made in 2004©

y/n:

hey, it's san, you already know that. okay, you know i'm bad at this, so i'm sorry in advance. there might be a right way to write this and i don't think i know it, but for you i'll try. please don't judge the handwriting too much. or the wording, or how short or long it is. i rewrote the first part four times and it still feels bad. anyway, i'm sorry, here's the letter. i guess i should start from the beginning, no? is that stupid? i don't know. [scribbled] the first time i saw you was in that class we both didn’t want to be in. i don’t even remember what the professor was saying, but i remember you. you were leaning over the desk, hand on your cheek, resting your head. i remember thinking you looked easy to be around. i don’t know why, but it did. this is embarrassing but i think i knew i wanted to marry you way earlier than i probably should have. i didn’t say it, obviously, that would've been creepy. i just knew you looked so so pretty and now that i know you, you became so beautiful. not that you weren't beautiful before being with me, you always were, i'm just saying from my perspective just how mesmerized you had me from the start, you know? you are just so smart, so creative, so diligent. [scribbled] it's like when you balance numbers and they finally add up the way they’re supposed to, that's what it kind of felt like, but in the romantic way. i'm sorry i'm not good at expressing my feelings and all that, you know that better than anyone else. but i want you to know that choosing you has never felt like a decision i had to force myself into. i want this more than anything, with you. we have this apartment now. it’s small and the walls are kind of thin and the kitchen light flickers sometimes, but it’s ours. i keep thinking about how this is the place where everything will start. mornings, dinners, normal days, hard days, all of it. and i like knowing you’ll be here at the end of the day. i like knowing i get to come home to you. i promise i’ll take care of you. i promise i’ll work hard. [scribbled] i know i don’t always say what i’m thinking, but i feel things even when i don’t show them right. does that make sense? well, [scribbled] i’m really proud to be your husband. that still feels strange to write, but in a good way. i hope we grow old together. i hope we don’t stop choosing each other, even when life gets busy or complicated. i hope you always know that you’re my favorite person in the world, even if i forget to say it out loud sometimes. i’ll always try to try, even if i’m bad.

i love you.

san

tucked beneath the neatly folded cashmere sweaters, exactly where you left it. lace covered box, meant for letters he had promised to fill with, yet a year and a half later, only the first one stood alone. you weren't angry, not even sad. it actually made you chuckle a little. just a quiet grief for what had been started to root deep inside, for the vibrant colors that had softened into pastels, for the soft reverence in his eyes that had slowly faded into habit. you often found yourself staring at the box, a wry smile touching your lips.

the paper, once crisp, now yielded to countless revisits. you knew every word by heart, the rhythm of his awkward sincerity etched into your memory. you traced the faded ink. his handwriting, usually neat in ledgers, was a little clumsy here. each letter formed with an almost painful deliberation. it was short, a simple promise. a quiet declaration of his intent to build a life with you, to be your home. no extreme pronouncements of undying passion, but a solid foundation of devotion. san had never been one for grand gestures, at least not in words. his love manifested in the certainty of his presence, the steady rhythm of his life intertwined with yours. in fact, you had asked for the letter in the first place, at that diner right before receiving the keys to the apartment.

"a letter?" he'd shifted on his seat, a blush creeping up his neck. "i'm not... good with words, y/n."

you shook your head with an endeared smile. "you don't have to be shakespeare sannie, just you."

he seemed in thought for a moment, trying to resist looking at your puppy eyes asking pretty please before straightening his back, accepting the challenge. and he did. pen clutched tight, brows furrowed in concentration. you’d watched him, your heart swelling with a love so potent it felt like a physical ache. then when he finished, he slid it across the booth table, eyes avoiding yours with his shy offering.

now, the paper, soft as old linen, whispered between your fingertips. you didn't rush. each sentence, each carefully chosen word, you read them slowly, precious memory reexperiencie. tasting the hope, the fresh promise of that day when he later bought you the box, saying he'd get better at it and you'd have it spilling out with his loving written words. you ran your fingers over the intricate patterns of the lace, delicate threads contrasting the hollow space.

you folded the letter along it's original creases, the paper folding easily, and placed it back before checking your thight bun in the mirror, perfect posture, every single hair placed where it was meant to be. he still looked at you, of course, but the spark, the raw wonder, had dimmed. it wasn't his fault. life had a way of sanding down the sharp edges of infatuation, leaving behind the smooth, enduring stone of work life.

silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant city chorus. you tell yourself he just forgot. got busy, or thought one was enough. you're good at explaining things away. but when did trying turn into remembering? when did the promise of a future become the past?

the aroma of roasted chicken and rosemary filled the air, a comforting scent that tonight told a solitary performance. table was set, candles unlit, everything waiting for a moment that kept getting delayed. the antique clock sat on the mantelpiece. seven thirty, again. you waited for the familiar click of keys in the lock, the sound that usually signaled the end of day and the beginning of us.

when he comes in your head lifts before you even realize. smoothing your dress automatically, fingers brushing over fabric that was never wrinkled in the first place. a small smile already forming, reserved for him. san already halfway out of his shoes, shoulders slumped, a dark suit jacket draped over his arm. he didn’t glance at the table set for two, but knows everything looks exactly as it always does.

"hey," his voice tired, worn down. like business of the city still clung to him.

"hi," you answer, softer.

he leans in, presses a quick kiss to your temple. familiar, practiced.

"sorry i’m late," he adds, already loosening his tie as you walked towards the dining table. "we had to redo part of the quarterly report because... how do i put this- there was a discrepancy in one of the ledgers, and it threw off the whole reconciliation process. so we had to go back and..."

pulling out his chair. the heavy oak scraped across the polished floor. he loosened his tie, then unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. "had to redo a section. whole damn thing.” he ran a hand through his hair, already tousled from the day. “hours. just… hours.”

you watched him, spooning roasted vegetables onto his plate. you pushed his plate closer, then sat across from him. "must be frustrating," you offered, a soft murmur.

he picked up his fork, turning the chicken over. "frustrating doesn’t begin to cover it. the whole team, scrambling. for a single misplaced figure." he took a bite, chewed slowly. "it’s done now. mostly."

he keeps talking about work, deadlines, numbers, something about a client. you listen, always do. you don't understand every word, but you understand him in the way he talks when he’s tired. the slight edge in his voice, the way he explains things like he’s still in the middle of solving them. it’s easier for him to talk about numbers than about how his day actually felt.

nods at the right moments. hums of acknowledgement. small "and then?" once in a while, just to keep him going.

"…where did those come from?" he signals behind you at the counter. a faint lift of an eyebrow. a hint of a smile, almost.

you glance back, even though you know exactly what he’s looking at. the vase sits neatly by the sink, filled with fresh flowers. soft colors, carefully arranged.

"oh," you say, turning back to him, a warmth creeping up your neck. "mrs. jones gave them to me. i brought her some brownies earlier."

he paused, fork halfway to his mouth and exhales a small breath through his nose in genuine bewilderment.

"y/n," he says, setting his fork down for a second, "you need to stop baking so much."

you blink at him. "why?"

"i don't know, it's just..." he gestures vaguely, like the answer should be obvious. "it's every day. there's always something new. brownies, cookies, that cake from yesterday. the whole building must be swimming in your desserts." he didn’t sound angry, just... resigned.

"i like baking," your voice still gentle, picking at a loose thread on the tablecloth

"i know, i know," he says quickly. "i'm just saying… it's a lot, isn't it?"

a small pause settles and you shrug, barely lifting your shoulders. "it keeps me busy."

he reached across the table, covering your hand with his. his palm was warm, calloused. "tell you what. how about i book you a day at that salon you like? the one on fifth street. hair. nails. the works. i can tell my sister to join you."

"what? am i starting to look like a hag?" you managed a weak laugh.

his grip tightened slightly. his eyes, usually so guarded, held yours with an intensity that surprised you. "you know that’s not what i meant." his voice was firm, no trace of humor.

the small joke withered and you nodded, slowly. "okay." you swallowed. "okay, that sounds... nice."

the candle flickered, casting dancing shadows across his face. he picked up his fork again, the brief moment of connection already fading.

later, the apartment settled into it's nightly quiet. you lay in bed, the soft glow of your reading lamp illuminating the pages of a novel you couldn't quite focus on. normal people by sally rooney, but the words blurred. beside you, san lay on his back, eyes fixed on the small screen in his hands. the blue light painted his face in stark contrasts. his thumb scrolled, scrolled, scrolled. numbers, probably. reports. another discrepancy.

you watched the subtle movements of his jaw, the slight furrow in his brow. he was so focused, so far away. still, you reached out, tentative touch to his forearm. his skin was warm beneath your fingers.

he didn’t stir, didn’t look up. his thumb kept scrolling.

you moved your hand, gently, up his arm, over his shoulder, until your fingers brushed the nape of his neck, then threaded into his hair. soft, dark strands. you leaned closer, your breath stirring the air near his ear.

a soft sound escaped him and it almost seemed like he was leaning into it. a yawn. deep, stretching. he lowered the phone, placing it face down on the nightstand. his eyes, heavy lidded, met yours. fleeting moment, again.

"long day," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he gave you a quick short peck on your cheek then turned onto his side, facing away from you, the duvet pulled higher. "good night."

lamp clicked off. darkness enveloped the room, thick and immediate. you lay there, listening to the soft, even rhythm of his breathing, soon turning into soft snores. beside him but alone in the quiet. the book lay open, unread. words still blurred.

୨୧

acetone and something floral, both sharp and comforting. hum of dryers and low chatter fills the space, blending into a steady background noise that makes everything feel easy. normal.

you sat in the middle chair, hands resting neatly on the small cushion in front of you, fingers relaxed but still. a sigh escaping your lips before you could stop it. the manicurist, a young woman with a bright, knowing smile, took your hand, her touch cool and precise. she filed your nails into neat, elegant ovals. you picked a soft, clean color without much thought. something simple, safe, that goes with everything.

across from you, two of your friends leaned into each other, their overlapping voices a stream of gossip. too loud and uncaring. the others chime in, voices overlapping. one of them threw her head back, a peal of laughter echoing, the other one nodded, eyes wide with feigned shock. they talked about a mutual acquaintance’s recent engagement, the scandalous details of a breakup, the endless parade of societal expectations.

"he actually said that?"

"no, stop-"

"i'm serious, i swear-"

to your left, rhythmic snip of scissors. noeul, san's older sister listened quietly, sat under a cloud of foil, her head tilted back as a stylist worked through her dark hair. but her attention drifts back to you more often than not. she owned a warm, reassuring glint. offering a small, conspiratorial smile whenever you caught her gaze in the mirror, silent acknowledgment of the shared escape.

a few chairs down, a woman with kind eyes spoke in hushed tones to her stylist. "she just graduated middle school with the highest scores," her voice, thick with a mother’s proudness, drifted over.

the stylist hums a singing note. "you must be so proud."

"oh, more than that" the woman exhales. "she's even already thinking about what she wants to study after high school."

she spoke of her daughter, a girl she’d poured her heart into.

your fingers still for a second on the cushion. the stylist murmurs something gentle back, and the conversation folds into the background. but it lingers.

your gaze drifted from the woman’s satisfied face to the neat row of polish bottles, then to your own hands, at the careful brush of polish gliding over your nails. you imagined those hands, smaller, softer, reaching for yours. a child. a son, perhaps, with san’s dimples and your own tendency to blush when surprised. or a daughter, with san’s quiet strength and your expressive eyes. the thought bloomed in your mind like a fragile hothouse flower.

you try to picture it. years stacked quietly on top of each other. a child in your apartment. toys where there are now empty surfaces. noise where there is now silence. san, coming home from work. would he pick them up? would he be too tired? would he talk to them the way he talks to you now, half there, half somewhere else? or would it be different? the thought catches you off guard. unfamiliar.

because you've never talked about it. not seriously. not beyond passing comments, vague things people say because they’re supposed to. someday. eventually. no timelines, no plans, no want or don’t want laid out clearly between you.

you don't even know if he wants kids. and for a second, that realization feels heavier than it should. there’s a whole future on a limbo sitting out of reach. not because it’s impossible, but because it’s never been named.

"y/n? you’re miles away!" the brightness of your friend's voice cut through your reverie.

the other leans forward slightly, "how’s married life treating you?"

you don't look up right away, only tilting your hand slightly when the nail tech asks you to. a practiced tug at the corner of your lips masked the tremor beneath.

"it's good, really good." you offered, voice light and airy.

"ugh," someone groans playfully. "of course it is. you guys were always like... perfect for each other."

you let out a soft laugh. "thank you, emma."

"it is," the friend grins. "seriously though, what have you guys been up to lately? anything fun?"

there’s a pause. you glance up for just a second, like you're checking your memory for something recent, something worth telling. "not really," tone still light. "just... normal stuff."

"that's adorable," another friend says, laced with genuine admiration. "no drama or chaos. must be so peaceful to marry an office guy."

"yeah," you nod, smile a little wider. "exactly."

the conversation shifts easily after that, flowing like a meandering river to other topics, someone starts talking about a coworker, someone else about a trip they want to take, and you listen, add comments here and there, smile when you're supposed to. their voices rising and falling in a comfortable rhythm. you watched them, their easy camaraderie, the way they finished each other’s sentences, and a familiar pang of loneliness pierced through the carefully erected wall around your heart.

noeul’s voice, soft but firm, cut through the din. she leaned closer, her perceptive eyes, meeting yours.

"how’s he been?” she asks.

you turn slightly. "san?"

a small nod. "yeah."

your smile didn’t falter. it felt glued on now, a permanent fixture. "he’s good," you say. "just busy with work, you know how he is." the words came out a little too quickly, a little too smooth. you avoided her gaze, focusing instead on the manicurist applying the top coat, making sure each nail was perfectly glossy.

noeul scoffs and tilts her head. "i do." a faint, wry smile touched her lips. "you know, i’ve known my brother a long time. longer than you, even." she paused, letting her words hang in the air. "i know how he gets. when things pile up and he forgets the rest of the world exists."

for a second, the façade threatened to crack. the truth, the bitter, stinging sensation, rose in your throat. you wanted to confess, to unburden yourself, to say, he’s not here, noeul. even when he’s here, he’s not here. i’m so lonely. i feel like i’m drowning in this calm. but the words remained trapped. fearful of conflict, ingrained habit of presenting things softly. you forced a small, reassuring nod. "yeah, it's nothing." the lie tasted like ash.

she watches you for a second longer, like she’s weighing something, then hums lightly and looks away, letting the moment dissolve back into the room. as the conversation drifts away again, your gaze lowers, unfocused.

the manicurist finished, buffing your nails to a high shine. she applied a cuticle oil, the scent of almond and rose a delicate perfume. your hands, now impeccably groomed, felt foreign.

"all done, dear." she announced, her smile bright.

you lift your hands slightly, turning them under the light. they’re perfect. smooth, even, untouched.

"thank you," you say, smiling.

for a moment, you imagine asking him. should be simple. do you ever think about kids? it doesn’t feel like a big question. it's not.

and yet, you can’t picture the moment clearly. when you'd ask, how he’d answer, whether it would feel natural or out of place, like introducing a topic that doesn’t belong in the quiet shape of their life. so you let the thought go.

you reach for your phone absentmindedly. no new messages. thumb hovers over the screen for a second, like you might type something, then you lock it instead and set it back down.

"do you guys want to grab something after this?" a girls asks. "coffee?"

"perfect! i’m craving that new lavender latte."

"oh, i can't," you say quickly, forcing another regretful smile. "i really should head home. dinner, you know." you gestured vaguely, as if the very concept of an empty fridge was an urgent, looming threat.

"alright, wifey," someone teases.

you simply smile again in a thin line as you stand, smoothing down your dress out of instinct and reach for your bag. giving everyone a small goodbye hug. as you pass behind noeul, there’s a brief brush of hands, intentional to pause you.

"hey, if it’s ever not nothing," she says quietly, a hint of concern still lacing her words. "you can tell me."

you hold her gaze for a second. then you smile. soft, reassuring, effortless. "i know." and you mean it, you just don't use it.

blur of city sounds and hurried footste. you stepped out, the cool afternoon air a sharp contrast to the salon’s warmth. rose scented oil on your nails, faint blush of pink, it felt like a disguise. you walked, footsteps echoing on the pavement, toward the quiet of the apartment, toward the silent kitchen, toward the dinner you had to make. the thought of it, a weight in your stomach, settled in with the dull ache of loneliness. the calm awaited.

୨୧

the last of the suds swirled down the drain, taking with them the faint scent of tonight’s braised short ribs. you wiped down the counter, movements precise, methodical. the clinking of ceramic plates against the drying rack was the only sound in the kitchen. you dried your hands on a towel, folding it neatly over the edge of the sink when you're finished. dishes done, kitchen clean again.

san's in the living room, laptop open, the soft glow of the screen lighting his face. he's not typing much. just staring, scrolling, thinking. you paused at the archway, shoulder pressing lightly against the cool plaster. the conversation from the salon, a snippet of motherhood, rang in your mind. it had all been a gentle nudge, a question mark in the back of your thoughts all afternoon. you hadn't realized how much space the idea of a child, of your child, could occupy until that moment.

the future, once a vibrant tapestry you and san wove together with eager hands, now a blank canvas. you’d painted the college days in bright, bold strokes, the wedding vows in shimmering gold. but the years beyond, the ones stretching into a quiet domesticity, remained unsketched. you found yourself wondering if san even saw that canvas anymore, if he still held a brush.

you watched the muscles in his forearms flex as he began typing, the subtle ripple beneath his shirt. his dark hair, a little longer than you usually liked, fell across his forehead. he didn’t look up, his focus absolute, a tunnel vision you’d come to recognize.

"still have a lot to do?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended, a whisper against the keyboard’s clatter.

his fingers stilled for a beat, then resumed their pace. "almost," he murmured, eyes still fixed on the screen. "just finishing up these projections for the morning."

a breath, deep and slow, air cool in your lungs. you watch him for a second. the way his brows pull together slightly, the way his attention narrows into whatever’s on the screen. focused. distant. the question, the real question, the one that had been brewing since you left the salon, fell heavy on your tongue. it wasn't just about kids. it was about us. about the unspoken, the unasked, the growing chasm of silence. you wanted to ask if he ever thought about them, about a future that wasn’t neatly tied to quarterly reports and spreadsheets. you wanted to ask if he still saw you, really saw you, beyond the perfectly made bed and the carefully planned dinners. maybe, just maybe, this question could be the key, a small crack. it could lead to an actual conversation, a real one, not just about work or groceries or the weather. your heart beat a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

"hey," you start.

he hummed, signaling acknowledgement without breaking concentration. his head tilted slightly, silent invitation to continue.

do you ever think about kids?

words once so clear in your mind, so simple in your head, at least, suddenly tangled. they became a knot in your throat, a lump of unspoken fears and resentments. the image of him, so engrossed, so far away, solidified the doubt. what if he says no? what if he doesn’t want them? what if he thinks it’s a silly question? the fear of that disappointment in his eyes, was a known, suffocating weight. you’d spent years perfecting the art of soft landings, of avoiding any ripple in the calm surface of your shared life. to shatter that now, to introduce a potential disagreement, felt like a betrayal of your own carefully constructed peace. the question of children, of your future, of his love, dissolved into a vague, unformed anxiety.

"do you…" you began, then faltered, sentence dying on your lips. "do you want some tea?"

he looked up then, slanted brown eyes meeting yours, a faint smile touching his lips. the blue light softened the edges of his face, highlighting the dimples that appeared only when he was genuinely pleased. "yeah," he nodded. "sounds nice."

and just like that, the moment passed. the opportunity vanished. you offered a small, tight smile in return, then turned and walked back into the quiet kitchen, already reaching for the kettle. behind you, the quiet settles back into place. the question dissolves somewhere between the sink and the stove, blending into the rhythm of water filling, mugs being set out, something warm being made and offered instead of something uncertain being asked. by the time the kettle starts to hum, you can’t even tell if it would’ve been the right moment or if there would ever be one.

୨୧

the supermarket was colder than you'd expected when the automatic doors whispered open, spitting out artificial chill. paused just past the entrance, adjusting your grip on the heavy cart as the air settled unwelcome against your skin. for a moment, you just stood there, letting the quiet hum of refrigerators and distant chatter fill the space around you. a shiver traced it's way down your spine, cold reminder that you had to move, and so you pushed the metal basket forward as it's wheels squeaked faintly.

there was no reason to rush. you followed the aisles in a pattern you didn’t have to think about anymore. chicken first, hand reaching for the familiar white tray. then the vegetable section. flour, again. sugar, constant drain on the pantry, always seemed to run out faster than it should. everything found it's place in the cart without hesitation, each item chosen with the same steady certainty. each line on your shopping list crossed off with a decisive stroke of the pen. at some point, you realized you had already walked down the same aisle twice.

nothing missing, nothing forgotten. the necessities secured, a small indulgence felt earned. you slowed, then stopped altogether at the snack aisle. eyes drifted over the shelves, lingering on things you didn’t need. brightly colored packaging, a mental tally forming: which ones you wouldn't you buy, which ones would san wrinkle his nose at? the familiar ritual offered a brief, quiet comfort. you imagined his polite imperceptible nod of approval when you presented his favourite chocolate covered crispy biscuits, or the slight, teasing lift of his brow if you dared bring home something too exotic.

"y/n?" the voice came from behind, uncertain but enough to make you turn, the cart creaking in protest. you couldn’t place him until the crooked smile appeared and recognition settled in.

seonghwa.

he stood a few feet away, a half basket hooked over his arm. the boy you remembered, all sharp angles and adolescent angst, had softened around the edges, but the core was undeniably him. the piercings that once studded his ears and lip were gone, leaving only ghost like indentations. but new ink snaked up his forearms, dark tendrils against his skin, a testament to a life lived beyond high school hallways. his wolf cut, a shaggy, artfully dishevelled frame around his face, was longer, wilder than you remembered. his round eyes, still piercing, held a glint of surprise, then something else, something assessing.

"oh...hi," you said, a small, surprised smile breaking through. "wait, hi."

"wow, it's really you." he smiled back, a little wider, like he’d been more sure of it than you were. "i almost didn't recognize you. you... look good, exactly the same," he added, almost as an afterthought.

you let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "that’s not true."

"it is," he said lightly. "just... older. in a good way."

you smiled again, more out of politeness this time, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as if to give your hands something to do.

"what are you doing around here?" he asked. "do you live nearby?"

"yeah," you nodded. "not too far. i just came to... groceries."

"right," he said, glancing at his own cart. "same."

there was a brief pause, the kind that should have felt awkward, but didn’t quite. not yet.

"so... are you still in touch with... what was her name? sarah? no- samantha?”

you smiled faintly. "no."

"right, yeah," he said quickly, waving it off with a small laugh. "i always mix those up."

you didn’t correct him. his gaze shifted then, catching on your left hand, lingering for a fraction on the thin band around your ring ringer. you followed his eyes, as if you hadn’t noticed it until that moment.

you offered a practiced smile, a smooth, well rehearsed performance. "oh, yeah. met him in college." the words came out light, airy, almost dismissive of the years of shared history, of the dreams whispered in dorm rooms, the silent promises.

"college, huh? that's nice," he said, and it sounded genuine.

"it is," you replied, too quickly. "his name is san, he's an accountant." the description felt flat, inadequate, a pale shadow of the man you loved.

"an accountant. fancy." he chuckled. "so, what have you been up to? still arguing about about freud versus jung for fun?"

"no, not really." you corrected gently. "i mean, i got a psychology degree but i'm… i'm a stay at home wife now." the phrase almost felt embarrassing on your tongue.

his eyebrow shot up. "huh... i always pictured you, like, running a therapy practice, saving the world from going insane."

you shrugged. "well, it’s nice, though. i get to... manage the house. bake. plan meals. save him from going insane, you know?" the words hollow, even to your own ears.

"i bet san’s a lucky man. always coming home to fresh cookies." he teased, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

small, tight knot formed in your stomach. you baked when you were anxious, yes. but san rarely came home early enough for the cookies to still be warm. and most of them, you gave away to the neighbours, offerings of surplus comfort. "something like that," you murmured, deflecting. "what about you? still making music?"

his face lit up, a genuine, unadulterated passion sparking in his eyes. the words lingered between you for a second before dissolving into something lighter. you talked after that. nothing important, nothing that would be remembered in detail later. work, vaguely. life, in broad strokes. the kind of conversation that filled space easily without asking too much of either of them. he asked questions and waited for the answers. reacted in the right places. kept things moving without letting them settle too long in any one place. you found yourself talking more than you expected to.

"a few of us get together sometimes," he said, almost casually. "nothing big. just... hanging out. you should come, we’re going to a friend's house next week. old times' sake."

you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to, but because you did. your mind immediately conjured a mental checklist: the laundry basket overflowing in the utility room, the dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun on the living room floor, the intricate dinner you had planned for san, a quiet attempt to reignite a spark that felt increasingly dim. the thought of all those small, domestic duties, waiting patiently for your attention, made a familiar pang of guilt twist in your gut.

"i don’t know," you said lightly, automatic refusal on your lips. "i might be busy."

"with what?" he asked curiously.

you searched for something immediate, something obvious.

"just… stuff," you said instead, smoothing it over with a small smile.

he nodded, accepting it without question.

