Jungwon dramatically declared, “You’re practically moving to another country.”

“Jungwon, I’m literally a two-hour train ride away.”

“That’s basically Europe.”

You rolled your eyes at the memory, smiling to yourself.

Still, you were glad you’d made the decision to move. Three years ahead of you… of being on your own, of learning to be independent, part-time jobs, and what you hoped…a future incoming relationship. It should be easy. It should be peaceful. It should be—

“DUDE!!!”

A scream ripped through your wall.

It came from the wall to your right, a thin wall nudged between you and your neighbours. You could hear celebrations. A voice shouted, “THAT WAS INSANE!” followed by a loud thump like someone had jumped off the sofa.

You tried ignoring it at first, burying yourself under the blanket like it could block out noise. But 20 minutes in, another screamed “HE’S OFFSIDE, YOU DUMB—” loud enough to rattle the walls, you snapped.

You threw on your hoodie, jammed your feet into slippers, and marched out the front door like you were storming a battlefield. The hallway was dim and quiet, except for the muffled party behind door 3C. You knocked, hard, but polite.

The door creaked open mid-laughter, revealing three guys mid-snack, mid-game.

“Hi,” you said, tight smile. “Sorry to bother you, but… would you mind keeping it down a little? I’ve got a test tomorrow and it’s kinda hard to focus with all the screaming.”

The one with fluffy hair, cute little eyes, nodded immediately. “Shit. Sorry, sorry. Totally our bad.”

Another one, long lashes and a goofy smile, actually winced. “Didn’t realise it was that loud. We’ll keep it down, promise.”

“Are you new here?” the first one asked.

You nodded. “I just moved in today, actually.”

“Oh shit. Mrs Kim moved out?”

“Damn, we’re not getting her kimchi anymore, that’s for sure.”

“We gotta eat those store-bought ones that taste like ass.”

The second boy looked at you again, more focused this time. “Oh right! I’m Jake! It’s great to meet you! I’m sorry it happened under… unfortunate circumstances. But we’ll be quieter!”

“I’m Jay, by the way,” the first one added with a small grin, pushing his hair back.

You nodded, smiling slightly. At least they were nice about it. Well, two out of three, anyway.

You glanced past both of them, eyes landing on the third boy slouched on the couch, still holding the controller, gaze fixed on the paused screen like you weren’t even there. His jaw clenched once. No name. No hello. Just a subtle, annoyed glance in your direction before he looked away again.

Cool. So he hates you. That’s cool with you.

The third guy didn’t say anything. Just glanced at you once, then turned back toward the TV.

“Uh, thanks,” you said, lips tight, already backing away.

You returned to your apartment and for a blessed thirty minutes, it was quiet.

Then someone scored a goal and the wall shook again.

You blinked slowly at your ceiling, arms folded under your head like the weight of your patience was finally starting to crush your ribs. Okay. So that’s how it was going to be. You frowned.

And that was literally… how war started.

The next morning, fuelled by petty vengeance and two hours of sleep, you grabbed your pastel pink sticky notes and wrote:

“Dear 3C, I’ve played FIFA before. It is not that damn fun for you to be out here screaming. Please tone it down. Regards, the zombie in 3B.”

You slapped it on their door. Nothing changed.

And the next day:

“Dear 3C, I can’t sleep. Kindly shut up <3 With love, the girl one more sleepless night away from writing to the landlord. 3B.”

You half expected them to ignore it. Instead, you found your note missing by mid-afternoon. Gone. 

For a moment, you felt powerful. Maybe they’d actually listened.

Then 8:43 p.m. hit and someone in 3C scored a goal so loud you swore the bass from their TV made your candle flicker.

Alright. So it was personal now.

You stormed over to their door again, hands on your hips.. It wasn’t that late. You weren’t unreasonable. You believed in joy. In freedom. But right now? Rage was the only thing pumping through your system.

You shuffled down the hall with your bunny slippers slapping against the floor, hair in a claw clip that was giving up. You looked deranged. And for the first time, you were fine with that. You banged on their door.

The door cracked open a second later, revealing Jake blinking like a deer in headlights. His hair was messy. He looked mildly afraid.

“Were… we being loud again?”

You stared at him, deadpan. “Ya think?”

Jake rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, okay. I’m so sorry. It’s Sunghoon. He keeps saying it’s not that loud and we were mid-tournament and—”

“Tell Sunghoon that his ego’s not the only thing echoing through these walls,” you snapped, arms crossed. “Some of us are trying to study.”

Behind Jake, you heard a familiar scoff followed by a smug voice yelling, “God, she’s so annoying. We were literally whispering.”

You leaned to the side, locking eyes with the third boy slouched on the couch, controller in hand, feet on the coffee table like the world owed him something. He didn’t even pause the game this time.

You didn’t know what it was about his stupidly symmetrical face but your blood boiled.

“Tell this Sunghoon guy…his whispering sounds like a screeching cat,” you said flatly, before spinning on your heel and marching back toward your door when you heard his aggravating voice.

“Tell her she’s overreacting over a couple of friends simply trying to have fun,” Sunghoon fired back from the couch, not even raising his voice. 

You turned your head just enough to glare over your shoulder. “Well, tell him, his shirt doesn’t match his fucking pants.”

Jake looked helpless, standing between you both like a middle child caught in a divorce.

And then, with that same bored tone, Sunghoon called out again, “Well, tell her… those slippers are the best thing she’s worn all week.”

You stopped.

Jake sucked in a breath.

You slowly turned, eyes narrowing. “Tell him he wouldn’t know good fashion if it came with a user manual and punched him in his freaking face.”

Sunghoon finally glanced away from the TV, meeting your eyes for the first time that night. His lips curved into the most irritating half-smile you’d ever seen.

“Tell her–”

Jake stepped in between again, hands raised. “Okay! Okay. We’re gonna turn the volume down. Like, way down. Like you can’t even hear us tiptoe. Right, Sunghoon?”

Sunghoon leaned back against the couch and shrugged. “Whatever. I’m not the one annoying my neighbors at 9pm on a Friday night. Get some friends.” 

You slammed your door shut.

War was back on.

-

The next morning, your plan was simple. A little petty, sure, but necessary.

You stood outside their door in your pyjamas, holding a fresh pack of neon yellow Post-its since your previous ones were used up by the ongoing Post-It war.The hallway was empty. Your bunny slippers made no sound as you padded up to 3C and stuck the first one of the week dead-centre on the door.

“Dear 3C, just a gentle reminder that FIFA will not feed you, clothe you, or give you money. Kindly shut up. PLEASE. Warmest regards, 3B.”

You smiled to yourself and floated back to your apartment.

That night? For the first time…? Silence. Beautiful, blissful silence. You actually managed to revise two chapters and fall asleep before midnight. You woke up in the morning feeling like a changed woman.

But then you opened your front door.

There, taped neatly to your door, was a blue sticky note with surprisingly neat handwriting.

“Dear 3B, you sound like you narrate your life out loud. – 3C.”

Your jaw dropped.

“Narrate your life out loud?” you muttered. “That’s literally called thinking.”

You marched back into your apartment, flung open your stationery drawer.

“Dear 3C, apologies if my internal monologue disrupted your daily FIFA championship. I only talk to myself because your volume settings make it impossible to hear my own thoughts. With all due respect (and ear damage), 3B."

That afternoon, Jay knocked on your door. You hesitated, then opened it a crack. He was holding a bag of convenience store pancakes in one hand.

“Peace offering,” he said. “Also, I think your notes are hilarious. Jake’s been collecting them. I think he’s making a scrapbook.”

You blinked. “Is this a joke or something?”

Jay shrugged, leaning casually against the doorframe. “No! Honestly, it’s kinda refreshing.”

Jake popped his head in from behind, grinning. “Also, your handwriting’s really neat.”

You opened the door a little wider, cautious then shrugged. “You want some… uh… spaghetti? I made it this morning.”

“Spaghetti?” Jay tilted his head.

You nodded. “Yeah. I usually experiment with food. I’m…uh…in culinary school.”

Jake’s eyes widened. “Wait, so you’re like… a chef?”

“Trying to be.,” you said with a shrug, suddenly a little self-conscious.

They exchanged a quick look before barging in like you'd personally handed them invites at the door.

“That’s so cool,” Jake said, practically bouncing as he flopped onto your beanbag. “I burnt instant noodles last week. Twice.”

Jay wandered deeper into your living room, his gaze landing on the dusty old guitar leaning against your bookshelf. “Dude, check it out! She plays the guitar.”

You rubbed the back of your neck, awkward. “It’s just for fun. I’m not that good.”

“I’m sure you’re great,” Jake said, already chewing through a mouthful of spaghetti he’d somehow found, and served himself in a bowl you didn’t remember offering.

You blinked at him. “Did you just—?”

“Plate was right there,” he said through a mouthful. “I took it as a sign.”

Jay nodded solemnly. “She feeds us and plays guitar. She’s better than Mrs. Kim already.”

You sighed and closed the door behind them. “I’m starting to think Mrs. Kim left because of the three of you.”

In between bites, Jake nodded without hesitation. “I think so too.”

“We can be loud,” Jay added, helping himself to another serving.

“Have you thought of… not being loud?”

“We do,” Jay said. “But then we get loud again.”

You rolled your eyes. “Guys, some of us have school and—”

“We have school too,” Jake chimed in, mouth full.

“Okay… some of us care about sleep.”

Jay perked up. “That’s why we got you this.”

He dug into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a tiny box, dropping it into your hands.

You squinted at it. “What’s this?”

“They’re sleep buds,” he said proudly. “They go in your ears and play white noise and, like… ocean sounds or something. Blocks everything out. Even us.”

You stared at the box, then at them.

“Instead of compromising, you got me gear?”

Jake grinned. “Yeah. We like you. We want you to be able to sleep… through us.”

Jay gave you a thumbs-up. “It’s called adaptation.”

You looked down at the sleep buds in your hands and then back up at the two of them absolutely inhaling your spaghetti like they hadn’t eaten in weeks.

You didn’t know whether to kick them out or thank them.

So you just sighed, defeated. “You guys are the weirdest neighbours I’ve ever had.”

Jake beamed. “Aww. You’re the weirdest too.”

And somehow… the next day… they were back.

You opened the door mid-knock, confused, only to find Jay grinning at you.

“What’s for lunch today, boss?” he asked, already halfway through the doorway.

You blinked. “How’d you know I made something?”

“We could smell it,” Jake said, stepping in right behind him, holding up a comically large spoon. “Smells so good. Brought my big spoon today. Came prepared.”

“Uh… I made chowder?”

Jake’s eyes lit up. “Oh my god, I love chowder.”

Jay had already plopped onto the floor cushion, flipping through your Spotify like he owned your iPad. “What kind? Clam? Corn? Pumpkin? Wait… do people put pumpkin in chowder?”

You stared at them, ladle in hand.

“Corn,” you muttered, shuffling back into the kitchen.

Then the day after that… they came again. At this point, it felt less like a surprise and more like a recurring appointment.

“No fucking way. Kimchi stew? This shit is so good!. Jay, you need to try the beef. It’s so soft. How— how’d you get it so soft? Is this like one of those expensive beef? Wakoo?”

“It’s Wagyu, Jake.” You corrected.

“Wagyu~” He sang.

Jay, already mid-bite, nodded with a full mouth. “Can I havefth thefth reshepee?”

You wiped your hands on a dish towel, leaning against the counter with one brow raised. “Do you guys ever eat in your own apartment?”

Jake didn’t miss a beat. “Not when you cook like this.”

Jay pointed his chopsticks at you like he was making a closing argument in court. “This is technically your fault. You fed us once. That’s basically a binding contract. We’re best friends now. Aren’t we, Jake?”

Jake nodded, mouth full. “Mhmff. Whatever he said.”

You sighed, setting your elbow on the table and dropping your chin into your hand. “If you’re gonna keep doing this, at least wash the dishes after.”

Jake saluted you with his spoon like you were the captain of a very tiny, soup-based army. “Yes, chef.”

You looked at the two of them, one already on his third helping, the other stealing more beef straight from the pot, and shook your head.

This wasn’t how your independent, put-together, college life was supposed to go. You were meant to be focused. The mysterious girl on the third floor who only ever came out for groceries and exams.

But maybe… with the two of them barging in uninvited, eating like they hadn’t seen food in years, and treating your living room like it was theirs…

Maybe you wouldn’t feel so lonely after all.

-

It was 9 p.m. Strangely quiet.

Usually, by now, there’d be at least one goal celebration shaking the walls or someone shouting about a missed penalty. But tonight? Nothing. You didn’t let it bother you. You took it as a win.

The balcony door slid open with a soft scrape. You stepped out into the cool night, cradling your little scissors and spray bottle like sacred tools. Your succulents were arranged in a neat line. A few leaves had started to curl. You knelt down, snipping the dead ends carefully.

You should’ve felt peaceful.

But tonight, something tugged at your chest. 

You missed Jungwon. You missed your mom’s mismatched cutlery and the way your dad always forgot he’d already asked about your grades. Maybe even your pet fish, the one that never did much except float around looking confused.

Jay and Jake were friendly, sure. But they weren’t yours. They weren’t part of your before. They didn’t know the town you came from or the versions of you that existed before now.

And even though you thought you’d settled in... even though you were coping...you were lonely.

Without meaning to, you started speaking out loud — just like you always did.

“It’s fine. You’ll do better tomorrow. Tomorrow you won’t feel as lonely,” you said softly as you misted the leaves. “You’ll be stronger. You’re gonna get used to this. You can do it.”

But the lie caught in your throat.

Because you were crying already.

You wiped your cheek with the sleeve of your hoodie, frustrated, betrayed by your own body. You reached for your phone without thinking and hit the contact you swore you wouldn’t keep calling every time you got overwhelmed.

Jungwon answered on the first ring.

“What’s up?” he asked, casual as ever.

“Won…” you breathed out.

There was a pause. Then: “Are you crying?”

“No?”

“I can hear you sniffling, you shit.”

“It’s just—” your voice cracked. “It’s hard. I’m alone all the time. I’ve got no friends. I’ve got no one to talk to. I’m alone, Won.”

“I know,” he said gently. “I know…”

There was a pause. You could hear him shifting in bed, his voice soft and serious now. “But think about it this way, okay? You’re barely in your first month. You’re gonna get used to it. You’re gonna find people. You’re gonna build something here. It just takes time.”

You bit your lip. “You’ll visit if you can, right?”

“I’ll visit,” he promised. “Even if it takes two bloody hours.”

“But you hate traveling.”

“For you, I’d suffer.”

You sniffled. “You’re just saying that so I’ll hang up.”

“You’re right because I’m exhausted from basketball. But also… I love you.”

“Fine,” you mumbled. “I love you too.”

“Chin up. You’re talented and you deserve to be there. You can do this. We’re all counting on you.”

“I know.” You exhaled slowly. “Goodnight, Wonnie.”

“Night.”

You ended the call and sat in silence for a moment, letting the cool night air settle on your skin. The tears had stopped. Your hands still smelled like mint and basil and the faint sweetness of the spray bottle. You stared at your succulents, wondering if they ever got lonely too.

Unbeknownst to you, just a few feet away, out on the connected balcony, hidden by the divider, someone had heard everything.

He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. He’d stepped out earlier, just needing air, needing quiet, needing to be somewhere still for once. And then he’d heard your voice. The words that were not meant for anyone else.

And for the first time, Sunghoon didn’t roll his eyes or make a sarcastic comment.

He just stood there in the dark, one hand gripping the railing, heart a little heavier than before.

He understood more than you thought.

And somewhere between your tears and Jungwon’s voice, he changed his mind about you.

-

The next few days, there was absolute silence. Maybe the food had finally worked some psychological warfare on Jay and Jake. Maybe it was their way of returning the favour. Either way, you weren’t about to question it.

You were grateful, to say the least.

Because for the past week, you’d been moping around your apartment. Living alone and striking out as an “independent bachelorette” sounded empowering in theory, but in practice? Maybe you weren’t one of those girlies after all…y’know the ones on Instagram who made solitude look like a season of self-discovery instead of a series of breakdowns.

It was Saturday. You’d spent the entire morning in bed watching a Netflix documentary about some guy swindling people on Tinder, surrounded by crumpled tissue and scented candle smoke that had long turned suffocating. You were still in yesterday’s hoodie, blanket tangled around your legs.

Three knocks echoed at the door.

You lifted your head from the pillow with a groan, barely alive. The sound came again.

Dragging yourself across the living room, you cracked the door open just a sliver, just wide enough to peek through but not enough to reveal the disaster that was your face, your hair, or your pride.

“Uh.” The voice was hesitant. Familiar.

You squinted.

Sunghoon.

You blinked. “What are you doing here?” you asked, your voice hoarse from crying and a full night of narrating your own spiral.

“There was a mix-up with the mail,” he said, holding up a small stack of envelopes.

“Oh.” You extended your arm awkwardly through the tiny gap in the door and grabbed the letters. “Thanks.”

There was a pause, “I can see your puffy eyes through the gap.”

You scoffed, immediately pulling the door closer. “You just have to be a smartass about everything, don’t you?”

He shrugged, completely unbothered, hands in the pockets of his hoodie. Still standing there. 

“…Are Jake and Jay home?” you asked, trying to sound casual.

His expression twitched, almost amused. “Why? Trying to steal my best friends again or—”

“No,” you deadpanned. “I was just wondering. It’s been… quiet this whole week.”

“They went home to visit their families.”

Oh. Right. Come to think of it, maybe that explained why everything felt extra heavy lately. It was the time of year people usually went home. People surrounded themselves with comfort and familiarity. And here you were, stuck in the city because the train ticket home was just slightly out of budget.

“You didn’t go?” you asked softly.

“Can’t,” he shrugged.

“Oh.”

There was a beat of silence. Then he tilted his head.

“Well,” Sunghoon said slowly, “if you ever need someone to emotionally rejuvenate you by pointing out your hair looks like a rat’s nest, you know where to find me.”

The words came with the usual venom but the message behind them landed differently.

You stared at him through the gap in the door. You couldn’t tell if he was trying to be funny, or… sincere, in his own weird, backhanded way. It was strange. You’d only had  three full conversations with the guy. And every single one ended in a WWE tournament.

You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Are you… being nice to me?”

He clicked his tongue. “Don’t ruin it.”

And with that, he turned and walked back.

-

You finally got up.

There was no movie-worthy breakthrough moment. Just the dull ache in your head from crying too much and the feeling that if you shed one more tear, your eyeballs might actually eject themselves from their sockets. So you moved. You stripped your bed, tossed the mountain of tissues into a trash bag, sprayed half a bottle of disinfectant in the air, and opened every window.

Your apartment looked like it had survived an apocalypse, which, to be fair, was accurate. But you scrubbed it back to life.

By the time you were in the kitchen, your eyes were still a little swollen, but you’d pressed them with cool spoons and a sad little compress until you could see straight again. Kind of.

You pulled out ingredients from your fridge one by one, lining them up like you were preparing for war. Slicing, boiling, julienning, stir-frying. The sound of the pan crackling beneath the glass noodles filled the silence of your apartment. It smelled exactly like it did when your mom used to make it.

You plated it in a wide, shallow bowl. It was delicious. Of course it was. You took pride in it. You always had. Jungwon used to tease you, calling your hands “blessed by Gordon Ramsay” like everything you touched turned into comfort food. You’d swat his arm, trying not to smile as he reached for second helpings before you’d even sat down.

You missed him. You missed your family. You missed not having to eat alone on a day like this.

Your eyes drifted to the door.

Would it be stupid? To bring food to Sunghoon? You’d never really done anything kind for him. Most of your interactions were lined with sarcasm and insults. And yet… that one line of his kept replaying in your head, “If you ever need someone to emotionally rejuvenate you by pointing out your hair looks like a rat’s nest, you know where to find me.”

So maybe…maybe he meant it. Or maybe you were just desperate for company and your noodles were starting to get cold.

Before you could talk yourself out of it, you packed the noodles into a clean container, wrapped a rubber band around it, and found yourself standing in front of 3C. Your feet had walked you here without permission. Your hand hovered in the air, ready to knock, but now… you hesitated. You weren’t here to complain. You weren’t here to yell. And that made it harder.

And just before your knuckles could land on the door, it swung open.

Sunghoon stood in front of you, coat already on, scarf looped lazily around his neck. There was a little shine to his hair like he’d styled it, and he looked surprised, mildly confused to find you on his doorstep without any anger evident in your eyes.

“What?” he said, voice dry.

You blinked, staring at him. You’d never really looked at him properly before. Not when he was this put-together. The gel in his hair, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his scarf sat slightly off-center like he’d thrown it on in a rush. You knew he was attractive. You weren’t blind. But seeing him now?

Sunghoon was actually… pretty handsome.

“I—uh—” you stammered.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Spit it out.”

“I—uh—I made some… stir-fried glass noodles,” you said, stumbling over every syllable. “And I know how much it sucks being alone on a day like this, so I thought… maybe it’d bring you some kind of familiarity. From home, or something.”

You didn’t let yourself overthink it. You shoved the container into his hands, heart pounding.

“Bye,” you mumbled, before immediately turning around and marching back to your apartment like you’d just robbed a bank. The door clicked shut behind you.

You pressed your back to it, eyes wide.

Shit.

Was Sunghoon actually hot?

-

Sunghoon stood in the hallway, unmoving. The container in his hands was warm and he stared down at it for a couple of seconds longer than he probably should’ve.

Jake and Jay had been raving about your cooking for weeks. At first, he thought they were exaggerating. How good could someone’s food be that it made two of the loudest people he knew voluntarily whisper through a FIFA match?

But he’d seen it with his own eyes, Jake silently fist-pumping the air, mouthing “LET’S FUCKING GO” after a goal, and Jay barely reacting as he scored. They even created a rule: first one to speak puts a dollar in the Silence Jar. A literal jar. With money.

Sunghoon didn’t get it.

And he didn’t particularly care to. Not then.

But now, standing in the hallway in his coat and scarf, staring at the gift you shoved into his hands with flushed cheeks, something felt different.

He had been on his way out, actually. There was a bar nearby, nothing special, just a dim-lit spot with quiet music and decent food where no one bothered him. He usually went there whenever Jay and Jake went back home, like they did this time every year. It wasn’t that he didn’t have family—he did. It just wasn’t… warm. They were always busy. Always somewhere else, even when they were in the same room.

He peeled off his scarf, feet dragging a little as he headed back into the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him. He set the container on the kitchen counter, grabbed a pair of chopsticks from the drawer, and opened the lid.

Steam wafted up instantly, sesame oil, soy sauce, garlic, something subtly sweet he couldn’t name. The noodles glistened. They looked homemade. No, they felt homemade.

He picked up a strand and gave it a tentative taste.

His eyes widened before he could even help it.

It was good. Like stupid good. Like how the hell is this girl not running her own restaurant kind of good. Better than anything he would’ve paid for at that bar tonight.

He stood there in silence, chopsticks hovering mid-air, thinking back.

He wasn’t proud of how he’d treated you. Three encounters, three arguments. He remembered each one too clearly. The snark in his voice. The way your expression hardened. The notes on the door. 

But it wasn’t really about you.

He hated being called out. Hated being the problem. Maybe it was ego, or maybe it was the way he’d always felt like he had to be put-together or to say the least…controlled. Your presence threw him off. You were loud in a way that was sincere. You didn’t filter your emotions. You wore your annoyance on your sleeve and your feelings on your face.

It irritated him. It also… made him feel something.

And then there was that night on the balcony.

He hadn’t meant to listen. But when he heard your voice cracking through the divider, talking to someone…maybe it was your boyfriend? Your best friend? Whoever it was about how lonely you were, it hit him harder than it should’ve.

Because he got it.

He felt it too.

Being alone in a crowd. Having people around but never really with you. That weight in your chest that didn’t come from sadness exactly…just the absence of warmth.

Sunghoon felt it more often than he cared to admit. He loved Jake and Jay, loved them to pieces. They were the kind of people who filled a room with noise and an energy he couldn’t really place and who made him laugh even when he didn’t want to.

He wanted something more. Something real.

Someone who just… saw him.

He sat at his kitchen counter, staring at the container of glass noodles still warm with steam curling from the lid. He wasn’t usually impulsive. He didn’t do gestures. But maybe tonight called for something a little uncharacteristic.

He stood and reached up, opening the top cupboard where Jake and Jay kept what they called their “emergency date plates.”. The kind of plates you used to impress someone. They only ever brought them out when trying to convince girls they were not, in fact, living in a borderline condemned apartment flat.

He grabbed two.

And then, before he could second guess it, he walked out into the hallway and knocked. 

Your door creaked open a few seconds later.

You blinked at him, confused. “What?”

It almost felt like deja vu. Except now, he was you…awkward at the door.

And then it hit him.

He looked at you…like, really looked at you, and for the first time, he realised he’d never actually seen you before. 

You were wearing a soft pink sleeveless dress, the fabric loose and falling just above your knees, cinched slightly at the waist. Your hair was tied into a side braid, fringe swept slightly to the side, with a few delicate strands left loose to frame your face. You looked like you belonged in a pastel painting.

Shit.

Were you actually—pretty?

Nope. Nope. Stop that. Sunghoon blinked hard, trying to erase the thought.

Damn it.

You probably had a boyfriend. Someone smart and warm and emotionally available who FaceTimed you every night and wrote you good morning texts. Someone who missed you from back home.

And besides…someone who could cook like you? You could probably bag Jake and Jay at the same time in under a minute if you wanted. Not that you would. But still.

He cleared his throat.

“I, uh…” He held up the plates slightly. “I thought maybe… you could join me?”

He wasn’t good at this. But his voice was steady.

“Only if you want to,” he added, quickly. “I just figured. Y’know. Glass noodles taste better on… plates that aren’t plastic.”

His eyes met yours.

He was trying.

And this time, it was your turn to blink in disbelief.

-

Sunghoon had returned with the container of glass noodles, now a little colder, a little stickier, but still giving off the faint aroma of sesame oil and soy sauce. You’d reheated it and plated it up, slightly embarrassed that the presentation wasn’t what it had been fresh off the stove, but he didn’t seem to care. Or maybe he did, but you couldn’t tell, because for the first five minutes, you didn’t look at each other.

The clink of chopsticks, the occasional scrape of ceramic, and your ceiling fan. It was awkward. You wondered why he even came. Why he asked in the first place, if he was just going to eat in silence.

“So,” you said.

“So,” he said.

You paused.

“You first.”

“No, you—”

“Okay, I’ll go first,” he said, cutting himself off. He cleared his throat and set his chopsticks down. “I—uh—I just wanted to say thanks. For the meal.”

You blinked. “Okay.” You nodded slowly. “You’re… shockingly formal when you’re not pissed.”

“I—” Sunghoon let out a breath and leaned back a little in the chair. “I was never pissed.”

“Mhm,” you hummed, nodding, eyes narrowed. “Sure.”

“I was annoyed, sure. Who likes being called out?”

“I wasn’t trying to call you out,” you said, tilting your head. “But put yourself in my shoes. I have to wake up at stupid o’clock to learn how to make a soufflé or whatever, and meanwhile, I’m treated to surround sound yelling and the occasional ceiling vibration.”

He gave a small shrug. “Well, we haven’t done it in a while.”

“And I’m grateful,” you replied, lips twitching. “Truly.”

“We got a silence jar and everything,” he muttered, almost like he didn’t want to admit it.

Your eyebrows shot up. “A silence jar?”

He nodded. “Yeah. Jay implemented it. He said if we keep it up, we’ll have enough for extra toppings on our next pizza night.”

You burst into laughter, the sound surprising even yourself. It came out light and real, and you covered your mouth halfway through. “That’s… honestly? A decent plan.”

“It can be,” he said with a grin starting to pull at the corner of his mouth. “Until everyone starts trying to play FIFA like it’s an ASMR video.”

“You guys actually whisper?” you asked, incredulous.

“Well, yeah. You told us to.”

“I didn’t think you would listen,” you said, pointing your chopsticks at him.

Sunghoon shrugged again, his eyes dropping to the plate in front of him. “Well… they changed my mind, so.”

He didn’t say what he was really thinking.

That it wasn’t Jake or Jay who changed his mind. It was that night. The way your voice had carried through the gap in the balcony, fragile and cracking. The way you’d said I’m alone, Won like it was something that had been sitting inside you for too long, waiting to spill. He’d realised then maybe he wasn’t just an annoying neighbour to you. Maybe he was part of the problem. Maybe he’d been making things harder for someone who was already trying to hold it all together.

“So…” he said quietly, eyes on his plate, “why are you alone during the holidays anyway?”

“Couldn’t afford a train ticket,” you said eventually. “I mean—I could have, technically. But that’d mean I wouldn’t have enough money left to buy ingredients for my assignments the next few weeks.”

Sunghoon winced. “Oof. That’s rough. Must suck.”

You gave a little shrug. “Yeah. It’s fine though.”

He knew it wasn’t.

There was a pause. He glanced sideways at you.

“If you ever… feel like you need someone to talk to,” he started, voice casual, “you could just knock. I have FIFA.”

You snorted. “Oh, like I’d willingly join that mess.”

“It’s actually really fun.”

“How fun can flinging a ball across a screen with your thumbs be?”

“It is!” he defended, turning fully toward you.

You raised a brow. “I tried once with my friend and it was so boring.”

“That’s ‘cause you weren’t playing it right,” he insisted, already standing up. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

“I’m not playing FIFA with you.”

“Come onnn,” he whined, grabbing your wrist and tugging you lightly toward his door.

“God, this is gonna be so stupid,” you muttered, dragging your feet even as you followed him out.

Inside his apartment, the lights were warm, the couch sunken in like it had been through a war. You sat reluctantly, tucking your knees up as he handed you the controller.

“Alright,” he said, sliding in beside you. “This is you—Team Two. All you have to do is use the left joystick to move, the right one to look around. This button to pass, this one to shoot.”

You blinked. “So many buttons.”

“It’s easy! Just follow what I say.”

“Okay… so now I just—?” You pressed a button and immediately kicked the ball out of bounds.

“No, no—move left. Left.”

“I am moving left!”

He glanced over. Your tongue was sticking out slightly in concentration, eyes squinted, brows furrowed. He chuckled before he could stop himself, quickly looking away.

Then you screamed, “I DID IT! DID I DO IT?!”

He turned back just in time to see you score.

Sunghoon yelled, jumping up. “Yeah! That was it!”

You stared at the screen, jaw dropping. “Holy shit. I’m amazing.”

He looked at you again, this time longer. Your eyes were glowing, still locked on the TV. Your fingers tapped at the buttons like you already got it down. You bit your lip when you were focused, tongue sticking out just slightly when you were thinking.

And you were cute. So fucking cute.

The match picked up pace. Suddenly it was 2–2, and both of you were leaning in like your lives depended on it. You were yelling at the controller. He was shouting advice. At one point, your knees knocked, but neither of you noticed. The room was loud, just your voices and the music from the game and the way your laughter filled every corner of his flat.

Then it happened.

You scored. 

You screamed, controller tossed onto the couch, and before Sunghoon could register what was happening, your arms were around his neck, squeezing him tight as you jumped slightly in place.

“I WON! DID YOU SEE THAT?!”

He froze. Your cheek brushed his jaw, your warmth right up against him. His hands hovered midair like he didn’t know whether to hold you back or not.

And then you let go, plopped back onto the couch, and grabbed the controller again like nothing had happened.

Sunghoon didn’t move.

For the first time in what felt like forever, his heartbeat stuttered. Sped up like it had been woken from a long, indifferent sleep.

He sat there, silent, staring at you as you shouted at your pixelated team.

And all he could think was well that…he hadn’t planned on crushing on the new girl based on one single positive interaction.

God, he was so screwed.

-

The next few days passed in a blur of almost-conversations.

You and Sunghoon didn’t talk much. Not like that night. Just a few polite waves across the hallway, a quiet “hey” if you caught the elevator at the same time. Respectful nods. The occasional awkward glance if your eyes met for too long.

And then Jake and Jay came back.

And of course, Jake being Jake, invited himself into your apartment before you could even say no.

“I missed your cooking while I was gone,” he sighed dramatically, sinking into the dining chair like he’d returned from war.

“Well, today’s your lucky day,” you said, flipping through your assignment folder and squinting at the week’s task. “Because for today’s assignment, I’m supposed to…” you paused. “Make a really mean chicken pot pie.”

Jake’s eyes lit up. He clapped his hands, nearly tipping his chair over. “CHICKEN POT PIE?!”

Before you could even blink, he leapt up, yanked your door open, and sprinted into the hallway.

“JAY! IT’S CHICKEN POT PIE!” he yelled like it was a fire drill.

From across the hall, Jay’s voice rang out. “WHAT?! NO WAY!”

And then—another voice joined them.

A quieter one.

“Chicken pot pie?”

You didn’t even have time to react before you were suddenly hosting three grown men in your kitchen, all leaning over your counter.

“Guys,” you said, elbow-deep in flour. “I can’t focus if you’re all staring at me like that.”

“We’re just excited,” Jake grinned, chin in his hands.

“Well don’t be. I’ve never made this before. It might taste like ass.”

“Your hands are basically blessed by Gordon Ramsay,” Jay declared, grabbing a slice of carrot from the cutting board. “It’s impossible for it to taste like ass.”

You laughed, the sound soft and unexpected even to yourself. “Jungwon used to tell me that all the time.”

“Oh he did?” Jay echoed, voice teasing.

Sunghoon stood a few steps back from the others, arms crossed loosely, leaning against your fridge. He hadn’t said much since stepping into your place, but now he watched the three of you.

The way you smiled when Jay made a joke. The way Jake knew where you kept your mixing bowls. The way your eyes sparkled, just slightly, when you laughed about something from home. The way they got it. The way they knew you.

And the way he didn’t.

Sunghoon couldn’t explain it but it made his stomach twist. Tight and strange and uncomfortable.

And then he heard it again.

Jungwon.

Who the hell was Jungwon?

His name sounded too casual. Too affectionate. The kind of name you didn’t just drop without meaning.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything. He just looked down at your countertop, at the flour dusting your hands and the delicate way your fingers shaped the crust, and all he could think was—

Why the fuck did he care so much?

You moved around your kitchen with the kind of ease that made it impossible not to watch. Sunghoon’s eyes were locked on you, the way your hair swayed behind your back as you leaned forward to stir something in the pot, the way your sleeves were pushed up. 

His heart pounded harder than it should’ve. He tried to brush it off. Maybe he was just hungry. Maybe it was just the smell of garlic and butter making him lightheaded. That had to be it, right?

Except no.

He hadn’t planned on feeling like this today. Not when he woke up. Not when he brushed his teeth and went on his phone and told himself he’d stay in his apartment. He hadn’t even planned on coming over. And that night the two of you shared noodles? He’d chalked it up to vulnerability. Nighttime feelings. Nothing serious.

But now it was noon. He was awake. Sober. And you were still somehow making his chest tighten just by existing within ten feet of him.

God. He hated having a crush.

He didn’t even realise how lost he looked until Jake spoke up from the side, breaking the spell.

“So, is Jungwon finally coming?”

This guy again.

Sunghoon’s head whipped toward Jake so fast it might’ve snapped his neck.

You perked up at the mention, a smile blooming across your face without even trying. “Yeah! He’s coming in two weeks! I actually told him about you guys. He’s kinda excited to meet you.”

That smile. It wasn’t fake. It wasn’t forced. You looked like someone who meant it. Someone who missed this guy. Someone who talked to him often.

Sunghoon clenched his jaw and looked away, grabbing a water bottle off your counter just to do something with his hands. He twisted the cap a little too hard.

He didn’t know who the hell Jungwon was.

But he already didn’t like him.

“He’s coming over?” Jay asked, his mouth still half-full of pie filling.

“Yeah,” you said casually, brushing a stray hair behind your ear as you peeked into the oven. “He’s staying at my place for the week he’s here.”

Staying at your place?

Sunghoon blinked.

He looked around your apartment, eyes scanning every corner like they were going to magically reveal a hidden guest room. But there wasn’t one. You lived in a studio. Everything was in one space. Your bed, your desk, your kitchen, your couch. Except… there wasn’t even a real couch. Just a throw-covered loveseat that barely seated two.

No air mattress in sight. No hidden folding cot. No suspicious lumpy bags that might hold a spare futon.

Just one bed.

His chest tightened.

Where the hell was Jungwon gonna sleep? With you?

He picked at the label on his water bottle, teeth grinding quietly as he stared down at the floor, like it held answers. It didn’t.

He wasn’t even involved with you. This shouldn’t matter. It shouldn’t bother him.

But it did. In the most uncomfortable, teeth-clenching, mind-racing kind of way.

-

You stood in front of the three boys, arms crossed, heart racing slightly under your apron. The chicken pot pie sat on the table…golden brown crust, just the right amount of bubbling over on the sides, the smell of thyme and butter and garlic filling your apartment.

Jake, Jay, and Sunghoon each took a spoonful at the same time like they’d rehearsed it. You watched them, nervous, scanning their faces.

One by one, their expressions lit up. Jake’s eyes widened, Jay let out a satisfied groan. Well… except Sunghoon. Of course.

He stayed still. Always unreadable. But you caught it. The tiny pause, the way his brows lifted just a fraction. He liked it. He just didn’t show it like the others.

“So—” Jake started.

“Good,” Jay finished, already reaching for more.

Your eyes flicked to Sunghoon. Somehow, his opinion was the one you were waiting on. The one you needed.

“So?” you asked, staring at him.

He blinked. “What?”

“How is it?”

“It’s good,” he said, nodding once, tone flat as ever.

Your smile dropped. You frowned. “Doesn’t seem like it.”

“What? I just said it’s good.”

“No, you said ‘good’ and then frowned and put your spoon down. Usually it’s ‘It’s good,’ then a second bite. Right, boys?”

Jake nodded enthusiastically, chicken still in his mouth. “She’s right.”

“Totally right,” Jay added, already helping himself to more.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes, leaning back slightly. “You’re all being dramatic.”

You scoffed, insulted. “I guess you don’t want seconds then. Tch.”

You clicked your tongue and turned on your heel, storming off toward the kitchen, grumbling under your breath. Your apron fluttered behind you as you moved, and you didn’t look back.

Sunghoon watched your little pout, the way your shoulders stiffened, how you exaggerated every step. He didn’t know why, but he liked your reaction. No, he loved it. He found it ridiculously cute. Too cute, actually. That slight wrinkle in your forehead. The way your voice got higher when you were mad. The tiny stomp in your step.

The moment your back turned, his lips twitched upward. 

When lunch ended and the three of them stood by your front door, Jake and Jay turned to hug you dramatically.

“Never move out,” Jake said into your shoulder.

You rolled your eyes. “You’re just saying that because you get free food.”

“And precisely why we don’t want you to move out,” Jay replied, squeezing you once more before the two of them shuffled out, bickering as they made their way into their apartment across the hall.

Sunghoon lingered. Just behind you.

You turned, raising a brow. “Aren’t you leaving?”

He nodded. “Yeah.” He stepped back slowly, hands in his pockets, gaze flicking to the floor before settling back on you. Then he paused. Like he wasn’t sure if he should say what he was about to say.

“The chicken pot pie was good. I think…” he exhaled, voice quieter, “I think it was one of the best things I’ve ever had.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

“It reminded me of home,” he added, eyes still on you now, a little softer than usual. “Not in the way where it’s about the taste or anything… it’s just… you cook like home. If that makes any sense.”

You hadn’t expected that.

Your cheeks flushed immediately. You turned away before he could see it, pretending to fiddle with a dish on the counter, fingers uselessly adjusting an already-clean plate.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice low, almost shy.

He lingered for a second longer like he wanted to say more. Then he gave a quiet nod and walked out the door.

-

It was raining.

It was only 4 p.m., but the sky had turned an eerie charcoal grey, clouds rolling thick above the city. Thunder cracked so loud you felt it in your chest, and the wind howled between the buildings, slamming against your windows.

You hated this.

You hated how much you still feared storms even at your age. How useless independence felt when you were stuffing tissues in your ears and jamming earmuffs over your head like you were five again. You turned on every single light in your apartment, lamps, fairy lights, even your microwave light and cocooned yourself under your thickest blanket, barely breathing, eyes wide.

Then the whole building shuddered.

The lights flickered.

And then everything went dark.

You screamed.

Your apartment disappeared into a blanket of pitch black, shadows curling up the walls like ink. Your heart pounded. You scrambled up from the couch, tearing off your earmuffs and patting the walls with shaky hands, trying to find a light switch like that would fix anything.

“Shit,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Shit shit shit.”

You fumbled for your phone. A message popped up from your landlord.

“The building is experiencing a temporary blackout due to the storm. Electricity should resume in an hour. Thank you for your patience.”

An hour? Alone? In this? In the dark? Absolutely fucking not.

You jumped at another violent crack of thunder and instantly rushed out into the hallway. Your blanket trailed behind you like a cape. You beelined for the only door you knew.

You knocked. The door swung open almost immediately.

“No time to explain but I’m shitting bricks here,” you said all at once.

It wasn’t Jake or Jay.

It was Sunghoon.

His brows raised. “The thunderstorm?”

You nodded frantically. “Are Jake or Jay here?”

“They’re asleep.” He glanced behind him, then back at you. “But I could… stay with you. If you want. Until it passes.”

You hesitated.

Then thunder cracked again, louder this time, right above your building.

You flinched. “Okay,” you breathed, defeated.

The two of you sat cross-legged on your couch, sharing a single candle as your only source of light. It flickered between you, casting long, warm shadows on the walls.

“Seems like you’re scared of the thunder,” he said gently.

“Well,” you sighed, voice tight. “I’ve been scared of it since I was younger. It just… gets to me.”

He nodded. “It’s okay.”

You noticed it then…the subtle tremble in his shoulders. He was shivering. From the cold, probably. Your heater wasn’t working without electricity, and the apartment was steadily turning into a fridge. You were wrapped up like a burrito, but he’d come in without anything but a hoodie.

Feeling guilty, you shifted toward him and lifted one side of your blanket.

“Uh…” he looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he was being pranked.

“Relax. I can see you shivering like a dog,” you muttered.

“Oh.” He blinked, then grabbed the other end of the blanket and scooted in beside you.

Now under the same blanket, his body heat pressed faintly against yours. You sat side by side, knees pulled to your chests.

And then, in a whisper, he said, “You know…”

You looked over at him, startled by the sudden softness in his voice.

“I know I’m not as close to you as Jay and Jake are,” he said, eyes trained on the candle, “but… you don’t always have to find them for help.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“I’m saying…” he sighed, eyes flicking up toward you, and then away again. “Never mind.”

“No, what? Just spit it out.”

He exhaled through his nose like it physically hurt to get the words out. “I’m just saying… you could ask me for help too.”

You stared at him, your eyes adjusting to the candlelight flickering between you.

“Oh,” you said softly.

There was a beat of silence. You weren’t really sure what to do with that. But you didn’t want to leave it hanging either.

“I’ll be sure to think of you the next time,” you mumbled, barely louder than the rain still pelting the windows outside.

You felt him nod beside you.

You turned your head slowly, resting your cheek against your knees, eyes drifting toward him. His face was tilted down, lashes long and dark as they blinked now and then, just slow enough for you to notice. His jaw had softened a little. He looked calm, in a way you weren’t used to seeing him.

“Would you rather have a million dollars,” you said suddenly, “or have no problems in the world?”

He blinked, confused for a second, then turned his head toward you. His chin was on his knees now too, and with the two of you curled up in the same blanket, inches apart, it felt almost like whispering under covers at a sleepover.

“What kind of question is that?”

“A good one,” you replied, lips twitching. “So answer it.”

He scoffed a little under his breath. “Uh… maybe no problems in the world?”

“Smart answer. Why?”

He paused, “I think people ruin themselves trying to solve problems that shouldn’t be theirs. If I had no problems, maybe I wouldn’t waste time worrying about all the stuff that doesn’t matter.”

You blinked at him. That was… not the answer you were expecting. It was a good one. Way too good, actually.

“Right,” you said softly, giving him a small nod.

He looked at you for a second longer before his eyes flicked down. “Your turn. Would you rather go back in time or go into the future?”

You puffed your cheeks out, thinking. “Hmm… that’s a toughie.”

Then your eyes widened, the way they always did when you had a lightbulb moment. “Go back in time!”

“Why’s that?”

“So maybe I’d really weigh the pros and cons of moving to a city where I know no one,” you said with a grin, but it faded slightly at the end.

Sunghoon stayed quiet. 

“You must really feel alone,” he said.

You blinked, startled. “What?”

“I hear you talking about it sometimes. On your balcony. When you think no one’s listening. You talk about how moving here feels like a mistake.”

You looked away, embarrassed. “It’s not a mistake. I just… miss everything back home.”

“I get it,” he said after a second. “I was like you. Back when I was home, I wanted to leave so badly. Thought being somewhere else would fix everything. But now that I’m here… yeah, I have Jay and Jake, and they’re great, but sometimes I come back to the apartment and everything’s fine and normal and still—I just feel… empty. And I don’t even know why.”

You didn’t say anything for a long time.

You just watched him. His face had turned thoughtful, distant. His eyes unfocused, drifting somewhere past the flickering candle, past your walls, like he was staring right through the quiet that lived in his chest.

You mumbled, “Well, yeah. But… I also don’t regret it. Not one bit.”

“Really?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I mean—I’m here doing what I love. Not many people get to do that. And I made friends with three incredibly annoying people in this building.”

He turned toward you again, eyes narrowing playfully. “So we’re friends now?”

Your cheeks heated up instantly. You glanced away, pretending to roll your eyes. “Are we not?”

He let out a low chuckle, the kind that rumbled softly at the back of his throat. “I’m glad you think we are.”

“So,” you said, tilting your head, “does this mean you’ll finally be nice to me now? Or is that too much character development for one night?”

Sunghoon smirked, eyes flicking to you with a teasing glint. “You want nice? From me?”

“Yeah. Like a full sentence without sarcasm. I feel like that’s a reward I’ve earned by now.”

“You earned a participation medal at best.”

You laughed, nudging him with your knee. “Unbelievable.”

He was already looking at you again—closer this time.

“Hold on,” he said softly, “you have an eyelash on your cheek.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Before you could move, he leaned in.

His face hovered inches from yours as his thumb brushed gently against your cheek, his touch soft but sure. The pads of his fingers were warm. His eyes, now impossibly close, scanned your face with a kind of quiet focus you hadn’t felt from him before. You swallowed.

Neither of you moved.

Your gaze locked, and the space between you slowly disappeared…inch by inch, breath by breath. It wasn’t planned. It just… happened.

Then suddenly, his lips were on yours.

Then it deepened. His other hand pushed the blanket off his head, dropping behind your neck to pull you in, and your hands found their way to his thighs, then to the curve of his jaw. His lips parted just enough, and your pulse jumped as he moved against you.

His hands slid to your waist. He lifted you slightly and shifted you into his lap in one smooth motion. You were now straddling him, knees on either side of his thighs, and he didn’t stop kissing you, not even for a second.

The kiss grew stronger. He tilted his head, hand moving to your chin to pull you even closer, his mouth parting yours with a low inhale as his tongue brushed against yours.

Your hands moved back down, gripping at the soft cotton of his hoodie, when—

Click.

The lights flickered on.

You both froze.

Your faces were still inches apart. 

You slowly pulled back, still on his lap. He blinked, eyes searching yours like he wasn’t sure what just happened. Like part of him wanted to keep going, and the other part… couldn’t believe you just kissed him like that.

You stared at each other, the silence heavy now.

His hands were still resting lightly on your waist. Yours were still fisted in the fabric of his hoodie. Both of you breathless. 

“I need to go back home,” Sunghoon said suddenly, voice low but rushed. His eyes darted everywhere except at you.

You blinked. “Right. Of course!” you said quickly, nodding way too fast. “Yeah. No—totally.”

He shifted awkwardly underneath you, face flushing as he cleared his throat and muttered, “Probably… need a pillow or something.”

It took you a second.

Then you saw the way he was subtly covering his lap with the edge of the blanket.

“Oh.” Your voice came out small. You quickly scrambled off his lap, cheeks burning so hot they could’ve powered your apartment during the blackout.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, already halfway to your door.

And then, Sunghoon stormed out of your apartment.

-

It had been a couple of days since you last properly spoke to Sunghoon. Not for lack of trying. You had…more than once. But each time, he’d give you a quick nod, maybe a polite smile if you were lucky, before promptly power-walking away.

Maybe he just wasn’t feeling what you were feeling. Maybe that kiss was a fluke, something in the heat of the moment. Maybe your little new crush was painfully one-sided.

But you pushed it aside. You had bigger things to focus on.

Jungwon was coming today.

You’d spent the entire morning rearranging your apartment, cleaning it from top to bottom, fluffing cushions and spraying perfume not just on yourself but into the air like it could somehow mask how nervous you were. You even did your hair the way he liked it, soft curls and a side part.

And then, there he was.

The door swung open and your best friend stood in the hallway, suitcase in hand and a grin already on his face.

“WON!” you squealed, running up to him and leaping into his arms.

“Hello, idiot,” he said, his voice fond as he hugged you back, lifting you off the ground with ease.

The shout must’ve startled the boys in 3C, because right on cue, the door across the hall creaked open and out came Jake and Jay, both peeking out.

They spotted you clinging to Jungwon like a koala.

You beamed. “Guys! It’s him!”

“The famous Jungwon,” Jay said, nodding in approval as he stepped out.

“And you must be Jake and Jay,” Jungwon said smoothly, setting you down.

Then came the third.

Sunghoon.

He didn’t move from the doorway. Just stood there, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

Jungwon turned to him, a friendly smile still on his lips, chuckling. “You must be Sunghoon, then.”

Sunghoon’s gaze narrowed slightly. “What’s so funny?”

Jungwon blinked, caught off guard. “Nothing,” he said, clearing his throat. “She just… told me you were like this.”

“Like what?” Sunghoon asked sharply, the scoff nearly audible in his tone.

Jungwon scratched the back of his neck. “Nothing. She just said you were cool,” he said with a shrug, throwing you a teasing look.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes.

You stood there, suddenly awkward, unsure what the hell had crawled up Sunghoon’s ass. The hostility was as thick as the tension in the air and you hadn’t done anything. Not really.

At least you didn’t think you had.

Just stood there, arms crossed, a stiff expression on his face while Jake and Jay welcomed Jungwon like he was already part of the group. Jungwon, ever the social butterfly, fit in easily, throwing a few jokes around, complimenting the apartment despite its questionable decor, and even teasing Jake about the ugly dinosaur pyjamas he was wearing in broad daylight.

But Sunghoon?

He was frowning the entire time.

You couldn’t figure it out. His jaw was tight, his responses were clipped, and every time Jungwon so much as glanced your way, you saw Sunghoon’s eye twitch.

