 

The three of you were currently getting ready in your dorm, because the minute you had texted the groupchat stating that you were desperate for a night out, they were basically busting your door down. And you couldn’t blame them, because you were never the one to initiate, but right now, it seems like the only distraction you have left. 

“I think he’s just a little confused,” Mina adds with more eloquence. “I mean, do you even know what you want?”

“Yes,” you grin. “I want to go out, have a good time, and forget about all of this.”

Mina rolls her eyes at your avoidance, and Jihyo clutches her heart dramatically. “My Y/N is so back, I could cry right now.”

You know very well that a party is not the magical cure for all your problems – in fact, it’s the indirect cause of nearly all of them – but your other option was to spend another weekend in your dorm preparing an internal monologue about Chan’s cowardice. So, yes, you were going to a party. 

“You know they’re both probably going to be there, right?” Mina advises. Both of the banes of your existence, though for drastically different reasons. 

“It’s fine,” you wave her off. “I won’t even notice that they’re there”

Between the three of you, there’s not a soul that believes your lie, but nobody questions it. 

Though perhaps they should have, because maybe it would have made you reconsider before you ended up in your current situation. Which was searching through a sea of bodies for one particular person, even if you weren’t sure what you would do if you found him. 

Mina notices, too, watching as your eyes sweep all along the room while nodding every once in a while, pretending to be engaged in the conversation. You really hadn’t caught a single word she’d said for the past three minutes. 

And although there were plenty of people there, you were confident you’d be able to spot Chan out of a crowd. But so far, there was no sign of him, and you couldn’t decide if you were relieved or disappointed. 

Unfortunately, however, you had spotted Jaehyun. In the back of the room, looking completely untouched, sipping on a drink with his friends on one side and a girl on the other. But he looked disinterested, not paying her any mind, nodding along indifferently. He looked like you, searching for someone amidst the chaos.

“Y/N!” Mina barks, and you turn to her immediately. “Are you even listening at all?”

“Uh, yeah,” you lie. 

She throws her hands on her hips, eyebrows raised. “Really? So what do you think, should I go over there and talk to him?”

She points to the left of you, but there’s at least five guys in the general vicinity she could be referring to. Of course, you’d know who she meant if you hadn’t been so checked out while looking for Chan.

“Um, who?” you ask carefully, and she groans, frustrated. “I’m sorry! I think I need another drink. To clear my head.”

You take off for the kitchen before she can argue, the counters covered in discarded solo cups and half-empty bottles of alcohol. Tempting. Instead, you open the fridge, pulling out one of the remaining unopened cans. 

When you turn around, you’re stuck in place, a firm chest blocking you from walking away. You’re about to complain, to remind whoever it is that there’s a thing called personal space, but one look up has the words refusing to come out. It’s Jaehyun, of course. 

“Y/N,” he falters, studying your face as if he’d forgotten your features. 

Your heart races, not from anything other than the discomfort of confronting someone who you once thought the world of.

“Leave me alone, Jaehyun,” you spit, and he steps back, granting you some space and the freedom to walk away if you so choose. But you don’t, not yet. 

He takes note of your stillness, encouraging him to speak again. “I will,” he nods. “But you haven’t given me a chance to explain, and I need you to know how much I regret what I did.”

“Yeah, well, good for you.”

He sighs, and a quiet moment passes between you, one that makes you picture him kissing that girl all over again. 

“Are you with him?” he asks, under his breath. You stare at him with feigned confusion, lips pressed in a taut line. This time, he speaks louder, intentionally. “Don’t play dumb, Y/N, please. Are you with Chan?”

“I don’t owe you anything.”

“You don’t. But I owe you an explanation, and if you’re with Chan…” he trails, and it sends you over the edge. You tell yourself your anger rises up solely because of Jaehyun, but it’s undeniable that half of it comes from all you’d bottled up during the days without Chan around.

“Then what? Then it doesn’t matter? You cheating on me just gets justified because I’m with Chan?” you snap, voice increasing in volume with each word. “Guess what, Jaehyun, your fuck-up is to blame for all of it.”

Even with the thumping music, your voice carries throughout the room, and a few people glance over, intrigued. Someone pushes through the crowd, entering the kitchen right as Jaehyun opens his mouth to argue back.

“Is everything okay over here?”

Both of you look over, though you don’t need to to recognize the voice. It had become your favorite, even when it was teasing you or whispering innuendos just to unnerve you. 

“Chan,” you whisper, and he heads straight for you, ignoring Jaehyun’s unwavering glare. 

In a few quick steps, he’s beside you, wrapping his arm around your shoulder and pulling you into him like he hadn’t ignored you for a week. “Hey, baby. Are you alright?” he asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. 

Baby. That was a new one. He had called you princess more times than you could count, but it had started as a taunt and never really felt like anything more than that. Baby, however, had your heart pounding and mind racing. 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you swallow, finding more interest in the ground now. For a second, you forget all about Jaehyun in front of you, and it reminds you that Chan’s actions are probably directly correlated. After all, the original plan was to get back at Jaehyun, and what better moment than right now? The final act to your months-long play.

“So you two are together,” Jaehyun concludes, frowning.

“Don’t look so upset,” Chan grins wickedly. “I’ll treat her better than you ever could.”

Try not to take his words seriously, you remind yourself. He doesn’t mean it. This is all for show. But as always, he makes them sound real, adding a layer of intensity you can’t ignore. 

“You’re not good enough for her.”

You’re about to chime in, to remind him he has no say in what or who is good enough for you, and that it was rich hearing that from him of all people.  

“And you were?” Chan laughs humorlessly. “C’mon, baby, let’s get out of here, yeah?”

He squeezes your shoulder, looking down at you, waiting for your agreement. And as you glance between him and Jaehyun, something takes over you entirely. You pull his face towards yours, hesitating briefly to gauge his reaction. When he closes the final inches, your eyes flutter closed, his lips crashing onto yours.

It’s quick, soft, restrained, and not at all like what you expected (or wanted) kissing Chan to be, but it serves its purpose. 

Jaehyun stands there, wordlessly, the most satisfying look of outrage plastered on his face. Chan sees it, too, a small chuckle leaving his parted lips. He’ll probably burn the image in his mind to remember it whenever he needs a pick-me-up. 

And while you’re a blend of emotions between the kiss, facing Jaehyun, and Chan’s declaration, you keep yourself together for now, yanking Chan’s hand to lead him away. “Yeah, let’s go.”

You maneuver through bodies, making it to a noticeably more empty section of the house before you finally release his hand. If you’re lucky, he’ll go back to ignoring you, and you won’t have to discuss whatever just unfolded.

Unfortunately, you haven’t had much luck recently.

“Bold move there, baby,” he quips.

There it was again. Only this time, Jaehyun’s not around, so there’s no explaining away the pet name. Does that make it better or worse? You aren’t sure.

“Shut up,” you mumble, “I really don’t want to be here anymore.”

Your night out had been ruined, and you swore you’d be done with parties for good. At least in your dorm you could save yourself from running face to face with anyone who either cheated on you or refused to share their feelings. 

“I’ll take you home,” Chan states, not offers. 

“I’m not getting in a car with you. You’ve been drinking.” 

It was an assumption, but a reasonable one. Though clearly incorrect, because he quirks an eyebrow and shakes his head immediately. “I haven’t had a drop of alcohol, actually,” he refutes, now pulling his keys out of his pocket and swinging them around his finger. 

So much for that excuse. 

“Whatever.”

He takes this as your reluctant surrender, now grabbing your hand and leading you to his car which was only a little ways down the street. And despite the kiss, you still had nothing to say to him –  or rather, way too much to say to him, and no desire to say it if he wouldn’t talk first. So a thick silence falls between you, leaving you with just the lingering feeling of his lips on yours.

“Quiet today,” he comments, stealing a glance you don’t return. You keep your head pressed against the window, a dull headache already forming from the night’s events and the alcohol. 

“I’m still mad at you,” you grumble. 

His hands grip the steering wheel a little tighter, tongue swiping across his teeth. “I know,” he mutters. 

“And I think I hate you again.”

“Well, the ‘again’ gives me some hope,” the corners of his lips tug upwards. “Means I had you on my side for a little, at least.”

“You did. Until you wouldn’t talk to me and ran like a coward,” you insult, watching his shoulders drop and smile fade as fast as it had come. You almost regret saying it. Because all your insults before had been quick, meaningless jabs that he could brush off. This one came with intent, a bitterness that wouldn’t be forgotten seconds later. 

“Yeah, I deserve that,” he sighs. “We’ll talk soon, okay? When you’re not tipsy and overwhelmed.”

“I don’t believe you,” you say flatly, still not lifting your head from the glass. 

He reaches across the console for your hand, rubbing his thumb against your skin. “I mean it this time. Because I’ve been going crazy without you. And that kiss just sealed the deal.”

“Please,” you scoff, forced. “It was hardly a kiss.” Hardly. Your minimization of it wasn’t wrong in a literal sense; it was short-lived, lacking the passion you knew you both had within. But regardless, it had completely hijacked your brain, so clearly it wasn’t hardly anything. 

“I know. That’s the problem. I need more.”

Now, you turn towards him, trying to decipher his expression. It’s unreadable for once, devoid of that familiar smirk. You want to tell him if he needs more to take it, that he can have everything he wants if he just says the words. But those words don’t come, not tonight, and you close your eyes against the window once more.

Before you leave for your dorm, he reaches for your hand again, pulling it to his lips. 

“Soon, I promise.”

You nod, trying to believe him, though you wonder if it would hurt less if you don’t. 

You didn’t particularly like loose ends.

That’s why after weeks of dangling a fake relationship in Jaehyun’s face and the culmination of it all at the party the night prior, you decided to confront him fully and at least hear what he had to say before you closed the chapter for good. You didn’t owe that to him, certainly not, but you felt like you owed it to yourself. An explanation for why he did it to quell the thoughts that had never completely gone away. Which he also said he owed you, anyways. 

And perhaps this was all amplified by the fact that most of the day had passed and there was no text, no call, no anything from Chan. He had only said “soon,” not “tomorrow,” but still. Some form of acknowledgement would be enough to placate you, but he hadn’t even spared you that.

So, with a final layer of lipgloss, you considered your makeup complete and mentally prepared yourself for the impending doom. You looked irresistible at least, everything Jaehyun could never have again. 

But nothing could ever go to plan (once again, luck hadn’t exactly been on your side), so you aren’t shocked when a knock on your door disrupts your evening. 

“Hi, princess,” Chan grins when you swing it open. Then, his eyes trail down your body, tugging his lip between his teeth subconsciously. “You look good.”

Well fuck. Why did he have to show up now? A text in advance might have saved you from unintentionally double-booking yourself, or maybe you’re at fault for assuming Chan was ghosting you again today.

“Thanks,” you smile half-heartedly, heading back to your mirror to look yourself over once more. It’s far too awkward to face Chan knowing you’re about to go see your ex, especially when you and Chan had almost established…something. Something real, beyond the pseudo-relationship. 

He senses that you’re withholding something, watching you suspiciously. “Going out?” he questions, and you curse under your breath. Bracing for the storm.

“Something like that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

His tone is already accusatory and you hadn’t even dropped the bomb yet, so you really had to prepare yourself for his reaction. At best, he would storm out and you could deal with it later, after you had dealt with Jaehyun. At worst, you’d have a full-blown argument in your dorm right before the other inevitable argument you’d have with Jaehyun. 

“I’m going over to Jaehyun’s,” you say softly, guilt washing over you when his face drops instantly. But you didn’t need to feel guilty – you were allowed to seek closure, especially when Chan hadn’t yet granted you transparency. Still, you can’t help but wonder if you were making the right choice.

Chan’s blood runs cold, and he waits for you to laugh in his face, to tell him how dumb he looks when he’s angry. Something snarky, something annoying. Something. Anything. He doesn’t care, as long as it means you aren’t currently getting dolled up to go see your cheating fuck of an ex boyfriend.

Instead, you say nothing, shifting on your feet uncomfortably.

