eri

But then he’s pushing himself lower, and his chest is pressed so tight against yours you can barely take a breath. It makes your cunt quiver at how pliant you feel — buried beneath him while his cock presses into the hilt. He sighs, low and long, “You’re gonna have to speak a little louder than that.”

Wriothesley’s teasing always had a way of getting to you — heightening the way he was able to work your body, taunting and poking at your nerves despite the way his cock rendered you to mere mush. It was an unfair exchange — but it was one you loved so much.

It’s obvious in the pretty look you give him when he pulls back, then forward again as he gives you another thrust. This one makes him cock throb as his brows pinch together, quite telling. “Uh oh, seems like your times almost up so… ugh— you better make it fast.”

Afterall, Wriothesley could only tease you so long before he himself felt like he was going to break — especially when you’re this soaked and this tight, he can barely pull back his hips with the way you’re sucking him back. It’s like you’re trying to milk him, and that adorable little look your wearing seems to have the same thoughts in mind — but he wants to hear you say it.

So he offers you a pace that’s a little faster, rougher despite the way the flames of his orgasms are already sparking along the backs of his shoulders — ignited by the way your fingers are scratching along his scarred skin. But he knows you’re already close, he can feel that himself.

So can you, when your lips finally gather up enough composure to part— moan, “C-cum, Wrio! I want your cum, please!” You gasp, barely coherent but he hears you loud and clear as he buries his cock into you again. Wriothesley’s pace is relentless, fucking you into the fabric of the bed beneath you and driven by the weight of his whole body enough to make it creak.

Yet he still finds it in himself to tilt down at you, exhaling a breath along your features before he lifts a brow, “Oh yeah?” It’s insufferable — the lustful shudder to his voice as he coo’s down at you but you can barely respond when you feel so good. You’re gonna cum, he knows that, so he offers you another smear of his lips. “Well, since you asked so kindly. It’s only polite I provide, right?”

His grip on you is bruising now, and Wriothesley’s next breath is pushed between his teeth as he curls himself over you — burying his face into the crook of your neck as his hands squeeze even harder. “You gonna take all of it for me? Hm?” Another grunt and he can barely hold back.

But he doesn’t have to for much longer when you respond with a choked out little, “Y-yes!” and it’s almost immediately that he feels his composure crumble with that first, shuddering squeeze of your walls around him as you cum.

“Y-yeah? Let’s test that then, shall we?”

It makes you gasp, and Wriothesley groans as he feels your orgasm lure out his own — huge body twitching and pressing you tight beneath him as he tries to stop his pace from stuttering. But that proves near impossible with how well you take him, milking him for every drop as he feels the muscles in his thighs burn from exertion and he wraps his mouth around your neck to groan— burying his low sounds into the velvet surface of your skin as he teases it with his teeth.

Until his pace finally slows and you have to tap your hand against his broad back to allow him to give you some respite, to ease his huge body off of you enough to allow you to take a breath again. But not before he’s offering you another wet kiss against the new, blooming mark on your neck and beginning his sweat-coated withdrawal to offer you another smirk.

It’s a little pinker this time, charming as the heavy weight of his cock still presses deep into your cunt, still throbbing despite how much he’s just filled you up.

“Guess I underestimated you, huh? I’d say you took it all quite nicely. So… think you’ve got room for one more?”

౿ ALHAITHAM

One moment, your lips are parting — barely able to string together a sentence with how deep Alhaitham’s cock reaches, accompanied by the precise and almost relentless pace that he’s set as he fucks you into the mattress. But by the next, he’s completely stilled inside of you — breathing deep as his forehead rests on your shoulder and his chest rises and falls quickly from where it presses against yours.

The sudden switch makes you stutter despite the way your walls are still trembling, stretching deliciously from where he now rests to the hilt inside of you.

“Hey! W-why’d you stop?” Your lips jut out into a pout as you turn your head to try and face him, but Alhaitham pulls back to look at you before you can. He sinks his hand into the pillows next to your head to keep himself upright over top of you, and you find his mused — pleasure-stricken expression to look particularly handsome from this angle.

He hisses as his cock moves slightly within your warmth, forcing him to take a grounding breath. “To put it simply, it seems I’m getting myself carried away today.”

You find it particularly charming actually, the fact that even Alhaitham of all people finds himself overcome with pleasure sometimes. Overwhelmed with how good you feel that he’s had to take a breather before he cums too soon, and that realisation, that you could render such a man to this makes you have to fight hard to bite back a grin.

Though it seems to break free anyway as you give him a giddy blink, followed by a deliberate wriggle of your hips. “You’re so cute.”

Your movement makes him shudder, muttering out half of a moan as his hand that presses into the pillow fists the fabric. And he collects himself once more before he’s tilting his head down at you, “Really now?”

He continues, “Isn’t it to be expected to get caught up in the moment? I’d honestly like to see how anyone could resist you like this.” And then suddenly, it’s almost filthy the way Alhaitham lets himself rest down on his forearms again, accompanying the closer position with an incredibly deep, languid grind of his hips as he presses you down into the mattress. “Although I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon is all.” And he chuckles at how much you only seem to squeeze even tighter.

The pleasure feels suffocating, his cock kissing along the sensitive spots in your walls so perfectly it makes your toes curl from where you wrap your legs around his hips, his body forcing your legs to spread wider so that you can take more of him.

You feel his lips trace along your jawline as he presses his cheek against yours. “It’s actually quite troublesome.” He grumbles to himself despite the way the next squeeze of your walls break off the sentence. His words are almost lost beneath the next groan you manage to pull from him, and Alhaitham squeezes his eyes closed as he takes a breath.

But the sound of his pleasure only makes you twitch around him again before his next words are muttered, hissed at the way you squeeze. “Then again, I might even assume you’re doing this on purpose.” The words are spoken against your cheek as he turns to press his lips into you, accompanied by his deliberately slow, deep strokes. “Which means you’re not fairing much better yourself, am I right?”

Alhaitham’s words make you shudder when they’re breathed along the shell of your ear and your mouth parts to reply, it really does, but then he’s offering you another thrust and you feel like you can barely breathe with how deep it feels like he reaches. He can feel that himself, you’re probably about as close as he is — the dangerous spark of your orgasm beginning to ignite along your inner thighs as your legs begin to shake.

But he’s not done yet as he shifts his weight onto one forearm, letting the other trace down between your bodies as he pushes himself up to make room, and he grunts— teases. “If you don’t say anything, I’ll have no choice but to make my own assumptions.”

Another press of Alhaitham’s fingertips down your abdomen and another slow roll of his hips, making you arch as you dip your heels into his lower back — forcing him deeper as he breathes out another restless grunt. His head falls forward again, knocking his cheek against yours but his pace doesn’t falter for long — nor do his hands as they reach their destination. “So do tell. Unless you’d rather I do something like this instead?”

It’s all too embarrassing really, almost instantaneous the way that your orgasm seems to wash over you with the first press of his thumb against your clit, circling the bud nicely— precisely until he feels your walls squeeze.

But you don’t have much of a chance to bask in that humiliation, not alone anyway because Alhaitham’s not long behind you as he stutters out another groan— louder and lower than the rest have been as he presses his chest back into yours. It feels like you can barely breathe with how close he is, how deeply he’s fucking his load into your pussy as you both cum and you can only stutter and shake beneath him — nails scratching along the width of his upper back as he hisses.

You’re so deliciously tight around him, milking him senseless as he tries to keep his pace but every thrust is almost desperate, stricken with pleasure as your hips clap against his and he fucks you through your orgasm until you’re both a mess of breathes and sweat.

A little sticky, but Alhaitham still looks at you so fondly when he pulls away to smear a kiss along your cheeks, giving you a lidded— handsome look as he hovers himself over you again.

“So I guess that serves as your answer?” He snorts, cock still trembling within your sensitive walls as it softens — plugging the heavy load inside of you for as long as he stays in this position. But his teasing makes you giggle before you’re pushing yourself up to press a quick kiss against his lips, still a little drunk from your orgasm as you respond, shrugging.

“You seem to be quite pleased with it.”

౿ DILUC

Diluc’s want for you could be carnal at times, almost all-consuming even as you feel his thick cock throb from where he sinks it in you from his knees, and it makes your body jolt beneath him with every wet, heavy connection of his hips.

“A-archons— Are you sure about this, my love?” His tone wavers despite how gruff it still sounds, and every thrust only seems to urge your body to tremble from where he holds one of your thighs up against his chest. The angle allows him to admire the captivating sight of you spread out beneath him, watching the way he pushes between the folds of your pretty pussy and almost shakes at the idea of seeing it filled with his cum.

It makes his hands squeeze into your thighs before you hiccup, struggling to answer with how well he’s fucking you.

“Yes, I want it.” You do want it, him— to fuel the fantasy that you know Diluc holds to fill you up, to get you pregnant and he can barely hold himself back at the permission you give him to humour just that.

So it makes him gasp before he praises you, voice trailing off to a groan as he mutters out a tight, “You feel so good.” Though the words are almost drowned out by the sound of his heavy balls smacking against your ass with each thrust, making your toes curl from where they rest over his shoulder.

Your hands slam into the comforter to twist at the fabric, feeling your lashes flutter and kiss along your cheeks and Diluc watches you before your lips part again. Almost crying,

“I need you, please.. Fill me—ah! Fill me up..” Your words twist, swallowed behind jutted out breathes as his hips press into yours and you feel like you can barely think anymore with how deep it feels like he drives into your insides. The blunt head of his cock almost effortlessly presses up against your sensitive spots, and it makes your hips try to twist beneath him as he fucks you into the mattress.

From this position — he can imagine it, the way you’d be swollen with his children, the way your body will grow and mature as you nurture a life and Archons, it makes his cock throb as Diluc finds his pace stuttering. His eyes press closed tightly as he tries to will himself to slow down, to not get ahead of himself as he presses more of himself into you.

His breathing is ragged now but his effort doesn’t yield, “I’m.. you’re gonna make me cum, Sweetheart. You’ll be good and take all of it, won’t you?” His tone calls to you gently, dipping into your hormone-clouded mind as he lures you back to him with a particularly deep stroke.

It makes your back arch as you pull at the sheets again and your pussy quivers around the shaft of Diluc’s cock as he falters once more, grinding back into you as you mutter out a response. “I will! So please give it to me—“

Your words feel like they spill out of you but your lover hears them loud and clear as he bares one of his large palms down on your stomach — allowing him to feel even deeper as your eyes all but roll back. He groans at the way your walls hug around him at the sensation, “Then allow me to take care of you.. I always do after all.”

And then Diluc’s hands stroke over the surface of your stomach with his next thrust, his thoughts making his hips find their rhythm again— swollen, pregnant, his repeats like a mantra in his head. His next breath is groaned, low and ragged as his cock presses particularly deep. “Archons, you will be beautiful. You a-are beautiful.” And suddenly the pace of his thrusts grow faster with his praise, like he’s fulfilling his promise as his grip on your skin turns bruising.

That’s all it takes to ignite the spark before it feels like it burns across your nerves, and your orgasm washes over you after a few more deep pushes of his cock. It hits you so fast and so good, that you can barely speak— lips parting in a silent scream as you try hard to resume your breath.

But he’s not faring much better himself. Diluc gasps before he moans— but he doesn’t hold back, not when you’re panting and murmuring with each shockwave of bliss beneath him. It’s like your body is begging for him— for his family, his children, his cum, and the vibration of his groans begins to echo somewhere deep within his chest as his cock thickens inside of your creaming cunt.

He only needs to look at you, so pretty beneath him as you gasp his name before he’s following you off that edge into bliss, cumming thick and heavy inside of you with an agonised groan as he grinds his cock into you.

It’s like Diluc’s primitive instinct to breed takes over as he continues to fuck into your messy, sensitive pussy. Until you’re shaking and he’s all but curling over you, almost folding you in half with the thigh that still presses against his chest as he fucks his load deep inside of you. He only slows to a smooth grind when you’re both spent, and a mixture of your shared cum is smeared along the inside your thighs.

The final withdrawal of his cock allows him to admire the sticky ring that’s gathered around the base of him — like a trophy of your pleasure.

It makes Diluc swallow loudly as he admires it, before with his next breath he’s making sure to massage at your thigh — ensuring there’s no ache with the way he’s had it pressed upright in your position. He makes sure to press a sweet kiss against your ankle before he rests it softly back down on the mattress, and then he looks at you again.

His hand rests gently on your stomach again next, gently— before he follows the touch with a few shallow thrusts to accommodate the thick rush of cum he unloads inside of your puffy walls. He clears his throat before he speaks, “I—ugh, I think that should be enough, although I don’t mind going another round.”

౿ NEUVILLETTE

Your time spent wrapped up in the sheets in Neuvillette’s quarters were always quite intimate, intoxicatingly so when you feel his hands appreciate the push and pull of your body as he rocks himself into you. It was no surprise that the Iudex was huge, stretching your walls to their limit no matter how often he fucked you — but if anything that only made you feel even wetter as you both lie on your sides facing eachother.

You’re soaked, pussy like silk as you hump yourself up into the slow grind of his hips and the smooth movement makes you melt into his broad chest as his lips rest against your temple. It’s only for a moment before one of his hands are on your jawline, and he’s tilting your face up to admire you as he offers you another thrust.

“It’s quite easy for me to appreciate your beauty like this, my dear.” Neuvillette’s words catch as he looks you and you feel his cock throb as you both share a blink. The praise makes your toes curl as you work yourself into the encouraging pull of his other hand— squeezing into your hips as he offers you another trembled breath.

He’s close already, as are you with how well he fucks you — though the pace he’s set isn’t fast, he still works with such. precision that it doesn’t matter. Every press of his hips is driven by his knowledge and love for your body, easily pressing up against the spots that he knows first hand make you squeeze him tight, exhaling across his features.

It doesn’t take long before you can feel your orgasm beginning to tease you so dangerously close, and Neuvillette offers you a lidded— hungry blink when he feels the way you tremble, whining.

“Will it be too much?” He asks earnestly and you immediately know what he’s referring to when it’s followed by a particularly stuttered thrust. His hand on your hips pulls you back into him, hips pressing flush up against his and it feels like he reaches so deep it makes your response stutter.

“N-no, I can take it.” You say confidently, but your insides feel like they curl and ache when you watch Neuvillette’s lips part to moan at your reply.

“If you’re certain. I must admit… I’m quite fond of the idea, it has been quite difficult to deny you of it for this long.” There were instances when you seen the Iudex’s features appear quite like this. Something glowing beneath the usual gentle exterior, something hungry and carnal — he’s giving you that same depth of expression now as his fingers twitch into your skin and his next thrust presses so deep, almost too deep it feels like it steals your next breath.

“So allow me to finally satiate that thirst of yours, my dear.” Neuvillette’s words are whispery, choked off when his fingers that previously held your jawline tremble and drift from your face. You feel them hook around the back of your neck instead as he pulls you in to press his forehead against yours, and he continues to work your body closer, angling himself in such a way that makes the feeling of your organs rush through your veins.

It doesn’t take long, a few more deep thrusts accompanied by the intimate position and he looks at you from where you’re pressing against him. Your thighs lock first before you’re arching, orgasm hitting you so hard and good it almost makes you cry as you grab at the ivory planes of the Iudex’s skin.

It’s almost immediately that Neuvillette follows you, it was always particularly hard for him to resist the first trembles of your orgasm around his cock, pushing him to his sensitive end as he spills his load inside of you with his next stroke.

Though it always surprised you how much he came— despite how well he fucked it back into you, you would always feel the creamy mixture squelch out from between your folds as he slowed his pace to a grind. You can feel it making a mess of your thighs, pussy— his sheets, but he still held you close before beginning to pepper you in kisses.

Like soft little angel kisses across your dazed features before he’s finally slowing to a grind, leaving you with the sensitive, buzzed high that you feel now as he hugs you.

Neuvillette allows you both to lie there for a few moments before he makes his first movement to clean you up. His aftercare was quite sacred to you both, but when he initially feels the first wet press of his cock slide from it’s way between your walls — he can’t help but find himself looking at the space it’s just left as you still rest on your side.

His hand rest softly on your thigh as he pushes himself up to his knees, and the weight of his touch urges you to roll onto your back — leaving your thighs spread as his gaze lingers on the mess that’s left between them. You hear him swallow loudly before he speaks to you,

“It would be a shame were you to let it go to waste.” And it takes you off guard when Neuvillette quickly reaches forward to gather some of the thick load on two of his fingers. He boldly presses it back between your folds, fingering it into your still quivering walls with soft movements and he seems to like the way it makes your legs kick out. Still so sensitive as he offers you a gentle… almost innocent look.

“Though… I think I could get quite used to this sight.”

You don’t notice the way his cock twitches again, and he swallows loudly before he’s giving you another lidded… telling look. It’s that same carnal look… the more animalistic, wild one. Before he mutters, more so to himself,

“Yes, definitely.”

౿ CHILDE

You wonder how Childe seems to have so much energy. It’s a thought you have often when he has you like this, squeezing your hips from where you’re spread out beneath him — thighs shaking when he gives you a shallow, teasing thrust of his cock. The sensitive spots inside of you feel swollen, aching with the pleasure that he’s pulled from you so far.

But then you feel his lips trace and mouth at your throat as you head tilts back, and you can tell he’s nowhere near done.

“Not holding back now, are we?” Childe hums, almost chuckles as he handles you. His hands squeeze into the flesh of your hips and his next thrust sounds even louder, squelching wetly as he presses out a mixture of his last load and your cum as he pushes his cock into the hilt. You’re surprised he can even keep going himself.

But then his teeth tease at the pulse point in your throat and you feel your pussy still squeeze despite the overstimulation. It’s spent and softer as his words press into your skin, “Don’t go giving up on me now, not when you were raring to go a moment ago.”

You don’t know how many positions Childe’s pulled— folded you into by now, how many orgasms he’s ripped from your poor quaking body. But still your pussy squelches like it wants more and that makes the Harbinger over you grin when you offer up a soft, sweet little mewl at his words.

“Thats more like it.” There’s a darkness to his gaze— a greedy, insatiable hunger that only seems to fuel his next thrust. It’s a deliberately deep kiss of his cock that eases him up against those same aching spots on your walls, and with your increasing fatigue— you only seem to be more sensitive.

Your next orgasm feel like it creeps up on you even faster than the last one, but Childe offers you another croon before he’s finding a clapping pace again. His lips still smear and purr wet kisses along your throat as you offer the space up to him, basking in the way he fucks you into the mattress despite the way his cock is no doubt begging for relief itself.

“I might say you’re fairing quite well.” He praises you with the next dull squeeze of your cunt, and you can’t help but arch up into his chest — pulling him closer as if your body’s been trained to do so.

“Hah, not bad.” But as much as Childe seems to like that, he knows that that’s not the best you can do — so he doesn’t let you off too easily. Instead, he only seems to push his cock even deeper, making you tremble and soak the sheets beneath you as his pelvis presses up against your puffy clit. Until you choke on your next moan and he mouths at you again, “What’s another now, h-hm?”

His fingers squeeze into you, vice grip angling you up into his hips and unable to escape from the next deep thrust of his cock. Your orgasm is more of a dull ache this time, it’s lost its usual edge with how much you’ve cum already — but it still makes you kick out your feet, trembling completely beneath the Harbinger as your walls stutter and squeeze around his cock.

And for the first time since you’ve started you feel Childe’s pace lose its rhythm — though only momentarily before his lips are parting and he’s spilling another half-hearted load inside of your already full walls. You’re surprised he’s not shooting blanks by now, you actually find it to be quite impressive when he pulls back to give you another lidded, dark look.

It makes Childe chuckle when your teary eyes blink up to meet him, “I really do like that expression you’re wearing.” His words hiss as his cock softening slightly from his orgasm, but still he opts to press it into you again — even despite the way it makes his thigh twitch, the head no doubt red and aching by now.

It’s so much, you can’t stop shaking beneath your pleasure and your long past being able to string together a sentence now. You can feel the sweat sticking to your skin, soaking the sheets as the mess of cum between your thighs eases the next slow thrust of his soft cock.

It’s like your body wants to run from the pleasure instinctively, heels digging into the mattress as you push yourself away from the next grind of Childe’s hips, and given his not even half-hard state right now — you manage to have the length of him drawn out of you. Though the movement only serves to allow the loads he’s buried in you to leave such a mess, smearing along your sheets and body as you writhe, sending him a teary pout.

But even despite the way he’s breathing hard, slick with sweat — he has no trouble reaching over to dig his hands into your hips and pull you back. Your body is so pliant he’s able to do it with such an ease, and you feel him press his still soft, sensitive cock against your slick folds when he leans down to kiss you.

Despite the grin he’s wearing, his words call to you so gently as his fingertips massage at your hips— almost pleading for more of you.

“Hey now. Had enough already? If that’s the case, I supposed I could allow you a little respite.”

there were exactly a thousand guests in attendance tonight. family, friends, business partners, celebrities, investors, socialites, industry executives from every corner of asia, people whose names appear in magazines and headlines and billion-dollar reports. the ballroom itself looked almost unreal – dripping crystals suspended from the ceiling, white roses woven into towering arrangements, soft gold lighting reflecting against polished marble floors. every detail had been curated to perfection. fitting for the wedding of the heirs to two of the most influential beauty empires in the country.

“we have been waiting for this union for years now,” mrs. zhong continues, and somehow every person in the room hangs onto each word she says. she has always had that effect on people.

“my one and only son, chenle…i am very happy and excited as you take on this next chapter,” her eyes land on him briefly, full of pride, “i know you will be extraordinary, as you are in everything you do.”

a wave of soft applause spreads through the room. chenle beside you gives a polite nod, composed as ever. 

then her attention shifts entirely to you.

“and of course, my beautiful daughter in law, y/n zhong…,” the warmth in her voice softens you completely. the last name making your heart flutter. you don't know if you'll ever get used to hearing it.

“i’ve always wanted you as my real daughter,” she says with a small smile painted in her signature crimson lipstick,  “and now i can finally say you are.”

your chest tightens in the best way possible. you smile back before you can even think about it, eyes sparkling beneath the lights as emotion swells quietly inside you. because unlike the cameras and contracts and business articles surrounding this marriage…this part felt real. 

lili zhong was someone you had admired long before you ever understood what admiration truly was. 

you can remember it as if it was yesterday – being seven years old inside the towering headquarters of zhong cosmetics, your tiny dress shoes squeaking against the floors as you and chenle ran through the halls without a care in the world. the building had felt gigantic back then, less like a corporate empire and more like your personal playground. you remembered hiding beneath reception desks with chenle while assistants searched for the two of you in panic. remembered spinning around in leather office chairs worth more than most people’s rent. remembered sneaking into empty conference rooms just to press random buttons on expensive remotes.

and then lili zhong walked out.

and the entire atmosphere shifted the moment she appeared. not much different from how it is now. employees straightened immediately. conversations stopped mid-sentence. people moved aside for her without being told to. she carried herself with grace and effortless authority, shoulders back, chin lifted slightly, heels clicking sharply against the floor like a metronome everyone unconsciously followed. but what fascinated you most wasn’t the fear or respect she commanded. it was how composed she looked doing it. 

you remembered watching from next to chenle as she reapplied her lipstick using the reflection of a glass wall, precise and graceful like second nature. one smooth swipe of red. cap clicked shut. then immediately back to discussing quarterly projections as if perfection came as easily as breathing. prim. proper. poised. she was untouchable. and you had been completely mesmerized. 

from that moment on, you’d wanted to become the kind of woman lili zhong was – respected, strong, confident – the type of woman who could walk into a room and have the world rearrange itself around her. and now, standing beneath thousands of glittering lights with the zhong diamond resting heavily on your left ring finger and her son beside you, you suddenly wondered if this was the closest you had ever come to becoming her. 

“i wish you both a fruitful marriage,” she says with a subtle wink in your direction, a wave of laughter spreading softly through the ballroom. your face warms instantly because everyone here understands exactly what she means. not just the merger between zhong cosmetics and yü skincare. not just the billions this marriage would bring. not just the headlines already flooding social media tonight.

but heirs too. children with the zhong name. future successors beautiful enough to belong on campaign billboards before they could even walk.

“may it always be filled with prosperity and success,” mrs. zhong continues, lifting her glass slightly, “and may the two of you continue bringing honor to our families and our companies.”

camera flashes explode around the room like lightning. you can already imagine tomorrow’s articles.

THE GOLDEN COUPLE OF BEAUTY

CHINA’S MOST POWERFUL MARRIAGE!

LOVE, LUXURY, AND LEGACY.

“this country has not seen such a beautiful couple before.”

the applause is immediate. a thousand guests rise to the toast without hesitation, crystal glasses lifting beneath the chandelier light. from the stage, the entire ballroom looked dipped in gold. 

“to mr. and mrs. zhong.”

“to mr. and mrs. zhong!,” the crowd echos. 

you lift your champagne glass with a smile so genuine it almost hurts. because despite everything, despite the pressure and expectations and business contracts hidden beneath layers of silk and diamonds – you were happy. maybe pathetically so. 

you have loved zhong chenle for most of your life. 

before the magazines started calling him the future of luxury cosmetics. before investors nicknamed the two of you the golden couple. before marriage turned into obligation instead of possibility.

and there was a time, too. a time when chenle used to reach for your hand first. a time where the two of you spent entire afternoons running through corporate buildings while your parents attended meetings. a time where he’d steal your desserts at dinners and complain when other boys talked to you at events. a time where marriage jokes from your families made both of you groan dramatically before dissolving into laughter. 

back then, it had felt harmless. like something far away. until you both turned eighteen. when meetings became serious. when contracts replaced teasing. when your families stopped asking and started deciding. 

that was when everything changed. 

because every time chenle looked at you after that, it was no longer with warmth – it was resentment.

you became the physical reminder of every choice he would never get to make for himself. the life he would never get to live. the love he would never get to experience freely. 

somehow, the public never noticed. that was the worst part – chenle was terrifyingly good at pretending. like right now, with one hand resting against the small of your back, he looked every bit like the devoted husband he wanted the media to believe him to be. calm smile. soft gaze. protective touch. 

the perfect heir beside his perfect wife. 

and the cameras adored him for it – “mr. zhong, look here!” “mr. zhong, one more picture with your wife!” “you two are stunning together!” 

his fingers flex lightly against your waist as another round of flashes goes off, and anyone watching would think the gesture is affectionate. loving, even. but you know chenle well enough to recognize performance from sincerity. his hand only ever lingers when people are watching. once they turn away, he lets go like touching you burns. 

still, your heart betrays you. every. single. time. because some part of you still remembers the boy before all of this. the boy who used to grin at you with missing front teeth and tell everyone you were his favorite person in the world. 

the boy you always pictured on this day.

“i can’t wait for this to be over,” chenle murmurs beside you, barely moving his lips. to everyone else, it probably looked like he was whispering sweet nothings into your ear. 

“perfect!,” someone gushes behind a camera, “they look crazy in love.”

the irony nearly makes you laugh. 

chenle turns toward you then, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear with such practiced tenderness that several people nearby audibly swoon. you hate how your stomach flips. 

he’s beautiful at pretending to love you. 

sometimes beautiful enough that you can almost pretend with him. 

the reception continues in a blur of diamonds, champagne and endless congratulations. one by one, some of the most influential people in the country approach your table to greet the two of you personally, every gift placed before you looking absurdly expensive. 

chenle smiles effortlessly but if someone looked closely enough, they would notice you speaking far more than he was, carrying conversations, thanking guests, asking about their families and businesses with perfectly timed warmth. prim. proper. poised. you had learned from the best. every time chenle’s expression dulled slightly, you stepped in before anyone could question it. when his attention drifted you redirected conversations smoothly. when his smiles became visibly strained, you compensated with your own brightness. and you’re convinced no one notices his lack of sincerity. or maybe they do and simply choose not to acknowledge it. because appearances mattered more than truth in a room like this. 

“you two truly are perfect together,” an older woman sighs while admiring the two of you, “just look at how attentive your husband is.”

“he always takes good care of me,” you reply quickly, smile never faltering, the lie sliding off your tongue so naturally it almost scares you. chenle glances at you briefly after that comment. you can’t tell if he’s irritated or grateful. perhaps both. 

minutes pass like that. more smiles. more photos. more toasts. more champagne. your cheeks begin aching from smiling so much but you endure it anyway. this was your wedding day. everything is supposed to be perfect. until–

“excuse me,” chenle suddenly says beside you after another round of greetings, “i need to use the restroom.”

you immediately nod before anyone else can react, “of course.”

one of the investors chuckles knowingly, “already escaping from married life, mr. zhong?”

a ripple of laughter follows. chenle gives them a charming grin that doesn’t reach his eyes, “just five minutes. i'll be right back.” he leaves with calm steps, posture still immaculate beneath his suit. you continue smiling after he disappears into the crowd. 

five minutes pass. then ten. then twenty. people begin noticing. 

“where’s your husband?” someone asks casually. 

you let out a soft laugh, “probably being dragged into another business deal somewhere.” they laugh with you easily. and you cover for him again. and again. and again. 

by the thirty-minute mark, you can practically feel whispers beginning to bloom around the ballroom like perfume in the air. so you straighten your spine further, lift your chin slightly, and you smile brighter. if chenle was going to disappear from his own wedding reception, then you would make sure no one noticed the crack forming underneath the surface. you continue greeting guests alone, accepting congratulations with elegance polished into your bones. 

mrs. zhong watches you from across the ballroom, sharp eyes lingering knowingly on your solitary figure. she says nothing. because she knows her son. how loud his resentment has been years,  months, weeks building into this. but she also knows you. and she trusts you’ll be perfectly fine. that’s why she chose you for her son anyway.

chenle finally returns before he hit the forty-minute mark. your eyes find him immediately across the ballroom. his tie is slightly loosened now, not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to catch instantly. his expression remains composed. but the second he reaches your side – you smell it. whiskey. strong enough to linger beneath his cologne. 

and truthfully? you don’t really mind. chenle was always easier when he drank. looser around the edges. less cold. less careful about keeping distance between the two of you. sometimes…he even looked at you like he used to.

and after disappearing for almost forty minutes, he was going to have to sell this act twice as hard. 

“there you are,” you say smoothly as another cluster of guests approaches the two of you. before you can even fully turn toward them, chenle’s hand settles against your waist. firm. far more natural than earlier. 

“sorry,” he says quietly near your ear, voice lower now, slightly roughened by alcohol, “got cornered.”

you hum in acknowledgement, not bothering to call him out. he was lying, obviously. but this version of chenle was infinitely more tolerable than the sober one who treated your marriage like a prison sentence. 

“mr. and mrs. zhong!” another investor greets excitedly, approaching with his wife beside him, “we were just saying you two look unbelievable together tonight.”

normally, chenle would give a polite smile, a practiced nod, maybe rest his hand on your back for exactly five seconds before pulling away. instead, he pulls you closer. 

“thank you,” he says easily, “my wife makes it difficult not to stare.”

your breath nearly catches. it was the first time he’d call you that. his wife. and you hate how much you loved hearing it. 

the investor’s wife practically melts on the spot, “oh, he adores you.”

you knew that couldn’t be further from the truth. chenle’s just performing harder now. making up for lost time. and annoyingly enough, he’s very good at it. throughout the next hour, he barely left your side. and you’d be lying if you said it didn't affect you. drunk chenle was dangerously convincing. this version of him looked softer around the edges, dark eyes warmer beneath the ballroom lights. he smiled more. touched you more. occasionally leaned close enough that his shoulder brushed yours naturally instead of mechanically. like right now-

“you’re doing that thing again,” he murmurs quietly, only for you to hear. 

“what thing?”

“over-smiling,” his lips twitch faintly, “your cheeks are probably hurting.”

the fact he noticed at all sends something uncomfortable fluttering through your chest. 

“i’m fine.”

“mhm,” his pointer finger lightly grazes your cheekbone, soft and careful, “liar.”

your heart stumbles embarrassingly fast. you hate that alcohol makes him kinder. or maybe not kinder. just more honest with his attention. 

another camera flash bursts in front of you both. another perfect photo for the headlines tomorrow. you wonder if anyone would still call the two of you the golden couple if they knew chenle only touched you this much after drinking enough whiskey to blur the resentment out of him.

you enjoyed the rest of the wedding reception. or maybe endured was the more accurate word. either way, you played the role of the perfect wife flawlessly. enough to fool an entire ballroom full of billionaires. by the time the reception finally ended, your cheeks ached from smiling and your feet hurt from hours in heels. 

still, there was a strange warmth sitting inside your chest because despite everything – you had married the boy you love. even if he no longer loved you back.

⚜️ THE MARRIED LIFE ⚜️

the drive home is quiet. chenle sits beside you, his gaze lost outside the window. he doesn’t look at you once. the alcohol from earlier seems to have worn off already. funny how quickly the warmth disappeared from him too. 

eventually, the gates to the mansion slid open. your mansion now. your home for the rest of your life. the estate stood enormous against the night sky, lights glowing warmly throughout the property. it was less of a house and more of a private villa, complete with a fountain in the middle, sprawling gardens, balconies overlooking the endless green landscape, rooms neither of you would probably ever step foot in. beautiful but cold.

the car comes to a stop and before the driver can even fully open the door, chenle steps out first. you follow shortly after, one of the maids helping you with your dress as you stepped inside the mansion. the grand foyer stretches high above both of you, chandelier light reflecting against polished floors. 

chenle was already halfway up the left staircase. “night,” he finally says. flat. automatic. not even turning around. like the two of you didn’t just celebrate a once in a lifetime event people dream of. 

he disappears down the left wing leading to his bedroom without another word. you stare after him for a moment before quietly turning toward the opposite staircase. right side. your side. your room.  

lili zhong had arranged this mansion for the two of you a month before the wedding, insisting that it would help ease the transition. she genuinely believed that if the two of you lived together beforehand, chenle would eventually come around, that proximity would soften him, that he’d remembered the closeness you once had. you remembered how hopeful she sounded while showing you around the estate.

“give him time,” she had told you gently, “chenle’s stubborn, but he’s a good boy.”

you wanted to believe her. you really did. so for a month before the wedding - you tried. you asked him about work. about basketball games you knew he loved. about the restaurants you knew he liked. you sat beside him even when he barely acknowledged you were there. you tried being patient. understanding. gentle. it didn’t work. and in the end, your efforts never mattered anyway. because whether chenle liked it or not, the wedding was always going to happen. 

now that it had, the distance between you felt even larger. married yet sleeping in separate bedrooms like strangers forced under the same roof. it’s whatever, really. the mansion had far too many empty rooms anyway.

three months pass like that.

the routine becomes almost mechanical. you wake up separately. leave for work separately. return home separately. 

real conversations only happen at the office. meetings. sale projections. marketing campaigns. brand collaborations. like business partners instead of husband and wife. which, you probably should have expected. 

at home, chenle barely spares you a glance. he doesn’t sit beside you on the sofa. doesn’t ask about your day. doesn’t linger in rooms you enter. dinners are eaten across opposite ends of a table long enough to seat twenty people comfortably, silence filling the space where conversations should’ve been. sometimes the only sounds are the clink of silverware against plates and the faint ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

and at night, the lights still glow beneath two different bedrooms. you’ve never stepped into his this entire time. and he wouldn’t be able to tell anyone what the colors of your walls were. sometimes you wonder if he stays awake as long as you do. 

one night, you walked into the living room to find him watching basketball. for the first time in weeks, he actually looked alive. completely relaxed against the couch, eyes fixed on the television while quietly reacting under his breath. stephen curry had just made an impossible three-point shot and chenle actually laughed softly, shaking his head with genuine enjoyment lighting his face. you had almost smiled seeing it. because it reminded you of the boy he used to be. then he noticed you standing there and immediately, everything disappeared. his posture straightened. his expression flattened. he watched the rest of the game in complete silence, pretending not to care when curry hit the game winning shot minutes later. pretending he hadn’t been enjoying himself at all before you arrived – that one hurt more than you expected. you realized then that your presence drained the life out of him. he physically could not relax around you anymore. 

so eventually – you stopped trying to fill the silence. stopped asking if he wanted dinner together. stopped lingering in shared spaces hoping he might speak first. 

if chenle wanted distance that badly, then fine. you would give it to him. even if the loneliness of this massive mansion swallowed you whole because of it. 

⚜️ THE OTHER WOMAN ⚜️

you couldn’t help it though. every night, no matter how much you told yourself to stop caring, you still waited for the sound of chenle’s bedroom door shutting. just to make sure he came home. 

some nights he came home early, footsteps echoing through the quiet mansion before midnight. other nights, he returned a little later, long after you were supposed to be asleep, the distant sound of his shoes against the floor enough to finally let the tightness in your chest loosen.

he never knew you waited. or maybe he did. either way, neither of you acknowledged it.

but tonight was different.

the grandfather clock in the foyer had already struck two a.m. nearly fifteen minutes ago, the sound heavy and hollow throughout the massive estate. 

chenle has never been out this late.

you glance toward the entrance again before lowering your gaze to the untouched cup of chamomile tea in your hands. it had gone cold almost an hour ago, when you first realize how late it was and your husband was nowhere to be heard. 

“did chenle say where he was going tonight?” you ask the maid standing nearby.

“no, mrs. zhong,” she answers carefully, “but he did call for the driver around twenty minutes ago, he should be making his way back.” 

and it’s ridiculous, really, how your maid knows more about your husband's whereabouts than you do. 

“okay,” you nod gently, setting the untouched tea aside, “go ahead and get some rest,” you offer her a smile despite the exhaustion sitting heavily behind your eyes, “i’ll wait up for him.”

“are you sure, mrs. zhong? i could wait instead.”

you wave her off, “it’s a wife’s duty to take care of her husband.” 

she smiles politely at your response, “okay mrs. zhong, i’ll be here when you need me.” 

“thank you,” you say genuinely. 

she bows her head slightly before disappearing down the hallway, leaving you alone with the silence again. the moment she’s gone, your smile fades. slowly, you rise from the sofa and make your way toward the grand staircase. more specifically  – the left staircase. chenle’s staircase. the one you never use.

the mansion had been designed almost absurdly symmetrical, splitting the house in two. like the house itself understood the distance between you. 

you settle onto the second step quietly, smoothing the fabric of your silk pajama dress beneath you, waiting for him to come home. your eyes drift across the foyer absentmindedly – the massive chandelier overhead, the single round table with the antique vase filled of flowers you didn’t even like, and the wedding portrait hanging near the entrance your mother-in-law gifted. it always made your chest ache a little. you looked so happy in it. chenle looked convincing.

you wonder if this is what arranged marriages are supposed to feel like. waiting around in silence for someone who never notices you waited at all. you lean your head lightly against the staircase railing. maybe he was working late. maybe he was drinking. maybe he didn’t want to come home anymore. the last possibility settles the heaviest. 

your mind drifts despite yourself, back toward the beginning. a time when chenle used to text you constantly whenever he went anywhere. texts that were as silly as:

look at this ugly dog i found

watch basketball with me, i have popcorn

and others, that always made you smile and your heart race:

just tried the new restaurant down the street from our favorite tea place. i have to bring you there..it will make you cry tears of joy.

i saw this dumpling plushie and it reminded me of you, so guess who has a new dumpling plushie

let’s go on trip this weekend, just me and you…already got the flight tickets 

my mom’s annoying me. come save me. please. 

where are you? i’m picking you up

you used to be the first person he looked for in every room. now you barely knew what was going on in that mind of his. a soft laugh escapes you suddenly, quiet and humorless. if the tabloids could see you now, they’ll realize just how easy it is to create fake gold.

another thirty minutes pass when headlights appear through the front windows. your body straightens instantly before you can stop yourself, heartbeat quickening embarrassingly fast. 

the front doors open moments later, chenle walking in. his tie hangs loose around his neck, dark hair slightly messy like someone has been running their fingers through it repeatedly. he smells faintly of alcohol, expensive cologne and perfume that definitely wasn’t yours. your stomach drops before you can even process it fully. it’s sweet, floral, feminine – not familiar. 

chenle freezes the second he notices you sitting on the staircase. for a brief moment, genuine surprise flashes across his face. 

“what are you doing up?” he asks, voice rough and tired. 

you force your expression to remain soft, normal, “waiting for you.”

something unreadable flickers in his eyes. guilt. maybe. or irritation. you can never tell with him anymore. whatever it is, it disappears almost instantly.

“go to bed, y/n,” he says with a sigh, already sounding exhausted by the conversation before it even begins. then he walks past you. just like that. and something inside you finally snaps. 

there were many things that you could let slide. chenle ignoring you. chenle barely speaking to you unless necessary. chenle looking at you with those cold eyes sharp enough to cut skin open. chenle hating you for a life neither of you truly chose. 

but this? coming home way past midnight smelling of alcohol and another woman’s perfume while wearing lipstick marks on his neck like he didn’t even care enough for you to hide them???

a wife could only take so much. 

you could only take so much. 

before you know it, you’re standing abruptly and following him up the staircase. his staircase. your slippers hit the marble harder with every step as anger burns hotter beneath your skin. he pushes open his bedroom door and you follow him inside immediately, shutting it sharply behind you, the sound echoing through the room.

it’s your first time entering his bedroom in the four months you’ve been married. that realization alone feels pathetic. it’s cleaner than you expected. dark walls. dark sheets. expensive furniture. floor to ceiling windows overlooking the green landscape, similar to yours. it looked less like the room of a married man and more like a luxury bachelor suite. nothing about it felt like there was space for you. 

“are you fucking cheating on me?!” you demand, voice coming out harsher than intended, anger cracking through the polished composure you spent years perfecting.

chenle groans immediately, dragging a hand through his hair before kicking his shoes off carelessly, “i don’t want to fucking talk about this right now.”

you ignore him completely, hurt and fury already boiling too violently inside your chest. 

“is this why you hate me so much?,” you ask, voice rising, “because you’re already in love with someone else?!”

that catches his attention instantly. his head snaps toward you so fast it almost startles you.

“what?”

you let out a bitter scoff, “oh my god, chenle!,” you gesture toward him angrily, “you have her scent all over you, there’s lipstick all over your neck–i’m not fucking stupid.”

your voice gets louder with every word. so much for grace. so much for being poised. right now you’re just angry. hurt. humiliated. 

chenle stares at you for a second before rubbing both hands down his face tiredly, “i’m not fucking in love with someone else,” he mutters. 

“then what the fuck is this?!”

silence stretches for half a second.

“i needed to get laid.”

chenle laughs once humorlessly, “if you haven’t noticed,” he says coldly, “i’ve basically been fucking abstinent for four months and i just…needed a release.”

it’s almost sickening how that makes you feel better. your anger doesn’t disappear but the crushing feeling in your chest eases slightly knowing there wasn’t some other woman holding his heart while you sat here playing the perfect wife. it was just sex. not love. 

you step closer before you can think better of it. chenle’s brows furrow slightly at the sudden closeness. 

“if you need to get your dick wet, you come to my room.” 

his expression changes instantly, genuine shock flashing across his face. you continue before he can interrupt. 

“no one else’s.”

your chest rises sharply with each breath.

“i’m your wife now, for fuck’s sake.”

chenle just stares at you like he genuinely doesn’t know what to say.

“i don’t care if this marriage was arranged for business,” you snap, “you do not get to cheat on me…again.”

that room falls silent after that. you can practically see the conflict moving behind chenle’s eyes now. because he hates this. all of it. the marriage. the expectations. the loss of freedom. but you can also tell he didn’t expect this reaction from you. didn’t expect you to claim your place beside him so bluntly. 

“besides,” you add bitterly, “we need to have a child eventually, as our parents love to remind me,” your laugh comes out hollow, “you’d be doing me a fucking service.”

irritation flickers in chenle’s face immediately. but you don’t stay long enough to examine it. you turn sharply and walk out before he can say anything else, your heartbeat pounding violently in your ears as you cross to your side of the mansion. 

⚜️ THE BEST FRIENDS ⚜️

the two of you never talk about that night again. it got buried beneath the same routine. work meetings. silent dinners. passing each other in hallways without speaking. but something had changed after that. because you opened a door that night. and whether or not chenle chose to knock was entirely up to him. 

it takes another month before he finally does. 

chenle can’t believe he’s actually considering this. he stands in his bedroom, staring at the half empty whiskey glass in his hand. this was insane. he was about to walk into your room and what? sleep with his wife? his best friend? except he’s not even sure that title still belongs to the two of you anymore. 

best friends didn’t look at each other the way he looks at you now – like you were both the wound and the knife that caused it. best friends didn’t spend five months barely speaking despite living under the same roof. best friends definitely didn’t resent each other enough to split a mansion into separate lives. 

chenle exhales sharply before taking another shot. not enough to get drunk, just enough for that liquid courage to settle into his bones, silencing the voice in his head that told him this was wrong and allowing himself to knock on your door.

he knows this is so hard to do because of him. he knows he’s been irrational. resenting you for decisions neither of you truly got to make. taking every ounce of frustration and grief and anger about his life and placing it onto your shoulders because it was easier to have someone to blame than to accept that this is his reality. 

and yet despite all of that – the only thing you had ever truly asked of him during this marriage was to not cheat on you…again. you could’ve demanded affection. attention. a real marriage. instead, you simply looked him in the eye and told him to come to you first. that memory hasn’t left his head since. 

another sigh escapes him before he sets the empty glass down and finally walks out of his room. the hallway separating your bedroom feels strangely longer tonight. every step making him question himself again. this was a terrible idea. he should turn around. go back to his room. pretend this impulse never happened. but fuck, he needs to get laid…right now. 

the knock startles you instantly. you glance up from your bed in confusion. it’s almost midnight. no one ever knocks this late and the maids only enter when called. for a second, you wonder if something’s wrong. 

slowly, you slip off the bed and walk toward the door, your silk, short pajama dress flowing around you. and there he is – standing in the hallway looking strangely tense beneath the dim lights.

for a moment, neither of you speaks. then chenle says flatly–

“i want to have sex.”

simple. direct. like he’s discussing a business proposal instead of standing outside his wife’s bedroom at midnight. your chest tightens painfully because somehow, even after everything, a part of you still hoped he’d come here for another reason. that maybe he missed you. maybe he couldn’t sleep either. maybe tonight, after months of silence, he finally wanted to talk to you like he used to.

but of course not. he wasn’t your chenle anymore. and this was your marriage - transactional. carefully detached. emotionally hollow.

“okay,” you answer softly after a second, stepping aside to let him in. 

chenle walks past you quietly, eyes scanning your room almost curiously. unlike his bedroom, yours actually looked live in. warmer lighting. books scattered across tables. skincare and makeup products lining the vanity. blankets thrown carelessly across the couch near the windows – and trinkets, gifts, specifically from him – scattered around different parts of the room. 

the dumpling plushie he got you when you were fifteen all because it reminded him of you.

the vintage camera on your shelf he bought behind your back when you were sixteen because you had mentioned once, only once, that you loved taking pictures because it made moments feel permanent. he remembers showing up the next day with your dream camera like it was nothing. “don’t say i never support your hobbies,” he teased. 

even those damn crybaby figurines he bought you when you were seventeen were lined carefully beside your bookshelf. every single one from the collection you obsessed over years ago. you had a frown on your face over not getting the rare one from a blind box once and chenle spent nearly two weeks secretly hunting every figurine down until your collection was complete. you used to tell him he was insane for it. he used to think seeing you happy made the effort worth it. 

suddenly the room feels suffocating. because there are pieces of him everywhere in here. small reminders scattered throughout your life of proof that before everything fell apart – chenle used to love you loudly. maybe not romantically. maybe not in the way you wanted. but enough to memorize the smallest things about you. enough to notice every passing comment and quietly turn it into something real. 

chenle rubs the back of his neck awkwardly before finally looking at you fully and for the first time in months – he doesn’t look angry when he does. if anything, he looks shaken. then he clears his throat.

“we don’t have to make this…” he pauses, brows furrowing slightly, “more than what it is.”

“okay,” the answer leaves your mouth too quickly. too easily. like you’ve already accepted that this was how it was always going to be. 

he nods, leading the way as he reaches for the buttons of his pajama shirt. you look away the second the fabric slips from his shoulder, the room suddenly feeling warmer. chenle drops his shirt onto the chair near your vanity while you remain frozen beside the bed, fingers nervously toying the hem of your pajama dress.

neither of you knows how to start this. that becomes painfully obvious almost immediately. there’s no romance here to guide the moment. no affection softening the edges. just tension and awkwardness. 

finally, because if you stand there any longer, you think your heart might actually burst through your ribs, you reach beneath the fabric of your dress. with shaky fingers, you hook the elastic of your underwear and slide them down your legs, stepping out of them and leaving it on the floor. you keep the pajama dress on through, the thin material clinging to your curves. 

the room goes still. chenle's eyes lift instinctively toward you, tracing the silhouette of your body before darting away almost immediately. and somehow that reaction hurts more than if he’d stared openly. because this feels like restraint. like guilt. like he is forcing himself not to want you.

you climb onto the bed quietly, trying desperately to appear calmer than you feel. 

“you can turn the lights off if you want,” you murmur softly. 

and maybe that was better. maybe if he couldn’t see you, he could pretend you were just another one of his one night stands. maybe the darkness would erase the history between you, leaving only the physical need. darkness settles over the room instantly, softened only by the lights outside filtering through the windows. 

chenle approaches the bed slowly afterward, the mattress dipping slightly under his weight as he climbs in beside you, leaving enough distance between your bodies. neither of you speaks. there’s nothing comforting to say. just the sound of breathing filling the dark room. 

then, he finally reaches for you. his hand settling against your waist, his palm warm against the thin fabric of your dress. he pulls you toward him and your breath catches immediately. and it’s sad, really, that despite the coldness, despite the hate, you’ve wanted this for years. you want him so badly it feels like a physical ache in your chest. 

you close your eyes as he shifts closer, the last fragile layer of distance between you finally disappearing. he doesn’t lift the dress, simply just bunching the fabric up around your waist, exposing your hips and thighs to the cool air. he doesn’t kiss you. he doesn’t whisper your name. he simply positions himself, his cock hard and pressing against your entrance…and he thrusts in. 

“fuck,” chenle groans under his breath, his hand gripping your waist harder instinctively, digging his fingers into your skin, “you’re so fucking tight.”

your breath catches painfully at the stretch, a sharp, searing pressure tearing through your center as your body struggles to accommodate the sudden intrusion. your fingers unconsciously claw into his biceps, gripping the hard muscle as a gasp of genuine pain escapes your lips. it hurts – more than you expected it to. there was no slow build up to soften any of this. no tender words whispered against your skin to ease the transition. this wasn’t lovemaking. 

for chenle, this is only a physical release, a way to drown out the noise of his own sadness and the crushing weight of his expectations. for you, it was simply duty. the possibility of giving both families the heir everyone expected from the moment your engagement was announced. just two emotionally exhausted people trying to fulfill a role they’d been pushed into years ago. 

chenle notices your pain immediately. you know he does because his movements stall, his body freezing inside you for a beat. in the dim light, you see his brows furrow, a flicker of something – hesitation, perhaps, or a ghost of the boy he used to be – crossing his features. he gives you a moment to adjust, his chest heaving against yours, but. neither of you say anything. 

what would even be the point? there are no sweet words to be exchanged here. no declarations of love. only uneven breathing filling the dark room and the occasional strained sound slipping from both of you despite yourselves. 

chenle keeps his eyes fixed downward, jaw tense like he’s trying not to think too hard about any of this. about you. about the way you feel wrapped around him. about what this act actually means for the two of you.

your fingers loosen from his arm eventually, your grip shifting to the silk sheets beneath you, bunching the fabric in your fists as the initial, blinding ache slowly dulls into a manageable throb. but as the physical pain recedes, a different kind of agony takes its place – one that is far more suffocating, your mind cruelly reminding you that this is the boy who used to hold your hand while crossing the street to make sure you were safe. the boy who bought you random gifts because they reminded him of you. the boy you had loved with a purity that now felt like a joke. and now, here you are, beneath him in a silence so heavy it felt suffocating. 

he doesn’t try to make it last. he doesn’t try to find your pleasure or bridge the emotional divide between you. he simply drives into you with a mechanical, rhythmic intensity, his movements devoid of affection.

he lasted six minutes before it was finally over. 

chenle curses softly under his breath as he paints your walls white. his forehead drops briefly near your shoulder, breathing unevenly before finally stilling completely. the room falls quiet almost immediately afterward except for both of your breathing. 

then, chenle carefully pulls away. he begins to shift back but freezes mid-motion, his eyes dropping toward the sheets beneath you, the air in the room vanishing – small, vivid spots of red stain the white sheets. 

“shit,” he breathes, his entire expression changing instantly. the detachment he had maintained through the act vanishes, replaced by a sharp, jagged edge of alarm, “are you okay?”

the concern in his voice catches you off guard more than anything else. real, genuine concern that you haven’t heard from him in years. the same boy who used to worry if you’d scraped your knee. 

still trying to steady your breathing, you blink at him tiredly, “what?”

“you bled,” he says immediately, eyes darting back toward the sheets before the realization visibly crashes into him. his face tightens, jaw locking as the implication sinks in. 

“fuck, y/n…,” he exhales sharply, “are you a virgin?”

you stare at him for a long second, the silence stretching between you. you feel empty, raw and utterly exhausted. you shrug lightly, “well,” you mutter dryly, “as of a couple minutes ago, i no longer am.”

chenle looks at you like you’ve just punched him in the chest. there’s disbelief there. guilt. and worst of all – pity.  you hate it instantly. you aren’t a porcelain doll. you are the owner of an empire and you had walked into this encounter with your eyes wide open. 

“don’t look at me like that,”  you scoff, reaching for your blanket and pulling it over you, “it’s not a big deal, chenle. it was gonna happen one way or another.”

he lets out a frustrated sound immediately, dragging both hands through his hair, “why do you keep saying that?!,” he snaps suddenly. 

you blink, startled at the sharpness in his tone, the sudden eruption of emotion, “because it’s true.”

“no, it’s not,” his brows pull together harder, frustration and disbelief bleeding into his voice, “and this is a big deal. i just took your virginity.”

“and?!” you shoot back instantly, emotions finally cracking open.

“it was always yours to take!”

silence. thick. heavy enough to suffocate the entire room. chenle stills completely. the lights spilling through the windows cast shadows across his face, but you can still see the shock there clearly. he looks haunted, as if you’ve just revealed a truth he wasn’t prepared to handle.

“what?” he asks quietly. 

“unlike you,” you say bitterly, your chest rising sharply, “i never thought marrying my best friend was something so repulsive.”

the words hit hard enough that chenle just stares at you. stunned. because he genuinely cannot understand it. 

when he found out about the arrangement years ago, it felt like his entire life stopped belonging to him. suddenly every conversation had contracts hidden beneath it, every family dinner felt staged, every interaction between the two of you became another reminder that his future had already been decided before he even got a say. he panicked. rebelled. slept with girl after girl trying to desperately prove to himself he still had freedom. he still belonged to himself. still had choices before marriage locked him into a life he never asked for. 

but you – you just accepted it. 

you didn’t run. you didn’t scream. you didn’t burn the world down to get away.

he remembers sitting in those meetings, hating every single second of it and every single time he looked at you – you were just sitting quietly beside him. calm. composed. nodding along politely whenever someone addressed you. you never argued. never pushed back. never looked angry enough. 

and chenle convinced himself that meant you didn’t care. that maybe this really was just business to you, too. he resented you for it. resented the way you accepted everything so easily while he felt like he was suffocating. resented the way you let your parents decide both of your lives without fighting harder beside him. resented how fake everything started feeling after that. like your friendship had never really belonged to the two of you. like it had been another transaction always meant to happen. 

just like tonight. 

just like this bed. this room. your first time. 

the reality settles sickeningly into his chest. because despite all his anger, despite all the resentment he carried for years – this should have been special. not because virginity itself mattered to him. but because you did. somewhere beneath the layers of bitterness, the boy who loved you was still there, and he realizes with a jolt of horror that he is the one to turn this moment into something cold. another deal to complete. another box to check.

for the first time in months, chenle genuinely feels ashamed standing in front of you. 

you slide beneath the blankets completely, turning away from him. your voice goes cold again. controlled. composed. your expression slowly shutting down. piece by piece. the same way it always does whenever he hurts you. it’s a practiced defense, a wall built from years of his indifference.

“i’ll have the maid clean the sheets tomorrow.”

chenle opens his mouth slightly. then closes it again. because there’s nothing he can say that fixes this. nothing that gives you back the moment he just ruined. he cannot un-take your innocence.

“if you’re done here,” you murmur quietly, “you should just go.”

the guilt eats him alive, gnawing at his insides as he stares at your curled-up form. yet, chenle walks out anyway. 

⚜️ THE MOTHER IN LAW ⚜️

you get your period two weeks later and it annoys you far more than it should. the second you see the faint streak of red, disappointment settles heavily into your chest before you can stop it. pathetic. you actually let yourself hope that one night would be enough. that somehow, despite how cold and emotionally disastrous it had been, it might’ve at least resulted in something tangible. something that would finally make this marriage feel like it’s moving forward instead of rotting quietly in place. something that would finally make this mansion feel like a house. 

you’re afraid of the possibility it won’t happen again. not after the way things have been recently. 

it’s gotten worse between you and chenle. at least before, when he looked at you, there was fire there. albeit, not the good kind…but fire, nonetheless. 

now, it was just stone cold. and every now and then – guilt. it’s like he doesn’t know what to do with himself around you anymore. and every single time you notice it, sorrow settles deeper inside your chest. guilt isn’t love. you don’t want him feeling sorry for you. you want – no. you force yourself to stop that thought before it finishes.

wanting things from chenle only ever leads to disappointment. 

“y/n, dear, how are you and chenle?” mama li’s voice breaks through your thoughts. she’s sitting elegantly across from you in the living room, posture perfect even in something as simple as afternoon tea. sunlight pours through the massive windows behind her, catching the gold resting against her fingers as she lifts her teacup gracefully. 

she’s beautiful in the same terrifying way chenle is. composed. sharp. impossible to fully read. sometimes looking at her hurts because all you can see is him. 

she asked the question gently. but there’s always command hidden beneath her voice, years of power woven naturally into every word she speaks. 

“uhm,” you hesitate, “i don’t know, mama li,” the nickname leaves your lips naturally. it always has, “i don’t think we’ll ever go back to the way we used to.”

for a moment, genuine sadness flickers across her face. she exhales softly before offering you a small smile, “just give it time,” she says gently, “you know he’s always loved you.” 

your chest tightens painfully. it’s what everyone says. your parents. his parents. family friends. employees who watched the two of you grow up together. everyone insists chenle loved you once. maybe still does. but lately, you’re not so sure anymore. maybe everyone simply misunderstood him all these years. maybe being comfortable around someone your entire childhood wasn’t the same thing as loving them. 

after all – chenle himself has never actually said it. not once. 

mama li studies your expression carefully before continuing, “chenle has always been difficult with his emotions,” she says with a quiet sigh, “but that boy would follow you around everywhere when you were younger. you were the only person who could calm him down whenever he got upset.”

you force out a faint smile, “that was a long time ago.”

“feelings don’t disappear that easily,” she replies smoothly. 

you wish you believed that. instead, you take another sip of tea to avoid answering. 

“even so, my dear,” her eyes linger meaningfully on you, “i hope you’re not forgetting your duties.” 

there it is. the real reason behind this conversation. behind her visit.  

children. heirs. you suddenly feel exhausted. you don’t know what to say. you’ve only slept with chenle once. and considering the fact you got your period this morning, you’re very aware you are not pregnant. still, you can’t exactly tell his mother that her son barely touches you. so instead, you straighten your posture slightly and force your voice to remain calm. 

“we’re trying.”

mama li’s expression brightens immediately, genuine excitement sparkles in her eyes, “well, that’s wonderful news,” she says warmly, “we have to continue our legacies after all,” she adds with a soft smile, lifting her teacup once more. 

legacy. sometimes you wonder if anyone in this family actually understands how lonely that word feels. 

⚜️ THE DRUNK WIFE’S PINKY PROMISE ⚜️

it’s been a month since mama li’s visit. and half a year since you and chenle got married. he hasn’t touched you once since that night. not even accidentally. no lingering touches while passing each other in hallways. no brushing shoulders. no quiet midnight knocks at your bedroom door. absolutely…nothing. 

and lately, the restlessness sitting inside you has started turning into panic. because six months into marriage and you still weren’t even close to being pregnant. your parents ask constantly. mama li asks so often that your stomach knots every single time. even the public has started wondering. the media hasn’t said anything outright yet, but you’ve seen the headlines. 

WHEN WILL THE GOLDEN COUPLE ANNOUNCE THEIR FIRST HEIR?

A BOY OR A GIRL? IT SHOULD BE ANY DAY NOW.

and worst of all — people at work were starting to notice things too. the whispers had gotten louder these past few weeks:

why do you never arrive together? why do you leave separately? why do the two of you never eat lunch together despite literally being married? were you both simply that professional??? or did you secretly hate each other???

the stress had been eating at you slowly. you feel like you’re being watched even more so than usual. 

so tonight, for the first time in months, you finally leave the mansion for something other than work. with your best friend - yizhou ning-qian. if anyone understood arranged marriages, it was her. except for the obvious difference that her husband, kun qian, absolutely adored her. even with their seven year age gap, they worked. somehow effortlessly. which honestly made your own marriage feel even sadder by comparison. 

“have you tried initiating it?,” yizhou asks casually, sipping her tequila.

the two of you were tucked away inside one of the private rooms at a high-end bar where membership alone cost more than most people’s yearly salaries. dim lights glowed against velvet seating while soft jazz echoed faintly beyond the closed doors. 

you stare at her, “yizhou,” you say flatly, “i can’t even get close enough to try.”

she snorts immediately, the sound sharp and mocking of the situation.

“every time i walk into a room,” you continue, “he leaves. immediately.”

"man,” she sighs, shaking her head, “chenle seriously needs to grow the fuck up.” you can’t even disagree. “this was always going to be our lives,” she continues, taking a quick sip of her drink, “and honestly? it’s not even that bad.”

another tequila shot arrives at the table. she pushes it toward you with a mischievous glint in her eye.

”i mean,” she giggles, “we’re literally billionaires! it can’t get better than this.”

you burst into laughter with her despite yourself, the alcohol finally beginning to warm your chest pleasantly. 