You walked back to your apartment with Jungwon beside you, chatting excitedly about dinner plans and all the places he wanted to visit during his stay. But when you turned back, just for a second, you caught Sunghoon still watching. Still standing in the hallway.

His arms were still crossed.

And he didn’t look away.

-

Sunghoon stood there, arms folded across his chest like they were the only things keeping him together. He stared ahead blankly, jaw tight, doing everything in his power not to glare a hole through the wall. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling.

Sure, he knew he had a crush on you. He’d known since the chicken pot pie, probably. Or maybe since you wrapped that blanket around his shoulders. Or maybe long before that. But what he didn’t know was who the fuck Jungwon was, and why he was walking into your apartment.

“Dude,” Jake muttered, throwing him a sideways look. “You could’ve at least smiled.”

“I did,” Sunghoon growled, not bothering to hide his scowl.

Jay snorted. “That was barely a smile. You looked like you were in the middle of passing a kidney stone.”

“Why do I even have to be nice?” Sunghoon snapped. “I don’t know him.”

“Because your crush’s boyfriend just came into town,” Jake replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Sunghoon's head snapped to him so fast you’d think he got whiplash. “Boyfriend?”

Jay raised a brow. “Not denying the crush though.”

Sunghoon ignored him. “Let me ask you again. Boyfriend?”

Jake shrugged. “I mean… yeah, I guess?”

“What the fuck do you mean you guess?” Sunghoon hissed, dragging a hand down his face. “He can’t be her boyfriend.”

“But he is,” Jay said with a shrug and an infuriatingly smug smile.

“No, he’s not. He can’t be. Because she and I…” he paused, realising too late what was about to fall out of his mouth. “…kissed. Three nights ago.”

Jake’s mouth dropped open. Jay blinked.

“I’m sorry, what?” Jake finally blurted.

“Nothing,” Sunghoon muttered quickly, suddenly desperate to eat his words.

“You can’t say nothing when you just said everything!” Jake shouted, grabbing Sunghoon’s shoulders and shaking him.

“Tell us right now!” Jay begged dramatically, gripping his own hair.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes, flustered. “I—we—kissed. That’s it.”

Jay blinked. “You know we were kidding about the boyfriend thing, right?”

Jake grinned. “Jungwon’s just her best friend.”

“We just wanted to see if you’d admit you liked her,” Jay added, eyes sparkling with way too much joy. “Which you did.”

“No, I didn’t,” Sunghoon argued weakly. “I just said we kissed.”

“Okay, Mr Visceral Reaction every time we mention Jungwon,” Jake teased.

Jay smirked. “Say it. Say you like her.”

Sunghoon groaned, eyes shut tight as if the ceiling could swallow him whole. Then, finally—quietly, begrudgingly—

“Okay. So what if I like her?”

Jay and Jake immediately turned to each other with identical gasps, smacking each other’s arms excitedly.

“Oh my god, he admitted it,” Jay whispered dramatically.

Jake clutched his chest. “It’s happening.”

“You guys are disgusting,” Sunghoon groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. “And if you keep acting like this, I’m never telling you anything again.”

“Okay, okay.” Jake raised both hands, trying to suppress a grin. “We’ll behave.”

“BUT I’M SO EXCITED,” Jay squealed.

Jake smacked him on the shoulder. “Starting now.”

Jay nodded solemnly, rubbing his arm. “Sorry. That one slipped.”

Sunghoon sighed and leaned against the counter, arms crossed again. “I started liking her last month… when you guys went back home for the week. She cooked me stir-fried noodles, and we ate together. Played FIFA. I don’t know. I just… developed a crush on her.”

“That’s so cute,” Jay and Jake said in unison, stars in their eyes.

“Seriously, can the two of you act normal for like three minutes?”

Jake shrugged, still smiling. “I just didn’t expect you to have a girlfriend before me.”

Jay patted his shoulder. “You’ll get there, buddy.”

Jake tilted his head. “You think?”

“Yeah, you have nice eyes. Great personality.”

Jake beamed. “That’s so kind.”

“Can we please get back to my problem for like a minute?” Sunghoon cut in, glaring at both of them.

“Oh. Right.”

Jay cleared his throat and finally looked serious. “Look. We like her. She’s hilarious, and she makes good fucking food. And let’s be real, you’ve never liked anyone. We’ve been trying to get you to double date with us for years and you just stare at your phone all the time. But with her? You’re like... a guy with actual feelings.”

“But now I’m losing to Jung… whatever his name is.” Sunghoon sighed.

“Jungwon,” Jake said. “And no, you’re not.”

“How do you know she doesn’t like him?” Sunghoon muttered, staring down at the floor.

“Because,” Jay said, “if she did, she wouldn’t have kissed you.”

“Unless she’s indecisive or confused or something. I don’t know.” Sunghoon exhaled hard, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe I was just… a moment. And he’s her person.”

Jake shook his head. “I’m telling you—just talk to her.”

“Yeah,” Jay added. “Before you spiral even harder and start writing love songs about her. But if you do, I haved like a couple of guitars you could borrow.”

Sunghoon rolled his eyes. But somewhere, deep down… a part of him hoped they were right.

-

You were pacing back and forth on your cheap IKEA rug, while Jungwon was laid out dramatically on your bed, arms folded behind his head, thoroughly enjoying the show.

“I’m telling you, he’s avoiding me,” you snapped, pointing an accusatory finger at no one in particular. “We kissed—KISSED, Jungwon—and now he won’t even look at me! I wave, he nods. I say hi, he nods. I breathe in his direction, he—guess what—nods!”

Jungwon hummed, annoyingly calm. “Maybe he’s nervous. Or maybe he wants you to go to him.”

“I do go to him! And then he speed-walks away like I’m the plague!” You groaned, pressing your fingers to your temples. “I’m gonna lose it.”

“Maybe…” he tapped his chin thoughtfully, “you’re just a shit kisser.”

You whipped around and chucked a throw pillow directly at his smug face.

“Asshole.”

He caught it with a grin, clutching it to his chest dramatically. “I’m just saying. Maybe you scared him off.”

“You’re lucky I haven’t strangled you with this blanket,” you muttered, grabbing another pillow just in case.

Jungwon sat up, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “You know, sometimes I forget we grew up together because you’re so unpredictable now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He snorted. “You used to be fearless. Remember that Heeseung guy you had a crush on in middle school?”

You blinked. “What about him?”

“You were six, and you walked up to him at recess, said ‘I like your lunchbox,’ then kissed his cheek and ran off.”

“Ah,” you said flatly, “the good old days. That girl’s dead now.”

“She’s not dead,” Jungwon argued, grabbing your wrists and tugging you to sit beside him on the bed. “She’s just… overthinking everything. Look, if Sunghoon doesn’t like you—whatever. But if he does? You’re missing out just because you’re too chicken to tell him.”

You glared. “I hate it when you make sense.”

“I know.” He grinned. “It’s my worst trait.”

“I just—” you exhaled, flopping back beside him. “What if it ruins everything? We literally just got closer. What if I say something and it all goes to shit?”

“Okay, counter-offer.” He sat up straighter. “You tell him, or I will. I will walk down the hallway, knock on his door, and go ‘Hi, my best friend has feelings for you, she also has performance anxiety but can cook a great bowl of chicken noodle soup.’”

“You wouldn’t,” you hissed, swatting at his arm.

“Then do it yourself!” he laughed, dodging your attacks. “Before I start printing flyers and pasting them in the apartment lobby.”

God. Why did he always have to be right?

“Fine.”

Your hand was already on the doorknob, breath caught in your throat, just about to leave when the door across from yours had swung open at the exact same time.

And there he was.

Sunghoon.

You both froze, hands still gripping the doorknobs, blinking.

You cleared your throat first. “Sunghoon.”

He blinked like he hadn’t already been staring. “What?”

You squinted. “Is that the only word you know how to say when I call your name?”

He paused. “Sorry.”

You opened your mouth to say something else but were rudely interrupted by muffled snorts from behind Sunghoon. Jay and Jake’s heads popped out from their doorway like nosy meerkats.

“Hoon,” Jay said in a loud, exaggerated voice, “we need more eggs.”

“Desperately,” Jake added, nodding like this was a national emergency. “Go to the store.”

Then Jungwon peeked out from behind you with an equally suspicious grin. “Oh, and while you’re there, can you grab some ice cream too?”

You and Sunghoon looked at each other.

“What is happening right now,” you said flatly.

Before either of you could respond, four hands shoved the both of you toward the elevator. You stumbled in, the doors sliding shut just as Jay yelled out, “Don’t come back without snacks!”

The elevator stopped at your floor.

Your shoulders brushed as you stood side by side, awkwardly watching the floor numbers light up.

Then, finally, you broke it. “About that day—”

Sunghoon shook his head quickly. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t tell Jungwon.”

You blinked. “What do you mean you won’t tell Jungwon?”

He looked away. “Well, aren’t you like… crushing on him? I wouldn’t want what we did to, you know… ruin your chances or something.”

Your entire face scrunched up. “Won and I? What? Ew. God, no. We’re friends. We grew up together. Thinking about him that way would be like incest or something.”

And just like that, Sunghoon felt like he’d been hit by a shooting star and given a second chance at life. His heart did a full backflip. You were single. You were available. 

He couldn’t help it. He smiled.

“Why do you suddenly look so happy?” you asked, eyeing him suspiciously.

“I’m not.”

“You’re literally smiling.”

“I’m not.”

“We’ve hung out a couple of times and if I’m being honest, I’ve never seen you smile this—”

“Cut it out.” He tried to brush it off, biting back the grin. “I’m just glad.”

“Glad about?”

“Glad that I didn’t ruin your chances,” he said nonchalantly, looking up like he hadn’t just panicked thirty seconds ago.

“Mhm.” You narrowed your eyes at him, the golden-orange glow of the sunset casting warmth across his cheekbones. He was handsome. Frustratingly so. “Well… because I actually like this other guy.”

Sunghoon’s smile faltered.

“I haven’t known him that long,” you continued casually, “but he seems cool. I don’t really know much about him yet.”

“That’s… nice.” Sunghoon turned away quickly, jaw tight. He was definitely grimacing. Please don’t let her see that I’m grimacing, he begged internally.

“Yeah, he’s really tall. Really handsome, too.”

“That’s just…” he exhaled. “Great.”

“He doesn’t seem super friendly but he has a big heart. Even if he tries really hard not to show it.”

“Seems like a swell fuckin’ guy,” he muttered bitterly.

“It’s a pity though,” you sighed dramatically, still watching him. “I wish I could get to know him better.”

“Well… anyone’s lucky to get to know you.” He tried to smile. It didn’t reach his eyes. “I know I am.”

You tilted your head. “Not to mention… he lives really close to me.”

Sunghoon’s eyes darted to you. “He does?”

“Mhm.” You nodded, heartbeat accelerating.

“Like how close?”

You took a slow step toward him. “Like… just across the hall close.”

“Oh.” He blinked. “That close.”

Silence settled in the small elevator. You both just stood there, not looking at each other, tension hanging in the air like humidity.

Then, out of nowhere—

“I’m just saying,” Sunghoon said, dead serious, “but Jake sleeps with the lights on and Jay doesn’t wash his hair as often as you think he does.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“I sleep normal,” he added quickly. “I wash my hair. I do proper haircare—shampoo, conditioner, mask, mist. I could do your routine too. For you. If you want.”

You stared.

“I can’t cook, but I’ll try. I can figure skate. I can spin twice in the air. Jay and Jake? Not even one spin. Jay can play guitar, Jake can sing but I can spin, okay? Without getting dizzy too.”

“Sunghoon.”

“And those idiots never clean up after eating your food. Jay doesn’t use coasters. Jake never makes his bed.”

“SUNGHOON!”

He looked at you, breathless. “What?”

You stepped forward. Slowly. Then, you mumbled, “It’s you.”

He blinked. “What?”

“I like you.”

And for once, Park Sunghoon had absolutely nothing to say.

“Okay,” he said. “Cool. Okay. I—wow. Okay.”

You raised a brow. “That’s it?”

He nodded dumbly. “No. Yes. I don’t know. I just—holy shit. You like me.”

You smirked, the smile slowly stretching across your face. “Yes. I like you.”

The elevator dinged. Neither of you moved.

He looked at you again, still dazed. “Hold on, I kinda need a minute.”

You both stepped out into the empty lobby. The sun outside had just dipped below the skyline, casting a pinkish-orange glow through the glass doors. The streetlights flickered on. But you waited.

“It’s been a minute,” you said.

“I know,” he exhaled, hand raking through his hair. “But you like me back, so I kinda need, like… a long minute.”

“Back?” You grinned, the corners of your mouth lifting all the way to your eyes. “So you like me too?”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I thought it was obvious from the, uh… word vomit.”

“Well yeah,” you shrugged. “But I didn’t want to assume. Didn’t wanna be narcissistic.”

“I think even if you were,” he muttered, “I’d still think you were pretty cute.”

You blinked. “Did you just—”

“Gross, I know,” he said quickly, face flushing. “I just said that out loud, didn’t I?”

You laughed. “Yeah. But you kinda can’t take it back now.”

“Fine,” he said, pretending to groan. “You’re cute. Ugh. I said it again.”

-

A MONTH LATER

Jay and Jake found it fundamentally unfair. They were the ones who got close to you first. They were the ones who complimented you, made you laugh, showed up when you needed help. They loved you first or at least, that’s what they told themselves. But here you were, doors locked for the first time in three months, cooking a full-course meal for Sunghoon to celebrate your one-month anniversary.

“You’re not allowed to come,” Sunghoon told them flatly before slamming the door shut.

“But—!” they shouted in unison, already mourning the steak they wouldn’t get to taste.

Word on the hallway was that you were cooking the perfect medium-rare T-bone steak, paired with your signature brown sauce and a vegetable medley so crunchy and flavourful. Meanwhile, Jay and Jake sat hunched on the couch, scrolling through a food delivery app.

“Isn’t it funny,” Jake said, arms folded, “how we were the ones who befriended her first, and now we’re stuck with Burger King?”

“Life’s unfair, bud.”

Back in your apartment, things were a little more romantic. You’d decorated with fairy lights and candles, the room dimly lit. You were still being frugal, splitting every cost you could. But you’d managed to steal two T-bone steaks from the diner you part-timed at.

Sunghoon showed up in a black and white tuxedo, looking like he’d taken the prom theme you had placed as a joke a little too seriously.

“You look absolutely gorgeous,” he said, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek.

“And you look absolutely handsome,” you grinned.

He walked over to the table and took in the spread. “Okay, what do we have?”

“I made the steaks, obviously, and then there’s the vegetable medley… and your favourite—mashed potatoes,” you giggled.

Sunghoon exhaled, shaking his head with a disbelieving smile. “How did I get so lucky?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know either.”

He laughed. “The guys are pissed, by the way. You made me all this, and they’re over there with cold fries.”

“What?” you said, surprised. “I made them something too! Don’t worry.”

“You did?” he raised a brow.

“I had a feeling they’d be hungry if you were over here.”

“Babe, you didn’t have to do that. They’re grown men.”

“Yeah, but technically my assignment this week was pasta and I have too many leftovers.”

“They’re spoiled by you.”

“And so are you.”

“True, but I’m your boyfriend. They’re just two annoying shitheads constantly trying to butt in.”

“I’ll be quick. I’ll just drop the dish off and come back.”

“No,” he said, standing. “I’ll do it. You stay here.”

He kissed your forehead, grabbing the lasagna you’d tucked into the fridge. “You’re too sweet, you know that?”

“He walked across the hall and opened the door to Unit 3C.

Inside, Jay was mid-rant. “I just don’t get it. Sunghoon isn’t even that hot.”

“I mean, he is,” Jake added, “but she deserves better, you know?”

Sunghoon cleared his throat. “I can hear you two idiots.”

They both froze, turning around sheepishly. “We were just joking. We love you, man.”

He held up the dish. “And to think I came here bearing gifts from my girlfriend.”

Jake’s eyes widened. “Wait—is that lasagna?”

“She felt bad we were eating good without you, so she made you dinner.”

“Oh my god,” Jay gasped. “Sunghoon, I don’t mean to be pushy, but please marry her.”

“I can’t,” Sunghoon muttered. “Not when you two are constantly inserting yourselves into my relationship.”

“Okay, okay, we’ll back off. Just—can we have the lasagna?”

“And can you tell her we love her?”

“I am not telling my girlfriend you love her,” Sunghoon snapped. “I’ve barely worked up the nerve to tell her that myself.”

“Wait,” Jake said suddenly, “you haven’t told her you love her yet?”

“It’s only been a month.”

“So… you don’t love her?”

“I do,” Sunghoon replied, almost too quickly. “I just don’t want to come on too strong if she’s not ready.”

Jay and Jake shared a glance before shrugging.

“What?” Sunghoon asked, frowning. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

Jake cleared his throat. “It’s just… she already said it.”

Sunghoon looked up. “What?”

“Yeah,” Jake replied casually. “You texted her about picking up those heat packs for her cramps, and she went all soft and whispered, ‘God, I love him so much.’ Her words. Not mine.”

Sunghoon stood frozen in the doorway, the dish in his hands suddenly weightless.

You loved him.

“So… you’re saying I should tell her?” he asked, voice quiet, almost unsure.

Jay and Jake both nodded enthusiastically. “Definitely. Especially if it makes her our sister-in-law,” Jay added, grinning.

Sunghoon rolled his eyes. “God, the two of you can be so annoying.”

“But you still love us,” Jay shrugged. “So what’s the point of complaining?”

He hated that Jay was right.

Back in your apartment, Sunghoon sat across from you, completely transfixed. You were dressed in a soft pink satin dress that shimmered every time you moved. It hugged your shoulders delicately, the neckline simple, elegant. Your hair was curled softly, pinned loosely on one side with a vintage clip, and your lips were glossed just enough to make him stare longer than he should’ve.

And God, you looked so beautiful.

He tried to pay attention. He really did. But his heart was too loud, his thoughts too full. How was he supposed to say it?

Sunghoon had never told anyone he loved them before. Not seriously. Maybe to his mom years ago, right before he left for the city. But this? This felt entirely new.

Because sitting in front of him was someone who made every quiet part of his life feel loud again. You filled in the spaces he didn’t even know were missing. You made his apartment feel less cold, his world a little less grey. And the way he loved you—God, it wasn’t something small. It wasn’t a flicker or a passing crush. It was all-consuming and terrifying and the best damn thing he’d ever felt.

He loved you like it was muscle memory. Like even if he forgot everything else, his hands would still reach for yours and only yours.

“Hoonie,” you interrupted gently, frowning. “You’re not listening.”

He blinked back into focus. “Sorry,” he murmured, smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was just thinking about something.”

“What?” you looked up at him, ur big eyes shining. 

Sunghoon unknowingly smiled, his eyes dripping with honey, god he loved you. He wanted to say that. So badly.

“I…I just–uh–feel…that,” His voice trailed off. “You look really beautiful tonight. I mean, you always do. But especially tonight.” He hesitated, the words stuck behind his teeth.

You smiled. “Thank you. You look very handsome too.”

-

Later that night, the two of you were in Sunghoon’s apartment along with Jay and Jake for the usual game night. 

You were sitting cross-legged on the floor, your prom-night dress bunched awkwardly around your knees, mascara slightly smudged from earlier laughter, hair pinned half-up. Sunghoon sat slouched in the beanbag beside you, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed in concentration. Jake was lying on his stomach, legs swinging in the air, and Jay had somehow made himself horizontal on the couch.

You and Jake were a team. Sunghoon and Jay were not handling that well.

“Revive me!” Sunghoon yelled.

Jay shouted back, “I’m busy trying not to die, dumbass!”

Button mashing intensified. Trash talk flew across the room.

“VICTORY!” Jake screamed, leaping up like a madman.

You followed suit, springing to your feet and clambering up onto the coffee table in your dress. “GET WRECKED, LOSERS!” you yelled, pointing dramatically at Sunghoon. “THAT’S RIGHT, LOSERS!”

Jake joined you on the table, doing a badly timed robot dance. The two of you jumped in sync, yelling in triumph, while Jay groaned into a throw pillow and Sunghoon watched with a hand covering his mouth, half to hide his smile, half to suppress a laugh.

“You’re all bark, no bite!” you called, face flushed, hair falling loose. “Your character died fourteen times, Hoonie.”

“I let you win!” he shot back, grinning as he sat up straighter. “I was being a gentleman.”

“Sure,” you scoffed, sticking your tongue out at him. “Real chivalrous of you, sir died-14-fucking-times.”

He chuckled under his breath, eyes lingering on you for a second longer than usual. Then, without a word, he stood and walked out of the room.

You blinked. That was...odd. 

You gave Jake a gentle shove off the table and followed Sunghoon into the hallway. He was pacing outside, one hand in his hair, the other fiddling with the watch on his wrist.

“Hoon?” you asked, stepping out and gently closing the door behind you.

He jumped slightly, turning toward you. “You scared me.”

“You okay? You just left so sudden…”

“I—uh—yeah. I was just trying to figure out how to say something.”

You tilted your head, arms crossing over your chest. “Say what?”

“Nothing,” he mumbled with a shrug.

Your expression softened. “Are you mad at me?” You sighed. Maybe your little victory dance had been a bit much. “Hoonie?”

“No, baby, I could never be mad at you,” he said quickly, leaning down to press a kiss to your forehead.

“Then what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just…”

You stepped closer, teasing lightly, “Do you want me to redo my victory dance? I could. You just have to beatbox, and I’ll take it from there.”

That made him laugh.

“Come on,” you grinned, starting to move your body in the most ridiculous way. “I’m pretty sure I should’ve been a dancer instead of a chef.”

He laughed again, this time louder and then, before he could stop himself, the words slipped out.

“Oh my god, I love you.”

You blinked. Your smile faded. Your brain, for one impossible second, completely short-circuited.

“Did you just say you love me?” you asked, heart hammering.

His eyes widened in sheer panic. “No?”

“I heard it.”

“You misheard.”

“Oh my god,” you gasped, practically vibrating. “You love me. You love me!”

“Fine!” he burst out, throwing his hands up like he was under arrest. “I do! I love you, okay?”

You smiled, “You do?”

“Of course! I love the way you talk too fast when you’re excited. I love how you make my idiot friends feel like they matter. I love that you make me feel whole. That when I’m with you, I don’t feel hollow anymore. You… you make me feel like I’m not empty.”

You grinned so wide it hurt. “That’s because you’re not.”

“I used to be,” he said helplessly, gesturing vaguely like he was mourning his past self. “I was mysterious. Brooding. Sexy, even. And now? Now I smile at cat videos you send me on TikTok. Look what you’ve done to me. This is all your fault.”

You scoffed, “My fault?”

“Yes! Who else could it be?” he said, breathless, like the truth had been waiting at the edge of his tongue for too long. “You walk into my life with that stupidly perfect smile, that laugh that makes everything feel lighter, those eyes that somehow hold the whole damn sky and now I’ve got feelings. Big ones.”

He took a shaky breath, pausing for a minute.

“I used to think I was fine on my own. But now? I get out of bed just because I know I might see you. I hear your knock and my whole day lights up. For the first time, I feel like I know what living really means. It’s you. Loving you. That’s it.”

You leaned in and kissed him right in the middle of his rant.

He blinked, dazed.

“You sure talk a lot for someone who usually says nothing,” you murmured, forehead resting against his.

“I do it when I’m nervous,” Sunghoon whispered, and then kissed you again.

“I find it cute,” you mumbled between kisses.

Sunghoon grinned into the next kiss, backing you up step by step toward your apartment door, his hands finding your waist. “God,” kiss “I love you,” another kiss “so much.”

You let out a breathless laugh. “You’re very handsy for someone who claimed to be brooding and mysteriou.”

“I told you,” he whispered, lips brushing your jaw as he reached behind you, fumbling for the door handle, “you ruined me.”

Your back hit the door with a thud. He fumbled with the knob like he was drunk on you, eventually pushing it open and guiding you inside.

He kicked the door shut with the back of his foot.

You were still laughing into his kiss. He walked you backward until your knees hit the bed and you dropped onto it with a squeak.

He climbed over you, hands on either side of your waist, face flushed, heart in his throat.

“I fucking love you,” he said again, like it wasn’t real until he repeated it.

Unlucky with money, unlucky in your love life, unlucky in your sex life too, which felt like a cruel fucking trifecta to kick off 2026.

As if the universe had taken one look at you and decided to stack the odds just to see how much you could take before cracking. You rang in the new year under the table eating grapes, promising yourself things would get better even though you didn't really believe it, because every year started the same way—broke, tired, horny, and stuck pretending you had your shit together when you absolutely didn't.

Well... this year, your varsity scholarship barely did more than keep you enrolled, covering tuition and some little allowance, nothing else, which meant every other expense came straight out of your pocket, and college was already draining you dry without rent, utilities, groceries, and all the other bullshit that came with trying to survive in the city.

You worked your ass off, trained until your muscles screamed, counted every dollar like it might disappear if you didn't watch it closely enough, and still it never felt like enough, the numbers never quite lining up no matter how careful you were. Living alone had been a nice idea, but it died fast once you actually looked at the prices, reality slapping you hard enough that you didn't bother pretending anymore.

That was how you ended up scanning roommate listings with a pit in your stomach, sitting through awkward interviews, nodding politely while doing mental math in your head, telling yourself you could deal with almost anyone if it meant splitting the bills and not drowning.

That was how you ended up with a roommate. Andddd your roommate was a boy named Sim Jaeyun.

"Is he like so handsome and hot?" Karina yelled as she spiked the ball straight at you, and you dropped to your knees on the covered court to receive it. "Most people fall in love with their roommates! Take it as a chance—remember when Coach made you eat grapes under the table during New Year's? They said you'd meet your true love within the year. It's a sign!"

No. What the fuck.

Because Sim Jaeyun was... different, and that was putting it nicely. Geeky was the first word that always popped into your head whenever you thought about him, followed closely by awkward as hell, because the first time you met him during that short, painfully quiet interview, he stuttered through half his sentences and wouldn't stop fidgeting with his hands like they had a mind of their own, tapping, twisting, pulling at his sleeves until you wondered if he was going to vibrate right out of the chair.

Still, annoyingly enough, he was better than most of the people who applied—clean record, stable background, no weird red flags on paper—which was how he made the cut despite the whole mess of nerves.

The first week really sealed it for you, though, because when you came back from training one night, you found him sprawled on the living room floor for hours, surrounded by Lego pieces, carefully snapping them together with this intense focus, and you just stood there for a moment, eyebrow twitching, face twisting before you could stop yourself. You weren't trying to be judgmental—at least that's what you told yourself—but watching a grown man play with Legos like that weirded you the fuck out, and the word loser lodged itself in your brain whether you liked it or not.

Sometimes you'd pass by his room and sneak a glance inside, catching sight of his tiny model cars lined up neatly on a shelf, perfectly arranged, and every time it made your stomach tighten with secondhand embarrassment, because this was the guy you were stuck sharing a space with, the supposed "true love" the universe was trying to shove into your life, and you already knew there was no fucking way.

"Come on, tell me more about this roommate of yours, why are you so quiet about it? It's been like five months," Karina laughed, and you couldn't help yourself as you spiked the ball straight toward her face, irritation snapping through your arm, only for her to catch it effortlessly and fling it right back at you like it was nothing.

You scoffed as you received it, rolling your shoulders, already annoyed at how easily she brushed you off.

"It's nothing special like you're trying to romanticize, okay?" you shot back. "All I know is he's an engineering major with this weird-ass Lego and tiny car obsession, and whenever he actually talks—which is rare as hell—it's always about practical shit like the rent, the electricity bill, or some absentminded 'hi' if we happen to cross paths at the exact right second."

"Oooh, a nerdy type?" Karina teased, eyes lighting up as she bounced on her feet, clearly enjoying this way too much. "So he's not that talkative? Why don't you try asking him more?"

"Why would I?" you shot back, eyebrow lifting just as the shrill sound of the coach's whistle cut through the air, making both of you snap your heads toward the court as he signaled for a break.

You grabbed your towel and water bottle, walking alongside Karina toward the bench, sweat clinging to your skin while she kept running her mouth like she always did.  "Because it's for the thrill," she continued, lowering her voice only slightly, hands hovering in the air as if she were pitching some grand idea. "I mean, you literally told us you want to get laid but you don't do hookups, so hello? The opportunity is right there in your fucking apartment. Grab it. So you don't have to masturbate all the time."

"Jesus, no," you muttered, unscrewing your bottle and taking a long drink, water spilling down your chin as you scoffed. "I bet that man is a fucking virgin," you added without hesitation, already pushing off the bench and heading back toward the court as the break ended, trying to leave the whole conversation behind with your towel tossed over your shoulder.

"And what if he was?" Karina shouted after you. "Are you not curious at all? You're not even talking about it, and it's a man. It's a big deal!"

You clenched your jaw as you took your position, telling yourself to shut it out, to focus on the ball, the court, the rhythm of your body moving the way it always had, but her words slipped under your skin anyway.

It wasn't like Sim Jaeyun—Jake, as he awkwardly introduced himself—was unattractive, and that realization annoyed you even more, because technically, objectively, he had the kind of face people trusted without thinking twice. Innocent-looking, pale skin that never seemed to tan no matter how much time passed, a pointed nose, plump lips that curved into an almost shy smile, and those stupid braces flashing whenever he talked about something painfully mundane like daily water consumption, as if that was the most important thing in the world.

And fuck, speaking of masturbation, that thought made you shift uncomfortably because you did it—a lot—at least you used to, but somewhere along the line it had stopped, and you couldn't even pinpoint when or why. Maybe it was the brutal training schedule, the constant exhaustion, your body collapsing into bed every night without energy for anything else, or maybe it was the fact that you were now living with a boy, his quiet presence seeping into your routines in ways you didn't want to think about too closely... wait NO, you were not going to let Karina's words worm their way into your head, not when you had bigger priorities, like finally getting some long-overdue "me time" with your own body. You'd barely had the space to breathe, let alone touch yourself properly, and now there was the added complication of sharing an apartment with a guy.

Thin walls, shared spaces, the constant awareness that someone else existed just a few steps away made everything feel awkward and exposed, like privacy had become this fragile thing you had to tiptoe around. But then... why the fuck were you letting his weird shy-boy aura control what you did with your own body in your own apartment? Get a grip. It was 2026, for fuck's sake, and women didn't have to shrink themselves or pretend they didn't have needs, didn't want pleasure, didn't get horny. It wasn't embarrassing to want it, to crave it, to take care of yourself, and you refused to feel guilty about it. You decided right then that you were masturbating tonight, no excuses, no letting some awkward roommate situation dictate your life.

When you got home, you dumped your bag by the door and locked yourself in your room, kicking off your shoes and collapsing onto the bed, trying to force your muscles to relax and your mind to shut the hell up.

Jake was just some innocent presence in your thoughts, nothing more, but... maybe he really was some timid little virgin. He was so damn quiet, so careful, that doing something dirty under the same roof almost felt wrong, like you were corrupting the space just by wanting it. And of course, the more you tried not to think about him, the more firmly he lodged himself in your head, sooo stubborn and intrusive.

"Shit," you breathed, shifting on the bed as your fingers slid between your thighs, touching yourself slowly. "Stop thinking, stop thinking, fuck," you whispered, eyes squeezing shut, but the moment you did, your brain betrayed you, flashing an image of him sitting in the living room, hunched over his stupid Lego sets, completely absorbed and unaware.

Your eyes flew open when you felt how wet you were getting, heat pooling low in your belly, because suddenly the idea of getting off in the same space where he always sat, that couch where he spent hours building his little towers, started to turn you on. You imagined yourself sprawled there instead, hand buried between your thighs, touching yourself openly while he sat just a few feet away, quiet and focused, oblivious or maybe not, and the image sent a dirty thrill through you that made your breath hitch. What the fuck?!

"Weirdo," you thought, jaw tightening as your fingers moved faster. You're a fucking weirdo, and yet you didn't stop, didn't pull your hand away, because your body didn't give a shit about shame.

You let out a soft, broken sound as your hand finally slid where the tension had been coiling all night, nudging your underwear aside, your pulse spiking when your brain betrayed you again with the idea of him noticing, of him catching you in the act, the possibility alone pouring gasoline on an already reckless fire. You couldn't stop imagining his reaction if he walked in and saw you sprawled on the couch, touching yourself without shame—eyes blown wide, jaw slack, stuttering over some useless apology while his ears burned red—or worse, the thought that he wouldn't even realize what you were doing, that he'd sit there beside you completely oblivious while your body unraveled, sent an uneasy shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with pleasure.

Dude? You barely even talked to him. You shared a space, not a life, and your brain choosing this to fixate on made you feel unhinged in the most irritating way.

"Shit," you muttered out loud, dragging yourself back into reality when a sudden noise broke through your haze. Some kind of rummaging echoing from outside your room.

Your eyebrows knitted together in irritation as you shoved yourself off the bed, fixing your clothes, wiping your hands and padded across the floor. When you opened the door and stepped into the living room, the sight waiting for you, Jake was face down on the floor, his arms spread out. And circling nearby, bumping into his side, was a little round vacuum robot, whirring around.

This was it. This was the image your brain had been spiraling over all night. You stared at him for a long second, annoyance with disbelief, and the tension draining out of you in one sharp exhale. What a fucking loser.

"Uhh, hey," you said. You walked a little closer, looking down at him with your arms crossed. "Are you okay?" Your eyes flicked toward the robot, then back to him. "Where the hell did that come from?"

Jake pushed himself up on his elbows, his hair messy and sticking to his forehead, his glasses tilted crooked on his face. His cheeks were red—whether from embarrassment or just hitting the floor, you couldn't tell. "Ah... uh... my friend gave it to me," he muttered quickly. He didn't look up at you once, his eyes glued to the floor as if meeting your gaze would make him combust. "I-It's, uh... I fixed it. There's still an error but... uhhh, it would help us clean... you know."

You narrowed your eyes at the little robot, watching it bump clumsily against the leg of the table, circle around for a second, and then slam itself into the same spot again.

"Uh... I thought these things were supposed to, like, go the other way when they hit something?" You raised your eyebrow, arms folded as you leaned against the wall, still focused on the thing rolling around.

"It's still not fixed," Jake admitted under his breath, his tone shrinking down even more. He sat himself upright, knees bent, scratching at the back of his head. "W-Wait, I... I'll just turn it off."

You watched him scramble toward the robot, his movements frantic, It almost made you laugh, how hard he tried not to fuck up while he was clearly already fucking up. His shoulders were tense, his breath a little quick, and you could practically feel how badly he wanted this scene to end and you thought he was some kind of idiot.

The thing was, after that day, your eyes didn't really stop following him.

Okaaay, it was nothing, just the result of sharing the same damn space with another person, bound to notice shit when you lived under the same roof, and if anyone was to blame, it was Karina and her big mouth planting stupid ideas in your head. Still, it felt like some traitorous part of your brain had started recording him without permission, filing away details you had no reason to care about, noticing patterns you definitely didn't ask for.

In the mornings, when you dragged yourself out of bed half-dead and sore, there he was in the kitchen, quiet as always, pouring chocolate almond milk into a mug and sipping it like some kind of kid who never grew out of comfort drinks. No coffee, no energy drink, no caffeine-fueled desperation like a normal college student, just fucking chocolate almond milk, and it made you wrinkle your nose every time because who the hell does that and survives?

When you mentioned it to Karina one day during warm-ups, she didn't even hesitate. "Okay, I bet his cum tastes good," she said casually, and you stopped mid–jumping jack, staring at her like she'd lost her goddamn mind, heat crawling up your neck despite yourself.

That was also when you started noticing his schedule, because it was painfully predictable in a way that almost felt unsettling. Out of the apartment by eight, back by five, every single day, like his life ran on rails and deviation wasn't an option, and when you realized he actually went to bed at eight in the fucking evening, you nearly laughed out loud. Nobody did that. Nobody except him, apparently, which finally explained why the apartment was always dark and dead silent when you stumbled home late, and why that stupid little sign taped to the wall—Please don't turn the lights on—existed at all. He actually lived by that shit!

"Isn't he so cute and healthy?!" Karina cooed the second you mentioned it, pinching your cheeks between her fingers like you were some kind of toy, and you immediately scoffed, swatting her hand away with a slap. She laughed, completely unfazed, while you rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, already regretting ever opening your mouth in the first place.

You were absolutely going to blame her for all of this, because if she hadn't started running her mouth about your roommate like he was some kind of rare fucking specimen, none of these thoughts would've taken root. What was so malicious about having a boy roommate anyway? It wasn't a love story, it wasn't fate, it wasn't some goddamn porn plot waiting to happen— and you were getting real tired of your own brain trying to spin it into something bigger than it was, especially when you were flat on your back staring at the ceiling, hands resting on your stomach, forcing yourself to breathe like everything was normal.

"Uh... h-hello..." Three soft knocks landed on your door, followed by another quiet, hesitant "hi," and your chest tightened instantly, irritation floating with the fact that of course it had to be him, the very devil that had been squatting in your thoughts nonstop.

You sighed, staring up at the ceiling for a beat longer like maybe ignoring him would make him disappear, but then another knock came, a little firmer this time, and your eyebrow twitched as annoyance finally won out. You sat up with a sharp movement, clicked your tongue, and stood, swinging the door open hard, only to be met with Jake standing there with his shoulders hunched in that familiar way, back slightly scrunched, an awkward smile tugging at his lips.

"Hi..." he mumble as he scratched at the back of his neck, and your eyes dropped immediately, not out of kindness but because you didn't feel like dealing with his face yet, landing instead on his feet.

Dinosaur slippers. Bright, stupid dinosaur slippers, tapping softly against the floor as he shifted his weight.

"I-I wanted to give you the advance payment... u-uh..." he trailed off, fumbling with something in his hands, and you just stood there, watching him struggle.

He finally managed to hold it out to you, bills slightly wrinkled, that same awkward smile glued to his lips, and your eyes betrayed you by drifting up instead of staying where they should've been. Pointed nose, plump lips, the shine of his braces catching the light when he swallowed nervously—fuck, this was absolutely Karina's fault, because somehow, without warning, he looked more attractive than he ever had before.

"Jake," you said, scratching at your ear and straightening your posture, refusing to look directly at him as you took the money from his hand, your fingers brushing his for half a second too long, your heartbeat kicking stupidly hard at the contact.

"Hm?" he responded softly, and you bit your lip, finally lifting your gaze to him, your brain screaming at you to shut up while your mouth had other plans. Ask him something normal... just a question— casual, harmless question— because you were only... a little interested, and that didn't mean shit.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" The words slipped out before you could stop them, blunt and way too direct, and you mentally slapped yourself immediately, because great, now you sounded like the weird one.

"H-huh?" His face went red almost instantly, color blooming across his cheeks as he fumbled with the fabric of his pajama pants, wiping his hands over and over. "I—I don't have..." he said quietly, trailing off as if the sentence itself embarrassed him.

You pressed your lips together and looked away, nodding like that was nothing to react to, crossing your arms and staring down at the floor before glancing back up at him again. "You haven't had anyone?" Fuck, stupid, dumb decision! You cursed yourself again, because apparently you'd lost all sense tonight.

"Uh... I had one b-back in high school," he admitted, eyes still avoiding yours. "But it didn't work."

"Ah," you nodded, forcing a neutral tone you didn't entirely feel, shifting your weight as you stood there in the doorway with money in your hand, suddenly aware that what started as an annoying, harmless question had cracked something open, and now neither of you seemed quite sure how to close it again.

You weren't even sure how you managed to fall asleep that night, because the embarrassment clung to you heavier than exhaustion ever did, replaying the scene over and over until your head hurt. When morning came, you stayed in your room longer than usual, listening for movement outside, making damn sure he wasn't in the living room or the kitchen or anywhere you might accidentally run into him, because the thought of seeing his face after that made your stomach knot. You slipped out only when the apartment was quiet, grabbing your things and leaving like a coward.

Stupid. Idiot. So fucking dumb. You and him barely talked, and suddenly you were asking personal questions like you had any right to them. What the hell would he think? That you were weird? Desperate? Bored? You groaned to yourself, dragging a hand down your face as you walked, already hating how much space the whole thing was taking up in your head.

"This is all your fault," you snapped later, shoving Karina's shoulder as you told her what happened, only for her to burst out laughing.

"Admit it," she said, grinning wide. "You're interested. I mean, something pushed you to talk to him and even ask personal shit."

"It wouldn't be like that if you weren't planting ideas in my head," you hissed back, glaring at her, pointing at your head.

"Oh, dear, dear," she mocked, shaking her head as she leaned in and traced stupid little hearts over your chest with her finger. "You wouldn't be affected at all if it wasn't already there. Stop denying it and just accept it fully."

"Let's think about progress," she continued, clearly enjoying this way too much. "Next time, talk to him more. Ask what songs he listens to, what food he likes—"

"Shut up," you cut in immediately, heat crawling up your neck as you folded your arms tighter. "It's embarrassing."

"No. Listen to me," Karina said, grabbing your shoulder and physically turning you back toward her like she wasn't about to let you escape this. "He's single. And I swear I don't even know him, but from everything you've told me, he's perfect for you. When you see him, don't act all awkward and twitchy. Be confident. Stand straight. Shoulders back. Don't cross your arms like you're about to fight someone." She started counting on her fingers. "Maintain eye contact—even though he won't, that's your advantage. Smile a little. Ask him something normal, like what he's working on, or why he drinks chocolate almond milk, or anything. And if he stutters? Don't jump in. Let him finish. Let him drown a little."

You stared at her with your lips pursed, face twisted in pure secondhand embarrassment. "And why exactly should I listen to you?"

"Because I'm right," she said instantly. Then she tilted her head, eyes narrowing. "Is he your type or not?"

You swallowed. "No. What the fuck."

She didn't miss a beat. "But would you fuck him?"

Silence, your brain running in useless circles while Karina just watched you like she already knew the answer. You exhaled slowly, shoulders sagging. "...Why... not," you muttered.

You hated how much her words stuck with you, hated how they pushed at something you'd been trying to ignore, because when you got home from practice later that evening, there he was in the living room.

Jake was sitting on the floor, legs folded awkwardly as he unscrewed the little vacuum robot, fiddling with its insides before setting it down and watching it.

The moment it rolled in your direction, you saw him stiffen, shoulders tightening before he forced that same awkward smile onto his face.

You paused, heart thudding harder than necessary, Karina's voice echoing in your head, and forced yourself to do exactly what she'd said. You lifted your chin, met his eyes even when he almost looked away, and spoke first.

"Hi," you said, steadying your voice as you held the eye contact.

"Hi," he replied softly, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed, hands hovering uselessly near the robot.

Your gaze drifted to the little vacuum circling around aimlessly, bumping once against the wall before correcting itself. "...So it's fixed now?" you asked casually, even as you swallowed the lump forming in your throat.

"Y-Yeah," he nodded quickly. "D-Don't worry, it's just a battery issue. It w-won't affect the electric bill."

Of course that was his first concern. You huffed internally, dropped your bag onto the table, and before you could overthink it, you walked straight over and sat down next to him on the floor. Close. He stiffened instantly, shoulders locking up as he subtly scooted a few inches away, trying—and failing—to make it look natural.

"Have you had dinner?" you asked, keeping your tone light, like Karina's voice wasn't screaming instructions in your head. "I was thinking of ordering something. You wanna check?"

Normal. This was normal. Roommates did this shit all the time. It wasn't weird unless someone made it weird.

"Uh—I already a-ate—"

"What about chicken?" you cut, sitting up straighter as you scrolled through your phone and angled it toward him, a poor excuse to lean closer. "Or burgers? Wait—shit, I'm actually on a diet right now. Are you okay with veggies?"

You waited, and... nothing. When you finally looked at him, you realized he was barely breathing, blinking like he'd forgotten how, eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder like looking at you directly might short-circuit him. "Uh... I already ate," he repeated, voice dropping smaller.

"Oh."

Before you could recover, he stood abruptly, movement jerky, still refusing to meet your eyes as he pointed vaguely toward his room. "I—I need to, uh... I have something to do," he said, bowing slightly out of pure habit before retreating, the door opening and closing with a soft final click.

You stared at the door for a long second before letting your phone drop onto the table, sinking back with a long sigh. Fuck. That went great.

"Maybe he just got overwhelmed?" Karina said the next day, eyebrows raised as she watched you slump forward, elbows on your knees, retelling the disaster. "You did tell me you kind of talk a lot. Or he's just shy as hell."

"What if he thinks I'm weird?" you muttered, rubbing a hand over your face, trying to replay everything from his side.

"No," she said immediately. "Absolutely not. We will try again. Casual questions only. Like... ask about the weather. It's raining today, right?"

And you did. You actually tried. You walked fast all the way home, phone clutched in your hand as you kept checking the time, timing it just right for when Jake was usually in the living room. 6:39 p.m. You fumbled with your keys, nearly tripping over your own feet as you pushed the door open, breath a little too rushed, and thank fuck—there he was, sitting on the couch, eyes glued to the TV.

You pretended to stretch your shoulders as you stepped inside, rolling your neck like you were just another exhausted student coming home, your jersey lifting slightly and revealing more of your black shorts than necessary.

"It's so rainy, fuck," you complained aloud. "I didn't bring an umbrella, so I ran all the way from the university. God, my body hurts," you added, letting out a small groan with your eyes closed, even though it was a lie—you ran because training went overtime and because you didn't want to miss another chance to talk to him.

Silence.

When he didn't respond, you cracked one eye open, then the other, glancing toward him only to find him still completely fixated on the TV, posture relaxed, attention fully absorbed. Your mouth fell open slightly, irritation bubbling up, and when you drifted a little closer to your room under the excuse of passing by. That was when you finally caught what he was watching—some kind of documentary, planets and stars filling the screen, a calm narrator talking about galaxies, gravity, and shit you barely remembered from high school.

You paused, blinking. Seriously? This was his way of relaxing? Sitting there quietly, absorbing new information like it was entertainment? You scoffed under your breath, suddenly feeling stupid, because now talking about the weather felt painfully dumb in comparison, like small talk he wouldn't even care about. Without another word, you turned and went into your room, shutting the door a little harder and dropping onto your bed before forcing yourself to open your notes and study for quizzes you barely cared about.

"Don't give up," Karina said firmly, gripping your shoulders when you sagged forward on the bench, this rare break finally giving you room to breathe after weeks of nonstop training with the city-wide university tournament looming over your head.

"He can barely look at me," you snapped, pointing at yourself, teeth gritted in frustration.

"Because you're too hot and beautiful," she shot back without missing a beat. "He's overwhelmed. He's probably thinking you're so so hot that his brain is literally short-circuiting every time you talk to him. Think about it—it's been a long time since his last relationship." She smoothed your hair like she was calming a feral animal, tone softening.

You both went quiet after that, and you stared off to the side, chewing on the thought despite yourself. Right. Maybe he really was just awkward because it'd been a long time. Maybe you were coming on too strong without realizing it. You needed to be subtle, calmer, casual, like you didn't give a shit even if part of you very clearly did. Play it cool.

That night, you came home with two cups of ramen swinging lightly from your hand, your chest rose and fell from the walk up the stairs, shoulders finally dropping in relief when you stepped inside and saw Jake in the living room. He was crouched on the floor again, tools scattered around him as he fiddled with another robot you'd never seen before, while the stupid circular vacuum from before rolled lazily around the room.

"Hi," you said, still catching your breath.

He looked up at you, eyes wide and innocent for half a second before that familiar awkward smile kicked in, forced and shy all at once, and fuck, the sight of it irritated you because he was unfairly cute in a way that made no sense. "Hi," he replied softly.

You lifted the two ramen cups and walked toward the table, setting your bag down as casually as you could manage. "I bought two," you said, shrugging like it was no big deal. "Got my daily sports allowance and wanted to treat myself... then I thought of you." You shuffled the plastic lids, pretending to be more focused on that than the way his attention locked onto you. "You're probably hungry, right?"

You didn't wait for his answer. You slid one of the ramen cups toward him and finally met his eyes, holding his gaze just long enough to make your point clear without saying it outright, your mouth curling into a small smile. "...Right?"

"U-Uh... t-thank you," he whispered as he shrank in on himself, shoulders curling forward while he opened the container. He flashed you that same awkward, almost childish smile again, and fuck, he's really really so cute.

You sat across from him at the table, the two of you eating in silence, the only sounds the soft slurp of noodles and the faint hum of the appliances around you. You poked at your ramen with your chopsticks more than you actually ate, stealing glances at him while he chewed, trying to find an opening that didn't feel forced, something that wouldn't send him running again. "Soo..." you started, dragging the word out like a test. "You're a scholar too?"

Jake nodded before he even spoke, eyes lifting briefly before darting away again. "Yes," he said.

You nodded back like you were genuinely interested, leaning your elbow on the table. "How much allowance do they give you?" you asked. "Or is it the same as mine? I heard academic scholars can apply outside the university too, like government stuff."

He nodded again, eyes flicking up to you for half a second before he went back to biting his noodles, slurping softly like that was easier than talking. You kept going anyway, because silence made your skin crawl. "Sometimes I wish I was smart instead of just... sport-inclined," you admitted with a half-laugh, slumping your shoulders for emphasis. "Like, what the hell am I supposed to do after I decide I'm done with volleyball?"

You looked at him, waiting, hoping, and the silence stretched out so long it felt loud, ringing in your ears until you swore you could hear imaginary crickets chirping in your head. Embarrassment crept up your neck, heat blooming as you realized this was it again—you talking, oversharing, filling space while he stayed quiet.

"I'm done for now," you said abruptly, clacking your chopsticks against the plastic before snapping the lid shut, forcing a smile that felt stiff on your face. You stood, shoved the ramen into the fridge with more force and retreated to your room, closing the door behind you.

Bitch, you thought, dropping onto your bed and staring at the ceiling. All you ever do is embarrass yourself!

The next morning, Sunday dragged itself, and the only thing on your schedule was volleyball training, which somehow made it worse. Your body ached in that familiar, dull way, muscles stiff and protesting as you forced yourself out of bed and into the living room to pack your bag, movements sluggish. You were halfway through shoving your gear inside when you realized the bathroom door was open, steam drifting lazily into the hallway, and you froze mid-motion when he stepped out.

Jake stood there with a towel slung over his shoulder, hair still damp and sticking up in odd places, dressed in his usual comfortable home clothes like it was any other morning, and for a split second your brain short-circuited. What the hell? It was Sunday. He never woke up early on Sundays!

The sight of him caught you so off guard that your mouth moved before your thoughts caught up. "A-Are you done?" you asked, forcing a stiff smile and immediately wanting to slap yourself for stuttering like an idiot.

He nodded, eyes sliding away from yours almost instantly, stepping past you with that small, polite bow he always did. The air felt weirdly tight after he passed, and you stood there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at the bathroom door.