“Y/N, you can’t be serious.”

“I’m just hearing him out,” you say flatly. “I don’t think that’s a crime.”

“No, it’s not a crime, but Jesus fucking Christ, you’re looking like that to go ‘hear him out?’”

You look down at yourself, a lacy bodysuit and skirt adorning your body – not to appeal to him, not at all, but to remind him what he had lost. Was it a little melodramatic? Maybe. Were you allowed to be melodramatic when confronting someone who had made you question if you weren’t enough? Definitely.

“Yes! What’s wrong with that?!” 

“Everything is wrong with that!”

“Oh my god, Chan, you got what you wanted,” you throw your hands up in frustration, “I’m sure you’ll never forget the look on his face when he saw us kiss last night.”

“You think his face is what I was thinking about after we kissed, Y/N?” he asks incredulously. “I was thinking about you, only you, and how right it felt.”

Was this his confession? It was beginning to feel like it. If only it hadn’t come at such a horrible time and in such a horrible way, maybe you would be happier. Now, the words sucked the air out of your lungs, leaving you speechless and uncertain. 

“So fuck what I wanted back then. What I want right now is for you to realize you deserve better than someone who broke your heart and your trust in the worst way possible,” he finishes, holding himself back from pulling you into his arms and screaming that it’s him. He’s the one who will give you everything you deserve; he’ll make it his life’s purpose to do so.

“I’m just hearing him out,” you repeat again, emphatically, though no matter how true it was or how believable you made it sound, Chan refuses to accept it. 

“Right,” he scoffs, running his hand through his hair. “Can’t wait to see you two all over each other in the corner of every party again.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already heading for the door, unable to take another second of seeing your face and knowing you won’t be his. 

“Hope it works out, Y/N.”

The door rattles as he slams it shut, and the room feels colder, emptier. And not just because of Chan’s physical absence, but because of what it entails. The same man who you hated - and who you swore hated you - had made you feel more seen and valued in not even two months than Jaehyun had in nine. He had put more effort into a fake relationship than Jaehyun had put in a real one. You were letting that go for some semblance of closure from someone who broke you.

Previously, you had tried to convince yourself your feelings had never become real. That of course your heart would beat a little faster when Chan would remember things about you, that of course you would like the way pet names fell from his lips, that of course you couldn’t stop thinking about him in every single way possible, from pure to downright filthy. This all made sense, of course, because he was the hot guy you were faking a relationship with. It had nothing to do with Chan, and everything to do with your body and mind being too receptive of what you’d been deprived of before.

But you simply couldn’t lie to yourself any longer. And that’s why, for once, you knew what you needed to do. You type out another message to Jaehyun, deliberating each word carefully. It would be the last you’d ever give him, at least in this capacity, where he still felt like he had a small chance at getting you back.

actually, i’m not coming over. i thought about it, and nothing you say can make me forget what you did…i didn’t deserve that, jaehyun.

i know what i deserve now.

i hope you learn from this and treat the next girl better. 

His texts come in quick succession, frantic pleas and apologies and then the angry ones regarding Chan. You don’t answer him or even give him the solace of knowing you’d read them. Instead, you turn your phone on DND and throw it behind you, hoping it’ll get lost in your bed sheets. 

And though you’ve done the right thing, there’s still the unavoidable grief over something that once was. The only person you want comfort from right now is Chan, but you know you should give yourself the space to reflect and process properly. He probably wants some time away from you, anyways. 

So you don’t call or text him. You avoid all the spots you know he frequents. You make yourself as nonexistent to him as possible. And worst of all, he doesn’t even come searching. 

There’s no way for you to know how badly he wants to see your name pop up at the top of his screen, or how he waits for you outside the library on days he knows you usually study. You don’t know that he stayed up late that first night, hoping you’d call him. Each notification made his heart jump, and after the eighth one that wasn’t from you, he finally turned his phone off completely. 

He didn’t want space, nor time. He wanted you. And beyond that, he wanted you to know you deserved more - that he would give you more. But he can’t fault you for any of this; he can only blame himself for not telling you sooner. 

When a week goes by and it’s still silence on your end, he figures you’d forgiven Jaehyun and taken him back. And that’s just something he’d have to live with. 

The days pass by slowly, monotonously, and though you argue with Mina and Jihyo that it’s healing, they complain that you’re just wallowing in needless despair (“Girl, get your man,” had been the phrase of the week). 

And you wanted to, but you weren’t sure how to face him after the way you’d left things. There was a gnawing worry that he wouldn’t answer your calls or texts, so you don’t even try. No, you decide you’ll just have to show up at his apartment, and yes at nine o’clock at night, because you couldn’t put it off any longer. The yearning was almost consuming you. 

Though Chan had been to your dorm multiple times, you had never been to his apartment; it was way less convenient to go off-campus where he lived. You had to get Chan’s address from his roommate, Minho, who you had already known from a shared class last semester. And he had also texted you a few times begging you to do something about Chan’s moping, because it was “making his life miserable.” 

While it was off-campus, it wasn’t far, and your determination was enough to ward off the apprehension of walking alone at night (though Chan would definitely not be pleased). Still, you kept Jihyo on the phone for the whole fifteen minutes, slight reassurance for both of you. 

You can barely bring yourself to knock when you arrive, feeling much less composed now that you were actually there, separated from Chan by only a door and thin walls. Your fist meets the wood without you fully realizing it, and it swings open with ferocity moments later. 

“Hi,” you choke out, all of your composure gone when he’s standing before you.

“Y/N?” he asks, blinking in awe to confirm that you’re real. He’d started to accept that your presence in his life was a thing of the past, a treasured memory he’d hold onto. “What are you – Jesus, it’s so dark out. Come on, get inside.”

He reaches for your arm and drags you inside, leading you all the way to his room; Minho’s home, and Chan doesn’t quite want him to hear the moment the girl he’s been losing his mind over ends things for good. Is “end things” even the right term, since there had never been a defined “thing” in the first place? 

His room is not much different from any other college student’s room, with books and papers sprawled on the desk and empty energy drink cans filling the trashcan. But it’s his, and that makes your heart swell a little. 

“I can’t believe you walked all the way here this late,” he scolds. He gestures for you to take a seat on his bed, and when he sits in his chair across from you, you deflate a little at the distance.

“I had to see you,” you whisper.

He clicks his tongue, trying not to melt at your words. Because to him, you’re with Jaehyun, and there’s probably some other rational explanation for why you’d shown up at his apartment at nine o’clock. He doesn’t know what it could be, but it exists, surely. “You know if you had texted me I would’ve been there in minutes,” he asserts.

“Actually, I didn’t know that,” you correct, folding your arms over your chest, “considering the way you stormed out last time we saw each other.” Which may have been justified, but still. 

“Can you blame me? You told me you were going to see your ex boyfriend who cheated on you, by the way. And then you didn’t even bother to call or text, so what was I supposed to think?”

“You could’ve called or texted me!” 

“I thought you went back to him!” 

He stands, chest rising and falling heavily, and he looks so distraught your anger fades. “I didn’t,” you say, softer now. “I didn’t even see him that night. We haven’t even spoken since. Or I guess that’s not totally true, he’s spammed me and I’ve ignored him.”

His eyes soften, and he crosses those few feet to sit beside you, mattress dipping under the added weight. “Why?”

There’s a million ways to answer that question, and you aren’t sure which is the right one. So you go with what flows naturally, not giving it a second thought.

“Because I realized I need more too,” you confess. “No more pretending, no more lies.”

Though your chest feels lighter with the confession, the room feels smaller and your throat tighter because Chan doesn’t speak, or move, you don’t even think he blinks. He doesn’t mean to stare at you like this, but you’ve left him stunned with words he’d only ever heard in his dreams, and he worries if he speaks he’ll wake up and you’ll be gone again. 

You start to rise from the bed, fighting back tears of rejection and humiliation. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have come  – ” 

His hand latches around your wrist, gently yet firmly, and you fall back to the bed with a quiet gasp.

“I haven’t been pretending. Not for a while now,” he breathes, and now you’re the silent one. “You’re right, I was a coward. I’ve wanted you so badly and I didn’t know how to say it.” He cups your cheek, thumb brushing along the skin faintly, confirmation that you and this moment are very real. “I should’ve told you everything. How much I think about you, how much I hate it when you’re not here.”

There’s hardly any space between you now, foreheads nearly touching, breaths intertwining. 

“How I can’t get that kiss out of my head,” he exhales. “How selfish I feel for wanting more.” 

You shake your head. “You’re not selfish,” you whisper, and the corners of his lips twitch into a smile. 

“I am, because I want you all to myself.”

“Then you have me,” you say simply, as though such a claim wouldn’t change everything. You’ve had me without even knowing. 

He can’t hold back anymore – he’s done enough of that over the past month – because those words are his absolute undoing. 

“Can I kiss you right this time?” His eyes drop to your lips, awaiting, begging for your permission. 

You nod eagerly, and that’s all it takes for him to place his hand along your jaw and draw your face towards his. His lips melt into your own, this time with all the passion you’d both held back before. 

And while the kiss starts soft, tender, moving against each other with the carefulness of a blooming love, it quickly plunges into desperate desire. Your fingers thread through his hair, delicately at first, until you tug at the roots and he groans into your mouth.

That sound. That devilish, sinful sound. It causes the heat within your core to grow tenfold, and you kiss him more fervently now, tongues swirling together. He sucks your bottom lip between his teeth, tugging gently, then drops his head to your neck.

And when your head tilts instinctively, offering him more skin to mark as his, he can’t help but smirk because he loves having this effect on you. He’d realized it that day at lunch, when he couldn’t do anything but skim your thigh under the table. But you were offering, so who was he not to take? He nips at the skin and runs his tongue along each spot afterwards, soothing, claiming. 

“Mine,” he mumbles against your neck, and then he kisses his way back up to your lips, mouth hovering over your own.

“Chan,” you rasp, “I want you.”

His lips crash against yours once more, because he can’t help himself when you’ve just said you want him so desperately. “Yeah? You want me, baby?” he asks, breathless.

You shiver when his fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, tracing circles along your waist. “Yes,” you sigh, and then louder, “yes, God, I want you.”

He grips your waist, only sheer will keeping him from ripping off your clothes and fucking you right then and there. Because he wants to savor every last moment of this, but some small part of him is going feral – not a devil on his shoulder, but his throbbing cock trying to push through the seams of his boxers. So actually not a small part, because he’s big, you can see the imprint in his sweatpants.

 “Are you sure?” he questions. “Because if you want me, that’s it. There’s no more Jaehyun, no more anyone else.” 

Was he genuinely asking, or just trying to make you fall apart? You can’t tell, but you’re so needy, you answer regardless. 

“I don’t want anyone else.”

His hands hook under your shirt while he guides you onto his lap, and you raise your arms for him to pull it off while you settle against him. He pauses, drinking in the sight – you haven’t even taken your bra off yet – and then his palms find your breasts, massaging through the fabric.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, thumbs flicking over your covered nipples. The moan it elicits is so delicious that he does it again, and then again, cock twitching in his sweatpants.

“You only think that ‘cause I’m shirtless,” you quip, toying with the hem of his like you needed to make things even.

“No,” he says firmly. “Always thought you were the prettiest fucking girl ever.” He reaches behind his neck, yanking his tank top up and over his head, and you swear your breathing stops momentarily. This is what he’d hidden behind t-shirts and hoodies (and that jacket you still hadn’t given back to him), and honestly, how dare he?

But you can’t focus on that a moment longer, because he dips his head down to press his lips against the tops of your breasts hungrily, dragging wet kisses all the way to your sternum. “So fucking pretty,” he repeats, fingers unclasping your bra and tugging the straps down. 

His mouth is on you again before it even hits the ground, like he’ll keel over and die if he isn’t tasting you, and right now, he really thinks he might. So, for survival, he wraps his lips around your perked nipple, tongue swirling around it, then flicking. 

