liz

your stepbrother, jake, and his three partners in crime, jay, jungwon, and heeseung, all glanced at you. there was a lull of silence before they each burst into laughter.

“my sweet sister,” jake said, setting his cup on the coffee table and standing up from where he’d been seated with the others. “what did i tell you about making demands?”

you stiffened. you hadn’t meant to come off that way, but could he blame you for being cranky? sue you for wanting to get some sleep. preferably before the night was over with. “i’m not trying to make demands,” you replied, your tone shifting to something gentler. “i was just asking for a favor.”

“we owe you favors?” jake asked, the question clearly not meant to be answered. you shuddered when his hand met the small of your back. he cocked his head towards the kitchen. “let’s have a chat.”

your feet carried you there on their own accord when your mind failed you.

“now,” jake started, shaking his head in dissatisfaction, and sucked his teeth. “that little stunt aside, what did i tell you about coming out when my friends are around?”

“not to do it,” you murmured.

“that’s right,” jake sang, his hands gentle around your body and his own throbbing with warmth, but his touch still made you freeze. “that could have been a phone call and i might have been more inclined to be nice. but you disobeyed me. you’ve been doing that a lot, sweetheart. so now you’re gonna have to learn why it’s important to listen to me.”

your brows furrowed, and you were desperate to know what he meant by that. you knew him well enough to recognize when you were on the verge of being disciplined. your stepbrothers punishments had been unpleasant, at the very least.

jake grinned at the obvious look of dread on your face and the stiffness in your posture, and called out to the boys. when they entered the kitchen with mischievous smiles on their lips, each more so than the last, he leaned into you and whispered, “each of my friends has had a little too much to drink tonight, and when men drink, well, let’s just say it makes us do things we wouldn’t normally do.”

you knew he wasn’t saying that to give you a reminder of the effects alcohol had on human inhibition; he was telling you to warn you about what was going to happen any moment now. your eyes widened. “jake, no, please,” you begged, suddenly wide awake. you frantically hid behind him, panicked.

jake snickered. they all did. “ah, ah, ah,” he sang, grabbing a hold of you and not only pushing you in front of him, but sending you stumbling into the arms of his friends. “you don’t get to hide now when you weren’t supposed to come out in the first fucking place.”

you had never felt so many hands on your body at once. your torso twisted and turned, shrinking into itself in hopes of recoiling away from every touch, but it was a pointless endeavor. “your little sister is so pretty, jake,” said heeseung. “she’s so squirmy,” teased jungwon. “look at her trying to get away,” noted jay. they all laughed.

“please, stop,” you pleaded, your eyes burning with unshed tears. “jake, please, make them stop!”

jake shook his head, and as far as you could tell, his eyes had been approving. “sorry,” he apologized without a hint of sincerity. “but you have to learn.”

fingers slithered up your thigh. “where you going, baby?”

there were a set of hands cupping your supple breasts, another groping your ass, and one more slipping underneath the band of your sleep shorts. you couldn’t tell which was which; your mind was trapped in a panic, and they were all the same. “shh,” jungwon crooned, palming your hair almost with tenderness. “we’re just having a little fun. no doubt jake would throw a fit if we actually tried to depurify his innocent little sister.”

by the end of the night, you realized jungwon had been right. the three of them touched you and mauled you, but jake didn’t let them do anything more. apparently, he was just teaching you a lesson. not that that had made it any better. jake had been watching his friends fondle you for minutes on end, doing nothing in spite of your pleas. the moment he finally decided he’d seen enough and told them to release you, you’d sprinted back upstairs and locked yourself in your room like you should have done from the beginning.

your resentment deepened. never had you quite loved this strange family your mother had married into. your stepfather was a tall, stout businessman who was the chief executive of a technology powerhouse, which sounded awe-inducing out loud, but you always found him painfully arrogant and entitled. as the saying goes, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, and jake was no different.

the worst part was that your mother made you serve him. made you fix his dinner when he was hungry, wash his clothes when they were dirty, clean up behind him and his friends. it was infuriating, because he had maids for that purpose, but insisted on having you do it for some peculiar reason. your mother agreed with him; she thought it was important you learned how to take care of a man.

when your father died, you were convinced that was the worst thing that could ever happen to you. you hadn’t met jake yet.

on a particularly sunny afternoon, you had gotten dressed to go out to the mall with your best friend and made the unfortunate mistake of walking past jake, who took one look at you and asked, “you’re really going out wearing that?”

“what’s wrong with it?” you asked in annoyance, glancing down at your outfit. “it’s modest.”

jake retorted in a heartbeat, “yeah, modest and outdated as shit. you look like your name is velma.” he stood up and grabbed a hold of you, which you didn’t take kindly to, all things considered. “let’s go to your room. i’m not letting you go outside like this. it reflects poorly on the family image.”

you stifled a sigh, knowing better than to protest against him. 

“take that shit off,” jake commanded once you entered your bedroom. 

you begrudgingly obeyed him, shedding the long dress with black buttons that formed a line on the front. it was a little dated, perhaps, but you dressed that way to honor your deceased grandmother. your father had liked it. he said it kept alive his mother’s memory. 

jake had been going through your closet in pursuit of something that suited his taste, so when he finally did turn around and see you half naked, he paused. “you look better that way,” he said after a moment. 

you were affronted, and your body tensed in remembrance of what had happened the last time you felt so vulnerable.

“relax,” jake teased, shoving a bright yellow sundress decorated with white daffodils into your arms. “put this on.”

the moment you donned the dress, you swore jake almost looked happy to see you for the first time. his eyes took in the sight of you and it gave you the feeling of something unstill in the very pit of your stomach, even though in the moment he had silently looked at you, your body had seldom moved.

jake was pleased. “so you do own something that’s not entirely unwearable. you know, they say fine feathers make fine birds.”

it took everything in you not to roll your eyes. “can i go now?”

“patience, miss mary mack,” jake chastised playfully, grabbing a hat and purse from your closet, also yellow in color. “here. wear this.” with that, jake turned and walked out of your room. apparently, that was all the consultation he had to offer.

when you were finally at the mall with your best friend chaewon, you couldn’t help but notice something unusual; there were too many eyes on you. you were used to being paid attention to in certain settings, usually in occasions related to your stepfather’s job where everyone recognized you as an attachment to him. his young, beautiful, unmarried stepdaughter.

this was different. not many people knew you, and yet for whatever reason, you could feel stares from numerous directions. most of the time when you went out with chaewon, they were only looking at her. you could count on both hands, if not more, the amount of times you’d been offered things for free just because a stranger felt moved by her beauty.

but as you stood in the middle of a jewelry store, chaewon was unbothered, your eyes darting over a bunch of luxury watches that were on display. “ooh, i think jaehyun would like this,” she whispered, pointing to a particular silver one. “wanna get something for jake?”

“not really,” you murmured. “i don’t really know what he likes.” his personality made you think he would prefer something more flashy like gold, but as you pondered his style, your eyes raked over a watch with a brown leather band.

“he’s so cute, though,” chaewon swooned with a smile, sighing dreamily. “jaehyun said that he doesn’t want me to marry him, but it’s ultimately up to my dad. you should put in a good word for me.”

you frowned for a split second. you had always thought that you would marry whoever your dad selected for you, but now that he was dead, that choice was in the stone cold hands of your stepfather and stepbrother. you made an attempt at humor to cloak your grief. “don’t you have enough suitors already?” you teased.

“well, yeah,” chaewon admitted, despite not sounding deterred. “but imagine how much less my parents would argue if they’d just married someone they actually liked. that’s why we can’t have sleepovers at my house. always fussing.” 

she briefly paused, her attention stolen by another watch she thought her brother would find fitting as a gift, and pulled out her phone to take a picture. a thought struck her as her fingers moved. “ooh, plus we would be sisters-in-law!”

you nodded along as she rambled, but you couldn’t understand why she would want to wed jake of all the men who would love to have her hand in marriage. it made no sense to you; he was unbearable and treated you cruelly. she would never know that, though. whenever chaewon came to your house for sleepovers, jake was always on his best behavior.

you thought about it a little harder. jake was the type of man that looked perfect in pictures and on paper. there was no doubt that he was a handsome young man, and sometimes he was admittedly even funny, but as long as you had shared a house with him, you had been increasingly more miserable.

though there was no way in hell you could tell chaewon that, not when it was your responsibility to ensure everyone kept your family in high regards, so you forced a smile and told her cheerfully, “i’ll ask him what he thinks about it.”

chaewon embraced you in a tight hug. “you’re the best.”

“no, chaewon,” you murmured faintly. “you are.”

if you had to give jake credit for one thing, however, it would have to be the outfit he’d dressed you in. despite being often told you were beautiful, you were particularly lacking in suitors, which was concerning now that you were in your twenties.

these are the years for betrothal, your mother had said the day of your twentieth birthday, and when you closed your eyes to blow out the burning candle, you hoped for all the admirers your father had once vowed you would have, remembering the times he’d spun you in his arms and likened you to a princess with a million knights to defend her honor.

all you had ever wanted was to make your father proud, even if it meant settling with a man that was less like a fairytale, although in the deepest part of your heart, you had dreamed of a husband that treated you as well as your father had done until the day he died.

day by day, the reality of the situation seemed more and more grim, and as you compared yourself to other young women of your years, you concerned yourself less with the quality of men, but the quantity; time was running out, and you knew that if they found it necessary, your mother and her husband would pair you on blind dates with men of their choice sooner than later.

for that reason, and despite yourself, you found yourself standing outside jake’s bedroom door. you almost turned back, almost decided that you could handle your problems on your own. with your pride, it seemed better to die than to ask him to extend his help, especially when he made it a point to remind you that he owed you no favors. but you knocked anyway, and when you heard the sound of brutal combat and agonized cries cease, you knew he was coming.

“what?” was the first thing jake said when he answered his door. “i’m in the middle of a game.”

you swallowed. the words seemed physically painful to say. “i need your help.” it was a strained sound. 

jake’s irritation was gone, replaced by something closer to amusement and ridicule. “you need my help?” he repeated, as amazed to hear those words as you were burdened to say them. “i owe you my help?”

god, it was insane how absurdly predictable he was. “no, but i didn’t ask you for help last time, and i believe your words were that my fashion choices ‘reflect poorly on the family image,’” you reminded.

jake laughed; his owns words probably sounded like the wisdom of god repeated back to him. “this is about your subpar sense of style? why didn’t you say so sooner?” he stepped out of his doorway. “you realized why you should listen to big brother, didn’t you?”

hearing him refer to himself that way was almost as strange as hearing the irony in his voice when he called you, “sweet sister.” he was no brother of yours, no matter what the law or marriage said. nevertheless, you couldn’t deny the truth in the rest of his words; if nothing else had changed, then surely it was your clothing that had deterred men away.inflating his ego was the last thing you wanted, so your response was a mere soft, “will you help me?”

“you’re lucky you’re my responsibility,” jake replied, as if it would burden him otherwise. “sure, i’ll help you, but you’re gonna need an entire closet revamp. be ready to leave in thirty minutes.”

he walked backwards into his room and shut the door.

thirty minutes later, you were in the passenger seat of jake’s sleek, luxurious sports car. jake was allergic to silence, and gripping the leather wheel, he asked teasingly, “what made you realize your fashion’s off? did you suddenly get special attention when you were out?” 

that was exactly what had happened and you hated it. “more or less,” you told him vaguely.

jake hummed, putting on his blinker. at least he was a mindful driver. “men want things with value. things with no value go in the trash. your pretty face is a waste if you don’t know what to do with it. save the throwbacks for the met gala.”

“thanks for the advice,” you grumbled. 

jake glanced away from the road briefly to throw you a look. “is that snark?”

“no,” you lied. you both knew it.

it didn’t seem to have personally gotten to him, but jake was still unsatisfied. “you know how old my mom was when she got engaged to my father?” he asked. “nineteen.”

“and how did that work out for her?” you asked sarcastically, given that they were clearly no longer together.

“wonderfully, considering that when they divorced, she walked away with a fortune more than she had before they were married,” jake retorted without missing a beat.

the man has a response for everything, you grumbled to yourself, exasperated. “i assume there’s a point in there somewhere.”

“if you would let me get there,” jake groaned, feigning annoyance. “my mother, despite not being from the most wealthy family ever, still managed to marry my dad. do you want to guess why that is?”

“because your dad values things other than money?” you asked, despite finding it difficult to believe.

“close enough. because my dad saw value in her. the way she behaved, the way she carried herself. that was what made him decide that was the woman he wanted to tie himself to.”

you nodded along. “right.”

jake rolled his eyes. you still didn’t get it. “the point is, my mom had nothing near my dad’s fortune and still managed to compete against richer women from more prominent families. you, my sweet sister, are the stepdaughter of one of the wealthiest men in the country, and yet how many men have you lured with your own effort?”

you were silent, but you knew he was right to an extent. again. of your suitors, they were mostly men that had heard the chief executive had a stepdaughter and decided that was all that they needed to hear. few were organic, which any woman would prefer. in an effort to spare your pride, you huffed, “you act as if no man wants me at all.”

jake laughed harshly. “as long as you’re the ceo’s stepdaughter, of fucking course men will want you. my dad is most likely handpicking a list of candidates for you as well. but most girls run up to their fathers and declare, ‘dad, this is the man i want to marry,’ and pray to god that daddy likes him. you expect me to believe that you’re so good of a stepdaughter, you’ll marry whoever my dad tells you to without bothering to find someone yourself first?”

you sighed.