By the time you were on the court with Karina, dropping your bag down beside hers and joining her for stretches. "I swear he's not interested," you muttered, brow scrunched as you stretched out your legs. "I might just give up."

"Wow," Karina replied dryly, glancing at you. "Good morning to you too."

You rolled your eyes and pushed into a half split, focusing on your breathing. "Everything is your fault," you went on, shifting your weight, arching your back to stretch deeper. "And yeah, okay, I admit he's cute and attractive and whatever, but—ugh." You abandoned the stretch altogether, dropping onto the floor and flailing your hands in frustration. "He won't even talk to me, no matter what I try or what you tell me to do."

"Maybe because—" Karina started.

"No," you cut her off immediately, rubbing your face. "I'm done. Why am I even doing this?" You weren't sure if the question was meant for her or yourself, and that uncertainty only made it worse.

You didn't even know what you wanted—maybe you wanted him in your bed, maybe you were just bored, lonely, horny, maybe you wanted a boyfriend, or maybe you just wanted something to break the monotony of your days.

Fuck, you honestly didn't know.You pushed yourself up to your feet with a sharp exhale, forcing your shoulders back as training began, telling yourself this was it, that you were un-crushing him, that whatever weird hold he'd had on your thoughts was gone. You just needed to focus, sweat it out, forget the way he'd looked that morning, forget the way your chest had tightened for no good reason, and move the hell on!

And so you went back to not caring about him—or at least you tried to. You kept things strictly transactional, clipped conversations that revolved around rent, water bills, electrical bills, and nothing else, the kind of exchanges that didn't require eye contact or emotion or the risk of awkward pauses. You timed your routines carefully, stayed in your room more, wore your headphones even when nothing was playing.

Somehow, though, the apartment got weirder instead of quieter.

At some point, there were suddenly two circular vacuum robots roaming the place, one pink and one white, bumping lazily into furniture like bored pets, and then there was a third one that made you pause the first time you saw it. This one had a small screen instead of a blank surface, animated eyes blinking as it rolled around the house, looping endlessly in wide, slow circles like it was patrolling its territory. It was unsettling in a way you couldn't quite explain, especially the way it behaved whenever you came home.

The first time it happened, you stepped through the front door, already halfway to your room when the robot rolled toward you, stopping just short of your feet. Its eyes widened slightly on the screen, focusing on you, and then a soft, robotic voice chimed, "Hi."

You stopped, stared at it, and after a second of confused silence, answered back without thinking. "Hi," you muttered, eyebrows knitting together as you watched it blink like it was pleased with the response. You shook your head and went to your room.

But it kept happening. Every time you came home after training at 7:30, without fail, the robot would find you, roll closer, look up at you with those stupid animated eyes, and greet you. "Hi." Over and over again, like some kind of programmed acknowledgment that you existed, and it annoyed you! Part of you wondered why a machine noticed you more consistently than the person who built it?

Whatever.

When tournament month finally hit, it felt less like a schedule and more like a slow, grinding punishment that refused to end. Hell week stretched into hell weeks, days bleeding into each other until your body stopped distinguishing between soreness and exhaustion, and your mind lived in a constant fog of drills, scrimmages, ice packs, and shouted instructions. Your team kept winning—somehow—defeating other universities one after another, which meant you qualified for the next rounds, which also meant more training, longer hours, heavier pressure. Victory didn't feel like relief anymore; it felt like another door slamming shut behind you.

After one match, you stood on the edge of the court, hands on your hips, chest heaving as you watched people filter out of the bleachers. Couples laughed, friends clapped each other on the back, families waved and called out names, and you wondered, not for the first time, what it would be like to just be normal—to be a regular college student who watched sports for fun instead of bleeding for it, who cheered and went home without their knees screaming or shoulders burning. Would life be easier that way? Would you have more space in your head for things that weren't survival and performance and pushing yourself past your limits?

And then your thoughts drifted further. Would you have found a lover by now? If your life wasn't so wrapped up in training? Someone you met in a theory class, bonding over shared misery and late-night study sessions, or someone introduced through friends, a clean, easy connection that didn't feel so fucking complicated.

The idea made your chest tighten, and you frowned at yourself, annoyed. Why were you suddenly like this? Why so emotional, so restless? Were you really that lonely? What the hell was wrong with being single anyway? You'd been fine before. You had friends. You had people to talk to. You weren't isolated!

Except you knew it wasn't the same. You watched your teammates get swallowed into hugs after the match, hands squeezing shoulders, foreheads pressed together, quiet comfort exchanged even without words, and you felt it then—a sharp, stupid ache. While they leaned into someone else's warmth, you retreated to the back room alone, wiping sweat off your face, peeling off your jersey, changing in silence. Maybe this was just who you were—someone who got jealous not because you lacked people, but because everyone else seemed to have that person, someone to lean on when their body gave out, when the day finally caught up with them.

By the time you dragged yourself home, your limbs felt heavy, movements are sluggish as you kicked off your shoes and let the door shut behind you. The familiar hums filling the space as the robots whirled around the floor, doing their endless loops. One of them—the one with the animated eyes—rolled toward you like it always did, eyes blinking up at you before that same neutral voice chimed.

"Hi."

"Hi," you replied automatically. Normally you would've gone straight to your room, but lately Jake had been staying holed up behind his door, and the living room felt strangely empty without him.

You dropped your bag, pulled a beer from it, popped it open, and took a long drink before letting yourself sink down onto the floor. The robot lingered nearby, hovering like it was waiting for something.

You stared at it for a second, exhaled slowly, and shook your head. "Do you know how to say anything besides hi?" you asked it quietly.

The robot blinked, its animated eyes widening and shrinking in a way that almost felt intentional, and you huffed out a weak smile despite yourself. Your fingers hovered over its smooth, round surface, stopping just short of touching it. "I don't really know shit about these things," you muttered, gesturing vaguely at it, "but aren't you supposed to be, like... a comfort robot or something? The kind people put on their desks so they don't feel so damn alone." You tilted your head, squinting at it. "But you're round. And you roll. You're like... a vacuum with feelings."

The robot blinked again.

You took another sip of your beer, the bitterness sitting heavy on your tongue. "I think I'm so lonely I might cry," you admitted, voice cracking just a little as a hiccup slipped out of you. You set the beer aside and started peeling off your protective gear, fingers clumsy, dropping the pads onto the floor one by one. Bruises bloomed across your skin—dark, ugly marks layered over older ones.

"I don't want to be a libero anymore," you said flatly, staring down at your legs. "God, why am I not rich? Or smart? Or just... lucky for once."

You looked back at the robot, its eyes fixed on you like it was actually listening. "I wish I had someone," you continued. "Someone who'd hug me after games. Someone I could talk to when training's over and my body feels like it's about to give out." You scoffed and lifted a finger, pointing at it like you were lecturing. "You know my teammates? Let me introduce you, since apparently you're the only thing paying attention right now."

"So there's Karina," you said, holding up one finger. "She's our setter, loud as hell, always running her mouth, and yeah—she's dating the basketball captain." Another finger. "Rei's the youngest, dating some art dancer who comes to all her games and cries like a baby." Another. "Giselle's gay, she's in a relationship, and Ningning's with her. I swear they fight all the time, but it's kinda cute because they're both middle blockers and stubborn as shit." You kept going, listing names, relationships, connections, until your hand dropped back into your lap. "Winter—well, that's not even her real name. And Yunjin, Yuna, Yeji, Ryujin... all in relationships."

You leaned back against the sofa, sliding down slightly as you sat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling like it might have answers. "Everyone has someone," you whispered.

"Why... am I such a fucking loser?" you laughed, the sound is too loud in the quiet apartment, echoing for a second before it died out. The laugh collapsed in on itself, and you buried your face in your hands, shoulders shaking as tears burned behind your eyes. You didn't bother wiping them away when they spilled over, there was no one around to see you break—just a robot blinking back at you, silently witnessing everything you'd been holding in for far too long.

"I want someone," you choked out into your palm, the words are so ugly and bare, pathetic in a way that hurt to admit out loud. You dragged your hands down your face and looked at the robot again, eyes wet, vision blurry. "God, that sounded so fucking sad," you laughed weakly.

"Maybe you should ask your owner to build me one of those realistic human robots." You sniffed, wiping your nose with the back of your hand. "Ask him to make one for me, yeah? Since apparently I can't even talk to him like a normal person."

Your laugh came again, tears still sliding down your cheeks as you shook your head. You leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling, words spilling out now that you'd opened the floodgates. "I want him to make me a boyfriend with high emotional intelligence," you said bitterly, counting it off in your head like a stupid wish list. "Someone who'd cook me healthy meals that actually fit my training, because finding decent food is a nightmare. Someone who'd show up to every tournament, even the shitty ones, and cheer for me."

Your voice dropped. "Someone who'd listen. Someone who wouldn't freak out when I'm exhausted or pissed or quiet. Someone who'd talk to me through the hard days instead of making me feel like I'm too much." You swallowed, chest tight, then let out a shaky breath. "And yeah," you added, snorting through your tears, "someone who'd fuck me hard enough to knock the stress out of my body and make me forget everything else for a while. How does that sound, huh?"

For a second, there was only the low hum of the apartment. Then the robot's screen shifted, animated eyes changing as a little emoticon popped up—round, pink, unmistakably blushing.

Your eyes widened. Then you burst out laughing, real laughter this time. "No fucking way," you said between laughs, wiping at your face. "Did you just blush at that?" You leaned closer, still grinning like an idiot through tear-streaked cheeks. "Are you programmed with PG-13 only or what?"

The robot blinked once, then shook its round body side to side like it was offended. You gasped dramatically, pointing at it. "Oh my god. You are judging me." You sniffed, then tilted your head. "Okay, smartass. What does the fox say?"

The screen flickered. Suddenly the robot's eyes morphed into exaggerated fox eyes, whiskers popping up on either side as its little screen started wobbling in place.

"Tingining-ngining-ngining."

You choked on your own laughter, hands slapping against the floor as you doubled over. "No—no way—stop," you wheezed, laughing harder as the robot kept dancing, completely unbothered. Tears streamed down your face again, but this time they were from laughing so hard your chest hurt.

You stayed there for hours after that, talking absolute nonsense to it, asking stupid questions, daring it to do random shit, reacting like it was some kind of miracle instead of a rolling piece of metal with a screen. At some point your words slowed, your body sagged, and without even realizing it, you slid down where you sat, head resting against the sofa, eyes finally drifting shut.

Morning came and you woke up confused, the first thing you registered being how soft everything felt. You were lying on the sofa, not the floor like you remembered, a blanket pulled up around you, tucked snugly enough. You blinked, staring at the ceiling, then shifted slightly and froze. Your skin felt... warm. Not sore in the usual way. When you pushed the blanket aside, you saw neat bandages wrapped around your bruises, carefully placed, clean, and faintly scented with something herbal that made your muscles relax just breathing it in.

"What the fuck..." you murmured, sitting up slowly. Your head wasn't pounding. You weren't dizzy. You definitely weren't drunk enough to forget doing this. You glanced around the living room, heart starting to thump harder as pieces didn't line up. The robot sat docked in its corner, screen dark. The apartment was quiet—too quiet.

You dragged the blanket tighter around yourself, staring at your own hands. Did you do this? No. You would've remembered bandaging yourself. And the smell, so warm, so clean, so comforting—it wasn't yours. Your chest fluttered uncomfortably. Of course you weren't stupid. You weren't that fucking oblivious. Someone had moved you. Someone had carefully lifted your dead weight off the floor, arranged you on the sofa, wrapped a blanket around you like you were fragile instead of a grown woman who could bench half the team. Someone had cleaned you up, bandaged your bruises, and let you sleep it off instead of waking you or leaving you there like a mess. And there was really only one person in that apartment who would've done it.

Jake.

Jake.

Heat start crawling up your neck as your brain started filling in the blanks you didn't want answers to. Why the fuck would he do that? You stared down at the bandages again, fingers hovering over them. You didn't remember waking up. You didn't remember him touching you. It was only a beer, sure, but you'd been emotional, rambling, spilling your guts to a robot like a lunatic.

God. What if you'd talked in your sleep? What if you'd laughed too loud, cried harder, said something you shouldn't have? Worse—what if you'd drunkenly confessed how fucking lonely you were, how badly you wanted someone, how much you'd been thinking about him without ever meaning to? The thought made your face burn. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

You couldn't look at him after that. You didn't even try.

For the next few days, you turned into a ghost in your own apartment, timing everything around him without even meaning to. Training ended at 6:30, but you didn't go home until eleven, sometimes closer to midnight, killing time wherever you could—late dinners, extra stretching or workouts, pointless walks—until you finally started crashing at Ryujin's place in the next building over. Her couch became familiar, her fridge raided, her complaints ignored. Anything to avoid running into him in the living room, anything to avoid seeing that awkward smile and wondering what the fuck he knew about you now.

Your head wasn't in the game either, and it showed.

"You seriously need to stop pulling faces on court," Ryujin said one afternoon, shoving her phone in your face while you were still catching your breath. Sweat dripped down your temples as you squinted at the screen, instantly recognizing the photo—your body low in a squat, eyes sharp, eyebrow raised, jaw set like you were ready to kill someone. The sports journalist had caught you mid-focus, mid-intimidation, and it was already blowing up on the university page.

"What do you want me to do?" you snapped, irritated, pushing the phone away. "Smile at the other team?"

"At least look... approachable?" she said, shrugging. "I mean, that's your default face, yeah, but you know when I first met you, I thought you hated me."

You glanced at her, pausing.

"You didn't talk to me for weeks when I joined," she continued, stretching her calves casually. "I legit thought I pissed you off somehow. Then one day you just asked me to grab lunch with you like nothing happened, and that's when I realized you were actually nice. Just... intense."

You scoffed, rubbing the back of your neck. "That's just how I am."

Unfortunately for you, that day lined up perfectly with everyone else having a life. Ryujin had a date with her girlfriend, Karina was off doing couple shit with hers, and you were left with too much energy and nowhere to dump it. You went to the gym even though training had ended early, pushing yourself through another pointless workout just to avoid going home, until your muscles finally protested enough to force you to stop. By the time you dragged yourself back to the apartment, it was already 7:04 PM.

You unlocked the door and stepped inside, pretending to be deeply invested in your phone as you kicked off your shoes and slid them into the rack beside your roommate's. The apartment was calm in that familiar way, and right on cue, there he was— Jake was fresh out of the bathroom, towel slung loosely over his shoulder, wearing those ridiculous dinosaur slippers. Seven o'clock. Of course. You could already tell he was winding down, getting ready for his absurdly early bedtime.

Your eyes met for half a second. You looked away immediately, pulse kicking hard against your ribs. You walked past him like you didn't care, thumb scrolling mindlessly through takeout apps you weren't even reading, already reaching for your bedroom doorknob when his voice stopped you.

"I—I always... uh... cook food f-for dinner..."

You froze, fingers tightening around the knob as your brain scrambled to process what you'd just heard. You turned your head slightly, not fully facing him, afraid that if you did your face would give you away. He was standing a few steps behind you, shoulders tense, eyes glued somewhere near the floor.

"I-If you want to eat," he added quickly, words tripping over each other, "uh... it's on the table..."

Before you could say anything—before you could even decide what the hell you wanted to say—he retreated, practically speed-walking into his room and shutting the door.

You stood there in the hallway, hand still on the doorknob, staring at nothing. What the fuck was that?

You could order takeout. Obviously. That had been the plan. But this was the first time he'd actually initiated anything. Was this his way of talking to you? Of trying? Why were you even overthinking this? It was just food. Fucking food. "Get a grip," you muttered, yanking off your varsity jacket and tossing it over the chair. Curiosity won anyway. You walked toward the table and lifted the food cover, already telling yourself it was just about saving money, nothing else.

Your mouth watered instantly. In front of you was a Chicken breast that are perfectly cooked. Sweet potato, roasted just enough. Steamed broccoli, still bright green, not soggy, not sad. This is kind of meal athletes killed themselves. The kind of meal you'd complained about not having time or money to prep a hundred times. "You've gotta be fucking kidding me," you whispered. This was exactly what your body needed. You might've laughed if you weren't so close to crying. After weeks of exhaustion, shitty schedules, loneliness you pretended didn't exist, here was this quiet, nerdy, awkward roommate who barely looked you in the eye—coincedently cooking the perfect post-training dinner.

You didn't even bother pretending to be civilized about it. You dropped into the chair and dug in like you hadn't eaten in days, shoveling food into your mouth with zero shame, chewing fast, shoulders finally loosening as real fuel hit your system. The chicken was tender, the sweet potato was so soft, the broccoli exactly how you liked it, and you were too busy inhaling everything to notice the soft whirring near your feet.

"Hi," the robot chirped, rolling up beside your chair like it always did.

You waved it off vaguely, mouth full, head down, focused on the plate. It didn't even cross your mind then that the robot hadn't been greeting you lately when you came home past midnight, that it used to roll toward you every time. You were too hungry, too focused, too busy scraping the plate clean to notice anything beyond the food in front of you.

The next day, you came home a little earlier than usual, around eight. Training had been brutal, your legs shaking by the time you unlocked the door, and you were already mentally preparing yourself for instant noodles or whatever garbage you could throw together without collapsing. Instead, you stopped short.

Another meal sat on the table.

This time it was tofu stir-fry with rice, still covered, steam faintly trapped beneath the lid. The robot sat docked beside the table like it was guarding the food, screen dark, finally resting. You glanced toward the sink and noticed a single plate already washed and set aside—proof that Jake had eaten earlier. Your stomach growled embarrassingly loud.

You didn't overthink it. You just sat down and ate, quietly this time. God's perfect, it was convenience. Timing. Coincidence. That he probably cooked in bulk and didn't want leftovers to go bad. You definitely didn't think about how the portions were always just right for you, or how the meals lined up perfectly with your training load.

And then it kept happening.

The next day. And the day after that. And the day after that. Sometimes you came home early and ate while he was already locked in his room. Sometimes you came home late and the food was still there, waiting. You rarely saw him. You rarely spoke. But you ate. Every night.

Every night, no matter what time you came home, there was food waiting. Always balanced. Always exactly what your body needed, like someone had been paying attention—really paying attention—to what an exhausted athlete needed to survive. You stopped ordering takeout without even realizing it. Your fridge stayed full longer. Your energy during training didn't crash as hard. Your muscles recovered faster.

"You're gaining weight," your coach said one afternoon, flipping through his clipboard as he read off numbers.

Your heart jumped. "Huh? Is that a bad thing?" you asked, nerves creeping up your spine.

He raised an eyebrow, then snorted. "No. It's a good thing." He looked up at you, "I've been telling you to eat more for months. Looks like you're finally listening." He closed the clipboard and stepped closer, ruffling your hair roughly. "Finals are coming up. You need more muscle if you want to keep up your defense."

You laughed awkwardly, nodding along.  Don't think about it too much. Don't think about it too much. Don't think about it too much. It's healthy, right? That's all that matters. Your body feels better, stronger, steadier during drills. You don't feel like you're about to collapse halfway through practice anymore. Whatever you're eating is exactly what your body needs. Exactly what it's been begging for. And yeah—fuck—it's also exactly what your heart didn't know it was starving for, but you're not touching that thought. Not with a ten-foot pole.

"What if he's purposely cooking too much so you'll eat?" Karina had said earlier, lips curled into that wicked smile she always wore when she knew she was poking at something sensitive.

No. Absolutely not. You refused to let that sink in. You wouldn't let her words crawl under your skin and set everything on fire again. Roommates do this shit. People share food. People are nice without ulterior motives. It's normal. It's fucking normal. Just because you're a hopeless romantic doesn't mean you get to project that onto someone who's clearly just... kind. Assuming otherwise would make things awkward again, and you were done with awkward.

With training dismissed early that day, you stopped by the grocery store on your way home, wandering the aisles without much thought until something familiar caught your eye. Chocolate almond milk. The same brand. The one he always drank in the mornings. You stared at it for a second longer before grabbing and tossing it into your basket.

You got home at 5:30 PM sharp.

The smell of savory cooking hit you the moment you stepped inside. Jake stood in the kitchen wearing an apron, moving carefully between the counter and the stove. Soft music played in the background, Cigarettes After Sex, of all things.

When he noticed you, he startled like he'd been caught. His eyes widened, body jerking awkwardly as he took a step back, then forward, clearly unsure what to do with himself. "Y-You're h-here— wait—"

"Groceries," you said quietly, cutting him off before he could spiral, offering a small smile as you set the plastic bag on the table. You pulled out the carton of almond milk and held it up slightly. "I bought you this."

He stared at it, his mouth fell open just a little, eyes flicking from the carton to your face and back again, cheeks already starting to color.

"I've been eating your food for a week," you added, shrugging lightly, forcing your voice to stay steady. "Consider it a thank you."

"T-Thank you," he whispered, eyes flicking up to yours for half a second before he turned his back, shoulders hunching slightly as he went back to stirring whatever was on the stove.

You busied yourself with the groceries, unloading them one by one. Yogurts into the fridge. Vegetables in the crisper. Almond milk placed carefully on the shelf where you'd seen his before. When you were done, you grabbed your bag, already planning to retreat to your room and give both of you space, because that was safer.

"H-Hey." His voice stopped you mid-step.

You turned around slowly, heart doing that stupid stutter again, and found him standing by the table with two plates in his hands. He set them down carefully, and for a moment he actually held your gaze. Really held it. The eye contact made something like an electric flicker through you that you almost looked away first—but then he broke it, eyes darting off to the side like he'd just realized what he was doing.

"Let's— I-I cooked dinner," he said, words tumbling over each other. "There's a-a lot, so l-let's share."

Fuck. You swallowed, nodded, and quietly took a seat across from him before your mouth could betray you by saying something stupid. You both served yourselves rice in silence, the clink of utensils and the low hum of the music filling the space between you. The food was good and for a few minutes you just ate, letting the tension settle instead of fighting it.

"You listen to CAS?" you asked eventually, nodding toward the speaker.

He froze for a split second, shoulders tensing. "Y-Yeah," he said softly. "I... uh... it helps me focus. And... relax." He glanced up at you, then away again, fingers tightening around his chopsticks. "Y-You?"

"Casual listener," you replied, reaching for the rice bowl again without thinking, scooping out another generous serving and plopping it onto your plate. "I prefer loud music. Like, really loud." You shrugged, already chewing as you talked, words slightly muffled because that was just how you ate. "It helps me focus during workouts, especially during hard training days. Phonk music, mostly. Some of my teammates are into it, so I kinda adopted it." You rambled on, barely realizing how much food you'd shoved into your mouth, cheeks full, posture relaxed in a way you hadn't been around him before.

There was a brief pause, you were still chewing when Jake quietly leaned forward and placed the last slice of meat onto your plate. The movement made you stop mid-bite. Your eyes dropped to the food, then lifted slowly to him, finding him watching you with that same awkward concentration, lips pressed together before they curved into a small, uncertain smile.

"I-I listen to music similar to CAS," he continued, voice gaining a bit of momentum like he was warming up. "A-And wave to earth too, b-because it helps me calm my mind. Makes it easier to sleep early." He scratched the back of his neck, clearly rambling now, which somehow made it worse in the best way.

Your brain short-circuited. Fully. You stared at him for a second too long, then forced yourself to finish chewing, swallowing slowly as you tried to get your thoughts back in order.

"I—" you started, then stopped, laughing awkwardly under your breath. "Yeah. That... checks out." You gestured vaguely with your chopsticks. "I mean, I noticed you go to bed at eight." You let out another small laugh, embarrassment creeping in fast. "That stupid sign on the wall finally made sense."

His ears turned red almost instantly. "S-Sorry," he blurted out. "I didn't mean to be... annoying."

"It's not annoying," you said immediately, a little too fast, shaking your head like your life depended on clearing that up. The last thing you wanted was for him to retreat back into himself again. "It's just... different." You hesitated, then added more softly, "Kinda impressive, actually. Most college students have completely fucked body clocks and awful habits." You snorted lightly. "Speaking from experience."

He nodded, relief loosening his shoulders just a bit. "Uh... yeah. I-I try not to pick up bad habits," he said. "I-I value time a lot. What we do and what we eat affects how our body p-performs." He gestured vaguely at the table, at the food. "If I get sick, a-a lot of time gets w-wasted."

You stared at him, chopsticks paused halfway to your mouth.

Okay. What the fuck. This guy went to bed at eight, didn't drink caffeine, cooked balanced meals, and talked wisely about time and health. Made you want to smack yourself for ever writing him off as just some awkward nerd with Lego sets and robots. You could feel it now, that pull in your chest, that annoying curiosity digging deeper, urging you to peel back more layers you hadn't even known were there.

And God help you, he was talking. Actually talking. To you.

"Yeah," you said, finally swallowing your bite. "You're right." You leaned back slightly in your chair, lips twitching as you tried to play it off. "Teach me your ways, then. I clearly need your level of dedication." What the fuck are you saying?

He blinked, then let out a small, surprised sound that might've been a laugh. "I-I'm not that dedicated," he said quickly, waving a hand like he was swatting the idea away. "Just... organized."

"Sure," you replied, smirking faintly. "That's what all disciplined people say."

He ducked his head, embarrassed again, but this time it was lighter in the air. Less tension.

And it made it really fucking hard to pretend you didn't care.

The next day proved that. You didn't even linger after training like you usually did. No extra laps, no pointless cooldowns, no killing time just to avoid going home. You showered, changed, and headed straight back, heart thudding with a stupid mix of anticipation and denial. When you opened the apartment door, the familiar sounds of the soft whirr of the robot vacuums roaming the floor and the muted clatter of pans from the kitchen greeted you immediately. He was cooking again!

"I bought apples," you said, setting the bag down on the table.

Jake glanced over his shoulder, offered you a quiet, "Hi," paired with that same awkward smile that somehow felt less awkward every time you saw it. He turned back to the stove, setting down plates—rice, and vegetable soup. And yeah, his dinners were always exactly what you were supposed to be eating after training. Jackpot was an understatement.

"Is it okay if I eat with you?" you asked, already pulling out a chair and sitting down like you'd made the decision before finishing the sentence. "I mean, you cook for yourself."

"Of course... I-It's okay," he said quickly, nodding.

You watched him a little too closely, waiting, hoping he'd say more instead of retreating into silence. He hesitated, eyes flicking toward you, then away, lips parting as if he was debating with himself. "I-I've been cooking more these days," he admitted. "B-Because... uh... I was thinking of gaining weight myself, b-but I think my appetite c-can't really keep up."

"Ohhh," you said, snapping your fingers. "Yeah, that makes sense." You leaned forward, already getting animated without realizing it. "You're gonna need a loooot of protein for that. My coach never shuts up about it, especially for me. Defense needs muscle, apparently." You laughed lightly, rambling now, turning toward him with an easy smile as you scooped soup straight into your rice. "My budget's always shit though, so I rely on protein powders and gym meals."

He nodded slowly, listening, before going quiet again and digging into his food. Somehow, that quiet didn't feel awkward. It felt comfortable.

You didn't notice how relaxed you looked, how your shoulders dropped, how your expression softened as you ate. You didn't notice how naturally you mirrored his pace, slowing down, breathing easier. You definitely didn't notice the way your heart jumped when he picked up one of the apples you'd bought, peeled it carefully, and slid it onto your plate without a word.

Your pulse spiked, so stupid and fast. "Thanks," you murmured, suddenly very aware of him sitting across from you, of how close this all felt without crossing any lines.

God, don't read into it too much. You told yourself that firmly. He's just nice. He's your roommate. He cooks. He shares. He listens.

But fuck—how were you not supposed to like him when he made space for you so quietly, when being around him started to feel like rest?

"It felt nice," you sighed, sprawled flat on the court with your arms stretched above your head. Sweat cooled against your skin as the basketball players ran laps around you. Karina sat beside you, legs crossed, phone in hand, thumbs flying across the screen. She glanced down at you, eyebrows lifting slowly, curiosity sharpening her expression as she clocked how distant you looked.

"What exactly feels nice?" she asked, frowning. "Because it sure as hell isn't sharing the court with these fuckers. Our training schedule's been cut all week." She tilted her chin toward the far end of the court, where her boyfriend was jogging past, shirt clinging to him. She grimaced. "Look at him. I bet he smells like an ass."

You huffed out a weak laugh but didn't move, eyes fixed on the ceiling lights glowing overhead. "It just... feels nice," you repeated. Your voice dipped as the thought finally slipped out. "Am I really that lonely that I start liking someone just because they pay a little attention to me?" You swallowed, jaw tightening. "I mean, I already knew I was fucked the moment I caught myself thinking about him while touching myself, and we hadn't even had a proper conversation. Just you, planting bullshit ideas in my head like a menace."

"Oh my God," Karina gasped, dropping her phone instantly. She rolled onto the floor beside you, mirroring your position but turning onto her side to face you, eyes wide and way too excited for your liking. "Is this about your cute nerd roommate again?"

You didn't answer. You kept staring at the lights, blinking slowly, letting the words tumble out because once they started, it felt impossible to stop. "He cooks extra food without making it a thing," you said. "Like it's nothing. And I eat it. And sometimes I talk. Just starting dumb shit about my day. And that night I passed out on the floor, he carried me to the couch and wrapped my bruises, and I woke up with bandages that actually helped." Your throat tightened. "So what, Karina? Am I really that pathetic for feeling like this?"

Karina stared at you for a long moment, her teasing expression finally softening. She reached out and poked your forehead. "First of all, shut up," she said gently. "Second of all, you're not pathetic. You're human." She sighed and lay back, hands folded on her stomach. "You're exhausted. You train like a beast, you carry your team, and you come home to an empty room most nights. Of course small kindness feels huge right now."

You turned your head slightly, finally looking at her. "But what if I'm just projecting?" you asked. "What if I'm clinging to scraps because I don't want to feel alone anymore?"

"That's called being aware," she replied. "Not desperate." She nudged your shoulder. "And listen to me. You're not imagining things out of nowhere. He didn't have to cook extra. He didn't have to move you. He didn't have to take care of your bruises. Those are choices." She paused, then added carefully, "Does that mean he's in love with you? No. But it means you're not crazy for feeling something."

You exhaled slowly, chest easing just a little. "I don't even know what I want," you admitted. "I just know it feels... safe. And that scares the shit out of me."

Karina smiled softly. "Good. It should scare you a little. That means it matters. Lmao." She squeezed your hand. "Just don't rush it. Let it breathe. You're allowed to want someone. You're allowed to be taken care of sometimes."

You smiled faintly to yourself. Right. Don't rush. Go with the flow. Let it breathe. Jake probably had no idea what was spiraling around in your head anyway. You could keep this normal, no stupid fantasies. There was nothing to lose if you kept it like that... right?

"You can call them Whitey, Pinky, and Bumble," Jake said casually, gesturing toward the living room.

You followed his hand. The two vacuum robots were roaming around like usual, bumping gently into chair legs and correcting themselves. The pink one spun lazily near the couch, the white one hovered closer to the dining table, and Bumble—the one with the animated eyes—was docked near the TV, screen dimmed as she recharged.

You almost snorted. It was stupid how endearing it felt. Any other time, with any other guy, you'd probably be weirded the fuck out. But with Jake? It just slid into place too easily, like another quiet, odd piece of him you were already getting used to. White robot: Whitey. Pink robot: Pinky. And Bumble... because apparently it's soft blue glow reminded him of a bumblebee.

"That's... very on the nose," you said, lips twitching as Whitey rolled dangerously close to your foot. You shifted your leg, and the robot obediently veered away. "Does your course actually teach you this stuff, or are you just secretly a scientist?"

Jake let out a small, embarrassed laugh. "Uh... I'm a civil engineer," he said, rubbing the back of his ear. "B-But I have a friend. He's... uh... computer and electrical engineering." He hesitated, words tangling like they always did when he tried to explain himself. "We... sometimes make things."

You leaned back against the chair, listening.

"Bumble was... uh..." He paused, glancing toward the robot like he was checking if she could hear him. "She was supposed to be a vacuum robot for desks. It was for our Grade 12 STEM research. But our teacher said vacuum robots were too common, and we... didn't know enough about coding back then." He shrugged awkwardly. "So we just... continued it anyway. Changed her design. That's why she's small."

Oh.

You blinked. Of course he had friends like that. Smart, curious, building things just because they could. Of course he carried projects from years ago instead of throwing them away. And of course he called the robot she, like she was a person, or a pet, or something he cared about.

"That's actually kind of impressive," you said honestly, eyes flicking back to Bumble. "You kept working on her even after the project ended."

Jake's shoulders lifted slightly, then dropped. "I... didn't want to waste it," he said quietly. "Time, I mean."

And there it was again, that quiet, infuriatingly gentle way he treated time and effort, like both were fragile things you weren't supposed to waste or throw around carelessly. God, he was cute.

You hated how easily it slipped past your defenses, how your brain kept screaming don't read into it while your body already had its own stupid opinions. Still, you couldn't deny it anymore, not even to yourself. Something had shifted. Maybe a door cracked open, maybe you'd just stopped bracing so hard, but suddenly there was space between you that didn't feel awkward or tense. It felt... safe. Comfortable. Like you didn't have to perform or fill the silence for once. And the fucked up part was, what you'd said earlier was true.

It really did feel nice.

"I... cook for breakfast," he said one morning while you were tying your shoes, backpack already slung over your shoulder, half-awake and mentally preparing yourself to survive another long day. "D-do you want to eat before you go?"

You should've said no. You almost always grabbed coffee and whatever sad snack you could find on campus, ate standing up, rushed through everything like your life. But you just nodded, sitting at the table in the early morning light, eating something warm and balanced while he moved quietly around the kitchen, you realized your shoulders weren't tight for once. You weren't rushing. You weren't thinking about the next thing you had to do.

It felt nice. Way too nice.

Later that week, after a practice match wrapped up earlier than expected, you found yourself standing outside his door, heart beating faster than it should've over something so stupid. You knocked anyway. When he opened the door a minute later, one earphone dangling loose, hair slightly messy, that familiar awkward smile creeping onto his face, you almost chickened out.

"Am I... disturbing you or something?" you asked, forcing a casual tone that didn't quite hide the nerves twisting in your gut. He shook his head, and you felt the tension in your shoulders finally ease.

"Uh... I was just fixing my books," he said. "Why?"

You took a breath, then another. "I bought snacks. Chips and stuff," you said, holding up the bag. "I was just wondering if you... wanted to watch a movie with me."

Immediately your brain started spiraling, tearing you apart for how you phrased it. Too direct. Too demanding. You should've softened it, given him an out, made it sound like an optional, no-pressure thing. God, what if this was crossing some invisible roommate line? You braced yourself for rejection, already rehearsing how you'd laugh it off, how you'd pretend you weren't embarrassed if he said no. You told yourself it was fine. You hoped he'd be gentle about it if he did.

"Uh, sure," he said after a beat, smiling that shy, crooked smile. "Let me fix my things quick."

You ended up on the couch together, a polite distance between you, snacks spread across the table. 50 First Dates played on the screen, and even though some scenes were objectively funny, you found yourself holding back, afraid of laughing too loud. You were hyperaware of everything—your posture, the way you chewed, the way your knee bounced slightly with leftover adrenaline.

Then Jake laughed, mouth full of chips, a soft, unguarded sound that slipped out before he could stop it. You froze, turning to look at him, watching the way his shoulders hunched as he laughed, how genuine it was, how unfiltered. And fuck. Something loosened in you. You smiled before you could stop yourself, then laughed too.

It felt nice, and you weren't used to nice things sticking around without demanding something in return.

Jake wasn't some mystery anymore, not really, at least not on paper. Third-year Civil Engineering student, double scholar, university-funded and government-backed, the kind of résumé that made professors nod approvingly and parents brag to relatives. President's Lister every damn semester, GWA floating between 1.27 and 1.46. You learned these things not because he bragged—he never did—but because papers were left on the table, emails popped up on his phone screen when it lit up, certificates tucked neatly into folders he handled with care. He was impressive in a way that didn't shove itself in your face.

As a roommate, Jake was... steady. Organized without being controlling, balanced in a way that made you painfully aware of how messy your own routines were. He slept at eight, woke up early, moved through the apartment. You noticed small things you shouldn't have been paying attention to, like how he liked sour candy and kept a stash hidden in one drawer, how his fingers fidgeted when he was nervous or thinking too hard, how he couldn't leave broken things alone. A loose screw, a cracked hinge —he'd insist it was still usable, still salvageable, like throwing something away felt wrong to him on a fundamental level. Sometimes you wondered if that applied to people too, if he believed everything and everyone could be fixed if you just gave it enough patience.

You noticed more than you meant to. Jake liked stars, documentaries about space that played quietly in the background while he worked, liked the ocean even though he rarely talked about it, liked anything that revolved around science or math or systems that made sense. It was almost funny how predictable he was once you paid attention, how comforting that predictability became without you realizing it. You caught yourself syncing your schedule around his without meaning to, coming home earlier, lingering longer, listening for his footsteps like it mattered whether he was there or not.

It felt nice going home to someone, where the apartment didn't feel empty when you unlocked the door. Having someone to talk to, even if the conversations were simple and sometimes awkward, felt like relief after days filled with noise and expectations. Having someone prepare meals that actually made your body feel better instead of worse, someone who noticed when you were too tired to cook and never made you feel guilty for it, felt dangerously close to being taken care of. And doing nothing together—sitting on opposite ends of the couch, eating in silence, watching something stupid, sharing space without pressure.

"There's a typhoon coming up, and God help me with this heavy rainfall," Ryujin groaned dramatically, flopping onto the gym bleachers with her hands pressed against her temples. You could hear the rain hammering against the roof above. "My body is so fucking sore, finals are coming, and you're telling me I still have to endure a goddamn storm outside?" Her voice cracked at the end.

"You all act as if we're not aiming for nationals," Giselle said, bouncing the ball with an almost lazy precision, her eyes flicking sideways at the group of basketball players lounging at the edge of the court. They were obnoxiously loud, laughing and showing off, and Giselle's glare could've frozen them mid-air if that were even possible. She tossed the ball in your direction,  and you tightened your grip, flexing your fingers around the ball, feeling the familiar pressure in your palms that meant focus—control. You set yourself, crouched low, and spiked it with everything you had.

"They are already giving out tickets for the finals," Rei whined from the sidelines, dragging her towel across her shoulders as she leaned against the wall. "My boyfriend won't shut up because everyone is hyped about it. It's gonna sell out in like, five minutes." You snorted because, as usual, she was dramatic about everything, and as usual, you were the only one sitting there without someone to care or argue or plan with.

"Coach gave us tickets for our friends, right? Only two each! I need three for my boyfriend and his friends. Can some of you spare an extra?" Winter demanded, arms flailing slightly as she leaned toward Ningning and Giselle. "Giselle, give me yours! Ningning, come on, you're on our team!"

"No. We're giving them to our other friends," Ningning said sharply, slapping Winter's hands away.

"Not fair! I'll treat you to Taco Bell if you just give me one!" Winter snapped back. The rest of the team was clustered around, debating, negotiating, trading possibilities.

"Winter," you muttered, rolling your eyes even as you adjusted your feet and tossed the ball into the air, "just take my tickets. I don't have friends to give them to anyway." You tossed the volleyball up and down in your hands, practicing your set.

You could feel her gaze burning on you, even though you weren't looking directly. "Really?! Like, both of your tickets?" she pressed, a note of disbelief in her voice.

You barely had time to nod before the ball smacked you straight in the face, ricocheting sideways, and suddenly your brain betrayed you. Out of nowhere, an image of Jake popped into your head—his stupid braces smile, the one that twisted your stomach every time you saw it, the one that made you stupidly aware of your own heartbeat and that little thrill you always swore wasn't there. You blinked, flustered, and hit the ball again, flinching slightly as the team waited.

"Actually... just one," you said quickly, fumbling for a way to sound casual. Karina let out a sharp whistle behind you, and Winter's lips pouted in mock outrage. "I was... planning to give it to my... friend," you added, stumbling over the lie.

"Wow, suddenly you have a friend!" Winter exclaimed with mock indignation, "but fine, that's cool! You promise that one is mine, no taking it back, ha!"

If you asked him to watch your game... would that be too personal? It wasn't like you were asking him to cheer for you, or scream your name from the stands, or wait for you after with flowers and sweaty hugs like your teammates' partners did. It was just a game. An outdoor thing... Still, it felt like crossing some invisible line, like letting him see a part of your life that didn't exist inside shared rent. Letting him see you as more than just his roommate who ate his food and sat beside him on the couch.

You told yourself not to overthink it, even though overthinking was already happening at full speed. It was normal. He was your roommate. You talked now. You shared meals. Of course you'd invite him. That's what normal people did, right? That's what people who weren't emotionally fucked did.

The thunder cracked overhead and rain poured down by the time you got home, your clothes damp, your muscles aching, your head buzzing with too many thoughts, the familiar hum of the TV filling the space. Jake was on the couch, exactly where you half-expected him to be, watching one of his documentaries, posture straightening the second he noticed you. You dropped your bag onto the table and rolled your shoulders.

"Hi," he said softly, eyes flicking up to meet yours before darting away again.

"Hi," you replied, sitting down beside him with that same respectful distance you'd both somehow agreed on without ever discussing it. Your eyes drifted to the screen, absorbing nothing of whatever science-heavy topic was playing.

The silence stretched, like both of you were waiting for permission to speak.

"I made salad earlier—" "Are you interested in sports—"

You both stopped at the exact same time, voices colliding awkwardly in the air. You turned toward him, mouth slightly open, blinking in surprise, and he mirrored you perfectly, eyes wide behind his glasses.

"You first," you said, exhaling a short laugh to break the tension.

He cleared his throat, nodding toward the dining table. "I made salad earlier. If you want to... I didn't expect you to be here early, so I didn't get to cook dinner right away..." His words tumbled out unevenly.

"Ah," you leaned back, glancing down at your feet. "It's okay. Coach said we should go home early to relax anyway. I'll eat it later. Thank you." Your voice softened without you meaning it to.

Another pause settled in. The documentary kept playing, some distant narration about oceans or planets or whatever, but neither of you were listening anymore. "So..." he started, breath hitching slightly as he stared at the floor. "What were you saying?"

This was it. Your chest tightened as you inhaled deeply, bracing yourself, forcing the words out before you could chicken out. "Are you interested in watching the tournament finals on the 24th?" you asked, eyes flicking toward him before darting away again. "I have a ticket, and I figured I could give it to you... if you want to."

The seconds that followed felt cruelly loud. You could hear the clock ticking, your heartbeat pounding in your ears, the rain still hammering outside. You stared at the floor, then at him, then anywhere but his face, mentally preparing yourself for whatever came next.

"I'm—" he began, and you looked at him despite yourself. His mouth opened and closed like he was searching for the right words, hands fidgeting in his lap. Another beat passed, then another. "T-thank you," he said finally, voice quiet, apologetic. "But I'm not really into that... especially with big crowds. S-sorry." He squeezed his eyes shut afterward, like he was bracing for impact.

Oh.

Of course. It made sense. Crowds, noises, people—it was everything he avoided. You'd known that before you even asked. The game would start at six-thirty, probably end close to eight if it dragged on, loud and packed and overwhelming. Saying yes would've been completely out of character for him.

You forced a small nod, a smile you hoped looked convincing. "It's okay," you said quickly. "I figured. Just thought I'd ask."

And that should've been the end of it. You'd tried. You'd done the brave thing. That was enough. So why did disappointment settle in your chest anyway. Why did it sting more than you expected, like you'd been quietly hoping for something you had no right to hope for?

     You were considered lucky, at least according to every bullshit horoscope Karina ever forced you to listen to during some booth event you never even wanted to attend. Apparently, the stars loved you. Apparently, fate had a soft spot for you. She once read aloud that you were supposed to fall down a flight of stairs when you were four years old, crack your head open, ruin everything before it even began, but some divine intervention stepped in and said no, not today. You survived childhood without dramatic tragedy, without scars that people could point at and say, see, that's where it all went wrong.

Back in elementary school, during tryouts, you didn't even know what defense really meant. You just knew you were fast, stubborn, and didn't like backing down when something came flying at you. Everyone else flinched, screamed, covered their faces, cried when the ball hit too hard. When the coach spiked it straight toward you, you reacted without thinking, arms locking, wrists steady. The ball bounced back clean, and just like that, you were a libero. Just like that, people said you were lucky, like it wasn't your reflexes, your pain tolerance, your refusal to be scared that made it happen.

Because luck, real luck, was supposed to feel good, and most of the time it didn't. On the court, when you spiked and the middle blockers mistimed their jump and sent the ball out of bounds, earning your team the point, you didn't feel joy. You just reset your stance and waited for the next play.

When allowance day came and you counted your money and realized you had just enough left to afford ramen for the week, people called you lucky, joked about your budgeting skills. You weren't happy then either. You were relieved, maybe, but relief tasted nothing like happiness.

And when your teammates whispered about how lucky you were for hooking up with that handsome men's volleyball player, the one everyone drooled over, they didn't know he was gay and spiraling through an identity crisis, and they sure as hell didn't know how awkward and hollow the sex was. They envied you. You lay there afterward staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing but discomfort and regret, wondering how something everyone hyped up could feel so fucking empty.

You were unlucky in the kind of life you wanted but couldn't seem to reach, no matter how many points you saved, how many games you won, how many scholarships you earned. You worked hard, you pushed your body past exhaustion, you sacrificed sleep and weekends and normal college shit, and yet when it came to the softer parts of living, the parts people took for granted, you always seemed to come up short. Love didn't land where it was supposed to. Comfort felt temporary, like something borrowed that could be taken back at any moment.

"God, aren't they being misogynistic?" Karina's voice exploded through your phone, echoing slightly because someone else in the group call was yelling at the same time. It was already past 10:36 in the evening and the Viber group call lit up your screen, faces popping in and out, voices overlapping, screenshots being spammed into the chat. One of them showed the Men's Volleyball Team's group chat from your university, their messages dripping with mockery, acting like your qualification to the finals was some kind of joke. Saying you wouldn't survive Men's Volleyball, telling you to stop being egoistic, laughing about how you "wouldn't even win against them" if you played on their side.

You turned the volume down as you started packing your things for tomorrow. Your mind was tired, body sore, and halfway through, you remembered your other bag was still in the living room. You scratched behind your ear and stood, phone still pressed between your shoulder and cheek, listening to the call as you padded out of your room. You didn't turn on the main lights, already knowing Jake would be asleep by now.

"I mean, it's completely different when it comes to force, agility, speed," you said calmly. "But skills? That's not gendered. The best response is no response. Their egos are just bruised because they didn't qualify. With that attitude, I doubt they ever will." You sighed softly, ducking into the living room and kneeling by your bag. "God help those boys."

"Like?!" Giselle yelled through the phone, her face practically vibrating with rage on your screen. "They're being fucking misogynistic! Did you see their group chat? They're mocking you specifically for being fierce during matches! Look at this shit—'I can't wait for them to lose tomorrow, let's see if her fierce face stays then.' Bitch, I'm about to throw hands. Tell me to do something and I will."

You lowered the volume again, a small laugh slipping out despite yourself. Honestly, if you were being real, you didn't care that much. Not because it wasn't wrong, but because you were too damn tired to give their words any big deal. You started pulling unnecessary things out of your gym bag, tossing wrappers and old tape into the bin. Men talking shit was practically background noise at this point.

Then your hand froze. The ticket slipped into view between your fingers. You held it there, two fingers pinching the corner, staring at it like it might say something back. The girls were still yelling in the background, voices overlapping, insults flying freely now.

"They're giving small dick energy," Yunjin chimed in loudly. "I mean, it's obvious. There's literally no imprint when they wear gray shorts."

You barely reacted. Your eyes stayed on the ticket, chest tight, thoughts drifting somewhere else entirely. Jake's awkward smile. His quiet apologies. The way he'd shut his eyes when he said no, like he hated disappointing you even when he hadn't done anything wrong. Sighs, he is so cute.

Without letting yourself think any further, you opened the bin and dropped the ticket inside. You grabbed your bag, stood up, and walked back into your room, shutting the door behind you with careful quiet.

When finals finally rolled around, you found yourself moving in circles, literally and figuratively, as the coach herded you into a tight formation at center court. Everyone's hands were linked, fingers brushing, gripping just enough to feel grounded. The coach, in his usual way, told you all to close your eyes and "ask the universe for guidance."

You closed your eyes, not because you believed in any divine intervention, not really. You were too much of a realist for that. Still, it felt nice, comforting even, to pretend. To hope. To imagine the universe leaned in and whispered, Yeah, you can do this. You will win, but not because of luck—because you earned it. Your shoulders loosened slightly, the tension in your jaw softening as you let yourself breathe into the ritual, even as every fiber of your body screamed with exhaustion from training.

Around you, the girls were buzzing with energy, eyes closed but faces alight, humming a silent rhythm of anticipation. Their drive from yesterday had carried over—Karina's fist clenched in quiet determination, Giselle bouncing slightly on her heels, Winter rocking back on the balls of her feet like she was about to launch herself forward. You felt a twinge of envy—how easy it seemed for them to throw themselves into hope, to lean on belief, even if it was in some hokey pre-game ritual. You, meanwhile, were caught in this weird limbo between wanting to believe in the magic of it and knowing, deep down, that you relied on nothing but your own hands and legs to make anything happen.

Hm.

What else could tonight bring? Maybe a good meal after? You glanced at your teammates, at the VIP section with its flowers and loud supporters, thinking about how nice it would be if someone threw a bouquet your way too. Not that you deserved one—hell, your muscles were probably going to scream at you tomorrow regardless. You almost snorted at yourself. Ridiculous. Wanting someone to soothe your sore body, to run a hand over a knot in your shoulder, to be there after everything, like it was some kind of reward for existing.

You could picture the universe rolling its eyes if it were a person. Slapping you upside the head. Really? You want that too? Just for surviving a volleyball match?

The corners of your lips twitched into a small, ironic smile as you closed your eyes again. You tried not to think about Jake—the way he cooked extra portions, the way he smiled awkwardly when he handed them to you. Not that it had anything to do with the universe or magic or divine intervention. Not really. And yet, as your fingers brushed against the hands of your teammates, as your legs trembled in anticipation of the first whistle, a tiny, secret part of you hoped he was somewhere out there, watching or thinking of you, maybe even wishing for you in his quiet, careful way. Geez, so out of reach.

The whistle blew.

Finals was hell in the most honest way possible, finals dragged on longer than your lungs wanted and demanded more than your body should reasonably give. It was the most intense match of the season, not just because of the score, but because of what was hanging over everyone's heads. Regionals. You didn't just want it, you needed it. You had refused to back down this far. You were not about to stop now, not when nationals were just one brutal step closer.