Each careful movement of his tongue causes your breath to hitch, hips rutting against him for any sort of friction, and he moans against you. His hands grip your waist, stilling your movements, and as a punishment – if you could call it that – he bites gently and tugs the sensitive bud between his teeth.

“Chan,” you moan, and when you feel the curl of that signature smirk, you become emboldened. “Who knew your mouth could actually be useful?”

Because although you definitely didn’t hate him now, you could at least reflect on that history, if not just to drive him a little wild. And hopefully he’d fuck you just a little bit harder. 

He growls then, his hand sweeping along your side to squeeze your other breast, kneading the soft skin in his palm. And when you least expect it, his hand comes down, slapping your breast with enough force to make you gasp.

“Fuck, I’m gonna miss that smart mouth of yours. Always thought it was so hot the way you’d act like you actually hated me,” he chuckles, now massaging the skin.

“I did hate you,” you rasp. You aren’t even sure if that’s true anymore, because you can’t think. His cock pressing into you has your mind in a frenzy. One where your only thoughts are of having him inside you, stretching you open, filling you up. 

When he lifts his head from your breasts, his eyes are dark, lidded, and boring right through you. Daring you to say it again. To lie and see where it gets you.

“You sure?” he whispers, tauntingly. “Because I always saw that look in your eyes.” His fingers dip lower, slipping into your panties, and he laughs when you shudder. “Deep down, you wanted to know all the filthy things I could do to this gorgeous body.”

Maybe you did. It matters little what you wanted back then, because you could only think of what you wanted right now, and his fingers were drifting dangerously close to it. But he was playing with you, not bringing them any further, waiting for your admission. 

“You flatter yourself,” you whisper. The wrong answer, clearly, because he pulls his fingers away, gripping your chin now. Forcing you to look at him, because he knows you won’t be able to keep up the act if he’s staring at you so intensely. 

“Say it’s not true then,” he orders.

You should be able to say it. You should be able to look him in the eyes and tell him he was once everything you wanted no part of. But he starts peppering open-mouthed kisses along your neck again, unfairly, and your voice betrays you. “It’s not true,” you mumble weakly.

Your fingers fly to his hair and tangle at the strands, but he won’t let you off that easily. Of course not. He grabs your face, squeezing your cheeks between his fingers. 

“No,” he growls. “Say it like you mean it.” 

His commands only add to the ache between your legs, and you accept that you can’t win. Your silence tells him everything, and he releases, hand patting your cheek like he pitied you. “That’s what I thought,” he hums, satisfied.

Your breathing becomes ragged when his hand trails down again, and this time you’re sure that he’ll relent and give you what your body was craving. Or maybe that was just you trying to convince yourself. 

“You never hated me. You hated that you knew I was better than your boyfriend,” he smirks, slipping his fingers into your jeans. They drag down, slowly, finally stopping right at your core. “You hated that you wanted to know what it would feel like if I touched you here,” he taunts, rubbing your pussy through the soaked fabric of your panties. 

“Shit, you’re this wet for me?” he groans, fingers gliding up and down, pressing harder when they pause at your clit. “I guess I was right, then.”

Any other time you would have been able to throw something sarcastic right back at him, but not now, not when he was teasing you like this. It was the closest he’d gotten to touching you where you so desperately needed him, and your hips buck unwittingly again. “Please, Chan. Need you,” you moan.

“Yeah, I know baby,” he coos. “Don’t worry. I’ll show you everything I’ve been dreaming about doing to you.”

And then you’re pushed off of him and onto the bed, hitting the sheets with a quiet squeal. The same fingers that had been rubbing your clothed pussy now hurriedly unbutton your jeans, and you lift off the bed slightly to help him drag them down along with your panties.

Once you’re completely naked before him, his movements lull, now taking in every inch of exposed skin. 

You feel like you’re drowning under his eyes, because the last person to see you like this had betrayed you, had touched someone that wasn’t you. This was the reality of infidelity – the insecurity, the nagging, cruel insecurity that seeped into places it shouldn’t. Because Chan would never.

And he sees it, too. The way you begin to falter and drift elsewhere. Your head turning against the pillow, refusing to face him.

“Hey,” he whispers, cupping your jaw, pulling your face back towards him. “Where’d you go, baby? Don’t hide from me, please.”

You swallow harshly, forcing a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Not hiding. Just…worried I’m not enough,” you mumble, and the words break him. He hated Jaehyun before, but he despises him now, because he made you  – who he considered the most beautiful girl to ever grace the earth, even when you were calling him an idiot – feel less than. And that’s something Chan would spend the rest of his life undoing if he had to.

His thumb strokes your skin now, trying to wipe away the remnants of anyone’s touch that wasn’t his. “No, stop that. You’re more than enough. You’re perfect,” he says. 

Your cheeks heat up from the affirmations, and he kisses you to cement them. But it's short, subdued, as he moves further down, lips grazing your neck, your chest, then your navel. He sinks lower, hovering right above your cunt, spreading your legs apart. 

“So perfect for me,” he breathes, and you can feel the air hitting against you. “You’re mine now. You won’t have to worry about anyone else ever again.” 

The words can barely sink in before his tongue is on you, licking a slow, tantalizing stripe between your folds. It’s so sudden that your hips lift off the bed, and his hands come quick, wrapping around your thigh and pinning you down. He swipes his tongue again, and then he takes as much of your pussy into his mouth as he can, devouring what had been kept from him for too long.

“Fuck, Chan, please,” you moan, grabbing at his hair for something to ground you. He groans into you, both from your fingers tugging and the sound of you moaning his name like that. 

“You taste so fucking good,” he rasps. His lips wrap around your clit, sucking the sensitive nub hard, tugging, releasing. Then, he swirls his tongue, creating a pattern that has your back arching, threatening to come undone. 

You’d thought about this. Lonely nights in your dorm, touching yourself at the thought of how he would look between your legs, about how his tongue would feel against you. But there was no way to anticipate this. He lapped at your pussy like he was starved and you were the only meal he’d get again. He’d like that, truthfully.

Your body is trembling by the time he draws his head back, and the lack of his warm tongue causes you to whine. “Patience, princess,” he coos. 

Before you can beg him to touch you again, he spits directly onto your cunt, letting his fingers spread it as if your slick wasn’t enough. And the action is so erotic, so filthy that your thighs clench involuntarily and he has to hold them open.

Two fingers push inside you, and his tongue is back, flicking your clit with urgency. He pumps them languidly, curling them against your g-spot and then pulling back until you’re almost empty. His name leaves your mouth through choked cries and it only drives him further, because he needs you to unravel just like this. His tongue circles your clit in rhythm with his fingers, hitting your sweet spot with each pump, and his pace quickens when he can tell you’re close. 

“Chan, please don’t stop!” you pant. “Fuck, I’m so close.” 

It’s all too much - his fingers, his tongue, the lewd noises of them bringing you to the edge. “Go on, baby, give it to me,” he coaxes. “Come on my tongue for me, just like that.”

With his permission (which was much more of a plea), you let go, throwing your head back against the pillow. Your whole body comes alive with the intensity of your orgasm, ripping through you in currents while he continues lapping at your pussy lazily. It’s only when he pulls his fingers out for the final time and sucks them clean that you come down, chest heaving. 

“My mouth sure is useful, huh?” he teases, laughing when you roll your eyes. 

His laughter is cut short when you sit up on your knees and tug at the waistband of his sweatpants, head lowering. Your intentions are clear, but he grips your shoulder, halting your movements. 

“No, no, princess, it’s okay,” he huffs, using his last bit of self-restraint. He can’t believe he’s turning down head from you, but right now, being buried inside you is his priority. 

You can’t believe it either, blinking up at him sweetly, eyes wide with confusion. “But I wanna return the favor,” you pout.

Jesus, were you an angel from above or a succubus from the depths of hell, he wonders?

“Fuck, I know, baby,” he groans. “But I need to be inside you, right now.”

He sounds so desperate that you feel like you’re in control now, and you reach for his cock through his sweatpants. Wrapping your fingers around it, stroking softly. “You wanna fuck me, Channie?” you purr. 

“Yes,” he growls, grabbing your wrist – all your control, gone. “You want it too, don’t you baby?” He stands, ridding himself of his sweats and boxers at once. His cock springs free, precum beading on the tip, and he cages you against the bed. “Or can you not take it? Hm? Is one all this pretty pussy can give me?”

The flip switches in you instantly, arms slithering around his neck, yanking him to you. His lips crash onto yours, all teeth and tongue, both of you at your neediest. When your hand slips down to stroke him, thumb spreading precum along his length, he lets out a low guttural sound into your mouth. 

“Baby, shit, you’re killing me,” he rasps.

“Can you die inside me, at least?” 

That he could do. Happily. Willingly. He reaches over you, pulling open a drawer and rummaging inside. And though you shouldn’t, you bring your hand to his wrist, stopping him. 

“I’m on the pill, if that helps,” you whisper. “I need to feel you, nothing else.” Your words are sinful but your eyes are so sweet, looking up at him like you’d break if he denied you. 

“Fuck, princess, you’re trouble,” he groans, shoving the drawer closed and bringing his hand to your cheek instead. He swipes away a few strands of hair that had fallen, trying to soak in every inch of your perfect face. 

“You love it,” you giggle.

“God, yes I do.”

He grasps his cock and fists it a few short times, then guides it along your pussy. Your slick coats his shaft immediately, slow drags making your head spin. And when he slaps the tip against your clit, you know he’s doing it just for that. To drive you crazy, to hear your whines, to see you writhing for it. For him. Would it be appropriate to call him a smug bastard again?

“Stop teasing,” you beg, your voice a strained whisper.

“But you’re so cute like this,” he says. “What’d you say again? ‘Everyone knows I wouldn’t fuck you?’”

You buck your hips against him, a poor retaliation, and he laughs, positioning himself at your entrance. “Well look at you now, princess.”

He presses into you just the smallest bit, enough for the tip to slip inside, still teasing when all you wanted was for him to plunge inside you and fuck you senseless. That small amount of pressure is gone in an instant, leaving you empty once more. 

“Chan,” you whimper. “Please just fuck me, I can’t take it.”

You might cry if he keeps this up, still sensitive from your last orgasm but so desperate for another. And while he wouldn’t mind driving you to that point, his cock is painfully hard. Even he’s at his limit. 

“Oh, baby, you’re gonna take it,” he taunts, thrusting forward in one swift motion. He bottoms out and stays there, immobile, reveling in your cunt stretching around him. “Fuck. Jesus Christ, you feel amazing.”

“Would feel more amazing if you would move,” you hiss, and he actually listens. His hips snap against you with a purpose, slow and deep, watching every inch sink further. 

Each thrust reaches that sweet spot that has your back arching and nails digging into him. You can already feel the fire building inside you again, clenching around him in a way that has him wondering if you’re a dream. “Fuck, your pussy was made for me,” he groans, hips bucking faster now. Less restraining and savoring, more adhering to his primal urge to fill you up entirely.

“Funny. Jaehyun said the same thing,” you pant. You aren’t sure where the confidence comes from, especially when he’s the one pounding into you; maybe he’s fucking the attitude back into you. But you know it’ll get you into trouble, the good kind of trouble, the kind where Chan wrecks you mercilessly. 

And oh, he does. He thrusts wilder, rougher, almost carelessly, the sound of skin slapping skin echoing throughout the room. 

“Yeah? Well he fucking lied, baby,” he growls. “Because you feel that?” His hand presses down on your stomach. “That’s all me. My cock you’re squeezing like a fucking vice.”

His hand slides down, thumb rubbing tight circles against your clit. The added sensation brings you closer to the edge, and he’s nearly there as well. “Chan, oh my god,” you moan, nails dragging along his bicep. 

“You’re so tight,” he grunts. “Did he ever fuck you right?” He won’t even say the name, because it holds no meaning now. You’re his, and he’ll fuck you enough times that you won’t remember anyone else. 

Your walls clench harder around him, his thumb circling relentlessly. “No,” you cry. “Not like you. Not like this.” That answer satisfies him, and he pulls back all the way just to slam into you harder.

