don't mind me...

You swear at him as he skids out the door, leaving you alone with Minho. Groaning excessively loud, you help him off the couch and begin the process of heading out of the dorm.

"Hurry up," you say impatiently as he slowly puts his shoes on. "We might be in trouble."

"We're always in trouble," he replies, composed. "Either Innie swore on camera, Hyunjin got into a fight with the photoshoot staff, or Jisung blew something up. Or all three-"

"Minho!"

"Okay, okay, I'm coming," he huffs, standing up on one foot. He takes a crutch.

"Let's go."

.

You open the door so Minho can go in first, and when you shut it behind yourself, the tension in the air is thick and heavy.

Everyone is silent.

Not everyone, you think, noticing the several empty chairs positioned around the long white table. Changbin stands to help you sit Minho down, pulling the chair out for him. You say a quiet thank you and it sounds magnitudinous in the silence of the room.

There are five staff members scattered around the room, one who you know to be the head manager sitting at the head of the table. He does not look pleased.

He glances across at Jeongin, who slides down in his chair, giving Seungmin a look. He doesn't make a sarcastic face back and that's when you know it's serious.

Jisung fidgets with his hands under the table, wincing slightly as Hyunjin opens the door, striding in with a flushed face, breathless. He registers the tension and quietly sits down, giving Jisung a look that clearly makes you think that he's asking what he did. The younger just shrugs in response.

You sit down next to Minho, and Felix, who is sitting on your left, minutely scoots his chair away. Your heart snaps into shards and you look across at him, wounded, but he quietly stares ahead, gaze fixed on the table.

Minho is shifting next to you, clearly irritated about the pain in his ankle. He makes to look at the staff members, but they shoot him a look back, silencing him completely. You feel rather indignant on his behalf.

"Are we all here?" Manager Jeon says, tone firm and businesslike. He huffs and leans forward.

There's a moment of silence where everyone looks around the table, registering who is here and who isn't, and one of the staff members sighs audibly before looking at the empty chair next to Seungmin.

Manager Jeon pinches the bridge of his nose before standing up. "We'll continue without him. We called you all here to discuss your performance."

The air in the room shifts instantly to something more anxious.

"You've all been underperforming for days-"

The door slams open and Chan rushes in, closing it hastily behind him. He bows, apologising profusely, and takes the empty chair, looking rather pale and upset.

Jeon does not look happy. His face hardens minimally, but you notice it.

They all do.

"As I was saying," he continues harshly, "You've all been underperforming for days now. Schedules have not been executed, fan interactions have not been initiated, and your overall reputation as a group is starting to suffer."

He motions to the staff member on his right, who turns off the lights. A video appears on the screen behind him.

You know it's the last performance that they did. One signalling the start of the comeback era.

That was the day after me and Chan kissed, you think. I completely forgot they had to perform at Music Bank the next day...

Manager Jeon clicks the video off, tutting at the performance video, and swipes up on his screen to reveal the comments under the video post.

He clears his throat, cold. "Some of the comments left under the video:

"Felix seems upset... like he's distracted by something instead of focusing on the choreography.

"Chan is in another world entirely, haha. Wonder if he finally lost his touch.

"Jeongin clearly didn't want this part- he can't get his voice to keep up.

"Hyunjin is overdoing it, look how hard he's trying. He's probably trying to make up for Minho not being there."

You glance at Hyunjin across the table. His head is bowed, jaw tense, eyes suspiciously shiny. He looks like he's about to shatter.

Minho visibly clenches his entire body next to you.

Jeon turns the lights back on and tosses his tablet down on the table with a clatter, making you all jump. "You have all been severely neglecting your duties. And you-" He jabs a finger at Chan.

"You've been neglecting your job the most. You missed three production sessions, left rehearsals early without a valid reason, and clearly you haven't been on top of managing your members."

You bite your lip, flinching at the harshness of his tone. Chan shrinks into his chair, but doesn't break eye contact as Jeon continues.

Felix is the next victim.

"You went missing for half a day. Do you know how many staff members I sent out looking for you?"

Felix looks so emotionally fragile but he sits there and takes it. "Manager-nim, I-"

"I don't want to hear it!" Jeon's face is red. "You also missed your mandatory check in yesterday. As for the rest of you... I don't know what's going on between you all, and frankly, it's none of my business, but you all need to get your act together."

Chan tries to reason, face a mixture of emotion. "Manager-nim, I'm sorry, but-"

"But what, Chan?" Jeon snaps at him. "You can't possibly be reasoning with this. You've been slacking off the most. Your members are clearly involved in some sort of conflict, you're missing production sessions consistently, and this all becomes my business when the group starts to suffer publicly."

"Manager-nim, please-"

"You're losing control of the team."

Silence draws a knife through the air.

Chan's face is pale and frozen.

The rest of the members sit with their heads down, bodies tense, and even Seungmin has the good grace to look away.

Jeon slams a hand on the table and exhales deeply, like he's a second away from throwing something against the wall. "You're all going to be separated temporarily."

Hyunjin's head snaps up in shock, followed by the rest of the members. Chan's face is strained, sallow like he might throw up, and a plea comes halfway out of his mouth before Jeon barrels on, snapping.

"Felix, you'll be moved to another temporary dorm for several weeks, starting today. Chan, you'll be scheduled five more sessions to make up for what you missed, no excuses. And stop hovering."

Chan looks like he might faint at this point, but just nods and bows his head, ashamed. Felix's eyes have welled up, jaw so tense you think he might shatter his own teeth.

Your fists bundle tightly in your lap in a fit of panic. But his stare is so angry and so intense that you don't dare argue, and you just seal your mouth with difficulty.

"Alright," Jeon says, irritated. "Dismissed. And if I hear that any of you are missing schedules from this point on, I'll put all your asses in a sling. Get out."

.

The walk back to the dorm is quiet.

All of you trudge silently in the same direction towards the lifts, and you press the button, hand shaking. You don't dare look at Felix.

The air is so thick once you all enter the lift that it becomes uncomfortably stifling, broken only by Jeongin's small sniff into Jisung's shoulder, quietly crying something about his singing. You make it a point to look away.

Hyunjin is staring at the lift doors, swallowing thickly, hands knotted behind his back. Felix looks like he'd rather be anywhere else than here, and his phone pings muffled in his pocket, no doubt staff instructions for moving his belongings to the new dorm.

Chan looks like he wants to cry.

His eyes are wide in terror, staring at the doors, shoulders shaking faintly, lip swollen from his anxious biting. His jaw is shaking slightly, like he's fighting not to collapse in front of the rest of you.

It breaks your heart.

He's probably taking it so hard, you think. They blamed him so much. All because of me. If I had just kept my mouth shut, none of this would have happened. I would rather him not know about my feelings than see him struggle like this.

I did this to him.

Felix stares at his leader's back.

He got blamed because of me, he stresses. If I hadn't run from him those nights ago because of Y/n, he wouldn't have been blamed so hard. He must be devastated.

The staff thinks he's losing control of the team... He prides himself so much on taking care of us, making it the focus of his life...

If they say he can't even do that, then what can he possibly think of himself now?

.

That night, your pillow is soaked in tears.

The leftovers you'd microwaved earlier sit cold in the other room on the table, forgotten. Your sheets are rumpled from the amount of tossing and turning you'd been doing, and you'd been to the bathroom several times, the guilt almost intense enough to make you throw up.

Now you lie there in the dark, fretting, stressing, stuck.

Your phone is by your side, within arm's reach, and you've battled five times now with the idea of texting one of the members.

But who?

Felix is actively avoiding me.

Chan must hate me right now.

Hyunjin is clearly upset from the performance comments.

Minho has enough on his mind.

You pull out your phone and scroll through your contacts, crossing the members off mentally. Sniffling, you sit up against the headboard, eyes stinging at the bright light radiating harshly from your device.

Giving up, you toss your phone to the side, burying your face in your hands. Rolling over, you squeeze your eyes shut and cry into the pillow, ugly muffled sobs that stain your face with snot, back heaving.

Eventually, your misery dulls, and you fall asleep.

.

11:27 PM

sungie: y/n? sungie: y/n, wake up. sungie: HEY sungie: DON'T IGNORE ME

Groaning, you roll over, hand scrabbling blindly in the bedsheets for your phone. Desperate to stop the pinging, you sit up and fumble, clicking into your contacts. The light makes your head spin, nose blocked from your sobbing, and you rub your head as you enter the chat.

y/n: why are you awake? sungie: are you okay? sungie: after the meeting earlier... y/n: i should be asking you that. y/n: they got so mad at you all. sungie: yeah, it hasn't been that bad in a while sungie: wait, what are you talking about? sungie: didn't they tell you?

You rub your eyes.

y/n: tell me what? sungie: . . . y/n: jisung.

sungie: i went out for air a couple hours after the meeting and i heard manager jeon and the others talking about you.

You cover your mouth, feeling the stress nausea rise up on you again.

y/n: what did they say? sungie: they said you're being reassigned to another group. sungie: itzy, i think? sungie: they said you were becoming a liability, you know, because you're with us so often. sungie: y/n? sungie: i'm really sorry. i don't think any of us are going to see you for a while.. sungie: y/n? are you there?

You scramble off the bed, rush into the bathroom, and vomit.

.

2 WEEKS LATER

"Okay, let's run through it again."

The members pant as the choreographer restarts the music. He inspects each member's part, then his phone rings.

"Keep going til the end!" He calls out over the music before leaving the room.

Minho sits quietly against the mirrors, eyes fixed on that blank spot where he should be, dancing. It would be his center part right now...

It's almost healed, he tells himself, looking at his barefoot ankle. They'd cleared him of wearing the bandage several days ago, letting him go with a warning to stretch and ice it every night. Any day now and I can get back to dancing. Though I don't think it'd fix anything...

Felix has missed the chorus cue twice now; he hasn't been the same since management moved him to a new dorm. Seungmin looks rather distracted, Chan is barely moving, and the rest of the others are clearly in a wild state of disarray.

Yikes, he thinks. No wonder those performance comments were so harsh. They kind of had a point.

He watches as Jeongin runs into Hyunjin, both of them toppling to the floor. Jisung turns and complains loudly, Changbin buries his head in his hands, and Seungmin groans before stalking off to the side for a drink.

Rolling his eyes, Minho stands up and cuts the music.

Hyunjin is now bickering loudly with Jisung about his complaining, and Jeongin has already burst into tears on the floor, sobs filling the room. Felix bends down to his side, clearly out of it himself.

"Stop!" Minho shouts.

Seven pairs of eyes turn to look at him in shock.

"No wonder they called us in for a meeting those couple weeks ago," he says, strained. "We're a mess. We haven't fucked up a practice like this since debut."

He points his crutch at the group, exasperated. "Look, I know you're all upset, and there's a lot of drama going on, but it's been two weeks now, and we need to be able to rely on each other here. Since when did we fall out of sync?"

Jeongin sniffles.

Minho sighs. "In-ah, don't cry. You're doing great, okay? And the rest of you, we really need to talk about what's happening. We're a group, okay? And things are getting to the point where it's affecting our reputation, and that's when we need to discuss things. We're all just pretending nothing happened and it's making us a disaster."

He jabs his crutch in Chan's direction. "Forget about what they said about you losing control of the team. We all have a part to play, okay? And currently, none of us are doing it.

"But to be fair, things did start with you, so just tell us what happened. From the beginning, okay?"

Chan doesn't move.

"Hyung," Minho says softer, desperate. "Please. We worked so hard for this. We can't let it break now."

Chan bites his lip, jaw clenched, and storms out of the room.

The door slams loudly behind him.

Minho buries his face in his hands and moves to sit down with some difficulty besides Jeongin, touching his shoulder. "Everyone just take a break, okay? If the choreographer comes in, just say I tried to join in dancing, and Chan left to go to the bathroom."

"He won't buy that," Hyunjin says, resigned. He pushes Jisung off his middle, letting him fall unceremoniously to the side with an oof.

Minho gives him a defiant look. "Want me to sprain my other ankle so it sounds believable?"

Jisung groans from where he's sprawled on the floor. "Hyunjin just sprained mine anyways. Don't bother."

.

You head down the corridor, trying to keep track of all the papers in your arms.

You're starting to get used to your reassignment; the Itzy girls are lovely and were so welcoming, and within a few days, you were beginning to fall into a routine. You know management tried to keep you busy so you'd stay away from the boys.

The girls are currently preparing for their comeback, and with their previous manager on maternity leave, you have some big shoes to fill.

And a lot of paperwork to do too.

Sighing, you struggle to bend down, picking up a fallen sheet of paper. Heading around the corner, you're immediately knocked to the floor.

Someone cannonballs right into you and topples down beside you, a wild mess of limbs and arms. Paperwork swirls around you both, falling to the floor like the feathery remains of a divebombed bird.

You groan, rubbing your head.

"Sorry," Chan says shakily.

You blink, eyes widening.

He sits up, rubbing his head, casting a glance as a sheet of paper floats down, elegantly landing on your head.

You sit there, dazed and in shock. Partly from the fall, partly from the fact that Chan is right in front of you. It feels like ages since you've seen each other. This wasn't really how you expected to cross paths with him again, even after a matter of weeks.

It feels illegal.

You pull the sheet of paper off your head, watching as Chan scrambles to pick up your fallen work. "I, uh, I should've looked before I went around the corner-"

"Yeah, uh, it's okay," you say awkwardly, rubbing your tailbone. "Um, why are you running...?"

Chan looks like he's about to make an excuse, but abruptly thinks better of it. He stands, shuffling your paperwork into a heap. "I left practice."

You swallow thickly. "Oh."

"Yeah."

An awkward silence hangs in the air. For lack of speech, Chan hastily offers you a hand up, and after a pause, you take it. Heat floods to your face, because his hand is as warm and dry and calloused as before this all happened.

Before.

You're not sure what to say as he lets go. This feels wrong, being next to him, being this close. Maybe because it is. Felix's face flashes into your mind and the heat in your stomach is quickly overtaken by guilt.

"Is he okay?" You blurt out without thinking.

Chan blinks. "Uh, who...?"

You look away from him, face burning with humiliation. "Felix. After..."

You hear the thick bob of his throat as he swallows, shoulders tense on his frame. "He's... We're all just messy right now. Um..."

"Right," you say, tucking your hair behind your ear, an anxious habit. Chan notices instantly. "I should, uh, I should probably go."

"Oh. Yeah." Chan hastily picks up the last few sheets of paper, handing them to you awkwardly. "Yeah."

You nod once, far too frantic, and then turn and quickly make your way down the corridor, almost tripping in your haste. Your heart is pounding and then your turn the corner, almost sagging into yourself as you slow your pace.

You're jerked back by your hand.

The paperwork goes flying for the second time, scattering in the air, and Chan's hand is firmly around your wrist, grip warm and solid. You can feel the sweat dampening your skin.

You look up at him in shock.

"I'm sorry," he stutters out.

You stare.

So does he.

Miraculously, after a pause, you're able to construct a coherent sentence. "Why?"

Maybe not a whole sentence.

Chan swallows again and you're sure he's got a sore throat from it already. "About- about what happened. In the corridor."

You stare at him in disbelief, heart sinking. "You're sorry for kissing me."

"No!" His eyes widen, frantic. "No, of course not, no, that isn't what I meant, just-" He cuts himself off, inhaling. "I didn't mean for it to be like this..."

"But it is," you say quietly, eyes glossy. "This is why I kept quiet for so long, Chan. Because even after all this, I still don't know what we are."

"Y/n, please, I didn't plan things to play out like this," he says desperately, still holding onto you.

"Then what did you plan?"

He goes silent at that. You tug your wrist out of his grip and he actually whimpers. Like you've just shot him in the heart.

"What do you want from me?" He whispers finally, eyes welling up. "Please. Just tell me. So we can end this."

End this.

He stands there and you almost go dizzy from the thoughts spinning in your mind.

"I don't know," you say finally, voice so quiet you can barely hear it yourself. A tear spills down your cheek. "Okay? I just- I never meant to mess things up like this. I thought that it'd be easier if you'd just rejected me outside the restaurant, then I could be miserable on my own and then just move on with my life. I didn't plan on bringing Felix into this, okay? I never had any clue, and if I had known, I would've let him down easily. But then you and I kissed, and I only figured it out when I walked into the dorm and Felix was busy ranting to Minho about it. It's just-" You press a hand to your forehead. "It's all such a mess."

"You're still not telling me what you want," he whispers. "You're just telling me what happened."

"I just wanted you to love me back," you cry out finally. "That's all I wanted. But you keep changing your mind, to protect me, to protect Felix, to protect yourself. We kissed, and even now I still don't know if you meant it or if it was just the heat of the moment. I just wanted an answer, Chan. Please. Just give me one. I don't care what it is. Just give me a clear answer."

His face is strained. "It isn't that simple."

"Why?" You cry. "Because of Felix's feelings?"

He presses his hands to his eyes, overwhelmed. "I can't break his heart like that-"

"Chan, you already have, both of us have!" You scrub a hand across your cheek. "We messed everything up. The least you can do is tell me the truth."

He doesn't reply.

"Chan," you beg, crying. "Please."

He's crying openly now too, body tense like he'd rather hold it all in than crumble to pieces in front of you. And you hate him for it, because the old Chan, the Chan you knew before all of this, would've melted into your arms and immediately told you what was wrong.

