I'm pre-predebut

wobbling from the impact, zayne recovers quickly and gently peels you off of him. “is something wrong?”

“no.” you try to dive back in, but you’re halted by an impromptu examination. he feels your forehead, checks your lymph nodes, and puts a hand over your heart. at first, you think he’s only toying with you. but when he moves to inspect your nostrils next, you cut the checkup short with a scandalized grunt. 

“are you sure you’re alright? you can hardly walk straight.” his eyes narrow slightly. “and before you say that i’m to blame, that was every bit what you asked for last night.” 

“stop,” you groan. like a magnet, the crown of your head finds its way back to his chest. “i’m fine. i saw a video of a cat headbutting its owner and thought it was cute. it’s how they show affection. i wanted to try it, but you keep getting in my way.”

repositioning yourself, you settle over his quickening heartbeat. his pectorals freeze against your forehead before finally relaxing, and he gives in with a chuckle. 

“i see. in that case, it’s only right that i return the gesture.” zayne curls one hand around your waist, bringing you impossibly closer. with his other, he cups your cheek gently, warmth from his large palm flowing into your skin. when he leans forward, you can’t help but close your eyes in anticipation. 

a force you can only compare to a heavyweight bowling ball knocks into your skull. the thunk sound echoes through the kitchen. 

suppressing a yelp, you rear backwards and try to blink the dizziness away. on the counter, the water in his glass ripples from the aftershocks. 

the human hardhat in front of you looks pleased with himself—until he sees the grimace on your face, that is. confused caution turns his pink cheeks a deeper red. “is that how cats do it?” 

“uh-huh,” you lie. “that was great. it’s just…i’m glad a brain as brilliant as yours is under such elite protection.”

he furrows his eyebrows. “what do you mean?”

The gown was heavier than she had imagined.

Gold thread stitched into layers of pale fabric that caught the candlelight and reflected it in muted glimmers. The sleeves fell long over her wrists, the bodice fitted too tightly for comfort, pressing against her ribs in a way that made it harder to breathe deeply. Each added ornament seemed unnecessary, excessive, as though the weight of it all was meant to remind her of something she was not allowed to forget.

She did not belong to herself anymore.

One of the maidens adjusted the collar, careful fingers brushing against her throat. The touch lingered just a moment too long, as if checking for a pulse.

She resisted the urge to pull away.

“Lift your chin,” the woman said softly.

She obeyed.

The room smelled faintly of oil and dried flowers. The windows had been opened earlier in the morning, but the air that drifted in carried no familiarity. Even the breeze felt foreign here, colder somehow, sharper against her skin.

A week.

She had been here for a week and still everything felt wrong.

The castle was too vast, its corridors stretching endlessly, lined with guards who did not speak unless spoken to. The servants kept their eyes lowered. The nobles she had glimpsed from a distance watched her with quiet calculation, as though assessing something that had yet to prove its worth.

She had not seen him. Not once.

The king of this land. The man she was to marry.

She had been received by officials, guided through formalities, instructed on customs she was expected to follow. Every step had been carefully controlled, every interaction measured. Even the meals were delivered to her chambers rather than taken in the grand hall.

She was not a guest.

She was a transaction.

“Turn.”

She turned slowly as instructed, the skirts of her gown shifting with a soft, dragging sound across the stone floor.

One of the maidens stepped back, studying her work. “It will do.”

It will do.

The words settled somewhere deep in her chest, heavy and unyielding.

She caught her reflection in the polished surface of a tall mirror across the room. For a moment, she did not recognize the person staring back.

The girl in the mirror looked composed. Regal, even. The gown fit her perfectly, the delicate embroidery framing her figure with deliberate elegance. Her hair had been arranged carefully, pinned and woven with small gold accents that shimmered faintly.

There was no trace of the girl who had left her home.

No trace of the warmth of familiar halls, of laughter echoing through corridors she had known since childhood. No trace of the friends who had clung to her hands in the days before her departure, their voices filled with forced optimism.

“He might not be as bad as they say.”

“You’ll be safe. That’s what matters.”

“You’re saving all of us.”

She had smiled for them then. She had told them she understood. She had told them she would be fine.

Now, standing in a room that did not belong to her, dressed for a ceremony that felt more like surrender than union, she wondered if they had believed their own words.

Or if they had simply needed her to believe them.

“Princess.”

The voice came from behind her.

She turned.

A guard stood at the doorway, his posture rigid, his gaze fixed somewhere just past her shoulder. “It is time.”

Of course it was.

She nodded once.

The maidens stepped aside without another word, their task complete.

No one offered comfort. No one wished her well.

There was nothing to say.

The walk to the great hall felt longer than it should have.

Her footsteps echoed softly against the stone, swallowed by the vastness of the corridors. The guard led the way, his pace steady, unhurried. Two others followed behind her, their presence close enough to be felt without needing to turn and confirm it.

She was not walking toward something.

She was being delivered.

The thought settled coldly in her mind, uninvited but impossible to ignore.

Like a pig being led to slaughter.

The image was vivid, unwelcome. She could almost hear the distant sounds of it, the quiet murmurs, the final stillness before the inevitable.

Her fingers curled slightly against the fabric of her gown.

She forced herself to breathe evenly.

This was her choice. No one had forced her.

The agreement had been laid before her kingdom, the terms clear and unyielding. Peace in exchange for union. Stability in exchange for sacrifice.

She had stepped forward before anyone else could speak.

Before her father could hesitate. Before her advisors could argue.

She had known what it meant.

She had known what she was offering.

Her life for theirs.

Her future for their safety.

The memory of that moment flickered through her mind as they approached the towering doors of the great hall.

The way the room had fallen silent when she spoke.

The way her father had looked at her, something breaking behind his carefully maintained composure.

“You do not have to do this.”

“I do.”

There had been no doubt in her voice then.

There was no room for it now.

The doors opened.

The great hall was filled.

The first thing she noticed was the sound.

Low murmurs, shifting fabrics, the quiet rustle of movement as heads turned toward her. The weight of attention settled over her instantly, pressing down in a way that made it difficult to focus on anything else.

She stepped forward.

Each step felt deliberate, measured.

The aisle stretched before her, lined with nobles whose faces blurred together in a sea of unfamiliar expressions. Some watched with open curiosity, others with thinly veiled disdain. A few looked almost amused.

No one looked kind.

The air was colder here.

Or perhaps it only felt that way.

Her gaze remained forward, fixed on the figure standing at the far end of the hall.

The king.

For a moment, everything else faded.

The whispers. The watching eyes. The suffocating weight of the room.

All of it became distant as she focused on him.

He was not what she had expected.

That realization came quietly, but it struck deeper than anything else.

He was younger.

Not a boy, not by any means, but younger than the image she had built in her mind. The rumors had painted him as something almost untouchable, a figure carved from cruelty and authority, hardened by years of ruling with an iron hand.

The man standing before her did not fit that image.

He stood tall, his posture straight, his presence commanding in a way that did not rely on movement or expression. His features were sharp, defined, his face composed to the point of stillness.

Handsome.

The word surfaced before she could stop it.

It felt misplaced.

Irrelevant.

His expression did not change as she approached.

There was no flicker of curiosity. No hint of interest.

Nothing.

His gaze was steady, fixed on her with a calm that bordered on indifference.

It was not cruelty she saw there.

It was something colder.

Control.

Complete, unwavering control.

Her steps slowed slightly as she neared him.

Not enough for anyone else to notice.

Enough for her to feel it.

This was the man she had been given to.

This was the man who held her fate in his hands.

She stopped beside him.

Up close, the details became sharper.

The way his jaw was set, not tightly, but firmly. The stillness of his shoulders. The absence of any unnecessary movement.

He did not look at her the way men often did when presented with something meant to be admired.

He looked at her as though assessing.

As though measuring something unseen.

The officiant began to speak.

His voice carried through the hall, formal and practiced, reciting words that had been spoken countless times before in ceremonies just like this one.

She barely heard them.

Her awareness remained fixed on the man beside her.

Choi Jongho.

The name settled in her mind with a strange weight.

She had heard it before, of course.

In whispers.

In warnings.

“He does not hesitate.”

“They say he executed his own advisor for treason without a second thought.”

“He has no mercy.”

Her friends’ voices echoed faintly in her memory, their expressions caught somewhere between fear and fascination as they repeated the rumors they had heard.

She had listened. She had accepted it. She had prepared herself for cruelty.

For anger. For arrogance. For something she could understand, even if she could not accept it.

This… was different.

There was no anger in him.

No visible cruelty.

Only distance.

A distance so complete it felt impenetrable.

“Do you accept this union?”

The question pulled her back.

Her gaze shifted forward. “I do.”

Her voice did not waver.

She did not look at him as she spoke.

She did not need to.

The same question was directed at him.

There was a brief pause.

Not long enough to draw attention.

Long enough for her to notice.

“I do.”

His voice was low.

There was no emotion in it.

No hesitation.

The words were spoken with the same precision as everything else about him.

Like a statement of fact. Not a choice.

The ceremony continued.

Words were exchanged. Vows spoken. Rings placed.

Each action felt distant, like something happening around her rather than something she was part of.

Until it was done.

Until the final words were spoken.

Until the murmurs rose again, louder now, filling the space that had been held in tense silence.

She turned slightly, uncertain of what was expected next.

Jongho moved first.

Not toward her.

But toward one of the nobles who had stepped forward.

A man she did not recognize.

The noble began to speak, his tone polite but edged with something sharper beneath the surface. “Your Majesty, I trust this alliance will prove… beneficial to both parties.”

There was something in the way he said it.

A subtle implication.

A challenge, perhaps.

Jongho’s gaze shifted to him.

It was a small movement.

Barely noticeable.

And yet the effect was immediate.

The noble’s expression faltered.

Only for a second.

“It will,” Jongho said.

Nothing more.

No elaboration.

No reassurance.

The conversation ended there.

The noble stepped back.

Silenced.

She watched it happen.

Watched the way the room seemed to adjust around him, the subtle shift in tension, the quiet acknowledgment of authority that required no force.

It was not loud.

It was not overt.

But it was absolute.

Her attention returned to him.

He had not looked at her again.

Not since the vows.

Not since the moment she had stood beside him and tried to reconcile the man before her with the stories she had been told.

A flicker of something stirred in her chest.

Not fear.

Something sharper.

Something that felt dangerously close to curiosity.

And beneath it, quieter but persistent.

Surprise.

Because this was not what she had expected.

Not at all.

The celebration began before she could prepare for it.

Music filled the great hall, softer than she expected, but constant. A steady presence beneath the layered voices of nobles and courtiers who seemed far more at ease now that the formalities had passed. Servants moved between them with practiced precision, offering wine, arranging dishes, adjusting anything that needed tending without drawing attention to themselves.

She sat beside the king. Her husband.

The word felt unfamiliar. It settled uneasily in her thoughts, like something that did not quite belong.

Jongho had not spoken to her.

Not after the ceremony. Not when they had been led to the long table at the front of the hall. Not even when he had taken his seat beside her, his presence close enough to be felt without ever truly acknowledging hers.

He had not looked at her either.

At least, not that she had noticed.

His attention remained on the room, on the people moving within it, on conversations that did not include her. When others approached him, he answered. When they spoke, he listened. Every response he gave was measured, precise, leaving no room for interpretation or unnecessary familiarity.

He ruled even in silence.

And she sat beside him like an ornament.

Still. Composed. Silent.

Exactly what they expected.

Her hands rested in her lap, fingers lightly intertwined, the fabric of her gown pooling around her like something meant to anchor her in place. She kept her posture straight, her expression neutral, her gaze drifting just enough to avoid staring at any one person for too long.

No one spoke to her.

She felt their attention, though.

The subtle glances. The quiet assessments. The curiosity that lingered just beneath the surface of polite indifference.

She was new. Unknown.

A variable in a place that did not tolerate uncertainty.

A servant placed a glass before her.

She did not reach for it.

The music continued.

The conversations flowed.

And still, she sat.

Detached.

Like she was watching something unfold from a distance rather than being part of it.

It would have been easier if Jongho had been cruel.

If he had dismissed her openly, spoken harshly, given her something tangible to react to. Something she could understand, even if she did not accept it.