"well," he added, "if you’re not, you’re welcome. it’d be nice to catch up properly. it’s good to break free sometimes and let loose, you know?"

a small yearning stirred within you. the idea of an afternoon free from chores, from the quiet hum of your own thoughts, from the subtle ache of loneliness, held an unexpected appeal. "okay," you said, the word simple.

"yeah?" his eyes amused.

"yeah."

you exchanged numbers. nothing ceremonious about it, a small addition, barely noticeable in the moment. "well, it was good running into you, y/n. don’t be a stranger." he offered a quick, easy smile, then turned, his basket still hooked over his arm, and disappeared down the aisle towards the dairy section.

that night, you work through the knots in your hair in front of the vanity mirror. each stroke of the brush pulls a small discomfort. the rush of water from the tap in the en suite bathroom ceases. the door creaks open and san emerged, a towel draped low around his waist. water still clings to the dark hairs on his chest, glistening under the low light. he moves with a quiet efficiency, his broad shoulders filling the doorway for a moment before he crosses to his side of the bed, carrying the clean scent of his soap. he doesn’t look at you, not directly, as he peels the towel away, letting it drop to the floor. your gaze, however, finds the smooth expanse of his back, the hard lines of his muscles shifting as he reaches for the pajama drawer. you note the way his bicep flexes, the familiar curve of his neck, the slight slump of his shoulders that wasn’t there when you first met him.

you continue brushing, rhythmic scrape of bristles against scalp filling the silence. your heart a persistent bird, flutters.

"i ran into someone today," you say, your voice almost lost in the rustle of san pulling on a shirt.

a low hum sound from inside the fabric, he pulls the shirt down, smoothing it over his chest. he turns then, his eyes, dark and heavy lidded, finally finding yours in the mirror. a flicker of something unreadable passes through them before settling into a tired affection.

"at the market?" he asks as he pulls back the duvet on his side of the bed.

you nod, watching his reflection as he settles onto the mattress, propping himself up against the headboard. "an old friend. from high school." you pause, the brush still in your hand, it's bristles splayed. "apparently some of them still hang out, and i was invited."

the bed dips as he adjusts the pillows. "that’s good. you should go." his voice is calm, even. he picks up his phone from the nightstand, it's screen glowing blue for a moment before he sets it back down.

you turn fully then, the brush forgotten on the vanity. your bare feet touch the cool wood floor. "really? you don’t mind?" you walk to your side of the bed.

he looks up, his brows furrowed slightly. "why would i mind? it’s good for you to see people. you’re always here." his gaze sweeps around the room, then back to you. "you should get out more."

the words, meant to be reassuring, land with a surprising weight. always here. a small, sharp ache begins in your chest. you climb into bed, pulling the duvet up to your chin. the sheets, cool against your skin, feel vast tonight.

"i mean," you start, choosing your words carefully, "i haven’t seen them in years. since graduation, probably." you watch his face, searching for something, a hint of curiosity, a flicker of concern.

he just nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "people change. that’s okay. it’ll be nice to reconnect." he reaches over, his hand finding yours under the duvet. his fingers, warm and strong, intertwine with yours, a familiar comfort. "you’ve been cooped up. it’s good to have plans."

his thumb strokes the back of your hand, it’s a connection, yes, but one that feels practiced, automatic. you want to tell him more, to say, it was seonghwa, the boy with the emo hair, the one who used to draw skulls in his notebook during history class, but the words catch in your throat. the moment feels too delicate, too easily broken.

"i guess so," you murmur, your voice barely a whisper. you squeeze his hand, a silent plea for more, for him to ask, who was it? what did you talk about?

soft exhalation that sounds like relief escapes him. he leans over, his head dipping. his lips, warm and soft, brush your forehead, then your temple, then your mouth. it’s a brief, chaste kiss, a familiar closing to the day. his lips taste faintly of mint. he pulls back, settling deeper into his pillow.

"good night, y/n," he says, his voice already thick with sleep.

eyes closing and breathing deepening almost immediately. the rhythm of his breath fills the room, steady and even. his hand, still holding yours, loosens it's grip. fingers, heavy with sleep, slide away.

darkness pressed in as you layed there, the silence amplifying the quiet hum of the city outside. your eyes trace the familiar contours of his face in the dim light. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rest against his cheekbones. faint smile, ghost of a dream, plays on his lips. he looks peaceful, untroubled.

he hadn’t asked. he hadn’t asked anything beyond the most superficial. he hadn't asked who. he hadn't asked if you wanted to go. he just assumed.

you turn onto your side, facing away from him, pulling the duvet tighter around you. the warmth of the blankets does little to chase away the chill that has settled deep within you. still, you tried to push the thought away. it’s not fair. san is tired. he works hard. he provides. this is what you agreed to. this is the life you built. you chose this, to be here. for him. but the loneliness curls around your heart. the perfection of the bed you made this morning, the carefully planned dinner, the unspoken anxieties baked into the pastries you gave away, all of it feels like a silent scream swallowed by the vast, quiet expanse of your days.

tears won’t come even if the knot in you throat screams for a cry. instead, your mind drifts to the closet, to the neat rows of clothes, the perfectly folded sweaters. tomorrow, you think, you’ll reorganize the winter section. it needs it. you need it. a small, manageable task to fill the endless hours.

y/n choi: hi, it's y/n from the store. i think i'm free that day if the invite still stands

seonghwa park: hey!

seonghwa park: yeah of course 😉

seonghwa park: glad ur coming, heres the address

seonghwa park: [location]

୨୧

the building wasn't what you expected. grimy canvas of faded brick and peeling paint that slightly unnerved you. you pulled your phone from your pocket a third time, checked the address, then glanced up at the entrance like it might correct itself if you stayed waiting long enough.

no, this was it.

bass vibrated through the pavement, pulse beneath your feet. for a second, you consider leaving, then you adjust your grip on the small container in your hands and step inside. the hallway swallowed you whole, narrow canyon that smell suspiciously of gasoline. when you reach the graffiti painted door, it was already slightly open. you knocked anyway.

there's a small shuffle inside before seonghwa emerges, his grin a flash of white teeth.

"y/n! thought you weren't gonna make it." he stepped aside, his arm sweeping an invitation.

you offered a small, polite smile, stepping into the room. the air hit you first, thick with a cloying sweetness you couldn't recognize and the acrid bite of stale cigarettes. the apartment was a controlled chaos. art adorned every available surface, canvases leaning against walls, sketches tacked to corkboards, a half finished sculpture draped in cloth in a corner. the room swam with bodies. girls, their midriffs bare, navel piercings glinting under the strung fairy lights. men, their arms drawn with ink, sprawled on beanbags or perched on the worn, leather couches. they moved with an easy, unhurried rhythm, as if the space molded itself around their presence. your modest linen shirt, a soft ecru, felt suddenly like a costume, an ill fitting disguise.

"hey everyone, this is y/n, from high school." seonghwa’s voice cut through the haze, a casual announcement.

a few heads turned, a couple of languid nods, but most remained immersed in their conversations, their laughter echoing off the high ceilings. your gaze swept across the room, searching for a familiar face, a flicker of recognition. nothing.

"it’s... nice to meet you all," you murmured, voice a little too soft, a little too formal for the raucous atmosphere. you clutched the clear container in your hands, the weight of it suddenly grounding.

a girl with a constellation of tiny tattoos climbing her neck, her hair a violent shade of fuchsia, pointed a perfectly manicured finger at your hands. "what’s that?"

you felt a blush creep up your neck. "oh. cookies. i made them." you held the container out, a silent offering.

a woman with striking, dark eyes and a generous smile detached herself from a group near the window. she wore spiked hair and her eyebrows seemed to be gone, but her presence offered a quiet anchor. "cookies! how cute. anna, by the way." she extended a hand, her grip firm and warm.

"y/n." you returned her shake, a surge of relief washing over you.

"i didn't know this was a bake sale," a gravelly voice grumbled from a corner, followed by a snort.

anna turned, her dark eyes narrowing playfully at the fat guy with a mohawk. "shut up, mark. you never bring anything." she gave his arm a quick, sharp shove. despite his joke, he came up as well.

a fresh wave of embarrassment hit you, cheeks burning as you began to stammer, "i just thought, you know, as a... a thank you for inviting me..."

anna waved your apology away. "no, it’s great! we love snacks. what kind?" she peered into the container, her eyes sparkling.

"chocolate chip. with sea salt." you offered, a small smile tentatively forming.

the lid popped open with a soft click. the aroma of warm chocolate and vanilla wafted through the air, momentarily cutting through the other scents. it was like a siren song. suddenly, a small crowd materialized around you, drawn by the scent. hands reached in, fingers deftly plucking cookies from their neat rows.

"someone brought cookies?"

"wait, i want cookies."

"no way, cookies?"

"save me one. i said save me one!"

the conversation dwindled, replaced by the soft sounds of chewing and contented murmurs. a lanky guy took the last cookie, giving you a between apologetic and grateful look and you laugh it off. within minutes, the container lay empty, a few crumbs clinging to it's clear sides. you felt a genuine smile spread across your face. the tension in your shoulders eased. "i’m glad you liked them."

for a moment everything was filled with overlapping conversations and easy movement, people drifting in and out without much structure. you sat at the couch with anna and mark. being spoken to, responded to, included without having to work for it. she asks you what else you like to bake. he asks where you live. the questions aren’t deep, but they come one after another and you answer, laugh and nod. the silence you've been carrying around doesn’t follow you in, it stays somewhere outside the door you walked through.

after a while, when the rhythm starts to feel harder to follow and topics shift quickly, you find your way back to seonghwa in the kitchen. he’s near the counter, talking to someone, but he glances over when you approach, like he’s been keeping track of where you are.

"hey," he says, turning slightly towards yo.

"hi," you answer before a small pause, then casually, "are any other people from our school coming?"

he doesn't hesitate. "nah," he says, shaking his head. "couldn't come."

"oh," you felt a pang of disappointment, small knot tightening in your stomach. you’d envisioned friendly faces, shared anecdotes, a comfortable bridge to this unfamiliar landscape. "okay."

"why?" he adds. "were you expecting someone?"

"no,no. i just thought maybe-" before trailing off, you shake your head lightly. "it's fine."

he watches you for a second, then nods once, like that’s enough.

"you’re good," he says. "don’t overthink it. come on, let’s get you a drink." seonghwa grinned, his hand briefly brushing your lower back as he steered you towards a cooler overflowing with ice and bottles.

you chose a sparkling water, the chill of the can a welcome sensation against your palm. you gravitated towards anna, who was now engaged in a lively discussion with mark about a band you’d never heard of. you hovered at the edge of their circle, listening, slowly piecing together fragments of their world. they spoke of gigs, of art installations, of obscure films, their words painting a vibrant, chaotic picture of lives lived on the fringes of convention.

as the evening continued it's slow, winding course, the hours passed by without warning, suddenly, it was later than you thought. through the subtle buzz in your veins and lightness you hadn't realized you were missing, the image of san already in bed, alone, stirred something in you. your small bag and empty container already in your hands.

"you can come in anytime, even if seonghwa isn't here." anna said before hugging you goodbye.

as you made your way towards the door, seonghwa intercepted you. "leaving already? come on, just one more drink." his voice was persuasive.

"i really should go. it’s getting late." you offered a polite, but firm smile.

he stepped closer, his hand briefly touching your arm. "you know, you’re really something, y/n. a real breath of fresh air." his eyes held yours, flicker of something unreadable in their depths.

"thank you, seonghwa. for inviting me." you pulled your arm away subtly.

"anytime. seriously. we should hang out again, just us two." his voice dropped, a low murmur intended only for your ears.

you felt a shiver, a faint unease prickling at your skin. "maybe," you said, voice noncommittal, then slipped out the door, back into the cool night air.

the street was quieter now, the bass from the building still a faint thrum in the distance. you walked and thought of the laughter, the music, the easy camaraderie, and a strange sense of longing settled in your chest. it was a world so different from your own, a world where boundaries seemed to blur, where emotions were worn on sleeves, where life felt raw and immediate.

stale cigarette smoke clung to your clothes, a new perfume you hadn't anticipated, but somehow, it felt less offensive than the lingering scent of dish soap from your day to day. your sensible sedan, parked a block away, seemed almost out of place among the battered vans and motorcycles. once you got in safely, you pulled out your phone, the screen illuminating your face with a single text from san from an hour ago: 'home. have a good time, night.' short, efficient, just like him. you stared at it and felt a sudden, overwhelming urge to talk to him, to tell him about the fuchsia hair, the tattooed arms, their reactions to your cookies, the melancholic music, anna’s kind eyes. but you tucked your phone back into your purse, the small, bright screen now dark.

you unlocked the apartment door, the click echoing in the silent space. the air inside was still, heavy with the scent of your carefully chosen strawberry cake diffuser. a half eaten bowl sat on the kitchen counter, remnants of the chicken stir fry you had prepared earlier, the pan still on the stove, a few grains of rice clinging to it's surface. a small sigh of relief escaped your lips. he had eaten. the simple act, a confirmation of your effort, brought a satisfaction to you. you moved through the kitchen, the soft clink of ceramic and metal as you rinsed the bowl, scrubbed the pan. it was a mindless task, your hands working on autopilot, while your mind drifted back to the vibrant chaos of anna's house.

the bedroom was a hushed darkness. san lay sprawled on his side of the bed, a rumbling snore escaping his lips, his face buried in the pillow. the sheet, pulled up to his waist, outlined the broad expanse of his back, the familiar curve of his spine. a sight you knew intimately, a tableau repeated almost every night. he worked hard, you reminded yourself, always.

you untangled your hair from the neat french twist, the pins scattering like tiny metallic insects onto the polished wood of your dresser. soft fingers massaged your scalp, releasing the tension that had gathered there throughout the day. you stripped off your clothes replacing them with silk pajama shorts and a matching camisole. teeth brushed and bathroom light off, the bed dipped slightly as you eased yourself in, careful not to disturb san. he remained a dark, unmoving mass beside you, his breathing deep and even.

sleep, usually a welcome embrace, felt elusive tonight. your mind buzzed, a kaleidoscope of new faces, loud music, and unfiltered laughter. the freedom of it all, the raw, unpolished authenticity, contrasted sharply with the quiet, ordered life you had carefully constructed.

shifting restless, silk rustling against the sheets. the image of the girl's fuchsia hair, defiant and vibrant, flashed in your mind. her confident stride, her easy smile. what did she worry about? did she ever feel this profound, aching quietness? you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of san's back. the moonlight, filtering through the gap in the curtains, painted a silver line along his broad shoulder, the muscle defined even in repose. he was strong, reliable, your rock. yet lately, the rock was a mountain you couldn't climb.

a pang of something sharp, something akin to longing, twisted in your gut. you wanted to feel. you wanted to be seen. not just as the wife who kept the house, who cooked the meals, but as you, again. the you who had laughed tonight, unburdened. the one you knew san had fallen in love with.

your hand, almost without conscious thought, slipped beneath the silk of your pajama shorts. the fabric parted, your fingers, tentative at first, found the soft mound of your grown pubic hair, then the slick, warm folds beneath. a small gasp escaped your lips, swallowed by the quiet room. your core, already sensitive, pulsed beneath your touch. you stroked, slowly, deliberately, soft pressure building.

subtly, your hips began to tilt, involuntary movement, pressing into your palm. your fingers worked with a quiet urgency, tracing the delicate ridges, circling the peak of your clitoris. a moistness spread, warm, slick rush that dampened the silk shorts beneath your hand. the sensation intensified, a delicious ache blooming deep inside you, spreading through your belly. your breathing hitched, growing shallow, ragged.

wake up, i'm here.

you closed your eyes, a torrent of images flashing behind your eyelids. san, the warmth of his touch, a vague, undefined hunger. you pressed harder, your thumb finding a rhythm, a steady, insistent pressure. a low moan, barely audible, escaped your throat, a sound of pure pleasure. your whole body tensed, arching slightly into your hand. the climax a sudden, exquisite release, wave of heat that cascaded through your limbs, leaving you trembling, breathless.

୨୧

the shrill ring of the alarm ripped you from a dreamless sleep. your eyes fluttered open, the room still shrouded in pre dawn gloom. a glance at the clock sent a jolt of panic through you. 6:45 am. san left at 7:30. you had overslept.

you scrambled out of bed, the silk shorts clinging briefly before you shed them. the floor was cool beneath your bare feet.

"san, wake up," you whispered, nudging his shoulder. he grunted and slowly, reluctantly, stirred.

you moved with practiced efficiency, a whirlwind of motion in the quiet kitchen. the scent of brewing coffee began to fill the air, mingling with the sizzle of eggs in the pan. toast popped, butter melted, and the rhythmic thud of a knife chopping fruit filled the space. san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed, his black hair still damp, clinging to his forehead. he looked tired, his eyes still holding the remnants of sleep, but his movements were precise, methodical.

"morning," he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. he poured himself a mug of coffee, the steam curling around his face.

"morning," you replied, already assembling his lunch. a neat stack of sandwiches, a small container of cut fruit, a handful of almonds. you wrapped it all meticulously, fitting it into his lunch bag.

"did you sleep okay?" he asked, taking a sip of his coffee. he leaned against the counter, watching you.

"yeah, eventually," you said, trying to keep your voice light. you packed a small thermos of tea. "i went to that thing last night, you know, the hangout thing?"

he nodded before picking up a slice of toast, spreading jam onto it. "how was it?"

"it was...different," you began, a small smile playing on your lips. you wanted to tell him everything, about the fuchsia hair, the tattoos, the unexpected warmth. "it was in this old building, kind of grungy, but everyone was so nice. there was this girl, sally, she had the most incredible hair, like, bright pink and her face was like a strainer, filled with piercings, it was so cool. and then i met anna, she had these dark intimidating eyes but she was actually really sweet. she’s a photographer for bands."

he turned to you with a slight frown. "y/n?"

"yeah?" you cleaned your hands with a kitchen towel.

"you're not... getting into anything dangerous, are you?"

you tilted your head, looking at him confused. "what? no, no. they were really nice people, they had this energy, like they just didn't care what anyone thought. it was kind of... inspiring."

"hmm..." he took a bite with a raised brow. "be careful y/n, you know how those types can be."

the warmth you’d felt, a flicker of shared experience, began to cool. "i am. but listen, there was also music, not like the music we usually listen to, more like a band sound," you continued, a little more emphatically, trying to inject some of the excitement you had felt into your words. "there was this guy, he had these huge arms filled with tattoos and he had a mohawk, i'd never seen one of those in real life."

he looked away again, finished his toast and wiped his mouth with a napkin. "just don’t get into anything foolish." he reached for his briefcase and lunchbox, already moving towards the door.

your shoulders sagged almost imperceptibly, there was so much you still wanted to tell him. but there was also no time, you knew. there never was. he was already halfway out the door, his hand on the knob.

"i'll make your favorite soup for dinner tonight," you offered, a last ditch effort to connect, to anchor him for just a moment longer.

he paused, turning his head slightly. a small, tired smile touched his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "thanks, that sounds great, i'll try not to be too late. love you."

"love you," you mumbled as the door shut and he was gone, the click of the lock echoing in the now silent apartment. you stood in the kitchen, surrounded by the lingering scent of coffee and eggs.

y/n choi: hi, it's y/n, i had a really good time yesterday.

seonghwa park: hey, me too

seonghwa park: everyone loved u btw, they were all talking about how sweet you were when you left

y/n choi: really? that's so nice to hear

seonghwa park: ur coming next week, right?

y/n choi: again?

seonghwa park: yeah

seonghwa park: we hang out every weekend

seonghwa park: always at annas

seonghwa park: come ooon, ull have t come

seonghwa park: ur a part of the group now

the words, simple and direct, landed like a soft blanket on your exposed nerves. a part of the group now. the phrase resonated, a balm to the quiet ache san’s rushed departure had left behind. it wasn’t profound, not a declaration of affection, but it was an invitation, a recognition. it felt like a small hand reaching out in the growing expanse of your solitude.

y/n choi: i’d like that, thanks seonghwa.

the next week crawled by, each day a slow, methodical march of chores and quiet anticipation. the perfect bed, the planned dinners, the reorganizing of the linen closet. each task a meticulous attempt to fill the hours, to ward off the encroaching loneliness. but seonghwa’s words, hummed beneath the surface.

a part of the group now.

as saturday evening approached, nervous flutter stirred in your stomach. you pulled out a simple, soft cotton t-shirt, one you usually wore for lounging. then, a pair of well worn dark jeans. your fingers went to your hair, letting it fall, then found a simple black velvet hairband, pushing back the front strands.

the grungy building loomed, a concrete behemoth adorned with a tapestry of peeling posters and vibrant graffiti. the door stood ajar again, inviting light spilling onto the cracked pavement. but politeness, ingrained deep within you, compelled your knuckles to tap softly against it.

the door swung open further, revealing anna. her spiked hair, dark halo around her face, seemed to defy gravity. thicker eyeliner from the last time, you noticed. a cigarette dangled from her lips, thin wisp of smoke curling lazily into the air.

"well, look who it is," anna’s voice, raspy like gravel, held a surprising warmth. a slow smile spread across her face, revealing a glint of metal in her upper teeth. "you bring cookies this time, wifey?"

you laughed, unforced sound that surprised even yourself. "i didn’t, i’m afraid." faint blush touched your cheeks.

anna leaned against the doorframe, taking a drag from her cigarette. "shame. your hair looks good though, so i'll let you in." she winked, a playful glint in her dark eyes.

you stepped inside murmuring a small "thanks." she led you into the living room as seonghwa, who was meticulously cleaning something that looked like a round bottom flask, rose from the couch.

"hey, you. where's my hug?" he grinned, a flash of genuine pleasure in his expression. he offered a thight hug, quick squeeze that felt surprisingly comforting. "glad you came back."

"come on, i’ll show you my current obsession." anna, having stubbed out her cigarette in a makeshift ashtray, clapped you on the shoulder and led you to a corner of the living room, where a makeshift studio was set up. a flash unit sat on a tripod, and a black backdrop hung from a makeshift frame.

she showed you her new lighting techniques, her raspy voice softening as she spoke about her craft, explaining each of the series of prints tacked to the wall. the subjects, all punk, stared out with an intensity that pulled you in. low groan emanated from the other side of the room. mark, with his pants that perpetually threatened to slide off his ample frame, was getting another tattoo. the machine buzzing like an angry bee.

you watched, a strange mix of fascination and unease stirring within you. the raw intimacy of the moment, the deliberate pain, the permanent mark being etched into skin. it was so far removed from your carefully ordered world. visceral, unapologetic. you thought of san, of his disciplined body, his aversion to anything that might disrupt his carefully constructed order. a tattoo, to him, would be an act of reckless abandon, an unnecessary defacement.

anna exchanged a few words with the tattoo artist and you followed seonghwa and sally into the kitchen.

"tacos?" you asked, a sudden urge to ground yourself in something familiar, something productive.

"attempting to," seonghwa repeated, a wry smile playing on his lips. sally, armed with a knife, was making a valiant but clumsy effort to chop an onion. tears streamed down her heavily made up face.

"this is harder than it looks," she sniffled, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing eyeliner.

"i don’t even know if this is cooked enough. it still looks… pink."

you stepped forward with quiet confidence. this, you knew. this was your domain. "let me help," you offered, already reaching for the cutting board. you gently took the knife, demonstrating a quick, efficient chop that produced even dice.

you moved with an easy grace, hands finding their rhythm. chicken seasoned, a blend of spices from the overflowing spice rack that seemed to surprise even seonghwa. you showed sally how to properly dice tomatoes and shred lettuce, your voice soft but instructive. the kitchen, which had been a scene of mild culinary disaster, slowly began to transform into an efficient workspace.

"wow," sally beamed, her fuchsia hair bouncing. "seriously, my mom just nukes everything."

it was a simple thing, a small act of connection, of contribution. but you felt useful, appreciated. the feeling was a pleasant counterpoint to the quiet solitude of your own kitchen at home, where your culinary efforts often met with san’s polite, but often silent, approval.

the group gathered at the living room again, something being passed from hand to hand. you saw it before you recognized it, it wasn't tobacco.

the joint made it's rounds, anna took a long drag, her eyes closing in apparent contentment. seonghwa inhaled deeply, then exhaled a plume of smoke that dissolved into the dim light. sally giggled, her eyes a little brighter, her movements a little looser.

then, mark’s hand, big with his new tattoo, extended towards you, holding the burning joint. the tip glowed orange, small pulsating ember. a hush fell over the group, subtle, expectant. no one said anything, but their gazes, soft and encouraging, rested on you.

your breath hitched. your mind, usually so clear, swam with conflicting thoughts. weed. the word echoed in your head, sharp and disapproving. san’s voice, clear as day, cut through the hazy atmosphere.

disgusting. it’s not a gateway. it destroys lives.

his lectures, delivered with a quiet intensity, about the dangers of drugs, of anything that clouded judgment, that compromised control. he hated it. he hated all of it. smoking, drinking to excess, any form of escape that wasn’t productive, wasn’t measured.

your gaze flickered to mark’s hand, then to seonghwa, who offered a small, reassuring nod. a strange defiance, a tiny spark of rebellion, ignited within you. san, with his rigid rules and his unspoken expectations, felt miles away, a distant, fading echo. here, in this room, with these people, there was an unspoken permission, an acceptance of difference.

you thought of the quiet mornings, the unasked questions, the emotional chasm that had grown between you and san. you thought of the lingering loneliness, the slow, insidious fading of sparks. you thought of his hurried goodbye, his preoccupation, his casual dismissal of your small joys.

a small, almost imperceptible sigh escaped your lips. it wasn’t about wanting to get high. it was a quiet protest. a moment of reclaiming a sliver of yourself that felt lost, submerged under layers of wifely duty and unspoken disappointment. it was a fleeting, irrational thought, but it felt powerful in it's simplicity.

trembling fingers, usually so steady, reached for the joint. your eyes met seonghwa’s, then anna’s. they offered soft, almost imperceptible smiles.

the joint touched your lips. the paper felt rough against your skin. the smell, pungent and earthy, filled your nostrils. you hesitated for a fraction of a second, a silent battle raging within. then, you inhaled.

the smoke, harsh and acrid, scraped your throat. you coughed between involuntary gasps. tears sprang to your eyes. the group chuckled softly. your lungs burned, heat spread through your chest, then a dizzying lightness in your head. it wasn’t pleasant, not yet. but as the initial shock subsided, a curious sensation began to bloom. a loosening. a letting go.

the world around you, already vibrant, seemed to soften at the edges. the music, a low thrumming before, now seemed to pulse with a deeper rhythm. the faces around you, previously distinct, now blurred into a warm, accepting tableau.

you exhaled, a shaky, uneven breath. the smoke drifted upwards in a cloud, carrying with it a rebellious whisper.

the taco shell crumbled in your fingers, a warm, messy embrace of seasoned chicken and melted cheese. a laugh, sharp and high, tore from your throat. it wasn’t your laugh, not really, but it escaped anyway.