“everybody in this family serves a purpose,” jake told you, giving you his attention now that he’d stopped at a red light. “my father leads and represents the company. within a year’s time, he’ll retire and i’ll take his place. your mother assists with charities and public image. you need to figure out how you will contribute.”

it would be untrue if you said jake hadn’t given you something to contemplate. you could have cared less about the family business, but you remembered your father. sometimes he could be conventional to a fault, though you had still loved him with all your heart. the man had put family above all else in the world, and knowing that, you knew you had to do the same.

not to honor this family whose name you didn’t bear and whose blood you didn’t share, but to honor your father. and there was no better way to do that than to transform yourself from a princess to a queen.

jake brought you to a specific store you knew your stepfamily frequented. when you walked in together, the staff recognized you both and greeted you respectfully. “genesis,” jake said to one of the workers, a pretty woman with brown hair and fair skin. “my sister here wants to change her style and is in need of a complete overhaul. do me a solid and show us everything you have in season.”

“you got it,” genesis replied with a kind smile. “right this way, mr. lee.” she led you to a large, private dressing room secluded from the rest of the store. they had your measurements on file, courtesy of previous fittings, and genesis alongside some other workers began to bring out a large selection of outfits.

jake did most of the talking. all you had to do was step in and out of the clothes, and wait for his nod of approval. “you look best in bold colors,” jake mused out loud. he turned to genesis. “let’s try these.”

all around you, there were men and women bustling about as they meticulously organized a fine assortment of clothes and shoes and accessories that would complement your appearance. and when you let yourself sink into the moment, you did feel like royalty.

you did pick a few things yourself and jake gave no protest, before or after he saw your choice. “i don’t think you have bad coordination. you just need to get your head out of the nineteenth century,” he teased.

you had no response for that, none that wouldn’t kill the mood. even when you were a child, your taste in clothing had always favored that of your grandmother, your father’s mother, yet another loss you had too soon faced. perhaps in dressing like her, you were subconsciously honoring her too. 

there was a large, golden-framed mirror fixed to the wallpaper that hung tall against its maroon surface, running nearly from the edge of the floor to the roof, and you gazed upon your appearance with little recognition. “do i look good?” you asked, your face still, your eyes neither fond or unfond.

“you look beautiful, miss,” genesis told you adoringly, delicately placing a headband around your head. to your chagrin, her input was not the one you had intended to hear.

jake grinned, his warm brown eyes seeming to seldom blink as he looked at you. “it’s an improvement.”

but you could see his eyes wandering, appreciative, and there was an awkward blend of discomfort and desperation that clasped you in its arms. on the one hand, you hated the way he looked at you because it reminded you of the night when his friends had groped your body to their hearts’ content, but on the other, it made you feel desirable. and more than anything, you wanted to be desired.

“thank you for your hard work today,” jake said to the staff members on your way out, giving your bags to a staff worker to take to the car. the man walked the other direction.

your brows stitched together. “we’re not leaving?” you asked, baffled. maybe he wanted to visit the food court.

“no, my sweet sister,” jake replied silkily, taking your hand in his. “we have one more stop to make first.”

the second stop was another clothing store a floor higher, which you thought nothing of, assuming he simply wanted to view a broader inventory. jake led you to the fitting room and told you to stay put. 

when he came back, he was holding an ivory lingerie set. your eyes went wide. “jake, this is…”

“i know what it is,” jake interjected impatiently. “just try it on so i can see if it’s worth the change.”

you were in no particular hurry to don the ivory set, especially considering you could sense the sting of his eyes boring holes through your bare skin, and you couldn’t believe he had asked you to wear something so raunchy. but there he was, restlessly waiting, his gaze expectant. 

your movements were begrudging. when you had actually willed yourself to wear it in front of him, your eyes never met his own. the outfit of his choice was thin as paper and form-fitting and hid little to nothing, the color of your flesh exposed in between intricate stitches of white silk and lace. you felt every bit as naked as you were.

jake very clearly liked what he saw. “maybe you aren’t entirely worthless,” he said, reaching out to brush his hands over your figure. you shuddered.

he stepped back, pulling out his wallet. “alright, you can take it off. for now.” his smile was unsettling. “i’m buying it.”

something told you that that was nothing to celebrate.

after jake paid, you left the stores for good, and he held the bag himself. “tonight,” he whispered in your ear. “put it on. wait for me. i’m not asking.”

your throat dried, but you nodded your head. what else were you to do?

the rest of your day had been spent rearranging your closet, contemplating heavily what of the clothes you had already owned you would keep, and where to put the ones you couldn’t bring yourself to discard. walking in, you almost never walked out. though it was a time-consuming task, you took delight in shelving your shoes and hanging your clothes. it was distracting. 

it lent itself to being a great escape for the trouble which you knew in the back of your mind would find you before the night’s end, and every now and then, you would fleetingly glance back at the singular bag you had yet to open, afraid of its contents.

you wanted to hide. more than anything, you wanted to disappear beneath a mountain of armani tops and miu miu skirts and gucci loafers, concealed and covered, safe from all that sought to hurt you. but this was the reality that had been chosen for you, even if you hadn’t chosen it.

night fell too quickly. you had prayed for the sun to take its sweet time (even though you were aware it would purely mean delaying the inevitable, no real answer), but she, too, had something to hide from; the moon and the night.

you dressed yourself in the lingerie; you waited; your heart hammered against your chest and your stomach twisted.

jake knocked merely to announce himself and strutted in with his usual confident gait. he took out look at you sitting at the edge of your bed and whistled. “you’re so obedient when you want to be,” he praised. “are you learning, sweetheart? what happens when you don’t listen to me?”

you had no clue what would have happened, not specifically, but you were in no way inclined to find out. 

jake joined you on your mattress, sitting beside you. his warm hand wandered to your thigh and you felt your body lock with the wariness of a woman who had felt danger and recognized its emergence. “you’re still upset with me,” he pointed out. “for letting my friends touch you.”

your eyes closed, and you yearned to go anywhere but back to that moment. 

“believe me,” jake whispered, his rough fingers creeping higher, farther. “i didn’t want to. but you weren’t taking me seriously. so much disobedience, so much attitude. i figured you would learn then. and like always, i was right.”

“jake,” you called his name softly, light as a feather. “i don’t want to do this. what if my mom and your dad find out?”

jake brushed his thumb against your bottom lip. “if you keep that pretty mouth shut, they won’t.”

you swallowed harshly. something had to work. “but you’re my brother…”

jake completely dismissed your concerns. “exactly. i own you, remember? i can do whatever the hell i want with you. and if i want to fuck you til i can’t anymore, then i’ll do that.”

“i’m supposed to wait…”

jake groaned. “your future husband doesn’t have to know.” he lay you down on your back and mounted you, his knees on either side of your body as he bound you to the mattress by your wrists. 

“he’ll lie to you, you know,” jake murmured against your neck, pressing kisses there. “you can lie back and tell him that you’re a virgin. you think he’ll know the difference?”

you squirmed underneath his weight.

jake straightened up and smacked your hardly clothed cunt, declaring, “that’s a myth.”

you gasped out. as he drew back, jake admired the view of you sprawled out before him on the bed, the delicate designs of the lingerie teasing him just enough to evoke a carnal curiosity of a sort. your nipples were obscured, but he could see the upper and underside of your breasts, the soft, moistened surface of your stomach, and the plush, malleable flesh of your thighs.

“my god,” jake said in amazement. “where do i even begin with you?”

you didn’t answer, but that wasn’t a surprise to jake. you knew better than to spite him with words, and you knew they wouldn’t persuade him. jake paid attention to everything. that which he wanted to see, and that which he didn’t. and it was very obvious that you were anxious. “you don’t have to be nervous,” he assured you, his saccharine voice almost affectionate. “i’ll be gentle. relatively.”

his lips met your skin again, kissing your neck, your collarbone, your shoulders. he could have self-restraint when he so desired, and at the moment, he was summoning all of his willpower. he had this unwavering feeling that he would thank himself later.

you only wanted it to be over. there seemed no way around jake getting what he wanted, and though there was nothing stopping you from confiding in your mother, you had doubts about her backbone; even if she heard your concerns, you feared that she would ignore them if it meant preserving her marriage. you figured that was why she had you placate her husband’s child.

jake slipped his hand underneath the crotch of the lingerie and ran his fingers over your slit, testing the waters. dissatisfied, he slipped the fabric to the side and spat between your legs, using it as lubricant as he worked a finger inside. “need you to relax for me,” he murmured.

you weren’t sure how to relax; your body was uncalm and so was your mind, plagued with the reminder of how wrong this was and the memory of how crude the first touches your body received had been, both cementing you in a state of sheer weakness. you had always known, as every woman did, that your body was never truly your own, but this was unlike anything you had ever braced yourself for.

jake didn’t try to uncover the thoughts in your head just yet. he had no use for them. to him, the more pressing matter was the heat between your legs, and he was more preoccupied with stoking the flames.

your body tightened around his fingers as he stuck in another, the pair steadily collecting your moisture as jake tried to open you up for him. his eyes flitted over your body, tense as ever, and he shook his head, complaining, “you’re like a damn crab.”

you couldn’t help it. every inch of you was rigid. as you had come to know, jake got this dangerous look on his face whenever a lightbulb went off in his head, and now was no different. he never withdrew his fingers, but he crouched between your legs to flick his tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves.

that got you jumping.

jake lapped at you as his digits moved inside you, working together to unravel you enough that you could take him. your hands gripped the bedding and your soft moans filled the rest of the silence that went untouched by the sound of your body slickening with unwanted arousal. you tilted your head and bit your lip, hoping to suppress your own noises. it was humiliating. 

jake was finally able to include a third finger with ease, and by that point, he was confident he had done ample work, but he kept going. the thought of what you would sound like when you came for him entered his mind with no intention of vacating, and he decided he would see it for himself.

you could feel it, the fire building rapidly in your core. jake sensed it too; your body was more restless and your breathing was heavier and some smaller details that weren’t lost on him. he smirked against your folds. “that’s it. don’t fight it, sunshine. just come for me.”

unable to keep your impending orgasm at bay, you trembled in climax at last, hiding your face in a pillow not only to smother your sounds, but to minimize your embarrassment. you clenched around his three, slender digits and your body eased despite yourself.

jake withdrew his slick fingers from your dripping cunt and sucked them into his mouth with a hum of delight. “now you’re ready for my cock.” he didn’t wait for you to respond. you watched with a speeding heart as he undid his clothes and suddenly realized how much more exposed you had been compared to him, how you were vulnerable and waiting.

jake grabbed a condom from the right side pocket of his fallen leather jacket and rolled it onto his hardened length. you squirmed when he got closer, but jake was unfazed, spreading your legs back apart and steadily making his way inside.

you quietly whimpered, “jake.” the stretch was unlike anything you had taken before, more intense then his fingers alone. you were wet enough to handle it, jake had made sure of that much, but no preparation could compare when you were so used to being empty.

jake took his sweet time. in a strange act of kindness, he extended his hand for you to hold, which you did. “i know,” he murmured, kissing your face. “i know, sweetheart. it’s okay. you can take it.”

you nodded your head, your hand never daring to leave his. 

jake watched your face as he gingerly coaxed himself deeper, your walls expanding around his girth. soft, high moans escaped him as he filled you to the hilt. you met his eyes for the first time, having somehow mustered the courage, and for a minute, something kept you from looking away.

sooner than later, jake had sheathed himself inside you completely, but he didn’t move yet. “there you go. i told you that you could take it,” he praised, cradling your cheeks in his hands. “does it hurt?”

most of your voice failed and you managed a tiny, “no.” on the contrary, there was an unusual pleasure in being filled by him. 

jake grinned. “good. i’m gonna start moving, okay? nice and slow.”

you wordlessly nodded your head. 

jake began to thrust in and out of you, dragging himself back and forth through your slick heat. the friction and the warmth of him was pleasant, and your pussy gushed around him with every movement. at the sound of your own wetness, you flushed and covered your face. “you’re so damn shy,” jake teased. he gently pried your hand away from your face. “don’t hide. i want to see that pretty little face showing me how good i’m making you feel.”

you shook your head, ashamed. you had always been told to wait. to lie beneath him in this manner felt forbidden and you knew it as surely as you knew the sun would come, but the knowing did not cease the feeling, and the feeling did not sate the knowing.

it didn’t help that jake had set a comfortable pace, his thrusts neither too fast nor too hard; they were long, deep strokes that filled you just right and allowed him to savor the way your pussy throbbed around and kneaded his cock for dear life. you were both making a mess of each other and you utterly despised it. 

jake was perceptive to a fault and he knew your shame was likely most of what kept you quiet. had your parents not been home, though they surely wouldn’t hear you when their own rooms were many yards away (though that didn’t account for maids and servants with busy mouths), he would have been less lenient. “i hate quiet sex,” jake grumbled. “talk to me.”

your face was hot and your ears burned. “i don’t know what to say.”

jake’s grin was smug. “that’s an easy fix. tell me how much you like me inside of you.”

you did like the feel of him inside of you. more than you cared to admit. the feeling of being full pleased you more than you had anticipated. “i… thought it would be worse,” you murmured.

that amused jake. “worse, huh? you thought i wouldn’t take care of you?”

“yeah,” you replied faintly. it seemed so unlike him, with how cruel he had been. 

jake leaned lower and caressed your face with his thumb. “if you act like a woman, i’ll treat you like a princess,” he crooned. then, he tugged at your hair and pulled you toward him, not enough to cause you any pain, but enough to draw a startled gasp out of you and make his threat clear. “if you don’t, i treat you like a peasant. understand?”

the words leapt out of your mouth. “i understand!”

“good girl,” he sang, releasing you. “you could make some man really happy one day, you know that?”

you peered up at him. your mouth wouldn’t close. “you think so?”

jake hummed. his hands cupped your breast and slowly but surely made their way to your hips as his thrusts slowed to a halt. the coldness of his rings made you shudder. “with practice,” he said, admiring the fucked-out looked on your face, his handiwork. “i see in you what my dad saw in my mom. you just need a little training. i could perfect you. would you like that?”