“I didn’t think so,” he muses. He leans down, nipping at your neck. “Forget about him. All you need to remember is me and my cock ruining you like this.” 

You’d already forgotten, only able to think about how Chan was the one currently fucking into you like he had something to prove. You’re so close to release, strangled cries of his name escaping your lips while your thighs clench around him. “Ah, Chan, I’m gonna come!” you whimper.

“Fuck, me too, baby,” he grunts. “You want me to fill you up? Leave your pussy leaking with my cum?”

His words are your final propulsion, and he emphasizes them with each rut of his hips. Your back arches off the bed, face contorting in pure euphoria, and Chan commits the image to memory. It matters little that he knows he’ll see it many, many more times; he wants to watch you ride every single high until the end of time. 

Your orgasm washes over you, setting every inch of your body aflame, and you want more. More of him. All of him. “Yes! Please fill me up, please,” you beg, voice breaking from the overstimulation. 

He can’t deny you, doesn’t want to deny you, and he couldn’t anyways. You’ve basically sucked him in, legs keeping him held in place. He thrusts into you one final time, a low groan emitting from someplace deep within, hips jerking erratically as thick, white strings of cum spurt inside of you.

When you’ve milked every last drop from him, he pulls out from your spent heat and falls to the bed dramatically, limbs flopping as if he’s dead. And maybe he is, because that was definitely heaven. 

You lay there side by side, chests rising and falling in sync, staring at the ceiling like it might offer an explanation for what just happened. How you ended up like this, his cum dripping from you, your scratches welting along his back, when just months ago you couldn’t stand each other. Supposedly. 

Then comes a knock on the door, and you both are struck with the realization that you’d forgotten Minho was home, in another room, hearing everything. Or rather, Chan had forgotten, and you’d never known. Never even considered it. 

“Are you two done in there?” he calls from outside. You lift your head and look at Chan with wide eyes, and he shrugs like he’s just as clueless.

“Uh, yeah,” Chan shouts back. You bury yourself under the sheets, expecting the door to swing open. Thankfully, it doesn’t. But the alternative might be worse.

“Y/N, when I asked you for help, I didn’t mean by moaning loud enough to wake the neighbors in my apartment.”

Minho’s footsteps pad away from the door, and you pull back the sheets, horrified. “Was I really that loud?!” you exclaim. He hadn’t said anything about your volume or even tried to quiet you, and you were far too consumed to notice. 

“A little…” Chan rubs his neck sheepishly.

You wish you could melt into the bed and disappear forever, because how would you ever face Minho again? And their poor neighbors, no less. The walk of shame was going to be unbearable. “Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing!” you groan. 

He shakes his head vehemently and kisses your forehead, a small reassurance. “No! No, baby, it was so hot,” he coos. And then it hits him. “Wait. Minho asked you for help?”

“I guess you were going crazy without me,” you smirk. This time he groans, and you laugh, nuzzling into his neck. “Don’t worry. You’re not getting rid of me now.”

“Like I’d ever want to,” he whispers. 

  “This is what you called me for?” Hyunjin’s voice filtered through the phone, tinged with an amused disbelief that made it difficult to tell whether he was genuinely concerned or simply entertained by your latest crisis.

  You balanced the phone against your shoulder, a damp dish towel in one hand and a half-soaked roll of paper towels in the other, glaring at the mess spreading across your kitchen floor. The sink had been making strange noises for weeks, a low gurgle that seemed harmless enough until it finally turned on you, sending water pooling across the counter with a mocking drip that no amount of frantic plunging could stop. The pipes—the stubborn, stubborn pipes—had defeated every attempt you’d made, leaving you knee-deep in irritation and suds.

  “Unless you know a better way to keep my apartment from turning into an indoor pool, yes, this is what I called you for,” you said, trying and failing to keep the exasperation out of your voice. “It’s either you or I start charging admission at the door.”

  A low chuckle resonated through the line, warm and infuriatingly self-satisfied. “You know, most people would just call maintenance. That’s literally what they’re paid for.”

  “I did call maintenance,” you muttered, squeezing the damp towel until droplets slipped between your fingers. “They said someone could come by next Tuesday. Unless I plan on living off takeout for the next week, that’s not exactly helpful.”

  “Ah,” Hyunjin replied, dragging the syllable out with a smugness that made your stomach tighten. “So I’m not just your first call… I’m your only option.”

  “You’re the only option that doesn’t involve my entire kitchen rotting.”

  He hummed, the sound low and thoughtful, as though he was weighing the gravity of the situation. “I just showered, doll. You trying to get me dirty again?”

  Your mouth opened, but words failed to spill out from over your lips. You stood still, pushing at the way his causal tone made your cheeks heat and heart thump, trying to conjure a quip back, or yell at him, perchance.

  “I’ll be there in ten minutes. Try not to cry without me.”

  The line went dead before the curses you had lined up rolled off your tongue, leaving you alone with the gurgling of the faucet and the uncomfortable quickening of your heartbeat.

  Hyunjin had a way of slipping beneath your skin without even trying, weaving himself into moments that should have been mundane and turning them into something you thought about long after they ended. You had lived next door to him for nearly a year, long enough to know he was the sort of neighbour who always seemed to appear when you least expected it—carrying groceries into the elevator at the exact moment you struggled with your own, lounging in his work clothes against the railing of the stairwell when you came home late, dress shirt rumpled and hair in a messy state no amount of intentional styling could replicate. He was helpful in an infuriatingly smug way that made it impossible to thank him without also wanting to throttle him.

  And he was handsome, although “handsome” felt like too simple a word for someone who could make you lose track of what you were saying in the middle of a sentence just by pushing his unkempt fringe off his forehead. Hyunjin had a way of existing that demanded your attention; tall and loose-limbed, all lazy grace and deep contours dwindled by the warmth of his stupid grin.

  You had told yourself, repeatedly, that this attraction was nothing but a harmless nuisance, an unfortunate side effect of close proximity and his vexing habit of showing up in your space like it belonged to him. You had convinced yourself the butterflies in your stomach were merely a byproduct of his teasing, the kind of thing anyone would feel when faced with a neighbour who always seemed to know how to get under your skin. Yet, every time you caught yourself watching him tighten a screw with those long fingers, or when his voice curled around your name in his low, unhurried drawl, you wondered how much longer you could keep up the act.

  A sharp knock at your door jolted you from your thoughts.

  When you opened it, Hyunjin leaned against the frame with an infuriating ease, his battered red toolbox hanging from one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his jeans, a dark wash you had grown accustomed to because these jeans were his handyman jeans—he wore them whenever he came over to help you fix up your kitchen cabinets, or install new tiles on the floor of your bathroom, or screw in a lightbulb you truly could’ve done yourself. The denim was littered with wood dust and gorilla glue and dried paint, tiny rips clawing into the fabric across his knees. 

  His white t-shirt clung to his arms and chest, and it felt deeply unfair—did he have to be so well sculpted?—and his hair was still damp from his shower, the strands spiking slightly as they dried. A warm, woody scent drifted past you as he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, leaving you momentarily caught between irritation and the embarrassing awareness of how your heart had quickened.

  “Your knight in shining denim,” he announced, setting the toolbox on your counter with a dull clang before towering in front of the sink, his eyes sweeping over the small flood. “Wow. You weren’t kidding. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”

  “I told you it was bad,” you mumbled, crossing your arms.

  “You undersold it,” he said, sleeves already shoved up, biceps already pulling the fabric taut as he examined the pipes. “This is a full-scale anarchy.”

  You leaned against the counter, trying to bluff indifference even though your eyes travelled with a mind of their own, skimming over the line of his shoulders, the sharp angle of his jaw as he focused. “Do you actually know hwo to fix it, or are you just here to gloat while I drown?”

  “Both,” he admitted without looking up, his mouth twitching at the corners. “But don’t worry, I’ve got this. You can trust me.”

  The words were casual, tossed out without thought, but the way they landed with unexpected weight, pulling at something in your chest, had forced your gaze to the dripping faucet, to the water-stained towels scattered across the floor, to anything that wasn’t him.

  “Tell me how it started,” he said, his words softened by the scrape of metal as he retrieved a wrench from the box, glancing up at you with a calm gaze that had the infuriating ability to both irritate and disarm you at the same time. “Did the water stop draining all at once, or has it been slow for a while?”

  You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, shifting your weight against the counter, carefully positioning yourself far enough from the watery mess that you refused to step into it again, though you knew he would never let it touch you even if it spread. 

  “It was gurgling for days, but I thought it would work itself out. Tonight, though, I washed a pan and suddenly the whole thing just… rebelled.” Hyunjin snorted. You continued, “I tried the plunger, I tried pouring boiling water, I even tried vinegar and baking soda. Nothing worked.”

  Hyunjin shook his head, his damp strands of hair falling forward until he brushed them back with his wrist, leaving a subtle streak of water against his temple that gleamed in the dim kitchen light. “You’re lucky it didn’t explode on you. Pipes don’t like being ignored, sweetheart.”

  Your heart tripped at the word, though you masked it with a curt roll of your eyes. “You say that like I had any other choice.”

  “You had one.” He turned back to the pipes, his voice rich with a smugness that fizzled beneath your skin. “Calling me before it turned into a flood.”

  The wrench twisted in his grip, veins straining against the skin of his forearm, his long fingers gripping deftly as he loosened one of the joints. A thin stream of water spat out at him, splattering across his shirt and streaking down the column of his throat, catching the faint sheen of sweat already gathering along his skin. He didn’t flinch, only muttered something under his breath as he reached for a rag and wiped his hands, the damp cotton of his t-shirt sticking more closely to his chest with each movement.

  That damn white t-shirt. He knew what he was doing wearing a white t-shirt to a job involving water.

  You tried not to stare, but when you catch the way his chest looks under the wet ghost-like fabric, your eyes started dragging down the lines of his body, tracing the subtle dip of muscle beneath the shirt, the stretch of denim housing dampened splotches across his thighs where he balanced on his heels.

  “Stop hovering,” he quipped tauntingly, breaking your trance. “You’re making me nervous.”

  “You’re not nervous,” you replied too quickly, the flush creeping up your neck exposing you far more than your voice did.

  A slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed fixed on the pipes. “You’re right. I’m not.”

  The water hissed as he twisted another piece free, the sound filling the silence between you, punctuated only by the occasional clink of metal against tile. You stood with your arms crossed, feigning indifference even as your stomach fluttered, his voice threading through the space with an easy confidence making you want to lean closer just to hear more.

  “Honestly,” Hyunjin continued, “you’re lucky I like you. Anyone else, I’d have told them to call a plumber and left them to figure it out. But you–” He finally looked up, his canines cutting sharp against the dim light. “You get VIP treatment.”

  Your throat went dry, though you managed to roll your eyes, clinging to the veneer of irritation that had always been your armor with him. “VIP? Do you mean free labor?”

  “Free for now,” he corrected, tightening one final joint before leaning back to test the faucet. The water sputtered, then flowed smoothly sans restraint, the pool in the sink beginning to drain away in a whirl. He wiped his hands on the rag and pushed himself to his feet, his height crowding the space between you as he leaned close enough for you to catch the scent of his woody cologne on his skin again, mingling with the freshness of his shower and, now, the spray of pipe water. “But I’m starting to reconsider my rates.”

  You exhaled, both relieved and annoyed, watching the sink clear itself as though he had worked some sort of miracle. “So you’re done? That’s it?”

  “That’s it.” He tilted his head, water still dripping from the ends of his hair, sliding down the side of his neck in thin rivulets. “Good as new. No more indoor swimming pool.”

  You hesitated, then said, “Well… I suppose I should compensate you somehow.”

  A smirk found solace on his lips, entirely too knowing. He took a step closer, dropping his voice just enough to make your pulse stumble. 

  “You could always offer me a shower.” He let the pause hang and added, “Preferably one I don’t have to take alone. I did get all dirty fixing your sink, after all."

  Your lips parted, words failing to stitch along the tip of your tongue as heat surged through your chest, your body discarding the veil you typically hid behind. You tried your very best to hold his gaze, to avoid peeking at the sag of his damp clothes across his chest and torso.