"y/n, these are..." sally kissed the tips of her fingertips at once. a piece of tomato, vibrant red, clung to her chin. you watched it, mesmerized, as it wobbled precariously. like a tiny significant event.

"no, for real. this is the best shit i've ever eaten," someone grunted as they took another bite, cheeks bulging. the sound of their chewing a symphonic rhythm, wet crunch that filled the room.

you smiled, you think, a wide, unbidden thing that stretched your face. your cheeks felt warm and tingly. the praise, usually a balm, now felt like a spotlight, too bright, too focused. you didn't need to respond. the air itself seemed to hum with approval.

seonghwa leaned in, his hair brushing your shoulder. the scent of his cologne filled your nostrils. it was a new smell, suddenly potent, a story in itself.

"you have to come over more often," he murmured. his words were slow, stretched out, like taffy. "we’d starve without you."

you nodded, or thought you did. the room swirled, a gentle eddy of color and sound. the soft glow of the fairy lights strung across anna’s living room became individual, shimmering points, each one a tiny sun.

anna, perched on the armrest of a worn armchair, watched you, her eyes unblinking. she held a half eaten taco, but she wasn’t eating. she was just watching. a flicker of concern crossed her face, or maybe it was just the way the light caught her smudged makeup.

you turned your head, the motion slow, deliberate, like moving through thick syrup. seonghwa’s face was inches from yours. his eyes liquid and half lidded. a tiny mole, small and innocent on his ear. you had never noticed it before.

"you know," he began, his voice dropping, a conspiratorial whisper meant only for you, "i actually lied to you."

the words themselves were like individual pearls, strung together on an invisible thread that made your breath hitch.

"about what?" you managed a reedy whisper. it sounded like someone else speaking.

he chuckled like it was obvious. "about keeping in touch with people from high school. i don't. not really. i just... wanted you to have a reason to come."

the confession ignited a fresh burst of laughter. bubbled up from deep inside, unrestrained, joyful. it felt like a new sensation, a freedom you hadn't known existed. the idea of him lying, out of all things, struck you as profoundly hilarious.

he smiled, a slow, knowing curve of his lips as his hand, warm and calloused, covered yours on the couch cushion. his thumb traced a slow, hypnotic circle on your skin. it wasn't unpleasant. it was just... there. a sensation.

"y/n, i know you’re unhappy."

unhappiness? that was a concept. right now, there was only the incredibly soft fabric of the couch, the taste of spices on your tongue, the intricate pattern on anna’s rug.

"you deserve so much more," he continued, voice thick and low, "than whatever you’re settling for."

you blinked. his face, so close, seemed to waver, like a reflection in water.

"i want you so bad," a whisper you didn't caught on the movements of his lips, his grip tightening on your hand. "i want to make you happy."

you don't know why he kept making sounds with his mouth. the words drifted past, like smoke. meaningless vibrations in the air. your mind, untethered, floated above them, observing.

then, the world tilted. a wave of warmth, heavy and comforting, washed over you. the trip slowed, the colors blending into a soft, indistinct haze. the universe faded into a gentle lullaby.

୨୧

rough wool blanket against your cheek, smelling faintly of incense and something vaguely sweet, covering you. your eyes fluttered open. the room was bathed in a dim, pre dawn light, a pale grey filtering through the blinds. you blinked, trying to orient yourself. the couch. anna’s couch.

a low snore rumbled from the floor. you peered over the armrest. mark, a lumpy silhouette, was sprawled on a pile of blankets, his mohawk flattened. sally was curled up near him, a splash of fuchsia against the muted tones. anna was nowhere in sight. seonghwa? you scanned the room. no.

dull throb resonated behind your eyes. your mouth felt like sandpaper. you pushed yourself up, the blanket slipping to your lap. the memories of the night were a jumbled mess, like a deck of san's numbers scattered on the floor. flashes of laughter, the taste of tacos, the feeling of warmth. but specific words, specific moments, they were gone, swallowed by the haze.

you fumbled for your purse, slung precariously over the back of the couch. chocolate. a small, dark bar, your emergency comfort. you tore off a piece, the rich, bitter sweetness a welcome shock to your tongue.

you pulled out your phone. three forty seven a.m.

your heart gave a sharp, painful lurch. san. you could almost hear the silence of your apartment, the empty space beside him in bed. a wave of guilt, cold and sharp, washed over you, chasing away the last vestiges of the warm fog.

as careful as you could be, you rose quietly to not disturb the sleeping figures. your movements quiet, deliberate.

the drive home was a blur of streetlights and silent roads. each turn of the wheel felt like a small act of atonement. the city was asleep, a vast, dark canvas. then you finally pulled into your parking spot, the apartment building quiet and imposing.

apartment dark, save for the faint glow from the digital clock on the microwave. you slipped off your shoes, the sink. a plate, crusted with dried sauce, sat precariously on the edge, a half empty mug beside it. san. he had eaten, gone to bed. done.

straight to the bathroom, you stepped under the spray, letting the hot water cascade over your skin. it wasn’t just the smell, but the night itself. the laughter, the forgotten words, the unsettling intimacy. you scrubbed, hard, as if you could scour away the memory, leaving your skin, and your mind, clean and blank once more. you wanted to emerge, refreshed, as if the night had never happened. as if you hadn’t tasted that strange, momentary freedom.

୨୧

the sound pulled at your teeth. tremor in the soles of your new sneakers, premonition of the chaos within. this weekend, anna's apartment building pulsed with an unholy rhythm. this wasn't the hazy, languid hum of last week. this was a beast unleashed.

seonghwa’s band, the ruptured veins or something like that, thrashed in the living room. how they’d squeezed a drum kit, a full amp stack, and three guitarists into the already cramped space remained a mystery. mark, sweat plastering his mohawk to his skull, pounded the drums with a primal ferocity that threatened to crack the plaster. sally contorted over her bass, each pluck a sharp jab to your eardrums. seonghwa, all flailing limbs and guttural shouts was at the center. the sound wasn’t music. it was a wall of noise, an excuse of distorted guitars and ear splitting percussion that clawed at your sanity.

bodies, too many bodies, swayed and thrashed in the dim light, a sea of black leather and ripped denim. you felt like an alien even if you tried dressing in your darkest clothes. a hand, sticky and warm, brushed your arm, offering a glass. you instinctively recoiled, the smell of cheap beer and something cloyingly sweet, making your stomach churn.

seonghwa’s eyes flashed you a grin across the room, a feral baring of teeth, and gave a thumbs up. you forced a weak smile back, the corners of your mouth feeling stiff and unnatural. the volume intensified, a new wave of sound washing over you, drowning out thought, drowning out everything.

a bong, you learned, it's glass bulb milky with smoke, appeared before your face. a girl with tangled dreadlocks and eyes that swam in their sockets pushed it closer.

"hit it, y/n!" she slurred a shout, her voice a gravelly whisper against the roar.

you shook your head, a small, almost imperceptible movement. "no, thanks!"

she shrugged, apathetic, and passed it to the next person. another, a lean guy with a spiderweb tattoo crawling up his neck, who had earlier complained about the brownies you brought not being the "fun ones."

the words felt like pebbles in your throat. you had enough, you needed quiet, needed to escape the relentless assault on your ears. you navigated the throng, each step a battle against jostling elbows and oblivious revelers. you reached the bathroom and pushed open the door for the now muffled sound to lower, then you saw her.

sprawled on the cracked linoleum, half hidden by a discarded shower curtain, lay a woman. her head rested at an awkward angle against the toilet bowl, a thin stream of saliva tracing a path down her chin. she looked older than the others, perhaps in her early thirties, though the lines etched on her face spoke of a life lived hard, not necessarily long. two distinct scars stood out against her skin. her face, even in repose, held a weary resignation, map of battles fought and lost. she wasn't breathing right. shallow, ragged gasps punctuated the silence, each one a struggle.

panic seized you. you knelt beside her, your fingers fumbling for her pulse, finding a weak, thready beat at her neck.

"hey," you whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. "hey, are you okay?"

no response. her eyes remained closed, her lips slightly parted. this wasn't a drunken nap. this was something else, something far more sinister.

your hand instinctively went for your phone, pulling it from your pocket. 911. ambulance. you needed to call an ambulance. your fingers, trembling, navigated the screen.

"i wouldn't do that if i were you."

a hand, heavy and surprisingly strong, clamped around your wrist. your breath hitched. you looked up, startled. a man stood over you. he was burly, with a shaved head and a face like hammered iron. his eyes, dark and flat, bore into yours.

"unless you wanna be trouble," his voice cut through the residual band noise. it wasn't a suggestion. it was a command, heavy with unspoken threat.

your heart hammered against your ribs. you tried to pull your wrist free, but his grip was unyielding, almost bruising. "she needs help," you managed barely a squeak. "she’s not breathing right."

mirthless chuckle rumbled in his chest. "she’s fine. just had a little too much fun." his gaze flickered to your phone. "you call anyone, you’ll regret it."

the warning hung thick and menacing. you met his stare, a shiver running down your spine. the flat emptiness in his eyes, the casual cruelty in his tone, left no room for doubt. he meant it.

slowly, reluctantly, you let your hand drop, your phone clattering softly against the tiles. his grip loosened, then released. you scrambled backward, away from him, away from the unconscious woman, from the suffocating threat. he watched you, unsettling smirk playing on his lips, then turned his attention back to the woman, nudging her with his foot.

you burst out of the bathroom, the music now a mocking roar. you needed anna. anna would know what to do. anna would understand. you pushed through the bodies, eyes scanning the faces, a frantic desperation clawing at your throat. "anna!" you shouted, the word swallowed by the sheer volume. "anna!"

no one heard you. no one even seemed to notice your distress. they just continued to push each other, lost in their own discordant revelry. you spotted a doorway, half hidden behind a towering speaker, and instinctively veered towards it, hoping to find a quieter space, a less crowded corner where anna might be.

it led to a short, narrow hallway, mercifully less populated. at the end, another door, slightly ajar, spilled a soft, yellow light onto the floor. you pushed it open, a desperate plea for help forming on your lips.

the room contrasted to the chaos outside. a single, bare bulb cast a warm glow over a small, unmade bed. and there, on the floor, surrounded by a haphazard collection of worn stuffed animals and bright plastic blocks, sat anna, but she wasn't alone. a small figure, no older than five, sat nestled against her side, a book with brightly colored illustrations open in it's lap. the child, a boy with a shock of dark hair and wide, innocent eyes, looked up as you entered.

"mommy, who’s that?" his voice, clear and sweet, pierced the lingering noise in your ears like a needle.

mommy.

the word echoed, reverberated, then shattered something fragile inside you. anna’s head snapped up, her eyes widening in surprise. a flicker of something, guilt? embarrassment? crossed her face before she quickly composed herself.

"y/n," she said, her voice lowered as she gently pushed the boy behind her. "everything alright?"

everything alright? the irony tasted heavy. now, a child. her child, in this suffocating place. the realization hit you with the force of a physical blow. this wasn’t just a party. this wasn't just a group of friends messing around. this was a life. a harsh, brutal, unforgiving life that you had no part in. the music, which had been an unpleasant background noise, now felt like a blaring siren, screaming the truth. you didn't belong here. not even close. this wasn't edgy. this wasn't rebellious. this was dangerous. this was real.

you shook your head, unable to speak, your throat tight with unshed tears. the image of the passed out woman, the man’s cold eyes, the innocent child, all swirled in a sickening vortex.

"i..." you started, then stopped, the words catching. you didn’t need to explain. anna, with her sudden shift in demeanor, her protective stance over the child, understood.

you turned, a silent retreat, your feet moving on their own accord. you didn't say goodbye. you didn't look back. the door clicked shut behind you, a soft thud against the relentless thrum of the bass.

you navigated the hallway, then the living room, a ghost moving through the throng. no one noticed your departure. the band still roared, seonghwa still shrieked into the mic as he kicked the audience in the face in a blur of motion. you pushed past the last lingering bodies near the door, the cool night air hitting your face like a lifeline.

the street was alive with a different kind of noise. the band’s sound, though fainter, still pulsed through the asphalt, relentless reminder of what you were leaving behind. a group of figures huddled under a flickering street lamp, their movements jerky, unnatural. as you approached, their eyes, glazed and vacant, fixed on you.

"hey, pretty thing, all alone?" one slurred, his voice hoarse, lewd grin spreading across his face.

"where you going in such a hurry?" another whistled, a long, drawn out sound that made your skin crawl.

you kept walking, pace quickening, eyes fixed straight ahead. don’t look. don’t engage. don’t acknowledge. your heart hammered a frantic drum against your ribs. you felt exposed, vulnerable, felt the harsh reality of the street.

your car door shut like a beacon of safety at the end of the block. you fumbled for your keys, fingers clumsy with fear, gripping the steering wheel with knuckles white the whole drive back home, breath coming in ragged gasps. not daring to glance in the rearview mirror once. you drove faster than necessary.

this was not your world. this was not where you belonged. you would never come back. you promised yourself that, a vow whispered into the empty, echoing space of your car, a promise etched in the raw, aching fear still thrumming beneath your skin.

the click of the lock echoed. inside, the air heavy with scent of instant noodles and something sweet, like canned peaches. a white plastic container sat on the kitchen counter, half-eaten, a pair of chopsticks resting beside it. san had takeout. a cold knot tightened in your stomach. you forgot to make him dinner earlier. another layer to the evening’s sour taste.

san, shirtless, was just shrugging out of his work trousers when you entered the room, his back to you. he paused, one leg still in the pant leg, turning his head at the sound of your entrance. his brown eyes, warm and steady, widened slightly.

"you’re back early," he said, the words a quiet murmur in the hushed room. a flicker of surprise crossed his face. he finished pulling off his pants, tossing them onto the laundry hamper with an easy flick of his wrist.

you managed a weak nod, the muscles in your face protesting the effort, too tired to feign a smile. your gaze slid past him, landing on the bathroom door. escape. you moved towards it.

"y/n." his voice stopped you mid stride. you looked over your shoulder, hand hovering over the cool brass doorknob.

"what’s that smell?"

you didn't turn around, the lie already forming on your tongue, bitter pill. "i... i fell into a puddle earlier."

a beat of silence stretched, taut and thin. you watched him, standing there, his brow furrowed, processing your words. you waited for the follow up, the gentle probing, the concern that used to laced his questions. but it didn’t come.

"oh," he said, the single syllable flat, devoid of inflection. he picked up his shirt from the bed, pulling it over his head, then pulled back the covers.

you finally turned, gaze fixed on his retreating back, already settling in. your eyes traced the strong line of his shoulder, the curve of his neck. he was there, and he wasn't. is that all you’re going to ask? the words hovered on your tongue, sharp and desperate. you wanted him to push, to see through your flimsy lie, to demand more. you wanted him to care enough to unravel the carefully constructed facade. almost, you wanted him to know. to know about the music, the drugs, the woman, the fear, the suffocating loneliness that had driven you there in the first place.

"is that all you’re going to ask?" you heard yourself say.

he paused, his hand reaching for the bedside lamp. "is there something else i should know?'

your heart hammered against your ribs. this was it. the open door. the invitation. a single word, a sigh, a broken sentence, and the truth would spill out. you needed to test the boundaries, to see how far he would go, how deep he would dig.

"no," you said, the lie tasting like ash. your gaze held his, searching for a flicker of doubt, a hint of suspicion, anything that would tell you he wasn’t buying it.

he held your gaze for a moment longer, then his lips curved into a small, almost imperceptible smile. "okay then." he reached for the lamp, plunging the room into near darkness. he shifted, settling deeper into the pillows.

a choked sound, a low groan of frustration, escaped your lips. he hadn’t pushed. he hadn’t questioned. he hadn’t cared enough to look beyond the surface. you turned abruptly, stalking towards the bathroom, the door slamming shut behind you with a satisfying thud. the sound echoed, a punctuation mark on your silent fury.

san lay in the sudden darkness, his eyes wide open. the faint aroma of something acrid you brought and he couldn't quite place, still lingered in the air. a puddle, he thought. she fell in a puddle. it sounded plausible enough. you were clumsy sometimes, always lost in your own thoughts. he trusted you. he trusted you completely. a small smile touched his lips. it was good you were out, seeing old friends. you needed that. a small part of him felt a pang of guilt for not being able to provide more excitement, more spontaneity in your life. but he was working for your future, for your stability, to provide for you. he believed that was love, that was care. he rolled onto his side, pulling the duvet up to his chin. he heard the shower running, the sound a soft, comforting hum. he closed his eyes, his mind already drifting to tomorrow's spreadsheets, the complex equations that made perfect sense in a world that often didn't. everything was fine. you were having fun. it was okay if you forgot dinner sometimes. you could always order takeout. he was happy. he assumed you were too.

the next morning, the apartment hummed with the usual rhythm of your routine. you woke before him, the first rays of dawn painting the bedroom walls a soft grey. you made the bed, pulling the sheets taut, plumping the pillows with practiced ease. the scent of freshly brewed coffee soon filled the air, followed by the sizzle of eggs in the pan.

san emerged from the bedroom, showered and dressed in his crisp white shirt and specifically tailored pants. he kissed your cheek, a soft brush of lips, and then sat at the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone.

it became a monotonous cycle of routine.

you'd have your small talk, watch him eat, his movements precise, efficient, and then he was out the door. then, you'd wander into the bedroom, the perfectly made bed an ironic symbol of your life. you'd pick up your phone, cold blinding glass, and scrolled through social media. endless stream of meaningless shorts of nothing. you'd sink yourself in bed and let the hours melt. youtube videos, a reality show you cared about for two hours, articles about celebrity gossip. anything to fill the void, to drown out the insistent whisper of your own thoughts.

you woke him, prepared his meals, vaguely cleaned what was obvious. but the moments in between stretched, vast and empty. you spent them in bed, phone in hand, the world outside shrinking to the confines of your screen. at night, you wouldn't sleep. every shadow twisted into a threat, every creak of the floorboards a reminder of unspoken dangers. san had simply mentioned you seemed a little tired. you’d blame it on a bad dream, a headache. anything but the truth. the vibrant, productive life you once shared with san, the shared dreams, the late night conversations, they felt like a distant memory, replaced by this quiet, isolated existence.

one evening, san’s footsteps echoed in the hallway, the familiar jingle of his keys preceding his entrance. he walked into the kitchen, his briefcase thudding softly onto the counter. he paused, his eyes scanning the immaculate space. the stovetop was clean, the counters clear. no scent of cooking, no simmering pots.

"i ordered pizza," you said, voice flat, emerging from the living room where you sat on the sofa, scrolling through your phone. the thought of cooking, of meticulously chopping vegetables and stirring pots, felt like an insurmountable task. the effort, the pretense of normalcy, was too much. you simply couldn’t.

"okay," his voice quiet. you couldn't decipher his tone, surprise? confusion? whatever.

for once, he didn't immediately take his laptop. he watched you, his expression unreadable. he picked up a slice, silence punctuated only by the soft chewing sounds.

"i spoke to noeul today," he said, cutting through the quiet.

you froze, a slice of pizza halfway to your mouth. "oh?" you asked, trying to sound nonchalant, but your voice came out a little too sharp.

"she was wondering why you stood her up for lunch," he continued, took another bite of pizza, his eyes still fixed on you.

"i... i wasn't feeling well," you swallowed, the pizza suddenly tasting like cardboard.

he paused, chewing slowing. his dark eyes, usually so placid, held a new depth, a subtle intensity. he studied your face, his gaze searching, probing.

"is everything okay, y/n?" he asked, the question soft, gentle, yet it hit you with the force of a blow. this was the first time in weeks, months even, that he had truly looked at you, truly asked.

you felt a wave of conflicting emotions wash over you. relief that he was finally seeing, finally asking. fear that he would see too much. anger that it had taken him this long. a desperate, clinging hope that he might actually understand.

you opened your mouth, but what could you say? no, san. everything is not okay. i’m lonely. melancholic. i’m lost. i’ve been hanging out with people who smoke weed and threaten me. i lied to you. i don’t know who i am anymore. the truth felt too vast, too overwhelming, too ugly to articulate.

you closed your mouth, nodding slowly. "yes," you whispered, the lie a refuge. "everything’s fine."

he didn’t push further. he simply nodded, a slow thoughtful movement. he finished his pizza in silence, his eyes occasionally flicking towards you. he didn't know what to do. he thought he was doing everything right, providing stability, working hard. but he felt that something wasn't actually right. he could feel it. and for the first time, the thought that his stability might not be enough began to gnaw at him.

୨୧

"well, well, well," you couldn't see seonghwa's face through the phone but you just knew a smile stretched across his face, all teeth and charm. "look who finally decided to give signs of life."

you took a breath, "i’m sorry about that. i felt a little... overwhelmed."

"overwhelmed?" he chuckled a sound that grated. "we had a blast, though. sally was asking where you went."

a forced light laugh came out of you. "i'm sorry, it's just... don't take this the wrong way but, i don't think it's my scene."

the seconds of silence made you more nervous than you liked to admit. "oh? why’s that? did anna scare you off? she’s all bark, no bite, you know."

"it’s not anna." you walked to the window, staring out at the streets. "it’s just not... it’s not for me." you chose your words carefully.

"not for you, huh... too much for the perfect little housewife?"

you didn't know what to say, or even if you should reply. this is not the way you had wanted to come off.

"come on, y/n. " his tone shifted again, becoming almost playful, seductive. "you can’t just ditch us. we were just getting to know you. and you, me, we had a connection, didn’t we?"

you closed your eyes and sighed. "i appreciate the invitation, seonghwa. but i really don’t think it’s a good idea."

"wait, wait, wait." his voice was quick, slightly desperate. "don’t hang up. this saturday. it’ll be different. i promise."

"different how?"

"no loud music. no... overwhelming crowds." he mimicked your earlier word with annoyance. "it’ll be at my place. daylight. we’ll just chill. listen to some records. maybe sally will bring her new bass. anna her camera, snap some pictures. it’ll be... a real hangout. no pressure. just us."

a day hangout. at his place. no crowds. the thought of seeing anna, of making sure she was okay, flickered. and sally. you’d genuinely liked sally. you chewed on your lip, disappearing without a trace, even from people who were clearly not good for you, felt... rude. you were not rude. you prided yourself on your manners, on leaving things tidily. this would be your last clean exit. a proper goodbye.

"it'll be calm? no substances?" you asked with a small voice.

"yeah. we'll just chill."

you sighed, a long, slow release of air. "fine. but if it gets crazy, i’m leaving."

"deal!" his voice triumphant. "i’ll text you the address. saturday. two o’clock. don’t be late, y/n."

you hung up on him, the silence of the kitchen pressing in on you. a mistake? probably. but you had to make things right. you had to say goodbye. properly.

the next few days were a flurry of quiet preparations. you found a well loved cookbook at a second hand store, it's pages dog eared and stained with flour. sally had seemed genuinely interested in your chicken tacos, you remember her bouncing as she peered over your shoulder. a small childish bunny stuffed animal, soft and grey, caught your eye in a boutique window. anna’s son. he deserved a little softness in a world that seemed so hard. you wrapped the gifts carefully, a futile attempt to infuse them with the warmth you wished you could offer.

saturday afternoon, the sun bright in the sky. you drove, the directions seonghwa had texted leading you through unfamiliar streets, past industrial parks and forgotten warehouses. the address finally brought you to a hidden nook, tucked away behind a row of dilapidated auto shops. a trailer park. a small, unexpected community of metal boxes, each with it's own patch of scraggly grass and faded plastic lawn ornaments. you hadn’t known such a place existed in the heart of the city.

seonghwa’s trailer, a faded blue, stood at the end of a gravel path. your stomach twisted. you clutched the gifts tighter, the paper rustling. you knocked, a soft tap that felt too polite for the setting. the door creaked open, revealing him. his hair looking a little disheveled, as if he’d just woken up. a faint smell of something herbal, not entirely unpleasant, wafted from inside.

"oh, you actually came." he grinned as he rubbed the weariness out of his face.