The realisation that things will never be like that between you both ever again drops grief heavily on your soul, so sudden and sharp and dark that you think you might just heave and collapse where you stand.

"I'm sorry," he cries, hand shaking violently as he wipes his face. "I didn't mean for any of it to be like this. I wanted to talk to you so badly about it all, but I was a coward and I avoided you because I couldn't bear the consequences, and I brought my team down with me." He sniffs. "They're all a mess because I couldn't keep it together."

He swallows and then coughs, and your heart shatters further as you confirm your earlier prediction. His throat will be aching by tomorrow, and another tear slips down your cheek. You know him too well.

Part of you wishes you didn't.

"I danced around it all for so long," he continues, heaving. "I lied to you back then, when you came home from hospital, about my feelings."

He lifts his head, utterly wrecked, tears staining his face. "I love you, Y/n. And I was stupid to let it stay unsaid all this time."

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The studio door clicks shut, sealing out the rest of the world and leaving only the hum of the air conditioning and the frantic beat of Chan’s heart. He was expecting a visit, he's been in a studio too long he knows it but he wasn’t expecting this.

You stand in the center of the room, dressed as the Teyvat sorceress he’s been enamored with since her design first leaked. The crimson and white dress hugs your curves perfectly, the gold accents gleaming under the fluorescent lights. The oversized, pointed hat sits cocked at an angle over your pale blonde wig, and the prosthetic elf ears poke out, adding a touch of the ethereal to your mischievous grin.

Chan’s breath hitches. He is frozen, his hand still hovering over the MIDI controller. His gaze travels from the hem of your skirt up to the red-tinted contacts that make your eyes look like burning embers.

"Oh, Channie," you chirp, your voice lilted with the same eccentric, teasing energy Alice is known for. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost…"

Chan finally finds his voice, though it is an octave higher than usual. "You... you actually did it. You look exactly like her." He feels the heat crawling up his neck, staining his ears a deep, frantic pink. "It’s... it's a lot."

You move with a cat-like grace, closing the distance between you. Your gloved hands come up to rest on his shoulders. You can feel the tension in his muscles, the way he shudders under your touch.

"Don't you like it?" you whisper, leaning in until the tip of your nose brushes against his. "You keep talking about Alice with Stay. Does she live up to the hype?"

Chan swallows hard, his eyes darting across your face. "Too much. You’re being a tease."

"A tease? No, Channie, I'm just being true to character. And I like to play with my favorite toys," you murmur, your thumbs tracing the line of his collarbone. You lean closer, your breath warm against his ear. "And we both know what you said about her, don't we? About her being mommy?"

Chan’s eyes blow wide, a soft groan escaping his throat as he finally slumps back into his chair, his strength failing him. He looks up at you, "You're being mean," he breathes.

"I'm being fun," you correct with a sharp, beautiful smile. "It's what I do. Now, Channie... do you want to play a real game? Why don't you go get your special toy for me? The one we talked about."

His gaze drops to your waist, imagining the harness that will soon be strapped over the intricate red fabric of your cosplay. He doesn't argue. He moves like he is in a trance, retrieving the bag from his desk drawer.

Minutes later, the room feels smaller, the air thicker. You stand before him, the strap-on securely in place, its weight a grounding presence. Chan is on his knees, his hands resting tentatively on your thighs, his face level with the toy.

"Look at me, Channie," you command, your voice dropping into a lower, more authoritative register.

He blinks up at you, his eyes hazy and unfocused. He looks completely out of it, he looks small beneath you, submissive and eager.

"Such a good boy," you coo, running your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to tilt his head back. "Show me how much you want it."

Chan needs no further instruction. His lips part, his breath hitching as he leans forward. His mouth wraps around the bulbous head of the toy, his tongue swirling around the tip with a desperate, hungry devotion. He looks up at you through his eyelashes, his cheeks flushing darker as he begins to suck, the wet sound filling the quiet studio.

You watch him, a sense of satisfaction bubbling in your chest. His movements becoming more heratic as you watch him squirm under your gaze. His hips shift, trying to find some relief for the growing pressure in his pants, his hard length pressing uncomfortably against his fly. A soft, high-pitched whine breaks through his lips.

"Are you getting needy, Channie?" you ask, pulling back and guiding him toward the heavy desk.

You have him bend over the desk, pressing his chest down against the cool surface while you stand behind him. He arches his back, his breathing coming in short bursts. You reach for the lube in your bag, spreading a generous amount around his puckered entrance. He clenches instantly, his shoulders bunching up in anticipation.

"Shhh, easy now," you coo, leaning over him so your chest brushes his back. You slip one glove off, pushing a finger in, feeling the tight, frantic heat of him. You fuck him slowly with the single digit, and when he starts to loosen and relax, you slip a second one in, scissoring them open to stretch him.

Chan cries out for more, a desperate sound that echoes in the studio. He starts squirming, his body reacting to how sensitive and how the sensation feels, but you don't let him pull away. You lean down and press a soft, grounding kiss to his shoulder blade. "Good boy, just relax for me. Let it happen."

With a firm, steady push, you manage to slip a third finger inside. You fuck him that way, your hand moving in a rhythmic, relentless pace until he’s practically sobbing into the desk. "I’m gonna... I'm gonna cum," he gasps, his vision swimming.

You slide your fingers out, leaving him high and dry, breathless and empty. He lets out a whine when you pull away, hips following your hand. You position yourself right behind him, teasing his entrance with the head of the strap-on.

"Please," he whimpers, his head hanging low, forehead pressing against the cool wood of his mixing desk. "Mommy, please... need it."

"So impatient, Channie," you coo, leaning down until your heavy blonde wig brushes against his neck. With a slow, deliberate push, you slide the head of the toy past his twitching entrance. He lets out a strangled cry, his back arching sharply as he tries to accommodate the sudden intrusion.

You don't push all the way in yet, holding him right at the brink. Your gloved hand reaches down, gripping his hip to keep him still, while your other hand slides across the desk. "Look at where you are, baby. In your precious studio, how unprofessional-"

Chan gasps, his chest heaving, his fingers desperately searching for purchase. "Ah... please, don't..."

"Imagine if your members walked in right now," you whisper, driving a few inches deeper, eliciting a loud, breathless whine that echoes . "Seeing their leader bent over his own workstation, taking his mommy’s toy so obediently. Does it make you feel dirty, Channie?"

"N-no... yes... Mommy, please, just fuck me," he begs. He reaches blindly behind him, his fingers clawing at the empty air until they find yours. He squeezes your hand, desperately trying to interlace his trembling fingers with yours, wanting that grounding.

You oblige, locking your fingers with his, squeezing tightly as you finally drive the strap-on all the way . Chan’s knees nearly buckling beneath him as his tight walls frantically squeeze. With every thrust, his body jolts forward, his stomach pressing flat against the desk, right over his lyric sheets, his keyboard, and his expensive gear.

"Oh, look at you," you tease, your voice dripping with sweet malice as you notice the dark spot blooming on his pants, pressing dangerously close to his workstation. "You're so sensitive. If you keep leaking like this, you're going to jizz right over your work, Channie."

"No!" Chan whines, a tear escaping his closed eyes as he shakes his head frantically. "No, don’t wanna make a mess."

"But you want to cum, don't you?" you murmur, picking up the pace, driving hard and deep, angling the toy to hit his sweet spot with relentless precision. "You're going to ruin all your hard work because you can't control yourself for mommy."

"I don't- I don't want to!" he cries out, his voice cracking into a sob as his hips roll helplessly against you, totally overwhelmed by the friction. He's squeezing your hand so hard his knuckles are white, whining and weeping as the sheer pleasure drags him closer to the edge. "Please, Mommy, don't make me... I'll be good, I'll be good..."

"I know, baby," you coo, your voice shifting back into that sweet, commanding tone. "Mommy has you. You’re always good."

With a firm grip on his hip, you pull him back an inch, shifting his lower body slightly to the side so his pelvis is no longer aligned with his mixing gear. He lets out a confused, desperate whine at the sudden change in position, his hips instinctively twitching back, trying to find the flat surface of the desk again. But before he can, your hand slides down between his thighs.

Your fingers wrap around his hot, leaking length, catching him completely off guard. He shudders violently at the sudden contact, a choked sob escaping him. Gently but firmly, you angle his cock downward, pointing it toward the empty floor space away from his equipment.

"There," you whisper, leaning down to press your lips against his sweat-slicked shoulder blade, your breath warm against his skin. "Right there. Now you don't have to worry about the desk. You can just let go for Mommy." You drive the strap-on deep, hitting his sweet spot with a heavy, relentless pace.

Chan screams, a high, broken sound that echoes in the quiet, soundproofed room. His knuckles turn white as he squeezes your hand, his entire body seizing as he finally spills. Thick, desperate arcs splash onto the dark studio floor, his hips convulsing helplessly against your hand with every pulse of his release.

He remains draped over the desk for a long moment, his forehead pressed against his forearm, completely spent. His body is still trembling, his leg muscles twitching occasionally from the sheer intensity of the climax.

You give him a quiet moment to catch his breath, keeping a reassuring, flat palm against his lower back. The warmth of your hand is a steadying anchor as the overwhelming rush of adrenaline slowly drains from his system.

With a soft, deliberate movement, you slowly pull out the strap-on. Chan lets out a tiny, wounded whine at the sudden emptiness, his hips giving a weak, instinctual twitch before he slumps completely flat against the cool wood of the desk, too exhausted to move.

"Shh, you're okay, Channie," you coo, your voice softening as you shed the sharp, teasing edge of Alice’s mischief, replacing it with a warm, protective tenderness.

You unbuckle the harness, setting the toy aside, and reach into your bag for a pack of wet wipes. Leaning down over him, you gently clean his thighs and his entrance, your touch light, caring, and soothing. He shivers at the cool contact, burying his face deeper into his arms to hide the deep blush that still stains his neck and ears.

"There we go. All clean," you whisper.

"Mmh," he hums against your skin, a sleepy, deeply content sound. He squeezes you tighter, letting out a soft, shaky sigh. "Thank you..."

You smile, pressing a warm kiss to his temple.

Knock, knock, knock.

The sound barely made it through the steady spray of water, but Jisung heard it anyway, faint beneath the rush, beneath the dull ringing still left in his ears from the concert.

His hands stilled in his hair, shampoo slipping slowly down the side of his neck as he listened.

Nothing.

Nothing?

He frowned, blinking water out of his lashes, already halfconvinced it had been the pipes, maybe the room settling, or his brain finally giving out… it was past midnight, and he had barely made it through the hotel room door before peeling himself out of his stage clothes and stepping under the hottest water he could stand.

Then it came again.

Knock, knock, knock.

“Yeah, yeah…” he muttered, even though whoever was on the other side definitely couldn’t hear him. “Just a sec…”

He rinsed the rest of the shampoo from his hair in a hurry, dragging his fingers through it until the water ran clear, then reached blindly for the handle and turned the shower off.  

He frowned as he pulled a towel from the rack, dragging it over his hair first before wrapping it around his waist, still trying to make sense of who the hell would be at his door this late.

It couldn’t be room service, at least not yet. He had ordered as soon as he got back from the arena, barely listening while one of the staff members warned him it would take at least an hour because half the team had apparently had the same idea. And that had been, what, thirty minutes ago? Maybe less.

And it didn’t make much sense for it to be one of the members either. None of them had looked capable of doing anything other than showering and collapsing by the time they made it upstairs, all of them dragging themselves down the hall with the same dead look in their eyes, already dreaming about food, beds, and whatever pathetic handful of hours they could steal before morning.

He dried himself quickly, just enough to stop water from dripping all over the carpet, then pulled one of the white hotel robes over his shoulders and tied it loose at the waist. His bare feet made no sound as he stepped out into the bedroom and crossed toward the door, leaning in to look through the peephole.

His manager stood on the other side, phone pressed to one ear, a black gift box tucked casually against his side, and Jisung stayed there with one hand braced against the door, staring at the distorted shape of him through the glass as if it would start making sense if he looked at it long enough.

It didn’t.

He blinked, shook his head a little, then opened the door just enough to peek out, one hand staying at his chest to keep the robe closed against his damp skin.

“Hyung?” he asked, concern finding its way into his voice “Is everything okay?”

His manager looked up from the call, took in the confused crease between Jisung’s brows, and gave him a small nod that was probably meant to calm him down, even though nothing about the situation was calming.

“Yeah,” he grumbled into the phone, already sounding like he regretted every choice that had led him there. “I’m handing it over now.”

Jisung’s eyes dropped to the box.

His manager lifted one finger when Jisung opened his mouth, asking for patience he very clearly did not have, and turned his attention back to whoever was on the other end. Jisung could not hear much over the distance between them, only the faint rush of a voice coming through too fast and too bright for that time of night, but he saw the exact moment whatever was said made his manager close his eyes and breathe out through his nose.

“No,” he stated flatly. “I’m not saying that.”

The voice kept going…

“I’m also not saying that,” he added, pulling the phone slightly away from his ear like the distance might make the conversation end faster. “You can tell him yourself.”

Jisung blinked.

“Yeah, no,” He added already lowering the phone. “I’m not getting involved in this. Goodnight.”

He ended the call before the person on the other end could argue, slipped it into his pocket, and held the box out.

“This got delivered for you.”

Jisung’s eyes fell to the matte black packaging before lifting slowly back to his manager’s face. “For me?”

“Mhm.”

He took it carefully, fingers closing around the smooth edges while he searched the surface for a label, a name, anything that might explain it, but there was nothing except the ribbon tied neatly across the top.

His frown deepened. “Is that even allowed?”

His manager let out a quiet laugh. “Normally? No.”

“What is it?”

“I have no idea.”

“You didn’t check?”

“I don’t usually open other people’s presents, Jisung.”

His mouth parted, ready to argue, then closed again because, fine, technically that made sense, which was annoying…

“Well…” He looked down at the box again, thumb brushing absently over the ribbon. “Who sent it?”

His manager stared at him long enough for Jisung to understand that he absolutely knew and had absolutely no intention of making that his problem.

“As I said,” he told him, already stepping back from the door, “I’m not getting involved in this.”

“Hyung.”

“No.”

“You can’t just give me a suspicious box and leave.”

“I can, actually.” He lifted one hand in a lazy goodbye, already turning down the hallway. “I’m going to bed.”

“But…”

“Goodnight, Han.”

“Thanks?” he mumbled though the words barely made it past the doorway.

He nudged the door shut with his foot, the lock clicking softly back into place, and turned the box over in his hands once, then again, his frown deepening when he found nothing on the outside except the smooth matte packaging.

There weren’t many people who knew where he was staying tonight, not outside the team, anyway, and they were already half-dead somewhere down the hallway, sleeping or trying really hard to.

Fewer still could get a package anywhere near his room without someone checking it, questioning it, clearing it through staff and security and whatever other invisible layers sat between him and the rest of the world while they were on tour... Cause gifts didn’t just appear at their doors. They definitely didn’t get placed directly into his manager’s hands like a special delivery.

Jisung looked down at the ribbon again, and the answer settled before he had to chase it very far.

Of course.

A smile pulled at his mouth  “Unbelievable.”

He carried the box back to the bed and sank onto the edge of the mattress, setting it carefully against the sheets before reaching for his phone on the nightstand.

what did you do?

The reply came so quickly he knew she had been waiting.

Me?

Jisung breathed out a laugh through his nose.

don’t do that

do what?

baby…

what 😇

He stared at the emoji for a second, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as he tried not to smile harder than he already was.

you’re so annoying 🙄🙄🙄

He sent the message and hit the call button before he could give her the satisfaction of dragging it out any longer.

The screen rang against his palm, his own damp, half-lit reflection staring back at him from the glass until the call connected and her room replaced his, soft and dim and warmer than the sterile hotel lighting.

She answered after a second, the camera wobbling as she picked up her phone and settled back into bed. Her eyes lifted to the screen first, sleepy and bare and already warmer when she saw him, and whatever annoyed thing he had been ready to say got caught somewhere behind his teeth as she pushed herself up against the pillows, hair falling messily over one shoulder.

“Hey, rockstar.”

God, how he missed her.

It came over him quietly, almost embarrassingly fast, the sound of that stupid nickname in her sleepy voice. It had been weeks since he’d seen her in person, and every video call seemed to make the distance worse instead of better.

He loved seeing her… He did. Loved talking to her, loved listening to her talk even more.  Loved that she still waited around after a long day and stayed awake just so he could get a glimpse of her before she fell asleep. But lately, these calls had started to hurt in a way he didn’t know what to do with, because she was right there, close enough for him to see the faint crease on her cheek from the pillow, close enough to see the way her eyes crinkled when her smile grew, and still too far away for him to reach through the screen and be where he actually wanted to be. Beside her, smoothing his thumb over that mark on her cheek just to annoy her. Kissing the corner of her eye until she laughed and shoved him away with that little embarrassed sound she made whenever he got too sweet on purpose. Pulling her closer when the shirt slipped loose down her shoulder the way it was doing now.

The collar stretched wide, sleeves falling too long over her arms, the fabric worn soft from too many washes and the faded print suddenly familiar enough to make his gaze stay there. That piece of black scrap hung off her like it had never really belonged to her in the first place.

“Nice shirt.”

Her gaze dropped like she had only just remembered what she was wearing, fingers pinching the loose collar where it had slipped down her shoulder. “Oh, this old thing?”