This quiet distance felt worse.

Because it left her with nothing.

Nothing to push against.

Nothing to define him beyond the rumors she had carried with her.

Until someone took the seat beside her.

“I was beginning to think they would not allow me the chance to meet you.”

The voice was warm.

Too warm.

It cut through the steady rhythm of the hall in a way that immediately drew her attention.

She turned slightly.

The man beside her did not look away.

He was smiling.

Not broadly, not in a way that could be called friendly without question. There was something sharper beneath it, something observant, calculating.

“Kim Hongjoong,” he said, inclining his head just enough to acknowledge her status without diminishing his own. “Advisor to the king.”

A pause. “And, on occasion, his friend.”

She studied him.

He did not lower his gaze. He did not soften under her attention.

If anything, his expression seemed to sharpen, as though her silence was something to be examined rather than respected.

“You have been here for a week,” he continued, his tone conversational, almost light. “And yet we have not crossed paths.”

“That was not my decision.”

The words left her before she could reconsider them.

His smile widened. “Of course not.”

There it was.

Interest.

Measured, deliberate interest.

She felt it then.

The purpose behind his presence.

He had not come to welcome her.

He had come to assess her.

To determine what she was.

What she might become.

What threat she could pose.

Her fingers tightened slightly against her gown.

“And what should we make of you?” he asked, tilting his head just slightly, his gaze never leaving her face. “A princess from a rival kingdom, now seated beside our king. A symbol of peace, perhaps.”

Perhaps.

The word lingered between them.

She met his gaze fully then.

If he wanted to see, she would let him.

“You can be relieved,” she said.

His brows lifted slightly.

A flicker of curiosity.

“The only thing I want is to be safe,” she continued, her voice steady, controlled in a way that mirrored the man seated on her other side. “And for my people to be safe.”

Hongjoong said nothing.

He listened.

She continued.

“I will be a good wife,” she said. “A quiet one.”

There was a shift in her tone then.

Subtle. Sharp.

“I will sit where I am told. Speak when I am spoken to. Smile when it is expected.” Her lips curved faintly, but there was no warmth in it. “I will look pretty and do nothing at all. Certainly nothing that would require using my head.”

The words settled between them like something fragile.

And then Hongjoong laughed.

Loudly.

It cut through the surrounding conversations, sharp enough to draw attention from those nearby.

She did not flinch.

His laughter did not feel mocking.

It felt… genuine.

“I like you,” he said, still smiling as he leaned back slightly in his seat.

Then he turned his head.

Toward Jongho.

“There is more here than we were led to believe,” Hongjoong added, his tone shifting into something unmistakably smug. “You will have quite the handful to deal with.”

For the first time since she had sat down Jongho reacted.

It was small.

Barely anything.

But it was there.

He turned his head.

His gaze landed on her.

There was no anger in it.

No clear emotion at all.

But there was something new.

Something she had not seen before.

Attention.

And, for a brief moment surprise.

“Haha.”

The word left him flatly.

Completely devoid of amusement.

It was not a laugh.

It was a dismissal.

Hongjoong only seemed more entertained by it.

Y/n sat very still.

Her gaze shifted between them.

Confusion settled slowly in her chest.

Because she did not understand what had just happened.

Not fully.

Not the way Hongjoong seemed to.

Not the way Jongho had reacted.

It felt like she had stepped into something she could not yet see.

A conversation beneath the one that had just taken place.

And she had been part of it without knowing the rules.

The music continued.

The hall remained filled with voices.

But something had shifted.

Even if she could not name it.

The celebration lasted longer than she had expected.

Long enough for the candles to burn lower, their light softer, more uneven. Long enough for the conversations to grow louder in some corners and quieter in others. Long enough for the weight of the day to settle fully into her bones.

By the time she was led away, the hall no longer felt suffocating.

Just distant.

Like something already fading.

The corridors were quieter now.

The sounds of the celebration did not reach this far.

Only the echo of her own footsteps remained.

She did not ask where they were taking her.

She already knew.

The maidens were waiting.

The same ones from earlier.

They moved around her with the same efficiency, the same silence, removing the heavy layers of her gown piece by piece until the weight of it was gone.

It should have felt like relief.

It did not.

They dressed her again.

This time in something lighter.

Something that did not hide as much.

The fabric was thin.

It fell loosely against her body, sheer enough that she could see the faint outline of her own skin beneath it. The sleeves slipped from her shoulders too easily, the neckline lower than anything she had worn before.

She did not comment.

There was no point.

This, too, was expected.

When they were done, they stepped back.

Just like before.

She did not look at herself this time.

The room was quiet.

Larger than the one she had been given during the past week. Warmer, though that might have been the candles placed carefully around the space, their light steady and soft.

The bed stood at the center.

She sat at ist edge.

The fabric beneath her hands was smooth, unfamiliar.

She folded her fingers together, resting them in her lap.

Her posture remained straight.

Her thoughts did not race.

They did not scatter or spiral.

She knew what would happen.

This, too, had been part of the agreement.

Part of the unspoken understanding that came with everything else.

Her gaze lowered slightly.

She focused on the faint patterns in the fabric beneath her hands.

The door opened.

She did not look up immediately.

She heard his steps.

The door closed behind him.

Silence followed.

She lifted her gaze then.

Jongho stood near the entrance.

For a moment, he did not move.

His eyes settled on her.

Took in her appearance.

The thin fabric. The way she sat. The stillness of her posture.

There was no visible reaction.

No shift in expression.

Nothing that betrayed what he thought of it.

Then he looked away.

He moved past her.

He reached for the fastening of his outer garments, removing them with practiced ease, his movements precise, efficient. Each layer was set aside without carelessness, without hesitation.

He did not look at her again.

Not once.

She watched him.

She could not help it.

The way he moved.

The way he carried himself even in something as simple as undressing.

When he was done, he crossed to the bed.

He lifted the blanket.

And lay down.

Turning his back to her.

The space beside him remained untouched.

Her breath caught.

Only slightly.

She had expected…she did not know what she had expected.

Not this.

“Sleep,” he said.

The word was simple. Firm.

“That is all that is required tonight.”

She did not move.

Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric beneath her.

Silence stretched.

“I will not touch a woman,” he continued, his voice just as steady as before, “who did not choose this herself.”

The words settled over her slowly.

Carefully.

As if they needed time to be understood.

She stared at his back.

At the line of his shoulders beneath the fabric.

At the distance he had placed between them.

The mattress dipped slightly as she moved, lifting the blanket and slipping beneath it. The space was warm, though that might have been from the candles rather than him.

She lay down.

Facing him.

Or rather facing his back.

She studied it.

The shape of him.

The stillness.

The absence of any tension that might suggest expectation or impatience.

He was not waiting.

He was not pretending.

He meant it.

Her thoughts shifted again.

Not as heavy this time.

Not as certain.

Because this did not fit.

Not with the rumors.

Not with the man she had prepared herself to meet.

Her gaze lingered.

She did not realize how long she had been looking until the quiet stretched into something softer.

Something almost… calm.

He was…The thought came uninvited…surprisingly attractive.

It felt misplaced.

Unnecessary.

And yet she did not look away.

Not immediately.

Because for the first time since she had arrived, she did not feel like she was waiting for something inevitable to happen.

She simply existed.

In the quiet.

Beside a man she did not understand.

And that, more than anything else, unsettled her.

She woke to silence.

It was the first thing she noticed, even before she opened her eyes. The quiet sat differently in this room compared to the one she had been given during her first week. It was deeper, more settled, as though the walls themselves were accustomed to holding it.

For a moment, she did not move.

The events of the night before returned slowly, not in sharp fragments but in a steady, almost reluctant awareness. The ceremony. The hall. The way Jongho had turned his back to her without hesitation.

The way he had told her to sleep.

Her fingers shifted slightly against the sheets.

They were cool.

Her eyes opened.

The space beside her was empty.

The blankets had been disturbed, but only slightly. There was no lingering warmth, no sign of how long he had been gone. It could have been minutes. It could have been hours.

She pushed herself up slowly, the thin fabric of her nightgown settling against her skin as she moved. The room was still lit by the pale light of morning filtering through the tall windows, soft and almost indifferent.

Her gaze drifted to the small table beside the bed.

A folded piece of parchment rested there.

She stared at it for a moment before reaching for it.

The paper was smooth beneath her fingers, the edges clean, deliberate. When she unfolded it, the handwriting was precise, almost rigid in its neatness.

You may take your meals in your chambers or in the dining hall, as you prefer.

A maid has been assigned to you.

You are free to spend your time as you wish.

Nothing more.

No greeting.

No name.

And yet, she knew it was from him.

She read it again.

The words were simple, almost detached, but there was something beneath them that she could not quite place. Not kindness. Not exactly.

Consideration, perhaps.

Or obligation.

She set the note back down.

Her gaze lingered on it a moment longer than necessary before she turned away.

A knock came at the door.

Soft. Measured.

“Enter.”

The door opened carefully, just enough for a young woman to step inside. She carried a tray balanced steadily in her hands, her posture straight but not stiff, her gaze lowered in quiet respect.

“Good morning, my lady,” she said, her voice gentle.

She set the tray down on a small table near the window, arranging it with practiced ease before stepping back.

“I am Hana. I have been assigned as your personal maid.”

Y/n studied her.

She looked young. Not much older than herself. There was something calm about her presence, something that did not feel as distant as the others she had encountered since arriving.

“Hana,” she repeated.

The name felt grounding in a way she had not expected.

“Yes, my lady.”

There was a pause.

It stretched slightly longer than necessary, filled with something unfamiliar.

Opportunity.

Y/n rose from the bed, moving slowly, still adjusting to the quiet weight of the morning.

“You may speak freely,” she said.

Hana hesitated.

Only briefly.

Then she nodded.

“Thank you, my lady.”

Y/n moved to the table, her gaze drifting over the food laid out before her. It was simple but carefully prepared. Bread, fruit, something warm that still carried the faint scent of herbs.

She sat.

For the first time since arriving here, she was not alone.

The realization settled quietly, but it shifted something inside her.

She reached for a piece of fruit, turning it slightly in her fingers before speaking.

“How is the king?”

The question felt strange on her tongue.

Hana blinked.

Surprised.

Not by the question itself, but by the fact that it had been asked so directly.

“The king…” she began carefully, choosing her words with thought rather than fear. “He is kind.”

Y/n’s fingers stilled.

Kind.

It was not the word she had expected.

“He is not… easily understood,” Hana continued. “Many believe him to be cold. Distant. But he is not unfeeling.”

Y/n listened.

“He keeps himself apart,” Hana added. “But there are those he trusts.”

“How many?”

“Seven.”

The number came without hesitation.

“Seven advisors,” Hana said. “They are closest to him. The only ones he truly allows near.”

Y/n considered that.

Seven people in an entire kingdom.

Seven people who had managed to reach him.

“And his friends?” she asked.

Hana’s lips curved faintly.

“They are the same.”

That made sense.

Her gaze lowered briefly to the table before lifting again.

“Kim Hongjoong.”

Hana’s reaction was immediate.

Her eyes widened slightly, surprise flickering across her expression before she could hide it.

“You know his name?”

Y/n shrugged lightly.

“He introduced himself yesterday.”

Hana exhaled softly, something close to relief slipping into her posture.

“That is… not unusual for him,” she admitted. “He is curious. Always watching.”

That, at least, matched what she had seen.

“He is one of the seven?”

“Yes.”

Y/n nodded slowly.

It fit.

Everything about him had suggested it.

The confidence. The way he had spoken to Jongho without hesitation. The ease with which he had occupied the space beside her.

The days that followed blurred together. Not entirely.

But enough that time lost its sharp edges.

She explored.

At first cautiously, guided by corridors that still felt too vast, too unfamiliar. The castle revealed itself slowly, not all at once, as though it required patience to understand its shape.

Gardens hidden behind stone archways.

Quiet courtyards where the air felt lighter.

Libraries filled with shelves that stretched higher than she could reach.

No one stopped her.

No one questioned her presence.

The freedom Jongho had given her in that note remained unchallenged.

She could go where she wished.

Do what she wished.

And yet she always returned to the same place.

His chambers.