"i said i would." you offered a small smile, trying to ignore the sudden awkwardness that settled between you. "i brought some things." you held up the wrapped gifts.

"oh, for me?" he reached for them, but you pulled back slightly.

"no. for sally and anna’s son."

his hand dropped, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "right. well, come on in. you’re the first one here."

the trailer was small, surprisingly neat but dim. a worn couch, covered in a faded floral sheet, dominated the living area. a small television flickered silently in the corner, displaying a nature documentary. a guitar leaned against the wall. it felt... lived in.

"make yourself at home," he gestured vaguely at the couch. "the others should be here any minute. mark’s always late. sally said she had to pick up some new strings. anna… well, anna’s anna." he laughed, a short, nervous sound.

you sat on the edge of the couch, placing the gifts carefully beside you. the cushions sagged beneath you, smell of old fabric rised to meet you. the silence, punctuated only by the chirping of unseen birds on the television, was deafening. you felt a sudden urge to fill it, to chatter, to ask about his band, about anything. but you couldn't.

"want something to drink?" he asked, already moving towards a small, cluttered kitchenette.

"just water, please." you watched him, his movements surprisingly graceful for someone so wiry. he pulled out two glasses, poured a clear liquid from a plastic bottle into one, and then, to another one that was already sitting on the counter. he didn’t seem to notice your gaze.

a tiny, insistent voice in the back of your mind, screamed. you took the glass, your fingers brushing his, skin rough. you brought the glass to your lips, pretending to take a sip, letting the rim touch your mouth, but not letting any liquid pass.

"so," he said, settling beside you on the couch, much closer than you would have preferred. "how’s... housewifing?"

you stiffened. "it’s good. i like it."

"yeah? seems a little... boring for someone like you." he leaned back, his arm brushing yours. the contact made your skin prickle.

"it’s not boring,”°"you said, maybe a little too quickly. "i like taking care of things. taking care of san."

"san." he said the name slowly, like tasting it. "busy guy, huh?"

"he works hard," you defended automatically. "he provides for us."

"yeah, i bet." he turned his body fully towards you, knee touching yours. his gaze dropping to your hands, clasped tightly in your lap. "but does he... pleasure you?"

you looked at him in shock, offended. your cheeks flushed crimson, a wave of heat rushing through you. shock, outrage, and a deep, mortifying embarrassment tangled together. you stared at him, mouth agape, unable to form a single word. the flickering television, the stale air, his proximity, it all coalesced into a suffocating pressure. "what did you just say?"

he didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. his eyes held yours, unwavering. "i mean, you’re bright, y/n. you’re smart. you’ve got this... spark. yet you spend your days fucking, polishing silverware and waiting for some suit to come home. does he ever even make you feel good?"

your heart hammered against your ribs. "i like polishing silverware. i like making a home."

"do you?" he reached out, his fingers tracing a pattern on your arm, just above your elbow. "or do you just tell yourself that because it’s what you think you’re supposed to do?"

you flinched, pulling your arm away. "i don’t appreciate that, seonghwa."

"just being honest. that’s what friends do, right?" he leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

the small, dusty clock on the wall pointed at four, you glanced at it, then at the door, wishing that your eyes could pierce a hole and reveal other people, anyone. yet no one else had arrived. the pit in your stomach deepened. "maybe i should call sally. or anna."

"nah, don’t bother." he waved a dismissive hand. "they probably won't even come. you know how it is." he paused, a predatory glint appeared in his round eyes. "guess it’ll be just us."

the words rang heavy and suffocating. it clicked. a cold, sickening realization washed over you. there was never "others." you had been tricked. the gifts, the polite goodbyes, all of it a naive delusion.

"oh." you stood up abruptly, the movement jarring. "i... i think i should go. maybe i should come back when the others arrive." your mind raced, scrambling for an excuse, anything to get out. you tried to infuse your voice with a calm you didn’t feel, to make it sound like a reasonable suggestion, not a desperate plea.

"don’t be stupid, y/n. you just got here." he stood and pulled you towards him. the close proximity of his body, the insufferable smell of weed making you almost gag. "you’re lonely, aren’t you? i see it in your eyes. the way you just exist and he doesn't even notice."

"i don’t know what you mean." your voice trembled.

"why? you don’t want to admit it?" he leaned closer, breath warm against your ear. his insidious words pricked at the spots. the truth of them, despite the venomous delivery, stung. but the way he was using them, twisting them, made your skin crawl.

you tried to push past him, a surge of adrenaline making you bold. “let me go.”

he grabbed your arm, his fingers tightening around your wrist. "no." he pulled you back, hard, sending you stumbling onto the couch. the gifts clattered to the floor. he pinned you there, his face inches from yours. "i know you don’t love him. you're goddamn pathetic with him and everyone sees it."

you felt a surge of adrenaline, a pumping desperate need to escape. “you don’t know anything about me. or san.” you pulled harder, twisting your body, trying to create distance.

he didn’t let go. instead, his other hand came up, resting on your arm, his thumb stroking your skin. "i know you don't love him. i know you’re unhappy." the accusation, so utterly false, ignited a furious spark within you. "why else would you keep coming back here?"

"you’re wrong!" sharp and venomous, your voice cut through the fear. "you’re completely wrong. i love san. i love him more than anything. and i would never, ever be unfaithful to him. especially not with... with someone like you!" the last words, raw and unfiltered, spilled from your lips. the thought of betraying san, of allowing this man to even suggest such a thing, filled you with a righteous anger.

a vein throbbed in his temple. for a terrifying moment, you thought he might strike you. his face contorted, a mask of rage. primal scream ripped through your mind, though no sound escaped your lips. a sudden, visceral revulsion surged through you, a raw, untamed force you hadn’t known you possessed. you didn’t think, you reacted. with a guttural cry that was more gasp than sound, you twisted your body, yanking your arm free from his grasp with a strength born of pure terror. you stumbled back, tripping over your own feet, but you caught yourself, your eyes wide, fixed on him.

"hey, y/n, calm down. let's talk-" his face a mask of something ugly. he took a step towards you, his hand still outstretched.

"don’t you touch me!" you shrieked, the words finally tearing free holding a fierce conviction.

with a desperate lunge, you pushed past him and found the doorknob, fingers clumsy with terror and heart pounding against your ribs. please, please be unlocked. the knob turned protesting a squeal. a small miracle. you yanked it open, the weak sunlight blinding you for a moment.

you didn’t look back. you ran. the gravel crunched under your shoes, the faded blue trailer shrinking behind you. you didn’t stop until you reached your car, fumbling with the keys, your hands shaking so violently you could barely push the button. you threw yourself inside, locking the doors, lungs burning. the engine roared to life, and you sped away, leaving the trailer park, the sickly rose bush, and the terrifying encounter in a cloud of dust. the gifts lay forgotten on the floor of the trailer, naive hope, now shattered.

୨୧

"i ran into someone today."

"at the market?"

"an old friend. from high school. apparently some of them still hang out and, i was invited."

"that's good, you should go."

"really? you don't mind?"

"why would i mind? it's good for you to see people, you're always here. you should get out more."

"i mean... i haven't seen them in years. since graduation, probably."

"people change, that's okay. it'll be nice to reconnect. you've been cooped up, it's good to have plans."

"i guess so."

knees drawn to your chest, the phone thrown to the cushion next to you. you had to call him, you really had to, and he did leave. cheeks damp, tiny ragged sobs caught in your throat, you barely registered when the door swung open. he stood at the doorway, crisp button down now slightly rumpled, his tie loosened. his eyes scanned the room, then landed on you. he didn't say anything, just kicked the door shut with his heel and moved towards you deliberately.

"san," you choked out a fragile whisper, "i'm so sorry. i'm so, so sorry i made you come home."

he didn't answer with words, simply sunk onto the couch beside you, the springs protesting faintly. his strong arms wrapped around your shaking shoulders, pulling you into his chest. the clean, subtle cedar scent of his cologne filled your senses, chasing away the lingering stench of smoke and fear. you buried your face in his shirt and let the dam break.

hot and stinging tears streamed down your face, soaking into his shirt. each sob tore through you, tearing sounds you hadn't realized you were holding back. his hand moved to the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair, holding you close. he didn't try to stop the tears, didn't offer empty platitudes. he just held you, a silent comforting presence.

"it’s okay," he murmured, his voice a low rumble against your ear, "it's okay, y/n. i'm here."

fingers fisted in his shirt, the fabric stretching taut. the world outside the circle of his arms ceased to exist. there was only the steady beat of his heart, the warmth of his body, the gentle rhythm of his breathing. time stretched and blurred. you cried until your throat ached, until your eyes felt swollen and raw, until the tremors in your body slowly began to subside.

when the sobs dwindled to quiet sniffles, you pulled back slightly, your head still resting against his shoulder, your gaze fixed on the intricate weave of his shirt. a deep, shuddering breath hitched in your chest.

"i… i need to tell you something," you whispered.

he squeezed your shoulder gently. "take your time."

the silence stretched, heavy with unspoken things. you needed to say it, all of it. the truth, ugly and raw, demanded to be set free.

"i haven’t been... i haven’t been doing well, san," you began, your voice still hoarse. "not really. i mean, i love being home. i love our apartment, i love cooking for you, taking care of everything. i really do. but" you carefully searched for the right words, the words that wouldn’t sound like an accusation. "it got... lonely. really lonely."

at his arm tightening around your waist, you glanced up at his face. his brow was furrowed, his eyes filled with a deep, quiet concern, but no judgment.

"i know you work hard," you continued, rushing the words out before you could lose your nerve. "i know you do it for us, for our future, and i appreciate it, san, i really do. sometimes, i just... i just want to talk. to someone. about anything. about my day, about a stupid show i watched, about a new recipe i found. just... to talk. and you're not there."

he didn’t interrupt, just listened, his gaze steady on your face.

"and then… i met seonghwa again."

the name plastered, foreign and sharp. san’s head tilted slightly, a flicker of confusion crossing his features.

"seonghwa?" he repeated, the name unfamiliar on his tongue. "who is... i thought you said you were meeting anna? your old classmate?"

your heart sank at his innocence, at how you had let him assume with unclear conversations.

"no, anna is... seonghwa’s friend,” you explained, the words tumbling out. "she’s part of his group. he was my classmate in high school. not a close one, but... yeah. he’s the one i ran into at the supermarket."

san’s placid eyes held a hint of something unreadable. he still didn’t speak, just waited.

"i didn’t mean for any of it to happen," you confessed, your voice cracking again. "i just... i just wanted to be included. to feel like i was part of something. they seemed so... free. and easy. and i was so lonely." you paused, drawing a shaky breath, preparing for the hardest part. "at first it seemed harmless. they were just... different than me, something new. but then it escalated. the parties. the noise. the... the smoke.” you hesitated, then forced yourself to say it. "i... i smoked weed, san. once. i know, i know it was stupid. i’m so sorry."

tears welled up again and you squeezed your eyes shut, bracing for his reaction. but he still didn’t say anything, just held you closer, so you continued and everything spilled. the memories flooding back, sharp and vivid. from the hazy afternoons to the girl, her unnatural stillness and anna's so, so young son yet already involved into such a chaotic world. your voice broke with the image behind eyelids. then today, at seonghwa's. reliving the terror, the helplessness, made you shiver with a torrent of fear and disgust and self reproach.

you dissolved into fresh sobs, the weight of the confession crushing you. you waited for anger, for disappointment, for the distance to grow between you even more. but instead, his arms tightened around you, pulling you even closer.

"y/n," he said, his voice deeper than usual, a quiet intensity in his tone. "look at me."

you reluctantly lifted your head, tear streaked face meeting his gaze. his eyes were now clouded with a raw pain that mirrored your own.

"you have nothing to be sorry for," he stated, his voice firm, unwavering. "not for feeling lonely. not for wanting connection. and not for trying to find it." he paused, his thumb stroking your cheek, wiping away a tear. "i’m the one who should be sorry. i let you feel that way. i let you feel so alone that you had to look for it somewhere else. i was so caught up in work, in making sure we had everything we needed, that i forgot to give you what you actually needed. me."

fresh tears pricking your eyes, you shook your head. "no, san. that’s not fair. you work so hard. you provide everything. i should have just told you. i should have talked to you. i just... i didn’t want to cause conflict. i didn’t want to seem ungrateful."

"conflict is part of a relationship, y/n," he countered softly. "it’s how we grow. and you are never ungrateful. i know you. i just... i wasn’t listening. i wasn’t seeing. i was so focused on building a future, i forgot to live in the present. with you." his gaze was intense, full of regret. "i saw you, every morning, making the bed perfectly. i saw the dinners you planned. i saw the baked goods you made, and gave away. i thought... i thought you were happy. i thought that was just you, being you. i didn’t realize it was... a symptom. i thought stability meant happiness. i thought if i provided for everything, you wouldn’t have to worry. i thought that was how i showed you i loved you. but i forgot to show you i loved you with my time. with my presence. with my words."

"but i should have said something," you insisted, your voice still thick with guilt. "i let it fester. i bottled it up. i smoked weed behind your back. that’s not okay, san. that’s not okay."

"and it’s not okay that i left you feeling so emotionally neglected that you felt like you had to," he countered, his voice gentle but firm. "we both made mistakes, y/n. mine was in being absent. yours was in not speaking up. but none of that changes how much i still love you."

he pulled you back into his embrace, holding you tightly, his chin resting on the top of your head. you could feel the steady beat of his heart against your ear. a comforting, familiar rhythm.

"i love you, y/n," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. "more than anything. and i am so, so sorry that you went through all of that. that you were scared. that you were hurt. that you felt alone. i promise you, you will never feel that way again. not with me."

you clung to him, tears still flowing, but these were different. these were tears of relief, of release, of a profound love finally understood. you felt the tension that had been coiled in your chest for months slowly unwind, dissolving into the warmth of his embrace.

"i love you too, san," you sobbed, the words muffled against his shirt. "i love you so much."

held for a long time, the only sounds the quiet sniffles, the soft rustle of clothes, the steady rhythm of two hearts beating in unison. the city outside grew darker, the streetlights casting long, pale shadows through the window. but inside, in the circle of his arms, a fragile light had begun to glow. it wasn’t a solution, not yet. but it was a new beginning.

୨୧

morning rays painted stripes across the duvet. you stirred, the warmth beside you a comforting anchor. san’s arm, heavy and solid, rested across your waist. his breath, slow and even, feathered against your neck. you turned your head, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. the memory of yesterday, the raw vulnerability, the shared tears, a fragile precious thing.

quiet sigh escaping your lips, you stretched with a yawn. the bed felt different today, lighter, like a burden had lifted. you eased yourself from his embrace, careful not to wake him, and padded into the kitchen. the choreography of making coffee began. the gentle hum of the machine, the rich aroma blooming in the air. you poured two mugs, placing san’s on his bedside table before returning to your side of the bed, he still slept.

you traced the line of his jaw with your finger, the slight stubble rough beneath your touch. his eyelashes, thick and dark, rested against his skin. a small, almost imperceptible smile touched your lips.

"morning," his voice, deep and gravelly with sleep, startled you. his eyes slowly opened, finding yours.

"morning, sannie," you whispered, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his temple.

he stretched, his big arms flexing, the muscles taut beneath his skin. he reached for you, pulling you closer until your head rested on his shoulder. "i’m not going to work today."

you blinked, pulling back slightly to look at him. "what?"

"i said, i’m not going to work today," he repeated, his thumb stroking the skin of your arm. "or tomorrow. i took the weekend off."

a small, disbelieving laugh bubbled out of you. "you did not. you never take the weekend off. you have that big report due monday."

he shifted, propping himself up on an elbow, his gaze steady. "i called lee at like 3 am. he’s covering. the report can wait. we can’t."

your heart gave a small, hopeful flutter. the words, simple and direct, resonated deep within you. you reached up, cupping his cheek. his skin felt warm against your palm.

"really?" you asked thin with emotion.

he nodded, a soft smile gracing his lips, revealing the faint indentations of his dimples. "really."

the weight that had pressed down on your chest for so long began to ease, replaced by a lightness you hadn’t felt in months. you leaned into him, burying your face in his neck, inhaling the familiar scent of his skin, a mix of sleep and his subtle leftover cologne.

"what are we going to do?" you murmured, the question laced with a hesitant joy.

he held you tighter. "whatever you want. show me your world, y/n."

a lump formed in your throat. you pulled back, a small, genuine smile blooming on your face. "okay," you breathed. "okay."

the morning unfolded slowly for once, no rush to get ready, no frantic dash for him to find a parking spot. you made a more elaborate breakfast than usual, eggs scrambled with herbs, crisp bacon, and slices of avocado. he watched you, perched on a stool at the kitchen island, his phone conspicuously absent. he simply watched, gaze attentive, as you moved with a quiet efficiency.

he ate with a quiet appreciation, savoring each bite. the silence between you was no longer heavy with unspoken words, but comfortable, filled with the soft clink of forks against plates, the distant chirping of birds.

after breakfast, you led him to the bedroom and demonstrated your bed making routine, movements precise and practiced. he watched, his head tilted, an expression mixed with amusement and curiosity.

the hours melted into a gentle rhythm. you showed him your small rituals. the way you organized the pantry, grouping spices by frequency of use. the careful sorting of laundry, whites, colors, delicates. the methodical scrubbing of the bathroom, each surface gleaming. he followed you, your silent observer, occasionally offering a helping hand.

you found yourself talking more than you had in months, explaining the logic behind your choices, the small satisfactions you found in these mundane tasks. he listened, truly listened, his eyes never leaving your face. it was no longer how are you? but why do you do this that way?

lunch was a rather simple affair, sandwiches and fruit, eaten at the kitchen counter. you found yourself telling him about a new recipe you wanted to try, a complicated japanese stew you’d been researching. he listened, asking questions about the ingredients, the cooking process. it felt like a real conversation, not just a series of perfunctory exchanges.

as dusk began to settle, casting a soft, blue hue through the apartment, you found yourselves in the living room. you moved the large, plush couch, pushing it closer to the wide window that overlooked the street below. the city lights began to twinkle a distant murmur from the streets.

you sat side by side, the comfortable silence settling around you once more. he reached out, his hand slowly finding your arm. his fingers traced a gentle path from your wrist to your elbow, a soft reassuring touch. you leaned your head against his shoulder, inhaling his scent, feeling the steady beat of his heart against your ear.

the silence stretched, not empty, but full of unspoken emotions, of rediscovered intimacy. you watched the cars pass below, their headlights cutting through the growing darkness.

after a long while, he stirred. his hand tightened on your arm, then he slowly, gently, pulled you onto his lap. your legs tangled with his, your body molding against his hard frame. he shifted, adjusting you until you were nestled perfectly, your back against his chest. his lips found your shoulder, pressing a soft kiss, then moving to the delicate skin of your neck. a shiver ran through you, a small, involuntary gasp escaping your lips. he kissed the sensitive spot just beneath your ear, and a soft giggle bubbled up from your chest.

"you okay? is this okay?" he murmured.

you nodded, your head resting against his shoulder. "more than okay."

he pulled back slightly, turning you so you faced him, his hands resting on your hips. his brown eyes held a tenderness that made your breath catch.

"y/n," he began, his voice soft, almost hesitant. "do you... do you ever think about kids?"

୨୧

effortlessly, he laid you gently on the bed, following you down, his body a warm weight against yours. his lips found yours, soft at first, then deepening, hungry desperation underlying the tenderness. your mouth opened beneath his, inviting him in. his tongue tangled with yours, a slow, sensual dance, tasting of coffee and him.

"mine," he murmured against your mouth, pulling back just enough to whisper the word. "you’re mine, y/n. no one else’s."

his hands, large and strong, moved to the hem of your shirt, slowly, deliberately, pulling it up and over your head. the cool air brushed against your skin for a moment before his hands were there, warm and firm, stroking your sides, your ribs, the soft skin of your belly.

you arched into his touch, a soft moan escaping your throat. you reached for his shirt, fingers trembling slightly. he helped, peeling the fabric from his broad shoulders, revealing the taut muscles of his chest before he reached around, touch gentle, unfastening the hook of your bra. the lace fell away, revealing your breasts, full and soft in the dim light. he stared, his gaze lingering and before you knew it, he leaned down, lips closing over one nipple, drawing it into his mouth. a jolt of pure pleasure shot through you. he sucked, softly at first, then harder, his tongue swirling around the sensitive peak. your breath hitched, your fingers tangling in his dark hair, holding him closer. he moved to the other breast, suckling with equal fervor, his free hand stroking your side, making goosebumps rise on your skin.

"so beautiful," he breathed, pulling back to look at your flushed face. "so fucking beautiful."

rough with desire, igniting a fire deep within you. you reached for the button of his jeans, eager to shed the remaining barriers between you, pushing them down his hips, along with his boxers. his cock sprang free, already hard and engorged, glistening in the dim light. you reached for him, your fingers wrapping around his heat, stroking the soft skin. he groaned, his head falling back against the pillow.

"baby," he gasped, his voice strained. "god, y/n."

you continued to stroke him, feeling the pulse of his arousal against your palm. your own desire mounted, a burning ache between your legs. he reached for your shorts, pulling them down with your panties. the cool air kissed your bare skin, a fleeting sensation before his hand was there, warm and knowing, finding the wetness between your thighs.

his fingers parted your folds, gently, slowly, exploring the slickness, the delicate curves of your clit. you gasped, your hips arching instinctively. he dipped a finger inside you, then another, preparing you. you were already so wet, your body aching for him. a soft squelching sound accompanied his movements, a wet, intimate symphony.

"so wet," his voice husky, eyes never leaving yours. "for me."

he watched your face, gauging your reactions, thumb circling your clit, drawing out whimpers and soft cries from deep within your throat. you writhed beneath his touch, your body trembling, on the precipice of release.

"please," you pleaded, your voice hoarse. "san, please."

he shifted, kneeling between your legs. his heavy cock, slick with your wetness, brushed against your opening. you gasped, a desperate sound. he hesitated, looking into your eyes, a possessive fire burning in his gaze.

"say..." he whispered, slightly overwhelmed already. "say you’re mine."

"yours," you choked out, tears stinging your eyes, a heady mix of pleasure and raw emotion. "i’m yours, san. only yours."

he entered you then, slowly, pushing past the soft resistance, filling you completely. a deep groan rumbled in his chest as he buried himself within you. you cried out, a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure. he paused, letting you adjust, letting your body stretch and encompass him. the feeling was overwhelming, profound sense of fullness, of belonging.

he began to move, slow, deliberate rhythm at first, his hips rocking against yours. the friction was exquisite, the sound of your bodies joining, a wet, rhythmic shlicking. he pulled back almost completely, then drove back in, deep and hard, a sigh escaping his lips. your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer, urging him deeper.

"mine," he repeated, each thrust punctuated by the word. "no one will ever... have you like this, only me."

the pace quickened, becoming more urgent, more primal. he pounded into you, each stroke sending waves of pleasure through your core. your nails dug into his back, leaving faint red marks on his tanned skin. your hips rose to meet his, matching his rhythm, your bodies a blur of motion in the dim light. the bed creaked beneath you, a testament to the intensity of your passion.

he leaned down, capturing your mouth in a bruising kiss, his tongue plundering yours, tasting your desire, your cries muffled against his lips. your climax built, a tight coil in your belly, spreading outwards, consuming you. you bucked against him, your body convulsing around his cock. a guttural cry tore from your throat as you shattered, waves of pure bliss washing over you.

the thrusts got deeper, harder, his own climax building quickly on the heels of yours. groans and bodies tensing, hips slamming into yours one last time as he emptied himself deep inside you. his hot cum flooded you, warm thick rush that made you gasp.

collapsed and slick with sweat, your legs were still wrapped around him, intimately entwined. he buried his face in your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

"mine," he whispered the promise again. "forever."

fingers tangling in his damp hair, you held him close. the noise outside, the loneliness, the fear, all faded away, replaced by the overwhelming presence of him, of this rediscovered connection. you felt utterly safe, utterly loved, utterly his.

he shifted, pulling back slightly, propping himself on his elbows, his eyes soft, heavy lidded. he kissed your forehead, then your nose, then your lips, a tender exploration.

"i love you, y/n."

the words, so rarely spoken, so deeply felt, resonated through you. a fresh wave of tears pricked your eyes, but these were tears of joy, of relief, of a profound sense of peace.