“well, i don’t…”

jake cut you off. “just think about it. imagine all the men lining up for you to have you on their arm. your mother would stop nagging you. she’d stop comparing you to your friend, too.”

those images flashed in your mind as they often did, the way men would gawk and stare and compete among themselves, vying for your hand in marriage. they would do their best to impress your stepfather, going to war to prove their worthiness. it was easy to imagine after having it described to you on more occasions than you could count, because when chaewon talked, it was your job to listen and support her. your heart clenched.

jake raised a brow, still smoothing his hands up and down your body. “did you think i didn’t know?”

you said nothing. jake seemed to know everything.

jake felt your body tensing beneath his hands, but if anything, it only spurred him on. “she gives you hell. you try so hard to please mommy, but nothing’s ever enough because you’re not her. and you compare yourself to every other girl in your circle because that’s what she does - pick you apart. so you sit there, ignorant in your ways, wondering if you’re just broken. i bet it’s exhausting.”

your eyes burned with unshed tears. “jake…,” you trailed off weakly. every word cut deeper than the last.

“i could make you into something even better,” jake whispered, his face so close to yours as his breath tickled your ear. when he said it like that, it sounded like a promise. “i could turn you into something beautiful that no one could resist and no one would deny. men will look at you and dream of making you their wife. mothers will look at you and back at their own daughters with scorn, wondering why they can’t be more like you. fathers will look at you and hope to god their son brings back a woman even half as wonderful as you could be.”

it felt like you were holding your breath and waiting to die. 

then, jake abruptly pulled back, straightening himself. “or not.” he shrugged his shoulders. “you could just commit to a life of constant critique and never satisfy anyone. you could keep convincing yourself that you don’t care. but every woman cares. it’s in your nature.”

without warning, he started moving again, and it knocked the breath out of you. he was closer now, hot on the tail of release.

jake’s voice was like silk. “do you want to be perfect, sweetheart?”

you needed it. you longed for it. you craved it more than anything. “yes,” you replied breathlessly.

“then, let me teach you how,” he said, simple as that. a great offer, void of charge. “let me make you perfect.”

you bobbed your head without hesitation, thoroughly sold, unconcerned with what you had given away. he was offering you everything you wanted on a silver platter and you had no intention of denying yourself the opportunity to be everything that everyone wanted.

jake smiled, and for once, he had nothing to say, either. but his face said it all; he was pleased. after a few more moments, his thrusts became somewhat sporadic, and after a few moments more, he leaned down and sank his teeth into the smooth flesh of your shoulder as he came, stifling his soft moans. your lips parted, but you didn’t complain; you knew that much better.

he took a moment to gather his bearings, but once his mind had cleared and his legs remembered how to serve him, jake pulled away and rose to his feet. “come on. let’s get you cleaned up.”

jake did most of the work, scrubbing you clean and holding you up when your body felt too weak to stand. you almost felt okay when you were back in bed, better than what you had initially feared. rather than used, you felt restless, eager to know and eager to become.

“good night,” jake said from your doorway. “get some rest. you deserve it.”

with that, he turned and left. you glanced down at your pristine, white sheets. there was a tiny red spot from where your bodies had been.

the day before your stepfather’s birthday, your mother took you with her to buy ingredients for his birthday cake. there was no need for her to go out, or to keep you in tow, for that matter, but your mother was nothing if not a perfect performer. 

“you look different,” she observed. 

that had your attention, and you immediately stood up even straighter than you already were. “do i?”

your mother hummed, pleasantly surprised. “yes. more sophisticated.”

grinning from ear to ear, you confessed, “i decided to try a different style.” 

your mother gave you a tiny smile of approval, placing her hand on your shoulder. “well, that’s excellent. it suits you better. i was starting to worry i’d made a mistake with you along the way somewhere. your daddy would be turning in his grave.”

your heart clenched at the mention of your late father, but you didn’t let it spoil the moment. 

turning the aisle, you mother asked, “don’t you want to know why i brought you here with me?”

you decided you would bite and guessed, “to spend quality time with your only daughter?”

your mother laughed. “to remind you of something. even being married to the richest man on the east side, i have certain things i do as a courtesy. i still have wife duties that my husband expects of me. when you marry a man of your own some day, you will understand. your husband will still expect you to raise his children, not a nanny.”

“ah,” you replied, bobbing your head. “of course, i understand that.”

“good. i don’t want you to hate me for being hard on you now, but i do it with faith that when the time comes, you’ll be prepared. becoming your mother has been the greatest blessing god has ever given me. he will give it to you, too.”

the inevitability of motherhood was something you had already long accepted, years before you could truly even understand what it meant. and maybe even now, you might not have totally known. “amen,” you agreed.

your mother pretended to be looking at her phone, checking her list of ingredients, but you noticed her glancing subtly at a man who had been not so discreetly throwing looks where you two stood at a shelf. she turned to you with a smirk that meant she was up to no good. “do you think he’s looking at you or me?”

you gawked and whispered, “mom, you’re married.”

“oh, please,” she mumbled, lightheartedly rolling her eyes. “marriage is security, honey. a man gets married to have an heir, and a woman gets married to have a man take care of her. it’s accomplished. it’s safety, not love.”

she sounded so sure. you thought of what chaewon had told you, about if her parents had married someone they liked instead. with time, maybe they could have grown to love each other. but first and foremost, marriage was a business proposal, and that was what you had always known.

as much as you loved your parents, you knew the love between them had always been scarce. they’d committed to their roles not out of love, but out of an obligation they thought had been given to them by god. your mother put it best. a man took care of a woman, and a woman took care of a man’s child. what he provided for, the woman nurtured. 

“besides, i’m just appreciating,” your mother replied with a dismissive wave of her hand. “more importantly, your stepfather and i are going on a romantic husband-and-wife trip together in the maldives next week for his birthday, so it will just be you, jake and the servants in the house for two weeks. i trust that you can handle everything he needs. apparently, he really likes your cooking.”

“he’s never told me that,” you murmured. at first, you had just thought he liked to make you needlessly suffer.

“maybe he’s more the physically affectionate type. must run in the family,” she quipped. “oh, and i was told he took you shopping. how was that?”

you thought about it. to be fair, it had been a pleasant day. the staff were patient and kind and hard-working, and you had found all the new clothes, though some styles would be an adjustment, beautiful. there was the end of day, which you knew you could never mention a word of, but it hadn’t been what you dreaded it would be.

the answer you gave your mother was far less complicated, and you simply told her, “it was nice. he helped me pick out a few things. i guess we’re bonding.”

your mother put a hand over her heart. “oh, i’m so happy to hear that. i was worried that maybe you were too old to appreciate the gift of having an older brother.”

“honestly, i think i’m starting to appreciate it now more than ever,” you admitted softly.

“that’s beautiful. your stepfather told me you would eventually get along, but i had trouble believing it. well, i can breathe easier now,” she said, sighing with relief. “alright, let’s go get those damn eggs and get the hell out of here.”

that had been the intention, until she noticed someone whom she’d referred to as the director’s wife, most likely an affiliate of one of the charities she worked with. no sooner had she noticed her son was with her than she’d grabbed you by the arm and took you over to introduce you to him. to your delight, he seemed to like what he saw.

your stepfather’s birthday party seemed to be going as beautifully as any occasion intended to celebrate a man over half a hundred, part of which meant that most shares of the cake you and your mother had whisked together were quickly eaten by his nieces and nephews and the young children of the men he named friends.

it also meant that it was quite boring. in truth, the party was half celebration and half a fundraiser that welcomed many wealthy men and women across the country, supposedly meant to provide money for existing youth programs. whether or not it was being done in good faith, you knew better than to question. rather, you fulfilled your daughterly duties, greeting guests as they came.

throughout the course of the party, you received ample attention. it was weird, being recognized all of a sudden and directly approached. only last week, men seemed to whisper if they looked at you, and now businessmen in their thirties were flirting with you here and there, some older, and men with boys said how fitting you would be for their dear sons at home.

one man had talked your ears off about his boy child, a notable young fellow by word of how he’d been described, a decorated warrior. the man told you he’d speak with your father and perhaps try to arrange a meeting with the boy he’d promised could protect you and any children you birthed. though you doubted your stepfather would be too impressed, you’d shown him your best smile and told him how delightful it sounded.

that being said, you were of the opinion that it wasn’t as bad as you’d made it out to be. you were pleased with the attention, it made you feel confident, and you accepted the unpleasant parts as simply coming with the territory.

when you finally gained a moment of respite towards the middle of the party, you found a troubled chaewon at the end of a long table at the back of the grand hall. even she, for all her bubbliness, seemed over it. “you look thrilled,” you remarked ironically.

that brought a smile to her upturned lips. “i was just thinking.”

you were all ears. “yeah?”

“the human body is so smart and so dumb. we have seals underneath our fingernails to protect the nail bed from infection, but women still die giving birth.”

you blinked. then you laughed. “you chose a fine place to discuss this matter.”

chaewon smirked. “am i wrong?”

“the human body was never ordained by god to be immune to pain, you know,” you told her, not unkind. “it was ordained by him to sustain it. pain keeps us human, and more importantly, it keeps us alive and breathing.”

“a pain men don’t share,” chaewon murmured. 

you finished in a heartbeat, “a pleasure and privilege men don’t share too.”

chaewon groaned, but she wasn’t upset, not seriously. “you sound like my mother. and her mother.”

you raised your shoulders. “well, maybe there are lessons to learn from the wise and more experienced.”

chaewon scoffed. usually, she agreed with you on these matters, as it was all she had ever known, but you could sense a tension within her like no other. it plagued her. “look at you getting so smart.” she sighed, softening. “i guess i’m just scared of giving birth. i can handle the marriage stuff, i’ve always dreamed of it. but the second my parents start mentioning grandchildren and the baby talk, i want to disappear.”

you grabbed her hand, sympathetic. you may not have shared it, but it was a valid concern of hers, to be fair. “you’ve suffered a lot of loss in your family because of it. it makes sense that you’re scared,” you whispered, thinking of the late aunts and cousins she’d mourned. “but your mother was fine, wasn’t she? you might not have to share that fate. god will protect you.”

chaewon nodded her head. it was true, her mother had experienced little to no complications when she’d birthed her and her older brother. her eyes shone with hope as she replied, “you’re right. their fate isn’t mine.”

you squeezed her hand and smiled proudly. “there you go.”

something caught chaewon’s eye. her gaze drifted from your face and her grip on your hand tightened. when you heard a familiar dreamy sigh part her lips, you knew instantly what she had seen without looking. “i don’t envy you, you know.”

your brows furrowed. “what do you mean?”

“i’d hate to be his stepsister. i’d struggle to keep my hands off him,” she explained, probably conjuring up fantasies in her head. 

you faltered for half a second, but swiftly composed yourself when you saw jake coming.

“my dad sure knows how to bore somebody,” jake said when he came your way. “you ladies look lovely tonight.”

chaewon offered him her seat so that he could sit between you both. his words got a laugh out of her, though with how she was looking at him, she probably would’ve laughed if he joked about folding laundry. “thank you. we’re probably not the target audience. the older crowd seem happy.”

“oh, trust me. they are,” you droned. 

jake turned his head at you, grinning. “getting hit on by the fifty and up club, sister?”

you almost laughed. “nearly so. they seem to just think i’m a perfect match for their sons for now.”

jake was amused. “i guess they stop by you first then make their way on over to me to tell me that the future of greatness is in my hands.” he smiled and curled an arm around chaewon gingerly. “my feet are tired. would you mind getting me something to drink from the bar?”

chaewon rose to her feet without wasting time. “sure. what should i get you?”

“just tell them it’s for me. the guy’s a longtime caterer. he knows what i like.”

chaewon bobbed her head and somehow, even as she scurried away, it was with refinement and elegance and grace.

and then you were alone. jake sighed, leaning back in his chair. “are you enjoying the attention?” he asked, glancing over at you.

you smiled. it felt different than before. “yes. it makes me feel beautiful.”

jake didn’t skip a beat. “you are beautiful. with a little sophistication, you will be the most beautiful woman to ever grace the earth.”

sophistication. yes, refined and elegant and graceful. “where do i lack?” you needed to know. 

jake brushed a strand of hair behind your ears. “i spent a month with my family on my father’s side when i was little. his brother’s wife has many daughters. one thing i heard her tell them all the time was, ‘it only takes a moment to rouse a man’s excitement, but his fidelity? you will work at that for the rest of your life.’” jake smiled. “do you know where i’m going with this, sweetheart?”

you thought about it. “i have to be more than just a pretty face.”

“exactly,” jake sang. “things with no value go in the trash. men want a wife they can brag about. you’re beautiful and your stepfather is one of the most influential men in the world. notable achievements. what else?”

“i graduated top of my class,” you said, remembering the years of hard work that you had put into achieving strong academics.

“an educated woman,” jake said. “good. what else?”

“i’m good with kids,” you blurted. 

jake was grinning. he liked the sound of that. “amazing. men want children to continue their legacies. for that, they need a good woman to manage their households. what else?”

“i can sing, sew, cook, clean…,”

“you know what you’re missing?” jake interjected. he didn’t give you a chance to answer. “submission. for all the good things about you, sweetheart, you do have a mouth on you. it could do you some good to be more docile.”

maybe he was right. you had never considered yourself particularly unruly, but you were no idiot, and you knew when things were worth questioning. like the true meaning of this party, for that matter. but that did not mean you had to be the one to question it, and sometimes, closing your eyes and looking the other way was smarter.

chaewon was returning, her short black hair bouncing as she walked with that perfect smile. “here you are,” she said to jake, handing him over a glass.