Their chambers.

Night after night.

The pattern formed without discussion.

Without agreement.

He would come late.

Always after her.

She would already be there, seated or lying quietly, her thoughts settled into the familiar rhythm of waiting.

He would enter.

A glance.

Brief. Acknowledging.

Nothing more.

He would undress with the same controlled precision, set his garments aside, and take his place in the bed.

Turning away.

“Sleep.”

The word became routine.

Expected.

She did not argue.

Not at first.

She slipped beneath the covers beside him, leaving the same careful distance between them. Close enough to share the space. Far enough to respect the boundary he had drawn.

Days turned into weeks.

Nothing changed.

He did not touch her.

He did not speak beyond what was necessary.

He did not treat her with cruelty.

But he did not treat her as a wife either.

She existed beside him.

That was all.

At first, she accepted it.

It was easier that way.

There was no fear. No uncertainty about what would happen when night came.

No obligation forced upon her without her consent.

She told herself that was enough.

More than enough.

But acceptance did not last.

It shifted.

Slowly.

Subtly.

Until it became something else.

Frustration.

It began as a quiet thought.

A question she did not voice.

Then it grew.

Each night adding to it.

Each morning reinforcing it.

Because she did not understand.

Not him.

Not his reasons.

Not the distance he maintained with such unwavering consistency.

If he had been cruel, she could have resisted.

If he had been indifferent, she could have ignored him.

This careful restraint it unsettled her in a way she could not ignore.

A month passed.

And she had enough.

She did not plan it.

She should have waited.

That thought crossed her mind the moment she stepped into the room. But it was already too late to retreat without drawing attention.

Jongho stood at the table, one hand resting against the edge, the other holding a document he had clearly stopped reading the moment she entered. Around him, the room was occupied. Men she had only heard about until now.

The seven.

Their presence filled the space in a way that made it feel smaller, sharper. Every gaze turned toward her, measuring, curious.

Hongjoong leaned casually against the side of the table, his expression already shifting into something dangerously entertained.

Y/n felt it all.

And ignored it.

Her focus stayed on Jongho.

“You’re busy,” she said.

It was not a question.

His gaze held hers, steady, unreadable.

“I am.”

The answer was simple. Dismissive in ist calm.

It should have ended there.

It didn’t.

“Then I won’t take long.”

Something in the room shifted at that.

Subtle. Not enough to interrupt. Enough to be noticed.

Jongho set the document down.

His attention remained fixed on her, as though waiting to see how far she intended to go.

“And what is it that cannot wait?” he asked.

His tone was even.

It irritated her more than if he had sounded annoyed.

She took a step closer.

Not enough to close the distance completely, but enough to make it clear she was not backing down.

“You,” she said.

A pause.

His expression did not change.

“Be more specific.”

The words were quiet.

There was something beneath them now. Not emotion, something sharper than before.

She felt it.

And pushed anyway.

“It has been over a month.”

Her voice was steady, but there was tension beneath it now, threading through every word.

“I spend my days alone, wandering halls that do not belong to me, surrounded by people who watch but never speak.” She took another step forward. “And every night, I return to a husband who does not even acknowledge me beyond telling me to sleep.”

The room had gone completely still.

No one interrupted.

No one moved.

Jongho’s gaze did not waver.

“You are given freedom,” he said.

“I was given space,” she corrected immediately. “There is a difference.”

Silence stretched.

He tilted his head slightly.

A small movement.

Barely anything.

“You prefer otherwise?”

The question landed heavier than it should have.

Because there was something in the way he said it.

Something that suggested he already knew the answer.

Her frustration sharpened.

“I prefer understanding what this is,” she said. “Because it is certainly not a marriage.”

That did it.

Something in his expression shifted.

Not much.

But enough.

“You knew what this arrangement was before you agreed to it.”

“And I accepted it,” she replied. “I did not expect affection. I did not expect warmth.” Her voice tightened, just slightly. “But I did expect you to treat me as something more than a stranger who happens to share your bed.”

A quiet breath moved through the room.

Someone shifted.

Hongjoong, perhaps.

She didn’t look.

Jongho’s gaze hardened…not in anger, but in something more contained.

“You are treated with respect,” he said.

The calm in his voice made something in her snap.

“Respect?” she repeated, a short, sharp sound leaving her that almost resembled a laugh. “You do not speak to me. You do not look at me. You do not touch me.”

There it was.

The word settled between them.

“And yet,” she continued, stepping closer still, closing the distance enough that the tension between them became something tangible, “you expect me to sit quietly and accept it.”

His jaw tightened.

Just slightly.

“You are not being forced into anything.”

“That is not the point.”

“Then what is?”

The question came faster this time.

Sharper.

It was the first time he had stepped toward her, closing the space she had already begun to erase.

They stood closer now.

Too close for the room they were in.

Too close for the audience they had.

She could feel it.

The shift.

The way the air changed.

Her pulse quickened.

Not from fear.

From something else entirely.

“I am your wife,” she said.

The words were quieter now.

But they carried more weight.

“And yet you treat me like I am not even worth the dirt under your shoes.”

His gaze dropped.

Just for a moment.

To her lips.

Then back to her eyes.

It was brief.

So brief she almost thought she imagined it.

Almost.

“You are not owed effort,” he said.

The words landed harder than anything else he had said so far.

Something inside her flared.

Hot and immediate.

“Then what am I owed?” she demanded.

He did not answer.

That was it.

That was what broke whatever restraint she had left.

“Fine,” she said, her voice rising despite herself. “Then I will say it clearly since you seem determined to avoid it.”

She did not care about the room anymore.

About the men watching.

About the consequences.

“I will not sit around all day married to a king who cannot even take my virginity properly.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

It crashed down over the room, heavy and suffocating.

She realized it then.

Fully.

What she had just said.

Heat rushed to her face, sharp and immediate.

Too late.

Far too late.

For a fraction of a second, no one moved.

“Leave.”

Jongho’s voice cut through the silence.

Low.

Commanding.

Not loud.

It did not need to be.

The men moved immediately.

No hesitation.

No lingering comments.

Even Hongjoong, though slower than the others, pushed himself off the table with clear reluctance, his gaze flickering between them with poorly concealed interest before he finally turned and followed the rest out.

The door closed.

The room felt different now.

Smaller.

More dangerous.

Y/n stood frozen.

Jongho moved toward her.

Each step was measured.

But there was something else beneath it now.

Something that had not been there before.

He stopped in front of her.

Close.

Closer than he had ever allowed himself to be.

Her breath caught.

She did not step back.

Could not.

“You think that is what you want?” he asked.

His voice was lower now.

Quieter.

It did not need volume to hold weight.

Her pulse pounded.

She held his gaze.

“I—”

The word faltered.

Because she did not know how to answer.

Not like this.

Not with him standing this close.

Not with the way he was looking at her now.

Something in his expression had changed.

“You wouldn’t,” he said.

Not a question.

A statement.

His gaze flickered over her face, searching, assessing in a way that felt different from before.

More personal.

More dangerous.

“You are not attracted to me.”

The words were calm.

Too calm.

Her breath hitched.

Because that was not entirely true.

And she hated that he had said it like it was.

He stepped back.

Just slightly.

The distance returning, but not completely.

Not the same as before.

“I will not touch someone who does not want me,” he continued. “Not because it is expected. Not because it is required.”

There was something firm in that.

Her frustration returned, but it tangled now with something else.

Something she did not want to examine too closely.

“Then what am I supposed to do?” she asked, quieter now.

“Leave.”

The word came without hesitation.

Not harsh.

Not raised.

But absolute.

She stared at him.

For a moment, she thought about arguing again.

Pushing further.

But something in his expression stopped her.

Not anger.

Not dismissal.

Something heavier.

Something that made it clear, this was not a conversation she would win tonight.

Her jaw tightened.

She turned.

This time more controlled.

More deliberate.

And walked out.

She did not remember the walk back.

Only fragments remained. The echo of her own footsteps. The way the corridors seemed longer than before. The faint sting still burning in her chest, refusing to settle into anything she could name.

By the time she reached their chambers, the silence had returned.

Heavy.

Unforgiving.

She closed the door behind her more carefully than necessary, as though even the smallest sound might shatter whatever thin control she had managed to regain.

It didn’t.

Nothing did.

Her gaze drifted across the room, landing on the bed for only a moment before she looked away again.

She could not lie there tonight.

The thought came without hesitation.

The space felt different now. Not unfamiliar, but… unbearable. As if the distance he had always kept between them had finally taken shape, something real enough that she could no longer ignore it.

Her steps carried her instead toward the sofa near the window.

It was smaller. Less comfortable. Not meant for sleep.

It did not matter.

She sat first, her hands resting loosely in her lap, her thoughts still moving too quickly, too sharply. The remnants of their argument replayed without mercy, each word sharper in memory than it had been in the moment.

You are not owed effort.

Her fingers curled slightly.

A slow breath left her.

She leaned back.

Then, eventually, she lay down.

The fabric of her nightgown clung lightly to her skin, too thin to offer warmth, too sheer to offer comfort. She had not thought to bring anything with her. Had not thought at all, beyond the need to put distance between herself and that bed.

Between herself and him.

The sofa was narrow. The cushion beneath her unforgiving.

Her back faced the room.

She curled slightly, more from instinct than intention, her arms drawing closer to herself as though that might make the space feel less vast.

It didn’t.

The quiet stretched.

And then the tears came.

They slipped free slowly, steadily, tracing warm lines across her skin before disappearing into the fabric beneath her. She did not try to stop them.

There was no one here to see.

No one to hear.

Her breathing remained even, though it felt tighter now, each inhale catching just slightly before settling again.

She did not sob.

She did not make a sound.

The frustration sat deeper than that.

Heavier.

Because she did not understand him.

Because he refused to let her.

Because every time she thought she had found something to hold onto, something solid, it slipped away again.

She pressed her lips together, her eyes closing.

The tears did not stop.

Time passed.

She did not know how long.

Long enough for the room to grow colder. Long enough for the quiet to settle back into something almost still again.

Then the door opened.

She froze.

Instinct.

Her breathing steadied immediately, controlled, measured. She did not move, did not shift, did not give any indication that she was awake.

She listened.

Jongho’s steps were familiar now.

Even. Unhurried.

He entered the room, the door closing quietly behind him.

Silence followed.

She could feel it.

His presence.

It settled into the space differently than anyone else’s ever had. Not loud. Not overwhelming.

But undeniable.

He stopped.

She could tell without looking.

There was a pause.

Long enough that it felt deliberate.

As though he had noticed.

Her position.

The sofa.

The absence of her presence in the bed.

Her pulse picked up.

Just slightly.

She kept her eyes closed.

Kept her breathing steady.

Waiting.

Then movement.

Each step measured.

He stopped near her.

The distance between them narrowed to almost nothing.

For a moment, nothing happened.

The silence stretched again.

But this time it felt different.

Not empty.

Heavy.

She felt it before she understood it.

The hesitation.

It lingered in the air, quiet but unmistakable.

The faint sound of fabric.

And suddenly warmth.

A blanket settled over her.

It covered her shoulders first, then the rest of her, the weight of it grounding in a way she had not expected. The cold that had settled into her skin eased almost immediately.

Her breath nearly faltered.

She forced it steady.

As though she truly slept.

A quiet exhale followed.

Not quite a sigh.

But close enough.

He stepped back.

She heard him move across the room, the familiar rhythm of him undressing returning, each movement precise even now. There was no hesitation in it anymore, no pause like the one he had allowed himself at her side.

The bed shifted as he lay down.

The mattress dipped slightly under his weight.

Then stillness.

The room returned to quiet once more.

Y/n kept her eyes closed.

The blanket remained wrapped around her, warm, grounding, impossible to ignore.

Her thoughts did not settle easily.

They moved, slower now, heavier, circling something she did not want to name.

Because it would be easier.

So much easier, if he were cruel.

If he had been what she had expected from the beginning.

Cold in a way that hurt.

Distant in a way that made sense.

Someone she could hate.

Her fingers curled slightly beneath the blanket.

Her breath softened.

Because this quiet consideration.

This restraint.

This distance that still somehow made room for something else. It left her with nothing to hold onto.