  Hyunjin reached for his toolbox, his smirk loitering on his lips like he had said nothing at all out of the ordinary. “Call me if you need anything else,” he said, his tone smoothing back into something deceptively neutral as his lips curved. “And try not to wait until it’s an emergency next time.”

You could get him as wet as you wanted him, thought Hyunjin. And although a shower with you sounded like the epitome of all his wettest dreams (literally!), he really just wanted to take you out to dinner.

Hyunjin thinks he’ll ask you the next time he’s over to help you, his pretty doll.

THE BOOKSHELF was so desperately needed, it was almost incredulous that you hadn’t bought a new one already.

  The old one leaned in the corner of your bedroom like a tired old man, its frame straining under the weight of years of collecting, every shelf sagging, buckling under the burden of your affection for the written word. Books were piled not only vertically, but in sideways towers that grew dangerously tall, forming stacks on your bedside table and even finding refuge on the floor. There were just too many, some that had been well-cherished, others you hadn't even gotten a chance to indulge in yet. 

  You had laughed the first time you found yourself stepping over novels on the way to bed, but last weekend, when one had tipped over and startled you awake with a sharp thud against the hardwood, you had sworn it was finally time.

  The new bookshelf arrived that morning in a flat pack box, heavy with wooden panels and plastic-wrapped screws and a thick manual with all the information you needed to get it set up. You could have assembled it yourself, but the thought of untangling the fat manual with its poorly written instructions, tiny print and all, made you groan. 

  And, truthfully, when you had Hyunjin—a neighbor who had become both your rescuer and tormentor, a man whose hands could fix just about anything—why would you deny yourself the pleasure of watching him work?

  He knocked at your door just after six, right on the heels of his workday. You opened it to find him in a pressed white shirt, the sleeves pushed up hastily to his elbows, his tie tugged loose as if he had only just pulled it free on the walk over. The slacks he wore hung perfectly, his hair a little mussed from his hand raking through it, strands falling his forehead before he brushed them away absentmindedly. 

  There was something wildly attractive about the juxtaposition of him in work attire holding a toolbox, his frame filling your doorway and lips surrendering as the home to a lazy smirk.

  “You didn’t even change?” you questioned, stepping back to let him in, though the words came out lighter than you intended, possibly thanks to the sudden upbringing of your pulse.

  “You sounded desperate,” he replied, his mouth curving into a knowing grin that made you want to roll your eyes and melt all at once. “Besides, you think I can’t build a bookshelf in slacks?”

  “I think you shouldn’t risk ruining them.”

  “If I thought I’d ruin them, I would have come in those raggedy jeans you love so much,” he said with a wink, walking over to your bedroom and setting the toolbox down with a thud against the wall. “Tonight, though, you get the deluxe service. Tie and everything.”

  You exhaled slowly, half-annoyed by his cockiness and half enlivened by the way the undone buttons of his shirt revealed just enough skin to tempt the imagination. He was unfair in that way, managing to look immaculate while doing something as unglamorous as kneeling on your bedroom floor, sorting wooden panels into organized piles.

  The two of you began unpacking the box together. You crouched beside him, pulling out pieces of hardware, the brush of your hand against his every time you handed him a screw or a dowel bolt sending little ripples through your chest. Hyunjin worked calmly, his long fingers moving with practice, his veins flexing subtly under his skin whenever he twisted the screwdriver. He concentrated in bursts, brows pinching together whenever his tools called for focus, then broke the silence with a comment that made you laugh.

  “You know,” he said, aligning two boards and tightening a joint, his words laid-back and devoid of any uncertainty in his efforts, “you could have done this yourself if you wanted to. It’s practically foolproof.”

  You gave him a pointed look, steadying a side panel he’d asked you to hold. “I could have. But then I’d miss out on your charming company.”

  His head tipped to the side, a slow grin spreading across his face, and although he didn’t directly look at you, you caught the glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. “So you admit it—you just like having me around.”

  “I admit nothing,” you countered, ignoring how your heartbeat said otherwise, racing at the proximity of him. He had leaned close to reach for a screw, his chest brushing your shoulder, the fabric of his shirt warm against your skin, his scent wrapping itself around you, still woody, but mixing with his natural musk. He lingered, not inappropriately, but long enough for the moment to feel longer than necessary—not that you were complaining—and your hands wavered on the board you were supposed to be holding still.

  Hyunjin smirked, speaking low but teasingly, “Careful. If this collapses on us, I’m blaming your distraction.”

  You huffed, shifting your grip along the panel.

  The two of you had established a good workflow—him tightening, you holding, passing tools back and forth. Once, you fumbled a screw, and he caught it mid-air, flashing you a grin that made you scoff. Another time, he reached around you to adjust a joint, his arm caging you in without warning, body brushing behind yours and radiating a palpable heat you felt all over your back and arms. His breath ghosted over your temple when he spoke. “That’s it—hold it still. You’re good at this.”

  “I’m literally just standing here,” you muttered, but your voice was thin, affected by how his closeness coiled inside you.

  “That’s all it takes sometimes,” he said, and whether he meant building or something else entirely, you didn’t dare ask.

  By the time the final screw slid into place, the bookshelf stood tall and flawless, a sturdy replacement for the leaning disaster it succeeded. You stood with your hands on your hips, surveying it proudly, Hyunjin’s presence at your side stealing more of your attention than the new piece of furniture did.

  “Perfect,” you said, exhaling with satisfaction.

  “No shit,” he chortled, brushing his palms off on his slacks. “It was built by a professional.”

  “You are not a professional.”

  “Not by trade,” he agreed, turning toward you with his deviled smile.

  You rolled your eyes, trying to swat away the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “You’ve earned a drink.”

  “I won’t argue.”

  You led him to the kitchen, where he leaned casually against the counter, peeking at the crevice of the sink he’d fixed just days ago. His tie hung loosely, the unbuttoned collar framing his throat, and you found your eyes drifting there before you forced them away. He touched the faucet lightly, testing it. “Still running smooth? No disasters to report?”

  “None.” You pulled open the fridge, sighing at the empty shelf where your favourite bottle of wine usually waited. “Although I did run out of wine.”

  He gasped, his voice theatrical. “A tragedy. How do you survive without it?”

  “Barely,” you admitted, holding up a bottle of peach juice instead. “This is all I’ve got. I’ve been too tired from work to stop at the store.”

  His gaze washed over you as you poured, something soft creeping into his expression beneath the usual teasing glint. He didn’t make any comical remarks about your back-up choice of drink, but rather watched you fill both the glasses in silence.

  “You’ve been working too hard.”

  You shrugged, handing him a glass. “It’s nothing. Everyone’s tired.”

  “You’re not everyone.” His words were quiet, but they landed firmly. For a moment, he didn’t look away, didn’t cloak the care in witty remarks or smirks. Then, as if sensing the air had grown too heavy, he tipped his glass toward you, his lips quirking again. “That’s why I come running, even when all you need me to do is change a lightbulb.” You blush at this and giggle, reminiscing upon the memory. “What’s next? The batteries in your remote?”

  You laughed. “Don’t jinx it.”

  “Don’t worry,” he mused, setting his empty glass down in the sink he fixed just days ago. “If it does, you’ll call me. I’ll come, just for you.”

Hyunjin did want to come for you. 

Or, cum, more specifically. Perhaps he would, after he finally grew the balls to ask you out to dinner, since there were clearly none between his legs given his lack of proactivity.

YOU were surprised to find Hyunjin outside your apartment door in his tattered handyman jeans, holding his trusty red toolbox in his right hand, a brown bag scrunched around the neck of a bottle in his left. His hair was disheveled, strands spiking out in random, and he wore a black t-shirt that stretched over his shoulders and chest. You hadn’t called him, yet there he was, leaning against—

  “The doorframe?”

  He nodded, shifting the weight of the toolbox against his thigh, his eyes running down the line of your satin dress with such intent focus, you felt your breath lodge in your throat. “Yeah, I noticed it when I came over to put up your bookshelf,” he began casually. His gaze dragged up again, loitering across the neckline of your dress, “I didn’t know you’d be going out, though.”

  The words carried a neutrality, but you knew him well enough to hear the subtle edge thumbing beneath them. The thought of you dressed up for someone else unsettled him.

  “It’s nothing,” you said quickly, brushing your hands over the fabric, smoothing it out along your hips. “Just a work dinner. A little celebration with my team.”

  Hyunjin’s shoulders drew down very subtly, his fingers flexing around the handle of his toolbox. “A work dinner,” he repeated, solidifying it in his mind. He gave a few slow nods before his chin tipped toward the brown bag in his other hand, a playful spark resurfacing in his eyes.

  “What’s in there?” you asked, nodding at it.

  “Your favourite,” he replied simply, lifting the bag just enough for the neck of the bottle to peek out. “I picked it up on my way home from work yesterday. I figured you’d eventually run out of excuses not to let me drink it with you, peach juice could only redeem me so much.” He smirked crookedly, his mischievous glimmering eyes crinkling into a squint.

  The thought of him walking past the shop, remembering the name of the exact wine you’d offhandedly mentioned, and buying it without knowing when he’d even give it to you, sent your stomach tumbling. “You remembered?”

  His smirk softened. “Of course I did.”

  The corners of your mouth tugged upward, a warmth blossoming in your chest that you thought best to ignore. “You really didn’t have to.”

  “Maybe not,” he said with a shrug, “but I wanted to.”

  The honesty in his tone was disarming, and before you could let it mess with your mind, you stepped aside, gesturing him in. “Come on. You’re already here.”

  He hesitated just enough to look at your dress again, his mouth pressing into a line that tried to be light but did nil to hide his interest. “I don’t want you to be late, though. If this takes too long–”

  “It won’t,” you interrupted, a lilt in your voice. “Besides, I’d rather spend my time with you than my crew at work.”

  His eyebrows rose, lips parting as if to confirm whether you meant it, but a determined glint overcame the look in his eyes, as though he’d taken your words as a challenge. “In that case,” he said, stepping inside with exaggerated seriousness, “this doorframe is about to receive the most meticulous repair of my career.”

  You laughed, shaking your head as you returned to the vanity in your bedroom, sliding into the seat you’d abandoned in your rush to answer the door. 

  The mirror reflected the sight of Hyunjin setting the bottle on your kitchen counter, returning to place his toolbox on your bedroom floor, and stretching his arms up to push at the panel lifting off the jamb of your doorframe, doing his own mister fix it investigation. He leans down into his open toolbox, hands getting busy pulling out screws and the drill.

  The panel itself wasn’t much—it was just a strip of wood peeling away from where it had once been flush—but Hyunjin treated it as though it were the most intricate repair he’d ever been asked to do. Every whir of his drill was unhurried, every lift of a screw rid of haste. He had decided keeping himself perched in your door was preferable to letting you walk out of it.

  He drilled in the first screw, the sound sharp in the air, his arm flexing with each turn of the tool. You caught his reflection in the mirror, the way the veins colonized his forearm and swelled with the effort, the subtle stretch of his shirt over the top of his back when he pushed and drilled at the panel. He paused between each screw, peeking over at you as though to check your progress, though the look in his eyes mused over you longer than necessary.

  What should have been a five-minute fix stretched languidly, his movements akin to a tortoise. He measured twice before driving in a screw, wiped his hands on his thighs even though they weren’t dirty, and spent a long time running his fingers along the wooden frame as if searching for invisible imperfections.

  You pressed a brush to your cheekbones, pretending not to notice, but your heart had long deceived you, thudding rampantly against the confines of your ribs. His shirt had ridden up slightly when he had to stretch further up to reach the end of the panel—his height could only do so much for him. The lack of fabric revealed the sharp cut of his waist, the shadow of his v-line dipping into the waistband of his boxers. You bit down gently on your lip, sliding gloss across it and pretending your sudden distraction was entirely the fault of your reflection.