He leaned back against the pillows, phone warm in his hand, as the box sat beside his thigh on the sheets. “Yeah,” he said, trying not to sound as pleased as he felt. “That old thing. Where’d you get it?”

She hummed, glancing down again like the answer required actual thought. “My boyfriend gave it to me.”

“Oh, did he?”

“Mhm.”

“He sounds very generous.”

“He is.” She nodded, mouth pulling into a smile. “Very generous.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” he laughed. “Good taste too.”

“I mean, obviously.” Her brows lifted, and one lazy hand slipped out from under the blanket to gesture at herself.

“Yeah I can tell…” The laugh left him quietly, more fond than he wanted it to be. “He’s a very lucky guy.”

“He is,” she agreed, settling her cheek deeper into the pillow. “And he is handsome too.”

“Is he?”

“So handsome.”

Jisung looked down, rubbing at his mouth with the back of his hand, but there was no point hiding the smile when she already knew exactly what she was doing to him. “You’re ridiculous.”

“What? So now I can’t brag about my boyfriend?”

“Right.” He nodded slowly, letting the game sit there for a little longer before his gaze drifted to the box beside him.

“So does this very generous, lucky, handsome boyfriend of yours also get suspicious packages delivered to his hotel room in the middle of the night?”

Her eyes lifted, “No.”

“No?”

“No, I don’t think so.” She tucked her mouth against the blanket, the smile still there underneath. “I don’t think his staff would allow that.”

His mouth twitched. “Oh?”

“Mhm... He has some crazy fans, you know. Serious security concerns.”

“Serious security concerns,” he repeated, staring at her.

“Very serious.”

“Right.”

“I mean… Imagine if anyone could just send things to his room,” she added, finally looking back at him with an expression so carefully innocent it was almost impressive. “That would be dangerous.”

“Very dangerous.”

“Exactly.”

He nodded along, slow and patient, thumb brushing over the edge of the box. “So whoever sent it would have to know where he’s staying.”

“That sounds reasonable.”

“And know who to talk to.”

She nodded.

“And be convincing enough to get his manager to bring it to his room himself.”

That was where she lost it. He saw the exact moment her face started to betray her, the tiny lift at the corner of her mouth, the way her eyes went bright while she tried to keep them wide and clueless. The longer he looked at her, the worse it got, until she had to press her lips together like that would do anything.

“Maybe,” she whispered.

“Maybe?”

“It could happen.”

Jisung laughed then, reaching for the box, lifting it into frame so she could see it. “How did you even manage this?”

Her eyes dropped to it immediately before snapping back to his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Ahhh, you’re so annoying. Stop playing…”

That broke her properly. She laughed into the pillow, soft and muffled, shoulders curling in like she could hide from him after all of that, and Jisung just watched her with the phone balanced in his hand and the box resting against his knee, the hotel room suddenly feeling less empty than it had a minute ago.

When she lifted her face again, she was still smiling.

“What?” she asked, too sweetly.

He gave her a look.

She shrugged, small and shameless. “I just asked nicely.”

“You asked nicely,” he repeated.

“Very nicely.”

“Apparently.”

His thumb brushed over the ribbon while he weighed it between both hands.

“So,” he said, “What is it?”

She blinked at him. “You want me to tell you what it is?”

“That’s usually how questions work.”

“No, I don’t think I will.”

He looked up at her. “You don’t think you will?”

She shook her head, mouth tucked into the blanket again.

Jisung gave the box a careful shake. Then another, closer to his ear, frowning when whatever was inside shifted with a dull, strange weight instead of rattling properly. Nothing sharp, nothing loose, just something soft and heavy settling back into place.

“That tells me nothing.”

“Good.”

“Good?”

“Mhm.” She looked far too comfortable, eyes bright over the edge of the blanket as she watched him turn the box in his hands. “Maybe stop trying to guess and open the damn thing.”

He ignored her, obviously, giving the box another shake like it might suddenly decide to give him a useful answer.

“You’re not going to figure it out like that.” She laughed quietly.

“Give me a hint.”

“No.”

“Not even a small one?”

“Nope.”

“Come on.”

“Nooo.”

He looked back at the screen, eyes narrowing even though the smile was already ruining it. “You’re being such a brat today,” he muttered.

Oh….

Her eyebrows lifted at that.

And that was all it took, barely anything at all, just the smallest shift in her face, and Jisung felt it land low in his stomach before he could pretend he hadn’t noticed.

He pressed his lips together around the laugh trying to get out, suddenly very interested in the ribbon under his fingers.

“What was that?” she asked.

“Oh…. aghmm nothing….” He choked out “You heard wrong.”

“Did I?”

“Bad connection,” he offered. He glanced up at her, then immediately wished he hadn’t, because she was looking at him like she knew exactly how fast he would fold if she pushed even a little.

“I said you’re being very sweet,” he tried, the lie coming out with a grin.

Her eyes narrowed. “Jisung.”

“Yeah?”

“Open it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Pathetic, honestly.

One soft little order through the phone and his hand was already on the ribbon, like his body had skipped right over the part where he was supposed to pretend he had any dignity left. He tried to tug it loose with one hand at first, the box balanced awkwardly against his thigh, but the ribbon only tightened under his thumb and made him huff out a quiet laugh.

“Hold on”

She watched him through the screen while he reached for the nightstand and propped the phone carefully against the lamp, shifting it once, then again, until the camera caught him sitting on the bed with the box in his lap and the robe loose around his waist.

He glanced at the screen. “Can you see me?”

“Mhm.”

He sat back with both hands free now, suddenly a little too aware of the angle, of her eyes on him, of the stupid present waiting under his fingers.

He worked the end loose with his thumb, the ribbon slipping free all at once after making him struggle for no reason at all. It slid off the box throwing it on the sheets beside his knee.

Then he lifted the lid slowly, mostly because she was watching and because he knew she would make fun of him if he got impatient now. He looked inside to find black tissue paper folded neatly over whatever she had gone through all this trouble to hide.

“Very dramatic.”

“You’re welcome.”

He huffed a laugh and peeled the paper back, something tucked underneath, wrapped again in more dark paper, because of course it was, but beside it sat a small bottle that made his fingers pause.

Not because he didn’t know what it was.

Because he was pretty sure he did.

He picked it up first, turning it toward the lamp, then toward the camera, squinting at the label like there was any way to make this less obvious if he read it slowly enough.

“Baby…What is this?”

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

He looked back down at the bottle, turning it once between his fingers. The liquid inside moved thick and slow, clear against the plastic, clinging to the sides when he tilted it before sliding back down.

He worked the cap open with his thumb and brought it to his nose without thinking, and the scent hit him immediately, sweet, artificial, unmistakable.

His eyebrows shot up. "Strawberry?"

"Your favorite."

He grinned then, sudden, stupid and wide, feeling like a little kid who'd just found his favorite snack in his lunchbox. But the smell had some weird effect on him… burrowing past his thoughts and landing straight in his gut. It brought back the memory of her skin after they'd showered together, the way she'd taste when he kissed down her stomach. His mouth watered as he swallowed, his body remembering before his brain could catch up, blood moving heavy and stupid to his dick.

"Why did you send me lube?" he asked, looking up at the screen.

"Open the rest of the present first… Then you can ask questions."

Jisung glanced down at the box still sitting on the bedspread. The rest of the tissue paper still folded over whatever else was inside. He set the lube down carefully on the nightstand, right where he wouldn't knock it over, and reached back into the box.

The second item was wrapped in the same dark tissue, heavier than the bottle had been, dense and solid when he lifted it out. He peeled the paper back slowly, frowning as the shape emerged in pieces, it was something rounded and irregular.

He turned it over trying to make his brain categorize it. It looked like... what? A sculpture? Some kind of weird stress ball?

The color was slightly translucent, pinkish-peach, detailed with folds and contours that seemed anatomical but his brain refused to register. There was texture to it, soft ridges and a specific arrangement of shapes that his eyes tracked without understanding, following the curve of something that looked like…

Oh.

Jesus fucking Christ.

His hand tightened around it without meaning to, fingers sinking into the soft silicone, and the realization hit him all at once like a physical slap.

It was a toy…

but not just any toy….

A pocket pussy, a fleshlight, whatever the fuck they called it, something designed to be fucked… to mimic the exact shape of…

He looked up at the screen, mouth actually hanging open, and she was watching him with smug satisfaction written all over her face, her eyes bright and her lower lip caught between her teeth.

"Y/n," he asked, and his voice came out rough.

"What?" she asked, filled with innocence, though her cheeks had gone pink, the color spreading down her neck to disappear under the collar of his stolen shirt.

"Is this what I think it is?" He held the thing up toward the camera, gripping it tighter than he probably needed to.

"What do you think it is?"

"It's a…" He stopped, glanced at it again, turned it over to see the entrance from another angle, the soft pink folds molded in perfect, obscene detail. His face burned so bad right now. He could feel it, hot from his cheekbones to his ears, and he dragged his free hand over his mouth, laughing under his breath because he didn't know what else to do.

"You're so fucked up."

She smiled then, and shifted against her pillows. "You don't like it?"

"I didn't say that." He answered too fast, the words tumbling out.

He looked back down at the toy in his hand, turning it over again, thumb tracing along the outer edge where the silicone met the hard plastic base. It didn’t feel cheap or generic.

It was detailed... Too detailed.

The kind of detail that came from scanning, maybe molding? Definitely from replicating something real… His brain snagged on that thought and wouldn't let go.

"Wait, is this…"

There was no way…

Her mouth opened like she had something clever ready, something smug and annoying enough to make him lose his mind a little but a laugh slipped out instead, quiet and breathy, her cheeks going warmer as she tucked her bottom lip between her teeth and looked back at him through the screen like she was trying very hard to pretend she wasn't affected by this too.

But she was, he could see it now, the way her chest moved a little faster, the way her eyes kept dropping to his hands like she couldn't help herself.

Jisung looked back down at the toy, turning it over in his palm, and the thought hit him so hard he actually felt dizzy with it.

There was no way. There was absolutely no fucking way she had just gone out and gotten a mold of her pussy made for him. That was insane…That was porn star shit. That was the kind of thing guys joked about wanting but never actually expected because who the hell would actually do that.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, and his thumb was already tracing the entrance, feeling how soft it was, how the material gave under pressure.

Before he could talk himself out of it he was pressing his index finger against the opening, feeling the resistance, the way the silicone yielded and then wrapped around him.

The sound he made was embarrassing. A low, broken hum that started in his chest and died somewhere in his throat, his eyes fluttering shut for a second because it felt… it felt like her. The texture, the tightness, the way it gripped his finger when he pushed deeper, sliding in up to the second knuckle. He could feel the internal ridges, the specific contours that matched her body, the places where she was usually tighter, usually softer, and his hips jerked forward involuntarily, his cock throbbing against the robe.

"Fuck," he breathed, opening his eyes to look at her, and she was staring at him with her mouth open, her eyes dark and wide, hand gripping the pillow hard enough to whiten her knuckles.

"Did you just…" His voice came out wrecked, and he cleared his throat, still working his finger slowly in and out because he just couldn't stop… his body was overriding his brain completely.

She laughed, but it was shaky, breathless "What do you think?"

"I think…" He pulled his finger out slowly, watching how the material clung to him, how it tried to suck him back in, and he groaned, low and guttural, dragging his hand over his mouth. "... I think I'm gonna die”

"Does it feel good?" she whispered, her hips shifting under the blankets like she was trying to get friction where she needed it.

"Yeah…" He pressed his finger back in, deeper this time, feeling the texture, and his head dropped back against the headboard, a whine escaping his throat and he couldn't stop the way his hips kept twitching upward like his body was already trying to fuck into something that wasn't there yet.

"Jisung"

She had pushed herself up higher on her elbows, the blanket slipping lower, and her hand had disappeared somewhere beneath the edge of the frame. He couldn't see where, but he could see the way her arm moved, the subtle shift of her shoulder, and his brain supplied the image immediately… her fingers sliding down her stomach, slipping under the waistband of whatever she was wearing under his shirt, finding herself wet and swollen from watching him lose his shit.

“Tell me what it feels like."

"It's…" He choked, pushing his finger deeper just to feel the give of it, the way the ridges inside dragged against his skin. "It's tight… It's so fucking tight, baby, it feels exactly like… " He cut himself off with a gasp, his hips jerking again, cock throbbing. "Like when I'm pushing inside you … you know? when you're already wet but you're still… still squeezing…"

The image hit her hard, her own fingers slipping lower, finding her slick. She was soaked, her underwear useless by now. She imagined his fingers inside her instead of that stupid toy, and her hips rolled against her palm so hard she had to bite her lip to keep herself from moaning too loud.

"Ji…" she breathed. "You're making me so wet.”

Jisung's eyes snapped back to the screen. "Are you touching yourself?"

"Yeah…" she laughed, breathless, her hand moving in tight circles under the blanket. “And am fucking dripping.” She pushed the fabric down with her knee, exposing her legs, her fingers glistening where they moved between her thighs. "Watching you finger that thing like it's me…"

"Shit," he groaned, fucking his finger deeper into the toy. "I wish it was you… wish I could feel how wet you are,…"

"Soon," she promised, her head falling back against the pillow, fingers working faster. "But right now you're going to get that toy nice and ready, aren't you?”

"Yes… yes baby" he nodded fast.

"Get the lube," she ordered, her voice dropping to that rough register that made him stupid. She shifted, the phone wobbling as she adjusted her position.

And then he heard it… a soft, filthy sound, wet and rhythmic, unmistakable.

"Can you hear that, baby?" she asked. " Can you hear how fucking wet I am?”

He whined, high and desperate, “Oh my fuckin…”

"Prep it, just like you would prep me," she interrupted. The slick sounds of her fingers didn't stop, filling the call with how badly she wanted this.

He grabbed the bottle nearly dropping it, his knuckles turning white.  "I'm gonna make it so wet.” He whimpered, pouring the lube until it overflowed his palm. "I want it to be exactly like you…"  He moaned, long and broken, his cock throbbing untouched against his stomach as he coated his fingers.

"That's it," she murmured, "Doesn't that feel better?”

"Yes," he whined, tightening his grip, pumping his fingers inside once, twice, his wrist twisting at the end the way he knew she liked. "Yes, but it's not… it's not the same, I need …."

“But, doesn’t it feel good?”

"So good," he breathed, pushing deeper, feeling the tight ring of silicone give way around his fingers. He let his head loll to the side, eyes fluttering shut, the heat of his own palm, the way it felt like her even though it wasn't warm like she was. "Baby, it's so soft…"

He pulled his fingers out slowly, watching how they were coated in clear lube, how the toy gaped slightly where he'd opened it, and he poured more directly into the entrance, watching it pool inside.

The sound of her fingers fucking into her cunt matched the rhythm and wetness at his hands.

He pushed three fingers in at once, groaning at the stretch, "Fuck, baby, please…”

"Please what?" she asked.

"Can I fuck it?” He choked, fucking his fingers in deeper, making it wet and messy “Please, I need to fuck it…"

She laughed, soft and breathy, “You wanna fuck it, baby?"

"Yes," he whined, his face burning, "Need it so bad…"

"Show me first," she murmured "Is it ready?"

He obeyed, working his fingers, scissoring them, stretching at the entrance until it yielded properly. The sounds were obscene, the lube dripping out onto his palm "yes.. yes… so ready. Please…."

"Shh," she soothed, "It´s okay baby… you can fuck it..."

He froze, his eyes snapping to hers through the screen. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," she breathed. "But take it slowly.”

He withdrew his fingers, watching how the lube stretched between them and the toy's entrance, filmy and clear, before snapping apart.

He shuddered and pushed the robe wider, exposing his stomach, his hips, his cock where it rested heavy and flushed against his skin. He wrapped his lube-slick fingers around himself and the contact made his hips buck upward immediately, a sharp gasp tearing from his throat. He was throbbing, hot, the skin sensitive and flushed dark pink at the tip where precum beaded and mixed with the clear lubricant. He worked his hand down his length slowly, spreading the mess, watching himself through heavy-lidded eyes.

"God…," she breathed, her eyes fixed on the way his fist fucked his cock. "Look at you."

"Don't… say tha…”

"You're so so pretty Jisung… ahhhgg I miss you so much… miss your pretty cock too”

"Stop," he gasped, his hand tightening around himself without meaning to. "Stop saying shit like that, you know it makes me cum…"

She laughed, breathless, her own fingers moving deeper now.

He groaned, his head falling back, his hand working himself. "Can I put it in?”

"Okay," she murmured, and her voice had gone soft and fond.

His throat was too tight for words as he reached for the molded silicone with shaking hands. He held it against his tip, angling it toward the camera so she could see everything,

“Yeah baby let me see… just like that”

The lube was cool, shockingly so, and he gasped at the contact, his cock throbbing where it kissed the pink folds.

"Just the tip," she commanded him.

He obeyed, dragging himself through the entrance, not penetrating, just sliding through the slick texture, feeling the detailed ridges catch against his sensitive head. The sensation made him so fucking dizzy, it was soft and it gripped him with just enough resistance to make his thighs shake.

"Ngh…" He choked, his hips twitching forward, seeking more. "Baby, please, I can't…"

"You can… I know you can…."

He forced his eyes open, finding her through the haze, and the sight nearly broke him,  he could see her hand moving between her legs, her fingers shiny and slick, disappearing inside herself before circling back up to her clit. She was flushed down to her chest, her nipples visible through the worn fabric of his stolen shirt, her mouth parted as she panted.