Nothing to fight.

And nothing to hate.

And that, more than anything else, made him impossible to understand.

Main Masterlist | Jonghos Masterlist

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

everything here is sfw! + fluff unless stated otherwise!

choi soobin ˙⋆✮

how to get the girl in ten easy steps : in which choi soobin tries to woo the girl of his dreams using wikihow (50.4k)

my sunday driver : in which soobin's song, sunday driver, was always about you (0.7k)

the price of loving you (literally) : in which choi soobin tries his best to be the best boyfriend in the world and tries his hardest to get you - his perfect girlfriend - the perfect gift, not knowing that you only want him for the holidays (11.4k)

choi yeonjun ˙⋆✮

birthday bloom : in which yeonjun has always been good at helping others love but is utterly clueless when it comes back to him (4.1k)

choi beomgyu ˙⋆✮

where's my big romantic movie moment? : in progress

kang taehyun ˙⋆✮

stairmaster survival : in which taehyun decides that the only way to ask you out is by competing to see who can last the longest on the stairmaster, even if your not aware (2.4k)

kai kamal huening ˙⋆✮

huening's (very much) real girlfriend : the four times tubatu didn't realise their maknae had a real girlfriend and the one unfortunate time that they did (10.7k)

The most widely accepted explanation is that he was kidnapped because he “looked kidnappable.” Some propose that he must’ve been beaten up by those kids he was cyberbullying on Among Us VR a few days ago. Something, something, “Mr. Beast video”—the stream notification might as well have been a national emergency alert.

But as they flood into his corner of Twitch, everyone quickly realizes that their streamer was, in fact, perfectly fine. 

There he is, in all his unassuming, wonky headset glory. The storage room he passionately defends as a bedroom is still comfortably barren, bathed in a cozy golden light by the morning sun that filtered in through the dented shutters—something softer on the eyes than the blinding white of his ring lights. His keyboard collection is tucked away in one corner, a bulky dehumidifier running in the other.

gopissgirl: Bro this fucking ragebaiter. look at his Stupid ass mavuikasbikecanrunmeover: HE’S NOT DEAD!!!!! xyz_: yo his bald spot finally isn’t reflecting the light peepoCheer

Heeseung cracks his knuckles. Twists his neck, then his back.

“Alright, chat.” A sigh from the depths of his soul leaves him. “We’re fighting a war today.”

It turns out the earth-shattering event that warrants a Heeseung stream at nine-thirty in the morning is his second-year course selection. Or, in more efficient terms, war—because if he had to spend one more second in the torture chamber that is Professor Jenkins’ circuits lecture, he will die in those trenches.

hoonbot: ARE YOU TAKING 12 COURSES HELLO jeikeushim: i will NEVER regret switching to accounting user14: why the fuck are u taking econ1130 man 😭😭

“Okay, okay, chat,” Heeseung hunches forward, elbows knocking into a crumpled Monster can before firmly planting on the desk. His hands are steepled, voice low and dead serious, as if he’s about to deliver the most unrivaled, undeniable justification for why he, an engineering student, is going to take Economic History in the Twentieth Century.

“Listen. I need to fulfill a breadth credit this year and Jay said the prof is super chill. Plus, I saw a guy on Reddit say this was a bird course. I’ll be fine.”

applesauceeater: oh this guy’s so Cooked girlqueenpussyboss67: whenever sunghoon starts talking about coding i like to come watch u cuz it reminds me that it’s ok to be a little stupid in the head <3

“I like to come watch you because it reminds me that it’s okay to be a little stupid in the he—” A loud, indignant sputter. He pushes himself up, walks to the back of the room (“the gall,” the microphone manages to pick up) before sitting back down and scooting back towards the camera. 

“Mods, ban the guy who said that. Also, ban the guy who brought up the bald spot I do not have, and ban the word ‘bald’ from my chat.” 

Heeseung needs to kill Jay.

And that one guy from Reddit. And himself from two months ago.

Some would argue that he’s being too much of a hater barely a week into the term, but Heeseung can barely find enough fucks to give about this class at all, let alone question the ethics of his internal Death Note.

Circuits with Jenkins, Heeseung decides, was heaven compared to this. The classroom hadn’t been bad. Jake and Sunghoon had shared it with him, so he could spend his classes fucking around on Roblox Fruit Tycoon Simulator rather than paying attention. Sometimes, Jenkins would grace the class by rambling on about her ongoing divorce with her good-for-nothing husband. In retrospect, what had he been complaining over? Certainly nothing worse than this.

The Economics department holds its courses in one of the campus’ oldest buildings: a quaint, beautiful thing—Romanesque in its turrets and arched windows and brickwork. It’s a shame the outside is the only part of it that seems maintained at all, since Heeseung’s lecture hall seems a cough and two sneezes away from falling apart completely.

No windows, awful ventilation, sticky tables. The sound of the professor’s gnarly smoker voice. Heeseung laments about how he can’t enjoy the daylight he never enjoys anyway—and promptly decides to make it Jay’s problem.

Jay—who’d been having a steak burrito in the student commons between classes before being intercepted by Heeseung and cursed out so colourfully he’d have thought he’d killed his parents—blinks at his friend.

“Dude,” he says, more dumbfounded than anything. “Do you not background check your classes? Even a little? The economics building is straight dogshit. Everyone knows that.”

Heeseung wonders why his hands are still at his sides and not wrapped around Jay’s throat. “That’s not the point. You said that he was chill,” he seethes.

Jay takes another bite, voice muffled by the food in his mouth. “He is chill. Plays golf with my dad on Sundays at our country club.” 

“He sounds like he chain-smokes twenty-five cigs a day. He calls everyone ‘kid’, but it’s, like, condescending. Not in a cool way like Brad Pitt does it.”

“Nothing to do with how chill he is, man. Besides, you’re lucky you only have to take an easy course and not something like econometrics.”

“I know you did not just say that to me of all people,” Heeseung grits out, having to physically restrain himself from making a colouring book joke.

A thinly veiled snicker, hastily covered up by a weak cough. “Well, you’re outta luck. Can’t drop courses until next week.”

“Whatever, I’ll just skip until then—”

“Go and I’ll give you fifty dollars for it.”

Unbothered by how Heeseung is gawking at him, Jay finishes the last bits of his food, crumpling the foil into a little ball. For all the pity he felt that Heeseung actually took the class he’d only recommended as a half-joke, he also felt a strong urge to make his friend suffer, to put it ineloquently. One of his eyebrows is slightly quirked, as if to ask if it was a deal or not.

God, rich people are freaks, Heeseung curses in his mind. On what planet does he benefit from that? What am I, his little show pony? This is ridicul—

“Deal, you son of a bitch,” he hisses, snatching his bag and storming out.

Making bank, Heeseung resolves, has to take priority.

Not that he particularly wants to indulge Jay’s sick, twisted wishes—but rather because fifty dollars is fifty dollars, and to someone like Jay, fifty dollars is a tissue to blow his nose with. 

Three more agonizing lectures go by before the day miraculously arrives: the last time Heeseung would ever have to attend this godforsaken class. Never again would he have to hear a lick about post-war economic development or anything of the sort.

The lecture hall is still as dreadful as ever, though noticeably emptier than it’d been the first week, which Heeseung decides that he cannot wait to contribute to. He slumps into an empty seat (still uncomfortably warm from whoever was sitting here before him), slots his headphones over his ears, and prepares to mentally clock out for the next two hours.

Perhaps the universe is finally on his side.

Sure, having to be here at all is a huge drag—but for once, the walk to the Economics building hadn’t been polluted with the smell of chemicals from neverending construction. His Discover Weekly had refreshed and wasn’t ass.

And now, in a few hours time, he would officially be fifty dollars richer, spending his sweet new free time playing FIFA and fucking up a bag of M&M’s and—

Someone taps his shoulder.

Heeseung jolts at the touch, eyes sliding half-open. Despite half his vision being blocked by his hood and music blasting him towards deafness, he can vaguely sense a presence next to him. Figuring it’s someone passing through, he moves to pick his bag up from where it is at his feet—but the tap comes again. 

One of his hands moves to pause his music, the other sliding his headphones off one ear.

“—cuse me, sorry. Is this seat taken?”

Heeseung finally bothers to look up, and—

Fuck. Oh, fuck my life.

There’s little that can phase a guy who accidentally ripped his pants on stream and made “BUZZ LIGHTYEAR BOXERS” the number one trend on Twitter for a full twenty-four hours. He’s seen it all, done it all—worn the maid outfit, read fanfiction of him and Sunghoon, the works. Figured he'd already been enlightened to the highest degree after watching Megan Fox in Jennifer's Body when he was fourteen.

So, maybe he should feel a little pathetic about how openly he's gawking, but he's far too busy trying to figure out if he's hallucinating the ridiculously pretty girl in front of him.

Lips pursed, you manage a small, nervous smile. Your head swivels to look around the lecture hall. “Um, if it’s taken, I’ll just—”

“It’s not taken,” Heeseung blurts out, as if his tongue had finally screwed itself back on. “It’s— no one’s sitting here, no. You can sit.”

Your eyes soften with relief, mumbling a quiet “thanks.”

Heeseung closes his eyes. Shuts them so hard that they start to hurt from the pressure and colours start exploding behind his eyelids. Anything to distract himself from how his throat is closing up because the prettiest girl he never even fathomed could exist had just knocked her knee into his as she's settling into the cramped seat.

So much for mentally clocking out.

The lecture hall quiets as the professor coughs into the mic. Lights dim, and a PowerPoint that was easily made ten years ago is projected onto the pull-down screen, crooked from the audience's point of view. Heeseung can feel the drowsiness from the warm, stuffy air threatening to pull him under.

Breathing in heavily, he’s ready to drown himself out again, but a whisper comes from beside him, making him stiffen. “This class has been going on for a while, right? Did I miss anything?”

He swallows, voice rough. “Uh, no. Just standard syllabus stuff… this guy drones a lot.” 

A giggle, followed by a sarcastic sigh. “Read his reviews so my hopes aren’t high. But it’s required, so what can you do?”

Your elbow is propped up on the seat arm between him and you, jaw cradled in the palm of your hand—just shy of brushing against the fabric of his hoodie. “I would’ve taken it in the winter term, but there was one person in a group chat I’m in who said he was ‘super chill’, so he can’t be that bad, right?”

Heeseung could kiss Jay on the mouth.

For the remainder of the lecture, the two of you are silent. You’d since slipped on a pair of clear-framed glasses, perched on the slope of your nose as you diligently take notes—while Heeseung’s trying not to piss himself every time you tuck a loose lock of hair back behind your ear in the corner of his vision.

When noon hits, the lecture hall rumbles with noise again as everyone is filing out. Heeseung from literally two hours ago would be bewildered by his current self still being in his seat rather than having already sprinted out the door.

“I never caught your name,” you say, cutting through the noise. He can hear your voice clearly now that you aren’t whispering. “I’m Y/N.”

He wets his lips. “Heeseung,” he manages.

“Nice to meet you. I’ll see you around?”

“Y— Yeah.”

Heeseung does not drop Economic History in the Twentieth Century.

He'd spent a good ten minutes logged into his student portal—the 'withdraw' button he'd been so ready to press staring him down as if daring him to even think about it anymore—before closing out of the tab. Admitting defeat.

Which means he doesn’t free up any time in his schedule to play FIFA, nor does he get fifty dollars from Jay (despite his negotiations that he’d technically fulfilled what he’d been asked to do).

All he really got out of this ordeal was unsolicited emotional turmoil over a girl he’s had barely half a conversation with.

Two full days have passed since he's met you, and not once had you strayed from his thoughts for more than a few minutes. In all honestly, he's can't remember exactly what your features look like from off the top of his head—but he remembers that you had outrageously pretty eyes and hair and a sweet lilt to your voice that makes him want to tear his hair out. The feeling you'd caused to stir in his chest lingers, stubbornly refusing to leave.

heeshings: alt revived bc my streamer got action. we all cheered washingmachine42069: Yo you talk to women ?