The crowd roared every time you sprinted out of bounds, every time you threw your body after that fucking ball like it owed you money. You barely felt the sting when your chest slammed against the floor after a dive, only thinking it as something to deal with later. Adrenaline was pumping so hard your heartbeat felt louder than the whistles, louder than the screams. You pushed yourself up, sweat blurring your vision as you glanced at the other team, then back at your own. Everyone looked wrecked. Knees bent, hands on thighs, jerseys soaked through. You were all running on fumes and stubbornness at this point.

Your chest heaved as you sucked in air, the scoreboard flashing in the corner of your vision. Big mistake. Numbers swam in your head. Forty. Thirty-nine. Too close. Way too close. The noise pressed in on you from every direction, cheers crashing over your thoughts until it felt like your skull might split open. Fuck. Don't look. Don't think. You needed to make it into regionals. Regionals. You needed to make it—

Huh?

Your eyes flicked to the VIP section without meaning to, drawn by something that didn't belong. Someone stiff. Someone painfully familiar. For half a second, your brain refused to process it, like it was some fucked-up hallucination brought on by exhaustion. But no. He was real. Sitting there in a Type D university uniform, shoulders tense, posture straight like he didn't know what to do with himself in a place this loud, this crowded. Jake. Your nerdy, early-sleeping, crowd-hating roommate. And in his left hand, of all things, he was holding a blue balloon.

What the fuck was Jake doing here?

Your heart stuttered, not from the game this time, but from the sheer wrongness of it. It was past eight!

When his gaze finally met yours, it was like the rest of the gym dropped out of existence. He gave you that same awkward, painfully familiar smile, the one that always looked like it was halfway between nervous and sincere. Then, slowly, he lifted his hand and waved. The crowd was deafening, chants and stomping and whistles crashing over each other, but somehow you still caught it. His lips moved, barely forming the words, but you read them clear as day.

Bring it home.

Your throat closed. Championship. He meant championship. And fuck, you didn't know how something so simple could rearrange you from the inside out. People always said liking someone made you stupid, made you corny, made you weak. Maybe it did. Because suddenly your chest felt too full, like someone had plugged you straight into a charger you didn't even know you were running on empty from. You dragged your eyes back to the court, licked your dry lips, tried to flatten your expression—but it was useless. The smile crept up anyway. You were smiling. Inside the fucking court. In the middle of finals. Like an idiot.

The whistle blew again, and instead of dread, something hot surged through you. You felt full. Fueled. Like the last hours of exhaustion had been replaced with pure, reckless purpose. Your legs moved before you thought, sprinting, cutting, diving. You hit the floor hard, again and again, arms burning as you popped the ball up just in time. The pain was there, sure, but it didn't slow you down.

You got up grinning, clapping for your teammates, shouting encouragement you never fucking shouted before.

They stared at you like you'd lost your mind. Probably because you had. You never did this shit. You were the quiet one, the focused one, the one who saved the ball and moved on. But now you were smiling at them, slapping hands, nodding like yeah, we've fucking got this. And weirdly, it worked.

You planted your feet again, wiping your sweaty palms against your shorts, lungs burning as you bent into position.

For regionals. For your team. For the boy in the VIP section holding a blue balloon like an idiot, who had no fucking idea he'd just become your lucky charm.

The serve came flying toward you.

And you didn't miss.

Your arms burned as the ball ricocheted cleanly upward, exactly where it needed to go—and then the whistle screamed through the gym. For half a second, everything froze. Your lungs forgot how to work. Your legs locked like they'd finally decided they were done carrying you.

"And just like that, with the score of 50–43, Decelis Academy earns the champion title!"

The roar hit you like a fucking wave. It crashed into your chest, into your ears, into your bones. Your knees buckled, and if your teammates hadn't swarmed you immediately, you would've kissed the floor right there. Arms wrapped around you, lifting you up, spinning you, screaming into your hair. You screamed too hands flying to your face as tears spilled without permission. Your body shook, adrenaline still screaming even though the fight was over.

You did it. You fucking did it! The students from your university went feral in the stands, chants echoing, banners waving. Someone shoved a towel over your shoulders, someone else slapped your back hard enough to knock the air out of you. When they finally set you down, your legs wobbled like jelly, barely holding your weight. The trophy hadn't even been handed out yet, the awards still being organized, but your chest was already too full. Too loud. Too alive.

And then your eyes went to the bleachers.

He was standing. Not sitting stiff anymore, not hiding behind his shoulders—standing, gripping the rail. Your nerdy little roommate. Your heart did that stupid thing again, skipping like it always did around him. Without thinking, without waiting, your feet moved on their own, carrying you toward him.

"Hi," you said when you reached him, breathless, sweaty, grinning like a fucking idiot.

"Hi," he replied, and his eyes—God, his eyes—were shining. Bright. Wide. Almost overwhelmed. "Y-You looked so cool," he said, words tumbling out faster than usual. "With all the defense, and the jumps, and the spikes, and the serves—" His hands moved as he spoke, clumsy little gestures like he was trying to reenact the whole game at once.

Your heart softened so hard it almost hurt. You laughed. "It's already nine," you said, teasing, tilting your head. "You're supposed to be asleep."

He smiled and looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. "I couldn't miss something s-so cool," he admitted. "I don't know what other words to use, but... losing an hour or two of sleep is worth it." Then his brows pulled together, concern slipping in. "You dived really hard though. Does it hurt?" He pressed a hand to his own chest like he felt it too.

You laughed again, shaking your head. This—this was the longest he'd ever talked to you without tripping over himself, and fuck, it was endearing as hell. "It's no big deal," you said lightly, tapping your foot against the ground. "I'm trained for that." Then, quieter, more honest, "Thanks for watching. It... feels nice. Knowing someone out there was actually watching me."

You glanced away, embarrassed by your own sincerity, then looked back just as he reached down and pulled something up from behind his chair.

Your heart fucking stopped.

The universe had jokes, apparently. Personal ones.

"Uh... f-for you," he said, holding it out with both hands. "For bringing pride to the Academy. And for... being the coolest roommate ever." He let out a nervous laugh. It was a LEGO bouquet. Big colorful bouquet, wrapped in pink. Painfully thoughtful. Flowers that wouldn't die. Flowers that fit him perfectly.

Your vision blurred before you even realized what was happening. You didn't think and didn't hesitate. You just moved—vaulting forward, ignoring the metal barrier between the court and the bleachers, throwing yourself straight into him. Your face buried against his neck. You clutched the bouquet awkwardly as your other arm wrapped around him like you were afraid he'd disappear.

He froze at first, breath hitching, body stiff with surprise.

Then—slowly, carefully—his free arm came around your waist. It was hesitant in that painfully sincere way, like he was asking permission without words. His hand pressed flat against your back, warm through the thin fabric of your jersey, and after a second it began to move—small, slow circles that comforted you, that reached somewhere deep inside your chest and eased something you didn't even realize had been clenched for years.

"Thank you," you whispered, voice breaking despite your effort to hold it together.

The tears still came anyway. It felt nice—no, it felt right. You trained your body to take hits, to throw yourself into floors, to stand tall and hard and unshakable. But here you were, soft as hell for a boy who held you like you might shatter if he squeezed too hard.

You slowly pulled back from the hug, and the distance between you was barely anything. Too close. Intimate in a way that made your breath hitch. You noticed everything at once—how sharp his nose was up close, how full his lips were when he wasn't biting them, how his skin smelled clean and familiar. Your arms were still looped around him, your fingers resting against his back and you were staring at his face like your brain had short-circuited.

His cheeks were flushed red, eyes wide, frozen.

"S-sorry," you blurted, snapping back to reality and pulling away.

Before the silence could swallow you whole, your teammates shouted your name, waving you over, yelling about awards and photos and medals. You swallowed hard, nodding as you stepped back, heart still beating stupidly fast.

You hesitated, then handed him the LEGO bouquet. "Hold this for me?" you said, already half-turning away before he could answer.

As you walked back toward the court, you bit down on your lip so hard it almost hurt, trying to stop the grin that threatened to split your face open. You swung your arms back and forth like that might shake the feeling out of your system. It didn't help. Not even a little. You could already imagine Karina's smug, knowing smile from a mile away.

Sure enough—

"Care to introduce us to your companion?" Karina teased, nudging you with her shoulder as medals were placed around your neck.

You rolled your eyes, cheeks burning.

The celebration dragged on—photos, cheers, teammates getting swallowed by their partners, hugs turning into kisses, laughter spilling everywhere. When it finally became too much, you slipped away from the crowd.

And Jake was still there. Sitting on the bench. Waiting. Like he hadn't even considered leaving without you.

"Let's go home?" you asked softly, adjusting the strap of your bag on your shoulder, suddenly very aware of how tired your body was now that the adrenaline was fading.

He nodded immediately and stood up, a little too fast. His gaze dropped to your bag, then back up to you, then away again. He gestured vaguely toward it, fingers twitching at his side.

You frowned slightly. "Hm?" you asked, lifting your head to look at him, confused.

"Uh..." He scratched the back of his head, lips pressing together like he was debating something internally. His ears were already red. Without waiting for your response, he stepped closer and carefully took the bag from your shoulder, sliding the strap off you and onto himself instead. He left you holding only the LEGO bouquet.

"Oh," you said, letting out a small, awkward laugh.

You glanced around at the lingering crowd, then back at him, then anywhere but directly at his face.  You swung your upper half just to bleed off the urge to scream, or laugh, or do something completely unhinged like grab his hand or kiss his stupid, careful mouth. Your heart was still racing, your muscles still buzzing, and now this—this quiet, domestic kind of care—was hitting you harder.

The silence between you stretched as you walked back to the apartment. It wasn't awkward, not really, but it was loud in its own way. You could feel every unsaid thing vibrating in the air. You wanted to say something—anything—but every possible sentence felt like a trap you'd fall into and embarrass yourself with. So you stayed quiet. Let your footsteps match his. Let the city noise do the talking for you.

When you finally stepped inside the apartment, you froze.

The table was covered in foil and containers—different shapes, different sizes, way more food than two people needed. And there, lined up neatly in the living room like little soldiers, were Whitey, Pinky, and Bumble, powered down, silent for once, which means only one thing. Jake had been here before the finals. Long before.

Your brain immediately went to war with itself.

Did he cook all of this before going to your game? Where the hell did he even get the ticket? How did he manage his time—his precious, carefully scheduled time—to cook this much? Did he order it instead? Was this planned? Was this normal?

Why did he watch your game?

You watched him set your bag down gently on the couch. He moved toward the table, fumbling with the food covers, suddenly clumsy again.

"Uh... y'know, I—I wasn't supposed to watch," he started, almost rushed. "I ordered a bunch of meals for you to eat after, but... I—" He stopped himself, staring at the food like it might give him the right words. He scratched at his ear, shoulders curling inward. "Uh... I..."

"Thank you," you said, cutting him off gently before he could spiral any further.

He looked at you with wide eyes, you smiled at him and nodded as you sat down in the living room, the tension easing just enough to breathe again.

As usual, you ate in silence. And as usual, you ate comfortably around him. Shoving food into your mouth, muttering little "mm" sounds between bites, nodding at how good everything tasted, even closing your eyes like you were savoring.

And God, Jake really was the best roommate you'd ever accidentally asked the universe for.

If you thought about it too long, he felt like the only lucky thing that had ever landed in your life without strings attached. How being around him made you happy. How you didn't have to plan your words or armor yourself up. How you could be tired, bruised, vulnerable, and still be met with care instead of judgment.

When you finally finished eating, you leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "Thank you for the meal!" you said brightly, reaching out and slapping his back in a burst of affection.

Jake arched forward slightly and let out a soft whine, clearly not expecting it.

"Shit—sorry!" you laughed immediately, panic and amusement colliding as you rubbed the spot you'd hit. "I forget you're not built like one of my teammates."

He huffed out a shy laugh, shaking his head, ears red again.

By the time everything was packed up and wiped down, it was already past eleven. There were no leftovers—of course there weren't. Your body had burned through everything like fuel dumped straight into a fire. You stretched your arms over your head and volunteered to wash the dishes, half-joking that it was the least you could do after eating like a starved animal. Jake protested at first,  shaking his head and mumbling something about it being fine, but after a bit of back and forth he gave in, hovering awkwardly nearby like he wasn't sure whether to help or get out of your way.

You worked side by side in silence, the comfortable kind this time. Plates clinking, water running. It felt domestic in a way that made you uneasy.

When you finished and wiped your hands dry, you crouched near Bumble, who was shut down and charging by the wall. It felt weird that it didn't greet you tonight. You had half a mind to flick it on just to hear that familiar robotic "Hi." You wanted to tell it everything—that you won, that you were heading to regionals, that you earned a title you'd bled for. That somehow—against all odds—you were developing feelings for its awkward, gentle owner without even meaning to. You snorted softly at yourself and patted Bumble's rounded top "I'll tell you tomorrow," you whispered, like it could hear you.

You grabbed a towel and headed to the bathroom. The hot water hit your skin and you hissed, muscles screaming in protest, bruises blooming darker under the steam. You leaned your forehead against the tile and let yourself breathe, replaying flashes of the night—Jake in the crowd, the balloon, the Lego bouquet, his arms around you. Fuck. You shook your head hard, rinsed off, and wrapped the towel around yourself before your thoughts went somewhere dangerous.

When you stepped back into the living room, hair damp and towel slung over your shoulder, you expected the lights to be dimmed and Jake to be long asleep like usual.

Instead, you froze.

He was still there, crouched near the wall, focused on powering down the vacuum robots one by one. Whitey and Pinky blinked to life, then began their slow, looping rounds across the floor, humming softly.

"Oh," you said before you could stop yourself. "You're... still not asleep."

Jake glanced up, startled, then pushed himself to his feet. "Y-Yeah," he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "I... uh... I needed to shut them down properly. They, um... run better if I don't leave it for the morning."

You nodded and sat down on the couch, absently rubbing your hair with the towel, watching Whitey bump gently into the leg of the coffee table before redirecting itself. Your body sank into the cushions, heavy and spent, but your mind was still buzzing.

"Thanks," you added quietly, not looking at him. "For... everything. Tonight."

It suddenly sounded too intimate, too loaded, and you immediately regretted not cushioning it with a joke or some careless shrug. You could almost predict what would happen next—his shoulders stiffening, that polite little cough, the retreat.

Sure enough, you heard him clear his throat, footsteps padding toward his room, and you exhaled slowly. Do not be stupid about it.

The door clicked shut. You were already settling deeper into the couch, telling your heart to calm the fuck down, when the door opened again. You frowned, lifting your head just in time to see Jake step back into the living room with a small cloth in his hand. He didn't look at you right away. Instead, he moved to the refrigerator, rummaging around. You watched him with a crease between your brows, confused.

When he turned back around, your breath caught. He crossed the space between you without rushing, then knelt down in front of the couch. Your eyes widened as he gently took hold of your foot, so careful, his gaze fixed on the angry bruises blooming along your shin and ankle. Up close, they looked worse—swollen, and darkening.

"Wait—you don't have to," you blurted, heat rushing up your neck. You reached for him instinctively, fingers closing around his wrist as if to stop him, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was.

He shook his head before you could pull away. "J-Just... let me," he said quietly, his voice steadier than you'd ever heard it. "Please."

The word please was was sincere. Caring. Like this was something he wanted to do, not something he felt obligated to offer. Your grip loosened without you even realizing it, fingers slipping from his wrist as you gave a small nod, surrendering.

The cloth was cool when it touched your skin, and you hissed softly before the ache eased just enough to make you sag back against the couch. Jake worked carefully, dabbing, not pressing too hard, his movements slow like he was afraid of hurting you. You watched him from above, the way his brows knitted in concentration, the way his thumb hovered before every touch as if silently asking permission.

In that moment, with your legs aching and your heart doing stupid, hopeful things, you felt it clearly—like the universe had finally thrown you a bone. You swallowed, blinking back the sudden sting behind your eyes, and let yourself wish—just a little—that this wasn't the end of it. That maybe, if you were brave enough, it could become something more.

The rain was relentless, hammering down on the campus like it wanted to wash everything away. You weren't supposed to be here—technically, the university might announce a suspension for this one-day anniversary celebration, and yet, here you were, dragged into anywhere by your batchmates. Booths sprawled across the open field, tents flapping violently in the wind, people shouting over the rainfall, trying to make their sales, their events, their little festivals matter despite the downpour. Your mind was flying, your focus already zeroed in on the smell of food wafting through the air.

Your batchmates were bouncing around like hyperactive ping-pong balls, dragging you to every booth, explaining every club, organization, or activity. You smiled, nodded, occasionally talking back, but your attention was already elsewhere. You made a beeline for the food tents, because at least there you could indulge without pretending to care too much about the rest of. You handed over your allowance, little coins and bills disappearing faster than you could count, but it didn't matter. You were eating! You were alive!

"This is Caramelized Banana! It's a banana with melted sugar on top. We also have banana wrapped, no sugar, or with sugar, and you can dip it in our chocolate syrup! It's a recipe popular in the Philippines—" You nodded, intrigued despite yourself, and bought one, your teeth sinking into the warm sweetness. You didn't even mind the vendor's continued spiel, too busy savoring the sticky sugar sliding down your fingers.

"Nachos with a lot of melted cheese! Would you like that? Buy here, come!" Oh, cheese. You couldn't say no. You grabbed it, scarfed down the gooey chips, and licked your fingers. The crowd barely mattered, the wet grass barely mattered—you had your food and that was enough.

"Nasi Goreng, originated from Malaysia, and we also have Murtabak with curry dipping sauce—" One you hadn't tried before, hm, promising. You bought it anyway, letting the unfamiliar spice surprise you.

You wandered, hands overloaded with plates, cups, skewers, dripping food and drink. You smiled at familiar faces, waved at acquaintances, all without really stopping, just enjoying the simple pleasure of eating. But then, of course, you saw Karina, by the Engineering booth. And just like some magnetic pull, she was staring right at you, that big, wide, infuriatingly cheerful grin on her face.

Your first instinct was to turn on your heel and walk fast, hoping she wouldn't catch up. Ha. Of course, she did, slinging an arm around your shoulder and tugging you in the direction she wanted.

"Come on," she sing-songed, leaning heavily into you. "You're really not interested in the Engineering booths? That's wild." She grinned, nuzzling her nose against your cheek in that infuriatingly intimate way she had. "I saw your cute little roommate earlier, you know. Passing papers to the Grade 12 students. He looked all serious and responsible. Wanna say hi? Let's go say hi."

You huffed through the banana cue still in your mouth, your cheeks hollowing as you chewed. Three days had passed since the finals, three days of rest and light training, but your mind was still a battlefield. Thoughts of him kept creeping in, and the more you tried to ignore them, the louder they became. You wanted to avoid him—yes, goddamn yes—but at the same time, every fiber of you ached to see him, to be near him, to steal a moment that wasn't really yours.

Karina jabbed your side playfully again, practically dragging you forward, and you let yourself be led, cheeks flaming hotter with each step. Your stomach was twisting like a knot of nerves and excitement as she maneuvered you through the rain-slicked paths, past other tents, right to the Engineering booth where Jake was standing. Flyers were scattered across the table, little models of buildings precariously balanced on top, and he was carefully carrying one in his hands.

"O-Oh, hi," he stammered when his gaze landed on you. You forced a small, awkward smile and waved, trying to look casual, though your knees threatened to buckle under the intensity of your own heartbeat. His eyes flicked to Karina, who was grinning and waving energetically at him, and you could feel her elbows nudging you forward with impatience.

"Hi! I'm Karina, her friend!" she chirped, pointing at you. She looped her arms around yours in a sort of gesture, pressing her hip gently against yours, signaling you to do something—anything—so you wouldn't freeze completely.

"Hi, I'm Jake..." he said, his words catching slightly as he placed the tiny building models on the table with deliberate care, his gaze snapping back to you immediately. Karina squealed again, poking your side for emphasis, and you could barely focus on anything except the way his eyes met yours.

The past three days, he had been almost invisible in the apartment, buried in whatever work the booth had demanded. You had tried to cook dinner once, thinking maybe it would be a way to reach out, but you burned the rice, cursing yourself under your breath. After that, you'd stuck to ordering takeout, leaving it neatly on the table for him, only to be met with his quiet thanks and a promise to sleep early because of his busy schedule. Talking to him directly had always been this impossible thing, a wall of nerves and hesitation that you could never figure out how to scale.

"Uh..." you said finally. "What's around your booth?" You felt Karina pinch your back sharply, a mischievous jab reminding you to ask more, not less.

"M-Mostly, just models and blueprints of b-buildings. N-nothing special, sorry—our plan was to encourage the Grade 12 students to enroll in our c-courses... that's why..."

You nodded, staring at the mini-building he had just placed down, but your gaze inevitably wandered to his hands. White, slender, pale hands, veiny in the softest, most perfect way. Hands that looked like they could build worlds or crush them, delicate and capable at the same time. You swallowed hard, blinking, your mind wandering to impossible thoughts—holding those hands, wrapping yours around them. It was infuriating how unfairly perfect he was in every little way, how nothing about him seemed flawed, nothing you could grasp onto to stop yourself from melting quietly inside.

"The fuck are you doing? Ask him more!" Karina hissed into your ear, breaking through your daze and making you jump slightly.

"Uh... you want some food?" you blurted, holding up the banana cue you still had, dipping it in chocolate sauce with trembling hands. Your fingers shook as you offered it to him, locking eyes with his as if your courage depended on it. You could see the sudden widening of his eyes behind his glasses, a tiny flare of surprise that made your stomach twist. "It's a banana with sugar... I roamed around the area and ate all of their food. Haha..." You tried to laugh lightly, hoping it sounded casual instead of awkward.

Jake's hands were still slightly dusty from handling the models, and he rubbed them awkwardly on his pants. "Uh... D-Do you have alcohol wipes or—"

"It's okay, just take a bite. I'll hold it for you," you said quickly, forcing your voice calm even though your heart was hammering. Your feet tapped nervously against the ground as you leaned slightly forward, the tiniest tremor of excitement running up your spine.

Then he leaned forward, slowly, cautiously, and took a bite. Your fingers tightened around the stick as you watched him, the small tunnel of the booth around you fading until all you could see was him. Karina's muffled clap from the side snapped you briefly back, and you caught her giving you a sly thumbs-up, eyes closed in encouragement as if saying, Finally, you're doing it.

God, Jake is so handsome it knocks the air clean out of you. Your brain short-circuits in the dumbest way possible, every thought evaporating until there's nothing left but him—standing there, biting into your food. You watch his lips close around the banana, the faint shine of chocolate at the corner of his mouth, the way his jaw moves when he chews. He nods softly, murmuring a quiet thanks, his palm hovering over his mouth as if he's embarrassed to be seen enjoying it too much.

You don't move. You barely breathe. It's humiliating how sensitive you suddenly feel to everything—how close he is, how warm the air feels between you, how one small movement from him makes your stomach flip. Seconds pass, maybe minutes, you're not sure. Then Jake looks up and catches you staring, really staring, and your chest tightens painfully because fuck, you didn't even try to hide it.

Karina, bless her soul, steps in before you can combust on the spot. "Jake? Right?" she says brightly, already reaching out to clap a hand on his shoulder. He jumps a little at the contact, stiff as a board. "Actually, my friend Sangwon—you know Sangwon? Yeah? He's an engineer. He's gonna take over the booth with Leo in a bit." She gestures wildly behind her, where Sangwon and Leo are walking past with drinks in their hands. "What if you two just roam around the area? My friend here is a loner," she adds, squeezing your arm hard, "and it might be nice for you to walk instead of being stuck here all day, hmm?"

Jake freezes completely, eyes darting between Karina and you. Sangwon and Leo stop mid-step, staring at Karina. "Are you fucking with me?" Sangwon mutters, incredulous. Leo just blinks, mouth open.

"Shut up," Karina snaps without looking at them.

"Actually—" you finally manage to speak, like you just woke up from a dream. You clear your throat and glance at Jake, trying not to melt under the way his attention snaps back to you instantly. "I saw at the other booth... the sponsored one... they were selling Hot Wheels."

"Really?!" Jake's eyes widen so much they practically light up behind his glasses. The shift is immediate and endearing as hell, all his stiffness melting into pure, unfiltered excitement. "Like... the die-cast ones? Or the limited edition—" He cuts himself off, realizing he's rambling.

You smile before you can stop yourself. You don't even know what are the die cast or the limited editions but— "I think I saw some limited ones," you say. "Near the food stalls."

Karina grins, "see?" she declares. "Go. Walk. Talk. I'll handle the booth." She physically pushes Jake a step away from the table, then nudges you forward too.

Jake hesitates, fingers twitching at his sides, then looks at you like he's asking permission without saying it. "I-If... if you don't mind," he says quietly.

You shrug, pretending your heart isn't slamming against your ribs. "Yeah. I don't mind."

And just like that, you're walking side by side, away from the booth. Your shoulders almost brush, close enough that you're hyper-aware of it, but neither of you moves away.

"How do you know I like Hot Wheels?" Jake asks after a moment.

You shrug, like it's nothing, like it didn't take weeks of quiet observation to notice. "Dunno," you say casually. "Every time I talk about rent or bills and you open your door, I just... notice the tiny cars." You glance at him, then gesture vaguely behind you. "They're lined up. Organized. Very... you."

He lets out a small, embarrassed laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. You continue before you can second-guess yourself. "But you kinda like everything, right? Stars. Oceans. Dinosaurs. All that science stuff." You pause, then add, "There's a lot of booths here that reminded me of you." The moment the words leave your mouth, you bite your lip.

"Really?" he says, stopping for half a second just to look at you properly. Not a quick glance—an actual look. His eyes search your face like he's checking if you're joking, if this is some kind of tease. When he realizes you're not, his ears turn red almost instantly. "Let's take a look then," he adds, a little brighter.

You nod, grateful for the excuse to look away, and guide him toward the booth you spotted earlier. The Hot Wheels stand is crowded with students leaning over glass cases, bright lights reflecting off tiny polished cars. Rows and rows of them—limited editions, old-school designs, racing models, cartoonish ones.

"Oh my God," Jake breathes. The words slip out before he can stop them, and you swear you've never seen him look so openly excited. He leans closer to the glass, hands clasped behind his back like a kid trying not to press his face against a window. "Th-This is— I've never seen this many in one place."

You watch him instead of the cars. The way his eyes light up, the way he rocks slightly on his heels, trying to contain himself. It hits you then—this is what it looks like when someone feels safe enough to be fully themselves.

"These ones are rare," you say, pointing at a row near the back, pretending you know more than you do. "I heard people were lining up early for them."

Jake leans in closer, his arm brushing yours accidentally. "Y-Yeah," he says, "I've only seen pictures of these online."

You're not even really looking at the cars anymore. You're watching him—how his focus sharpens, how his shoulders loosen, how this small joy pulls him out of his shell. Then, without thinking too much about it, he reaches out and lightly wraps his fingers around your forearm. "C-Come here," he murmurs, already tugging you a step to the side. "Take a look at this."

He points at a single car nestled among the others. "That one," he says, "It's a Super Treasure Hunt. See the 'TH' logo?" He leans closer to the glass, his grip on you tightening just a fraction. "They don't make a lot of them. People s-search for years sometimes."

"And... what about it?" you ask, heat creeps up your neck. Your cheeks flush, not just from the closeness, but from the way he's still holding you—thumb resting against your skin. You don't pull away. You don't want to.

Jake finally realizes what he's doing and stiffens slightly, his fingers twitching like he's about to let go. "S-Sorry," he starts, panicking, "I didn't mean to—"

"It's okay," you cut in quickly, turning your arm just enough that his hand stays where it is. You meet his eyes. "You're excited. I get it."

His mouth opens, then closes, then he lets out a small, breathy laugh. "I, uh... I just—" He swallows. "I think it's c-cool. When something small means that much."

You smile without thinking, slow and soft, nodding along. Yeah. Totally relatable. Your life has been built on small things that meant everything.

You and him end up roaming around the booths despite the shit weather, rain misting the air and soaking the edges of banners and tents. For once, you don't care. For once, you're not rushing, not counting time, not worrying about training schedules or what comes next. And really—this is the first time you see him like this. Not just Jake-the-roommate, or Jake-the-awkward-genius, but Jake letting himself exist out loud.

"It's my first time roaming around this much," he says, eyes wide as he takes everything in. His hand is still loosely wrapped around your arm. "Wow... I think there's a lot more compared to last year." His other hand is full of paper bags from the Hot Wheels booth.

You hum, letting him talk, letting him lead, and he really does. He points things out with this quiet excitement that sneaks up on you. The biology booth makes him stop dead in his tracks. "And that one—" he says, tugging you closer, voice lifting despite himself. "They're doing dissections. Look, that's a scorpion—see how detailed it is? And they patched it up themselves. That's so cool." His words tumble over each other, hands moving.

Then he's already dragging you again, apologizing under his breath but smiling all the same, pulling you toward a booth filled with wires, blinking LEDs, half-built machines. You figure it's IT or robotics—something adjacent to his world. His eyes light up immediately, pupils blown wide.

"This one—" he says, pointing at a small rectangular robot with tiny arms and legs. "It's an emo robot. Originally meant to sit on desks." He wiggles his finger in front of it, and the robot mirrors the motion, its digital eyes shifting expressions. Jake laughs under his breath, soft and fond. "I wanted one before, but it was expensive. So maybe Bumble can be an improvisation." He glances at you. "Someday... what do you think?"

You look at the robot, then back at him, then shake your head lightly. "I think I like Bumble more," you say honestly. "She greets me. Judges me silently."

He snorts before he can stop himself, clapping a hand over his mouth. And God—there it is again. That sound. That real laugh. It makes something warm bloom in your chest.

"Y-Yeah," he says, smiling openly now. "She does that."

And somehow, after that, everything loosens. The tension you didn't even realize you were carrying melts into the background as the two of you keep walking, drifting from booth to booth, laughing more than you expect to. It's awkward, yeah—there are pauses, stutters, moments where you both talk at once and then stop—but it's the good kind. He points at everything like a kid seeing the world for the first time, rambling about random facts, half-formed theories, things he read once and never forgot. And you listen. Really listen. Not because you feel like you have to, but because hearing him talk like this feels... comforting.

You catch yourself smiling for no damn reason, nodding along while he explains why certain materials work better in buildings or why he likes models more than finished structures. He talks with his hands, fingers fidgeting when he gets excited, eyes lighting up in a way that makes your chest ache a little.

"They said after this," you say eventually, glancing up at the sky, "judging by the weather, the government might suspend classes." The clouds above are heavy and gray, the wind sharp enough to bite through your clothes.

You're halfway through the walk back when the sky finally gives up pretending. Rain pours down all at once, soaking you in seconds. You both stop, startled, then look at each other like idiots before breaking into a run. Jake hugs the paper bags to his chest, trying—and failing—to shield them with his body.

"Oh no—!" he yelps, slipping slightly, and you grab his arm without thinking, dragging him forward.

You fumble with your keys at the door, hands slick and shaking, rain blurring your vision as you finally get it open. The two of you stumble inside, slamming the door shut behind you, breathing hard. For a second there's just the sound of rain pounding against the walls and your own uneven breaths.

Then you look at each other.

And you both lose it.

Laughter bursts out of you, echoing through the apartment. Water drips from your hair, down your face, soaking your clothes. Jake's curls are plastered to his forehead, his glasses fogged, his braces flashing as he grins and pushes his wet hair back with his palm.

God. He looks ridiculous. And beautiful.

Your chest feels warm, too full, as you watch him walk over and carefully set the bags on the couch like he's still worried about them, even now. He glances back at you, cheeks flushed, eyes bright, still smiling like this moment.

"We should immediately shower and change our clothes," he said, voice still a little breathless from laughing.

By the time you wrapped yourself in a towel and crawled into bed, your body finally gave in. The government suspension announcement came not long after. Continuous heavy rainfall. Classes canceled. City on standby. You stared at the window instead, watching water race down the glass in uneven lines, your mind is finally quiet. Just an unfamiliar sense of peace.

You didn't even realize how long you'd been lying there until a soft knock pulled you out of it.

It was too early for you to feel human again, too early to leave the bed—but of course, it was Jake. Standing at your door, holding a bowl with both hands. "Uh... I made b-breakfast," he said. "Porridge. With egg." He hesitated, then added, "If you're hungry."

God. You could live like this forever.

After washing the dishes together—your hands bumping once, both of you apologizing at the same time—you leaned against the counter, watching him wipe the table with careful strokes.

"Do you think it'll take weeks?" you asked, glancing at your phone. "Another typhoon's coming, right? Friday, I think."

He shrugged, pushing his glasses up his nose. "Dunno. Our profs already sent some online activities." He paused, then added, almost apologetic, "I still have to study."

"Sucks to be you," you said, grinning. "I just wanna be lazy all day. But also... being lazy gets boring fast."

He lifted his head then, eyes flicking up to meet yours. There was a brief pause, like he was debating with himself, fingers fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "Wanna b-build a Lego with me?"

Oh fuck. Your heart did that stupid thing again—jumping, twisting. You nodded anyway, too fast, too eager. "Yeah," you said. "Sure. Why not."

That was how you ended up on the living room floor, legs folded awkwardly, backs against the couch, Lego pieces scattered everywhere. Jake sat close—but not too close—careful in the way he always was, knees tucked in, sleeves pushed up as his fingers worked with quiet focus. He explained things as he went, apologizing every time he thought he was talking too much, which only made you want to hear more. You kept stealing glances at him, the way his brow furrowed when a piece didn't fit, the little hum he made under his breath when he figured it out.

And it didn't stop there.

The next morning, the rain was still relentless, hammering against the windows with no mercy, wind howling. You were half-awake, wrapped in a blanket, when Jake hovered near the couch, shifting his weight from foot to foot. "Uh... do you wanna watch a series?" he asked, holding his tablet. "I—I started it last week. It's... kinda long."

You agreed before your brain could catch up, again.

That's how you ended up watching a chess series together, bodies sunk into the couch, knees occasionally brushing. You didn't understand half of it, but you liked the way he watched—leaning forward, eyes sharp, fully absorbed. You pointed at the screen when the female lead pulled off some insane move, eyebrows raised. "I don't get how it works," you said honestly, "but she's cool as hell."

He smiled at that, a real one, eyes lighting up. "Y-Yeah. She is." He hesitated, then added, softer, "She's really smart."

Hours slipped by without either of you noticing. Episodes blurred together. You asked questions, most of them are dumb ones, sometimes ones that made him pause and think. When the character lost a crucial match, you frowned at the screen. "Why did she lose?"

Jake straightened a bit. "B-Because she got checkmated," he said gently. "There's... rules. A lot of patterns. Math, too." He leaned forward, pointing at the paused screen. "Her queen is trapped here. If she moves it, her king's exposed. No safe squares left."

You nodded slowly, pretending you understood more than you did, eyes flicking between the screen and him. He kept explaining anyway, hands moving as he talked, sketching invisible boards in the air.

Night fell without ceremony. The rain didn't let up. At some point, you realized your head had tipped onto his shoulder, your body was warm and heavy against his side. He stiffened for half a second, then relaxed, breathing evening. Neither of you said anything. The show kept playing. Your eyes drifted shut.

Another morning arrived with rain slamming against the windows like it was angry at the city itself. The wind howled, rattling the glass hard enough that it felt alive. Your phone buzzed with the announcement before you even checked the time: University Suspension — Classes Cancelled Until Further Notice. You stared at the screen for a second, then let yourself fall back against the couch with a breathy laugh. Trapped. Stuck. Whatever word people wanted to use. You didn't mind it. Not when being stuck meant him.

What surprised you most was him. Jake, who used to barely look at you without stuttering himself into knots, was the one filling the space now. He suggested things quietly but confidently—movies, games, stupid little activities that somehow filled the hours without feeling forced. He brought out board games you didn't even know he owned, set up playlists that hummed softly in the background. It was like once the outside world paused, he stepped forward like this was where he belonged.

"Wow," you said, staring down at the chessboard. "I can't believe we were just watching a chess series, and now we're actually playing." You picked up a random piece—no idea what it was—and shoved it forward. "This is unfair. I couldn't even comprehend a single rule."

You glanced up at Jake, expecting a laugh or at least a smug look, but he was focused—elbows on his knees, chin tilted down, eyes fixed on the board and cute as hell.

"You can't place it there," he said calmly, reaching out before you could protest. His fingers brushed yours as he lifted the piece you'd just moved, the contact brief but electric, like your skin had suddenly woken up. He shifted it to another square, "I can eat you."

You froze. He froze too. Then his eyes widened, panic flashing across his face as he realized what he'd just said. "Y–Your piece," he corrected quickly, voice dropping, ears turning red. "I mean. The piece. I'll take it."

You stared at him for a second. And then you laughed, leaning back on your hands as the sound spilled out of you. "Holy shit," you said, grinning. "Buy me dinner first, nerd."

He let out a strangled sound somewhere between a cough and a laugh, covering his mouth with his hand as his shoulders shook. "I—I didn't mean it like that," he muttered, mortified.

"I know," you said, still smiling. You leaned forward again, elbows resting on your knees, eyes dropping to the board like you were suddenly very invested in this stupid little war of wooden pieces. Your fingers traced the edge of a pawn absentmindedly. "But I don't mind..."

"Mind... what?" he asked, tentative, eyes flicking up to you and then away again like he was afraid of what he might see on your face.

You didn't even give yourself time to overthink it, you were just done pretending you didn't feel this pull. "You eating me." —and your mouth moved before your brain could chicken out. Fuck. You were flirting. You were actually, openly flirting.

Jake froze like you'd hit a pause button on him. His hand hovered over one of his pieces, then he snapped back to life and shoved it forward a little too fast, the wood clacking loudly against the board. You leaned forward too, mirroring him, reaching for one of your pieces and sliding it closer to his side of the board, deliberately slow, deliberately close. You lifted your eyes to his face, watching the way his blush deepened, spreading from his ears down his neck.

"My piece," you added quickly, lips twitching. "I mean." You pulled it back with a grin that told him you absolutely did not mean just that.

He swallowed hard as he moved again, taking your piece this time, fingers trembling just slightly. You caught the way his Adam's apple bobbed when he gulped, the way his jaw tightened like he was trying very hard to keep it together. God, he was cute like this—unraveled but trying, flustered but still playing, still sitting there with you instead of running for his room.

"I—I..." he started, then stopped, exhaling through his nose. "I know," he said finally, like he was bracing himself. "Your turn."

You didn't move right away. You just looked at the board, then at him, heart thudding harder than it had any right to over a chess game and a few words loaded with way too much meaning. Slowly, you picked up a piece and nudged it forward, smiling faintly to yourself as if you were enjoying how this felt far more than you should.

"Okie," you said lightly, then—just to be an asshole—you shoved another random chess piece forward. Jake scratched his head, blinking at the board.

"You can't move it from the back to the front, it's the Queen. You're exposing it," he said, a hint of impatience creeping into his voice. You almost laughed at how serious he was, brows furrowed, already reaching out to fix your mistake.

The next few hours blurred into him lecturing you about chess pieces, strategies, positioning, endgames, openings—things you half-listened to while watching the way his hands moved.

It didn't shock you at all that most of your pieces were eaten, one by one, until the board looked pitiful on your side. He leaned back slightly, studying it, then glanced up at you. "You're cornered," he said, almost apologetic.

"Sucks," you muttered, staring at your lonely queen. You tilted your head, eyes flicking up to his. "But I'm facing your queen. Is it not a checkmate?"

Jake blinked. Once. Twice. Then he leaned forward again, squinting at the board, lips parted in concentration. You watched him closely, the way his shoulders tensed, the way he bit his lower lip without realizing it. After a long moment, he froze, realization dawning on his face. "...Shit," he breathed.

You grinned, resting your chin on your palm. "Guess I win."

"Y-You didn't even know what you were doing!" he said.

"Nah!" You clapped your hands loudly, then you pointed straight at him like you'd just defeated a final boss. "You lose, loser!" You stuck your tongue out without shame, leaning into the childish victory. 

You pushed yourself up from the floor and climbed onto the couch, ignoring the scattered chess pieces. You did a slow spin, arms swaying dramatically, hips moving just enough to be obnoxious. "Bow to your champion!" you declared, laughing at your own stupidity as you were trying to annoy him. But you stopped mid-twirl. 

Jake wasn't annoyed, he wasn't scrambling to defend himself. He was just staring at you. A wide smile stretched across his face, braces flashing. His eyes were bright, crinkled at the corners, completely unguarded. He looked at you like you were something entertaining and precious at the same time.

Your stomach flipped. The teasing energy drained out of you in an instant. You stepped down from the couch and sat back on the floor across from him, suddenly more aware of the space between you. The chessboard sat abandoned, pieces knocked over like the game didn't matter anymore. 

"So," you said, clearing your throat as you folded your legs under you. You tilted your head slightly, trying to keep the playful tone even though your pulse had started racing. "Do winners have a prize?"

Jake's smile softened immediately. He looked down at his hands, then rubbed the back of his ear, and right on cue, the tips turned red. He pressed his lips together, then bit the lower one gently like he was thinking too hard. His feet shuffled against the floor, restless, nervous energy buzzing off him.

At first, you weren't sure what he was thinking. Maybe he thought you meant snacks. Maybe he was calculating some logical reward system in his head. But the longer he stayed quiet, the more your mind spiraled. Is he thinking what you're thinking? Or are you just being delusional? Your heart pounded louder, drowning out the rain for a second. He kept biting his lip, glancing up at you and then away again. His fingers curled into the fabric of his sweatpants.

"I—" he started, then stopped. He inhaled slowly, steadying himself. "What kind of prize?" he asked.

You leaned forward just slightly, enough that your knees were only inches away from his. "I don't know," you said, watching his face carefully. "You're the one who lost."

His eyes lifted to yours, and this time, he didn't look away. The storm outside continued raging, wind howling, rain pounding relentlessly, but inside, everything was suspended in this quiet, dangerous pause. You could see the conflict in his expression—the nervousness, the want, the restraint. He swallowed again. "I can... cook?" he offered, almost shyly. "Or... d-do the dishes for a week?"

You stared at him for a second. And then you laughed softly, shaking your head. Of course he would offer something practical. Of course he'd default to taking care of you in the safest way possible. "You're such a nerd," you murmured.

He smiled again, uncertain. "Is that... not okay?"

You looked up at the ceiling, pretending to think about it. Your teeth caught your lower lip as your mind spiraled. If you say this, you're crossing the line. If you say this, you're not just flirting anymore—you're stepping over that invisible boundary that kept things safe. If you say this, you might lose the easy mornings, the quiet dinners — But then again... what the hell were you so scared of?

"What about a kiss?" you asked, finally looking back at him, forcing your voice to stay steady. You watched it happen in real time—the shift in his face. His eyes widened just slightly, then softened, then panicked. Color bloomed across his cheeks, spreading down his neck in a slow, undeniable flush. His lips parted like he was about to speak, but no sound came out. For a second, you regretted it.

"Forget it," you said quickly, nerves snapping at you. You moved to stand, heart racing, ready to laugh it off, ready to run before you saw rejection in his eyes. But you didn't get far when a firm hand wrapped around your wrist. It wasn't rough, but it wasn't hesitant either. It caught you mid-motion and pulled you back down with enough strength to surprise you. A small yelp escaped your throat, cut short when you felt his lips against yours.

Your eyes flew open. Jake's were closed, brows slightly furrowed like he was concentrating too hard. His lips were soft—warmer than you expected. He kissed you like he did everything else: carefully at first, uncertain. You could feel the inexperience in the way he tilted his head a little too abruptly, the way his mouth moved like he wasn't sure what rhythm to follow.

Your shock melted fast. You closed your eyes and leaned in properly this time, pushing the chessboard out of the way with a clatter of wooden pieces hitting the floor. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, gripping them, feeling the solid warmth beneath his shirt. He let out the smallest, breathy sound against your mouth, half a whine, half a gasp.

The cold wind outside rattled the windows, but the room felt like it was closing in, warm with the sound of your breathing mixing together. You moved your lips more deliberately, guiding the kiss, pressing closer. When you brushed your tongue lightly against his bottom lip—slow, asking—he froze for a split second before he opened up. A quiet, shaky moan slipped from him as you deepened it, tasting him, feeling the way his hands tightened around your waist. His fingers dug in just enough to make you aware of them.

Still kissing him, you shifted your weight and swung a leg over, settling onto his lap without breaking contact. He inhaled sharply into your mouth at the movement, his grip adjusting to keep you steady. You could feel how tense he was beneath you, how his whole body seemed lit up by every point of contact. Your hands slid from his shoulders to the back of his neck, fingers threading lightly into his hair. You pulled him closer, and this time, he responded without pause—kissing you back with more confidence. A sharp gasp escaped you when his grip on your waist tightened suddenly, pulling your body flush against his. The pressure of him beneath the thin fabric of his pajama pants was obvious. Your head spun so fast you didn't even think about pulling away for air. It felt like your bodies had turned into magnets, stuck together with a force neither of you had the will to fight.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck.

Your hips shifted slowly, a roll meant to test him. You refused to break the kiss, and when the heat between your legs pressed directly against the tense outline beneath you, a quiet moan slipped from your throat before you could stop it. The sound vibrated between your mouths. That was when Jake broke the kiss.

Your lips chased his, catching his bottom lip between your teeth before he could pull too far away. The separation was reluctant, both of you breathing hard like you'd just sprinted a mile. Your chest rose and fell rapidly while you stayed seated on his lap, fingers still tangled in his hair like you might drag him back if he dared move too far.

"What— why?" you asked, your voice still shaky and breathless.

Jake's face was flushed a deep red, spreading from his cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears. His glasses had fogged slightly from the heat between you. For a second he just stared at you, then he shook his head once, almost frustrated, and pulled his glasses off. Without much care he tossed them somewhere toward the floor beside the couch where they landed with a faint clatter. Before you could even react, his hands returned to you and he leaned forward again, capturing your mouth in another kiss.

This one was different. There was nothing hesitant about it anymore. His grip on your waist was firmer, fingers digging into the fabric of your shirt. A small squeal escaped you when he suddenly stood, lifting you effortlessly like you weighed nothing. The sudden movement made your arms tighten around his neck while your legs wrapped around his waist, locking you against him. The new position pressed your bodies together even closer, heat building fast between you as he carried you across the room without breaking the kiss for more than a second.

Your mind tried to catch up, tried to ask what the hell was about to happen next, but the thought dissolved the moment his mouth found yours again. Overthinking felt impossible now. The only thing that mattered was the feeling of his lips, the warmth of his hands, the way your pulse pounded in your ears. You had spent too long ignoring the tension between you, pretending it wasn't there.

Right now you didn't care about tomorrow, or consequences, or whatever awkwardness might follow.

Right now you just wanted him.

Jake's breathing had turned uneven by the time your mouth drifted away from his lips. Your kisses trailed along the corner of his mouth, brushing his cheek before moving down to his jaw. You nipped lightly at the warm skin there, feeling the way his body tensed beneath your hold. One of his hands slid up your back while the other steadied you against him, fingers flexing slightly like he wasn't entirely sure where to touch first. "Where?" he whispered.

The word barely made it out before your teeth grazed his skin again. You could feel his pulse under your lips. You didn't answer, instead, you dragged your mouth slowly along his jaw toward his ear, letting the silence stretch while his grip on you tightened almost unconsciously. Your fingers brushed through the hair at the back of his neck again, tugging making him inhale sharply.

Then you finally murmured your answer against his ear. "Your room"

Your cunt fluttered at the sound of your own words, heat pooling wet as a low, long whine escaped him. You barely had time to register the sensation before you were being carried again, the familiar weightless surge of being lifted making your stomach knot with anticipation and arousal. The world blurred around you, furniture and light flashing past as he moved. You tried to hold onto something, but there was nothing to hold onto except him. Every nerve ending in your body was awake, every touch of his hand, every movement of his body against yours, sending sparks you didn't even know you could feel.

When he finally lowered you onto the bed, it was gentle despite the desperation in his hold. His hands guided you, careful, cradling your head like you were made of something fragile he didn't want to break. The bed beneath you was soft, yielding under your weight, but somehow it didn't lessen the intimacy of the moment—the way he leaned over you, holding you steady, letting you both pause before the next wave hit. You froze for a heartbeat, just staring at him.

Seeing Jake without his glasses was like seeing him stripped bare in a way you hadn't noticed before. His eyes were glossy and brilliant, gleaming with something almost otherworldly. There was a kind of intensity in them, like the stars he loved to watch in those documentaries he'd obsess over, but alive, raw, and focused entirely on you. You could see a storm of desire and confusion, clarity and hesitation all tangled up behind those shining orbs, and even though you didn't understand all of it, it made something coil tight in your chest. 

You just leaned in, pressing your lips against him, trailing soft, hungry kisses across his nose, the tip of his chin, the curve of his cheeks, letting your hands wander freely over the hard lines of his triceps, feeling the muscle tense and flex under your touch.

"Still with me?" you whispered, your teeth grazing his jaw as you tugged lightly, testing him, teasing him, feeling the shiver roll down his spine. Your hands drifted to his, guiding them up your body, threading his fingers through the fabric of your shirt, pressing them to your chest. "Is this okay?" you asked, your eyes locked on his, searching, and needing him to answer without words.

Jake gasped sharply, chest rising and falling, his eyes wide, pupils blown, and the flush spreading across his face so deep it looked almost painful. His cock twitched insistently beneath his pajama pants. Every nerve in his body screamed for more, as if your hands on him had awakened something he had been holding back. You moved slowly, coaxing him, rubbing him through the fabric, kneading the hard length of him in small, teasing motions while letting your fingers drift over the edges of his hips and down the side of his thighs. At first, his hands hovered uncertainly, until he finally mirrored you, sliding over your chest, kneading your breasts softly, fingers gentle yet unsteady.

A shared whine broke through your lips almost without thought. You couldn't bear the waiting any longer. Your hands fumbled at your top, ripping it free along with the bra in one shameless movement. The sudden freedom of your bare skin against the cool air made you shiver, and you felt him lean closer immediately, drawing in your scent as if it intoxicated him. He found the confidence to follow your earlier movements, pressing his mouth to your jaw, nibbling in small, sharp bites that made you wince, pulling a low moan from your chest despite the sting.

"Pretty," he whispered in a way that made you question if you'd imagined it. "So... so, pretty." He repeated it, a breathless chant, before diving back into your lips with renewed hunger.

You lost track of time, swallowed whole by the rhythm of his mouth and the press of his body against yours. His arms wrapped tighter around you, fingers pressing against your back and shoulders. Your bare breasts brushed against the fabric of his shirt, and the friction made your stomach coil tight with heat. You wanted more—you wanted all of it—but you were afraid to ask, afraid that if you broke the kiss to say so, he would retreat into awkwardness and the fragile tension you'd built would shatter. So instead, you cut the kiss abruptly, pressing the back of his head against your chest, guiding him where you wanted without speaking.