“thank you, chaewon.” he took a tentative sip, judging for a moment, then hummed in satisfaction. “just the way i like it.”

your parents left the morning after the party, and jake had sent home all the housekeepers, leaving you with only yourself during the day while he tended to his father’s affairs at work, in his absence.

with the housekeepers gone, there would be things to do around the house, and you spent a morning compiling a list in your mind. the laundry would need to be taken care of. the main rooms managed, if there were guests. jake liked coffee in the morning, and he would expect to come back to dinner already waiting, no matter how late he returned home, which was sometimes long after the day’s end.

you managed to perfect your routine in seven days. wake up early enough so that his coffee was ready to grab on his way out. on wednesdays, he went in later, so you would need to wake up even earlier to prepare breakfast. he liked familiar foods for breakfast but more variety for dinner, so that was a factor when you were shopping. laundry was a sunday affair, and you had to ensure you didn’t use the detergent that irritated his skin.

one day in particular was different. jake hardly went in from thursday to sunday, and today was friday, so he was home.

over breakfast, he said, “riki nishimura, one of our japanese investors, is coming over this afternoon. if you don’t behave yourself, it’s not just me you disappoint, it’s our entire family. and your father.”

the mention of your father made your heart clench. “i understand.”

“see that you do.” he stood, taking up his plate. he set it in the sink, but didn’t wash it. he was expecting that of you. “breakfast was good. you’re handling this well.” with that, he turned and walked away.

after cleaning the kitchen, you went upstairs to freshen up and make yourself pretty. more often than not, you chose makeup that was subtle and complemented your natural features. peering into the closet that was brimming with clothes jake had hand-picked for you to wear, you settled on a dress that was flattering without being too formal.

it was maybe two hours before you were ready. you went to jake’s door, dressed in an outfit he had bought, smelling like the lotion and oil you had anointed yourself with after shower. your fist tapped his door.

when he came out, he was dressed differently too, as if he was preparing to go to work. his eyes flitted over your body. you waited for his approval with bated breath. it was only for a few seconds, but you swore it felt like minutes. “you look beautiful,” he said. his voice was absent of awe, but his eyes were appreciative.

you smiled, relieved. “thank you,” you said. “will he be here soon?”

“soon,” jake said, checking his watch. your mind wandered back to the watch with the leather band you had seen while shopping with chaewon. he went downstairs, and you followed him.

true to his word, riki nishimura did arrive shortly after. the two of them exchanged greetings. “let me take your coat, sir,” you said politely. 

“oh, thank you.” riki smiled, shrugged his coat off, and handed it over to you. you put it on the rack.

“this is my stepsister,” jake introduced. he told him your name. 

you grinned. “can i get you something to drink, mr. nishimura?”

“just some water would be wonderful,” he told you. “the sun’s blazing out there.”

jake made himself chuckle. “the summers are getting hotter.”

as you went to fix riki nishimura a glass of water, you could hear him talking to your brother as they stepped further into the foyer. “your sister is very well-trained,” he said.

jake laughed. this one had less of a performative quality. “we sims like everything in top tier condition, from our women to our products.”

the afternoon passed smoothly, and the meeting was a pleasant affair. you didn’t do much of anything, but you made it a point to be available. the two of them talked about business, and jake was his usual charming self, flashing smiles and saying all the right things. you followed their dialogue but didn’t comment.

it was maybe about forty five minutes until riki nishimura left and you returned his coat to him, helping him slip it back on. he looked relaxed and confident in the matters they’d discussed. you closed the door behind him on his way out, and turned to jake who looked pleased himself. “you were perfect,” he said. 

your eyes sparkled. “really?”

jake had a twinkle to his eyes as well, admiring his handiwork. “you were poised. servile without being too obsequious. he noticed.”

he’s proud of me, you thought, your heart feeling light. “thank you,” you said.

“for what?” he was literally asking. 

“for making me better,” you whispered. “for showing me how to be a proper woman.”

jake ran his finger over your face. “you’re welcome,” he said softly. “your father would be proud.”

it was the single most powerful thing he could have said. you really hoped so. nothing mattered more, nothing at all.

when the days passed, you hardly noticed the time lost. there were many things around the house that needed to be taken care of, and it was by no means a small estate, so your work was often cut out for you. you told yourself it was nothing you couldn’t bear on your own. you were the daughter of the most powerful man in the country, and this was your first test to see if you could handle the privilege and honor.

all you had to do was keep jake happy. it wasn’t as if you had children to raise, so it ought to have been simple enough.

and at moments when you had spare time to think, your mind wandered to what jake was doing at work, if the company was giving him a hard time. here and there he would come home particularly agitated, but you knew nonetheless that he would prosper. you applied the same principle; if he was not able to bear his father’s responsibilities in his absence, there was no way he could run the company when the baton was passed.

that was nothing to worry about though. jake was smart and competent. he had purified you with ease, made you the woman your father had known you could be, and it had taken him little to nothing. he was a man that you could depend on, and for that, you wanted to prove that he could rely on you to do what he expected as well. you had to.

the day had become night, and darkness settled around the house. you lit candles in the kitchen to create the feeling of an intimate moment. jake was on the phone as you set the table. “oh, that’s wonderful. how long are you staying?” you watched him with curious eyes as he took his seat. “no, no, not at all. i can handle the company. it won’t burn down if you take a few more weeks off.”

so that’s what it was. your parents were extending their getaway.

“it is beautiful,” jake said, sounding as if he was agreeing with something. “stay. you deserve it. make sure you appreciate how blue the water is before you come back and see murky everything is in the city.” jake laughed. “yes, she’s well. she’s plating dinner as we speak. she’s been doing a remarkable job.” 

your heart fluttered. you set the utensils down in a careful order. he’s talking about me.

“alright. call me when you have lunch. have a good night,” he said at last, hanging up. “pass me the salt.”

it was an equal distance away from him as it was from you, but you handed it over regardless.

he shook some grains into his food. “you know,” he said. “we’ve got a lot of time together. looks like mom and dad aren’t coming home until next month.”

“i heard,” you said. “did you ask them to take pictures of the water?”

“no,” jake said. he picked up his fork. “i’m sure your mom will anyway. she’d take pictures of the lake we see every day leaving the house.” he laughed at himself.

it occurred to you then that you hadn’t left the house at all since the party, not even to go shopping. your mother might have liked to go out herself sometimes, if not out of a genuine preference for doing things herself than out of sense of duty to perform it, though your stepfather himself did not seem to expect it of her. he cared less about who did the shopping and how and more about what time dinner would be prepared.

you had spoken to chaewon since that night, but every exchange was sparse and fleeting. you were too busy as of late, and certainly she had her own affairs to attend to.

“would it be okay if i invited chaewon over someday?” you asked. jake hung out with his friends plenty enough. he never said so, but why else would he come home so late smelling of alcohol?

“chaewon,” he repeated. jake hummed, mulling it over. “fine. you’ve been good.”

you beamed. it would be good to see her again. “thank you,” you said, remembering his lessons. submission.

jake chuckled. “don’t thank me yet. nothing is for free.”

after dinner, you washed the dishes, wiped the table, and then at last withdrew to your bedroom to cleanse yourself. you had chosen a silky black nightgown to wear to bed, but first anointed your skin with lotion to make it especially soft for him tonight.

jake appeared in your doorway moments later and welcomed himself inside. “are you ready for me, sweetheart?” he didn’t wait for you to answer. his hands cupped your breasts through your gown, eager to feel what was his.

it did you no good not to be ready; he would take what he wanted regardless. you tensed a bit at first, but willed yourself to relax. the contact took some getting used to, but you didn’t want to displease him. perhaps by the time your future husband was due to take you, you would be prepared enough not to be so fidgety. “yes,” you whispered.

oddly enough, jake didn’t speak right away. for a moment all you could hear was his breathing and the sound of your nightgown rustling as he kneaded your breasts through the fabric. your lips parted ever so slightly when his thumbs brushed repeatedly against your nipples.

“still so restless. guess that means i just have to fuck you till you get comfortable.” his hands dropped to his sides. “but not tonight. get on your knees.”

your brows furrowed, but you did as told.

“look at you,” he crooned, brushing his fingers through your hair. “right where you belong. you look so pretty.”

your lashes fluttered. “thank you.”

“don’t thank me yet,” he said for the second time. “take my pants off.”

he hadn’t decompressed for the day yet beyond dinner, so instead of his casual wear, he was sporting the clothes he’d worn into the office. you undid the belt buckle and slipped it off, undid his fly, and let his pants fall down to his ankles.

you had been about to reach for his underwear too when his hands gripped yours. “suck,” he said.

your lips tugged. “but you’re not…”

a smack rang out in the air. “did i tell you to comment on my state of undress or did i tell you to suck?”

you reached up to hold your sizzling cheek. “i’m sorry…”

jake was annoyed. “don’t be sorry. do what i told you to fucking do. if you can’t please me, you’ll never please any man.”

you pressed your lips against the outline of his half-hard cock through his boxers. you hadn’t expected this to be what he wanted, you thought it would be more like the first night he took you, but you supposed there were many ways to please a man, and a good wife should be skilled at them all.

“there you go,” he said. “lick me. do it like you’re fucking starving for it.”

your tongue darted against the dent in his pants, licking, swirling, sucking, your world narrowing to the taste of cotton and your own saliva. you wished you would have known the sort of favor he wanted. you might have looked online for some tips, anything that would temper this sense of aimlessness that accompanied your fear of arousing disappointment rather than lust. 

jake moaned, though, his fingers tightening in your hair with need instead of violence for now. that noise was a light in the dark for you, and you followed it, repeating whatever stroke of your tongue had given him pleasure with a touch more of confidence.

the floor was rough against your knees, but you would bruise them both a million times over if it meant he was satisfied. because if he was satisfied, it meant you were doing something right.

“just like that. good.” his words were breathy. a wet spot had formed in his pants from the combined dampness of your saliva and his precum.

you could still feel the faint burn on your cheek where his palm had whacked you, but the pain had taken a backseat to his pleasure, so it was a distant thing in the moment. the first tests started at home. you would give favors many times once you were married, so it was best to get good at it early. thank goodness jake was such a thorough teacher, keeping you disciplined.

“fuck, baby,” he groaned. you figured his body was of a more sensitive nature, so even through his underwear he must have felt these sensations sharper than most.

his cock had reached total erection, and you had felt it growing against your skin with every warm touch. you remembered how it had felt inside you at first, the size so overwhelming you had bled after. it hadn’t hurt per se, but the stretch was so unusual you had nothing to compare it to. and jake had been courteous and kind, so it was not as unbearable as you had imagined.

more importantly, your body had given him immense pleasure, and you were of a mind to keep it that way, thinking of how you would drink less at the next gala and eat better than was normal for you and wear more of the clothes and undergarments he so loved, as you were memorizing the colors and outfits and fabrics that were pleasant to his senses and tastes…

“take my cock out,” jake said. “i want you to suck me now. and i don’t want to feel any teeth.”

your hands reached for his boxers and tugged them down to reunite with his pants. his cock sprung free, already leaking and aching for you to the finish the job. you took only a little bit into your mouth at first, intimidated by the remaining length. how could this all fit into your mouth?

jake didn’t offer answers, but he did offer moans, which in a way was an answer in and of itself. you kept that motion up for as long as you could, but when you started to take him deeper, your throat rejected it and you gagged. you pulled off him, tears burning your eyes.

when jake sighed, you feared he would strike you again, but instead he grabbed one of your hands and made you curl it around his cock. “keep your hand here.” he moved the other beneath it to the bottom. “move this one up and down. like that. good. now try it again.”

your lips sealed around his cock again, your dominant hand stroking his cock all the while, the two working in tandem to deliver the high he was seeking. you focused on your breathing more than anything, because it felt like that was where things started to go wrong.

jake’s hand cupped yours, demonstrating to you how to squeeze his cock, and from there it was relatively smooth sailing. every now and then you would go up to let yourself breathe through your mouth, but you tried not to do it too long, or too often, lest it disturbed him.

“there you go. you’re getting the hang of it,” he said. you could see the way his chest was rising and falling, falling and rising. “look me in the eyes while you suck my dick.”

you did. in the beginning it was an awkward thing, meeting his gaze when you were doing something so intimate, but you didn’t dare look away. he had given you a task, and you intended to see it through no matter what. everything else had to be temporarily set aside.

jake reached down to tug the top of your nightgown and expose your breasts to him, the sight stimulating him even more. he squeezed them as he done before, only this time without the barrier to keep you from noticing how warm his hands were. his fingers brushed your nipples. it was almost distracting, but you summoned all your willpower to keep yourself focused on what was most important.

the sound of you sucking him was wet and lewd, but you supposed jake had like that, because here and there he would mutter things under his breath about how beautiful you looked and sounded on your knees before him. you remembered he’d said he hated quietness during intimate acts. perhaps the next time he took you you should make yourself especially loud for him. he would appreciate that. “i’m gonna come,” he grunted. “faster.”

you obliged, setting a new pace that was quicker and harder to maintain than the other, but it wasn’t so bad; in a few moments, he would be finished. in a few moments, you could say you were beginning to acquire another skill, and only jake could speak to what extent, but you were hopeful he would be content…

“fuck,” jake hissed. he’s liking it. he likes it. you hoped he would finish soon. you felt your mouth growing tired, and you didn’t want to anger him by stopping now of all moments, now when he was so close to the finish, right there…

jake came at last, spilling into your mouth with a shrill sound and an abrupt forward drive of his hips. his eyes snapped closed and he used your mouth until every bit of his high began to fade.

when they opened at last, he was demanding. “swallow.” the taste was bitter, but you made yourself do as he bade you, swallowing his warmth until there was no more. only then did he withdraw from your mouth. 