"Fuck," he whimpered, his cock throbbing against the toy, leaving smears of precum mixing with the lube. "You look… shit, you're gonna make me cum before I'm even inside…”

"No you're not," she said, "You're going to push in slowly… And you're going to tell me how it feels while I fuck myself and pretend it's you."

He sobbed, as he pressed forward, feeling the tight ring of silicone catch around him and he stopped there, shaking, his knuckles white where he gripped the base of the toy.

"Oh god," he gasped, his head falling back, Oh fuck, y/n, it's… it's so tight, it's pulling me in, I need to go deeper, please…"

"Not yet," she breathed, and he heard the wet sound of her fingers speeding up, plunging deeper. "Stay there. That's how I feel when you're first pushing inside me, isn't it? When I'm squeezing around you, trying to pull you deeper even though I'm not ready yet?"

"Yes," he whined, his hips jerking forward involuntarily, seeking more depth, more heat. "Yes, exactly like that…”

"Look what you do to me," she commanded.

He dragged his head up and found her watching him.

"I'm so wet," she told him, her voice breaking slightly. "Mmh… thinking about your cock... bout you inside me…”

"Fuck," he choked out. "I want to be inside you. I want to feel how wet you are…"

Her hips buckled against her hand. "Sink in slowly…. Inch by inch."

He nodded, desperate, and pushed forward. The silicone gripped him, dragged against him, the internal ridges catching on every sensitive spot as he sank deeper. It was torture, pure and simple, the tightness, the texture, the visual of himself disappearing into something shaped exactly to feel like her.

"mghhhhh…" He stopped halfway, his whole body trembling, sweat beading on his forehead. "I can't… it's all too much, I'm gonna fucking cum…."

"But you're doing so well," she encouraged, her own fingers working faster, deeper. “You want to fuck it hard, don't you? You want to just pound into it until you cum?"

"Yes, please, let me fuck it, let me…"

"Not yet," she gasped, and he could tell she was close now, her thighs tensing. "Bottom out baby… Let me see you fill it up."

He groaned and pushed forward until his hips were flush against the base, his cock buried to the root, the sensation was overwhelming.

"Fuck," he gasped, his eyes rolling back. "Oh fuck, baby, I'm… I'm all the way in, so so deep…"

"Good," she panted, her own rhythm faltering, her breath coming in short gasps. "Now fuck it… let me watch while I…."

She broke off with a moan, her fingers circling faster, her hips lifting off the bed. He watched her, watched her face go slack with pleasure, and felt his own control fraying to nothing.

That was all the permission he needed. He pulled back and slammed forward, the wet slap of flesh against silicone filling the room. He cried out, his hips snapping forward again, and again, chasing the friction, the release, the perfect tightness that was almost her, almost enough. The toy gripped him differently than his hand did, tighter, more resistance, the ridges inside dragging against his sensitive head with every thrust. He could feel the lube squelching around him, messy and obscene, dripping down his fingers where he held the base.

"Jisung," she gasped, her own fingers matching his rhythm, plunging deep. "Yes, just like that…. Harder baby… Fuck…”

"Ohhhh noooo," he sobbed, his pace stuttering, becoming erratic. "I'm so close…"

"Noo, no, not yet," she gasped, though her own voice was climbing. "Wait for me. Just… keep fucking it just like that, don't stop…"

He groaned, his hips working faster, harder, the toy gripped tight in his fist as he pounded into it. The silicone was warming up now, taking his heat, feeling less like a toy and more like her with every desperate thrust. He could hear the wet sounds of her fingers on the other end, frantic and messy, and he matched his pace to hers, fucking the toy as his balls tightened, his spine tingling with the warning signs of how close he was.

"Baby," she cried out suddenly, her whole body arching off the bed, her free hand gripping the sheets. "Oh fuck, baby, I'm…"

"Yeah?" he gasped, not slowing down, his hips snapping forward with desperate force. "You gonna cum? You gonna cum watching me fuck your pussy?"

"Yes, yes, yes," she chanted, her voice breaking into a high, desperate keen. "Don't stop, don't stop, I'm…"

He watched her fall apart, her body seizing, her fingers working desperately between her legs as she came. He could see it in the way her thighs trembled, the way her back arched, the way her mouth opened in a silent scream before the sound caught up. She was beautiful like this, wrecked, open, and he wanted to keep fucking her through it, wanted to feel her clench around him as she rode it out.

"Now!” she cried out when she could speak again, "Cum with me, baby…. Fill it up. Pretend it's me."

He slammed forward one last time and held himself there, buried to the root, his whole body going rigid as the orgasm ripped through him. It started deep in his gut, a white-hot pulse that traveled down his spine and exploded out through his cock. He spilled into the toy with a ragged cry, pulse after thick pulse, his hips jerking involuntarily as he emptied himself. He could feel it filling the silicone, hot and messy, overflowing around his shaft and dripping out onto his fingers. It was filthy, obscene, his cum mixing with the lube and leaking out of the toy's entrance, coating his length as he kept thrusting through the aftershocks, slower now, milking himself dry.

"Fuck," He slumped back against the pillows, the silicone still clutched loosely around his softening length. Through the screen, he could see her collapsed against her own pillows, similarly spent, her hand still resting between her legs, her eyes closed, and a satisfied smile playing at her lips.

For a while, all he could do was breathe. Badly, too. He was slumped back against the pillows, robe fucked up around his waist, one hand thrown over his face like that was going to help with any of the damage she had just done to him. His chest heaved, his skin was tacky with sweat and lube and cum, and his brain felt like it had been wrung out completely, left somewhere back around the part where she'd told him to fuck it harder.

And suddenly, amidst all the silence… he laughed.

"What?" She opened one eye at him through the screen.

"I don't even know what to say to you." He dragged his hand over his mouth. "I think my brain broke."

She lifted her head, her hair falling across her face "What, that bad?"

"No." He looked at her  "That good. That was... y/n, that was the hottest thing you've ever done."

“Yeah?” She laughed, her fingers tracing lazy patterns on her stomach. "You liked your present?"

"Are you kidding?" He reached for the phone, bringing her closer to his face like that would somehow make this more real. " That was the filthiest fucking thing anyone’s ever done for me and somehow also the sweetest. Like who does that? You're actually insane."

"Is that a compliment?"

"It's a proposal." He was grinning, stupid and smitten, his heart still hammering heavy in his chest. "Marry me. Can I marry you?”

She laughed, tucking her chin against her shoulder, looking at him like he'd lost his mind. “I get you a fake version of my pussy and suddenly you want to put a ring on it?”

“Yeah.” He laughed. “You pull some pornstar shit like that and expect me not to start thinking about forever? Baby, be fucking serious.”

Her smile cracked wider.

“I’m not even joking. Actions have consequen…”

Knock, knock, knock.

Three sharp raps against the door, and they both froze. Jisung's eyes snapped toward the sound, then back to the screen. She had pushed herself up on her elbows, her eyes suddenly wide and alert as she remembered exactly where he was and what state he was in.

“Room service,” a voice called from the hallway, muffled through the door. “Sorry for the delay, sir.”

A/N: Hi loves 💕

First of all, thank you so much for bearing with me and being so patient while I finish the Hyunchan threesome smut. I know I’ve been talking about it for a while, and I promise it hasn’t been forgotten.

As some of you may have seen, lawyer life decided to attack me personally and I had a client get arrested, so I had to put my fandom activities on hold for a bit and go deal with real life... Very rude of real life, honestly.

That being said, the smut is pretty much done. I don’t want to promise an exact date because every time I do, the universe humbles me, but it mostly just needs revision now, so it should be ready soon.

In the meantime, I really hope you enjoy this one. It was so much fun to write, and I missed posting here more than I can explain.

As always, English isn’t my first language, so please be kind.

You knew the second you opened the door and saw Chan standing there with that grin; dimples deep, curls tucked under a baseball cap, that you were in trouble.

Not bad trouble. The kind where you could tell something was up, something good. The kind that made your chest tighten in the best way.

“Pack a bag,” he said, voice warm and low from the hours he’d been awake already. “Comfy clothes. Warm stuff. We’re leaving in an hour.”

You blinked. “Leaving to go where?”

“That’s for me to know,” he teased, brushing past you into your apartment like he owned the place; which, honestly, he basically did. “And for you to find out.”

You opened your mouth to argue, but then he kissed your cheek in passing and dropped a grocery bag on your kitchen counter. Inside was a suspicious mix: your favorite snacks, a couple bottles of your favorite drink, and a folded paper map.

A map? Who even used paper maps anymore?

By the time you were in the passenger seat of his car, duffel bag on your lap, you’d stopped trying to figure it out and let yourself enjoy the mystery. The city’s skyline faded in the rearview mirror, replaced by winding roads, tall trees, and an open sky that seemed to stretch forever. Chan hummed along to whatever soft playlist he had running, his fingers drumming the steering wheel in that absent-minded way you loved.

“Are you going to tell me yet?” you asked.

“Nope.” He shot you a glance, all smug and boyish. “But I will tell you that you won’t need your phone.”

You frowned. “What, why?”

“Because this weekend,” he said, voice taking on that mock-serious tone, “we’re disconnecting. No social media. No schedules. Just us.”

Your heart stuttered. Just us.

The answer revealed itself when you pulled into a small campground tucked beside a glittering lake, the kind of place that smelled like pine needles and fresh air, the kind of quiet that wrapped around you like a blanket. There was a tent already packed in the back of the car, along with enough blankets to build a small fort.

Chan set to work immediately, pitching the tent with the kind of determination he usually saved for mixing tracks at 4 a.m. You tried to help, but he kept shooing you toward the cooler.

“Go check the food,” he said, grinning. “I’ve got this.”

The food, of course, was perfect. Sandwiches you loved, your favorite chips, chocolate for roasting s’mores over the fire later. He’d even packed that silly little travel-sized board game you’d mentioned liking once, months ago.

When you looked up from the cooler, he was standing there, hands on his hips, the tent fully set up behind him like something out of a camping commercial.

The afternoon melted into golden light. You wandered hand in hand along the lake’s edge, skipping stones and laughing every time one of you failed miserably. He carried your jacket when the sun warmed the air and slipped it back over your shoulders when the breeze picked up again.

Later, you sat cross-legged on a blanket outside the tent while he grilled over a small camp stove, the smell of sizzling food mixing with woodsmoke from a nearby campfire. He kept stealing glances at you, his smile so soft you thought your chest might burst.

“You’ve been smiling at me like that all day,” you teased.

“Can’t help it,” he murmured, flipping something in the pan. “I’ve missed you.”

You swallowed, the truth of it sitting heavy and warm between you. Months apart while he’d been touring, the occasional late-night calls, the quick texts squeezed in between rehearsals, none of it compared to being here, his voice unfiltered by phone speakers, his hand close enough to reach for.

When the sun dipped low, you both bundled into hoodies and sat by the fire. He roasted marshmallows with laser focus, handing you the first one like it was a prized treasure.

It was so easy, sitting there with him, talking about nothing, about everything. He told you about little moments from tour he hadn’t had the chance to share yet: the late-night hotel snack runs, the prank Hyunjin pulled on Seungmin, the one time Felix fell asleep mid-dinner.

You told him about your own small victories and frustrations, the things you’d tried to cram into text messages but never had the space to fully say.

And then there was the quiet. Not awkward, not heavy. Just comfortable, the sound of the fire crackling, the distant call of an owl, his thumb brushing slow circles against your knee.

“This,” he said finally, voice so soft you almost missed it, “is all I wanted. Just you. No noise.”

When you climbed into the tent that night, you found he’d turned it into a nest of pillows, blankets and your sleeping bags, You sank into it with a laugh, immediately pulling the thickest blanket around your shoulders.

He crawled in after you, the small space suddenly warm with his presence. You curled into his chest without thinking, and he wrapped his arms around you, chin resting on top of your head.

“You’re ridiculous,” you mumbled, half-asleep already. “Planning all this.”

“I told you,” he whispered, “I just wanted to be with you.”

Your last waking thought before sleep pulled you under was that you’d never felt more at peace. Not in months. Maybe not ever.

The next morning, you woke to the smell of coffee and the sound of soft guitar chords. Chan was outside, sitting on a log with the sunrise painting his profile in gold. His hoodie hung loose on him, hair mussed, eyes half-closed as he played aimlessly.

It must have rained during the night, the grass around your tent was damp with dew and the perfume of the earth and trees wrapped around you, relaxing your mind as you watched him strum random cords.

When he noticed you, his face lit up. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

You padded over, sitting beside him and wrapping his hoodie tighter around yourself. He handed you a mug of coffee; sweet, just how you liked it, and pressed a kiss to your temple.

After a breakfast of campfire cinnamon rolls and coffee you decide to go on another lakeside walk, the trail got muddy from last night’s rain. You were trying to hop from dry patch to dry patch when your foot slipped, and you let out a little yelp.

Chan turned to catch you before you could fall. “Alright, up you go.”

Before you could protest, he bent down, scooped you onto his back, and started walking like it was nothing. “You’re not ruining your shoes,” he said, pretending not to notice how hard you were trying to hide your smile.

“Just admit you wanted an excuse to carry me,” you teased.

He chuckled. “Maybe. But you can’t prove it.”

Later that afternoon, you stole his hoodie after lunch when the breeze picked up, and the sun hid behind the clouds, It hung almost to your knees, the sleeves swallowing your hands completely.

When he came back from refilling your water bottle, he stopped in his tracks, eyes softening in that way that made you feel like you were the only person in the world.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I think I’m gonna need that back… in about twenty years.”

You rolled your eyes and tugged the hood over your face. “Too late. It’s mine now.”

He just shook his head, sitting beside you and wrapping the hoodie, and you, into his arms.

After lunch you’d both eaten more than enough, Chan pulled the little travel-sized board game from the car like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment.

“I thought we could play a few rounds,” he said, setting it between you on the blanket. “But just so you know, I’m very competitive.”

You smirked. “Oh, bring it on, Christopher. I’m not going easy on you.”

The first few turns were civil enough, a little lighthearted trash talk, and some teasing. But by the third round, Chan was grinning so wide his dimples were showing, leaning closer with each move like he was trying to read your mind.

When you made a particularly clever play, you threw your hands up in triumph. “Yes! I’m winning!”

“Nope, nope, nope,” he laughed, reaching across the board to poke your side. You squealed, jerking away, but he only used the opening to attack both sides with more tickles.

“Chan!” you laughed, falling sideways onto the blanket. He followed, hovering over you, both of you breathless from laughter.

“That’s cheating,” you accused between giggles.

“It’s called ‘creative strategizing,’” he teased, lowering his head to press a quick kiss to your cheek. “Also, you’re ridiculously cute when you laugh.”

You swatted at him playfully, but he caught your hand, pressing another kiss to your knuckles this time. “Stop trying to distract me,” you warned.

“Not my fault you’re distractible,” he murmured, leaning in to kiss the tip of your nose, then your lips, just a soft, lingering brush that made your heart flip.

By the time you got back to the game, you were both grinning so much that neither of you could focus. It didn’t matter who won, every move came with stolen kisses, laughter that carried into the trees, and the kind of warmth that had nothing to do with the fire nearby.

After dinner, as the fire burned down to glowing embers, Chan stood up and stretched, his hoodie which he had stolen back, rode up just enough to reveal a sliver of skin. You caught yourself staring, and he caught you catching yourself, grinning like he’d just scored a point.

“Alright,” he said, dusting his hands off, “sleep time.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You’re tired already?”

“Not really,” he replied. As he unzipped both sleeping bags, zipped them together, and spread the mountain of blankets on top until the inside looked like a cloud.

“I just want to lay down with you,” he explained, climbing in and patting the space beside him, “and if we’re going to do this, we’re doing it right. There’s no way I’m sleeping without you in my arms.”

You crawled in, laughing when he immediately pulled you flush against his chest, his arm sliding around your waist like it belonged there. “You’re too much,” you whispered.

“Not enough,” he murmured into your hair.

After a moment of peaceful silence, with only the sounds of his soft breathing, and heartbeat filling your ears do you speak up.

“Can we just… never go back?” you asked, only half-joking.

His smiled gently. “We’ll go back. But we’ll come back sometime soon.”

And you smile to yourself, enjoying the moment with him.

Tag list:

You didn’t remember the drive to her place. Just the sound of the blinker. The dull roar of tires on pavement. The faint echo of your own breath catching in your throat over and over like a skipped record.

Your friend opened the door before you knocked. Maybe she’d seen your name light up her phone. Maybe she just knew.

Her arms were around you before you could speak. You didn’t cry. You didn’t scream. You just stood there, letting her hold your shaking body while your brain floated somewhere above it all.

You told her everything you voice now quiet. Flat. Detached.

She listened at first, patient and still, until something in your voice broke mid-sentence and you saw her expression shift, not to pity, but fury.

“What the actual fuck, are you serious?” she snapped, fists clenched, once you finished telling her about what you saw.

You flinched.

“I’m sorry,” she said immediately, softening, but the fire didn’t leave her eyes. “I’m just… I can’t believe he did that to you. He wrote that about someone else? That’s not just a mistake. That’s—That’s just insane.”

You didn’t argue. Couldn’t. You weren’t angry, not like her. You were just…Hollowed out.