“exactly!,” you groan dramatically after downing the shot in one go, “all we have to do is marry someone else rich and pretty yet chenle thinks the world has ended.”

yizhou nearly chokes, laughing, “god, he’s just been too spoiled.”

the two of you dissolve into another fit of giggles. and if it was any other person, you’d feel awful for trash talking your husband. but she was your best friend, one of your safe spaces. and it feels good to laugh. you haven’t done that in a while. 

yizhou wipes beneath her eyes dramatically before leaning back against the couch, “if anything,” she says, still grinning, “you guys are the luckiest out of all of us.”

your smile falters, “and why’s that?”

”you married someone you already know…someone you already love.”

the words silence the laughter instantly. the love you carry for chenle is a heavy, aching thing – a devotion that has survived his coldness and his resentment. but love is a two-way street. and chenle has shown it loud and clear that he didn’t share those same feelings for you. 

“he doesn’t love me, yizhou,” you say quietly. 

for a second, she just stares at you. then suddenly, she bursts into even louder laughter. ”yeah,” she says sarcastically between giggles, “and my husband is fucking poor!”

you shove her shoulder weakly while laughing. considering kun was literally one of the ten wealthiest men in the country, the statement sounds ridiculous. 

her expression softens after laughing, “y/n,” she says more seriously now, “that boy has loved you since before we even knew what love was.”

“you don’t know that,” you whisper, chest tightening painfully as you shake your head immediately.

“oh, please,” she rolls her eyes, “everyone knows that.”

you sigh into your drink. you wish people would stop saying that. it just lets the hope linger longer. just reminds you of the boy he used to be. just makes the man he has become feel more like a tragedy.

”seriously,” she continues, leaning forward now, “he just needs to wake up from whatever self-pity hole he dug for himself.”

you stare down at the amber liquid in your glass quietly. 

“i mean, come on, he has to know that it could be worse,” she adds. 

“how could it be worse than this?”

”jaemin’s literally arranged to marry someone he actually hates,” she points out, “and even he isn’t acting as childish as chenle,” she reaches for your hand then, intertwining her fingers through yours. 

“it’s not your fault, y/n.”

your throat tightens at her comfort, the alcohol heightening the vulnerability of your emotions. 

“and sooner or later,” she says softly, "chene's going to realize that too. he’s going to realize that while he was busy hating the arrangement, he was losing the only person who actually gives a damn about him.”

you drank a lot more than you should’ve. at first, it was just to loosen up. but somewhere between the expensive tequila, the soft jazz playing in the private room and yizhou’s ridiculous stories, the warmth spreading through your body started feeling addictive. every shot made things quieter. lighter. your thoughts blurred around the edges. your chest stopped hurting so much whenever chenle crossed your mind. for the first time in months, you weren’t thinking about the empty side of your dinner table or the way your husband avoided looking at you like eye contact physically pained him. 

you were just laughing. drinking. existing. and maybe that’s why you didn’t realize how much time had passed until yizhou was shoving your purse into your hands while laughing at your completely incoherent attempt to put your heels back on. 

by the time your driver finally pulls into the mansion’s driveway, it’s nearly three in the morning. the second the car door opens, cold air hits your face and you instantly regret every decision you made tonight. 

“mmm,” you groan softly while stepping out drunkily, “why is the ground moving?” you complain.

“the ground is not moving, mrs. zhong,” your maid says gently while helping steady you. you squint suspiciously at the marble steps leading toward the front door. you manage to stumble inside the mansion without face-planting into the floor. barely. if it wasn’t for your maid’s help, you’d be on the ground. 

“its uh–kay,” you mumble as your maid carefully tries helping you remove your coat, “mmm okay, i can take care of myself. i’m a professional. i’m a…ceo of being okay!”

you absolutely are not. your words are slurring into a thick, honey-like mess and you nearly take out a priceless vase with your shoulder before you finally collapse onto the bottom step of the right staircase. 

upstairs, chenle hears your voice immediately. he had been awake. waiting. though he’d never admit that out loud. usually, when he came home from work, your bedroom light would still be visible through the tiny crack beneath your door. 

tonight, it had been dark. 

and when he checked downstairs earlier under the excuse of getting water, you hadn’t been in the living room either. and for reasons he doesn’t want to examine too closely, it unsettled him. so tonight, he intentionally left his bedroom door slightly cracked open. just enough to hear when you returned home. 

and now here you were. sounding very, very drunk. 

chenle exhales sharply before stepping out into the hallway. he makes his way downstairs quietly only to stop midway down the staircase at the sight in front of him. you’re sitting on the bottom step of your staircase now with your head slumped against the railing while your maid looks one second away from panicking. 

“i said i’m okayyyy,” you groan. 

“sir zhong,” the maid says immediately in relief the second she notices him. 

your head snaps upward clumsily at her voice, eyes unfocused as you follow her gaze. chenle stands halfway down the staircase dressed in dark sweatpants and a loose shirt, his hair looking unbelievably soft. he looks unfairly handsome for three in the morning – a devastatingly beautiful statue carved from ice and moonlight. 

“mrs. zhong is drunk,” the maid explains carefully.

“i’m not drunk,” you counter immediately. then your body sways sideways slightly and she catches your shoulder before you topple over completely. 

she turns back toward chenle helplessly, “i’m trying to help her up the stairs, sir. she might hurt herself without guidance.”

chenle’s jaw tightens slightly. then he nods once. “i’ll take care of it, you may go.”

she bows politely before quickly disappearing down the hallway, leaving the two of you alone. silence settles briefly. chenle walks down the remaining stairs slowly before stopping in front of you. 

“you drink now?” he asks flatly, clearly not amused. 

you squint up at him from the floor, “wow,” you mumble, a small, crooked smile playing on your lips, “judgmental much? mr. perfect.”

stubbornly, you attempt standing on your own. terrible decision. the second you rise, the world spins 360 degrees. chenle reacts immediately, one arm hooking firmly around your waist and hauling you flush against his chest. the contact is electric. it’s the first time in months he's touched you with any kind of intent, and the sudden heat of his body against yours makes your breath hitch. he is solid, warm, smelling of expensive soap and something uniquely him.

you blink up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs as you reach out, poking his chest weakly with a finger, “you’re not the only one,” you whisper, your voice losing its playful edge and becoming raw, “who wants to forget.”

the words come out quieter than intended. more honest too. you’re too drunk to notice the way his face softens for half a second. deep down, he’s always known it. he just never wanted to acknowledge it – the fact that you were hurting, too. 

he reaches forward, his hand cupping your face and squishing your cheeks together, forcing your lips into a pout. his brows furrow, gaze scanning your flushed face, “you know you’re not good with alcohol.”

you sway weakly at his wrist with a dramatic scoff, “psh, whatever.”

then you wriggle yourself fee from his hold before turning toward the staircase again, “i’m a big girl now,” you mumble stubbornly as you begin walking upwards, “i can do it.”

chenle hums behind you, not convinced in the slightest. you make it about five steps before the world starts tilting unpleasantly again. he was right. you were never good with alcohol. your head feels heavy. your feet hurt from the heels you still haven’t taken off and suddenly the stairs look impossibly long and all you want to do is fall asleep right here.

with a defeated sigh, you finally turn around. and only then do you realize how close chenle actually is. he’s standing just two steps below you. close enough that if you slipped backward even slightly, he’d catch you instantly. it softens you immediately. the way he still followed you. your expression crumbles into something smaller, softer.

“lele,” you mumble quietly, the nickname naturally slipping from your lips. you haven’t called him that in years. not since everything between you became sharp and complicated. 

chenle visibly freezes. the air in the stairway seems to solidify, trapping him in the space between who he is now and who he used to be.

your lower lip juts out slightly as you blink at him tiredly, “i need help,” you admit finally, your voice small and stripped of all its corporate armor.

his heart stops. he swears the world stops moving. because you sound exactly like her. not the polished corporate heiress version of you who sits through board meetings with perfect posture and calculated smiles. not the wife who carefully measures every word around him now. 

you sound like the girl he used to know. the one who used to cling onto his arm after getting tired at amusement parks. the one who cried dramatically over a barely scraped knee and demanded he carry her because “best friends are supposed to help each other.” the one who looked at him as if he were the only source of light in a dark world.

you sounded like the girl he loves. 

before business meetings hollowed everything out between you. before his own resentment poisoned every room you shared. 

chenle exhales slowly through his nose, a shaky breath that rattles in his chest. he sighs, and for the first time in years, the sound isn't one of annoyance, but of defeat.

“come on, you big baby,” he mutters. 

the tease slips out so effortlessly it surprises both of you, a sudden echo of a decade ago. your eyes widen slightly, he hasn’t sounded like that with you in a very long time. before you can even respond, chenle bends slightly and hooks an arm beneath your knees. you let out a tiny squeak as he lifts you effortlessly into his arms, bridal style. instinctively, your hands grab onto his shoulder, settling against his chest automatically as he starts carrying you up the stairs properly this time. his warmth surrounds you immediately, steady and safe, your alcohol fogged brain melting into it without resistance. 

chenle tries very hard not to think about how natural this still feels. how your body still fits against his as if they were two pieces of a puzzle designed by a higher power. he feels your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, a subconscious grip that mirrors the way you used to hold onto him when you were children. years ago, this would’ve been normal. he used to carry you all the time. after you fall asleep in the car rides home. after twisting your ankle once trying to impress him at basketball. after you threw a dramatic tantrum at sixteen because your heels hurt during some charity gala. back then, touching you was easy. now it feels dangerous. 

he pushes your bedroom door open with his shoulders before walking inside. carefully, he lowers you onto the mattress. but the second he starts pulling away, your hands grab onto him tighter. 

“not yet,” you mumble immediately, tugging him downward with surprising strength until he half falls onto the bed beside you. your arms wrap around him instinctively, face burying against his chest, holding him close. 

chenle freezes for half a second. then exhales slowly. because fuck. he missed this. he missed you. not the tense silence between board meetings. not the careful distance. not the version of you that flinches emotionally every time he looks at you now. but this – warm and soft and clinging onto him like he was still your safest place in the world. 

your hugs always used to calm him down faster than anything else. even now, after everything, his body relaxes embarrassingly quick the moment your arms tighten around him. he lets himself stay there for a little while. just a little. his hand settles carefully against your back as your breathing slowly evens out. 

eventually, he pulls back enough to look at you properly, brushing your hair away from your face gently, his fingers lingering slightly longer than necessary. 

“why’d you drink so much anyway?” he asks softly. 

and maybe it’s the alcohol. maybe it’s the exhaustion. or maybe you simply miss your best friend too much to keep pretending you don’t. because suddenly, you start talking to him like he’s still that person. 

“my husband won’t touch me,” you mumble sadly.

the words hit him directly in the chest. especially because you say it like your husband and the man currently holding you are two entirely different people. his eyes widen slightly, heat creeping into his face almost instantly and he’s almost grateful you’re drunk enough not to notice. 

“and everyone keeps asking me about children, lele…” your voice grows smaller, “it’s just–it’s too much,” you pout slightly afterward, eyes glossy and tired. 

chenle’s guilt continues to grow. he knows all of the pressure has been landing on you. his mother stopped bringing children up around him months ago. your parents tread carefully too. everyone gives him space, shows him more grace. he think’s it’s because everyone is afraid that if they push him too hard, it will make him snap completely. make him finally leave. no one realizes he never actually could. not when the thought of a world where he wasn’t with you, even in this broken, tragic way, felt more impossible than the marriage itself.

“do you even want a child?” he ask quietly, not sure why he keeps this conversation going. maybe because this is the most honest the two of you have been with each other in years. 

you shift, turning on your side to find a more comfortable position, and in the process, you instinctively seize his hand again. without a second thought, you tug his arm around your waist, pulling him flush against you until your back is pressed firmly against his chest. the position nearly wrecks him. because this used to be normal too. movie nights. sleepovers. lazy afternoons tangled together on couches while studying. you always used to curl into him naturally like he was home. and he used to hate having to leave, always wanting more time with you.

“it wouldn’t be that bad to have one,” you admit softly, your fingers playing absentmindedly with his, tracing the lines of his palm, “i mean…we have all the money in the world.”

chenle huffs quietly through his nose, a small, dry sound. it always comes back to that, doesn't it? the money. the wealth. the legacy. the gold-plated chains that bind you together.

“we could have twenty and still have plenty left over,” you add with a sleepy, whimsical giggle.

that actually almost makes him laugh. the image of the two of you with twenty children running around this mansion sounds absolutely insane. he can barely handle one drunk wife right now. still, his chest feels strangely warm hearing you talk like this – domestic, hopeful, almost dreaming. it stirs something in him that he thought he had buried under layers of corporate coldness.

chenle doesn’t even know if he wants children. at least, not like this. not because families and investors expect it. not because it’s another duty to fill. 

suddenly, you shift again, turning in his arms to face him fully. your movements are slow, languid, you lift your hand, fingers grazing his jawline with a touch so light it’s almost a hallucination. you caress him carefully, your eyes searching his with a heartbreaking intensity.

“give me a baby, lele,” you whisper. 

his entire body stills. every muscle locks. he knows its the alcohol talking. 

but, fuck.

the way you’re looking at him right now could ruin him. chenle would give you anything. money. houses. companies. his entire fucking life if you asked for it. just – not like this. not when it would feel like another transaction instead of something real. 

his hand slides carefully into your hair instead, “why do you want a baby so badly?” he asks quietly, voice strained.

you shrug faintly. then your expression softens into something heartbreakingly vulnerable. 

“i just don’t want to be so lonely anymore.”

his heart breaks instantly. completely. it’s his fault. he is the one who built the walls. he is the one who turned this house into a gilded cage. 

“so…” you mumble sleepily, eyes barely open now, “will you give me one?”

hope flickers across your pretty face so softly it nearly kills him. 

he swallows hard, “not right now, y/n,” he says gently. your expression falls immediately and the guilt twists violently inside him again. so he adds.. quietly…“maybe someday.”

your eyes lift toward him again slowly. then, you raise your pinky between the two of you.

“you promise?” 

chenle stares at it and suddenly he’s thirteen again. you don’t link pinkies the way others do. you once declared that it “felt fake” and that crossing fingers didn’t feel lucky enough for important things. so, the two of you had invented your own ritual. your own secret language of loyalty.

carefully, with a tenderness that makes his chest ache, chenle takes your hand and he leans in, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the very tip of your pinky finger.

“i promise.” 

your sleepy face brightens instantly. you grab his hand and softly kiss the tip of his pinky too. 

a promise sealed.  except this promise wasn’t as simple as the ones before. 

eventually, your body relaxes fully against his chest while his fingers continue stroking slowly through your hair until you fall asleep in his arms. chenle stays there longer than he should, watching you sleep peacefully against him, finally not hurting for a little while. once he’s sure you’re completely asleep, he carefully slips out of bed. but before leaving, he gently pulls your heels from your feet one by one. then he places a glass of water and two pieces of tylenol on your nightstand. the same way he used to after parties years ago. for a while, chenle just stands there staring at you. then quietly, he turns the lights off and finally lets the night end. 

⚜️ THE DEATH GUMMY ⚜️

another month passes. and things were starting to shift subtly. you’re not entirely sure what happened that night you got drunk. honestly, most of it is blurry fragments in your memory – warm arms, soft whispers, the feeling of safety you hadn’t felt around chenle in years. 

whatever happened though, it softened chenle a little. just a tiny bit. 

he still doesn’t initiate a conversation unless absolutely necessary. still keeps most of his thoughts locked tightly behind careful expression. still retreats into himself more often that not. but he doesn’t leave rooms as soon as you enter anymore. and slowly, he starts joining you for dinner again. you ate silently, still on opposite ends of the table but at least he was there now. 

then, one night, you found him in the living room watching an episode of f.r.i.e.n.d.s. normally, you would’ve turned around to avoid making him uncomfortable. instead, chenle glanced at you briefly, eyes soft, not leaving, not telling you to go away either. so, cautiously, you sat on the opposite end. the two of you watched an entire episode, occasionally laughing at the same jokes. at one point your laughter overlapped and both of you went awkwardly still afterward. but even that tiny moment felt precious. more than you could ask for. 

maybe everyone was right. maybe chenle simply needed time. 

today, the two of you are at yü skincare headquarters. a product development meeting. one of the company’s biggest launches planned for next year. your team had spent nearly eleven months developing a new type of vitamin e supplement. and because you took your work seriously, you always insisted on testing products yourself. if consumers were putting your products into their bodies, then so would you. 

the testing room buzzes quietly with concentration. there are only five people here today – you, chenle, your assistant, mark lee – head of the vitamin research development team, and another researcher seated nearby typing notes rapidly into a laptop. 

mark steps forward excitedly, holding the newest batch carefully, “today is mainly flavor testing,” he explains, “we finally stabilized the texture, so now we just need to ensure the taste is actually enjoyable for the mass market.” he places one small green chewable into your palm. then another into chenle’s, “we infused it with natural fruit extracts to eliminate the vitamin aftertaste.”

you nodded absentmindedly, your mind already drifting toward the logistics of the rollout. you trusted mark implicitly – he was one of the best in the industry.

without a second thought, you and chenle both placed the gummies into your mouths.

and that’s when everything goes wrong.

your throat locks almost instantly. your eyes widen violently. for half a second, you think you might have swallowed wrong. but then your airway starts closing. fast. 

you can’t breathe. 

in a blind surge of terror, you slapped your hand hard against chenle’s arm, the sound sharp in the quiet room. his head snapped toward you, and every ounce of color drained from his face. he watched, in horror, as you began to turn a terrifying shade of red, your mouth opening desperately, gasping for air that wouldn't come. your eyes were wide, filled with a raw, primal terror.

chenle reacted before anyone else could even process what was happening. he lunged forward, gripping your shoulders with a strength that nearly knocked you back, facing you fully.

“Y/N?!” his voice was tight, laced with immediate alarm.

your lips parted, but no sound emerged – only a wet, wheezing struggle. you clawed at your own throat, your nails digging into your skin in a desperate attempt to open the airway.

a wave of pure, unadulterated terror hits chenle, his eyes darting around the room frantically, searching for the cause, mind racing through every possibility.

“what the fuck happened?!," he roared, voice echoing off the sterile walls.

the room froze. everyone stood paralyzed, their faces masks of confusion and sudden fear. no one answered. no one has answers. the silence was suffocating, broken only by the horrific, whistling sound of your struggle to breathe. chenle’s gaze snapped to the tray of green gummies. he pieced it together then.

“we’re there kiwis in these?!” chenle demands sharply.

mark blinked, nodding quickly, his voice trembling, “uh–yes, sir. we infused it with concentrated kiwi juice because it–”

“SHE’S ALLERGIC!,” chenle’s voice cracks through the room so loudly everyone jumps. 

you were deathly allergic to kiwi. not mildly allergic. not uncomfortable. deathly. a single slice of the fruit in a room could make your throat itch, a concentrated extract delivered directly into your system was a death sentence.

his breathing turns uneven instantly as fear floods his system. you’re not coughing anymore. you’re struggling. really struggling. your body starts slumping sideways in your chair and chenle catches you immediately before you hit the floor.

“hey–hey, stay with me!” his voice shakes. 

for the first time in years, he completely loses his composure in front of other people. he was no longer the cold heir, he was a terrified boy watching the only person he truly loved slip away.

“her bag,” he barked, the command slashing through the chaos, “someone get me her fucking bag now.”

your assistant rushes forward immediately, handing your bag over. another employee is already yelling for medics outside the room. everything becomes chaotic around him. but chenle barely hears any of it. all he can focus on is you. the violent red of the reaction was fading into a ghostly, terrifying pallor. your lips were tinged with a bruised blue, and your head kept dipping weakly, your consciousness flickering like a dying candle. your hand, resting against his suit jacket, felt colder with every passing second. for one horrifying, timeless moment, he genuinely believed you were dying.

“look at me,” he pleaded, his voice urgent and wrecked. he gripped your face, his fingers trembling against your cheeks, trying to force your unfocused eyes to lock onto his. “y/n, look at me! stay with me!”

your eyelids fluttered, your pupils blown and hazy. you could see him – the panic in his eyes, the sheer, unadulterated terror – but you couldn't reach him. you were drowning on dry land.

“fuck—!” he let out a choked sound, his hands shaking violently as he dove into your bag. he tossed aside your wallet, your phone, a lipstick, his movements frantic and clumsy, “where is it–where the fuck is it–”

then finally – the epipen. you always carried it for emergencies. 

relief crashed through him so hard it was almost physical, a wave of adrenaline that surged through his veins. he didn't hesitate. he didn't even remove your clothing, he slammed the injector hard against your outer thigh, the needle piercing through the fabric of your trousers with a sharp, clinical click.

“stay with me,” he whispered, his voice rough and broken, “please, please stay with me.”

the seconds that followed were an eternity of agonizing silence. chenle held his breath, his heart hammering against his ribs, watching your face for any sign of life. then it happened – you let out a sudden, violent gasp, a broken, desperate inhale that sounded like a sob. it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard. oxygen flooded back into your lungs, and the sudden rush of air brought a torrent of tears that spilled from your eyes, soaking into the fabric of his shirt.

chenle exhales shakily like he forgot how to breathe too, his forehead nearly dropping against yours from relief, his eyes closing tight.

“that’s it,” he whispers frantically, his voice a breathless wreck, “that’s it, baby, breathe.”

he doesn’t even realize what he called you. he only cared that your hand, though weak and trembling, was curling around his fingers, clinging to him as if he were the only thing keeping you anchored to the earth. chenle grips tighter immediately, as if letting go would allow the death that had just brushed past you to return and take you away. 

“you’re okay,” he keeps repeating, “you’re okay. i’ve got you, i’ve got you.”

his breathing is uneven. his eyes are glossy. everyone in the room is staring now because they’ve never seen zhong chenle like this before.

but chenle doesn’t care about appearances anymore. not when he thought he was about to lose you forever. 

⚜️ THE ONLY CHOICE HE’S EVER MADE ⚜️

chenle never visits you in the hospital.

the first day, mama li told you he was busy dealing with the fallout at work, there were investigations happening now, meetings with legal teams and a very furious chenle. the second day, you waited. by the third day, you stopped expecting him entirely.

your private hospital suite overlooks the city skyline, expensive and pristine in the way only billionaires could experience. fresh flowers arrive every morning from companies and family friends. assistants rotate in shifts outside your door. nurses practically hover around you like you’re made of glass. everyone treats you like you almost died. which, to be fair, you technically almost did. still, you feel fine now. a little tired maybe. but alive. 

your father is currently standing near the windows watering the ridiculous amount of plants someone sent earlier when the question finally slips out of you quietly.

“has chenle come by?”

he pauses mid-motion before looking over his shoulder at you. then slowly, he shakes his head, “sorry, sweetheart.”

you look down at the blanket pooled over your lap, “you were right, dad,” you admit softly, your voice sounding hollow in the vast room.

his brows furrow, “i’m right about a lot of things…but what is this one about?”

you force out a weak laugh, “maybe it would’ve been easier to marry someone i didn’t love.”

that makes him stop completely. he places the watering can onto the nearby table before he walks toward your bed. your father has never been particularly good with emotions. he showed love through stability, protection and business lessons disguised as life advice. still, he takes the seat beside your bed quietly. 

“sweetheart,” he says carefully, “there are positives and negatives in every situation. and sometimes…the choices we make can hurt more than we expected them to—but you already made your decision,” he sighs softly, “and just like every good business deal, you have to commit to it fully.”

you almost smile. trust your father to turn emotional comfort into a corporate lesson. 

“trust your instincts,” he adds quieter this time, his hand patting yours awkwardly. it’s probably the closest thing to emotional reassurance he knows how to give. it helps a little. 

“thanks, dad,” you murmur. 

he nods once before leaning down to kiss the top of your head gently, “get some rest.”

then he leaves you alone again. the second the door shuts, the loneliness creeps back in. because despite his words – the only person you actually wanted to see was chenle. 

unbeknownst to you, chenle visits every single night.

always after midnight. always once he’s certain you’re asleep. he slips into your hospital room quietly, dressed in dark clothes and exhaustion. the first night, he genuinely thought you looked dead. too still. too pale. fear hit him so hard he crossed the room immediately just to place a trembling hand near your face and make sure you were still breathing. only after feeling your warm breath against his skin did he finally relax. after that, it became routine. every night he checks your breathing first. sometimes, he sits beside your bed for hours in complete silence, staring at you while guilt slowly eats him alive from the inside out. 

because you could’ve died.

and worse–

you could’ve died believing he hates you. 

chenle doesn’t think he would’ve survived losing you. that realization was a cold, jagged blade, cutting through the carefully constructed armor he had worn for years. it terrified him more than anything else. for years, he convinced himself the opposite, that you were the reason he felt trapped, the reason his life no longer belonged entirely to him. the reason everything started feeling planned and suffocating. but the second your breathing stopped sounding normal – none of that mattered anymore. all he remembered feeling was pure, violent fear. 

the memory keeps replaying in his head every night no matter how hard he tries to shut it out. your hand grabbing his arm desperately, your face turning red, the sound of you struggling for air, the way your fingers slowly weakened in his grasp, the horrifying weight of your body slumping against him and worst of all – how cold he felt. like someone had dumped ice water directly into his chest. 

he hates that it took a near-death experience to shatter his delusions. he hates that he had been so blind. fear like that doesn't stem from obligation. you don’t unravel, you don’t scream into the void, and you don’t beg a person to breathe if all they ever were to you was a responsibility — he hates how almost losing you made him realize that everything he felt for you had always been real. not planned. not arranged. not a script written by two powerful families to ensure a monopoly on the cosmetic industry.

because long before contracts existed. before business meetings and inheritance talks and engagement announcements – chenle loved you. 

he loved you when you were thirteen, sealing promises with kissed pinkies. he still remembers the first time you came up with it. the two of you had been sitting on the rooftop terrace of your parent’s vacation house, legs dangling over the edge while sharing melted popsicles in the middle of summer. “crossing fingers feels fake,” you complained dramatically after he broke a promise to watch a movie with you the week before, “people break pinky promises all the time.” he laughed, “so what? we sign contracts now?” you rolled your eyes before grabbing his hand. then, with complete seriousness, you pressed a tiny kiss against the tip of his pinky finger. “there,” you said proudly, “now it’s permanent.”  after that, every important promise between the two of you was sealed that way. he never broke a single one. 

he loved you at fifteen when you attended every single one of his basketball games with his number painted proudly across your cheeks in bright blue despite both your parents immediately scolding you for putting “cheap toxic paint” on your skin. you didn’t care though, you sat front row, screaming, “that’s my lele!,” every time he scored. he used to pretend to act embarrassed in front of his teammates while secretly searching for you in the crowd every few minutes just to make sure you were still there. you always were. and after the games, you’d rush toward him, still wearing his jersey, eyes sparkling. no victory ever felt as good as seeing you proud of him. 

he loved you at sixteen when your vintage camera became permanently filled with blurry pictures of him. half the photos were terrible – his face cut off, him mid-yawn, him glaring because you kept shoving the camera into his face while he was trying to eat. but mixed between those were softer ones too like him asleep in the car with his head tilted towards you, him laughing with his head thrown back, pictures of the two of you together. he once asked why you took so many pictures of him and you shrugged like it was obvious, “because you’re my favorite person.” he thinks maybe that was the first time his heart ever genuinely stuttered inside his chest. 

he loved you when you were seventeen, in a moment so sudden it had nearly knocked the wind out of him. he remembered the weight of the shopping bags in his hands, the handles digging into his palms, and the sheer, unfiltered joy radiating from you. you had spent weeks in a state of mourning over your crybaby figurine collection, devastated after failing to pull the secret rares. you hadn’t asked him for help – you never did – but chenle had watched your disappointment from the sidelines, and it had felt like a physical weight in his own chest. he spent nights contacting resellers behind your back until he found every missing figurine himself. when he finally handed you the completed set, the expression on your face had been blinding. you had looked at him as if he were the center of the universe. without a second thought, you reached up, grabbed his face in your small hands, and pressed a fervent, lingering kiss to his cheek. “i love you the most!” you squealed, your voice high and breathless with excitement. chenle remembered the way the blood had rushed to his face, a heat so intense it felt like a fever, while you remained blissfully oblivious, already turning back to admire your figurines. in that moment, he had realized that your affection was a drug, and he was already hopelessly addicted.

and deep, deep down, he knows he loved you at twenty-four. especially on the day you became his wife. the moment those heavy doors opened and you stepped inside wearing that white dress you spent months carefully choosing – he forgot how to breathe. everything around him blurred instantly. time slowed to a crawl, yet he felt his entire future rushing toward him at the same time. all he could see was you. the slight tremble in your hands, the way your eyes shimmered with a mixture of hope and fear, and the way you looked at him as if he were still your favorite person in the world, despite everything. you looked beautiful. not in the polished, public way magazines later described. not like “the perfect heiress.” you looked devastatingly you. and chenle wanted so badly to reach for you, pull you close, wanted this marriage to be real in every way that actually mattered. when the officiant gave the command to kiss the bride, his chest ached with a sudden, sharp grief. it felt cruel that this – a choreographed moment in front of a thousand witnesses – was your first kiss together. he remembers leaning down slowly, your lashes fluttering, lips soft and warm and gentle against his. and for a second, chenle forgot there were a thousand people surrounding you both. forgot cameras existed. forgot he was angry. kissing you felt terrifyingly natural, like a missing piece of his soul finally clicking into place, a homecoming he should have claimed years ago.

but the truth was, he had loved you long before he even had a word for it. back when the two of you were six years old and accidentally broke expensive glass tubes inside one of the zhong cosmetics labs while playing tag in the rooms. assistants had panicked instantly, someone yelled, another employee nearly cried seeing the shattered equipment all over the floor. you got scared immediately, eyes filling with tears as adults crowded around the two of you. and without even thinking, chenle stepped in front of you protectively, “it was my fault,” he lied. he remembered the feeling of your watery gaze on the back of his head while he stood there, taking the brunt of the scolding from every adult on the floor. he hadn't cared. the only thing that mattered was that you weren't crying anymore. later that evening, you had secretly slipped half of your dessert onto his plate, whispering that “heroes deserve rewards.”

everything else in his life had been a predetermined path. the schools, the internships, the board meetings, the carefully curated image of a successor. his life had been a series of checkboxes marked by people who didn't care about his heart.

but all those moments – the pinky swears, the blue paint on your cheeks, the secret figurines, the shared dessert – those belonged entirely to him. entirely to the two of you.

loving you was the only choice he ever truly made on his own. 

it had happened naturally, quietly, and without permission. he had built this love in the secret spaces of his heart, and in his desperate, panicked attempt to protect his freedom, he had almost destroyed the only thing that had ever actually set him free.

he hasn’t forgiven himself for any of it yet. not for avoiding you all these years. not for making you lonely inside your own marriage. not for turning your first time into something cold and painful. not for the way your face looked when you admitted you just didn’t want to be lonely anymore. and definitely not for freezing in that meeting for even half a second before realizing what was happening.

which is exactly why he can’t face you while you were awake right now. he physically can’t. because the second you look him with those eyes of yours, he’s terrified he’ll completely break apart in front of you. he imagined himself sobbing at your bedside, begging for a forgiveness he didn't believe he deserved.

and everyone keeps reminding him stress is bad for your recovery. the irony was a bitter pill to swallow. chenle knew he was the primary source of stress in your life. so, he remained a shadow, visiting only in the dead of night, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of your chest. it was pathetic. it was cowardly. but it was the only way he knew how to love you without hurting you further.

by the third day, your regular hospital meals suddenly disappear. instead, trays arrive with your favorite comfort foods – steaming siomai, all types of dumplings, wonton noodles – all warm and prepared exactly the way you like them. you can’t hide your smile when you see them because there is only one person in the world who knows your comfort order by memory, a relic of a childhood where he used to sneak you treats when you were sad. you stared at the tray fondly. chenle might not have visited you, but this feels like proof he still cares anyway. 

and by the fifth day, you’re completely over it. everyone is being ridiculously dramatic. you feel so energized already. bored out of your mind. still, every doctor insists your body needs more recovery time after the severity of the reaction. your parents refuse to let you leave early and the only person who actually has the authority to pull you out, your husband, isn’t taking that risk either.

you end up staying in the hospital for two more days before finally coming home. 

⚜️ THE AIR ⚜️

when chenle got home that afternoon, he’s exhausted. the past week had destroyed him more than he let anyone sees. he barely slept. barely ate. and every single time his phone rang unexpectedly, panic seized his chest before he could stop it. 

he loosens his tie tiredly as he walks through the mansion doors, mentally preparing himself to go to the hospital to pick you up. but as he walks into the kitchen — he freezes. 

you’re standing there, alive and healthy, wearing one of your silk pajama sets while leaning casually against the island, sipping water and scrolling through your phone like nothing happened.

for a second, he thinks he’s imagining you. you weren’t supposed to be released for another three hours. then again, you were stubborn enough to convince almost anyone to do what you wanted eventually. no one ever really knew how to tell you no when you looked at them with that specific, determined glint in your eyes.

“you’re home.” 

the sound of his voice quickly diverts your attention from all the emails you were catching up on to him. you glance up and in his eyes – you see the difference. the armor he usually wore wasn't just cracked – it was gone. his eyes were wide, vulnerable, and shimmering with a relief so profound it looked like pain. slowly, you place your phone down on the counter, smiling at him gently. 

“i’m home.”

for the first time all week, he remembered how to breathe again. like he had given you all of his air and it’s now finally being returned to his own lungs. 

the briefcase he was carrying hit one of the glass tables with a loud, jarring crash. he didn't care. he didn't even look at it. he crossed the kitchen, closing the distance between you and collided with you, pulling you into his arms so suddenly and with such force that the air left your lungs in a small gasp.

chenle hugs you tightly. desperately. like he needs physical proof you’re still here. still warm. still breathing. 

your eyes widen in shock, breath hitching against his shoulder. then, slowly, you let your guard down and wrap your arms around him, feeling the frantic, erratic thumping of his heart against your ear.

“i thought i was gonna lose you.”

his voice cracked, the sound raw and jagged against your hair. the confession was stripped of all pride, all resentment, and all the distance he had spent years cultivating. the fear was completely exposed, leaving him naked before you.

you pulled back just enough to look at him, though you stayed in his arms. the sight of him broke your heart. there were dark circles beneath his eyes, and his skin looked sallow from lack of sleep. and then, a single tear escaped, tracing a slow path down his cheek.

you froze. in all the years you had known him – from the boy who chased you through the labs to the man who ignored you across the dinner table – you had never seen chenle cry. not once.

with tenderness, you lifted your hand and brushed the tear away, your fingertips lingering on his skin, impossibly soft.

“zhong chenle,” you murmur softly, voice trembling with a mixture of ache and affection, “you really think you can get rid of me that easily?”

his eyes close briefly at your touch like your fingers can undo the pain inside him. he doesn’t answer, doesn’t joke, doesn’t hide behind sarcasm or distance or that cold indifference he perfected over the years. instead, chenle just pulls you back into his arms again, holding you tighter this time. and for the first time in years, you let yourself lean into him fully. 

eventually though, reality settles back between the two of you. chenle slowly loosens his hold first. the second he realizes how tightly he’s been clinging to you, his expression shifts immediately. he clears his throat quickly and takes a half step back like distance might help him regain control again. 

“i’m glad you’re okay,” he says quietly, guarded again.

before you can even process the moment properly — he leaves. just walks out of the kitchen entirely, leaving you standing there alone trying to understand what the hell just happened. 

none of that made sense.

chenle has spent the last six years hating you. yet, for a few minutes, he had held you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. you stare at the doorway long after he disappeared through it. confused. hopeful. terrified. you didn't want to read too much into a moment of panic-induced weakness, but the ghost of his heartbeat was still echoing in your ears.

until your phone buzzes nonstop, dragging you back to reality, life continuing on like your world hadn’t just tilted.

⚜️ THE MISTAKE THAT ALMOST TOOK YOU FROM ME ⚜️

the next day you’re back at the office like nothing happened. your heels click softly against the marble flooring of yü skincare as staff members greet you nervously on your way toward your office.

you settle into your executive chair with a quiet sigh, immediately scanning through the pile of reports waiting for you. the vitamin incident had already become a nightmare with legal teams involved, quality control investigations and public relations teams working overtime to keep information contained. 

you press the intercom button lightly, “send mark lee in.”

less than a minute later, the heavy door to your office swung open to huang renjun, human resource manager. his posture was stiff, his expression carefully neutral, yet there was a flicker of hesitation in his eyes that immediately set off alarm bells.

your brows furrowed as you continued flipping through a document, “where’s mark?” you asked, your voice cool and professional, “i need the updated reports on the supplement.”

renjun coughs awkwardly, the sound immediately making you look up, something about his expression feeling off, “ma’am…” he hesitates, “he’s no longer with the company.”

your hand stills completely against the papers, “…what?”

“he’s been terminated.”

“i didn’t receive a resignation letter, nor did i authorize a termination,” you pointed out calmly, though your eyes narrowed, “explain.”

renjun uncomfortably shifts beneath your gaze, “sir chenle fired him.” you stare at him for a moment, trying very hard to not let your surprise show too obviously. renjun clears his throat again, “he actually fired everyone involved in the vitamin project.”

your mind raced. chenle was many things – arrogant, distant, and emotionally stunted. but he was never impulsive when it comes to business. he was a strategist who weighed every risk. for him to wipe out an entire department without a single consultation, without even a courtesy to call you, meant he had completely lost his composure.

you force your expression neutral anyway, “i see. you may go, renjun.”

renjun bows quickly before practically escaping your office. the second the door shuts, you lean back into your chair slowly. you should be angry. technically, you are. chenle had overstepped every professional boundary, sabotaging your chain of command and stripping you of your most experienced researchers. but beneath the irritation, a treacherous warmth bloomed in your chest. for the first time in six years, chenle had been emotional. he had been protective. he had burned down a project just because it had dared to hurt you. it was a violent, impulsive gesture of care, wrapped in the guise of corporate cruelty.

that night, you leave your office long after most employees have already gone home. the building is quieter now. the endless clicking of keyboards and ringing phones reduced to distant murmur somewhere far below. through the massive windows lining your floor, the city glows beneath the dark sky, millions of lights flickering like stars against the glass. 

you wrap your blazer tighter around yourself before stepping out into the hallway. your heels echo sharply against the tiles as you make your way toward the glass bridge connecting yü skincare headquarters to zhong cosmetics tower beside it.

the bridge had always fascinated everyone. two billion dollar companies physically connected in the middle of the skyline. a symbol of merger. of power. of the marriage between you and chenle. you used to love walking through it. now it just feels symbolic in the cruelest way possible — close enough to see each other yet still separated by glass. 

you knew these buildings like the back of your hand. every hallway. every hidden office. ever late-night corner where you and chenle used to sit as teenagers avoiding meetings your parents forced you into. the memories follow you all the way across the bridge tonight. 

by the time you reach the executive floor of zhong cosmetics, the receptionist has already gone home. only chenle’s personal assistant remains seated outside his office. the man immediately stands and bows politely the second he sees you. 

“mrs. zhong.”

you nodded once, your gaze fixed on the closed doors. “is he busy?”

his assistant hesitated for a fraction of a second, glancing at the clock. “yes, ma’am, but… you may go in.”

you don’t bother knocking, simply pushing the doors open and walking inside. his office is dim except for the warm lighting near his desk and the city lights pouring through the windows behind him. chenle sits in his massive leather chair, sleeves rolled up slightly while scanning through documents with quiet concentration. he doesn’t look up immediately, probably assuming it’s just his assistant.

“you fired mark lee?” your voice cuts cleanly through the room, chenle’s attention snapping upward instantly. for a fleeting second, relief flickers across his face, like part of him still instinctively checks whether you’re okay every time he sees you now. then the expression disappears again, turning into something neutral. 

“who’s that?”

you exhale slowly through your nose, already irritated, “chenle,” you say flatly, “mark lee. head of the vitamin research team.”

understanding clicks across his face immediately, but it isn’t accompanied by apology.

“ahh,” he leans back slightly in his chair, “yes. that guy. how could i forget.”

the dismissiveness in his voice immediately annoys you further as you walk deeper into his office, “you cannot fire my people without consulting me first.”

chenle finally sets the file in his hands down, “your people are my people,” he says coolly, “that’s the whole point of this marriage.”

you ignore the sting in that statement – the reminder that in his eyes, you are just another asset to be merged.

“i want him back on the team.”

his jaw tightens almost instantly, “no. y/n.” 

the answer comes too quickly. too firmly. 

you stop dead in front of his desk now, arms crossing, refusing to back down, “chenle,” you say, your voice carefully modulated, fighting to keep the anger out, “mark lee has been employee of the month for seven consecutive years. he’s one of the best researchers in the industry. he’s valuable to this company and firing him is a strategic mistake.”

"valuable people don’t almost kill my wife."

the room goes still. your heartbeat stumbles slightly at the sharpness in his voice, at the way he says my wife. the possessiveness of it nearly undoes you, but your frustration and stubbornness is stronger.

“for fuck’s sake, chenle,” you snap, the poise you’ve spent years perfecting finally cracking, ”it was an accident!”

his expression hardens immediately, “an accident?”

"yes, an accident!," you throw your hands up, “he didn’t even know i was allergic to kiwis!” 

which was true. almost nobody did. allergies were weaknesses and weaknesses were dangerous in industries like yours. information could be weaponized to easily. chenle knew that better than anyone. 

suddenly, he stands, furious enough that his chair rolls backward sharply against the floor. his palms slam loudly on his desk, a sound that cracks through the office. 

“an accident that almost took you from me!”

his voice hits the room heavily — raw, furious, terrified — completely unraveled in a way you’ve never heard before. you stare at him across the desk, chest tightening painfully before anger rushes back to protect you from the hope that can completely blind you.

“oh please,” you scoff bitterly, rolling your eyes, “i bet you’d be jumping up and down if i actually died. it would have been the perfect exit strategy for you wouldn’t it? no more obligations, no more arranged marriage.”

the second the words leave your mouth, the atmosphere changes completely. the heat of his anger vanishes, replaced by a cold, suffocating stillness. chenle freezes, his eyes locking onto yours, hurt plastered all over his face.

“what?” he whispers.

your own emotions spill over immediately afterward. because you’re angry too. and hurt. and most of all, confused. you don’t know what he wants anymore. he needed space, you gave him space. you offer him a physical relationship that benefits him, he barely even touched you. and now – now he’s acting like he cares.

“you’ve spent the last six years making it very clear that you hate me,” you say, refusing to let your voice shake, “you’ve avoided me, ignored me and treated me like a burden. so don’t suddenly start playing the caring husband because i almost died. don’t pretend you have a heart now just because you’re scared of the paperwork a death certificate would cause.”

his expression breaks even more. the anger is gone, replaced by a look of such profound devastation that it almost feels like a crime to feel the way you do.

“i don’t hate you.”

and he sounds painfully, devastatingly honest.

you stare at him from across the desk, your heart beating so loudly it almost drowns out the silence filling the office. chenle doesn’t look away from you. the room feels too small now. too full of things neither of you know how to say. 

“you don’t get to say that now,” you whisper finally, your voice cracking, “not after all these years.”

he looks down sharply, jaw tightening hard enough for you to see the muscle twitch. then he laughs once, a miserable, dry laugh. 

“i know.” the words come out rough. he drags a hand over his face like he’s trying to pull himself back together. it doesn’t work. “i know,” he repeats weaker this time, sounding small and hollow. 

you watch him carefully now, even more confused. zhong chenle never falls apart. not publicly. not privately. not ever. he is the gold standard of control – composed, untouchable, a man carved from ice and expectation. yet, standing before you, he looks like he’s seconds away from total collapse. 

your anger starts cracking around the edges as you look at the boy in front of you. you were always weak when it came to him. if there were a list of your weaknesses, he’d be right there, on top of that damned fruit.

“chenle…”

he suddenly shakes his head. he physically can’t let you comfort him right now.

“do you know what i thought when you stopped breathing?”

the question hangs in tha air as you hold your breath. 

“i thought,” he exhales shakily, “i thought the last thing you were ever going to believe…was that i hated you.”

he finally looks at you again then, completely wrecked, his eyes bloodshot and swimming with a grief that has been simmering for years. 

“and i couldn’t fucking breathe,” he admits quietly, his voice trembling, “because all i could think was that you were going to leave me believing i didn’t love you.” 

the world feels like it stops spinning. love. he said love. not care. not obligation. love. your lips part slightly but no sound comes out. chenle laughs bitterly again before shaking his head. 

“you’re right. i spent years blaming you for everything because it was easier than admitting i was scared,” he confesses, his gaze searching yours, “scared that none of my choices were mine anymore. that my entire life was a script written by our parents,” he swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing, “but loving you…that was the only choice that was actually mine.”

that brings tears to your eyes instantly. chenle looks at you helplessly now. he doesn’t know what to do with all the emotions spilling out of him anymore. 

“and i ruined us anyway.”

he moves then, walking around the desk quickly, finally removing the barrier that always sat between the two of you. you think he’s going to stop in front of you.

instead – he drops to his knees. 

“what are you–”

before you can even process the gesture, his arms wrap tightly around your waist, forehead pressing against your stomach and finally — he breaks completely. you feel the shuddering breath leave him in a great, racking sob, his grip tightening almost painfully around you, tears slipping down his cheeks. 

“i’m sorry.”

the words come out cracked. wrecked. nothing like the polished man the world knows. 

“i’m so fucking sorry.”

you cover your mouth with your hand, stifling a sob of your own, even though you could already taste the salt from your own tears. this is the same boy who never apologizes unless forced to. the man who would rather bleed out than let people see weakness. and here he is, kneeling at your feet, clinging onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him together. 

“i’m sorry for all of it,” he gasps, his voice breaking, “for hurting you, for making you feel lonely, for making you believe i hated you when i—,” his voice breaks completely. 

slowly, tentatively, you thread your fingers through his hair. the moment your touch meets him, chenle exhales a shaky, broken sound against your stomach, his entire body shuddering. even a small gesture of comfort from you is enough to undo him.

“stop that,” you whisper, voice trembling.

your heart is breaking for him, for the boy who spent years pretending to be a monster so he wouldn't have to admit he was a prisoner. you can't stand to see him like this – on his knees, apologizing as if he is something broken and discarded at your feet, rather than the person you’ve loved for all of your life. 

you gently tug at his hair, coaxing him to look up. when he finally does, his eyes are swimming with tears, his expression completely defenseless. in this moment, everything else feels distant and irrelevant. there is only one overwhelming realization pouring through your chest:

chenle loves you. 

the boy you spent years mourning while standing right beside him this entire time still loves you. your heart feels too full for your body. before you can overthink it, before the fear and doubts can return, you slide your hands down to his face, pulling him upward carefully.

“get up,” you murmur through your own shaky tears. chenle obeys immediately, still staring at you like he’s afraid this moment isn’t real. your hand slides slowly against his cheeks, wiping his tears away before settling on his jaw.

“you really love me?” 

the question is a fragile thing, barely a whisper, floating between you like glass that could shatter at the slightest breeze. you sound disbelieving, your voice trembling with the weight of six years of silence and cold shoulders.

chenle’s expression dissolves. the hardness in his eyes, the armor he’s worn since he was eighteen, it all melts into something so painfully tender it nearly wrecks you. 

“i always have,” he confesses. 

that’s the final blow. the last shred of distance, the last wall of resentment.

you kiss him first.

but chenle returns it immediately, kissing you back like he’s been starving for it, years of tension snapping instantly. his hands come up to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer, enough to pull a gasp from you while your fingers tangle tightly into his hair. 

this kiss feels nothing like your wedding day. it’s not polite. not careful. 

it’s desperate. it’s the sound of two people drowning and finally finding air. all the years you spent silently loving each other crashing together at once. he kisses you like he’s trying to make up for every moment he wasted. every cold shoulder. every lonely dinner. every time he walked away instead of reaching for you. 

your back bumps lightly against the edge of his desk. he breaks the kiss for a fraction of a second, his forehead pressing against yours, both of you panting, breaths mingling in the charged air.

“fuck,” he whispers against your lips, his voice a wrecked, needy rasp, “i missed you so fucking much.”

the words makes your head spin. you don't let him breathe, pulling him back down, your mouth seeking his with a hunger that matches his own. his grip on your waist tightens, and in one fluid, powerful motion, he lifts you effortlessly, hoisting you onto the desk. papers scatter, sliding across the desk and fluttering to the floor. he doesn't give a damn about the reports. the only thing that matters is the heat of you.

you wrap your legs around his waist automatically, pulling him into you as he steps between your knees. he crashes his lips back onto yours, his tongue sweeping through your mouth with a possessive urgency. this isn't just lust, it’s an exorcism. he is purging years of loneliness, and you are drinking him in, fingers clutching his hair, pulling him closer as if you could merge your very souls.

“do you know-,” he groans, his voice sounding almost angry at himself, his mouth moving to the sensitive skin of your jaw, “-how long i've wanted to do this properly?”

“stop talking then,” you tease, your voice breathy and laced with desire. you reach down, hooking your fingers into his belt loop, tugging hard, dragging his hips flush against your center.

chenle lets out a grunt as he grinds his cock firmly into your clothed core, the friction sending a jolt of pure electricity through both of you. he freezes, a shudder racking his entire frame, his breath coming in jagged hitches.

“wait... wait, baby,” he groans, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as he forces himself to pull back just an inch.

“what’s wrong?” 

“i really, really want to do this,” he rasps, “but...not here.”

you laugh softly and it almost undoes him. almost makes him take back what he just said. with a tiny smile on your lips, you nod, “okay.”

then you glance around the wreckage of his desk, your smile turning into something playful, “do you need help finishing up those reports first, then?”

“are you crazy?” he asks, though his tone is fond. he doesn't let go of you, his hands sliding down to squeeze your hips one last time before he helps you down.

“we’re going home...right now.”

the ride home is a blur of friction and heat. for the first time in your marriage, you don't sit in separate cars. you spend the entire journey tangled together in the backseat, the partition slid up to shield you from the driver’s view. you can’t stop kissing him. you can’t stop laughing into him, feeling the giddy, overwhelming rush of being loved back.

chenle is just as relentless, his mouth roaming all over your exposed skin, leaving a trail of dark, possessive marks that claim you as his. every time you try to catch your breath, he finds a new spot to kiss, his hands roaming your curves.

the air in the car is thick with the scent of expensive cologne and arousal, the silence of the ride punctuated only by the sound of wet kisses and the shaky, happy sighs of two people who have finally come home.

⚜️ THE MASTER BEDROOM ⚜️

as you step through the front door, chenle is practically jumping beside you, a boyish grin plastered on his face. he looks at you with a hunger that is now subdued by an overwhelming sweetness.

“race you to the top!,” he shouts.

before you can even process the challenge, he’s already bolting up the left staircase, his laughter echoing through the foyer.

“lele! this isn’t fair! i’m in heels!” you squeal, your voice sounding lighter than it has in years. you run up the right staircase anyway, feeling like a kid again – the version of you that loved him without fear, and the version of him that followed you everywhere. 

by the time you reach the top, breathless and flushed, he’s already there, leaning against the railing with a smug, sparkling expression. 

“that was not nice, you should’ve given me a head start!,” you complain, crossing your arms and pouting, a childish expression you haven’t dared to show him in a lifetime. he chuckles then, stepping forward, his presence enveloping you as he pulls you back into his arms. 

his finger lifts your chin to tilt you face up to his, “and what does the winner get?,” he asks, eyes dancing with a mix of mischief and adoration. 

you lean back slightly, a playful, daring glint in your eyes, “hmm…you get to choose.”

he quirks a brow, gaze dropping to your lips, “choose what?”

“my room or yours?” you say with a smile that looks innocent but tastes like a provocation. 

a slow grin spreads across his face, “how about ours?”

“ours?” confusion flickers across your features. 

without a word, he takes your hand and begins leading you. he doesn't turn toward the left wing or the right…instead, he guides you toward the central hallway – the one you’ve spent months ignoring. it was the dead zone of the house, a place too painful to acknowledge because it represented the void in your marriage. the hallway that leads straight to the master bedroom.

as you walk, he slides behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist in a tight back hug, pulling your back flush against his chest. he presses a kiss to the side of your neck, his breath hot and steady as he pushes open the two grand double doors.

you freeze, your breath catching in your throat. the room is breathtaking. grand and dipped in gold. 

“wow,” you whisper, stepping inside, “i haven’t been in here since your mom gave me the tour…i thought it would’ve collected cobwebs by now.”

“it did,” he whispers against your ear, his voice thick with a sudden, piercing apology, “i had the maids clean while you were in the hospital. i wanted it to be perfect for when we finally came home together.”

you turn in his arms, looking up at him. a small, bittersweet smile tugs at your lips., “maybe i should’ve eaten that kiwi a lot earlier.”

chenle’s grip on your sides tightens, his expression shifting into one of genuine panic, “don’t joke about that, baby. please.”

you giggle, the sound soft and melodic. he scolds you, though his eyes are softening, “it’s not funny, y/n.”

“i’m not smiling because of the kiwi,” you reply softly, your voice barely a breath.

“then why are you smiling?” he asks, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw.

you look away for a second, your cheeks flushing in embarrassment, “i just…i really like it when you call me baby.”

chenle’s heart is practically audible in his chest, his gaze intensifying as he tips your chin up gently, making you look into the depths of his devotion.

“i love you,” he declares, the words sounding like a vow.

“i love you, too,” you whisper back.

he kisses you then – not the desperate, starving kiss from the office, but something slow, sweet, and profoundly tender. it’s a promise of a future. a seal on the new life you’re starting.

then, without warning, he breaks the kiss and sweeps you off your feet. you let out a startled gasp, clutching his shoulders as he lifts you bridal style. he carries you across the room with effortless strength, eyes locked on yours, matching smiles on your faces before placing you carefully in the center of the massive king-sized bed.

as chenle looms over you, the playful energy morphs into something more deeper. he moves with deliberate, agonizing slowness, as if he wants to memorize every single inch of you, making up for every second of the years he spent pretending he didn’t want you. 

he leans in, his lips brushing against yours in a kiss that starts as a whisper and grows into a demand. his tongue swirls against yours as you moan into his mouth, hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

“you have no idea,” he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low, gravelly vibration, “how long i’ve dreamed of kissing you.”

his hands move to the hem of your blouse, fingers grazing your skin and sending jolts of electricity through your nerves. he undresses you with a reverence that borders on worship, peeling away the fabrics slowly, pausing to kiss the hollow of your throat, the slope of your shoulder, and the middle of your breast. when you’re finally bare beneath him, he pulls back for a moment, his eyes darkening as he drinks in the sight of you.

“you're so beautiful,” he whispers, his gaze heavy with adoration. 

he descends slowly, lips finding your breast as he takes your nipple into his mouth, sucking firmly, you let out a sharp gasp, your back arching off the mattress. the sensation is new – a focused, searing heat that radiates from your chest down to your core. he alternates between soft licks and deep, demanding suctions, moving from one breast to the other, leaving a trail of wet, burning kisses across your ribs.

“lele…oh, god,” you whimper as he continues trailing lower, his tongue tasting the skin of your stomach, circling your navel and teasing the very edge of your underwear. you can feel the heat radiating from him, the scent of his skin mixing with the luxury of the room, your breath coming in short, jagged hitches.

you’ve only known one kind of intimacy ever – that cold, transactional night with him that left you feeling empty. this is different. this is a slow burn, a deliberate awakening.

as he slides your underwear down your legs, he settles between your thighs, pushing them wide. you feel a surge of vulnerability, a sudden flash of inexperience that makes you shy away slightly.

“wait, chenle…i've... i've never…” you start, your voice trembling.

chenle looks up at you, a tender, knowing smile on his face, “i know, baby. just relax. let me take care of you.”

the first contact of his tongue against your clit pulls a soft moan out of you, a sensation you weren’t prepared for. the feeling of pleasure, making your hips instinctively jerk upward, arching off that mattress in a desperate search for more. he presses deeper, his tongue swirling in a slow, rhythmic motion that targets the most sensitive part of you.

“do you like that?” he mumbles, his voice a low, vibrating growl against your wetness, the heat of his breath sending fresh shivers racing down your spine.

“yes…” you whisper shyly, voice trembling. you try to keep your eyes open, wanting to witness the sight of him. but you don’t get to watch for long before your eyes begin to roll back, lids fluttering as he begins to feast on you with a sudden, hungry intensity. he’s no longer just tasting you – he’s consuming you. his tongue flickering rapidly, alternating between broad strokes and sharp, pointed pressure that makes your toes curl. when he suddenly sucks your clit into his mouth, creating a powerful vacuum of pleasure, your vision blurs into a haze of white and gold. you are completely undone. the tension in your lower belly coils tighter and tighter, building into a frantic crescendo that makes you feel like you're vibrating.

“chenle, i’m… i think i’m…” you gasp, your fingers clutching the silk sheets until they bunch up in your fists.

“go on, baby. give it all to me,” he encourages, his voice thick with desire. he works his tongue faster and harder, driving you relentlessly toward the edge.

as he does, he glances up, his dark eyes focusing on the sight of you – your head rolled back, your mouth parted in a silent, desperate gasp, your body arched, your nipples peaked.

he reaches up, grabbing your hand and locking his fingers with yours, anchoring you to the bed. you squeeze his hand with everything you have, clinging to him as the world finally shatters. you cum hard, your clit pulsing against his tongue in a series of intense spasms that leave you sobbing for air. the release is so overwhelming that it feels as though you're floating in a void of pure euphoria, a level of pleasure you never knew existed. you collapse back into the pillows, panting heavily, chest heaving as the aftershocks continue to ripple through you.

chenle slowly lifts his head, your pleasure glistening on his lips. he looks at you with a mixture of triumph and pure, unadulterated love. he crawls back up your body, kissing your forehead, your nose, and finally your lips, making you taste yourself on his tongue.

you reach up then, your fingers hooking on his tie. it’s already loosened from your earlier desperation. you tug on it firmly, finally removing it. 

with a low, needy sound against his lips, you sit up, beginning to undress him, your movements hurried and clumsy with eagerness. buttons pop and fabric slides until he’s completely naked, his skin warm against yours. 

your breath hitches in your throat. you hadn’t seem him fully the first time – but now, in the soft glow of the bedroom, you can’t seem to look away. your gaze drops to his cock.

driven by a sudden, bold curiosity, you reach out, your fingers wrapping around the warm skin of his shaft. 

chenle lets out a sharp, strangled whine, his hips jerking towards your touch instinctively. the sound is so visceral, so unlike the composed man the world knows, that you freeze, your eyes widening.

“did that hurt?” you whisper, looking up at him with genuine concern, as if you've just discovered a secret vulnerability.

a small, breathless smile tugs at his lips, though his eyes are clouded with lust. he shakes his head slowly, his voice a strained rasp, "no, baby... fuck, it feels so good. you drive me insane–,” he kisses you again, pulling back just an inch, forehead resting against yours, breath hot on your skin, “-but you need to stop,” he groans, the sound vibrating in his chest, “i need to be inside you.”

he carefully guides you back to lay on the bed, hands sliding under your thighs to pull you closer to him. he spends a long moment just looking at you, his gaze roaming over your flushed skin and swollen lips.

“i’m sorry about before," he whispers, “i promise i’m going to make up for every single second of it,” he says, voice thick with emotion before grabbing your hand and pressing a soft kiss to your pinky. and before he can let go, you pull his hand towards you, returning the kiss to his pinky too – not the innocent promise of children, but a mature, desperate vow of devotion. chenle’s breath hitches, the small gesture acting like a catalyst, snapping the last thread of his restraint.

he doesn't rush though. he moves with a slow, reverent precision, parting your legs with a gentle nudge of his knee, his eyes never leaving yours. as he positions himself, the head of his cock brushes against your entrance, slick and searing hot. you gasp, your hips instinctively arching upward, seeking the friction. chenle lets out a shaky exhale, his muscles trembling with the effort of holding back. he enters you in one slow, agonizingly steady glide.

“oh...chenle,” you moan, your eyes fluttering shut as you feel yourself stretching to accommodate him. you’ve never felt so full.

he freezes for a moment, buried deep inside you, his forehead pressed against yours, a low groan escaping his throat, “you're so tight... so warm. i can't believe you're actually mine.”

then he begins to move, and it is nothing like the clinical urgency of the first time. this is a dance. he pulls back until he is almost out, only to plunge back in with a slow, heavy thud that makes you cry out. every thrust is deliberate, designed to make you feel the weight of him, the heat of him, and the sheer intensity of his love.

“chenle... please,” you whimper, your fingers clawing into his shoulders, “right there... don't stop.”

“i've got you, baby,” he whispers, kissing the sensitive skin of your neck, his lips leaving searing trails of heat.

he picks up the pace slightly, the wet, slapping sound of skin on skin filling the quiet room. then he reaches down, his hand sliding between your bodies to find your clit, thumb circling your swollen nub, perfectly timed with the deep, rhythmic thrusts of his hips. the combination is electric. you feel that same tension building again, faster this time, a coil of pleasure tightening with every stroke. you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to erase any remaining space between you.

“look at me,” he commands softly. you open your eyes to find him watching you with an expression of pure, unadulterated worship, “tell me you feel it. tell me you know how much i love you.”

“i feel it,” you sob, your voice breaking, “i love you...i love you so much, chenle."

the words breaks something inside him. his movements become more urgent, more passionate, though he never loses that sweetness. he begins to whisper things against your skin – promises of a future, apologies for the past, and raw admissions of how much he craved this specific moment.

as the climax begins to crest, you feel your walls clamp down on him in tight, rhythmic waves. you gasp his name, body shuddering under the force of a release that feels like a spiritual cleansing. chenle lets out a guttural, strangled cry, his body stiffening as he delivers a few final, powerful thrusts. he pours himself into you, his own release consuming, his head falling at the crook of your neck as he gives in to the euphoria, collapsing onto you, his chest heaving against yours, his arms wrapping around you in a protective, crushing embrace. for a long time, the only sound in the room is the synchronized thumping of two hearts finally beating in the same rhythm.

“i love you,” he whispers into your hair, his voice exhausted but certain.