“now you can thank me,” he said. “thank me for letting you suck my cock.”

your eyes darted away awkwardly. “thank you for… letting me you suck your cock.”

he grabbed your chin. “look at me,” he barked. “now say it again.”

you met his eyes. “thank you, jake. for letting me suck your cock.”

jake smiled. “good girl.” he fixed his clothes. “i expect breakfast tomorrow.”

“yes, jake.”

“and you need more practice, but not tonight. we’ll work on it some more later.”

“okay, jake.” satisfied, he walked away.

you woke late.

most days you would have set an alarm to gather you out of your sleep, but you must have been so tired last night that you’d forgotten. you scrambled out of bed, making a quick effort of washing up before you scurried downstairs to the kitchen. this would be one of those days where jake wanted an entire meal instead of just coffee.

that said, you started with his coffee first, then hurried to get every ingredient out of its place. maybe jake would wake up late too. maybe he wouldn’t notice. you were pulling a pan out of the cabinet when you heard footsteps descending down the stairs. your heart raced.

jake called out your name. you couldn’t even see his entire body yet, but you could hear him. “why don’t i smell bacon?”

“i’m… i’m working on it,” you said, glancing over at the raw bacon on the counter.

“you’re working on it.” far too soon, jake made it downstairs and crossed his arms when he saw you standing there, nothing going except the coffee. “shouldn’t you be about done by now?”

you couldn’t meet his eyes. “i woke up late.”

“you woke up late.” jake laughed. “you woke up late?”

you nodded, looking at the floor.

your shoulders went cold when he began to approach you. he seized your face abruptly and made you look at him. “can you not do one simple thing? you think a man wants a wife who can’t even have his breakfast ready when he wakes up and his dinner ready when he gets home?”

“no,” you whispered, eyes blurring with shame. “i’m sorry, jake. it won’t happen again.”

he smacked your face, the same side that he’d struck last night. “see that it doesn’t,” he said. “how many times do i have to tell you? where do things with no value go?”

your voice was a whimper. “in the trash.”

“and are you trash?”

“no, i’m not trash...”

“as long as you’re a part of my family, damn right you’re not,” jake said. he released you. “pour me a cup of coffee.”

so you did. after jake had had his coffee,  he took your face in his hands and asked, “you know i only do this because i love you, right?”

you sniffled. “really?”

“of course,” jake crooned. he brushed the tears from your eyes. “why would i bother trying to fix you if i didn’t love you? i want what’s best for you, baby. and sometimes what’s best for you is a little discipline. i don’t know what you would do without me. no one else is going to be this patient with you. the rest of the world will you chew you up and spit you back out.”

you nodded. “i know.”

“good. now dry your eyes and get back to work, okay?” he went to go sit at the island.

that day made you realize that you couldn’t afford to keep making mistakes, especially ones that you were beyond capable of preventing. to be the best that you could be, to truly live in your father’s image, you had to go above and beyond in exceeding expectations.

it would make your father proud. it was making your mother proud too, and you had thought she was impossible to please. and it made jake proud, as your brother and as your teacher, the lines blurring as they should when it came to the realization of the perfect girl. at times, nothing mattered more.

over the coming weeks, as the responsibilities came and went and came and went again, you found yourself drawn back to those words he’d said, like a vessel that wants to drift away but is anchored where it floats. you know i only do this because i love you. it had been so long since you heard anyone say that. your father not since his passing, your mother not since god knows when.

i only do this because i love you. you hadn’t known, but now that you did, the thought kept to you like a spirit housed to a man. there was such strangeness. you had never before thought words of that nature would come from jake and onto you, but perhaps you didn’t know him as well as you thought. but things were different than they had been some months ago. did he change, or did you change? did you become a person deserving of love, or did he become a person willing to express it?

you supposed it mattered little now. i love you. you had his love, his care, and you knew what you had to do to maintain it. now that you knew you had it, you would do whatever it took to keep it. no price was too high.

after that day, you began practicing to please jake in the future so that you would be less of a disappointment. you ordered a toy so that you could train your throat to take him better. it was hard at first. every time you did it your mouth instinctively wanted to gag. but you had to perfect it, you had to get it right so that you would be perfect for him.

you practiced arching your back in the mirror, wanting to get the curve of your spine just right. you practiced perfecting your moans so that they were loud and breathless enough for his ears. you spent hours analyzing pornography to enact the things you saw other women do. the next time jake took you, you had to be the very best you could. failure was not an option. 

there were weeks before chaewon finally had enough time to fit you in her schedule, and when the rolled around that you knew she would be coming over, you were terribly excited.

she was about twenty minutes out when jake entered your room and came up behind you where you were bent over your bed, scrolling. “i need something from you real quick, baby,” he said, his hands drifting underneath your skirt.

“jakey, no,” you said softly. “chaewon’s gonna be here soon.”

clearly it was the wrong thing to say. “no?” jake repeated. “no?”

you swallowed. “i only meant…”

he didn’t care to hear your explanations. “did you just tell me no?”

“jake, please, i…”

“i think you’re confused about who’s in control here,” jake said. he spun you around to face him. “do i belong to you?”

“no….”

“do i answer to you?”

you sniffed. “no, jake…”

“so then why the fuck—” he started, his face getting closer to yours. “—do you think you get to tell me no?”

“i don’t think that, jake, i-i made a mistake, i’m sorry-”

“you’re the fucking mistake if you think you have the power to tell me what i can or can do. if i want to fuck you right now, i will. if i want to fuck you in front of chaewon, i will. if i want to fuck you on the streets of tijuana and make you a public spectacle, i fucking will.”

your eyes burned.

his hand wrapped around your throat and tightened there. “if you hang out with your friends, that’s because of me. if you wear a pretty dress you like, that’s because of me. if you get married, that’s because of me. if you breathe, that’s because of me. do you understand? nod if you do.”

you nodded your head urgently, eyes wide.

jake released your throat. “good. now turn around.”

he took you there against your bed. it hurt badly, but you knew that you deserved it, so you didn’t complain, and when he was done, you silently retreated to the shower to wash away the traces of what had happened from the eye, even if you could still feel the ache within you.

your neck bruised from where he had seized it into his hand, and that was something that wouldn’t simply wash away with water. you changed into a turtleneck to conceal it, fixed your hair, and made yourself smile. this was how he would want you to look.

chaewon looked even prettier than the last time you saw her. “my brother’s getting married,” she announced when you both got settled in your room. 

“really?” 

she nodded, grinning from ear to ear. “yes, really! it’s official as of last night. he really likes rosie.”

“i couldn’t tell,” you said. jaehyun had been with her for the better part of eight years, and only now did he think to drop on one knee. “i mean, what took him so long?”

“i mean, my brother is a little different than most guys. he takes stuff slow. that’s his thing.” chaewon shrugged. “the guy’s a total romantic.”

“i mean, but don’t you think that’s weird?” you asked. “if a guy waited eight years to propose to me, i’d think he was ashamed of me or something.”

“if he was ashamed of her, he wouldn’t marry her at all,” chaewon told you. “or meticulously pick out what ring to propose to her with, or where to do it, or rehearse his lines in his room every day for weeks in advance.”

“i guess,” you conceded. “i just think that’s a long time.”

“forever’s a long time too, and that’s how long people hope to be married,” chaewon said. “what’s an eight year slice of forever?”

“you say things so weirdly.”

“it’s a talent of mine,” chaewon chirped. “you’re invited, by the way. obviously. your plus one can be whoever you want, but i really hope you bring jake.”

you rolled your eyes. “give it up to god, chae.”

“i can’t!” she clasped her hands together. “please, please, please? for me? i really want him there.”

“why? it’s not even your wedding.”

“obviously,” she agreed. “if it was my wedding, he’d be there as the groom.”

your stomach clenched. “but like… what do you even like about him? you can’t just marry him because you think he’s handsome.”

“he is so handsome,” chaewon said dreamily. “but he’s also very witty and intelligent. i like talking to him. you don’t understand the importance of good conversation, of talking to someone who knows how to respond to you and meet you where you are.”

he was witty. sometimes. “so… you like him because he’s handsome and can hold a conversation?”

“and he’s a perfect gentleman,” she breathed.

“i guess that’s reason enough.”

chaewon grinned. “and if you invite him as your plus one, i might get the chance to get to know him even better.”

“our brothers barely even like each other,” you reminded her. why, you had no idea, but they just never seemed to click as well as you and chaewon had. “why would my brother even go to jaehyun’s wedding?”

“because you’re gonna ask him nicely,” she retorted. “please?”

you exhaled a breath. “i’ll mention it to him later.”

“yay!” chaewon threw her arms around you. “you’re the bestest best friend ever.”

the day passed in a blend of talking, gossiping, and laughing. before you knew it, you had all but forgotten the incident earlier, and remembered what it felt like to be alive, even if for a short while.

at night, you and chaewon showered, and fell asleep together in your bed.

it must have been late when you suddenly woke again with a sudden thirst. you rolled over in your bed and felt the emptiness beside you and remembered that chaewon was supposed to have been there. maybe she’s gone to the bathroom.

you opened the door and made for the stairs. but as you started the descent, you started to hear… noises. strange noises. noises that were unfamiliar in their familiarity.

“shh, baby,” you heard jake’s voice whispering. “you don’t want to wake her, do you?”

you couldn’t see chaewon at all, but you faintly heard her say something that sounded like, “no, i’m sorry. you just feel too good.”

jake chuckled. “don’t be sorry. just be quiet.”

your chest was so tight you thought you might die.

their voices might have been quiet, but their bodies weren’t. you could hear the sound of him driving into her, of her hands scrambling for purchase, of their breathing finding a rhythmic sync, of jake taking a pleasure that had nothing to do with you.

and it felt like the wind had been knocked out of you.

it was too much. you forced yourself to turn away and creep back up the stairs as quietly as you had come down. you returned to your bedroom and threw the blankets over yourself, your pillow dampening bit by bit.

chaewon was chipper the next morning, very chipper. before she left, she offered to help you make breakfast for jake. you waited to see if she would mention their tryst, but she didn’t at all.

it was supposed to be a secret then. something between her and him that you weren’t in on, that you weren’t a part of.

when she left, you went to your bathroom and began to wipe off the concealer you had used to hide the bruises jake had given you from her. they were darker than they had been yesterday. she didn’t want him. you knew that to be a certainty. if she knew what it truly was like to be his, beyond marveling at his handsome face and witty words and willingness to pull out a chair here and there, she would crumble like a house in a tropical storm.

but you, on the other hand, were strong and enduring. you could take it. you could take anything he gave you, not just when it was pleasant, but when it burned. you could take it and know that it was beautiful, that it was a display of love, strength, and growth.

chaewon had been born shining. she had no idea what it was like to be pressed into a diamond, to earn everything beautiful about herself. she had no idea what it was like to be shaped by his hand. she had no idea what it was like to be his creation, to be exactly as he intended.

but you did. and that was why you knew no one else could satisfy him, even if he made the mistake of seeking out other temporary delights. no candy was as sweet as the one made purely by your own hand, because it was yours.

you knew you had displeased him yesterday, a slip of the tongue that would never happen again, but you had pleased him the day before, and the day before that, and the day before that. you planned to do so for eternity. jake, forever yours, you, forever his, in a condition of perpetual devotion.

and forever started today.

“hello?” came the voice on the other end of the phone, gruff and confused.

“hi, jay,” you sang.

“this is a surprise,” jay murmured. you could practically hear the smirk in his voice. “change your mind about me?”

“not at all, no,” you said. “do you think my friend chaewon is pretty?”

“chaewon,” he repeated. “do i think she’s pretty? i think she’s gorgeous, everyone knows she’s gorgeous. why?”

“what if i told you that she leaves bible study every wednesday at eight, stops at becky’s at eight twenty, gets gas at eight thirty, and she’s home by nine.”

there was a lull of silence. “why are you telling me that?”

you continued, “she has a bad habit of looking at her phone while she’s walking, she wears noise-cancelling while she’s waiting in becky’s up until the moment she gets back in her car, and sometimes she forgets to lock it.”

jay said your name. “is this a fucking joke?”

“nope,” you chirped. “dead serious. she’s that stupid.”

“i thought she was your friend.”

“i thought she was too,” you said. “but i thought wrong.”

jay laughed. he didn’t ask what happened. he didn’t care. “so, let me get this straight. you guys had a cat fight, and now you want me to… what? brutalize her in the becky’s parking lot?”

“i don’t care what you do,” you said, “as long as she suffers. deal or no deal?”

“damn,” jay said. “i’ll think about it, princess. i gotta go, though.”

“think about it quickly.” you hung up. wednesday was approaching.

you didn’t agonize over whether or not he would do it. guys like jay couldn’t resist themselves. instead you busied yourself with tasks around the house, keeping jake happy, keeping him satisfied, keeping him yours.

the next time you saw chaewon was in the hospital. “what happened?” you asked as you came to her side, brows stitched. 

“i was leaving becky’s,” she said, her voice small. she looked small. her lips and cheeks were bruised, and there were other marks scattered across her figure. and yet somehow she was still annoyingly fucking beautiful. “but then some guy came up behind me when i was leaving… and… and…” she couldn’t continue. her eyes became wet. 

you squeezed her hand. “hey, hey. it’s okay. it’s okay. you’re safe now.”

her bruised lips were quivering. “it hurt so bad.”

“i know,” you whispered. “did you see what the guy looked like?”

chaewon shook her head. “i didn’t see anything. one second i was alone and the next he was there. i tried to get away but he was too strong. and the cameras out there haven’t been functioning in ages.”

“he won’t get away with this,” you told her. “do you understand that?”

chaewon nodded. 

you smiled. “good. i have to go. my parents are coming back today and i want to be home before they do. i’ll come back to visit you again tomorrow. will you be okay?”