"Nghh," you moaned, tilting your head back, arching your back, letting him explore freely. His lips closed around your nipple, sucking with the inexperience of someone trying to mimic what they thought they should do. It was awkward but it sent shocks through your body. You felt him adapt, he swirled his tongue over your areola, teasing, learning, feeling. You guided one of his hands into your other breast, holding the back of his palm against your skin as he kneaded gently, and your eyes closed, lost in sensation.

He seemed to catch every nuance in your reactions, every small gasp that slipped out of your mouth, every tremor that ran through your body when he touched the right spot. His tongue flicked slowly between your nipples while his thumbs moved in steady circles around them, rough pads grazing the sensitive skin again and again. The sensation made your breath hitch sharply, another helpless gasp leaving your throat as your fingers curled into his hair. Jake stayed there for a long moment, almost stubborn about it, alternating between sucking, licking, and pressing soft kisses against your chest.

Eventually he pulled away, his lips lingering for a second before he leaned back up to capture your mouth again.

Oh boy, Jake must really love kissing.

You dragged him closer, one hand gripping the back of his neck while your body shifted beneath him. Your hips rolled upward without thinking, pressing into him, searching for friction. The kiss quickly turned messy as both of you started moving at the same time, your bodies grinding together clumsily on the bed. Each time your hips pushed up you felt the hard pressure of him through the fabric between you, and the contact made a low sound rumble from his chest.

"Re... move," you muttered between kisses, the word breaking apart as your lips kept bumping into his. Your fingers tugged impatiently at his shirt, pulling at the fabric.

Jake let out another strained whine before pulling away. He fumbled with his clothes quickly, clearly not thinking about grace or neatness. His shirt disappeared first, tossed somewhere beside the bed, and then his hands went straight for the waistband of his pajama pants. In his rush he dragged them down together with his boxers, pushing the fabric down his hips in one impatient motion.

"Oh..." you whispered before you could stop yourself, your body shifting backward slightly against the mattress.

Jake stood there for a second, breathing heavily, chest rising and falling while he looked at you, trying to read your reaction. But your attention had already dropped lower. Your gaze locked on him, on the obvious heat and color of his cock, the flushed pink that leaned almost red under the soft light in the room. You could see the veins along the base, the damp shine at the tip where precum had already gathered. It looked almost angry, twitching slightly with each breath he took.

How the hell had Jake—your awkward, nerdy, always-overthinking roommate—been hiding something like that?

Jake noticed where you were looking. His shoulders shifted awkwardly and his hand moved as if he wanted to cover himself, the embarrassment creeping back onto his face. But before he could actually hide anything, you moved. You pushed yourself up onto your knees on the mattress and reached forward, catching his wrist and pulling it aside. Your other hand slid forward immediately after, your palm wrapping around his cock.

"No— ahh—" Jake's head tipped back the moment your hand closed around him.

You felt the warmth of it against your palm, and your fingers tightened slightly without thinking. His reaction made you reach up with your free hand, grabbing lightly at the back of his neck and pulling him down toward you again. Your lips crashed back into his before he could say anything else. The angle was awkward now, with him half leaning over you and most of his weight pressing down onto the mattress while your hand stayed wrapped around him. His hips kept shifting forward, brushing against your palm. You deepened the kiss, your mouth moving slowly against his while your hand finally started to move. Your grip circled him carefully at first, sliding upward and then back down in a slow motion as you tested the rhythm.

Jake's moan burst straight into your mouth. His entire body jerked in response, hips twitching sharply against your hand. His legs tensed, muscles tightening as if he'd been hit with a sudden wave of sensation he wasn't prepared for. The sound he made this time was even more desperate, muffled by the kiss.

And then you felt the sudden spurt against your hand, the unmistakable wetness as his body reacted faster than either of you expected. Your movement slowed automatically, your mind catching up with what had just happened.

Oh... Oh.

Jake pulled away from your mouth so suddenly, his breath ragged and uneven as he immediately buried his face into the crook of your neck. The movement was clumsy like he was trying to disappear somewhere inside you. His entire body collapsed forward, and you swore the air left your lungs for a second under the full weight of him. He wasn't holding himself up anymore—he was just draped over you, chest pressed to yours, arms braced awkwardly on either side of your shoulders. You could feel how hot his skin was, how fast his heart was pounding against you. One of his hands quickly grabbed your wrist and gently pulled your hand away from him. He didn't say anything. He just breathed hard against your neck, warm bursts of air brushing your skin while his body stayed tense.

A small patch of warmth spreading slowly against your neck. At first you thought it was just his breath, or sweat from how heated everything had gotten but — "Are you..." you paused, confused, one hand coming up to touch his back carefully, fingers brushing along his spine. "Crying?"

"Sorry I cum too fast," he whimpered into your neck, his voice muffled and shaking as he buried his face deeper against your skin. His head shook slightly as he said it, the motion rubbing his cheek against you.

Your eyes widened immediately. "Hey—no, it's okay, shhh, stop—" You started patting his back quickly, almost awkwardly, because the sudden shift in mood caught you completely off guard. His shoulders trembled under your hands as his quiet crying turned louder, broken breaths hitching against your skin. You didn't even understand what exactly had upset him so much — like, he was still hard, twitching against your thigh.

"Shhh, stop crying," you said again, your palm moving slowly up and down his back in an attempt to calm him. Your fingers traced small circles between his shoulder blades, trying to soothe him.

"So—sorry," he hiccupped, the word breaking apart in his throat. His arms slid fully around your back now, hugging you tightly.

"I told you, it's fine," you murmured, your voice gentler now. You kept rubbing his back while staring up at the ceiling, trying to piece together what the hell had just happened in the last few minutes. "It's really fine. You don't have to freak out about it." After a moment you hesitated before asking carefully, "Do you want to stop—"

"No."

The answer came out as a strained whine before you could even finish the question. His voice cracked around the word, his hips shifted again against yours, the movement dragging his still-hard cock against your thigh through the mess he'd already made. The mattress creaked softly beneath both of you as his weight shifted forward, his body clinging to yours. He held onto you tighter, arms wrapped around your back, face still buried deep in your neck like he couldn't bear the embarrassment of looking at you.

You stared at the ceiling for a second, processing the situation, then exhaled sharply and shoved at his shoulders. "Okay— move."

With more strength than he expected, you pushed him back, forcing him to roll off you so you could sit up. The sudden shift made him blink in confusion, his hair messy and his face still flushed as he stared at you. You tossed your hair back over your shoulder, chest rising and falling as you quickly reached down and tugged your bottoms off your hips. The fabric peeled away easily, damp where your arousal had soaked through, and you didn't even bother hiding it. Jake watched the entire thing, his chest still heaving as his eyes dragged over your body.

Swinging your leg over him, you straddled his hips and settled directly over his shaft. The moment your weight pressed down, he sucked in a sharp breath and shut his eyes tight, his head tipping back against the pillow. Your panties were still clinging to you, the wet patch obvious against the thin fabric as you slowly started grinding your hips down against him. The friction made your stomach tighten immediately, your clit dragging over his cock with every slow roll of your hips.

"First time?" you asked, like you weren't currently rubbing your soaked panties all over his cock. Your hands braced on the mattress on either side of his shoulders as you leaned forward slightly, adjusting your rhythm. You rolled your hips in small circles, testing different angles, letting the pressure build while watching his reactions closely.

Jake nodded quickly, eyes still shut. His hands moved to your hips automatically, gripping them tight.

Your movements sped up a little and the change in pace made him whine louder, the sound escaping his throat in a helpless, high note that made your stomach flutter. His fingers dug into your skin, nails pressing hard into the soft flesh of your hips, and you actually winced at the pressure. His entire body tensed beneath you, thighs tightening, his breathing breaking into uneven gasps.

And then it happened again. His hips jerked sharply upward with another loud whine, the movement uncontrolled as he came.

"Ahh— sorry! Sorry! Sorry! Please, please, please—" he panicked immediately, his eyes snapping open wide. Fresh tears were already shining in them again as his body trembled beneath you. His cock twitched visibly between your thighs, another small spurt of cum leaking from the flushed tip as he tried to catch his breath. The poor guy looked like he was having a full crisis.

Meanwhile, you just moaned. The friction hadn't stopped for you. Your hips had kept moving through his entire meltdown, chasing the pressure building between your legs. 

Your hands moved to push his hand away from your hips so you could pull back, assuming his frantic "please" meant he was getting overwhelmed.

But his hands didn't let go. Not even a little. Instead, his grip tightened. You blinked in confusion as he actively tried to guide your hips again, pulling you forward so your soaked panties slid against his cock once more. The thing was still hard—still angry and flushed and twitching despite the fact that he had already finished twice in less than a few minutes.

What the hell? How can this man cum so fast yet still not go soft?

"Please, please, please," he whined again, his voice breaking as he suddenly sat up. His arms wrapped tightly around you, pulling your body flush against his chest as he started guiding your hips with both hands. The motion forced your grinding to continue, your soaked panties dragging over the sensitive head of his cock again and again. Each pass made him shudder violently. His breath kept catching in his throat, little helpless sounds escaping him every time your hips rolled forward. The mattress creaked beneath you with every movement, the room filled with the mix of his shaky whining and your heavier breathing.

Still wrapped in his arms, you shifted slightly in his lap. One hand slid down between your bodies and hooked into the side of your panties, dragging the damp fabric aside.

The moment your bare cunt brushed against his cock, Jake's reaction was loud, a broken moan tearing out of him, you leaned forward quickly and kissed him hard to shut him up, swallowing the noise before it could get any louder.

If he kept whining like that—face flushed, voice trembling—you were pretty sure you'd lose control just from hearing him. Fuck. His mouth was warm and messy against yours, his breathing still shaking as your hips kept moving slowly against him.

Your hand slipped down to his cock, fingers wrapping around it again. He wasn't fully soft, not even close, but there was still a slight give to him under your palm. You pulled back from the kiss just enough for both of you to breathe, your foreheads almost touching while your breaths mixed together. Your eyes stayed locked on his as you guided him between your legs.

Slowly, deliberately, you started rubbing the length of him against your cunt, dragging the tip along your slick folds. Your hand moved with controlled rhythm, sliding him up and down, occasionally letting the head bump against your entrance before pulling him away again.

"Lay down for me," you murmured. You guided him backward onto the mattress, one hand pressing lightly against his chest until he sank into the pillows. Your own body hovered above him as you stayed straddled over his hips. You were painfully wet by now, your stomach tight with the need for friction that grinding alone hadn't been able to satisfy. Even so, you stayed patient with him. Your fingers brushed over his face, pushing some messy strands of hair away from his forehead before trailing down his cheek. You kept eye contact the whole time, your hand gliding over his chest.

Slowly, you lowered yourself. The first contact made your mouth fall open slightly. The tip of him pressed against you, and you paused there for a moment just to breathe. Your legs trembled faintly as you started easing yourself down inch by inch. Jake's whining came back louder than before, almost helpless as his hands shot up to grip your hips. His head spun with the sensation, ears ringing as the tight heat of your pussy slowly took him in. Meanwhile your breathing grew heavier the further you sank down, your body adjusting to the stretch.

By the time you were fully seated on him, he was hard again, completely, filling you while your thighs trembled on either side of his hips.

"F–fuck," you muttered under your breath, biting down on your lower lip as you braced your hands against his chest. You lifted your hips slightly, letting a little of him slide out before lowering yourself again in a slow, controlled motion. The stretch made your face tighten, your brows pulling together as you focused more on the building pleasure than the sharp edge of discomfort from his size. "Fuck... fuck, fuck!"

Jake looked like he was barely holding himself together beneath you. A faint vein stood out along his forehead, his teeth pressing into his lip as he tried to keep quiet. He was clearly trying to control himself, trying not to lose it too fast again. But your hips told a different story. The way you moved, the sight of your body rising and lowering on top of him, the expression on your face as you adjusted to the feeling—it all dragged him closer to the edge again.

"Wait— wait... ahh," he groaned suddenly. Your hands slid from his chest down toward his knees as you shifted your weight, adjusting your position slightly. The new angle changed the way he felt inside you, and Jake let out another broken sound the moment you started moving again. You rolled your hips carefully at first, searching for the spot that felt right, letting your body experiment with the motion until the pressure finally lined up the way you needed.

A loud moan tore out of you as your hips sped up without thinking, your body chasing the sensation as you kept hitting the same spot again and again. Jake reacted just as quickly, sitting up to distract himself, his mouth finding your chest as he pressed against you. His arms wrapped around your back while his tongue dragged over your nipples, the contact making your whining grow louder with every movement.

Your vision blurred slightly as the sensation kept building, the pressure inside your body tightening in slow, relentless waves that refused to ease up. It felt like sparks were going off behind your eyes, tiny bursts of light flickering every time your hips dropped back down onto him. You were riding him harder now without even realizing it. The bed creaked beneath both of you with every movement, your thighs burning as they worked to keep you balanced while your body chased the pressure building deep in your stomach. Each roll of your hips dragged another broken breath from your lungs, your fingers tightening against his shoulders as the heat between your legs kept climbing higher.

Jake suddenly bit down on your breast. The sharp sting hit at the same moment his body jerked beneath you. His cock throbbed hard inside you as he came again, another hot pulse spilling deep while his hips twitched helplessly under your weight.

"Shit!" you cried out, the sudden jolt of sensation ripping straight through your body.

Jake only answered with a muffled whine against your chest, his mouth still pressed to your skin, hot bursts of air hitting your breast while his teeth loosened and his lips dragged weakly over the spot he'd bitten. His shoulders trembled under your hands, and you could feel the way his body struggled to handle the sensation as it moved through him.

Your hips didn't stop moving even with his body shaking under you, you kept rocking against him, your body chasing the last stretch of the high that hadn't quite broken yet. The movement forced more small sounds out of him, soft whines and broken breaths that vibrated directly into your chest where his face stayed buried. The heat between you felt overwhelming, your bodies still pressed close together while the tension inside you continued to wind tighter and tighter.

"Little more... little more— please," you breathed out as the pressure finally climbed to the edge.

Your legs trembled where they were wrapped around his hips, muscles tightening as the feeling crested higher. Your arms slid up around his shoulders, pulling him closer into you while your body reacted, tightening around him as the sensation finally tipped over. Your hips stuttered slightly but didn't stop, still rocking against him as the wave rolled through your body.

For a moment everything felt hot and heavy and loud in your head. What almost made you laugh, though, was the fact that Jake still hadn't stopped. His cock was still twitching inside you while your body clenched around him, another weak pulse followed the last. It felt like you were still milking him dry while your body finished riding out the tail end of your own high.

"Hah..." you breathed out shakily, your hips slowed, your body still moving slightly while you tried to steady yourself. Your chest rose and fell unevenly, lungs dragging in deep breaths as the tension slowly drained from your muscles. The moment stretched out quietly around you, the room filled only with the sound of both of you breathing and the faint rustle of sheets under your shifting weight.

Eventually your strength gave out. Your body leaned forward, pressing closer to him as the last of the tension faded from your limbs. You tilted your head down and brushed a soft kiss against his lips. It lingered there for a second, both of you still catching your breath as his mouth responded weakly beneath yours.

As your body finally relaxed, you let yourself slump forward and collapse gently against his shoulder, your cheek resting against his skin while your chest rose and fell heavily. Jake stayed still beneath you, arms loose around your back as you feel the world around you collapsed.

Sometimes, the universe had a sick sense of humor. It let you taste something so perfect just long enough for you to believe in it, only to remind you the next morning that happiness wasn't something you were allowed to hold on to without consequences. Maybe that was the lesson life kept trying to shove down your throat. Not every good moment turns into a good life.

Luck was temporary, a fleeting thing people grabbed with desperate hands. It felt real when it happened—bright and full and intoxicating—but it never stayed long. Because every time the universe handed you something good, there was always that lurking feeling in the back of your head that a disaster was waiting right around the corner, ready to collect the price.

You woke up to the sound of wind slamming violently against the windows. The glass rattled in its frame, branches scraping somewhere outside like fingers clawing at the walls. You groaned under your breath and rolled onto your back, one hand dragging lazily across your face before scratching the back of your head. Your body felt heavy, muscles loose from sleep, your brain foggy as hell. For a moment everything felt blurry—your surroundings, your thoughts, the slow realization creeping in that something wasn't quite right. Then you stretched your arms above your head, arching your back slightly, and your eyes opened fully.

You weren't in your room. The ceiling looked different. Your stomach flipped when the memory from last night flickered somewhere in the back of your mind... And Jake wasn't beside you.

"Huh?" you muttered to yourself, the confusion hitting you all at once. You sat up quickly, the blanket sliding down to your lap as you scanned the room. His desk lamp was off, the room dim except for the gray light leaking through the curtains from the storm outside. That was when you noticed the small pill sitting neatly on the bedside table beside a glass of water.

You reached for it slowly, fingers curling around the foil packet as your eyes squinted to read the label. Plan B. You stared at it for a long moment, turning it between your fingers. You were still dressed in your own clothes—same shirt, same shorts from yesterday. The apartment was quiet except for the storm raging outside, and when you glanced toward the corner of the room, you noticed the power strip lights were dead.

No electricity. Ah...right. The storm. You rubbed your face with one hand and slid out of the bed, walking over to the window to push it shut more firmly. The wind was forcing cold air through the cracks, when you finished, you stepped into the hallway and padded slowly toward the living room.

"Hey," you sighed in relief the moment you saw him.

Jake stood near the kitchen counter, quietly cleaning up the snack wrappers and empty cups left behind from earlier.

Your shoulders relaxed instantly at the sight of him. You walked closer. "Just clean it in the morning. It's really dark in here. You could trip on something." Your hand reached out automatically, fingers brushing his shoulder in a familiar, comfortable gesture. "I mean it's like—what—11:45 PM? Let's just go back to bed—"

"Uh." He cut you off. Your smile faded immediately when he gently removed your hand from his shoulder without even looking at you. He tossed the trash bag into the bin, his back stiff as he turned slightly away. It felt like someone had flipped a switch.

No, worse. It felt like everything had reset back to the beginning.

"Jake?" you said carefully. You stepped toward him, but before you could say anything else, he brushed past you and walked straight down the hallway. The door to his room shut with a quiet click, and you were left standing there in the middle of the living room. Confused. Frozen.

"Jake?" you called again, your voice smaller now as you walked toward his door. Your chest tightened, questions crashing into your head all at once.

What did you do? Everything had felt fine. More than fine. You were laughing, he looked happy. You were happy. So what the hell changed?

Maybe he was just overwhelmed. Maybe this was new to him. Jake wasn't the type of guy who would just shut someone out after something that intimate... right? Right?

You rested your hand lightly against the door, staring at the wood like you could see through it. "I'll give you time," you said quietly through the door. "Just... talk to me, okay?"

But he never did. The next morning came, then the day after that, and then the days kept piling on top of each other. Every time you knocked on his door, there was no answer. Sometimes you tried the doorknob just in case, hoping maybe it had been left unlocked by accident, but it never was. Always locked. Always shut. You would linger in the living room longer than usual, pretending to scroll through your phone or watch something, just waiting for the sound of his door opening. It never happened.

When classes started again, the pattern became obvious. Jake would leave ridiculously early, long before you even woke up. His shoes would be gone from the rack by the door, his bag missing from the chair. Sometimes the only proof he'd even been home was the faint smell of his almond milk lingering in the kitchen or the clean plate drying on the rack. And Sundays—God, Sundays were the worst. That used to be the one day he was always around, fixing something in the apartment, tinkering with his stupid robots or cooking meals. Now you would wake up, step into the living room, and the place would feel hollow.

You never found him there anymore. And every night before eight, the same thing happened. His room stayed dark and empty. Is he avoiding you? Dumbass. Of course he is. How naive could you be to pretend you hadn't noticed already? The signs were right there! He wasn't busy. He wasn't overwhelmed. He was avoiding you.

You didn't fucking understand. That was the worst part. If he had said something—anything—you could've dealt with it. You could've argued with him, yelled at him, laughed it off if it turned out to be something stupid. But this silence? This cowardly disappearing act? It drove you insane.

You wanted to talk to him.

Hell, you wanted to curse him out.

After you had sex, that's it? That's fucking it? What the hell was going on inside his head? You kept replaying that night over and over in your mind, trying to find the moment where everything went wrong. The chess game. The teasing. The kiss. The way he had looked at you like he wanted you just as much as you wanted him.

You're n0t dumb, you refuse to be dumb. You are fucking sure he felt that pull too. You are not delusional, right? You felt it! You fucking felt it in your hands, in your body, in your soul.

"I had sex," you said flatly, staring into nothing.

Ryujin barely reacted at first, just giving you a quick side glance as she continued bouncing the  against the wall. It was the start of regional training, but your head was somewhere else entirely. Karina was off in Japan, living her best life, leaving you here dealing with whatever the hell this was. Figures. Of course she'd disappear right when you actually needed someone to scream at.

"Congrats?" Ryujin finally said, catching the ball and tossing it lightly in her hands. "What's with the long face?"

You watched the ball leave her hand again, hit the wall, bounce back in the same rhythm. You shrugged, forcing your shoulders to move like it didn't matter. "I don't know. He's not talking to me."

Ryujin's lips pressed into a thin line as she caught the ball again, this time pausing for a second before throwing it harder. "He?" she repeated, tone already shifting into something judgmental. "As usual. Men are usually like that. Don't expect anything from them, really—"

"He—" you cut her off. You exhaled hard, running your hand through your hair as your irritation flared up. "He is not like those other men." And the way you said it was defensive. You weren't letting her lump him into that category. Not him.

"I'm his first," you added, like you were trying to convince both her and yourself at the same time. "It must've been... awkward for him. I don't know. Maybe he didn't like it, maybe that's why he's avoiding me. I'm sure—"

Your hand pressed against your chest, fingers gripping your shirt like you could physically hold onto the feeling buried there. You turned to look at her fully now, your expression tighter, more serious than before.

"I'm sure he likes me," you said, voice lower, more vulnerable than you wanted it to be. "But... why won't he talk to me?"

Ryujin stared at you for a long second, like she was trying to figure out how deep you were already in before deciding how hard she needed to hit you with reality. Then she let out a sharp sigh. She crouched down in front of you, dropping the ball to the floor where it rolled a little before settling between her feet, forgotten.

"Look," she started, hands lifting and gesturing in the air like she was trying to physically piece her thoughts together. "I—I'm not good at this shit, okay? I don't do... whatever the hell this is." She paused, sucking in a breath before pointing straight at you. "I like girls. I don't deal with men and their bullshit. But you—" her finger jabbed lightly toward your chest again. "Did you seriously just let your guard down with a man because you think he's not like the rest of those fuckers?"

"You don't get it—" you tried to cut in, frustration rising immediately, your brows pulling together as your hands clenched at your sides, you had to defend Jake.

"I do not," she shot back just as fast, her voice is sharp as her words, it was cutting right through you. She straightened slightly but stayed crouched in front of you, her eyes locked onto yours. "I'm not the one who got fucked and then ghosted. That's you."

For a second you couldn't even respond. Your jaw tightened, your throat going dry, but she didn't stop.

"You're the one who knows him," she continued. "You're the one who keeps telling me all this shit about how he's different, how he's nice or whag." She exhaled through her nose, shaking her head slightly. "So yeah, I'm gonna say whatever the hell I want because you're the one feeding me all of that, and now you're sitting here confused like this came out of nowhere."

You swallowed hard, your chest tightening as her words started sinking in deeper than you wanted them to. Because she wasn't entirely wrong. Even Karina would say that to your face even though she started this all. Because,look at you. What the hell happen to you?

"But he's not like that," you insisted again, though your voice wasn't as strong this time. "He wouldn't just... use me and leave. That's not him."

Ryujin tilted her head slightly, studying your face like she was trying to decide if you actually believed that or if you were just desperately clinging to it.

"Then what is it?" she asked. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly like that."

You opened your mouth, ready to argue, ready to defend him again—but nothing came out. Because you didn't know.

Your mind scrambled for an explanation, something that made sense, something that fit the version of Jake you had built in your head. The quiet guy who cooked for you, who stayed up to watch your games, who held you gently like you mattered.

That Jake wouldn't just disappear. Right?

"He's not... confident," you said finally, grasping at something, anything. "He overthinks. He gets overwhelmed. Maybe he just doesn't know what to do after... after everything."

Ryujin didn't immediately respond. She just watched you. "Okay," she said after a moment, nodding slowly. "Let's say you're right. Let's say he's just overwhelmed or confused or whatever the hell excuse you want to give him." She leaned forward a little, her gaze narrowing. "Then why isn't he talking to you?"

Right...

"Because if he actually liked you the way you think he does," she continued, "he wouldn't just leave you hanging like this. He'd at least try. Even if he's awkward. Even if he's bad at it. He'd try."

Your chest tightened again, your fingers curling into your shirt as you looked away from her, your thoughts spiraling.

You hated how that made sense.

"I'm not saying he doesn't like you," Ryujin added, exhaling as she picked the ball back up and held it loosely in her hands. "But liking someone and actually doing something about it? Two very different things."

Then she tossed the ball lightly toward you, snapping you out of your thoughts.

"Talk to him," she said simply.

You blinked, catching it automatically.

"He's avoiding me," you muttered, the frustration creeping back in.

"Then corner him," she shot back without hesitation. "You're telling me you can chase down a ball flying out of bounds but you can't corner that one?"

Ryujin stood up fully now, rolling her shoulders before glancing down at you one last time.

"Stop overthinking what he feels," she added,"You're already doing enough of that for the both of you. Just get your answer straight from him."

She paused, then added— "And if he still runs? Then you'll know exactly what kind of guy he is."

Your steps were sharp and fast as you made your way back to the apartment. The towel hung loosely over your shoulder, damp from training, your hair still slightly wet from sweat, as your mind was too busy running in circles, replaying his silence, replaying that night over and over until it made your chest feel tight.

You weren't going to let this drag on anymore.

Your grip tightened around the plastic bag in your hand, the thin material crinkling loudly as your fingers dug into it. You inhaled deeply like you were preparing yourself for something bigger than just a conversation. Maybe this was it—the point where everything either made sense or completely fell apart.

You weren't even sure which one you were more afraid of.

You exhaled sharply and stopped in front of your door, staring at it for a second longer. You didn't believe in fate. But right now, you found yourself hoping—just a little—that whatever the hell this was would finally lead somewhere. That all this confusion, all this frustration, wouldn't just end in nothing.

You pushed the door open with another exhale and there he was.

Jake stood in the living room, slightly hunched over as he turned on the robots one by one. Whitey buzzed to life first, then Pinky, while Bumble sat near the TV, its faint light flickering on. The scene looked so normal, so painfully familiar, like nothing had changed.

Except everything had.

He froze the second he saw you. His eyes widened behind his glasses, his whole body going stiff. Your jaw tightened. Of course he looked shocked. You weren't supposed to be here this early. You were supposed to be at training, sweating it out, you had just ran away from your training when it was supposed to be a short fucking break.

Your gaze didn't leave him, watching every small movement as he scrambled slightly. His hand hovered awkwardly near the table, his body already shifting like he was about to move—probably toward his room, probably to shut the door again, probably to run.

Not this time. Before he could even take a full step, you moved.

Your feet carried you across the room in seconds, your hand shooting out to grab his shoulder and shove him back before he could react. His back hit the wall, the impact making him wince, a strained sound slipping past his lips as his body tensed. "H-Hurts..." he muttered, teeth clenching as his eyes squeezed shut for a second.

And yeah, for a split second, you felt it—that flicker of guilt in your chest. But it didn't last. Your hands pressed harder against his shoulders, keeping him there, pinning him in place before he could even think about slipping away again. You could feel the tension in his body, the way he stiffened under your touch, but he didn't push you off. He didn't try to fight back.

"Let's talk, Jake." Your voice came out firm, leaving no room for excuses this time.

His eyes opened slowly, meeting yours, and you saw it again. That same look. Conflicted. Overwhelmed.

"I—" he started, his voice catching immediately, like the words got stuck somewhere in his throat. His hands twitched at his sides, unsure, restless, like he didn't know where to put them or what to do with them.

You leaned in just slightly. "No," you cut him off, shaking your head. "You don't get to 'I—' your way out of this again."Your grip on his shoulders tightened just a bit. "You've been avoiding me for days," you continued. "Locked doors, leaving early, disappearing on weekends—what the hell is that, Jake?"

He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering away from yours for a second before snapping back, like he couldn't decide where to look. "I wasn't—" he tried again, weaker this time.

"You were," you cut in immediately, your expression is pained. "Don't lie to me. Not now."

Silence fell between you for a moment, filled only by the faint whirring of the robots moving around the floor like nothing was happening.

Your chest rose and fell with a deep breath before you forced the words out. "Was it a mistake?" you asked, eyes locked on him, searching for anything—any reaction, any sign that this wasn't all in your head.

The silence stretched for a second too long, and you pushed again, your voice tightening despite yourself. "Because if it was," you continued, "then just say it. Don't do this shit where you pretend I don't exist."

Jake didn't answer. He didn't even look at you.

His head stayed slightly turned away, his gaze fixed somewhere past your shoulder like you weren't even there. You watched his lips press together, then part slightly as he bit down on the inside of it, nervous and restless. His fingers twitched at his sides, fidgeting in that familiar way you used to find endearing—tapping against his thigh, curling and uncurling like he didn't know what to do with them.

Now it just pissed you off.

"Jake," you whispered, your voice dropping. Your hand moved without thinking, fingers brushing against his cheek, turning his face toward you despite the resistance. His skin was warm under your touch, his jaw tense, and when his eyes finally met yours, it only made your chest ache more. "Those things we did... was it just a mistake?" you asked again. "Talk to me. I— I thought we... we were going somewhere." Your voice faltered, breaking in the middle of your sentence. "Is it... just me?"

You hated how the quetion made you sound so small.

You didn't even realize you were crying until a tear slipped down your cheek, warm against your skin.

"I like you too much," you admitted, your voice trembling now, barely holding together. "Is that wrong?" You sniffed, your lips shaking as you tried to keep yourself from completely falling apart in front of him. But Jake—he still wasn't saying anything. He wasn't moving. He wasn't even looking at you properly anymore, his gaze dropping again like he couldn't handle it.

Like he couldn't handle you.

"Talk to me, please," you said again, more desperate this time. Your fingers tapped lightly against his cheek, not harsh, just enough to get his attention, to pull him back to you. You leaned forward until your forehead pressed against his, your eyes closing as your tears kept falling, your grip on his face tightening just a little like you were afraid he'd slip away if you let go. "Just... say something," you whispered, your breath uneven, your whole body tense with the wait.

Maybe he just needed time.

Maybe he wasn't good with words.

Maybe he just needed a push.

But how long were you supposed to wait?

"Talk to me, fuck it!" you suddenly snapped, your voice breaking as it rose, the frustration and hurt finally spilling over. Your hands dropped from his face back to his shoulders, gripping him again, harder this time. You felt him flinch under your touch, his body trembling slightly as he shook his head.

"Sorry... Jake... please," you muttered again, your voice dropping back down, almost pleading now. Your grip loosened without you realizing it, your fingers slipping from his shoulders as something cold settled in your chest. The moment his hands gently moved yours away—careful, hesitant, but firm enough to create distance—it felt like everything just... stopped.

Like the world paused right there.

"I like you too much, is that wrong?" you repeated, but this time it came out emptier. Your arms fell to your sides, your gaze dropping to the floor because you couldn't keep looking at him anymore. "It's pathetic," you let out a weak, humorless breath. "And I'm still here, choosing to be open about it, getting fucking desperate over you." Your fingers curled into fists at your sides as you forced yourself to look up again, your eyes glassy but steady. "Tell me... do I really not mean anything to you?"

You lifted your hand slightly, pointing at his chest, right over his heart.Your throat felt tight, dry, like every word you were about to say had to claw its way out, and still, you forced it. You needed to hear it. Needed him to say it straight instead of hiding behind silence. Needed something solid, even if it fucking hurt.

"S-sorry." He shook his head, not even meeting your eyes, and that alone felt worse than anything he could've said. "I—I... I don't think I feel the same way, that's why I-I feel guilty... on what happen... Sorry." The words stumbled out of him, broken and unsure, but they landed heavy, each one hitting you like a punch you didn't even try to dodge.

You were the one who dropped your head this time, your gaze falling to the floor as your mouth parted slightly, like you were about to say something—but nothing came out. Your ears started ringing loud, drowning out everything else. Everything blurred into this distant, muted noise while your mind tried to catch up, tried to process what the fuck he just said. It didn't make sense. It didn't line up with anything you felt, anything you thought you saw in him. Your chest tightened, breath coming in shallow, uneven pulls like your body forgot how to do something as basic as breathing.

"Sorry..." he said again, softer this time, like repeating it would somehow make it better, like it would fix anything. It didn't. It just made your vision blur more, tears spilling out faster than you could stop them, your face heating up with it as you stood there, stuck, unable to move forward or back.

"T-The things you d-did? T-The things w-we did?" Your voice cracked, stuttering over itself as you tried to piece together something that would make this make sense. But it didn't. None of it fucking did. Bullshit. This was bullshit. You were still denying it even as it was being shoved right in your face, because accepting it felt worse than anything else. What was he even saying? That it meant nothing? That you meant nothing? That all of that—every look, every touch—was just... what? A mistake?

"I-I just want to be a g-good roommate b-because I-I can't b-be vocal like a normal person... Uh... I'm sorry—" He kept going, stumbling through his explanation, but it only made your head spin more, your frustration bubbling up underneath the hurt. His words felt disconnected, like excuses that didn't match what actually happened between you.

"We had sex." You cut through it, your voice barely above a whisper, but it hit harder than anything else you said. Your eyes darted anywhere but at him—walls, floor, the stupid edge of the table—like maybe one of them would give you an answer, something to hold onto. But there was nothing. Just that same suffocating silence pressing in around you.

"I-I'm s-sorry, really. P-Please." His foot tapped nervously against the floor, the sound sharp and repetitive, grating against your already fraying nerves.

You shook your head slowly, the motion weak, almost disbelieving, as the plastic bag slipped from your hand without you even noticing. It hit the floor with a soft crumple before spilling open, the Hot Wheels cars tumbling out and scattering across the tiles.

Jake's eyes dropped immediately, widening as he stared at the mess, his chest tightening visibly. But you didn't follow his gaze. You couldn't. Your focus stayed unfixed, your steps already moving backward as your fists clenched and unclenched at your sides, your body didn't know what to do with all the shit building up inside you.

"Sorry." The word left your mouth, not even sounding like it belonged to you. It wasn't clear what you were apologizing for anymore—your feelings, your assumptions, yourself—but it was the only thing you could manage before turning away.

You walked out, leaving everything behind. The hallway felt narrow, too suffocating, like the walls were closing in the longer you stayed there, so you kept moving, one step after another, not even caring where the hell you were going as long as it was away. Your breathing was uneven, chest rising too fast, like you couldn't get enough air no matter how hard you tried.

You sniffled harshly, dragging the back of your hand across your face, smearing tears you couldn't seem to fucking stop. It was frustrating—annoying as hell—because you hated crying like this.

"Stop," you muttered under your breath. "Just fucking stop." But it didn't listen. The tears kept coming, blurring your vision until everything in front of you looked warped and unstable.

By the time you reached the stairwell, your steps had already turned sloppy, careless. You barely held onto the railing, your grip loose, your focus shot. Your eyes stung, your nose clogged, your head pounding with everything you were trying—and failing—to process. You took a step down, then another, too fast, too unsteady—

—and your foot slipped.

"Shit!" The curse tore out of you as your body lurched forward, your balance completely gone. You didn't even have time to catch yourself before you went down hard, your back hitting first, then your shoulder, then your face grazing against the edge of a step. The impact knocked the air out of you, an ugly sound leaving your throat as pain shot through your body.

For a moment, you just stayed there, sprawled awkwardly on the cold concrete, your body stunned. The pain registered slowly—your back aching, your limbs sore, your face throbbing—but none of it hit as hard as what was already twisting inside your chest. It was dull compared to that. Almost nothing.

You pushed yourself up slowly, wincing as your body protested, your hand pressing against the floor for support. Warm liquid dripped down over your lips, and when you touched your nose, your fingers came away stained red. Blood. Of course. You let out a weak, humorless breath, almost a laugh but not quite, your shoulders shaking for all the wrong reasons.

You just... gave up.

You dragged yourself to the side, leaning heavily against the wall, your body curling in on itself like you were trying to make yourself smaller, less visible, less there. Your palm covered your face, but it didn't do shit to muffle the sound that came out of you—a broken, shaky whine that turned into full-on crying before you could stop it. Your chest hurt, your throat burned, your head spun, and everything—everything—felt like too much.

It fucking hurt.

Not just your body, not just the sting on your face or the soreness creeping into your muscles.

You were that lonely, weren't you? A pathetic loser crying in a stairwell because she got rejected. Because she let herself believe something that wasn't even real to begin with.

You let out a shaky breath, your hand tightening against your face as if you could press the thought away. "I told you so," you muttered to yourself. You sounded fucking ridiculous. Delusional, even. Thinking it meant something. Thinking he meant something.

Of course you were the one who initiated it. Of course you were the one who crossed the line first. Sex in college was normal—casual, meaningless, easy to walk away from. People did it all the time!

You fucking hated it. Because you weren't built for that.

In the end, it all lined up, didn't it?

Unlucky with money. Unlucky with sex. Unlucky with love.

You let out a weak, broken laugh that dissolved immediately into another sob, your body curling tighter against the wall as if that would hold you together.

What were the odds?

You were still right where you started.

academic rival!sunghoon who you saw all the time on campus, despite having different lecture times and friends. he was just... always there. whether it was in the campus quad laying in the sun with his friend group, or late at night—or early morning—in the corner of the library, somehow your eyes always found him. you were horrified to realize, halfway through the year, that you found lectures dull now that there was no one to challenge the points you were making.

academic rival!sunghoon who also got accepted into the honor college at the same time as you, meaning your brief moment of peace was quickly diminished. arguments during seminars, snippy comments in the halls, and rolled eyes became a normal instance. classmates were used to your banter and the way "go to hell, sunghoon" rolled so easily off of your tongue. professors didn't mind because, well, why would they? your grades were nearly perfect and it made discussions in class all the more exciting.

academic rival!sunghoon who you finally got paired with in a project your third year. it was incredible that, in all of your years of knowing—and hating—each other, you had never actually worked with each other. the beginning was the worst—climbing mount everest was surely easier than trying to agree on a topic to research on. and doing the actual research? you would've rather ate coal. any time you had to send sunghoon an article, he'd always reply with a remark back. that's too basic. not deep enough. you really search on that website for articles? is that even peer reviewed? he seemed even more irritated—if that was even possible—whenever your boyfriend you had been seeing for some time came around, checking on the two of you. his brow would furrow and his jaw would tick, and you never quite understood why. "we don't need a babysitter," sunghoon said once, not even bothering to give him a glance. "my only problem is the fact that you're standing in the way of us and a good grade," he asked another time, when your boyfriend finally asked what his problem was. you tried to ignore your heart beating rapidly at the idea of sunghoon addressing the two of you as us.

academic rival!sunghoon who found you in the supply closet of the library one night, sniffling into the stretched out arms of your hoodie, clutching a crumpled stack of papers in your hand like it was a lifeline to the real world. you almost didn't recognize the boy who simply shut the door and kneeled next to you, gently grabbing the stapled papers from your hand so you could lean your head on his shoulder for support instead. you were supposed to meet ten minutes ago by now, and you knew sunghoon was going to give you shit about it. he always did when you were late. he valued punctuality. "why would i give people that are late the time of day?" he once said, eyes scrunched in frustration as he typed furiously into his laptop. "they clearly don't respect me." but now? you would've never guessed sunghoon had said that. he simply just let you cry into his shoulder, even though your warm tears were bleeding stains onto the neck of his shirt. he just sat there and didn't say a word, and somehow that made you cry more. "what happened?" sunghoon finally asked, after he felt your sobs subside to small sniffles and your breathing calm down. "who did this to you?" when you shook your head as a response, his face neutralized. "he broke up with you." sunghoon concluded, an expression dawning on his face, and you nodded. "he was stupid anyway. too stupid for a girl as smart as you. wouldn't know the difference between a lag and log phase if it hit him in the head." that only made you laugh wetly. it sufficed sunghoon.

academic rival!sunghoon who never let you leave his sight after that. if you thought he was always there before, you had no idea what to call this. he was at every doorway waiting for you before lectures, somehow knowing your coffee order—"you need to stop drinking so much sugar," sunghoon said once, handing you the iced vanilla latte anyway. "and you need to start consuming sugar," you only replied, nudging his hot black americano. he waited for you after lectures, too, even though it took you ages to pack up (sunghoon's words). if you were eating lunch alone, you'd feel him sit next to you, opening his meal-prepped food like nothing was out of the ordinary. when your ex boyfriend came up to you in the library a few weeks later, sunghoon casually slid an arm around your shoulder and directed you away from him. it took your brain five minutes to stop short circuiting after that.

academic rival!sunghoon who allowed you to be the one to look at your group project grade first. after an entire semester of working and researching, practicing and finally presenting to a lecture hall full of students, both undergraduate and post, it was time to look at the tiny grade that would pop up on your laptop screen and ultimately determine how your summer went. the two of you were huddled around your laptop in sunghoon's apartment—you had no idea when this became a thing—and you could feel sunghoon's warmth from his hoodie against your back. your could feel his glasses nudge against your hair from how close he was standing behind you, and somehow, you didn't mind it. as soon as you pressed the button to open the grade, it revealed a perfect score of 100%. you didn't even have time to read the annotated notes left by the professor or process the fact that you two were the only ones in the class to get a score over 90%, because sunghoon was suddenly loudly cheering and spinning you around in a circle. you laughed as you clung to his body, arms wrapping around his neck. this was the first time you had seen him truly happy like this. when sunghoon put you down, the two of you were suddenly a lot closer than you were before. you could feel the boy's hot breath against your cheek, and his eyes locked on your lips. "we did it." sunghoon murmured. "yeah, we did." you replied back, pushing the boy's glasses that were always, always falling up the bridge of his nose. sunghoon only kissed you in response.

academic rival!sunghoon who was just as experienced in bed as he was at academia. you don't know how you went from opening your grade in the living room to lying in bed together, tracing random shapes on sunghoon's bare chest. you couldn't recall how your clothes were in a mixed puddle with his on the floor. you had never seen sunghoon's room before, let alone the boy without clothes on, but you supposed it had been a long time coming. when you attempted to shift out of his grasp, sunghoon immediately stopped you. "don't." he mumbled half asleep. "stay." you hesitated before nodding, climbing back under the sheets. "okay, hoon."

academic rival!sunghoon who snored softly in his sleep. you knew this now, because after a few hours of sleeping, your body woke you up without wanting to fall back into the peaceful rem stage anymore. it was still the early morning, and you could have done something useful—study for your finals next week, leave before sunghoon woke up—but instead, you laid on your side, studying the boy you had known your entire life like it was an unfamiliar equation in physics class. now, you knew things that possibly no one else knew. that sunghoon laid on his stomach with his face buried so deep in his pillow you wondered how on earth he could breathe. he let out snores every so often that were so soft they couldn't be considered annoying, and sometimes his hand twitched if his dream was too eventful. eventually, you got up, quietly covering sunghoon with his comforter and stepping out to his kitchen. you searched through his fridge and cabinets for something to make breakfast—of course he only had organic produce—before settling on a simple egg scramble. just when you had finished topping the eggs with avocado—annoyingly from the farmer's market that was held every sunday on campus, you knew this because you had seen him so many times with his paper bags full of fresh groceries—, sunghoon stumbled out of his room, half asleep and unaware of the world still. he clung to your back wordlessly, just watching you exist. "you don't have vanilla syrup. you should fix that." you said as you handed him a mug of coffee from his considerably overpriced coffee machine (that took you ten minutes too long to figure out how to use). sunghoon only murmured something incoherent—eyes barely open—before reaching into the cupboard above you and handing you a small, unopened bottle of vanilla purée. organic. perfect for lattes. from the farmer's market stand you shopped at. only you knew that. your eyes widened slightly, and sunghoon shrugged as if it wasn't a big deal. like both of your hearts weren't pounding in their chests at the unspoken confession.

academic rival!sunghoon who watched you eat your breakfast, unaware of his attention on you. you were watching the tv with wide eyes—you picked some video essay from the same channel you both watched, that somehow sunghoon hadn't seen yet—too content to shift your eyes away. you sat there, on his couch that only his close friends had sat on before, in his old hoodie he had gotten at a concert years ago, and it was then, that sunghoon realized it all. "sunghoon." your eyes briefly shifted to his before returning to the screen. "you're gonna miss the best part. it's coming up." "i think i'm in love with you." sunghoon only replied. your attention on the video was lost after that.

academic rival!sunghoon who admitted that he had never hated you. he liked the way you challenged him more than anyone he had ever met, and realized early on that you made him a far better student than if you were separated, so he continued to tease you and get on your nerves. it made you feel guilty at first, knowing that you had such ill feelings toward him, but sunghoon only reassured you. "i was a dick." he said with a kiss to your cheek. "i deserved it." you shook your head with rejection. responding with some waxed poetic about how he deserved far better, and maybe he should work on self-love while he's at it. "fine, then. you gonna make it up to me? all those years of lost time?" sunghoon asked, a stupid grin on his face. usually, you'd tell him to fuck off. but now? times were different. sunghoon was right, for once. you had years upon years of time to make up.

academic rival!sunghoon who sat on the stage at graduation, wet tears pooling in his eyes as he watched you give your valedictorian speech. he sat behind you, as salutatorians do, and didn't give a single comment about how there was only a 0.01 difference in your gpas. none of it mattered now. not when he had already won the biggest prize, something much better than a title in university.

Jake didn’t see the suitcase at first.

He didn’t see anything. 

He was too busy wallowing.

“I treat them well, right? I’m nice. I try. I’m not a jerk. I’m respectful. And somehow, they still leave. Every. Single. Time. So clearly the common denominator is me—”

“Mhm.”

“So maybe relationships just aren’t in the cards for me. Maybe I should take a break. A long break. Like a… celibate monk arc or something.”

“That sounds dramatic.”

Jake lifted his head. “I’m dramatic! I’m heartbroken!”

Heeseung zipped up his duffel bag with one hand and tossed a pair of sunglasses in after it. “Then come be a camp counselor with me this summer.”

Jake blinked. “What?”

Heeseung shrugged. “Fresh air. No dating apps. No situationships. No exes. Just kids, nature, and free meals. Might fix your brain.”

Jake stared.

Heeseung continued stuffing socks into corners of the bag.

Jake stared harder.

Heeseung wasn’t kidding, was he?

Jake sat up straighter. A distraction. A purpose. Something new. Something healthy. A break from the heartbreak factory his dating life had become.

He latched onto the idea like a lifeline.

“You know what? You’re right.” Jake sprang to his feet with renewed determination. “I’ll do it.”

Heeseung snorted. “Bro, I was just—”

Too late.

Jake was already gone.

The next morning Heeseung opened his door—and froze.

Because on his porch stood Jake Sim:

Two duffel bags slung over his shoulders.

A bright orange life vest buckled proudly over his shirt.

Sunscreen unevenly smeared in streaks across his face.

A crooked baseball cap.

Sunglasses too big for his head.

A whistle hanging around his neck.

Hiking boots untied.

And the most earnest, determined expression imaginable 

“Morning!” Jake chirped breathlessly. “I’m ready.”

Heeseung blinked. Once. Twice. Three times. 

“…You’re joking.”

“Nope!” Jake stepped forward cheerily, boots thudding on the wooden porch. “Signed up, got accepted, printed the forms, even watched a knot-tying tutorial.”

“But—but I wasn’t serious—”

“Too late! I’m already mentally in nature mode.”

Heeseung ran a hand down his face. “Jaeyun, you look—ridiculous.”

“Prepared,” Jake corrected, beaming.

And prepared he was—prepared enough that when they arrived, he accidentally impressed the camp director by already knowing the emergency protocols, showing his whistle-usage demonstration unprompted, identifying poison ivy correctly and shaking everyone’s hand like he was running for office.

Within an hour, he was given a standard camp uniform, a set of keys, and a shared hut assignment with Heeseung.

Heeseung had mourned.

“Great,” He sighed dramatically, tossing a string of condoms into his drawer. “There goes my bachelor hut. No more bringing hot counselors back here.”

Jake blinked. “…Hot counselors?”

He hadn’t thought about that. He hadn’t thought about women at all, actually.

The whole point was to get away from them. Reset. Recalibrate. Heal.

But then—

Then he walked into the staff orientation meeting.

And he saw them.

Women his age. Attractive women. Very attractive women.

Sun-kissed skin. Short shorts. Uniform shirts tied at the waist or stretched across curves. Laughs that carried across the field. Smiles bright as the July sun.

Jake’s brain short-circuited.

Heeseung slapped his back. “Forgot to mention that part. Oops.”

Jake choked. “You—you brought me to temptation island?!”

“It’s literally just a summer camp, bro.”

There was nothing “just” about it for Jake.

He tried his best—really tried—to stay focused. To be professional. To avoid unnecessary touching or staring. To keep his voice steady when talking to female counselors.

He failed often.

But all those attempts shattered the moment you walked in.

You had years of experience written in confident steps. A clipboard under your arm. Hair pulled back loosely, with strands falling in the sun. Two top buttons of your uniform undone,  enough to make Jake swallow hard. A glint of a lacy bra edge that seared itself into his retinas and soul. Little pins decorating your shirt pocket. Bandages sticking out of one cargo pocket. A smile that made the kids run to you like you were the sun itself.

You kneeling to tie a child’s shoelaces? Lethal. You laughing when a little boy told you you were “the prettiest lady ever”? Fatal. You twirling a strand of hair while listening to another counselor? Catastrophic.

Jake had been doomed before you even looked at him. 

And when you did look at him—eyes bright, lips curved in a friendly hello—Jake felt his knees weaken so dramatically he nearly collapsed into the nearest picnic table.

Heeseung, of course, noticed.

“Ah,” he said smugly. “Found your distraction.”

Jake didn’t answer, because for the first time in a long, miserable stretch of heartbreak…

He felt something spark. Something warm. Something like desire. Something like falling.

And unfortunately for him—

It was happening fast.

It was happening hard.

And it was happening with you.

Jake Sim had survived three breakups, one allergic reaction to a cat he tried to impress a girl with, and a disastrous blind date where the woman only talked about her ex’s crypto investments.

But you?

You were the first thing to genuinely terrify him. 

Which is exactly why he spent the next few days avoiding you like you were trained specifically to hunt down boys with fragile hearts. And luckily—miraculously—the kids kept him occupied enough to make avoidance a legitimate battle plan.