⚜️ THE REST OF YOUR LIFE ⚜️

you wake up to the sound of light snoring from your husband, his arms locked firmly around your naked waist, your back flushed against his bare chest. the warmth of skin on skin is electric, but it’s the prominent, hard bulge of his cock pressing firmly into the small of your back that makes your breath hitch.

you pinch your arm, a sharp sting that confirms this isn't a fever dream. 

then you shift gently in his embrace, turning in the circle of his arms to face him. as you move, his cock slides against the curve of your hip, dangerously close to your core. the proximity makes your pussy clench instinctively. you’ve always loved chenle but this kind of hunger was new - a desperate need to be consumed by him.

“stop staring at me, you creep,” he teases, his voice thick with sleep.

you let out a breathless laugh, swatting his shoulder. the sound of your own laughter feels foreign yet right.

it hits you then – the terrifying, beautiful ease of it all. like the past six years of coldness, the resentment, and the silence were just a bad dream, easily erased by the heat of his body.

sensing your sudden silence, chenle opens his eyes. the gaze he meets you with is soft, searching, and filled with an intensity that makes your heart race. 

“what are you thinking about?” he asks softly, his hand drifting up to thread his fingers through your hair, massaging your scalp.

“just… thinking about how nice this is,” you whisper, a small, genuine smile tugging at your lips.

“yeah?” he lets out a playful hum, his eyes shimmering with complete adoration, “think you could do this with me for the rest of our lives?”

you lean in then, kissing him softly, “yes,” you murmur against his lips with absolutely no doubt, “you’ve always been the only person i could ever do this with.”

chenle’s heart stutters. he had thought his love for you had reached its peak, but every time you surprise him with your tenderness, the feeling grows, expanding until it feels like he might burst.

“do you think this would still be nice with twenty kids?”  he teases, a mischievous glint returning to his eyes.

you recoil slightly, a look of genuine horror flashing across your face. “what?! i’m not giving you twenty kids, chenle! are you insane?!”

he bursts into a loud, genuine laugh, his eyes disappearing into crescents, his kitten-like smile whiskers prominent. as he calms down, he smirks, leaning closer, “i’m not the one who wants twenty kids. i’m pretty sure it was my beautiful wife, coming home drunk a month ago and begging me for a baby.”

you groan, your face flushing a deep crimson as you try to rack your brain for any memory of such a confession. but you don’t remember anything.

“i was drunk! i wasn’t in my right mind!”

“hmm,” he draws the word out fondly, his hand sliding down from your hair to trace the curve of your hip,  “how many kids do you actually want then?”

“two,” you admit shyly, looking away.

“only two? baby, this mansion would go to waste,” he teases, a playful smirk on his face.

“okay… three then,”  you say, trying to hide the smile growing on your face.

“what if one of them feels left out?”

“four. and that’s it!” you exclaim.

in one fluid motion, chenle rolls you onto your back, pinning you beneath his weight, his eyes dark with lust, his hard cock hitting your thigh with a heavy thud. 

“guess we should start getting to work then,” he smirks.

you giggle underneath him, pulling him in for a quick kiss before murmuring against his lips, “can you do that thing you did last night first, though?” you ask, cheeks burning.

“what thing, baby? i did a couple of things.”

the embarrassment is overwhelming, but the craving is stronger. you bite your lip, unable to say it aloud.

“c’mon, mrs. zhong, owner of two beauty empires,” he teases, his voice a low, sultry drawl, “you can tell your husband exactly what you want.”

“go down on me again, chenle,” you whisper.

he grins, a predatory yet loving expression, “of course, baby… but you do know that’s not how babies are made, right?”

you groan, shoving at his chest, “i really don't care.”

he chuckles, the sound vibrating in his chest before he slides down your body. he doesn't stop until his face is buried between your thighs, letting out a low moan at the scent of your arousal, his hot breath ghosting over your clit before his tongue makes a slow, wet sweep from your bottom to the top, tasting every drop of your longing.

⚜️ THE OFFICE ⚜️

when you get to the office later that day, arriving in the same car, and walking through the lobby of yü skincare together – the atmosphere shifts. you can feel the collective intake of breath from the staff, the employees practically vibrating with curiosity, eyes darting between you and chenle, trying and failing to hide their sheer shock. you don't blame them. for seven months, your marriage had been spent apart. to see him not only accompanying you to your door but looking at you with an expression of raw, unfiltered adoration is enough to send the office gossip into overdrive.

your eyes scan the room, landing on a familiar figure – mark lee is back at his desk, focused and working. a surge of triumph rushes through you. you’ve won.

the moment the heavy door to your private office clicks shut, the professional facade vanishes. chenle doesn't waste a second. his hands are instantly back on you, grip firm and possessive as he spins you around to face him, pinning you lightly against the edge of your desk.

you grin, your eyes dancing with mischief, “i see mark lee is back,” you say teasingly.

chenle huffs a small, amused breath, his forehead resting against yours, “yeah, he’s back. but tell him he’s walking on a very thin line,” he murmurs, though there’s no real heat in the threat. you laugh, a genuine, light sound, and shove his shoulder playfully. 

his expression shifts, the playfulness melting into something achingly sincere as he cups your face in his hands, thumbs tracing your cheekbones with a reverence that makes your heart stutter. 

“you know i’d give you everything you want, right? just say the word and it’s all yours.”

it’s not just a statement – it’s another confession, a continuation of the vow he’s been making since you woke up. 

“i told you,” he whispers, his gaze searching yours, “i’ll spend the rest of this life, and every single one after that, making it up to you.”

you let out a soft, breathless laugh, feeling a warmth spread through your chest, “when did you become such a sap?” you tease, reaching up and winding your fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck to pull him down.

the kiss is slow, languid, and deep – a sweet contrast to the hunger of the morning, but filled with the same desperate need to be close. as your tongues slide together, the corporate world outside the door ceases to exist, there is only the scent of his cologne, the heat of his body, and the overwhelming realization that you are finally, truly, loved.

⚜️ THE FULFILLED PROMISE ⚜️

it didn’t take long after that before you finally got pregnant.

you and chenle fucked all the time. and it wasn’t even to conceive – the two you just physically could not get enough of each other. the mansion became your personal playground. you were pretty sure there wasn’t a single square inch of the estate that hadn’t felt the heat of your bodies. 

like that one time when you both got home after a charity gala. you had worn a red dress that hugged every curve, the slit climbing dangerously high up your thigh. all night, chenle had been a predator in a tuxedo, his gaze burning into you, hand possessively gripping the small of your back, whispering filth into your ear while you smiled for the cameras. he didn't want to network, he wanted to rip the dress off your body. the moment the heavy doors of the mansion clicked shut behind you, the facade crumbled. he didn't even let you take off your heels. chenle grabbed you by the waist, hoisting you up with a grunt of effort and placing you down onto the large, circular marble table that sat centrally between the grand staircases, not even caring about the priceless antique vase sitting on top of it. he didn't waste time with foreplay – he reached down, bunching the red silk upward, exposing your lace panties and with one violent tug, he ripped the lace aside, the sound of tearing fabric echoing in the vast foyer. “i’ve been thinking about this since the moment you put this dress on,” he growled, voice raw. he freed his pulsing cock, already leaking pre-cum, and shoved it into you in one deep, punishing thrust. you moaned his name so loud, back arching off the marble, legs locking around his waist to pull him deeper. the sound of your shared moans bounced off the high ceilings, filling the foyer with the raw noises of pleasure. he fucked you desperately, hips slamming against yours with a wet, slapping sound that could be heard all around the mansion. you knew the maids were nearby, you could almost feel their shocked eyes on you, but the thought only made you wetter. you gripped his shoulders, nails digging into his tuxedo jacket, sobbing his name as he hammered into you, driving you toward a shattering climax that left you shaking and drenched.

then there was the discovery of the billiards room. it had been a forgotten wing of the house, dusty and silent until you both stumbled upon it during a lazy afternoon. the moment the door closed, the atmosphere shifted. the green felt of the billiard table looked like an invitation. chenle didn't even let you stand still. he lifted you up the billiard table, hiking your dress up and spreading your legs wide. “you smell so sweet,” he murmured, breath hot against your inner thigh. he didn't hesitate, burying his face in your pussy. his tongue was your favorite  weapon – broad, wet, and relentless. he licked your folds, swirling around your clit, making your toes curl. he fingered you with his other hand, two fingers sliding deep inside your soaking walls, stretching you while his tongue continued to drive you insane. it was an intense combination. you were sobbing, fingers clutching his hair. just as you reached the peak, he pulled away, leaving you gasping and dripping. he didn't give you a second to whine about it, grabbing your hips to help you down then bending you forward until your chest was pressed against the green felt. “look at you,” he whispered, his voice a dark caress, “always so ready for me.” he entered you from behind, his cock filling you completely over and over again. the friction of the billiard table against your skin and the relentless pace of his thrusts sent you over the edge. he fucked you ruthlessly, his hand reaching around to pinch your nipples over your pajama dress, his chest heaving against your back. every thrust was a claim, a promise that you belonged to him, until he finally groaned, filling you with a hot, thick surge of cum that left you both breathless and spent.

and also that one time in the hot tub, it wasn’t even night time…it was pure daylight, the sun was out, illuminating every inch of the outdoor sanctuary. the risk of being seen by the gardeners or the staff was immense, but the adrenaline only fueled the fire. you were draped across him, your legs wrapped around his waist as you rode him. the warm, bubbling water splashed around you, clinging to your skin. chenle’s hands were everywhere – one gripping your ass to keep you steady, the other reaching up to grab your breast. he leaned in, his mouth latching onto your nipple, sucking it hard, his tongue swirling around the peak. you threw your head back, your moans echoing across the open terrace, completely uninhibited. you could feel the vibration of the water and the rhythmic slide of his cock deep inside you. every time you sank down, you felt him hit your cervix, a sensation that made you whimper and cling to his shoulders. “who cares if they see?” he gasped, his eyes locked on yours, filled with a mixture of lust and adoration, “let them see who you belong to.” he gripped your waist tighter, lifting you slightly before slamming you back down onto him. the splashing grew more violent, the water churning as the pace increased. you rode him with a frantic energy, your clit rubbing against his pelvic bone with every downward stroke. when the climax hit, it was explosive. you screamed his name into the open air, your walls clamping down on him in tight, rhythmic waves, while he groaned, thrusting one last time and flooding you with his cum under the bright, midday sun.

and then there was that one week honeymoon that chenle insisted on, saying that he never got to give you a proper one. you two spent a week in the most luxurious private resort in hawaii. the resort is beautiful, open to the tropical air and the rhythmic crash of the ocean, but you barely saw the view. you were too occupied by your husband. for seven days, the world ceased to exist. there were no board meetings, no family expectations, and no corporate rules – only the sound of wet, slapping skin and the desperate gasps of two people becoming one. he fucked you in the private pool, the warm water swirling around your hips as he held you against the edge, his cock sliding in and out of you with a frictionless ease that made you scream into the salty air. he fucked you on the outdoor daybed, under the moon, the linen sheets soaking through with your combined juices. he would spend hours worshipping your body, his tongue tracing every curve, every fold, before driving himself into you with a force that left you shaking and sobbing his name. 

and of course, eventually, you fucked in both of your offices. the two of you tried to keep it professional at first but at one point, you just couldn’t stop yourselves. i mean, no one can fire you anyway. and the two of you spend so much time at work it just makes sense. your favorite routine involved the desk — when you were the one who gets to play, disappearing from view while chenle continued a conference call. the contrast was intoxicating, his voice, cool and commanding, discussing quarterly projections, while your mouth was wrapped tightly around his cock. you would suck him with a focused intensity, swirling your tongue around the head and taking him as deep as your throat would allow, listening to the slight hitch in his breath and the way his hand gripped the edge of the desk to keep from groaning. when he finally hangs up, he would haul you out from under the desk by your waist and slam you down onto the edge of it, “my little slut wants to play, huh?” he’d growl against your lips as you cling to the desk for dear life, heels digging into the carpet. he took you right there in the center of his power, filling you to the brim.

but still...nothing beats fucking in your shared bedroom, this was where the real intensity lived, especially on the nights when chenle’s gaze turned dark and determined. on those nights, he didn't just want to fuck you – he wanted to possess you completely. he would start by flipping you over, forcing you onto your hands and knees in doggy style. he loved the view of your arched back and the way your ass looked spread wide for him. he would grip your hips, his fingers digging into your skin, and thrust into you from behind. the sound of his balls slapping against your cheeks echoed through the room, a raw, primal beat that drove you insane. he would reach forward to pull your hair back, whispering filth into your ear about how much he loved the way you took him. then, he would flip you onto your back, hoisting your legs up high,  sometimes draping them over his shoulders, so that he could penetrate you at the deepest possible angle. in this position, there was no escape. he drove himself in until he hit your cervix, each thrust a heavy, thumping blow that sent shockwaves of pleasure through your entire body. “look at me,” he would command, his eyes burning with an obsessive kind of love, “tell me you're mine.” the friction and the intensity pushed you toward a peak you had never experienced before. in the heat of those nights, you discovered the sensation of squirting – your pussy drenching the sheets and leaving you gasping for air. the feeling of losing control, of your body literally overflowing with pleasure, sends chenle into a frenzy. he would fuck you even harder, driving you through multiple, shattering orgasms, his own release coming in a hot, thick flood that filled you completely, leaving you both tangled in the damp sheets, hearts racing in a synchronized rhythm of absolute devotion.

now, a year into marriage and you were two months pregnant with your first child.

it hasn’t been easy, your baby was stubborn – which you honestly should’ve seen coming knowing how stubborn its father is (and you, too). 

the pregnancy had stripped away your usual composure. for a woman who navigated the cutthroat world of billionaire cosmetics with a steady hand, the loss of control was infuriating.

your morning sickness wasn't just “morning”sickness – it was a rolling tide of nausea that lasted the whole day. you had spent the last few weeks throwing up everything from expensive lobster to plain crackers. to add to the misery, your breasts had swollen, becoming agonizingly sore to the touch.

you were, in a word – grumpy. a whirlwind of mood swings, snapping at assistants and sobbing over the smallest of things, existing in a state of perpetual irritation. which was especially unfortunate considering you had never been particularly good at dealing with discomfort. you are a billionaire. struggle is not your forte.

still, chenle had been unbelievably sweet and understanding through all of it. he spent his days balancing both companies and his nights massaging your back or holding your hair back while you retched into the toilet, kissing your forehead with a tenderness that still made your heart ache.

today, you were plagued by a craving so specific, so visceral, that it felt like a physical hunger. you wanted a tomato-egg dish. but not just any version. it had to be right.

chef sung ahn, a culinary genius, was currently in the midst of a crisis — seven bowls of the dish sat on the marble island, each one a slightly different variation of seasoning and texture. and yet, none of them were right.

you pushed the seventh bowl away with a pout, your lower lip trembling. you knew you were acting like a spoiled child, but as you rested a hand over your still-flat stomach, you reasoned that you were carrying what is about to be the most spoiled heir in the country. it only made sense. 

the heavy thud of the front door announced chenle’s return. he stepped into the kitchen, shedding his blazer and loosening his tie, his eyes immediately landing on the scene.

“baby,” he murmured, stepping behind you and pressing a lingering, sweet kiss to the crown of your head.

his scent, expensive cologne and the lingering musk of a long day at the office, usually calmed you, but today you were too frustrated to be fully appeased, “what’s going on in here?”

you let out a dramatic groan, leaning back into his chest, “your stupid baby wants a certain taste, and the chef can’t do it!" you complained, pouting up at him, “nothing tastes right, chenle! everything is wrong!”

chenle looked from your frustrated expression to the exhausted but patient chef sung ahn, a small, apologetic smile playing on his lips as he wrapped his arms around your shoulders.

“i’m so sorry, chef. she’s been incredibly sensitive since the pregnancy started. i think we're dealing with a very demanding little one.”

chef sung ahn smiled knowingly, unfazed by the seven wasted bowls. he was paid far too much to be offended by the complaints of a pregnant billionaire.

“that’s perfectly alright, mr. zhong. my wife was exactly the same way. i remember a week where she nearly kicked me out of the house because the toast was too loud.”

the two men share a low chuckle while you try not to roll your eyes. his wife was valid and you know it. 

“i think i know exactly what she wants, though,” chenle said, his voice dropping an octave, becoming soft and confident.

"i’ll take care of it. thank you, chef. you can head out for the day."

as the chef departed, chenle took his place, rolling up his sleeves and exposing his forearms. you remained seated on the bar stool, watching him. there was something hypnotic about the way he moved – the precision of his knife, the way he cracked the eggs with one hand, the sizzle of the tomatoes hitting the pan.

as the aroma began to waft through the air, something happened — for the first time in hours, the nausea in your stomach vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense surge of appetite.

your mouth watered. the scent was an exact match – not to a michelin-star recipe, but to a memory. a flash of nostalgia hitting you. you were seventeen again, shivering under a duvet in your room, delirious with a fever. chenle visited you with a simple, home-cooked tomato-egg dish. it hadn't been fancy, but it had been made with a quiet kind of care that had spoken louder than any words.

you looked at your husband – the man who had once been your best friend, then your cold stranger, and now the love of your life. a small, amused smile tugged at your lips. your baby, barely the size of a fruit, was already exerting its will, bypassing the expertise of a world-class chef to demand the specific, nostalgic touch of its father.

god, you thought, a small, amused smile tugging at your lips as you watched him plate the food. the baby already has a favorite. what a traitor.

chenle finished the dish quickly, the steam curling upward, carrying that precise, comforting scent that had finally silenced the storm in your stomach.

he slid the bowl in front of you, the colors vibrant and the aroma intoxicating. as you picked up the spoon to take a bite, he stepped towards you. 

“how is it?” he smirks teasingly. because he knows you. and he knows it’s exactly what you needed. 

you let out a soft, involuntary sigh of contentment, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a verbal compliment just yet. instead, you pouted, looking up at him through your lashes. without warning, you reached out and gripped the fabric of his shirt, bunching the material in your fist and tugging him towards you as you burrowed your face into chest.

“you’re not allowed to go to work anymore,” you mumbled against his shirt, “you’re staying with me. every second of every day.”

a low, vibrating chuckle erupted from his chest, the sound echoing against your cheek. he wrapped his arms around you, hands splaying across your back.

he adored this version of you – the spoiled, demanding, vulnerable woman who only wanted him.

“i’m perfectly okay with that,” he whispered, his voice dripping with fond adoration. 

you pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes shimmering. the stubbornness was still there, but it was softened by a deep, aching affection.

you reached up then, hooking your arms around his neck to pull him down toward you for a soft, lingering kiss filled with tenderness and love.

⚜️ THE END ⚜️

an: weeee!!!! did i spend my entire weekend glued to my computer writing this like a loser? yeah…i did. but i had to ride on the high of inspiration and delusions before i lose it or else this would take me months to finish lmao. anyways, i loved writing this! and i’m also realizing it’s very easy for me to write for chenle idk it’s always so fun for me!!! fun game: can you guess what kind of dad chenle is!! aka can you guess the gender of the baby??? put in the comments what you think! 😉 (i do have the answer). and please let me know your thoughts! thank ü for reading, much love to ü 💛

EXTRA: GENDER REVEAL PARTY

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When you step onto the ice, you think it might really be over.

It’s Nationals, which means that this is your last chance to make it. To prove, to everyone in the figure skating community, that you still have what it takes.

The pressure is on, especially since your childhood friend, Sunghoon, is dubbed the favorite within the men's program. You surpassed all expectations and are coming off an incredibly strong short program, which makes you the last one to leave it all on the ice.

You cross one skate over the other, gliding toward center ice. You lift your arms as you hear your name announced over the speakers. Through your nerves, like you’ve done a hundred times before, you flash a bright smile at the crowd. The only face you somehow manage to catch is Sunghoon’s that’s nearly pressed up against the glass. The rest are a blur, but it gives you some comfort to know there’s at least one person still rooting for you out there.

The first half of your program is hands down your favorite, as it features enough technical difficulty while allowing you to lean into your artistry. You hit your jump combinations flawlessly and execute the elements just the way you want. For the first time in years, your competitive spirit is confident. Unhindered.

Your fire carries you through the first half, until you feel a familiar fatigue pulling at your right hip.

Leading up to this season, almost all skating forums, live commentators, and journalists always positioned your narrative over one central detail: the fact that this is your first season back on the ice after an almost career-ending hip tear.

That was enough reason for you to skip over articles and most social media commentary—reliving your surgery, post-op, and shaky comeback through the eyes of other spectators was too much. You remembered the heartache and depression that manifested when you were injured as an Olympic hopeful, and you’d be damned if you let skeptics drag you back into that mindset. You deserve to be here. You are here to prove that you deserve to move forward.

You grit your teeth, fighting through your spins and pushing into each jump. It’s working until you realize what’s next.

An element highly contested by yourself and your coach was your last jump combination: the double axel, double toe, single loop jump wedged into the second half of your program for maximum point potential. It’s something you’d struggled to execute in the past, but it was a stretch for your recovering body post-injury.

Your coach is probably off to the side praying that you opt for an easier version of this combination, but you decide to press on.

Watch me, you think as you take off. Your entire face scrunches with the effort, but it pays off. You hit the double axel, and the adrenaline rush carries your momentum to hit the double toe as well. As you’re continuing into the last jump, your hip muscles pinch in sharp pain. You flinch, and the falter causes you to underrotate the last jump completely and land on two feet. At this point, it’s a miracle that you don’t fully eat shit in the process.

The crowd gasps. You recover your bearings just enough to finish out the program with somewhat convincing artistry. Your hip burns at the scar site, the muscle underneath fatigued and tender. When the crowd applauds, you skate off to the kiss and cry, trying to keep a smile steady as you hug your coach.

“At least you left it all out there,” he says. That’s his way of saying Not perfect, but it might do.

You force a neutral expression on your face as the camera focuses on your reaction. It’ll be close, especially since a good amount of the women had skated clean. To podium, you need a score close to your season’s best, so the question is obvious: did your mistake ruin your chances?

You fidget with the pink bunny plush from your childhood in your usual kiss and cry tradition. The audience pauses in anticipation, and you feel like you’re going to vomit. Then, you hear your total score.

You’ve done it by two measly points. By the skin of your teeth, you’re making it to the podium. You cry in front of the cameras, too shocked to hold in the sobs heaving from your chest.

❅˚

In your daze and general shock at medaling, you’re hyped up into attending an afterparty before you even know it. It’s hosted by the main sponsor of today’s competition, and you typically never like to go to things like this. Of all people, it’s Sunghoon who ultimately convinces you to go.

“We should celebrate both of our comebacks,” he says with a smile. “Plus, only other skaters will be there.”

It’s enough to get you out the door in the black dress you’d managed to pack in your carry on just in case.

You’re regretting it an hour in as Sunghoon’s pulled into conversation after conversation. He’s always had the larger network between the two of you, which leaves you sipping your drink in the corner as you avoid dragging down his conversations.

You’re feeling buzzed when you feel a tap on your shoulder and hear a familiar voice speak your name.

Your jaw drops to the floor. “Jaemin?”

For the first time in a year, Na Jaemin stands in front of you. He wears a suit that’s a little too formal for this event, but it somehow makes him even more handsome than you remember.

“It’s me,” he laughs.

“I thought this was for skaters only.”

“Ouch,” he pretends to be hurt. “Are you saying I’m not a skater?”

You roll your eyes. “A skater that actually competed today, Jaemin.”

“I know some people. Come on,” he grins. “Are you really that unhappy to see me?”

Along with Sunghoon, you’d grown up attending the same rink as Jaemin. Your trio had been three peas in a pod throughout skating school; you’d even trained as an ice dance pair together for a year until Jaemin and his family decided to specialize him into speed skating. From then on, to your dismay, interactions with him had been few and far in between with your conflicting schedules. The distance only grew as you moved from juniors to then seniors in your respective disciplines.

If Sunghoon was like your brother, Jaemin was the schoolyard crush that never quite faded away. Sure, you’d dated some guys here and there over the years, but any whispers of Jaemin dating sent you scrolling on Instagram in full investigation mode. Considering that he was considered an athlete-turned-influencer with his own fan base, you saw these rumors often.

Even so, you try to play it cool by taking a long sip of your drink. “Of course I’m glad to see you, but when was the last time you even laced up your skates?”

“Ah,” Jaemin shoots you a bright smile, although you can see the nerves peek through his facade as he hesitates. “Well…last week?”

“Last week?” You raise an eyebrow. “As in…you’re thinking about coming back?”

“It’s a work in progress,” he says with a wink.

“Hmm.” Your heart beats wildly in your chest.

He seizes your sarcasm to change the subject. “You look like you’re fully back out there, though.”

“Something like that.”

“Well, you podiumed, which is more than something.” He pauses for a beat before adding, “you looked really good out there.”

The knowledge of Jaemin watching your near-disastrous free skate sends hot embarrassment crawling up your neck.

“My lead from the short program saved my ass. It would’ve looked better if this,” you point to your bad hip, “would behave the way I want it to.”

He frowns. “It’s not fully recovered?”

“It is, but it’s not. Since I spent so much time off, the muscles on my right are weaker than my left, which sucks since my right is my landing leg.” You force a smile. “The road to full-strength recovery is long.”

“As always, you need to be nicer to yourself,” he sighs. “At least you kept Mr. Hops to comfort you in the kiss and cry.”

Your face burns even hotter. “I didn’t think you would remember him.”

Mr. Hops had been Jaemin’s gift to you for your tenth birthday. You’d taken the pink plushie for your first serious competition as a junior, and you’d continued taking him well into adulthood as a good luck charm. Your hip tear had occurred during a competition where you’d left Mr. Hops sitting in your hotel room, which, in your eyes, verified your long-standing superstition.

“Of course I remember,” he smiles wide. “I’m just glad you’ve gotten a bunch of mileage out of him.”

If the earth could open under your feet and swallow you whole, now would be the time. Not only does your childhood crush remember your pink bunny’s name, but he also knows that you’ve been hauling it around everywhere for at least the past decade.

“Well,” you clear your throat. “I think Mr. Hops and his well-traveled wisdom at least reduces the odds of me having a full mental breakdown.”

“You really didn’t need to worry about anything,” he insists. “Out of everyone, I think you were the most bea–”

“Jaemin!” Sunghoon calls. His face is flushed and his breath carries the trace smell of alcohol. “Guys! Everyone wants to drink!!”

You look at Jaemin wildly for help, but he shrugs in a way that conveys what am I supposed to do about it?

You’re pulled into the main group of fellow skaters that are much too drunk; one look at the three of you together has them hollering and forcing drinks into your hands in the name of reunion. You’re not used to partying, and you’re sure as hell not used to being the center of attention among your peers. Even during your prime, you’d preferred to hang around only a couple close friends after any competition.

The spotlight puts you in a vulnerable position to accept any and all drinks. You stay much later than expected, even when Jaemin offers to help you make a quick exit. You’re the most drunk you’ve ever been, both on the physical drinks as well as the atmosphere. Once you're dancing on a table with someone who you think is Cha Jun-hwan, the night is long gone.

The next morning you wake up to banging on the door of your hotel room. Running to the entrance, you peek through the peephole first, which reveals the livid face of your PR manager, Mei.

“God!” Thunk. “Wake up, already!” Thunk thunk.

Mei isn’t the most level headed person, but, even for her, it’s way too early to be this aggressive. Whatever it is, it’s serious.

You take a deep breath, trying to will away the hangover pounding in your head as you swing the door open. “Hey, Mei–”

“Don’t hey me.” She growls. Mei stalks around your room, sticking her head into your bathroom and closet. She only hesitates when peeking around the corner toward your bed then exhales in relief.

“What on earth is going on?” You ask in bewilderment, and your gut twists. The first thing that crosses your mind is that there must be some sort of serious scandal—a failed test for a controlled substance, maybe. You don't know what else would warrant this level of panic.

“Did you have anyone over last night?”

The question catches you so off guard that you nearly trip over your own feet as you follow her erratic path around your room. “What? No!”

Mei searches behind the curtains and even bends down to look under your bed. “Just reminding you that, as your PR manager, it’s to both of our advantages if you’re forthright about any indiscretions…”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about!” You shriek. You didn’t need to hear this from someone who’s known you since your teen years.

Finally registering your genuine confusion, she squints at you. “...I thought you were ignoring me, but have you really not checked your phone at all today?”

Numbness cascades down your nerves. Your phone currently sits charging on your nightstand. “No?”

Your manager shakes her head and fishes out her laptop from her bag, placing it on the hotel dining table. The display immediately brightens into a gossip article published an hour ago.

ICE ROYALTY TO PARTY ANIMALS: A WILD NIGHT FOR THE NATION’S SWEETHEARTS

Your heart sinks low into your chest as you scroll through the contents of the article. It’s you, alright, down to last night’s little black dress while arm-in-arm with both Sunghoon and Jaemin. It’s you, leaving the car disheveled and dangerously close to a wardrobe malfunction. It’s unfortunately you, previous child prodigy, downing shots and dancing on the front page of one of the most popular gossip sites.

Shit, you think. Sunghoon must be freaking out. Jaemin, too.

While both men had gathered the nickname of Ice Prince, it was for entirely different reasons. Sunghoon carried the name for his public aloofness, while Jaemin's persona fulfilled the image of charismatic royalty.

While you’d long accepted the unfair scrutiny of being labeled a “controversial” female athlete, both Sunghoon and Jaemin ruled their private lives with an iron fist. Every post and press release was curated and picked through in order to protect their squeaky clean Ice Prince images–especially with the rising cult following of girls.

And you had messed it all up in one night.

“Was it worth it?” Mei snaps. “Did you have fun? Because it sure looks like it.”

Opening the full slideshow, almost every attendee from last night has been captured. However, the most prominent features are still yourself, Jaemin, and Sunghoon.

Wordlessly, Mei pulls up multiple social media sites, where all commentary centers on the three of you. Most old skating fans remember your friendship as a trio, but many new ones—particularly Jaemin’s new legion of followers—fixate on your presence.

did he fly out just to see her? they’re so together y’all

that picture of her on both of their arms makes me sick THAT SHOULD BE ME

embarrassing that her boyfriend had to witness such a mid program, she should retire already

You nudge the laptop so that you can no longer read the words on the screen. “I was not aware of this.”

“I see.” Mei thinks before gathering all of her things back into her bag. “Take some time to process this. Don’t make any statements to anyone yet. If you’re smart, you’ll turn off your social media notifications. We’ll talk.”

“Okay.” You’ve learned not to question her. She’s gotten you out of enough sticky situations. “I’m sorry, Mei.”

“This is just the beginning, kid,” Mei shoots you a pitying smile as she lets herself out. “Just get yourself ready for the storm that’s coming.”

❅˚

Mei gives you two days.

When she requests your presence at her office, you don’t protest. You get there ten minutes ahead of time and wait politely.

“I’m not going to yell at you,” she sighs when she sees your too-straight posture.

“Wouldn’t be unwarranted,” you mutter. “I shouldn’t have gotten swept up in the atmosphere.”

“As your manager, I agree.” Mei shoots you a look. “As someone who’s always telling you to enjoy your life—I’m glad you finally stopped punishing yourself.”

You tug with your sleeve without commenting.

Mei continues. “Obviously, you already posted the official statement that we sent over yesterday. Nothing else public on social media, aside from the official pictures we got from Nationals. After that—no posting for a while.”

You nod. It’s fair enough. You’d already gotten too many unsolicited comments from strangers. Notifications were decidedly turned off, and only the bravest of souls could field your direct messages.

“There’s been something else I’ve considered for this season,” Mei hesitates. “If you’re open to it.”

Alarm bells go off in your head. “Interviews? Variety content?”

“The ice show,” Mei says.

“Classics on Ice?” You frown. “Sunghoon and I were already planning on skating.”

“You’ll skate there, sure,” Mei says, “but now it’s more.”

“More as in…promotions? Volunteering?”

Your manager shakes her head. “Yes, benefit shows usually yield good coverage. It’s also an opportunity to showcase your relationships within the skating community. During and leading up to the event. Public perception and opinions are unavoidable, but I think if you’re seen out and about being friendly with respected athletes…”

You cringe at the implication: you are simply an athlete—not a respected one. “That’s a fine idea and all, but wouldn’t that harm those athletes? I’m friends with a lot of skaters, but those friendships are away from the cameras. Except Sunghoon.”

“Right. It would be out of the blue to suddenly hang out with skaters you’ve been training and competing against for years, especially with no public history.” She leans forward. “But if there was suddenly an old friend re-entering the community—maybe that would be believable?”

Your blood chills. You recall what Jaemin told you: it’s a work in progress.

“Jaemin?” You fight to push the words out. “Jaemin’s actually returning to skating?”

Mei nods. Her shoulders relax, perhaps relieved that she didn’t have to directly break the news. “His team is making the announcement at the end of the week.”

You’re happy for him—really, you are—but disappointment tugs at your gut. Why hadn’t he told you when you asked?

“So you want me to skate in this ice show and prove that I have at least two friends. Got it. I can do that.”

Mei’s expression twists. “One more thing.”

“Yes?”

“With Jaemin coming back into the skating world, and the rumors already circulating between the two of you…” Mei bites her lip. “His management reached out to discuss, and we came to the conclusion that showcasing a…closer relationship would likely be beneficial for both parties.”

It’s her pleading expression to not freak out that makes the last puzzle piece fall into place. “A PR romance? With Jaemin? How on earth would that benefit either of us? He’ll get angry fans, and I’ll get the angry fans’ death threats!”

“You don’t need to be over the top with it,” Mei’s waving both hands, which could be her attempt to calm you down or to enact a physical barrier from you. Maybe both. “Nothing crazy or formal—people already think you're dating! Just lean into the rumors. Hang out with or without Sunghoon. Jaemin is popular, but it’s common knowledge that you all were rink rats together. You’ll get some fan hate, but we see people overall getting really into it.”

You’re speechless. You run through the impending possibilities in your mind. Jaemin, back in your hometown. Seeing him in passing. Existing in the same sphere for the first time in years.

“I still don’t understand how that would benefit him,” you say.

Mei hums. “His team can explain it more.”

“His team?” Your stomach drops. “They’re coming here? Today?”

“Oh, no,” Mei says. “We’re grabbing lunch with them.”

–

Mei whisks you away in her car. You barely process that you're heading somewhere at all. When the car pulls up in front of the nicest restaurant in the city, you think, briefly, that you must be hallucinating this entire ordeal.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she scoffs as you stumble out of the passenger’s side.

You follow her lead, baffled at the long roman-style columns at the entrance and dim, ambient lighting. Inside, you can’t even tell that it’s daytime, let alone high noon.

You’ve walked through the interior for minutes before you make a sudden left turn into a more private section of the restaurant. There, at a table around the corner, sits Jaemin with his manager.

His manager rises to shake both your and Mei’s hands. “Jeff.”

“Nice to meet you,” you manage to say, although your throat scratches like sandpaper while speaking.

When Jaemin stands up to face you, your brain glitches on the protocol. Is it proper to shake hands with a childhood best friend, especially when you’re both portrayed on the front cover of tabloids together? When you just saw him a few nights ago, and he only hinted at a comeback? When his team is proposing a PR arrangement? Is a hug too casual for this heavy atmosphere?

“Hi.” You shoot him a pained smile and sit down to avoid confronting the issue entirely. Confusion flickers across his face, but he lowers back down into his seat.

Jeff immediately transitions into business. “Thank you for meeting us today. I hope Mei was able to explain our current situation, especially since the headlines have complicated things.”

Mei nods. “She’s aware. Obviously, we’ll have to be very intentional moving forward.”

Your gaze bounces between the two as they discuss details such as social media use and public outings. You try to catch Jaemin’s eye, but he pokes around at an appetizer on his plate.

You try to listen to their brainstorming of strategies, but you can only take so much before your curiosity gets the best of you. You blurt out to Jaemin directly. “What do you get out of this deal?”

Jaemin’s eyes widen, but he still jumps to speak, as if he’s been waiting for your permission to talk. “Well, I—”

“Jaemin wants to re-enter the skating world,” Jeff interjects. “This…relationship could renew interest in his previous success, since you’re very deeply linked with that time period.”

You frown, but you’re starting to get the picture. You’re sure that this morning’s article alone has most likely sent fans hunting for old skating footage. There’s even some old trio pictures still visible on both your and Sunghoon’s Instagram profiles.

You’ve also seen enough fragments of Jaemin’s fanbase online to know that a public girlfriend would likely alienate the most unhealthily attached fans.

Maybe that’s what someone like him needed to be taken seriously in the athletic world again, just like how you wish people would speak about your current skating and instead of the old.

“Anything else I should know? Any stipulations before I offer myself up as bait for one of the most viral athletes known for having crazy fans?”

Jaemin’s gaze shoots up at you in the corner of your eye. You ignore it as you glare down Mei and Jeff.

“There’s one thing our team is thinking of,” Jeff starts. He side eyes you as if you’re a wild animal ready to pounce. “The charity ice show you’re skating in.”

You raise an eyebrow. “What, they’re having a speed skating demo?”

Your sarcasm falls on deaf ears; if he picks up on it, Jeff doesn’t even flinch. “We’ve been told that both you and Jaemin trained together in ice dance before settling in your respective sports.”

Your jaw tightens. “No. I’m not committing to an ice dance routine. It’s way too late to be practicing for that.”

Mei says nothing, but she nods her head.

“As you wish.” Jeff seems unfazed. “We’ll find something else for Jaemin. If you change your mind, please let us know.”

“I won’t. I mean, I don’t foresee that changing, but we’ll let you know,” you hastily add after sensing Mei’s disapproval. “Thank you.”

Mei and Jeff dominate the discussion throughout lunch, and they’re still chatting as you all rise to leave your table. You find yourself in stride with Jaemin, who seems to be looking everywhere but you.

“So. You're moving back,” you say.

He turns towards you, surprised. “I am. I’m moving out of my old place next Monday.”

“So it was a work in progress, after all.” You try to keep your tone light, but it doesn’t prevent the sour edge in your voice from seeping through.

His expression twists with guilt. “I was going to tell you, but then things started moving too fast. I lost the opportunity. This relationship—PR situation—was not my idea.”

You don’t respond. Your ego stings; you’d asked him so many questions out of a genuine interest to catch up, and the whole while he'd held you at arm's length. Your teams concocted this plan, rather than talk it through first with you as a friend.

Jaemin searches your face. “What do you think of all of this?”

You think that you want to delete Instagram altogether, retire from skating, and tell everyone to stuff their clout-chasing proposals up their—

Really, you should calm down. You have to admit that you could benefit from this arrangement. Sure, there would be hate and an uptick in public interest in your private life, but Mei is right. After these headlines, you’re bound to receive more criticism anyway—maybe returning the focus to your oldest friends would remind the world of your younger self. Before all of the hardship. Nostalgia as a vehicle of empathy.

As for Jaemin, you’re not sure what to make of his sudden re-appearance in your life. Any giddiness is now tempered by the jaded realism of your position. Maybe knowing his true intentions is better for your working relationship, since, moving forward, you should be treating this as a professional arrangement.

“Let’s do it,” your laugh sounds harsh and flat. “What more do I have to lose, right?”

❅˚

Upon returning home, you’re allowed one day of sweet radio silence from any obligations. You mute almost all notifications and lose yourself in your favorite shows.

Then, Jaemin’s announcement drops, and all hell breaks loose.

The overall response shows widespread support for Jaemin’s return to speed skating. The speculation of his move, however, has everyone up in a flurry trying to figure out why. Technically, his city’s rink is superior in all of their facilities and amenities. His coach was based mainly in your rink, but he was so close to retirement and was open about only coaching Jaemin.

You’re not sure why he’s chosen to return here, either. From what you know, a large portion of speed skating training isn’t always in the rink, anyway.

Everyone online, however, is staunchly convinced that you must be the reason. You scroll past everything from pregnancy rumors to social media accounts posting threads surrounding the early “evidence” to prove the existence of this secret relationship. As far as your social media feed is concerned, you're practically married.

Half of it seems to be in good fun—a lot of supportive fans make jokes about finally glimpsing into Jaemin’s notoriously private life. The other half of it is not so fun, manifesting in hate comments and threatening direct messages that trigger you to crack down on your account privacy.

Hey, Jaemin texts you after you temporarily set your Instagram to private. You okay?

You don’t respond. Something stubborn and petty wants to double down . So what if you got photographed drinking with friends? Was society really so fucked up that you had to put in work to protect your peace while both of the ice princes got off scot-free?

When you pull your car into the rink parking lot to a couple of flashing cameras, you know that the answer is undoubtedly yes. You’d hoped for a serene first practice back, but you anticipate Jaemin’s presence before you even open the door.

In fact, he’s literally on the other side, sitting at one of the benches between the back entrance and the ice.

Jaemin stands when he sees you. “Hey, good morning—”

You cut to the chase. “What do you want, Jaem?”

“I just thought I’d say hi before your practice,” he says. He seems encouraged by your use of his old nickname; you make a mental note to avoid using it again.

“You got up at the ass crack of dawn to send me off to practice?”

“Uh—no?” Jaemin points over his shoulder. “I’m doing some strength training first in the gym, then I’ll take over the ice for some light stuff after you.”

“Alright then,” you say. You step past him and continue on. “See you.”

“Will I?”

You turn around. “Will you what?”

“Will I see you soon?” Jaemin studies you. “You’re not answering my texts.”

“There’s nothing in our contractthat requires me to text you back,” you point out. You’re all too familiar with the terms and conditions, as you reviewed and signed the paperwork in the days prior. “I can talk to Mei to put a staged outing on the calendar.”

“No.” He exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m trying to say that we should actually do something together. No calendars, no managers. Definitely no cameras.”

You frown. “Why would we do that?”

“Because we’re friends?” There’s a slight gravel to Jaemin's voice. He’s losing his patience with you, and you’re relishing in it.

“We were friends,” you say. Your grip on your duffel bag tightens. “I thought we were still friends up until Nationals. Before you wanted to use our friendship for notoriety.”

“We can still be friends through this,” he says. “It’s not one or the other. And I told you, this wasn’t my idea.”

You sigh. If he’s going to be so persistent about this, you might as well be direct. “Let me be clear. I hate this arrangement. I’m only doing it because Mei thinks it’s a good idea, I trust her, and for once I’d love for people to stop betting against my skating. That’s it. I’m not doing this because we’re friends. That was pretty much ruined once the paperwork was signed.”

Jaemin opens his mouth to argue, but he’s cut off by a voice from the other side of the rink.

“Hey!” Your coach shouts. “That’s a whole lot of talking and not a lot of warming up.”

You give Jaemin your fakest smile. “You heard the man. Have a good work out, Jaemin.”

You put your all into practice to clear your mind. It’s hard, but the determination to stand on your words keeps your focus razor sharp.

When you’re wiping your blades down and stowing away your things, you think that’s the end of it. Then, you hear the sound of the doors to the ice shutting. You straighten your back and peek through the glass.

Jaemin’s already set up a series of small cones that you assume must be to simulate the short track path. He skates around in long, fluid circles.

Your throat catches. He’s always been so beautiful on the ice. Sure, speed and power were par for the course with speed skating, but his edge control and maneuvers are so finely tuned that you're impressed. Even after all these years, Jaemin still looks like a top athlete.

Jaemin’s skates scrape across the ice as he stops. As if he has a sixth sense for your presence, he turns his gaze towards you. He nods, then, after a moment, raises his hand in a wave.

You turn away and stuff your last remaining item into your duffel. You don’t look back as you leave.

Over the next few weeks, your encounters with Jaemin go more or less the same. He waits to greet you in the morning, and you shut him down every time. You’re not sure what he aims to achieve by waiting it out— you’ve made yourself quite clear—but nevertheless he seems to show up day after day, morning after morning.

Until one day, he doesn’t. When you march through the rink one morning, you’re not met with Jaemin but by an old man that you haven’t seen in a very long time.

You start and nearly drop your bag. “Coach Brown?”

Coach Brown’s smile lines spread over his entire face. While he’s gotten older, you haven’t forgotten the kindness that your childhood coach exudes. “I had to come by now that the three musketeers are back under this roof.”

You laugh, but it’s held taut by guilt. “It’s definitely an unexpected development.”

The old man’s eyes gleam with amusement. “Although the three of you are in a bit of a rut, aren’t you?”

Your palms sweat. “You saw Jaemin this morning?”

“Just ten minutes ago,” Coach Brown shrugs. Then, his expression darkens. “You know, the worst thing you could do is turn your back on your past.”

You blink. “Sorry? What did Jaemin—”

“Sunghoon,” he waves you off before continuing. “It’s been explained to me that you are…less than enthused about the situation, but you still should treat your peers with respect. Carving out a path for yourself doesn’t mean you need to block out the others.”

“Coach—” You can’t even fully process his sentence before he cuts you off again.

“You’ve always had the worst temper of the three,” Coach Brown wags his finger in your face. “Calm yourself down and face it like an adult.”

As fast as he came around, he marches away and disappears through the doors leading up to management’s office.

You stare after him long after the doors close, dazed. You feel twelve-years-old again, getting nagged at to be nice to the boys.

After your training ends a bit early, you happen to catch Jaemin as he puts on his skates. “Morning,” you say.

Jaemin’s head whips up so fast that he swings too far back and bumps his head against the back of the boards. “Oh shit—hey?”

“I saw Coach Brown this morning,” you say.

He brightens. “Me too. I hope I’m half as active as him when I’m that age.”

You don’t respond, instead searching his features and body language for any dishonesty. It’s a stare-off—you, chewing on your lip and Jaemin, confused and massaging the back of his head.

That’s it, you admit to yourself. He didn’t tell Coach Brown anything.

And admittedly—both from the open hope in Jaemin’s expression and your shame from being nagged at—perhaps the old man was right about some things, after all.

“Would you be free to grab lunch tomorrow?” You ask before you change your mind. “There’s a new ramen place that opened up last weekend—”

“Yes!” He answers before you’ve fully finished your sentence. “I know which one you’re talking about. I can pick you up?”

“Oh—uh—that’s okay, I think.”

Jaemin shakes his head. “You’re on the way, let me do it.”

Your jaw tightens, but you swallow your pride. “Sure. Noon?”

He nods without saying anything. The two of you stare at each other.

“Well,” you break the awkward silence first. “Have a good practice.”

“You too.” Jaemin cringes. “I mean, shit, have a good day. See you tomorrow.”

At that, you turn away.

Take that, Coach Brown, you think. Look whose temper is adequately controlled.

❅˚

Twenty minutes before noon, you nearly jump out of your skin when there’s a knock at the door.

You rake over your appearance in the mirror and make desperate last-minute touch-ups. Sure, it's just lunch, but you were never sure when a rogue camera might snap pictures of you in public. The paparazzi had ceased showing up outside of the rink after the first two days, but the initial onslaught had left you paranoid of any flash or loud chatter.

“You’re early,” you say as you open the door, a little breathless.

Sunghoon blinks back at you. “I am?”

It’s your turn to stare. “Sunghoon. Why are you here?”

Regardless of your confusion, you step aside to let him in. As always, Sunghoon makes himself comfortable on your living room couch. “I was bored. Wanna get lunch?”

“About that.” You cross your arms. “Jaemin is picking me up in fifteen minutes.”

Sunghoon’s eyebrows raise. “You finally decided to stop hating him?”

“I don’t hate him—” you fume. “I still disagree with how he went about things, but I might have just gotten a little too mad.”

Your friend snorts and mumbles something under his breath.

“What?” You punch his arm.

“Ow!” Sunghoon swats away your swings. “I said big surprise—clearly you’re the most hotheaded one out of all of us.

“Brown said the same thing,” you mutter.

Sunghoon pauses. “Isn’t it a little crazy that people are just letting him go right back to work? Right after his surgery, too.”

You shrug. “He seemed healthy enough to lecture me about Jaemin. He said I had the worst temper out of us three.”

He smirks. “Wow. The old man needed to get involved to get your head out of your ass.”

“And who tipped him off in the first place?”

“And who with the worst temper gave me this red mark on my arm just now?”

Touche. “Anyways,” you change the subject. “Wanna go with us?”

“Um,” Sunghoon grimaces. “Not if it’s going to be awkward.”

“It won’t be,” you insist. You shoot out a quick text to Jaemin: Sunghoon randomly showed up at my place. Mind if he comes?

Within thirty seconds, your phone vibrates again. Of course. The more the merrier, it says.

“See,” you hand your phone to him. “Jaemin doesn’t care.”

“He’s not in the position to object,” Sunghoon laughs. “From that wall of text? This is clearly the first time you’ve texted him in weeks. He’s probably just saying yes so that you don’t change your mind and run away.”

You roll your eyes. “So you’re not coming?”

“I didn’t say that,” Sunghoon says. "I'm hungry."

You would’ve been more nervous about merging the group if you’d known about Sunghoon’s intrusion beforehand, but it works out well for the car ride over. Jaemin and Sunghoon seem to pick up right where they put their friendship down.

Their conversation goes from topic to topic, but your mind is reeling. It’s too easy, riding as a passenger in Jaemin’s old car, to feel like you’re a teenager again.

The new ramen place is tucked away in a plaza constructed in the last two years. It’s still finding its niche—the only other businesses in the center are a pharmacy and a dollar store—and the ramen place is the most exciting thing to have happened to it.

“Oof,” Sunghoon says as you approach the shop. From the outside, you can see that there’s only a handful of people inside. “Is that too awkward?”

Jaemin steps forward. “It’s not empty.” He swings the door open before any of you can think about it further.

Jaemin and Sunghoon are full steam ahead with their conversations. You’re jealous, in a way. Both of them have so much natural charisma that it overflows into all their interactions. On the other hand, you feel like you always have to work for it.

You all end up ordering different things from the menu. You’re halfway through observing the interior decor when you realize the rest of the table has gone silent.

“So…” Jaemin says. He leans his head into his hand. “How’s it been?”

“How’s it been?” You repeat.

“Since Nationals,” Jaemin clarifies.

Sunghoon stiffens in the corner of your vision. You try to level your facial expression.

“I mean,” you can’t help the wry smile rising to your face. “I deleted social media from my phone. Mei’s posting for me so I don’t have to see the hate. I’m avoiding the news outlets for the same exact reason."

Jaemin swallows. “Right.”

“What about you?” It’s as much as a way to change the topic as it is genuine curiosity. “How are your fans taking the return announcement?”

“Mostly well,” he admits. “Older fans are excited. Younger fans are confused but trying to be supportive, which I appreciate.”

The elephant in the room goes unaddressed. You saw the comments before officially deciding to hand the reins over to Mei. You know for a fact that there were rumors on top of rumors swirling around your connection to both Jaemin and Sunghoon.

“I delete all of the hate comments,” Sunghoon says as if reading your mind. “Just for my own peace of mind, really. I can’t stand seeing that shit on my page.”

“You should try filtering words,” Jaemin suggests. “That’s helped diffuse some of it for me.”

You frown. While you can tell that both have good intentions, it doesn’t make you feel any better. In fact, it’s worse—you feel like a taboo to hide from the world, despite your status as a well-known figure in the skating world.

“You don’t have to delete or filter anything.” You feel a deep sense of resoluteness. “Let them talk.”

The guys exchange glances. “Sure, people will talk,” Jaemin says. “Doesn’t mean you need to entertain seeing it.”

You shrug, looking between the two as your bowls of ramen are placed in the table space in front of you. “Filtering out words won’t stop them. We’ll just give them something to talk about before they move on.”

Jaemin’s smile curls. A hint of his teeth pokes through. “What do you suggest we do to make them talk?”

You think for a moment before holding your phone in the air with a shake of your hand. “Pose for me?”

❅˚

After that first lunch, talking to Jaemin gets easier. You chat briefly whenever you run into each other at the rink, and sometimes you grab a post-practice coffee if your schedules line up. You don’t text, but Jaemin sends a few skating memes after you log back into Instagram—a cautious way to test the water.

“What’s your goal with coming back?” You ask during one brunch after training.

Jaemin’s eyebrows raise, but he doesn’t lose his easy smile. “My goal?”

“I mean—” you scramble to find the right words. Hell, you should think before speaking sometimes. “Why decide to come back now? You have so many opportunities outside of skating.”

Skaters who would kill for his following. Not many people would intentionally halt their own momentum, let alone actively endanger it with a fake relationship.

Jaemin leans back in his chair. “Why did you come back? After your injury?”

“Rude. I asked first.” Regardless, you think out loud. “No one’s actually asked me why. Everyone just assumed that I would try to come back after I was ready.”

“Would you have, even if they hadn’t assumed?” He asks.

“Yes,” you say without hesitating.

“Why?”

“It’s not what people would expect from me,” you start. “I knew it was going to be a long road to any sort of podium, and I didn’t even expect to get there at all. I came back…to see if I could, I guess. Skating has just been such a big part of my life; I wasn't ready to give it up.”

Jaemin’s smile brightens. “That’s my answer too.”

“Uh…” You bite your lip. “It’s not that I don’t admire you for coming back, but you weren’t injured. You left first.”

“I did.” Jaemin thinks for a moment. “When I quit, I genuinely thought that skating had nothing more to offer me. But the more time passed, the more I realized that something was missing.”

This is the most you’ve ever heard him talk about his choice to leave. He had never spoken about it outside of the initial press statement, and he’d all but disappeared from the community after. “What made you realize something was missing?”

“Ah, you know.” Jaemin scratches the back of his head. “Just intuition.”

You stare at him. “You came back after years based on some magical intuition? Right out of thin air?”

His cheeks turn pink. “What’s wrong with trusting your intuition?”

“Just seems too good to be true, I guess.” You take a long sip of your drink. “Ignore me. I’m a pessimist nowadays.”

Silence. Then, Jaemin speaks up again. “If you have to know, I saw some old footage. I got the urge to get on the ice, so I did. Casually skating didn’t feel like it was enough. I felt the pull to do everything—compete the right way, by coming home and reconnecting with everyone.”

It’s like his dark eyes are looking through you and your thoughts.

You think back to the months following your injury. In the darkest moments when you considered giving up skating for good, it always led to reminiscing via old videos. Everything from old competition footage to videos of you messing around with the other kids—sometimes it was your last anchor to hope. More than the nostalgia interwoven in the past, you craved to perform again.

“I know exactly what you mean,” you smile, then hesitate. “I’m glad you’re back.”

The seriousness melts away. He wiggles his eyebrows. “Mean it?”

You snort. “Forget it.”

“Too late,” Jaemin points to his temples. “It’s already saved here. No camera needed.”

❅˚

You push on your bike, fighting for your life to pedal to the music while trying to follow the spin instructor’s directions. Beads of sweat roll down your skin, and your throat feels dry.

You sneak a glance at Jaemin. The bastard looks like he’s barely breaking a sweat. In fact, if it he wasn't right next to you, anyone could easily mistake him as the instructor.

He leans toward your bike. “Are you doing okay?”

“I have decent cardio!” You pant over the bass-loaded music. “I’m fine!”

You sound so not fine that Jaemin throws his head back in laughter.

“You two in the back!” The instructor calls out. “Less talking, more pedaling!”

There were only so many cafes close to the rink to try, so working out together is your most recent attempt at activities together. Jaemin insisted that it’s valuable cross-training for your respective sports—you’re not sure that you agree with the sentiment for your discipline, but it’s a nice supplement to your training schedule.

“What did you think about that instructor?” Jaemin asks as he holds the door open for you.

You snort. “Too intense and too much bass boosting.”

Your phone vibrates with texts and phone calls. You don’t even flinch as you start blocking and reporting the unknown callers.

“Wow, you’re popular,” Jaemin jokes while he backs out of his parking spot.

You don’t say anything. There’s no use in dragging Jaemin into it; not when there’s nothing to be done. At the very least, you appreciate that Jaemin always offers to drive.

“Can I ask you something?” Jaemin asks as he pulls up to your place.

“No,” you laugh before registering the nervousness creeping in on his expression. “What’s wrong?”

“Well,” Jaemin clears his throat. “Remember when my team brought up performing an ice dance together at that benefit show?”

“I do.”

“I know that it wasn’t brought up in a very good way.” Jaemin’s eyes flit around your face. “But do you think there’s any part of you that would be open to reconsidering that decision?”

The question makes you freeze. “Why?”

“My team won’t let up about it. I keep telling them that there’s really no need for me to participate…”

He’s continuing into some sort of explanation, but you’re hung up on the first part of his sentence. Sure, Mei and Jeff had been the catalyst for your reunion, but something about the mention of my team douses you as a cold reminder. In the midst of early morning rides and deep conversations over brunch, you’d forgotten that this was all manufactured.

“Our agreement ends right after the ice show, right?” You ask.

He nods. “But it’s just the official clause—of course, I want to—”

“Can you please tell your team that I will not be entertaining this notion again?” You reach for the door.

“Wait, stop. What did I say?” Jaemin’s climbing out of the car too, and a high pitch beeps over and over as he abandons the driver’s seat.

“Maybe I’m just tired,” you huff. “I see you almost every day, and I’m still training. Am I supposed to be all happy-go-lucky all the time? It’s not like we’re friends.”

Jaemin physically recoils. “This again? We are friends.”

“I hadn’t talked to you in years before you decided to come back,” you state matter-of-factly. “We’re bound by a contract. We’re not friends, Jaemin. We’re coworkers.”

You turn on your heel and walk towards your place.

“So that’s how it’s going to be?” Jaemin calls after you. “You just get to say your piece and storm off?”

You face him. “Go on, then. What do you want to say?”

He stands there for a minute, and his face flashes through a chain of expressions. Jaemin opens his mouth to speak but then closes it again. He shakes his head before shutting himself back in his car. The tires squeak against the asphalt as he drives away.

You pace around your house in angry circles. You should feel better, but instead you generate new reasons to be mad at him. Aside from the contractual nature of your arrangement, didn’t he understand that interfering with your art was an entirely different matter? You could go on a million fake dates and post content on social media, but your time on the ice is the only thing that’s truly yours.

You’re halfway through rage-cleaning your kitchen when your screen lights up with Jaemin’s name. You ignore it, but then Sunghoon calls second, then Mei calls next.

You choose to call Sunghoon back, ready to defend your outburst, but your stomach plummets when you pick up the phone to Sunghoon sniffling.

All your anger dissipates into fear. “What happened?”

“Coach Brown collapsed today,” he rasps. “They're not sure if he's going to make it.”

❅˚

Mei and Jeff sit at the front of the conference room. Mei openly observes you and Jaemin. Jaemin sits scrolling on his phone with the hood of his jacket pulled over his head. You cross your arms and try to look anywhere else.

Mei and Jeff review the last month in social media posts and general media coverage. You nod to yourself without listening—they always say the same things anyway: good reception, decent reach, more posting if possible. Today’s presentation is much shorter than expected, with no concrete dates to post strategic content.

You take it as a sign to leave and grab your bag. Jaemin moves as well, putting his phone into his pocket.

“I’m sure you both are worried about Coach Brown,” Mei says suddenly.

You both freeze in place. Your eyes dart to Jaemin, to gauge his reaction, but he’s already looking at you.

You had thought about texting Jaemin a million times since the news broke. You’d checked in on Sunghoon, but he was the type of person to hold things in until later down the line. You didn’t want to push him too hard, since you’re sure that he’s hurting just as much as you.

Looking at the glassiness of Jaemin’s eyes, you’re certain that he’s thought about reaching out to you, too.

“He'll fight through it,” your voice croaks against the silence. “He was a great man.”

“The greatest,” Jaemin says without taking his eyes off of you.

“This may feel a little premature, but the foundation reached out,” Mei prefaces. “They’re having part of the ice show's proceeds go directly to Coach Brown’s family. They asked to confirm if both of you—and Sunghoon, of course—are still planning on participating?”

“Of course,” you answer.

“Are they sure they still want all of us?” Jaemin asks. “I’m not competing in figure skating or ice dance.”

Mei shrugs. “You were in talks before, but I’m guessing it’s because the three of you are his most prominent students. Of course, you went to speed skating eventually, but you were still under him for the entirety of your juniors career.”

Jaemin nods to himself. “It’s relatively short, right?”

Mei hesitates. “Well, I’m not quite sure of the hard details—”

Jaemin shakes his head. “It doesn’t really matter. I’m in. I’ll figure it out.”

“We can skate together.”

It’s like the entire room has forgotten about your attendance; all three heads snap toward you, eyes wide.

“You want to?” Mei’s eyebrows climb to her hairline. “Now?”

That’s not exactly a great vote of confidence, but you persist nonetheless. “It’s going to help Coach Brown and his family. It’s as simple as that.”

“Will that be okay to prepare for?” Jaemin blurts out. “While you’re training for everything else, I mean.”

You shrug. “Sunghoon’s also competing.”

“It’s just a lot to balance.”

You stare at him. You’re flush with irritation, but you manage to keep your voice level as you respond. “I’ll manage.”

“Well,” Jeff interjects. He clears his throat loudly and moves to disconnect his computer from the room's screen. “That should be more than enough for today. We’ll both be in touch for details on the exhibition, but our next meeting should be in two weeks as usual.”

“Thanks, Jeff,” you drone as you gather your bag and exit.

You’re not even halfway down the stairwell when a hand latches onto your elbow.

“Wait,” Jaemin rasps. “Talk to me. Five minutes. Please.”

He’s panting like he’s run a mile. You nod. “What is it?”

“You don’t need to say yes, you know.” Jaemin says. “I wouldn’t blame you if you just wanted to work on your own program right now.”

You bristle. “Are you going to ask Sunghoon the same question?”

Jaemin leans his weight against the stairwell railing. “One day we’re laughing and talking about anything and everything, and then the next day you’re telling me that we’re not friends. One day you draw the hard boundary that we will never perform together, and then now you’re willing to. Why are you so upset with me?”

“I’m willing only for the sake of Coach Brown.” Your restrained and rational side snaps. You talk a step forward into Jaemin’s personal space. “I’ve been mad, Jaem. I’ve been pissed since you made your stupid announcement to come back to our rink—some of your crazy fans have found my real phone number, did you know that?”

He's speechless.