  Hyunjin shifted again, kneeling lower, one hand braced against the frame while the other steadied the drill. His head tipped just enough for his hair to fall into his eyes, and he blew it away with a quick puff of air, his lips parting, the softest bite against the bottom one when the screw met more resistance than he’d expected.

  “You’re awfully quiet over there,” he said suddenly, in a low voice that travelled easily in the few feet separating you.

  “I’m trying not to distract you,” you consoled, your cheeks warming as you spoke.

  He glanced up at you through your vanity mirror from his crouch, the corner of his lips quirking, his gaze so direct it sent an icy bullet up your spine. “Too late for that.”

  You exhaled slowly, feigning nonchalance as you twirled an absentminded finger through the ends of your hair. Still, you couldn’t help sneaking glances, at the flex of his biceps when he leaned into the drill, at the way his jeans sagged just enough for the band of his boxers to peek through, at the lines of muscle carved into him even in the simplest of motions.

  The panel should have been fixed in five minutes flat.

  So why was it that twenty had passed, and he was still crouched there, examining his work, adjusting, pausing to wipe his palm against his denim-clad thigh, taking every opportunity to look up at you in the mirror?

  With one last turn of the drill, he leaned back on his heels, wiping a speck of dust from his forearm with the back of his hand. 

  “There,” he said, his voice casual, though the smug curve at the corners of his lips told you he was proud of his unnecessary patience. “Door closes smooth as butter now.”

  You twisted in your seat, eyeing him where he knelt on the floor, sweat beading faintly along his temple. “You made that take three times longer than it should have.”

  He shrugged, setting the drill back in the toolbox, the muscles in his arm flexing with the movement. “Maybe I just like fixing things for you.”

  The words landed heavy in your chest and echoed in your head longer than they should have, and you found your throat tightening because you weren’t sure how to respond. 

  With Hyunjin on your bedroom floor, his back pressed against the wall just beside the mended doorframe, the sight of him danced in your vision longer than it should have. The shadows of evening and dim light threw half of his face in a mellow shade. The sheen of sweat gathered along his temples caught the last strands of light, giving him a glow one only ever noticed when they were already looking too closely. 

  He sat with his legs stretched, denim tugged taut along his thighs, and even though he’d finished fixing what he came to mend, his body still held the languid tautness of a man in the midst of work, chest rising with each deep breath, fingers twitching as if reluctant to stash his tools away.

  You hesitated only a moment before speaking. “We should open the wine,” you kept your voice casual through your shallow breaths, smiling through a raging heart, “it would be a waste if I drank it alone, and after all your effort today, you deserve it more than anyone.”

  His mouth quirked, the curl of amusement playing at the commissures of his lips, but his eyes softened when they met yours. “You sure about that?” His voice was smooth, teasing. He knew you would never say no, but he wanted to hear you insist anyway.

  “I’m sure,” you replied, pushing yourself to your feet, walking across your room, stepping over his long limbs stretched out in front of the door, and moving toward the kitchen, acutely aware of his gaze trailing behind you. It was almost too much, the weight of it pressing against your back as you retrieved the bottle, found two glasses, and returned to the room where he remained on the floor, waiting quietly with patience and two twinkling eyes.

  You sank down beside him, close enough that your bare knees brushed against the denim stretched over his thighs. The cork slid free with a soft pop, the sound strangely intimate in the otherwise quiet room, and you poured the wine carefully into each glass, the liquid catching a blush of red as it swirled. When you offered his glass forward, his fingers grazed yours in the exchange, resting in their lingering, and the simple touch made your stomach clench far tighter than it had any right to.

  He lifted his glass, eyes never leaving yours. “Cheers, doll,” he said, the nickname slipping off his tongue with ease, the way it always had, and when the glasses clinked, the sound seemed more stark than it should have, echoing in the space between you.

  The first sip was warm, rich, and melted along your tongue. He leaned his head back against the wall, glancing at you sidelong with a smug, careless expression doing little to hide the intent in his pupils. “You’re not going to be late to that dinner of yours?”

  You shook your head, swirling the wine in your glass, watching the surface slant before peeking at him again. “I wasn’t really looking forward to going. Honestly, I’d much rather stay here.”

  Something flickered in his expression, a spark he smothered quickly under a chuckle. “What were you celebrating, anyway? Must’ve been something big if it meant dragging you out of the apartment in a dress that–” his eyes dropped briefly, unapologetically, before rising to meet yours again, “–looks like it was tailored onto you.”

  You smiled, suppressing a scoff. “It was just a deal we signed with another company. Nothing I was strictly required to attend.”

  “So you g’na tell them you were sick?” His lips curled around the words.

  “I could,” you admitted, tilting your head, “and I probably will.”

  The sound of his laugh rumbled in his chest. He turned his glass in his hands before taking another sip, then leaned his head back again, exhaling through his nose. “Shame for them, though,” he murmured, grinning, “they won’t get to see my doll all dolled up.”

  Your breath caught, but you narrowed your eyes and matched his tone easily. “That’s fine. At least you got to see me.”

  His grin dampened on his lips but not in his eyes. He paused, a flash of surprise quickly hidden, his jaw clenching briefly before he looked away, taking his time with his next sip. “Dangerous thing to say to me,” he said. He spoke in a mellow tone, even through the grit of his loitering wit.

  You smirked into your glass. “You’ll live.”

  His eyes snapped back to yours, and the air between you stilled almost imperceptibly. “You’re trouble,” he muttered, his gaze flicking down to your lips before returning to your eyes, “and you don’t even try to hide it.”

  “You’re still here, so it doesn’t seem like you mind,” you countered, lifting an eyebrow.

  His grin returned lazily. “I don’t,” he admitted, almost thoughtful, before his lips tugged further. “When it’s you, I think I like trouble.”

  The words sank into you faster than the wine. For a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe, your pulse tripping unevenly, and it felt as if your body didn’t quite know what to do with the sudden weight of his admission, playful though it was. You shifted slightly where you sat, the hem of your dress brushing against your thighs, and you tried to focus on the swirl of red at the bottom of your glass rather than the man watching you so intently beside you.

  Perhaps it was the gentle buzz of alcohol, but you found yourself speaking before you could stop yourself. 

  “You know,” you said quietly, softer than your usual banter, “I really am grateful. For everything you do for me. You don’t have to, but you still always show up.”

  He tilted his head, his lashes lowering as though he was trying to decide whether to make light of it, but you didn’t give him the chance. You placed your now-empty glass down on the floor on the other side of you, reached out, and let your fingers graze the ends of the hair at the nape of his neck.

  The touch was simple, almost innocent, but the effect was anything but. His breath caught in the most imperceptible of ways, throat bobbing as he swallowed, and though he tried to mask the sudden tension in his body, you felt it waver under your hand.

  “I feel like I should pay you somehow,” you added, fingertips skimming from the ends of his hair to the warm skin just at the base of his neck.

  Hyunjin stilled, the glass halfway lifted to his lips before he finally tipped it back, draining the last sip as if it were needed armor. When he lowered it, his voice was firm. “I don’t want anything from you.”

  “That's not fair–”

  “No.”

  “But–”

  “No.”

  Your hand might have retreated if not for the way he leaned into it, surrendering himself into your touch as though he’d been waiting for it all along. The strength of him, the sharpness of his jaw, the unruly softness of his hair between your fingers—it all came together with a kind of inevitability that made your chest ache in built-up anticipation. Encouraged, you threaded your fingers deeper into the strands, scratching your nails lightly at his scalp.

  He closed his eyes briefly, his mouth parting, and when he opened them again, his pupils were wide, swallowing the warm brown into a dark chocolate. He looked at you with awe, as if the mere weight of your hand in his hair was liberating him, his lips tugging faintly between his usual grin and something far more vulnerable.

  The silence sprawled on, until his voice broke it with a confession so plain, so unguarded, it sent a shock straight through you. 

  “Haven’t you ever considered that maybe I just want you?”

  Your fingers froze mid-scratch. The words landed with the force of a blow, leaving your face blank as you scrambled to compose your inner self, to not let him see the way your chest had tightened or the way your breath had retreated from its post.

  Hyunjin opened his mouth to add more, but you didn’t give him the chance.

  For a fleeting second, he thought you might laugh, or scoff, or even slap him, the flash of your eyes unreadable, but when you leaned in, his breath left no room for comprehension as your lips molded upon his.

  He carefully placed his emptied glass down beside him—he almost would’ve let it slip from his fingers from how off-guard you had caught him with your lips, but he wasn’t going to ruin your pretty drinkware. His hands immediately sought you, almost desperately, one sliding beneath the soft fabric of your dress to cup your thigh, the other reaching for your waist to drag you  closer to him.

  His biceps bulged when he shifted you over his lap, your dress slipping against the denim stretched over his thighs as you settled onto him in a straddle. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your lips.

  You hummed in response, your lips moving hungrily against his, and he matched you without hesitation, kissing you with eyebrows pinched painfully together. One calloused palm rubbed up your side to your back, rough fingers leaving trails of fire as he found the back of your neck, threading through your hair, urging you closer until there was no space left to close.

  This should feel absurd, kissing your neighbour, your own personal handyman, but it was exhilarating. You had no idea just how bad you had wanted him—how bad your body longed for him—until your lips slotted against each other and hands gripped each other, whatever they could touch and hold.

  You were soft, warm, intoxicating, and he wanted all of you, every inch and sound and breath. He pulled you flush against him, his other hand tightening at your waist until your chest pressed against his and—fuck, you’re not wearing a bra?

  You shivered and broke the kiss to moan against his lips. He was hard beneath you, there was no mistaking it, the rough denim straining as he pulled you down onto him, greedy for the heat radiating through the thin barrier of your dress. The pressure made you arch and bite back a cry, his groan rumbling into your mouth as if the very sound was welded to your pulse.

  His hands dragged you closer, sliding up from your waist until his palms cupped your breasts, squeezing them with a hunger that made your blood beat harder. The fabric of your dress was ruffled now, bunched beneath his fingers, and the lack of a bra—a reckless decision you had barely thought about—was driving him mad. His thumb pressed over your nipple through the cloth, and the sharp friction made your lips part with a gasp he swallowed, his tongue catching yours in a kiss both messy and deliberate.

  He pulled back suddenly, lips glistening and breathing deeper. “Do you have any idea,” he murmured against your cheek, “what you’ve been doing to me all this time?”

  The words made you shiver again, though he didn’t wait for your answer. His mouth found your neck, wet and hot, kissing, sucking, biting in quick succession as if he couldn’t decide which sensation he wanted you to suffer through more. Your head tipped back, helpless, giving him room, and the moan that spilled out was involuntary, humiliating in its rawness.

  Your fingers threaded into his hair without thought, tugging lightly, guiding him, but he hardly needed encouragement. He licked a slow path down your throat to the swell of your breasts, pausing only to drag his teeth along your collarbone in a mark you already knew would bloom later. You felt his smirk against your skin as if he was entirely aware of the claim he was leaving behind.

  Your dress slipped lower with each kiss until his mouth pressed over your breast, heat seeping through the thin fabric, his tongue circling your nipple until it peaked against the damp spot his lips left behind. You whimpered, tightening your hold on his hair as he drew you deeper into his mouth, sucking hard enough that your back arched further into him.

  Your body had utterly surrendered to his touch. You were putty in his arms, his big, bulging arms that caged you to his front so perfectly. His big arms that had you wondering whether he’d lift and toss you on the bed, manhandling you into whatever position his dick was yearning for.

  Hyunjin groaned in frustration because it wasn’t enough. The friction was mocking him rather than giving him what he wanted. He writhed in discontent beneath you, jerking up his hips, and the pressure of his cock through his jeans against your core made you cry out, rolling your hips down in response.

  “Fuck,” he groaned, the sound ripped from his chest. His eyes peered up at you from where his mouth was still latched to your breast, pupils blown wide, gleaming with unrestraint. His grip on you tightened, fingers dipping into your spine as though daring you to move again.

  You did. You slowly rocked your hips, dragging your core from the base of his denim-covered cock to the tip, feeling how hard he was even through layers of fabric. His entire body shuddered, his groan breaking into something darker, almost pained, and you knew you had undone him.