You stayed in her guest room for days. Wrapped in oversized sweatshirts. Rotting in your own thoughts. She tried to get you to eat, to walk, to talk, but most of your answers were nods or shrugs. You stared at your phone sometimes, but didn’t touch it. Messages lit up and went unanswered. One from your mom, a couple from friends, and two from Chan.

Then three.

Then five.

Then a voicemail.

You couldn’t bear to listen.

You knew his voice would break you all over again.

On the fourth night, you found her on the couch, quietly scrolling her phone, a bowl of popcorn in her lap. You sat beside her without a word. She didn’t say anything either, just shared her blanket and let you sit in the dark, the quiet of her presence the only thing that didn’t make your skin itch.

Then, on the sixth day, you answered.

The text was short.

“Okay. One conversation. Neutral place.”

His reply came instantly.

“Name the time. I’ll be there.”

⸻

The park was nearly empty. Cloudy. Windy. One of those days where everything looked like it had a gray filter over it.

There was a small overlook where the trees opened just enough to see the river below. It wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t scenic. It was just far enough from the world to let you hide for a while.

Chan was already there when you arrived. Sitting on the bench. Hunched forward. Palms pressed together like he was praying. Or panicking.

You stood a few feet away, just staring.

He looked like hell.

His hoodie hung off him like his body had shrunk since you’d last seen him. His hair flattened under a cap. Deep bags under his eyes, skin pale and colorless. He hadn’t shaved. Hadn’t slept. Probably hadn’t eaten either.

You didn’t look much better.

When he looked up, he stood slowly. Like he expected you to turn around and run.

You didn’t. You just sat. Leaving what felt like miles between your bodies on the bench.

He swallowed hard. “Thanks for… meeting me.”

You said nothing. Just stared ahead. At the trees. The river. Anything but him.

He waited a moment. Then another. When it became clear you weren’t going to break the silence, he began.

“I’m sorry.”

His voice cracked on the word.

“I know I said it before, but I need to say it again. I never wanted to hurt you. I never— I never thought you’d see that file. It wasn’t meant for anyone. Least of all you.”

You let out a bitter laugh. Just once.

He looked down at his hands, twisting his fingers together like he was trying to wring the guilt out through his skin.

“I was…I don’t know. And then one day I realized I had gotten comfortable, I kept pushing myself to do better, creatively, emotionally, with everything. So I didn’t notice when someone new was kind to me and I—I don’t know felt something else. I didn’t do anything. I didn’t even think about what I was feeling, not really. Not until I wrote it down. And by then I—”

He cut himself off. Swallowed hard.

“I read it again. After you left. And it hit me like a truck. That you were right. That the person I should be writing for, the one who’s been there through every high and low, the one who was the music in my life… I stopped seeing her. I stopped appreciating her.”

You finally looked at him. His eyes were red-rimmed and desperate.

“I’m so sorry you felt that pain. That betrayal. I would undo it if I could. Burn the file. Rewrite every second. I just… I fucked up. And I can’t stop replaying your face when you looked at me like you didn’t know me anymore.”

Your hands clenched in your lap. The ache in your chest flared.

“I don’t know you anymore,” you said quietly. “Or maybe I do. And I just don’t like what I’m seeing.”

His head dropped.

You bit the inside of your cheek hard. Until you tasted blood. Anything to keep from crying.

“You didn’t cheat,” you said. “Not in the physical way. But emotionally? You crossed a line. And you didn’t even realize you had until I was standing in front of it.”

He didn’t argue. Just nodded. Like he agreed. Like he hated himself more than you ever could.

“I know.” His voice was a broken whisper as his knee bounced.

“I don’t know what you want from me, Chan. Closure? A second chance?” You finally met his eyes again, and he flinched at how empty yours looked. “I don’t know if I have anything left to give.”

“I don’t want anything,” he whispered. “Not unless you want to give it. I just… I needed you to know. I remember every small thing about us, about you. Every playlist. Every dumb sticky note. Every laugh that made my heart stop. That was all real. I swear to God, it was all real.”

The silence stretched again. The weight of both your words resting painfully on your shoulders.

You stood up.

He did too.

And for a moment, it looked like he might reach for you. But he didn’t. He knew better now.

You looked at him one last time.

“I wish you’d talked to me before you wrote it down.”

Something in his face shifted. His jaw tightened. The guilt didn’t fade, it just warped. Hardened. Sharpened at the edges.

“Talked to you?” he echoed, voice low, bitter. “You think that would’ve made it better?”

Your brow furrowed, startled by the edge in his tone.

“I’m just saying—”

“No,” he cut in. “You’re saying I should’ve come to you and said—what? Casually dropped it over breakfast? ‘Hey babe, I’m starting to emotionally check out of our relationship because there’s this girl at work who actually understands’? You think that would’ve made this easier?”

The words hit like a slap.

Your breath caught. “What the hell, Chris?”

He threw his hands out, exasperated. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, but God—how was I supposed to say something I didn’t even understand myself yet? I didn’t plan for it. I didn’t want it. It just… happened.”

Your stomach churned. “So now I’m just the comfort zone you fell asleep in while you waited for something better to wake you up?”

His face twisted, eyes wide. “That’s not what I said—”

“But it’s what you meant.”

“No! I didn’t—” He ran a hand through his hair, pacing like he was trying to outrun the truth. “You don’t get it. You think this has been easy for me? Watching everything get so… routine between us? You barely looked at me anymore unless it was to ask about dinner or groceries.”

You reeled back, as if the wind had been knocked out of you.

“That’s not fair,” you whispered. “You think I wasn’t tired too? You think I didn’t notice how much space was growing between us? I was still trying, Chan. I was holding on for both of us.“

He let out a sharp laugh — not cruel, but wounded. “Yeah? And I was drowning in the silence between us, pretending it still felt like love. I didn’t even realize how lonely I was until someone else started paying attention.”

There it was.

The line that cracked something inside you.

“You think that makes it okay?” you snapped. “That because things got hard, you get a pass to romanticize someone else instead of talking to the person who’s been there for you through everything? Through your burnout. Through your late-night breakdowns. Through every goddamn tour and missed birthday?”

He looked stricken now, lips parted, breathing hard.

“I gave you everything, Chan. Everything I had. Cause that’s what true love is, a choice. It’s waking up everyday and no matter what, and still choosing you, time and time again even when it’s not pretty. But the second it stopped being shiny, you started looking around like maybe the grass was greener. But it only looks greener because someone else is watering it.”

The silence fell like an avalanche.

Neither of you could look at each other now. The river below rustled like it was trying to swallow the noise, to wash it all away.

He sank back onto the bench, defeated. His voice came out hoarse. “I don’t know how we got here.”

You crossed your arms tight across your chest, like you could hold the splintered pieces of yourself together with pressure alone. “We got here because instead of choosing to fight for us, you entertained the idea of someone else. And that was a choice, Chan. You don’t get to pretend it just happened to you.”

He didn’t respond. Didn’t even blink. Just stared at the ground like it held answers he couldn’t find in himself.

Your throat ached.

“I didn’t need perfect, Chan. I just needed you to stay with me. In it. Even when it got hard. Especially when it got hard. To choose me, to love me.”

The wind kicked up. The bench creaked as he shifted.

“I never stopped loving you,” he said quietly, like a confession to God.

You bit the inside of your cheek again. Hard. “And that’s the saddest part, because I can’t tell anymore”

You turned away.

He didn’t call after you this time.

And maybe, in the end, that’s what made it real.

Chan:

Chan had always been the person who noticed the little things.

It was something everyone knew about him.

He noticed when you got quieter than usual. He noticed when people’s laughter sounded forced. He noticed when the boys were tired but insisted they were fine. He noticed the tiny changes in the people he loved because caring about someone meant paying attention.

But there was one thing he wished he didn’t notice.

Your smile.

It wasn’t that he didn’t love it.

That was the part that made everything worse.

He loved the way your face changed when you laughed. The way your eyes squeezed shut when you tried to hold back a smile. The way you forgot to be self-conscious when you were comfortable, when you were with him, just existing without worrying about how you looked.

But then there were moments when you remembered.

Moments when you would cover your mouth, when you smiled smaller, the way you'd turned away from mirrors.

And Chan hated that he understood why, hated the way he thought about it, about you.

It was the gap from a missing tooth you never got fixed; it was the unevenness you were always trying to hide, and sometimes it was just the way your smile didn’t look like the ones he saw everywhere else.

The perfect smiles and straight teeth, the ones that looked effortless.

Chan had heard you joke about it before.

“I know, my smile is kind of a mess.”

You would say it casually, like it didn’t bother you.

But Chan always heard the part you didn’t say aloud.

Please tell me you don’t see it too.

And every time, he would tell you the same thing.

“You’re beautiful.”

And he meant it.

He really did.

But the problem was that sometimes, when he looked at photos of the two of you, or when you'd smiled at him without thinking, there was a small, ugly thought that slipped into his mind.

A thought he immediately hated.

You’d be even prettier if your teeth were perfect.

It was never something he'd say out loud, never something he wanted to think.

But it existed, and he hated that.

Because he knew what it felt like to have people judge him. To have strangers decide things about him based on things he couldn’t control. He knew how exhausting it was to feel like every little flaw was something the world could point at.

So why was he doing the same thing in his own mind?

You never asked him to fix his flaws.

You never looked at him and decided he wasn’t enough.

You loved him loudly.

You loved his insecurities. His habits. His flaws. The parts of himself he hated most..

And yet he caught himself wishing this one thing was different, wishing that you'd change yourself for him.

That realization made him feel sick, and he silently vowed to be better.

But he didn’t magically stop noticing.

He wished he could say that after everything, after hearing you admit how much you hated your smile, something in him changed completely.

That suddenly, all those thoughts disappeared, and he never looked again.

But he did.

When you laughed, his eyes still flickered there; when you smiled in pictures, he still focused on your mouth.

And every time he did, he hated himself a little more.

Because you trusted him with something fragile.

You trusted him with the parts of yourself that you were afraid everyone was judging you for.

He was supposed to be the person who made you feel safe, to love you despite your flaws, and he tried.

He did his best to make sure you never noticed his stares.

The worst part was you did.

You noticed the way he sometimes paused, the way he seemed to stare at your pictures for a beat too long.

You noticed every little hesitation because you had spent years studying people’s reactions.

Trying to figure out if you were being judged, waiting for someone to point out your insecurities, to look at them the way you looked at yourself.

And Chan hated that he had become another person you had to read.

One night, they were lying beside him, half asleep.

The room was dark, quiet.

They were scrolling through your phone when you suddenly stopped.

Chan noticed.

“What?”

You hesitated.

“Do you ever wish I looked different?”

His heart stopped.

“What?”

You laughed quietly, but there was no humor in it.

“Don’t do that. You know what I mean.”

Chan stared at the ceiling, trying to think of what to say, because the answer should have been easy.

It should have been immediate.

“No.”

But he had hesitated.

Only for a second.

But it was enough for you to notice.

You weren't angry, just hurt.

A quiet kind of hurt that was somehow worse than you being angry.

“Right.” Your tone was flat and unconvinced.

“Hey—” He started

“No, it’s okay,” you added before he could speak.

It wasn’t. You both knew it wasn’t.

“I know I’m not everyone’s idea of pretty.” your voice broke a little.

“Don’t say that,” he pleaded.

“Why?” Your voice cracked.

“Because you love me?”

Chan went silent.

And that silence hurt more than he wanted it to.

Lee Know:

Lee Know had always been good at keeping his emotions under control.

It was almost annoying how good he was at it.

It took a lot for him to react; his face was always a well-composed mask, hiding what he was really thinking and feeling, it was something he learned early on in his time as a trainee.

People liked to think he was cold and uncaring.

But the truth was that Lee Know cared, almost too much.

He just didn’t always know how to express it.

And that was why he noticed you.

All the time, He noticed every little thing.

The way you tried to act normal when your face started warming up.

'It's rosacea, and it's a nightmare,' you told him, half laughing as you cupped your flushed cheeks.

You would laugh and then suddenly become aware of yourself because your skin had betrayed you when someone complimented you, or when you got angry, and your face reminded him of a strawberry. When you were on the verge of tears, your face caught between red and deep purple hues.

Your emotions never stayed hidden; they couldn’t. Your face always gave you away.

And sometimes…

Lee Know hated that.

Not because he hated you.

He would never hate you.

That was what made it so much harder, because he loved you.

He loved how passionate you are, the way you liven up a room with your excitement.

He loved that when you were happy, it radiated from every pore on your body.

When you were embarrassed, and became this flustered, adorable mess.

When you were excited, your eyes lit up before you even spoke.

You were open in a way Lee Know had never been.

And maybe that was why it bothered him.

Because he had spent so much of his life learning how to hide, how to keep things controlled, learning how to make sure nobody could see too much.

And you were the complete opposite.

You felt everything openly, even when you didn’t want to.

Especially when you didn’t want to.

And you hated it.

Lee Know knew you did.

When you tried to pretend it didn’t, you'd joked about it.

“Oh my gosh, my face is exposing me again.”

You’d laugh.

But he heard the frustration underneath; he felt your embarrassment.

He saw the way your smile faded when someone else pointed it out.

“You’re blushing.” they's tease

“I’m not,” you'd deny, even as the flush would deepen, spreading down your neck.

“You totally are.” Their laughter only made it worse.

“It’s just my skin.” You'd defend.

People didn’t mean anything by it.

Most of the time, they were teasing in a harmless way.

But Lee Know knew something about harmless comments; they stuck with you and him.

One evening, you were getting ready to go out.

You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting your clothes.

Lee Know was sitting on the bed, watching.

You caught his eye through the reflection.

“What?” you asked, already feeling your face warm.

“Nothing.” his expression remained unchanged.

You narrowed your eyes.

“You’re staring,” you point out.

“I’m thinking,” he replied evenly.

“That’s dangerous,” you joke.

Normally, he would have laughed; normally, you both would have laughed.

But instead, you looked back at the mirror.

Your expression changed.

Slightly, but he saw it.

“You wish I didn’t do that?” your voice was small.

He frowned.

“Do what?”

You gestured vaguely at your face.

“This.”

His stomach dropped.

“Your skin? That's not your fault," he reminded you.

You shrugged.

“I don’t know. Just…” You looked away.

“Sometimes I feel like I can’t have a normal reaction to anything without everyone knowing.”

Lee Know didn’t say anything because what could he say?

that he understands? That he noticed?

That sometimes he wished your face didn’t reveal every emotion because he hated seeing you become uncomfortable?

None of that sounded right.

Because the truth was uglier.

The truth was that sometimes, he wished he didn’t have to see your every thought so easily; he wished he didn't have to know when you were upset; he hated how nothing you feel is secret.

And he knew that wasn’t your fault, and that made it so much harder.

Changbin:

Changbin had always been proud of himself.

Not in an arrogant way.

He worked hard to get where he was today.

His body. His confidence. His place in the world.

He knew how much effort it took to become someone who could stand on a stage and feel like he belonged there. He knew how many times he had to remind himself that he was enough.

That he was talented enough, strong enough, good enough.

He had spent years building himself up, becoming the man he was today, your man.

You were an amazing partner, always cheering him on, supporting him, and loving him; you were perfect in his eyes and more than he could ever ask for.

So it was frustrating how easily one little thing could make him feel like he was falling apart.

Your height.

It was stupid; he knew it was stupid.

Because Changbin wasn’t insecure about many things.

But standing next to you sometimes made him feel like the entire world was pointing and laughing at something he couldn’t change.

People noticed, how could they not?

At first, it was funny.

“I can't believe the height difference,” they'd say.

“Wait, she's taller than you?” when they'd first meet you both.

“Changbin, are you sure you’re the boyfriend?” they'd tease.

It was always lighthearted, not meant to be cruel.

And Changbin laughed too.

Of course, he did. He was good at that, turning things into jokes.

Making sure nobody knew when something actually hit a nerve.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he’d say.

“I’m cute and portable.”

They would laugh.

You would laugh, kissing his cheek, saying something along the lines of keeping him in your pocket before changing the subject.

And normally, that would be enough.

But after the jokes stopped, he would remember every single comment, every single laugh at his expense.

The worst part was that you never cared what people said, why would you?

That made it harder because you loved him exactly the way he was.

You never teased him about his height or made him feel less.

If anything, you loved that he was shorter.

You loved the way he carried himself with confidence, how he never let the teasing get to him, because he never let it show how much it bothered him.

“You know,” you would tell him, smiling, “your confidence makes you taller.”

He would roll his eyes.

“Are you saying I need metaphorical height?”

“No,” you’d laugh.

“I’m saying I love you.” You'd wrap your arms around him, pulling him close, and he loved being in your arms; it was his favorite place to be.

Changbin hated the thoughts that plagued him.

Because it wasn’t fair.

Not to you, and not to himself.

He knew height didn’t determine someone’s worth.

He knew that.

But there was still a part of him that hated standing with you in photos, your arms around him, leaning down to be closer to him.

A part of him that hated when someone casually mentioned it.

He sometimes wondered if people looked at you and thought he wasn’t what you deserved.

One day, you were getting ready to attend an event together.

You stood there trying on clothes, while Changbin watched admiringly.

You looked incredible, you always did.

But when you stepped into a pair of black high heels, making your long legs go on for miles, he should have been drooling at the sight of you standing in front of him, but instead, he felt that familiar little ache.

You were even taller than him in his platform shoes.