"i love you too, san," you whispered back. "more than anything."

a new chapter had begun. a chapter filled with soft reassurances, intentional conversations, and a love that, though tested, had found it's way back home. the question of children lingered, a new seed planted in the fertile ground of your renewed intimacy, a promise of a future you could now, finally, envision together.

each day a thread re-stitched into the fabric of your life together. no longer a frayed edge, but a strengthening seam. the silence shedding it's heavy cloak of unspoken expectation. now, it held the hum of shared understanding, a quiet comfort that didn't demand filling. some days you still spent less time together than you'd wanted, yet, even then, the goodbye no longer felt like a hurried escape.

you learned to speak your needs, not with the tremor of a plea, but with the steady beat of a declaration. he listened, brow furrowing in concentration, his eyes soft with an empathy he’d struggled to articulate before. you saw the effort, the conscious wrestling with words that didn’t come easily to him. it was a language you were both learning, halting at first, then gaining fluency with each shared vulnerability. he’d ask about your day, not as a formality, but with genuine curiosity, sometimes even calling during his lunch break, a rare occurrence that made your heart do a little skip. love rediscovered, a future being built, one honest word, one tender touch, at a time.

your phone still buzzed with notifications from instagram. you scrolled past anna’s stories, a flurry of candid shots from her son’s fifth birthday party. a lopsided cake, sticky fingers, a wide, gap toothed grin. you tapped the little heart icon, then saw sally’s latest transformation, her hair now a vibrant neon green. she’d posted a picture of a sizzling pan, tagged with a question about your secret to perfectly crisp tofu. you sent back a detailed message, outlining marinades and pan temperatures, a smile touching your lips. you knew, and they knew, that the physical space between your worlds had widened, perhaps irrevocably. there was no expectation of meeting up, no casual invitations to late night gigs. seonghwa’s shadow still stretched too long, too dark, across that part of your memory. the thought of stepping back into that haze, even for a moment, made your stomach clench. you had found your way back to the light, and you were fiercely protective of it.

this morning, however, began with no alarms. skin to skin, a perfect fit. he had begged for five more minutes and how could you say no when his mouth was already moving in between your thighs? lazy swipes, you felt your muscles tense slightly, then relax, his hand finding your hip, drawing you closer, before moving your legs over his shoulders. his tongue stroked the soft skin of your pussy, a slow, hypnotic rhythm.

time dissolved. the soft rustle of sheets, the faint thumping of your heart against his. the world outside your bedroom, outside this intimate cocoon, ceased to exist. you were just two bodies, intertwined, rediscovering a forgotten language.

when your third orgasm of that morning alone hit, you pulled your head back, accidentally looking at the clock and freezing, a gasp escaping your lips. he pulled back slightly, his eyes still clouded with passion, then clearing with the dawning realization. a groan, this one of frustration, escaped him.

"shit, shit, shit," you cursed under your breath. "oh, san. you're going to be late."

a deep sigh, rueful sound laced with disappointment escaped him. you pushed yourself up, pulling the sheet with you, a sudden chill striking your skin. he ran a hand through his hair, dishevelled from sleep and your shared passion. "i know." he sat up, stretching, his muscles rippling, a sight that still made your breath catch. he threw his legs over the side of the bed, the sheet falling away, revealing the strong lines of his back, the curve of his shoulders and his half erect dick.

"go, go," you urged, though a part of you wanted to pull him back, to steal a few more precious minutes. you threw off the covers, padding naked to the closet, already mentally planning his lunch.

he glanced back, a wry smile on his face. "you’re not exactly helping." his eyes lingered on your retreating figure, a spark of lingering desire in them.

"i’m making your lunch. that’s helping." you laughed shyly, a clear sound before pulling out a crisp white shirt, a dark tie, laying them out on the bed for him.

when the sound of the shower starting grounded you, you moved with purpose, opening the fridge, pulling out containers. yesterday’s leftover bulgogi, a side of kimchi, some fresh fruit. you packed it all neatly into his bento box, arranging the colours, making it appealing.

now dressed in his dark suit trousers, he emerged from the bathroom, his shirt still unbuttoned, revealing a glimpse of his chest. his hair was damp, slicked back, making him look even more handsome, more put together. he came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your waist, pulling you back against his solid frame. chin rested on your shoulder, breath warm against your ear.

"i love you," he murmured, the words no longer feeling forced, but a natural outflow.

you leaned into him, closing your eyes for a moment. "i love you too," you replied, your voice thick with emotion.

he squeezed you gently, then released you, picking up his jacket. you followed him to the doorframe, a familiar ritual, but one that now held a deeper significance. he turned, his eyes searching yours, then he leaned down, his lips finding yours in a deep, lingering kiss. it was a kiss that spoke of hurried passion, of regret for lost time, and of promises for the future. his hand found your butt, giving it an extra, firm squeeze, a playful, intimate gesture that made you giggle.

"sannie, you have to go." you laughed against his lips.

"i know, just let me-"

he pulled you back in, tongues dancing against each other as he opened the door.

"you gotta... go... leave..." despite your protests, you were leaning into the kisses as well.

finally, when he pulled back, a wide grin appeared on his face, those dimples on full display. "i left something for you on the counter." his eyes twinkled.

your eyebrows rose in surprise. "oh?"

he just winked, then stepped out into the hallway. "have a good day," he called over his shoulder, already halfway down the corridor.

"you too." you watched him go with a warmth spreading through you, chasing away the morning chill. your cheeks burned pleasant blush. you closed the door, leaning against it for a moment, the echo of his kiss still on your lips.

a curious smile played on your lips. you turned, walking back into the kitchen, your eyes scanning the clean, uncluttered surface. amidst the neatly stacked mail and the fruit bowl, an envelope lay, pristine white, tucked beside the coffee maker.

your heart gave a little flutter. you picked it up, fingers tracing the simple, elegant script of your name. you recognized his handwriting, though it was slightly more rushed than usual, a testament to his morning scramble. you glanced back at the lace box that sat on your dresser. finally, a new companion piece awaited. you carefully tore open the seal, your breath held in anticipation.

you pulled out a single sheet of paper, folded neatly. it wasn’t a thick expensive stationery, but a page torn from a small, spiral bound notebook, perhaps one he kept for jotting down notes at work. the paper felt thin, slightly rough urough under your fingertips. the words were penned in his familiar, slightly cramped hand, some of them a little smudged, as if he’d written it quickly, probably during a stolen moment on his break.

you began to read, a soft smile blooming on your face.

my y/n:

you know how i am with words, they get stuck somewhere between my heart and my mouth. it’s frustrating. for both of us, i know. i think about that first letter i wrote you. it was bad. really bad. i cringed just thinking about it. but i tried, i guess, even if it doesn’t look like it. these past few weeks... they’ve been good, better. i hope it's the same for you. seeing you smile again, truly smile, it’s like the sun coming out after a long winter. i never want that winter to come back. i never want you to feel that coldness again. i was so blind. so stupid. i thought providing was enough but i was wrong. you taught me that. you always teach me things, even when you don’t mean to. i want to be better. for us. for you. i want to learn how to say these things out loud, not just write them down when no one’s looking. i’m sorry for the pain i caused. i’m sorry i let you feel alone. i promise to keep trying. to keep learning. to keep loving you, in all the ways you deserve. you are my home, y/n, my everything, my wife, and i will never ever let another man think they got a mere chance with you, never again. you're mine and i'm yours.

you're stuck with me, always.

san.

୨୧

These last few weeks have been the most impressive run of insanely crappy weeks you’ve ever had.

Everything just keeps going wrong. With work, with bills, and even a petty fight with one of your closest friends. To top it all off, your last phone call with your mother went awry too, with her complaining about your schedule and you getting a little too harsh on the phone. You regretted it immediately, but now she’s a little icy with you, which only dampens your mood further.

It has just been bad overall, so this shopping trip with Seungkwan is really something you need, even if you don’t have a whole lot of money to spend.

“Oh, I like this one.”

You hold the large coat up to your chest and turn to Seungkwan so he can take a look. It’s huge, falling all the way to your knees, and the fur is dark brown, a neutral and earthy color that looks shiny and smooth. It’s very soft to touch, and you have to wonder how it ended up in a thrift store. It looks and feels so high quality.

Seungkwan tilts his head as he appraises it. “Put it on.”

You do, standing in front of the full-length mirror for a better look. You turn to assess some angles, but you’re quickly being distracted from the way it looks, focusing more on the way it feels. It’s comforting as hell, and very warm. You’re still in awe that you managed to dig up something so good from this store.

“I’m getting it.” You announce before Seungkwan can even give his opinion. You don’t know why, but you really feel drawn to this coat. Something tells you that you need to own it. And after the shit week you’re having (it’s not even Wednesday), you think you deserve this. You haven’t bought anything new in ages. If this can give you a little boost of happiness when you feel like you’re drowning, then you won’t pass that opportunity up.

It doesn’t cost a lot, considering how wonderful it feels on your skin and the fact that you’re getting your next paycheck after the weekend. You feel a positive sensation jump in your chest as you walk out of the store, listening to Seungkwan whine about something work related. You’re quickly swept up in his emotions, augmenting his words and losing yourself in the conversation. You really do need to vent, and Seungkwan is the perfect person for something like that. He matches your energy, understands your struggle since he himself is afflicted with a terrible case of jerk-boss. You feel like you are shedding off pounds and pounds of negative build-up, which you are so thankful for.

Two more workdays follow your trip with Seungkwan, and they weigh heavily on you. By the time the weekend rolls around, you are so grateful you could cry. You need this, the relief of two whole days of no work. You get home on limbs that weigh like lead. With nothing but rotting in bed in your mind, you quickly change into something more comfortable, a loose shirt and leggings. You go through your streaming services to find something to watch as you cook. Just when you’re settling on the couch to start eating your freshly cooked meal, you hear a knock on your door.

Your eyebrows furrow, confused. For one, you aren’t expecting anyone. And for another, you have a doorbell, so the fact that someone is knocking makes even more questions arise. Before you can think further, there’s another knock, more insistent this time, and you’re quickly placing your bowl on the coffee table and scrambling to the door before you can wonder about who it might be. You curse the fact that front doors in your apartment building don’t have peepholes. You carefully unlock and open the door a tiny smidge, peering outside. You blink, confused at the sight.

It’s a man. He looks young, around your age, and has a head of thick, shaggy brown hair that is falling into his equally dark eyes. You look down, and you pause at what you’re seeing. He’s wearing a sweater vest over what looks like another sweater, both terribly mismatched. And he’s wearing…. a skirt?

Yes, it’s a plaid skirt. Deep maroon. Layered over dark denim jeans. And right below them, leather sandals.

You don’t even know what to say. You look back up at the man, and this time, he’s wearing a wide smile. His eyes are wide and bright, and you’re caught off guard by how cheerful he looks.

“Hi.” His voice is fresh, chirpy. You nod your head uncertainly.

“Hello.” Your own is uncertain and damp. You hold the edge of the door tightly, bracing yourself.

“My name is Chan.” He says.

You nod slowly. “Okay.” There’s no way in hell you are telling this stranger your name.

“May I come in?”

Your jaw drops at the question. Who is this man? Why is he dressed so strangely?

“Who are you?” You can’t help but scowl. You don’t have time for this. If this is some strange sales call or something, you are not interested.

The man blinks, as if confused by the question. “I’m Chan.”

Is he stupid? You stare at him for a moment. “Look, I don’t know you and whatever you’re selling, I’m not interested.”

As you go to close the door, the man rushes forward, knocking his palm on the wood and stopping it in place. You freeze, feeling slightly scared now. He immediately pulls his hand away, now fiddling with his fingers and looking incredibly nervous.

“I’m your husband.”

You blink once. Twice. He doesn’t say anything more, just stares like he has told you nothing more than a fact about the weather.

“Excuse me?”

He looks just as nervous, but he nods slowly. “You took my fur. You bought it. So I’m your husband.”

You are so confused and shocked that you don’t even realise you’ve opened the door properly. You’re just holding the doorframe now, jaw dropped, an incredulous look on your face as you eye him. He shifts a little uncomfortably, swaying back and forth as he wrings his hands.

“I’m a selkie.” He babbles. “You bought my fur. I’ve been looking everywhere for it. I lost it near the pier a few weeks ago. I can’t go back without it. But I’ve found it now. It belongs to you. Which means I belong to you now. I’m your husband.”

You don’t understand more than two words out of his mouth. Briefly, you think of drugs, and you edge the door slowly closed again.

“Listen,” you say, trying to keep annoyance and confusion out of your tone to make it more soft. Maybe he will listen to you that way. “There’s a shelter just a few blocks down. I promise you will find help there. I’m sure if you ask someone, they will tell you exactly where it is.”

You wave your arm to the left in a vague gesture for direction. He just stares at you. You fidget.

“I can’t leave.” He says. “You have my fur. I belong to you.”

You are starting to get a little scared, so you shake your head vaguely as you keep pushing the door closed. “Sorry. I can’t help you.”

You close the door before he can say anything else, immediately locking it. You stare at it for a second, listening. You can’t hear shuffling, or footsteps. You wonder if he has left.

You double check the locks before moving back inside, wondering what you should do. The whole interaction has left you a little shaken. You eye your now cold food, and the paused movie on your television screen. It only makes you grit your jaw and huff, feeling annoyed again. You have enough on your plate without worrying about some weirdo at your door. You can’t let this weigh on you. It’s probably a one-off, someone who just got confused. And you did try to help him, so hopefully he takes your advice.

But you can’t focus. Even as you sink onto your couch and finish absentmindedly eating, your stare blank as you watch the screen. You can’t help but think of the gibberish he spoke. Before you can stop yourself, you’re reaching for your laptop, pulling it towards you and opening the search bar. Quickly, you type ‘selkies’.

There’s so much you find. Page after page of what looks like old, Scottish lore. Sketches and paintings, as well as written text. They are sea creatures, like seals or otters, that can transform into humans by shedding their skins or furs. You remember the man’s words.

‘You have my fur. You bought it.’

As you keep reading, you learn that taking a selkie’s fur means having ownership of them. It symbolises an intimate, lifetime bond. Like mates, or spouses. You recall him calling himself your husband, making an uneasy feeling settle in your stomach. Everything he said somehow makes sense. It’s fantastical, and outlandish to think it might be real, but in the context of it all, it really isn’t random words strung together. Maybe he was confusing you with someone else. Maybe they are doing some weird role play thing. You’ve seen stuff like that on the internet.

Your phone dings. You absentmindedly look at the text. It’s from the lady who lives across from you.

[minyoung apt 34]: hey. theres a man sitting outside your door. should i call someone? are u home?

You stare at the text, confusion and a small bit of realisation dawning on you. You throw your phone on the couch and stand up, quickly beelining to the door and unlocking it, pulling it open.

He is sitting beside the door, back against the wall just to your right. He looks up when you appear, blinking at you. You gape at him.

“You’re still here.” It’s more of a statement than a question.

He nods. “I can’t leave.”

The cheery, bright tone seems to have drained out of him. He sounds….. sad, almost. Unsure. Like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His silly skirt is bunched up to his thighs, and the jeans are maybe two sizes too big for him. You hesitate, and then you make a very stupid decision. You brace yourself.

“Get up. Come on.”

He seems surprised, and honestly, so are you. You pull the door open more and step aside, watching him quickly scramble up. His face seems to have lightened, but he still looks apprehensive. Slowly, he walks in. You sigh deeply and shut the door behind him.

He’s looking around like he has never seen a house before. Or a living room. Four walls, pictures, a couch. His eyes are wide and beady as he stares at the television. You watch him carefully. In complete honesty, you don’t know why you invited him in. But there’s something in his voice that doesn’t ring any warning bells in your head. You’re sure your parents would have a heart attack if they heard of this, cursing at themselves and you for not instilling ‘stranger danger’ as well as they should have. But he doesn’t give you that vibe at all. When he turns to look at you again, there’s something earnest about it. Sincere.

You shift uncomfortably. “Chan, was it?”

He nods.

“And you’re… a selkie?”

His nod is even more vigorous this time.

“Okay.” You don’t know what to do with your hands. He keeps staring. “And you came here because…”

You prompt him to continue, and he does. “I’m your husband.”

You feel a flicker of irritation. “Yeah, you said that already. But I don’t know what that means.”

He frowns a little, lower lip jutting out. It’s almost cute. You shake the thought away.

“You bought my fur.”

You huff. “Yeah, I don’t know what exactly that is, but I don’t have anything of yours, buddy.”

He tilts his head, as if thinking hard. You start to regret inviting him in.

“I-it’s brown.” He says. “Dark brown. And very soft. A little heavy. And it smells like the sea.”

Your face smoothens in realisation. Wait, does he mean….?

The coat. Your newly bought fur coat. You haven’t worn it yet, since it’s a little too warm for the current weather. You’ve been waiting for a particularly cloudy and chilly day to put it on. Realisation dawns on you.

You leave Chan in your living room, taking less than a few seconds to find the thing and carry it back out. The way Chan’s face lights up at the sight of it has your heart racing. Again, you are hit with the reality of how sincere and pure he feels. No one can be this good an actor.

“You can have it.” You hold it out. “This is what you’re here for, right?”

While he looks happy to see the coat, he shakes his head, turning his bright eyes back to you. “I’m here for you.”

You feel your face heat a little, remembering the spouse and mate stuff you just looked up. You fidget where you stand, considering him.

God, your run of insanely crappy weeks just won’t end. And you really feel like you can’t deal with this right now. So you just huff and nod, feeling drained.

“Fine. But you will sleep on the couch until I know what to do with you.”

His resulting smile is so blinding, you wonder if there truly is something mythical about him.

…………………………………….

You don’t tell Seungkwan about Chan. Frankly, you’re still not sure what you will do about this whole situation, since you know that even if Chan leaves, he will just go back to sitting outside your door. He tells you as much himself. You also don’t know how supportive Seungkwan will be when he finds out that you have an unknown man living on your couch, claiming to be a supernatural creature of the sea. You honestly don’t have the energy for that lecture, or to convince Seungkwan that something deep in your chest is telling you that Chan is harmless. Maybe it’s the way he looks at you, a strange reverence in his eyes, like he has never seen something more fascinating in his life. Or maybe it’s the fact that he genuinely doesn’t know anything.

You find some of Seungkwan’s and your brother’s clothes in your stuff, telling him to change into a sweatshirt and pants and to take off whatever ridiculous clothing he is wearing. He looks much better that way, more normal, but he claims to feel weird.

“Are you sure this is enough clothes?” He looks uncertain. You can’t help but feel amused.

“Yes, because you’re indoors. You can put something else on top when you go outside.”

He nods, albeit a little hesitant. But he seems to trust your judgment.

When you offer him a meal, he accepts it carefully, eyeing the bowl of noodle soup like he has never seen it before. He picks at it, and makes a face when he eats it. He tries to quickly hide it, but he can’t fake anything to save his life, so you spot it immediately, and when you ask him what he usually eats, he lists varieties of fish and shellfish you have never heard of before. You do end up buying some for him, and conveniently, you don’t even have to cook it. He eats it raw.

“You would love sushi.” You quip as you watch him eat. When he gives you a confused look, you just shake your head and wave it off, mentally making a note to take him to a sushi place sometime.

Chan tells you he has never left the water before. His pack never trusted him enough to do it, and apparently they had been right. He lost his fur very quickly, without even realising, and he has been trying to track it for weeks, claiming he can’t go back without it.

“So now that you’ve found it, you can go back.” You say, but he shakes his head.

“I can’t leave you. You’re my wife.”

Right. He keeps saying that, always in the softest tone, looking at you like you hung the moon and stars. It lights your face on fire, makes you fidget where you sit, but he is never fazed by it, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It’s not like you’ve never had anyone’s romantic attention before. You have had boyfriends. Granted, most of them ended terribly. You’re still not sure if you’re completely over your ex cheating on you. But Chan is different. Hell, he’s not even human, so it’s not like you can compare him to anything from your past. Dating has always been difficult for you, and you kind of gave up on it when you moved and got hit by the shitstorm that is now your life. It was put so effectively on the back burner that you had forgotten what this felt like. Having someone like you like this.

With Chan, it’s hard to figure out how to act. You don’t know what to do with all his…… positivity. Chan feels like something untouched, untainted. He reminds you of how you were when you just moved to this town. Hopeful and ready to start your adult life. And then the universe decided to start beating the crap out of you, until you felt like you were just surviving, going through the motions.

Chan isn’t like that. Chan is….. luminous. He randomly compliments you, talking about how nice and colorful your apartment is (you don’t think it’s anything special). Or saying he likes something you’re wearing, or that your hair is pretty and shiny. Simple compliments, nothing too poetic, but he says them all with so much earnestness. He especially gets giddy when you wear his coat, saying you look best in it, patting you down before you go to work. It always leaves you hot and fidgety. You really don’t know how to handle him, or his easy affection.

Your life changes as the weeks go by.

Work is just as hectic as always. You get the mountain load of two or three people, enough to have you ready to pull your hair out. You slave away all day, dragging your feet as you finally get home, but this time, it is not to an empty house. Because Chan is there. Chan and his bright smile and his endlessly curious but simple questions. Chan with his many, many stories about life under the sea. He always notices that you’re tired, and he offers to cook for you. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he is good at following instructions. So if whatever he is cooking comes from a packet with directions on the back, he ends up making something very hearty and nice. Usually, you are so tired that you don’t mind anything he makes. You will eat it as long as you aren’t the one who has to cook it after working all day.

You complain to him that your legs get cramped up from sitting on your desk chair for so many hours. He pulls your legs towards him before you can protest, plonking them down on his lap and kneading the calf muscles. All your rejections die in your throat as soon as you feel the glorious pressure of his hands. You moan appreciatively, not noticing how Chan positively perks up at the sound, doubling down on his efforts to lessen your fatigue.

That becomes a daily occurrence.

A few weeks of Chan living with you has made you much more comfortable with him. You watch the screen with tired, bleary eyes as he runs his fingers over the soles of your feet from where he has them in his lap. It feels wonderful, as always. While you watch the TV, he watches you. He does that often, just openly staring. It used to make you uncomfortable, and you got very close to scolding him a few times. But the look on his face always makes you stop. A look of awe that you’ve never felt directed at you before. There’s nothing creepy about it, only pure, unfiltered marvel. So you just let him do what he wants.

A voice deep inside you says you don’t actually mind, you might even enjoy it, but you try not to think about that voice.

You let out a weary sigh and shift a bit, rolling your shoulders to adjust the ache in them. Chan notices, because he always notices, and he pauses his movements on your feet.

“I can rub your shoulders.” He offers.

You blink, considering it. You already know how good it will feel, but you don’t know if you want to cross that boundary. This is different, having your feet in his lap. But you don’t know how you feel about Chan’s hands all over your back and shoulders. It would feel too much like testing dangerous waters.

The truth is, you like him. He has become a breath of fresh air in your bitter and depressing days. Every day, you come home while looking forward to his company. He is so different, light, cheerful, effervescent. He talks and talks and talks, about any and everything. And it doesn’t annoy you. Never. He injects something warm in your cold, silent evenings.

You don’t have to worry with him. There’s no agenda here. He doesn’t want anything from you except your company. He takes care of you like no one has for a really long time.

Sometimes, he feels like a dream. And you perpetually carry the fear that one day, he will go away.

He’s still watching you, anticipating your reply. His hands slowly work on the arch of your foot. His eyes, that deep warm brown, pores into yours. For the first time in a long time, you can’t bring yourself to care about consequences. You just nod.

“Okay.”

He ends up seating himself beside you, coaxing you to turn your back to him on the couch. You can feel him touch your sweater before speaking again.

“Would it be better without this?”

You flush but nod, reaching down to tug the sweater off, so you’re left with a long sleeved shirt instead. You feel his touch right in between your shoulder blades. Slowly, he starts pressing into the skin over your shirt.

Chan is way too good with his hands for a creature that didn’t even have hands until a few weeks ago. He digs his thumbs into the lines of your shoulder blades, making your eyes roll as he breaks knot after knot of tension in your muscles. He purses his lips and frowns as he gets a feel of it. You hear a soft huff of breath.

“Your muscles are so tense.” He murmurs. “This only happens to me when I swim for a very, very long time. Hours and hours. With no breaks.”

You crack a little smile at the comparison.

“It feels like that sometimes.” You mumble, staring at the opposite wall while lost in thought. “Like I’m just swimming and swimming. No breaks. No end in sight.”

His touch slows, but doesn’t lose its strength. His fingers coil around your shoulders, kneading. Your eyelids flutter.

“Human lives are difficult.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but you hear him in the silence of the muted television screen. “I feel like none of you are happy.”

You purse your lips. “What makes you say that?”

Another exhale, this time almost like a defeat. “You never smile. You never laugh.”

You blink, processing. You don’t know why that is unexpected, but it catches you off guard. Your mind whirs. You think on it.

When was the last time you were truly happy?

When you try to look back on the last few months, you can’t pinpoint anything. Then, a memory floats to the surface, from just a couple of weeks ago. Chan had tried to bake something, and while he succeeded, he left the kitchen in such a mess that he was almost reduced to tears by the end. He had pouted and whined about it, saying it is ’way too difficult’ to make a cheesecake. You couldn’t help but muffle your laughter at his flour caked face.

It still makes you smile.

“You make me happy.” You say.

His hands pause. Not a falter, a complete halt. You wonder if you’ve crossed a line.

“I do?” There’s something shaky in his voice, like he can’t believe it. You just nod.

With the hold Chan has on your shoulders, he maneuvers you to turn around. You do, finally able to see him face to face. Your breath hitches at the hope in his eyes, the unadulterated happiness.

“I make you happy?” He asks again, like he just can’t bring himself to accept it.

You can’t help the lift of your lips. You nod again. “You do.”

You don’t expect him to kiss you, but you don’t stop him either. His lips are endlessly soft, and so, so eager. When you don’t push him away, he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. You are hit with the very faint scent of sea salt, and it feels like you’re on the coast. Your heart squeezes. Your hands reach up, cupping his face, and you push harder into him.

Chan whines, whines, lapping at your lips like he needs them to breathe. His tongue licks into your mouth. His enthusiasm is almost too much for you. It should be a surprise, but it’s not, because it’s Chan, and he has always been like this. He hangs on to your every word like it’s law. He looks at you like you’re the mythical creature, not him. You feel his hands now, on your knees before they slide up, gripping your hips tightly. He inhales your every sigh, and something warm and electric coils in the pit of your stomach. Your hand winds in his hair. It’s soft, just the same texture as your (his) coat, and you can’t help but grip it tight. He moans openly into your mouth. It’s too much. You break away for air with a loud gasp.