“i think so,” she whispered.

“alright. i love you, chae.”

“i love you too,” she whispered. 

first problem taken care of.

at home, you went straight to jake’s room. the door was already open so you let yourself inside. “jake?” you called. 

jake looked up from his phone. he had been sitting on his bed, scrolling. “hey. chaewon okay? she’s not in too bad shape, is she?”

“who gives a fuck?”

jake paused. then he laughed, perhaps thinking it was a joke. “you…? i mean, aren’t you guys best friends?”

“not anymore.”

jake tilted his head. “you guys get into a fight in the two seconds between her coming over and now?”

“i know what you did,” you announced levelly. 

jake was quiet a moment. “what are you talking about?”

“don’t do that, jake. i heard you,” you said. “i heard you with her in the kitchen.”

jake sighed, running his fingers through his hair. “look-”

you cut him off. “i know i made a mistake. i know you were angry at me. i understand.” you stepped closer, shutting the door behind yourself as you entered the room entirely. “i know i deserved to be punished. but was what i did so wrong that you had to replace me?”

“sweetheart, i-”

“you didn’t do it to hurt me,” you said. “i know you didn’t, because you didn’t want me to know. if you wanted to hurt me, you would have wanted me to see. so then you must truly have meant to replace me, to find someone better than me…”

“if you would let me-”

“but she’s not better than me!” you snapped. “she’s not! and i wish everyone would stop treating her like she’s some perfect princess just because she smiles prettily when she’s hardly a real woman! a real woman wouldn’t fear giving birth! a real woman would trust god!”

you knew you were getting out of line, but you needed him to hear you. this was worth any punishment he could conceive.

“i shouldn’t raise my voice. strike me if you must,” you told him, standing in front of him now, between his legs, perfectly within arms reach. “if you would choke me, i’m ready.” you tugged your shirt over your head to give him better access to your throat. “but she doesn’t deserve you. she doesn’t have what it takes to be your woman. she wouldn’t do these things for you. i know because i’ve spent almost my whole life since first grade by her side and she’s always expected everything to be easy. she has no idea how to face anything she thinks might be hard.”

you brought his hand to your neck, where the bruises were fainter now, but still visible, the colors blooming across your neck. “she wouldn’t see this as what it is,” you whispered, not once looking away from his eyes. “a gift. a honor. a privilege. she would think it’s monstrous. but it’s not. it’s beautiful. it’s a milestone.”

you smiled. “that’s why i had to teach her a lesson.”

“baby,” jake said slowly. “what did you do?”

“i had jay pay her a visit.”

“what?” 

you nodded. “please don’t be angry,” you whispered. “i did it for you.”

jake’s hand didn’t fall away from your throat, but it was very loose. “for me?”

“yes. for you. for us. because i love you. because you said you loved me.”

“i do love you,” jake said, running his spare fingers through your hair.

“so why did you do that?” you asked. your eyes were misty, and soon your cheeks were dampened. “am i not good enough? did i do something wrong? i can fix it, jake, i swear. i can be better. you just have to tell me. i’ll do anything.” you dropped to your knees. “i can fix it, jake,” you said again, peering up at him desperately. “let me fix it. please. i don’t want to be trash.”

“how do you plan on fixing it, baby?” jake murmured.

“i’ll show you,” you said. you began to tug down his pants. “i’ll do better this time. i promise. i’ve been practicing, like you said.”

jake looked genuinely surprised. “you’ve been practicing for me, baby?”

“yes,” you admitted. “i wanted to make you proud.”

“i’m so proud of you, my girl,” jake said. he patted your head. “show me what you can do.”

my girl. his girl.

at first, you mirrored the last encounter together where he’d had you on your knees, kissing him through his boxers. he had liked that, you remembered. you spread your tongue along the fabric and sucked the head as if there was no barrier.

you continued that just long enough to get him worked up before doing away with the boxers and discarding them into oblivion, but you paid the head of his cock no mind. instead you dragged your tongue again now along his shaft, up and down, down and up. you heard his breath hitch, and that was all the encouragement you needed.

tonight, you were determined to get this right. you couldn’t lose him to someone else, least of all her.

the next time you licked up his shaft, you started another descending path, except this time you were peppering sweet, soft kisses, a gesture that was tender and loving, more than he knew. your lips found their way from just shy of his head to his balls. you took one into your mouth gingerly, not wanting to overstimulate him.

“fuck,” jake swore. “you trying to kill me, baby?”

your giggles were stifled. while your mouth was preoccupied with that, you stroked his cock in your fist. he was so hard now, it never took long. you could feel the blood burning within your hand, his cock hot and stiff with excitement. that’s it. that’s how much he wants me. that’s how much he needs me.

whether he knew it or not, he needed you, just as you needed him. you could see it clearly now. the two of you were fated, and now you had reached a point where it was truly undeniable on your part, where the truth stood tall, a roaming giant, every resistance being crumbled underfoot. the past never mattered. you could forgive his sins if he forgave yours.

those days where you had not yet understood what it earnestly meant to be a woman, where you had believed he was a terror that some entity had cursed you with, those were the days of your naivety at its purest. it was like if chaewon had seen those marks on your neck; she would think they were some an immortal act, she wouldn’t realize it was a gift, a token of love, of care, of how much jake wanted to see you prosper.

at last when you felt the growing tension in jake’s body amass to a peak, you let yourself take the head of his cock into your mouth, though without any particular haste. 

jake shuddered, the sensation worth the anticipation and then some. “oh, shit.”

seeing him react so strongly made your body burn with urges of its own, but those were secondary. what was paramount was making him understand, proving to him that you were the woman he had made of you.

“you taste so good, jakey,” you briefly pulled away to tell him. “i missed your cock so much.” not a moment later, you were back to sucking him.

jake groaned. “yeah? i can tell you miss it. you really have been—holy shit—practicing.”

you moaned around his cock, and it must have done something, because the noise that came out of him made your thighs tense.

“don’t stop,” jake gasped. “fuck, just like that, baby, don’t stop, you’re so good.”

you were determined to unravel him, to please him more than anyone ever had and ever could, to stake your claim to the man you knew with your whole heart was yours by right, even if you’d never hear the words come out his mouth. this was evidence enough. the way his body responded to you, the things you were making him say, that was a power of its own, and power was the most important thing in this world.

and if men were the heads of power, but you had dominion over his body, what did that say about you?

jake said your name. he rarely did, it was usually a petname, something sweet and meaningless, but this was yours. “god, i’m gonna fucking come.”

it was fun to see his body speak for him, to watch it convey things that words like pleasure never really could. his hips jolted as his cum emptied inside your mouth, hot and salty and meant for you. even as that was happening, his hands were clenched into the sheets, and his voice was the most beautiful thing you had ever heard. 

you swallowed it all, not letting a single drop go to waste, and when you were done, you remembered your words. “thank you, jake, for letting me suck your cock,” you whispered, meeting his eyes as you licked some of his release from your lips.

jake blinked silently. then he laughed. “fuck. you’re so welcome, princess.”

you got up from your knees and sat on the bed. “can i ride you?”

jake raised his brow, amused. “you think you can handle that?”

“i know i can.”

“confident,” jake murmured. he lay back. “sure, ride me. but if you get tired and ask me to take control, i swear to god…”

“that won’t be a problem,” you promised.

jake chuckled. “if you say so. grab a condom.”

“we don’t need it,” you said as you undid your bra and skirt. “i’m not afraid of the consequences. i’m not afraid of what it means to be a woman.”

jake’s face fell. “baby, if you get pregnant, that could get us in a world of trouble.”

“i’m not afraid,” you insisted.

“and that’s brave,” jake said, “but imagine what your mom would think.”

“i don’t care,” you blurted. “i want to marry you and have your babies.”

“whoa. okay,” jake said, visibly reeling. “we can do that, i promise. after we’re married. deal?”

you nodded. “okay. deal.”

jake exhaled a breath. “great. now go get a condom out of that drawer and show me how much you want my cock.”

you did as told, fetching a condom from the supply he had in his nightstand drawer. as you were rolling it down his shaft, you whispered, “can we pretend?”

jake smiled. “yes, princess. we can pretend.”

you shed the very last of your clothes and mounted jake’s lap. “i want your cock so badly, jakey.” you sank down onto him, inch by inch, bit by bit. “don’t you feel it?”

jake moaned. your pussy was gushing around his cock, wet and warm and tight. his hands went to your hips. “shit, babe. all that from sucking me off?”

you nodded. “i like making you feel good.”

jake closed his eyes. “i like that you like making me feel good.”

nothing could have been better or more important. you would have done this every day if he so asked. you would have gotten on your knees for him, or perhaps your hands and knees, or your back, or bent over whatever surface he preferred that day, or mounted him as you were now, none of it mattered. you were a good woman, and so you could please him whenever he wanted, wherever he wanted, however he wanted it.

surely chaewon couldn’t say the same. chaewon was just a pretty face. beyond that, she was empty. you pitied whatever man would realize that only after he had made her his wife, but that man would not be yours.

“do i feel better than her?” you asked.

jake didn’t hesitate. “so much better,” he said. “i don’t know what i was thinking, baby. i could never replace you. you’re perfect.”

that warmed your heart. “you mean that?”

“of course, beautiful,” jake said. “look at you. look how good you’re taking my cock right now. you know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you, sweetheart?”

“uh huh,” you agreed. that’s right. i know what he likes.

“nobody’s ever made me feel the way you do,” he said breathlessly. “you were made for me.”

for you, by you.

“i was made for you,” you echoed, bouncing on him harder. your boobs followed suit.

“you’re so fucking beautiful,” jake swore. he took your boobs into his hands, holding them, kneading them.

you smiled coyly. “you’re very handsome.” you liked the way he looked beneath you, his skin flushed, his chest heaving, his hair beginning to stick to his face as the lust made even a room as spacious as this one grow hot and stuffy. you liked the way his lips parted for breath, the way his eyes fluttered when the warm sensation of you got to be too much, the way his brows jumped when your pussy throbbed in response to his words.

it went beyond attraction. it satisfied you, assured you, and rewarded you all at the same time. it was your north star, that guiding light, the thing that let you know that for as long as it was bright you were not a failure.

“you feel so good,” you whimpered, your eyes fixed to his face. you stitched your brows together. “i love your cock, i love it, i love it so much! i don’t want anyone else, jakey, just you, no one else matters like you do. i’d do anything for you.”

“anything?” jake murmured.

you nodded. “anything, anything at all. you said i’m beautiful, but i’m only beautiful because you made me so.”

jake groaned. “and don’t you forget it.”

“i won’t,” you promised. your skin was scorching, every breath more intense than the one before it. “i won’t forget. i’m in debt to you, i’ll repay it however you want me to.”

jake reached up and grabbed your throat. “repay it by riding me like you mean it.”

your eyes widened. “yes,” you whispered, and immediately began to ride him faster. 

jake grunted. his grip on your hips tightened as you increased your pace.

“yes, yes, yes,” you moaned. your body was moving on top of his wildly, eagerly, desperately. it was as if he had something that no one else could give you, something that you couldn't even give yourself if you tried, but was still unique and purely your own, and no one else could taint it. something like a purpose.

jake lay there, a dazed look in his eye as he watched you ride him like you were worshiping your new god, and in a way, that was exactly what you were doing.

“tell me it feels good, jakey,” you said. “tell me i belong to you.”

“i can’t even put into words how incredible you feel,” jake breathed. “you’re all mine, baby. all mine.”

“i want you to claim me,” you told him, peering down into his eyes. “i want you to show the whole world that i belong to you. breed me, jakey. fill me up with your love and show everyone that i’m yours.”

your words made him swear. “you’re asking for something real dangerous, princess, you know that?”

“i don’t care,” you insisted. “all i care about is you.”

“if i breed you, i’m not just gonna do it one time,” jake said, tightening his chokehold just a bit. “i’m gonna do it again, and again, again, until your pussy has given me every last baby it can. you understand that?”

“yes,” you gasped. “i understand. i’ll give you as many as you want!” it truly didn’t matter to you. you had long accepted the inevitability of motherhood, and you would gladly produce as many babies as he dreamed. that was what you were meant to do, and that was what you would do.

and what would say that you were jake’s like his baby growing in your stomach, the proof of it growing larger and larger by the month until it was a truth that you could cradle in your hands?

you had dreamed of it so much lately, being the mother of jake’s children, as many as he wanted. marrying him and bearing his name, as you never took on the simname when your mother married in, too attached to that of your father’s. maybe getting a place of your own, somewhere with a view even better than the one here. raising your sweet little baby, something you and jake would create together, while he officially took on his father’s position within the company.

nothing would have been sweeter. you would have given up anything for that. soon enough, it would no longer be a dream, but a reality. you imagined inviting chaewon to your wedding, making her watch as jake swore a vow to you and not her, as he promised to love you until death did you part. you imagined her willing herself to be polite, forcing herself to say that she was happy for you as you had done tirelessly for so many years.

that day would be about you, not her. it would be entirely yours. you would be wearing a stunning dress, surrounded by your loved ones, walking to meet the love of your life at the aisle’s end, and the only thing wrong was that your father would not be there to hand you off.

but you wouldn’t let that ruin anything. because the wedding itself would be proof that you had done it, that you had become the woman he always knew you would, and that was what mattered.

then you and jake would be off to your honeymoon, and he would make love to you with no barriers, and you would give him a child, and everything would be perfect.

“when do you think we can get married?” you asked him.

“uh, in a couple years,” jake projected, loosening his hold on you. “i just have to get settled into the company first, sweetheart.”

you beamed. “my ceo,” you murmured. “whenever you come home stressed, i’ll make sure you come home to something to eat, and then i’ll suck your cock until you come down my throat.”

jake’s dick twitched. “holy fuck.”