Not that it should matter.

He still felt that sting of emotion.

“You’re quiet.” Your voice pulled him back.

“What?”

“You’ve been quiet this whole time.” You crossed your arms over your chest.

He forced a smile.

“Just thinking.”

You studied him; you were good at reading him.

Maybe too good.

“You’re thinking about it.” you gave him a knowing look.

He glanced away.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he denied.

“Yes, you do.” The softness in your voice made him feel worse.

Because you weren’t angry, you weren’t annoyed.

You just moved to the closet, and when you came back out, you had traded your heels for a bejeweled pair of sandals. You didn't say anything, just grabbed your phone and your purse, giving him a peck on the cheek as you took his hand to pull him out of the room.

He opened the car door for you before getting in on the other side. You didn't mention your change of wardrobe, just pulled up the direction to the event, and chatted about your day.

And somehow that made him feel worse.

He wondered how you could love him more than he loved himself, because the person he wanted to stand tall for…

was the same person who made him feel small, and where was the pride in that?

Hyunjin:

Hyunjin had always been surrounded by beauty.

It was everywhere, and he loved to capture it, either in the pictures he would take or, better yet, he'd ink them on paper and mark them on canvas; he'd find it in the smallest details.

The way sunlight fell across a room, the shape of hands fisted in satin sheets.

The expressions people made when they thought nobody was watching.

He was someone who collected little pieces of beauty without even trying.

Maybe that was why it bothered him so much.

Because when it came to the person he loved most…

He noticed the things you hated, and he hated that he noticed.

The acne scars were old; they weren’t painful anymore.

At least not the way they used to hurt, the painful extraction, and the burn of open sores are a thing of the past.

But the deep marks they left behind hurt in a diffrent way.

The rough texture, the unevenness across your cheeks, and the dark faded marks still left you hurting.

Places where their skin didn’t look like the smooth images you saw everywhere.

Your skin was something you had always been insecure about.

Hyunjin knew that; he knew because he had watched you try to hide it.

The makeup you used to cover it, the angles you'd avoided in photos.

The way your fingers would trace over your face after a shower, staring at yourself in the mirror before looking away when he'd come close.

And sometimes…

Hyunjin’s eyes went there too, staring at the indents, the discoloration, making a face before he could stop himself

He hated that the most.

Not the scars, not your skin.

Himself.

Because he knew better, he knew how cruel the world could be; he knew better than anyone else how much pressure people put on appearances.

He knew how exhausting it was to feel like you were constantly being looked at.

So why did he, the person who was supposed to love every part of you, still think the things he thought about you?

Why did his brain still compare?

Why did he still have moments where he wished you looked different?

How you'd look without the scars.

The thought always made him feel sick because he didn’t want a different version of you.

He loved you.

He loved your laugh, your voice, the way you cared about him, the way you remembered little things about him that even he forgot.

He loved who you were.

But sometimes, his mind betrayed him.

And he was terrified that meant something about his heart.

You noticed, you always noticed.

“You’re staring.” Your voice broke the quiet.

Hyunjin hummed as he watched you watch yourself.

He hated mirrors, not because of himself, but because of what they did to you.

He saw the way your confidence changed the second you looked at yourself.

The way you tilted your head, the way your fingers traced the sides of your face.

Checking and scrutinizing, looking for every flaw.

“You’re beautiful.” He said.

You smiled sadly.

“You don’t have to say that every time.”

His chest tightened.

“I’m not saying it because I have to.”

You just shrugged the words off.

That hurt.

Because you didn’t believe him.

And Hyunjin wondered if that was because nobody had ever convinced you or because he hadn’t done enough.

“Do you think I’d look better without them?” Your eyes met his in the mirror.

He flinched, knowing exactly what you were talking about.

He hesitated only for a second.

But it was enough.

Your smile dropped, and he saw it.

“I knew it,” you muttered, looking away from the mirror.

His heart dropped.

“No-" he started

“You hesitated.” You cut him off.

“I was thinking,” he explained

“That’s worse.”

The words were quiet.

Not angry, just hurt.

And Hyunjin felt something inside him crack.

“I love you.”

You give him a half-hearted smile.

“I know.”

“Then why are you saying it like that?” he moves closer, worried.

Your eyes watering.

“Because I know you love me.”

That hurt; he didn't understand why you looked so sad when he told you he loved you.

“Then what?” he begged.

You looked away.

“Because sometimes I think you love me despite it.”

Hyunjin went still.

Despite.

One word, one horrible word.

Because he knew exactly what it meant.

You didn’t think he loved all of you.

You thought there were pieces he tolerated.

And he hated that you were right.

You’d been teasing him all evening. A slow, deliberate dance. It started hours ago, when you’d chosen the simplest, most worn-out cotton shorts and a tank top to wear while you watched a movie. The kind of clothes that were meant to be comfortable, not seductive. But you’d caught him watching over the rim of his beer bottle, his gaze lingering on the way the fabric stretched across your chest when you reached for the remote, on the strip of skin at your waist when you shifted.

You’d stretched, arching your back off the couch, and pretended not to notice his sharp, indrawn breath. You’d curled your legs up under yourself, pressing your thigh against his, and felt the immediate, hard proof of his attention through his sweats. That’s when you’d started talking, voice low and lazy, about nothing and everything—the movie, work, a funny thing you’d seen online—all while your fingers played idly with the hem of your shirt, tracing patterns on your own stomach.

He’d lasted twenty more minutes before his hand closed over your wrist, stilling your movements. His voice was rough, graveled with want. “Okay. That’s enough. You win.”

He’d pulled you to your feet and led you, wordlessly, to the bedroom. There was no frantic undressing, no hurried race to the finish. His movements were deliberate, almost ceremonial, as he peeled the soft cotton from your body, his knuckles brushing your skin with a tenderness that made your breath catch. He’d laid you down as if you were something fragile and priceless, and then just…looked. For a long, silent moment, he simply drank you in, his chest rising and falling with a rhythm that was almost pained.

Now, back in the present heat of the moment, he lowers his head again, but not to kiss your mouth. His lips find the delicate skin just below your ear. “You have no idea,” he whispers, his tongue tracing the shell of your ear before his teeth give a gentle, grazing nip. “No idea what you do to me.”

He moves downward, a slow pilgrimage. His mouth charts a course along your collarbone, each kiss a soft, damp brand. He murmurs praises into your skin, the words muffled but fervent. “Perfection…like silk…so soft right here…” His hands follow, one cupping the weight of your breast, his thumb circling your nipple until it tightens into a hard, aching peak. His mouth is there a second later, his tongue swirling, then sucking deeply, drawing a moan from your lips and a low groan from his.

The sound vibrates through you. You can feel him, the hard, thick length of him straining against his boxer briefs, pressed against your thigh. And when you glance down, you see it—the dark, damp patch of precum already soaking through the dark grey cotton. The sight sends a fresh, liquid surge of heat between your own legs. He’s leaking for you. Just from looking, from touching, from tasting.

“Fuck, Chan,” you breathe, fingers tangling in his hair.

He just hums in response, the sound vibrating against your sternum as he continues his descent. His lips skate over your ribs, his tongue dipping into your navel, making you squirm. His large, warm hands spread over your abdomen, holding you steady as he slides to his knees on the floor beside the bed, bringing his face level with your hips.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties—the last barrier—and pulls them down your legs with agonizing slowness. The cool air kisses your wetness, and you shudder. His eyes lock with you, dark and blazing with pure, unadulterated hunger. He doesn’t look away as he presses the damp fabric to his nose and inhales, closing his eyes.

You whimper, reaching between your legs to rub your clit, seeking friction and relief. Your fingers make a sticky noise as you play with yourself, prompting Chan to snap his eyes open and look down. He throws your panties on the bed before moving your fingers away, then proceeds to bend forward.

The first touch of his tongue is a flat, slow, luxurious stroke from your opening all the way up to your clit. You cry out, back bowing off the mattress. “Yes…right there…”

He doesn’t just eat you out; he worships you. His mouth is a dedicated instrument of praise. He laps at you like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever tasted, his tongue exploring every fold, every sensitive crease. He circles your clit with maddening precision, then suckles it gently between his lips, humming his approval. His words are a continuous, broken stream against your soaking flesh.

“You taste like heaven…so fucking good…making such a mess for me, baby…look at you…” He slips two fingers inside you, curling them, and you clench around him instantly, a wave of pleasure so sharp it borders on pain. “So tight…taking me so well…you’re a goddess, you know that? My gorgeous, perfect goddess.”

His praise is a drug, and you’re drunk on it. The physical sensations are overwhelming—the slick, hot slide of his tongue, the expert curl of his fingers, the way his hair falls and tickles your inner thighs—but it’s his words that push you higher, that make you feel truly seen and desired in a way that transcends the physical.

“Prettiest little pussy I’ve ever seen…wanna spend all day between these thighs…you want that baby? You want my mouth on this pussy all day?”

You’re panting, clutching at the sheets, hips rolling against his face, seeking more, more, more. The coil in your belly is wound impossibly tight. “Chan, I’m close…please…”

He redoubles his efforts, his mouth sealing over your clit, sucking rhythmically as his fingers pump inside you, finding that spongey spot that makes you see stars. The orgasm crashes over you, a violent, shuddering wave that tears a raw, ragged scream from your throat. He rides it out with you, his tongue gentling to soft, lapping strokes until you’re a trembling, oversensitive mess.

Before you can even come down completely, he’s surging up from the floor, shedding his boxers in one frantic motion. His cock springs free, long, thick and flushed, the head gleaming with his own arousal. He kneels on the bed between your legs, his eyes wild. He’s not asking permission; the look you share is one of mutual, desperate need.

He guides himself to your entrance, the broad head nudging against your slick, swollen flesh. He pauses, his entire body shuddering with the effort of control. “Look at me,” he grates out.

You force your hazy eyes to focus on his. He pushes forward, an inch, then two, a slow, exquisite stretch that makes you both gasp. He bottoms out, hips flush against yours, and your stay there, joined, breathing each other’s air.

And then he starts to move.

His thrusts are deep, purposeful, each one dragging a moan from your lips. He’s not quiet. Every sensation pulls a vocal reaction from him. A hard thrust earns a guttural, “Fuck!” A slow, grinding roll of his hips has him groaning, “Oh, god, you feel…you feel incredible.” His hands are everywhere—gripping your hips, skimming up your torso to palm your breasts, threading through your hair to cradle your head.

He leans down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries. “You’re so beautiful like this,” he pants against your lips. “Taking my cock…making those sounds…pretty pussy stretched out for me…I’m never gonna get enough of you. Never.”

The pace quickens, the bedframe knocking a steady rhythm against the wall. His breathing turns ragged, his movements becoming less controlled, more primal.

Shlick shlick shlick, comes from between your bodies. Your pussy so wet it drips down your thighs and onto his balls, slapping against your ass with each thrust.

You can feel his own climax coiling, a tangible tension in the corded muscles of his arms, the desperate clutch of his fingers.

“I’m gonna cum,” he warns, his voice a broken rasp. “Gonna fill you up. Gotta…gotta mark you, gotta feel you come again with me…”

His words are the final trigger. A second, sharper orgasm rips through you, your inner muscles clamping down on him in rhythmic pulses. “Fuck yes…mmm…yes…Chan…oh my god!”

The feeling of your tightness milking him is his undoing. With a roar that’s part triumph, part surrender, he drives into you one last, punishing time and lets go.

He’s a whimpering mess as he floods your walls with his thick cum. “Holy shit…fuck…fuck…baby, fuuuuuuuk!”

You feel the hot, pulsing rush of his release deep inside you, a flood of heat that seems to go on and on. He collapses on top of you, his weight a welcome anchor, face buried in your neck as he rides out the last shocks, his hips giving a few final, helpless jerks.

For a long moment, there is only the sound of your ragged breathing and the frantic beating of hearts against each other’s skin. Finally, he lifts his head. His eyes are soft, sated, but still burning with that same reverent awe. He brushes sweat-damp hair from your forehead.

“Whoa,” he whispers, a dazed, boyish smile touching his lips.

BINNIEBB 2026 ™ PLEASE DO NOT STEAL MY WORK ♡

By the end of June, the Marigold Hills Country Club Aquatics Center had stopped feeling like a summer job and started feeling like a sun-baked gladiator arena where the weapons were whistles, sunscreen bottles, customer-service smiles, and the rare but devastating guest compliment delivered directly in front of your manager’s clipboard.

The clipboard mattered.

You weren’t the kind of person who needed external validation from a man named Craig who wore khaki shorts with a braided belt and treated the aquatics staff like you were all one bad Yelp review away from public execution, but somewhere between Memorial Day weekend and the fourth consecutive shift of Christopher Bang smirking at you over the rim of his stupid mirrored sunglasses, Summer MVP had become less of a workplace incentive and more of a blood oath.

The prize wasn’t even that good.

A reserved parking spot near the front entrance for next summer, a fifty-dollar gift card to the club restaurant, and a laminated certificate Craig would probably hand over with a toothy grin.

It should not have mattered.

It absolutely mattered.

Because Chris had made it matter.

At the beginning of the summer, during the first staff meeting of the season, when Craig stood in front of the lifeguard office explaining “member experience standards” while everyone sweat through their uniforms, Chris had leaned against the lockers beside you with a blue raspberry lollipop tucked into one cheek, his sunglasses pushed up into his black hair, and the kind of easy, irritating smile that made you want to throw a rescue tube at his head.

“You hear that?” he’d murmured. “Reserved parking.”

You had not looked at him. “Congratulations. You discovered incentives.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, voice low and amused, “don’t worry when I win. I’ll wave at you from the good spot.”

You had turned then, slowly, because some moments demanded eye contact before violence.

Chris looked back at you with his lashes lowered, his mouth glossy from the candy, his shoulders already broad and sun-warm under the red guard tank he had somehow made look indecent by existing inside it.

You smiled. It was not a nice smile.

“And here’s my wave,” you said, giving him the finger.

His grin spread.

And just like that, because men were a plague and pride was a disease you had apparently caught through chlorine exposure, your entire summer turned into a competition.

It was ridiculous and humiliating, but it was also the only thing keeping you from losing your mind while working eight-hour shifts among screaming children, over-served parents, and rich people who believed the phrase “country club standard” could summon fresh towels out of thin air.

Marigold Hills itself was beautiful in the overfunded, morally suspicious way country clubs tended to be beautiful—all white cabanas, blue umbrellas, polished stone, glassy pools, and flowers kept alive by people whose hourly wage could not afford the salad menu. The aquatics area sprawled across the back of the property like a luxury resort had gotten drunk and reproduced. It had a main pool, lap lanes, a lazy river, a splash pad, two hot tubs, a diving board, a shallow family area, and enough lounge chairs to support every affair, divorce, and passive-aggressive brunch conversation in the county.

Which meant there were a lot of lifeguards.

There had to be.

On busy weekends, your red-uniformed little army spread across the pool deck in rotations, scanning water, blowing whistles, bandaging scraped knees, dragging umbrellas across the concrete, fishing abandoned goggles from filters, and pretending not to hear club members say things that should have gotten them banned from polite society and possibly pepper-sprayed in the parking lot.

You had worked there with Chris since high school, back when both of you were sixteen and new enough to the job that a screaming toddler could send your adrenaline into orbit. Through senior year, through college summers, through certification renewals and first-aid refreshers, through the annual chaos of Memorial Day opening weekend, you and Chris had returned to Marigold Hills like cursed migratory birds in matching red.

Somewhere along the way, Chris had gone from cute in an annoying, dimply, boy-next-door kind of way to offensively hot.

He was cocky about it too, which made the whole thing worse.

He walked the pool deck shirtless whenever he could get away with it, sunscreen gleaming on his shoulders, rescue tube tucked under one arm, whistle resting against his chest, black hair damp and curling over his forehead in thick, messy pieces whenever he got out of the water. He wore his sunglasses like a man auditioning for a calendar called May Cause Divorces, and he always had a lollipop in his mouth, because apparently being broad, tan, Australian, and annoyingly good with children wasn’t already enough of a public nuisance.

The mothers loved him. That was not an exaggeration.

The mothers stared at him in a way that made their husbands stare angrily into their gin and tonics, because no amount of money, golf memberships, or boat shoes could compete with Christopher Bang crouching beside the kiddie pool to help a toddler fix her floaties while saying, “There you go, sweetheart, now you’re ready,” in a voice warm enough to fog sunglasses.

You watched it happen every shift.

You watched Mrs. Delaney touch his forearm while thanking him for finding her son’s goggles.

You watched Mrs. Cavanaugh ask whether he worked “every weekend” with faux casual interest. You watched a woman named Bianca, who wore a diamond ring large enough to count as a flotation device, drop her towel three separate times in front of him.

Chris picked it up every time.

He also winked every time.

And Craig wrote something down every fucking time.

“He’s such a whore,” muttered Alex from the adjacent lifeguard chair one afternoon, peering through his sunglasses as Chris handed a pool noodle to a little boy and somehow got thanked by the child’s mother with a smoothie.

“He’s not even subtle,” you said, watching Chris accept the smoothie with a smile so bright you hoped his teeth overheated.

Alex tilted his head. “Do you think Craig gives points for slut energy?”

“Craig gives points for whatever makes the members happy.”

“Then Chris is Summer MVP of the century. Half these women look like they’d renew their membership for another glimpse of his abs.”