You continue. “Ever since coming back from my injury, I can’t do anything right. If I talk about my mental health as an athlete, I’m seen as complaining. If I can’t land a jump? I’m washed up. If my makeup is looking a little off on competition day? My age is showing, and I should feel lucky that someone so old can still compete. People hate me so much that it’s my best PR strategy to become someone’s hated girlfriend, because the new hate is considered an improvement from my old hate.”

“I didn’t know you were being harassed on your personal number,” he mutters.

“And why would you?” You scoff. “It doesn’t matter that we used to know each other, okay? Even though everyone down to Coach Brown wants us to be so close—”

“Coach Brown said something to you before?” Jaemin leans in, which makes you take a step back.

“Well, kinda—”

“Please,” he begs. Desperation lines his eyes. “Tell me what you talked about. I could barely catch him here because of my odd hours, let alone talk to him. I regret that more than anything.”

Your anger wanes. You feel a flash of pity followed by a stark reminder of your surroundings—what were you doing, yelling at Jaemin in a stairwell?

You wrack your brain for a white lie, but nothing comes up on the spot. You’ve already exposed it anyway, so you might as well tell the truth. “He told me to control my temper and stop being mad at you for nothing.”

You expect something like a snarky comment, but Jaemin just looks surprised. “He knew it’s fake?”

You shrug. “I didn’t tell him anything. He either knows us too well or heard something through the grapevine. Or he heard me yelling at you and put two and two together.”

Jaemin snorts, but he doesn’t respond.

You shift uncomfortably. “That was pretty much it. He said the worst thing I could do was turn my back on my past.”

Jaemin pauses for a long time before speaking. “Can I say something to you? No Mei, no Jeff, no social media?”

Your heart feels stuck in your throat. You swallow thickly. “Yes.”

“I’m sorry.” His gaze burns through you. “I should’ve talked to you more during and after Nationals. I definitely should’ve warned you about the batshit plan our agents were making—I know that probably made you lose trust in me instantly.”

Jaemin glances at you, no doubt expecting some sort of correction or flash of emotion, but you remain silent. He continues: “I know it’s stupid, but they presented me with possible options for a PR relationship — it was going to happen regardless to acclimate the public to my return to skating. They suggested you last, but I think I agreed too fast. I should’ve talked to you before my team made contact with yours.”

Your mind swims with the new information. A laugh slips from your throat without realizing it. “I think I might’ve been the worst choice possible.”

He reddens. “Coach Brown gave me the idea, if I’m being honest.”

Your stomach drops. “What do you mean?”

“I ran into him here while practicing. Before everything, and before I officially planned to come back.” He admits. “I was venting to him about the concept of a PR relationship—I promise you I didn’t want to—and he started to rehash his past troubles with the media.”

“He got mad when Sunghoon got coverage about his real high school girlfriend,” you recall. “He would’ve lost his mind at a fake one.”

“He didn’t say anything weird,” Jaemin shrugs. “Just a hypothetical: ‘wouldn’t it be nice if someone you feel comfortable with could stand in, instead of doing something like that with a stranger.’”

What was it that Coach Brown had said to you? You should be grateful that he’s someone you feel comfortable around.

The edges of your mouth curl into a bittersweet smile. “That bastard.”

Jaemin smiles back, and your heart flips.

Coach Brown had essentially influenced this entire production. The realization causes tears to prick at the corners of your eyes. “Jaemin—”

“I should've talked to him more.” His eye grow misty. “I fucked up. I should’ve spent time with him, instead of focusing on all of the drama.”

You twitch forward, but you stop yourself short of hugging him. You pat his back in slow taps while holding back your own tears. “It’s not your fault. None of us knew that this would happen.”

He stiffens at your touch. “You don’t need to comfort me, you know. I know you hate me.”

Your stomach drops. “I never hated you, Jaemin. I was just hurt—it felt like you were using me.”

Once you speak it, you know it to be the truth. Try as you might, you could never hate Jaemin. Even if given away ten years ago, you know that he will always hold part of your heart.

“That was never my intention,” he whispers. “I know it’s hard to believe.”

“I see that now,” you acknowledge. “I’ve been an asshole, Jaem. I want to start over. ”

Jaemin sniffs back his remaining tears. He offers you a weak smile. “I’d like that.”

You reach towards him with your hand. “Friends?”

His hand closes over yours, only to pull you forward into a big hug. “Friends. Always.”

Your hands rise from your sides and travel up his back. You squeeze him tight. “Always. I’m sorry it took me so long to remember.”

“One, two, three, turn, two, three—” your choreographer, Maci, counts your steps with a patient tone.

You focus on your footwork. You’re still practicing without music; it’s just Maci’s voice mixed with your shoes squeaking against the floor. You extend your right arm behind you in a soft sweep, and you imagine it making a perfect line with your posture.

Instead, your tricep sticks against something soft yet clammy.

“Mmph—” Jaemin grunts behind you. “That’s my face.”

You stop and wipe your arm. “Sweaty.”

In sync, you both walk to the edge of the room to chug your water.

Practice for the ice show was truly underway, and you all had spent the last week learning choreography off ice. You and Sunghoon had quickly picked up on your routines for your individual portions. Sunghoon would do his routine completely by himself, as he would for any normal exhibition. You, however, would split yours into two: one minute by yourself, then one minute with Jaemin.

It wasn’t a complete disaster, but you were picking it up together slower than either of you anticipated. Jaemin struggled to lead, while you would misjudge your distance and step on his foot—or, in this case, slap him with your tricep.

“I might as well not be there,” Jaemin jokes with you during water breaks. “What happened to all of our training?”

“Our ice dance training from nearly ten years ago?”

“I think you legitimately forget that Jaemin is there if you don’t see him,” Sunghoon observes from the back. Although he almost always finishes before you, he tends to stick around. “You should skate with a rearview mirror.”

“Ha, ha.”

“Actually…” Maci looks lost in thought before nodding her head. “You have a point.”

You gape at her. “You think I need a rearview mirror?”

“Of course not,” she says. Noticeably, Sunghoon deflates slightly in his corner. “I just meant that he has a point…somewhere in there. You guys are taking up completely different spaces”

You both blink at her.

She rolls her eyes, then taps through her phone. A classic waltz plays over the small speakers overhead. “Dance in hold. Just a basic waltz, please.”

Jaemin grins and bows deeply. He extends a hand toward you. “May I have this dance?”

“Corny,” you groan while taking his hand with your right. You straighten your posture and bring your other hand to hold onto his bicep. Likewise, his right hand tucks over your shoulder blade. You’re both glistening with sweat, but you feel goosebumps raise where his hand glides over your skin.

The music continues to play overhead, but neither of you move. Jaemin waits another two measures before leading you across the floor. It’s a simple waltz, but you feel hyperaware of every movement, big and small. You swear Jaemin’s fingers tighten where your hands are clasped together.

“There you go!” Maci calls out.

Right when you’re thinking that’s a green light to call it, she shouts out again. “Now hold eye contact!”

You look up, ready to break the silence with a joke, but your smile drops when you see Jaemin's eyes. They’re dark and captivating—that much hasn’t changed—but there’s an undercurrent of something else that leaves you paralyzed. You nearly forget to breathe, as you have to focus all of your attention on matching his steps.

“How does this pace feel?” He asks while holding eye contact. There’s a ghost of a smirk.

Your heart races so fast that you can’t hear the music over your heartbeat pounding in your ears. “It’s a great pace. Feels good.”

You only realize the innuendo after it’s too late. Your face heats as he laughs at you.

“Alright!” Maci shouts out. “First run through of the partner section with the music! I’ll count you off.”

You start alone in the center of the floor with your arms extended, since that’ll be your position on the ice once your solo wraps up. Similar to how it will be on the ice, you don’t see Jaemin as he approaches; his hands rest on your waist first.

Your heartbeat instantly spikes; you’re unsure if it’s due to the contact or the adrenaline.

You brace your core as he lifts you and turns the two of you in a slight spin.

We’re really doing this, you realize as you extend through the lift. It’s a little wobbly—both of your faults, you think—but you get through it. Jaemin lowers you back onto your feet. Even though the landing is a little rough, a lift is a lift.

You turn out to face each other. Jaemin extends his arm toward you. His features are bright and confident, as if teasing you to come closer. For a split second, it reminds you of the easy stage presence he always carried as a performer.

You take his hand and continue with the rest of the routine. As this is an exhibition show and your dance together is an homage to Coach Brown, all of the elements within this showcase are mostly basic in nature. Sure, you both can tackle the various step sequences with a languid artistry not intuitive to non-skaters, but it’s nowhere close enough in difficulty to a competition program.

“You’re thinking too much,” Jaemin murmurs through a spin.

“I’m worried we’ll look silly,” you say as you part.

“No worrying when we’re dancing,” he says. “Just think about me.”

You do. You hold eye contact throughout the remainder of the step sequence, and all your thoughts revolve around him. His positioning—should you adjust a bit so you’re a little closer? You even focus on how your lines are extending towards him. Mostly technical things, but above all—Jaemin is like the sun, pulling everything towards him, and you can’t help but be swept into his orbit.

Your last element is a stationary lift where Jaemin anchors you by your waist and legs to hold you horizontally. Your entrance works, his hand grips your waist, but you flinch the second his other hand grabs your inner thigh.

“Oof—” your lower half drops to the ground, although Jaemin’s hold on your torso is enough to prevent full impact. “Thanks.”

For the first time, you glance around at your audience. Sunghoon looks away and scratches the back of his neck. Maci’s cheeks tinge with pink as she frantically reaches to stop the music.

“What’s wrong?” You ask with a frown as Jaemin pulls you to your feet. “Did it look bad?”

“No, uh—” Maci claps her hands together in light, awkward taps. She clears her throat. “It’s like you never left, Jaemin.”

“You guys are going to get questions about this routine for the rest of your lives,” Sunghoon snorts. “But it’ll get the donations going.”

Jaemin releases his hold on your hand. You flex it thoughtfully; you hadn’t realized that you hadn’t let go.

You look at your dance partner, but Jaemin’s expression tightens into something unreadable. “Yup, great for charity.”

Your day continues as usual—more individual runthroughs, a snack after practice, and mindless chats with your little group. But when you sleep that night, parsing through your day, you can’t shake the phantom feeling of his hand in yours.

❅˚

“I have to ask you a question,” Sunghoon says before you even have the chance to shut the passenger door.

You blink at him through sleepy eyes. “Right now? It’s 5am.”

Sunghoon puts the car into drive and heads in the direction of Jaemin’s apartment.

“So?” Your crankiness asks. “What’s your question—?”

“Do you have feelings for Jaemin?”

“Uh,” you’re genuinely at a loss for words. “Are we talking about currently, or when we were in middle school?”

He doesn’t respond. There’s not even any music playing in the car, so you squirm in your seat against the silence.

You clear your throat. “Why are you asking?”

“Because the two of you look like you’re ready to jump each other at any moment.”

“Ew, Hoon.”

"You're also acting different." Sunghoon gives you a look. “You would’ve already told me if it was anyone else.”

You break eye contact. Dancing with Jaemin again had asserted one thing: you could not deny your physical attraction to him. The chemistry overflowed, even when you watched practice footage back. Sure, he’s always been your type, but his face had grown more handsome and his body more chiseled into adulthood.

When it came to your emotional connection to him, however, your feelings are a big, jumbled mess. Becoming close again has been easy, but something in the air lingers between you two. It's difficult to differentiate the layers of physical attraction, nostalgia, and genuine fondness. How could you explain the complexities to Sunghoon when you barely understood them yourself?

“It’s just partner chemistry and the tone of our routine.” You groan. “Calm down.”

Sunghoon glares at you as he pulls into Jaemin’s apartment complex. He doesn’t respond, but his expression is crystal clear: I’m going to ask you about this again.

“Good morning,” Jaemin sings as he enters the car. “You guys are grumpier than usual.”

You and Sunghoon exchange a look; when he pointedly looks back at the road without a word, you figure he’s leaving any explanation to you.

You cross your arms. “You’re five minutes late.”

Jaemin snorts. “Touche.”

The rest of the drive is quiet. The heater in Sunghoon’s car fights against the cold air outside, but you pull your jacket around you nonetheless.

Starting today, the two of you are practicing your routine for the show on the actual ice. While the cast was just formally announced last week, the post had generated buzz almost immediately. All the marketing team had to do was put the list of names in their caption, and the internet did the rest. After all, what other opportunity would there be to watch the Na Jaemin skate outside of his discipline?

You’re happy that the show guaranteed to have a sold out audience and likely record breaking fundraising. It’s the whole reason why you both chose to participate in the first place, but you’d underestimated the pressure that came with it.

“You’ll finish your section with a spin,” Maci says as she walks you through the last of your solo steps. “And that is where Jaemin will come in.”

“Finally! I’m here!” Jaemin chimes in.

Both you and Sunghoon roll your eyes.

“Let’s see how many of the skills you remember,” you say as you catch your breath.

“I’ll tell the instructors to save a spot for you in Basic 1,” Sunghoon adds on. "You can learn how to skate with those new ice dance boots you bought."

Jaemin flips both of you off.

You step onto the bench while Sunghoon skates away to run through his third of the program.

You scroll through your phone as Sunghoon starts his routine. It’s not as if you don’t respect his skating; on the contrary, you never miss a performance. You just tune in for the big moments, which means that you don’t have to be as alert for these initial sessions.

While you’re nonchalant, Jaemin can’t tear his eyes away.

“If you told me ten years ago that he would be this graceful, I wouldn’t believe you,” the words fall out half under his breath.

You laugh. “Feed that line to the press.”

Jaemin’s eyes flit to yours. “You wouldn’t.”

You raise your hands into the air. “Kidding. I know exactly what you mean.”

From the beginning, Sunghoon had taken the most time to progress. All three of you had been considered advanced for your age group, but you and Jaemin had always been ahead of the curve.

Now, your friend was known for his focus on artistic elements; in many ways, you felt like he truly embodied the emotions of the characters he was portraying. You’d found that element of skating more difficult after your injury—you’d never been that good of an actor in the first place, and post-accident you didn’t find yourself that invested in pretending to be someone else.

“Do you ever regret not sticking with figure skating or ice dance?” You find yourself asking.

He shrugs. “Hard to say since we’ll never know my real potential. Although I did like the acting aspect of portraying a character.”

“So speed skating still has your heart,” you laugh. “Has it at least been worth diving back into it for a little bit? The theatrics of it all?”

Jaemin turns to you. He doesn’t smile at all, and his tone is dead serious. “It is. I wouldn’t trade this experience for the world.”

Your body hums in response from your heart down to your stomach. “Why’s that?”

He pauses. Then, without breaking eye contact, he smiles and leans in toward you. “What do you think?”

Jaemin smells faintly of oranges. Your head spins at the proximity. You can’t come up with something witty, even if you wanted to. “I–”

At the same time, Sunghoon loses his footing and falls to the ice with an oof. Both of your heads whip towards your friend, who rises and wipes the ice off of his clothes.

“You good?” You half-shout toward your friend.

He shoots you a thumbs up in response before continuing.

Jaemin gazes at you, but you’ve lost your nerve.

“It’s nice to be here with both of you again,” you say as you unlock your phone and sit back down. “It’s as if you never left.”

“Me too,” Jaemin says softly. “It’s just like old times.”

❅˚

It’s three weeks before the show. You rush to the rink alone this time to fit a makeup practice into your and Jaemin’s busy schedules. You groan internally knowing that it falls on your rest day, but the practice is needed. Between both of your training schedules, you had to take the free moments when they come.

You pick up coffees on the way. It’s the first time you’ve driven to practice by yourself in a week, and your nerves rise as you drive closer and closer.

There shouldn’t be anything to be nervous about. Sure, you and Jaemin still have parts of your routine to work on, but progress has been smooth up to this point.

You’re unable to shake off the feeling as you arrive thirty minutes early. You turn off your car and linger in the driver’s seat. You have two options: scroll on your phone in the car or head in early. The latter wouldn’t make sense under normal circumstances—if Jaemin wasn’t practicing.

You glance at the two drinks sitting in your cupholders. Surely there’s no harm in peeking?

You exit the car, both drinks in hand, before you can change your mind. You enter the rink with a sheepish energy, although you’re doing absolutely nothing wrong.

Jaemin’s alternating through basic circle skills. His coach watches at the sideline with a stopwatch in one hand and a phone recording the drill in its entirety from a stand.

More than the difficulty of speed skating itself, you can’t believe that Jaemin has been balancing it alongside the training for the gala. Not only are the skates completely different, but the main mechanics require raw power and endurance. Much different from the slower, technical precision of ice dance.

Despite no spins or jumps, he makes it look graceful. You make a mental note to attend his first competition. You could watch him skate forever, regardless of discipline.

Jaemin’s coach calls him in, reviewing the footage and giving feedback. His expression is neutral, and Jaemin merely nods and repeats the drill each time. It goes on that way until the end of his practice time.

You wave as Jaemin exits off the ice and down the ramp toward you. He blinks, and his steps stutter for a moment before he continues.

“Morning,” you avoid eye contact as you hold out his iced coffee. He hadn’t noticed you during his practice, but you feel shy nonetheless. “Got here a little early.”

“Oh,” Jaemin grimaces. “So you saw all that?”

“What do you mean?” You ask. “I thought you looked great.”

He scoffs. He focuses on something distant over your shoulder. “I don’t know if I would describe it as great.”

You’re at a loss for words. The scenario feels familiar—hell, you’d gotten this way during practice for your solo exhibition—but you don’t have enough technical knowledge of speed skating to immediately understand what happened. Beyond that, it’s rare to see Jaemin so quiet.

Your expression must be comically transparent, because you watch his eyes lock to yours and register your wide stare.

“Sorry, you just caught me at a weird practice,” he clears his throat. “I’ll be ready in fifteen?”

The gesture does little to settle you, but you manage your own uneasy smile. “Take your time. I’ll warm up.”

You’ve never been more grateful for the familiarity of center ice. You run through a quick warmup routine and even squeeze in a couple rough rehearsals of your solo routine for the show.

“Looks good,” Jaemin says as he finally steps onto the ice. “I almost feel bad to make you split your program in half.”

“You’re not making me do anything.” You frown. After everything the two of you have been through to get to this point, his sudden minimization makes you worry.

“Well, you know,” he says, alternating between the inner and outer edges of his blades in small swizzles.

“No, I don’t know,” you shake your head stubbornly. You glide in front of him without breaking eye contact. “I’m doing this because I want to. I want to skate with you.”

It’s the most forward you’ve been, but his expression doesn’t budge. Instead, he just nods. “Shall we?”

The two of you run through the routine a few times, but it’s as though the last few weeks have been for nothing. No matter how many times you restart or run through the counts slowly, the two of you struggle to sync. Rather—you know you’re hitting your movements, but Jaemin merely seems to be going through the motions.

When his hold on you wobbles on the ending pose, you snap yourself out of his arms and huff. “Okay, seriously. We’re done for today. Let’s go.”

Of all things, that seems to wake Jaemin from his daze. He skates after you. “Wait, I’m just off today—”

You ignore him, stepping off of the ice and into your skate guards. You briefly turn around to catch his eye.

Jaemin’s hovering on the ice by the door, watching you. His eyes plead.

You wave your arm towards you in a come here gesture. His face brightens, and he hurriedly follows after you.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes out when he’s close to you.

You shake your head. “Wanna get lunch?”

-

You stare at each other from across the table.

“You first,” you point to Jaemin’s burger, which has arrived at your table first. “Don’t wait for me.”

“Don’t get me wrong. I’m excited to eat, but,” Jaemin crosses his arms. “Do you have to stare at me?”

You say nothing even as the server brings your own food over.

Jaemin sighs but starts eating nonetheless. “Happy?”

“Yes,” you say as you pick at your fries.

“If this is a way to make sure I’m eating, I don’t have issues with dieting while competing,” he mutters between bites. “Luckily.”

“Trust me, it’s not about that,” you laugh. “I know you can eat.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So then…?”

“You were just super out of it today,” you shrug. “You’ve been training pretty intensely this week, right?”

He frowns. “I have, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary. Compared to the work schedule I was doing before coming back to skating, it’s more or less the same.”

You point a fry at him accusingly. “There. That’s the issue.”

“That I work?”

“That you’re not taking time to not work.”

“No offense,” the words come out slowly, “but aren’t you, like, famously known for never taking breaks?”

You shake your head. “That was pre-injury me. Current me takes breaks. I have hobbies.”

“I have hobbies,” he insists.

“That you’ve invested in recently?” You ask. "Actively?"

He hesitates. “So what, burger eating is supposed to be my next hobby? I don’t struggle with diets, but that one might be hard.”

“Ha ha,” you say flatly. “I just wanted to get you away from training. You love burgers.”

Jaemin looks down at his burger, as if the sandwich itself has betrayed him. “I do,” he sighs. “You don’t need to baby me. I’m a grown man.”

“I know,” you say, looking away. “I just wanted to get your mind off of everything. You’re doing a lot.”

A small silence stretches between you. You can feel Jaemin’s gaze probing over your side profile, but you pretend to look around the restaurant.

“Do you still like bingsu?”

“I–” Jaemin’s smile is bright as day, and, more importantly, it’s genuine. You relax“I do.”

“Wanna go to the cafe near Sunghoon’s place?”

You exhale a relieved breath. “That sounds amazing.”

❅˚

“Quick break?” Jaemin pants after a full run through of your routine.

You simply nod, trying to catch your own breath. The two of you skate to the side without a word.

You pull out your phone. Mei’s sent you three images over text with a short question—Received all the photos for promo. You sure you’re okay with the team using these?

As a part of promotional material for the ice show, all three of you—Sunghoon, Jaemin, and yourself—had submitted throwback pictures to be posted by the official account.

Your picture depicted five-year-old you at your very first skating lesson—pink puffer and helmet in full display. It’s one of your favorites.

Sunghoon’s picture, to your surprise, has both of you in it. It must be from middle school, since you’re dressed in costuming from your first and final pairs competition together.

“What the hell?” Your jaw drops as you inspect the image. Jaemin glances over your shoulder, and you turn your phone to show him. “This is the last thing I would’ve expected him to send. I don’t think I even have any pictures of us from that era.”

Jaemin laughs. “Maybe since they asked Sunghoon for something from middle school? He was complaining about it. They asked me for elementary school pictures, so I had it easy.”

Sure enough, the last picture shows the three of you after a group private lesson together. Jaemin’s in the center smiling wide and bright. Sunghoon’s smile is reserved and slightly awkward to Jaemin’s right. You, on the opposite side, cling to Jaemin’s side in a big hug with an even bigger smile.

There it is. A wave of shyness. “I don’t think I have this one either.”

“It’s my favorite.”

“It feels like forever ago.” Your throat constricts as you speak.

“It’s certainly been a long time since then,” Jaemin says. His eyes are glued to the picture of the three of you. His lips soften into a smile.

“I can’t believe Sunghoon and I thought we could be partners,” you cough and wrinkle your nose. “I don’t think his arm strength would’ve kept up. And we would’ve killed each other.”

It’s as if Jaemin doesn’t hear you. “Do you wanna hear something funny?”

“Does it involve that one time Sunghoon dropped me on the ice, your mom took me to urgent care, and then that incident single-handedly made me quit pairs?”

“No, but that’s good.” Jaemin’s smile still floats on his face with a hint of mischievousness, like he’s keeping a secret.

“What is it, then?”

“I used to be so jealous of Sunghoon,” he laughs. “And look at us now, practicing the choreography for an exhibition performance as partners.”

Your mind goes blank. “Jealous? Why?”

He seems to snap out of his reverie at your question, expression growing a little shy. He shrugs “Well, you know.”

“Um, no, I don’t know.”

“Well, childhood crushes and all that,” he says quickly. He queues up the music on his phone. “So jealous over random things. Anyway, ready to practice the second half?”

He skates away to put his phone down on the ledge and start the music before you can respond. What he hasn’t calculated is that he will need to skate right back to you to practice the step sequence. Two can play at this game.

“Funny you say that,” you mutter as he takes your hand. “Considering my childhood self would’ve killed to be paired with you.”

He swallows thickly. You can tell he’s trying to tune into the music, but his steps are half a beat off. “Meaning?”

You’re not going to make it that easy for him. “Same thing that you meant.”

The step sequence is naturally push-and-pull as Jaemin leads you through each stroke and turn, but today it feels like something more: a balance of power.

“We were partners before,” he murmurs before his hands anchor on your hips to guide you into a synchronized spin.

“Briefly,” you say once you complete it. “But I was devastated when you quit altogether. I would’ve done anything to keep skating with you.”

You maintain eye contact through the remainder of this practice. There’s a charged feeling in every movement, every touch. Even when the steps call for distance, you feel the inevitable pull to come back together. In fact, it never feels close enough.

The two of you slide into a stop at the end of your choreography, but you keep staring at each other long after the song has ended. Jaemin’s brown eyes roam your features hungrily, until his gaze settles on your lips.

Jaemin's going to kiss you.

Time slows. The rink lights overhead make your eyes water, and your mind resurfaces into a complete blank. There's not much choice otherwise—not with his lips nearing yours.

You close your eyes, trembling from your head to your blades as your heart rattles against your ribcage.

Lips graze against your cheek. Gentle hands drift onto your cheeks after.

Your eyelids flutter open. Jaemin's face hovers in front of yours. His features flush in a soft pink, but his eyes seem to droop. The corners of his lips quiver up in a sad half-smile.

"Not now," he says, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. "Sorry."

You come to your senses as he skates away, blinking around at your surroundings, as if you've woken up from a long sleep.

No words are exchanged as you both grab your things and exit. It's hardly mumbles of goodbye before going your separate ways.

You slam the car door closed and exist in the silence.

Although it just occurred, you're already winding back the events and weighing what could've been done differently.

You should've demanded answers; pushed him away and left in a storm. Or, maybe, you should've done the opposite—allowed all of your real emotions to sweep and pull at your face.

In actuality, you have no real confidence in the efficacy of either. You just hate the way it ended: neutral, as if you're two strangers rather than friends pushing at something more—not that you had the faintest idea of what. Just…something.

Even later that night, the exact details blur together, feeling more like a hallucination more than a memory. Had you made it up in your head? No, Jaemin was definitely flirting with you. Again. But Jaemin flirted with everyone—well, no, it does feel different when Jaemin flirts with you. Tender.

The moment replays over and over again, trapped within your thoughts. You try to sleep, but your mind is too busy fixing itself on the minute details: how his hands felt around you, the soft brush of Jaemin's lips against your skin.

All of your previous confidence feels like it evaporated from your body. All that filled your mind at the time was the near-aching urge to unleash your pent-up feelings. There had been absolutely no regard for the meaning afterwards, not that it mattered—he pulled away anyway. A wisp of a rejection.

If it happened, would it have even meant anything? You muse to yourself as you trace the lines of your ceiling. It could totally have just been harmless flirting.

For yourself, you know there's only one answer. You're well beyond dismissing your behavior with Jaemin as remnants of an old crush. Still, you wonder when they turned into more, as you can't pinpoint when they intensified. It's as if these new feelings could consume the old ones in their entirety.

You wonder if this newfound hunger will ever be satiated. This is more time than you could've imagined spending with Na Jaemin, but it never feels like enough.

You wonder if Jaemin is thinking of you half as much as you're thinking of him right now.

The thought barely fades when, like a sick, cosmic joke, your phone vibrates on your nightstand. Na Jaemin flashes on the screen.

You lunge for it and straighten your posture, clearing your throat and sliding a finger across the screen to answer. "Hey. What's up?"

"Hey," Jaemin says. "Did you see the group chat? What do you think?"

"Uh, no. I didn't see it," you admit. "What's up?"

"Coach Brown's wife asked if we want to visit him. Since he was cleared to finish his recovery at home."

"Oh—yeah, of course." The words come out rushed. It's as if you're speaking with a mouth filled with cotton balls. "I'm down."

"Cool."

"Are…are we all going?" You ask, then immediately regret it.

"Yes, of course." A pause. "I can take you tomorrow. Since we'll be going after the team meeting."

"Team meeting—?" Ah. The meeting with Mei and Jeff. "Right—yeah, we can carpool. If you don't mind."

"I don't," he says. "I'll pick you up at 1:30?"

"Sounds good."

"About today," Jaemin blurts out. "I'm sorry."

You slouch and close your eyes. "Sorry for what exactly, Jaem?"

"Well—we almost—you know." It's the most you've ever heard him stumble over his words. You would kill to see what flustered looks like brushed over his face. "Right?"

"So you're sorry that we almost kissed." The words flatten as you speak.

"God—can we talk? After our meeting? Or after we visit Coach Brown?"

Stress laces through his tone. Your heart sinks. "Of course."

Jaemin waits for a beat, but you refuse to give in. You don't want to have this conversation over the phone either, and he already offered.

"Good night, Jaemin," you offer.

"…Good night," he murmurs. "Sleep well."

You toss your phone back on the nightstand and cover yourself with the blankets. After that, you're in for the most restless sleep of your life.

"Last alignment meeting," Jaemin says on the way in. "Ready to do this thing?"

You force a smile. Not only are you reeling after a grand total of four hours of sleep, but the car ride over had been little more than dull niceties. "Something along those lines."

He frowns, but you pick up your pace and barrel inside.

Jaemin ends up drifting towards Jeff, although he looks over his shoulder at you.

You shrug and sit at the other end of the table, waiting for Mei to arrive.

Jaemin and Jeff huddle at the front of the table, gesturing and whispering among themselves. They only snap to attention when Mei strides in and shuts the door closed with extra force.

"Good afternoon," Jeff greets with his usual professionalism.

Mei and Jeff jump into reviewing the analytics from the last month. It lives up to your expectations; ever since the ice show announcements and promos ran, it was like someone hit a switch. You—according to sources, since you still avoided social media like the plague—were showing up less in search inquiries. If you were, then content leaned more supportive.

Still, looking at the cold hard numbers, it's clear that Jaemin's growth is unstoppable. Your followers grew by nearly triple, sure, but his total follower count still runs laps around yours.

"I think fans are just grateful to see you so active," Mei explains.

You steal a glance at Jaemin. His face gives away nothing. He looks like a statue, his expression carved in fierce stoicism.

By all metrics, both of your social media profiles look healthier than ever. Buzz has calmed down, and, by some miracle, your "relationship" appears to be accepted by the general public.

"In my opinion—we'll wrap with the ice show, both parties can post the photos from the event, and I think the performance will speak for itself!" For someone so corporate, Jeff looks downright giddy.

You and Mei meet his enthusiasm with tempered applause. Jaemin doesn't even look up.

"Well, there is one matter we should discuss, now that we're at the tail end of things." Jeff's voice turns into the poised tone you're familiar with. "When to announce the breakup."

It shouldn't have this much of an effect on you—it's a fake relationship, after all!—but your body stiffens on its own. You cross your arms over your chest.

You expect Jeff to defer to Mei, but he clears his throat to continue.

"A development that we will not be officially announcing anytime soon…Jaemin is planning on moving back to his old rink."

Your eyes snap to Jaemin. He's already looking at you, assessing your every minute reaction.

"His current coach divulged that he's moving up his retirement timeline. Jaemin's going to add his new coach onto his official team as support for now, then he'll make the hard switch next season."

The same sad glimmer from yesterday shines in his eyes. You understand in an instant—he knew it, even then.

"We're thinking, to leverage the speed skating season, we'll have Jaemin withdraw significantly from posting on social media. That way, breakup rumors and potential fallout can be addressed outside of the season for both sports."

"So no official announcement," Mei muses. "Just a fizzle out."

Jeff nods. "Just a fizzle."

"We'll discuss." Mei glances at you in the corner of her eye, so quick you almost miss it. "For now, we'll just aim to keep social media normal following the show."

You don't want to discuss it. You want to eject yourself from this meeting and dash under the covers, but today is not an option. Not when you, Jaemin, and Sunghoon have a scheduled visit with Coach Brown.

"Ready?" Jaemin asks after the meeting wraps.

You nod without a word and follow him to his car.

"I know you're mad," Jaemin rushes through his words right when your door closes. "Let me explain."

"No need," you say while pulling the seatbelt tight across your torso. "I think Jeff gave us the appropriate context. You're switching coaches, so you already decided to leave."

He runs a hand through his hair. "It's really not my choice. I didn't expect this at all."

You shrug. "Things happen."

Jaemin glances at you, but you train your gaze ahead. "Are you mad because—"

You cut him off. "This isn't a guessing game. It's either you have something to say, or you say nothing."

Jaemin's temper is rarely put to the test, but today you come very close: clenched jaw, sharp brows.

"You know what?" He says. "We'll just talk after we see Coach Brown."

"Fine by me."

Jaemin starts the ignition and snaps the gears into reverse. As both of you have decided there's nothing to say, you spend the entire car ride in pointed silence.

"It's so sweet of you kids to come out here and visit him," Mrs. Brown leaves a bowl of fruit on the center of the table. Not even thirty seconds later, she's back with pretzels. Thirty seconds after that, cookies.

"That's all right, Cynthia," Coach Brown chuckles. "You're going to scare the poor things off."

You, Jaemin, and Sunghoon sit shoulder-to-shoulder on the coach with small smiles. Sunghoon, with his endless generosity, insisted that Jaemin sit in the middle. You initially wanted to strangle Sunghoon, but you also can't help but be hyperaware of Jaemin's muscles pressing into your own.

Despite the current weirdness between two-thirds of you, this was something that didn't need to be discussed at all. Although, sitting here, you and Sunghoon fiddle with your hands and squirm a little in the heavy atmosphere. In situations like this, it's difficult to know the right things to say.

Jaemin leans forward, stands up, and shuffles over to Coach Brown's bedside. "You gotta look at this, coach," he laughs.

While you and Sunghoon sit glued to the couch, the whispers of what you want to say lodged firmly in your throats, Jaemin chatters on like it's just another day.

You feel a flash of pride. Then hurt.

How was it so easy for him to go about and act as though nothing affected him?

You shake the thoughts from your head. This isn't about you.

The three of you relax more through the visit, although Mrs. Brown gently cuts it short to allow Coach Brown to rest.

You all wave goodbye and promise to come again, then you're standing in the parking lot, hovering by your cars.

You're about to ask Sunghoon to drive you when he speaks first. "Jaemin, you can take her back, right? I have something else after this that I already committed to."

The bastard is lying; you know for a fact he's playing nothing but video games tonight. He meets your eyes and grins.

Your welcome, he mouths, none the wiser.

You roll your eyes.

"Yeah, I was going to take her anyway," Jaemin says, shooting you a suspicious side glance.

The two of you say bye to Sunghoon and step back into Jaemin's car. Instead of saying anything, he turns the music up until the bass reverberates the entire car. You spend the drive listening to bass boosted music and wonder if he's lost his mind. Still, you tolerate it—until he takes a couple wrong turns.

"What the hell are you doing?" You try to shout, but the music drowns out your words.

He doesn't even glance at you. You realize, scanning the horizon, that he's driving you to the park nearest to your house. Jaemin pulls into a spot, turning to you when he turns off the engine.

"Want to go on a walk and talk?"

You've often driven past your local park on weekends, swarming with families and soccer games, but today, on a random weekend evening, it's peaceful. The sunset just barely kisses the horizon, blending shades of orange and pink across the sky.

Jaemin walks at your side in shorts and a gray sweatshirt. His hoodie's pulled up, and you're wearing one of his baseball caps over your head.

You walk side-by-side for a while, kicking rocks down the pavement.

After a while, he finally speaks first. "I'm sorry for not telling you directly about the move."

You stiffen. Your legs are still in motion, but your movements feel robotic. Yeah, you'd wanted him to figure it out on his own, but you weren't expecting him to actually know so fast.

Your surprise must show, because Jaemin then clicks his tongue and exhales. "Whew. That must've really pissed you off, if you're that surprised that I got it right."

You find your voice. "Yeah. I didn't love hearing about it through your team. Again."

He winces. "I know. I told him not to mention it, but he kinda went a little rogue there."

"No." You shake your head. "It's not just that aspect of it."

Confusion. "Then…?"

You shrug and throw your arms up. "I wish you told me yourself, Jaemin. No team. Not because you need to tell me in the name of the contract. I wanted you to tell me, face to face, friend to friend."

His jaw drops. "I—"

"I thought we've grown since the start." You hate how your voice trembles. "You knew how upset I was when this started, but you went ahead and did the same exact thing. No mention of these deliberations, even when I see you every day. It's like I mean nothing—"

A shadow crosses his face. "Don't finish that sentence," he snaps.

The two of you are stopped in the furthermost part of the path by a cluster of trees, hidden in the corner from the rest of the park-goers.

You poke a finger into his chest with each word. "I. Mean. Nothing. To—"

It all happens in one swift motion. Jaemin grabs your wrist before you can poke him again, then he tugs you wholly into his chest. His eyes flash before he crashes his lips onto yours.

Your first kiss with Jaemin is the opposite of your near-kiss; from the beginning, you collide, rough and wild, pushing against the other.

This is what you missed out on; it could've just been like this at the rink, too. The realization fuels another flash of irritation paired with a slight thrill. Kissing Jaemin gives you the same rush as competing. Pure adrenaline and dopamine override your senses.

All you can think about is his lips on yours. From the way he pulls you close, hands firmly placed on your back and hips, you know he's equally as lost.

More, you think. The urge completes the thought you've pushed back for months: regardless of the extensive time you've spent together, it will never feel like enough. Down to the level of comfort, the silent understanding, and now the physicality—in this moment, you never want to let Jaemin go.

Probing, you swipe your tongue across his lower lip. He hesitates, easing the pace into slow rhythms. It's not an outright denial—you try again, this time lightly nibbling.

"Alright," he pulls away and presses his forehead to yours as you both catch your breath. "That's enough."

"You started it," you huff with a laugh.

He laughs, then scans around your surroundings. It's not the smartest thing, but there's no one around now, at least.

You lean back in, but he shakes his head. "Can we just…talk?"

He sits down on the closest bench and gestures next to him. You follow.

"I'm sorry for not telling you. It was true though—I wanted you to hear it from me."

You bite your lip. "I believe you."

"I'm sorry for…doing that, too. Just now," he adds.

The relief evaporates immediately. "And you're sorry about…what, exactly?" You ask coolly.

He pales. "I—"

"No more beating around the bush, or going through our teams," you say. "Just tell me what you're thinking please. I think I deserve the truth."

Jaemin thinks for a minute, then grins. "I have feelings for you."

"Jesus, Jaem—" Your whole body feels like it's burning up and smoking into the evening sky.

"What?" He shrugs. "I wanted to just get that out in the open, before you start getting ideas that you don't mean anything to me."

He gives you a pointed look. You stick your tongue out at him.

"I'll say that too. You mean a lot to me."

"I get it," you grumble. His charm has completely disarmed you. "You mean a lot to me too."

His smile shines bright and blinding, even against dusk. "I'll be here for this season before moving, then I'll be three hours away. I still want to give us a try. We can try to make it work even through our schedules."

Even through the warmth of his confession, a cold dose of reality hits you when reminded of your own impending training. "Jaemin…that might get a little crazy, don't you think? Training schedules are one thing, but competition and travel are another."

"I want to go to your competitions," he declares. "At least a good amount of them. I want people to see me supporting you."

You should be happy—after all, Jaemin's discarding his notorious privacy—but the thought of the general public remaining permanent witnesses to your private life makes your stomach coil. Your mind leaps to the worst possibility—what if you flopped next season? Would you retire, disgraced? Would they talk about you online—Na Jaemin's girlfriend, a washed-up skater anchored to him by memories?

"Even if your girlfriend doesn't reach the same legend status?" You ask with a bitter smile.

Jaemin deflates. "You've had a great career."

There it is: had.

You sigh. "Can I think about it?"

"Why?" He demands.

"I just—I want to think about it Jaemin, jeez! One day you don't want to kiss me, the next day you're kissing me and telling me that you want to be together—it's a lot."

"You wanted me to be open and honest," he says quietly. "So I'm leaving it all out there."

He's right. You're being a massive hypocrite, and he's presenting everything that you've wanted right there.

Even with the perfect man offering you everything, you can't shake the rotten doubt that it's too good to be true. You'll ruin what you have, just like you've ruined everything else.

"I mean, I've said it before, but I still think that my image benefited from this arrangement more than yours."

"Come on," he says, hugging you from behind. "You know I don't care about that stuff. "

"I know." You lean back into his chest. It's almost easier to speak openly when you're not looking directly at him. "It's just…when I think about it—really try to think about it—I don't know how everything's supposed to fit together. Once we both go back to training full-time."

His hug on you loosens a little, although you feel his shoulders tighten. "Like…you don't know where I fit into your life after this?"

"No," you respond, then hesitate. "It's like…"

That was the thing—for all of the time you'd spent out of the other's orbit, it was now hard to picture your life without Jaemin's presence. You could see the possibilities laid out clearly: going to his competitions or watching them online if you were out of town. Calling him before your events to calm your nerves, then calling him again after to debrief.

Undoubtedly, Jaemin brought the levity into your life that had been missing for years. But when you tried to conjure your role in his life, your mind drew a big, looming blank.

"I just don't know how I'm going to fit in your life, Jaem," you admit, your voice low and quiet. "We're so different. You're a success that's able to just climb and climb, and I've been struggling for the past five years. I don't know if I belong in your world."

His voice drops. "It's the same world."

"You know I don't mean literally." You untangle your limbs and turn to face him.

Jaemin's lips tighten into a straight line that's neither a smile nor a frown. There's the slightest crease bending between his eyebrows.

Your chest constricts at the sight, and you struggle to breathe. More than the sadness pooling in his features, there's something worse under the surface: disappointment.

You open and close your mouth, forgetting your words, but Jaemin speaks first.

"Do you know you have a tell when you jump?" He says.

"I—excuse me?"

"It has nothing to do with your speed, or even your technique right as you load into it," his eyes turn fiery. "I can tell if you're going to land it based on your expression alone. When you're about to land it, you get this cute, determined scrunch across your whole face. When you're about to pop it or mess up the landing, you get this scared look in your eyes. Like you're about to cry, even before you take off."

"So what?" You manage to choke up. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"You're giving me the same face right now, babe." Jaemin looks tired. "You look like you don't believe in this at all."

"I just need time."

"Then you can have it."

Silence stretches and expands between you. You hate this. You want to grab his hand and tell him that everything is going to be okay, but you can't make promises that you're not sure you can keep. You're hurting both of you in the process, but you can't stop.

"I just need time," you repeat, a broken record. "After the show?"

"Okay. We'll talk about it then." You see it cross his face again. Disappointment, disappointment, disappointment. "Let me take you home."

You finish the final touches of your makeup. You take a deep breath.

You're wearing the same dress from your Nationals free program. The ice blue fabric clings to your torso before flowing down your legs in sweeping waves.

You'd selected this dress for the show shortly after Nationals concluded—it was one of your favorites, and you hadn't been in the mindset to pursue a new look on a tight timeline, anyway—but you feel a brief flash of regret.

Dressed like this, it's impossible to not think about the last time you wore this dress. What started as yet another sad stamp in your fractured career pivoted to so much more. Your near-catastrophic failure of a program turned comeback, followed by the return of Jaemin into your personal life.

You pick up your phone, thinking to text Jaemin your revelation, only to remember and put it back down again. You'd left for the rink without checking whether he'd extend an offer to carpool or, at minimum, reach out at all to clear the air. He didn't—now, your first time seeing him today would be within the next thirty minutes, right before your show together.

A deep urge digs at your gut. You want to march right into the room you're mostly sure Jaemin's getting ready in with Sunghoon, drag him out, and demand answers. That, despite everything, he hasn't given up on you.

It's just an instinct. You lean back in your chair and close your eyes. A deep breath.

As you are choosing to handle this maturely (which rules out marching into his dressing room), you brace yourself for what's bound to be your first encounter: your off-ice warm up.

You've shown up ten minutes early. You're cycling through your second round of dynamic movements—light jogs, lunges, leg swings—until the remaining skaters begin to turn the corner.

You hear the slight lapse in chatter, but you ignore it. You're only looking for one face in the crowd.

A hand grabs your bicep. Sunghoon. "Hey, what's going on?" He hisses low into your ear. "Jaemin's pissed."

You swallow. "How pissed?"

"Pissed." His eyes narrow. "You don't seem surprised."

"Well, I…" A familiar figure rises in your peripheral. You free yourself from Sunghoon's grip. "I'm handling it. Promise."

Worry crosses his face. "Is that…good timing right now? Right before everything?"

Your confidence droops a little, but you push through it. "The timing is shit, but it has to be now."

Sunghoon releases your arm. You step forward toward the corner of the space, where Jaemin warms up with a small group of skaters.

He's wearing full-length black trousers that elongate his legs. His long-sleeved top echoes yours in shades of white blending into ice blue. A perfect pair.

You haven't seen him in days. It's like observing him through the lens of a stranger as he enraptures the attention of all around him with endless charm.

For the first time, it occurs to you; if you truly step away, this could be your new reality. Rooting for him from a distance rather than working through each struggle together. Polite yet restrained smiles of acknowledgement that refuse to reopen old wounds. The thought makes you ache.

You know it, then. You can't bear the thought of becoming strangers to one another again. As much as it stings to face your fears, the possibility of losing Jaemin hurts you more.

Rationally, you know that you can only blame yourself for this current situation—after all, it was your insecurities that had pushed him away.

Time after time, Jaemin had proven his genuine feelings and intentions toward you. This time, it was your duty to do the same.

Despite your reassurance to Sunghoon, you're scared to confront him. You're scared, but you push through anyway. You know, deep down, that going on the ice with Jaemin without addressing anything first will crack something deep in your foundation. You don't know how he'll react, and you don't want to find out.

"Hi," you breathe out from a slight distance.

Jaemin steps away from the group. His expression controls itself in an even neutrality, but he scans over your costume and over the details of your makeup.

"Hi," he responds.

A pause. There's a million things you want to say—what you know you should say, but you have no idea where to start.

"Are you ready?" You ask weakly.

"Yes." Then, he adds. "You don't need to worry. We'll give them a good show."

A good show. They're innocent words by themselves, but the accompanied tone leaves a bitter taste in your mouth.

"Performance," you can't help but correct. "We'll give them a good genuine performance."

He raises an eyebrow. "Is that not what I just said?"

He's messing with you. The cold shoulder sends hot desperation down your spine.

"Please don't be like this," you plead with him. "Can we just talk?"

"We are talking." He doesn't even look up at you.

"Come on, Jaemin. You know what I mean."

He leans down to retie the laces on his skate. He pulls so tight that the fibers creak against the boot. "I have been talking to you. Ever since we crossed paths again—I think I've been more than clear about where I stand. You're the one that needs more time."

"I don't need any more time." You admit. Your throat is raw. "I don't."

He stops.

This is it, you think.

Except, it's the opposite. Jaemin finishes lacing up his skates in a flash of panic and darts away.

"Jaemin," you call after him. You double back, grabbing your bag before taking off after him.

He weaves past the other skaters, who look at the pair of you with either curiosity or confusion. You're sure that some sort of account of this will end up on some sort of gossip blog or forum later on.

It's not hard to catch up to Jaemin, given that he's hobbling on top of blades covered by blocky skate guards. You end up cornering him in his own dressing room.

"Are you done?" You ask, exasperated. "We don't have time for this. I'm on in fifteen, then you're on with me right after."

"Yeah," he mutters, eyes darting around the room to and fro. "Let's not do this now. Let's wait."

"No way." You're blocking the door now. "God, just—listen to me, babe."

The pet name hangs in the air between you.

Realization dawns on his face, and an uneasy smile stretches completely across his features. "I'm listening."

"Thank you," you cough. Your face feels hot enough to melt ice. "I messed up yesterday."

He nods and waits for you to continue.

"Ever since you came back into my life, it's just felt like everything spiraled out of my control. Having you back and supporting me wholeheartedly while I've been struggling for so many years…" You frown while trying to find the words. "I guess I didn't believe it. I didn't feel like me or any of the work I've done for the past few years was worth that sort of blind optimism."

"It's not blind," he offers.

You ignore him. "You're perfect in, like, everything you do. I had you up on this crazy high pedestal, and I thought I would never be able to actually meet you there."

You look at Jaemin. His gaze is soft.

"You show everyone the best sides of you, but I want to see all of it. Whether you're excited or irritated at how training went, if you're annoyed at your fanbase." You draw in a breath. "I want to see all of you. I want to be with you, after this. Away from the cameras, and just for us."

Jaemin's eyes roam over your face. Then, he exhales loudly and hangs his head on top of his thighs. His shoulders shake as he laughs to himself. "Good god…"

Everything burns. "What?"

He rises to his feet and stands above you. His hands cradle your chin, their touch cool yet gentle. "I shouldn't have lost my temper at you. I'm sorry."

Your throat is dry. "Then…?"

"I got carried away even letting myself think that an idea of us would be possible." Jaemin admits. "I wasn't thinking enough about how you felt."

You nod your head wordlessly, transfixed by his words.

"You don't give yourself enough credit. Your work ethic, your charisma…you don't have to prove anything to anyone." He pauses. "It's not like anyone's perception of us will change, since I guess we're already publicly dating, but I'm ready to love you out loud. Whenever you're ready."

"Love."Your head spins. "Jaemin—"

"Jaemin, you don't know that you love me. Wrong." he anticipates your words with a shit-eating grin. His thumbs caress your cheeks. "I didn't realize it at the time because I'm such a dumbass, but I think I've loved you my whole life."

You press the backs of your hands to your cheeks, which slightly overlaps with his hands lining the sides of your face. "You have?"

"Yup." He takes one of your hands in his and presses a soft kiss to your skin. "No pressure to say it back, though. Take your time."

You don't need time; you've always known it deep down. Regardless of location, age, or circumstances, Jaemin's always reserved a space within your heart.

"One minute," you murmur, reaching for your bag. A pink bunny plushie slides out, and you hand it into the hands of the original gift-giver.

"Mr. Hops?" Jaemin tilts his head.

"I don't compete without him," you lower your gaze shyly. "So I guess you'll be in charge of making sure I have it at competitions."

Jaemin hugs him tight. "I—"

"What I'm trying to say is," you take a step towards him. "I love you too."

Jaemin closes the gap between you. The kiss carries all of your conflicting emotions and promises that you're still a little scared to say out loud. All you know for sure are two things: first, you love Jaemin, and second, to love Jaemin, you're determined to be more comfortable with the unknown.

"Jaemin, I've been knocking, you're on—" Sunghoon lingers in the threshold, jaw dropped. "What the hell?"

The room falls into wide stares. You jump away with your arms raised in surrender, Jaemin squeezes Mr. Hops to his chest, and Sunghoon points a silent, accusatory finger around the room.

"I've been looking for you, Jaemin," his finger moves to you. "You're on in like, five minutes." Finally, it lands at Jaemin's arms. "Why is Mr. Hops here?"

"We can explain," you blurt out.

Sunghoon glares at you. "You're going to explain, you dirty liar. After. You guys have to get your asses out there first."

The corners of Jaemin's eyes crinkle as he looks at you. You feel a warm swell of affection in your chest.

There's so much more you want to say to him, but the show must go on. For now, you press a quick peck to his lips and interlace your fingers together. "Ready?"

Jaemin's smile is so wide that it looks like he might explode with happiness. "For you? Anytime."

Sunghoon fake gags but holds the door open for you.

You hold hands the entire way to the ice. The crowd loses it. You faintly perceive the screams and camera flashes, but all you focus on is the feeling of Jaemin's hand in yours.

Jaemin stands somewhere in the middle of it all, hands tucked into his jacket pockets, barely bothered.

Haechan is already annoyed. Jeno is quieter, standing close enough to his girlfriend that they might as well merge into one at this point. Jaemin glances at them once, then forward again.

Start of spring energy. Everyone trying to squeeze something out of the night before everything resets into exams and exhaustion. The line inches forward. Warm air hits in waves whenever the door opens. Music follows it – heavy, messy, familiar.

Then when Jaemin’s in, noise swallows everything. Every corner is packed. Full tables, standing clusters, people leaning into each other and still shouting. The bar is already packed, orders shouted over each other, glasses clinking nonstop.

Jaemin steps further inside and blinks once, already knowing who to look for.

Same girl he’s been obsessing over for god knows how long.

He’s seen you plenty of times. Sometimes with Jisung, sometimes not. Sometimes in the library, others in the social studies building. Mostly he sees you here. Always behind the bar, barely smiling at customers. Always half-elsewhere even when you’re physically there.

He never fails to notice you for some reason. Never able to look away as fast as he’d like. First your posture. Not slouched exactly, but weighted, or bored. Like your body has learned how to keep functioning even when you’re past your limit.

Then your hands. Short nails. Practical length. Old polish chipped at the edges, like you painted them on a day you had energy and haven’t had another day like it since. You don’t even seem aware of it. Or maybe you just don’t care.

Your fingers move fast anyway – pouring, counting, sliding drinks across the bar without hesitation. Not a single wasted motion as you laugh at something one of your colleagues whispers in your ear.

Then his eyes glance at your arm when you reach up for a wine glass. The small tattoo sits on the inside of your forearm – simple, dark ink. Not decorative in the way people show off. More like something chosen for yourself, placed somewhere only visible when you move a certain way.

An outline of a tiny daffodil that disappears again when your sleeve falls back.

Then your face. Makeup that was probably neat earlier in the day, now slightly worn down at the edges. A faint smudge near your eye, like you’ve wiped sweat or pushed hair away too many times without thinking.

Jaemin’s mouth tilts before he realises it. Why are you always so nice to look at yet so difficult to approach?

“Jaem, this round’s on you, right?” Haechan says beside him.

“Yeah,” He answers carelessly, already stepping forward.

He slips into a free space at the bar before anyone else can, close enough that he doesn’t need to raise his voice.

You still don’t look up.

“Hey,” He tries, already feeling like an idiot.

You glance up. There’s a flicker of recognition and his mind already thinks you’ve tagged him as someone familiar from somewhere mildly annoying. Then your expression resets into something neutral. 

“Hi,” You greet, with a nod and something could resemble a smile if you didn’t look devastatingly bored. “What can I get you?”

Jaemin leans lightly on the bar. “Four beers, please.”

“What kind?” You’re already reaching for a pint glass.

He watches your hands again. “Whatever’s quick.”

You nod once, without further comment. Turn. Pour. Move. And Jaemin instantly thinks, damn, your manager must love you.

Behind him, Jeno laughs at something Haechan says. But Jaemin couldn’t be less curious. He’s still too busy watching you.

The full drinks land in front of him one after the other before he has enough time to admire you as much as he'd like.

“Cash or card?” You ask, reaching for the card machine on autopilot, like you already know his response.

“Card,” He says, tapping it. And before he can speak again or thank you, you’ve already migrated to the next customer, the dismissal so disappointingly quick it feels like a punch in the gut.

You work fast. Faster than most people in a place like this could reasonably manage. But there’s no flourish to it. Just survival through repetition. Someone calls your name and you respond immediately without looking away from what you’re doing, no distraction allowed to get in your way. And Jaemin internally pictures his compromised attention span laughing at him.

When you come back down the bar, he does something he never really had the intention of doing doing with you. He acts on instinct.

“Y/N, right?” He speaks a little too loud, miscalculating the decibels of the music, and immediately wishes he could ascend out of his body and slap himself. Maybe you'll do it for him instead.

You look at him a fraction of a second longer than before. There’s a faint twitch of your eyebrow, fatigue pressing closer to irritation, but still contained under professionalism. “Something wrong with your drinks?”

“You’re Jisung’s friend?” He doesn’t think he’s ever sounded this lame before.

Your eyes narrow slightly as you study him again. “…yeah,” you say. “Why?”

“I’ve seen you with him,” Jaemin says, his own voice irritating him already. “Around campus.”

Great, now he sounds like a stalker.

Something in your expression adjusts - subtle recalibration. Like you’re placing him properly now instead of just acknowledging him.

“Right,” You reaffirm. “You’re…?”

Do you really not remember him? He's introduced himself to you at least three times in the last few months. You've been to his house parties for crying out loud. And you still can't remember his name?

“Jaemin.” He smiles a little, hoping he looks a lot calmer than he feels. “I live with Ji.”

A small breath leaves you. Almost a laugh, but you don’t give it all the way.

“Okay,” You nod, like that settles it and you're in a rush to move on. “Anything else?”

There it is. The politeness. So fake that he wonders what you’d sound like if you screamed at him in anger.

Jaemin leans slightly against the bar, gaze drifting briefly past you and lands on the sign behind you he’s never seen before.

HELP WANTED

He nods toward it. “Does that still stand?”

You follow his gaze, then look back at him like you already know where this is going. “That I know of, yes.”

“And you’re hiring just anyone?”

You offer an indifferent shrug. “If they’re competent.”

“Slightly low bar, no?”

You huff a dismissive laugh, eyes rolling a little. “You’d be surprised.”

He studies you for a second longer. Your exhaustion is so evident, yet you’re holding this whole place together without letting it touch you more than necessary.

“You think I could apply?” A genuine question. The man studies biology, doesn’t know anything about bar tending.

“Honestly?” You say carefully, still polite, but focused on writing something on a small notepad in front of you. “Go for it, but you’d probably quit after one shift if you’ve never worked at a student bar before.”

Jaemin tilts his head slightly. You’re not judging him. You just don’t care whether you’re right or wrong. He still feels like you indirectly called him inexperienced, though.

“Alright,” he says. “Say I did apply.”

“You’d need to talk to the manager.” Again, so disinterested.

“Any warnings?”

You blink at him once. “About what?”

He gestures vaguely around him. “The job?”

You halt for just a second, then get back to pouring. “No, not really.” Then you shake your head. “You get what you see.”

And you’ve already moved to the other side of the bar, shouting about something he can’t quite decipher over the music. Maybe a missing cocktail pitcher?

A quiet laugh of disbelief slips out before he mumbles to himself. “Fair enough.”

“Well done.” Haechan drags him out of his thoughts as he grabs two of the four drinks. “You actually spoke to her and didn’t faint.”

“I was close.” Jaemin picks up the remaining two drinks and hesitantly retreats with a last glance towards you. He scans the crowd to find Jeno and his girlfriend have already secured a table in the furthest corner of the crowded space. Too far from the bar. At least for his liking.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

You shouldn’t have come outside.

It’s colder than you expected, the kind that settles in slowly, creeping through your sleeves, but at least it’s quiet out here and no one’s calling your name, no one’s waiting for you to pour their drink or fix something that isn’t your fault.

You lean back against the wall, cigarette between your fingers, letting your head rest for a second as you exhale. The noise from inside is muffled now, like it’s happening somewhere far away instead of just behind the door that you barely register opening again.

“Oh, hi.”

You glance over. Ugh.

You recognise him immediately – the one who always stares at you. The one you always actively ignore. Tonight you even went so far as pretending not to remember his name. Again. The one and only campus legend, Na Jaemin.

He looks very well put together tonight. Annoyingly so. Hoodie that’s a little too oversized, hair that looks effortless in a way that definitely isn’t, and a smile that comes too easily to be accidental. His teeth are ridiculously perfect.

You look at him for a second, then away again. You’re too tired to cover up the disinterest now. “Hi.”

He doesn’t take the hint.

“You look different out here,” He observes you skeptically.

You take a drag before answering, letting the smoke sit in your lungs for a second longer than necessary. “Less busy.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, even though you made no joke. Is he stupid?

“You shouldn’t smoke,” He nods towards your hand. You can tell he’s in the mood to tease.

You exhale slowly, turning your head just enough. “You shouldn’t drink. I still served you.”

“You’re not very friendly when you’re off.”

You glance at him briefly. “We’re not friends.”

There’s a glitch behind his eyes, as if he wasn’t expecting that to be the end of it. What an odd little fella.

“We could be–”

“Don’t even,” You cut in, immediately. “I’m already bored of this.”

He blinks once in shock, then lets out a very loud, almost crazy laugh. It’s drawn out on purpose. Like he’s testing how serious you are and deciding not to be.

“I’m sorry.” He pretends to be serious again. “That was funny.”

You eye him carefully this time. “Are you, like, super bored, or…?”

“No, not at all.” He responds with a shrug. “Do I need to be bored to talk to you?”

You tilt your head slightly. “No offence, I’m really not interested.”

That doesn't seem to do much other than pause him for maybe half a second. Then he nods like he’s processing a new problem.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “So…”

You straighten slightly, cigarette between your fingers, watching him. This is already getting old. “So I wouldn’t bother if I were you.”

He frowns a little. “Wouldn’t bother doing what?”

“Flirting, or whatever this qualifies as.”

“How do you know I’m flirting?”

It’s your turn to laugh this time. “The brick wall knows too. You’re not slick.”

His pout is too cute for a man his age. “So it’s not working then?”

Before you can even think of a response, a voice cuts in from behind him, saving you.

“Jaemin, hurry up. I’m going home.” His friend – half-annoyed, half-laughing – clearly has been watching this whole thing and can’t be bothered to intervene properly.

Jaemin turns slightly but doesn’t move away immediately.

“Give me a sec,” He calls back.

“Can he have your number?” His friend is looking at you now. “He’s actually not as annoying as he comes across and I would quite like to go cuddle my girlfriend.”

Jaemin glances back at you again in disbelief, like he’s weighing too many options. “Ignore him.”

You snort a laugh, slightly entertained by their weird dynamic. “So you don’t want my number.”

“Oh, I do.” He steps back a little, finally starting to retract. “But you won’t give it to me.”

You don’t react.

He nods to himself like he’s collected enough data. “See? I’m not that deluded.” Then, just before he fully turns away, he speaks again with a smile too pleased for someone who just got rejected. “Maybe I’ll try some other time.”

You struggle not to smile back. Then you look back at his friend, who’s still watching the strange interaction with fascination written all over his face.

“I wouldn’t,” You say flatly, internally battling whether you mean it or not. Would you want him to try again? He probably won’t anyway. He seems like the type to move on from these kinds of situations a little too easily. Maybe that’s good.

“Okay, I won’t then.” He just laughs again as he finally walks off. And annoyingly, it doesn’t sound like he’s serious at all.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

“Oh, shit–“ Jaemin whispers mid thrust, forcing his brain to tune out Nora’s loud moans. He focuses on his pending climax instead. So close. Right fucking there.

“Jaem, baby, cum for me.” She slurs, sounding too fucked out. Is she faking it? Jaemin swears he barely put any effort in making her cum tonight. He’s too distracted.