Jake made sure his entire schedule left no space for accidentally brushing shoulders with you.

Archery practice? He volunteered. Canoe supervision? Signed up. Arts and crafts? Already promised the kids he’d make them braided bracelets. Bug safety presentation? He memorized the handout and delivered it with genuine enthusiasm.

It helped that thirty-six children seemed determined to orbit him like satellites.

“Jake hyung! Jake hyung! Can you help me find my water bottle?”

“Jake! Tie my shoe!”

“Jake, can you do the whistle thing again?”

Heeseung, watching from across the field, looked like a man witnessing a strange phenomenon.

“Dude,” he said, leaning beside him, “you’re like… dad-coded.”

Jake wiped sweat from his forehead. “Perfect. The more dad-coded I am, the less chance I have of embarrassing myself in front of—” He abruptly clamped his mouth shut.

Heeseung smirked. “Ah. Avoiding that counselor, are we?”

Jake reddened. “I’m not avoiding anyone. I’m being productive.”

Heeseung pointed across the field.

You were kneeling beside a little girl helping her braid wildflowers into a crown, hair glimmering in the sun, shirt loose enough that the breeze caught it.

Jake immediately turned around and pretended to fix a crooked signpost.

Heeseung laughed for a full thirty seconds.

Jake perfected the art of being physically present but socially absent.

When you entered the dining hall? Jake exited stage left, carrying a stack of napkins he didn’t technically need.

When you walked toward the docks? Jake suddenly remembered he left sunscreen in his cabin and sprinted away.

When you greeted him with a warm, friendly “Good morning, Jake!” He panicked, waved too fast, nearly dropped his tray, then escaped into a group of eight-year-olds debating whether frogs could fall in love.

Jake’s system of avoidance worked flawlessly—until nature decided to betray him.

It happened during a swimming rotation.

Jake was teaching a small group how to float on their backs, explaining the basics with gentle encouragement. The sun was warm, the water cool, the kids giggling.

He was happy. Stable.

And then he heard your voice behind him.

“Jake! Can you help me with something?”

Every muscle in his body tensed.

Slowly—agonizingly—he turned.

You were standing at the edge of the dock, clipboard against your chest, sunglasses perched on your head, uniform shirt half-unbuttoned because of the heat.

Jake forgot what language he was speaking for a moment.

“What—uh—help you? Help. Yes. I—yeah. Some… thing. Help.”

You smiled, oblivious to his internal meltdown.

“One of my campers is scared of getting in. You’re great with the nervous ones. Mind giving her a demonstration?”

“Sure,” he croaked. “Happy to help.”

You guided the shy camper forward and knelt beside her, encouraging her gently.

Jake’s heart clenched.

God, you were sweet. Sweet in a way that made him ache. Sweet in a way that made him terrified of falling again.

He moved into the shallow water, demonstrating calmly, voice soft, arms open.

And it worked.

The little girl eventually stepped into the lake, holding onto Jake’s hands, trusting him completely.

You glanced at him, smiling warmly.

Jake forgot to breathe.

As you praised the camper who had conquered her fear, Jake found himself staring.

Not in a “wow, she’s nice” way. But in a “I am absolutely, undeniably screwed” way.

The sun hit your damp shirt in a way that made it cling, outlining the curve of your waist. Your hair was messy from the lake breeze, strands stuck to your cheek. You brushed them back casually and—

Jake swallowed.

He turned back to the kids, voice several octaves too high.

“GREAT JOB EVERYONE, LET’S—uh—float!”

It had started small. Then it got worse.

You had a habit of scribbling notes on your palm when you lost your pen. Jake noticed the ink smudge once and spent the rest of the afternoon wondering what you had written. What you were thinking. What you cared about.

Every day, it felt like you were leaving breadcrumbs without even knowing it.

Breadcrumbs Jake kept picking up like an idiot. He often found himself watching you from across the field—telling himself it wasn’t weird, he was just… aware. Vigilant. Noticing. Except it was weird, because he wasn’t noticing anyone else. Only you.

The way you pushed your hair out of your face when the wind blew. The way your shirt rode up when you bent over to pick up stray sports equipment. The way your hands moved when you talked—soft but animated. The way your laughter rolled across the lawn, making the younger kids giggle just because you did.

He tried to stop.

He really did.

But every time you smiled at someone—even a kid—Jake felt that awful, sinking heat curl in his stomach.

At night in the hut, Jake lay on his back, staring at the wooden ceiling while the darkness pressed in around him. 

He remembered the way your shirt clung to your back when you came in from the heat, the thin fabric damp and outlining things he had absolutely no business noticing. He could still see it when he closed his eyes. He remembered the moment you stretched to hang a sign above the craft table, your uniform lifting just enough to reveal the soft line of your waist. He’d looked away immediately—too fast, too guilty—yet the image stuck to the inside of his skull like honey.

He remembered your voice going low and warm when you comforted a kid who scraped their knee.  It wasn’t meant for him, not even close, but it still sank under his skin, unraveling him from the inside out. He remembered walking behind you on the trail, watching how the breeze tugged at the hem of your shorts—how he’d forced himself to stare at the trees instead, counting them like that would save him.

Each memory hit him with the force of something he wasn’t prepared for, something he couldn’t guard against no matter how hard he tried.

And he hated—truly hated—how quickly his thoughts slipped into places they shouldn’t go. Places that made his breath hitch and heat rise under his skin. 

This summer was supposed to save him. Give him distance. Help him reset.

A clean slate. A distraction. A break from feeling too much.

But all it took was you—just you—and Jake was already spiraling. Falling again, harder than ever. 

Jake groaned low in his throat, the sound muffled against the crook of his elbow as he rolled onto his stomach. The thin camp mattress creaked under him like it was judging every pathetic shift of his hips.

The fan whirred uselessly on the nightstand, pushing lukewarm air across his bare back. It did nothing for the heat crawling under his skin—nothing for the way his pulse had taken up permanent residence between his legs.

He pressed his forehead harder into the pillow, trying to smother the images that kept flashing behind his eyelids.

You, laughing after that cannonball contest with the older kids. You, bending to tie a little girl’s shoelace, the curve of your ass filling out those damn camp shorts like they were custom-made to torture him. 

He imagined what it would feel like to slide his palms up under that damp shirt, fingers splaying wide over your ribs, until you arched into him.

Imagined pinning you against the boathouse wall after lights-out, your legs hooked around his waist, while he ground against you—slow at first, then desperate, fabric dragging over his leaking cock until you were both shaking.

His hips rocked once, involuntary, into the mattress. The friction sent a sharp jolt straight up his spine. He bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper.

“Fuck,” he whispered into the dark.

He shouldn’t. He really, really shouldn’t.

But his hand was already moving—sliding down his stomach, past the elastic of his boxers, wrapping around the thick, aching length of himself. He was so hard it hurt; the head flushed dark and slick, smearing precome across his palm the second he touched it.

One slow stroke and his breath punched out of him.

He pictured your mouth instead—soft, parted, tongue flicking out to taste him. Pictured the way your eyes would widen when you realized just how big he was, how you’d have to stretch your lips around the head, cheeks hollowing while you tried to take more. Pictured the little whimper you’d make when he hit the back of your throat, the way your thighs would press together like you were already soaked just from having him in your mouth.

Another stroke—tighter this time, twisting at the crown—and his hips jerked up off the bed.

He imagined flipping you onto your stomach on this very mattress, yanking your shorts down just enough, spreading you open with his thumbs. Imagined the way you’d gasp when he nudged the fat head against your entrance—teasing, barely dipping in—before sinking in until your back bowed and you sobbed his name into the pillow.

“Jake—”

He choked on a whine at the fantasy of you saying it like that—breathless, wrecked, needy.

His fist sped up. The wet, filthy sound of skin on skin filled the tiny cabin, louder than the fan, louder than his breathing. He didn’t care anymore if Heeseung woke up in the next bunk. Didn’t care about anything except chasing the image of you clenching around him, milking him, begging him to come inside, to fill you up.

Heat coiled low and vicious in his gut.

He turned his face into the pillow, muffling the broken moan that tore out of him as he came—hot, messy pulses spilling over his knuckles, soaking into the sheets. His hips bucked through it, chasing every last aftershock, thighs trembling.

Jake lay there for a long minute after, chest heaving, sticky hand still curled loosely around his softening cock. The fan kept droning like nothing had happened. The cabin smelled faintly of pine, sweat, and sex.

He dragged himself up on shaky legs, boxers half-down his thighs, come already cooling on his fingers and streaking the inside of his shorts. He hissed at the mess, at himself, at how pathetic this had become.

The bathroom was just a small stall tacked onto the side of the counselors’ hut— row of sink, flickering bulb, mirror that made everyone look like a zombie at 2 a.m. Jake flicked the light on and winced at his own reflection: flushed cheeks, wild hair, pupils blown wide like he’d been drugged. He looked wrecked. He felt worse.

He turned the faucet to cold and shoved his hand under the stream, scrubbing at the tacky evidence with furious little jerks. Soap foamed pinkish-white down the drain. He kept scrubbing long after it was gone, like he could wash the thoughts out too.

But they came back anyway. Uninvited. Relentless.

His cock twitched against his thigh—already half-interested again, traitor that it was.

“Stop,” he muttered under his breath, gripping the sink edge so hard his knuckles bleached. “Just—fucking stop.” He splashed cold water on his face. It dripped down his neck, soaked the collar of his tank top. Didn’t help. The images kept looping: your thighs parting for him, your fingers in his hair pulling him closer, your voice cracking on his name while he licked into you until you were shaking.

He groaned, low and defeated, forehead thunking against the cool mirror.

He was hard again. Not fully—yet—but enough that the waistband of his boxers tugged uncomfortably. Enough that he could feel the slow, heavy throb returning, insistent, like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that this was supposed to be over.

“You’re disgusting,” he whispered to himself.

The door creaked open behind him.

Jake’s eyes snapped to the mirror.

You.

Standing there in the doorway like a fever dream he hadn’t earned the right to have.

Tiny sleep shorts—barely more than cotton underwear with legs—riding high on your thighs, the hem frayed from too many washes. A thin, worn tank top clinging to you from the humid night air, straps slipping off one shoulder, the fabric so soft and faded it was practically see-through under the shitty bathroom bulb. Your hair was a wild, sleep-tousled mess, strands sticking to your neck from the heat. Flip-flops slapped softly against the tile as you took one hesitant step inside.

You froze when you saw him.

“Jake?” Your voice was sleepy, soft, and surprised. “I—I thought everyone was asleep. I just needed to… brush my teeth or something. Sorry, I didn’t—”

You stopped talking.

Because you’d noticed.

The way he was braced over the sink, shoulders rigid, tank top rucked up from where he’d been gripping the counter. The flush that hadn’t left his cheeks. The obvious, obscene tent in his boxers—thick outline straining against the thin cotton. 

Your eyes widened, pupils blowing out in the dim fluorescent light.

For a split second, the world narrowed to just the two of you: the hum of the fan outside, the drip of the faucet, and the way Jake’s cock twitched visibly under your stare, the fat head pushing insistently against the waistband like it had a mind of its own.

“Shit—fuck—wait—” Jake scrambled, voice cracking high and panicked. He spun half-away from you, one hand flying down to cup himself through the boxers while the other snatched the nearest thing—a thin, ratty hand towel hanging off the rack—and tried to hide it over his crotch like that would somehow erase the last thirty seconds.

The towel was too small. It barely covered anything.

“I—I wasn’t— I mean, this isn’t— fuck, I was just— washing my face! Yeah! Washing my face and— and thinking about— about tomorrow’s schedule! Canoe races! Kids! Lots of kids! Totally innocent!”

The words tumbled out in a frantic, breathless rush. His face was scarlet, ears burning, eyes darting everywhere except your face. He kept shifting his weight, trying to angle his body away, but the mirror betrayed him—every desperate twitch of his hips reflected right back at both of you.

You just stood there, your gaze dropped again to where his hand was futilely trying to shield the bulge. You watched the way his fingers flexed, knuckles white, like he was fighting not to stroke himself right there in front of you.

Jake’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out, voice wrecked. “I’m so fucking sorry. I didn’t— I’ll go. I’ll just— I’ll leave. Right now. You can— you can have the bathroom. I swear I won’t—”

Jake took a hesitant step forward, trying to sidestep you toward the door, but the bathroom was small and you were right there, blocking the narrow path like you’d grown roots into the tile.

He froze mid-motion, arms hovering awkwardly at his sides. Every inch of him screamed to bolt, but moving meant brushing past you—meant feeling the heat of your body, the soft brush of your bare arm against his, and he couldn’t. He just couldn’t trust himself not to shatter if he touched you right now.

So he stood there. Frozen. Breathing too fast. The air between you thick.

You still didn’t move.

“Uh—” His voice cracked. “Can you—please—just—” He swallowed hard, eyes darting to the door, then back to you.

You tilted your head, just a fraction. Still silent. Still watching.

The silence stretched until it hurt.

Finally, desperation won.

Jake reached out—gentle, careful, like you were made of glass—and placed one trembling hand on your upper arm. His fingers curled lightly around your bicep, warm skin under his palm, soft and fever-hot from the humid night.

The contact hit him like a live wire.

He pushed—just enough to ease you sideways, creating the barest sliver of space—and slipped past you in one frantic, clumsy movement. His shoulder grazed yours. Your arm slid against his chest for half a second. The scent of your skin—coconut, lake water—flooded his lungs.

The door banged shut behind him as he stumbled out into the cool night air. Flip-flops forgotten somewhere on the bathroom floor. Bare feet slapping against the wooden path as he half-ran, half-staggered back toward the hut.

He could still feel you.

The exact imprint of your arm under his palm—soft, yielding, alive. The ghost of your heat lingered on his skin like a brand. Every nerve ending in his hand tingled, replaying the texture, the warmth, the way your muscle flexed just slightly under his touch.

He burst into the hut, door slamming louder than he meant. Heeseung’s soft snores came from the other bunk—thank fuck he was still asleep.

Jake collapsed onto his mattress face-first, heart hammering so hard it hurt.

He pressed his hand—the same hand that had touched you—against his cheek, trying to cool the flush there.

It didn’t work.

Because now all he could think about was how close he’d been. How easy it would’ve been to pull you against him instead of pushing you away. How your skin had felt like silk under his fingers.

His cock throbbed painfully against the mattress, still hard, still leaking, still aching for the one thing he’d just run from.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice muffled and broken. He was never going to sleep tonight.

Not after… that.

So the next morning, Jake implemented Operation: Avoid you at all costs with military precision.

And he meant it.

He avoided you like you were a live wire and he was barefoot in the rain.

The first new rule: Never be alone with you.

He woke up early—before Heeseung, before the kids, before the mosquitoes even had the decency to start buzzing—just to leave the hut before you could walk by on your usual morning route.

At breakfast, he positioned himself strategically between two tablefuls of kids, knowing you’d never be able to squeeze into the chaos.

During activities, he always made sure another counselor was nearby—someone loud, someone distracting, someone who would prevent you from stepping within arm’s reach.

It worked.

For a few hours.

Then the universe remembered Jake was its favorite target.

And the main problem: You were everywhere.

You walked into the arts-and-crafts cabin to grab paint just as he was slipping out the door. Jake swerved so hard he crashed into a rack of hula hoops.

You laughed softly behind him and Jake nearly ascended into the stratosphere from shame.

Jake was supposed to be supervising the canoe station.

Supposed to be.

Instead, he stood rooted to the dock, gripping his paddle so tightly his knuckles whitened, because across the shoreline—just a few feet away—you were kneeling in the grass helping three little campers tie their life vests.

And the heat was brutal today.

Which meant the camp uniform—already a questionable sin—looked even worse on you. Your shirt clung to every curve. Your shorts were barely shorts at all. Your legs caught the sunlight like it had a personal vendetta against him.

Jake swallowed hard. No—he choked on air.

God, he was so screwed.

You leaned closer to one of the kids, brushing hair from their face. Your shirt dipped. Jake saw far more than he should’ve. His brain immediately short-circuited, crashing like a cheap computer overloaded with images he had no business imagining.

And then his body responded.

Fast. Painfully. Predictably.

Jake inhaled sharply and discreetly tugged his paddle lower, shielding the very visible problem forming in his shorts.

“Dude.”

Heeseung’s voice came from behind him like a death sentence.

Jake jumped. “Wh–what?”

Heeseung leaned his elbow on Jake’s shoulder, smirking like the menace he was.

“You’re staring so hard I’m shocked her clothes haven’t caught fire.”

“I—I wasn’t staring,” Jake stammered, sweating harder than the sun could account for.

“You’re literally drooling.”

“I’M NOT—”

Heeseung just laughed, clapping him on the back. “Bro, you’re gone. Like, beyond gone. NASA couldn’t retrieve your dignity at this point.”

Jake groaned into his hands. “Shut up.”

But it was too late. Heeseung had seen everything—Jake’s flushed face, blown pupils, and the way he kept subtly angling his paddle to hide the mess in his shorts.

Heeseung whistled low. “Wow. She bends over one time and you’re ready to propose marriage?”

“I’m NOT— it’s not— dude, stop talking.”

Heeseung leaned closer, voice dropping. “Then stop looking at her like you want to get on your knees in the middle of the camp.”

Jake choked on his own saliva.

“HEESEUNG!”

“What? I’m just narrating what I’m seeing.”

Jake was going to kill him. Slowly. Painfully. Preferably with a life vest.

Jake, still recovering from the verbal assault that was Heeseung’s commentary, made the single worst mistake of his entire existence.

He looked back at you.

And you were already staring at him.

Not glancing politely. Not half-looking. Not scanning the field. You were focused. Eyes on him like he was something worth noticing—worth studying. Your brows lifted the barest amount, lips soft and parted, like you’d caught him mid-thought… mid-stare… mid-sin.

Jake’s brain detonated.

Full catastrophic system failure.

His throat tightened. His hands numbed. His pulse skyrocketed so violently he wasn’t sure if he was dying or being reborn in the worst possible way.

Because you weren’t just looking at him. You were looking into him.

He felt heat explode across his cheeks, racing down his neck, blooming under his shirt. His heartbeat slammed hard enough to rattle his ribs.

You saw him. You saw him staring. You saw the mess he was trying so desperately, pathetically, humiliatingly hard to hide.

Beside him, Heeseung made a choked noise of triumph—like a man who had just spotted Bigfoot and gotten it on video. 

“Oh my GOD,” he whispered, gleeful as sin. “She’s LOOKING at you—”

And that was it.

Jake panicked. He panicked like someone had just shouted “SHARK!” in knee-deep water.

His grip spasmed.

The paddle slid out of his hands.

“No no no no—” Jake lunged for it.

“DON’T—!” Heeseung snapped, reaching out.

But Jake was already in motion. Already doomed. His foot caught the edge of the dock. His balance tipped backward. His whistle swung up and smacked him in the chin. His sunglasses—how were they even still on—flew off into the air.

Jake grabbed wildly at nothing—truly nothing—because the paddle bounced away from him like it had been training for this moment its whole life. He went down hard, arms flailing, knees buckling, legs pinwheeling like a newborn deer.

And then—

SPLASH.

The sound burst across the entire lake like a small tidal wave. 

Kids shrieked. Counselors gasped. Birds took flight in a panicked cloud overhead. Even the lake seemed offended.

Heeseung made a sound like he was being physically strangled by laughter.

Jake sank beneath the surface with all the grace of a bowling ball. For one long second, he sat there at the bottom of the shallow lake, bubbles drifting up around him as he contemplated every decision that had led to this moment.

Then he kicked up, resurfacing in a violent gasp, sputtering, coughing, eyes wide, looking like a drowned cat that simultaneously regretted every life decision.

But it got worse. Much worse.

Balanced perfectly on top of his head— as if placed there by the comedic gods themselves— was a bright green lily pad.

A lily pad.

On his head.

And sitting comfortably on that lily pad, blinking slowly… was a frog.

A frog.

Jake Sim—camp golden boy, heartbreak survivor, current emotional disaster—was treading water with a literal frog crown.

Kids started laughing. One screamed, “JAKE IS KING OF THE FROGS!”

Heeseung folded onto the dock, wheezing, nearly crying from how hard he was laughing. “Oh—my—god,” he gasped between breaths. “This is the best day of my LIFE.”

Jake spit out lake water. “This isn’t—! I didn’t—! GET IT OFF ME!”

The frog did not get off. It simply adjusted itself, as if settling more comfortably into its throne.

Jake, sputtering and panicked, swiped his hand over his head in a frantic attempt to knock the frog off.

“GO—SHOO—LEAVE ME ALONE—!”

The frog blinked once, unimpressed. Then, with the dignity of a royal being dismissed by an incompetent servant, it hopped off the lily pad and launched itself into the lake beside Jake.

PLIP.

A small, perfectly aimed splash hit Jake right in the face.

Jake shut his eyes, jaw clenching.

Great. Perfect. Amazing.

There went any hope of impressing you. Straight to the bottom of the lake with the lily pad.

He groaned under his breath and swam—miserably—toward the metal ladder bolted to the dock. The water felt colder now, mocking him with each stroke. He grabbed the rungs, dragged himself up rung by rung, boots heavy, clothes clinging to him like a second skin. Dripping. Humiliated. Confidence somewhere downstream, probably floating next to the frog.

The moment he reached the top, two adult counselors rushed over, shoving towels at him.

“Oh my god, Jake, are you hurt?” “Are you okay?” “That was a fall, man.”

“I’m fine,” Jake muttered, rubbing water from his eyes. He was fine. 

Physically. 

Emotionally? He had the confidence level of a damp crouton.

A couple of the other male counselors snickered behind their hands, whispering to each other.  Jake didn’t have to hear the words to know exactly what they were saying. They weren’t exactly subtle. One mimed falling off a dock.  Another did a frog ribbit.

Jake’s jaw tightened. Great. Just great.

He was the newest counselor. The one who was already trying to prove he wasn’t a total walking disaster.

This definitely helped.

Not.

Of course.  He couldn’t even fall into a lake normally…

But none of that mattered.

Because suddenly—

You were there.

Right in front of him.

Where did you even come from? Had you teleported? Materialized from thin air just to make his pulse explode?

“Jake?” you asked softly, stepping closer. “Hey. Are you sure you’re okay?”

Jake forgot how to breathe. He forgot how to stand. He forgot everything.

Because you were looking at him with real concern—warm eyes scanning his face, brow furrowed just a little. Not laughing. Not mocking.

Worried.

About him.

Jake’s heart did a full somersault. And before he could react, you reached up and gently tugged the towel onto his head, fingers brushing his temples. 

“Here,” you murmured. “You’re freezing.”

Jake made a strangled noise.

You started blotting water from his hair, using both hands, the towel rustling softly. You leaned in slightly to reach the back of his head—completely unaware of how absolutely, catastrophically close you were.

Jake went rigid.

Your scent drifted over him—clean laundry, sunscreen, something sweet he couldn’t name. His face hovered dangerously close to your shirt, just inches from your chest, close enough that he could feel the faint warmth radiating from you.

His brain ceased all function.

Thoughts: gone. 

Language: deleted.

Motor skills: offline.

He stared ahead helplessly, praying he wasn’t shaking.

You kept drying his hair, completely focused, completely gentle. “Hold still,” you whispered. “You’ll catch a cold like this.”

Jake tried to respond. He really did. He tried to say, “Thanks,” or “I’m okay,” or literally anything that resembled human speech.

What came out was:

“Ah—gu—h—”

You giggled softly—quiet, warm, like the sound was meant only for him.

The little puff of laughter brushed against his forehead, and Jake’s entire nervous system short-circuited all over again.

You kept drying his hair, gentle fingers working through the wet strands at the back of his head, tugging the towel this way and that. Every small movement seemed to pull you closer. Or maybe he was imagining it. Maybe the universe had decided to personally torture him today.

But no—no, he wasn’t imagining it.

Your chest was definitely inching nearer.

The soft swell of your breasts, barely contained by that thin, slightly damp camp shirt, hovered closer with every careful swipe of the towel. Close enough now that he could see the faint freckles scattered across your collarbone. Close enough that the fabric stretched just a little tighter across your skin. Close enough that when you leaned in to reach the stubborn wet patch at his crown, the very tips of your breasts brushed—barely, feather-light—against his cheek.

Jake’s brain flatlined.

A strangled, high-pitched noise escaped his throat—something between a whimper and a prayer.

Your giggle turned into a soft hum of amusement. “Relax, Jake,” you murmured, voice low and teasing, warm breath ghosting over his temple. “You’re so tense. I’m not gonna bite.”

He wanted to die.

He wanted to live forever.

He wanted both at the same time.

His hands flexed uselessly at his sides, fingers curling into fists so he wouldn’t do something stupid like grab your waist and pull you the rest of the way against him. His face was burning so hot he was sure the lake water was evaporating off his skin in little puffs of steam.

Jake’s eyes squeezed shut.

He was going to pass out.

Right here.

In front of the entire camp.

He could feel his pulse hammering in his ears, in his throat, lower—his shorts suddenly way too tight despite the cold water still dripping down his legs.

You finally pulled back—just enough to look at him, towel still draped over his head like a sad, soggy crown. “There,” you said, smiling that soft, devastating smile. “All better.”

Jake opened his mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

“…Th-thanks,” he managed, voice cracking like a thirteen-year-old’s.

Your eyes sparkled with something dangerously close to mischief.

“Anytime, Jake.” Then you gave the towel one last gentle pat—right on top of his head—and turned to walk away, hips swaying just enough to make sure he watched every step.

Jake stood there, dripping, red-faced, towel askew, heart trying to claw its way out of his chest.

After that towel incident, Jake’s dick officially declared independence.

It had a sixth sense for you now—like a goddamn compass needle snapping toward north the second you walked into a fifty-foot radius. Full traitor mode. Uncontrollable. Radar-locked to your presence like some feral heat-seeking missile.

You walked into the mess hall for lunch? Instant throb in his shorts before you'd even crossed the threshold, straining against the zipper like it could smell your coconut lotion from twenty feet away. He'd cross his legs under the picnic table, fist clenched around his fork, pretending to focus on his mystery meat while visions of bending you over that very table flashed behind his eyes.

You laughed during arts & crafts, that husky ripple carrying across the field? His balls tightened. Cock swelled heavy and hot, leaking into his boxers so fast he felt the wet spot bloom. He'd mutter excuses—"Gotta piss"—and bolt to the nearest bathroom stall, slamming the door and yanking his shorts down. Fist wrapped tight around his throbbing length—veins pulsing, head flushed purple and slick—stroking furious and sloppy while he bit his lip bloody to stay quiet. Imagining your thighs spread wide on the craft table, your pretty cunt clenching around his fingers. 

He'd come with a muffled groan, ropes of thick cum splattering the toilet rim, knees buckling as he slumped against the wall. Only then—only after painting his hand white—would the ache finally ebb enough for him to face the world again.

The worst was the day Heeseung walked in.

Jake had bolted to the hut after free swim, your bikini top had slipped just enough while you adjusted a strap, flashing a sliver of underboob that sent him spiraling. Jake thinking he had the hut to himself — curled on his bunk, shorts shoved to his knees, hand flying over his dick as he pictured you on your knees, tiny shorts pooled at your ankles, mouth stretched wide around his girth. Drool dripping down your chin. Eyes watering as you gagged, taking him deeper.

He was so close—thighs trembling, precome slicking his palm when the door banged open.

Heeseung froze in the doorway, one hand still on the knob, eyes wide.

Jake yelped—high-pitched, mortified—scrambling to yank the sheet over his lap.

"SHIT—HEESEUNG—FUCK—SORRY—"

Heeseung slapped a hand over his eyes, but not before that perv glanced down—clocking the sheer size of it.

“DUDE! WE SHARE THIS SPACE! THERE ARE RULES! AT LEAST WARN A GUY!”

"I'M SORRY—OH GOD, I'M SO SORRY—" Jake babbled, rolling off the bed in a tangle of sheets, cock flopping heavy against his thigh as he tried to hide like a cornered animal, trying to tuck himself away while babbling apologies like a broken record. "It won't happen again—swear—I'll go outside—I'll jerk off in the lake—PLEASE DON'T TELL ANYONE—"

Heeseung backed out, still shielding his eyes, laughing so hard he wheezed. "Chill, virgin! I'm not telling the whole camp you're blue-balling over her. But boundaries, bro! Boundaries!"

Heeseung peeked through his fingers, then dropped his hand with a dramatic sigh. “Bro. You’re jerking it like three times a day now.Your dick’s gonna file for workers’ comp.”

“I know! I know! I’m disgusting! I’m sorry—”

“Bro. Listen to me. You are not disgusting. You are tragically horny. There’s a difference.”

Jake dragged both hands down his face, smearing come across his cheek in the process. He didn’t even notice. “I came in my shorts during swim lessons yesterday. Just—watching her adjust her whistle. I had to dive into the lake to hide it.”

Heeseung barked another laugh. “Classic.”

“No it's not!” Jake wailed, flopping backward onto the floor like a starfish of despair. “I tried thinking about baseball. Taxes. My grandma’s knitting club. Nothing works. It’s like my brain is just… her. All the time. Her smile. Her laugh. The way her hair sticks to her neck when she’s wet from the lake. The way her thighs look when she’s sitting on the dock. I’m gonna die, Heeseung. I’m actually gonna die.”

“Okay, drama queen. First: breathe. Second: you need to do something about this before you actually combust. Or before you get caught jerking it in the supply closet again.”

Jake’s head snapped up. “You know about the supply closet?”

“Dude. Everyone knows about the supply closet. There’s a rumor you’ve christened every shelf in there.”

Jake made a sound like a dying animal and pulled the sheet over his head.

Heeseung snorted, leaning against the doorframe, suddenly way too amused. “You know what the funniest part is?”

Jake groaned into his hands. “Please don’t.”

“She’d probably love your little buddy.”

Jake’s head snapped up. “What?”

Heeseung grinned like the devil. “I’m saying, if she knew how whipped your dick is for her, she’d probably be flattered. Might even wanna meet it. Personally.”

Jake’s brain blue-screened.

With a wordless yell, he launched himself across the room—full football tackle—crashing into Heeseung and sending them both tumbling onto the nearest bunk in a tangle of limbs.

“SHUT UP! SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP—”

Heeseung cackled underneath him, arms up in mock surrender while Jake tried (and failed) to smother him with a pillow. “Okay okay! Truce! Truce! I’m just saying—she’s got you by the balls, man! Literally!”

Jake groaned—long, defeated, the sound of a man who’d lost every battle with his own dignity—and rolled off Heeseung, collapsing face-first onto the bunk mattress like he’d been shot. The pillow stayed clutched to his chest like a shield.

Heeseung sat up, still grinning, brushing imaginary dust off his shirt. “You done trying to murder me?”

Jake’s voice came out muffled into the fabric. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t. You love me. I’m your emotional support wingman.” Heeseung poked him in the ribs with his foot. “Come on, bro. You can’t keep living like this. You’re one accidental brush of her hand away from coming in your shorts in front of the entire camp.”

Jake lifted his head just enough to glare. “I’m handling it.”

“You’re not handling it. You’re jerking off six times a day and jumping me like a feral cat every time I mention her tits. That’s not handling it—that’s a cry for help.”

Jake buried his face again. “Shut up.”

Heeseung sighed dramatically, flopping back onto his own bunk and staring at the ceiling like a philosopher. “Look. I’m saying this as your best friend who has seen you suffer more than any human should: confess. Or at least do something. Ask her to help you ‘check the boathouse inventory’ after lights-out. Corner her behind the craft shed. Hell, just tell her you’ve been thinking about her non-stop since day one and your dick won’t give you a single peaceful moment.”

Jake made a strangled noise.

“I’m serious,” Heeseung pressed. “She’s been looking at you like she knows exactly what’s going on in that horny little head of yours. The towel thing? The eye-fucking across the lake? The way she ‘accidentally’ brushes up against you every five minutes? She’s teasing you, man. She wants you to crack. She’s waiting for you to man up and take what you both clearly want.”

Jake rolled onto his back, staring at the wooden beams overhead. His chest rose and fell too fast. “And what if I’m wrong? What if she’s just… being nice? And I make it weird and ruin everything?”

Heeseung snorted. “Dude. She dried your hair like a mom while her tits were literally in your face. That’s not ‘nice.’ That’s foreplay.”

Jake groaned again, dragging both hands down his face. “Fuck.”

“Exactly. Fuck. Her. Preferably soon. Before your balls explode and we have to explain to the camp director why there’s a crater where you used to be.”

Jake was quiet for a long minute. Then, quieter:

“…What if she says no?”

Heeseung sat up again, suddenly serious. “Then at least you’ll know. And you can stop torturing yourself. But Jake—” He leaned forward, voice dropping. “I’ve seen the way she looks at you when you’re not paying attention. The way her eyes linger. The way she bites her lip when you talk to the kids. She’s not saying no. She’s waiting for you to say yes.”

Jake swallowed hard. His heart was hammering again—not from embarrassment this time, but from something sharper. Hope. Terror. Want.

Heeseung kicked his foot lightly. “So what’s it gonna be, lover boy? Keep hiding? Or finally grow a pair and go get your girl?”

Jake stared at the ceiling for another beat.

Then he sat up slowly, jaw set, eyes a little wild.

“…I’m gonna do it.”

Heeseung’s grin returned full force. “Atta boy. Tonight?”

Jake exhaled shakily. “Tonight?”

The hut suddenly felt too small, the air too thick with the scent of pine and his own unresolved tension. He was still flushed from head to toe, cheeks burning, cock giving a traitorous twitch in his shorts at the mere idea of finally confessing—of touching you, kissing you, burying himself so deep inside you that neither of you could think straight. But first, he had to actually get you alone. How hard could that be? He’d spent the last week dodging you like a pro; reversing it should be easy, right?

Heeseung, sensing Jake's hesitation like a shark smelling blood, hopped off his bunk and grabbed a crumpled notepad from the nightstand—the one they used for doodling dumb canoe race strategies. "Alright, lover boy, let's strategize. We're not sending you in blind. This is Operation Get Jake Laid—er, I mean, Confessed. Whatever..."

Jake rubbed his palms on his thighs like he could wipe away the nervous sweat. "Okay. Plan. Good. What's the move?"

Heeseung paced the narrow space between the bunks, tapping the notepad with a chewed-up pen like he was a general mapping out a battlefield. "First things first: timing. Tonight's the bonfire sing-along after dinner. Everyone's gonna be there—kids roasting marshmallows, staff pretending not to hate 'Kumbaya' for the hundredth time. That's your window. Chaos equals opportunity. You slip away early, say you're grabbing extra firewood or some bullshit. I'll create a distraction—maybe 'accidentally' knock over the s'mores station. Kids go nuts, staff scrambles, and boom—you pull her aside to the boathouse path. It's dark, secluded, romantic as fuck with the lake view. Confess there. Worst case, if she rejects you, you can jump in the water and drown your sorrows."

Jake nodded slowly, picturing it. The boathouse—dim moonlight filtering through the trees, the soft lap of water against the dock. You standing there, close enough to touch, your eyes widening as he finally spilled it all: how he couldn't stop thinking about you, how every brush of your skin made his brain melt and his cock ache, how he wanted to drop to his knees and worship you until you were the one begging. His breath hitched. "Yeah. That... that could work. But how do I get her to follow me? Just... ask?"

Heeseung snorted. "Subtlety, man. Walk by her during the fire, lean in close—like, whisper something about needing help with 'inventory' in the boathouse. Make it sound urgent but flirty. You've got that puppy-dog charm; use it. Girls eat that shit up. And if she hesitates, flash those dimples. Bam. She's hooked."

Jake ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the roots. "Okay. Distraction. Whisper. Boathouse. Got it." He stood again, pacing now himself. "What if someone's with her? She's always got a kid hanging off her or one of the other counselors chatting her up. Remember yesterday? She was braiding hair for like six girls at once during free time."

Heeseung waved it off. "That's why the bonfire's perfect. Everyone's scattered. I'll scout ahead—make sure the path's clear. If there's interference, I'll run blocker. Pretend I need her friend's help with something dumb, like fixing the guitar strings. Easy."

They spent the next twenty minutes hashing out contingencies: If the bonfire ran late, pivot to the morning hike trail before breakfast. If rain hit (unlikely, but summer storms were sneaky), use the supply shed as backup—cozy, private, full of ropes and tarps that Jake's filthy mind immediately twisted into fantasies he had to shove down before Heeseung noticed his shorts tenting again. Heeseung even drew a crude map on the notepad: X for bonfire, arrow to boathouse, stick-figure Jake with hearts for eyes confessing to stick-figure you.

By the time they finished, Jake felt a fragile buzz of confidence. "Alright. This is solid. Thanks, man."

Heeseung fist-bumped him. "Go get cleaned up. And hey—don't chicken out. You've got this."

Jake nodded, grabbing a fresh towel and heading to the showers. Under the lukewarm spray, he tried to psych himself up, but his hand drifted south anyway—wrapping around his half-hard cock, stroking slow as he imagined your reaction. Your lips parting in surprise, then curling into a smile. Your hands pulling him closer. Your thighs wrapping around his waist as he pinned you against the boathouse wall, cock sinking into your tight heat until you were whimpering his name. He came with a choked groan, cum mixing with the water swirling down the drain. Tonight, he promised himself. No more running.

But as dinner rolled around, the plan started crumbling like a stale graham cracker.

You were at the head table, surrounded by a gaggle of giggling preteens who'd apparently declared you their queen. They were all over you—handing you plates, showing off friendship bracelets they'd made "just for you," dragging you into their drama about who kissed who. Jake hovered at the edge of the mess hall, plate in hand, watching like a creeper. Every time he thought about approaching, another kid popped up. Heeseung shot him a thumbs-up from across the room, mouthing "After eating."

Post-dinner cleanup? You volunteered to help the kitchen staff, elbow-deep in soapy water with two other female counselors, chatting and laughing about some inside joke. Jake lingered outside the window like a stalker, pretending to tie his shoe for the third time. Heeseung wandered by, whispering, "Abort. Bonfire next."

The bonfire crackled to life as the sun dipped low, casting orange glows over everyone's faces. Kids clustered around the fire pit, staff scattered on logs and blankets. Jake scanned the crowd—there you were, sandwiched between a hyper ten-year-old boy telling ghost stories and one of the senior counselors, a chatty guy named Sunghoon who kept leaning in way too close to "share" his marshmallows. Jake's jaw clenched. Fuck. He circled once, twice, trying to catch your eye for the whisper ploy, but every approach was blocked: a kid running by with sparklers, the camp director calling everyone for the first song, Heeseung's distraction (a fake spill of chocolate syrup that only drew more people over).

"Pst—Jake!" Heeseung hissed from behind a tree as the group launched into a off-key "The Wheels on the Bus." 

"New plan: Wait 'til s'mores wind down. I'll lure Sunghoon away—say I need help with the canoes for tomorrow. You swoop in then."

Jake nodded, heart pounding. But s'mores time turned into chaos: Sticky fingers everywhere, kids demanding seconds, you organizing a impromptu "s'mores assembly line" with half the staff involved. By the time it quieted, the director announced lights-out in fifteen, and you were already herding your cabin group toward the bunks, arms linked with two girls who wouldn't let go.

Jake deflated against a log, watching your silhouette disappear into the trees. Heeseung plopped down next to him, clapping his back. "Tough break. Tomorrow, then. Early bird gets the worm—or the girl alone."

But tomorrow was worse.

Morning hike: You were at the front of the pack with the lead guide, pointing out birds and plants to an enraptured cluster of kids. Jake hung back, trying to work his way forward, but the trail was narrow, and every time he got close, someone needed water or a bug bite check. Heeseung tried distracting the guide with questions, but it backfired—drawing you into the conversation instead.

Arts and crafts: You were manning the bead station, kids swarming like bees. Jake "casually" wandered over to the paint area nearby, but before he could signal, a little girl dragged you away to judge her macaroni necklace.

Swim time: You were on lifeguard duty with three others, perched on the dock in that red one-piece that hugged every curve, whistle around your neck. Jake swam laps to "cool off," planning to ask for your help with "equipment" after. But post-swim, you got roped into a volleyball game on the beach—surrounded by laughing staff and kids spiking the ball like noobs.

By lunch, Jake was fraying. He and Heeseung huddled in the hut during siesta, notepad out again. "This is insane," Jake muttered, head in hands. "It's like the universe is cockblocking me now! She's never alone. Avoiding her was easy enough—getting her isolated? Fucking impossible!!"

Heeseung tapped the pen thoughtfully. "She's popular. Kids love her, staff loves her. We need stealth. New plan: Fake an injury during archery this afternoon. Nothing bad—twisted ankle or some shit. Ask her specifically to help you to the first-aid cabin. It's private, got that cot in the back. Confess there. I'll cover your group."

Jake's eyes lit up. "That's... genius. Yeah. Let's do it."

Archery rolled around. Jake "tripped" mid-demo—dramatic groan, clutching his ankle like he'd been shot. The kids gasped; staff rushed over. "I'm good, just—ah, shit—twisted it. Hey, can someone grab Y/n? She's great with this stuff."

But fate laughed. You were already there, kneeling beside him with concern etching your pretty face—but so was half the camp. The director insisted on two people helping him limp to the cabin, and a nurse volunteer tagged along. Inside, it was a circus: Ice packs, questions, kids peeking in the door. No alone time. The "injury" fizzled out fast—Jake had to fake recovery to avoid real medical attention.

Dinner: More crowds. 

Evening games: You refereed capture the flag, untouchable, no time alone.

By nightfall, Jake was back in the hut, collapsed on his bunk, cock throbbing painfully from a day of near-misses and pent-up fantasies. Every glimpse of you—bending to tie a shoe, laughing with wind-tousled hair—had him hard and leaking again. He'd jerked off twice already, once in the woods mid-hike (hiding behind a tree, fist flying as he imagined pinning you against it, rutting into your soaked pussy while you muffled moans into his neck), once in the shower (coming to the thought of you on that lifeguard chair, legs spread, his face buried between them until you squirted on his tongue).

Heeseung flopped down, undeterred. "Alright, Plan Z: Tomorrow's the talent show prep. She's emceeing. I'll sign us up for a 'duet' or something dumb—get you backstage with her. Private green room vibes."

Jake groaned, rolling over. "If this doesn't work, I'm quitting camp. Moving to Antarctica. Penguins don't tempt me."

Heeseung laughed. "Hang in there. She's worth the blue balls."

But as Jake drifted off, dick still half-chubbed under the sheets, he wondered if he'd survive another day of this torture. Getting you alone wasn't just hard—it was a goddamn quest. And he was more desperate than ever to win.

The talent show prep turned out to be another spectacular disaster in Jake's ongoing saga of blue-balled misery. He and Heeseung had signed up for a "duet"—some half-assed acoustic cover of an old camp song that Jake could barely strum through without his fingers shaking from nerves. The plan was simple: Get backstage with you during rehearsals, where you'd be organizing the lineup. The "green room" was really just a curtained-off corner of the main pavilion, cluttered with props and folding chairs—private enough for a quick confession, or at least a stuttered invitation to talk later. Heeseung would "forget" his guitar picks or something, leaving Jake alone with you for those precious few minutes.

But reality? A shitshow. The pavilion was packed with hyper kids practicing their acts: Little girls twirling batons, boys doing awkward magic tricks, a group of teens attempting a rap battle that devolved into giggles. You were in the thick of it, clipboard in hand, directing traffic like a pro—smiling that soft, devastating smile as you adjusted a kid's costume or gave a thumbs-up to a nervous singer. Jake lurked at the edge, guitar slung over his shoulder, heart hammering so loud he was sure the strings were vibrating from it. When Heeseung finally nudged him forward during a break, Jake approached, mouth dry. "Hey, uh..." he managed, voice cracking like he was back in puberty. You straightened up, turning with that warm gaze that made his knees weak. "Need help with... with the script? Or something?"

You blinked, then laughed softly—god, that sound went straight to his balls. "Actually, yeah! Can you hold this for a sec?" You thrust the clipboard at him, your fingers brushing his in the handoff. Electric. His dick twitched hard, thickening instantly like it knew exactly who was touching him. But before he could stammer out anything resembling a confession, a swarm of kids descended: "Miss, my hat fell off!" "Can I go next?" "Look at my dance!" You were pulled away in a whirlwind of tiny hands and excited chatter, leaving Jake standing there with the clipboard pressed awkwardly against his crotch to hide the growing bulge. Heeseung shot him a sympathetic shrug from across the room, but the moment was gone. Rehearsal ended with Jake barely exchanging three words with you beyond "Here you go" when you reclaimed the board.

That night, back in the hut, Jake jerked off furiously under the sheets—fist pumping his thick cock in brutal strokes. He came with a muffled groan, cum spilling hot over his knuckles, but the relief was temporary. Hollow. He needed the real thing.

The next day brought more failures, each one chipping away at Jake's sanity like a dull axe. Morning yoga session by the lake: You were leading a group stretch, and Jake "casually" joined, positioning himself in the back row for a view that nearly killed him—your body bending into downward dog, ass up, shorts clinging to every curve. His cock went rock-hard in seconds, throbbing painfully against his thigh. 

The plan was to linger after, ask for "private tips" on his form. But as the group dispersed, Sunghoon—that tall, smug bastard with the perfect hair and easy charm—sauntered over, slinging an arm around your shoulders like he owned the place. "Hey, great class. Wanna grab coffee from the mess hall? I could use some pointers too." You laughed, nodded, and walked off with him, leaving Jake frozen.

Afternoon canoe races: Heeseung rigged it so Jake's team "needed" your help as a spotter on the dock. But the races turned chaotic—kids capsizing, laughter echoing, and you ended up knee-deep in the water, helping flip boats and towel off soaked campers. Jake paddled close, ready to "accidentally" bump your section and pull you aside, but Sunghoon appeared again, "helping" by lifting you out of the water with his hands on your waist—your wet shirt clinging transparently to your breasts. Jake's vision tunneled red. Alarms blared in his head: Red zone. Danger. Back off. He paddled away furiously, beaching the canoe and disappearing into the boathouse for a frantic wank.

Evening campfire stories: Heeseung's new ploy—start a "scary tale" chain and "need" you to sit next to Jake for "moral support." But you arrived flanked by staff, including Sunghoon, who plopped down beside you first, sharing a blanket and whispering something that made you giggle. Jake sat across the fire, staring daggers, his dick traitorously hardening at the sight of your lips curving into that smile—even if it was for someone else. The alarms in his head screamed louder: He's too close. Touching her knee. Fuck him. 

Jake excused himself early, claiming a headache, and jerked off in the hut. 

The failures piled up like a cruel joke. 

By mid-week, Jake was a wreck—eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. Heeseung was fraying too, his pep talks turning exasperated. "Dude, this is ridiculous. She's like a magnet for people. And Sunghoon? That guy's orbiting her like a fucking moon. Saw him 'accidentally' bump her during volleyball yesterday—hand on her ass for a second too long. If you don't do something soon, he's gonna beat you to it."

Possessive heat curled low in his gut, twisting with jealousy until he felt physically sick.

“I’m done, man,” he mumbled, voice cracking. “I’m done. She’s too busy. Too liked. Everyone wants a piece of her—kids, counselors, fucking Sunghoon. I can’t even get close without someone interrupting. Penguins in Antarctica sound better than this torture. They don’t have perfect tits and laugh like angels and make my dick try to escape my body every five seconds.”

Heeseung flopped backward onto his own bunk, arms spread wide, staring up at the wooden ceiling beams like they held the answers to life’s greatest mysteries.

“Maybe,” he conceded, tone dry. “But watching Sunghoon get closer? That’s the cherry on top of this shit sundae. Alarms are blaring for a reason, bro. Red zone. Full red alert. If he makes a move first…”

Jake’s fists clenched so hard his knuckles bleached white. The thought hit him like a punch to the solar plexus—Sunghoon’s perfect, smug face leaning in, lips brushing yours, hands sliding under your tank top to cup your breasts while you arched into him with that soft little gasp Jake had only heard in his filthiest dreams. Sunghoon’s cock—probably average, probably nothing like Jake’s—pushing into your perfect, tight, dripping pussy, stretching you open while you moaned his name instead of Jake’s.

The image was so vivid Jake could almost hear it: the wet slap of skin, your breathy whimpers, Sunghoon’s low groan as he bottomed out inside you. Jake’s vision tunneled red while his heart hammered with a mixture of murderous jealousy and bone-deep despair.

“I can’t,” he whispered, voice raw. “I can’t watch him touch her. I can’t watch him make her smile like that. I can’t—I’ll fucking die, Heeseung. I’ll actually die.”

Heeseung watched Jake unravel for a long moment—fists clenched, eyes glassy, breathing too fast—like the guy was one wrong word away from either punching a wall or bursting into tears. Finally, Heeseung sighed, long and dramatic, and flopped back onto his bunk with the air of a man who had officially thrown in the towel.

“Alright,” he said, voice flat, resigned. “Fine. You win. She’s untouchable. Sunghoon’s probably already got his tongue down her throat behind the craft shed or whatever. Let’s just… move on. There are other fish in the lake, right? Plenty of hot counselors who aren’t currently being fought over by every breathing person in a ten-mile radius.”

Jake didn’t respond. He just stared at the ceiling, jaw so tight it looked painful.

Heeseung kept going anyway, ticking names off on his fingers like he was reading from a mental catalog.

“There’s Minji from the arts cabin—tall, legs for days, always smells like vanilla and paint thinner. She’s got that whole ‘quietly unhinged artist’ vibe. Could be fun.”

Nothing from Jake. Just a slow blink.

“Or Yuna,” Heeseung continued, undeterred. “Lifeguard duty with her would be a religious experience. She’s got abs you could grate cheese on and that little mole right under her left eye? Deadly. She smiled at me once during relay races and I forgot how to swim.”

Still nothing. Jake’s breathing was shallow, like he was trying not to hyperventilate.

Heeseung rolled onto his side, propping his head on one hand. “Chaeryeong’s single now, too. The one with the short black hair and the lip piercing? She’s got that ‘I could ruin your life and you’d thank me’ energy. Probably bites. You like biting, right?”

Jake’s voice came out small, cracked. “Stop.”

Heeseung ignored him.

“Or hell—go for someone completely different. Jiwoo from the mess hall. She’s sweet, makes those killer brownies, always smells like cinnamon. Zero drama. Zero competition. She’d probably bake you cookies after you fuck. Low stakes. Safe.”

Jake’s fists clenched harder. His knuckles were white.

Heeseung kept listing, voice getting flatter with each name.

“Soojin. The one who teaches archery. Quiet, deadly accurate, thighs that could crush a watermelon. She’d probably pin you to the target board and have her way with you. Hot, right?”

Jake’s breathing hitched.