  “Do you have any idea how long you’ve had me bricked up?” he muttered, smirking at his own confession and pulling away from your chest only long enough to speak before biting lightly over the other breast, sucking your nipple through the dress until you swore your body would combust.

  Your head spun, blood beating rampantly in your veins, and still he wasn’t satisfied. He pulled away entirely, panting, hair messy from your fists in it, and peeked at the floor beneath you with contempt. “Not here,” he murmured hoarsely, “I– shit, can’t have you how I want here.”

  Before you could process, his arms were wrapping around you, strong and determined, lifting you up with him. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your breath hitching at the sheer effortlessness of it, at the sensation of his cock pressing directly against your core in the new position. He grinned at your reaction, lips brushing yours in a kiss too brief and taunting.

  He dropped you onto the mattress with a carelessness that was not cruel but desperate, his body already covering yours before you had time to adjust. His mouth returned to yours in a kiss that tasted of urgency and hunger, his hands sliding up your thighs, over your hips, until they cupped your breasts again, as though he couldn’t bear to let go of them for even a moment.

  Your dress was pulled higher, your thighs bare to the cool air of the room, and his hips pressed down, denim rough against your soaked core. He rolled into you once, then over and over, his teeth sucking at your bottom lip as he groaned into your mouth and cursed softly against your neck, every sound from him making you ache from exactly where he needed you.

  His restraint was fraying, you could feel it in the tremor of his hands and desperate way he pressed his hips harder against you. Yet, even now, he took his time, his tongue circling, teasing, claiming, leaving you on the verge of begging. And still, all you could do was hold him closer, your fists tangled in his hair, eyelashes fluttering, body arching into every touch, every kiss, every grind of his hips that promised more than either of you could stand to wait for.

  “Hyunjin–”

  “Yeah?” he answered back, breathing heavily and pressing his forehead to yours.

  You whined, tugging at his t-shirt.

  Hyunjin let out a ragged breath, his chest heaving. “Ah, shit.” He reeled back from you, his hair mussed, lips kiss-bruised, eyes dark and wild, and tried to ignore the way his cock jerked at the sight of you sprawled on the bed, your dress sliding dangerously low over your shoulders.

  His fingers gripped the back collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head in one smooth pull that left his torso bare, lean muscle stretching and flexing in a way that made your thighs squeeze together without you meaning to. Your legs felt weak just looking at him, your stomach flipping with every inch of golden skin he revealed. His jeans hung low, riding down his hips, boxers peeking just enough to tease before he shoved both down in one go.

  His cock sprang free, flushed and hard and glistening along the tip, thick veins straining, the sheer sight of it enough to send heat pooling at your core. Hyunjin caught your eyes flickering down, and his tongue darted across his lips—he knew exactly what the sight did to you.

  “Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than you, his voice husky from having been slotting his tongue against yours not too long ago, before he leaned forward again and hooked his fingers under the straps of your dress, sliding it down your body.

  He tried not to show how his cock twitched at the sight of your breasts bared, but the sharp exhale that escaped him had braced all the hot pressure that was building at the pit of his stomach. He didn’t dawdle, tugging the dress away until you lay there in nothing but your panties, blushed and messy-haired, your pouty lips parted to let the quick string of breaths out from the confines beneath your heaving breasts.

  Hyunjin froze for a moment, swallowing hard, eyes roving over you and trying to control the way the sight was making him almost feral. His chest rose and fell like he was composing himself, but it was already useless; he was wrecked beyond repair.

  “You don’t even know,” he whispered, leaning down again, brushing his lips across yours in a kiss that was soft despite the frantic hunger of moments before. His hand slid across your stomach, fingers toying with the waistband of your panties, tracing the elastic. “Tell me what you want.”

  You writhed, clutching at his broad shoulders. “Anything, Hyunjin– just anything. I’m so wet for you, I can’t–”

  His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and he let out a broken, desperate groan, the sound so raw it nearly had you cumming right then and there. 

  “Fuck, don’t say that,” He whispered, his hand slid down further, the pads of his fingers pressing against the soaked cotton of your panties. He felt the damp heat immediately and nearly lost it. 

  But he had lost it. 

  He had. He was so far gone, so taken by you, he was convinced the night would never end and he’d have you like this until time fizzled into oblivion.

  His voice cracked when he spoke again. “Shit, you’re– soaked.” He breathed slowly for a few beats. “You know how many times I’ve thought about you like this? And now…” His sentence dissolved into another curse, whispered into your skin.

  You whimpered against his temple, the ends of his hair tickling your cheek, squirming your hips against his palm. “Take it off, Hyune.”

  He wastes no time hooking his fingers into the waistband of your soaked panties, tugging slowly, dragging them down your legs until it was discarded ball of fabric with a wet splotch, leaving you utterly naked before him. 

  The sight confiscated the air from his lungs. His cock throbbed so fucking hard at the vision of your slick pooling between your thighs, proof of just how badly you wanted him too, and his jaw clenched as though the sheer need pained him.

  “Fuck, baby,” he groaned, rubbing his lips along your knee, your inner thigh. God, he’d thought of you like this so many times. He’d thought of you, his pretty neighbour, his doll in distress, sprawled atop the sheets of a bed, legs spread for no one but him, your core slick-sheened and dampening the sheets for no one but him. 

  When he sank between your legs and pulled your thighs over his shoulders, the scent of your arousal hit him so hard, he nearly whimpered and salivated like a Pavlovian dog, dragging in a breath through his nose as if your heady scent was the only oxygen he’d need for the rest of his damned life.

  “Need’a taste you,” he mumbled, lips fluttering over your folds and making you squirm at the lack of contact. 

  “Jinnie,” you whimpered.

  And whimpered once again, after you felt the chaste kiss he gifted your clit.

  “Taste so google, doll,” he panted between licks, his voice shaking. “Do you know how many nights I’ve fucked my fist thinking about sucking on this pretty cunt? About making you feel good, hearing you moan for me?” His words spilled hotly, desperate—the wit had left him. “I’d do anything for this, anything for you. Just let me make you come on my tongue.”

  Hyunjin’s mouth moved with a hunger that was nothing short of feral, his lips sealing against you in a messy kiss that had your thighs trembling against his shoulders. He licked at your folds, sliding his tongue between them, tasting you with greed, tongue dipping and circling before laving flat against your nub, doing everything to draw little gasps from your lips because they kept pushing him further.

  The only sounds filling your room were your whines and whimpers, Hyunjin’s groans muffled in your heat, and the wet, slick squelches of his tongue burning itself in you, his lips sealing over your bud and sucking, the kisses and licks he gave your clit.

  “God, you’re unreal,” he muttered, dragging his tongue over you again before sucking hard at your clit, his cheeks hollowing with the effort.

  Your fingers threaded into his hair, gripping onto his messy strands when his tongue pressed firmer. The sound that tore from his chest was a groan-turned-whine, his hips rutting into the bed as if even the friction of his cock against the duvet wasn’t enough. He ground himself down again and again, his cock leaking against the fabric.

  One long finger flit against your entrance, sliding in easily through the slick mess he had already made of you. You clenched helplessly around him, and he moaned so loudly it almost startled you, pulling away from your clit to mutter against your skin. “Tight– fuck, you’re so tight around my finger, I might– aah, I might cum before I even get inside you.” 

  He kissed your thigh, nipped at it, then sucked at your clit again, his finger curling deep inside until you were gasping.

  “Hyunjin–”

  “Yeah, baby, I’ve got you,” he said quickly, voice rough, before sucking harder, the obscene sounds of his mouth slurping at you filling the room. His hips rutted down against the sheets in frantic rhythm with his tongue, his need consuming him whole. 

  He slid in another finger, stretching you, filling you, working them both in time with his mouth until you were writhing, grinding up into his face and messing his hair with your fists.

  “N-nngh—Hyune, need you.”

  “Yeah? Need me?” He smirked against you. “You need me?”

  When he looked up at you, he thought he might cum from the sight alone.

  You’re panting, breasts heaving with each breath that escapes you. Your lips are glazed over and still puffy from your makeout. Your eyebrows are knotted together, cheeks flushed, temples sheening with sweat, and your eyes—gosh, your angel eyes are so, so fucked-out.

  “What do you need, baby?” he taunted, finger pushing at the gummy end of your hole, making you roll your hips and give him a desperate look.

  “Need you inside,” you whined.

  Hyunjin’s smirk widened, his fingers still relentless inside your walls. “Hmm, I think you’ll need to be a little more specific, doll.”

  You whimpered a bratty hmph, scrunching your eyebrows together and rolling your head back before you peered down at him again.

  He gazed at you, amused, fingers pumping. His thumb came up to rub at your clit just to tease you a little more. When you didn't say anything, he raised his eyebrows, and you mewled in defeat.

  “I– fuck, Hyunjin, put your dick in me. Fuck me, please.”

  Hyunjin ripped his fingers from your core, grabbed your hips, and flipped you onto your stomach, pulling at your hips until they lifted over the edge of your bed and your toes pressed into the floor.

  His thumbs slid up the insides of your thighs and pulled at the glistening lips surrounding your cunt.

  “Fuck, you’re a mess,” he marveled, voice shaking, catching some of your slick on his thumb and dragging it over the swollen tip of his cock. He smeared it over himself with a hiss through his teeth, gaping at the way it shined along his length. “So pretty like this, bent over for me, soaked for me.”

  He hoisted your hips further up when you arched back into him with a moan. You rolled your hips in his hands and peeked back at him over your shoulder.

  “Fuck me hard, Jinnie.”

  He snapped his eyes to yours, his chest heaving, his tongue darting out to wet his slick-coated lips, trying his best not to cum at the sound of those words in your voice.

  “Say it again.”

  “Fuck me, Hyunjin.”

  “Again.”

  “Fuck me, please. Fuck me so hard, Jinnie, I’ll–”

  Hyunjin slammed into you, cutting your words short. Your mouth hung open in a broken moan, and your cheek fell against the sheets of your bed. It mattered not whether your makeup smudged along the comforter. In fact, nothing mattered, apart from the hard, veiny drag of Hyunjin’s cock along your tight, hot walls.

  “Mmm, shit,” he choked out. “Fucking tight– God.”

  It took everything in Hyunjin to pull out, watching his cock glisten with your wetness, before rutting back into you harder, rubbing at your hip with one hand while sliding the other down your back to grip your waist.

  He thrusted in and out of you, his cock squelching along your wet walls. Little gasps and whimpers slipped from your lips and buried into the sheets, his groans filling the room with each drag of his cock.

  The hand on your waist slid up your back, his fingers running through your hair before he leaned down, chest flush to your spine, and kissed along your neck, wet open-mouthed kisses smearing heat into your skin. The grip on your waist never dimmed in strength, pulling you back into each thrust, rutting harder, deeper, until you were squirming beneath him

  “How long have you wanted this?” He mumbled into your neck, thrusting deep into you and clasping his fingers along the base of your skull. “Is this why you kept calling me over, hm? Wanted to see what I looked like all hot and sweaty for you, yeah?”

  You whined and jerked your hips back into him, nodding pathetically with the will of half your mind—the other half had long been sucked out of you.

  He rubbed the nape of your neck with so much delicacy it was almost a contradiction, at odds with the way his cock kept battering into you with ruthless precision. The hand in your hair snaked along your back, around your torso, sliding up the front of your warm body to grab the base of your neck. He drilled into you again and again, his words dirty against your neck and seemingly never ending.

  “Taking me so well, baby, fuck. You’re so good for me, my pretty doll.”

  “Feel that? Feel how hard you made me? It’s all for you, just for you.”

  “G’na fuck you full with my load. You want that? Want me to fuck a baby in you?”

  “Yes, Jinnie—mmph, please,” you whimpered into the sheets at his last words, your reply so fast and frantic it had Hyunjin’s eyes rolling back into his head, his jaw flexing as he groaned.

  “Yeah?”