He buries his face in her neck, eyes clenching shut, ears blocking out her sounds, hips delivering sharp thrusts, still chasing a high that seems unreachable. The way she strokes his hair – gentle, sweet – seems to be working, and he thanks the universe that his dick finally gives up being stubborn. Not too long after, he finally releases in the condom with a defeated sigh.

It’s when Nora’s in the bathroom and he’s managed to regulate his breathing, that Jaemin finds himself in deep thought.

It wasn’t really her voice, or touch that pushed him over the edge, but his filthy imagination. Because for the first time in forever, Jaemin thought of someone else when he reached his high. His mind didn’t go blank. Nora’s naked body got replaced by the scandalous thought of you his brain chose to produce. You being in her spot. Under him, moaning a lot gentler than her, not faking anything, writhing in overstimulation but also begging him for more.

And for the first time in a long while, shame creeps in.

Not because he’s disrespected Nora. What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. But because he barely knows you. Yet somehow, you’ve managed to lodge yourself in his head so deeply that his brain fills in the blanks without permission. Is this normal? Or is his conscience finally deciding to torture him?

You’re younger than him, he knows that much. If you’re Jisung’s age, you’re definitely two years below, which makes you a second-year student. And what business does he have entertaining thoughts about a girl at such a different stage of life?

Two years isn’t much. Not really. But it feels like more when he remembers who he was at that age - confused, broke, permanently overwhelmed. And he still is all of those things, but not for much longer hopefully. You’re probably still navigating uni life like a tourist in foreign land, meanwhile, he’s supposed to graduate in less than five months. To get out in the real world and get one of those big job things that everyone strives for. And Jaemin’s sure that if you were older than him, he wouldn’t even hesitate. But you’re not. And for some reason he cares.

Though, he will admit you did seem to have your wits about you. You have a job. You probably pay your own bills. You're responsible in ways he definitely isn't.

Maybe he really should apply for that vacancy. He'd been joking earlier, but now he’s seriously considering it. Especially after checking the remaining balance in his bank account.

“You staying?” Nora’s voice jolts him out of his spiral.

“Nah.” He offers an apologetic smile. “Got class early tomorrow.”

“Yikes.” She settles under the covers with a tired pout. “You seemed a little out of it tonight.”

Women and their weird intuition.

“Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Just tired, I think.”

She laughs softly. Like she’s caught the lie. She probably has. “Don’t worry, I’m not judging.”

Jaemin smirks knowingly, staring up at the ceiling. “You’re always judging.”

“True.” The answer comes so quickly it pulls a smile from him.

A second later she’s yawning into her pillow, and Jaemin takes it as his cue to get out of her space.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

“Heard you met Jaemin hyung the other night.” Jisung’s side eyes you as you two walk out of your final class of the day. The expression on his face betrays something you can’t quite pinpoint, and you don’t quite like that curiosity blooms in your mind.

“Yeah, he’s weird.” You opt for indifference.

Jisung chuckles at your disapproving tone. “Nice guy, though.”

“Awfully flirty.”

Another short laugh. “Yeah, he’s had a thing for you since last year, I think.”

You completely ignore your friend’s useless statement. “Wasn’t there a rumour going around about him?”

You remember laughing when you heard about it, but then when you rethought the situation, you felt bad for the girl.

“You mean–“

“The piss in the eye thing.” You lower your voice as you exit the main building, and you catch Jisung’s lips purse in thought.

“I think…” His expression changes into a concerned one. “The girl he was seeing at the time asked him to try it and then when he ended things, she kind of made the whole eye thing up.”

“Really?” Your head shoots up. “So he didn’t piss on her?”

You already know the answer when Jisung slightly cringes.

“Well, that part’s true.” He clearly struggles to not laugh at his friend’s antics. “He just didn’t get her eye.”

“Shit,” You raise your eyebrows in wonderment. “Some people really struggle with rejection I guess.”

“Yeah, well, in this case–” Jisung pauses, like his next revelation could ruin Jaemin’s career. “He kind of, unknowingly, slept with one of her friends and then ghosted her.”

“Ugh, what a prick.” You cringe, all of a sudden supportive of the girl’s pettiness. “And you’re friends with this person?”

“I mean, he’s nice to me.” Jisung shrugs, causing you to smile at the fondness he emits. You sometimes wonder why Jisung is still single. He’s most likely the nicest guy friend you have, always sweet, always polite, always warm. A girl’s dream. Not necessarily yours. But most girls would certainly kill for a boyfriend like him.

“You’re too sweet for your own good Ji.”

“Oh, c’mon, it’s not like you haven’t fucked people over.” He gives you pointed look, his hand instinctively wrapping around your elbow to halt you from crossing the street as the red light is still on for pedestrians. “You’ve made guys like Jaemin cry in the past.”

It’s your turn to shrug. “I'm just doing god's work.”

“Speaking of men,” Jisung tugs at your sleeve as he starts walking, practically dragging you with him, and you always have to hold back a laugh at the silly little habit. “How’s things with Chenle?”

“Mmm, not sure.” You pout in contemplation about the odd situation you’ve recently found yourself in. “He’s hella cute, don’t get me wrong, great sex too, but I think that’s just it.”

“That’s not necessarily bad, no?”

“No, it’s ideal, but I think he might be in love.”

“Eh–?”

“Chill, not with me.” You reassure Jisung quickly before he jumps to conclusions. “I have a feeling he’s hung up on someone else.”

“Oof.” Jisung sympathises with a scrunch of his nose.

“Yeah, as amazing as dick can be, it feels a bit weird when the other person can barely look at you, you know?”

The whole ordeal with Chenle started randomly and predictably where most similar situations start. A party. A lot of alcohol involved. A game of truth or dare. A kiss. And then suddenly you’re bent over a bathroom sink getting your back blown out.

He gave you exactly what you were looking for. A distraction. And so you both kept going back. For almost a year now. But the last few months, you’ve sensed the change in him. The hesitation before a kiss. The pauses between touches. The way his eyes seem focused somewhere else. You're not hurt by it. The sex is still good. But being cast in the role of someone else's stand-in isn't exactly appealing.

The problem is that ending things with Chenle would mean giving up convenient sex. Which, unfortunately, has become one of the highlights of your increasingly exhausting weeks. And it would likely mean going back to your old pink wand-shaped friend. Not the worst thing in the world, but also not as good as the real deal.

What really is the worst thing in the world is the fact that when you try to think of alternatives, your brain keeps landing on the same person. A person whose lifestyle, reputation, and entire approach to life go against everything you usually stand for.

Yet, you can’t help but wonder.

What is it about Na Jaemin that makes people go so feral? Apart from his ridiculously gorgeous face. And hair. And hands. And arms. Okay, yes, he’s insanely attractive. But attractive enough to get away with anything?

Even after that ridiculous rumour started going around, he seemed completely untouched by it, and so did everyone around him. He still drifted through parties like he owned them, collecting attention without even appearing to try, somehow maintaining his ‘pussy magnet’ status like nothing could ever tarnish it.

His erratic behaviour, paired with the endless stream of people drawn to him, had always felt like a mystery you weren’t remotely interested in solving. Until the other night.

One thing you’re sure of is that if his dick game is as weak as his flirting skills, then what a shame.

And what a waste of everyone’s time.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

“Well, hello partner.” The familiar but grating voice penetrates your distracted brain as you’re too busy looking in your bag for your work t-shirt.

“Huh?”

And there he is again, outside your workplace like he belongs. Perfect set of pearly whites on full display, blinding you. He looks like a more of a normal person compared to the other night. Like he’s just heading home after a long day of lectures, his backpack hanging off one shoulder.

Annoying.

“We must stop meeting like this.” He attempts to joke, letting the door of the main entrance slam shut behind him.

“I work here.” You point out, as though he doesn’t already know. “Why are you here? We’re not even open yet.”

“Well, as of tomorrow, I work here too.” He says a little too chirpily, like he didn’t just drop a bomb on you.

“Umm,“ You suspect you must look like a crazy person judging from his amused expression. “No you don’t.”

“I’m afraid I do.” He nods with the cockiest grin sporting his face.

“How–“

“Just had my interview with Johnny.” He points a thumb behind him. “So, I guess I’ll–“

“Do you even have bar experience?” You interrupt him a little too abruptly, the tone of your voice carries a surprise to both of you. A little too cold even for you.

His smirk doesn’t falter. “We all start from somewhere.”

“Yeah, in your case, rock bottom.” You don’t want to offend him. Don’t want to give him more of your energy to cling on to. Yet, it’s so difficult not to.

He dares to let a stupid laugh slip. “I’m just so lucky to have you as a mentor then.”

“I ain’t teaching you shit.” You scoff, tightening your grip on your bag strap. The nerve of this man.

“Well, I gotta learn somehow.” He pouts.

Fake.

“You’re welcome to sit in a corner and watch then.” You offer him a sweet smile with absolutely no warmth behind it before moving past him and towards the door. Another long-ass shift awaits.

You can still feel his eyes on you when he speaks again. “I’ll happily watch you. Just not sure I’ll learn much.”

Your hand stills on the handle.

The grin threatening your mouth is immediate as you catch the meaning tucked beneath his words. You refuse to give him the satisfaction of turning around. Instead, you push through the door and disappear inside.

Even then, you can still feel his gaze burning between your shoulder blades.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

Jaemin hates working with you. Not because you’re bossy. Not because you’re too fast. Not because you roll your eyes at him every time he makes a mistake. Not because you called him an imbecile earlier. Not because your jaw tenses whenever he flirts with a customer.

But because none of those things make him think about you less. Jaemin leaves every shift either irritated or turned on and definitely a little more obsessed with you.

His eyes threaten to roll to the back of his head each time you insult him. It’s like he lives to frustrate you nowadays. And he swears he almost let a moan slip when you grabbed him by the back of his collar yesterday as he was pouring what turned out to be a pint of Guinness like he would pour every other pint of lager. You have to let it sit half-way through apparently. Or whatever it was you snarled at him.

After a week of being shouted at and having enjoyed every single second of it, he’s finally starting to get the hang of things. And as much as he’s enjoyed torturing you, he's realised that he needs to lock in if he wants to keep his job. The manager seemed to trust your judgment, so he couldn’t really risk it for longer.

He liked the tiny comment of praise you gave him when he successfully closed the till at the end of the shift. But as much as the little ‘nice one’ you muttered excited him, nothing comes close to ‘I could so easily slap you right now’.

Yes, Jaemin has long accepted that he might be sick in the head. But he just can’t help it when it comes to you and your short temper.

What gets him the most, though, what really makes him weak in the knees, and rewires his brain every single time, is how you shift from mean to kind and back to mean in a matter of seconds. One moment you’re looking at him with eyes that scream murder and the next you’re smiling at a customer and offering water when they seem too intoxicated.

It’s almost three am when the last few customers slip out tonight. You’re already on your phone, your back pressed against the bar as you quickly type a response to something that made you almost smile.

“Boyfriend?” He tries, already knowing the answer, but needing to inspect further.

You surprise him by actually giving a somewhat satisfactory answer. “Not really, no.”

He nods, pretending to stay focused on the cleaning task in front of him. “Girlfriend then?”

He can’t help but giggle at the way you roll your eyes but still smirk at his nosy but teasing tone.

Jaemin is very much aware of your current situation. Turns out drunk little Jisung can’t keep a secret for the life of him. But even if it weren’t for his younger housemate, Jaemin has eyes. He’s seen you at parties, sneaking around with only one guy. A guy he only knows through other friends and Haechan’s girlfriend. He remembers sharing a vape with him once outside a club.

Chenle is someone he could only describe as likeable. He hasn’t ever heard a single bad thing about the guy. Always cracking jokes and hosting the best parties out of everyone in the circle of Jaemin's acquaintances. And it goes without saying that he’s insanely hot. As straight as Jaemin is, he can appreciate an attractive man. The younger boy’s cheekbones and jawline could slice him in half. So he can’t really blame you.

But he can and he will be secretly jealous.

Especially when his brain keeps taking him back to that night he walked out in the back garden of some stranger’s house for a piss, just because the bathroom was otherwise occupied. He wishes he had walked away the second he realised what was actually happening, but in the midst of his drunken state, Jaemin stalled. And he watched. For longer than he should have.

Because there you were, backed against a concealed corner, just a few feet away from the spot he chose to empty his full bladder, which was quickly forgotten the second he laid eyes on the sight in front of him. Your bent knee resting on Chenle’s hip, uncovered thigh concealing whatever the boy’s hand was doing between your legs.

It was when you broke the kiss with a low whine that Jaemin realised he needed to leave. He still didn’t, though. Not for a few seconds longer. Not until he heard you brokenly whisper ‘Think I’m gonna cum’. That’s when he bolted. Because it got too real. And as much as Jaemin hates to admit it, he really, truly, genuinely, passionately despised the way you sounded so sweet with another boy. A boy that wasn't him. A boy that couldn't possibly think about you as much as Jaemin does.

And when he got back home that night, Jaemin, shamefully, had the most intense jerking off experience ever. What was shameful about it wasn’t just the filthy imagery of you that occupied his sick little mind – mostly scenarios where you’d be on your knees for him – but how your name so easily rolled off his tongue when his load landed on the shower floor. And he couldn’t even blame his imagination anymore. Just his memory.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

“Hey, partner.” Jaemin’s now familiar greeting makes you look up from the drink you’re pouring yourself. Oddly, it’s not as aggravating now you’re not surrounded by kegs of beer and screaming customers.

“Hey, loser.” You greet back like you always do, this time a little more lightheartedly. Blame it on the alcohol coursing through your bloodstream. “Don’t tell me you’re here to ruin another one of my evenings with your nagging.”

His expected laugh rings through the loud music. He’s already leaning against the counter next to you as you mix cheap vodka with lemonade. “Nah, just spotted you and thought I’d say hi. Is that allowed?”

You glance over at him, pretending to think about your answer as you briefly take a sip to taste test the drink. “I suppose it is at this point.”

You don’t miss his gaze taking in your appearance when you turn around to lean your hip against the counter so you can properly look at him.

He hesitates a little before speaking again, his hand nervously swirling the content of his cup. “And what point is that?”

“Hmm,” You hold back a grin, enjoying his squirming a little too much. “I’m not sure yet. What point would you want it to be?”

You can practically see the wheels turning in his head before his signature grin appears. “Something tells me friendship point would be a no-no from your side.”

You can’t contain it this time. A chuckle lets loose, making you look away, his wide-eyed reaction a little too overwhelming for you and so is the entirety of his handsome face.

“Yeah, I wouldn’t go that far.” You say disapprovingly, and his exaggerated groan is less annoying than other nights.

He pauses to take a look at you, expression more serious than you’re used to, and it makes you feel almost shy. Almost.

“Who you here with then?” He breaks the silence with what could pass as the most casual question, but you can sense the hidden meaning behind it.

“My flatmate, Winter.” You search through the crowd that occupies the living room area and quickly spot her with Ningning and Chenle. “The blondie over there.”

“Ah,” Recognition appears on his features. “You close with Ning and Chenle too?”

“Mm.” You take a sip of your drink as you do your best to show nonchalance. “Not really.”

“Pff.” The scoff is difficult to ignore. He knows you’re lying. Of course he does.

“What?” You ask as innocently as possible.

“Nothing, just didn’t take you for a liar.” He challenges with a smirk, his fingers getting your attention as they tap on the counter surface.

“How am I a liar?” You mirror the tilt of his head with your own.

“I live with Jisung, Y/N.” He steps closer, voice lowering just a tad. “You probably know things about me you shouldn’t know.”

He's not wrong there. You might not be at a friendship point, but there’s definitely no secrets between you two with Jisung as a mutual friend. That fact doesn’t seem to bother you as much as it should, though. Not when all you can really focus on in the moment are Jaemin’s unfairly long eyelashes and his incredibly moisturised lips.

How can a man be this pretty?

“Do you think you’d take off if you blinked too fast?” Your unexpected question seems to baffle him, and to your amusement he expresses his confusion by blinking a little faster than normal.

“Oh my god… you’re drunk!” He brings a hand to his mouth, gasping dramatically.

You poke him in the chest, making him stumble back a little. “And you’re a pretty little girl.”

A shocked laugh erupts from him and before he can speak another word, you’re clumsily walking away. Fuck Na Jaemin and his stupidly flawless face.

It’s not too long after when you’re dragging Chenle upstairs, in need of a distraction, which proves to be impossible when Jaemin’s gaze finds yours through the crowd like it’s an instinct. You hold eye contact longer than necessary. Longer than you’d normally allow yourself.

You take pride in being a self-aware person. You know your limits and you can tell when you’ve crossed them. This is a case of the latter. Because looking into Na Jaemin’s eyes like you’re passing a silent invite while Chenle’s hand is in yours is definitely something that goes beyond your moral boundaries.

And you know what you’re doing when you leave the door ajar behind you as you crash your mouth into Chenle’s. And you definitely know what you’re doing when instead of the bed, you choose to walk back into the desk, where anyone walking past the room could take a peek at. The whole time, you’re perfectly aware of your actions and the repercussions they entail, but you’re also aware of Jaemin’s eyes on you when you bury your face in Chenle’s shoulder.

“Fuck, Y/N.” Chenle moans against your neck as he keeps thrusting into you. Hard. His hands harshly squeeze your ass, slightly lifting you off the desk, bouncing you just right, nudging the perfect spot inside you.

You can’t help but let your head roll back for a few seconds, allowing the pleasure to consume you. And just when you’re teetering close to the edge of your orgasm, you allow yourself to steal a glance at the door, the little crack allowing you to see the shadow of someone standing there.

You know it’s him.

You know he can see everything clearly, and that thought alone is enough to send you into total bliss.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

Jaemin hates you. He does. But most of all he hates himself and how down bad for you he is. He feels pathetic. And extremely turned on.

How dare you eye fuck him that hard when you’re guiding another man into a room clearly with intention of getting dicked down. And how dare you look in his direction while you’re getting railed into next week.

Do you know he's fucking insane?

You can’t possibly be able to see him, but he knows you know he’s there. He knows you know he’s watching. And he knows you like it. You invited him after all. It’s obvious you’re putting on a show for him. And even though he’s well hidden, your gaze keeps trailing towards the door. It’s filthy. And it’s obscene. And it’s new. Nothing he’s experienced before.

You’re right there, just a few feet away from him. Again. Getting touched by Chenle. Again. And Jaemin is watching. Again. Only this time, you’re aware of him.

By the time he let his intrigue take over his logic and decided to head upstairs, you're already moaning, thighs spread around the other boy’s waist as he pounds into you. And Jaemin will give it to Chenle. He seems like he knows what he’s doing with you. Like he knows what you need. And when your legs start shaking, Jaemin can’t bring himself to look away. He feels hot and flushed, his cheeks burning with shame and arousal, but he needs to keep looking. Needs to see you fall apart, even if it’s on another man’s cock.

And he does exactly that. He watches.

Your mouth hangs open in the cutest way, your expression blissed out, eyes unfocused, hands gripping onto Chenle’s shirt while you cum with the sweetest cry of desperation he’s ever heard.

And Jaemin’s dick is so hard it hurts. But what hurts more is his pride.

You’ve humiliated him without even trying. Just tossed a bait he so willingly grabbed onto like he was deprived and starved. He gave you all the power he could ever give someone. All for you to chew him up and spit him back out. And for him to love every second of it.

The next couple of weeks are, as expected, a torture. Him trying to get the image out of his head and you putting it right back into its wedged place whenever you look at him.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

“So, how's working with Jaem going?” Jisung points his drink toward your coworker, who’s currently belting out ‘She Will Be Loved’ to the karaoke mic in the middle of the living room, while half the people sitting down are hyping him up and the other half are booing. Except for Haechan who’s just filming with his phone like a proud mum.

You have to hide your smile behind the rim of your cup. Otherwise, it’s too obvious who the reason behind it is. “As well as it can go.”

“That could either be awful or amazing.”

“I’m not telling you shit. You can’t keep your mouth shut.” It comes as a joke, but you mean it.

“What? I’ve never–”

“Yes, you have.” You chuckle at your friend’s automatically defensive mode.

Jisung rolls his eyes in surrender. “He asked me!”

“And you said ‘oh, yeah she’s actually banging Chenle’?” You take a sideways glance at him but return your attention to Jaemin and his chaotic performance.

“Well...” Jisung pauses to think. “He already kind of knew. I think he asked Haechan as well.”

“See? That’s what I mean!” You laugh with a shake of your head. “You’ve just thrown your friend under the bus.”

Jisung groans in annoyance. “As if you don’t already know he’s into you.” He points at his housemate again, who’s now on his knees in front of Haechan finishing the song. “He’s been following you around like a lost puppy for at least a month now. It's not rocket science.”

You refuse to react to the statement, even though it’s a fact.

“And you like it.” Jisung concludes with a teasing grin.

Your tongue reflexively pokes into your cheek to contain another smile.

“Just fuck him.”

“Ji!” You whack him on the chest, the out-of-character and vulgar comment shocking you.

“What?” Jisung giggles at your reaction, arm coming up as a shield. “He’s graduating soon, so you might as well get it out the way before it’s too late.”

“Oh, do me a favour.” Your dismissal makes Jisung’s eyebrows raise in confusion. “That man doesn’t have the brain cells to pour a drink let alone graduate.”

“He’s actually on his way to a distinction.”

“Huh?” Your neck almost cramps from snapping your head to look at Jisung only to find his irritating smirk still in place.

“Surprise, he's clever!" Jisung mocks your shocked expression with a gasp. "Spanner in the works, huh?”

You click your teeth in annoyance, returning to your dismissive tone. “No works so no spanners.”

“Lie some more. I'm enjoying this.”

You tune out Jisung’s rant about how ‘you always deprive yourself of real connections because you’re scared of trusting men’ and take a meticulous look at Jaemin. He’s now sat on the sofa while someone else has taken his place on the mic. It’s something about the way he carefully listens to Jeno and nods that gets your thoughts rolling.

Yes, he’s undeniably handsome. Yes, he can be funny at times. Yes, his light-heartedness is what you look forward to during a rough shift sometimes. But it’s mostly his attention to detail and careful nature that intrigues you. It's how he can always read what mood you’re in without you even having to utter a single word. It’s how his eyebrows tense and he hums along in understanding when you complain about something random or explain work stuff to him. It’s how he’s never once fucked up at work, always completing tasks like a pro and even saving your from awkward situations with rude customers. And you realise that through the silliness and endless flirty comments, you’ve overlooked qualities that make him so much more desirable than he already looks.

You realise that you’re finally seeing through the persona he very obviously has built as a wall around himself.

And maybe that explains why later in the night, when Jaemin very openly follows your every movement as you walk in the sitting area of the party, you give in.

“Sit next to me?” No partner this time, no teasing lilt in his tone, just pure hope as he looks up at you from his spot on the already occupied sofa. Shiny lips parted slightly, eyes wide when you approach him, clearly taken aback by your newfound docility.

Jeno instantly slides further down to make space for you, smiling politely when you squeeze in between the two boys, and you can undoubtedly feel Jaemin’s eyes burning holes into your side profile.

“Stop staring.” You mutter with a grin you fail to hold back when you feel him sink back into the cushions again, legs spreading just a little. Just enough for his thigh to press against yours, the heat radiating off his jeans easy to feel on your bare skin.

“What you drinking?” He inches a little closer, chin just a few centimetres off your skin as he looks over your shoulder, warm breath littering the expanse of it with goosebumps. You don’t think he’s ever been this close before. Or maybe you just haven’t noticed.

You lift your cup closer to his face, offering a sip but only throw him a quick sideways glance. “Vodka cranberry.”

He takes it after balancing his own cup between his thighs. “Yum.” He smacks his lips after a big gulp, the tip of his tongue darting out to lick a stray droplet of translucent pink liquid. “You know, I read somewhere that if you share your drink with someone, they’re be able find out all your secrets.”

You snort at the ridiculous and probably made-up fact. “Good thing I’m an open book.”

“Mm,” He taps his index on the rim of your cup he’s still holding. For some reason your eyes keep drifting to his fingers. “That you are.” You can hear the mischief in his tone and you know what he’s referring to. You both do.

A thick drop of alcohol spills over the edge of your red cup when he passes it back, landing right on your bare thigh. You stare at it. He doesn’t apologise. Instead, his thumb brushes away the liquid on your skin before putting it in his mouth. Like it was never there. Goosebumps form instantaneously as you watch his lips in utter shock. The fuck did he just do?

“Everyone has secrets, though.” He brings your attention back to his eyes.

“Go ahead then.” You gesture, as though offering the floor for him to take, choosing to ignore the lewd act of him sucking on the thumb that just touched you. “What’s one of mine?”

He narrows his eyes as he thinks carefully, taking in your already judgmental expression. “You still listen to Paramore.”

A loud, abrupt laugh bubbles in your chest at the random guess. “That’s no fucking secret.”

“Yeah, I just uncovered it.” He gestures with both palms open, like it’s the most obvious thing in the whole world.

“You’re a clown.” You shake your head.

“Okay okay, I have a better one.” He sits up, straightening his back a little as he turns to face you better. You instinctively mirror him, brain now blocking out the rest of the commotion in the crowded living room. “You actually like mentoring me.”

Your eyebrows have a mind of their own as they inch closer to your hairline in surprise. “Interesting. Why d’you think that?”

He extends his arm along the back of the couch, his skin brushing yours, the same shoulder he was breathing on. You watch his mouth form a sceptical pout, eyes more serious than ever. “Because you enjoy bossing me around.”

“I’m just giving you what you want.” The words slip out before your brain has the chance to filter them, and you suddenly get the urge to slap a hand on your mouth. You don’t.

“Nice.” He nods in approval, proud smile on full blast. “And you haven’t even had a sip of my drink.”

“It’s no secret.”

“What?” He challenges. You hesitate. He presses. “Say it.”

His expressions are too tempting to finish the conversation here. “That you like being told what to do.”

He hums ponderingly. “Sounds to me like we’re–”

“A match made in heaven?” You humour him for what feels like the first time ever, imitating what he would’ve sounded like in your brain, whiny and irritating.

He smiles wide, pearly whites blinding you, fingers curling inwards against your shoulder, knuckles lightly tickling you. “Didn’t know you were cute like that.”

You tut your tongue at him, eyes rolling in feigned annoyance, all just to let him know that his flirty remarks still fail to affect you. Which has been a big fat lie since that first night you officially met him.

But he can’t see that. You hope.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

Next time you see Jaemin is not at work, but at the science building cafeteria. Chenle is going on about how happy he is that you’re not awkward with him now that you’ve stopped fucking around and how much he appreciates you as a friend. You think it’s funny that he’s so apologetic considering you’re the one who actually initiated the conversation last week. You thought it was about time. Especially after you found him drunk in a bathtub, crying his eyes out. He has a weird habit of getting in bathtubs when he’s at parties, but you know by now it’s just his way of escaping overwhelming crowds. And so you just nod away when he keeps yapping about how grateful he is that you’re so cool and respect his space.

You’ve just devoured a spoonful of rice when you hear it.

“Yo yo, partner!” You instantly know who it is, but you still raise your head from your plate, and you wonder if you look like a caricature with your cheeks protruding like you’ve been starved for days. Jaemin stands over you, his dumb smile intact like it’s never left since that party. It always makes you wonder what he’s like when he’s serious or upset about something. Is he the vocal or silent treatment type? Is he chill or intense? Or is he the kind that would shut you up and put you in your place? Nevermind.

“Oh lord, you got enough rice there?” He mocks, eyes widening to humour you. “You look like Patrick with a crabby patty.”

He somehow looks even brighter in daylight. Maybe it’s the pink jumper. Maybe it’s his unusually fluffy hair. Or maybe it’s the way he rocks back and forth on his heels like a child desperate for attention. What a sight.

You just blink.

Chenle folds in half laughing and points at you while you force yourself to chew.

“Well, take your time. I don’t really need you to speak.” Jaemin hands you a flyer. “I was gonna invite you to this photography exhibition. You’re both welcome.”

Both? He’s potentially seen the two of you going at it on a desk, blatantly flirted with you days after, and now is inviting you both to his photography exhibition. Like none of that is remotely weird.

Something stirs in you as you struggle to chew.

Jaemin has made it abundantly clear he’d be in your pants the second you gave him the green light. Yet he’s never been jealous. Never possessive. Never made things uncomfortable. If anything, his interest in you, day by day, seems to be inching closer to something that could only be described as genuine. Not just sexual. Not just competitive.

And your stomach feels weird. Because you like that.

Chenle smiles at the older boy while you still struggle to swallow down your food. “I thought you studied biomed?”

“Hobbies are a thing.” Jaemin drags the words teasingly, with no malice detected in his voice.

“We’ll be there.” Chenle agrees cheerfully without sparing you a glance.

“Umm–”

“Nice one!” Jaemin claps his hands and walks away before you can get a coherent word out.

“So, I see I’ve been replaced in no time.” Chenle attempts to joke but of course it doesn’t land. Like most of his jokes. Instead, it earns him a cube of mango in the face.

It’s not that you don’t want to go. You certainly do. You’re curious. But you’re also a tiny bit terrified. Because that invite, as ridiculously casual as it was made out to be, felt somewhat intimate.

And what has put ‘a spanner in the works’, like your dear friend Jisung said the other night, isn’t that Jaemin has a creative hobby. Or that he’s intelligent. Or that he doesn’t mind being the butt of every joke while half the university spreads ridiculous rumours about him.

It’s how interesting of a person he’s turning out to be. Not just smooth. Not just confident. But... charismatic.

And that’s something you would describe as an obstacle. Something disturbing.

Because it renders your efforts to ignore his advances useless.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

You could never really wrap your head around the fact that some women so easily go about their day while on their period. Meanwhile, you’re struggling to pour drinks and take card payments due to the agonising pain in your lower back and what could only be described as stabbing in your uterus. The only thing you can do is sip water every five minutes to reward your body for its endurance during this fuckass shift that will probably pay for less than a pack of tampons.

You’re putting on the best smile you can muster, but you can feel that client after client it keeps weakening, and so do your knees. The smell of alcohol isn’t helping either, with your stomach already being in bits since this morning. The loud laughter coming from all the tables around keeps piercing through your aching head and you’re pretty sure your back is dripping in sweat from your fluctuating body temperature.

“You look a little pale, you okay?” Jaemin asks quietly as he stands next to you behind the bar. It’s a busy Friday night, people coming in and out. Some looking to stay, some just pregaming for the rest of their long night out. And you’ll give it to Jaemin, he’s been a lot more productive tonight than you have. So much that you’re actually thankful you’re working with him tonight. Because he keeps taking the heat from all the demanding customers without questioning your distraction.

"Mm, just tired." You lean forward against the shelf beneath the bar, eyes shut as you try to breathe through another wave of pain. "Sorry for letting you take the lead tonight."

You hear him take another order. Something about a Sex on the Beach. A moment later comes the beep of the card machine, then warmth envelops your side - his chest. And a gentle hand settles on your lower back.

You're too exhausted to flinch.

"Seriously, do you need a minute?" he asks, genuine concern softening his voice. The heat of his palm lands exactly where it hurts. "I don't mind if you go downstairs for a bit–"

"No, I'm good." You shake your head quickly, resentment bubbling at being seen like this. You hate it enough that you could cry. Probably the insane hormones in your body working their magic.

“Y/N–”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not.” He presses, voice firmer than before but still laced with worry. His hand stays on your back, thumb tracing absent circles that might've been soothing if you weren't in so much pain. Then he shifts slightly, shielding you from the other bartenders. "Do you need painkillers? I've got ibuprofen in my bag."

Oh. So he definitely knows you’re bleeding out of your vagina. Great. And he’s attentive. Super great.

A sharp cramp twists in your tummy, forcing you to give in. So you nod. “Will you be good on your own for a few minutes? I might need to–”

"I'll be fine." He saves you from having to admit you need the bathroom to check whether you've leaked through your tampon.

The loss of his warmth is immediate, but a second later he's slipping a blister pack into your hand. His fingers linger for the briefest moment around your wrist before he pulls away as two new customers approach the bar.

"Take your time," he says quietly.

When you finally look up, he's already behind the till, already smiling at customers. Back to his usual chirpy self, as if he didn't just make you feel strangely safe.

By the end of what feels like the longest shift in human history, you've lost count of how many times Jaemin has checked if you're okay. Now he's practically forcing you into your jacket because he refuses to let you stay and close up. The painkillers have finally kicked in, and all you want is your bed and a hot water bottle. Still, you're oddly reluctant to leave without saying something.

“Thanks for earlier, by the way.” You catch Jaemin's baffled look as he tries to sort glasses onto the shelves.

“Why are you still here?” he scolds, disapproval written all over his face.

Despite yourself, you smile. “I’m going, I’m going.” You lift your hands in surrender, already wearing your jacket, bag hanging off one shoulder. “Just wanted to say thanks.”

He glances up briefly, shoulders lifting in a small shrug before his attention returns to the cocktail jar in his hands. “It’s what partners do, no?”

Now that you're standing on the customer side of the bar, you finally get to see what everyone else sees. A very pretty, smiley man you'd probably avoid if you were ordering.

“Well, goodnight, partner.”

His entire face lights up, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “I like it better when you say it.”

And then he's gone, disappearing into the back before you can think of a response.

The thudding in your chest leaves no coherent thoughts behind.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

It’s not that Jaemin is in love with you. Absolutely not. How could he be?

Everything he knows about you is what he’d know about any coworker. How you sound when you’re frustrated with him. How annoyed you get when he forgets to turn the dishwasher on. How pretty you look when you’re complaining about rude customers. How you always wear black tops to work but brighter colours around campus.

He’s also noticed that you answer his questions before he asks them. He never has to spend long looking for something behind the bar; you’re already pointing him in the right direction.

No, it’s not that he’s in love with you. That’s not the case at all. He just can’t seem to get you out of his head.

He’s not sure when it became a problem, but he noticed it after that night you were feeling unwell. He’d never seen your guard so low before, never seen you look like you needed someone to take care of you.

He wanted to text you after your shift. Make sure you got home okay.

He didn’t.

Partly because he chickened out, and partly because you strike him as the type to leave a man on read without a second thought. Probably because you can. Sensational women tend to get away with things like that.

Lying in bed that night, exhausted but unable to sleep, he couldn't stop thinking about comforting you.

Not sex. Not any of the filthy scenarios his brain usually specialises in.

Just you. Curled up in his arms beneath a blanket. A bouquet of flowers abandoned somewhere on the coffee table. Chocolate. Your favourite snacks. His fingers combing through your hair while you slowly drift off against his chest.

He’s fantasised about plenty of things before. Never this. Never about making someone's day easier.

With you, though…

He wonders if you’d ever want him in your space like that. If you’d trust him to hold you like that. And most of all, he wonders if you’ve thought about it too. But, to put it plainly, no. Jaemin is far from being in love with you.

He’s really struggling to focus tonight.

With you sitting beside him, the booth somehow feels both too small and too big. He can’t decide whether he wants more space between you or none at all.

It’s Jisung’s birthday drinks. Three weeks after his actual birthday, his younger housemate finally managed to gather everyone for a quiet night out. No clubbing. No chaos. Just a lively bar a little outside of campus.

Jisung claimed he was sick of seeing the same faces all the time, to which Jaemin had agreed. And yet here he is, distracted by your familiar face.

You’re tucked into the corner of the booth, practically shoulder-to-shoulder with him. Jeno sits on his other side. Beyond that, Jaemin couldn’t tell you who's sitting where.

Not because he’s drunk.

Because you smell too good.

Because your arm keeps brushing his whenever you reach for your drink.

And because your dress...

Fuck.

Your dress.

You always look pretty. But tonight you’re on a different level. Or maybe it’s just his silly little brain playing tricks on him. It’s only a black dress. Nothing he hasn’t seen on other girls before. Then again, Jaemin often thinks that no one can pull things off like you do.

“So what’s Jaemin like at work, Y/N?” Renjun chimes in curiously from the opposite side of the booth. Here we go.

“Hmm.” Jaemin feels your eyes on him before you answer. “Same as now, just less rigid.”

“Hey, I’m not rigid–”

“You are a little.” Renjun saves the day again, clearly in the mood to mock.

“He’s probably just annoyed he can’t escape my presence.” You lean over the table, as if sharing a secret with his friend.

Oh, so you’re playing that game. Cool cool cool. “Why would I wanna escape your presence? Being all up in your business is my new hobby.”

You shoot him the deadliest side-eye. So pretty. “Is it now?”

“Mhm.” He twirls his straw playfully before taking a sip of the very strong rum and coke he ordered not too long ago. “Honestly, it’s what gets me through the week.”

Your scoff says you don't believe him for a second. “You might as well just confess your undying love at this point.”

Yeah, he’s seriously thinking about it. “That would be highly unprofessional considering you’re, like, my boss.”

“Since when do you give a fuck about professionalism?”

“Um,” He raises a sassy finger. “I’m pretty you lack in that department more than I do.”

You blink at him in disbelief. “Excuse me?”

“I don’t spit in people’s drinks.”

“He made her pay for everything and kept staring at my tits!” you fire back.

Jaemin laughs at the memory of you ‘accidentally’ dribbling into some guy’s beer before handing it over with the sweetest smile imaginable.

“Nah, that was actually fire, I rate it.” He praises and leans more against the table, elbows on the surface as he rests his chin on his interlinked fingers, trying really hard not to stare at your tits, clearly no better than the man who, unknowingly, had the pleasure of tasting your spit. Maybe if Jaemin openly stares, you’ll spit in his drink too.

That’s not a normal thing to want, is it?

Renjun is already immersed in another conversation with Haechan and Jisung, and Jaemin realises that for the first time in what feels like an eon, he’s nervous. As though he’s all alone with you and doesn’t know how to handle it. Though, he doesn’t have to dig too deep in his brain for a topic of conversation before you strike him with a surprisingly serious question. “So, you excited to graduate?”

He feels like he needs hours to think about the right answer. You’ve definitely put him on the spot here, and no one’s even listening. “Yes and no.”

“That’s awfully vague.”

“It’s true.” He shrugs, eyes trained on your nails. Not chipped for the first time. He can almost picture you painting them with a serious but insanely adorable look of concentration all over your face. “I’m curious about life after uni, but also, I know this is probably the freest we’ll ever feel.”

“Yeah,” You take in his words, and he can almost visualise your brain processing them as you slowly nod. “I don’t think I’m cut out to have a big girl job.”

“I think you’re cut out to have anything you want.” His words don’t even click in his mind but your raised eyebrow makes him catch on. He’ll admit - though, not intended that way - that sounded like a line. “I’m serious.”

The corner of your mouth twitches. A hint of a smile. “Didn’t say you weren’t.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Right, you know all my secrets. I forget.” It’s the first time you refer to that night you two spent hours talking on that dingy sofa.

“Nah, not all of them.” He deflects with a pout.

You tilt your head in question, cheek now resting on your palm as you give him your full attention. It’s strange. It should feel like a victory. Instead, it makes him feel exposed.

“No?” You ask teasingly.

He offers a nod and leans an inch closer. Enough for his arm to press against yours. Skin on skin. A rarity with you two. “I feel like I could know a lot more.”

“Anything specific?” You surprise him by not pulling back, if anything, you just hold eye contact. Like the rest of the group doesn’t even exist. “Feels like you’ve got a questionnaire prepared.”

Jaemin can’t fight the cheeky smile. This is his moment. It's either go big or go home. “Why did you leave the door ajar?”

It’s like your mouth parts in slow motion. Then shuts again. And repeat. You’re doing a good job at not showing much emotion at the outrageously daring question.

“Why did you come upstairs?” You predictably answer him with a question of your own, and he has to bite a grin back. Because, of course, you’d do that.

“Because you wanted me to.” His shoulders lift in a small shrug, like it’s self-explanatory. To him it is.

“And you’re so good at knowing what I want.”

“I’m definitely better at it than you are.”

“Oof...” You lean back and cross your arms, your dubious frown causing a turmoil in his chest. Did he go too far? “Do you even know what you want?”

“Mm, to be honest...” He leans in so he can whisper without risking getting heard by anyone else. “I rarely do, but–”

“Oh, do me a favour.” You roll your eyes like you’re already bored of what he’s about to say next.

He chuckles, so amused with your reactions. “You didn’t even let me finish.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.” The regret is so clearly faux, but still endearing, nonetheless. “Please, carry on.”

“No.” He leans back like you did, arms crossing stubbornly, sassily jutting his bottom lip out. “I don’t wanna say now.”

“Oh, no, please tell me.” You say with the most stoic look, still mocking him. “How can I go on without knowing?”

“Sarcasm will get you nowhere with me.” He disapproves with a determined smile, knowing he’s successfully getting under your skin.

“I don’t know,” You casually reach and take his drink out of his hand, the straw already between your thumb and index as you swirl the remaining liquid, condensation dripping on your thigh, and Jaemin gets deja vu. “I think you prefer it when I’m mean.”

Maybe you know him better than he thinks. Or maybe you’re just more observant than you let on. You certainly get a kick out of making his dick suffocate, though. Because as Jaemin watches you wrap your glossed lips around the straw he’s just had in his mouth, he feels appallingly turned on. And he really wants to wipe the drop off your thigh exactly like he did last time. He doesn’t. But he does let his deranged mind entertain the thought of using his tongue instead of his thumb. Maybe someday. Hopefully.

“Oh, so now I’ve got a humiliation kink?” He pretends to be offended, watching the movement in your throat as you swallow a gulp of his drink with a disapproving scrunch of your nose.

“You said it, not me.” You put down the drink with a disgusted cough. “Fuck, did you ask for battery acid?”

He giggles at your rapid blinking. “Ruined your flirty antics, did I?”

“Fuck off.” You laugh along, cheeks now rosier than before with the hint of embarrassment.

“Not too much with the bullying. I’ll get a boner.”

Your eyes widen in disbelief at his crudeness, and he feels like he’s thriving. You’re finally speechless. This is what success feels like.

“I could get you fired for that.”

Oh.

“Wait, what? I was just jo–”

“God, you’re such a guy.” You shake your head with mockery, mouth now around your own straw as you sip on what looks like something disgustingly fruity. “You talk like you ownthe biggest pair of balls on planet earth but the second a girl outdoes you, it’s all begging and wah wah wah–”

“Do you ever shut up?” He doesn’t know where the outburst came from, but your confused frown goes straight to his cock, and before he can apologise-

“You shut up.” You clap back with a childlike frown, your ankle nudging his under the table in retaliation, and Jaemin’s competitive nature comes forth.

You’re not winning this one. He refuses to let you. So instead of nudging you back, he hooks his ankle around yours. You don’t ease up - as expected - trying to shove him away with a hand on his knee, glancing around with exaggerated innocence. Your worry about being seen is almost endearing, especially because you’re clearly biting back a smile.

Which is exactly why, instead of letting you go, Jaemin catches your hand and laces his fingers through yours.

Your small, sharp inhale slips past you, unnoticed by everyone except him. Your fingers twitch against his grip, but it holds steady – anchoring you in place – and finally does what he hasn’t managed to do for weeks.

It quiets you.

And Jaemin feels, for once, like he’s won.

Especially when you stop resisting and sink back into your seat, his ankle still tangled with yours, your hand now folded into his.

All you give him is a side-eye sharp enough to pass as affection. And every time he drifts into conversation, he can feel you looking at him. He pretends not to notice, answering with a squeeze of your ankle or a slow stroke of his thumb across your knuckles.

He doesn’t let go when Haechan brings over birthday shots for Jisung. One hand around his glass. The other one still holding yours like it’s instinct.

At some point – quietly, maybe even without meaning to – you lean into his side.

If anyone’s noticed, they don’t say a word. Jaemin’s almost certain that’s because of you. Because if it were anyone else, his friends would’ve made it unbearable by now. But your presence doesn’t really allow for noise like that.

They’ve learned.

The illusion breaks the moment you lean in and whisper that you need the bathroom. And when you slip out of the booth, leaving him wedged between wall and friend, Jaemin can already feel the questions forming.

Still, the ghost of your hand in his makes it worth it.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

“Still here, Wiggles?”

You’re leaning against a lamppost waiting for your uber when Jaemin emerges from inside the bar. You really can’t escape this man. Not that you’re trying that hard anyway.

“I’d ask where ‘Wiggles’ came from but not so sure I wanna know.”

He takes his place in front of you, looking as effortless and unbothered as he always does. “You’re always trying to wiggle away from me.” He discloses with a performative pout, lips shining more than before. He must’ve applied lip balm after you exited.

“Right. And you won’t let me.” You squint your eyes as though emphasising a complaint. You’re sure he can see right through it anyway.

“I would hate to deprive you of the joy of my presence.” He flashes you a bunny-like smile with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows. “You cold?” He asks with a sniffle as he catches the little shiver that cuts through you.

“Nah, I’m good.” You check your phone again. “My uber’s here in two mins anyway.”

He nods, but doesn’t move to head back inside, eyes remaining fixed on you. “Did you have fun?”

You want to tease, make a comment about his earlier antics, but his question sounds genuine, and you don’t think you'd want to go into that right now anyway. Not when there’s a time limit. “I did, yeah. You?”

“Oh, I had the most fun ever.” He drags the word, clearly not able to hold a serious conversation for more than four seconds.

“At least you keep yourself entertained.”

He hums mischievously, taking a step closer. The shadows from the streetlight and the bar lights make one side of his face glow in yellow and pink. “You never answered my question, you know.”

He’s standing close enough that you have to tilt your head slightly to look at him properly. “Which one?”

Before he can answer, a car engine roars, ending your conversation prematurely.

He’s grinning, but he almost looks disappointed, like an opportunity was snatched right out of his hands. “I’ll tell you another time.”

Your uber pulls up, and you nod at the driver with a smile, letting him know he’s got the right person. Before you can lift a hand, Jaemin’s opening the door to the backseat for you.

“Bed time for you, wiggles.” He steps aside to make space for you, hand still on the car door when you turn to look at him before getting in. “I’ll tell Sung you stayed until late.” He reassures, indicating that the birthday boy is at a level of intoxication that most likely will compromise his memory.

For a reason unbeknownst to you, there’s a feeling of hesitation sitting in your chest. You’re reluctant to leave. Not just because you’ve had such a fun night. It’s the boy in front of you that poses an obstacle, as always. It’s how he’s made you feel all night. It’s how he’s looking at you now. It’s how he’s also still glued to the ground, not making an effort to end the night either.

“Make sure he drinks some water.” You opt to say, and Jaemin’s twitching mouth catches your attention. You feel like he can read your unease through your body language. Like he can read your mind. “Right, well, good–”

It’s funny how you’ve always thought you had the upper hand in most situations in life. Jaemin was definitely one of those situations. Until now. Until he shut you up for the second time in one night. Only this time, with his mouth on yours. It's not searing, nor is it the kind of kiss that knocks the air out of your lungs. To your surprise, it’s soft. His lips are slow against yours, moving lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world, and you surprise yourself by finally giving in to the desire you’ve suppressed for what seems like too long. Your hand finds itself on his nape, pulling him in with more determination, but with a delicate swipe of his tongue across your bottom lip, he’s gone.

“Goodnight, partner.” The whisper feels hot against your tingly lips, his smile is something you can only describe as wicked, and with that, he squeezes your waist in a way that makes your skin prickle with goosebumps before stepping away. He’s walking back inside before you can utter a word or offer any type of reaction to what just occurred, something you should’ve expected by now. Because it’s Jaemin. And Jaemin is unpredictable.

What you also know is that a kiss that short shouldn’t have melted your brain the way it did.

When you’re settled in the back of the car, it finally dawns on you– if he hadn’t pulled away, you wouldn’t have either. If Na Jaemin had kept kissing you, it is highly likely that you would’ve dragged him in the backseat of this uber with you. And the faint heat between your thighs feels like a personal attack your body wasn’t prepared for. But what’s embarrassing is how willingly you would've let him take care of it. Or make more of a mess if he pleased.

Your hazy brain keeps blaming the alcohol you’ve consumed, but as you sit there drowning in your overflowing thoughts, driving through campus and trying not to rub your thighs together, your thudding heart is telling you otherwise.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

Since you started working with Jaemin, it’s become known to you that he’s a very punctual guy. Never late, and if not on time, then most likely early. So when you turn up for your first shift of the week on Monday – thankfully a quiet one – and Jaemin is nowhere to be found, the first thought that crosses your mind is that he’s quit. That he kissed you just because he’d had enough of your attitude and endless negativity. And now that he’s barely broken through those, he’s had enough of chasing after you.

You could ignore his absence and go about your day. It’s the wise option. But your phone is already in your hands and your thumbs are typing away.

You: why is your friend not at work?

Sung: why do you ask

You: ??

Sung: he’s off this week

Sung: smth about a lab project thing he needs to prepare for

You: 👍

Sung: he knew you were gonna ask me

You: lol

Sung: apparently you’re predictable 💀

Great. So now you’re being mocked by who used to be your sweet friend Jisung. Fuck your nosiness. Or neediness in this instance. Needy for Na Jaemin? You? No. No. No. Absolutely the fuck not.

But then why are you already dreading dealing with customers without his hushed teasing comments? Or the provocative wiggling of his eyebrows when someone asks for your number in addition to their drink. Or the way he somehow appears beside you whenever a customer starts being difficult. Or how he always makes sure to add straws to a drink when you forget, even though he’s worked there for far less than you have. Or...

You suddenly come to the realisation that Jaemin has somehow become such a big part of your weeks. Like a habit you would struggle getting rid of.

And what’s worse now is that since that night he randomly kissed you and made your brain short circuit, you’ve not been able to shake the thought of him. The memory of him. The feeling of him. Of his lips on yours, of his hand in yours, of his mouth curling around the word ‘partner’. A word you once were so indifferent to that has now acquired a completely different meaning to its actual one.

Jaemin has really become your partner at work. And generally, someone you look forward to seeing. Someone you seek but can’t seem to find in your other coworkers. Or anyone you know really.

And as ridiculous as it may seem. Later in the week, three shifts in without him, you can’t deny a fact that about two months ago wouldn’t have even crossed your mind.

You miss Na Jaemin and the vibrant colours that come with him.

Work without him is awfully blue.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

Jaemin’s never lacked initiative. Ever. Not as a kid, not as a teenager, not as an adult. He’s always been one to go for things he wanted. Whether it be a goal, a dream, a plan, a piece of clothing, a book, a video game. Anything. And when it comes to his love life, well let’s say he’s never lacked initiative in that department either. The only thing he’s lacking there is curiosity. Or intrigue. It’s always the same with every girl. No surprises. He knows what he wants, knows what he gets. And it’s not that he’s always been successful. He’s had girls reject him before. Or ghost him even. But he’s only cared until he’s found his next conquest, which doesn’t normally take more than a Saturday night and a few tequila shots.

He’s always viewed himself as someone who comes across as light-hearted. Harmless even. Certainly not intimidating. He knows that for a fact. People look at him and smile openly. They welcome him in. They embrace his quirkiness. They see him as someone who holds no weight. No depth. No substance. And he’s always been fine with that.

Until recently. Until he got a taste of what it’s like to be taken seriously. To be levelled with. To be challenged.

Until you.

Until he felt curious and genuinely intrigued.

Not in a poetic ‘she’s so different to everyone else’ type of way. Because you’re not. You blend in quite well with everyone around you. Yeah, maybe you’re more on the grumpy side most of the time, but who isn’t nowadays. You don’t make rooms light up. You’re not the centre of attention. You’re just... you. Sarcastic to the bone. Short-tempered. Like most girls he’s encountered these three and a half years he’s been a student. Yet, you sometimes look at him like you fear him. Like he’s someone you’re not allowed to let in. Like he’s someone that comes with consequences.

And once again, Jaemin knows what he wants. He just doesn’t know what he could get. He knows how to approach you. He knows there’s a way in. Just isn't sure if there’s a way out. And if there is... does that involve you and him both or just him? What if he finds his way in and then you kick him out? He knows that’s very much a possibility.

But.

She kissed me back. He keeps repeating the words in his head. The memory of it even more. The little sound of surprise you let out. Your hand touching his neck, inviting him in.

He’s deep in the reminiscing state when he’s jerked out abruptly, a soft hand tight around his wrist, dragging him towards god knows where. It doesn’t take him longer than two seconds to recognise the back of your head. Your shoulders squeezing through the crowd of the house party, not a single glance thrown behind you, just your fingers clinging onto his skin, making him feel like he’s still daydreaming.

He’s sure he’s not. But there’s no realistic scenario in his head in which you’d be taking him up the stairs of a house whose owner he barely knows.

A few steps and a door later, he’s in a bedroom. A very girly one. Plushies, fairy lights, candles, heavy perfume lingering in the air, name it. The same door you dragged him through is slammed shut and locked and Jaemin is shoved into the fluffiest blanket ever, the bed creaking slightly covering the yelp that escapes his lungs. His hands reflexively catch his upper body weight, propping him up. And after what seems like the longest walk in history, you’re looking straight at him. Staring down at him, or more accurately, peering into his soul, never having looked more intimidating, and before Jaemin can question any of your actions, you’re stepping closer, eyebrow raising in what he can only assume is frustration.

Oh shit. Oh fuck. Oh fucking shitting shit. He shouldn’t have kissed you.

“What the fuck is your game plan here?” You demand, sounding enraged, and Jaemin can’t think of the last time he had such a negative reaction to a kiss. He’s had girls tell him he’s a bad kisser, but they’ve still kissed him again after that. One girl even dodged him once, but she also pounced on him not longer than an hour later.

“I um–” He can feel his jaw twitching with nerves, refusing to slacken and give him the opportunity to give you a satisfactory response.

“You what?” You take a step forward, and even the tiniest movement from your side feels like a threat. “Why did you kiss me?”

Here we go. It’s out in the open.

“Do you even remember doing it?”

“Wha– yes.” Well, look at that. He can speak. Fucking well done, loser. “Of course, I remember.”

“Oh, congrats!” You give him a condescending smile, as though congratulating him for being able to utter a total of three words. “Do you remember why?”

He knows why. “I wanted to?”

You blink twice, nostrils flaring as you inhale deeply.

“I’m sorry if–”

“If what? You overstepped? Confused me? Do you understand that we work together? I’m not doing this work drama thing just so you can–”

“I confused you?” It’s the only part that matters out of all the things you listed. “How?”

Your features contort in bafflement, eyes narrowing slightly. “That’s what you care about?”

“Tell me.” He is close to pleading, butt moving to the edge of the bed, knees touching yours as he inches closer. “Please.”

“That’s not the point, Jaemin!” Your hands raise in exasperation, feet taking a step back, your warmth absent again as you turn around and walk toward the door. He’s already accepted the fact that you’re about to exit the room and the situation, but you halt instead. And all Jaemin can see is your back. Your shoulders moving in sync with your deep breathing have him captivated. He can’t look anywhere else.

“What is then?” The question slips without permission. It’s only when you turn around that he’s very aware of his mouth and how it’s moved on its own accord.

If looks could kill, Jaemin would be dead now. “The point is that you don’t think. You just do things.”

“I do think.” He doesn’t waste a second to defend himself. Because he knows he’s right, even if your scoff completely disregards his statement. Regardless of his calm nature, Jaemin’s jaw ticks at your reaction. And so does his brain. “I think about you an awful lot. And you know it.”

You slump against the door with a groan, face dropping into your hands, and Jaemin doesn’t understand why you’re so vexed. Is it really that much of a burden that he likes you?

“Why did you bring me here, if you’re just gonna insult me?” He’s on his feet before he completes the sentence, voice raising slightly, making you look up in subtle surprise quickly concealed by your anger. “Just say you’re not interested in me like that and–”

“Insult you?” You scowl, throwing the word right back at him like it disgusts you. “How am I possibly insulting you? By trying to understand what you want from me?”

“What about you, huh?” He steps closer, despite his effort to hold back. “What do you want?”

“Stop deflecting.” His eyes catch the clenching of your fists at your sides, and the thought of you fighting the urge to punch him, exhilarates him. Does he really get under your skin that much?

“I’m not–”

“The fuck you smiling at, you clown?” Is he? Oh shit. He hadn’t even clocked that. “There’s literally nothing funny about this.” The impact of your hands on his chest shocks him, shoving him back into his previous spot on the bed. Clearly you like him sat down. And it’s no secret to him that he doesn’t mind looking up at you. He’d happily get on his knees if you asked him.

He needs to control his thoughts. And if he’s going to do that, he can’t have you standing above him or he’s going to lose all sense. So he moves to get up again. Futilely. Because you shove him back down before he can even try. He refuses to lose the battle. He tries again. Fails. And this time you push him so hard he ends up on his back. Which snaps his compromised patience.

“Stop–” He grabs onto your wrists, jerking you forward. “Fucking–” Pulls again when you fight back. “Pushing me.” He manoeuvres you, not letting you crush him, and somehow, in all the mess of whining and grabbing and yanking, he’s got you on the bed with him.

You both somehow land on your backs, in an awkward position. Half your torso is on him, the other half on the mattress, one of his arms crushed under you as opposed to the one caging you and holding you hostage despite your incessant squirming and twisting.

“Stop it, you nutcase.” He can’t help but laugh, not on purpose. Not to piss you off. The situation is just too amusing for him to stay as serious as you want him to. He still tightens his hold around you, forearm, pressed against your collarbones, hand gripping your shoulder until you gradually still your crazy limbs. “You done?”

Your erratic breathing resembles his, making him feel less pathetic, and Jaemin can’t ignore the intense thrumming of your heart through your back. You can probably feel his; beating wilder than it ever has. He can feel it in his ears.

Your pliancy bemuses him, but he thanks all the forces above for it, and he sighs in relief when you let him roll you onto your side so he can get his arm back. Before you can escape, even though you make no such advance, he drapes his newly functional arm over the dip of your waist, keeping you in an almost spooning position but still leaving space between your back and his front.

“We can talk or we can keep scrapping like cats,” He speaks calmly again, and by the movement of your shoulders he knows you can hear him clearly. “Up to you.”

“You wanna talk now? Like this?” You ask in disbelief, already starting to get on his nerves again.

“Yes. Now.” He drags you closer, expecting some sort of protest when he leaves just a couple centimetres between your bodies, settling close enough for his face to bury in the citrusy combination of your perfume and shampoo. Or moisturiser. Or whatever it is that makes him feel all warm and fuzzy. Regardless,he tries his best to stay as focused as possible. “If you don’t mind, I’ll start.”

You try to turn around. “I do mind actually–”

“Don’t care. I’m talking.” The arm he’s got around your middle keeps you in place, and he feels your sharp exhale against the arm your head is resting on. “I feel like you’re either in denial or you just have no fucking clue what’s going on here, which would be impossible considering you’re one of the smartest people I know.”

Silence. Good, you’re finally listening to him.

“Which leaves us with the first option.” He lifts his head a little, the tip of his nose touching the end of your jawline. He adores the way you shrink away from him, face tucked even further into his elbow, the heat radiating off your cheek and onto his skin. “And that would be a shame, cause that means you’re missing out.”

He feels movement on his arm again. Maybe your lips pursing, maybe your nose scrunching, definitely something. “On what?”

He takes that as his cue to eliminate the tiny space left between you. Chest to back now, ass to crotch, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear. “Me. And you. Sitting in a tree. Kissing.”

The tiny shiver that runs through you is something that affects him more than it should. Something so minimal yet powerful enough to go straight to his head, shaking up whatever is left in there.

“You’re a fucking idiot.” You mutter stubbornly into his skin, a finger slowly tracing one of the veins on his extended arm, like you’re trying to distract yourself. “I’m not in denial. I’m perfectly aware of whatever weird vibe we have going on.”

Interesting. “Okay...?”

“I just don’t understand what you want from me.” Your index reaches his wrist, and when he expects you to withdraw, you trace further instead, onto the lines of his unclenched palm. It also mirrors what you’re doing beneath all of this. Trying to figure him out. So, he instinctively flexes his fingers, palm opening, giving you more space to explore.

He decides to tease. “You want a power point presentation or...?”

“No, I want you to tell me.” The joke clearly doesn’t land. Your tone doesn’t resemble the one your voice carries when you roll your eyes at him. It’s serious, like you’ve had enough of his shit.

He’s not ready to give in just yet, though. “Okay, I’m sensing your preferred type of love language is words of affirmation.”

“Be for real.” You lightly dig your nails into the skin of his palm in a quiet threat, which strangely, goes straight to his dick. That strips him of his playfulness, and he gives in with a sigh, forehead dropping against your shoulder.

“I don’t wanna say the wrong thing– like, I don’t know what you wanna hear. Or what you– like, what if I say something and then things get awkward and–

“Doesn’t matter what I wanna hear.” Your fingers stop tracing and you reach for his other hand this time, the one on your stomach, squeezing in something that feels like reassurance. “There’s no right answer. You already know what you want. You just need to tell me.”

Jaemin really does need to. He’s been dying to tell you. But now he’s actually getting the chance to, he feels slightly dizzy, like he’s experiencing an outer body experience. Like he’s looking at himself from across the room, warning himself, judging himself. He keeps hearing the words ‘watch what you say’, because what if he scares you away? What if you laugh in his face? Or worse, what if you don’t take him seriously?

“I want...”

You hum in anticipation, fingers slithering between his, your warm palm engulfing the top of his, exactly like he did to yours a few nights ago in that booth. Only this time it feels different. It feels like it matters. There’s nothing lighthearted about it. Just like the words he’s struggling to get out.

“I wanna know more about you.” He starts easy, buying himself time. “And I wanna spend time with you. Outside of work.” Your thumb playing with his distracts him from his deafening heartbeat, and he takes a second to swallow, but even that’s too loud. “Think that’s something we can do?”

You turn your head slightly, letting him nuzzle against your cheek. “That’s all?”

“No.” He wants to look at you, but he can’t bring himself to open his eyes. “I want... to make you laugh more.”

“Really?” You question in a tone so genuinely adorable that almost kills him.

“Mm.” He nods, eyes fluttering open when he feels you move his hand with yours a little further down.

“Do you… wanna take me on dates?”

“Yeah.” He nods again, ears focused on your words, but eyes glued to your intertwined hands and the journey the dangerous path they’re trailing down. “Wanna be good to you.”