“Or Hyein. Blonde, always in those little sundresses, giggles at everything. Easy. No baggage. She’d probably blush the whole time and call you ‘oppa’ while you—”

“Stop.”

The word ripped out of Jake like a gunshot.

Heeseung finally went quiet.

Jake sat up slowly—elbows on his knees, head in his hands, shoulders hunched like he was trying to fold in on himself.

“None of them are her,” he whispered, voice raw and trembling. “None of them laugh the way she does. None of them smell like coconut and lake water and summer. None of them look at the kids the way she does—like they hung the fucking moon. None of them make my chest hurt just by existing in the same zip code.”

He dragged his hands down his face, hard enough to leave red marks.

“I don’t want Jiwoo’s brownies or Yuna’s abs or Chaeryeong’s lip piercing or any of it. I want her. I want her smile. I want her teasing me across the mess hall. I want her thighs wrapped around my waist. I want her moaning my name. I want to wake up every morning and see her marks on my neck and know I put them there.”

He looked up at Heeseung—eyes red-rimmed, voice cracking on every word.

“And if Sunghoon gets there first… if he touches her, if he kisses her, if he makes her come… I’m gonna lose it. I’m gonna fucking break. Because she’s supposed to be mine. She’s always been mine. And I’m too much of a coward to do anything about it.”

Jake's life really sucked sometimes.

Jake’s blood ran hot and cold at the same time.

Fifteen minutes after lights-out, the camp had fallen into that soft, cricket-laced quiet. He was supposed to be in his own hut, following Heeseung’s latest desperate plan: wait until tomorrow’s canoe trip, “accidentally” capsize near you, then use the chaos to pull you aside on the far shore. Simple. Safe. Controlled.

Instead, he was crouched behind the big pine tree that overlooked the girls’ row of huts, heart slamming against his ribs like it wanted out.

Because he’d seen you.

You stepping out of your cabin door, hair loose and messy from the day, wearing that oversized camp hoodie that swallowed your frame and those tiny shorts that barely existed. And Sunghoon right there beside you—close enough that his shoulder brushed yours when you laughed at whatever smooth bullshit he’d just said. The two of you lingered on the porch for what felt like an eternity: heads bent together, your hand brushing his arm once—twice—before he leaned in and murmured something that made you smile that soft, devastating smile.

Jake’s stomach twisted into a green, burning knot.

Then Sunghoon gave you a lazy, smug little wave—fingers lingering in the air like he owned the right to touch you—and sauntered off toward the boys’ side, hands in his pockets, shoulders relaxed like a man who knew he was winning.

You watched him go for a second.

Then you turned, slipped back inside your hut, and closed the door.

Jake didn’t think.

He just moved.

His feet carried him across the pine-needle path before his brain could catch up. Every step felt like stepping off a cliff. Alarms blared louder in his head—not the jealous ones this time, but the: “this is insane, you’re going to get fired, you’re going to ruin everything” ones. 

He ignored them.

The door to your hut was in front of him, he tested the handle—quiet, careful—and it gave easily under his palm.

He pushed the bug net aside with trembling fingers and slipped inside.

The air hit him like a drug.

Warm. Sweet. Coconut sunscreen mixed with vanilla body lotion and the faint smoky trace of the bonfire that had clung to your clothes all night. Candles flickered on the small wooden table near the window—three of them, soft golden light dancing across the walls, turning everything hazy and intimate. The scent of melting wax and you wrapped around him so completely he nearly groaned out loud.

And there you were.

Standing with your back to him.

Undressing.

The oversized hoodie was already off, pooled at your feet. You were shimmying out of the khaki shorts, letting them slide down your legs until they puddled around your ankles.

All that was left were the tiniest pair of lacy panties—white, delicate, the kind with little satin ribbons. The fabric hugged the perfect curve of your ass, barely covering anything, the lace so sheer he could see the shadow of skin beneath.

You reached for the thin cotton sleep top folded on the edge of your bunk. No bra. Nothing underneath. Just soft, bare skin and the gentle sway of your breasts as you lifted your arms to pull the top over your head.

Jake’s mouth went dry.

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from making a sound.

You hadn’t noticed him yet.

You were humming softly under your breath—some little tune from the campfire—completely unaware that he was standing in the doorway, staring like a man starved.

The green monster in his chest roared louder than ever.

She was alone.

No Sunghoon. No kids. No staff. Just you. In lace panties. 

And Jake—desperate, defeated, possessive, aching Jake—finally snapped.

He stepped forward.

The floorboard creaked.

Your humming stopped.

You froze, hands still tangled in the hem of your sleep top.

Slowly—agonizingly—you turned.

Your eyes widened when they landed on him.

“Jake…?” Your voice was barely a whisper, soft and surprised and a little breathless.

He didn’t move. Every muscle was locked tight, gaze raking over you like he was trying to memorize every inch before you screamed or told him to get out.

Your nipples were visible through the thin cotton of the top—hard little peaks that made his mouth water. The lace panties clung to you, the fabric already darkened slightly between your thighs.

You didn’t cover yourself. You didn’t scream.

You just stared back at him—eyes wide, lips parted, cheeks flushing a deep, telling pink.

And then, so quietly he almost missed it:

“…You’re not supposed to be here.”

But you didn’t tell him to leave.

And Jake—heart in his throat, cock throbbing so hard it hurt—took another step closer.

“I know,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “But I couldn’t… I couldn’t stay away anymore.”

Jake took that final, trembling step forward, crossing the threshold completely into your hut. The wooden door swung shut behind him with a soft, definitive thud that echoed in the quiet space like a heartbeat.

He reached back without looking—fingers finding the simple metal latch—and slid it home.

Click.

The sound was small, but it rang out sharp and clear in the candlelit hush. No one could walk in now. No interruptions. Just the two of you.

Your breath caught audibly—a tiny, startled hitch that made Jake’s cock jump hard in his shorts. He watched the way your eyes widened fractionally, pupils blowing out in the flickering light. Your lips parted on a soft, involuntary exhale. You didn’t move to stop him. Didn’t protest. If anything, your body language shifted—shoulders relaxing just a touch, thighs pressing together almost imperceptibly.

The thrill of it surged through him like lightning.

You liked the sound of that lock.

You liked being trapped in here with him.

Jake’s pulse roared in his ears. His hands flexed at his sides, aching to touch you, but he forced himself to stay still for one more second, drinking in the sight of you like a man who’d been starving for years.

Jake’s voice came out rough, almost broken. “You didn’t tell me to leave.”

Your gaze flicked to the locked door, then back to his face. Your tongue darted out to wet your bottom lip and Jake nearly groaned out loud at the sight.

“I know,” you whispered, voice soft and a little shaky, but there was heat underneath it. “I… I didn’t want to.”

Another step. Closer now. Close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off your body, smell that intoxicating mix of coconut and vanilla and you.

His eyes dropped to your chest again—couldn’t help it—watching the way your breasts rose and fell with each quick breath. Then lower, to the lace clinging to your hips. “I’ve been going fucking insane,” he rasped, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “Every time I see you… every time you smile, or laugh, or bend over, or just exist… I get so hard it hurts. I can’t think straight. I can’t sleep… I can’t stop wanting you.”

Your thighs pressed together and a tiny, needy sound escaped your throat.

Jake took one more step. Now he was close enough to touch. Close enough that if either of you leaned forward even slightly, your bodies would meet. He lifted one shaking hand, hovering it near your cheek—giving you every chance to pull away.

You didn’t.

Instead, you tilted your head just enough that your cheek brushed his palm. Soft. Warm. Perfect.

His thumb traced the line of your jaw, slow and reverent.

“I saw you with Sunghoon tonight,” he admitted, voice low and raw. “Laughing. Touching his arm. Smiling at him like that. It fucking killed me. I wanted to drag him away and show him you’re mine.”

Your eyes fluttered half-shut at the rough edge in his voice, but the corner of your mouth curled—just a tiny, wicked little tilt that made Jake’s heart stutter.

“Yours?” you echoed softly, voice breathy and teasing, like you were tasting the word. Your cheek stayed pressed to his palm, nuzzling ever so slightly into his touch. “That’s a pretty big claim, Jake… especially when you’ve barely said two words to me all week.” You tilted your head further, letting your lips brush the pad of his thumb—barely a kiss, more like a ghost of one. Just enough to make his breath hitch audibly. “I mean,” you continued, voice dropping lower, silkier, “if I’m yours… then why did Sunghoon get to make me laugh tonight? Why did he get to walk me back to my hut? Why did he get to touch me right—” You lifted your hand and traced one fingertip down the length of his forearm, following the tense line of muscle. “—here?”

Jake’s entire body locked up. A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest—half growl, half plea.

You leaned in closer, lips hovering just shy of his, so close he could feel the warmth of your breath against his mouth. “Were you jealous, puppy?” you whispered, the pet name slipping out sweet and cruel at the same time. “Did it hurt watching him get so close? Did you imagine ripping him away and fucking me right there on the porch so he’d know who I really belong to?”

That was it.

The last thread of Jake’s restraint snapped like a cheap string. With a broken, desperate groan he surged forward—hands clamping around your waist like iron bands, yanking you flush against him so hard your feet left the floor for a split second. His mouth crashed down on yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It was filthy. Starving. All teeth and tongue and weeks of pent-up obsession pouring out at once. He kissed you like he was trying to devour you—lips bruising yours, tongue plunging deep to taste every corner of your mouth, swallowing the soft, surprised moan you let out. One hand slid up your back, fingers tangling roughly in your hair to angle your head exactly how he wanted.

His other hand slid down your body with rough, greedy purpose—fingers digging into the soft flesh of your ass through the thin lace of your panties. He squeezed hard, kneading the curve like he was trying to imprint himself into your skin.

A low, broken groan vibrated against your lips as he rolled his hips forward—slow at first, testing, savoring—then harder, more insistent. The thick, heavy length of his cock dragged against your lace-covered pussy with every grind, the rigid heat of him pressing right where you were already soaked and aching. 

“Fuck—” he gasped into your mouth, voice wrecked and trembling. “You feel that? That’s all for you. Been like this for weeks.” He ground again—deeper this time, hips snapping forward in a filthy rhythm that made your clit throb against the swollen head of his cock through the layers. 

Jake’s control was unraveling fast. His brain was gone—completely hijacked by the pulsing, aching need between his legs. His dick had taken over like some feral puppet master, yanking every string, making his hips buck harder, faster, more erratic. He couldn’t stop. Didn’t want to. “Shit—shit, baby—” he panted, forehead dropping to your shoulder, teeth scraping over your collarbone. “Can’t—can’t think—need you so bad it hurts—fuck, you’re so wet, I can feel it through everything—”

He was shaking now—whole body trembling with the effort of holding back, but his hips wouldn’t listen. They kept grinding, kept fucking against you like he was already inside, like he could come just from this alone. One particularly hard thrust had you gasping and Jake whimpered. A real, broken, needy sound that he couldn’t swallow back.

“S-sorry—fuck, I’m sorry—” he babbled against your neck, but he didn’t stop. “Just—need to feel you—need to—gonna come like this if you don’t stop me—please—”

You didn’t stop him.

Instead, you leaned in closer—lips brushing the shell of his ear—and whispered, soft and wicked, “Come like this, Jake. Right here. Make a mess for me.”

That was all it took.

He came hard—so hard—hot, thick pulses spilling into his shorts, soaking through the fabric in heavy, obscene spurts. A long, wrecked moan vibrated against your neck, muffled into your skin as he shuddered through every wave, hips stuttering, cock jerking with each rope of cum that painted the inside of his shorts. “F-fuck—oh god—baby—” he babbled, voice cracking, tears pricking the corners of his eyes from how intense it was. 

When the last pulse finally ebbed, he sagged against you—forehead dropping to your shoulder, chest heaving like he’d run a marathon. 

You didn’t let him catch his breath.

Your fingers tightened in his hair again—harder this time—and you pulled his head back just enough to crash your mouth against his in a deep, filthy kiss.

Jake moaned into it—loud, devastated, the sound vibrating against your tongue. He kissed you back desperately, sloppy and needy, letting you lead. His tongue slid against yours, tasting faintly of salt and desperation, and when you tugged his hair again—sharp, possessive—he made the most broken, wrecked noise from the back of his throat. You pulled him with you, guiding him backward step by stumbling step until the backs of his knees hit the edge of your bunk.

One firm push, and he went down.

He landed on the mattress with a soft oof, legs splayed, chest still heaving. The kiss broke with a wet, obscene sound—strings of saliva connecting your lips for a heartbeat before snapping.

Jake stared up at you, dazed and utterly ruined. His hair was a wild mess—strands sticking to his sweaty forehead, eyes huge and glassy with that big, pleading puppy look that made your stomach flip. Drool glistened on his swollen, kiss-bitten lips and ran in a thin line down his chin. His cheeks were flushed dark red, pupils blown so wide they were almost black.

And between his legs—

The incriminating wet stain on his shorts was massive. Dark, spreading across the front, clinging to the thick outline of his cock. Even now—after coming so hard he’d nearly blacked out—there was still a heavy, obscene bulge there. His dick hadn’t gone down at all. If anything, it looked even thicker, twitching visibly under the soaked fabric like it was already begging for more.

You slid down slowly, your knees hitting the worn wooden floor of the hut with a soft thud that seemed to echo, Jake’s breath punched out of him in a sharp, shaky exhale as he watched you settle between his spread thighs, your hands resting lightly on the tops of his knees.

“Fuck,” he whispered, voice cracking. His hands flexed uselessly at his sides, like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or grip the sheets to keep himself grounded.

You looked up at him through your lashes—eyes dark, lips parted—and hooked your fingers into the waistband of his ruined shorts. The fabric was soaked through, clinging obscenely to his skin, the dark stain spreading from the thick outline of his cock all the way down his inner thighs.

You tugged.

Jake lifted his hips on instinct, helping you drag the shorts and boxers down in one pull. The elastic caught for a second on the swollen head of his dick before snapping free, and then he was bare—springing up against his stomach with a wet slap.

His cock was thick, veiny, flushed an angry dark pink at the base and deeper at the tip where precome still leaked in steady, glistening beads. The length curved slightly upward, heavy and throbbing, the slit weeping openly. Cum from his earlier release still streaked the shaft in pearly ropes, mixing with fresh precome to make everything slick and shiny.

You gasped involuntarily, eyes widening as you took him in fully.

Jake’s entire body tensed. His face flushed deeper, a wave of self-consciousness crashing over him even as his dick twitched violently at the sound. “Shit—sorry—I know it’s… it’s a lot, I get it, I can—” The words tumbled out in a frantic, breathless ramble, hands fluttering like he wanted to cover himself. “I didn’t mean to—fuck, I can go if it’s too much, I don’t want to—” His babbling choked off into a strangled, high whimper the second your fingers wrapped around him.

Your grip was warm and perfect, circling the thick base where your thumb and fingers barely met. You gave one slow, experimental stroke upward, and Jake’s hips jerked up off the mattress like he’d been shocked.

Then you leaned in.

And kissed the tip. 

Just a gentle press of your lips to the swollen, leaking head, tasting salt and him on your tongue.

Jake’s head fell back against the pillow with a broken, devastated moan—long and raw, the sound tearing from deep in his chest. His hands flew to the sheets, knuckles bleaching white as he gripped them hard enough to tear fabric.

You lingered—lips still brushing the sensitive slit, letting your tongue flick out in a swipe to collect the fresh bead of precome that had welled up the moment your mouth touched him. The taste of him burst across your tongue: salty, musky, unmistakably Jake. 

A high, broken whine tore from his throat—raw and helpless—and his hips bucked upward, pushing the swollen head past your lips just enough for you to feel how hot and velvet-hard he was against your tongue. “F-fuck—oh god—please—” His voice cracked, trembling on every syllable. Veins pulsing along his forearms where his hands gripped the sheets like a lifeline. Knuckles white. Fingers shaking. 

You hummed softly around the tip—barely a vibration—and Jake’s head snapped forward. His eyes flew open, glassy and wide, pupils blown so huge they swallowed the hazel entirely. He looked wrecked: cheeks flushed dark, mouth hanging open, drool shining on his chin, messy hair plastered to his sweaty forehead. That big, pleading puppy stare locked onto you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

“Baby—shit—I can’t—I’m gonna—” 

You pulled back just enough to speak—lips still brushing the head, breath hot against the slick skin. “Shh,” you murmured, voice low and soothing, almost teasing. “I’ve got you.”

Then you took him deeper.

Just the tip at first—lips wrapping around the fat, flushed crown, tongue swirling slow circles over the slit while your hand stroked the base in long, firm pulls. Jake’s moan was immediate and devastating—long, ragged, breaking into little whimpers every time your tongue flicked the sensitive underside. 

“Oh fuck—oh fuck—your mouth—baby, your mouth—” The words dissolved into another whine as you hollowed your cheeks, sucking gently, letting your tongue press flat against the underside and drag back up in one slow, wet stroke.

Fresh precome flooded your mouth. His cock throbbed so hard you felt it against your tongue, thick veins pulsing under your grip. You could taste how close he already was again—how the earlier orgasm had done nothing to take the edge off, only made him more sensitive, more desperate.

One of his hands flew to your hair—fingers tangling gently at first, then gripping tighter as he fought not to push. “Please—please—don’t stop—gonna—gonna come again—fuck, I’m sorry, I can’t—”

You answered by taking him deeper still—half his length sliding into the wet heat of your mouth, lips stretching wide around his girth. Your tongue worked relentlessly—swirling, pressing, lapping at the underside while your hand stroked what you couldn’t fit.

Jake’s back bowed off the mattress. A strangled cry ripped from his chest—high and broken—and his thighs trembled violently around you.

“Baby—oh god—gonna—gonna come—”

He tried to warn you. Tried to pull back.

But you didn’t let him.

You sucked harder—hollowing your cheeks, tongue flicking the slit one last time—and Jake shattered. 

His hips snapped up, burying another inch deeper as he came with a long, wrecked moan that echoed off the cabin walls. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded your mouth—pulse after pulse, so much it spilled past the corners of your lips, dripping down your chin in messy streaks. 

Jake collapsed back against the pillows with a shuddering exhale, his entire body going limp as the last weak pulses of his orgasm ebbed through him. His head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded and glassy, mouth open in a dazed, wrecked expression—like he’d just been hit by a truck and loved every second of it.

You pulled off him slowly, lips swollen and glistening, a soft, wet pop echoing in the quiet hut as the head slipped free from your mouth. Thick strings of cum and saliva stretched between your tongue and the flushed, still-throbbing tip—glistening, obscene, snapping one by one as you leaned back. A final bead of his release clung to your lower lip before you licked it away with a slow swipe of your tongue.

“Your turn now,” he rasped suddenly, voice wrecked but burning with intent. “Been dying to taste you—been dreaming about it every fucking night.”

Before you could respond, he surged up—hands strong despite the way they still shook—and pushed you onto the mattress. You landed on the soft sheets with a quiet gasp, hair fanning out around your head like a halo. Jake climbed over you instantly, caging you beneath him with his broad shoulders and trembling arms. 

He kissed you deeply—messy, desperate, tasting himself on your tongue and groaning into your mouth like the flavor drove him insane. His lips were swollen, breath ragged, teeth grazing your bottom lip as he poured everything into the kiss: gratitude, obsession, raw need. 

Jake’s hands roamed—sliding up your sides, under the hem of your thin sleep top. His palms were warm, calloused from weeks of camp work, and they trembled slightly as he pushed the fabric higher. Inch by inch, he revealed you: the soft curve of your stomach, the dip of your waist, the underside of your breasts. He broke the kiss just long enough to drag the top over your head and toss it somewhere behind him, only to immediately descend—hot, open-mouthed kisses trailing down the column of your throat like he was starving and you were the only thing that could feed him. 

When he reached the swell of your breasts, he paused, breath ragged and hot against your skin, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “Can I…?” he whispered, voice hoarse, almost pleading.

You nodded, fingers still tangled in his hair, tugging gently. “Please, Jake… touch me. Taste me. I want you to.”

Jake groaned and dove in like a man who’d finally been given permission to worship. His mouth closed around one nipple, hot and wet, tongue swirling slow circles around the hardened peak before he sucked—hard, greedy, pulling the sensitive bud deep into his mouth. His hand cupped your other breast, thumb brushing back and forth over the nipple in perfect rhythm with his tongue. 

You arched into him with a soft, needy moan, back bowing off the mattress. “Oh god—Jake, yes—just like that…”

The praise hit him like a drug.

He moaned against your breast and switched sides, giving the other nipple the same devoted attention. “Fuck—you taste so good,” he mumbled against your skin, voice muffled and wrecked. “So perfect—been dreaming about these tits every night—wanted my mouth on them so bad—”

You threaded your fingers deeper into his hair, tugging hard enough to make him whimper around your nipple. “You’re so good, puppy,” you breathed, voice trembling with pleasure. “So good with your mouth—don’t stop, please don’t stop—”

His hands roamed everywhere—kneading, squeezing, thumbs flicking your nipples until they were swollen and aching. He buried his face between them, groaning deep in his throat as he nuzzled the soft valley, then dragged his tongue up the underside of one breast in a slow, filthy stripe before latching on again.

“Beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, voice thick with awe. “So fucking beautiful.”

He shifted lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses down the center of your stomach, worshipping every inch. His tongue dipped into your navel, swirling lazily before he pressed a lingering kiss just above it. His hands followed—palms sliding up your sides, thumbs tracing your ribs, fingers splaying wide across your waist like he was trying to hold all of you at once. 

“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin, voice cracking with emotion. “Every single part of you—fuck, I’ve wanted this for so long. Wanted to touch you, taste you, make you feel how much I—” His hands slid down to your thighs, spreading them wider with gentle pressure, thumbs stroking the soft inner skin in slow circles.

He looked up at you again—eyes shining, cheeks flushed, lips swollen and glistening.

“I love you,” he whispered, raw and shaky, like the confession had been ripped out of him. “I’m so fucking in love with you it hurts. Every smile, every laugh, every time you look at me—I’ve been gone for you since the first day. And now you’re here, letting me touch you… letting me love you…” His voice broke on the last word. A single tear slipped down his cheek, but he didn’t wipe it away—he just leaned down and pressed his forehead to your stomach, breathing you in like you were oxygen.

Your breath caught at the trembling confession—his words sinking into you like warm honey, sweet and heavy and almost too much to hold. “Jake…” you whispered, voice soft and thick with emotion. “Look at me.”

He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes—his own wide, glassy, shining with something so vulnerable it stole your breath.

“I love you too,” you said, voice barely above a whisper, but steady. “I’ve loved you since the first time you smiled at me across the mess hall and tripped over your own feet. I’ve loved you every time you played with the kids and made them laugh, every time you looked at me like I was the only person in the world. I’ve loved you through every single one of your shy glances and every time you blushed so hard I thought you’d catch fire.”

A fresh tear slipped down his cheek. He let out a shaky, disbelieving laugh—half sob, half joy—and turned his head to press a desperate kiss to your palm.

“Baby…” he choked out, voice wrecked. “You… you love me too?”

You nodded, smiling through the tears gathering in your own eyes.

“I love you so much it hurts,” you whispered. “So please… don’t hold back anymore. I want everything. I want you.”

“You mean it?” he whispered, voice barely audible, cracking on every syllable. “You really want… everything? All of me?”

“I mean it,” you breathed. “I want all of you, Jake. No holding back. No hesitation. I want you to take me—love me—the way you’ve been dying to. I’m yours. Completely.”

The last thread of restraint snapped. 

He trailed kisses down the crease where thigh met hip, then lower still, until his lips found the plush, sensitive skin of your inner thigh. He kissed one thigh, then the other, alternating back and forth like he couldn’t decide which one deserved more attention.

Every time his mouth moved, his breath ghosted over your soaked panties, making you squirm. You moaned softly—fingers tightening in his hair—and the sound made him whimper against your skin, hips twitching helplessly against the mattress.

“Jake…” you breathed, voice trembling. “Please…”

He pulled back just enough to look.

And stare.

“Look at this pretty fucking pussy,” he rasped, voice raw with devotion. “So wet she’s crying for me…I’ve dreamed about this—imagining.. And now you’re letting me see it… letting me have it…”

You couldn’t take it anymore. The ache between your legs was unbearable—every word, every hot exhale making you clench around nothing.

“Jake…” you breathed, voice trembling, hips lifting just a fraction off the mattress in desperate search of contact. “Please… please, just taste me. I need your mouth on me—now.”

That single, pleading “please” snapped something inside him. With a low, guttural groan that sounded like it had been torn from his soul, Jake smashed his face against you.

No hesitation.

His nose pressed right to your clit through the lace—inhaling deeply, greedily, like he was trying to drown himself in your scent. A long, broken moan vibrated straight through your core as he breathed you in—once, twice, three times—his whole body shuddering with how good you smelled.

Then he opened his mouth.

Wide.

And dragged his tongue flat and hard up the entire length of your soaked slit through the lace. The rough texture of the fabric dragged deliciously over your swollen folds, catching on your clit with every pass. He licked again—broader this time—tongue pressing firm and hot, soaking the already drenched lace even more with his spit.

“God—taste so fucking good,” he mumbled between licks, voice wrecked. “Even through this… so sweet… so wet… can’t get enough—never gonna get enough—” His hands gripped your thighs tighter—fingers digging in possessively—as he smushed his face deeper, cheeks flushed and slick with your arousal, chin glistening. 

“Tell me you love it,” he pleaded against you, words muffled and frantic. “Tell me my tongue feels good—please, baby—tell me I’m making you feel so fucking good—”

“Yes—fuck, Jake—your mouth is perfect—don’t stop—please don’t stop tasting me like that—”

Jake was utterly gone.

“Jake—please—” you gasped, voice breaking on a whine. “Please… take them off. I need your tongue on me—properly. Need to feel you—please, puppy, I can’t take it anymore—”

“Anything,” he rasped, voice trembling. “Anything for you.” With shaking hands, he hooked his fingers under the soaked lace at your hips and tugged the fabric down your thighs. 

You were spread open for him—glistening, swollen, blooming like the prettiest flower he’d ever seen. Your folds were dark and slick, clit throbbing visibly, entrance fluttering with every shaky breath you took. A fresh trickle of arousal slipped free, sliding down toward your ass, and Jake made a low, devastated sound in the back of his throat before he dove back in—face-first, no hesitation, no lace in the way this time.

The first real taste of you made him groan so deep it vibrated through your entire body. His hands gripped your thighs harder, spreading you wider, holding you open as he buried his face between your legs like he never wanted to leave.

And god almighty—he never wanted to.

His mouth worked messily, greedily, with no trace of restraint left. Long, sloppy drags of his tongue from your entrance to your clit, lapping up every drop of your arousal like he was dying of thirst and you were the only thing that could save him. 

The sounds were filthy.

Wet. Obscene. Disgusting in the best possible way.

Every time his tongue plunged back into your dripping entrance, there was a lewd shlick—the slick glide of his tongue through your folds, followed by the wet slurp as he sucked your arousal straight from the source. 

Then his hands moved. He slid both palms up the backs of your thighs, fingers hooking under the soft, swollen lips of your pussy before he pulled them apart—spreading you wide open, exposing every inch of your glistening, fluttering core to his hungry gaze.

He didn’t even give you time to feel shy. He dove right back in—face buried even deeper now, tongue thrusting inside you, fucking you while his nose ground against your clit. 

“Jake—oh god—Jake—yes—right there—fuck—”

Your hips rolled shamelessly against his face, grinding your clit against his tongue, smearing your arousal across his cheeks, his chin, his nose. He was soaked—face glistening, hair sticking to his forehead, eyes squeezed shut in pure ecstasy as he devoured you like a man who’d never eat again.

Then—while his lips were sealed tight around your throbbing bud, tongue flicking fast and relentless—two of his fingers slid down through your dripping folds.

He teased your entrance first—slow circles around the fluttering hole, collecting your slick before pressing the tips inside. Just the first knuckles—enough to make you gasp—then deeper, until both long fingers were buried to the hilt.

The moment Jake’s fingers sank fully inside you—long, thick, curling perfectly against that spongy spot deep within—your whole body seized.

A sharp, broken shout tore from your throat—“Jake—oh fuck—!”—and then you were coming.

Hard.

Your walls clamped down around his fingers like a vice, fluttering and pulsing in violent, rhythmic waves as the orgasm ripped through you. Slick gushed around his knuckles, coating his hand, dripping down your thighs and onto the sheets. Your back arched off the mattress, fingers yanking at his hair so tightly you were sure it hurt, but Jake only moaned louder.

When the first brutal wave finally began to ebb, Jake pulled back from your clit with a loud, wet pop—lips swollen and shiny, chin dripping with your release. He didn’t give you time to catch your breath. He crawled up your body in one fluid motion as he settled between your legs. His fingers never left you—still buried deep, still curling lazily inside your fluttering walls.

Then his mouth crashed down on yours.

You moaned helplessly into him, arms wrapping around his neck, nails digging into his shoulders as you pulled him closer, arms wound tight around his neck, nails raking down the backs of his shoulders, leaving stinging little trails he’d feel tomorrow and love. 

Minutes passed like that. Maybe longer. Time dissolved into nothing but heat, wet sounds, and the feeling of Jake consuming you from the inside out.

Then—reluctantly—he pulled his mouth off yours. A thick string of spit connected your bottom lip to his for a heartbeat before it snapped. 

“Need to taste you again,” he rasped, voice ruined. “Everywhere.”

And then he started moving down. Open-mouthed kisses. Hot. Hungry. Worshipful.

He kissed the corner of your mouth to your jaw, down the column of your throat, sucking a fresh bruise into the skin he’d already marked earlier. Lower. Lower. His mouth found your tits again—immediately latching onto one nipple. At the exact same moment, you felt pressure at your entrance.

A third finger.

He didn’t force it—just nudged, teasing the slick, fluttering rim, letting your own arousal coat the tip while he waited.

You answered instantly.

Your thighs fell open wider, hips canting up in a silent, desperate plea. 

He moaned against your breast—vibrating the sensitive bud—before he started pushing in.

Slow.

So fucking slow.

Just the tip at first, letting you feel the stretch, then deeper, until all three thick fingers were buried inside you, spreading you open, filling you so perfectly your eyes rolled back. Your walls fluttered wildly around the new fullness, clenching and releasing as he curled them gently, stroking that perfect spot over and over.

The stretch of his three thick fingers inside you was overwhelming—perfect, burning, delicious. They filled you so completely, knuckles brushing every sensitive wall as he pushed in slow and deep, then dragged back out with agonizing patience before thrusting in again. Every time he curled them—hooking right against that spongy, electric spot—your walls fluttered wildly around him, clenching down like you were trying to keep him buried forever.

“Jake—oh god—fuck—” Your fingers tightened in his hair, yanking him closer to your chest while your other hand cradled his face like he was something precious.

Jake never wanted to let go.

His mouth stayed latched to your breast—specifically that one perfect, swollen nipple. Every few seconds, he let his teeth graze—just a gentle scrape, a soft chew—nothing hard enough to hurt, but enough to make your whole body jolt. He’d nibble lightly at the tender flesh around the areola, then soothe it immediately with his tongue, sucking the nipple back between his lips like he couldn’t bear to be parted from it even for a second.

He had always had a thing for keeping something in his mouth.

A pacifier when he was little. A pen cap when he was nervous. His own fingers when he was deep in thought.

And now—you.

The taste of your skin, the weight of you on his tongue, the way you filled his mouth so perfectly—it was everything he’d ever craved without knowing it. 

You didn’t hate it.

Not even close.

Your reactions told him everything.

Every time his teeth grazed, you gasped—sharp and needy—hips bucking up against his thrusting fingers. Every time he chewed softly, nibbling like he was savoring the softest candy, your thighs trembled and squeezed around his head, trapping him there. Your fingers in his hair tightened to the point of pain, yanking him closer, pressing his face deeper into your chest like you were trying to smother him with your tits—and god, he would have happily died like that.

His mouth stayed locked on that one perfect breast—the right one, the one that seemed to fit his lips like it was made for him. It throbbed under his attention—dark, puffy, flushed an angry pink. It pulsed against his tongue with every heartbeat, swollen and hypersensitive, sending sharp jolts of pleasure straight between your legs every time he drew it deeper.

“Jake—fuck—yes—don’t stop—suck harder—please—”

The desperate whines spilling from your lips, the way your body arched and shook, the way you clung to him like you’d die if he pulled away—it was too much.

Jake felt it—the perfect moment.

With a low, muffled groan against your breast, he shifted his hand. Three fingers were already stretching you wide—curling deep, stroking that perfect spot over and over—but he needed more.

You needed more.

He was big. Far too much to take without preparation. And he refused to hurt you. He wanted you ready. Desperate. Begging for every inch when the time came.

He kept his mouth working to keep you distracted, keep you lost in the pleasure. At the same time, a fourth finger nudged at your entrance—sliding through the dripping slick, teasing the already stretched rim before he pushed in.

The stretch was intense—burning, overwhelming. Four thick fingers spreading you wide, filling you so completely your walls fluttered wildly around him, clenching and releasing in helpless little spasms. He curled them gently—stroking that perfect spot in slow, deep drags—while his thumb found your clit and started rubbing circles.

You were a mess of high, needy sounds—whimpers turning into broken sobs, hips rolling up to meet every thrust, fingers yanking at his hair so hard it had to sting. Your other hand cradled his cheek, thumb stroking over the flushed skin as you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

Only when your pleas turned truly desperate—when you were practically sobbing his name, begging for his cock, hips bucking wildly against his hand—did he finally decide you were ready.

With a reluctant whine he pulled his mouth off your breast—leaving the nipple dark, swollen, glistening with spit and throbbing in the cool air. 

Then agonizingly, he slipped his fingers out of you.

A thick, wet string of your arousal connected his knuckles to your entrance before it snapped, dripping down onto the sheets. Jake stared at the mess he’d made—your pussy gaping slightly, fluttering around the sudden emptiness, slick coating his hand from wrist to fingertips—and groaned like a dying man. 

Without hesitation, he brought his dripping fingers to his mouth. He sucked them in deep—eyes fluttering shut, cheeks hollowing as he licked every trace of you off his skin. 

You watched him—breathless, mesmerized—watching the way his tongue swirled around his knuckles, the way his eyes rolled back a little, the way he drooled over his own hand like he couldn’t get enough.

Then his gaze flicked back to you—dark, hungry, adoring. He pulled his fingers from his mouth with a wet pop and brought them to your lips instead. “Open,” he whispered, voice trembling.

You did—immediately—parting your lips so he could slide his slick fingers inside. You tasted yourself on his skin and sucked eagerly.

Jake’s breath hitched. His eyes dropped lower—to your open, dripping pussy, folds swollen and glistening, entrance fluttering like it was begging for him. And god—it was begging. Winking at him. Opening for him. Practically pleading for his cock.

Jake groaned and pulled his fingers from your mouth with a wet pop. He wrapped his hand around the thick base of his cock—veins pulsing visibly under the flushed skin, head swollen dark and leaking a steady stream of precome that dripped in slow, silvery strands. He lined himself up, the fat, blunt tip kissing your entrance—hot, slick, pressing insistently against your fluttering hole.

He watched—completely entranced, eyes dark and glassy—as he started to push in.

The first inch was already a challenge.

Your pussy opened for him, stretching around the impossibly thick head like it was being forced to learn how to accommodate something so massive. Your walls fluttered wildly, clenching and spasming around the intrusion, trying to adjust to the sheer girth that was splitting you open. It felt like he was carving out new space inside you, reshaping you to fit only him.

You couldn’t breathe properly. Every shallow inhale came out as a shaky whimper. Your thighs trembled around his hips, muscles jumping with the effort of staying open for him.

“Fuck—baby—” Jake choked out, voice wrecked and trembling. “You’re so tight… so fucking tight… trying to take me… god, look at you—trying so hard to let me in…” The head popped past your entrance with a soft, wet sound, and your walls clamped down hard around him in reflex. A sharp, high gasp tore from your throat—half pleasure, half overwhelmed sting—as the thick ridge stretched you wider than you’d ever been stretched before.

“Jake—oh god—” you whimpered, voice cracking. “You’re so big—too big—it’s—fuck—it’s stretching me so much—”

“Shh—shh, baby—I’ve got you,” he whispered, voice shaking with both restraint and awe. “You’re doing so good… taking me so perfectly… just breathe for me… let me in… let your pretty pussy open up for my cock…” He rocked forward another fraction—barely an inch—and you cried out softly, nails digging into his shoulders. The stretch burned hotter now, your walls fluttering desperately around the thick intrusion, trying to accommodate the impossible girth. You could feel every vein, every ridge as he sank deeper—slow, torturous, filling you so completely it felt like he was reaching places inside you no one else had ever touched.

“Fuck—look at that,” he groaned, eyes fixed on where your bodies joined. “Look how your little pussy is stretching around me… taking my fat cock… so greedy for it… so wet and hot… god, you’re perfect… made for me…”

Another inch.

Your back arched, a broken moan spilling from your lips as the head nudged against that deep, sensitive spot inside you. The pressure was everywhere—filling you so full it felt like he was rearranging your insides, claiming every inch of space as his. “Jake—please—” you sobbed, voice trembling. “It’s so much—so deep—stretching me so wide—feels like you’re gonna break me—”

You couldn’t take it anymore.

The sound of his voice pushed you right to the edge of sanity. With a soft, needy whimper you slid both hands up to cradle his face—thumbs brushing the sharp line of his jaw—and pulled him down into a fierce, hungry kiss. The moment your lips crashed against his—fierce, hungry, desperate—Jake’s entire world narrowed to that single point of contact and his restraint shattered like glass.

His hips snapped forward in one brutal, perfect thrust.

The last thick inches drove into you hard—burying him to the hilt so deep the fat, swollen head slammed right up against your cervix with a force that punched the air from your lungs.

You screamed into his mouth—high, startled, overwhelmed—back bowing off the mattress, thighs clamping around his hips like a vice. 

“You took me—” he rasped, voice cracking with awe and disbelief. “All of me—all of me—god, look at you… stretching around my cock like you were fucking made for it… so tight… so hot… I can feel you squeezing me—milking me—fuck, baby, you’re perfect… so fucking perfect…” The overwhelming heat, the tight, rippling grip of your walls clenching around every pulsing inch of him—it was too much. Too perfect. Too everything.

“You’re squeezing me so good… feels like you’re trying to keep me inside forever…” He started rocking into you—shallow thrusts. Just a few inches back and forth, never pulling out too far, never giving you a second without feeling him. The wet, filthy schlick of him moving inside you filled the room, mixing with your shared breaths and soft moans.

Then—he made the mistake of looking down. He only meant to admire your tits but his gaze drifted lower.

And he froze.

There—right above your pubic bone—was the unmistakable bulge of his cock. Every slow rock made it shift—his thick head pressing up against your lower belly, the outline visible under your skin like a brand.

Jake’s breath punched out of him in a strangled groan.

“Oh… fuck…”

Something primal snapped inside him. With no warning—no hesitation—he pulled all the way out. Until only the fat, leaking tip remained nestled against your entrance.

Your walls clenched around nothing—aching at the sudden emptiness—and you whimpered, hips lifting instinctively.

Then he thrusted in. Hard. Deep. One brutal stroke that buried him to the hilt again.

Your back arched off the mattress with a raw, broken scream “Jahke—!”

His mouth found your throat—teeth grazing, then biting down just hard enough to mark—while his hands flew to your waist, gripping your waist like handles, fingers digging into the soft flesh, using the leverage to yank you back onto his cock every time he pulled out. “Look at how deep I am inside you… look at this fucking bulge—see it? See how my cock stretches your little belly every time I bottom out? That’s me. That’s my dick rearranging your insides, making you feel me in places no one else ever has.”

He made sure you felt every thick, veiny inch drag against your fluttering walls before slamming back in with a wet smack. “Sunghoon could never fuck you like this,” he snarled, the name dripping with venom. “He could never fill you this deep. Never make you scream like that. Never leave you shaking and dripping and marked the way I do. He’d be done in two minutes—average little cock barely touching the sides—while I’m here splitting you open, ruining this perfect pussy for anyone else.” Another brutal thrust—hard enough to make your tits bounce, hard enough to punch a raw cry from your throat. “He’d never make you cry from how good it feels,” Jake continued, voice shaking with triumph. “Never make you come so hard your legs stop working. Never pump you so full of cum that it leaks out for hours. He’d never look down and see his own cock bulging in your stomach like this—like I’m branding you from the inside. You’re mine. This pussy? This body? All mine. Not his. Never his.”

He leaned back just enough to look down—eyes locked on the obscene outline of his cock moving under your skin—watching it shift with every deep, claiming thrust. “That’s me. That’s how much bigger I am. That’s how much better I fuck you. He could never do this. Could never make you take every fucking inch like you were born for it. Could never make you sob my name while your tight little cunt milks me dry.” He slammed in again—harder—making the bulge rise sharply under your lower belly. “Say it,” he demanded, voice low and dangerous, teeth grazing your earlobe. “Tell me who owns this pussy. Tell me who fucks you like this. Tell me who you belong to.”

You could barely speak—voice wrecked, breath punched out of you with every thrust—but the words spilled out anyway, broken and desperate. “You—you, Jake—only you—fuck—only your cock—only yours—”

He groaned—deep, guttural, victorious—and fucked you even harder, hands bruising your waist, hips snapping forward like he was trying to imprint himself into your very core. “Damn right,” he snarled against your throat. 

Then—without warning—Jake’s hands slid under your ass. Strong arms flexed under your thighs, biceps bulging as he lifted you clean off the mattress in one smooth, powerful motion. The world tilted for a heartbeat—your back leaving the sheets, your weight shifting entirely onto him—as he pulled you up and settled you firmly in his lap, legs draped over his hips like you belonged there. 

You sank down hard—gravity and his guiding hands forcing you onto his cock in one brutal, breathtaking drop. The thick length speared into you deeper than before, the angle hitting new, untouched places inside you that made your vision blur and a raw, high-pitched cry rip from your throat. He was too big, too deep, too everything.

He set a punishing rhythm immediately: slow on the upstroke, lifting you with those powerful hands until only the thick, flared head remained nestled just inside your entrance, then he yanked you back down, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal stroke that punched the air from your lungs. Your ass met his thighs with a sharp, wet slap that echoed through the cabin, followed immediately by your broken, high-pitched moan as he filled you completely once more.

Again. And again.

Each time he yanked you down, your breasts bounced heavily—full, flushed, marked with the dark red-purple blooms of his bites and the faint indents of his teeth. The soft, bruised flesh jiggled with every rough drop, practically begging for attention.

And Jake?

Jake needed his mouth busy.

Always had.

The sight of your tits bouncing right in front of his face—close enough to taste—was the most tempting invitation he’d ever been given.

With a low, broken groan that sounded more animal than human, Jake surged forward.

His mouth crashed onto your right breast like a starving man finally allowed to feast. No preamble, no teasing—he simply opened wide and took the swollen, dark nipple deep into the wet heat of his mouth, lips sealing tight around the areola as he sucked hard enough to hollow his cheeks. 

His free hand slid up cupping the underside of your other breast. He lifted it, squeezed, then slapped—hard enough to make the flesh jiggle. The sharp smack echoed through the room, followed immediately by your high, broken moan. He watched, utterly fascinated as the red bloom of his handprint bloomed across the pale skin. Another slap—harder—watching the flesh move in hypnotic ripples. 

“Jahykeee—” The sound came out high and needy, open-mouthed, drool slipping from the corner of your lips as your head fell back. You couldn’t form full sentences anymore—just his name, over and over, moaned like a prayer.

Everything was wet.

Disgusting.

Perfect.

You were babbling now—incoherent, desperate little sounds that barely formed words. “gonna come—oh god—”

A few more brutal thrusts—deep, punishing, hips snapping up to meet every downward slam—and Jake broke. With a raw groan that vibrated against your breast, he buried himself to the hilt one last time and came. Thick, hot ropes of cum flooded deep inside you—pulse after violent pulse—filling you so full you could feel every spurt painting your walls. 

The sheer volume of his cum filled you so completely you could feel it sloshing gently with every tiny shift of your hips, warm and heavy, some of it already leaking out around the base of his cock in slow, creamy rivulets that dripped down his balls and onto the sheets beneath you. Neither of you moved to pull apart. 

You didn’t want to. He didn’t want to.

His mouth stayed latched to your swollen nipple—nursing with slow, lazy pulls that made the tender bud throb against his tongue. Every few seconds he’d give a tiny, gentle suck—like he was drawing comfort, drawing life from you. He gnawed softly at the areola, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you shiver, then returned to nursing with quiet, contented hums vibrating against your chest.

You let your own hands drift up—fingers threading gently through his damp, messy hair. You smoothed it back from his forehead, petting him slowly, lovingly, nails scratching lightly over his scalp in soothing little circles.

“Good boy,” you whispered, voice soft and wrecked. “Filled me up so perfectly…”

That made him melt.

A high, broken whimper escaped around your nipple as his hips gave a tiny, helpless roll beneath you. The motion dragged his still-hard cock against your sensitive walls, stirring the thick load he’d just pumped deep inside you.

You gasped—sweet and soft—at the sensation.

“Good boy… look at you—still so hard for me… still filling me up…”

Jake’s entire body trembled against yours—shaking like a leaf in a storm—his face buried so deep between your breasts that his nose pressed into the soft valley, inhaling you like you were the only air he needed. His arms wrapped around your waist tighter, hands splayed wide across your lower back, fingers digging in just enough to keep you locked against him. He wasn’t thrusting anymore—not really. He was just… moving. Like his body couldn’t bear to be still inside you. 

“Please say it again… please…” He sounded so small, so utterly wrecked. The filthy boy who’d just fucked you senseless was gone. In his place was this trembling, desperate thing. 

You cradled his face gently between your hands, thumbs brushing over the flushed apples of his cheeks, feeling the way he trembled under your touch. His eyes—big, glassy, and completely lost—lifted to meet yours, pupils blown wide with need and adoration.

“My sweet puppy,” you murmured, voice soft but firm, lips brushing his forehead. “You’ve been so good for me. You can fuck me again, baby. You have my permission, puppy. Take what you need.”

A broken, grateful whine tore from his throat—high and shaky—like the words alone were enough to unravel him completely.  “Thank you—thank you—” he choked out, voice cracking as he nuzzled into your neck for a heartbeat before lifting his head.

You tilted his chin up with gentle fingers, guiding his mouth to yours.

The kiss started soft—slow, deep, tender. You led at first, tongue sliding against his in lazy, loving strokes, swallowing the little whimpers he let out every time you nipped his bottom lip. He melted into it—letting you take control, letting you set the pace—hands trembling where they gripped your hips like he was afraid to move without your say-so.

But Jake was needy.

Desperate.

And he could only hold back for so long.

A low moan slipped out against your mouth as his tongue plunged deeper—still following your rhythm at first, but growing hungrier, chasing every slide of your tongue like you were pure nectar he’d die without. You could taste the salt of his tears, the faint musk of your earlier release still lingering on his tongue, and it made you moan softly into him.

You started moving—lifting yourself up his thick length with agonizing slowness, letting him feel every dragging inch as your walls clung to him, fluttering and squeezing around his girth. When only the swollen head remained inside you—stretching your entrance wide—you sank back down in one smooth, deep drop, taking him to the hilt again.

Jake’s entire body jerked beneath you, and his hands on your hips tightened, fingers digging in just enough to help guide your rhythm, lifting you just enough on the upstroke, then guiding you back down with gentle pressure, making sure you took every inch. But he didn’t thrust up into you. He didn’t dare. He just… assisted. Letting you use him exactly how you wanted.

Eventually you could feel it building again—slow, hot, inevitable. Your thighs trembled uncontrollably around his waist, breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the pressure crested. “Jake.. gonna—gonna come—” you sobbed, voice breaking into a high, desperate whine. 

The second the words left your lips, something shifted in him. His hands—previously only guiding, tightened. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave fresh marks over the old ones, and he took over.

No more teasing rhythm. No more letting you lead.

He surged upward driving his cock deep inside you in one smooth, punishing stroke that punched the air from your lungs. Your back arched violently, a raw cry tearing from your throat as he bottomed out again. One hand slid up your side cupping the heavy curve of your breast, thumb flicking over the swollen, spit-slick nipple before pinching it hard enough to make you gasp. His other hand slipped between your bodies—fingers finding your clit immediately, rubbing fast little circles, then pinching the sensitive bud between his fingers, rolling it gently before flicking it hard enough to make your hips buck. 

“Gonna come so pretty for me, aren’t you? Gonna cream all over my dick while I fill you up again—”

You shattered.

Your orgasm crashed through you like a wave—walls clamping down around his cock in violent, fluttering spasms. Your thighs squeezed his hips so tight it hurt, toes curling, vision whiting out at the edges. 

You went limp beneath him, your arms flopped weakly to your sides, legs splayed open around him, chest heaving with ragged breaths. You could barely think, barely move—just lay there, wrecked and panting, letting him use you as he chased his own release. And with a few more desperate grinds, he broke.

With a muffled cry, he came again—hot, thick ropes flooding deep inside you, mixing with the first load until you felt impossibly fuller.

You both stayed like that—locked together, trembling—for long minutes. Jake’s hands roamed lazily over your body, petting your sides, squeezing your ass, like he was memorizing every curve.

Then slowly—ever so slowly—he shifted, with a soft, reluctant whine—he started to pull out.

You winced at the feeling—sharp and empty—as his cock dragged against your oversensitive walls. A gush of his cum followed immediately, spilling out of you in a warm, thick flood that ran down your ass and pooled on the sheets. The sudden loss made you whimper, thighs twitching.

But before you could even process it— Jake’s mouth was there, strong hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wide—and buried his face in your pussy.

You shouted—high and startled—“Jake—fuck—too much—!”

Overstimulation hit like lightning—your hips bucking up instinctively, hands flying to his hair to push him away as his tongue dragged flat up your leaking slit.

But Jake didn’t budge.

His tongue pushed past your swollen folds, lapping at the creamy mess he’d left inside you: his thick cum mixed with your slick, warm and salty-sweet on his tongue. He scooped every drop with broad swirls—moaning low against your pussy like the flavor was pure ecstasy.

“Gotta clean you,” he mumbled against your folds, voice thick and wrecked, lips moving wetly as he spoke. “Gotta taste us…”

He ate you thoroughly—relentlessly—tongue curling inside you, swallowing with a low hum—throat working visibly, nose nudging your swollen clit with every deep thrust of his tongue.

You tried to push at his head, but he wasn’t having it. He grabbed both of your wrists in one large hand and pinned them to your stomach—holding you down, while his other hand clamped harder on your thigh, thumb stroking the soft inner skin in slow, soothing circles.

“Stay still, baby,” he rasped between licks, voice muffled and dripping with need. “Let me clean you… I’m not done yet… not even close…”

He kept going—tongue plunging deep, then dragging up to your clit before sucking the swollen bud between his lips with gentle insistence. He nursed on it softly—sucking, licking, humming in quiet bliss.