  He needed to see you. He needed to see your face, your lips parted in an oh, eyes glazing over with a coat of tears that might spill at any given thrust. He wanted to see what he was doing for you, wanted so desperately—yearned—to watch you beautiful you looking breaking apart under him.

  He reeled back from you, slid his hand down your back, and gripped your hips with both hands before pulling out of your cunt with a wet drag and flipping you onto your back again, your body pliant beneath his grip.

  He wasted no time filling you full with his cock again, watching your face at the exact moment the head slipped back in, almost shaking at seeing how good it made you feel. Your legs wrapped him closer to you when he leaned down and smashed his lips to yours. He tasted of your arousal and nothing but.

  He flattened his hand against your back, curving you into his chest, groaning when your breasts pressed into him, the feeling of your hardened nipples rubbing along his chest making him rut harder. Then, he grabbed onto your hip so he could really start pounding into you.

  The squelch of your walls around his pumping cock filled the room, and your little sounds serenaded the fibres in his ears. His hot, open mouth rested against the base of your neck, his wreaked moans sinking into your warm skin. Your hands were in his already unkempt hair, nails digging into his neck and scraping over his upper back. 

  He snapped his hips, squeezed onto yours, and ground his dick deeper into you. His tip grazed your g-spot, and you clenched around him, trying to keep him in, trying to make him stay there and rut into your spot over and over until you were coming undone for him and only him. You squeezed your legs around him, attempting to bury him further into you.

  “Big.”

  He looked at you, into your half-open eyes, the way your lips part after weakly moaning out the singular syllable.

  “Yeah? It’s big?” He panted, a curl in the corner of his lips, adoration submerging his eyes. You nodded at him, a knot deepening between your eyebrows. “You’re taking it so good, though, baby. Taking me so fucking good.”

  His fingers wreathed through your hair, the pad of his thumb is circling over your hip bone, and he mumbled incoherent praises against the supple skin of your neck.

  The hand on your hip smoothed over your lower stomach, his palm pressing into it when he pounded into your g-spot again. You whimpered at the friction of his tip against your sweet spot, gripping whatever part of him you could get your hands on—his shoulders, his biceps, anything. 

  He slid his hand further down, his fingers pushing your swollen clit out from under its hood, and rubbed a languid circle down into your nub.

  That was all it took for you to feel the pressure rippling in the core of your being.

  “You’re clenching down so hard on me, baby, shit,” he groaned, pulling his head back to watch your face. “You’re cumming? You gonna cream on my dick?”

  “Yes—yeah,” you moaned, your eyebrows scrunching tight, staring into his dark, chasmic, heavy-lidded gaze.

  “Cum, baby. Cum for me, and I’ll fill you up so good. I’ll fuck my seed so far into you, I promise– shit.”

  His words were all it took to have you clenching down onto his dick rhythmically, the pressure exploding in your core and ripping through you until you spasmed against his frame and dug your head back into the pillow.

  Hyunjin plastered his forehead along your bare neck when his own orgasm threw him over the edge just after yours, after feeling the way your walls tightly hugged along his length over and over again, abs tightening and spurting his seed deep into you, coating your walls white hot, adhering to the promise he’d made just moments ago. He groaned the most beautiful, broken sound against your skin before his muscles relaxed and he hovered his face above yours, panting heavily against your lips.

  You could feel how hot his cum was inside you, how full you were with his seed and slowly softening dick still buried deep inside you, plugging you full with everything he’d given you.

  Your breaths leveled out together, Hyunjin giving you the softest kisses as you both calmed down.

  Your hands drifted along his bulging biceps that caged you in, along the contours of his shoulders until you had a hand wrapping along his neck, the other pushing at the messied hair that spiked over his forehead.

  He gazed at you with the warmest of eyes before a boyish grin lit up his face. You couldn’t help but smile back up at him, still full with his cum and softened dick.

  “You should come fix things spontaneously more often,” your voice wisped against his cheeks, so soft and hoarse. He laughed, eyes twinkling, crinkling at the angel beneath him.

  “I should keep you from work dinners more often.”

  In the comfortable silence that passed with the both of you smiling at each other, Hyunjin decided he was going to stay buried in you like this for the rest of his life. Then, you wouldn’t need him to fix anything ever again. He wouldn't need to show up with his bitchass toolbox and tattered jeans, hoping to see you smile at him, pleased at the work he did for his doll. Although, to his dismay, he knew he couldn’t stay buried in you forever, because—

  “Can I take you out to dinner sometime?"

Hyunjin finally grew a pair. He even felt them slap against the backs of your thighs.

Maybe all he needed was to work his doll in a different way.

৬ৎ  𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝘰𝑠𝘵𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒  ࿐  reblog, comment, slide into my inbox !! please let me how i did, it'll make me happy :D (i have a praise kink)

── thank you for reading ❝ work, doll ❞ ᝰ.ᐟ

You shove him off as soon as his answer reaches your ears. “That is so not—” your eyes go to the camera. “He loves saying that, but that is not how it was”.

“It technically was, though” he argues, staring at the camera as well. “So what happened was, I was on my way home at like 2 AM after having a couple of drinks with my friends, and as I was walking past an animal shelter that’s like two blocks away from my place, I saw this woman kneeling down in front of the door, absolutely drenched—it was raining, by the way—and she was like, holding something inside her jacket trying to protect it from the rain… and she was crying so hard, I couldn’t help but worry…”

Throwing a brief glance at you, he waits for a moment in case you want to add something else. When you don’t, and nod for him to go on, he continues the story.

“So I walked up to her and asked if she was okay, and she started crying harder and was like ‘I found this kitty on the street and he’s so little and I couldn’t find his mum, and I can’t bring him home because my roommate’s severely allergic and said there’s no way in hell she’s letting him in, and none of my friends would pick up and my phone died now, and the shelter is closed and I can’t leave him alone’”.

You feel your cheeks heat up over how perfectly he remembers your heartbroken speech—and over how funny his high pitched voice comes out as he tries to imitate your sobbing, desolated one.

“To be fair, I was going through it” you hopelessly try to defend yourself.

“It was cute how she didn’t even think of going to a 24/7 convenience store to at least shelter herself from the pouring rain while she found a solution” he throws you under the bus.

“I was going through it” you emphasize your previous point through gritted teeth, earning laughs from all three guys next to you. “But yeah, my ugly crying must’ve moved him a lot, because he didn’t hesitate to offer taking the kitty back home with him and bringing him to the shelter for me the next day” a smile creeps up your mouth, feeling your heart warm up at the memory. “And he also offered to let me dry up and charge my phone at his place so I could call a taxi. I usually wouldn’t have accepted, I mean, he could’ve been a psychopath for all I knew,” you hear him laugh next to you. “But I was freezing and exhausted, and for some reason I felt like I could trust him, so I just went with it”.

“Back at my place I lent her some dry clothes and we had some tea to warm up while her phone charged, and we kind of grew fond of the kitty right away” he confesses, still remembering how neither of you could take your eyes off the orange and white ball off fluff sleeping soundly on his couch. “So we exchanged phone numbers and the next day when she texted to ask about him I told her that I would keep him, and that’s pretty much when it all started”.

“Yeah…” you reminisce as well with a fond smile. “The kitty was his now but I did still feel responsible for the whole situation, so I offered to help him pay for his food and shots and whatnot”.

“Of course I said no,” he chimes in. “But then I realised that it was the perfect opportunity to keep in contact with her, since I did find her very cute and wanted to keep seeing her…” his confession earns a smile from you. “So we ended up co-parenting somehow and now he’s our son”.

“How old is the baby now?” The interviewer asks with a smile.

“One year and nine months” you reply. “He was only one month old when I found him”.

“And how long have you two been together?”

“A year and a half” Minho chuckles timidly.

“Oh, so you got together only two months after adopting him”.

“Yeah, the whole co-parenting thing really got to our heads” you joke, and Minho lightly shoves you away with his shoulder.

The interviewer chuckles, holding the mic up closer to Minho. “So, what do you love the most about her?”

“Ugh, do I have to get all sappy now?” He whines, leaning closer to you.

“I don’t know, is the thing you love the most about me sappy as hell?” You tease, smiling triumphantly when he sighs rather heavily, preparing himself for what’s to come.

“Her heart” he goes straight to the point, and his genuine answer makes you pout in complete awe. “She has the biggest heart, she cares so deeply about everyone, especially about me and Yong-ie, so…” his soft eyes lock with yours for a moment—your feline son’s name slipping up from his lips. “I mean, the way she was crying over him when she found him and refused to let go of him… I think she would've spent the whole night outside waiting with him for the shelter to open, had I not gone up to her right then; and that only makes me love her more”.

“I think I would’ve, actually…” you sheepishly murmur.

“And what do you love the most about him?” The guy asks you now.

“Can I copy his answer?” You laugh.

Minho rolls his eyes. “Cheater”.

“I do love his heart the most, though. His compassion…” you specify. “There were a lot of people who walked right past me crying that night, which was kind of embarrassing, and he was the only one who went up to me and tried to help…” you feel his hand tighten his hold on yours, and you give it a gentle squeeze right back. “And then when he said he was keeping Yong-ie the next day… God, I got the fattest crush on him right then and there”.

Minho laughs under his breath next to you, and you don’t need to look at him to know his ears are turning red.

“And what is the next step in your relationship?”

“Getting another cat,” you don’t hesitate to say, looking up to Minho, who smiles the brightest at you. “Maybe?”

“Oh, getting another cat, definitely” he agrees. “We’re living together now and her annoying roommate isn’t there to nag about cats to us—”

“Minho…” you call him out under your breath, yet he doesn’t mind it one bit.

He is sure your ex roommate was more of a cat hater rather than severely allergic as she claimed.

“So there’s nothing stopping us from getting as many of them as we want anymore” he finishes his point.

The guy in front of you laughs, both at his words and at your reaction. “And your names are?”

“Minho” he says, although you had already given his name away a few seconds ago.

“I’m Y/N” you answer as well.

“Well, Minho and Y/N, it was a pleasure interviewing you guys” he wraps it up, signaling for the cameraman to stop recording. “I hope you keep rescuing as many cats as you want”.

Saying your goodbyes to the TikTokers, not without first making sure to write down their account so you can later watch the video once it is up, you resume your walk hand in hand to your apartment—the one that used to be only Minho’s up until four months ago, before you moved in with him.

Although some people in your life had said it was too soon to move in together, given that you had only been together for a little over a year by then, it didn’t feel rushed at all. If anything, it felt right.

You spent most of your days at his place anyway, for Yong-ie was there and you couldn’t bring him home because of your roommate. It had come to the point most of your stuff was at his and you were begging him to let you pay for the utilities, since he had made it clear he wasn’t letting you pay for half the rent like you had suggested more than once.

In the end, the obvious solution was to make it official and move the rest of your stuff to his place, so that the three of you would be together every single day like the family you had become a long time ago.

“So… another cat, you say?” He smiles.

“Yeah… I think it’s about time Yong-ie gets a sibling”.

“I doubt the spoiled brat is gonna like it”.

You chuckle, finding amusement in the contrast of how tiny and defenseless he was when you first found him, versus how big and spoiled he is now.

He is an only child after all, and as the cat lovers you and Minho are, he truly is living his best life.

“He’ll learn to like it,” you try to be optimistic. “He must feel bored and lonely at times when we’re not home”.

“Should we pay a visit to the shelter then?” He proposes, right before a taunting smirk curved up his mouth. “Or should I wait for you to find another one on a rainy night and call me crying to pick you up at 2 AM?”

“You’re such an ass” you try to playfully let go of his hand, only for him to tighten his hold around yours and pull you closer.

“Maybe” he agrees. “But I’m still the father of your child and future children, so…”

You shake your head in amusement—unaware of whether the second part of his sentence was meant for the future cats you planned to adopt, or the actual kids you may have one day. Either way, over such a statement coming from him, you feel fulfilled as ever.

Although the two of you always felt sorry for Yong-ie and the state he was in when you found him under the pouring rain, you were oh-so-grateful for everything that came afterwards.