It doesn’t seem to deter him, because he smooches over your cheek, your jaw, further down your neck. Your eyelids flutter, tilting your head back, your hand still in his hair. You encourage his movements. His tongue licks over your skin. He moans again.

“I want to taste every part of you.” His voice is breathless, desperate. You feel yourself clench. He pulls away so he can look at you, his eyes pleading, brighter than you’ve ever seen them. This close, you can see that his pupils are completely blown.

“Please? Can I?” His tone is shaky.

God, he needs to stop doing that. It’s making wetness pool at an alarming rate between your legs. You so desperately want him down here, it makes your hips buck up involuntarily. You don’t even think about it, all inhibitions thrown out the window. You nod.

He doesn’t let you undress yourself, gently brushing your hands away because he claims he wants to do it himself. He lays you down on the couch, hovers over you on his knees as he peels your clothes off, until you’re left completely naked under him. He watches you with so much hunger in your eyes that your face flames, and it takes everything in your power not to shrink into yourself. Truthfully, you love it, love seeing the sincere lust in his face, the way he runs his tongue over his bottom lip, eyes lingering over every inch of you, like he wants all of you.

Something about being so deeply desired has your head spinning.

He is true to his word. His lips trail over every inch of you. He runs them over your shoulders, your arms, even holding your hands gently to kiss the pulse point on your wrist. Every few inches, he lays a soft kiss, before going back to running his lips and tongue over the skin. He licks down the valley of your breasts, burying his face in them for a few seconds. He spends extra time on your nipples, sucking and flicking his tongue over them until they are stiff and peaked. By the time he is anywhere close to your core, you’re already gasping and trembling under him in anticipation.

Finally, finally, he spreads your legs. He stares for a long time, thumbing at your outer lips, opening your slit to the cold air, peering at your little nub, swollen and ready, neglected.

“Pretty.” He whispers. “You’re pretty all over. Every inch of you.”

You feel a pressure build behind your eyes. Fuck. You can’t be this lame. You can’t be the one crying during sex. But Chan isn’t touching you, he is worshipping you. In his hold, under his hands, you feel like something precious, something worthy of this kind of reverence. It’s an unprecedented feeling. You don’t think anyone has ever wanted you this much. Not before him.

He leans closer, and you feel his breath on your pussy as he speaks.

“This is it, right? This is where I can pleasure you the most?”

You suddenly remember that Chan isn’t really familiar with human anatomy. So far, you haven’t felt his lack of experience at all, mostly because you think his enthusiasm is so intense that it masks the inexperience completely. You nod at him, swallowing tightly.

“Yeah.”

He licks his lips. “Can I taste it?”

The words are way sexier than you thought they would be. You throw your head back. “God, yes. Please.”

Something about the ‘please’ does it for him, because he licks a long, thick stripe all the way from your clenched hole to your clit, dragging slowly over it. He hums when his tongue withdraws, just for a second, just to taste, and then he’s digging in again, flattening his tongue over and over on your slit, like he approves of the taste, like he wants more.

He’s sloppy, not bothered by the filthy wet noises your sopping cunt makes, lips and tongue running over every nook and cranny. But there’s one spot where you need him the most, and you can’t help it. You wind a hand through his hair, tugging his head up until his tongue runs just over your clit. Your hips jerk.

“There,” you gasp, “right there.”

He’s a quick learner, just like he learned to cook after just a few tries, and how to work the television and your Netflix account, and how he figured out which clothes go together. His tongue flicks eagerly over your clit, like he’s hanging on to every cry and moan that falls from your lips. He must register how the noises amp up when he pays attention to your clit, because he pushes your legs further apart, buries his face deeper into your cunt, wraps his lips around it and sucks hard. Your back arches right off the couch, gripping his hair tightly. He groans into your pussy.

It’s a cycle. His lips and tongue make you feel good, you tug at his hair in encouragement, he hums into you, and the vibrations feel even better, sending chills up your whole body. Your high builds a little too quick, and you wish this could just go on for hours and hours. You have no doubt in your head that if you asked him, he would do exactly that. And very happily too. But your need for release is more pressing than that, so you hold him close, you babble about how you’re almost there, and when your orgasm hits, you go cross eyed with it, wave after wave of pleasure cresting inside you as you shake and cry through it. Chan doesn’t slow for a single second, letting you writhe and twist under him, chasing your hips wherever they go. It’s only when you tug his hair hard enough to pull his head away that he finally stops, looking up at you with dazed, teary eyes. His whole face is sweaty, wet, and blotched pink over his pale cheeks.

He’s a vision.

You pull hard at his sweatshirt until he’s scrambling up your body, and you kiss him hard. He moans appreciatively, immediately licking into your mouth like he needs it to breathe. Your own taste invades your tongue.

“Let me do that again.” He whines. “Please. Wanna make you feel good. Let me lick you again.”

You moan and feel yourself clench hard, head spinning with how badly he’s turning you on. But you feel so empty, and you need him in other ways too, or you feel like you might combust.

“Later.” You promise him. “Need your cock right now.”

“My what?” He pulls back, still looking unfocused as he frowns down at you. You blink a little, clearing the fog in your head a little. Oh.

Your hand travels down until you palm the bulge in his pants. He jerks violently and gasps.

“This,” you whisper, biting your lip. Chan’s eyes shoot down to where it is trapped between your teeth. “Need this inside me.”

“Inside….?”

It’s better to do than to explain, so you push yourself up, arranging him under you until you're straddling his lap where he sits, undoing the drawstring of his sweatpants and pushing them down enough to free his cock. Your mouth waters at the sight. He’s girthy, way more than you’ve ever taken before, and he curves just at the tip in a way that you know is going to make you see stars when he fucks you right. You run your hand over him, and he gasps again, hips bucking into your touch.

“Feel good?” You ask. Chan nods furiously.

“Wanna make you feel good.” His voice sounds wrecked. You can’t help your giddy smile at his laser focus on making this pleasurable for you.

“You will.” You adjust yourself until you’re hovering over him, running his tip through your slit. You feel him grip your thighs tightly.

The first slide in is glorious. He’s so thick that he stretches your poor pussy out enough to make your legs tremble violently. He runs his hands over them, watching your face scrunch up in pleasure and pain. If you had more control of your mental faculties, if you weren’t so busy taking his massive cock in, you would try to placate the worry on his face, but you have other things to concern yourself with right now.

The deeper he slides in, the farther up his eyes roll. His jaw goes slack, and you watch with a tinge of amusement as the feeling makes his own face go through a million emotions in the span of a few seconds. It makes you brave, more daring, and it makes you feel so sexy to have the power to make him feel all this for the first time. His grip on your thighs is near bruising, which you don’t think he realises, too lost in how warm and tight your cunt feels. Finally, you are fully seated on him, all the way up to the very base.

“Good?” You manage to gasp out. It seems he chokes on his own words, because he just pulls your body close and jerks his head down in a nod.

“What about you?” He looks up at you, blinking furiously. He looks like he might cry if you say that it doesn’t feel good, not that you would lie like that. You giggle breathlessly.

“It’s so good, Channie.” You coo, running a hand through his hair. “You fill me up perfectly, like you were made for me.”

He whines, so loud and thick with want that you think he might cum right there. He holds you tight against him.

“Yes.” He gasps. “Made for you. My wife. Wanna be with you forever.”

It’s incoherent babbling. Uninhibited because of the lust. You shouldn’t take him seriously. Except you know Chan. You know he doesn’t lie. You know he means this with every fiber in him. Your heart stutters, your exhale shaky. You hug his body tight to you, unable to respond. You want him impossibly closer. You tug at his sweatshirt.

“Off.”

He doesn’t waste a single second, revealing wide expanses of built muscle. You run your eyes over him, hungry for the sight, for the feel of him. Once more, emotion builds inside your chest, filling you up from the inside out.

Finally, when you feel like you’ve adjusted to his size, you rock your hips on him, testing. He gasps immediately, hands running everywhere he can reach you and feel you. You let him, basking under the attention now that your hesitation has melted away and the lust has left you wanting. You slowly build up a rhythm, bouncing on him with less and less care until you feel his cock properly fuck into you the way you wanted. Little gasps and moans leave your lips as well as his. Your body warms under the exertion, the deep penetration making your core clamp up slowly and steadily, pleasure building inside you. Skin against skin makes wet plopping noises, a dirty sound that only adds to what you’re already feeling. It seems Chan just can’t stand to have his mouth unoccupied, because he quickly finds your nipple and starts sucking, making you cry out at the feeling.

Exhaustion starts pulling at your limbs after a while, and you squeeze your eyes shut in frustration. You’re so close, you can feel it. You just need a little more, his cock really ramming into you, just a few well aimed thrusts and you know you would topple over.

“Chan.” You pull his head up with a tug on his hair, a habit you’ve created by now. “I’m- I’m tired-”

He doesn’t even wait to hear more, gripping your hips tightly and pistoning up hard into you. You gasp, arching into him.

“Like this?” His voice is raspy, rough. You nod vigorously, unable to form words as he keeps going, fucking up hard into you until you feel nothing but the intense stimulation on your sweet spot, his tip rubbing insistently over it again and again. His pelvis grazes your clit just right with every thrust. You don’t even have time to warn him, clamping tight around him as your orgasm racks through your core. Your whole body winds up with the release, toes curling and eyes rolling. Your lips release a mantra of ‘oh god, oh god, oh god’ as you weep through it, nearly blacking out with how intense it is.

Chan groans loudly then, and you feel something warm coat your insides. Beneath you, you can feel his body jerk and shake, and you hold him tight against you, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. He moans into your chest as he comes down from his high.

He leans up, kisses you slowly, softly, a welcome feeling after the harsh pounding you just took. You hum into his lips, savouring the feeling of it. Your head is fuzzy, like someone just cleaned it out, leaving nothing behind. Chan nudges his nose against yours, and you blink your eyes open. His smile is dopey, giddy, and you can’t help your giggle.

“I like you like this,” he whispers, “you look so relaxed.”

“All thanks to you.” You brush his hair away from his sweaty face, scratching his scalp a little. He visibly shivers. You can’t help but smile.

You kiss him again, still light and soft. You feel his cock twitch inside you.

“Can I lick you again now? Please?”

You are a little caught off guard, huffing in amusement. “I don’t think I have it in me, Channie.”

“I’ll be gentle.” He runs his hands carefully up your bare back, as if to make a point. “Please. Wanna make you feel good.”

Something stirs in your core again. God, this man will be the death of you. Well, not really a man. A selkie. Your selkie. And his blinding smile when you give in to his begging is enough to tell you that there’s no coming back from this.

Not that you would want to. Like Chan said, you want him to be here with you forever.

You’re both pent up, you know that. It’s palpable—in the hot, heavy air, in the weight of his hands on your skin and the tension between you on the couch. The fervour of his every movement; every gasp for breath between hot, messy, desperate kisses across your skin. Eyes hooded. Breathing heavy. Jaw twitching like he’s trying not to crack.

Your skin is flushed, sweaty; his hands move across your chest and neck and thighs with a hurriedness, like he’s trying to drink you in, every inch of you, before you slip away and he never has the chance to.

You’ve never been wanted—needed—like this. It scares you just as much as it excites you. Maybe more.

Because Mingi is a man of passion—that was clear to you very early on—in everything he is and everything he does. And being the object of that passion is no small thing; it’s a fire that spreads without restraint and scorches everything in its path. Including you. Including him.

His hands reach under your ass to pull you up and onto his lap, straddling him with your legs on either side. You feel him under you—hard, throbbing, straining against his pants—and your body reacts to it instinctively; your gut twists and your cunt clenches around nothing; your hips buck, slowly at first, then faster and more desperate until your clothed pussy is grinding shamelessly against his bulge.

You’re not in control now; that much is clear. Desperation has boiled over until your head couldn’t contain it anymore and it’s seeped down into your cunt.

“Fuck,” Mingi groans into your mouth. “Baby, fuck.”

”Min,” you whine. “Min. Feels so—”

He pulls back fully, all of a sudden, holding your face in his hands and forcing your gaze on him. His eyes are blazing, pupils blown like he’s already lost control. His hands are practically shaking with need, but at the same time you feel the steadiness, the strength in his hold on you. The safety. “I can make you feel better,” he gruffs. “Better than this. Better than anyone.”

You know he can. He already has made you feel better than anyone, just from the way he’s touched you over your clothes and talked and praised you through each tiny movement. But you know what he’s getting at—what he actually wants. And you want it too—fuck do you want it too—you just…

You chew at your lip, hesitant; nervous. His gaze fixes on it briefly, eyes narrowing some. “But I’ve never— you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” His words are soft now, murmured; careful, but his eyes flash with something you don’t understand. A small smile pulls at his lips, all softness and fondness. “My sweet girl, aren’t you? So innocent. Unused. Never done anything.”

“Min,” you whine, flushing a little at the condescension in his tone—patronising without mocking, but still enough to make you squirm.

“Baby,” he coos. “You know I’ll go slow, right? You know I’d never hurt you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll ease you into it, too. Open you up for me, nice and slow. Nice and easy. Just the tip, ‘til you’re ready for the rest. You trust me, right?”

“I do.” Of course you do. At this point Mingi could put a knife to your throat and you’d lean into the blade if he told you it was safe to.

He kisses you again; harder, more forceful, verging on painful but still firmly on the side of pleasure. “Keep grinding, sweetheart,” he mutters. “Babe, fuck. Pull that little skirt up for me, I wanna see you.”

He folds the hem of it between his fingers; the little miniskirt you wore for your date today. The skirt that had made his face harden, darken momentarily until he got ahold of himself again. The skirt he couldn’t take his eyes off of until he got you home.

But even now, he waits. Doesn’t push it up himself—waits for you to oblige or to refuse.

You oblige, of course. You know from the way his pupils dilate even further when you do that your panties must be soaked. His voice comes out strangled, like there’s a lump sitting unyielding and pulsing in his throat. “Fucking hell,” he grits. “Little panties all wet n’ soiled. Is that for me, baby? That all from grinding against my dick like an unspayed puppy?”

“Yes,” you whimper, nodding dumbly. “Mingi, please.”

“I got you,” he says. “Can I touch it, baby? Feel how wet you are for me?”

His voice is hoarse, clearly affected. You nod eagerly; he huffs out a low, shuddered breath and slowly moves one hand to cup your heat. It sends a pulse through your body like an electric current. “Perfect,” he breathes. “You feel that? Your pussy is throbbing on my hand, baby.”

“I feel it,” you nod. Fuck, it feels good. Mingi is so big and strong and warm and as much as it scares you, you think you’d let him do anything right now. “Min…”

“M’here,” he mumbles. “Holding your little pussy for you, just like you need. You don’t know what to do with it, do you?”

You whine; his eyes flicker up to meet your gaze and his lips curl in a small, knowing smile. “Yeah,” he chuckles. “You’re just helpless, aren’t you? Need me to show you how to feel good. Will you let me?”

“I just— it’s a little scary, Min.”

“That’s okay, honey,” he says softly. “I won’t go in yet, yeah? Just gonna rub my dick up and down the outside, see? You’re already gushing for me there, you’ll hardly feel it.”

His finger slips into your panties, hooking around the crotch and pulling it to the side. Your pussy, now bare and exposed to him, throbs a little harder. “Min…” You gasp. The air hits your cunt like a shiver down your spine; Mingi’s eyes fixed firmly on it like it’s the sweetest and most aggravating sight he’s ever seen feels even more biting. Just the feeling of him, holding you in his lap and staring at your cunt like he wants to take it apart and is struggling to hold himself back, is unlike anything you’ve imagined.

From your very first day with him, Mingi’s been your protector. Your safety—and he still is.

Yet now, like his, he somehow feels a little like a predator too.

And you, for some reason, are desperate for him to strike.

“You’re pulsing,” he breathes, barely above a whisper. “Fuck, baby, I can see you throbbing for me.”

“I need you,” you whimper. The words are coming now of their own accord.

“Pull my dick out,” he says. You falter a little and he smiles softly, shifting you on his lap. “C’mon, tiny. Nothing to be scared of. It’s not gonna hurt you.”

“It might,” you mumble. “You’re big.”

You swear Mingi’s eyes flash; his hand on your waist feels a little heavier now, like there’s suddenly more hunger, more possessiveness behind it. More intention.

“I’m big?” He chuckles. You nod. “I’m big, yeah. Or maybe you’re just tiny. I won’t hurt you though, honey. I told you we’ll take it slow, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.”

“Take it out then,” he says. “Be good for me, bunny.”

Your hands are shaking as you pull his dick out from his sweats; you’ve seen it before, of course, felt the hard outline of it when he’s pressed up behind you in bed—but this is different. This is going inside you.

It’s long and thick; rock hard and already leaking from the tip. “Fuck,” you breathe. “Min…”

“You like it?” He grins. You nod. “Good,” he says. “It’s yours. You can fuck yourself on it whenever you like, sweetheart. A big thick toy for my pretty little girl.”

“Please,” you mewl.

“You’re fine, baby,” he says. “Can you lift your hips for me, love?”

You obey, lifting yourself so you’re kneeling over him.

He grips the base of his dick, pumping it once, twice, three times, before his other arm wraps around your waist and pulls you down so your ass is resting on him and your pussy is pressed against the side of his shaft. You groan, the feeling of sending a spark of electricity through your body, and his cock twitches. “Fuck,” he gruffs. “Stay still, baby. Not gonna go in yet, just gonna fuck the outside, yeah? Where you’re all nice and slippery for me. Nice n’ wet already.”

“Okay,” you breathe.

It feels… strange. Good, definitely, but strange. Like you’re being teased. Every time his tip brushes against your clit you feel it through your entire body, to the tips of your toes and in the deepest crevices; your reaction to everything Mingi does, at this point, feels primal.

The way he groans, head thrown back in pleasure, feels primal too.

“Shit,” he grunts. “I gotta—fuck. This little cunt is so sweet, baby, so needy for me, I gotta fuck her. Need to.”

His dick is throbbing almost violently, pulsing against your clit and making you needier and needier. You want it—him—so bad you can’t even speak any more. You just whine, squirming, chasing the sensation and the pressure against your clit.

“C’mon,” Mingi says. “Let me in, baby. You want me inside, I can feel it.”

You nod. “Yeah,” you gasp.

“Tell me I can, then,” he grits out. “Tell me I can put it in. Just the tip, baby, please.”

“Okay,” you whisper. “The— just the tip, Min. Put it in.”

Mingi shudders; you feel it rippling through him, his grip tightening. He groans, adjusting himself, then slowly pushes in. “Thank you, baby. Just the tip, I promise. You’re being so brave, honey.”

Even from the tip you can feel the size difference between you; can tell taking him in his entirety will be no small task. The thought alone is dizzying; you’re squirming, trying and failing to stay still as he goes in deeper.

And deeper.

You hiss, muscles clenching, clawing at the material of his shirt. “Mingi,” you squeak. “It’s— what are you doing?”

He stops, freezing inside you, seeming to realise what he’s doing and getting a hold of himself again. But he doesn’t pull out—doesn’t back away. His eyes flicker up to your face, searching for something—a reaction, maybe, or a desperation you won’t admit. “Shit,” he mutters. “Sorry, baby, fuck, I just— you’re so warm, honey, so tight and wet, I’m losing my head a little. You make me crazy, you know that?”

You shake your head. He groans, squeezing his eyes shut, jaw clenching like he’s clinging to his composure. “You make it so hard to be gentle,” he says. “To hold back. I can’t think of anything but taking you apart right now. Filling you up. Fuck, baby.”

Fuck. Now neither can you. You whine, eyes squeezed shut, trying to think of anything else—anything but being ruined and claimed and bred by him.

But the image of him all the way inside, of you falling apart around him, of his cum dripping out of your stretched cunt—it’s too much. It’s too good.

You know you’re thinking with your pussy and not your head right now, and you don’t even care. You can’t care.

“Please,” you say. “Do it, Mingi. Fill me up.”

You feel him twitch inside you. His eyes soften, caring, a little concerned, but still the desperation and the excitement is overarching. “Are you sure?” He asks.

“I’m sure.”

He exhales, the breath slow and shaking, and nods. Then he starts again.

Slowly. Surely. But still dizzying.

You love how large Mingi is; how small and safe you feel with him. Now, though, you wonder if it’s possible to be too big.

“Shit,” you hiss.

“I know, I know, baby. Just open up for me, you can do it. That’s a good girl.”

He pushes his thumb past your lips, pressing it down on your tongue. “Make it wet,” he says. “That’s it.” Once he’s satisfied he pulls it out, smiling fondly at the whine that slips out of your mouth at the loss, and presses it against your clit. He rubs it slowly, firmly, the way he knows you like it.

Of course he knows. He’s the one who taught you how to touch yourself properly, after all.

You clench around him, pulsing, shifting yourself to chase the pressure on your clit and inadvertently pushing yourself down further on his cock. His voice is low, crooning, like he’s coaxing you open for him. “I’ll never hurt you, baby. Just wanna feel what s’like inside you. Doing so well f’me, that’s it.”

“Fuck,” you grunt. “Min, hurts—”

“I know, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Just for a little longer, okay? You’re gonna feel so full n’ fuzzy in a minute. Try and sit down for me, baby, try sit yourself down on my cock.”

It feels impossible, pushing yourself down any further than you already are; taking him any deeper than you already are. But Mingi is so gentle—stroking your skin, mumbling praises you can barely decipher—and he, both of you, wants it so fucking bad that all you can do is obey.

“That’s it,” he grumbles. “Good girl. C’mon now.”

By the time you get all the way to the bottom, your bodies pressed together, he’s almost crying. He looks like he’s trying not to shatter.

“Mingi,” you say. “Fuck me.”

“You’re ready? Really?”

“Really.”

You’re on your back, flipped over, legs around his waist while he hovers above you, before you can process it. Mingi’s eyes are dark, pupils blown and glinting with a desperation so hot it feels like it scorches your skin beneath it.

“Hold onto me,” he grunts. “You’re not getting it gentle.”

You squeeze your legs around him, pulling him closer, curling his shirt around your fists. Holding him like a lifeline; like he’s the only thing stopping you from shattering entirely.

At the same time, though, he’s the only thing that can make you shatter so completely and so thoroughly. He fucks you like he has nothing to lose, nothing to prove; like he’s entirely sure of himself and sure of his control. Like he can just take, take, take, and you’ll do nothing but stare up at him with wide, empty, loving eyes and give him everything he wants.

He’s right. Even when he finishes, when he falls over the edge with a shout and warmth blooms in your tummy, he keeps thrusting, keeps the same heavy grip on your waist like every inch of your skin belongs to him.

And when he pulls out and cum slowly starts to drip from your hole, he gathers it on his finger and pushes it back in.

“Keep it there,” he murmurs, smiling softly, tiredly at you. “You look so pretty full of me.”

You knew how it all worked, the fan service, the flirting. You knew it was all a part of the experience. But in the moment, your eyes locked on to his, it was hard not to be delusional. Hard not to think that he was seeing something he liked. You had dressed up for the concert, everyone did. It was more to go all out and have fun with other Atiny than to dress up for the men themselves - at least if anyone asked that is what you would tell them.

The concert was amazing, as you knew it would be. Fireworks and barking and sultry gazes into the stage cameras that made everyone in the stadium scream. The solo songs were your favorite part - seeing each of them in their own element, performing their hearts out. Hongjoong’s was next, the lights flashing and the screens showing him walking back towards the stage. The live DJ set that NO1 had turned into was insane. His dedication to changing the song up at every stop was awe-inspiring, and you had seen many versions from the comfort of your living room.

But this was now, and you were here experiencing it yourself, and those videos you had watched didn’t do it justice. You could tell he loved being on that stage, that he loved being able to make every performance special. The song itself picked up and he ran down the stairs on the side of the stage, coming down to scream along to the track with Atiny. You had a spot on the barricade, front and center, and that’s exactly where he ended up. You were screaming and jumping along with everyone else, but his eyes were on you yet again.

The same thoughts you had to push down during soundcheck came raging back to the surface. He was just a man, after all, a man in his twenties who knew what he liked. You were sure that there had been times he had seen Atiny in the crowd or on the street that he took interest in, how could he not? All Atiny were fine as hell, and with as much effort as you had put in to your outfit for the concert, you weren’t shy about thinking the same about yourself.

After pausing in front of your section for longer than he seemed to at other sections, he ran back up onto the stage to finish out the song. You felt like you could breathe better after he left, the pure intensity of him felt like it had been stifling you.

The remainder of the concert passed without any other direct interactions. You knew you were going to be exhausted, but the whole experience was going to be worth it, especially since you had been lucky enough to get not just sound check, but send-off as well.

You were nervous about being so close to them, but you did your best to be seen and heard. You had your favorite photo of each member printed and ready for them to sign, and they all obliged. Hongjoong was the last to walk through, and your heart was in your throat. The picture you had chosen was one that cemented his place in the demon line - that mischievous smile of his that you would do anything to see in real life.

He stood in front of your section, and you held out the photo. He chuckled when he saw it and glanced at your face when he took the photo.

”Is this a look you like?” He asked with a smirk on his face as he stepped to the side a bit, still signing the photo in his hands. All you could manage was a nod. You hadn’t expected him to say anything about the photo you had chosen, let alone tease you about it.