“or you can fuck me, if you’d prefer,” you said. “even if i’m asleep, even if i’m tired, i’ll be yours.”

“there’s no one else on this planet like you, you know that?” jake asked.

somehow you smiled even wider. “likewise, jakey. and even if there was, i’d still choose you.”

jake simpered. “you’d choose me no matter what, wouldn’t you?”

“yes,” you gasped, a particular nudge of his cock inside you stealing your breath for a moment. “you’re everything to me, jake.”

“i know, baby,” he muttered. “i know.”

if you were already wet to begin with, you were dripping now, and that might not have been enough to accurately describe your state of arousal either; your pussy was leaking so much you could feel it dripping past your thighs and onto the sheets, staining his bed. and with how vigorously you were riding him, the sound of your bodies meeting was just as intense.

you had never gotten like that before, even jake seemed amazed. “you’re so wet,” he whispered incredulously. “jesus christ. you’re fucking soaked. because of talking about babies?”

you whimpered. “please give me your cum, jakey, i need it so bad, i want your baby, i want everyone to know you own me, that your cock was so deep inside me it made me see stars. please, please, please.”

“if you keep talking like that, i’m going to see stars,” he hissed.

you didn’t stop talking. partly because you knew he liked it, and partly because you were so far gone that talking deliriously was about all you could really do. you moaned loudly. “jake!” you cried out. “please, i’m gonna come on your cock, i want us to come together, oh, please, please, please!”

your thighs had begun to ache from the effort of riding him so hard and for so long, but you paid it no mind. even when your body tired, you refused to stop. not before he was finished. you were stronger than that.

it was a good thing that the servants were returning tomorrow, and not a second before. you were being so loud that someone on the opposite wing would likely have been able to hear your cries.

“i’m gonna come,” jake said, driving his hips up to meet your thrusts. “i’m gonna come, baby, fuck—”

he spilled, not into you, into the condom, but with such an intensity that you could almost have convinced yourself it didn’t matter. you felt the way his hands gripped your hips to anchor himself, the way his body convulsed beneath you, and you heard him cry out and shudder as the orgasm took over his body, as for a moment he surrendered all sense and all control to the ecstasy that scorched through every corner of his body.

that was what undid you, and as he was still coming down from that godly high your body had given him, you clamped down around his cock, chanting, “yes,” over and over again until your hips finally stilled.

the room was quiet for a moment, or close enough to quiet. your panting and the fan whirling was about all the noise you could hear. 

you lay against jake’s chest. “promise me you’ll always choose me,” you whispered. 

“i promise, sweetheart,” jake said softly, curling his arm around your waist.

the two of you stayed together like that, skin to skin, heart to heart. your eyes fluttered closed and you might have even slipped away if you didn’t hear the footsteps coming up the hall. footsteps that had no reason to be on this corridor.

jake sat up and patted your arm. “go in the closet. hurry up.”

you scurried away, plucking your clothes off the floor, and hid inside the closet. 

jake was shuffling around in his bed, hurriedly redressing himself from the sounds of it. that went on for a few moments until a knock sounded at your door that made you jolt.

“it’s open!” jake called out.

“hey,” came his father’s voice. “we’re back. your stepmom went up to the room to get some rest, but i’d thought i’d come over and let you know.”

“cool,” jake said. “nice trip?”

“fantastic. very beautiful place. beautiful girls too. you would have liked it.”

jake laughed. the sound made your chest tighten. “oh, i’m sure.”

“where’s your stepsister?” your stepfather asked. “i peered in her room, but she wasn’t there.”

“uh, i don’t know. she left a little while ago. probably hanging out with chaewon.”

“chaewon is in the hospital.”

“yeah, i know,” jake said. “she probably went to go see how she’s doing or something.”

your stepfather sighed. “you’re supposed to keep a rein on her.”

“i have,” jake insisted. “didn’t you notice how pristine the house looked when you walked in?”

“i suppose so,” came his father. “alright. i’m gonna go lie down. that flight got the better of me. let your stepsister know we’re back.”

“will do.”

you heard the door click shut, and released the shakiest breath.

“you can come out now,” jake said. 

you stepped out the closet, still naked, your clothes in your hands. “keep a rein on me?” you echoed, smiling. “is that what you’re doing?”

“mmhm,” jake hummed, pulling you back into his arms. “bend over.”

you draped yourself over his bed.

“see?” jake threw his hand against your ass, making you cry out in surprise. “that’s the rein.”

the next day, you went to see chaewon again, bearing gifts that your mother had gotten for her while on the trip. it seemed like more than the things she had given you, but you focused on dropping them off, saying a few nice things to your best friend, hovering beside her for a few moments, and then leaving. jake was at home. you missed him already. you wanted to feel his body against yours, to hear him whisper praises in your ears.

as you turned to leave chaewon’s hospital room, jaehyun was there in the hallway. your eyes flickered in surprise but you smiled pleasantly. “hello, jaehyun. i’m sorry, i didn’t see you there.”

jaehyun’s face didn’t change. “i know what you did.”

your smile didn’t fade, not yet anyway, but you tilted your head, brows stitching together. “i’m confused.”

“i know what you did,” jaehyun repeated. “you hurt her.”

you laughed. “right. with what bits?” you gestured over your figure. “i think i’m ill-equipped. you’re not. maybe you did it.”

jaehyun drew near you so quickly you missed it in the time it took you to blink. “don’t you ever,” he started, “accuse me of something so egregiously foul and incestuous as that when you’re the one who’s sleeping with your brother.”

your shoulders went cold. how did he know?

“don’t you realize that your brother will fuck anything with a pulse?” jaehyun asked. “i’ve seen the way he looks at you, and i’ve seen the way you look at him. it’s disgusting.”

“you-”

“be quiet,” jaehyun hissed. “when i came to see her last night, she was crying. i asked her what was wrong. she said, ‘god has punished me for my sin.’ i told her, ‘that’s nonsense, chaewon. what did you do?’ she said, ‘i slept with someone before i was married.’ obviously, i was not happy to hear this, but she was going through enough, so i simply asked her, ‘chaewon, who was it?’ she avoided my eyes, she wouldn’t look at anything but the tv. finally, she said, ‘jake.’”

“what does that have to do with me?” you asked. 

“everything,” jaehyun said, glowering. “you’ve always wanted to be her. chaewon’s too blind to realize it, she only sees the best in people. but you have always resented her for having everything you didn’t. and when she slept with your precious brother, well, that was the last straw for you.”

“you have no proof of this,” you said. “stop wasting my time with theories.”

“let’s see if your parents will think it’s just a theory.” jaehyun turned and walked away.

needless to say, when you walked into the main room, you knew the day was far from over.

everyone was joined on the couch: your mother, who looked distraught, your stepfather, who looked distressed, and jake… who just looked distant.

when your mother saw you, she called your name. “come sit. now.”

your heart thudded, but you had braced yourself for anything they could throw at you. you were prepared to fight. 

“jaehyun says that you set up that poor incident that happened to chaewon,” she said worriedly. “did you do that?”

well, your cat was out of the bag. “yes.”

your mother furrowed her brows. “but why? she’s your best friend, and she’s a good girl.” 

“she’s a stupid cunt and she has no idea what it takes to be a woman. she thought she deserved him,” you blurted.

she looked taken aback. “so it’s true then.” she grasped her dress. “you and jake have… a relationship.”

“yes,” you confirmed proudly. “we love each other.”

scoffing, your stepfather said, “this- this is despicable. jake, she’s your sister.”

jake said nothing.

your mother sighed and began to massage her temple. “i don’t understand how something like this could happen. i knew you two were getting closer, yes, but for heaven’s sake, i thought you were just finally bonding.”

“we have bonded,” you insisted. 

“you have sinned. there is nothing holy about this joining. to lay with another man before marriage, and not only that, but your brother…”

you almost rolled your eyes, “he’s my stepbrother. we’re not related!”

“you need to watch your tone,” she said, pointing her finger at you.

“you don’t understand,” you whispered. “jake and i love each other, and we’re going to get married and have children together.”

your mother looked like she was going to faint. she was gripping the pad of the chair for dear life. “jesus christ. what did you just say?”

your stepfather barked, “then you will have disgraced our entire family. do you have any idea the shame that the news of this affair would bring to our names? we would be a laughing stock in the media. we would lose investors. the company would be in shambles!”

your mother reached for your arm. “this must stop now.”

“no! can’t you hear me? we’re in love. we’re in love. and i won’t let you take that away from us!”

“are you out of your ever loving mind?” she snapped. “you cannot be in love with him, he is your brother. and you sure as hell cannot marry him. mark my words, no one will bless it.”

“yes i can! he said so himself. he said we’ll get married when he gets settled within the company.”

“settled within the company,” your father echoed. “there will be no company to settle into if this were to happen, do you hear me? i wanted to come home, relax, announce my retirement and pass let my son take my place. instead i’m bombarded with this utter nonsense. what’s with all this talk of marriage anyway? jake has never shown interest in marrying any of the girls i’ve paired him up with.”

“jake likes women with value,” you told him firmly.

“value!” your stepfather laughed, as if there was something funny that you were missing there. “is this a joke or something?” he turned to face his son, who had been silent on the matter thus far. “jake, do you want to be ceo or not?”

“yes,” jake finally spoke up. 

“then you have to stop this incestuous nonsense. i will not have you ruining the reputation of the company i’ve spent decades building up from nothing because of some silly fling you decided to have with your stepsister of all people. i can turn a blind eye to many things, but this will not do.”

to your horror, jake nodded his head. “i’ll stop. i swear, dad, on everything, i’ll stop.”

relieved, your stepfather sighed. “good. that solves that issue. we’ll announce it today, and the party will be on the third sunday of the month.”

you gawked. “what?”

your stepfather stood, not so much as looking at you. “i have business to attend to. come find me in my study if it’s important.” he started down the hall.

jake met your eyes, but he didn’t say anything to you, and they were only on you for a fleeting moment before he went after his father. “actually, dad, i wanted to talk to you about the company. i had some ideas and i thought i would run them by…” his voice trailed off the further he went.

you sat there, blinking rapidly, trying to comprehend what had just happened. “what…”

your mother turned sympathetic. “oh, honey. i’m sorry.”

“he lied,” you whispered. only last night, he had held you in his arms and told you that he would always choose you. he had promised. 

she didn’t ask what about. she just held you. “i know, darling,” she said. “believe it or not, i know how you feel. you think you’ve done your very best to make him happy, but something else comes along and then that something else takes priority. and you wonder what you did to make him love you less.” she patted your back. “that’s just how they are.”

“why?” you whispered, tears rolling down your cheeks.

“i wish i knew, honey. i wish i knew.”

over the next couple of weeks, you barely saw jake, which was easy given the size of the house, but still jarring when you had spent the past month glued to his side, fulfilling his every need. and now he didn’t need you. you had exhausted your value.

you just didn’t understand it. did all that time together mean nothing to him? every word, every touch, every promise? one day, he was holding you like you were the most precious thing he ever seen, and the next he tossed you away like… like trash.

never had you ever felt more embarrassed. he had been so quiet, his eyes darting back and forth between whoever was speaking as you vehemently defended your love, while he didn’t say a word. not when it mattered most. not when it was time to stand for you.

you had officially become worthless, and you weren’t even sure you knew why. after everything with chaewon went down, you could have sworn that you had made it right. that he had chosen you. that you had proved to him you could be everything he wanted and more. that you would do anything for him. but he didn’t want it.

the other day, you had tried to send a text to chaewon, but it didn’t go through; jaehyun must have told her the truth. now you were truly and utterly alone.

you felt alone too. on the second week before the party, you barely stepped out of your room altogether. all you did was lay in bed and weep, while jake was probably planning what initiatives he was going to take as the new chief executive. your mother came to your room to check on you, but you didn’t feel like talking. she had to make the maids send up your meals, but you barely touched them at all.

it wasn’t food you were hungry for. you could barely eat or sleep. it was jake. i thought he loved me, you said to yourself, alone in your mind, a dark, cold void where every thought reverberated. he said he loved me. he said he would always choose me. he said there was no one else like me. he said we would get married and then start a family. he said i was perfect.

you must have replayed that night in your mind over and over a million times since it happened. it had been magical, the most magical. all your hard work and studying had paid off, and it was the most confident you had ever felt. it had given you something to believe in, something larger than just yourself.

but it was over now, dead and gone, and to never come back, as far as jake was concerned. he had given that up, because when faced with the choice of you or the company, he had chosen the latter, sacrificing your love, your devotion, your faith. sacrificing everything he had told you to be.

the bruises that had been on your neck were mostly gone now, but you could still see them clearly as if they’d never left, as if it was just yesterday that his hand had been around your throat. you wished he’d do it again, just to show you that he still cared. the longer he was away, the more you started to forget what it was like to feel his hands on your body.

you missed him. you felt like you hated him, and yet you missed him so much. you missed the warmth of his body beside yours, you missed the way his fingers would thread your hair, you missed the way his voice sounded when he was right there, and you missed the way it felt when he said something that made every punishment feel like it was worth it. but even if you couldn’t get that, you would have settled for his anger, his frustrations, his violence, his cruelty.

it would have been better than nothing. right now you had nothing but silence and distance, and you were certain that someone tearing you open from limb to limb would still hurt less.

the day of the party, you almost had to be forced out of bed. you wanted to stay home and rot, but your mother said it would reflect poorly on the family if you were absent. resigned, you did your makeup, covering up the days of sobbing, and donned a gorgeous red dress that jake had bought you months ago.

as you gazed at your reflection in the mirror, all you could thing about was that day at the mall. you look the best in bold colors, he had said. well, here you were in red, the boldest of them all. today, he would see you. today, you would make sure it was impossible for him not to.

the venue was rippling with businessmen and their ladies, as to be expected. you sat at the high table with the rest of your family, as to be expected. normally at events like this, you would chaewon by your side to help you through the monotonous segments… but that ship had sailed.

it was entertaining enough. you mostly watched jake, who was socializing deftly, here one second, and there the next. he was very charming. everyone looked glad to hear whatever it was he was saying. they were putting their trust in him, their time and their faith, just as you once had. you all are so silly, you thought. he’s a liar. he lies. he’s lying to you right now.

the future of greatness was in his hands, he had said. his father might as well have put his money in a safe and melted it.

it was amazing, though, how jake could say things he didn’t mean with such conviction. he could make a believer out of anyone. that silver tongue of his could forge promises like no one you had ever seen and say them almost as though he truly believed them himself. you were convinced that it had to have been some kind of superpower.

or maybe it was insanity of some kind, but regardless, it made you realize that maybe this whole time you hadn’t really known him at all.

speeches were given and forgotten. there was food and drinks and laughter. so much laughter. people were just laughing for laughter’s sake, and you were sitting there trying to hide the fact that your entire world had been upturned. somehow you felt even lonelier here than you had alone in your bed.