Heeseung groans loudly, hands dragging down his face. “You don’t get it, chat,” he fake sobs. “She’s so fucking pretty. Like—” 

Shooting up, his arms wave around as he attempts to defend himself. “—I literally sat down, ready to honk, shooo, mimimimi pass out, and then I feel this tap on my shoulder. I’m like ‘bro, who the fuck is this’. I turn my head and boom. I'm at the pearly white gates. It's God. I saw God—I literally entered heaven. You guys wouldn’t drop the class either! Stop pretending you would!” 

user8: based on how you’re reacting to this i can tell u had No game jayparkk_ ✔: respond to my msgs jayparkk_ ✔: shouldn’t u be thanking me licking my shoes or some shit i literally locked u in for life

“‘I literally locked you in for life’ you didn’t lock me into shit,” Heeseung grits out, pointing an accusing finger at the webcam. “All you’ve done is made it so I have to keep going to these fucking awful classes.”

jayparkk_ ✔: aint no one forcing you into anything lil bro 😹😹😹 rima_ovo: “all you’ve done is cause a gorgeous woman to enter my life” my steak too juicy. my lobster too buttery. We need to kill this guy xddd111: dw bout it we’re gonna manifest her for you KEEP YO CHIN UP KING 💯💯💯

The aged playground swing creaks as Sunghoon settles into it.

“I thought you dropped that class,” he comments, offhanded.

Perhaps it's a bit concerning—and sad—for three grown men to be loitering at the local children's playground at one in the morning. Even the stray tabby that likes to wander around the area is giving them what could seriously be a stink eye.

But Heeseung had been throwing so egregiously in Valorant that it was making Sunghoon rank down, so the latter had to put his foot down and stage an intervention.

Heeseung's quiet from his spot in the whale spring rider.

His lanky form is folded up in the small space, chin perched on his tightly drawn-up knees. Frigid air chips at his cheeks as he stares at no particular spot on the ground. “I was going to. Jay was even gonna give me fifty bucks for it—” neither Jake nor Sunghoon comment on how that makes no sense, “—But I raise you this: pretty girl.”

Sunghoon rolls his eyes. “You didn't drop the course that made you want to kill yourself because of some eye candy?” he asks incredulously.

Jake snorts loudly, fishing a pack of cigarettes out from the back pocket of his jeans. Flicking the top open, he slips one out with slender fingers. “Hoon, haven't you been eye-fucking your stats TA for weeks now? Don't think you're reaaaaally one to talk.” —to which Sunghoon shamelessly ignores.

“First of all, speak on her with some respect,” Heeseung retorts. “She's not just eye candy. Have you considered that she had a good impact on my mental health? Exhibit A: I don't want to kill myself when I think of that class anymore.”

“Man, if this girl is as great as you make her out to be, you gotta shoot your shot or something,” Jake says, voice slightly muffled. “Cig?”

Heeseung declines. Lighting a flame, then taking a drawn-out drag, Jake continues: “'cause you can't just sit around on your ass all day, hoping she'll pick you if you ogle her stupidly enough.”

“Fuck off, I wasn't gonna do that anyway. Either way, literally what business do I have shooting my shot? I don't know anything other than her first na—”

“Y/N L/N,” Sunghoon's drawling cuts through the air.

“Philosophy, politics, and economics major. Wants to go to law school. Transferred from Hanhwa Women's College. Sister's...” he squints at his screen. “—sister's a big shot lawyer downtown.”

Silence. “How the fuck did you do that?”

Shrugging, Sunghoon plucks the cigarette from between Jake's fingers, bringing it up to his own lips. “Not hard. Here, want to see it again?”

He taps around on his phone for half a minute or so. “Jason's seeing Charlotte Kim. The volleyball one.”

Jake shoots up from where he's been lying on the ground, several woodchips stuck to the back of his hoodie. “He is?”

Sunghoon pulls up a photo on his screen, which Jake immediately snatches into his own hands. “Yeah. He's your neighbour, dumbass. How the hell do you not know this?”

“Dude, I've been crashing at Lambda recently 'cause Minjun's on exchange, so his room's empty. It's fucking sick, Ren's girl makes the craziest Belgian waffles—”

The sound of a car horn blares through the quiet of the night, causing a flock of birds to flee from where they'd been nestled in the trees. Heeseung's gaze snaps over, squinting as Jay's familiar figure locks the sleek convertible before slinking up to the group.

He's baffled at the sight. “The fuck are you guys doing?”

“Therapy,” Jake calls out, shaking the cigarette pack in the air. “Cig?”

Jay takes one, catching the lighter Sunghoon tosses his way. “I saw you guys on 360. You know you look really fucking weird, right?”

“We, gang. If we went down right now, you'd be part of it.”

Heeseung's hates how Jay turns to him with a gleam in his eyes.

“Listen, Heeseung,” he starts. “I know you already sorta owe me your first-born child for being the best wingman ever, but since I'm so gracious—I have a plan, and on my balls it's going to end your bitchless streak.”

Planting a solid hand on Heeseung's shoulder, he says, with all the seriousness in the world: “You've gotta talk to her.”

The three of them stare at him in complete silence, broken only by the woodchip Sunghoon chucks at the back of his head. “Shut the fuck up, dude. You're pissing me off.”

Jay hisses, shooting a scathing glare at Sunghoon while rubbing at the spot he'd been struck. “If you'd let me finish,” he snarks, turning back to Heeseung. “You've gotta get her to warm up to you. Be proactive. Women love that shit. But only if they like you.”

“And what if she, I don't know, doesn't like me?”

“That's what the talking part is for, idiot. You've gotta gauge whether she fucks with you or not. She's friends with Chaewon, so I can even help you on that front. Then, if she seems sorta into you, invite her to the Lambda party.”

Heeseung blinks. “You want me to win her over by talking to her and then inviting her to a frat party?” he sputters. “Who am I, Jake?”

“Do you want to become co-president of the eye-fucking club with Sunghoon and expect her clothes to magically be on the floor?”

Another woodchip is aimed at Jay's head, which he manages to dodge this time—only for another to fling square into his forehead, this time from Heeseung.

“Ow!” Jay yelps. “Fuck's your problem?”

“I'm not trying to fuck her, dickhead.”

Jay gives him deadpan look. “What I mean is that the bar's in hell. You've gotta raise it at least a little.”

His gaze is determined. Unwavering. Freakishly inspiring. It has Heeseung nodding along, despite not knowing and, frankly, being scared of why. As if a weird seed of motivation was planted inside of him, growing, snowballing.

Jake's cigarette is on its last legs. He's about to let it drop and snuff it out with his sole until it's snatched out of his grasp by Heeseung, who hastily presses it between his lips.

A rough inhale. Nicotine courses through his thrumming veins. A calm exhale.

He nods firmly. “I'm going to do this.”

Slam.

The wood of his desk is cold against Heeseung's forehead. “Chat, I can't fucking do this.”

Something might have genuinely possessed him last night, because whatever speck of conviction Heeseung had about getting to know you was nowhere to be found the second he woke up that morning.

He's been spiralling in a whirlpool of preemptive humiliation and despair since—so much so that he went live with the stream title “FUCK MY STUPID BAKA LIFE!!!!!!”, which his mods, fearing the wrath of Twitch's Terms of Service, lovingly re-titled to “heeseung girl crashout #2”.

Jay accompanies him this time, sprawled out on armchair at the back of the room. Legs propped up on an ottoman as he plays Geometry Dash on his phone.

“I don't know what you're freaking out about,” he says wryly, not looking up. “Plan's not flawless, but it is flexible.”

“She's gonna think I'm a sleaze!” Heeseung exclaims, dropping his face into his hands. “I'm gonna fuck up my shot before I even have a chance to shoot it!”

Setting his phone aside, Jay crosses his arms. “Alternatively, she might be into you and think that you're not into her because you're not doing anything about it.”

ikeuekeu: TRUTH NUKE xx_gamer42_xx: my brother in christ how are u gonna get a golden ticket and be too much of a pussy to go into the chocolate factory

The last message is read out by the text-to-speech, sending Jay into a fit of howling laughter, having to muffle it against the nearest cushion he can grab onto. Heeseung hardly manages a weak “shut up” that sounds lame even to his own ears.

He lets his eyes close, expecting respite. Reprieve, even.

He sees your face instead.

An aching groan rumbles from his lips. “Fine, fine! I'll do it!”

user12: any updates on the girlfriend arc ?

“Fuck.”

The sharp curse flies out of Heeseung's mouth as he watches his Valorant agent fall to the ground, shot dead. He cards a hand through his hair, murmuring a low “52, Chamber” into his comms before letting his gaze flit over to his vertical monitor.

“'Any updates on the girlfriend arc?'” he scoffs. “Is that what we're calling it?”

At that moment, a notification pops up on his phone—a small ding that vibrates against his desk.

Heeseung flips it over in his hand. The blue light of the screen reflects in the sheen of his eyes. His bottom lip tucks between his teeth, the faintest trace of a smile threatening to appear.

shinramyeo_n: IS THAT A SMILE I SEE jakelikestobake: oh my god bruh my streamer's the Rizzler

Heeseung has never, in the history of his existence, ever been this indecisive.

After fucking around the whole summer after first year, he put hardly two thoughts worth of deliberation into choosing which branch of engineering he wanted to major in. Only went to one showing when he was apartment hunting because “as long as there's an ethernet port and I can run 144 Hz, it's chill.”

Yet, he's on the path to the Economics building—a walk he's made way more times than he expected—for the sole reason that he might hit it big and catch a glimpse of you again, and he's been stuck in a never ending push and pull the entire way there.

Passes the construction site that's started up work again. ('Jay's a— a no nonsense type of guy. Straightforward and logical. Isn't he trying to bag a job at McKinsey or whatever? He's good at this solution-giving shit, right?')

Stops at a wooden bench in front of a courtyard fountain, burying his face in his hands. ('Who am I kidding? Jay? Jay made his LinkedIn in ninth grade! He doesn't have a soul—')

Eventually, Heeseung manages to back-and-forth himself into the threshold of the lecture hall's northernmost entrance, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans as his eyes scan down the rows of seats.

('Alright, well. Didn't instantly see her the second I stepped in so my life's over. Time to lea—')

A hand waves at him from three rows down.

Face lit up with recognition, you turn around in your seat, whispering something to your friend before waving him over a little more energetically.

Heeseung's breath catches as he spots you. Several thoughts are whirling around in his head (the most coherent one being slight confusion about how you still recognize him). Panic seems to keep the soles of his feet glued to the floor—until they're suddenly moving.

“Heeseung, right?” A smile graces your lips, small but warm. “Do you wanna sit? I was originally saving this seat, but someone—” you shoot a playful glare at the girl next to you, “—has an interview she has to leave for.”

He vaguely recognizes her as Chaewon, one of Jay's friends from high school. She's looking at him knowingly, head cocked to the side—a look he conveniently doesn't meet.

“I...” He dares to peer into your eyes for a half a second. Doesn't catch the slightly optimistic glimmer in them before already looking away. “...Yeah, sure. That'd be great, thanks.”

Class goes by relatively similarly to the first time he met you: in sum, you're actually paying attention to the lecture while Heeseung does anything but. It's only at the end where, rather than leaving, you're still hovering next to him.

Waiting for him, he slowly realizes. “You're staying behind?”

It's the first time he sees your expression shift into something more timid. “If you're free—” you start, “—would you wanna come to the library with me? I have some things to work on, and... I'd like the company.”

It's noon on a weekday. Sunghoon would probably be at the library, slaving away at whatever computer science assignment currently had him shackled to the wall. If Heeseung, God forbid, runs into him at any point and he sees him trailing behind you, there would be a clowning in the group chat like never seen before.

And, sure enough, about two minutes after he walks by a Sunghoon-shaped figure slouched at a bureau, Heeseung feels his phone start to buzz violently in his pocket.

You tilt your head to the side, lips quirked in a teasing smile. “Popular much?”

Embarrassed, he chuckles dryly, silencing his phone with a swift click. “I wish.”

Heeseung's friendship with you is a simple one.

Uncomplicated in a way that, despite the two of you not doing too much actual talking, puts him at ease—a boat drifting on a calm wave. He's never been the type to try and fill dips in conversation by piling on more, but he'll still feel the weight of it—whereas with you, you'll simply be studying, spinning a pen between your fingers and humming a soft tune under your breath, while he tries to peek at you as discreetly as possible.