He kept going until your pussy was clean, glistening only with his spit now, fluttering weakly around nothing.

He gave one last long, savoring lick from your entrance all the way up to your clit—collecting the final traces—before pulling back with a low, wrecked groan.

He crawled up your body until his face hovered over yours.

Then he kissed you.

Deep. Slow. Filthy.

His skin was flushed and sweat-slicked, chest rising and falling in heavy breaths, but his eyes never left yours—dark, glassy, shining with something so raw and tender it made your heart stutter.

When his face finally hovered over yours—close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the salt and musk of sex clinging to his skin—he paused for one heartbeat, just breathing you in.

Then he kissed you.

His mouth sealed over yours like he was trying to crawl inside you all over again—lips soft but insistent, parting yours with a gentle nudge before his tongue slid in, hot and thick and unhurried. The first taste hit you immediately: the heady, salty-sweet mix of both of you—his cum still lingering on his tongue, thick and musky, blended with the slick tang of your own arousal that coated every inch of his mouth. It was obscene, intimate, utterly filthy in the most perfect way—evidence of everything he’d done to you, everything you’d let him do, still warm and fresh on his tongue.

You moaned into the kiss and he groaned back—low and wrecked—swallowing the sound like it was nectar, his tongue sliding deeper, curling around yours in slow, lazy drags that made your toes curl against the sheets.

The kiss was sloppy, unashamed—filthy in the best way.

He shifted slightly—weight settling more firmly over you—and one of his hands slid down your body with intent. Rough fingertips trailed over your ribs, your stomach, until they reached the space between your thighs. He cupped your pussy in one big palm—hot, calloused, fingers splaying wide to cover every inch of your swollen, sensitive folds.

Your thighs clamped around his hand instantly—reflexive—trapping him there. The wet heat of you was obscene— still swollen and tender from everything he’d done to you.

Without breaking the kiss, his ring and middle fingers slipped inside you easily—two thick digits sinking deep into your heat with a soft, wet schlick. Your walls fluttered around them immediately, still sensitive, still clenching like they were trying to pull him deeper. He curled them slowly—hooking against that perfect spot inside you—while his thumb brushed feather-light over your swollen clit, circling once, twice, then pressing down just enough to make your hips buck. Your own hand came down to cover his—fingers wrapping around his wrist, not to stop him, but hold on, feeling the flex of his tendons, the way his forearm tensed every time he pushed deeper.

He worshipped you like this for long, unhurried minutes—fingers massaging slow and deep, thumb circling your clit with perfect patience, mouth moving against yours in lazy, loving strokes.  You could feel yourself climbing again, pleasure coiling tight and hot in your belly despite the oversensitivity. But Jake felt it too. He felt the way your walls started fluttering faster, the way your breath hitched against his mouth, the way your fingers tightened around his wrist.

With a soft, reluctant groan he finally eased his fingers out carefully, curling them one last time against that perfect spot before sliding free. 

He broke the kiss just enough to press his forehead to yours—breathing hard, eyes glassy and dark with adoration.

“Don’t wanna push you too far, baby,” he whispered, voice hoarse and trembling. “You’ve already given me everything.” He pressed one last, soft kiss to your swollen lips—gentle this time, then collapsed beside you and immediately pulled you into his arms, chest to chest, legs tangling, his face immediately burying in the crook of your neck. His breath came in shaky, happy little puffs against your skin as he nuzzled closer, one hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head, the other resting possessively on your hip.

“Mine…” he whispered, voice hoarse and drowsy, lips brushing your pulse point. “All mine…”

He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the side of your throat—then another, and another—like he couldn’t stop tasting you even now.

You hummed—soft, content—fingers threading gently through his damp hair, petting him slowly while your other arm wrapped around his shoulders, holding him close.

Completely, blissfully content.

The next morning dawned bright and mercilessly hot, the kind of summer day that turned the entire camp into a shimmering haze. You stood in front of the tiny mirror in your cabin, trying—and failing—to cover the evidence of last night.

The marks were everywhere.

Dark, blooming hickeys and faint bite marks painted your throat like a collar of bruises. A constellation of red-purple blooms trailed down your collarbone, over the tops of your breasts, and disappeared beneath the neckline of your top. Your inner thighs were mottled with finger-shaped imprints and suction marks, and your hips bore the faint outline of Jake’s hands where he’d gripped you like he never wanted to let go.

You tried a scarf—ridiculous in this heat. A high-collared shirt—immediately discarded when sweat beaded on your neck within minutes. Long sleeves? Impossible. The sun was already brutal, and the thought of layers made you feel like you were suffocating.

So you gave up.

You tugged on your usual camp uniform and stepped outside. Immediately, the heat pressed against your skin like a living thing, but more noticeable than the temperature was the way your body moved.

You were limping.

Not dramatically, but enough that every step sent a dull, delicious ache radiating from between your thighs. Your pussy still felt swollen, tender, stretched in a way that made you clench involuntarily every time you shifted your weight. And your skin—god, your skin—glowed. That unmistakable post-sex flush clung to you, making you look like you’d been thoroughly, repeatedly ravished.

The female counselors noticed first.

They were gathered near the mess hall, sipping lukewarm coffee, when you limped past.

“Holy shit,” Minji—choked on her drink, eyes widening as she took in the full display. “Girl, what the hell happened to you? Did you get attacked by a vacuum cleaner?”

Chaeryeong—leaned forward, grinning wickedly. “No, no, look at those marks. That’s not a vacuum. That’s a whole-ass man. Who fucked you so good you look like you got mauled?”

You laughed—hoarse, a little breathless—and tried to shrug it off, but the movement pulled at a particularly sensitive spot on your neck, making you wince. 

“Someone got carried away,” you said, voice still a little raspy from all the moaning and screaming the night before.

“Carried away?” Yuna echoed, eyes sparkling. “Babe, that’s not carried away. That’s claimed. Look at your thighs—those are handprints. Plural. Who is this man and does he have a brother?”

The male counselors, meanwhile, were noticeably quieter.

They glanced over—then quickly looked away. Some flushed red. Others suddenly found the ground very interesting. Sunghoon, in particular, was standing near the canoe rack pretending to check ropes, but his ears were bright pink and he refused to meet anyone’s eyes.

The kids were… less subtle.

A group of eight-year-olds ran up while you were trying to help set up the morning activity board. 

“Whoa, Miss, what happened to your neck?” one little girl asked, pointing openly at the dark hickey just below your jaw.

Another boy gasped dramatically. “Did a bear get you? Or a tiger? You look like you got mauled by an animal!”

You crouched down—wincing slightly—and ruffled his hair. “No bears, promise,” you said with a grin. “Just… a very enthusiastic mosquito.”

The kids blinked, clearly unconvinced, but ran off to tell their friends about the “mosquito attack.”

The adult staff—counselors and the camp director included—mostly just stared at you like you’d grown a second head. A few raised eyebrows. A couple of knowing smirks. One of the older female staff members muttered something about “kids these days” while pointedly looking anywhere but at your neck.

But none of it really bothered you. Not when Jake was trailing behind you like a lovesick shadow.

He hadn’t let you out of his sight since breakfast—still a little dazed, still a little sore, still glowing. He carried your water bottle without being asked. He hovered while you handed out activity schedules. He practically vibrated with pride every time someone’s eyes flicked to your marks and then to him.

And when Sunghoon tried to approach you near the craft table—casual, friendly, like nothing had changed—Jake was suddenly right there, sliding an arm around your waist, chin resting possessively on your shoulder.

Sunghoon blinked, glanced at the obvious handprints on your hips peeking out from under your top, then at Jake’s smug little smile—and backed off without another word.

Jake practically preened.

By evening, the bonfire crackled high, kids roasting marshmallows, counselors scattered on logs and blankets. Jake was sitting on one of the bigger logs, legs spread, looking every inch the smug, satisfied man who’d finally gotten his prize.

You didn’t even hesitate.

You walked straight over—limp still noticeable—and plopped right into his lap. His arms wrapped around you instantly, pulling your back flush against his chest. His chin hooked over your shoulder, nose brushing your neck right over one of the darkest hickeys.

“Hi, baby,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and content, just for you.

Kids giggled and whispered. Counselors exchanged looks—some amused, some scandalized, most just resigned. Sunghoon stared into the flames like they’d personally offended him.

Jake didn’t care.

He pressed a soft kiss to the side of your neck—right over a particularly dark mark—and sighed like the happiest man alive.

You were perfectly content right where you were: settled sideways across Jake’s lap, back resting against his chest, legs draped lazily over one of his thighs. His arms were wrapped around your waist like he was afraid someone might try to steal you away if he let go for even a second. His chin rested on your shoulder, nose occasionally brushing the side of your neck where the darkest, most obvious hickey bloomed like a bruise-colored flower.

You weren’t doing anything.

Just sitting.

Breathing.

Existing in his arms.

And that was more than enough. Because beneath you Jake started to harden.

You felt it happen in stages: the first subtle thickening against the underside of your thigh, the way his cock twitched once, then again, as if waking up. Then the gradual swell, pressing insistently against your ass through the thin layers of your shorts and his. He shifted once—barely a movement, just trying to adjust—and the motion only made him harder, the thick ridge of him settling right between your cheeks.

A soft, involuntary groan slipped from his throat—barely audible over the fire, but you heard it. Felt it rumble against your back. You tilted your head just enough to whisper against the shell of his ear, voice low and teasing, lips brushing the sensitive skin.

“Getting hard just from me sitting on you, puppy?” you murmured, letting your breath ghost over his earlobe. “Poor thing… can’t even control yourself around me anymore, can you?”

Jake’s whole body jerked. “Baby—fuck—” he breathed against your neck, voice wrecked and trembling. “Don’t—don’t say that—please—I’m trying to be good—”

But he wasn’t being good.

Not at all.

His hips gave another tiny, helpless roll—grinding his aching length against you—just enough to make you feel every thick inch. His breath came in short, shaky pants against your throat, lips brushing the bruise he’d left there like he couldn’t help himself.

Across the fire, Heeseung was watching the whole thing with the stupidest, most shit-eating grin on his face.

When Jake’s eyes flicked up—wide, panicked, pleading—Heeseung just raised both thumbs in an exaggerated double-thumbs-up, wiggling his eyebrows like he was at a comedy show.

Really helping the situation.

Jake buried his face deeper into your neck with another pathetic whine, hips twitching again despite his best efforts to stay still. “I’m gonna—fuck—I’m gonna lose it right here if you keep talking like that…”

You only smiled—slow, wicked—and shifted just enough to press your ass down a little harder against his straining cock.

“Shhh,” you whispered, lips brushing his ear again. “Be good for me, puppy. Or everyone’s gonna know exactly what you’re thinking about right now.”

Jake’s only answer was a low groan, broken, and completely wrecked.

a/n: i wrote most of this while at work. so sorry its shit.

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one. —

In all of his collegiate soccer career, Jake Sim had only seriously gone to the trainer a total of five times. Those five times were for minor reasons, like taping an ankle or making sure his calf was properly stretched so it wouldn’t cramp mid game again. Sure, he was a frequent goer for ice baths or cupping, but Jake had never been hurt enough to need to go for more than that. It was a miracle, really, considering the amount of minutes he trained on and off the pitch, that he had never been seriously hurt, but Jake had always considered himself a lucky man. 

It was a Thursday evening that Jake felt his familiar luck strike once again. He had just returned from an away game at a university an hour away, one that the team had been looking forward to playing for some time ever since the season’s schedule was announced. Securing the win meant they remained first in the league and moved closer to regionals, and as both captain and starting center midfielder, the two things were important to the boy. A grin plastered over his face as Jake scored within the first fifteen minutes, and then again as his best friend, Heeseung, scored after him ten minutes after that. There was no reason not to smile when there wasn’t a single ball that got past his team’s defensive line, and his team had more morale than Jake had seen in weeks. The only time that cheeky grin faltered was when an opposing defender had overstepped and promptly kicked Jake in the knee during a slide tackle. Whether it was accidental or not, Jake would never find out, and though it didn’t seem to hurt him in the slightest, the purple and blue marks already emerging on the muscle on his skin had him sent to the trainer with a stern look from his coach and a shove from Heeseung. 

The crisp chill in the January air was a stark contrast to the warm buzz Jake was feeling as he walked through campus. The trainer’s office was halfway across the university, but it didn’t seem to faze the boy one bit the way his head bobbed to the music softly playing in his headphones, his hands stuffed in his puffer jacket to keep away from the cold. Jake was seemingly oblivious to the heads turning or eyes fixating on him as he treaded onwards in his worn down Gazelles. He could’ve been used to it—all the attention. Sunghoon always teased Jake about how people stared wherever he walked, like he was some soccer god. But then again, Sunghoon was nicknamed the ice prince of college with his outwardly figure skating skills, so he shut up before Jake could say anything in rebuttal. The truth was, Jake was aware that he was known, mostly because he agreed to do an interview with the university’s newspaper that left him with blushing red cheeks after all of the compliments they had thrown around during the duration of the hour-long conversation. He just didn’t see everyone staring, too busy in his own head thinking about his next training or the new calculus assignment he had to finish. So, onward he went to the portable building next to the soccer field that the university had come up with while they were doing repairs, unbeknownst to the eyes on his frame. Jake didn’t mind. The sports medicine department made it homey, anyway.

The boy knocked a total of three times, a soft rap rap rap against the cool steel door, before stepping inside to the dimly lit room. It used to be much brighter with overhead lights, but after Heeseung had his third concussion in two months—regional season two years ago, too many soccer balls to the head—, the trainers decided it would be better off with minimal harsh lighting. Instead of the disgusting classroom lighting Jake was used to in physics labs, the heads of the department replaced it with LEDs and candles, making it feel like a second home to Jake. And in a way, it was. He knew all of the trainers, even bringing them holiday gifts and restocking tape for them whenever he felt guilty for his team using most of their supply during the season. They had taken care of him, after all. Even since the beginning, when he was a scrawny first year with a point to prove. Even now, as a fourth year with nothing left but to improve.

“Hey, we’re technically closed—” An unfamiliar voice whipped Jake out of his thoughts, causing him to stand upright and blink rapidly at the figure now approaching him. The headphones once covering his ears now hung around his neck, allowing the soft sound of Justin Bieber to echo through the room. You, who were a few inches shorter than Jake with layers of hair down to the small of your back, only squinted your eyes with an amused look. The old Beatles sweater on your skin surely told Jake that you did not listen to Bieber the way he did.

He only cleared his throat, pressing pause on the song with pink cheeks that Jake prayed didn’t show in the dim light. “Erm. Hello.” He nodded. 

“Hello.” You repeated. “Did JB not let you hear me say we’re closed?”

“Closed?” Jake furrowed his brow. “You guys don’t close til—“

“Nine pm. It’s ten minutes past that now, easily.” You finished for him.

“Ah. I must’ve misplaced my time, then.” Jake responded, even though he didn’t. He never did that.

“No, you didn’t.” You replied, as if you could read his inner monologue. “Jake Sim, right?” You asked. Jake only nodded. “I figured at least one of your players might come after your game. Tough match.” You tsked and paused for a brief moment, as if you were deep in your own thoughts, before clapping your hands together. “Alright then, Sim. Sign in and I’ll take a look.”

“Really?” His head perked up, making eye contact with you.

You shrugged, meeting his eyes. “Why not? I only have to say we’re closed because I’m new. I know all the other trainers stay past.”

They do. Every single one Jake was familiar with stayed even hours past close, doing their homework and waiting for the team to show. A part of it was to write off working hours for resumés and requirements, but really, it was because the team genuinely enjoyed their job. There had been countless times Jake and Heeseung had stayed after cupping sessions just to hang out. Watch a football game that was on. Playfully argue—read: flirt— about the team’s lineups with the women’s team (Heeseung). Tutor helpless players in physics and calculus (Jake). Nonetheless, Jake shook this thought away and quickly scribbled his information down. Jake Sim. ID, sjaeyun02. Reason for visiting, bruised knee. He gave the clipboard to you, who seemed to be watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read, before you scanned the messy writing. “Alright, Jake. Follow me.”

Jake followed you to one of the rooms full of beds and supply cabinets, where he usually got taped or stretched. “You can sit there.” You patted a bed in the middle. As Jake hopped the small height onto the bed, he noticed your eyes on him once again. He opened his mouth to say something, maybe even a smart remark or witty comment with his usual smirk, but you beat him to it once again. “Shit. That’s a gnarly bruise, Sim.”

The boy first tilted his head to the side in confusion before he looked down at his knee, seeing an array of dark purples and blues that hadn’t been there the last time he looked at it. “Oh.”

“Does this hurt?” You gently pressed your fingers against the skin. Jake paused for a second before he shrugged. “Oh my god. Put your pride aside, please.”

“I’m serious! I don’t know!” He began to laugh. You only shook your head in amusement, a quirk of a smile threatening to appear on your lips. 

“Well, it’s definitely swollen. Kick to the knee, right?” You looked up from where you were crouched, awaiting an answer, and Jake nodded half a beat too late, staring at you. “It should be fine to play on. But if there is any circumstance it’s not—and it does start feeling like you do know that it hurts—you come see me right away. I’m serious, Sim.” You glared at him before standing up, brushing your knees off before walking to the ice machine. Jake was the one watching you now, nimble hands securing and tying the bag of ice like you had done this so many times before. A pinch in your brow as you focused. A small pout in your lip as you grabbed the tape next to the ice. A confused look in your eyes as you noticed Jake’s gaze, and an even more unreadable one as you realized he wasn’t looking away. “It was, right?” You asked, placing the bag on his knee.

Jake hissed at the abrupt feeling of cold on his skin. “What?”

“A tough match.”

“Oh. I mean, we won, so not too bad, I guess. Could’ve been worse.”

“You’re never in here, so I assumed. It’s usually your friend I see a lot. The one with the ridiculous concussion history.” You mumbled, deep in concentration as you secured the ice properly.

“Heeseung.” Jake snorted. “Yeah. They make him come in every month for head checks.”

“He visits a lot.” You began to wrap tape around Jake’s knee. “More than you.”

“He knows everybody here. Better at socializing than me.” Jake explained, eyes closing at the tightness around his knee. 

“How’d you get the bruise?” 

“Slide tackle. Asshole kicked me while I was on the ground.” Somewhere, past the haze of Jake’s brain and the pain of the adrenaline wearing off, Jake knew you were trying to distract him from the possible pain he was feeling. Truthfully, it did hurt, but it wasn’t your minimal conversation that was causing his brain to think about something other than the soreness he’d definitely be feeling when he woke up tomorrow morning. It was you. Jake knew it deep down, even if he didn’t know why. 

“Do you always zone out this much?” You asked, tilting your head. You were standing up now, much closer than you had been the last time he looked at you. Jake only blinked rapidly, shaking his head as if it would put his brain back into place.

“Huh?”

You furrowed your brows. “Are you sure I don’t have to check you for a concussion?”

“Oh. No.” Jake shook his head again, a little faster this time, before carefully stepping down from the bed. “Probably just tired from the game.”

“This is my job, Sim. If I let you leave with a concussion—”

“—Then I will turn my ass back on my walk home and have you take a look at it.” He dawned a boyish grin, grabbing his soccer bag. “Don’t fret your pretty head. Mine is just fine.”

“You soccer players.” Jake heard you mutter as he walked toward the door. "You’re all the same.”

“Thank you for the ice!” He opened the door, shooting you one last grin.

“Don’t you dare go to lifting tomorrow!” You only replied. Jake just laughed, eyes crinkled, as the door shut.

Oh, he was fucked.

two. —

The five main symptoms of a concussion were as follows: extreme headaches, dizziness, confusion, nausea, and memory loss. It seemed as though every athlete that Jake Sim had met—including himself—had memorized those five components. Concussions were serious. Jake took them especially serious, considering his best friend had managed to be prone to getting them almost every soccer season.

Jake didn’t have a concussion. He knew that. He figured that out almost instantaneously. What he couldn’t figure out, though, was why he found himself walking back into the trainer’s room the next day. 

It was busy for a Wednesday afternoon, Jake immediately noticed, as he opened the door to see athletes sitting around on the couches and in the other rooms, some he recognized, some he didn’t. A loud cheer had erupted as some of the people noticed him, and Jake eased, sporting his usual grin. 

“Jakey!” That was most definitely Sunghoon in the other room getting an ice bath. He noticed Jungwon lounging in the corner with Jay and a few other friends, who had waved at him excitedly.

“I didn’t know you were coming.” Heeseung appeared in front of him, straight hair running amusk in different directions.

“Yeah. Lecture got out early. Head check again?”

His best friend nodded at him, trying to smooth out his hair. “I keep telling them I don’t need to do these anymore, but they keep saying—”

“—That you’re literally a research study for us in the kinesiology field.” You suddenly came into Jake’s vision, in all your strawberry and vanilla scented perfume and off the shoulder top glory. Jake had to mentally count to ten in order to come down to Earth at the sight of your collarbone. “Get back in the room, Heeseung.” You laid a stern look at him, who had glared back for a second, before sulking and retreating into one of the far rooms. “He gets three concussions in two months and thinks he doesn’t need to do any more treatment.” 

“I thought that was two years ago.”

“He gets one every season.” You reminded him with a tilt of your head. It caused the hair to fall off your shoulder, and Jake’s brain to short circuit. “I thought soccer was all about using your feet.”

“Heeseung’s… odd.” was all that Jake’s mouth could come up with in the moment, because you started to get closer to him as other conversations around you got louder, and Jake could only do so much with the smell of your perfume, really.

“You’re telling me.” You muttered before perking up, as if you remembered something. “Is that why you’re here, then? Concussion?”

“What? No.” Jake furrowed his brow.

“Are you sure? You seem to start your sentences with questions all the time.”

“I just do that.”

“Do you?”

“Yeah? I think so.”

“There you go again.”

“I don’t have a concussion!” Jake waved his hands in surrender. “I’m just here, for, uh— the knee thing.” Jake mentally palmed his face. 

This seemed to satiate you, though, only slightly. “Alright, then. I forgot about that.”

“You forgot about that?”

“Shut up, Sim.” You snapped, but there was no bite to it. “Go sign in.”

Jake only threw his hands up one more time, walking past you toward the clipboard. He tried to ignore how his arm brushed against yours. It was the usual scribble—Jake Sim, sjaeyun02, check up on bruised knee—that was normal for him. It was the feeling of you standing behind him, whether he could physically feel it or not, that was evidently not normal. He tried his best to feign a reaction as he turned around to face you.

“Alright, then.” You cleared your throat.

“Lead the way, captain.” Jake cleared his.

The outside noise and laughter began to fade away as the two of you entered the same room from the night before. Here, only a muffled buzzing from electricity and a few echoing laughs from others in the areas next door—Heeseung and Sunghoon, no doubt—could be heard. Jake was sure you could hear his gulp as he carefully climbed onto the bed, but you paid no mind. 

“It might be too soon for a proper checkup, since you just bruised it yesterday.” You told him, glancing at the boy once before returning your gaze toward his bruised muscle.

“Okay.” Jake let out. He stared at the ceiling instead of looking at you.

“Tell me if it hurts.”

“Okay.” He repeated. 

It was a few minutes before you began to speak again. “Why’s your ID name different from what everyone calls you?”

“Hm?”

“Your ID name. Jaeyun, right?” 

“Are you paying attention to me?” Jake’s lips twitched into a half smile, especially at the sight of you glaring at him. “It’s technically my name, too. My Korean name. But everyone just calls me Jake here. Only my family really calls me that.”

“I like that name.” You murmur before standing up fully. This way, you were standing over his sitting figure. Jake only blinked at you. “Your knee will be fine. Just sore for a while. Did you go to lifting today?” 

“No.” Jake shook his head. “I watched film instead.”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course you did. You’re free to go, then.”

Jake stepped down from the bed, getting deja vú almost immediately, but he didn’t move right away. He stood there for a moment longer, locking eyes with you, before willing his legs to start walking. “Goodbye, then.”

“Bye, Jake Sim.”

As Jake went to go see Heeseung, he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding in.

three. —

“What do you know about the girl that helped me with my knee?”

It was a week later that Jake finally brought up the question that his brain had been thinking for the past few days. It was like his inner thoughts were on a set schedule—before bed: think of you, and the way your hair fell off your shoulders. Wake up in the morning: wonder if he’d see you today. Even now, as he and Heeseung were sprawled on a random picnic blanket they had pawned off on Sunoo, basking in the sun as Jake attempted to study for his exam later, he was thinking about you. 

“Hm? Who?” Heeseung mumbled. His eyes were closed. He was definitely not doing his homework like he said he was going to.

“The girl that checked on my knee.” Jake repeated. “The trainer. I’ve never seen her before.”

“Oh? —?” Heeseung thought out loud. “She’s cool. I think she got hired, like a month ago or something. She’s usually the one that gives me my head checks now.”

“A transfer student then?”

Heeseung opened an eye at that, a faint smirk appearing on his lips. “Why, hm? Does my Jakey have a crush that I don’t know about?”

Jake prayed that it was just the sun that was making him feel warm. Definitely not the idea of you. “No, dude.”

“Uh huh.”

“I was just asking.”

“Mhm. Sure.” Heeseung stretched. “Well, I do know that she has a break for the next hour until her next lecture, and she spends it in the trainer’s room. You know. In case you needed to get that knee checked out again.”

Jake perked up slightly. “Really? Well, in that case…”

“In that case…” Heeseung echoed, but Jake was too busy already packing his textbook into his bag. By the time his best friend had opened both eyes to look at him, Jake was already standing up, brushing off any grass from his pants. “God, you’re gone.”

“Shut up.” Jake’s cheeks turned pink. “Finish your assignment before you fall asleep.”

“Too late. My brain’s already turned off.” Heeseung replied, closing his eyes. “Jungwon’s coming to save me soon.”

“Hey, how do you know that much about her, anyway?”

“I told you. Head checks. I can’t just do those in silence, you know.”

“Ah. ‘Kay.”

“And Jakey?” Heeseung opened his eyes again. “She thinks you’re cute, too, you know.”

Heeseung’s last words gave Jake the mental courage to walk the long path in the trainer’s room, uncaring of the fact it was all the way across campus. He glanced at his watch as he saw the building in sight—at this rate, you’d have forty minutes left before you had to leave. Depending on the lecture hall you were in, he’d have twenty minutes. Thirty, if he was lucky. Jake was a logical man, after all. A logical man without a single excuse of why he was going to the trainer’s room, but that was something he was trying not to think about.

The trainer’s room was much more quiet than the last time he had been in here. There was absolutely no one in the building, save for a stray hockey player or two that had obviously just come out of a long cupping or scraping session. The silence made Jake’s heart pound a little harder, and he wondered if anyone could hear how loud his body was buzzing at the thought of seeing you.

He saw you before you saw him. You were sitting in the corner on the old sofa the trainers had saved up for last semester, hunched over a thick textbook. You were scribbling onto a notebook that was balanced on your lap, long hair framing the book so he couldn’t quite see what you were working on. You seemed to be deep in thought, not fully noticing his presence until he stood in front of you. 

“I’m off the clock.” You mumbled, flipping the page of your notebook. “Available trainers are in the far left room.”

“But what if I want to specifically request you?” Jake replied, looking down at you. He watched as your head snapped up at the sound of his voice, and it took everything in him not to smile at you. “Do I have to wait for your thirty minute break to be over?”

That caused you to be the one to smile, a soft upturn of your lips etching onto your face. “No. That means you have to wait until tomorrow morning, when I have an actual shift to work.”

“No.” Jake jokingly slapped his hand to his chest as if he were hurt. “You’re telling me I have to wait a whole twenty four hours for my favorite trainer to fix me?”

“I check on your knee twice and now I’m your favorite?” Your eyebrows raised. “Low standards, Sim, I must say. Plus, it’s only nineteen hours.”

“Fixed my knee twice.” Jake corrected. “You have the magic touch, don’t you know?” At that, he found the courage to sit next to you, shuffling his bag on the floor next to yours. Despite your murmurs of protests, Jake took the textbook from your lap, looking at the pages with all of your different annotations. He noticed the way you only wrote in a light blue color, a pretty half-cursive scribble taking up the margins of the pages. “What’s this?”

“Studying. Exam in an hour. Anatomy 3010. It's why I clocked out early."

“Ah. So you should let me quiz you, then.”

You looked at him with a squint in your eyes. “You study sports medicine?”

“No, I study physics—” Jake gave you a sheepish grin. “—But Sunghoon had to take the class last semester for his kinesiology requirement and I helped him study all the time. So. Same thing.”

“That is not the same thing, Sim.”

“I basically took the class.”

“No, you did not.” You paused for a second. “But I would like the help, since you’re offering.”

There was that same boyish glint in Jake’s eyes—the one that appeared only around you. “Of course.” He maneuvered himself so he was laying on his back, his worn out Converse propped on your lap. Jake gestured for you to hand over your books, head leaning against the softened arm rest of the sofa. When you hesitated, gripping onto the already creased pages just slightly tighter, he only rolled his eyes playfully and grabbed the book. “Just let me help. C’mon, baby.”

Baby. The nickname came out of Jake’s mouth so easily that he didn’t even realize it, just flipping through the pages as if he were mentally reminding himself of the material and not of the fact that he just made your cheeks turn red and your mind spiral. You tried to concentrate again, but your eyes only focused on the way Jake’s lips murmured quiet words while he read, completely unaware of what he said. So you did what you knew best—shove down that smile that was always trying to appear around Jake, and ignore the butterflies that were swarming in your stomach. But you knew they would give away one day. Eventually.

four. —

It was raining. That should have been a bad omen of sorts for Jake. 

Because not only was it just raining, but it was pouring unusually hard for April. 

The game realistically should have been called off with the way the turf fields were beginning to flood ever so slightly, but even with Jake’s incessant arguing and his coach’s phone calls, the game was still set to be played at eight pm.

So Jake played that evening game even when the cold rain was sticking to his thermals and the hair on the back of his nape was starting to curl, taking control of his midfield and trying to act as if everything was normal. 

And to be fair, everything was normal. He was feeding in excellent balls to his strikers. Every corner kick he did was just near perfect. He could count on three fingers how many times an opponent got through his line, and even then, the boy was sprinting to chase them down and do his signature slide tackle, turf burns be damned. 

But there was one time that wasn’t normal, that Jake felt so completely out of his body that he didn’t know what to do. He had been running alongside Heeseung, the two doing a play that he knew would be clipped and added to his film highlights the second it got uploaded, when he felt something in his knee as he passed the ball back to Heeseung. A pop. A twinge. Pain. Jake could only bring himself to barely smile when Heeseung kicked the ball in the back of the net. Could only go on autopilot as Heeseung ran in front of him to do their celebratory handshake they always did when one of them scored. It wasn’t much pain, Jake supposed, but an injury now would ruin his career. And probably the rest of his life, if he spiraled too much. He knew that was probably in store for him at the end of the night.

Jake had no idea how he ended up here. His teammates had invited him out to the bars to celebrate their win, even offering to buy him drinks, but truthfully, Jake believed that he would throw up the second he attempted a sip of his usual rum and coke order, so he just politely declined. Said he was too tired. Threw in a lame promise of a next time. The guys thankfully believed him and just nodded, but Heeseung looked at him with a head tilt, but Jake only shook his head. Not now, was what Jake meant to say but couldn’t. His best friend only nodded and rubbed his shoulder slightly before walking off. We’ll talk later, was what Heeseung replied without needing words. 

Here, being the trainer’s room again. The rain was pouring even harder now, and Jake had forgotten his thicker coat in his locker, too lost in his thoughts to pay attention, so he was adorning an old hoodie that probably had holes in the pockets and his soccer shorts from the game prior. His Converse were soaked through from stepping in puddles and his hair was stuck to his forehead, but he was still standing here, knocking hesitantly on the door, even though he never did that.

Ten seconds passed before Jake decided that he should leave. He didn’t even know why he was here. His knee would be fine. He’d go to film tomorrow morning, and it would be fine. He’d go to lifting in the afternoon, and it still would be fine. In fact, maybe he just imagined it. It didn’t even hurt that bad now, it just—

“Jake?” The boy heard your voice before he saw you. He didn’t know when he had turned his back and began walking back into the rain toward his dorm, but he was stuck now, standing as the harsh drops of water splattered on his head. “What the hell are you doing in the rain?”

Jake felt his shoulders slump the minute he turned around. He watched as you looked at him with eyes wide as saucers and full of concern, and he wanted to run. You shouldn’t see him like this, really. But he didn’t. And you didn’t, either. You just walked toward him, grabbing his hand that he didn’t realize was chilled to the touch, and dragged him inside the familiar room. 

“I—uhm—don’t—” He tried to speak, but you only shushed him, grabbing a towel and a blanket and wrapping it around him.

“It’s okay.” You said softly in a reassuring tone he had never heard before. You must be in trainer mode. Go figure. “You don’t have to say anything right now.” You led him to the couch—the same couch the two of you had spent your afternoon just yesterday, studying for your exam with his feet perched in your lap and a smile on the both of your faces that you both desperately tried to fight off but failed. This time, there wasn’t anything of the sort. It was just the two of you. Jake, curled in on himself. You, watching the campus golden boy fight his inner demons in a way you knew deep down that no one had ever seen him do.

You only left his side for a second to one of the other rooms, pouring warm tea from the kettle into a mug before you immediately returned, passing the steaming cup into his cold hands. Jake tried to shake his head, refusing the kind gesture, but you only brought the mug up to his lips in response. “You’re going to get sick.” You said in that same soft tone.

“You don’t need to do this.” He replied.

“I know, Jaeyun.” You stared at him, but raised the mug toward his shaking lips anyway. He took a slow drink of it, meeting your gaze almost instantly. Whether it was because of the use of his Korean name or the way you paid attention to him in a way you had never done before, you didn’t know. “Just drink.”

It had been more than five minutes before you spoke again. “What happened?” You asked quietly.

Jake took a shaky inhale, pinching his eyes shut as if answering the question would cause him pain. The minute he started fidgeting with his fingers, you shifted closer to him, bringing his palm into yours. Your bodies were pressed close together at this point, the thick material of the blanket being the only barrier between your bodies, but the only thing you were focused on was him. Jaeyun, Jaeyun, Jaeyun. “My knee.” He finally managed to speak, the horror painted on his face matching the shakiness of his voice.

You tried not to look pained. “Jake.”

“I—uh, heard a pop. And then it just hurt. Everything. Yeah.” He continued, closing his eyes.

“When?” You insisted. You were a trainer, after all. “After Heeseung’s goal?”

Jake’s eyes barely crept open. “It was that noticeable?”

You only shook your head, brushing the tangled waves away from his forehead. “No. I’m just a trainer. And I know you.”

“Oh.” His eyes closed once again. “That’s good, then.”

“You played well, though. Even in the rain. Everyone was impressed.” You kept toying with his hair, going from twirling different strands in between your fingers to scratching your nails softly against his scalp. It seemed to be working—Jake’s breathing settling down to a normal pace, his fidgeting stopping altogether—and you let the silence sit between the two of you comfortably. “Do you think I can take a look at it?” You asked after some time. You waited before a weak sure came from his lips.

You knew Jake’s eyes were on you as you got up, moving swiftly in between rooms to grab the supplies you needed. It’d be better if he stayed on the couch rather than attempt to move somewhere else, even if it would be more convenient, so you instead did the moving for him. He watched with wide eyes as you quickly scribbled in the information you began to know by heart—Jake Sim, sjaeyun02, check up on knee—before walking back to the couch and bending down in front of him. The heavy pitter patter of rain was the only noise in the room as you gently prodded at Jake’s knee. You tried to be indifferent, tried to pretend like this was just another student and not the Jake Sim that quietly stole your heart throughout the weeks, tried to act as if you didn’t notice the wincing that overtook the boy’s face as you touched certain parts of the muscle. You figured you’d have a weak spot someday. You just didn’t think it’d be him.

You cleared your throat. “So.” 

“So.” Jake repeated, voice shaky.

“It’s not torn.” You announced, standing up from your crouched position. The sudden news caused Jake’s eyes to shoot open, as if he didn’t expect anything good to come from this. You didn’t know the boy was such a pessimist, but you’d been learning new things from him everyday. “It doesn’t seem to be broken, either. To me, it just looks like a strain, like you’d been pushing it too hard. Today was just a warning sign.”

Jake let out a heavy exhale that you knew he’d been holding in since he arrived. “That’s good. I think.”

“But listen, Jaeyun, at the end of the day, I’m just a student trainer. I’m not technically not even a professional. You should get this checked out in case I’m wrong.” You paused. “I don’t want to be the reason—”

“—You won’t.” Jake interrupted your spiraling thoughts immediately, not letting you finish. “I’ll go get it checked out tomorrow. Promise.”

You just nodded and slumped down in the creased couch cushions next to him. It was a tiring day for both of you—Jake more than you—but it was nice to exist like this, you supposed. Sitting next to each other, listening to Jake’s slow breathing, his head on your shoulder. Just existing in a quiet moment that was once loud.

five. —

“If you don’t walk in there right now, I’m seriously going to punch you.”

Heeseung’s voice boomed in the air, even in the outdoor hallway of the school. He stood behind Jake with his hands in his gray sweatpants, eyes squinting like he could see right through his best friend. 

To be fair, maybe he could. Jake had been standing at the door of the trainer’s room for at least seven minutes, if he looked at his watch on his left wrist close enough, and though Heeseung had been supportive for the first four, he supposed the boy was about ready to shove him through the corridor if Jake didn’t move soon.

“I’m going to punch you, and then you’ll have a black eye and a bad knee.” He continued.

“Hey, don’t talk about my knee like that.” Jake glanced down at his leg, where careful works of KT tape lined up and down his knee. You were right—it was just a bad strain, but even the doctor looked at him warily and described (in great detail) how it could have been so much worse. He was on day-by-day now, his coach forcing him to do physical therapy rather than worsen the muscle more. Jake was just glad he didn’t have to miss any games.

“How long has he been standing like that?” Jake heard Sunghoon’s voice behind him.

“How long is he going to stand like that?” That was Jungwon.

He knew Heeseung was shaking his head, despite the fact that he couldn’t see him. “You don’t want to know.”

“I’m going in!” Jake turned around, waving his hands as if he were surrendering. 

“No, you’re not.” The three of them replied at the same time.

“Okay, fine. Just give me thirty seconds.”

“More like thirty minutes.” Sunghoon replied, a grin appearing on his face.

“Nobody asked you, Hoon.” Jake sniped. He didn’t mean it. Sunghoon only laughed.

“I don’t know what you’re so worked up about, Jakey.” Heeseung rubbed his shoulder. “I’m sure it’ll be fine. Actually, we know it’ll be fine, because it’s clear as day that she likes you—”

Jake only grumbled some sort of incoherent words as a response—perhaps a mixture of, “we don’t know for sure,” and, “please shut up.” The next few seconds happened as if Jake were in a movie.

Heeseung laughed at Jake’s grumbling, both out of fondness and disbelief.

Jungwon shook his head, concealing a smile.

Sunghoon, having enough of Jake’s brooding, opened the door.

Like most things in his life, Sunghoon was also unaware of Jake leaning on said door.

As a consequence of Sunghoon’s actions, Jake stumbled through the doorway and bumped into someone—

You.

You adorned a look of surprise, wrapping your hands around Jake’s shoulders to hold him steady. From here, Jake could see the faint dust of baby pink blush that was painted on your cheeks. You smelled faintly of your signature scent—strawberries and vanilla bean, Jake had come to realize the more he spent time around you—and your hair was curled into loose beach waves. You looked, well, beautiful. You never put this much time into how you looked, his brain tried to tell him, but he was short circuiting. It was easy to only pay attention to you, no matter the situation.

“Hello.” You spoke, lips twitching into an amused grin.

“Uhm.” Jake tried to speak. He mentally slapped himself.

“How’s the knee?”

“What?” Jake managed.

“Your knee, Jaeyun. The one you hurt.” You looked pointedly at his leg that was bundled in KT tape.

“Oh. Uhm. Okay, I guess.” 

You nodded. “Good, then.”

“Good.”

Jake took a moment to look around and realize that there wasn't a single soul in the trainer’s room. He half expected people to be staring at the two of them and trying not to laugh, but to his surprise, it was silent. Just as quiet as it was the last time he saw you. Jake’s brain refreshed the memories of the two of you sitting on the couch, his head resting gently on your shoulder as your own rested atop of his. He was wrapped in the fuzzy blanket you had given him, but it was your presence that had kept him warm.

The boy cleared his throat, looking around at the unusual vacancy. “Where is everyone?”

“Football game. I’m sure everyone’s pre-gaming by now.” You shifted a few inches away from him, releasing your grip on his shoulders. Jake wasn’t sure why he immediately missed your touch.

“Oh.” He had completely forgotten about the game.

You nodded. “You’re going?” 

“Uh—maybe. Not sure yet. Better not. Give the knee a break and all.” 

“Ah. Good thinking.” 

It had never been awkward between you and Jake. Even on the night that Jake had shown up past dusk, right at the time that you were going to lock up the room, to get his bruises checked out, there were never any stumbling of words or stuttering like now. Jake had never furrowed his brows or bit his lower lip raw the way he was doing at this exact moment, and you had never held back as many words as you were in the back of your throat. You hated it.

“Well, if that’s all you came here for, then.” You said it as if it were a statement. A conclusion, even. A finality to whatever had been going on between the two of you for the past couple of months. Jake only stood still watching you as you walked to grab your bag, slinging it over your shoulder. “Heard you guys made it to the playoffs. Good luck, Jaeyun.” You said as you walked past, stopping briefly to look at him, as if you were memorizing him one last time. The feeling of everything ending made Jake snap.

“No.” He turned around, watching your hand on the door. 

He eyed as you faced him slowly, expression full of confusion and something else he couldn’t quite place. Anticipation. Hope, maybe. “No? Like, you don’t want good luck, or—”

“No. That’s not it. It’s just—” Jake sighed loudly, running a hand through his hair as he gathered his thoughts. “You can’t walk out like that. Like everything’s normal. Like everything’s going to go back to normal. You can’t walk out of here and pretend like we didn’t—like you aren’t feeling the same things that I have for the past few months.”

“What are you talking about, Jaeyun?” Your voice was barely a soft whisper.

“You know what I’m talking about.” He stared at you. “You know I didn’t just come in here to get my knee checked.”

“Then what’d you come in here for?” You stared back. When Jake’s throat bobbed, you stepped closer. “Say it, Jaeyun.”

“I came in here to tell you how much I like you.” Jake didn’t blink. Didn’t even miss a beat. He never had in his entire life, and he wasn't planning on it now. “You think I just come in here to see if my knee’s okay, or to keep Heeseung company during head checks? You really think I go out of my way almost everyday just for some ice or tape?” He shook his head. He was almost pacing at this point. His accent was getting stronger with each word that spilled from his lips, the way it usually did when Jake got passionate about certain things. Physics, hard calculus equations, you. “I like the way you challenge me like nobody else on this campus does. I like the way you don’t give me the time of day half the time. I like the way you’re the only person besides my own mother that calls me Jaeyun, and you say it like you don’t even realize you’ve got me by the heart.”

“Jaeyun—”

“Your perfume. The way you’re so smart and hardworking and you don’t give yourself even an ounce of credit that you deserve. Your stupid Beatles sweater. Your weird cursive handwriting. The way you remember everything, even my ID—”

It took five whole seconds before Jake could process your lips against his. He stood still until his brain could comprehend that the palm of your hand was cupping his cheek, and that you, too, were holding your breath. It was a countdown unlike any other sports game he had experienced in his entire lifetime, and yet somehow, it didn’t compare. Nothing in this world compared to you.

At the fifth second, Jake moved his lips. It was soft, of course, just like you. His hand ran through your curls until he reached the back of your neck, and then he pulled you closer. Close enough that he could smell that strawberry scent, and it was there he knew that this was better than any goal he could possibly score. 

“You’re stupid.” You murmured, lips brushing against his, but even still, pressed a chaste kiss against his torn bottom lip.

“But you like me.” 

“And I like you.” You corrected. Jake only grinned. 

“I’ll take it.”

Goal. 1-0: win for Jake Sim.

plus. —

It was a warm night for the end of April, a stark contrast to the chill everyone was used to for the past few months. The crowd welcomed the seventy degree night, no longer needing to sport hoodies and hand warmers that they kept in the pockets of their pants and sweaters. Cropped shirts and various designs of the school’s sports team were all over the bleachers. This was the regional final, after all. Better to show out than nothing at all.

But you? You stood on the sidelines, by the medical tent, wearing a jersey. It hung low on the hips of your baggy jeans, but the number on the back was easily identifiable. #7. And above it? Sim.

You watched the game closely, arms crossed against your chest. You kept your eyes on the boy whose last name was on the back of your shirt, and the way he jogged effortlessly like he hadn’t been playing on the pitch for the last eighty eight minutes without a break. His eyes darted around the pitch, completely immersed in the game. You couldn’t keep your eyes off of him, no matter how obvious it was to the other trainers around you. It was just the effect of Jake Sim, after all. Eyes followed him everywhere. You were no exception.

Blood rushed in your ears as you watched Heeseung and Jake sprint up the pitch together, very clearly on the path to scoring a goal that would finish the current tied 2-2 score. You saw Heeseung lob a pass in the air to Jake. Jake jumped to meet the ball. This was it, you thought. But then a defender crashed into Jake, sending him rolling against the turf. Your hands tightened against your body. Even more so, when he didn’t get up. The golden boy—your boy—on the last of his collegiate career, on his way to a professional one no doubt, was on the ground.

“Come on.” A trainer murmured to you, handing you a bag. “Your time to shine.”

You jogged onto the field, trying to ignore the weak feeling in your legs. You pushed past Heeseung, who was telling off the player that presumably knocked down his best friend. A yellow card would be given, you were sure. But that didn’t matter now, not when you crouched next to Jake, who was attempting to get up with a groan.

“Jaeyun.” You warned.

“I’m fine.” He breathed heavily. “Just got the wind knocked out of me.”

You ignored the wave of relief that rushed through your body. “I have to run a concussion test.”

Jake groaned. “Come on, I’m not Heeseung—”

“—If not for your team’s sake of mind, then for mine.” You interrupted, staring at him with a hard look. The two of you had agreed to be professional around each other when it came to times like these. And you were. But Jake Sim had always been your weakness. You knew that now.

Jake hesitated before nodding. You ran through all of your concussion tests while his coaches came to Jake’s side, informing him that the game was on pause. There was only a minute left, and then it would go into overtime. The game would return with a penalty kick. The defender who hit him got a yellow card. So did Heeseung, which caused Jake to snort.

“This determines everything, kid.” His coach told him. “Whether we win regionals or not. Everything we’ve been working towards this past season.”

“No pressure.” Jake replied sourly. It was so unlike him. The older man only nodded before walking off.

He passed all of the tests you had given him. He didn’t present any of the concussion symptoms that should have been there. The boy was right. The wind was just knocked out of him. Jake Sim was a lucky man.

“Don’t listen to him.” You murmured, packing up your things. Jake’s head snapped toward yours. “Play for you. Nobody else. Just you.”

“I play for a lot of people, including you.” He reminded you.

“I know, golden boy.” You rolled your eyes, getting up. “But this time, play for Jaeyun. Just this once.” 

With that, you jogged back to your tent. Claps and cheers were heard around the field as Jake got up, shaking off his limbs. The referees announced the news that you had already heard. It was no shock that Jake would be taking the kick. He had a ninety nine percent success rate when it came to penalty kicks. Nearly a hundred percent—damn near perfection—and yet the sight of Jake setting the ball on the white patch of grass had you grasping your bottom lip in between your teeth in a bundle of panic and fear.

You watched as he rolled the ball three times before walking backwards. Jake did everything in threes, you noticed. Walked backwards three steps. To the left another three steps. Jumped three times.

The whistle blew, and you watched the boy that was slowly beginning to be the love of your life kick the ball with a perfect swing of his right leg. You watched as the ball hit the top of the crossbar and into the left corner of the net with an effortless ding. You watched as he sank to his knees while his team raced from the bench to crowd over him with cheers.

Golden boy Jake Sim won it. Both the game, and your heart.

The next few minutes came in a blur. Jake’s cheeks were simultaneously tear-stricken and pulled into an ear-splitting grin. You let him have the spotlight. Heeseung carried him on his shoulders, laughing wildly as Jake flung his legs around in protest. Jake held up the trophy above his head, eyes closed as he looked the happiest he had ever been. Maybe the happiest you had ever seen him. But then his eyes locked onto yours, and you knew then, that if Jake Sim hadn’t been it for you before, he was now.

The two of you pulled toward each other like magnets attracting. Jake jogged away from his team; you walked toward him without even realizing it. And suddenly he was pulling you into his arms, lifting you up and spinning you around. His boyish laugh echoed into your ears, and your yells to be put on the ground slowly turned into a melody of giggles that blended into the most beautiful song with him.

“If you don’t put me down right now, Jaeyun, I swear I’ll—” You let out through a fit of laughter.

“You’ll what?” He grinned, putting you down, inches away from him. His hands rested on your hips. Right where he wanted to be. “Hm? Tell me.”

“Give you an actual concussion.” Your eyes squinted at him in challenge, but you didn’t resist when he pecked a small kiss on the corner of your lips. “Then you’ll have to do head checks every month like your best friend.”

“Oh, an actual excuse to see you? Have at it then, baby.” He murmured, pressing another kiss on the other side of your lips. Your cheek. Your forehead. Your nose. 

“You’re so gone, Jaeyun.” You laughed breathlessly.

“For you? Yeah.” He nodded. “It’s worth it. Everything about you. You’re worth it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Park Sunghoon.

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

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

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

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

You almost choke on your drink. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ooh, strategic. I like it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Library,” you say, grabbing your bag.

“The library?”

You just smile and head out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Perfect.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s… not what you expected.

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

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

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

“Is that right?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Let’s do a few more,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

Session one: complete. He blushed like four times.

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

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

But this time, you start to push things slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sure.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This is almost too easy.

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

You’ve also started to push boundaries more deliberately.

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

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

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

“Game?” He looks confused.

“The basketball game. Against State.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” you murmur.

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

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

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

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

“Noticing you, or noticing you?”

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

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

“No. I’m taking it slow.”

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

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

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

The question catches you off guard. “What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The following Tuesday, something shifts.

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

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

“Go ahead,” you say, waving him off.

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

“Everything okay?” you ask.

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

“Are you?”

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

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

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

You laugh. “Then why go?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He snorts. “I’m definitely not cool.”

“You’re cool in your own way.”

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

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

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

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

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

You smile. “I meant it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There,” you say, nodding toward him.

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

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

“I’m going over,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sunghoon’s my tutor,” you say.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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