“Don’t say abs.”

“Why?”

“Because then I think about them.”

Alex turned to look at you slowly.

You kept scanning the pool.

“Interesting,” he said.

“Shut the fuck up, Alex.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was about to say you’re handling this competition with a lot of maturity.”

“You were not.”

“No, I was about to call you a whore.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Unfortunately, your own tactics were not exactly noble.

Chris had mothers. You had men with wedding rings and the audacity of medieval kings.

It had started accidentally, sort of, when Mr. Ralston asked whether you could help him find the locker rooms despite the sign being directly above his head, and Craig, standing nearby with his clipboard, had written something down after you smiled, guided him politely, and did not tell him that literacy was free. The next day, Mr. Halverson asked for sunscreen recommendations and complimented your “attention to detail” when you explained SPF like he was not staring at your boobs through the entire conversation.

Craig had written that down too.

From there, the moral slope got slippery.

You carried lemonade pitchers for older men who called you “darling” in ways that made your spine try to leave your body. You helped Mr. Leighton find his missing sunglasses, which were on his own head, while his wife sat five feet away pretending not to hear him ask if you gave private swim lessons. You told a father of three that his butterfly stroke looked powerful even though it looked like he was having an actual stroke, because Craig was watching from the towel station and you were not above lying for the parking spot.

“Powerful?” Chris repeated later, appearing beside the first-aid cabinet while you restocked bandages. “That man swam like he was five seconds away from dying.”

You didn’t look up. “He appreciated the encouragement.”

“He appreciated your tits.”

You snapped your head toward him.

Chris’s jaw tightened like the words had come out sharper than he meant them to, but he did not take them back.

“Excuse me?”

“He’s a creep,” Chris said.

“He’s also a member.”

“He’s still a fucking creep.”

“And Mrs. Cavanaugh asking if you do personal swim coaching isn’t creepy?”

Chris opened his mouth.

You lifted a brow.

“That’s different,” he said finally.

“Oh, I cannot wait to hear this.”

“I didn’t flirt with her.”

“You winked.”

“She winked first.”

“You smiled like you were picturing her naked already.”

Chris laughed despite himself, and the sound annoyed you because it was too warm for the amount of irritation you were trying to preserve.

“You jealous?”

“Of middle-aged women who smell like Chanel and marital dissatisfaction? No.”

“Then why are you watching?”

“Because you’re loud.”

“I was standing completely still.”

“You’re loud standing completely still.”

His grin returned, slow and poisonous. “You spend a lot of time noticing me.”

You slammed the first-aid cabinet shut. Chris stepped back just enough to avoid losing a finger, still smirking.

“You spend a lot of time being noticeable,” you snapped.

“Good.”

“Bad.”

“Liar.”

You hated him. Or, more accurately, you hated the way he made hating him feel like a contact sport.

Because the worst part was not that Chris was hot, although that was irritating enough to require some sort of training. The worst part was that he was actually good at the job. When he was scanning the pool, nothing slipped past him. When a kid panicked in the deep end, Chris was in the water before anyone else had finished inhaling. When a toddler busted her chin on the splash pad, he had her laughing through tears within thirty seconds. When elderly members needed help adjusting umbrellas or carrying bags, he treated them with a patience that looked irritatingly real, not just performative for Craig.

It would have been easier if he sucked. Instead, he was competent. Competence, tragically, was hot.

By the third week of July, the other lifeguards had started treating your competition with Chris like a staff-wide entertainment program.

Mia kept score on a napkin taped inside the guard office.

Felix, who worked mostly swim lessons, had created categories with little hearts and skulls beside them.

“Guest compliments,” he said one morning, clicking a pen as you and Chris stood on opposite sides of the break table glaring at each other over a container of grapes. “You have twelve. Chris has thirteen.”

“Bullshit,” you said.

“Mrs. Redding complimented me twice yesterday,” Chris said.

“Mrs. Redding wants to climb you like pool furniture. That doesn’t count.”

“It does if she says I’m attentive.”

“She said your shorts looked snug.”

Alex, lounging on the bench, choked on his iced coffee.

Chris laughs annoyingly. “My shorts work hard keeping my huge—,”

“Stop right there, slut.”

Felix pointed his pen at you. “Sassy points for you.”

Mia leaned in from the doorway. “Does that count as harassment?”

“Only if a complaint is filed. But I kinda liked it,” Chris said, grinning around his lollipop. It was cherry that day, red and glossy and deeply obnoxious.

You wanted to snatch it out of his mouth and throw it into the pool filter. You also wanted, very briefly and very shamefully, to taste it. That thought was so unacceptable you threw a grape at him.

He caught it in his mouth and the room erupted.

“Fucking show-off,” you muttered, crossing your arms.

Chris chewed, swallowed, and winked.

Craig chose that moment to enter with his clipboard, which meant everyone immediately scattered into suspicious productivity.

“Good energy today,” Craig said, squinting at the room.

“Team morale,” Felix said brightly.

“More like ‘more hell’,” Mia muttered.

Craig ignored her. “Big Saturday crowd tomorrow. I expect focus, professionalism, and strong member engagement. Summer MVP is still anyone’s game.”

Chris looked at you. You looked at Chris.

Saturday arrived with the kind of brutal, glittering heat that turned the entire pool deck into a griddle and made every guest behave as though sunscreen, patience, and basic manners had evaporated by noon.

Children ran, screamed, cried, cannonballed, stole each other’s diving rings, and treated “walk, please” like a foreign concept. Parents drank frozen margaritas under umbrellas and pretended they did not see their offspring attempting minor crimes near the shallow end. The lazy river jammed twice because one child refused to exit his tube and another had somehow smuggled in a pool noodle suspiciously shaped like a dick. Someone dropped nachos near the splash pad. Someone else lost a retainer in the lap lanes.

It was chaos with cabana service.

You were stationed near the family pool, scanning through the glare, when you spotted Mr. Halverson near the bar with his phone in one hand and confusion wrinkling his sunburned face.

Perfect.

Mr. Halverson was gross, yes, in the damp, overly familiar way of men who treated wedding vows like background noise, but he was also influential, wealthy, and exactly the kind of member who would corner Craig near the office to compliment “excellent staff responsiveness” if you solved a minor inconvenience while smiling through your suffering.

You climbed down from the chair.

Across the pool, Chris noticed immediately.

He was crouched beside a little boy with a scraped knee, one hand pressing an ice pack gently to the child’s shin while the kid’s mother hovered nearby, gazing at Chris and his stupidly sculpted back. Chris’s eyes slid past her shoulder and locked onto you as you headed toward Halverson.

His jaw shifted.

You smiled—not at Halverson—at Chris. Then you turned all your polished, poisonous sweetness toward the man by the bar.

“Mr. Halverson,” you said, bright enough to make yourself nauseous. “Everything okay?”

He looked up, relief blooming across his face, eyes scanning your swimsuit-clad body from head to toe. “There you are,” he said, which immediately made you want to walk into the deep end with rocks in your pockets. “This damn app keeps asking for my cabana number.”

You glanced at the brass number mounted directly beside his head. “You’re in cabana twelve.”

He followed your gaze, laughed, and touched your side.

You didn’t flinch. You became marble.

“Guess I’d lose my head if it wasn’t attached,” he said.

“Good thing we’re trained for emergencies,” you replied, smiling hard enough that you could hear your teeth grind in disgust.

Behind you, a whistle chirped.

You turned. Chris was already walking over, wet from some recent dip into the pool, black hair pushed back from his forehead before falling forward again in damp pieces, sunglasses hooked into the waistband of his trunks, lollipop tucked into one cheek, and expression pleasant in a way that made you instantly suspicious.

“Everything alright over here?” he asked.

His voice was polite, but his eyes were not.

Mr. Halverson’s hand dropped from your side.

“We’re fine,” you said.

Chris looked at you, then at Halverson, then at the phone. “App trouble?”

“I have it handled.”

“Of course you do,” Chris said, smiling. “You’re very helpful.”

You narrowed your eyes.

Halverson chuckled, delighted by tension he had no business enjoying. “You two always like this?”

“Unfortunately,” you said.

“Only when she misses me,” Chris said.

You snapped your head towards him. He smiled around the lollipop. Somewhere behind him, Craig materialized near the towel station, clipboard lifted like a weapon from hell.

Chris noticed. You knew he noticed because his posture changed by half an inch, straightening into that effortless lifeguard golden-boy stance he used when guests were watching, the one that made him look responsible and fuckable in the same breath, which was frankly very inconsiderate.

“Actually,” Chris said, reaching gently for Halverson’s phone, “I can take care of this. Y/N’s been running around all afternoon, and we don’t want her overheating.”

Oh, that smug, shirtless, candy-sucking bastard.

Your smile froze. “How thoughtful,” you said.

Chris leaned closer as he took the phone, enough that the scent of chlorine, sunscreen, and green apple sugar slipped under your skin with humiliating precision.

“You do look a little flushed,” he murmured.

You kept smiling because Craig was watching, but your voice dropped. “You do look a little killable.”

Chris’s mouth curved. “Cute.”

“I’m not being cute.”

“You are when you threaten me.”

“I hope a pool noodle lodges in your ass.”

Halverson made a strangled noise that might have been a laugh.

Craig’s pen moved.

Chris solved the app issue in less than ten seconds, handed the phone back, and earned a hearty clap on the shoulder from Halverson, who announced, “Thanks, Chris. You’re a lifesaver.”

Chris looked directly at you.

“That’s what the certification says.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you said.

“I’m efficient.”

“You’re a parasite.”

“With great member feedback.”

Your manager wrote something down again, and something inside you snapped cleanly in half.

The rest of the shift became war. Not metaphorical war. No, no, no, no. An actual war…if war involved customer service, fake smiles, and two college-age lifeguards competing to see who could be more publicly helpful without getting fired for making it erotic.

Chris helped a crying child locate a missing stuffed turtle named Gregory, then returned it with such gentle sincerity that even you, against your will, felt a tiny flicker of warmth before remembering you hated him.

You carried three lunch trays to a cabana full of women who called you “honey” and asked whether Chris was single.

You told them he had a personality disorder.

One of them laughed and said, “That’s okay. Sometimes you need a little crazy,” with a wink.

Chris heard about it within five minutes because Alex had the loyalty of a politician.

“You told Mrs. Bellamy I have a personality disorder?” Chris asked when your rotations crossed near the diving board.

“You told Mr. Halverson I was overheating.”

“You were.”

“I was plotting.”

“Sure you were.”

“Fuck you.”

“Ask nicer.”

You nearly swallowed your whistle. Chris smiled like he knew exactly what he had done and jogged backward toward the shallow end before you could commit a felony in front of children.

At four, you found Mrs. Redding struggling near the towel shelves, her cane balanced against her hip while she reached for a stack placed just slightly too high.

A gift from God.

You moved instantly. Chris also moved instantly. The two of you converged on the towel station from opposite directions like heat-seeking missiles with lifeguard certifications.

“I’ve got it,” you said, arriving first by half a second.

Chris’s hand reached over yours and grabbed the stack anyway.

“We’ve got it,” he said, handing Mrs. Redding two towels with a smile so bright it could blind.

Mrs. Redding looked between you, eyes bright behind her oversized sunglasses.

“Well,” she said, delighted, “aren’t you both attentive?”

“Yes,” you and Chris both said.

Mrs. Redding laughed, touched both your arms, and wandered away.

Craig watched from near the snack bar, pen not moving.

You and Chris stood in silence. Then Chris said, “Joint credit.”

You looked at him. “That’s worse than losing,” you said.

“I know.”

For one dangerous second, you both laughed.

It startled you more than it should have, the shared burst of it, easy and sharp and familiar in a way that reached backward through years of summers, years of chlorine-soaked shifts and closing duties and training drills. Years of Chris being the person who irritated you most consistently and somehow knew exactly when to hand you water without saying anything about it.

Then he ruined it by biting down on his lollipop and crunching it between his teeth.

You grimaced. “You’re disgusting.”

“You were smiling.”

“I had heatstroke.”

“You’ve been flushed all day.”

“You’ve been staring all day.”

His eyes dipped to your body, then lifted. “Yeah,” he said.

Then a child screamed near the lazy river, and the moment shattered back into chlorine, noise, and professional responsibility.

By closing, you were exhausted enough to feel personally victimized by Christopher Chan Bang.

The last members packed up, the cabanas emptied, the pool lights clicked on beneath the blue surface, and the aquatics center shifted into that strange post-chaos hush where everything smelled stronger: wet concrete, sunscreen, fried food from the snack bar, damp towels, and the faint metallic bite of pool water cooling under evening air.

Craig gathered the staff near the guard office for end-of-day notes.

Everyone looked like shit. Beautiful shit, maybe, because summer staff sometimes looked golden and half-feral after too much sun. But shit nonetheless.

Chris stood beside you, hair still damp, shoulders warm, lollipop gone but mouth no less irritating. Every time his arm brushed yours, your body reacted like he had done it on purpose. Which he probably had.

“Good work today,” Craig said, clipboard tucked against his chest. “Strong member engagement overall. A few preventable issues with towel inventory, but good responsiveness, especially during the lazy river backup.”

Mia muttered, “The dick noodle fucked us.”

Felix coughed.

Craig paused. “Please don’t refer to pool equipment that way.”

Mia shrugged. “It knew what it did.”

Craig wisely moved on. “I also want to recognize both of you,” he said, nodding toward you and Chris, which immediately made every other guard perk up like gossip-starved meerkats. “You’ve shown initiative throughout the month, and today especially, I noticed several examples of guest support, teamwork, and conflict management.”

You whispered, “Conflict management my ass.”

Chris whispered back, “You offering?”

You elbowed Chris hard.

He grunted, then laughed under his breath, and the sound grazed every nerve you had been trying to keep disciplined.

Craig’s eyes narrowed. “Something funny?”

“No,” Chris said.

“Yes,” Mia deadpanned.

Craig sighed. “Summer MVP will be announced next Friday. Until then, keep up the professionalism.”

“Absolutely,” you said.

“Always,” Chris added.

Felix, too softly for Craig but loudly enough for you, murmured, “Lying in the house of chlorine.”

The meeting ended. People scattered toward closing duties and locker rooms, laughing under their breath, dragging rescue tubes, stacking chairs, collecting lost toys. You headed toward the guard office for your bag, fully prepared to rinse off, go home, and spend the night not thinking about Chris’s blunt little “yeah” when you accused him of staring.

Naturally, Chris followed. Because he was a rash in human form. “You okay?” he asked behind you.

You grabbed your bag from the hook. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Do that.”

“Ask a normal question?”

“You don’t ask normal questions.”

“You look pissed.”

“I am pissed.”

“At me?”

You turned sharply. Chris stopped close enough that your bag bumped his thigh. “You cut me off with Halverson,” you said. “You stole towel credit with Mrs. Redding. You spent all day making Craig think you’re Summer MVP Jesus in tight swim trunks, and then you have the nerve to ask if I’m okay like you’re not the problem.”

Chris’s expression shifted, amusement dimming. “Halverson had his hand on you.”

You stared at him. “What?”

“He touched you.”

“So?”

“So he’s a creep.”

“You said that already.”

“Because it’s still true.”

“And that gives you the right to sabotage me?”

“No.” Chris dragged a hand through his damp hair, pushing it back before it fell forward again in those dark, messy pieces that made your irritation feel less structurally sound. “It gives me the right to be pissed.”

You laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “You were pissed?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

He looked at you like the answer should have been obvious, which only made you angrier, because if the answer was obvious then your body had known it before you did, and you did not appreciate being betrayed by your own organs.

“Use your words, Christopher.”

His jaw flexed. Around you, the remaining staff noise faded down the hallway, leaving the two of you in the heavy quiet of the nearly empty guard office.

Chris took a step closer. “Because I don’t like watching him touch you.”

Your pulse jumped. “That’s not your business.”

“I know.”

“You don’t get to act jealous.”

“I know.”

“You flirt with half the pool deck.”

“So do you.”

“For points.”

“Bullshit,” he said, and there it was, his own temper finally sparking through the charm. “You do it because you know I’m watching.”

You could have denied it. You should have denied it. Instead, you tilted your chin up and said, “Maybe you shouldn’t make it so easy.”

Chris’s laugh was low, humorless, and a little wrecked.

“Fuck,” he said, looking away for half a second. “You drive me insane.”

“Good.”

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

He looked back at you. Something hot and stupid moved between you, dragging every unfinished argument, every ugly little spark, every glance across the pool deck into one narrow stretch of air.

“You’ve got a hell of a way of saying you like me,” he said.

“I don’t like you.”

“No?”

“No.”

Chris’s gaze dropped to your mouth. “Then tell me to fuck off.”

“Fuck off.”

“Mean it.”

You said nothing.

His smile returned, but it was different now, not bright or performative, not meant for mothers or managers or the cheering section of nosey lifeguards listening from around corners. This smile was smaller, slower, aimed directly at the space where your confidence had begun to smoke. “That’s what I thought,” he said.

You pushed past him before you could do something catastrophic in the guard office.

“Don’t walk away from me while I’m talking to you,” Chris called.

You threw him a look over your shoulder. “You do it all the time.”

“Yeah, and it pisses you off.”

“That’s because everything you do pisses me off.”

“Then don’t follow me.”

You stopped. He had turned toward the men’s locker room.