Silence with you is comfortable.

Then, when momentum builds (“I've gotta go. They're having tryouts for the moot court team in half an hour.” “...Wait—” “Hm? What's up?” “...I've got a ton of physics work to do. Uh, so I'll probably be locked up in the library for the rest of the week, haha.” “Then... then I might join you sometimes. If that's okay, of course.” “Yeah, yeah, no yeah, that's okay. Feel free.”), conversation weaves itself into the space between you.

Heeseung learns that you transferred here from the women's university across town on a scholarship. Your sister had gone here for law school, and you, wanting to do the same, figured it give you the best chance if you did your undergrad and built a network here.

All very academically diligent things that Heeseung, to put it frankly, couldn't really resonate with—but he likes watching your eyes glint as you talk about it. You're determined, he knows that much.

He learns that you're quieter than he'd assumed, based on how readily you spoke to him the first time you met. A bit clumsy, he realizes as the two of you trudge to the nearby shawarma truck and you occasionally bump into his shoulder. He has to pretend like he isn't holding his breath each time you do, and when he finally swallows his nerves down, he manages to puff out his chest enough to tease you about how you “can't walk in a straight line.”

It's sweet, he thinks. You're sweet.

fluffydogpng: someone clip this RIGHT NOW 0148593: hardstuck gold 3 but there's a pretty girl in his dms so maybe we're the real losers in this scenario 💔💔💔💔

The notification is from you. Some create mode reel that you're losing your shit over.

It's stupid. So stupid.

Eyelids drooping, Heeseung reads through it a second, then a third time, before finally flipping his phone back face-down.

Jay's gritting his teeth, trying to ground himself as the muscles in his upper body sear with heat. Two beats goes by—then, he forces himself to push the barbell upward from his body, finishing the last rep in his bench press set.

Metal clangs against metal as he deposits the bar back into its hooks. A gruff sound is drawn from his throat. He stays lying down, taking a few moments to catch his breath before his eyes dart to Heeseung, who's hovering over him.

“That's it? Just classes and the library?” Jay huffs out.

“Pretty much.” Heeseung leans his weight against the equipment. “Food, sometimes.”

Slowly sitting up, Jay unwraps the black wrist straps bound around his wrists, just to wrap them around again more tightly. “Okay, she's clearly not disgusted by you. Invite her.”

“I don't want to, man. She doesn't... seem like the type. She really cares about school.”

“What, so she's a nerd?”

Heeseung kicks him in the shin.

A loud hiss of pain. “I was kidding,” Jay mocks, trying (and failing) to swat him back. “This isn't a teen movie from the 2000s, dumbass. You think that just because she cares about school, she's not gonna want to go to a party? Look at Hoon—those aren't mutually exclusive.”

He gestures for Heeseung to toss him the G Fuel bottle at his feet. “Think about it. A party gives you an excuse to dress real fucking slutty. She'll be yours by the end of the night.”

“Do you ever shut up?”

Jay clicks his tongue. “There's no harm in inviting her,” he emphasizes. “If this goes anywhere, she's gonna eventually find out all the stupid shit you do on the internet anyway. I know you want to 'get it right' or whatever, but if a party is what turns her off from you then it's only doomed from here on out.”

A sigh from the depths of Heeseung's soul is pulled from him. He rubs at his temples as an attempt to clear his mind, even if just for a brief moment.

“Did Chaewon say anything?” he eventually asks, voice quiet—not really sure what answer he's looking for.

“Nope,” Jay says, popping the 'p'. His back collides with padded leather as he lies back down. “Something about 'not tossing her to the wolves'. Says you're an open book, though.”

“Oh, fuck my life.”

Everyone knows that the voices in your head clock in each night at nine o'clock to make you go through a micro crisis where you become increasingly miserable about your life. Usually they don't get to Heeseung until really, really diabolical hours—but apparently, when it comes to you, he can barely last a few.

(11:02PM) HEESEUNG: had a quick question

The slices of moonlight that pour into the room through half-closed shutters are the only thing preventing Heeseung from wallowing in pitch-black darkness. One arm draped over his forehead, he scowls at the sent message like it personally offended him with its lameness.

“Who am I fucking kidding,” he mutters to himself.

But just as he's about to unsend it, a small, green dot appears next to your name. His thumb pauses mid-motion.

His heart starts to speed up when he sees you've read the message.

It plummets to his ass when he starts getting a call from you.

In Jay's rundown of seven different possible outcomes that Heeseung forced him to give, not once did he mention you calling him would be involved. He's half-delirious, voice shot to hell after his earlier stream with Jake and Sunghoon—and the girl he has a massive crush on chooses now, of all times, to call him for the first time.

Holding his phone in a death grip, Heeseung represses the instinct to fling it across the room like a hot stone. He prepares himself. Clears his throat. Lightly smacks himself a few times.

He uses a shaky finger pushes accept, phone then hastily pressed to his ear. “Hello?”

“Heeseung?”

Your voice is soft. Somehow melodic through the static of the line. A gentle stream of freshwater.

Heeseung's eyes flutter shut as it washes over him, subconsciously pressing the device harder against the side of his head.

“Hey, I saw your message. I would've replied, but the thing is my hands are sort of occupied. Hope this is okay?”

Slowly, Heeseung rolls over in his bed to lie on his side. It takes a moment for him to find his voice. “No, yeah, it's fine. You're busy, then?”

“No, not busy. It's just that I just did my nails, so they're still drying.” A breathy laugh leaves you. “What's up? Is this about this week's homework?”

“Oh, it's—” A feeble cough. “It's nothing important. I was actually wondering if you, uh, wanted to come to a... party. This Friday,” he says, cringing at how the words feel on his tongue.

The small 'oh' you let out makes his stomach churn, but it doesn't carry displeasure more it simply does surprise. “What kind of party? Like a frat party?”

“Yeah, a frat,” Heeseung mumbles, fidgeting with the loose thread of his blanket. “It's at one of the better known ones. Lambda Delta Nu. I don't know if you've heard of it— I know some of the brothers...” he trails off. “...This Friday's the first one of the year, so it's gonna be really big, I guess.”

You're quiet for an uncomfortably long time.

“You don't have to—”

“No, no, I've just— God, you're gonna think I'm lame,” you laugh wryly. “I've just never been to one.”

Heeseung blinks, before a grin unknowingly appears on his face. “Why would I think you've been to one? You went to an all-girls college.”

“I don't know!” you whine. “I didn't do anything in high school, either. Do you like, bring your own drink? Do you have to pay to get in?”

“No, they have drinks. And girls don't.”

“That's... shameless.”

“Tell me about it.”

Suddenly, a loud, incessant vibration comes from your end. Even Heeseung, with his questionable track record of emotional cues, can pick up on the frustration in the sigh you let out. He cautiously prods. “Something wrong?”

“No, I'm just getting a call from my mom,” you say, tone not as light as before. “I've gotta go, sorry. But I'll be there.”

A small pause. “Good night, Heeseung.”

Heeseung's fingers twitch. His heart clogs his throat.

By the time he finishes dwelling on whether to tell you 'good night'—the words already forming on his lips—you've already hung up the call.

The weight of his leather jacket—Jay's leather jacket, technically, that he'd forced him to wear—is heavy on Heeseung's shoulders.

Even though the party doesn't properly start for another forty minutes, a considerably large swarm of rowdy, half-drunk college students have already accumulated on the house's front lawn, lining up to get in.

Nothing out of the ordinary—Lambda Delta Nu always kicks off the ground with a big, flashy rager. Heeseung can only wrinkle his nose at the thought of how crowded and sweaty it'll get later.

Beer case in hand, he skips past the line, approaching the low, rickety folding table stationed at the foot of the porch. Jake, who's supposed to be helping handle payments, is quite glaringly not doing so—instead sitting backwards atop the table, the neck of an empty beer bottle dangling from his fingers.

“Drinking on the job?” Heeseung deadpans, lightly slamming the case down on the space right next to where Jake is leaning back on his free hand, making the latter startle.

When he turns around, Jake's face splits into a grin. Notoriously lightweight, his cheeks are already flushed a pale red. “I'd personally call it multitasking,” he drawls.

Launching himself up, Heeseung swiftly hops over the table, making his way up to the house and greeting the guys he recognizes along the way. Jake tails along behind him.

“I wanna do some crazy shit tonight,” he says, the scheming evident in his tone. “You gonna match me shot for shot?”

The kitchen island is decked out with all sorts of drinks—beer, liquor, soju, seltzers, coolers, fruit juices. Heeseung's gaze travels over the labels, landing on a Smirnoff Ice.

It opens with a satisfying crack. “Can't. Haven't finished the programming problem set yet.”

Jake stares at him. “Are you deadass?”

“You think I want to be?” Heeseung counters. “Does Minjun have a working PC in his room?”

“I mean, yeah, he does. Wait, so you're going to spend the night doing a fucking problem set?”

“I was busy with stream earlier. I'm basically already done. I'll play one game, go up, do it, and then come back down. It'll take like twenty minutes, max.”

Jake, being familiar with Heeseung's working pace, is thoroughly unconvinced.

Heeseung can't blame him—on any other day, he would be unconvinced too—but today, he would force himself power through.

Because you would be here.

Earlier in the day, you had sent him a voice message (that he replayed an embarrassing number of times) asking him when you should get there, if there was a dress code, and a small catalog's worth of other questions.

You sounded nervous, and he was so, very endeared by it.

Which is why he's so determined to finish his work, submit the shit half-assed if need be, and then come back down. He already isn't fond of the idea of getting to know you at a musty frat party, so he's resolved on at least trying to be a good host.

Fuck, why did he care so much about your opinion?

“Yo, Lee Heeseung! Get your sexy ass over here!” One of the frat brothers, Ren, hollers from beside the beer pong table, echoed by Jake's cackling in the background.

A year older than him, Ren roughly throws his arm around Heeseung's shoulder, messing up his hair as if he were a little kid. “You ready to get shit on?”

“Pfft,” Heeseung scoffs, tongue poking the side of his cheek. “Give me the fucking ball.”

Heeseung's drunk.

He's tipsy, to be more specific. Not fully drunk, but definitely on the way—and far drunker than he expected to be at this point in the night.

In his defense, it had been the game's fault. The opposite team had gotten lucky with a streak of successful shots that kept him stuck in position, so now he's about four shots (give or take, he hasn't been keeping count) deeper than he'd like to be. A guttural groan is ripped from his chest as another one lands in a cup, drowned out by sound of multiple slaps on his back and the cacophony of people yelling 'shot!' over and over.

“No, no, fuck off, I'm done for now,” Heeseung says semi-coherently, a lazy grin on his face. There's a shot cup that someone's trying to thrust into his hand from every direction. “Fuck off to hell, all of you.”

Deafening music—some shitty rap song—blares through the air, slightly fuzzy at the edges. It thrums through every single one of Heeseung's nerve endings as he drags himself out of the living room.

If someone told Heeseung that half the fucking city was in the Lambda house right now, he would fully believe them without hesitation.

Every inch of property is flooded by people. Some choose to lounge by the pool in the backyard, some chat with their friends in the kitchen. Some choose to swap spit in the most absurd corner of the house. The air is hot and clammy and smells heavily of cigarette smoke.

“My hair's gonna smell like this for days,” he groans to himself.

Heeseung nearly misses the staircase under the mountain of people piled on top of it. There isn't a single fuck in his body he has left to give about all the sweaty people he's pushing aside, his sole objective just to drive through the throng and get to the second floor without being trampled.

The sooner he can get up there, the sooner he can finish his work. The sooner he can finish his work, the sooner he can go back down and get hammered and find you.

You. Fuck, he’d gotten distracted.

You’d gotten here earlier, didn’t you? He should probably text you.

A chipped banister is Heeseung's saving grace, acting as leverage for him to haul himself up the stairs. Soft, erratic pants escape him when he makes it to the top, body bending at the waist as he leans his weight against the wooden railing.

Nearly the whole first floor can be seen from up here. Heeseung's eyes idly scan the different rooms, taking note of certain things—like how Jake's shirt is now off, Jay's drinking with some of his friends from high school, and Sunghoon's hogging the entirety of a couch to himself with a girl stretched out on top of him.