Since he had stepped farther down the line to sign things and chat with other Atiny, he handed the photo to the manager walking with him to give back to you. You smiled at the manager as you reached for the card, but your face contorted in confusion as the manager grabbed your hand with both of his as you took the card. You felt something else in your hands on the back of the photo. Thinking that the manager had given you someone else’s signed item along with your own, you immediately flipped the photo over.

You weren’t faced with another piece of signed paper, but rather a single yellow post-it note. It had a phone number with an area code you didn’t recognize and simply said “Call in an hour”. Your jaw dropped open and you flipped the photo back over, slipping it into your bag and composing yourself before anyone else took notice.

It was the longest hour of your life. You stayed close to the stadium, not knowing what to expect. But you had come to the concert on your own, none of your friends were fans of K-pop, no matter how much you tried to get them into it, but it also meant that no one’s plans had to change but yours.

You spent the first half of the hour pacing around, trying to talk yourself out of calling. You hadn’t felt the post-it before you handed the photo to Hongjoong, but so much was happening at the moment with everyone around, that maybe you had missed it? Maybe some other Atiny had wanted to connect with you and wasn’t sure how to approach you? Maybe, somehow, someone that didn’t have any good intentions had slipped the note into your bag? Calling a random number wasn’t something you would normally do.

But, what if… What if the note was from him? From the Captain? Could you really pass on that opportunity? Those were the thoughts that got you through the last half hour.

The clock on your phone hit 1 AM, and you typed the number onto the keypad. The phone rang a single time before the call connected.

”Hello Atiny, I’m so glad you called.” It was him. It was actually him. Every thought left you, and you were speechless. He chuckled into the phone.

”Come on, I don’t bite, you can say hello to me,” but you couldn’t. All of your seemingly delusional thoughts from soundcheck and NO1 came flooding back.

”If you’d be interested, I’d love to speak with you tonight. I can have someone bring you to the hotel, as long as you’re willing to talk to our managers first and sign some paperwork. This number won’t work after tonight, I wanted to be the one to offer this to you instead of having someone else talk to you.” He chuckled again after that statement, his laugh darker than before. “I knew if I asked you personally you couldn’t refuse.”

He was exactly right. You were putty in his hands. You cleared your throat before trying to respond, voice coming out as nearly a whisper: “Y-yes, I would be willing to talk to the managers.”

”Good. Are you by the stadium? Someone can pick you up. Text your location and they will be with you shortly”

He hung up after that. The phone stayed near your ear as the weight of your current predicament settled on your shoulders. You had just spoken to Kim Hongjoong, Captain of Ateez, and he wanted to see you, to talk with you, though by the sound of his voice, that wasn’t all that he wanted.

Your arm dropped and you shook your head slightly. You had to text him. You looked around, gaining your bearings and noting the names of the cross streets before typing them in and hitting send. Nearly immediately you got a response.

Look for a black SUV.

--

The ride to the hotel was uneventful, the driver silent the whole time. You were a bundle of nerves, leg bouncing, hands picking at your outfit, brushing through your hair, doing anything to keep your mind off of what was happening. 

You hadn’t realized the car had stopped; you jumped when the car door next to you opened, which earned you a chuckle from the driver and the man greeting you now.

”Please, follow me,” he said before stepping back and turning towards the doors of the hotel. You took one final deep breath, made sure you had all of your things from being at the concert just a few short hours ago, and left the car.

The man who greeted you - a manager you assumed - walked you to an office on the first floor. There was a packet of papers sitting on a table waiting for you.

”This has to be the procedure, as I’m sure you’re aware,” he said, setting a pen down in front of you. You just nodded and sat at the table, opening up the not insignificant packet of paperwork.

You had never seen an NDA, but you assumed most pieces were pretty standard, outlining who was involved (you wrote your name in the blank next to KQ Entertainment), outlined what the agreement covered (don’t talk about any of tonight, ever), and the statute of limitations; not that you would ever share anything about what happened tonight, even after that time period was up.

But there was one piece of paper in the stack that seemed out of place, a medical waiver, where you had to agree that - to your knowledge - you were healthy; you had to disclose information about recent … intimate partners; and you had to list any and all allergies you had, the line where you could choose “latex” was highlighted.

You swallowed as you signed the final page - in disbelief that you willingly gave away such sensitive information, but the NDA worked both ways. You wouldn’t talk about anything that happened, and neither would anyone here.

As soon as you set the pen down, the manager picked up the paperwork and clapped his hands once, “Alright, follow me!”. He seemed more relaxed now that everything had been handled.

He led you to the elevator, and when it arrived, he gestured for you to enter first. You stepped in and turned around, making room for him in the small space, but he made no effort to join you.

”All the way up,” he said as the doors began to close.

It took you a moment to reach over and press the button for the top floor. You didn’t expect to be left alone once you made it this far. You took advantage of the mirrored space, continuing your ritual from when you were in the car; hair, outfit, makeup, all touched up as much as they could be.

The elevator ride was short, but also felt like it took forever. The doors opened to what you assumed was a private hallway - a single door directly in front of where you were standing. You hesitated before knocking, not sure what to expect.

The handle clicked, the door swinging into the room, and there he was. Kim Hongjoong. Captain of Ateez. His blonde hair was wet and falling in his eyes, clearly fresh from a shower. He was dressed down, in sweatpants and a t-shirt that combined was likely worth more than a year of your rent. Your eyes finished trailing over him and found their way back to his face, where you were met with a smirk.

”I am glad you could make it,” he said, before stepping back and waving his hand, gesturing for you to enter. As soon as you stepped inside he shut the door behind you, it locked automatically with a click. You looked down and saw several pairs of shoes by the door, so you kicked out of your own. You heard a chuckle behind you and turned to look at him again.

”You can set your stuff down anywhere here,” he said, before holding out a hand. “Leave your phone here and come with me.”

Still unable to speak, you just nodded, slipped your phone from your pocket into your bag, set your bag down next to your shoes, and gingerly reached for his outstretched hand. Rather than grab your hand or intertwine your fingers, he grabbed your wrist, and led you further into the penthouse suite. 

You should have been looking around, admiring the space and taking in the fact that you were in the nicest room in the nicest hotel in your city - but all you could see was him. He led you to the couch that sat in front of floor to ceiling windows looking out onto the lights of the city below you. He stood in front of you while you sat on the couch.

”I’ve been rude, I haven’t even asked your name,” he asked with a tilt of his head, sounding sincere, but his eyes were predatory.

You cleared your throat before introducing yourself, and then took a moment to conjure the confidence you would need for the only question on your mind, “What is this?”

He ran a hand through his hair, “Well, you caught my eye.” He said before leaning down towards you, his face inches from yours, full sinister smile - your favorite - on display. “And I always get what I want.”

Your legs pressed together at the sound of his words, core beginning to ache in anticipation. This wasn’t happening, there was no way. No way that the man you have spent so much time and money on was actually here in front of you, saying something like that.

He could tell your thoughts had run away from you, your eyes not focused on him anymore, but looking past him. He reached out and grabbed your chin, tilting your face up so you were looking directly at him, drawing a gasp from your lips.

His face grew serious.

”You signed the paperwork, so you can’t tell anyone about this, but if you aren’t interested, you can leave right now. But if you are,” he ran a thumb over your bottom lip. “Well then we are going to have a very fun evening.”

You didn’t hesitate, your mouth popping open to let his thumb past your lips, closing around it and sucking lightly. His smile returned, delighted at your silent answer. 

“Good, I hoped you would stay.” Thumb still in your mouth, he gripped your jaw harder and lifted, urging you to your feet. He pulled his hand from your face only to wrap it around your waist to pull you flush against him before crashing his lips into yours.

It was cliche to say that time stopped, but that’s exactly what it felt like. His lips were soft, his teeth nipping at your bottom lip were sharp, and he kissed you with a sense of urgency that bordered on desperation. When he released your bottom lip from his teeth, you took the opportunity to run the tip of your tongue along his bottom lip, savoring the feel and the taste of him. The arm he had wrapped around you moved lower, hand cupping your behind and squeezing. His other hand floated up and tangled itself in your hair, tugging slightly - pulling a small moan from you that caused him to groan in return.

”Enough of this, I need to see you,” he said as he pulled away, hand wrapping around your wrist again and leading you further into the suite. The bedroom was at the end of the hall, door open and showing off a similar view you had just left. But these windows looked out onto a private balcony, several lounge chairs on one side. You wanted to walk out and look at the city without the glass of the windows in the way, but there were much more pressing matters to attend to.

He let go of your hand and moved around you, looking at every inch of you. You were still fully clothed, but you had never felt more exposed.

”You’re wearing too much, I want to see you. Would you let me?” But it wasn’t a question, it was a demand in disguise. Your hands found the bottom hem of your shirt, slowly pulling it up and over your head. He stepped back so he could see all of you, gesturing for you to continue after you had removed your shirt.

”Isn’t it your turn?” You managed to ask, beginning to feel bolder. 

“Oh no, you misunderstand, you have to earn what you hope to receive tonight,” that severe grin returning to his face. You shuddered at the image your brain conjured at that moment, of you begging on your knees for him to touch you. Surprisingly, you weren’t against the idea, knees even feeling weak from the intensity of the thought.

Your hands shook slightly as you moved on to removing your bottoms, wanting to show off the matching set of panties - of course you wore a matching set to the concert. Better to be over prepared for whatever the night brought you. He groaned in appreciation when you stood straight again.

”I knew you were gorgeous, but seeing you like this…” he trailed off, eyes dragging over your bra- and panty-clad frame. “The rest, please,” he said as he sat on the edge of the bed. You hesitated, feeling shy, but you had come this far…

You reached behind your back and unhooked your bra, letting it fall off your shoulders and onto the floor unceremoniously, followed quickly by your panties - leaving you bare in front of him. Even if he had been silent, you would be able to tell with a single glace that he was enjoying what he saw, but he was anything but silent.

”Sshibal….” He whispered under his breath, hand moving to his lap to palm himself through the fabric of his sweatpants. “You’re perfect.” You could feel the blush reaching all the way to the tops of your ears. “Come here,” he said while leaning back and bracing himself on an elbow.

You stepped towards him, deciding to straddle his legs, pressing your drenched core down onto the very visible bulge in his lap. He groaned as you did, his head tipping back, exposing his throat. You wasted no time, attaching your lips to his neck, kissing and nipping, careful to not leave any marks. He sat up straight again, pressing his chest to yours and grabbing your hips, forcing you to grind harder down onto him. He looked up at you through his brows, demonic smile on full display.

”I want you to come on my lap. Your choice if its while riding my fingers or my thigh.” Your mouth popped open at the fact that you were being given a choice. You could only whisper a response, too much in shock to have any of your earlier confidence. “Th.. Thighs..” you said. His hands gripped your hips tighter and he lifted slightly, you raised yourself up off of him as he slipped one of his legs to the side so you could sit on the other. You sat back down and pulled your bottom lip between your teeth as you settled against his thigh.

”Move for me, I want to watch you break,” he said, one hand coming up to your face, thumb pulling at your bottom lip, helping release it from your teeth before claiming your lips with his own. You pressed down and began grinding onto his leg. You knew that you were soaked, leaving an evident wet spot on his pants, but he didn’t seem to care. His mouth stayed pressed to yours, one hand wrapped around the side of your face, fingers tangled in your hair; the other still gripping your waist and pressing you down, adding to the pressure between your legs.

You were overwhelmed. It didn’t take long before you felt the heat curling inside you, hips moving faster to chase the feeling. You broke away from his kiss and pressed your forehead to his shoulder, causing him to chuckle at you.

”That’s it, give it to me, let me see it,” and give it to him you did. You came on his leg, feeling lightheaded at the intensity. He hadn’t even touched you, but you were a mess.

”Now, what are we going to do about the mess you made,” he said with a smirk on his face. “I think you need to take these off of me and beg me for forgiveness for ruining my favorite sweatpants.. Do you think you can manage that?” He was no longer being kind and taking care of you. He gave you a taste of his kindness by letting you finish first, but now it was his turn.

You nodded, bracing your hands on his shoulders as you stood, legs feeling weak. He stood with you, pulling his shirt over his head before looking at you; head tilted to the side. The look you had seen him give so many cameras was now directed at you. You melted down onto your knees, bringing your hands up to the waistline of his pants before slipping your fingers in the band and pulling them down. He was bare beneath them, which you could have assumed from how visible he was earlier, but it still felt like a shock to see him like this. To see your idol bare in front of you, clearly aroused by your actions and presence… It was almost too much.

He stepped out of the sweatpants, kicking them to the side. “Now, apologize,” smirk still firm on his face. You pressed your hands onto his thighs and pressed a kiss to his hip before looking up at him. You held eye contact as you let your tongue fall out of your mouth, pressing it against his tip. He sucked in a quick breath, head tipping back. You took advantage of the break in eye contact, looking at his eyes made you feel too much, made everything too intense. You wrapped your lips around him, sucking lightly on the tip before starting to move your head down. You started slow, wanting to savor the taste of him, clean from his shower, but there was still a hint of musk that you knew was just him.

You started moving faster, hands gripping his thighs. You were determined to give the best head of your life, because no one deserved it more than him. You looked back up at him, enjoying the breathless moans that were escaping him. You squeezed his thighs harder, which made him roll his head halfway forward again to look at you. One of his hands moved to rest on the back of your head, just sitting lightly, not grabbing or pushing. That is until you pulled your mouth off of him with an audible pop. His head dropped and his eyes darkened, he clearly wasn’t done with your mouth.

He grabbed your hair and pulled your head forward, setting a brutal pace. The tip of his cock, hot and leaking, pounded into the back of your throat, making you gag; but he didn’t stop. You thought he was going to use your mouth and your throat until he came, which you couldn’t help but feel a little disappointed with. But after a few moments of fucking into your throat he pulled your head up again by your hair. Your face was a mess. Eyeliner and mascara streaming down your face, lipstick all but gone from your mouth and smeared down onto your chin which was also wet with drool, and hair now a tangled mess. You caught your breath, looking up at him with wide eyes.

”You were perfect,” he said before offering you a hand. You took it gratefully, sure that you wouldn’t be able to stand on your own with how lightheaded you felt. He led you over to the bed, “now have a seat, I’ll be right back.” He walked to the ensuite bathroom and you heard running water. He came back with a damp black hand towel. “For your face, that melted makeup can’t be comfortable.”

You wiped your face and handed the towel back to him. “That does feel much better, thank you,” you said with a hoarse voice. He had ruined your throat. He moved away from you again, setting the towel on the counter in the bathroom and coming back to you with a silver packet in his hands.

Your eyes stayed glued to it as he spoke, not hearing him right away.

”Y/N, is it okay if we continue or do you need a moment?” He asked. You finally ripped your eyes away from the shining foil resting in his hand.

”I’m sorry, what did you say?” you asked sheepishly.

He smiled at you and repeated himself with a laugh, “I asked if you wanted to continue, because I would really like to fuck you. But I understand if this has all been too much for you.”

You felt like you had whiplash, because how could he go from telling you he gets what he wants, to brutally fucking your throat, to asking if you wanted to continue and making sure you weren’t overwhelmed.

“No, please, please continue,” you whisper, trying not to sound desperate, but you knew you were failing. You wanted him. He was your idol, your bias. You were not going to miss this opportunity. You wanted to feel him so you could sear it into your brain.

The hunger from earlier returned to the Captain’s face, “Good, lay down, let me take care of you.” You fell back against the bed immediately, teeth pressing into your bottom lip as you heard him open the condom package. His slid his hands up your thighs, leaning over you. Your eyes met his and he winked at you, making your heart skip a beat, before lowering his head. You hadn’t expected this. His tongue was hot and wet as he ran it up your core, circling your clit before lightly sucking it into his mouth.

The sound that left you was barely human, and barely audible. He hummed against you, causing you to arch your back off the bed. You had always heard that rappers had to have great control of their mouths in order to perform, but feeling it this way was eye opening. His tongue was moving against you in ways you had never thought possible.

Seemingly out of nowhere, an orgasm tore through you. There had been no building, no cresting, he just pulled it from you like it was the only reason you existed. He pulled away from you, hands resting on your thighs which were trembling uncontrollably.

”Now you’re ready,” he teased before climbing onto the bed with you. He held himself up above you, resting his hips against yours, sliding his length through your drenched folds. He moaned and dropped his head down, capturing your lips in another kiss. Tasting yourself was not new to you, but it felt dirtier now. Everything did. Like you weren’t supposed to be doing this. In a way, you weren’t. He was an idol. Untouchable. A fantasy. A dream.

Except it was very real, and you were reminded by the feeling of him pressing into you. You whined as he sank fully into you, only stopping when your bodies were flush. He paused for a moment, enjoying the feel of you, hot and tight around him. You quickly grew impatient, wanting to feel him move.

”Please, Joong, please fuck me,” you shortened his name automatically, earning a dark chuckle. 

“Ah ah ah, my lovely Atiny,” he said with a growl. “You should call me Captain.”

His dominant side was back. You shuddered when he said the word Captain, involuntarily clenching around his length at the same time.

”Y-yes Captain. I’m sorry. Please, please fuck me.” Your eyes were wide, pupils blown. You couldn’t remember the last time you were this turned on, this affected by another person.

He pulled his hips back, almost pulling himself from you completely, before snapping them forward again and burying his cock in you. He once again set a brutal pace, plowing into you with his thrusts. You screamed his name, unable to form any coherent thoughts. All you knew in that moment was how good it felt to have him buried in you.

His hips began to stutter, losing their momentum. He leaned forward and kissed you as he came, muffling his own moans with your mouth. He came hard, twitching inside you, hot even through the latex. He laid on top of you for a moment, catching his breath before pulling his hips from yours, hissing through his teeth at the movement. He stood up off of the bed, pulling the condom off to discard it.

”How are you feeling, can I bring you anything?” He asked, concern clear in his voice.

You giggled, feeling the same difference in his demeanor as before. “Water would be lovely,” you said as you began to sit up.

”No no, stay,” he said, pressing on your shoulder. You obeyed, laying back as he went back into the bathroom, coming back with another damp towel as he had before. “Allow me,” he said before swiping the towel lightly across your center, taking care to not press too hard, knowing that you were likely just as sensitive as he was in that moment. He returned the towel to the bathroom before leaving the room to bring you a water bottle. While he was gone you stood up from the bed and began to dress yourself.

He came back into the room as you pulled your shirt over your head.

”Ah, time for you to leave, is it?” He said as he handed you a bottle of water.

”I don’t want to overstay my welcome…” you said softly.

He smiled at you sweetly, “You are very thoughtful. I can have someone drive you wherever you need to go, since I’m sure it’s too late for any kind of public transportation. But, you need to tell me one thing first”

You nodded, “Anything, especially after tonight.” Your cheeks flared bright red, you could feel how hot your face was.

”Would you… would you text that number again?” He asked, looking small and shy. Nothing like the man you had just seen moments before or the man you saw performing on stage. He was blushing as well, you realized.

”I.. I would love to,” you said softly.

”We are traveling back through at the end of the week after a few other stops,” he said while taking a step towards you. You could see the shift happening in real time again, as the shyness fell away once again. His hand gripped your chin, thumb pressing against your bottom lip as it had earlier in the night.

Tan skin, nice lips, and wide shoulders. His expression unreadable, eyes low-lidded and smug like he already knew you were watching. You clicked “join stream” before thinking twice.

That was six weeks ago though. Now, you were viewer number 7451 and you hadn’t missed a single stream. Mingi didn’t know you. That was part of the thrill. You never tipped. Never commented. Never interacted.

You just watched.

And he was good. Too good. A natural performer, cocky in the way only someone who genuinely knew he was hot could be. The first time he moaned into the camera, chest heaving, lips parted, you’d cum so fast you’d barely remembered your own name.

He looked like sin on screen. Slow, teasing strokes, soft growls when he was edging himself, lazy tongue flicks when he licked his fingers before using them. He had no shame. No rush. No mercy.

You watched him in bed. On the couch. In the shower once. He’d worn a harness in one stream. A collar in another. Once, he’d come untouched just from grinding the sheets, fists clenched in the blankets, hips stuttering. You’d cried that night. Quietly. From how badly you wanted him.

But tonight… something felt different.

The stream started like always. Music low, lights dim, Mingi lounging shirtless in bed. Hair messy. Lips swollen like he’d been biting them. Your heart started pounding. You slipped under the blanket and adjusted your laptop on your thighs, biting your lip as he stared into the lens.

“Alright, chat,” he murmured, voice deep and calm. “I’ve been thinking about one of you.”

Your breath caught.

“I don’t know who you are,” he continued, reaching for a bottle of lube offscreen, “but you’re always here. I see the viewer count. It’s always one higher before I even log in. Every night.”

You froze.

“I can’t see your name, so I’ll just call you… 7451.” He smirked, slicking his fingers and lazily stroking his already half-hard cock. “If you’re watching right now… this one’s for you.”

Your mouth dropped open.

He knew.

Your hands trembled as you reached down between your legs. Your panties were soaked already, your thighs twitching from just the way his voice wrapped around the words. He was slow tonight. Teasing. Breathy moans and heavy eye contact as he leaned into the camera, voice dropping into that deep rasp that made you lose control.

“You like watching me, don’t you?” he whispered, his hand working slowly along his thick shaft. “Always hiding in the corner. Never saying a word. Just… watching.”

You whimpered, helpless. The way he looked directly into the camera felt too intimate, like he was in your room, speaking into your neck.

“You wanna know something, 7451?” Mingi exhaled, chest rising with a shaky breath. “I think about you when I fuck my hand.”

You gasped.

“I don’t even know your name, but I dream about you. Imagining you sitting there, legs spread, watching me ruin myself just for your attention. You don’t even tip. Don’t even talk. But I feel you.”

His voice darkened.

“You make me desperate.”

Your body jerked, fingers moving faster, thighs shaking.

“You gonna come for me tonight, baby?” he growled, voice slurring just a little as his pace increased. “Right there, in the dark, like a good girl?”

You whimpered his name.

“And when you do,” he panted, “I want you to say thank you. Even if I can’t hear it.”

Your orgasm hit so hard your vision blurred. You came with a broken cry, hand clamped over your mouth, shaking violently beneath the blanket. And on screen, Mingi groaned. Loud, rough, and needy cumming hard across his chest, eyes locked to the lens like he felt it.

When it was over, he leaned forward, chest rising and falling, and whispered:

“Good girl.”

The stream ended five seconds later.

You didn’t sleep that night.

Your body was still trembling hours after the stream ended, the image of Mingi panting into the camera for you was burned into your mind. It was like he’d crawled through the screen. Like he knew you. And that terrified you more than it thrilled you. Because now? You weren’t just watching.

You were seen.

The next stream didn’t help.

It was two days later. Your pulse skipped as you refreshed the page. His stream title was different this time. It wasn’t a generic “Live Now” or “Play With Me.”

It said: “7451. Come Back.”

You stared. Blinked. Clicked.

The second the screen loaded, Mingi looked up. Right into the camera. Into you.

“There you are,” he said softly. “I was hoping you didn’t get scared.”

Your stomach twisted.

He was sitting cross-legged on his bed, shirtless again, but softer this time. No teasing smile. Just steady eye contact and something deeper and warmer. Hungrier even.

“I can feel when you’re here,” he whispered, dragging his lip between his teeth. “I don’t know how, but I do.”

Your breath caught.

“Everyone in the chat wants attention. But not you. You just watch. You make me feel like I belong to you.”

His hand moved down again. Slower this time. Almost reverent.

“I honestly think I’d let you do anything to me.”

You didn’t touch yourself. Not yet. You just watched him stroke his cock with slow, aching pressure, hips twitching as he breathed through his nose, desperate to keep eye contact even while falling apart.

“Come back tomorrow night,” he panted. “I wanna try something new.”

The stream ended with his cum on his stomach and a half-smile on his lips.

You didn’t even hesitate.

The next night, the title read: “For Her Eyes Only.”

The chat was disabled.

Your whole body locked up.

He appeared again, hair slicked back this time, eyes heavy-lidded. He was wearing gray sweats, no shirt, no underwear and he was already hard. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared.

And then said

“Take off your panties.”

You nearly stopped breathing.

“Yeah. You,” he murmured. “7451. You think I don’t know when you’re here? You make my fucking skin tingle.”

He fisted his cock roughly once, groaning as his head fell back.

“You don’t get to hide anymore. I don’t want your tips. I don’t want your name. I want your fucking attention.”

You were soaked in seconds. One hand pulling your panties to the side, the other trembling between your legs.

“You watching me touch myself makes me insane,” he growled, faster now. “I close my eyes and imagine you’re here. Knees pressed to your chest. Whimpering. Begging me to slow down. You’d let me break you, wouldn’t you?”

You moaned loudly. Too loud, covering your mouth instantly.

He smirked.

“Shh. Don’t want anyone to hear what you are for me.”

Your climax slammed into you with dizzying force. You couldn’t even breathe. Just clenched around nothing, twitching, thighs soaked and mouth open in silent shock. On screen, Mingi came at the same time. It was rougher this time. Louder, messier, like he was unraveling just as fast.

He leaned in close after, voice low and possessive.

“I need to see you.”

Click. The stream ended.

Two hours later, you got a notification: You’ve received a private message from: “fixon8_”

You stared at the screen. Heart in your throat.

The message said:

“I’m gonna find you.”