“Good how?” Your lips graze his cheekbone, hand adamantly still guiding his, ass pushing back into him just a tiny bit, offering enough pressure to make his eyes shut for a second. “Nuh-uh.” You scold when his hand starts moving on its own, moving past the waistband of your skirt, and he immediately halts, letting you have the upper hand quite literally.

He exhales shakily, brain scrambled, struggling to put his thoughts into words. “I dunno, just… wanna do nice things for you and spoil you.”

“That’s sweet.” Your nose cutely nudges his cheek, and Jaemin starts questioning his sanity. “What else?”

“Wanna be able to kiss you whenever I want.” He admits openly, not having searched much in his brain for that one.

“How do you wanna kiss me?” Your locked hands are now just below the hem of your mini skirt, his fingertips brushing your inner thigh, and he can’t help but curl his impatient digits around the fabric. You don’t scold him this time.

Jaemin could easily show you how he wants to kiss you right now. He could so easily grab your face and shove his tongue down your throat. But that’s not what you're asking. You want words. And as much as he hates how obedient he’s become for you, it’s also turning him on. “How do you like to be kissed?”

“Hmm,” You ponder, clearly enjoying the torture you’re putting him through. “Slow. And a little wet.” Perfect. Exactly how he likes it too. Maybe more than just a little wet, but he’s sure you two can meet in the middle. He just needs to actually kiss you first. “Unless we’re fucking.”

He lets out an embarrassing moan at the obscene imagery his brain instantly creates, hips unintentionally grinding into your ass, hard cock now tucked between your cheeks, and he realises he’s got the pads of his fingers digging into the flesh of your inner thigh. So close to where he wants to be. “What about then?”

“Messy.” You mumble into his arm, sounding a little breathless yourself. “Want it really messy then.”

“Messy’s good. I like messy.” He finally cracks, not caring how desperate he sounds. He’s already given up on trying to win with you. He’s been losing ever since the first time he spoke to you. “Anything you want, I’ll fucking do it.”

Your resolve seems to be abandoned too this time, trembling hand leaving his momentarily to bunch up your skirt just enough for easier access. Just above your upper thighs, without revealing what’s underneath. He gulps in anticipation, not making a single move before your hand is back on his, not moving as slow this time, but dragging his fingers across your skin, over to the crease of your thigh and crotch, the seam of your panties moving a tiny bit from the light friction, but not out of the way.

“Shit.” He exhales in awe. “You’re so–”

“Shush.” You whine bashfully, dragging a weak laugh of disbelief out of him. He keeps his mouth shut by landing a long kiss on your shoulder. The first time he’s kissed your skin ever, and he wishes he could do it every day.

“Awh, are you turned on?” He coos, letting his middle finger drag over the fabric of your panties, feeling your wetness seeping through and coating his skin with your essence. It’s so slippery, and sticky, and just so perfect as the light pulse of your clit makes him slightly overflow with need. Your little nod against his arm makes him smile, his teeth sinking on his bottom lip in delight. “I’ll make it better, if you let me.”

“Mm, please.” It sounds more like an instruction than a polite request, and your fingers wrapping tightly around his wrist make it clear. You’re not begging him, you’re just demanding what you deserve. And he’s going to give it to you on a golden platter. He’ll give you anything you ask for. He’ll get on his knees for you if you say the word. As long as you keep letting him touch you. As long as you keep letting him please you.

“Fuck, I’m so into you.” He whispers needily, cock twitching in its confines, jeans suffocatingly tight as he tries to get some relief through subtle rolls of his hips, almost too worried he’ll accidentally start rutting into you like a dog in heat. Your drenched folds separating as he slips his finger between them, as much as your panties deem possible, don’t help him at all, especially when accompanied by the tiniest mewls you’re letting out each time he softly rubs over your already swollen nub. “Guide me again. Show me where you want me.”

Your fingers join his again, positioning his middle and ring fingers directly above your covered clit, panties still somehow clinging on even through all the slick that’s gathered at the seat of them. “Here, slow at first.” You urge him to stimulate the tender spot in small circles, fingers moving above his to show him how much pressure you like. Your deep sigh gives him all the confirmation he needs that he’s touching you just right.

Jaemin watches your reactions over your shoulder. The rise and fall of your chest with each shallow breath. The glimpse of cleavage beneath your crop top. The hem of your skirt hiding your joined hands and everything they're doing underneath.

Normally, he'd want a better view. Being a visual person, he would've found an excuse to hike your skirt higher or reposition you just enough to watch exactly what he was doing to your pussy, but right now, he couldn’t care less. Because somehow, this is hotter. Not seeing everything. Not having you bare beneath him. Just watching your body give him away, little by little. It doesn't compare to anything he's had before. And he has a feeling it never will.

Your hand comes into view when it leaves his, letting him take over, but it quickly takes its place around the back of his neck, fingers slowly sneaking through his hair, forcing his eyes shut at the soft feel of your touch. He keeps rubbing your clit just how you showed him, and lets you pull him close enough that his forehead brushes your temple, resting there for a moment, keeping his eyes closed and focusing on the sweet sounds he coaxes out of you and the slick that keeps accumulating beneath his fingers. He contemplates slipping his hand inside your panties to feel you properly. He’d be lying if he said he isn’t dying to. But you haven’t given him that green light yet, so he adds a little more pressure on your clit instead.

“Jaem–” Your hips buck into his hand, the needy reaction almost funny, but he contains his laugh with a bite on his lip and gently cups your pussy in his palm, preventing you from running away.

“Relax, Wiggles.” He says softly, landing a tiny kiss on your cheek before running his fingers over the expanse of your folds and then resuming the circular motions on your clit, a little faster than before but still gentle. Still giving you a lot less than he really wants to.

The harsh tug you give his hair makes him grunt in surprise, taking the gesture as a warning. He harshly grinds his cock into your ass in retaliation, earning a breathless laugh from you that brings a smile to his face, which spreads wider when you twist your neck to take a look at him, and he feels like it’s the first time you’re looking at him without a threatening edge in your eyes. He shuffles as close as he can, face hovering over yours as he takes in the pleasure littering your features like a canvas. He would kill to have his camera with him and snap a picture of it. His cock throbs with want as you slowly blink up at him, clearly taking him in too, and you’re not subtle when you let your eyes drift down to his lips momentarily.

“You wanna kiss me, don’t you?” He teases, already knowing the answer but enjoying the little crease of frustration between your eyebrows a little too much. You give him a small nod, letting your gaze drift down again. He still doesn’t budge, fingers slowing down too, on a mission to punish you a little for the painful hard-on he’s got going on because of you. “Say please.”

There’s a look on your face he’s positive he’s never had the delight of encountering before, one that obliterates any pride he’s got left. The puppy eyes you’ve put on are doing enough pleading. So much that you don’t even have to say it, and Jaemin instinctively lowers his face close enough to nuzzle his nose with yours, something he’s not sure he’s ever done with anyone before. He’s never felt the need to. He doesn’t even realise he’s doing it until you raise your head to initiate the so desired kiss, your lips brushing his lightly for half a second. He pulls back just a fraction, taking one last look at your flushed face, savouring the haze in your eyes just a little longer, but a particular stroke of his fingers makes your eyes shut in pleasure. And it’s the sweet whimper you let out that makes him finally close the gap, tongue already slipping past your parted lips.

He kisses you exactly how you said you liked to be kissed. Slow and wet. Not too sloppy, no teeth. Just his lips dragging against yours, head tilted enough for his tongue to sneak inside your mouth just a little, and you match his rhythm in no time. Your mouth parts to let him in, your taste just like he remembers it. A little sugary from the drinks you’ve had earlier, enough to make him sigh from the relief of finally being able to experience this. Just like he’s daydreamed for what feels like too long. Maybe even better.

You swiftly flop onto your back, the movement catching him off guard, but your hands engulfing his face in them get him back on track. He breaks the kiss for just a second, so that he can steal a glance at his hand working between your now spread legs.

“Don’t stop.” You whine needily, your hips arching off the bed, chasing for more as you bury a hand in his hair, bringing his mouth back to yours.

“Fuck, baby.” He moans all muffled, sounding completely wrecked even though it should be the other way around. Your tongue coaxes his lips open this time, forcing itself inside his eager mouth, and he can’t help but cheekily suck on it as his fingers move on their own accord, slipping down, teasing your entrance over the soaked fabric of your underwear. You’re so wet he can feel the outline of your pussy lips as if there’s no barrier, and god, he wishes his face was buried between your legs. Wishes he could smell you and taste you for hours. The thought of devouring your cunt while your legs shake and lock around his head, suffocating him, sends a fresh jolt of arousal straight to his cock. And it hurts. It’s painful not to thrust against your hip, seeking for any kind of relief, so he does, letting you swallow his low whines as you keep him close.

“Mmh– can you–”

“Mm, what?” He nods frantically, desperate to give you more.

“Just...” You keep kissing him, one hand gently caressing his jaw, while the other finds his again, and before he can question you, you’re dragging his hand up until it reaches the waistband of your panties. And then you’re urging him to slip inside. He internally celebrates and obliges without a word; tongue tangling deliciously with yours as he quickly dips two of his fingers between your folds with a deep groan, quickly finding your clit again, picking up where he left off, with tight circles on your cute nub. Fuck, it’s pulsing, and he wonders if your pussy would pulse just like that around his cock, swallowing him. “Faster.”

Again, he obeys, denying you anything never an option, and he instantly starts stroking your clit with three of his fingers, fast and hard, from side to side, and your mouth parts against his in a silent moan, the vibration getting a reaction that claims a place in his brain. “Good?”

“Yeah,” You nod desperately. “I’m close.”

He nods back. “Want my fingers inside?”

“No, no.” You plead, clearly too in the moment to care. “Just keep doing what you’re doing.”

His free hand wraps around the back of your neck, holding you in place as he gives you what you want. “You’re so wet.” He mumbles between frantic breaths. “Didn’t know you wanted me that bad.”

You whine in protest, your panting making it impossible for you to speak words other than a broken: “Oh my god.”

“Fuck, you’re shaking.” He whispers, in complete awe of your pleasure, admiring how your face contorts, how your eyes roll back, how your legs tremble. “Don’t hold it, let go.” He encourages gently, able to see right through your self-control, and eager to demolish it. Even now, even on the brink of an orgasm you clearly want to reach, you try to squirm away from his touch, your legs clamping around his hand stubbornly, preventing any movement.

“Don’t get me wrong, I love it when you’re being difficult, but right now is not the time.” He huffs in frustration, hand fidgeting, fingers now squished between the plush of your thighs, unintentionally coating your flesh in your arousal. “If you wanna cum before someone finds us in here, I suggest you spread those legs again.”

The hand still nudged in his hair pulls him closer again, but he resists, not in the mood to give into your wishes anymore. He recognises the distress and conflict in your eyes. You’re not being stubborn, you’re just embarrassed. What for, he’s not sure, but he likes it. Because it’s unlike you.

It does click in his head, though. “I’ll keep kissing you if you let me make you cum.”

And with that, the clenching of your thighs eases up a little. And Jaemin can’t fight the amused laugh that bubbles in his chest. Because bribery does work. And he’s finally connected the dots.

You only got shy when he stopped kissing you so he could watch you. And, suddenly, so much makes sense, but he chooses to lock that thought away in the back of his mind. For now. Because your legs are parting for him again.

“Yeah?” He coos, fingers now moving freely, momentarily dipping down, collecting slick arousal that’s trickled out of your entrance before returning to your clit. He nods along with you when you let your eyes shut in bliss. “That’s it. Good girl.”

He doesn’t let you react to the praise, mouth slotting with yours like he promised, silencing whatever protest was bubbling in your throat. He knows he was treading on thin ice with that, repeatedly having been made aware how you’re not about to let a man patronise you or degrade you. Ever. Your boundaries have always been clearer than water, the harsh tug on his hair proves that much. But Jaemin’s not backing down again. He’s had enough of your shit, and so he kisses you harder, sloppier.

“Have you lost your fucking mind?” You tug harder, making him grunt and rub you in quicker and firmer circles.

“Shut. Up.” He almost doesn’t recognise the harshness in his own voice, never having felt so annoyed at someone and wanting to please them at the same time. It’s usually one or the other. It seems you’ve proven him wrong once again. “Be grateful I’m not bending you over and fucking the shit out of you.”

He pulls on your hair too, his level of roughness not enough to match yours, but enough to have your teeth biting down on his bottom lip, and he’s pretty sure you’ve drawn blood.

“Fine.” He challenges, his limits already crossed. “Have it your way.”

His knees hit the floor before he can think, his hands grabbing on your thighs, dragging your body to the edge of the bed, and before you can let out more than a yelp, Jaemin’s pulling your panties to the side, revealing your dripping centre.

“What the–”

“So cute.” He mumbles as he watches his middle and ring fingers slip inside your clenching hole too easily, the wetness making everything nice and slippery for him, and when he curls them, your back arches. Too fucking pretty.

“Jaem, oh my god.” You whimper out weakly, clouding his already jumbled head.

“Fuck, I love that.” He whispers mindlessly, circling your visibly swollen nub with his tongue once. “You sound so sweet.”

He can tell it’s finally (thankfully) game over for you, when your legs open further for him, and he wastes no time. He soon finds a rhythm with his fingers that has your walls tensing, but he keeps hitting what he believes is the right spot. And when he angles a little more upwards, his doubts are instantly gone.

“Yes, yes, yes, fuck, right there.” You exclaim in despair, chest heaving, legs quaking just like before.

“I got you.” He mumbles against your folds, then engulfs your clit in his mouth, sucking gently while drawing slow circles with his tongue, finally able to enjoy your taste like he’s always wanted. A satisfied hum escapes him when your hands slip in his hair again, holding him in place as your pussy quivers around his digits. The tighter you get, the louder the squelching noises become, and when he fucks his fingers into you a little faster, he knows you’re finally climaxing.

“Shit, I’m cumming.” You exhale abruptly, like you’re caught off guard, legs closing in around his head, only this time, he doesn’t mind. Far from it. If he could suffocate between your thighs, he’d probably thank you.

Your little cries are more than gratifying. The kneading of your walls as he tries his best to drag out your high goes straight to his erection, his balls feeling so heavy and sore, and when your nails lightly scratch his scalp, he feels his abdominal muscles contract, pelvis involuntarily thrusting into nothing. It’s when his cock throbs painfully that he knows it’s inevitable, and before he can even pull away from your core, Jaemin is shamefully releasing in his pants. Untouched. Coating his boxers in his own cum.

He blames it on the edging and the fact that he's been sporting a hard-on for at least half an hour, but deep down he knows it’s just his unfiltered want for you. He knows it’s you. You and everything about you.

He can hear your overstimulated whines when the haze starts to dissipate, and he slowly slips his fingers out, realising that his mouth is just aimlessly parted against your folds, nose squished against your pubic bone as he tries to regain his breath.

“You okay?” He pants, sounding like he’s just ran a marathon instead of given head.

You let out a fucked-out laugh. “I feel like I should be asking you that.”

“Shut up.” He laughs with you, forehead defeatedly resting on your tummy as he tries to conceal his hot face. Fuck, he doesn’t think he’s ever felt embarrassed in front of a woman. It doesn’t help that he’s currently on his knees either. Your soft fingers carefully combing through his damp hair offer a little bit of calmness, however.

“Is that, like, a recurring theme or should I feel honoured?” You tease, the light heartedness in your tone making him smile like an idiot. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard you like this before.

“Keep testing me and you’ll find out.” He feigns annoyance, landing a light slap on your outer thigh before squeezing the flesh hard.

You whine in protest, and even though he can’t see your face, he can picture the frown you’re sporting. His imagination not being enough, he decides to lift his head so he can look at you properly, only to find that you’re already staring at him.

“Hi.” He lands a quick kiss just below your bellybutton, where your top doesn’t meet your skirt.

“Hi.” Your lips twitching in a half-smile urge him to kiss your skin again, and then once again until you’re giggling. “Stop.”

He hums against your skin in fake contemplation, already knowing he doesn’t want to, but then he glances down between your legs, drenched core still on display, puffy folds glistening from before, panties still messily pushed to the side, and when you attempt to shut your legs, he beats you to it, holding them in place, refusing to miss out on the pretty sight. So enticing.

“Can I clean it up?” He asks without a second thought, thumbs pulling the lips apart to reveal more of what a mess he’s made, your pretty clit still protruding a little from the attention it received earlier. He looks up at you, taking in your bemused eyes, and he chuckles at your cuteness. “It’s a subtle way of saying I wanna lick your–”

“I know what it means,” You cut him off with a pointed look, clearly disapproving of his crude choice of words. “I’ve just never had anyone ask that before.”

He clicks his teeth in judgment, internally laughing at the joke he’s about the make. “Really? Chenle not that freaky then?”

“Ew!” You shriek adorably, gently kicking him on the shoulder. “Don’t talk about him when you’re between my legs.”

“Why not?” He wiggles his eyebrows provocatively, face already inching closer to where he wants to be.

“Because it’s weird?”

“You had no issue with me watching him rail you.” He blows air on your clit on purpose, watching you squirm in his hold, his hands firm on the backs of your thighs. “I gotta admit, though...” He catches your little hole clenching. “You weren’t as loud then as you were tonight.” He chuckles when your hands come up to cover your face with a pained groan. “Don’t be shy. I loved it.”

“Just fucking do it.” You huff in frustration and buck your hips towards his face.

He leaves a wet kiss on your inner thigh, sucking the supple flesh teasingly, before he darts his tongue out, licking a wide stripe between your folds, doing his best to gather as much of your essence as he can, and repeats the action again and again, clearly not doing a very good job as the more he laps you up, the more arousal keeps gathering at your opening and your whimpers get louder and louder.

“Such a sweet pussy.” He relishes in your taste and decides he needs to stop when he feels his dick starting to stir back to life in his pants, otherwise you’ll be stuck in this room for god knows how long. With a gentle kiss on your clit, he withdraws and pulls your underwear back into place before giving your thighs a gentle but condescending pat. “All done.”

Before you can sit up, he’s crawling up your body, caging you with his arms, and fuck his life, you look so good under him. So soft and pliant, legs on either side of his waist. Nothing like the girl he knows from work. He likes both versions equally, but this one he doesn’t think he could ever get used to.

“You’re hard again.” You wiggle your hips against his, cock flush against your thankfully covered centre.

“Yeah, and you’re still wet.” He responds with a subtle roll, cock sitting uncomfortably in his damp boxers, but nothing he can’t handle. “So, please can we go before I fuck you in some stranger’s bed?”

You snort, arms loosely wrapping around his neck, urging him closer, and he easily caves in. This kiss is soft, no tongue or urgency, just little sucks on your bottom lip, until he’s temporarily satiated his need for you.

“Come on, don’t want my friends thinking you’ve kidnapped me.” He leaves another chaste smooch on your lips and gets up with a dramatic groan, already missing your body heat against him.

A few minutes later, when he’s leaning against a wall next to the bathroom, waiting for you while pretending he’s aimlessly scrolling through his phone, Jaemin thinks back to how he ended up in this situation in the first place, and realises he still doesn’t really know where he stands with you. Yes, clearly, you’re both attracted to each other, and there’s no doubt in his mind that he likes you. But do you genuinely like him? Or do you just find him hot and fuckable? What if you’re just getting bored of whatever arrangement you have with Chenle and Jaemin’s just another distraction until you find someone you’re actually interested in?

“Thanks for waiting.” You interrupt his thoughts, ready to head for the stairs, but Jaemin feels like if he doesn’t clear this up now, he might lose the courage to do so later.

“Wait, hang on a sec.” He gently pulls you back by your hand, and you quickly face him, seeming clueless about his internal turmoil, eyes blinking up at him curiously.

“Is something wrong?” You ask carefully, worry laced with your tone, making Jaemin’s stomach do a little flip.

“No.” He shakes his head, and smiles when your shoulders drop in relief. “I guess I’m just still a little confused.”

“About?” You squeeze his hand, a tiny gesture of encouragement that makes him feel warm and fuzzy.

“Well...” He’s suddenly incapable of holding your gaze, your fingers posing as a distraction as observes your hand in his and how good they look like that. “I mean what I said. I want to, like, you know…”

“Be good to me?” You tease, referring to what he said earlier in the heat of the moment. Not that he didn’t mean it.

“Mm, that too,” Both hands are now playing with yours like it’s a fidget toy. “But also spend more time with you and go on dates and stuff. If you also want that. Obviously.” He lets out a nervous laugh. God, he sounds pathetic.

You step closer, leaving no space between your bodies, and Jaemin feels himself relax a little, finally able to look at you. You’ve got an adorable grin on your face, as though you can already see right through him. Like the idea of making his heart go crazy is so enticing to you. “I also want that.”

“Really?” He perks up, excitement already brewing in his chest at the thought of holding your hand in public.

“Mhm,” You nod, hand flexing in his, fingers extending like he’s just proposed to you and you’re waiting for the ring. Maybe he should start saving up for one at this point. “But–”

“But what? Why but?” The questions roll off his tongue without permission, and he hates how desperate he sounds.

“Relax, loser. I’m not rejecting you.” You laugh at his misery. It’s kind of hot. But he won’t admit that. At least not right now. “I was just gonna say, I’d rather we kept it low-key at work. If that’s okay with you.”

“I can do low-key.” He says quicker than he’d like to. “I’ll behave.”

“Okay, well, don’t behave too much.” You poke him in the chest with a smirk that makes him feel all tingly and giddy. He feels like a teenager speaking to their crush for the first time.

“Oh?” He pouts playfully, fluttering his eyelashes like he knows you hate, his arm loosely circling your waist, hand resting at the small of your back, slowly pulling you close, the proximity clearly something you’re both still getting used to. “Why? Would that be too sus?”

“It’s good you’re self-aware.” You say sarcastically, your free hand coming to squish his cheeks, surprising him. “Has anyone ever told you your eyelashes are, like, freakishly long?”

He laughs loudly at the random observation, remembering that time you said something about him flying if he blinked too fast. “Yeah, you.”

“Have I?” You tilt his face, evidently too busy inspecting his lashes to actually pay attention to what he’s saying. “When?”

“Right before you gave me the bedroom eyes and made me watch you–”

“Shhhhh.” You squeeze his cheeks harder, making it impossible for him to finish his sentence. “You’re pretty, but you talk too much.”

“Mmph–” He’s not able to complain, not due to your tight hold on his face, but mainly because you’re suddenly shutting him up with your mouth on his. You leave a loud smooch on his lips, and then a second one, and before you can pull away, he doesn’t even realise he’s got a hand in your hair, holding you in place.

Your hand trails from his face to his chest, resting there, allowing him to tilt his head so he can deepen the kiss. And just when he’s about to turn you around and pin you against the wall–

“Woah!” Jisung’s high pitched exclamation makes you both pull away in surprise. And when Jaemin looks up, there’s his younger friend, barely able to stand up due to the amount of alcohol he’s consumed, yet enough in touch with his surroundings to understand what you two are up to. “Ew, ew, ew, ew, absolutely not, stop it right now, that’s vile. Bye.” He slurs and abruptly sits down at the top of the stairs with his forehead resting on the wall.

Jaemin struggles not to burst out laughing when he takes in your comical expression, eyes wide, lips pursed tightly to contain your own snicker. And then he internally groans, realising that he’s probably Jisung’s saviour for tonight. “I think I’m gonna have to take him home.”

“Yeah, that’s all you.”

It’s maybe three or four quick kisses later that Jaemin, hesitantly of course, manages to find the will to pull away from you.

𓂃𓆩⠀⠀ ⊹𓈒⠀⠀ 🐰⠀⠀ 𓈒⊹ ⠀⠀𓆪𓂃

You’ve learnt to expect everything from Na Jaemin. At this point you could say you’ve mastered the art of not getting surprised at things he says or does, regardless of the outrageousness they sometimes carry. You were confident that his unfiltered and blunt way of navigating life didn’t really faze you much anymore.

Until last night.

Last night, you were surprised. Last night, you were fazed. Pleasantly so, but still. What you were expecting were vague answers, boyish excuses, charming batting of long eyelashes and maybe the distracting smile that always gets him out of trouble. What you were not expecting was your insufferable coworker getting on his knees for you and giving you one of the most mind-blowing orgasms you’ve ever experienced, right after admitting he wants to date you (to put it plainly). What you also didn’t expect was his neediness. And how weak it made you feel. So much that you left the party wondering what his cum tastes like.

Who in their right mind wonders that about someone? Clearly you. Because clearly, you’re not in your right mind. You can’t be. Since when can you not control your impulses? To the point where you allow yourself to drag a man into a stranger’s room only to ask for explanations you don’t really need anyway? Since when do men’s explanations matter to you? Na Jaemin’s out of all men’s thoughts should be something of low significance to you. So why were you so bothered? Yeah. He kissed you out of the blue. So what? Something so easy to ignore, yet it had been gnawing at your brain like a parasite. A stupid fucking kiss that tasted like rum and coke.

You're still in bed, staring at the ceiling when your phone starts going off, slightly startling you out of your snoozy state.

“Hello?” You pick up without properly checking the screen.

“You sound cute when you’re sleepy.” Before you can even finish processing him, Jaemin’s annoyingly chirpy voice blasts through the speaker, breaking through the quiet of your room. Of course he’s a morning person.

“How’d you get my number?” You grumble, still not entirely awake but oddly pleased to hear him.

He must be in the middle of typing as you hear the keyboard clicking in the background. “Work group chat, silly.”

“And you’re calling at eleven am on a Sunday because...?” You shuffle onto your front and place your phone on your pillow after putting Jaemin on speaker.

“Well...” He drags the word as though he enjoys the suspense. Knowing his dramatic ass, he probably does. “I got up early to finish a paper, and now I’m feeling clingy with no one to cling onto.”

You catch yourself smiling into the pillow like an idiot. He should not have this effect on you. “Don’t you live with a thousand other men.”

“Just four actually.” His chuckle echoes, and you can picture his bright teeth a little too easily. “And you’d be surprised at how busy they all are. Well, apart from Jiji. He’s just dead.”

You’re not surprised in the slightest Jisung is not up and about considering the state he was in last night. What a messy boy. “What could they possibly be doing on a Sunday morning?”

“Hmm,” You imagine him swivelling in his chair in deep thought. “Haechan and Jeno are out on a double brunch date with their females, and Renjun... I actually have no idea. He doesn’t like seeing me in the mornings.”

It’s your turn to laugh. It comes out all muffled but you’re sure he can hear you. “I can see why. Also, females?”

“Yeah, speaking of females, can I come see you after I submit this?” He asks, like it’s something he’s asked a thousand times before. The question itself doesn't surprise you. You could tell it was coming from miles away. It’s just his casual tone that leaves you slightly perplexed.

“You sound awfully comfortable asking to invade my personal space.” You flip onto your back again, phone now on your chest.

“You didn’t mind me invading your personal space last night.” How can someone be so quick witted? Damn his sexy brain.

“Consider yourself lucky you’re not in my space right now.”

“Nothing lucky about that.” He whines playfully. “C’monnnn, I’ll bring food, and sweeties, and we can watch a film. Or just talk. Or you can sleep and I’ll just watch you.” He pleads hopefully, and a little too adorable for you to hold your ground.

“Creep.” You mumble defeatedly, and it’s mostly meant for yourself, but he picks up on it judging from the little hum he lets out, like he agrees.

You wonder if this man has ever had anyone tell him no in the past. If so, you’d like to ask them for advice.

When you hear his knock, you have just about finished putting fresh clothes on after your shower, your hair is still wet, and the taste of toothpaste too strong in your mouth.

Ever so punctual, there he is, leaning against your doorframe when you swing the door open. He doesn’t look as fresh and bright as he sounded on the phone, the tiredness evident in his eyes, but somehow, he looks even more handsome like this. You notice you’re matching, both wearing hoodies with your university’s logo printed on them, his grey sweatpants mirroring yours.

“Well, this is uncanny.” He speaks first, amused eyes taking in your attire the same way you’re taking in his.

“Come in before I change my mind.” You step aside to let him inside, unable to fight your smile when he takes off his shoes without you having to ask.

“I’m here now, no need to be so aggy.” He says with a reassuring pout you never fail to question. Because how does a grown man so masculine act so feminine and cutesy without a care in the world.

“We can chill in here, Winter’s at her boyfriend’s for the day.” You dismiss his antics and lead the way towards the small living room space you and your flatmate share. “We’ve got Netflix and Disney plus.”

He gasps, making you turn to look at him. “So we can watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians?”

“Absolutely not.” You deadpan. You refuse to watch something that will most likely obliterate your already barely functioning brain cells.

“Blue planet then?” He drops the takeout bags on your coffee table and you can see there’s a huge bag of Skittles and a pack of fresh cookies on top of the boxes. You try not to laugh at the thought of him standing in a bakery waiting to buy overpriced treats. As funny as it is, you can’t help but find it incredibly endearing too.

“So it’s either brainrot or full-on intellectuality with you.” You nod in fake approval.

“If you have beef with sir David Attenborough, I’m afraid I can’t invest in this.” He protests but still plops down on your sofa and snatches the TV remote off the table like he owns the place.

“Invest in what exactly?” You narrow your eyes at the ballsy statement, and he side-eyes you in return, brows lifting like the answer is self-explanatory. “Also, I don’t think anyone has beef with David Attenborough.”

“Wise.” He keeps his attention on the screen as he scrolls through Netflix, and suddenly you feel like you’re intruding in your own home. “I knew you were wifey material.”

The eye-roll is inevitable when you head for the kitchen to get water. Not because his silly comment offended you. But because it should have.

It’s maybe halfway through the first episode that you and Jaemin both have devoured your bowls of pho noodles and he quickly reaches for the cookies.

He offers you the box with a sweet smile, as if saying ‘do the honours’.

You instantly shake your head. “I’m too full.”

He pouts stubbornly, like you’ve offended him and confused him at the same time. “Wanna share one?” He asks, eyes big and full of hope and so unfairly pretty. And you can’t find it in you to deny him a second time.

“Yeah, fine, I’ll do half.”

“Yay.”

You observe him as he tears the lid off, carefully picks a cookie like it’s an important decision, and then splits it in two. You notice how cautious he is not to drop any crumbs on the blanket you’re sharing, keeping his hands above the container that’s resting now on his lap. You only realise you’re smiling when he offers you the slightly bigger half, and if he's noticed, he doesn’t comment on it, just waits patiently for you to take a bite, whales and dolphins forgotten in the background.

When the second episode starts, you realise you and Jaemin have barely exchanged any words since he stepped foot in your apartment. The silence hasn’t felt awkward at any point, but you can’t deny it’s a slightly unusual dynamic.

His newfound restlessness makes up for it, however.

You don’t say anything when you feel him staring, but you also can’t hide the little twitch of your mouth. And you know he notices when he shuffles a tiny bit closer, not enough to close the distance between you, but enough for you to get a whiff of his clean boyish scent. A chuckle brews in your chest but only escapes when he gently tugs on the blanket, trying to get your attention in a way that doesn’t require words.

He’s yet to tear his persistent eyes off you, probably amused by the deeper shade of your burning cheeks, so you bring your knees up to your chest, along with the hem of the blanket, seeking for cover. Your hand blindly reaches over to his side, fingers poking into his cheek, forcing his attention back on the TV, at which he shamelessly giggles. You don’t manage to retrieve your arm as he swiftly but so gently takes hold of your wrist and tugs the same way he did with the blanket, a subtle request for you to move into his space.

It’s way too easy. Just like most things in his life it seems. And as easily as you give in, it doesn’t feel wrong. Not when you so comfortably allow yourself to curl into his side. Not when he wraps an arm around your shoulders and lets you snuggle closer. Not when your cheek squishes against his chest, ear right above his steady heartbeat. Not when you feel his nose nudge you on the forehead. And definitely not when you hear his little sigh of relief.

You could pretend it doesn’t mean anything. You could just blame it on the tiredness and the fact that you’re both slightly hungover from last night. You could just be two people who casually ended up cuddling on the sofa while watching a documentary about creatures of the ocean. But the way your heart speeds up defies that. Just as easily as you fell into his arms just now.

“You smell nice.” He murmurs, the contentment in his voice and body language difficult to not make you feel warm and fuzzy too.

“So do you.” You slip, not really meaning to admit that you’ve been having the same thought. “Hope you don’t use one of those three in one shampoos that could kill a Victorian child.”

His chest vibrates under you, his loud sneaker making you laugh along. He lets his weight sink further into the cushions, moving you with him. “That’s actually offensive. I take my skincare very seriously.” His fingers threading through your hair make you feel woozy, goosebumps prickling on your nape, accompanied by a little shiver, which unfortunately doesn’t go unnoticed by Jaemin. “Aww,” He coos, hand repeating the action, this time lightly scratching your scalp. “That’s so cute, you like head scratches.”

“I’m not a fucking dog.” You grumble, with no intention of pulling away from his soothing touch.

“Hmm, I don't know,” He trails sceptically, fingers now scratching at the crown of your head, coaxing you further into drowsiness. “You are kind of like a puppy at times. All bark no bite.”

You nuzzle deeper into his neck, allowing your eyes to shut. “I bite when necessary.”

“I’m in deep shit right now if you’re a vampire.”

You let out a lazy giggle, hand tugging on his hoodie to reveal more of his neck. “Yeah, I could so easily eat you.”

“Sexy.” He says in a playful tone. “Doubt I’ll taste as good as you did last night.”

You’re weak. So fucking weak.

What the fuck are you even meant to say to that? And why did the words make your toes curl? You’ve been trying so hard not to let your mind wander to last night’s events, and not because you’re ashamed or embarrassed. Quite the opposite.

It would be wise to swerve the subject. Hell, it would be easier to pretend you’re asleep. But where’s the fun in that? Why miss the opportunity to see him squirm a little?

“I mean...” You hook your fingers over his neckline teasingly, before letting them trail upwards, your knuckles grazing his skin; first his neck, then the opposite side of his jaw, where your palm settles. “We could’ve found out last night if you hadn’t jizzed in your pants like a teenager.”

Silence. Even his breathing stops. You’re almost starting to worry you’ve pushed too far. And maybe you have. But his hand in your hair tightening and then pulling, even though harsh, it reassures you he's fallen face first into your trap. And a breathless laugh slips out when he forces you to look at him. The wicked smile on his face does something to your tummy.

“We could find out now.” He suggests. So predictable.

“I thought you wanted to watch Blue Planet.” You pout just like he would if he had the upper hand. Just like he did last night. Condescendingly.

His hold on your hair loosens, giving you leeway to bring your face closer to his, hand still cradling his jaw when you give him a very quick kiss on the cheek. You sense the hesitancy in his actions, both hands hovering close, but not properly touching you anymore.

“You okay?” You ask with genuine concern, urging him to look at you, not used to this demeanour from him.

“Yeah,” He nods quickly, arm settling around your waist in no time. “I’m just– I don’t want you to think that I came over for…”

“I don't.” You hold his face with both your hands, thumbs stroking his soft cheeks, a little rosy now.

His tiny nod makes your stomach do a flip. “Okay, good.” He nods again, more to himself this time, like he’s fighting an internal conflict. “Like, I know you might’ve heard things, and you probably think I just wanna get in your pants, but I swear I don’t– I mean, obviously, I do, but not in that way, you know?” He swallows visibly, and you’re too taken by his sudden outburst to interrupt him again. “Like, I do want you and I’ll do anything with you, but I don’t want that to be the main thing. Like, yeah, sex is great and I’m sure it’ll be fire with you, but I swear I just wanted to hang out today–”

“Jaemin.”

“Hm?” He looks at you with big eyes, like you’ve startled him out of a trance. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“Breathe, please.” You lightly shake his head, in hope of knocking some sense into him and bringing him back from his spiral. “I don’t know what you think I’ve heard, but I couldn’t care less about idiotic rumours–”

“Not all of it is, though.”

“Okay, and?” You straddle him abruptly, suddenly annoyed at his uncertainty. He’s blinking up at you like he needs something he’s not sure of. Such pretty eyes. “It’s sweet that you worry about this stuff. It means you care and I like that. But I'm not one to judge people based on their past. Unless they're cheaters or misogynists.”

"I've only had one girlfriend in high school and I think women should get paid more than men." He quickly admits.

Your heart overflows with fondness at how he clutches the blanket that’s loosely scattered around your thighs, his fingers fidgeting in an anxious manner you’ve never seen from him before. Adorable.

“I know you like me, I’m not dense.” You give into your instincts and shuffle closer, overcome with the need to have some form of direct contact, to feel his warmth. “And I'm absolutely fine with you wanting to get in my pants. As long as it’s not all you want.” You smile at his mouth parting, expression changing into something that resembles awe and realisation, as though you’ve solved a puzzle he’s been getting tortured by.

“It’s not.” He shakes his head in denial, his hands now on your thighs, a comforting weight.

“Good.” You encourage him with an affirmative nod, the tip of your nose barely touching his. You take in his features as he shuts his eyes and inhales slowly, his chest touching yours momentarily before he exhales, and you feel the intense want to smother him in affection. “You’re so cute.” Your lips pucker against his cheek like it’s a reflex. Like kissing his skin would scratch a long-lasting itch. “Why are you so cute, huh?” Another smooch, a lingering one this time. “So annoying.”

“Why are you being sweet?” He whines, as though bothered and confused by the sudden turn in your attitude. “You’re scaring me.”

“I’m actually very clingy behind closed doors,” You trail more kisses down his jawline, letting your tongue make contact when you reach his neck. “So, you should be scared.”

He outright moans at the threat, or maybe at the way you’re lightly sucking on his pulse, his head tipping back to give you more space.

“Maybe you’re just bipolar.” He teases mindlessly, one hand sneaking into your hair, holding you in place, as the other drags up your thigh and stops at the small of your back, fingers ghosting over your ass, palm pressing you into him. You feel him growing under you, the subtle bulge poking you against the crease of your thigh, so you reposition your hips slightly, this time making sure you’re sitting directly on it.

“Yeah, I bet your freaky ass would love it if I had a mental disorder.” You tug on his hair, your mouth now on his left clavicle, teeth grazing his skin like a warning. “You’d probably wanna fix me.”

"Damn," He breathes out a fucked-out laugh, clearly entertained by your choice of words. “Am I that easy to read?”

“I just pay attention.” You say the words without much thought behind them, but the second they slip out, his mouth is on yours. And you give in quicker than you would’ve allowed if it were anyone else. His hand in your hair doesn’t give you much choice anyway, and neither does his tongue, swiping across your lips as he tilts your head gently. He tastes like candy and something familiar that has your mouth eagerly parting for more. The quietest of moans escaping your lungs reminds you of how much he weakens any restraint you always try to maintain.

Suddenly, ruining him seems more enticing than any other thought that occupies your mind in that moment. You could edge him enough to make him beg. He’d like that, right? He’d look so pretty crying.

You let him kiss you however he wants, without failing to notice how he tries to keep it languid and wet enough that it resembles the way he kissed you last night. Exactly how you told him you like to be kissed. Your tongue plays with his slowly, just like your hands slide from his neck to the zipper of his hoodie. It comes undone easily, and you can’t help but slip your hands underneath, nudging the fabric off his shoulders before you indulge in giving his uncovered arms a squeeze. He reciprocates with both his hands on your ass, kneading the full flesh and urging you to move your hips against his.

“Fuck,” He gasps against your mouth, his pelvis bucking off the sofa just a little, trying to get more friction when you keep your movements too slow.

“What do you need?” You break off the heated kiss, hands flat on his chest to hold him in place when he tries to trail after you. “I’ll do it, just want you to tell me.”

You know you’re being slightly selfish, but you also can’t pass on the opportunity to get him all putty and needy under you. He looks scrumptious with his cheeks all flushed, and his cute nipples poking through the white tank top he’s got under the hoodie that now hangs off his elbows. He looks so good that it feels wrong to touch him. Like you shouldn’t be allowed to, but he’s somehow letting you.

He’s fully erect now, his hard length resting a little too comfortably between your folds, proud and thick enough that you can feel the outline even through the layers of both your layers. He’s got a look of contemplation as he stares at your connected crotches, his legs spreading further, inevitably sliding you a little upwards, and his cock brushes against your clit just right, pulling a tiny whimper out of you.

“Anything I want?” He asks innocently, bunny teeth digging into his bottom lip as he bats his eyelashes up at you. There’s the devilish look you know.

“Mm, you gotta ask nicely first.” You match his tone, playing along whatever game he’s decided to start.

His eyes travel down, fingers slipping past your waist band just a tiny bit before letting it snap against your skin. “Just want these off.” He gestures at your bottoms.

“Panties too?” You climb off his lap to stand between his legs, already looking forward to feeling him with less layers in between.

“Up to you.” He shrugs, eyes now on your face as you slip the baggy garment down your legs, your intimate area covered by your long hoodie, that as opposed to his, is still zipped up. “Actually, yeah, those too.”

You instantly raise a challenging eyebrow, head tilting in warning.

“Pretty please?” He recovers quickly, sweet smile and obedient eyes making you feel giddy. He really does catch on quickly. Or maybe he just gets you too well.

The thin cotton tickles as it drags down your legs, some of your slick smearing on your knee as the seat of your underwear touches you directly. “Now, what?”

“Sit back down.” He doesn’t play as nice this time, and you don’t really need him to. You reclaim your seat, knees on either side of his hips, but you hover, too conscious of how wet you are and how easy to stain his gray sweats are.

“I’ll be real with you; those will get ruined if you keep them on.” You point your chin at his crotch, and he doesn’t say a word before pulling the unnecessary barrier down, letting it rest mid-thigh. His white boxers come into view, matching his tank top, making him look like he’s about to pose for an underwear ad, if you ignore the outrageous hard-on of course.

His hands feel hot on your thighs, the pads of his fingers sinking into your skin slightly. “Wigs? Please?”

“Wigs?” An unexpected giggle tumbles out of you at the somewhat new but cute nickname as you lower your bare centre onto the bulge beneath you, weight completely dropping on him. The throbbing between your legs intensifies when you witness his expression go from troubled to serene, the crease between his eyebrows disappearing, shoulders dropping. It’s like he’s just melted into the cushions, and you wish you could take a snapshot of his reaction with your brain.

“So wet.” He whispers, eyes fixated between your thighs even though he can’t see anything, and you shouldn’t, but you feel bad for him, all of a sudden wanting to give him anything he’s after.

“Wanna see?” You lean down, cupping his face in your palms, connecting your lips with his before he can speak. He moans against your mouth, the sound vibrating between your chests, your nipples pebbling at the needy sound. You kiss him harder in response, licking into his mouth like you need to quench an inexplicable thirst, and the more you keep kissing him, the louder he gets. One of his hands curls around the back of your neck, while the other one grabs onto your ass, forcing your hips to move.

“Don’t need to,” He mumbles, teeth biting onto your bottom lip, pulling at the skin before letting it snap back into place. “Can feel you just fine.”

For some reason, in your twisted mind, that sounds hotter than him begging to see the mess between your legs. What’s even hotter is the fact that you’ve barely done more than kiss him, barely shown any skin, yet he’s so responsive. His strained breathing goes straight to your mushy brain, his whimpers each time you grind on him sound sinful and soft at the same time. You're so lost in the heat that you’re not sure which pulse is more rigorous, the one in your chest or the one in your pussy.

“Ow!” You accidentally let out a loud whine when Jaemin’s hand pulls at your hair a little too hard.

“Sorry.” He laughs lightly, loosening his grip just a tad but still forcing your head back so he can start scattering kisses down your neck. The wet swipe of his hot tongue on your skin sends a shiver down your spine, hips accidentally rolling against him, exposed cunt dragging over his clothed cock, your mixed arousals seeping through the cotton, making everything slippery. Each time you grind down on him, he thrusts upwards, every movement turning into a push and pull game as his length slides between your folds just perfectly, the head nudging your clit just right.

“Shit, that’s so good.” He murmurs softly against your neck, both hands on your backside now, each one grabbing onto a cheek, guiding your rhythm whenever your hips stutter. His touch on your bare skin, tugging, squeezing, sends a bloom of fresh heat in your belly, more arousal dripping out of you and adding to the unholy mess.

“Aw, you gonna cum in your undies again?” You counter in a condescending tone, not quite settled with him thinking that he’s got the upper hand here.

“I will if you want me to.” He pants, no ounce of shame detected; his dignity clearly left somewhere behind.

You halt your movements, hands moving to his chest for support as you take in his perplexed expression. “Actually... Can you do something else for me?”

He nods without hesitation. “Mhm.” So sweet.

You scoot back on his lap, his hands dropping to his sides as he waits for your instructions. He looks like a lost puppy, staring up at you like you’ve got the solution to all his problems. And maybe you do. “Touch yourself.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, lips parting, his cute two front teeth poking out a tiny bit. “Really? Right now?”

“Yeah.” You lean back with your hands on his knees. “Wanna see.”

“Fuck.” He exhales shakily. “Why are you doing this to me?”

You catch yourself biting back a smirk at his unexpectedly shy demeanour. And you feel your heart stutter at the incredibly cute way he lifts his bum off the sofa as he shoves his briefs down, just enough to reveal what’s hiding underneath. And holy fuck.

It’s not just the length or the girth; it’s more the way it lightly slaps on his stomach, the tip not too far from his belly button, cute, pink and angry, the shade matching his swollen lips. It looks heavy, and you can’t help but wonder how it would feel to have him inside you, stretching your snug walls more than anyone has before.

“Pretty.” You mutter in awe, the word sneaking out before you can contain it.

“Did you just call my dick pretty?” He breathes out a bemused laugh.

You laugh along, more in confusion at your strange outburst of honesty, your eyebrows tensing. “Yeah, I guess I did.”

You almost feel guilty for the objectifying thoughts that pollute your brain, but it’s not like there’s much of his decorum left to preserve anyway. And how are you meant to behave yourself when he looks like he’s been plucked straight out of some sort of anime universe. Now you understand why he walks and carries himself the way he does. No one with a dick this good looking should be humble.

He wraps his fist around his twitching length, slowly teasing the head first, while his free hand reaches to grab onto your thigh. It seems more like a grounding gesture than anything else, as if he needs to be touching you somehow to stay sane. He carries a baffled expression, like he can’t believe he’s actually enjoying this, but a quiet moan proves exactly that.

“Wigs?” He squeezes your thigh lightly just to get your attention, obviously not aware that you’re transfixed by his every move.

“Hm?” You dumbly nod, the view too precious to miss, but in the back of your mind you’re very aware of the wetness that leaks out of you and onto his bare thigh.

“Can you– shit–” He hisses as his thumb brushes over the glistening tip. “Um, can you get it wet for me please?”

You obediently lean closer, head tipping forward so you can aim, and just like he so nicely asked, you let a long string of saliva dribble from your lips. It lands on the underside of his cock and trickles down to his fingers where he’s tightly gripping the base. He lathers the added lubrication all over his length, making the glide smoother and louder.

“Better?” You scoot a little closer, letting your hands cradle his flushed face, and you can’t help but push his messy fringe back, his sweaty forehead coming into view, dark eyebrows pinched in pleasure as he sets a steady pace; not too fast, not too slow.

“Yeah.” He sighs, leaning into your touch, nuzzling into your wrist before leaving a sloppy kiss there, just above the ink on your skin. “I don’t think I’m gonna last long.”

“That’s okay.” You encourage him with small pecks on the exposed side of his face.

“Fuck, I want you.” He pants needily, shattering your heart a little.

“I’m here.” You tangle your fingers in his hair, messily kissing down his neck, comforting him through the pleasure. “Want you too.”

His head lolls back, resting against the back of the sofa, and when you feel the speeding up of his arm, you inevitably look down, drinking the sinful sight like a renaissance painting. The slit of his cockhead oozes more precum with each upward stroke, the skin is more flushed than before, veins more prominent. You study how he likes to be touched, how he focuses on the tip more, fist twisting slightly before he glides down again. A tiny spasm of his pelvis sends an intense throb to your cunt, and the accidental moan you let out seems to spur his hand into faster and less coordinated jerks.

“Gonna cum.” He announces urgently, nails digging into your thigh as he starts trembling. “Oh my– fuck fuck fuck.”

You manage to lift his tank top just below his chest right before the first spurt of release paints his abs, and the second his lips part in ecstasy, you don’t miss the chance to stick your tongue past them, swallowing his deep grunts with a loud and sloppy kiss. His mouth barely moves, tongue lazily poking out to lick against yours between laboured breaths, and you feel powerless not to smile at his free hand cupping your jaw weakly, even through the haze of his orgasm and his inability to kiss you back properly.

"I'm so fucked." He whines, sounding like he's in pain, and for some reason, you don't urge him to elaborate, ignoring the need to know the exact meaning behind his words as well as the heavy feeling in your stomach.

“Can I clean it up?” You mumble mid kiss, throwing his words from last night back into his face.

He kisses you harder in response, his pleased groan vibrating between you. “Yeah? You wanna get on your knees for me?”

“Behave.” You let your fingers wrap around his throat in a quiet threat, though it doesn’t seem to faze him in the slightest. His wicked smile only betrays enjoyment and makes you pulse around nothing, reminding you that you’ve most likely drenched his thigh.

“I gave you a full on show and you’re worried about me behaving?” He presses a lingering smooch on your chin, then one on your cheek. “I think we’ve established the power imbalance here, don’t worry.”

What an oblivious, silly little man. He clearly has no grasp on the effect he has on you, and it couldn’t get sweeter than that. What he doesn’t know won’t hurt him, though, and you certainly wouldn’t want his head getting any bigger. “Whatever you say.”

“What–”

“Shush.” You shut him up with a light squeeze around his throat before swiftly sinking down to your knees between his spread legs, the carpeted floor slightly digging into your skin, but not enough to distract you. What does distract you is the mess he’s made. His fingers are now limp around the base of his softening cock, covered in his release that has somehow not reached his chest. You mentally give him points for decent aim, having experienced unwanted facials in the past. Nothing you would have minded in this case, though.

“This feels awfully scrutinising.” He points out with a playful tilt of his head, clearly unbothered by your staring but impatient enough to kick up a fuss. “It’ll dry if you– oh shit, okay.”

His reaction is almost laughable when you lick a stripe from his balls to his tip, lapping up as much of his cum on your tongue as you can in one go and swallowing the salty essence before diving in for seconds. You teasingly suckle onto one ball, before repeating the same with the other one while intentionally letting out a moan that earns you his praise. "Fuck, you're so filthy."

You slowly blink up at him as you provocatively flatten your tongue over his coated fingers, and he gets the hint with a lustful glint in his eyes. He so willingly slips three of his salty digits past your wet lips whimpering when you eagerly slurp everything up, sliding your tongue between them before sucking hard and maintaining eye contact. You drag your mouth off with another performative moan and focus on his cock again, now replacing his hand with yours and relishing in the way he feels in your palm. Heavy, warm and overwhelmingly thick like you predicted, the skin velvety soft and slippery with your spit. So fucking perfect.

"You tryna make me hard again or what?" He rasps in most likely warranted frustration, though, his clean hand on your nape says otherwise.

“As if you’d mind fucking my throat.” You whisper, scattering languid kisses up one side of his shaft, your lips dragging across the sensitive skin until you reach the bulbous head that almost begs for your attention.

“I wouldn’t. That’s the problem.” His thumb strokes along your jaw, soft as ever, making you swoon, goosebumps raising along your neck and arms, your thighs rubbing for some much-needed friction.

“How’s that a problem?” You ask innocently, glancing up at him before swirling the tip of your tongue agonisingly slowly around the shiny head, then letting your lips vacuum around it, welcoming his taste in your mouth straight from the source, like slurping on an ice lolly on the hottest day of summer.

“We’ll be here all fucking day.” He lazily laughs, wincing when you suck harder and take him a little deeper. “Easy you demon, it’s still sensitive.”

You decide to ease up on the torture and abandon his cock with one last kiss before moving onto his abs, slurping and shamelessly licking along his skin, making sure not to miss a drop of his cum. And when you’re satisfied with your work and he’s whining and squirming as you hoped, you finally resurface for air. You don’t get much of it, though. His mouth quickly finds yours in a filthy battle of tongue and teeth, and you feel helpless at the thought of him moaning at his own taste. You're pretty sure there's cum smeared on your nose and chin, but he doesn't seem to give a fuck.

“Bend over the table.” You feel the seriousness in his tone in your stomach, excitement, and uncertainty blooming.

“I thought we weren’t fucking today.”

“We’re not.” He confirms with a snap of his boxers back into place, covering your new favourite toy.

“So, why–”

“Bend the fuck over, Y/N.” It sounds more like a threat, and you can tell he’s very much done with your bullshit now the blood has travelled up to his brain again. You also don’t miss the lack of a cutesy nickname this time. And you’re positive your name has never sounded sexy in a man’s mouth before. And so, you hold back on the questions this time and do as you’re told, curious and eager to find out what his dominant side entails.

The yelp you let out when he manhandles you abruptly almost sounds animated. Your front is pressed against the wooden surface of the coffee table you remember purchasing from Ikea about a year ago, and your remaining layers are shoved up, now resting just below your tits as Jaemin hovers behind you on his knees.

"So pretty like this," He praises as he slots between your legs, easily probing them apart, and you suddenly feel incredibly exposed with your backside and pussy out in the open air. "Knew your ass would be a fuckin' dream."

“Jaem?” You call for him more desperately than you intend, arching your back a little to tempt him more.

“Yeah?” He whispers above you, running his hands over the dip of your waist and down to your hips. So gently you feel your eyes getting heavy. He's then gathering both your hands at the small of your back, hold loose around your wrists but it's enough to make a point. Enough to leave you aching and helpless.

“Please do something.” You try to sound serious, but the whiny edge in your voice slips through regardless as you waggle your hips in desperation. "My clit feels like it's about to explode."

“Awh,” He coos with a satisfied laugh, his chest now flush against your back, radiating warmth as his lips leave a trail of tiny kisses from your temple down to your ear. "Needy baby.

He gently sucks on the lobe before letting his tongue tease the shell and then your helix piercing, all while his free hand sneaks around you and down to the apex of your thighs. You’re so worked up and sensitive, even a light swipe of his fingers across your swollen nub makes you squirm, arms fighting his firm hold off fruitlessly.

“Shhh, be good.” He instructs, voice steady with a sultry edge to it, sending more sparks through your body. Your nipples are so erect and tingly against the hard surface, they almost hurt with need for attention.

Your pathetic mewl resembles a cry that sounds offending to your pride. So much that you manage to piss yourself off. “Stop playing games with me, you prick.”

You feel him falter for a second, and then he taps on your pussy lips in warning, halting any movement from your pelvis. “That’s rich coming from you.” His two middle fingers, the ones you earlier had your lips wrapped around, prod at your weeping entrance before he runs them up and down your slit, spreading your slick down to your clit where he focuses his attention after a couple more teasing strokes. “Been fucking with my head since day one.” He admits openly, the honesty sitting heavy in your guts, making your lungs malfunction as he slowly swirls his fingers around the bundle of nerves. Too delicately. So much that it feels like the wickedest game of edging. So much that your pussy contracts around emptiness.

“You’ve known for a while now, haven’t you?” He whispers against your neck, and you aimlessly try to suppress your cries when the circles on your clit become a little harsher than you can handle, the heat in your belly begging for a release that approaches shockingly fast. “That I’m obsessed with you.”

The feeling is euphoric, almost overwhelming in a way you can’t explain. You could swear it’s the infatuation his voice drips with that clouds your senses more than the intensity of the unexpected orgasm itself. “Oh my god, what the fuck.”

“You’re doing so good.” He murmurs, clearly affected as he releases your hands and brings a safe arm around you, grounding you through every little spasm of your muscles, the strokes on your pulsing nub still precise and relentless, even as your legs tremble with oversensitivity. “That’s it, baby.”

“Please, I can’t cum again.” You feel tears threatening to spill from the overwhelming pleasure. “I feel like–” You’re spluttering nonsense along with weak sobs as your cunt keeps clenching around nothing, dripping slick down your inner thighs. “Ah–!”

You’re pulled upright without warning, clearly losing a battle you’re not even fighting as you let Jaemin drag you with him on the floor, positioning you between his spread legs as he leans against the sofa with a strong arm slung across your torso like a seat belt.

“Legs up.” He instructs promptly, clearly not in the mood to hover, and the second your knees are bent and far apart, you don’t even have time to accommodate your body in the new position before two of his fingers find their way in your sopping hole this time, the stretch intense but somehow delightful.

“Shit, Jaem– wait!” You exclaim in utter shock at the unexpected intrusion, your walls fluttering around his nimble digits.

“Does it hurt?” His fingers stay hooked inside you, tickling a deep spot that only you can normally find this quickly, but he stops moving at your distress.

“No, just – just give me a sec.” You lean back in his embrace, melting against the warmth of his chest, head limply resting on his shoulder while he drapes his arm over your sternum, hand finding its way to your jaw, urging you to turn your head and meet his dark eyes, full of want and hues of brown you hadn't noticed before.

“You’re so pretty.” He mumbles sweetly, lips brushing against yours before delivering a soft peck that makes your stomach flutter along with your stuffed pussy. “You like it when I talk to you?”

You can sense the teasing lilt, but you nod anyway, not having the backbone to talk back when he’s got you spread out all to himself. And now you hope he knows there’s no point talking about power imbalance when just a few words of praise and a slow drag of his fingers against your walls have you suffocating. Your legs are already fighting to stay open when slow strokes gradually turn into short jabs against your g-spot, and gentle pecks turn into lazy open-mouthed kisses that leave you both breathless.

The fact that he's using the same hand he pleasured himself with to get you off, tickles your brain in ways you didn't think possible, making your insides feel funny. And you find yourself wanting to shake your next thought out of your lust-clouded head. I shouldn't have sucked his fingers clean. Are you really that twisted? Wishing a man would fuck his cum in you? Na Jaemin of all men?

“M’so close.” You pant into his mouth when you feel the tight bubble of tension in your tummy threatening to burst for the second time, only not as quick as before.

“Yeah?” He drags his hand to your neck, fingers tightening like a necklace over your pulse points. “Gonna cum for me?”

“Uh-huh.” You absentmindedly let your tongue brush against his bottom lip, and he eagerly sucks it in his mouth while the obscene squelching of his hand ruining your pussy echoes around the quiet room.

“Fuck, how are you so wet?” He moans, adding momentum in the motions of his wrist, fingers now pistoning in and out of you, palm faintly slapping against your folds. Just when you're about to say you need more, he buries his fingers deep and crooks them along the curve of your front wall, rubbing against your sweet spot and pulling an incoherent exclaim of astonishment from you. His thumb starts rapidly flicking up and down, stimulating your needy clit just the right amount, and when you glance down, catching a glimpse of the sinful sight – him pleasuring you like it's a mission – it’s game over for you.

“Shit, shit, shit I'm–” Your mouth parts in a silent squeak, head tilting back in eye-rolling pleasure that feels too good for your sanity to stay intact. You feel the thick arousal trickling down to your ass as Jaemin’s fingers keep pressing upwards through the constricting of your throbbing walls. Your hips uncontrollably stutter with the little aftershocks of pleasure that he forces out of you, and you realise how tightly your hands are clutching on his thighs, nails clawing onto the cotton of his sweats as you hang on by a thread.

“So fucking hot.” He mumbles against your temple, his breath warming your already heated face as he slowly drags his fingers out of your still lightly pulsating opening. He coos when you wince at the emptiness, his hot palm resting over your folds in a delicate and oddly comforting manner. “You good?”

You close your legs around his hand, trapping him there as you try to get your lungs to regain proper function. You manage to hum with a weak nod, already aware of the sweat dripping down the side of your face. “I feel like I need another shower.”

“Nuh-uh,” He keeps his free arm wrapped around your shoulders as he gently rocks you side to side, slowly bringing you back down from the clouds. "Wanna cuddle you.”

You let out a long sigh of contentment, already feeling too exhausted as you descend from cloud nine, and a little too smitten to deny him anything. "I suppose we can cuddle."

"It's so cute that you're still trying to act all mean." He giggles cutely before sucking onto the apple of your cheek, making you whine in disgust at the slobber he leaves on your skin.

"Ew! That's gross, you–"

He kisses you on the wet patch he just left, laughing at the way you try to swat him away. You can't help the giddiness that blossoms in your chest, hating how weak you feel for his odd ways of affection.

"Oh, no! We forgot about Blue Planet!" He exclaims in fake distress, finally ending the wet torture he was putting your cheek through.

A breathless laugh erupts from your chest when you glance at the forgotten TV, Netflix somehow aware of your distraction as the screen reads in big letters: Are you still watching?

The documentary has long since faded into the background. The snacks are half-finished. The blanket is messily draped on the floor.

Somewhere between pho, cookies, and whatever the hell just happened, the day has slipped away from you. And for the first time, the thought of Jaemin leaving feels a little unbearable.

Not just tonight. But eventually.

Because while you've spent the last few months trying not to think too hard about Na Jaemin, time hasn't exactly stopped moving.

You're only half a semester away from his graduation. From whatever big plans he's got for his future and from him becoming someone you'll no longer rely on to make shifts feel a little less monotonous and a little more chromatic.

Half a semester away from watching him walk out of your life just as easily as he barged into it.