When they break apart so he can trail sloppy kisses down the side of her neck, Heeseung makes eye contact with him over her shoulder.

He cocks an eyebrow, as if to say: That's her?

Sunghoon promptly flips him off.

Snickering, Heeseung pushes off the railing to leave.

The house's bedrooms are all located along a lengthy hallway, decorated with painted oil portraits of the frat's original founders and framed photos of prior generations of brothers. Dragging himself further down, Heeseung tries each of the doors to find the one with a fucked up lock, knowing that one would be Minjun's. Eventually, he finds it at the very end of the hall, pushing into the room without much grace.

Minjun's room is actually nice, to his credit—minimalistic, sleek black walls, accentuated by silver grey details. A flag of the Lambda Delta Nu letters hangs from the dark oak bed frame, next to a hockey jersey slightly dusty from going unworn for a while. Heeseung recognizes some of the miscellaneous things (namely stray clothes) he knows belong to Jake that are scattered around the room.

Then, to top it all off, the lights are switched on, suddenly plunging the room into a deep shade of red.

He snorts. LEDs? Really? Is he fifteen?

Whatever. It doesn't matter. He has all the time in the world to flame him for it when he gets back from Barcelona.

Gingerly, Heeseung peels the weighty jacket off, the leather having begun to stick to his skin. It's draped over the back of the desk chair, leaving him in a white cotton tank top. The air hitting the bare skin of his arms and chest causes a shiver to run through him at the sudden drop in temperature.

He takes a moment, letting clean, smoke-free air circulate through his lungs, before steeling himself.

Heeseung realizes very quickly that trying to code while tipsy fucking sucked.

What he thought would only take twenty minutes to do absolutely does not take only twenty minutes. Trying to parse through walls of code is hard enough sober, let alone with his brain fighting for its life through the dense fog that had settled over it from the alcohol. The only words that leave his mouth during the process are a litany of 'fuck' and 'shit' variations grumbled under his breath each time the code doesn't run properly.

But if there's one thing that studying engineering does for someone, it's teaching them to accept that their fate is doomed from the start—so he tanks the grade, submitting the shitty code just so he doesn't have to look at it any longer.

Heeseung exhales a long-suffering sigh. He had sobered up a bit, having fished a rare water bottle from Minjun's mini fridge that is otherwise entirely filled with Red Bull and soju. The edges of the chair dig into his back as he slumps against it. His right hand aimlessly palms around on the desk, gripping his phone when he feels its boxy shape.

There's a text from Jay, he muses. Several texts.

(11:52) JAY: Yo where the fuck r u (11:52) JAY: Y/n's looking for you (11:53) JAY: Tell me Jake isn't serious is your bitchass actually doing homework rn (11:53) JAY: Do u want an award for being virgin of the year (11:53) JAY: I sent her ur way (11:53) JAY: I'm actually going to beat the shit out of u

Heeseung's brain short-circuits.

He's suddenly very conscious of how much of a mess he looks like right now—probably dead to the world, eyes bloodshot from staring at dense code, hair sticking up in a hundred different directions from how many times he's run a frustrated hand through it.

Meeting you in frat guy's bedroom at a party he invited you to probably looks really bad on his part. What if you came up and he ran his mouth? Scared you off? He shouldn't have let those fuckers shovel shots down his throat. He had to fix his hair. Wipe his sweat. Kill Jay—

There's a soft, hesitant knock at the door.

Heeseung freezes.

His heart beats four counts before he calls out hoarsely, “Come in.”

Hinges creaking, the door is carefully opened from the other side. Your head slowly peeks in, uncertainty marring your face. It relaxes with relief when you register that it's actually him in the room.

“Oh, good,” you breathe out, finally pushing into the room. You're clutching a solo cup in one hand, phone in the other. Your skin shines with a light sheen of sweat. “I was really worried that I was gonna walk in on people fucking.”

If you had looked anymore carefully, you'd notice how Heeseung's Adam's apple bobs up, then down.

The music from downstairs gets noticeably more muted. Or maybe turned off entirely? His fists clench, trying to quell his twitching fingers.

You're drenched in crimson in front of him, the red lights painting you in a way that has his mouth running dry. Every shred of his pitiful dignity seems to evaporate as he trails his trembling eyes over your body, latching onto how your shorts delicately squeeze around your thighs. How elegant your neck stretches when you crane it to the side. How your top is cut just low enough.

God help me, I am no better than anyone else.

If Heeseung wasn't so busy staring at you, he might've noticed you staring at him back.

At his tousled hair. How the muscles in his arms rippled as he flexed them unconsciously.

At his lips, maybe. Who knows.

It takes Heeseung longer than he's proud of for him to reel himself back in and tear his gaze from you. The fog clears, music returning to the volume it was at before.

“Are you drunk?” he blurts, finally standing up from his chair.

Your face breaks into a lazy smile. The alcohol in your system has your tongue feeling heavier than usual, honeying your voice and making your words connect with a barely-there slur.

“Nuh uh. I'm not that lightweight. This is only my second drink of the night.” You hold up the half-full cup, the contents swishing around inside.

Suddenly, you tilt your cheek towards him. “Here. Feel.”

Heeseung's eyes widen. “H—Huh?”

“Feel my face,” you repeat, tilting closer.

Just how drunk are you?

Lifting a hand, Heeseung hesitates for a moment before letting the back of his hand carefully press against your offered cheek. The touch is electric, sending a surge from the tips of his fingers up the length of his arm. Your skin is impossibly soft. It yields under his touch like a cloud.

It's also flushed hot, which he makes sure to point out.

You scoff lightly, feigning offense. “That doesn't mean anything.”

“It really does, Y/N,” Heeseung finds himself murmuring softly. He isn't sure what possesses him to then move his hand from your cheek to your forehead—liquid confidence, maybe—but he does.

You don't lean away.

“I met your friend. Jay, I think,” you finally say, breaking away to walk over to the desk.

Heeseung's gaze flickers with disappointment, following your figure as you plop down into the chair. Quite possibly the worst thing you could've told him, but he bites his tongue.

“He seems nice. Turns out we're in the same Econ program group chat. Was he being serious about you doing homework up here?”

The code he'd been writing is still pulled up on the computer screen, which you take the luxury of scrolling through, much to Heeseung's dread. He moves to try to steal the mouse away, which you respond to by immediately snapping your arm out to keep it out of his reach. “Don't look at that.”

“Why?” you ask, as if you're a kid being denied candy.

“Because I did it while drunk. The code can barely run. I don't even know what I wrote.”

“I'm just curious! It's not like I'm gonna judge you— I don't know jackshit about coding.”

Your brows are drawn in a knot that Heeseung has grown familiar with after a lot of staring during library sessions. It's the same look you get when you're stuck on something—whether it's some theoretical concept you can't wrap your head around, or a flashcard you can't seem to remember, no matter how many times it comes up in rotation.

Now, you're glaring at his code as if it's at fault for not magically bestowing you with god-tier computer science powers the second you'd glanced at it.

Suddenly, you're swivelling around in the chair to face him. “Teach me how to code.”

Heeseung sputters. “What?”

“Teach me how to code,” you repeat, batting your lashes.

Pursing his lips, he tries to push down a smile. “You came to the biggest party of the year and you want to learn how to code?”

“Am I high or are we not at the same party?”

“I wasn't coding willingly. Shit, you really are a huge nerd.”

You whine. “I already did all the party stuff! Chaewon introduced me to her friends and we danced and I watched a few games of beer pong. I already hit the quota I set for night. And... and I want to spend time with you,” you say, voice growing quieter towards the end.

Heeseung knows it's probably the alcohol talking, but that doesn't stop him from instantly softening around the edges.

You're just so— so cute right now. Talkative and clingy in a way that stirs something gooey in his chest, in a way that he never expected to see. He wonders if this is real at all, and yet would actively still jump into the deep end even if he knew it wasn't.

“Okay,” he murmurs softly, poking your forehead. “Don't sulk.”

Heeseung shifts so that he's leaning over you from the side, and this time, you don't resist when he takes the mouse from you, letting your hand fall away. Seconds later, a blank program is pulled up on the screen.

“Three basic things you gotta know about writing code,” he starts. “Variables, conditionals, and loops. Variables store stuff—”

His breath stutters when he feels your chin perch innocently on the nook of his bicep.

You're unfazed when he glances down at you, simply staring ahead at what he's typing. He finds his voice again, meeker than it was.

“—conditionals decide what happens, and loops loop things. So, if I wrote an if statement, like if x is greater than five, then...”

The wonderful world of Python can only keep someone entertained for so long—Heeseung thinks it a miracle you lasted as long as you did before starting to not-so-subtly hint at wanting to do something else.

Drink, that is. Fiending to drink.

The smart decision was probably to get you to pace yourself, yet Heeseung's never claimed to be smart. Nothing he's ever done really has.

He's selfish. Selfish and tipsy. He wants to savour this endearing side of you because he doesn't know if he'll ever be able to see it again.

That's how you both end up here: sat side-by-side on the floor, leaning back against the bed frame, drinking from soju bottles—yours strawberry, his grape—that Heeseung had taken from Minjun's mini fridge. Somewhere in his mind, he makes a mental post-it to buy them back for him.

Conversation flows. You talk about what it was like spending your entire life in all-girls schools, and he might've let it slip that he's a streamer (to which he immediately shuts down all attempts you make at trying to get him to show you his channel, not matter what you said or how you pouted).

Things about school, things about people, things stupid beyond imagination (“D'you think I could get Clavicular to collab with me?” “What?”)—it all comes out in a natural stream of thoughts.

At some point, you start to grow quiet. As if you're sobering up, even though your bottle is getting emptier.

Heeseung notices. He matches you. “Tired?”

You shake your head. “Not yet. This is just how I get when I drink. I get loud and then I get quiet,” you explain, words slurring a bit.

It's later in the night, so the rush of the party had settled down, though there's still a decent amount of commotion, mostly from people hanging out in and around the pool.

“Heeseung?” you mumble.

“Yeah?”

“Do you ever feel like you're just floating through your existence?”

Heeseung's in the middle of taking a swig from his bottle. The question sends him into a mild coughing fit, the corners of his eyes instantly watering. “Don't you think that's a bit—cough—bit too loaded of a—cough—question?”

You give him a sheepish smile before letting your head drop back, a soft thud against the mattress. “Sorry. I'm a little out of it right now. Forget I said anything, actually.”

Wiping his mouth with his hand, Heeseung turns to look at you. “I've done viewer counselling sessions for my streams. My chat says I'm a good listener.” He sounds so lame to himself, but you laugh, and that matters more.

Silence falls over the two of you. Just when he thinks it's cemented itself and you no longer want to talk, you mumble: “I dunno if I actually want to be a lawyer.”

A pause. “Okay,” Heeseung says slowly. Processing the statement, turning it over a few times in his head. “Why?”

You rub at your eyes with the heels of your palms, dragging them down your face. “That's the thing—I don't know,” you groan, words garbled from alcohol. “Like, my mom wanted to be a lawyer but didn't get into law school, so that's why she's in real estate. Then, my sister passed the bar with flying colours and is now this big, successful lawyer who brings home two hundred grand a year. So... so I'm sorta supposed to do all that too, you know? Do my diligence. I'm as much my mother's daughter as my sister is. And I am! That's why I'm here in the first place—”

Heeseung's hands gently grasp your own flailing ones, stilling them before placing them back into your lap. “Woah, woah, chill. You're rambling. A lot.”

“—I just—I know I'm succeeding. I have medals and titles and resources and a scholarship here and yet—when I look at my mom and see how happy she is whenever she brings these things up, I don't... feel what she feels.”

You trail to a close like air escaping a punctured balloon, voice thin as insecurity seeps into your pores. “I don't feel what she feels and I don't know what's wrong with me.”

Heeseung remains quiet for a long time.

Horror is the only fitting word that describes the expression on your face. A shaky hand cards through your hair as you scramble to apologize. “S—sorry. I don't usually... overshare like that, fuck—”

“Y/N,” he cuts you off. “You know I'm only an electrical major because Jake is too, right?”