You didn’t respond to his message. But you didn’t stop watching, either. Three days passed. Three streams. All private. All for you. Each time, Mingi got a little darker. He didn’t ask anymore. He spoke like he already owned you.

“I know you’re still here, baby.”

“Your thighs shaking for me yet?”

“Next time you cum, leave your window open.”

And when you didn’t respond, not once, not even a tip, he sent one final message.

“Be home tomorrow night. I’ll knock twice.”

You didn’t tell him where you lived. You didn’t have to. When the knock came, soft and deliberate, just past midnight, your body reacted before your brain did. You opened the door slowly, heart slamming.

And there he was. Real. Broad. Bigger than you expected.

Mingi.

He didn’t speak. Just looked you up and down, eyes moving from your bare legs to the oversized shirt barely covering your thighs.

“You’re real,” he murmured. “Fuck.”

Your breath caught.

“You shouldn’t be here. How'd you even find me?”

He stepped inside anyway.

“I mean I told you I’d find you.”

The silence that followed was thick. Heated. He stared at you like he’d never seen a woman before.

“Take off the shirt.”

You hesitated.

“I said-” he stepped closer, lowering his voice “take it off.”

You obeyed.

The second it hit the floor, his hands were on you. Hot, rough palms sliding over your waist and hips, mouth dragging down your neck, licking, biting, claiming.

“You’ve been making me fucking crazy.”

He shoved you back against the wall, one hand sliding between your legs, fingers immediately coated.

“Of course you’re wet,” he growled. “You’re always wet for me, aren’t you?”

You whimpered, head tipping back.

“You thought you could just watch forever?” His breath was hot against your ear. “You made me cum so hard I blacked out. And you didn’t say a word.”

Two fingers pushed in with no warning. Deep, curling, pumping hard as his teeth grazed your jaw.

“You gonna stay quiet now, baby? Or you gonna let me hear you?”

You moaned loud, filthy, broken.

He smiled.

“There she is.”

He pulled you onto your knees.

“You owe me,” he said, stroking himself slowly as he leaned back on your couch. “Put that pretty mouth to work.”

You didn’t hesitate. You devoured him. Messy and loud. Tongue heavy and eager. He tangled a hand in your hair and hissed, hips jerking with every drag of your lips around his cock.

“Shit- yes. Just like that. You’re even better than I imagined.”

He didn’t last long. He really couldn’t. The second your fingers massaged the base and you moaned around him, he fell apart with a groan so guttural it vibrated in your chest.

“Fuck, baby—look at me. Look at me while I cum down your throat.”

You did. And you swallowed everything.

When it was over, he didn’t leave. He sat on the couch, chest heaving, hand still in your hair.

“I’m not going back to the camera.”

You blinked up at him, lips still swollen.

“What? Why?”

He smiled lazily. Possessively.

“Why would I stream,” he said, “when I’ve got the only viewer I care about right here?”

You didn’t get a chance to respond. Mingi was already crawling off the couch, already dragging you down with him. Your back pressed into the cushions, his weight heavy and warm above you.

“I waited long enough,” he muttered against your skin. “No more shows. No more cameras. No more pretending you don’t want this too.”

His hand gripped your throat, not tight, just enough to hold you there and his eyes locked on yours like he was trying to memorize the shape of your fear. Or lust. Or both.

“You belong to me now, don’t you?”

You nodded, dazed.

“Say it.”

Your voice cracked.

“I- I belong to you.”

His smile was dark. Like he’d won.

“Good girl.”

He fucked you rough deep. No teasing. No warm-up. You were already dripping wet from just the weight of him, from the way he looked at you like you were something he made.

“So fucking tight,” he growled, pushing in slow but heavy. “You’ve been playing with that pussy every night for me, huh? Getting yourself ready without even knowing it.”

You moaned like he owned your throat.

And maybe he did.

His pace built fast—rough, unrelenting, fucking you into the couch like he was making up for every stream you watched in silence. His hands never stopped moving, gripping your hips, your breasts, your face. Every part of you. All his.

“You’re gonna take everything I give you,” he panted. “I know that’s why you let me in. You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

You whimpered, nails digging into his back.

“Want me to cum in you, baby? Make it stick? Fuck it in so deep your body doesn’t even have a choice?”

Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically. Instinctive. Desperate.

“You’re fucking mine.”

He grabbed your jaw and held it firm, still moving inside you, slow and deep strokes that made your walls flutter around him.

“Say it. Say you want my cum.”

You choked.

“I want it- I want you to fill me, Mingi, please”

His eyes burned.

“Beg for it.”

“Please cum in me. Please make me yours. I want it. I want all of it—”

He slammed back in with a groan, loud and broken, hips snapping hard until your moans turned to gasps. You could feel it—his cock twitching, the heat spilling inside as he pressed his full weight down and held you in place.

“That’s it,” he growled. “Take it. Take my fucking cum like you were made for it.”

Your head tipped back in ecstasy.

“I’m not done.”

You blinked up at him, breathless.

“You think I’m gonna let you walk around leaking my cum without making sure it takes?”

His hips rolled again, slow and filthy. You whimpered.

“I’m gonna fuck you full until your body begs me to stop.”

And he did.

Later, you lay tangled in his arms, your thighs still trembling. His lips pressed to your temple. His voice soft.

“I won’t let you go.”

You didn’t want him to, but this felt a little wrong.

“You’re not just some viewer anymore, baby. You’re mine.”

Mingi stayed the night.

He didn’t ask. Just fell asleep with one arm around your waist and the other slung possessively over your stomach like he was guarding you. And when you woke up the next morning, his face was still buried in your neck, breathing you in.

He didn’t leave for three days.

By the time he did, you had handprints on your thighs and bruises on your hips. Your body was sore, marked, and claimed in every way imaginable. And he wasn’t done.

“No streaming. No pictures. No fucking friends,” he said as he zipped up his bag before leaving. “I see anyone else touch you, I’ll lose it.”

You should’ve felt afraid.

Instead, you said:

“Okay.” with a small giggle.

He smiled like a predator. And he meant it.

He started small. Your phone buzzed with messages every hour.

Fixon8: Where are you? Fixon8: Who are you with? Fixon8: Why didn’t you answer in 7 minutes?

Then he showed up unannounced. Two nights in a row. One time with takeout. One time with handcuffs.

“Don’t make me ask to see you, baby. Just be here.”

And when you tried to tease him, mentioning an old hookup in from a couple of months ago, his entire mood shifted.

“You let someone else touch this pussy?”

You blinked.

“It was months ago, Mingi-”

“Did he fuck you raw?”

You swallowed.

He grabbed your face—tight. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop you from lying.

“You gave my mouth to someone else?”

You whimpered, breath catching as he dragged you down to the floor.

“Guess I’ll just have to remind you what mine feels like.

That night, he didn’t fuck you. He devoured you. Tongue flat and filthy, hands locking your thighs down, holding you open like you belonged under him. Mouth on your clit until you sobbed, until you screamed his name, until your legs gave out and your throat was raw.

And he still didn’t stop.

“No one else gets to hear you like this,” he growled between your thighs. “No one else gets to see how messy you get just from my fucking mouth.”

You came again. And again. And again. By the time he finally slid into you, he didn’t even fuck you hard, just deep, controlled strokes, hands on either side of your face as he whispered:

“I want to cum inside you every day until your body forgets anyone else ever existed.”

You looked up at him through wet lashes and whispered

“You already ruined me.”

He groaned, head tipping forward until your foreheads touched.

“Then let me ruin you completely.”

Afterward, he opened your drawer and slipped one of your panties in his hoodie pocket.

“Mine.”

He pulled your phone from your charger and typed his name into your contact list, with a lock emoji, and nothing else.

“No one else calls you this late.”

And when he finally left, he kissed your cheek and said:

“I’m coming back tomorrow.

It was your fault. You left your laptop open, half-buried under the sheets after a lazy afternoon nap. Mingi had wandered in shirtless and grinning, talking about ordering food, until he saw the glowing screen.

His voice stopped mid-sentence.

You rolled over, hair stuck to your cheek, blinking in confusion.

“Mingi?”

He didn’t answer.

His eyes were locked on the screen. On your bookmarks bar.

Your stomach dropped.

Because there it was, clear as day: -Private Folder — ‘M<3’ -Favorites: Mingi moaning.mp4 -Replay: Tongue & Toy — 57min

You shot up, panicked.

“Wait-wait, don’t-”

But he’d already clicked.

The video opened. His video. From months ago. The one where he came untouched just from grinding against the sheets. The one where he whispered, “I feel like someone’s watching me harder than the rest.” You watched his expression shift in real-time. First confusion, then realization, then something darker.

Something primal.

He closed the laptop slowly. Turned to you.

“You saved them huh.”

You sat frozen.

“I- yeah, I…” you swallowed, trying to smile, “I didn’t think you’d care. That was before we even—”

“You fucking labeled them.”

He stepped closer. You didn’t move.

“You made folders. Organized clips. You watched me cum over and over while pretending you were just some quiet little viewer, but you're just a nasty little slut.”

His tone wasn’t angry. It was low. Careful. Controlled.

“How long?”

Your throat dried up.

“Mingi—”

“How long did you watch me like that?”

You breathed, barely.

“Since the first week. I saw you by accident, and I… I couldn’t stop.”

He stood above you now, staring down at your flushed, guilty face.

“So all that time, you were already mine.”

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands gripping your thighs, forcing them open so he could settle between.

“I used to wonder why I came so hard when I said your name on stream. Now I know.”

You moaned when he dragged your panties down, spreading your legs until your slick thighs trembled.

“You were already touching yourself to me. Like a good little pervert. My perfect fucking girl.”

He buried his face between your legs like he missed it. Tongue flat and messy, groaning like your taste was the cure to something inside him. He licked through you like he was starving, hands gripping your thighs so tight they’d bruise.

“That folder should’ve had a password,” he murmured against your pussy. “But I’m glad it didn’t.”

Your hips bucked. He sucked your clit until your back arched and your legs jerked.

“Say it,” he panted. “Say you were mine even before I touched you.”

You gasped, hands gripping his hair.

“I was yours. I was already yours. I wanted you so bad-”

You came hard against his mouth, crying his name out.

He didn’t stop. Not even when you shook. Not even when your eyes rolled back. When he finally pulled away, your legs were still twitching. He stood over you, cock hard and leaking against his stomach.

“You want the real thing now, baby?”

You nodded helplessly.

He slid into you with one smooth, hard thrust. Deep and full, like he wanted to wipe every fake memory clean and replace it with this. He fucked you like he was memorizing the way you felt. Slow at first. Then deeper. Hips grinding as he filled you again and again, praising you between every thrust.

“You were mine even when you didn’t say a word.”

“You made those clips for me, didn’t you? Touched yourself while you named my files.”

“No one’s ever gonna know you like I do.”

You moaned with every word, helpless beneath him.

And when he came, deep inside you, groaning into your neck, he didn’t pull out.

“Keep it in,” he whispered, kissing your jaw. “Don’t waste a drop.”

You were quiet for a moment, blinking up at the ceiling, full of his cum and full of… something bigger.

Then he reached for the laptop again.

You panicked.

“Wait—!”

But he just opened a blank folder, titled it: ‘Real Life: Mingi + 7451’

“Guess it’s time to start a new one.”

You felt your phone buzz next to you. It was a message from Mingi saying:

Mingi<3: “Set an alarm. 7:45 AM. No panties. Call me after you wake up.”

You stared at it.

A week ago, he’d been fucking you into the mattress while calling you his favorite little pervert. Now he was setting your schedule like he owned your time too.

Which, honestly… he kind of did. You followed every instruction.

No panties. A cropped hoodie and nothing else. Face flushed when your alarm went off and you sat up, already soaked. Already thinking about him.

Your phone rang at 7:46.

“Good girl,” he said. “Let me hear your voice."

By the end of the week, he was managing more than just your mornings.

“Wear that black dress today.

“No touching yourself after 10PM unless I say so.”

“Drink water. Three bottles. I’m serious.”

It kind of scared you at first, but you actually liked it. You liked the sound of his voice cracking through your speakers. You liked that he kept track of your cycle, your work schedule, your moods.

“You’re mine,” he said one night, whispering in your ear as you lay in bed. “So I get to make the rules.”

You broke a rule once. You touched yourself past midnight. Just one night. You were desperate and needy from his teasing, throbbing from his last message.

He found out. You didn’t even know how. But the next time you opened your door, Mingi was already inside, hood up, expression unreadable.

“What did I tell you about breaking rules?.”

You froze.

“Mingi—”

“Don’t speak.”

He grabbed your wrist, pulled you into the bedroom, and stripped you in seconds. Then he tied you down. No ropes. Just his shirt and his hoodie. His hand pressing firm into your belly.

He made you cum five times.

“You wanna cum without permission?” “You’ll cum when I say. Over and over. Until you cry for me.”

He used his mouth, his fingers, a toy you didn’t know he’d brought. He didn’t even let you catch your breath.

“No running, baby. This is what you wanted, right?”

By the end, you were shaking, twitching, tears streaming down your face as you begged him to stop. And he did, but not before licking his fingers and whispering:

“You taste so good.”

Later, wrapped in his arms, your body trembling with aftershocks, you heard the softest thing you’d ever hear him say.

“You don’t need to control anything anymore.”

You blinked up at him, sleepy and ruined.

“Why?”

He kissed your cheek.

“Because I’ve got you.”

He just showed up one afternoon with a duffel bag and threw it on your couch like it had always been his.

You blinked at him, wide-eyed.

“You’re moving in?”

Mingi smirked.

“You really thought I’d let you live alone after everything?”

He kissed you before you could respond. Slow, dirty, final. The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for space or permission. Just took.

The first night he stayed, it was quiet. No toys. No games. No control. Just his arms wrapped around your back as he pulled you onto his lap, your thighs bare, the stretch of him inside you slow and sweet as you cockwarmed in his lap.

“This-,” he whispered against your shoulder, “is all I’ve wanted.”

You shifted slightly, your walls clenched, and he hissed.

“Keep doing that and I’ll fuck a baby into you.”

You froze.

“You’d let me,” he said, trailing a hand down your spine. “You’d take it. You’d be perfect.”

You whimpered, burying your face in his neck.

“Do it, then. I’m yours.”

The shift was quiet, but final. Your fridge had his energy drinks. Your bathroom had his cologne. Your nights ended with his hands under your shirt, your body already open for him, your moans soft and easy like they belonged in the background of his new life.

The final stream on his channel uploaded two days after the move.

A black screen with one sentence:

“Logged out. I found her.”

No comments. No replies. The account vanished hours later.

That night, he fucked you like he was recording with his whole body.

No camera. Just memory.

Slow strokes, heavy breathing, his thumb rubbing soft circles over your clit while he whispered:

“I used to jerk off to the idea of your voice. Now I get to hear you beg for real.”

He came inside you multiple times before the sun came up.

And in the morning, you found your laptop open.

A new file was on your desktop.

"Viewer Number 7451 – Complete."

HONGJOONG

“so…just sit on it?”

hongjoong closed his eyes and inhaled. he was obviously growing impatient, what with his work needing to be done and his cock resting between your thighs, throbbing with need to get inside you. he held his cock and rubbed its head against your slick folds. “yes, baby. sit on it.”

the fabric of his t shirt crumpled in your fists as you braced yourself against him. you slipped down his length, sheathing it in your warmth. you both sighed, him at your tightness, and you at the stretch. instinctually your hips began to move, but a hand at your thigh quickly halted you.

“f-fuck,” he groaned, glaring down at his hand on your thigh like he wanted to do anything than keep you from bouncing on him. hongjoong swallowed while his thumb rubbed circles into your skin. “just sit. you gotta warm it. stay still while i work, okay?”

you huffed and leaned into his chest petulantly. two seconds into trying cockwarming for the first time and you already hated it. you wanted to move, needed to. his cock, nestled so deep inside, was brushing against that gummy spot; if you could just move, it’d feel so good. by this time he’d normally be pounding into you with reckless abandon, giving into what you both craved. right now, he was still, his arms around you as he busied himself with whatever it was he was working on. despite his cock being buried to the hilt in your cunt, he paid you no mind.

it wasn’t long before you were unable to withstand it any longer. you rocked your hips over his lap, whimpered into his ear that wasn’t covered with his headphones, and moaned his name weakly. and just when you thought he had a resolve of steel, his hips rutted upwards. “fuck it,” hongjoong cursed under his breath just as his hands found purchase on your hips, holding you still while his hips snapped into you repeatedly. “we’ll try again next time.”

SEONGHWA

“this piece, and t-this piece…” seonghwa’s deep voice was hoarse with need. and even as he thought aloud, trying to keep his mind together, he just couldn’t focus on the task at hand. he cursed, dropping the lego pieces onto the table. “fuck, baby, can’t i just –” he bucked his hips in a wordless plea.

you bit your lip to stifle a moan. you picked up the pieces again, offering them to him. “no, gotta stay still. it’s the whole point of cockwarming. now, finish building your set. you’re almost done.” you were sat atop him with your back to him. you watched his hands from each side of your form take the lego pieces again and resume what he had been doing.

seonghwa rested his chin on your shoulder. “this would be so much easier if i could focus, you know.” his fingers skillfully put the set together, the sight almost hypnotic to you.

“you don’t look like you’re having a hard time,” you replied, but were quickly reminded of the very hard cock nestled inside you.

he laughed and groaned at the same time, his breath fanning across your cheek. goosebumps scattered on your skin. seonghwa’s lips were against your ear then. “maybe…maybe i could take a little break, come back to this when i’ve cleared my head a little…” a hand slid down to where you were joined, his thumb pressing into your clit.

the clench around him was immediate, and you both almost lost all resolve right then and there. it was so tempting to just let him fuck you, even bend you over this table. but you weren’t going to back down, not yet. “keep working, just a little more. i promise you’ll get to fuck me. soon.”

the lego set was soon forgotten…

YUNHO

“yunho, please…” your cry fell on deaf ears, or rather, your cry simply did not penetrate the large headphones atop his head. you whimpered, cheek smooshed into his chest as you straddled him. he remained oblivious to you, too caught up in his video game. even with you wrapped around his thick cock, he was much more concerned with defeating his on screen opponents than fucking you. cockwarm me, he said. it’ll be fun, he said. you cursed him in your head.

you sat up straight, your face to his, effectively blocking his view of the computer screen. yunho was able to look over your shoulder with ease thanks to his larger frame, and this only fueled your annoyance more. you opted to trail kisses down his jaw, thinking that surely this would grab his attention. but no, it didn’t. the only sign he was even remotely affected was the slow bob of his adam’s apple. you groaned, and with no other option coming to mind, you took matter into your own hands and began bouncing on his lap, fucking yourself on his cock.

god, it felt good. so good. and you savored the sweet torture of his cock stretching your walls over and over, at least that was until one of his long arms wrapped around your frame to still you. you looked up at him to find that he was looking down at you, finally giving you attention for the first time since you’d been on him.

“what do you think you’re doing?” yunho had now paused his game, your bounces on his cock too much of a distraction. “I thought i told you to warm my cock while I played, not fuck yourself on it.”

“your game was taking too long, and –”

“and what? is my poor baby getting needy, huh?” yunho put his controller aside to hold your waist with both hands. with his full attention now on you, and that familiar dark look in his eyes, you didn’t feel as brazen as before. he chuckled, grinding his hips into yours in a way that had you melting in his arms. “well, if you wanted my attention so bad, now you have it. just remember you asked for this, baby.”

YEOSANG

“so…we just lay here?” yeosang’s voice was low in your ear, barely a whisper as you both payed attention to the movie. you were both on the couch, with him behind you and you settled comfortably in front of him. and his cock stuffed fully inside your cunt.

“yeah,” you said, and when you readjusted yourself, you pressed him further inside, making the poor man behind you groan.

“okay,” he started, strong arm tightening around you. he sounded winded, like he was struggling not to fuck you. which he definitely was, your tight walls tempting him to move. “but if we’re gonna do this, try not to move. please.”

the need in his velvety voice went straight to your core, and god, you almost caved at the sound. you weren’t fairing much better than him, but you at least wanted to give this a try. “okay, i’ll try.”

you managed to get through most of the movie with neither of you moving. his cock was still rock hard, and you were still so wet. your mind began to go numb, only occupied with thoughts of him, the movie a mere blur to you. it was getting closer to the end, and the end meant that finally he could move, could fuck you.

you intended to make it, to wait until you saw the credits that signaled the close of the movie, but yeosang’s hand pressing against your tummy showed that he had other plans. his hips moved tentatively back and forth; it was enough to make you both sigh out in pleasure. “i think,” he spoke between small ruts, “we’re close enough to the end.”

you nodded. “i think so too…” you rolled your rear against him for more friction.

“fucking finally.” there was a symphony of relieved moans at that first deep thrust of his hips.

SAN

san landed on top of you in a heap, panting heavily while he kissed your temple. your arms remained around his neck while you both came down from the high, your sweaty skin sticking together. “i love you.”

“i love you, too.” you kissed his shoulder. moments later he made to get off you, but you cried aloud, limbs wrapping around his body to keep him close. “stay inside of me.”

san laughed as his forehead rested against yours. “stay inside? but why? i’m all…soft now.”

“wanna cockwarm you. just for a little while.”

san was already inclined to do as you asked, but your pretty eyes looking up at him so cutely did him in. “okay. i’ll stay inside, baby.” san remained within you, but moved you both to lay on your sides for more comfort. his arms wrapped around you protectively.

you were content to pass the time listening to his heartbeat and revel in the intimacy of the moment. there was the occasional pillow talk over the most random things, soft giggles, and sweet kisses. sweet kisses that began to linger, grow deeper, and hands tangling in hair and soft sighs filling the air. the heated energy from before returned, and you felt the way san’s cock began to grow inside your walls.

you moaned, and san laughed, throwing your leg over his hip and thrusting. “i think i see why you wanted me to stay inside.”

you smiled as he began to fuck you, fully hard cock pushing you further towards your second orgasm of the night.

MINGI

“baby, i can’t sleep like this…”

“mingi, please,” you whined. “do it for me.” your boyfriend shifted behind you, large hands gripping your hips tightly. his cock was deep, already positioned to hit that sweet spot inside you if he only moved.

“how can i sleep when you’re so tight around me?” mingi was restless, your tight cunt the only thing occupying his mind. he was much too aroused to even attempt to find sleep. he was throbbing, the need to fuck you so intense it was unbearable. “I don’t even know why you wanted to do this in the first place.”

“mingi…” you huffed and fixed the pillow under your head, trying to not move your lower half at all. “just be still then if you can’t sleep.”

“you’re acting like you don’t inwardly want me to fuck you right now.”

“this isn’t about fucking.”

“like hell it isn’t,” mingi grumbled, starting to pull his hips back to thrust into you, but stopping himself. you didn’t make a sound, but the way you clenched around him told him everything. “your pussy is fluttering around me, begging to be fucked.”

when he pushed into your backside, you couldn’t help the small moan that escaped you. you heard him laugh behind you.

he kissed your neck. “what was that?”

you rolled your eyes though he couldn’t see. “okay, stop the teasing and just fuck me, will you?”

mingi thrusted into you forcefully. you cried out, barely catching your breath before he was moving again. “gladly.”

WOOYOUNG

“oh my god, wooyoung!” you cried into his neck, fists balling his shirt.

“feels good, yeah?” wooyoung kissed the top of your head while his thumb busied itself with your clit, rubbing smooth circles against the sensitive bud. you were spasming around his cock, so obviously close to cumming.

“this isn’t how it’s done,” you whined. “i’m just – fuck – supposed to warm your cock.”

“you are baby, but you never said i couldn’t rub your clit.” wooyoung was smug, staying completely still just like you asked him to despite him currently working you towards the edge. “you don’t want me to stop, do you?”

your head shook vigorously. “no! m’so close! so close!”

wooyoung smirked. “that’s what i thought.” his thumb was constant, steady rhythm on your bundle of nerves making you spiral in his lap.

“w-wooyoung, fuck!” your orgasm rushed through you, and you came hard around his still cock. you barely heard his low groan through the haze of your high.

“god, so tight, baby.” wooyoung gripped your hips, slamming you down onto him. “now it’s my turn to cum.”

JONGHO

“you’re so pretty when you’re full of my cock.”

jongho’s nasty words were punctuated by the sight of you in the mirror, splayed between his legs, your thighs open, and cunt stuffed full of his thick cock. you moaned, back arching and hips moving in search of friction. “jongho, please. fuck me.”

“not yet, i wanna admire you warming my cock some more.” his eyes found yours in the mirror, and he chuckled at the neediness in your gaze. “you can wait just a little while longer, can’t you?”

that was a stupid question only meant to tease you. he knew you couldn’t. he knew how desperate you were. you were leaking all around him, pussy begging for him to move. “i’ve already been waiting so long…”

“and you’ve been doing so good,” jongho praised with a kiss to your temple. “please just let me keep you like this for a little bit more. you’re just so pretty like this. i think we need to do this more often, baby. don’t you think so?”

you only whined in desperation. “I don’t wanna cockwarm you anymore, just want you to fuck me.”

jongho pinched your nipple, making you cry out. “so demanding,” he grunted. “if you want to cum at all tonight, you’ll stop whining, okay?”

you whimpered, but nodded anyway.

another kiss to your temple. “good, baby.”

AUTHOR’S NOTES — sooooo excited to finally have this posted 😩🙌🏻

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