Part two coming soon... <3

cookie's note: for the love of GAWD take my laptop away from me i almost went insane writing this 😀🔫 i hope it's what people wanted/hoped for and if not then don't tell me bc i will dead ass cry haha im so serious haha pls don't be mean like oc, i'm not like jaemin!! i will only accept loveeee!! part two is still in the wips but i'm hoping it won't take as long as part one (god forbid). as always pls pls pls share your thoughts with me!! i love interacting with ya'll and reading your reactions! ILY 🤎

👩‍❤️‍💋‍👩 i'd also like to give an honourary mention to my beloved wife @withlovemark who read this before i posted it and shared her honest thoughts with me when i was in desperate need of a helping hand (also guys, you didn't hear it from me but i think she likes jaemin a lil too much if you ask me.... not jel or anything... just saying...)💓

✨ ps. pls spare me some liquid love on kofi if you liked this story help a girlie out i'm so broke and i need to book a flight home 🧚🏼‍♂️

📖 check out my other works here

©neogotmycookie 

time should heal these kinds of wounds, especially minor ones brought about by the foolish, unregulated emotions of a child. by the end of summer vacation, following blisteringly hot days chasing down the ice cream truck and nights filled with game show music, the memory of having to say goodbye to ajax is nothing but a light scar on your tender heart. it’s too harsh to say that you’ve forgotten about him, but it’s a little too easy to say he isn’t at the forefront of your mind. your images of him grow hazy as each new year passes, your ‘one and only friend’ replaced by many others you share interests and secrets with.

that’s why you don’t expect him to remember you when you transfer into his high school. it was completely unplanned, and you hadn’t even known he would be there. yet, there he is, sitting on a desk in the center of the room, surrounded by classmates who’ve clearly known him for much longer than you do at this point. you might not have recognized him at all, with the way he is now; he’s taller, of course, with the lean build of a student that clearly participates actively in physical sports, and his voice and laugh are deeper and richer (although the standard of all that is particularly low for you, considering the last time you’d heard him speak was a decade ago). but there’s parts of him that have barely changed, that make him distinct and immediately recognizable — the soft, copper lustre of his hair and the flat, dark blue of his eyes.

the latter glosses over you once as you walk into the classroom, an instinctive reaction to new motion, but it doesn’t take long for his gaze to snap back like a stretched rubber band, fixing on you and growing wider as his posture straightens.

even though a friend of his speaks to him, asks him something, he only says your name. everyone else’s eyes fall on you, and your step falters just past the doorway. even with all these other people looking at you, you can only feel his burning gaze.

“don’t you remember me?” he asks when you don’t say anything in immediate response. “it’s me — ajax.”

“oh, right—” you stutter, a little self-conscious at being put on the spot. “ajax! it’s been so long. wow, you’re… i didn’t expect to see you here of all places.”

you remember his smiling being bright, sure, but not this bright — the kind of wideness and lightness to it that seems almost disproportionate to such a mundane situation. of course, childhood friends reconnect; there’s nothing odd about that. but the way he hops off the desk and walks over in huge strides to sweep you up into a strong hug makes you feel like you’re the center of a spectacle, and the only thing that vaguely distracts you from it is the warmth of him enveloping you.

“she was my childhood friend — my first best friend, i should say,” he says by way of introduction to the others staring at you; they offer half-hearted noises of greeting that ajax pointedly ignores. you stand there, with his arm still around you, trying not to think about how you’re pressed into his side and how he smells like some fancy pine-note cologne that seems way too mature and serious for someone his age and demeanor. “funny how fate works out, huh? seeing each other after all these years, i mean.”

“it’s definitely unexpected,” you agree, and if he notices how embarrassed you are at all the staring he’s brought about, he doesn’t make it known; he just draws back, holding you at arm’s length and giving you a very obvious once-over.

“you look good,” he comments after a pause, so out of place that you’re not sure if this is just some weird formality or if he’s being honest for no good reason. you don’t even know if he hears your mumbled, ‘thanks,’ over the sound of the bell that has him releasing you with a quick, playful wink.

you think that’s that when you shuffle over to your seat, ajax taking his own place in the center of the room (at the desk he’d been perched on). after the initial novelty of the reunion wears off, you’ll just be background noise in the lively scene that is his life. you don’t expect much thereafter, sure that his priorities would lie more in his long-term friends, the elements of this school that are familiar and wholly more comfortable to him.

which is why you’re shocked when, during lunch time, a loaded tray plops down in the space in front of you, ajax’s body following soon after. he leans back in his chair with an easy grin, like this is the most natural thing in the world for him to do, like you’re not staring at him with half-chewed food in your mouth.

“what are you doing?” you blurt out before you can stop yourself.

“what? we can’t catch up?”

“we can, but…” you squirm, a little unsure how to put your feelings into careful words. “i mean, don’t you have friends you usually sit with during lunch?”

“sure i do,” he hums, breaking into the brioche roll on his tray with his thumb before picking at the foil lid of the butter packet. “but i’ve spent the last few years with them. i want to make up for lost time with you.”

you suppose that makes sense, although a small part of you still wants to point out that the last thing you bonded over was the sand in your shoes over a decade ago. still, you decide to let it slide; maybe it’s just a natural thing, to want to reconnect with someone you remember fondly from way back when. there’s no real harm in that anyway, and you can’t deny that you’ve now become curious about him too — about how he’s grown up, about how he’s changed, and about how much has stayed the same from what little you can remember of his younger personality. you’ll be the first to admit that he’s grown well, with an objectively attractive face and a confident demeanor that supports it excellently.

not that you think about that deeply as you chat with him. he’s eager to talk, to learn more about your life in the time you were apart, and after a short while of feeling interrogated, you find an avenue to ask him about himself too. you learn that he’s in the football club, and that he’s back to playing regularly after suffering a mild knee injury quite recently. he tells you he’s into fortnite, and that just last night, he’d gotten six victory royales in a row, all on solo (you congratulate him honestly because that sounds like a good thing). you find out he’s grown slightly allergic to shellfish and that his mom forces him to join country club mixers, but that everyone there is just an old auntie that’s always slightly tipsy and trying to get him to go on a date with their nieces.

you realize that ajax is, at his core, the same kid you’d known — smart and proactive, freely sociable and eager to try new things. it’s nice to know that he’s still appropriately self-assured, and you think it makes sense that people find him magnetic, as evidenced by earlier that morning. by the end of the lunch hour, you’re stuffed full with tidbits about him, and he’d drawn out as many factoids as he possibly could about you. you walk back with him to the classroom in silence, and when the bell rings, he ruffles your hair lightly before making his way to his desk.

still, you anticipate that this is just a temporary spike in interest from him. there’s so little you can wring out from this situation, and you’re sure that ajax has better things to do than coddle a childhood friend constantly. after all, he has better, closer friends worth spending time with.

for some reason, though, his attention on you doesn’t wane; if anything, as the weeks progress, he embeds himself more deeply into your life. the constant lunches together are one thing, and you even ask him if he’d rather you go sit with the rest of his friends with him, to which he smoothly replies that ‘we can’t talk freely to each other in such a big crowd.’ however, when he learns that you go home alone (after an off-handed comment on your part about listening to the same playlist every afternoon), he starts walking you to the bus stop, even if it’s in the opposite direction from his own route. some mornings, he waits by the door to walk you into the classroom, already firing off about the shitty fortnite run he had last night (someone had sniped him from higher ground, which is totally unfair and unethical, unless he does it himself, of course); other days, you find a cup of coffee (milky and sweet, the way he knows you like it, given that he’s asked about your preferences insistently) sitting on your desk, with a smiley face on the cardboard sleeve that’s drawn on in his signature red sign pen.

gradually, it feels like the years that separated you both melt away. after being out of touch for so long, you now can’t imagine a day without ajax talking to you. you settle into this comfortable routine of relying on him, turning to him for both trivial and important matters, seeking him out over small victories and huge upsets. by the time you’re a senior, it feels like you’ve come full circle. ajax is, once again, your best friend, as he had been all those years ago, now always by your side.

of course, he isn’t your only friend now; you’re both older, and it’s impossible not to have a network at school. you’re amicable to practically everyone, and so is ajax, despite the fact that he seems to dedicate a fair amount of time and energy on you.

“wanna partner up for the chemistry project?” he asks suddenly after a particularly boisterous lunch involving enthusiastic recounts of last night’s pro wrestling match highlights that he’d stayed up to watch live. “thought it’d be stupid to ask you right away last week when i didn’t have a topic to pitch, but i did some research, and i thought we could do like a—”

“i already have a partner,” you cut him off sheepishly. “theo texted over the weekend and asked me. sorry — to be honest, i thought you’d be sick of being my partner at this point, since we’ve done almost every project together this year.”

“oh.” he does nothing to hide the surprise on his face, but something else crosses his expression that you don’t quite catch. it’s gone in the blink of an eye, smoothed over by a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “is that your kind of roundabout way of saying you’re sick of me?”

“no way!” you’re quick to deny, and maybe you should’ve anticipated this, but ajax hadn’t really seemed like the type to care about doing everything together. then again, now that you think about it in retrospect, there’s precious little you haven’t done together to begin with. “you know i love working with you. but i mean — it’s no big deal, right? tell you what — how about we do the infographic for english class together?”

“why? were you planning on ditching me for that, too?” he jokes, his elbow digging lightly into your side. “just don’t get too sad when you end up doing all the work. no other partner in this whole class is going to pull their weight like i do.”

“wow, do you have space in your head to learn with all that hot air going around?” you laugh. “i’ll be fine. theo’s a good guy.”

“i’m sure,” ajax hums, somehow more to himself than you. you figure he’s already thinking of who else to nab as a partner, so you leave things at that. you try not to read too deeply into the fact that he takes a long, slow look at theo from across the room before he settles down into his chair and starts digging around his backpack for a working pen.

with the weekend rolls an unexpected text; it’s theo, with a whole two-inch paragraph about how freya had begged him to be her partner, and how he thinks that he might do better following her project proposal than the ‘weak one he’d pitched to you,’ and he’s really sorry, but it’s not too late to find a new partner anyway, and best of luck! you miss out on the finer details of the excuse, given that it’s only seven-thirty in the morning, but you get the gist of it. with a heavy sigh, you roll over and call the most recent number you’d dialled, the last log being just yesterday evening.

“morning, sunshine.” ajax’s voice is cheery, like he’s been awake for a while now — and, weirdly, almost like he’s been expecting your call. “you woke up early for once.”

“theo texted,” you grumble, rubbing fiercely at your eye. “backed out of being my partner.”

“what an asshole.” he does well at the task of sounding empathic and affronted for your sake. “did he tell you why?”

“god, i don’t know. something about freya, or that his pitch was shit, i think.”

“well, he and freya do seem pretty close,” ajax says sagely. “so why’d you call me?”

“i’m pretty sure this is an asshole move on my part after i ditched you, but if you still don’t have a partner…”

there’s a brief silence on his end that makes you think he might’ve been offended, and honestly, you wouldn’t blame him completely; it’s not like you can avoid making it seem like this is a last-ditch attempt not to do the project alone.

“i mean, sure,” he suddenly speaks up, his voice strangely breezy. “what kind of best friend would i be if i said no?”

“well, i mean — if you don’t want to, or if you — i don’t know — have a partner already, i wouldn’t want you to ditch them for me, either…”

“nah, don’t worry about that. even if i had one — and i don’t, so don’t worry,” he adds before you can argue. “i’d still choose you.”

“thanks, ajax,” you mumble, feeling inexplicably embarrassed. “sorry for putting this on you.”

“you’re not putting anything on me,” he laughs. “but i wouldn’t mind if you said i was the best best friend ever a little more often.”

“you’re totally the best best friend ever,” you concede. “come over so we can finalize the topic?”

“damn straight.” he makes a noise that indicates he’s getting up from bed. “see you in thirty.”

for the rest of the year after that, every project you do, you only do with ajax.

as the months go by, and senior year comes to a slow close, you feel like there are things that pile up — things you can’t put a finger on, can’t seem to fully unpack — between you and ajax. he becomes more insistent that you should come watch his games, even if that means having to wake up at ungodly hours on a sunday to go to a different school across the district just to sit in the rain and see him kick a ball around really quickly. after games where the team wins, he expects you to join him and his family for a celebratory meal at his favorite diner, and after games where they don’t, he expects you to go back with him anyway and have lunch at his house. he always makes you sit next to teucer, who likes to rehash the ‘cool parts’ of the games and how ‘awesome’ ajax was with his last legendary pass or attempted goal, and you just nod along, trying to ignore how smug your best friend looks, like everything’s going according to plan (although, what that plan is, you really have no clue).

on days he doesn’t have practice, ajax even takes you home from school, riding the stuffy twenty-minute long bus ride and trekking the fifteen minute walk home with you, rain or shine. he always makes it an excuse to come in and lounge on your couch, scrolling twitter and showing you things that tickle him, until the sun goes down and his mom texts him to get back for dinner.

you chalk it up to his being naturally clingy, perhaps a bit protective now that it gets darker earlier in the day. but there are also things that you just can’t find an explanation for, like the way he calls you names he never used to — sweetheart and angel make it into his vocabulary a lot more these days. you’d once given him a funny look when he called you ‘babe,’ but he’d just laughed and said it was a bad habit he picked up recently, although you can’t imagine what activity would have formed such a habit in the first place. you let it go because it doesn’t really bother you immensely, but you sometimes wonder if he’s just piling it on you so that he can see you squirm. you wouldn’t put it past him to run an experiment like that, anyway.

then there was that time college results had come in through the school. you’d only applied to a small handful of institutions, what with your program interest being fairly niche; your main hope was that you’d get into zapolyarny tech, the top university in the capital city with a reputation for churning out successful people. ajax had applied to it too, though he was a likely shoe-in for a spot there, what with him going down the sports scholarship track.

homeroom on the day results were given out was absolute chaos; after five minutes of trying to shout herself hoarse over everyone’s chattering, your teacher had just given up and left the class to its own devices completely. it had felt strangely reminiscent of the last day of kinder — people crowding together to compare results and talk about whose offer they’d accept. you’d opened your envelope to see the list of schools that you’d passed, relieved to see snezhnograd university and belovodye institute were on there, along with smaller colleges you’d applied to as a fallback. still, it had been a bit of a punch in the gut not to see zapolyarny as an option.

“trade you,” ajax had interrupted your line of thought, and his paper had slipped across your desk as he tossed it. you’d offered him yours before unfurling his, and you’d seen it there: zapolyarny tech, with the asterisk next to the name that means that he’d been successful in nabbing the scholarship to boot.

“wow, congratulations!” you’d exclaimed, and your happiness for him had been genuine; you’d spent weeks before this chittering about how amazing the campus looked in all the pictures and how you’d stuff yourself full with the all-day all-you-can-eat student caf options. “ajax, that’s awesome — on a scholarship ride, and everything!”

“hmm?” he’d looked up from your paper, blinking rapidly. “oh, thanks. but, man, i don’t know. kind of been having second thoughts about zapolyarny these days. just doesn’t seem like my kind of place, if you get me?”

“what are you talking about?” you’d laughed in disbelief. “you once said that zapolyarny was the place that would birth the superstar version of you. what do you mean, second thoughts?”

“nothing; i just don’t want my judgment to be clouded by a semi-free ride, you know?”

“why wouldn’t you want to take advantage of a scholarship? it’s a scholarship, ajax. they’re practically paying you to go to the best university in the country. what else is there to consider?”

“just other stuff. it’s complicated,” he’d said vaguely. “where are you planning on going, then?”

“i don’t know. i guess snezhnograd. they’ve got affordable on-campus accommodations, and it isn’t as much of a trip from here to there, especially in comparison to — what are you doing?”

you’d watched, appalled, as ajax encircled snezhnograd university on both your papers with his red sign pen.

“i think snezhnograd’s great, too.” his response had been unnervingly smooth and easy. “for all the reasons you just said.”

“i meant for me,” you frown. “you’re a completely different case. you didn’t even apply for a scholarship there; you’ve got family near zapolyarny!”

“snezhnograd’s got a great sports sciences program; at least, it seemed like it when i looked into them.”

he’d capped his pen with a click of finality, and you’d just stared at him, completely at a loss for words. there’d been no logical reason for him to choose a lower-ranked school when he’d gotten a huge shot at the most prestigious one, yet there he’d been, folding both your papers and leaving them under the teacher’s file for submission.

“ajax,” you’d tried to say evenly, worried the stress in your voice would come out slightly deranged. “this is… i mean, think about it. you got into the best school in the country, and you’re turning it down — for what? it doesn’t make any sense.”

“do i need to have a reason?”

“of course!”

he’d stared at you thoughtfully, his dull blue eyes a little hazy. “well, would you have visited me in zapolyarny, if i’d gone?”

“i mean — yeah, why not? i guess i would’ve gone once in a while—”

“if i asked you to come everyday, would you have?” he’d pressed.

“what?” you’d rubbed your temples, feeling an oncoming headache at the turn the converation had taken. “of course not. the commute time alone, and the fare—”

“then, obviously, this was the most sensible choice. that way, we’d be on the same campus.”

you’d fallen silent, completely stumped. a large part of you had wanted to ask why that was even a consideration in all of this, but you hadn’t wanted to seem accusatory, for some reason. ajax had put his hands on your shoulders, holding you at arms length and squeezing, as if trying to work you out of a stupor — which, really, he pretty much had been.

“don’t overthink it, angel,” he’d said, so soothingly your shoulders had somehow untensed. “we made a promise, remember?”

the last week and a half of your senior year are messy, to say the least. it’s an endless array of last-minute requirements and tests that no one wants to study for, and it’s ultimately exacerbated by the end-of-the-year event that everyone seems to be talking about: homecoming.

the game is one thing to be excited for already, but what seems to be causing an uproar among the student population is the dance that comes after. more than once, you’ve walked into school in a hurry only to bear unwilling witness to a homecoming proposal that ultimately makes you late for first period. today is no different; you have to squeeze your way between the lockers and a tight throng of kids taking videos (despite the fact that cellphones during school hours are strictly banned) of some junior guy who’d painted his chest to ask a girl out. you’re lucky that ajax is waiting by the classroom door (as usual) and has the presence of mind and required strength to pull you out before you’re crushed by a wave of backpacks.

“is it just me, or has it never been this crazy before?” you grumble as you walk into the classroom with him.

“i just don’t think you’ve ever paid attention to it as much,” ajax says pointedly, watching you drop into your seat. “you’re still not planning on going this year? it’s our last, you know.”

you’ve always been fine with sticking it out at home; the tasks of finding a dress, finding a ride, and finding a date all seem like a lot of effort for next to no benefit. the stress you’ve seen people go through for one night has created an insurmountable amount of fear around it for you. that’s just your perspective, though. despite the fact that you’ve encouraged him to go, ajax always joins you in your non-attendance. he makes it a point to come over around the time when the dance starts, bearing snacks and old noir movies that you can’t really understand but that he really seems to enjoy talking through.

you’re on the fence for this year, to say the least. ajax does have a point; you don’t have any other opportunity to go to a homecoming, unless you count attending as an alum, which just seems like even more of a waste of time given that you’d be in a completely different city by that point.

“i don’t know, actually,” you sigh, shaking your backpack so that your stuff somehow rearranges into a slightly less bulky form. “i guess it would be pretty lame to sit it out my whole high school life, right? but i just wouldn’t know where to begin, if i’m being honest.”

before ajax can respond, however, a new shadow grows over the space you occupy. you look up to see a classmate, thalia, stopping just by your desk.

“are you guys talking about homecoming?” she’s chewing on her lip, eyes darting between the both of you. you nod, and she shifts her weight between her feet before she continues. “that’s cool. um… i was thinking — ajax, i heard you didn’t have a date yet to the dance.”

“i don’t,” ajax says coolly.

“oh! cool; so i was wondering if you’d maybe want to g—”

“i don’t have a date,” he continues, effectively cutting her off. “because i wasn’t planning on going in the first place.”

the silence that follows is so thick that you feel like you’re genuinely being suffocated. you stick your foot out, catching ajax’s shin with the heel, but if it hurts, he doesn’t show it.

“you did say it’s our last year,” you murmur. “you should go, ajax. i think it’d be fun for you.”

he assesses you with a thoughtful gaze, and you can’t help but feel like he’s picking you apart for some reason, like he’s expecting there’s some kind of subliminal message to your words. thalia is just rooted to the spot, face flushed and looking a little regretful at having approached at all.

“we always hang out on homecoming night, though.” he says it slowly, like it’s some kind of gentle reminder for an amnesiac you.

“that’s just — he’ll get back to you,” you direct your words at thalia, who starts a little and looks to you. “he’s just… just give him some time.”

she nods and scurries off, likely less distressed at the lack of an answer and more relieved at being given an out from such an awkward turn of events.

“i’m not saying you have to go,” you sigh once she’s out of earshot. “but if you’re just sticking it out because i don’t want to, then it kind of makes me feel like a warden.”

“i don’t mind it, though.” his reply is honest and immediate. “i’d rather stay in with you.”

“okay, but that’s — i mean, you don’t have to.” it frustrates you that you can’t seem to properly articulate what about this just seems ridiculous. “you don’t have to make it a pity party. i’m not sitting around moping.”

you don’t expect him to plant both his hands on your desk and lean in; his face is so close to yours that you can see the quiver of his pupils as he looks straight into your eyes.

“you think that i just hang around you because i pity you?” his voice is quiet. you stiffen, forgetting how to swallow, forgetting how to breathe. “you think i don’t have any other reason?”

you blink slowly, practically short-circuiting. you want to consider his words, but you draw up a complete blank; it’s hard to think clearly when he’s this close to you, and when he’s so uncharacteristically serious. his gaze looks like it’s trying to tell you something, quite fiercely and forcefully, but what it is, you can’t properly decipher.

“um,” is all you can say after a sticky pause. “s… orry?”

he exhales in an inexplicably tired way, shaking his head. “look — if you wanna go, we’ll go. if you don’t want to, we won’t. and for the record, i don’t want to deal with a date i don’t really care about. that’s all there is to it. okay?”

you nod dumbly. he takes a moment to search your face for any sign of further response before he straightens up, leaving you with another hair ruffle. you could swear that he murmurs ‘good girl,’ under his breath while he does it, but you’re so out of sorts that he’s gone before you can bring it up and question it.

at the end of the day, you spend your last homecoming as you’d spent all others: with ajax, sitting criss cross applesauce on your couch, a bowl-sized pack of wild berry skittles tucked between his thighs. he’s spent more minutes of shutter island fishing around for his favorite flavor (grape) than actually watching for some reason, so you don’t feel too bad interrupting his concentration with an out of the blue question.

“think it’s going well over there?”

“over where?” comes his immediate response as he separates the different colored candies from the purple ones, letting them fall back into the pack with those hard shell tic-tic-tics.

“at the homecoming dance.” you lower the volume of the television because mark ruffalo’s yelling at leonardo di caprio over the sound of some kind of hurricane, and it’s a little grating. “think it’s… i don’t know. fun?”

“can’t be more fun than watching two guys trying to get to the bottom of some mystery at an asylum,” he shrugs before looking up at you. it’s only then that he notices you’re chewing your lip, and he pops the handful of grape skittles into his mouth before moving the whole pack to the floor. “what’s going on? are you having second thoughts?”

“no, it’s just — i don’t know. now that i’m thinking about it, it is our last year, so it kind of seems silly to be missing out on it.” you also want to say that you hate that you kind of ruined this for him, but you don’t want him to resent you even more than he probably already does.

“we can still go. i’ve got my learner’s permit, so if your parents don’t mind a couple of dings on their car…”

you snort, although the sound is pretty half-hearted. “like i’ll be able to get a dress at this time of night, anyway.”

“that’s what your worried about?” he has the gall to sound thoroughly amused. “just pick any old dress you’ve got upstairs. it’ll be fine.”

“right, because i’d blend right in with my just finished sunday service glam look.”

“you could show up in a potato sack; no one would care.”

“cool, let me just bust out my snazziest potato sack,” you say wryly, and he chuckles.

“that didn’t come out right. i meant that you could wear something plain, and you’d still be a smokeshow. plus,” he thumps his chest with an air of pride. “you’ll be walking in with me. i guarantee heads will turn. everyone’ll be so jealous, and you’ll instantly win homecoming queen.”

“forget it,” you half-groan, half-laugh, because now you’re picturing yourself walking into the school gym with your arm looped around ajax’s, and it somehow doesn’t feel like the most horrible thing in the world. “my thoughts were just going haywire for a second there.”

you make to turn the volume up again, but ajax grabs the remote, stuffing it behind a cushion on the far end of the couch. “hey, i was just kidding. what does it matter, anyway? i thought you were kind of averse to all that pomp and drama.”

“i mean, it’s not like i hate it; i just felt like it was so much work with so little pay off. but then — i don’t know. i was thinking about it, and i feel like there’s just stuff that happens there that makes the experience unique in its own way.”

ajax doesn’t even bother to hide his bemusement; he actually comically scratches his head before asking, “what kind of stuff?”

“dunno. dancing to old hits? drinking shitty punch? people fighting over the dates they wanted, making out behind the bleachers and getting caught by a teacher — that quintessential high school experience, i guess. but like i said, it’s no big deal.” you wave it off. “hand me the remote, would you?”

“you want to dance? we can dance.”

you watch him unfurl his limbs and stand, adjusting the waistband of his jeans. “i don’t mean here. i mean like the kind of experience that you only get by being there.”

“what’s the difference? close a couple of the lights, put on that dancey whitney houston song, and it’ll be basically the same thing.” his tone is light, but his grin is mischeivous, his hands wrapping around your wrists and urging you up with him. “or do you wanna line it up with the actual hour? around this time, they play ballads from the eighties and the parent alums slow dance.”

he doesn’t even give you the option to say no; his arms are already around your waist, dragging you closer to his torso.

“can we just forget i brought anything up and watch the movie?” you mumble, although you still let him maneuver your arms so that they’re hanging (a little limply) off his shoulders. “seriously, ajax…”

the rest of your protests, weak as they already were, die in your throat as he starts to sway the both of you. it’s all just awkward movement, graceless and with no sense of musicality, given that the background noise is just the muffled argument between leonardo di caprio’s character and some half-naked guy in a dingy jail cell. you’re pretty sure some important plot point’s being revealed here, but you’re distracted by the fact that ajax is so close to you, and he seems to be intently looking at your face, as if he’s hellbent on making this as realistic a homecoming experience for you as possible.

as the seconds tick by, you think you should be checking out or pulling away, but for some reason, you’re doing neither. you settle for staring at your feet as your weight shifts in time with his lead, and now you’re starting to realize how nice ajax always smells and how warm he is.

“hey, look at me.”

you comply before you can question it, and you regret it almost immediately. ajax’s face is so close to yours, and the deep blue of his eyes seem to be robbing you of both breath and speech. luckily, if he notices you’re acting skittish, he doesn’t make it known; he just smiles, weirdly tender and encouraging.

“you know it doesn’t matter if we’re at school or not, right? what matters is that you have these kinds of experiences at the right time, with the right people.”

“the right people, meaning you?”

“i mean, would you rather dance like this with — i don’t know, a snot-nosed junior that just wants to get in your pants for the night?”

it lasts for only a second, so you must have imagined it, but you could honestly swear that ajax’s hold on your waist tightens as he says that line. he makes it sound like a lighthearted joke, but something in his gaze seems to prompt you to actually respond.

“i guess not.”

he hums, seemingly satisfied with that answer. a few more beats pass with the both of you just swaying in the confines of some invisible square on your living room carpet. then, “what else was on your list?”

“huh?”

“dancing, and drinking punch, and — oh,” he grins, all lopsided and annoyingly attractive. “should we make out?”

“come off it,” you grumble, stopping your movement. neither of you step away, though; somehow, this position feels weirdly comfortable.

“i’m being serious.” his punctuating laugh is airy and low. “what — are you going to end your whole high school life without kissing someone?”

“that’s not — i haven’t — what do you…” you splutter, and his smile grows annoyingly wider. “that’s none of your business!”

“don’t be ashamed,” he chides. “i think it’s really cute that you haven’t had your first kiss.”

“as if you have!”

“of course i have. i’m not lying,” he adds in a matter-of-factly voice, just as you open your mouth to bite back. “i had it in middle school. she transferred out the year after. now, whether it was good or not is a totally different matter, but that’s not what we’re here to discuss.”

you hate that this information makes you feel inexplicably small. it really shouldn’t matter; it’s not like the marker for a successful high school life is how many people you’ve kissed (or if you’ve kissed anyone at all), but knowing that even ajax, who’s never seemed to entertain girls for as long as you’ve known him in high school, has already experienced what you haven’t — it makes you feel like an incomplete person, somehow.

he seems to take your silence as consideration, so he adds, “it’s not a big deal. people kiss all the time, and it doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to. besides, that’s kind of the point of having a best friend. you can think of it as a… trial run, or something. better me than that hypothetical snot-faced junior, right?”

it’s not even that ajax is a terrible choice for this. by all accounts, he actually seems like a perfect candidate: attractive, experienced (relatively, in comparison to you, at least), and, most important, trustworthy. he can’t be getting anything out of it, you think; he’s just doing it to be a genuinely good friend that doesn’t want you to go into college without a first kiss under your belt.

your slow nod’s almost imperceptible, but he catches it anyway. in one smooth swoop, ajax captures your lips, and you’re immediately assaulted by the sugary sweetness of the candy he’d just had. he tastes like artificial grape and that purple total care listerine he’d used in your guest bathroom before you’d settled down for the movie, and by all accounts, it’s not a bad mixture of flavors. at least it isn’t remnants of, like, roasted garlic and oil pasta and diet coke, or whatever else was on the proposed menu for homecoming.

with how gung-ho ajax is about practically everything in his life, you expect his kissing to be the same. you anticipate messy enthusiasm and a lot of tongue, teeth clashing and a lot of mistakes. but he’s so careful — so unbelievably slow and tender that you wonder if he’s just been lying to you about his personality this whole time. he takes his time letting your lips fit and melt together, doesn’t push for you to give more than you feel like offering at the moment. it’s when you exhale that a little bit of the fire in him seems to ignite, his tongue coming out to trace the parted seam of your lips, but he doesn’t go any further than that — like he’s a little worried, like he’s holding himself back. your slightly muddled mind can’t seem to decide what to focus on: the feeling of his lips against yours, or his hold on your waist, tightening and squeezing like he’s stopping himself from pulling you flush against him.

a dull thud from upstairs has you both jumping apart; you stare, flushed and wide-eyed, at him as a few more noises that follow remind you that your parents are home. they don’t come down, though, and soon it’s quiet again, but the weird atmosphere that had hung around while you were lip-locked has already been fully shattered.

ajax’s smile is a little sheepish as he speaks. “i mean, if we’re talking about people catching us…”

“i would’ve flung myself off the roof if they had,” you mutter, flopping back down onto the couch. you ignore the fact that your face is hot and that your lips feel all tingly. “enough about this homecoming business. can we please get back to the movie?”

you only catch a glimpse of leonardo di caprio before ajax’s tall form blocks your view. he leans in, arms outstretched and resting against the back of the couch you’re on, caging you in.

“no positive reviews? you’re being pretty cruel. are we even friends?”

“i don’t have any other experiences to compare it to, so what kind of feedback do you want?” you don’t want to explain that the kiss had left you feeling so flustered either, so there’s that.

“fair enough. anyway, i kind of like that that’s true,” he hums. his hand brushes your hair back, and he chances another light kiss against your forehead that you make a noise of protest against (that he pointedly ignores). “happy homecoming, angel.”

for the first semester at university, you’re required to live on campus. snezhnograd’s freshman dormitory is pretty nice, all things considered, and you like that you don’t have to wake up at ass o’clock to take the train to class. your roommate, lumine, is a tourism major who either knows everyone on campus or just had everyone in her graduating class attend snezhnograd at the same time for some reason, which means that she’s extroverted and eager to talk. you like that she’s also extremely generous with the food she makes — and that her cooking’s superb, too — so in all, you can’t complain about your set-up.

you can’t say the same for ajax, though. he’s rooming with a theology major named scaramouche, who’s apparently as pompous and as headache-inducing as his name and future degree suggest. he regularly texts after his afternoon classes end, bemoaning having to go back to their ‘stuffy dorm room’ where he’ll once again be ‘met with a barrage of facts about the history of religious thought’ because scaramouche, apparently, likes to study by using the conversation method, despite the fact that ajax has told him repeatedly that it bothers him that scaramouche uses a ‘condescending teacher voice’ when he goes about it. in fact, based on reports from ajax’s (admittedly biased) side, scaramouche doubles down whenever ajax complains and sometimes goes ‘pop quiz, everyone!’ just to piss him off.

most of your late afternoons and early evenings are therefore spent in the common areas in the dormitory building. somehow, ajax always manages to nab a sitting space with a free television (that, or he wheedles people into giving up their seats) so that he can put on hbo max on the off chance that he’ll catch a house of the dragon episode. he doesn’t even seem to like it for the story; he seems more interested in watching british people be snippy at each other in old english.

“i was thinking,” he starts, after checking hbo and seeing that it’s just heretic playing. “after first semester, we’ll have to live off-campus. do you have any plans for that?”

“not really.” however, now that he’s brought it up, you probably should start thinking about it; the semester’s more than halfway through, and it won’t be easy to find nearby housing unless you’re willing to sell your body and soul to a demonic landlord for it. “why? do you?”

“i was looking into a few apartments near campus, and a lot of them seem okay, but they’re a bit pricey if it’s just me renting, especially since most of them are two-bedroom setups.”

“sure you don’t want scaramouche’s name on the long-term lease with you?” you joke, and he throws you a wry look.

“funny. i was thinking — did you wanna check it out? you know, be roommates, and all that?”

you consider it; you don’t know much about ajax’s day to day living habits, but he seems to take care of himself pretty well. from what you’ve seen, he can cook, and he keeps his desk and room relatively clean. you don’t even know if that’s such a big point, given that you’ll have your own separate spaces anyway, and you can’t see him outright refusing you if you wanted to split chores.

“i’d probably have to ask my parents, but that wouldn’t be a bad idea,” you admit. “it might also depend on the rent and utilities cost, though.”

“would it incentivize you if we split it unevenly? we could go seventy-thirty. i wouldn’t mind at all.”

“why would we do that?” you throw him a bemused look. “fifty-fifty’s fine. just as long as it isn’t an overpriced loft or something, it should be okay, right?”

“no, they’re all just standard places. of course, it would be cheaper if we got a one-bedroom.”

“i’m not sleeping on the couch.”

“who said you had to?” you swear you see the ghost of a smirk flit across his face before it’s gone, back into that half-bored expression he’s had all afternoon. “there’d be room for a big bed.”

“ha ha. show me the apartments you were viewing, then. the two-bedroom ones,” you add firmly. he just shrugs and unlocks his phone obediently.

you spend the rest of the early evening scanning through potential listings and weighing out their pros and cons. it’s nice that ajax seems to be fairly agreeable to the options you like, with practically no pushback on his part. then again, you figure it’s just because he’s not a fussy person when it comes to these things. the conversation stretches even until dinner, where you’re discussing potential house rules, should the situation come to fruition, while ajax fiddles with the tabletop burner between you.

“honestly, if we’re trying to be practical, it’d make the most sense for us to have, like, a joint account for shared expenses.” you dip your chopsticks into the hot pot broth, giving the collagen soup a stir. there’s an obscene amount of thinly sliced meats stewing in there, courtesy of ajax’s argument that he’s ‘constantly growing.’ “it’d save us the hassle of doing math every time we have to go to the grocery or, like, go out for dinner, or something.”

“say less,” he chuckles. “this is all feeling very domestic. not that that’s a complaint, mind you.”

“i’m just trying to think about things that’d make our lives easier.” you tap your chopsticks over the rim of the container. “another thing too — if you’re going to bring a girl over, can you at least give me a heads up so that i can make plans or something like that?”

for some reason, he looks genuinely shocked. “what do you mean, bring a girl over?”

“i mean, we’re in college now,” you shrug. “you’re probably going to have a girlfriend or at least hook up with someone, right?”

the silence that falls over him is unnerving. it doesn’t seem like he’s given that any thought, which makes no sense to you. it’s not like there’s a shortage of cute girls for him to look at; in fact, at the dorm alone, he’s been stopped by multiple freshmen bold enough to ask for his number. you always have to walk ahead when this happens, so you just naturally assume he gives them his contact info before he catches up with you. and while it probably won’t happen this semester, given the dormitory’s strict rules, once he has a place of his own (sort of), he’ll be a liberty to bring home any one of them — or all of them, if he’s that kind of adventurous (honestly, you wouldn’t put it past him).

“are you planning on bringing guys home, too?” his question is laced with curiosity, as expected, but there’s also a hint of accusation, like he can’t decide if you’re trying to set up a double standard or something.

“i don’t have any immediate plans,” you reply honestly. “but i can’t guarantee it one way or another. if it happens, you’ll obviously be the first to know.”

he hums this low, thoughtful noise and starts picking the meat out of the broth. it’s a herculean task for him, it seems, because he’s never been comfortable using chopsticks. after a minute’s struggle, he gives up and starts using a fork. you notice that despite the fact that he’d ordered the meats for himself, he gives you a larger share of it onto your bowl before passing it to you.

“now that i’m thinking about it, i think i’d prefer if you didn’t bring anyone home.”

“oh.” you pause in the act of dipping your sliced meat into the peanut sauce, letting it soak in. “i mean, that’s fair.”

“i just think that space should just be our own, you know?”

“sure, i get that. but things happen, and sometimes you can’t predict how plans will go, so i’m just making sure we’ve got all our bases covered.” you crack a smile that somehow feels like it’s meant to be reconciliatory. “it’s not like you’d want me raiding the fridge while you’re at third base with your girl on the couch, right?”

“not going to happen,” he says flatly. “so don’t worry about it.”

“you say that now, ajax, but you’ll never know wh—”

“not,” he repeats, a dull fierceness in his gaze. “going to happen. trust me on this.”

you watch him shovel like four pieces of meat in a saucy, dripping wad into his mouth in one go, feeling perplexed. vaguely, you register that he’d dunked all that in chili oil, and it’s a miracle he isn’t hacking up a lung right now. “okay. i respect that.”

“so you won’t bring any guys over to our place either, right?”

“not if it makes you uncomfortable, i guess.”

“it makes me super uncomfortable,” he echoes quickly, like he’s eager to get the point across. you shrug in your concession, and though you hadn’t noticed him tense up, something in his posture relaxes. “cool. i’m glad we worked that particular kink out.”

you’re not sure you could even classify it as ‘being worked out,’ but you let him have it; since ajax had already been so docile earlier in the evening when you’d looked at options and started setting some potential ground rules, you think it’d be better to simply give him this.

you just make a silent promise that you’ll get out of his way once he inevitably goes back on his statement.

it’s almost a no-effort task to get your parents to agree to the set-up; they like and trust ajax, and they enjoy the fact that you won’t need to use a car for the rest of your university life even better, given that the apartment you all settle on is walking distance from campus. ajax puts his sports-honed muscles to work on moving day, carrying a lot of the semi-heavies and jokingly insisting that you just ‘sit on the couch the movers brought up so that it kinda looks like there’s already decor in the living room.’ he somehow has enough energy after the whole move to help you screw in your six-tier ikea bookshelf and cook an extremely flavorful pesto and spinach mac and cheese, at which point you realize you’re basically dead weight in this apartment, like a puppy that’s just waiting for its kibble and belly rubs.

you tell yourself that you’ll make up for it in chores, but ajax must have been a robot butler in his past life with the way he keeps things orderly, both in common spaces and in his room. the only thing you have to worry about is your personal mess, which you try to keep minimal and contained to your room at first — but then you realize that even if you wanted to do that, you couldn’t, because ajax spends almost as much time in your room as he does in his.

in the first few weeks of living together, he’d stick to knocking on your door before poking his head in through a crack to wake you up, letting the scent of whatever he’d made for breakfast waft in to arouse your senses. but as time passes and the semester wears on, he seems to abandon that tactic. more than once, your eyes have fluttered open only to widen in shock as you focus on the sight of him, settled on your bed with a small smile. you don’t even know if you sleep so deeply that his presence just doesn’t disturb you, or if he’s just that good at slipping in quietly. whenever you grumble a ‘what are you doing,’ he just ignores you and says ‘finally awake, sunshine?’

after dinner, he always follows you into your room, taking up a space on the bed he pretty much designates as his spot. you don’t usually mind it, given that what usually follows is a nice, long chat about everything and nothing all at once, or sometimes a card game (you’re both shit at poker, and you barely know how to play it besides, but it’s still fun trying to outbid each other), or a few episodes of whatever anime you’d heard was trendy these days, just to try. you just wonder if he’s doing this because he thinks it’s what roommates are supposed to do together or if it’s because he just has nothing better to do on his own.

“you’re on your phone an awful lot these days,” he throws at you casually, not even tearing his eyes away from the television. you don’t even know how he’s noticed; he’d seemed pretty engrossed in the show ever since the pink-haired kid had eaten the gross old finger. “gojo satoru not doing it for you, or is it a school thing?”

“sorry.” you put your phone face down on your stomach. “not important. just… something mualani — you remember her? from my globalization in teyvat class?”

“white hair? marine sciences major who ate all our fried shrimp beanballs? yeah, i remember her.”

“yeah. she — um, just introduced me to this app. i was just trying it out for shits and giggles.”

“what app?”

you pause for an embarrassing beat, though why you should feel any modicum of shame is beyond you. you’re an adult, and you can make adult choices, and ajax is also an adult who’d understand that naturally. still, your face is warm and pink when you mumble out, “tinder.”

you expect him to laugh at you or poke fun, but what comes next is veritably worse in the end: just this pointed silence that makes you feel like he’s actively judging you, either for being desperate enough to try tinder or being so out of touch that you’re only trying it now, at someone else’s recommendation.

“oh.” he doesn’t take his eyes off the television, but something about his tone makes you feel like he’s not really paying attention anymore. “meet anyone interesting?”

“to be fair, i swiped left on a lot of people.” not that he needs the useless preamble. “but… yeah, i’m… tomorrow. i’m going out with someone.”

“for?”

“just dinner downtown.”

“what’s his name?”

“albedo. he’s — he seems like a really nice guy. smart — he’s an engineering student from dragonspine university — and he’s really easy to talk to. and he’s… cute, i guess.” you don’t know why saying all this feels like pulling your own teeth out. the fact that ajax seems to be asking so seriously is making things worse, for some reason. you almost want to ask him if he knows anything about albedo, like if he’s some kind of serial killer you just haven’t heard about.

ajax mutes the television and leans his head back on your headboard, exhaling slowly. “so you’re not coming home tomorrow?”

“i mean — i didn’t think that far ahead,” you admit. “i just thought we’d have a normal date and… i don’t think that’d mean anything’s expected or required after.”

“you met him on tinder.” ajax’s laugh is weirdly humorless. “of course he’s going to expect you to come over after.”

“that’s not…” your voice trails off into nothingness when you realize how stupidly naive you sound. you are an adult, which means that adult things can and would happen to you. the memory of mualani saying she’d met a seemingly nonchalant gamer guy on tinder who’d actually rocked her world for a whole weekend surfaces, and you squeeze your eyes shut for a second. “okay, maybe. so?”

“so nothing. isn’t that what you wanted? why did you sound so surprised?”

“i wasn’t — it just wasn’t the first thing on my mind. some people go on dates just to go on them, you know.”

your phone trills, and because your curiosity wins out, you flip over your phone. you’re sure ajax can also see the message preview from albedo asking you if meeting at this restaurant near his place would be okay, even if you dim the lock screen quickly.

“sure they do,” he shrugs. “just not this albedo guy from tinder.”

you feel kind of stupid for not thinking about that; it’s not as if your messages had been overtly flirty, but it also makes a ridiculous amount of sense that, in this day and age, a first date from an online dating app would lead to some kind of intimacy.

and now you kind of feel in over your head, owing to the fact that you’ve never been remotely intimate with anyone else. it just hasn’t been high on your priority list as of yet, and while you could imagine yourself being okay with it now, you feel like, for a first time, you’d need some kind of emotional preparation you’re clearly not going to have, especially not with a virtual stranger (that you’ve talked to for about a week, sure, but still someone you’ve never personally laid eyes on).

“you okay?” ajax asks after you don’t end up saying anything to continue the conversation.

“yeah. it’s fine. i just…”

“didn’t think your first time would be with some guy you’ve never met named albedo?”

you groan. you’re not even sure if that’s going to be an experience you’ll want to remember, and maybe that shouldn’t matter in the modern world, but if all you’re going to take away from it is that you were awkward and self-conscious with some guy you’ve only spoken to a handful of times, you’d rather cancel the date. except common courtesy dictates that you really shouldn’t, and you don’t want to have to explain to albedo why you can’t go, or worse, lie about it, and also, you are a goddamn adult who shouldn’t be so worked up about something so trivial.

“i get it. what if he’s small? or worse, he sucks? totally valid reason to cancel a date, by the way,” ajax continues, and you definitely catch a bit of a smirk on his face before he smooths it out.

“that’s not what i’m worried about,” you say dryly.

“if you’re worried about anything, you should cancel the date.”

“it’s not like that; it’s just complicated for me. and it’s just — maybe if i had some time, or some advice beforehand—”

“or some experience,” he adds helpfully.

“yeah, or that. then it wouldn’t feel weird or like, i don’t know — daunting, i guess.”

“so get some.”

“time?” you can’t help but roll your eyes at how stupid it sounds. “or are you planning on giving me advice?”

“no, experience.”

“even more absurd.”

“okay then,” he shrugs, turning the television off and hauling himself off your bed. “then i wish you all the best of luck with your first date with albedo from dragonspine university, who probably has a small dick.”

you watch him gather his things — his hoodie that he’d been using to elevate his head, his phone, and the unopened pack of sweet corn chips he’d brought in to munch on — with this growing sense of despair. at the same time that what he’s saying sinks into you, you start telling yourself that you really shouldn’t consider it. it’s wrong on so many levels, with special emphasis on the fact that you both live together and will have to see each other every damn day, and also he’s your best friend, and you’re pretty sure there’s some truth out there about how friendships never survive these kinds of things.

but you have also kissed him, and ajax has never blabbed about it or even brought it up in any way that would jeopardize your friendship. in fact, if you’re trying to be really stupid about it, he’d been your first kiss, so it kind of comes full circle that he’d also be your first…

“ajax,” you squeak out before he can open the door to your room.

“my advice for you — and this is for free — is that if he tries to get you to dress up, or, worse, if he tries to dress himself up, you shou—”

“look, forget about that.” your throat feels exceptionally dry as you swallow. “um.”

he turns back to you, and suddenly you can’t bear to meet his eyes. in fact, you kind of feel like throwing up, so you just get all your words out in a flustered hurry.

“the experience you were saying — it won’t be weird if we just, um, if we just practiced, right?”

“practiced? what, like just the tip?” he seems to take pity on you when your pleading eyes shoot back to him, but he still looks vaguely amused. “weird though — nah. not at all. we’re closer than that, aren’t we?”

you are close. you’re close, and you’re both adults, and this is ajax — trustworthy, dependable ajax who always looks out for you and has been with you through thick and thin. this is going to be fine.

“yeah,” you breathe out, more to yourself than to him. “it’ll be okay.”

his smile’s reassuring as he sets one knee onto the mattress, beckoning you to come closer to the edge. you hesitate for a moment, then steel yourself with the thought that you technically started this, and that you have to see it through, and then you start inching closer to him, one jerky and minute movement at a time.

not that it matters, considering that at the next second, ajax has your ankles in a tight grip and tugs you towards him in one quick motion. you yelp, feeling the drag of the blanket on your back.

“what the hell!” despite your indignation, your voice is choked and small, greatly weakening the overall impact of your words.

“if i let you set this pace, it’s going to take us until sunrise before anything good happens.” his hand reaches up to cup your chin, angling your face towards him. like this, you can’t do anything but stare at him. “so just trust me and follow along, okay?”

you scan ajax’s features one at a time — his eyes, his nose, his lips, the shape of his face. maybe it’s just the situation that you’re in, but it feels like you’re seeing him for the first time. it isn’t the composition of all those things that makes it feel so foreign, exactly, but the way they are now — the way they make an expression that you feel like you’ve never seen on him before tonight.

he looks… hungry, you realize, like someone who’s been starving for days on end. his lips are slightly parted, looking like they’re ready to say something, but all that comes out at first are deep breaths that seem desperate to appear even. is he worried about something? does doing this actually affect him negatively?

you touch his wrist lightly. “hey, um — if you don’t actually want to do this, we don’t ha—”

“no way.” his response is sharp and immediate. “we’re doing this.”

“you just seem— i don’t know…”

“don’t worry about me. i’ve been more than ready.”

before you can even ask what that’s supposed to mean, he closes the gap between you two. it hadn’t been that long ago since you’d kissed him, but you only now learn that whatever it was that had happened back on homecoming night was not a real kiss — not in the way that really mattered. ajax’s lips move over yours in a more insistent frenzy that you can’t help but get swept up in; his mouth is still just as warm and as soft as back then, but the kiss he presses against you now is infinitely more sure, more demanding. you react without thinking, letting his tongue slip past your teeth easily, and you taste him much more sharply now too.

he coaxes your tongue into a sloppy dance that you think you’d be embarrassed about if you had even a modicum of the wherewithal for rational thought, but all that you can think of is how good and wet and right it feels. a groan passes between the two of you, though you can’t really decipher the source, and ajax’s weight bears down on you until you’re lying back onto the bed, his lips still hot and eager, locked on yours.

when you start to feel a little lightheaded, you tap his shoulder, and you’re sure the noise that comes after is from him this time — a grumble of dissatisfaction as he pulls away, allowing you room to breathe. “what is it? s’not good?”

“no, i just—” you don’t even know what to say, so you blurt out the first thing on your mind. “did you kiss her like that?”

“what? who?”

“that girl from middle school that you said—”

“let’s not fucking talk about her right now,” he mumbles, pressing another quick and firm kiss to your half-open mouth, followed by another, and then another, until you’re breathing hard again.

“i just—” your voice dies in your throat as ajax leans down, burying his face into the crook of your neck. you feel his lips there — warm, open-mouthed kisses followed by the graze of his teeth against your skin, the dig of them as he nips into you. your head lolls to the side, and he makes a pleased little sound at being granted more access, doubling down on his efforts. you think he finds a particular spot he likes, just above your collarbone, because his mouth lingers there, sucking dutifully on the inch or two of skin for what seems like a day and an age (in which time your mind grows a little hazier, your body a little more aroused) until he pulls away. he admires whatever mark he left there with the ghost of a satisfied smile.

“sorry.” even though he says that, he doesn’t look particularly apologetic. “think you might have to wear a turtleneck or something tomorrow.”

“what?” it dawns on you a second too late, and you flush, shoving at his shoulder weakly. “are you kidding me?”

“if you don’t want to, it’s fine. you could show it off — your first hickey.” his breath fans over the still tender spot as he leans back down, nosing at the mark. “actually, why don’t you?”

“you know i can’t do th—” you stifle a noise when his hands slip under your shirt, warm palms digging into your waist.

“hm? why not?”

“you damn well know why, ajax. it’d be rude to albedo.”

“right, of course,” he drawls out. his hands travel up your sides, dragging the hem of your shirt up with his wrists. you squirm minutely as he pushes the fabric up just under your chin, exposing your tits to the cold air. “albedo.”

you fling an arm over your eyes, suddenly feeling like you don’t want to see the exact moment ajax descends again, but you feel it anyway in all that darkness — the press of his mouth against your flesh, the way his tongue swipes out to flick your nipple playfully. it pebbles just at that, and you suddenly wish you could crawl in a hole and die when he hums appreciatively before offering it another light kiss.

“nice, smart, cute albedo,” he continues, and though his touches and kisses feel languid, there’s a slight hardness to his voice that has you shivering. “who’s going to fuck you tomorrow.”

you almost ask him what the hell he’s doing, but you get completely sidetracked by the feeling of his teeth digging into your nipple, and a yelp escapes you instead. your back lifts off the bed, and ajax uses that as an opportunity to slip his arm under you and around your waist. he keeps you half-arched, your chest pushed up, and sees that as a self-made invitation to attach his lips to your nipple, sucking firmly until you’re keening and weakly writhing in his hold.

the noises he makes are obscene, all happy and indulgent, and you wonder if he’s overacting just to piss you off, but it’s not like you can even ask; your own mouth’s too busy moaning anyway. at some point, your fingers had threaded into his hair, and now you’re tugging with all your strength’s worth. it just seems to fuel ajax all the more.

he sets you free when you hiccup a ‘wait, wait,’ gently easing you back down onto the bed. two fingers tap on the arm across your face, and you move it away, opening your eyes to the starry and all-too-vivid sight of ajax, straightened up, with his lips slick with his own saliva and reddened from effort, tugged down into a slight frown.

“you gonna let him see you like this?”

“i— he — what?”

“are you going to let him see you like this?” he repeats. his hand skims up the plane of your stomach, cupping the neglected breast and giving it a firm squeeze. his thumb drags over your nipple, once, twice, then settles flat on it, circling in slow, tortuous motions. “gonna show him your pretty body, all ready for him to take?”

“i don’t know, i—” you don’t know what answer to give him that will erase the slight hardness in his gaze. you don’t even understand where all these questions are from. “what does this even have to do with practice…?”

“practice. right,” he says stonily. “because you’re doing this for him.”

he rights his posture, standing at the edge of the bed and towering down over you. you don’t move, just watch him carefully as he reaches out, trailing his hands down the sides of your thighs.

“can you take off your shorts for me, angel?” he murmurs after a pause; his voice sounds strained, and you see his adam’s apple bob as he swallows hard. “panties too.”

you can barely hear the rustle of your clothing while you comply; your heart’s beating too loudly in your ears, your pulse throbbing in your temples. ajax helps you when your panties get caught around your ankle, and then you’re practically bare in front of him. he urges you to lie back again, but he’s got his hands around your calves that are pressed together, held aloft and giving you a false sense of decency.

it doesn’t last for too long, though. ajax eases your legs apart, and you can’t help the way your hands fly up to your hot cheeks as he gazes down at your exposed core. he looks at it with a concentration you’ve never seen on him — never in class, never in games. it’s like he’s intent on memorizing every inch of you.

“fuck,” he suddenly breathes out, startling you into a deeper shade of red. “fuck, baby.”

“what?” you squeak out, wishing he’d make eye contact or something so you could tell if he means that in a good or bad way.

“prettiest fucking pussy i’ve ever seen,” he hums, the volume of his voice strangely reverent.

“don’t — don’t say weird stuff like that, you assho— oh my god,” you whine, unable to keep any real heat in your voice as he swipes at your slit with a long finger.

“not weird. not kidding.” he drags the same finger down, easing your sticky folds apart and then coming away with an embarrassing amount of your slick on the digit. “holy shit. fuck, that’s pretty.”

you squeeze your eyes shut for another long moment, partly because you can’t look at him looking at you like that, but also partly because your whole body feels like it’s throbbing with arousal after just one stupid touch.

but they fly open when you feel ajax’s fingers again, this time fitting themselves right between your folds. it’s an imperfect measurement, his digits far too long, which means that the tips of them brush against your entrance.

“oh my god — what the fuck are you—” you squeal as he pulls his fingers apart, spreading your folds obscenely. “stop — stop messing around, jesus—”

you don’t even know if he’s agreeing to your request or not when he starts rubbing your folds, spreading your juices across the slightly puffy skin. it feels weirdly good, but also clearly not enough, and you soon realize it’s because you want something — want him — inside you.

he seems to read your mind, and in the next downward motion, his middle finger catches against your entrance, then curls inward. the tip of it teases at your hole, and you can actually feel the way you tighten around nothing, like you’re trying to suck him in but he’s just a few millimeters out of reach.

“pussy as pretty as this, and you’re just going to let some asshole look at it? touch it, just like this?” you’re not even sure if he’s talking to you or more to himself at this point. “no fucking way. not fucking happening.”

you cry out as he sinks a finger into you, up to the middle knuckle. it isn’t anything big, but it’s definitely a weird and unfamiliar feeling, having something inside you — but it somehow soothes the frustration in your chest. ajax’s gaze flickers up to your face now, watching the jaw-slackened expression that becomes more pronounced as he eases his finger further in, until it’s settled up to the knuckle.

“all these years — all this time that i did everything for you,” he continues, drinking in your little whimpers as he starts to pump his finger into you, slow and thorough. “and you were going to give your first to some jackass you’ve never even met before?”

emotions that you can’t fully decipher well up in your chest, a dizzy and patchy dawning at his words. ajax, who had always done everything for you. ajax, who had wanted every group project to be just the two of you. ajax, who was your first friend, your first kiss. ajax, who never wanted you to bring anyone home — who now refuses to tear his gaze from your face, like he’s willing an epiphany out of you.

“ajax,” you hiccup out, your hand reaching out to grip his wrist. “can — can we — can you slow down so — we can talk?”

“talk? sure, angel.” his finger presses up into the top of your walls, and you moan thinly. “let’s talk about why you shouldn’t go on that date with nice, smart, cute albedo tomorrow.”

a rough gasp rips out from your throat as he squeezes another finger into you, the stretch catching you off-guard; you tense, but ajax’s hand moves to press down lightly on your stomach, giving you this weird sense of groundedness.

“is it enough to say that he doesn’t know you well enough? that he doesn’t know you hate fancy, over-the-top restaurants like the one he was going to take you to, or that you’re always worried about the commute to downtown?” he’s speaking over your noises now, his fingers resuming their steady strokes — more deliberate now, digits dragging against your warm walls. his thumb stretches, dragging circles over your clit, and you’d be writhing at this point if not for the weight of his palm just under your navel. “or would it convince you if i said i don’t think he’d treat you right, the way you deserve? if i said he wouldn’t touch you right, fuck you right — would you cancel?”

“a—jax…” you choke out, tears welling in your eyes; the pleasure’s weird and tingly and so good, building up in your stomach and stretching to your fingertips and toes. “please, can we…?”

“if not any of that,” he murmurs, the movement of his fingers growing a little more forceful, a little heavier. you sob, squeezing at his wrist but making no real move to push him away; in fact, you’re pretty sure you’re keeping him there. “if i said the guy who deserves to see you like this should be me — only me — would you forget about him, angel?”

“som— something’s coming,” you whimper out, barely audible over the lewd noises his fingers make as they plunge into your warmth and wetness. “please, could you — s—slow down— just a little?”

“slow down? you pussy’s sucking me in so hard that i’m not even sure i can, baby.” the pressure ajax’s hand exerts on your stomach doubles, until you feel completely trapped under his hold. “s’okay. let it all out. don’t be scared; it just means i’m making you feel really good.”

a cry tears from your chest as he pumps his fingers in, rough and deep, and you feel your body lose control; in that moment, you tense, almost folding into yourself, and a rush of your juices sprays out of you, ajax coaxing it out for a little longer until you fall back onto the bed with a half-strangled moan. at least he has the decency to slow down after that, pulling his fingers out to rub your drenched folds like he’s offering some kind of weak consolation.

the ceiling above you starts to sharpen into focus as the tears that welled up out of pleasure drip down past your waterline. ajax’s fingers are stil busy, although the hand on your stomach has moved up again, fondling your breast with light, gentle squeezes.

you smack his arm, and he freezes, watching you sit up; it’s kind of comical, the fact that you’re still shaking a little post-orgasm, and he’s still making sure he’s got his hands on some part of you, despite the fact that you look a little miffed.

“are you fucking serious?”

“what? it’s totally normal to squirt. in fact, it’s actually really hot to me, personally…”

“not that! what were you even going on about this whole time? was there any other normal way you could’ve said what you said?”

“i thought the way i said it was pretty normal.” he shrugs. “why don’t you tell me when else i would’ve found the time and opportunity to tell you how i felt?”

“you didn’t have to be knuckle-deep inside me to do it!”

“agree to disagree. also, it can’t actually be my fault that you never knew. i’ve been clear about it from the beginning.”

you try to shake him off, but his grip on your waist’s like iron, and it results in a thirty-second struggle where you’re flailing your arms weakly and he’s trying to position himself comfortably in front of you. you stop, however, when ajax, now kneeling between your thighs, leans down, dropping his head onto your shoulder and giving the curve of it a light, almost imperceptible kiss.

“i’m sorry,” he says, sounding genuine this time. “i just… a part of me never wanted to tell you in case you hated me after it. if you said no… i don’t know what i’d do, to be honest.”

“i could never hate you,” you mumble, your cheeks a little flushed. you’ve never really had heart-to-heart talks with ajax before this, and you kind of feel like post-foreplay is an even weirder time to start, but you suppose you can’t blame him for the less than ideal timing.

“i thought i’d be okay, even if you never found out. if you did know, and you were just stringing me along… i’d let you, anyway. but then — god, if i think about someone else seeing you like this…”

you actually feel him shudder after, and your hand instinctively flies to the back of his head, threading into his hair.

“it fucking drives me crazy.” his voice is shaky, barely controlled. “i can’t. i can’t let anyone else have you.”

there’s a period of quiet where you can only hear ajax’s heavy breathing, and you sit there with your hands scritching against his scalp lightly, your own head fuzzy. you should probably be thinking over what he’d just said, and you sure as hell try to, but you draw a complete blank. maybe some tiny part of you had always thought there was a possibility that he viewed you as more than just a friend, but that small voice had been ultimately overwhelmed by a seemingly more rational one that insisted there was just no way.

“since…” you finally manage out, your words soft. “since when?”

“god, i don’t know. maybe i realized it some time in freshman year, but,” he lets out an amused exhale. “i’ve always liked you. since pre-school, even, which i know sounds stupid. ever since you did that show and tell with the glitter art kit your mom got you for christmas. then i thought i’d never see you again, and it killed me, which is crazy because it was a silly little kindergarten crush, and i really thought i’d forget about you, but you fucking came back. that first day you transferred in — god. i couldn’t believe you came back to me.”

you feel the minute turn of his head, and his lips are sealed against the crook of your neck. a warm puff of breath, and then another kiss, followed by another, firmer and sloppier, and another—

“ajax—”

“please,” he whispers, begs between searing kisses to your skin. his hands resume motion, skimming your sides and following the contour of them repeatedly; when they drag upward, his thumbs extend, grazing the underside of your breasts. “please.”

and you’re not even sure you know exactly what he’s asking for, but the almost broken way he asks makes you want to give it to him, whatever that may be. a light tug on his hair, and he’s lifting his face, meeting your eyes with a dazed sort of look.

you’re the one who initiates this kiss, soft and a little unsure, but ajax is quick to take the lead, fitting his mouth full against yours once you give him the in. his hands settle fully on your hips, giving them a firm squeeze and pulling you closer, until you’re flush against him. he licks his way into your mouth methodically, like he’s trying to make sure every tooth, every tastebud ends up tasting of him. and it does — the richness of him reaches the back of your throat, has you feeling dizzy and a little vulnerable.

you inhale sharply as he pulls away, cool air filling your lungs and your lips slick and swollen again, and even though there’s no reason for you to keep your mouth open, it stays that way anyway as ajax tugs his sweater over his head in a swift, clean motion, tossing it behind him carelessly. you’re face to face with his lean body, wired full with taut muscle, and now you actually feel like a hormonal teen perceiving the opposite sex for the first time. sure, you’ve seen glimpses of it when he runs from the bathroom to his bedroom after a shower or when he lifts the bottom of his shirt up to wipe his brow while he cooks, but having it on full display is a completely different story.

you clamp your jaw shut when he coughs, and your eyes snap up to his face, daring that slightly amused expression to say something. “what? i can’t look?”