You blink a few times, trying to clear the dense fog shrouding your mind. “Seriously?” you croak after a moment.

“Okay, no, not fully,” he chuckles dryly. “But like, half seriously. I chose electrical because my highest grades last year were in the electrical courses they make us take. Having a friend sorta tipped it over, I guess.”

Shifting his body so that he's fully facing you, Heeseung props his elbow up on the mattress, resting his head in his hand. “Other reasons were if I chose a major I'm good at, I might have a better chance at scoring internships. Or doing a masters or some other bullshit that would "further my professional career". Point is none of those have anything to do with what I want because I don't know what the fuck I want.”

“Streaming's fun,” he hums. “My dad doesn't think it's a real job, though. So I get what you mean. At least, I hope I do.”

He takes a moment to carefully select his next words, going over them in his head to make sure they'll sound fine rolling off his tongue.

“There's no rule that says you're 'supposed' to do anything. You have free will,” he says. “Right now, being a lawyer sounds more like your mom's dream, not yours. But maybe that'll change, and you actually do want to be a lawyer in the future. Who knows. Either way, you'll be the only one to make that decision when the time comes. Not your mom. Not your sister. You.”

Heeseung can't decipher the emotions that are pooling in your eyes. He's worried it's a bad sign—he's never been the best with empathy or knowing exactly what to say, and he's certain that he's not more graceful while tipsy than he is sober—but you shift to face him.

Legs unfurling from your chest to cross on top of each other. Inching closer until your face is a breath's away from his.

Tension permeates the small space, so thick and palpable that Heeseung can practically taste it. His eyes trace the slope of your nose, the curve of your cupid's bow, the strands of messy hair that he ached to brush out of your face. Unknowingly, he wets his lips—a movement your eyes follow.

Hope is scary. Fragile. All it takes it one wrong step, one toe out of line, and it can be extinguished with the gentlest gust of wind.

Heeseung dares to hope.

“If you ask me... I think you're enough just as you are.”

You lean in. He lets you.

You hesitate. He doesn't pull away—and a hundred, thousand fireworks set off in his chest when your lips slot against his.

They're soft, tentative. Just a little bit awkward and uncoordinated in their movements, but Heeseung doesn't mind. He lets you steer the ship where you want it to go.

The kiss is brief, only lasting a couple seconds before your mouth detaches from his with a soft smack. He expects you to pull away, to no longer be able to breathe in the faint notes of jasmine in your perfume on every inhale—but you don't.

You keep the sliver between you an inch wide, nose nudging against his, breath still fanning against his skin in warm puffs. Lingering.

You push yourself up onto your knees, a yelp escaping you as you stumble, the ends of your hair skimming his face. Heeseung's hands instinctively find your waist to steady you. He revels in the way the dip feels against his palms. A meek sorry comes from you, which he returns with a small it's fine.

Shifting closer, the front of your thigh presses against his side. He sucks in a sharp, shuddering breath as you sling yourself over him, helping you down as you settle into his lap, thighs bracketing his.

Heeseung has to crane his neck up ever so slightly to meet your gaze.

You're gorgeous. He's thought that since the very day he met you, but this—your bare skin scorching his hands, the sight of you on top of him—has his mind going mushy and blank. A barely audible groan slips out of him as your arms sling around his neck, fingers gently threading through the hair at his nape.

“You're pretty.” The words come out in a rush, not caring if you know. Needing you to know. “God, you're so fucking pretty.”

“You're buttering me up,” you say, your retort lacking any real contempt. He only shakes his head, reconnecting your lips, deeper, escalating.

Heeseung's heartbeat is in his ears. The ache that's been sitting his chest, tamped down but constantly brewing, springs forth the moment he feels your tongue swipe against the seam of his lips. They part instantly, letting your tongue press in, wet and hot—the strawberry flavouring mixed with the slight bitterness of alcohol you'd been drinking hitting his taste buds.

“I want you.” You sigh the words into his mouth, and he swallows them fervently. “Please...”

Heeseung breathes out a shaky laugh. “Neither of us are sober.”

“You don't want me?”

“Fuck, I never said that.”

Eager hands fist at the hem of his tank, which he lets you slip off and toss aside, his entire top-half left bare. His skin is flushed hot, chest heaving as your lips trail down his neck, his collarbone, his sternum—unable to control the low moan he lets out as they latch onto his abdomen, sucking a hickey into the skin. “F—fuck...”

When you come back up, Heeseung pulls you back down flush against him. One hand slides under your thigh, the other slipping into the back of your shorts, lightly running over the skin there. A full-body shiver runs through him as the tips of his fingers brush against the texture of your waistband.

“Lace?” he muses, as if it doesn't undo him.

“Shut up.”

“I didn't say I was complaining. You know I'm not complaining, right?”

“Shut. Up.”

And how quickly he complies, slanting his lips to yours again. Heeseung feels feverish—choking out a high-pitched gasp as your hips grind down. He's throbbing against your ass, his entire arm wrapping around your waist like an iron band to pull you against him harder, coaxing you to give him more friction, his head lolling back when you do. He finds the ribbon of your top at your back, tugging it loose—

“Shit, someone get him out!”

Someone's shouting outside. Heeseung doesn't hear it, fingers fumbling with the clasp of your bra—

It grows louder. Fucking hell, shut up, he thinks, brows knitting together as he tries to focus on you, on how you feel against him—but your movements slowly come to a halt.

“What's that noise?” you whisper.

Heeseung shakes his head before feverishly kissing down your neck, trying to reassure you. “Nothing, nothing. C'mon, baby, keep going—”

But the commotion only seems to multiply, growing until it's a cacophony of panicked and confused voices. Concerned, you look over your shoulder towards the window, your grip in his hair loosening.

He groans into your skin as he feels you start to shift off his lap. It feels like he's never wanted anything more desperately than to keep you against him—but he lets you climb off, hands falling limply to the side.

Head tilting towards the ceiling, Heeseung blinks a few times, trying to clear the hazy fog from his head (and calming himself down so he doesn't explode) before standing up begrudgingly and dragging himself over to the window.

Heeseung peeks outside. His brow furrows with confusion, then concern. Instead of everyone being littered around the backyard doing their own things, every head is turned towards the pool.

Jake is currently being hauled out of the pool like a wet dog by Jay and Sunghoon, face contorted in pain.

“What's going on?” Your voice is quiet. Uneasy.

“I don't know. I think something happened to Jake,” Heeseung says gravely, breaking away from the window to pick up his shirt from the floor. “I— fuck, I'm going to kill him.”

Pebbles dig into Heeseung's socked feet—he couldn't be bothered with shoes—as he rushes out into the backyard towards where Sunghoon, Jay, and a couple other Lambda guys are crowded around Jake. He calls out, “What's going on here?”

Jake's leaning back against his hands, one of his legs outstretched in front of him. He's red as a lobster, from his face down to his neck, and also soaking wet, clothes sticking to the outline of his body, dripping water down that washes the concrete a darker shade—yet he only waves a dismissive hand.

“Nothing,” he slurs. “I'm—hic—fine.”

Sunghoon scoffs, hands on his hips. “Einstein here decided to jump from the roof and didn't realize he was jumping into the shallow end because he's shitfaced.”

He then turns to Heeseung, looking him up and down. “Where've you been? I haven't seen you in, like, two h— do you have a fucking boner right now?”

Much to his horror, Heeseung looks down to find a very noticeable tent in his pants. He exhales—zen, he thinks, be zen—before slipping his leather jacket off to tie around his waist. “Shut the fuck up.”

Apparently, Jake is coherent enough to stare at Heeseung's crotch, see that he's hard, and put two and two together. “Holy shit, did I cockblock you?”

“Yes, you fu— whatever. It's not important. We need to call the ambulance.”

“Jay's already on it,” Sunghoon says, jerking his head over in Jay's direction.

A small distance away, Ren—who's also visibly drunk but somehow still manages to climb onto a patio table with falling—cups his mouth to create a makeshift megaphone before yelling at the top of his lungs: “Alright, wrap it up! We're done here! If you're not a brother or fucking a brother, get the fuck out!”

Loud groaning resounds throughout the yard. People are evidently upset that they'd been cut off for the night, but eventually, the crowd disperses. Some staggering as their sober friends haul them out, some laughing on their phones—Jake would probably be on a hundred people's Snapchat stories and at the top of the university's subreddit by the morning.

Heeseung finds you standing in the doorway of the sliding screen door that leads to the yard. You look noticeably worried.

His eyes soften.

“What happened?” you ask as he approaches you.

Standing in front of you, Heeseung brings his hands up to cup your face, smoothing out the crease between your eyes with the pad of his thumb.

“Jake's jumped into the pool and fucked up his leg. An ambulance is on the way,” he says, chuckling at your deadpan expression.

Heeseung peers into your eyes. His heart stutters. “I'm sorry,” he whispers. “About us getting interrupted, I mean.”

You shrug, arms wrapping around his waist, resting your cheek against his chest. “'s whatever. In fact, I was kinda going into this whole frat party thing with the expectation that there would be some bullshit.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Were your expectations met?”

A soft, pondering hum leaves you. “Quite.”

The hospital waiting room is deserted at this hour, save for the anxious mother and her sleeping son huddled together. Heeseung's shoes click against tile as he makes his way back to the area, two paper cones filled with water in his hands.

Jake had broken his leg. With his parents not in the country, Heeseung had offered to stay and wait until he gets settled with a room.

You had stayed with him.

Rounding the corner, he sees you yawning. A faint smile tugs at his lips.

“You don't have to stay here, you know,” he says, handing you a cone. It's the third time he's said it since the two of you got here—and you've been stubborn about it each time. “I'll call you an Uber.”

You accept the water, taking a sip before giving him a shrug.

“You'll be bored. Besides, I'm not tired,” you say, as if he hadn't just caught you in the act.

Heeseung looks like he's about to refute you again, but ends up dropping it. He plops down into the hard waiting room chair, throwing the water back like a shot. Ice cold water slides down his dry throat.

Silence. There's an elephant standing in the corner, staring the two of you dead in the eye.

“So,” he starts awkwardly.

You smack your lips. “So.”

“...I, uhm, I think you're cool.”

He sees you turn to face him in the corner of his vision, and absolutely refuses to meet your eyes. “Heeseung, you had your hand in my pants.”

Absentmindedly, he starts folding his empty paper cone, sealing the edges to make a rectangle while grumbling something about how you 'can't just lead in with that.'

“I might like you,” he gets out.

“I might like you,” you copy mockingly.

“I'm being serious!”

“You just told me that you 'think I'm cool.'”

Sighing, Heeseung drops his face into his hands, wrestling with his nerves and feelings and the stupid little flips you make his heart do. Eventually, his words come out in an embarrassed mumble. “I think you're really pretty and sweet and I'd like to go out with you.”

If he had been looking at you, then he would've seen you pursing your lips, trying to hold back a smile.

A few seconds pass before Heeseung feels your head rest on his shoulder.

“I'd like that.”

“Chat,” Heeseung claps his hands together, closing out of his browser so that his camera can be set as full-screen. “I posted on Twitter earlier that we have a special guest joining us today.”

user888: oh my god this is so exciting heeseungism: DAD PLEASEEE LET US SEE MOM PLEASEEEEEE

Heeseung glances out the corner of his eye.

You're sitting beside him just out of frame, fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of your cardigan. The sight makes his chest tighten with fondness.

“You look nervous,” he points out.

You shoot him a look, despite letting him pull you up to stand. “Am not.”

He only laughs in return, hands warm on your hips as he guides you into view.

“Alright. Chat, this is my girlfriend, Y/N,” Heeseung announces, chin hooking over your shoulder. “She's a little shy, so don't be fucking weird and scare her off.”

cherryxxi: HELLO!!!!! 🥹🥹🥹🥹 applejuicemaster: bruh why am i lowkenuinely proud of u reynakisser_: Wtf she's so out of ur league. pick ME!!!!! HE DONT KNOW HOW TO HANDLE ALLAT

Half-lidded eyes scanning the racing chat, Heeseung's lips quirk upwards at everyone's reaction.

He's never, ever felt luckier.

A gentle squeeze to your waist. “They like you.”