The bait hung there, obvious and glittering. You knew it was bait. Chris knew you knew it was bait.

Felix, from somewhere near the supply closet, whispered, “Don’t do it.”

You turned your head slowly toward the sound. A cabinet shut very quietly.

You stood in the hallway for two seconds, maybe three, which was enough time to consider your choices and reject wisdom as a concept. Then you followed him.

The men’s locker room was empty, humid, and coolly lit, smelling of cedar benches, chlorine, clean tile, aerosol deodorant, and the lingering chemical ghost of teenage boys who had once believed spraying themselves in a choking cloud of body spray counted as hygiene. Rows of gray lockers lined the walls. Water dripped somewhere in the shower area with a patient, echoing rhythm.

Chris stood at his locker, spinning the combination. He glanced back when the door swung shut behind you, eyebrows lifting. “Pretty sure this is the men’s locker room.”

“Pretty sure you invited me.”

“I said don’t follow me.”

“You said it like an asshole.”

“Because I knew you would.”

You crossed your arms. “You are so fucking smug.”

“And you’re in the men’s locker room giving me shit after hours, so maybe don’t climb too high up that moral ladder.”

“I came in here because you’ve been acting like a territorial dick all day.”

Chris opened his locker with a metallic clank. “I was acting like a dick before today too. Don’t erase my history.”

“You think this is funny?”

“I think if I don’t laugh, I’m going to do something very stupid.”

The honesty of that landed harder than the joke.

You watched him pull a towel from the locker shelf, watched the muscles in his shoulder shift with the movement, watched the damp ends of his hair cling to the back of his neck. He looked too casual for how charged the room had become, too comfortable in the tension, like he had been living inside it all summer and was only now letting you see it fully.

“What stupid thing?” you asked.

Chris turned. His eyes were darker in the locker room light.

“You know what stupid thing.”

Your mouth went dry. “You’re delusional.”

“Maybe.”

“You’re arrogant.”

“Definitely.”

“You’re still avoiding the point.”

“I’m trying not to make one.”

“You never try not to make points. You’re made of points. Horrible little ones.”

He laughed, real and warm, his head dipping for a second before he looked back at you with something dangerously fond in his expression. “God, you’re mean.”

“You deserve it.”

“Probably.”

“You absolutely do.”

“Then why are you still here?”

The question settled between you.

You could feel the answer in your body, which was unfortunate because your body had terrible politics and no respect for narrative pacing. It had been answering him all day, in every glance, every flare of irritation, every stupid rush of heat when he got too close and smelled like sugar and sun-warmed skin and man.

Chris watched you realize it. Then, with the kind of casual cruelty only a truly confident man could manage, he reached for the waistband of his red swim trunks.

Your eyes widened. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Changing.”

“In front of me?”

“You’re in the men’s locker room.”

“That does not mean you get to just whip it out like a hostile work environment.”

Chris barked a laugh, bright and startled. “Whip it out?”

“Do not repeat my words when I’m angry.”

“You followed me into my locker room.”

“To yell at you.”

“Then keep yelling at me.”

“I am yelling.”

“You got quiet.”

“Because you’re undressing, you lunatic.”

He shrugged, thumbs still hooked in the waistband, mouth tilted like he was enjoying himself far too much. “You can leave.”

The challenge was obvious. Obscene, really.

You should have left. Instead, you turned your head toward a row of lockers with the stiff dignity of someone who had just lost a staring contest with the waistband of a man’s swim trunks.

Chris laughed under his breath. “Oh, now you’re shy?”

“I’m being respectful.”

“That’s new.”

“I hate you.”

“You keep saying.”

“Because it keeps being true.”

“Sure.”

Fabric shifted. Your soul briefly left your body, checked the hallway for witnesses, and returned with a clipboard full of complaints.

“Tell me when you’re decent,” you snapped.

“That depends on your definition.”

“Christopher.”

“I’ve got a towel on.”

You made the mistake of looking.

The towel was, technically, on.

It was just low enough on his hips to suggest it had signed a contract with Satan. His chest was still bare and his hair fell over his forehead in damp black pieces that made him look like he had stepped out of a swimwear ad designed specifically to ruin your ability to win arguments.

You forgot what you were saying.

Chris noticed. His grin went slow. “Careful,” he said. “Craig might give me points for member engagement.”

“You’re not engaging members.”

He looks down at himself, bulge pressing against the fabric.

“You’re disgusting.”

“You’re the one staring at me.”

“You dropped trou in front of me.”

“Then report me.”

“Gladly.”

“To Craig?”

“To God.”

Chris laughed again and turned toward the showers.

You watched him go, watched the towel sit low on his hips, watched his wet hair curl against the back of his neck, watched the muscles in his shoulders shift with every easy, arrogant step, and for one blistering second you hated him so much you could feel it in your teeth.

Then you realized it was not hatred. Or not only hatred. It was the same thing that had been burning beneath every argument all summer, every look across the pool deck, every stupid little competition, every insult that landed too close to flirting, every time his eyes dragged over you when he thought you were too busy pretending not to notice.

You were tired. Tired of smiling at disgusting married men for Craig’s clipboard. Tired of watching mothers touch Chris’s biceps like the country club had installed him for recreational use. Tired of pretending his lollipop, his hair, his body, his mouth, his entire cocky, chlorine-soaked existence did not make you want to spread your legs for him.

So when he reached the shower entrance, you said, “Fuck it.”

Chris paused and turned slowly, one hand braced against the tiled wall, and the amusement on his face shifted when he saw your hands go up.

“What?”

You reached for the straps of your swimsuit and pulled it down, peeling the damp fabric away from your skin with far less grace than you would have preferred, but apparently seduction looked different when you were half-feral from sun exposure and rage. The suit landed somewhere, your whistle followed, bouncing once against the bench before going still.

For once, Chris did not have a joke ready.

His gaze moved over your naked form, quick at first, almost instinctive, before he dragged it back to your face with visible effort—like a man forcing himself to remember that staring too long without an invitation would ruin the very good thing clearly unfolding in front of him.

His mouth curved slowly. “Goddamn, baby,” he said.

The words slid down your spine.

He took one step toward you, towel hanging low on his hips, erection straining against the front of it, damp hair falling over his forehead in messy black pieces, and the look on his face was pure trouble, all heat and arrogance and restraint held in place by the thinnest fucking leash.

He stopped close enough for you to feel the warmth of him, close enough that the air between your skin and his felt charged, but he still didn’t touch you. He stood there looking like sin in a staff locker room, smug as hell, and still left the last inch to you like he knew he didn’t need to chase.

His tongue pushed against the inside of his cheek, like he was trying not to grin too wide and lose the last scrap of composure he had.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re trying to get me fired.”

“You’ve been asking for it all summer.”

“I’ve been asking for a lot of things all summer.”

The way he said it made your pulse kick hard.

Chris’s gaze dropped again. This time, he let himself look. His dark eyes followed the curves of you, from your breasts to your legs, pausing at the junction of your thighs. Then his eyes came back to yours.

“You good?” he asked.

It was casual, almost lazy. But there was a line beneath it, clean and unmistakable, and you knew that if you gave him anything other than yes, if your expression shifted wrong, if your body backed up even half an inch, he would stop.

Cocky bastard. Respectful bastard. Fuck, you wanted him.

“Yes,” you said.

Chris’s smile returned, slower this time. “Yeah?”

“Don’t make me say it twice.”

He leaned in slightly, still not touching. “Say it twice.”

Your breath caught, and he noticed. Chris noticed everything when he wanted to, every swallow, every glance, every crack in your voice and tremor in your attitude.

You stepped closer. “I’m good,” you said, quieter, meaner, because if he wanted the words then he could choke on them. “I want this. I want you. Happy?”

For a second, the smugness slipped. Just a second. Then he exhaled a low, pleased curse and reached for you. “Fucking thrilled.”

His hand caught your waist, hot and firm, dragging you against him with the kind of confidence that made it very clear he had been waiting for permission and now considered permission a loaded weapon. His other hand slid to the back of your neck, not gentle exactly, but controlled, his fingers curling there as he brought his mouth down to yours.

The kiss was filthy immediately. Chris kissed you like he had been imagining your mouth for weeks and was pissed he’d had to wait this long, all heat and pressure and slick, cherry-sugar memory, his teeth catching your lower lip just enough to make your hand fly to his shoulder.

You dug your nails in, making him groan against your mouth.

“Shit,” he breathed, smiling into the kiss. “You like that shit, baby?” Chris smirked, dark and delighted, and backed you toward the lockers.

Your back met metal with a dull thud, and before you could snap at him about bruising, his hand was already there behind your head, cushioning the impact like it was muscle memory, mouth still on yours, body still pressing close, arrogance still humming through every inch of him.

“You’re still annoying,” you said, breathless, when he dragged his mouth down your jaw.

“You’re still naked letting me kiss you,” he said, voice rough against your throat.

His hand slid lower, fingers pressing into your hip with enough grip to make your thoughts scatter. He tilted his head, caught your gaze, and gave you one last out with nothing but his eyes and a low, wicked murmur. “Tell me no and I stop.”

You stared at him. He stared back, water-dark hair falling into his eyes, mouth swollen from yours, towel barely hanging on, every inch of him looking like a bad decision that knew exactly how bad it was.

You reached for the edge of his towel.

Chris’s grin went sharp. “That’s not no.”

“No shit.”

The towel dropped, his control with it.

He kissed you again, harder this time, and whatever had been left of the argument collapsed under the heat of his hands, the slick press of damp skin, the obscene satisfaction of finally letting the whole stupid summer sharpen into one impossible point.

“You have no idea,” he said, breath hot against your mouth, “how many times I’ve thought about this.”

You laughed, but it came out shaky.

“In the employee locker room? That’s disturbing.”

“On the pool deck,” he said, kissing down your throat. “In the office. Behind the towel station. Every time you bend over to pick up some rich asshole’s sunglasses and then look at me like you know I’m watching.”

“You are so gross.”

“You love it.”

“I hate you.”

“No,” he said, lifting his head, eyes dark and certain. “You don’t.”

You growled, pulling him closer by the back of his neck. “No,” you said, mouth brushing his. “I don’t.”

Chris’s smile flickered, less smug for half a second and more real, which you absolutely could not tolerate under current conditions. So you kissed him before he could do anything stupid with it.

He made a rough sound into your mouth, gripped your waist, and dragged you tighter against him, all cocky hunger and barely leashed restraint, the kind of man who knew how badly he was wanted and still waited for you to choose it anyway.

Chris hauls you into the shower stall, his grip iron-tight on your wrist, and the fluorescent lights catch the hard lines of his chest, the defined muscles of his abdomen, the way his cock juts out from his hips, thick and angry and already leaking at the tip.

"You're insane," he hisses, shoving you under the spray before the water's even warm.

The initial blast is ice-cold and you gasp, back arching away from the wall, your nipples pebbling instantly, your skin erupting in goosebumps. Chris steps in after you, his body crowding yours, his hands planting on either side of your head against the tile.

"Insane," he repeats, "following me in here like that. Getting me fucking hard."

The water warms and steam billows around you both. You're drenched now, your hair plastering to your shoulders, water streaming down the valley of your breasts, rushing over the curve of your hips. Chris is just as wet, his dark hair slicked back from his forehead, his dark eyes sharp and hungry as they roam over your body.

Then his lips are on yours, his tongue pushing past your lips, his hand fisting in your wet hair, his hard cock pressing against your belly and smearing precum across your stomach. You kiss him back like you're trying to consume him, your hands sliding over his slick shoulders, digging into the muscles of his back.

He leans back, biting your lower lip, tugging it, and letting it snap back. "On your knees, beautiful."

The tile is hard and cold under your knees but you don't care, don't hesitate, don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you waver. You're eye-level with his cock now, watching it bob with his pulse, thick and flushed, a vein running along the underside that you trace with your fingertip just to watch him twitch.

"Stop teasing."

"Stop being desperate." You look up at him through your lashes, water streaming down your face, and you see the exact moment his patience snaps.

His hand is in your hair again, guiding you forward, and you open your mouth without resistance because you want this just as badly as he does. Maybe more. Maybe you've wanted this all summer, every argument just foreplay, every insult a way to get his attention without having to admit you craved it.

The head of his cock passes your lips and you seal them around his shaft, tongue pressing flat against the underside, tasting salt and skin and something uniquely Chris. He groans above you, his hips jerking forward, pushing deeper into your mouth.

"Fuck," he hisses, his head falling back. "Fuck, that's—your mouth is—"

You take him deeper, relaxing your throat, breathing through your nose as you swallow around him. Your hand wraps around what you can't fit, stroking in time with your mouth, twisting on the upstroke, your other hand cupping his balls and rolling them gently in your palm.

"God, you're fucking good at this." His voice is strained, wrecked. 

You hum around him and his whole body shudders. Your eyes water but you don't pull back, don't stop, setting a rhythm that has him cursing under his breath, his thighs tensing under your free hand. You can feel him getting close—the way his balls draw up tight, the way his cock swells on your tongue, the way his grip in your hair tightens to the point of pain.

"I'm gonna—" He yanks you off suddenly, and you gasp, drool and precum stringing from your lips to his cock. "Not like that. Not yet."

He pulls you to your feet and spins you around, pressing your front against the wet tile wall. The water beats down on both of you, running in rivulets down your spine, pooling in the hollow of your lower back. His body cages yours, his chest against your back, his cock sliding between your thighs, notching against your entrance but not pushing in.

"Tell me you want it."

"I want it."

"Tell me you need it."

"I need it, Chris. I need your cock inside me. Please."

"Please?" He laughs, dark and low. "Where's all that fight now? Where's the girl who was going to steal my MVP title?"

"Inside me. Where your cock should be."

"Filthy." He notches himself at your entrance and pushes in, one long, relentless thrust that has you crying out, your palms slapping against the wet tile. He fills you completely, stretching you, the slight burn mixing with the pleasure until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins.

He doesn't give you time to adjust. He fucks you hard, his hips snapping against your ass, the sound of skin on skin echoing off the tile, mixing with the spray of the water and both of your moans. His hand finds your throat, tilting your head back, and he bites along the column of your neck, sucks a bruise into the junction of your shoulder.

"This pussy is mine," he growls against your skin. "Say it."

"Yours. This pussy is yours."

"Every fucking inch of you." His free hand slides down your stomach, over your hip, dipping between your thighs to find your clit. He circles it with rough, relentless pressure, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. "I'm going to ruin you for anyone else. Going to make sure you never think about another cock without remembering how I feel inside you."

"Yes, god, yes—"

"Going to fill you up." His voice drops lower, rougher, and you feel his cock twitch inside you. "Going to pump you full of my cum, watch it drip down your thighs when I'm done with you."

The words hit something deep in your core, something primal and desperate. You push back against him, meeting each thrust, your nails scraping uselessly against the tile. The pressure is building, coiling tight in your belly, your orgasm creeping closer with every stroke of his fingers, every snap of his hips.

"Chris, I'm going to—"

"Not yet." He slows his pace, torturously slow, and you whimper. "Not until I say."

"Please, please, I need—"

His thumb shifts, sliding back, pressing against your asshole. You tense for a moment, then force yourself to relax, and he groans at the way your body yields to him.

"Look at you," he breathes, jaw dropping at the visual of his thumb rubbing your tight hole. "So fucking desperate for it. Huh, baby? You'd let me do anything, wouldn't you?"

"Anything. Anything you want."

He pushes just the tip of his thumb past the ring of muscle, and the fullness has you seeing stars. He resumes his pace, fucking you hard again, his thumb working in and out in counterpoint to his cock. The dual sensation is overwhelming, pushing you higher and higher, and you're sobbing with it, begging with sounds that barely qualify as words.

"Come for me," he says in your ear. "Come on my cock and make me come inside you."

You shatter. Your orgasm crashes through you, every muscle clenching and releasing at once, your cunt gripping him so tight he groans loud enough to echo. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow, just fucks you through it, drawing out every last wave until you're shaking, until your legs barely hold you.

"Good girl." His rhythm stutters, becoming erratic. "Good fucking girl. I'm gonna fill you up now, baby. Gonna breed this pretty pussy."

"Yes, god, yes, give me everything—"

He slams home one final time and holds, his cock pulsing inside you, rope after rope of hot cum flooding your core. “Fuck, fuck, fuck! Oh fuuuuuck,” he groans loudly. You can feel it, feel him marking you from the inside, and the sensation triggers another smaller orgasm that has you writhing against the wall.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Just the sound of water and breathing. Then he pulls out, and you feel his cum immediately start to slip down your thighs, mingling with the water, washing away the evidence of what you've done. His hands are gentle now, turning you around, brushing wet hair from your face.

"You're still not winning MVP," he says, but his voice is soft.

"We'll see about that." You're breathless, wrecked, but you manage a smile. "I think I just proved I can make you lose your mind. That's got to count for something."

He laughs, this real sound, and kisses you again—slower this time, less frantic.

"We're not done," he murmurs against your lips. "Not even close. You started a war when you followed me in here, and I intend to win it."

"Bring it on, Chris."

He grins, and there's something wicked in it, something that makes your spent cunt clench in anticipation.

"Round two in the locker room," he says, already reaching for you again. "I want to bend you over one of those benches and hear you scream."

The water runs cold around you both, but neither of you cares. And something tells you that by the end of it, neither of you will remember why you were fighting in the first place.

Or maybe that's exactly why you started.

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