“no, no, look. look as much as you want. please.” he grabs your hand, tugging it closer to his abdomen and letting the tips of your fingers graze the clear ridges there. “touch all you want too. you know this is all for you, right?”

“you don’t have to be weird about it,” you mumble, but the invitation is all you need. gently, your palm rests against his stomach, and you feel it sink in a little as he breathes in and shudders at your touch. you’ve probably just been turning a blind eye to it out of principle, but even objectively, you know that ajax is attractive; he has the face of a sweetheart and the body of a seasoned athlete, and now you can fully appreciate that fact. he watches you carefully, staying perfectly still, as you explore the planes of his torso little by little, dragging your fingers against smooth skin. you only stop at the waistband of his sweatpants, drawing your hand back — or you would have, anyway, if he hadn’t caught it first.

“you getting shy on me after touching me all sexy like that?”

“can you,” you hiss, trying to wrench your wrist out of his grip. “try to be normal about this?”

“you’re the one being abnormal,” he frowns, tugging your hand closer to his form again. the tips of your fingers brush against the drawstrings. “or are you planning on backing out?”

“no.” you can’t help but notice that it comes out way too quickly for your liking. “who’s backing out?”

he doesn’t say anything in response, save for a little huff of a laugh that tapers out into nothing when your fingers return to his waistband. now that you’re concentrating, you can see there’s a tent in the front of his sweats, and you’d rather die than make a comment about it, but it does seem sizable enough that it piques your curiosity. your fingers hook into the garter, and ajax shifts slightly closer as you tug down, the fabric getting caught in the anomaly for a split second before it stretches free and pools around his folded knees.

“i did that,” you mutter. “do the boxers yourself.”

if he finds your evident back and forth with your own confidence grating, he doesn’t let it show. in fact, he seems all too eager to comply, standing up to let his sweats drop to his ankles and wasting no time in letting his boxers join them, toeing them aside cleanly.

you don’t have any personal reference for what’s normal or what’s excessive, but you know for a fact you aren’t underwhelmed, to say the least. you try really hard not to, but it feels like you can’t stop yourself from gawking a little — how can you not when ajax is standing at the foot of your bed, fully hard and kind of… big? the worst part is that he doesn’t even look concerned about being so bare in front of you; he seems to be assessing your reaction instead, eyes intently focused on every change in your expression.

when you don’t say anything, he sighs. “i don’t expect you to overact or anything, but could you at least give me a sign that you’re still in the world of the living with me?”

“sorry.” your apology comes out high and reedy. “it’s just — you know this is my first time.”

“you know this is mine too, right?”

and it hadn’t dawned on you before, but now you feel completely stupid for not even considering that. ajax had seemed so sure of himself, and he’d brought you to climax once already, so it had been all to easy to assume he’d been experienced. but now that you think about it, there’s been little to no opportunity for him to have fucked anyone else, given that he’d spent most of his time with you.

and now you know why.

“right, sorry,” you breathe out. “could’ve fooled me, though. you don’t look nervous at all.”

“to be fair, i’m really not.” his lips quirk upward slightly. “i mean, no offense, but i’ve been waiting to get to this point with you for what feels like forever.”

“you didn’t have to — like, there were other girls you could’ve—”

“we really need to work on your listening skills.” leaning down, he cups your chin, thumb grazing your bottom lip before he leaves a suspiciously chaste kiss against it. “it’s you or no one.”

he presses a series of soft, light pecks against and around your mouth, and in the midst of all that, your posture untenses, with you slowly melting into his touch. when he straightens back up, you’re back in that now-familiar heady state of having your breath stolen just a little. his palm still stays, your chin resting on it, and you look up to meet the hunger in his gaze.

“tell me,” you whisper, and his eyebrows lift slightly, drinking in your every word. “how do i give myself to you, ajax?”

the exhale he lets out is broken and shaky, and for a moment, his grip on your chin tightens. strangely, it doesn’t feel dangerous or wrong; if anything, it causes you to focus on him just a little more. his thumb comes out again, this time tracing the shape of your half-open lips, following the rise and dip of your cupid’s bow before it stops at the corner.

“think you can use your mouth on me, angel? just for a little while. i just,” he breathes in deeply, like he’s trying to center himself. “just want to see what you’d look like. would you let me?”

you nod, and he smiles tightly, although not unpleasantly. gently releasing your chin, he steps back once, watching you shift yourself until you’re on your knees at the edge of the bed, sitting down on your calves. you’re basically at eye level with his cock now, and now that your focus is on it, you can’t help but feel a little intimidated at the sheer size of it.

“i don’t know how to — um,” you say lamely, tucking your hair behind your ear in some weak attempt to feel ready. “it might not… be good.”

“don’t even worry about that,” he replies, though his voice sounds a little choked. “trust me. just do… whatever feels right.”

you let out a soft ‘okay,’ and your hands come up, wrapping around the base of his shaft to angle him towards you a little more. you start a little when you hear a sharp intake of breath from him, but he quickly follows it up with “don’t freak. it’s fine, really.”

the tip of it glistens with a few beads, clear and viscous — precome, you realize, seeping out of the head. a light squeeze of his cock has a bit more dribbling out, and it strangely fascinates you. you wonder what it tastes like — what ajax tastes like when he’s turned on, how new it would feel on your tongue. without much forethought, you lean in, letting your tongue peek out to sweep the liquid away.

his reaction is instantaneous — a soft hiss, the tensing of his thighs. you can see his hands have formed fists at his sides, and his knuckles are white. when you look up at him, you see his jaw is tight, and his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded.

careful not to disrupt whatever state he’s in, you move in, pressing the flat of your tongue against the side of his cock. the taste of him here is different than his precome — less salty, much fainter. you drag your tongue slowly along his shaft, wondering if that’ll intensify the taste, but it doesn’t really work out that way, so once you get to the tip, you lap up the liquid again, humming as the odd flavor of it bursts in your senses. you like it best there, you decide, and you focus your tongue’s efforts on the head, enjoying the way his cock seems just as eager to release it with every swipe and circle.

you’re so focused on exploring that you don’t immediately notice that ajax isn’t quiet anymore. a particularly harsh “fuck” has you snapping out of it, and his hands sink into your hair, tugging your head back slightly in the process. you gaze up at him, tongue still partway out and dripping with his pre, and he looks back at you, half-crazed.

“shit. first time using your mouth, and you’re acting like this?”

“was it… not good?”

“fuck no. it felt amazing. makes me think you were born for this,” he breathes out. “listen — let me feel your mouth too, okay? open up for me just a little — atta girl…”

he groans out something incomprehensible as you let your jaw fall open to an approximation of his size. his hands replace yours at the base of his cock, steadying his shaft as he angles the tip towards your waiting mouth. with care you don’t expect from his tense posture, he slips the head past your lips, letting out a low noise as it settles against your teeth and tongue.

“fucking — god, look at you. are you kidding me?” his hands tighten in your hair, and you hum; his cock kicks a little in your mouth from the vibration alone. “this is even better than i’ve always imagined. you’ll let me move now, won’t you, baby?”

you nod, and he swears under his breath once again as his hips roll forward, a slow, smooth motion that pushes his cock another couple of inches into your mouth. you realize this is even better than licking at him; the taste of him completely fills your mouth, and the rush of his precum drips straight onto your tongue and down your throat. even his reaction is better; his gaze is wilder, more alert, and there’s a flush across his chest that makes you feel strangely proud to see. ajax takes his time, rolling forward at a languid pace that almost lulls you into a gentle stupor. you don’t even know why just this makes you feel good, but maybe it’s the sounds he’s making that make this all worth it.

“god, i knew your mouth would be this good. always dreamt about fucking it, and now i actually get to. you drive me crazy, you know that?” as if to make his point, he makes a particularly thorough roll of his hips, and just a little more of his shaft slips in, the tip now more than halfway across your tongue. “think you’ll be able to take it all?”

you shake your head meekly, and he chuckles.

“s’okay. we’ll take it slow. i’ve got all the time in the world to train that pretty throat of yours for my cock.”

you whimper, thighs pressing together; you’ve never heard him speak like this, and you can’t deny that it affects you a little too much. your eyelids flutter shut, and you focus instead on your other senses — the drag of his cock against the inside of your mouth, the low curses coming from ajax. you don’t know how long it lasts, but you can sense that growing throb against your tongue, becoming a little more insistent with each stroke. you think maybe, just maybe…

your eyes fly open as he draws back completely, your mouth empty all in one go. you breathe in a lungful of cold air before making a noise of protest. “why did you—?”

“i was ten seconds away from cumming,” he says breathily.

“so? did you… not want to?”

“not in your mouth.” when the look of confusion doesn’t leave your face, he laughs, though the way he smooths your hair back is so tender that you feel the weird urge to purr. “don’t get me wrong — it would’ve been hot, and i seriously thought about it. but i’m not going to bust a load like that when i haven’t even had a chance to fuck you properly.”

he swoops in for another firm kiss that catches you off guard, cradling your face as he guides you to lie back. you realize belatedly that ajax has a weird talent for being able to maneuver you without you really noticing — in the next moment, he has you in the same position as earlier, your legs spread to allow him the space to fit himself between them. only this time, his body’s just about as bare as yours, and you’re keenly aware of the way his cock brushes against your cunt as he inches in to close the gap between the two of you.

“you still feeling okay?” he asks when he breaks the kiss. you nod, and a smile quirks the corners of his lips upward. “good girl. let me have a look at you again, hm?”

your legs fall apart just a little more as he straightens up, like you’re offering the view of yourself to him; he takes it all in with an appreciative hum, and when he glances at your face for a split second, you notice his pupils are slightly blown. slick sounds fill the room as he strokes himself a few times, and you try desperately not to moan when he taps his cock against your folds, the shaft coming away with sticky lines of your juices.

you’re not as surreptitious as you think you are, though, because he says, “you don’t have to hold back on me, you know.”

“it’s fucking embarrassing,” you whine, although even that morphs into a mewl when he does the audacious thing of dragging his cock along your slit. “and you’re not helping.”

“oh, sorry.” something wicked creeps into his stupid little grin. “you saying you want me to stop?”

you’d rather die than have him stop now, but you don’t have to make that known to him. anyway, it doesn’t matter in the end; even if you want to say something, it dies in your throat the moment he pulls his hips back for another long grind against your folds — only this time, the tip catches against your entrance, and you flutter in desperation. your hips roll upward before you can even make sense of what you want, and ajax just looks pleased.

“yeah, i figured as much. was gonna see if you’d be willing to beg for it now, but you don’t even have to do that, do you?” his hands dig into the plush flesh of your waist, squeezing a little bit of the air out of your lungs. “pretty body’s telling me how bad you want it, loud and clear.”

you kind of wish he’d stop talking because it’s doing something to you, something like heat coursing through your veins and making you hypersensitive to even just the chill breeze from the air conditioning. but at the same time, there’s a large part of you that’s curious about what’s going on in his head; he seems infinitely more candid now than he’s ever been, and you wonder just how much of this is lining up with his fantasies.

another drag of his cock against your slit wrings a moan out of you, and your hand jerks out, nails digging into his chest. he doesn’t even flinch. “stop — stop teasing me already.”

“just want to get you prepped.”

“fuck, ajax — i’m so — please. i’m ready, trust me.”

his hips slow to a stop, and one hand leaves your waist, returning to wrap around his shaft. angling himself a little lower, he lines his tip up with your entrance, the soft curve of it bumping against the rim. his eyes flicker to you at the last second, and you’re ready to grab him by the ear for stopping again until he says, “it might hurt. you gotta tell me — you know, if it’s too much, or if you want me to stop. i’m serious.”

you nod, murmuring a quiet, ‘i will,’ but the deeper dig of your nails into his skin urges him forward.

tension locks your body as he pushes in slowly, the tip breaching your tightness. there’s an intense concentration on ajax’s face, his brow all furrowed, as he tries to battle the seemingly impossible fit. your walls ache at the drag, the stretch, and he’s barely in before he’s pushed out.

“shit,” he mumbles under his breath. “fucking tight.”

“m’sorry,” you whisper, mortified. “i didn’t mean to—”

“no, no — i didn’t mean it like that. just—” he exhales sharply, the thumb that’s still on your waist rubbing light circles. “it’s fucking hot. let me try again, okay? just relax for me.”

he waits for your assent before he resumes his efforts, and this time, you try not to work your body up to the point of rejecting him. it’s still a tight, uncoordinated endeavor, but he manages to slip in about halfway, at which point your body seems to at least be accepting that he’s there. it doesn’t hurt in the way you expect — there’s a slight discomfort, a dull soreness that gets easier to ignore as the seconds tick by. ajax stills like that for a while, and you realize he’s allowing you to get adjusted to his size before pressing on.

“how— uh, how is it?” he asks, his words a little thin and strained. “feel okay?”

“mhm,” you manage out, before realizing you’re not giving him much to work with. “doesn’t hurt much, i promise. you?”

“honestly?” he huffs out a laugh. “was really scared i’d fucking cum right then and there.”

you laugh, and the lingering tension in your form melts; you notice the same is true for him, and he even has the energy to look a little sheepish. “what was all that about fucking me properly then?”

“i’ll make good on it, trust me.” his hands return to your waist, pushing your shirt upward again to stop at your ribs.

“then don’t stop now,” you urge quietly.

he blows out a sharp breath before his grip’s tightening on your sides again, and he sinks further into you. your moans harmonize the moment he bottoms out, and you marvel at how strangely right it feels to have him in you, despite the fact that you feel so full you’re pretty sure he’s in your stomach, or something.

ajax isn’t all too composed, either; he’s breathing heavily like he’s trying to calm himself down, but the flush has spread from his chest to his neck and cheeks, making him look even more heated.

“you gonna cum?” you half-joke, although saying that out loud has you squeezing around him without warning, causing him to hiss.

“no way. no fucking way,” he says with a kind of resolution that seems almost baseless. “if i could just—”

he draws his hips a few inches back, inhales deeply, then pushes back in. the result is a low groan from him and a high, reedy mewl from you, the foreignness of something dragging against your insides feeling both odd and good. but maybe that sound is all he needs from you, because at the next moment, he’s setting a slow, steady pace, pumping into you smoothly.

the tightness is still there, but less pronounced, and the more he does it, the more the pleasure builds — a light tickle at your senses at first, but slowly growing into something more insistent. you’re not sure if you’re supposed to be able to tell if ajax is inexperienced, because it really doesn’t seem like it. the controlled movement, the perfect pressure against your insides — it seems like he’s doing everything in his power to keep himself in check and make you feel good. amid the slight haze of pleasure, you fixate on his face as a grounding point, noticing the tightness in his jaw, the slight frown on his lips.

“ajax, it’s okay,” you whisper, breaking him out of the focused trance he’d fallen into. “it doesn’t hurt. you can… you don’t have to hold back.”

“i can’t,” he murmurs, almost sounding mournful. “you don’t know how good it feels — how much i want to—”

“then do it,” you cut him off, both hands coming up to cup his face, keeping his gaze fixed on you. when he doesn’t respond, you add, “i want you to. please.”

you can almost hear the way the gears in his head click and whirr before they simply implode. with a soft growl, he buries his face into your shoulder, his teeth sinking into fabric against skin. he draws his hips back fully, then snaps them forward, burying himself back into you fully, and you squeal, your arms winding around his neck for some semblance of stability.

“that’s — that’s it,” you whimper, nails biting into the skin of his shoulder blades. “g—gave myself to you, remember? so just take as much as you want.”

“fuck— fuck,” he swears, muffled against your shirt. he does the same thing again, pulls almost all the way out before hitting home again, and again, and again, until you’re caught in a cycle of short gasps and cries. “don’t you dare say that without meaning it. gonna fuck this pussy until it’s all mine, understand?”

he probably feels you nod against the side of his head, which is good because you can’t seem to say anything coherent. his pace becomes rougher, the strokes more deliberate and forceful, and you feel yourself pressing deeper into the mattress, caught deliciously under his weight. at the angle, the depth he’s fucking into you, you’re pretty sure you can almost taste him on your tongue. or maybe it’s just that you’re enveloped in him, his scent across your skin, his warmth kissing every part of you.

“god, you feel amazing,” he babbles on, taking only a moment to let his tongue swipe out at your neck. “pussy’s taking me so well, like it was made for me. is that what you’ve been saving yourself for, huh? waited for me to take this pretty cunt all for myself?”

you can’t trust yourself to respond, so you let out a garbled hum that sounds suspiciously like his name. not that it phases him — if anything, it seems like it just adds fuel to the fire, his next thrust into you rattling you from head to toe.

“yeah, that’s right. you were made for me, angel. look at you — so fucking tight just for me. so. fucking. good,” he growls, the last three syllables a blueprint for his sharp thrusts.

your head’s fallen into a blurry haze, and you think it should be scary in any other instance, but with ajax here to ground you, it just feels right; you sink into it willingly, and you can’t even bring yourself to feel conscious about all the lewd noises you’re making. his voice is all you can hear, settling into your ears, into your bones.

“can’t pull out — your pussy’s gripping me so tight that i can’t. and i don’t fucking want to.” you whimper when you feel his teeth dig into your earlobe. “know what that means, baby? tell me. i wanna hear it from you.”

you really shouldn’t. it’d be reckless and risky, and you don’t have any countermeasures for it on hand. logic dictates that you muster up enough rationality to tell him you don’t want him to — except you kind of do, and with the way he’s practically rearranging your insides, you kind of want to give it to him too.

just this once, your irrational mind reasons with you. next time will be different.

and then you shiver with pleasure at the realization that you’re already planning a next time with ajax.

“cum inside me,” you whimper out. he swears softly before pressing a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the crook of your neck.

“one more, angel,” he pleads, sounding almost broken. “say it one more time.”

“want you to cum inside me,” you breathe out, tensing around him as you feel his hips grow rougher, more erratic, and your pleasure spikes suddenly. “fill me up — please, ajax?”

his pace stutters, freezes, then revives in a frenzy of quick, shallow thrusts, and warmth suddenly fills you. you know what it is, and you expect him to stop to ride out his high, but he continues to move, and you feel his cum slip deeper into you. it adds both a stickiness and a slipperiness to his movements that makes the friction exponentially more delicious, and you barely whine out something unintelligible before you’re coming undone for the second time tonight, your thighs closing in and pressing into his sides.

finally, he slows, tapering his strokes gradually, but though they become intermittent, they regain their thoroughness — like even in the wake of his climax, he’s still focused on pushing as much of his cum into you as he can before his exhaustion wins out.

and it does soon after, his hips stilling with one final thrust into you that has you keening softly. he doesn’t lift his head, seemingly content to just inhale your scent from against your shoulder. you stay like that for god knows how long, listening to each other’s breathing even out and soften. at one point, you squirm a little, just to check if everything’s still good below the waist, and you feel his cock kick weakly.

it’s the trill of your phone that breaks you out of your stupor. you mumble into ajax’s ear about giving you some room, but he makes a noise of dissent that has you rolling your eyes, so you just pat blindly around for your phone until your hand closes around it. it’s hard to manipulate your screen considering you’ve got a body lying on you that you have to work around, but you manage to open the tinder app to albedo’s messages — the one from earlier about the restaurant that you hadn’t replied to, and another one from just now, saying that he’d made a reservation.

“it’s albedo,” you say, growing amused when ajax grunts into your shirt. “he made a reservation.”

“yeah, well, i hope it’s for one.” he finally lifts his head, and you’re struck with the thought that he looks adorable with his hair flattened and falling into his eyes. “don’t tell me you’re still going?”

“oh, yeah, i totally still want to see him,” you say dryly, though the sarcasm doesn’t seem to sink into ajax; he frowns so deeply you have to smoothen out the lines on his forehead. “after i just let this other guy who confessed to me in the craziest way cum in me. can you be serious?”

“cancel the date,” he demands, and you want to laugh at how childish his tone is; a little bit of it slips out when he pouts. “i’m not kidding. tell him you have a boyfriend.”

you don’t go that far, but you do cancel on albedo, citing a sudden unavoidable event (not a total lie); ajax watches with hawk eyes as you draft the message and double checks that you sent it to him.

“do i though?” you ask after a thoughtful pause. ajax has already settled back down onto you, refusing to pull out and growing more and more like dead weight against your chest. “have a boyfriend, that is.”

he’s quiet for a while, and you might’ve thought he’d dozed off if not for the unevenness in his breathing.

“i mean, if you’ll have me.” you’ve never heard him sound unsure before, and it somehow softens you.

“you know, back when i was in pre-school, there was this kid i was friends with that didn’t want summer vacation to come. he said it was because he didn’t want to make any new friends, so i promised him we’d find a way to stay friends even after that. what was it that i said…?”

he chuckles softly. “i think you said we’d be together forever.”

“right,” you snap your fingers like you’ve had an epiphany. “i promised him we’d be together forever. so i guess i have to make good on that promise, right?”

“that’s a cute story and all, angel, but i still want to hear it in black and white.” you can feel the grin playing on his lips against your skin.

“why don’t you look me in the eye first?”

he lifts his head, and for a moment, you just drink in his features — the deep, blue eyes that have always watched you, the soft lips that waited years just to kiss you. your fingers trace the side of his face, and he leans into your touch, closing his eyes as you murmur your answer.

“i’m all yours, ajax.”

★ WARNINGS; animal death, blood and gore, cheating but not really? it's complicated! monster fucking, lots of morally ambiguous decisions driven by grief, reader is just really depressed okay sorry!

★ SMUT TAGS; dream sex, rough sex, breast play, tentacle/tendril sex..?? (those phantom hands from his Actual appearance from the archon quest make their debut here too), dubious consent, squirting, creampie

The thing pretending to be your husband is herding the goats today.

You watch from the foyer of your homestead as the morning chill brushes your skin. The creature moves as it always has. With his tall, familiar frame weaving between the animals, hair dark and tousled just so, yellow eyes scanning the pasture with that same patient attentiveness. He talks to them in the soft, clipped tones Kyryll used to use, calling names, clicking his tongue, shooing them gently—but there is a precision in the movement that feels… too clean, like the rhythm has been learned rather than lived.

The goats respond, though not as they once did. They fall into line with a tense, unnatural obedience, skittish bodies pressed close together, eyes rolling white whenever his shadow cuts across the snow. They follow not from trust but from the brittle edge of fear, as if some instinct in them recognizes what you’ve only begun to accept:

This is not the man you married.

Had you loved him any less, you never would have known. It is the depth of that love that allows you to see the gap between Kyryll and this thing that walks in his skin. Yet, you have chosen to live with it, and that choice knots inside your chest, a strange tether made not of grief but of reluctant endurance.

You step out into the snow, letting the cold bite at your cheeks as you call out to him once. He glances up to meet your eyes, and in that fleeting moment, you allow yourself to believe in the elaborate lie.

The goats bleat low and uneasy as they crowd his hands, shrinking from his nearness even as they yield to it. He hums softly before guiding them back toward the barn, and you fall into step behind them with your heart caught somewhere between mourning and the uncanny, stubborn comfort of his presence.

You go about your life as though nothing has changed since the day he wound up on your doorstep. You collect eggs, skim the milk, tidy the house, all while keeping a careful eye on him. Even when you lie beside him at night and your body insists on recognizing him as Kyryll, your heart screams otherwise. But you have come to terms with it—that this fractured imitation, this hollowed echo of the man you love, is all you can hold onto now.

Because if someone like this can still be with you, can still offer the shape of warmth and illusion of companionship, then…

Was Kyryll ever really gone?

You’ve always loved that boy with the burnished yellow eyes.

Kyryll has always been quiet, the one who kept to the edges of games and gatherings, content with watching while the other children laughed and shouted. He was odd, but not unkind, as though the world moved at a slightly different rhythm for him. People used to whisper, what does she even see in him? But for you, loving Kyryll was as easy as breathing.

Now, years later, with a ring on your finger and a home carved into the mountainside, that love threads through every corner of your life.

Your mornings begin in the hush of the barn, the air sharp with the scent of hay and the warmth of the animals. You pull your shawl tighter around your shoulders as you milk the goats, listening to the steady patter of froth into the pail. By the time the sun peeks over the ridge, you are already gathering eggs from the chickens and brushing straw from your skirts. The goats bleat impatiently until Kyryll appears—his tall frame outlined in the doorway of the barn, his hair falling untidily into his eyes.

The animals used to shy away from him. They always do at first. But Kyryll never once let a morning go without unlatching the gate and letting them nose out into the meadow, even when he was running late for work. And animals, like people, remember kindness. Now they greet him without a fuss, nudging his hands with soft noses until he clicks his tongue and shoos them on.

Everyday, you fall into rhythm together. He shoulders the woodpile, you whip up breakfast from the day’s harvest. The hearth crackles as he sets the kettle on, and steam soon fogs the windowpanes. Kyryll doesn’t talk much in the mornings—he rarely talks at all—but his quiet is never empty. When he passes you your cup of tea, your fingers brush, and that alone is worth ten pages from favorite novel.

Your husband laces his boots after breakfast, checks his pouch of gemstones bound for town, and shrugs into his worn winter coat. He never rushes, even when snow threatens in the pass. But before Kyryll steps out of the door, he bends down just enough that you can meet him halfway. His lips are cool from the morning air, his small goodbye kiss brief but certain. He has never once forgotten it, not in all the years since you first moved into this home together.

It is a small life, some might say. A lonely life, tucked high in the mountains where snow lingers long into spring. But it is yours, and when you look at him—your childhood sweetheart, your odd, aloof Kyryll—you cannot imagine wanting any other.

So when whiteout season arrives, you can't help but worry.

These mountains are no strangers to snow, but this time of year the storms grow violent, their howling gusts capable of burying even the most seasoned traveler. Not even the hunters or shepherds from neighboring ridges could survive a night stranded in the unforgiving blizzards of Snezhnaya. You shiver at the thought as you glance toward the snow-blanketed pass.

“Kyryll…” you begin, hesitating as he lifts a pail of milk into the sunlit air. He glances back at you, those calm yellow eyes meeting yours as a small smile tugs at the corner of his lips.

“It’ll be fine,” he says. “We’ve weathered it every year.”

But you’ve never forgotten the elders’ tales. Whispers passed down over decades in your family of what walks after the white storms. They spoke of shapes in the snow, eyes glowing like lanterns in the blizzard, and travelers who vanished without trace. The stories crawl under your skin, prickling along your spine, and you tighten on your skirts at the mere memory.

“Promise me you won’t go out too much until it calms?” you ask, biting back the tension in your voice. “I… I just—”

Kyryll sets the pail down and steps closer as he places his gloved hands over yours. His touch is warm and grounding, and it stills the racing thoughts in your head. He leans down close enough that his breath brushes your cheek.

“I promise,” he murmurs, captivated not just by the concern in your eyes but by the way you care for him, always so completely.

You nod, relief washing over you, but he doesn’t step back. Instead, he tilts his head with a playful glimmer in his otherwise aloof expression. “Though if I can trade and sell better gemstones this season, maybe we can hibernate in peace, all snug in the house, while the snow rages outside.”

“You always think about work first,” you sigh.

“I always think about surviving it together,” Kyryll laughs softly. “Besides, the goats won’t let me rest anyway.”

You shake your head with a smile, but the unease in your chest doesn’t completely fade. Whiteout season always carries that edge of dread, no matter how many times you’ve endured it. Still, with Kyryll by your side, you can almost believe everything will be as it always has.

Almost.

Your husband has kept his word all season, making every trip to town count so he doesn’t have to venture out into the brewing blizzards more than necessary. But one afternoon, the wind whips with a sudden, vicious force. Snow lashes the mountainside, and even from the safety of the yard, you can hear the low howl that promises a storm like no other.

All the warnings have already been issued, but you and Kyryll are caught in the final flurry of activity, corralling the animals back into the barn before the sky darkens. Everything is in controlled chaos until a sudden, panicked bleat slices through the hubbub—a lamb, young and spooked, darts past you, slipping out the half-shut door. It bolts up the narrow mountain path, a small white shape against withering snow.

“Wait—!” you cry, instinct pushing you forward. Your boots crunch against the icy ground as you try to follow, but Kyryll catches your wrist with a strong, firm grip.

“No,” he tells you, calmly but sharply. “It’s too dangerous.”

Your heart thunders. “But that poor lamb won’t survive out there alone…”

Kyryll doesn’t argue; he only lets out a soft breath and lifts his gaze to yours before he smiles. That painfully adoring smile, the one that has always made your chest ache, softening even the wildest of fears. He bends and presses his lips to the ring on your finger, brushing it with his mouth like a promise.

“Then I’ll bring it back,” your husband murmurs. “Wait for me, okay?”

Before you can protest, he steps out of the barn. Snow flurries around him immediately, catching in his hair, frosting his shoulders. He doesn’t look back as he slides the barn door shut behind him with a solid thud, leaving you in the warm glow of the oil lamps and the bitter howl of the storm beyond.

You were taught to count time in threes.

Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps, the elders would say. “Nature always balances itself in threes,” they whispered, as if the rhythm of the world could be measured by patience alone.

Three minutes pass before it hits you fully: Kyryll is out there.

The thought is simple, almost too mundane to register at first, but a sharp pang of panic blooms in your chest. He promised he would be back. He always keeps his word, and yet, the wind howls so loud that you can’t hear the faintest echo of him, can’t see any trace of the lamb racing back with him.

Three heartbeats, three breaths, three steps.

You repeat it to yourself like a mantra as you pace the floor of the barn, watching the snow blot out the mountainside through the window. The animals press close as if sensing the tension in your bones, nudging you, bleating softly—but it does nothing to quiet the dread tightening your chest.

Three hours pass before the edges of reason begin to fray. The sky has gone from pale gray to a solid white wall. You should be calling for help in the town. Every instinct honed from a lifetime in these mountains screams at you: a storm this strong would have killed him by now. The path is invisible. The snow is merciless.

Yet… you cannot act. You cling to the promise he pressed into your hands, to the brush of his lips against your wedding band.

Wait for me.

Three days pass before Kyryll returns.

The blizzard had seemed endless, each hour stretching into another frozen eternity. The nights without him in the bed you share were unbearable; you had spent them clutching your pillow, weeping into the cold, silent darkness, and imagining the worst with every gust of wind rattling the shutters.

Finally, he is there.

Your sobs spill into the open as soon as you see him, and you barely notice the snow still clinging to his indigo hair and the streaks across his yellow eyes. Without thinking, you launch yourself at your husband, arms wrapping around his tall frame as if you could never let go again. His hands find yours, pressing you against him with the faintest, grounding pressure.

“Kyryll,” you choke, your voice breaking, “you came back.”

He doesn’t say anything as he lets you cling to him, and when you finally step back a little, brushing the wet snow from his coat, you insist he come inside.

“Take off your jacket. I’ll prepare a hot bath for you in a bit,” you say, almost bouncing on the balls of your feet, eager to undo the cold that has surely numbed his bones.

Your husband hums in acquiescence, letting you fuss over him. You hang his coat by the hearth and light the fire higher, the warmth spilling into the room as you run your hands over his arms, shoulders, and chest—making sure he hasn’t suffered too badly. When your palms finally cup his pale cheeks, something inside you buckles. Your heart seems to melt straight through your ribs, and before you can stop yourself, you lean in, pressing your mouth to his as tears blur your vision.

He does not kiss you back.

Later, steam curls around Kyryll as he sinks into the tub, the heat drawing color into his otherwise pallid skin. You linger close to fuss with towels and lay out clothes thick enough to guard against the cold. Relief hums faintly through you at having him here, whole and within reach. But your thoughts remain tangled, a restless knot that no warmth seems able to unravel.

“What happened to the lamb?” you ask carefully, trying not to betray the panic still clinging to your chest. Because what else could you ask your husband when he just came home from a storm that should have killed him?

You brace yourself for sorrow, for the weight of bad news, and the sight of his shoulders sagging with defeat. But Kyryll simply looks at you, his yellow eyes calm, unnervingly so, and asks:

“What lamb?”

“…The lamb! The one that ran up the mountain!” you exclaim. “That’s why you went out—why you—”

But he only smiles faintly, tilting his head as if your exasperation is a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand. You stop yourself from pressing further. Kyryll is here. Alive. He has survived three days in a storm that could have buried a person in minutes, with nothing but that same fur-trimmed jacket he always wears to town.

Whatever else happened—whatever he endured—you do not ask. Even when you see bloodstains on his jacket sleeves despite his unmarred skin, you do not ask. Even as he lies in your bed for the first time in days, and it feels like a stranger’s weight against you, you do not ask. And when you glimpse something behind his eyes that should not be there…

You do not ask.

You wake to the quiet hum of the house, the familiar rhythm of morning stretching before you, and for a moment you allow yourself to hope that everything will be as it always has.

The old villagers never quite understood Kyryll. They whispered about his odd ways and the sharp intelligence behind eyes that seemed to flicker with some unnatural light. They called him “the devil’s spawn,” a curse that somehow found its way to your small life. But they had never seen him as you had—never saw his kindness, or the way his heart opened to the world if only they’d given him time.

That’s exactly what you spare to him now: time to recalibrate to the rhythm of your home, after the reckless mistake of letting him charge into the storm.

Breakfast is done. The table is cleared. Steam from the kettle still curls lazily into the air. You watch your husband lace his boots, the ritual so familiar you could do it in your sleep. Your heart tightens in anticipation of the small, certain habit that has marked every morning for years: the brief kiss, cool against your lips as he whispers goodbye.

But today, there is nothing.

Kyryll pauses at the doorway as he stares down the path to town. His yellow eyes are serene but the warmth you’ve always found there is absent, or perhaps buried beneath something you cannot name. He doesn’t turn back, only adjusts the strap of his pack and steps outside, the door swinging shut behind him with a hollow finality.

Your fingers linger on the spot where his lips should have been.

For a moment, you believe that he is simply shaken, still readjusting to the world after the storm. Yes. That must be it. He’ll come back like he always does, and the habit will resume as though nothing ever happened. But even as you tell yourself this, a low, unnameable unease twists in your stomach, settling there like frost.

Something is off. Something has changed, and you are not yet ready to admit how deep the change might run.

You feign ignorance until the lambs go missing.

At first, you don’t notice. They vanish for hours, sometimes a day, and each time they reappear safe and warm, bleating softly as if nothing had happened. You breathe a sigh of relief, attributing it to wandering and some miracle of the mountains.

But then, you begin to catch the subtle differences. A curl of wool slightly off, the shade of a fleece a little darker, the shape of a hoof unfamiliar. It perplexes you until your mind tightens on the truth you’ve tried not to name: these are not the same lambs.

They are replacements.

The disappearances always coincide with nights when Kyryll rises after you have already fallen asleep. You never hear the creak of floorboards, never see the flicker of candlelight as he moves through the house, but you sense it like a pause in the familiar heartbeat of your life. When he returns, the air around him smells faintly of soap—an attempt at cleansing so precise it almost fools you. But there is always the undercurrent something sharp and metallic just beneath the clean scent.

You try to ignore it, bury it beneath the comfort of his arms as you curl against him. Even the smallest doubts are suffocated by the familiar rhythm of his breathing, the steady press of his body, and the illusion that nothing is wrong.

But one night, the tension becomes unbearable. You lie in bed, counting the seconds as he slips from the warmth of your sheets, and after five minutes, the gnawing at your chest becomes too loud to ignore. Heart hammering, you slip from the bed and pull on your shawl, keeping quiet as the house sleeps.

The hallway is a shadowed corridor. Every step toward the barn feels like crossing a threshold into another world. The snow outside glints coldly beneath the lanterns you’ve hung along the path, but one faint glow draws your eyes—the soft, swinging light of a single oil lamp just beyond the barn.

You creep closer, heart in your throat, and stop at the edge of the snow-dusted doorway.

The barn is swallowed in shadow, yet your eyes pick out the figure of your husband, kneeling on the straw-strewn floor. Darkness spares you from the full horror of what he is doing: the crimson stains seeping into the hay, the silent terror in the other animals, and the wet, sickening sound of flesh being torn between the maws of a monster.

He feasts quietly, leaving no trace that would immediately betray him to you. He does not do it every night—he cannot afford to arouse suspicion—but when he does, it is methodical, and chillingly precise. Only one animal at a time, and always with the meticulous care of one who cleans after the carnage he leaves behind.

You step back, the cold air catching in your lungs, and the weight of what you are witnessing presses down like stone. The shadowed figure shifts at the sound of your foot catching on a dried leaf, the subtle crunch shattering the fragile hush of the barn.

In an instant, the creature snaps his head toward you. The motion is too violent, his neck bending at an angle that no human should manage. A low, guttural hiss rolls from his throat, reverberating through the straw, and the Kyryll you knew evaporates like smoke in the wind when you see his eyes.Not the calm yellow you’ve associated with safety, with love. But glowing magenta irises, vivid and burning with something ancient, something hungry.

Your knees go weak. Your hands tremble. The barn, once a sanctuary of routine and care, has transformed into a chamber of nightmares. The animals press against the far walls, silent and trembling, as if sensing the change before your own mind can even process it.

It is him—your husband in shape, in shadow, in form—but it is not Kyryll. Not the man you promised your life to. This is something else. Something that wore his face to cross the threshold of your home.

That night, you were fully convinced you were going to die.

Every instinct screams at you to flee, to bolt into the snow and leave the barn behind. You are certain he will lunge, certain the same jaws and hands that tore the lambs apart will turn on you next. Yet, beneath that fear, a bitter comfort coils in your chest: if you die, you will finally be reunited with him. Your Kyryll—the boy with yellow eyes and a heart that loved too deeply, not this monstrous imitation who has defiled everything you thought you knew about him.

Your heart thunders in your chest. The creature rises, the movement fluid and unnervingly deliberate. But he does not lunge. He does not attack.

Instead, he walks toward you.

Your knees buckle beneath the weight of disbelief. You realize you have been crying, the tears streaking your face in the cold barn light, the trace of your fear laid bare. Then the bloodied hands reach for your cheeks.

For a moment, you cannot breathe.

He wipes your tears away with the same gentleness, the same patience Kyryll always carried in his hands—but now, his touch smears the dark, iron-stained blood of the lamb across your skin. It mats into your hair, seeps along the line of your jaw in a sickeningly warm testament to what you have witnessed. The reality of it nearly overwhelms you, but you do not pull away.

The creature inclines his head slightly, murmuring something unintelligible, yet intimate as though he is speaking to the part of you that still clings to your Kyryll. He bends and lifts you into his arms with ease, your body trembling against his, every nerve alight with terror, revulsion, and a twisted familiarity you cannot escape.

He carries you back through the cold night, your shawl catching the blood on his forearms as he moves. The barn fades behind you, the animals’ terrified eyes still imprinted on your mind, yet all that matters is the steady, unyielding presence, and the impossible reality: the man who returned to you after the whiteout is no longer Kyryll.

And yet… he is holding you, as if he’s always known how.

That is how you came to an unspoken understanding with him.

From what you have gathered, the creature desires only sustenance. He shows no interest in harming you, no hint that you might become his next prey. In fact, he seems almost… attentive to Kyryll’s habits, as if trying to inhabit the life you once shared.

The first thing you mention is the kisses goodbye. When you speak of them casually he does not flinch at the fact that you are now fully aware of who he isn’t. My husband always does it before he heads to town for the day. Since that moment, he makes a point of leaning down each morning to press his lips against yours—a brief, careful peck just as Kyryll always did.

It is not the same. It will never be. Yet somehow, it is enough.

There isn’t much you can do about the way the animals behave around him. They know what he does each night. They remember the terror, the cruelty, and the gore that lingers in the air long after the blood has been cleaned. You wish you could spare them that fear. Gods know how much these poor creatures mean to you.

But ever since you allowed this monster to masquerade as a fixture of your life, you have learned the uneasy rhythm of turning a blind eye. You have learned to tune out the shrieks that echo in the corners of the barn, to ignore the way the sheep and goats shrink and totter away when he passes.

Because if a few lambs are the cost of feeling the illusion of your husband still by your side, then it is a price you are willing to pay. If it means the brush of his lips against yours in the morning, the familiar warmth of his arms as you nestle close at night—even if the hands that hold you carry the memory of slaughter—then you endure it.

But it is a different story when the creature starts to want something else.

At first, it comes only in dreams. You wake each morning with the echo of Kyryll’s hands on your skin, the warmth of his mouth pressing against yours, and the weight of him over you as he claims you as he once did. It is familiar and foreign all at once, which you suspect is all the work of the monster sleeping next to you.

You have not felt desire like this in months. It has lain dormant beneath the grief you still carry on your shoulders, the quiet routines of the mountains, the soft companionship of your animals. But in these dreams, it surges, reckless and insistent. Your body still remembers what your mind struggles to reconcile. This is not Kyryll. This is the creature that stole him from you, and even then… the part of you that has always loved him, cannot resist.

In the dreams, you start to let him in. You let your hands wander over the strong curve of his shoulders, down his back, feel the press of his hips as he aligns with yours. He moves with the tenderness you once knew, and the juxtaposition makes your chest ache—the body of the thing that has fed on lambs now giving you pleasure. You moan his name in the darkness of slumber, and it is both comforting and unbearable.

The creature does not say anything of it in your waking hours.

Life goes on as if nothing at all has changed. He moves through your small routines with the same uncanny mimicry: carrying wood to the hearth, brushing snow from his boots at the door, kissing you softly before leaving for town.

And yet, when night falls, you brace yourself as the dreams return again and again like a tide that will not recede. They seize you with the same hunger, the same unbearable tenderness—your body spread beneath him, the bed groaning with the weight of his need.

It gets worse. You start to crave it even in daylight, even if you know how wrong it is. When you stand in the kitchen, kneading bread with your sleeves rolled up, a flicker of heat stirs in you at the memory of his hands on your waist. When you stoop in the barn, the sheep shifting nervously as he passes by, your skin prickles at the thought of him pressing into you from behind.

Desire burrows deep into your gut, tangling itself with your grief until you can no longer tell where one ends and the other begins.

One night, the dream takes a turn.

You are on your back, legs parted, the familiar shadow of Kyryll’s body over yours. His mouth finds the hollow of your throat, his hips driving into you with a rhythm you know by heart, and you give yourself over with a pathetic sob. But in the flicker of lamplight that isn’t there, his form wavers.

For a heartbeat, he is not your indigo-haired, golden-eyed husband. He is something else—pale hair spilling across your chest, magenta eyes glowing like embers, half his face swallowed in blackened bandages. His body is cracked, pulsing with sinister light that leaks like an infection from beneath his skin.

The sight is gone as quickly as it came, but it sears itself into you. He doesn’t stop driving himself into you with a brutal tenderness that has you gasping his name through tears. The horror of it should have torn you from the dream, and yet you cling to him, to his heat, to the slick drag of his cock filling you again and again.

You wake trembling, your body soaked in sweat, the sheets damp beneath you. The creature sleeps quietly at your side, his breathing even, almost human. You turn toward him in the dark, studying the face that wears Kyryll’s features so faithfully, and your heart twists with something you can no longer name.

You know this is wrong. You know this is dangerous. And yet… you let him stay.

Because sometimes, grief does not just ache. Sometimes, it devours.

Winter eventually gives way to spring.

The animals relax in the warmer air, their skittishness easing as though the frost itself had carried the weight of dread. When you finish harvesting eggs from the chickens, you glimpse him in the pasture that morning, carrying a lamb in his arms with an unsettling gentleness. A suitable replacement for last night’s sacrifice.

You say nothing. You are past the point of caring. You would give him every lamb you owned, every goat and sheep, if it meant Kyryll—whatever remains of him—would stay by your side.

At lunch you dine in silence. It is nothing strange. Kyryll was never a chatty man, and the thing that wears his face well enough does not bother pretending otherwise. You chew, swallow, wash the taste down with water. Across the table, his eyes flick toward yours once or twice, but no words pass between you. It is as though silence itself has become the language you share.

Afterward, as you tidy up the plates, he hips brush behind you while reaching for something in the cupboards overhead. You freeze, breath caught in your throat. You don’t know if he does it on purpose, or if he even understands the meaning of this sort of closeness. He has never once initiated any sort of affection in waking hours. Not once. Almost like he is still unsure of his place in the rhythm of your grief.

And that is when you turn.

Your hands lift almost without thought, fingers threading against the nape of his neck, pulling him down into you. His lips meet yours clumsily at first, stiff and uncertain, as if sifting through Kyryll’s memories on how a man ought to respond. But when he finds it—when the recollection locks into place—he answers with startling force.

The kiss deepens, rough and desperate, his mouth parting against yours to claim and consume. A soft whimper escapes you, swallowed instantly between his teeth. His hands find your hips, gripping hard enough to bruise, and then you’re hoisted effortlessly onto the kitchen counter. Plates rattle, a fork clatters to the floor, but you don’t care—your arms wrap tight around his shoulders, pulling him closer, and closer still.

He kisses like hunger itself, tongue hot and insistent, as though he has finally been permitted to take what he’s been denied. You gasp into him, and he swallows every sound greedily. His body presses flush to yours as the hard length of him grinds against you through your skirts, making a shiver race deliciously down your spine.

It’s wrong. Even if every frantic kiss, every nip of teeth, and every desperate clutch of fingers digging into your skin feels exactly like Kyryll, you know it is not him. But the wrongness only makes your desire burn hotter, makes you want him more.

For the first time, it is not a dream.

And gods help you, it feels too good to stop.

By the time he hauls you off the counter, your dress is already half-undone, bodice tugged down so your breasts spill free into the air between you. His hands are everywhere—rough palms sliding over your skin as if he means to memorize every inch, thumbs dragging over your nipples until you’re gasping into his mouth. The poor dress hangs uselessly around your waist, wrinkled and bunched, but neither of you care.

You stumble through the hallway tangled together, his mouth never leaving yours for long. He devours every sound, every needy whimper, while you clutch at him desperately, nails biting into the fabric of his shirt as though you might anchor yourself to something real.

The bedroom door slams shut behind you. He pushes you back onto the mattress with a force that rattles the frame, climbing over you in the same motion. His weight settles heavy, solid, frighteningly real as his lips trail down your jaw to the hollow of your throat, sucking bruises into skin that will ache tomorrow.

You arch beneath him, a ragged cry escaping when he mouths at your breasts, tongue flicking over hardened peaks. His hand fists in your skirts, yanking them higher, baring your thighs to the cold air, and the hunger in him sharpens into something that feels less like mimicry and more like possession.

The heat between you only builds as the last buttons and ties surrender, clothes falling in careless heaps across the floor. His shirt slips from his shoulders, baring the breadth of him above you, and you’re too lost in the fever of it to notice the first flicker. But when your gaze catches, just for a heartbeat, on the wrong shape of his hand—the grotesque, bandaged thing from your dreams—you shudder.

Not in fear. In want.

The sight lances through you like fire, and instead of pulling away, you arch up into him, clinging tighter as though you could drag both Kyryll and the monster into yourself at once. Your breath stutters when the illusion fractures again, the man you knew shifting into the beast that stalked your sleep. And gods help you, your body only grows wetter for it.

His mouth is merciless against your throat, dragging teeth over tender skin, sucking bruises deep and dark where Kyryll never dared. He marks you as his own, every bite a brand that leaves you whimpering for more. And when you tilt your head back, baring yourself willingly, the shadows in the corners stir.

They creep closer in a whisper of movement, until phantom hands—long-fingered, writhing things—slither across the sheets. One brushes your ankle. Another strokes your calf. By the time the third slides up the inside of your thigh, you’re gasping, hips canting instinctively toward the unseen touch.

The hands multiply. They crawl over you in teasing strokes, cupping the weight of your breasts, thumbing your nipples while his mouth claims the other. They squeeze and knead, worship and torment in equal measure, until you’re arching helplessly beneath the combined assault. Another pair parts your thighs wider, their slick, phantom touch skating too close to where you burn for him.

A sob escapes you when one finally dips between your folds, fingers ghosting over the wet heat of you with maddening delicacy. The creature above you growls low in his chest yet he doesn’t stop it. His weight presses heavier, his hand locking your hip down as he grinds against you with ruthless force, as if staking claim over what the shadows dare to touch.

And all the while, his face wavers—Kyryll’s beloved features flickering into that bandaged monstrosity, eyes like embers staring down at you from behind the mask of flesh. It should terrify you, but instead your thighs fall open wider, your nails dig deeper, your body begs harder.

The tendrils do not relent. They writhe over your skin in concert, stroking and teasing until your cunt trembles with need, slick dripping freely onto the sheets. Every phantom caress loosens you further, leaving you open and aching and all too ready.

Then, like a cruel mercy, the monster’s blurred edges start to settle. Bandages and shadows peel away, and for one dizzying heartbeat, it is Kyryll above you again. His face, his weight, his warmth pressing you down into the mattress. The illusion is so seamless you almost weep, because it feels as though the storm had never stolen him at all.

His hand fists around his cock, pumping the thick length through gritted teeth. The same cock that filled you countless times before, the same one your body remembers down to the last inch. Veins throb beneath his rough grip, the head slick with need. Your thighs fall open wider, invitation and surrender in one, even as your mind reels at the fact that you are about to let the monster who took your husband become him. You are about to let him fuck you. Claim you.

And you want it. You want it so badly you could break.

When he pushes in, the stretch steals your breath. His length slides into your dripping heat with agonizing slowness, every inch dragging through your folds until he’s buried to the hilt. The tendrils tighten their grip, circling your clit in relentless circles, stroking in time with the heavy throb of him inside you.

The sound he makes when he bottoms out is near animalistic—a guttural growl, raw and trembling, pulled from somewhere deep in his chest. His forehead drops to your shoulder, breath ragged as his hips grind down, grinding that thick length against every swollen, desperate inch of you.

Gods help you—you wrap your legs around his waist, nails clawing at his back, and pull him closer still. Because it feels like Kyryll. It feels like home.

Even if you know it’s not.

His hips snap forward harder now, fucking you into the mattress with a force that rattles the bedframe. Each thrust drags his cock deep, striking places inside you that make your back bow and your throat spill broken cries into the dark. The tendrils keep perfect pace, every stroke of his length amplified by the phantom touches teasing your clit, twisting your nipples, prying your thighs open wider still until you are nothing but raw nerves strung tight for him.

You sob beneath him, body shuddering as pleasure coils hot and unbearable in your belly. It’s too much—his cock stretching you, the tendrils flooding every inch with sensation, your mind splintering between grief and want. Tears spill hot down your temples, streaking your flushed skin.

And he notices.

The monster groans low in his throat, his pace never faltering as he leans down to lap the tears from your face. His tongue is rougher than Kyryll’s ever was, his lips sealing over the salt of your grief as if he drinks it. When he pulls back, his eyes glow with an otherworldly magenta, the last proof of what he really is.

You see it. You know.

But gods, his cock feels too good. Each thrust slams you higher, deeper into delirium, his thickness battering your poor, soaking cunt until you’re choking on your own sobs. The tendrils slither higher, slick tips prying your lips apart and pressing down on your tongue, forcing you to pant helplessly around them like a bitch in heat. Every gasp is stolen, every whimper muffled by the invasive strokes inside your mouth.

It’s vile. It’s wrong. It’s everything you should recoil from.

Still, your body betrays you.

A scream tears from your throat as your climax rips through you, violent and unrelenting. Your cunt spasms wildly around his cock, milking him as gushes of slick spray out, soaking the sheets beneath. He growls, hips driving harder, chasing your squirt as though he means to wring every last drop from you.

You’re shaking, sobbing, choking on tendrils and tears, but you can’t stop—don’t want to stop. Because in this moment, no matter how monstrous his eyes burn or how filthy the shadows writhe, his cock still feels like it belongs inside you.

His thrusts grow savage, every snap of his hips driving you down into the soaked sheets with bruising force. You can feel him swelling within your gummy walls, cock thickening as his rhythm grows erratic and desperate. The tendrils match his frenzy—slapping against your clit in relentless circles, tugging your nipples cruelly, writhing deeper into your mouth until you gag around them, your tears streaking hot and heavy down your face.

You’re lost, shattered. Pleasure has stripped you raw, left you nothing but a body to be used, filled, and claimed. Your cunt clamps down like a vice, spasming around him as aftershocks ripple through you, each thrust forcing out another gush of slick.

Then he lowers his head to your neck, and the sound he makes is not Kyryll’s.

“Mine.”

The word rumbles against your throat, deep and guttural, alien in timbre. The magenta glow in his eyes burns hotter, brighter, searing through the mask of familiarity as his hips slam forward one last time.

He buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing violently as his release tears out of him. Hot spurts flood your pussy, thick and endless, spilling into your womb until it leaks down your thighs. He stays locked inside you through it, grinding deep as if to brand you from within, tendrils tightening their hold so you cannot flinch away, cannot deny what’s happening.

Your body convulses, another helpless squirt gushing around his cock as he stuffs you full, your sobs breaking against the slick pressure filling your mouth. You’re choking on tears, choking on pleasure, choking on him—and you can’t stop clinging to him even as the last shards of Kyryll’s illusion fall away.

It is not your husband’s face above you now. Not his eyes, not his voice.

Only the monster.

Weeks later, the snow has melted into the earth, leaving behind dark soil rich with promise.

Crocuses bloom along the edges of the field, their soft petals swaying in the wind, and the first shoots of green push stubbornly through last season’s frost. You stand at the fence line, apron dusted with flour, watching as your new neighbors hammer beams into place, their laughter carrying bright and clear across the valley.

When they visit a week later, baskets in hand and children darting shyly behind their skirts, you and Kyryll greet them at the door. Bread is broken, wine poured. You lead them through the rows of sprouting seedlings, Kyryll smiling faintly as he explains the soil, the seasons, the way the mountains cradle the crops just so. The family listens eagerly, their faces open and kind, and for a while it almost feels as though this life has always been yours.

As the evening wanes and the neighbors depart, the house falls back into its familiar quiet. Kyryll clears the table while you rinse the plates. Your husband’s shadow lingers at your back, and your wedding bands glint in the waning light.

You glance at him—at the face you love, the face you chose to keep—and for a fleeting heartbeat, something else flickers beneath it. Something you no longer flinch from.

You were taught to count time in threes. Three heartbeats. Three breaths. Three steps. After all, nature always balances itself in threes.

Now, it is you and Kyryll.

And the thing that wears his face.

⟢ end notes: i have been gnawing at this prompt like a chew toy since i met rerir last week, and i finally got to channel the innate need to fuck that guy into this disastrous piece... i have no defense. you can take me away now, officer. but on another note, i sincerely hope you enjoyed! thank you kindly to didi and meirinnie for going over my initial drafts with me and reassuring that i'm not spouting out nonsense HAH horror-adjacent fics are really so far out of my usual genre, and i'm clutching my pearls as i post this... hopefully i won't get cancelled LMAO

While you were busy rushing off with a whine, overthinking and already planning how your funeral would go, because Flins was definitely following you around to kill you and quietly dispose of you body. You had upset some sort of lantern spirit and it had snitched to the one light keeper that it could talk to, and now your fate was sealed!

"I'm sorryyyyyy, lantern ghost!" you whined, footsteps leading to Paha isle.

Flins watched you run off, his gaze soft and curious, but a small pout on his lips that went unnoticed. His eyes snapped back to the old shopkeeper when the man began to speak again. "Stop scaring her away, Flins," he sighed and packaged the Rye before handing it to the light keeper, "Just get it done by today," he said, face darkening, almost grim, and placing something extra into the bag.

Flins hummed, his face straight, as he paid for the Rye and took the bag. His eyes downcast. "I will… after all, I know where my lady is going. I'll be a gentleman, as always. Have no worries, Mr. Aleksov." 

The old man nodded, handing Flins a packet of tissues. His grey, tired eyes only sparing Flins a glance before focusing on other customers. "Keep your hands clean, be quick and done with it." The words were quiet, but enough for a wandering Dori to hear, and look over confused with wide eyes.

"Are they… planning a murder?" she gasped, before smirking and looking off into the distance, rubbing her chin, "Heh, I could make good money selling caskets."

. . .

You had wandered over to Final night cemetery, walking slowly across the dark and gloomy terrain. There were ghost candles lit all over the place, and you could've sworn that you heard whispers around you. "save us… save ussss…" you shivered at your imagination, slowly walking up the hill area to try and find the lantern ghost you had seen last time.

"uheee…. mr. purple lantern ghost, where are you?" you whispered, shivering before looking up at the lighthouse. The fog closing in around you. 

The silence around you was deafening, and it was most definitely scaring you down to your bones. Taking you back to the night you had first seen that purple, glowing lantern. 

It had been almost two months ago, when you had wandered over to Paha isle. You had seen some of the wild hunt nearby and killed them, before hearing whispers and hallucinating ghosts in the fog from your sleepiness. You had rushed over to Paha isle by mistake, going the wrong way instead of making your way back to Nasha town in your confused state. 

"Oh," you had muttered, when the fog cleared up, and you had seen the lighthouse guiding you, instead of the comforting bustle of the town you lived in. You were about to turn around and make your way back, before you noticed the purple glow. Almost like it was calling your name, you followed and walked up to it through the fog, finding a floating purple lantern. 

It was almost like it was magical, just hovering there, glowing. No one around.

The words of Aino had drifted back into your mind, as she had made you read story books with her and one of them talked about a magical oil lamp that granted wishes. "No one uses oil lamps in in Nod Krai, I bet its the magical lanterns that carry genies and wishes!" she had nodded confidently. 

You weren't gullible, nor one to easily believe superstitions and follow them without question. Though… it couldn't hurt, right?

Your hands gently placed on the sides of the lamp, rubbing it gently, before you took them back and clasped your hands together. Squeezing your eyes shut and whispering, "puh-lease get me a beautiful boyfriend who's a gentleman and loves me and worships me, please, please, please!" you shook your hands before looking up at the sky with a sigh. 

The lantern had flickered a little, as you hesitated before leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on the handle of it. When you pulled back, the lantern shook a little, making you step back worried, and look around confused. You had rushed back to Nasha town after that, brushing off the experience as a dream, until now. 

"Am I gonna die? Oh mr. or mrs. lantern, I'm sorry for kissing your handle," present-day-you whined, before you felt a cold breath against your cheek. 

"What are you doing, Miss Y/N?"

You shrieked, freezing up and quickly back away from the man, holding up your hands in front of him. It was the light keeper. The one you always took a second glance at whenever you used your see him, because whoever got to call him as his partner was destined with unimaginable luck. Flins looked unbothered and even tilted his head to the side, confused.

"I know what you're gonna say!" You whined out, and dropped to your knees dramatically. Flins was strong, he was scary, and even if he took your life because you had upset some lantern ghost, you probably wouldn't fight back just because you didn't want to ruin his beautiful face.

"You do?" his eyes widened for a fraction, before he hummed and nodded, holding the small bag to his side. "I see, I thought I was more… quiet about my advances." he muttered, rubbing his chin gently, in thought.

You sighed and nodded, head downcast, pouting and already thinking over your death. "I didn't know what I was doingggg.. the lantern was just… calling my name!" you gasped out, as he shook his head. "It was not," he corrected bluntly, making you sigh wearily. Your hands buried in the soil. 

A few seconds passed, before you both spoke up at the same time. You blurting out your words. As he spoke eloquently.

"Please don't murder me!"

"Would you grace me with a potential romantic encounter, miss Y/N?"

You both froze, before meeting each other's eyes. equally confused. Flins eyes were narrowed, looking down in genuine confusion and slight shock. The most expressive you had ever seen him. Your eyes were widened, mouth agape slightly, and heat rushing to your face. Did… did the Kyryll Chudomirovich Flins just ask you out? On a date? Were you in heaven?

"What?" both voices spoke out at the same time.

Flins shook his head, looking at you utterly helpless and bamboozled as you stood up and dusted your hands off. “You’re not going to murder me…? B-but you were stalking me and obviously planning to kill me off because I upset the lantern ghost of Paha Isle!”

Flins looked side to side slowly before raising an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

You sighed and lolled back your head before explaining to him exasperatedly. “Two months ago, I went to this place, like—“ you pointed over to some shrubbery alongside a crumbling stone wall, “—over there! I saw this glowing purple lantern and I walked up to it and rubbed it and wished for a boyfriend,” you nodded to him in complete seriousness.

“…so what makes you assume that I’d hurt you for wishing upon a floating lantern?” He raised an eyebrow, beginning to smile a little, starting to understand what was happening. He really wanted to see the look on your face when he revealed the truth now. He had prepared a big speech explaining all of his feelings, but you had thrown his whole planned confession out the window.

You blinked, once, twice, before awkwardly scratching the back of your head. “I’m starting to see that I was being a bit… irrational,” you nodded slowly.

“A bit?” He smiled, before handing you the paper bag, to which you looked inside curiously. Rye, and…

“Cupcakes. I had Mr. Aleksov prepare them especially for your tastes,” he hummed to you, watching as your confused expression flickered up to him before your eyes widened. “Oh! Oh, right, because you were going to ask me out…” you nodded, before pursing your lips and looking up at him confused. “But we’ve barely spoken to one another before this, why the sudden interest in me?”

He curtly nodded, before taking out the familiar glowing purple lantern and fading before your eyes. It only took 2.3 seconds for you to connect the dots, his figure reappearing when he saw that shy, “oh my god, what have I done?” look on your face.

“I was the lantern you wished upon,” he told you gleefully, tilting his head to the side with a teasing smile.

A whine escaped your lips, as you were contemplating burying yourself in the soil right then and there. “After hearing about your wish, I thought that you were a gorgeous young lady that deserved love, and after the… kiss,” he nodded, watching your eyes squeeze shut and hand cover your face. “I thought that I deserved to give you love. I never planned to stalk you, per se, but every time I tried to strike a conversation or anything with you…”

“I ran away,” you nodded, letting out an embarrassed whine and finishing his sentence.

He hummed, before taking the bag from your hands and offering you the cupcake. “My hands are pretty dirty,” you shrugged, still embarrassed and hating yourself inside your brain. “STUPID STUPID STUPID” kept bouncing around in your head.