“now this was no hand-me-down,” your stepfather was saying in the middle of his speech, his hand clasped on jake’s shoulder. “my son has this position because despite all odds, he’s proven that deserves it more than anyone.”

everyone was cheering and clapping. you clapped your hands together too, watching attentively. “that was beautiful,” you said, standing up. “would you make if i said a few words of my own?”

your stepfather’s smile tightened ever so slightly, but jake’s face didn’t seem to change at all. your mother reached for your arm, but you were determined.

“i won’t be long, i promise,” you added. 

“of course. why not,” your stepfather replied begrudgingly. “everyone, my beloved stepdaughter would like to say a few words to celebrate her stepbrother’s success.”

more cheers, more laughter, but it all faded as you went up to accept the microphone. as you stood beside jake, the closest you had been to him in weeks, you saw your stepfather whisper something to one of his men, who then proceeded to take a position not too far from you, his eyes watching and waiting.

“first of all, i just want to start off by saying congratulations, brother,” you told him, grinning from ear to ear. “i’m very happy for you. it seems that you’re finally getting everything you wanted, and you know what? you deserve it.”

jake looked so composed, so proper. “thank you, sister.”

glancing out into the crowd of people before you, you continued, “when i heard that my brother here would be the new chief executive of our family’s excellent company, i was not surprised. who would be a better candidate than the man with this much grit? i think he could turn a tree into a diamond if he really wanted to.” everyone laughed. “i believe that the future of the company is in amazing hands. jake is the kind of person who knows what he wants and how to get it. once he has a vision for something, he will mold it and shape it in his palms until there is nothing but the best version of it.” you could feel jake’s gaze on you from the corner of your eye, but you didn’t glance at him. “it’s truly inspiring to watch. i feel as though i’ve learned a lot from him. to never accept anything but the best for myself. to always strive for perfection and aim to have what the next person doesn’t. that’s what truly makes this company great - the ability to distinguish it from its competitors, to exist in a realm of its own. if you like what my father has done with the company so far, then you should get excited. because jake sim is going to make it even better. thank you.”

as everyone clapped and hollered, you handed the microphone back to jake and returned to your seat without a backwards glance. you had said what you needed to say.

“let’s give my sister another round of applause for those kind words,” jake said, smiling, but there was no depth to it. “isn’t she the absolute sweetest? even though she exaggerates a little bit. making me sound like ten times the man i am.” laughter rang out in the room.

that might have been the first thing he’d said all night with some truth to it.

the party dragged on with no end in sight, and you found yourself missing chaewon once more, the feeling harder to drown than you thought it would be. you supposed it was only natural. she had been a close companion of yours since the two of you were very young. you wondered if she missed you too, or if she hated you now, just as you hated jake.

you were nursing a drink in an empty corridor to get away from the noise when you heard footsteps approaching. oh, brother, you thought.

a male voice you didn’t recognize said your name. “hey. that was a wonderful speech back there. you have a way with words.” when you turned around, you had to look up to see his face. he towered over you, tall and imposing. he smiled and outstretched his free hand. in the other he was holding a glass of champagne. “i’m sunghoon.”

you already knew that. you may not have recognized his voice, but you recognized his face. sunghoon park. his father used to do business with your stepfather before he retired and had sunghoon take over, much like what was happening with jake now. he was also one of the shareholders. you gave him your name and shook his hand, though it was unusual for men to do that with the women they met.

“thank you for coming to celebrate my brother,” you said politely.

“of course,” sunghoon replied, pleasant as one could be. “my father is hoping i do business with him. but i thought i might have sensed some… tension between the two of you a moment ago.”

“tension?” you echoed, feigning ignorance.

sunghoon shrugged. “well, i don’t know. i just thought it was peculiar that your stepfather had placed someone on your end of the platform. like he wanted to be prepared in case you said something… improper.”

your smile was tight. “my stepfather is a cautious man, is all.”

“i’m sure,” sunghoon said. “i didn’t mean to pry. i just thought that maybe there was strife, or maybe you wanted the position for yourself.”

so little had you ever even considered that an option that you were certain he was jesting, but when you laughed, he didn’t join in. “you’re serious?”

sunghoon didn’t even blink. “i’m not a man intimidated by a woman’s success. if you did take it, i think you would do well. it’s about time that more women assume positions of power in this world.”

he was speaking of foreign, forbidden concepts. “that sounds… scary.”

“of course it does,” he agreed. “but if there’s no pioneer, it’ll never happen. the grounds will never flourish. my father taught me a lot about business, but my mother taught me about life and judgment. my father was always focused on the end result, but my mom saw how to get there.”

you took that in. “how old are you?”

“thirty-one this year.”

looking at his hand, you saw there was no wedding band on his finger. “you’re not married.” 

“yes, society tends to be a bit more forgiving to men in that regard,” he replied, chuckling. “do you have any plans to get married soon?”

the thought of getting married stirred up some odd feelings, and memories, within you. “no. well, my stepfather has a list.”

sunghoon laughed. “no one wants to marry off their father’s list. mine has one too. my next date is still postponed indefinitely.” he took a sip from his champagne glass. “isn’t there any guy you like?”

“not anymore,” you murmured. 

that made sunghoon smile. “then can i take you on a date?”

well, he was very forward. you did like men like that. it had been a long time since you’d gone on a date with a guy, and maybe going somewhere without traces of jake would finally expel him from your mind. “sure.”

“perfect,” sunghoon chirped. “would you prefer to be indoors or outdoors? vanni’s has some of the best italian food i’ve ever had, but the pier is a great place to watch the sunset.”

outside. you needed to be outside again, connect with nature or something. that month alone with jake had felt like an eternity, and the only people you had seen that weren’t him were chaewon and one of the foreign investors. “the pier sounds lovely,” you decided.

“the pier it is,” sunghoon said. the lighting in the hallway made his eyes sparkle. “if you give me your number, we can arrange a time that works best for you. wear comfortable shoes.”

you exchanged numbers and he promised to text you, wishing you a good night before pardoning himself, and you found yourself wondering what you had gotten yourself into just now, but a part of you wanted to untangle yourself from anything that was tied to jake. the other so badly wished you could go into his arms and be held by him and take in his warmth.

but that was not an option anymore. he had given it up, he had deemed it worthless in the face of his father, the place where it might have mattered most. if he could choose other things, then perhaps you could choose something that wasn’t him as well.

that being said, you still couldn’t be certain if you had made a good choice. you couldn’t be certain of anything anymore. you laid in bed that night, the dress and makeup gone, alone with your raw self, or at least whatever was left of her. you had relied on jake, in more ways than you knew. in trying to build a structure around him, you inadvertently built a system that upraised him as the very sun that kept life as you had known it together.

it never seemed like a bad thing. even now, it hardly seemed like a bad thing; it felt like you were lost, like you were drifting, and you needed him to keep you anchored, but he was gone now, so you were trying to do it yourself, clumsily, spitefully, desperately, but it was just too different.

tonight of all nights, you really missed chaewon. it was your fault she wasn’t there, you knew that. maybe everything was your fault. you had never regretted anything more; you honestly felt at least three shed skins away from the person who made that choice, removed enough to feel remorse, but not so much that you didn’t still feel angry at the thought of jake with another.

and yet even that had wounded you less than him choosing the company, because he hadn’t even tried. maybe if he had put in some effort, you could forgive that, but he had sat there like it had nothing to do with him, like it wasn’t his life, like it wasn’t yours.

you weren’t sure when you fell asleep. you never really were. every night you lay awake, thinking about jake, crying more often than not, and it felt like mere seconds between then and the second you roused, not even remembering the moment that sleep took you.

the cycle, unbroken as it had been for weeks, persisted even into the day of the date you were going on with sunghoon. you debated whether or not you even wanted to go, but you knew that what you were doing now was not helping, so you made yourself get up. it was just a few hours. the bed would be there when you returned.

concealing the dark circles under your eyes made you think of concealing the bruises jake had left on your throat even though those were long gone now and you realized this was not too different. they were marks jake had left on you, even if one was more indirect than the other.

you made yourself pretty, the way he would want you to be, even if it wasn’t for him, even if it was for another guy. you remembered what it felt like to get his approval for an outfit. for a second you almost let yourself wonder if he would approve of this one, but you had to finish getting ready before sunghoon got here.

the final look was so different from the version of you drowning in bed that you felt like you were posing, an imposter in your own skin. your perception of reality was fragile lately.

sunghoon picked you up yourself. he was outside in a car waiting and got out to open the passenger door for you when he saw you coming down the steps. “hey,” he greeted. 

“hi,” you said back. 

his eyes seemed to take you in, and you knew your efforts weren’t for nothing. “you look beautiful.”

“thank you.” he didn’t look bad himself. sunghoon was an attractive guy, and he had dressed with the weather in mind. “you look rather spiffy yourself.”

“well, i tried for you.” once you were inside, he shut the door behind you and went around to get in the other seat.

you watched him buckle his seatbelt. “you didn’t have to do this. you could have just sent a driver.”

sunghoon glanced over at you, not yet starting the car, and smiled. “i find that what a man can do matters less than what he chooses to do. besides, i have a functioning car and an active license. what’s the harm?”

you hummed. “i guess that’s true.”

“shall we go?”

“we shall,” you said, adjusting your seat a bit.

you didn’t talk much on the way there, but it didn’t feel awkward. sometimes it was nice to just look out the window and watch as you passed everything by. there was a world out there, and it was vast, parts of it unknown.

at the pier, sunghoon bought you both drinks and you ambled along the boardwalk together. “so,” he started. he had matched his strides to yours. “tell me about yourself.”

you didn’t know where to start. it felt like there was so much you could say. “what do you want to know?”

sunghoon shrugged. “anything. what do you like to do in your free time? where do you see yourself in ten years? what kind of men are you into? were you really going to marry off of your father’s list?”

you pondered each of those things before you spoke, and every answer seemed to go back to jake. “the list… um, i don’t know. i guess i never really thought about who i would marry.”

that seemed to amuse sunghoon. “isn’t that all anyone ever thinks about?”

“i thought about getting married, yes. but not really who.” it was a lie now, but once it had been true.

“so you wanted to get married just so you could say you did it?” sunghoon asked. he didn’t seem to mean anything by it. 

“i mean, that’s… putting it bluntly,” you murmured. “but i guess it’s something like that.”

sunghoon’s voice was soft. “that doesn’t sound like you’re living for yourself.”

“well, a woman lives for her family,” you said. that was what you had always been taught. 

sunghoon changed the subject. “well, what about the other questions? what do you like to do?”

you had spent the past couple of weeks becoming a corpse in your bed, and the weeks before that submitting to jake’s every whim, or practicing how you would in the future, so you weren’t sure how to answer that question either. “um, if there’s nothing to do around the house, i might hang out with my friend chaewon. well, i did, but um… anyway, i… watch tv, i guess? i don’t have that much free time. what about you?”

sunghoon didn’t even think about it. “i like to do all sorts of things. try out restaurants i’ve never eaten at, or an activity i’ve never done. i’m a pretty spontaneous guy.” he glanced down at you. “does that bother you? spontaneity?”

you didn’t know if jake had been spontaneous or unpredictable or both. “i don’t think it’s a problem.”

sunghoon was pleased. “good. some people prefer routine, but i get bored easily, you know? i want to be with someone who has a sense of adventure.”

but i get bored easily. maybe that was it. maybe jake had gotten bored of you. maybe he lost interest. “do you get bored of women as well?” you asked. you hadn’t mean to be that forward, but it came out before you could rein it back in.

that, on the other hand, made sunghoon pause. he spoke very carefully, “i think that there are certain traits i’m attracted to in a woman. her fierceness. her spirit. her resilience. those are the things that keep me interested. i think i wouldn’t approach a woman who didn’t display these traits in the first place.”

you had never really thought of yourself that way, but if he believed it, maybe it was true.

“what about you?” he asked. “what do you want in a man?”

you took a moment to think about that as well. it was something you didn’t always have the luxury of considering. for so long it had just been, this is the kind of woman i need to be. “maybe a man like my father. my biological father,” you whispered. “he was sweet. even when he was busy working, he made time for me. he made me feel special.”

“sounds like he was a good father,” sunghoon said. 

your heart felt heavy. “he was.”

thankfully the rest of the date was lighter. sunghoon took you to a ton of different stores and you browsed through their inventory, pointing out things that looked cool or silly. you tried on a few different hats. sunghoon. there was live music playing and you stayed around for that as well.

something about it soothed you. you had always liked music, ever since you were very young. in high school you and chaewon had gone to so many concerts you could scarcely remember them all, but you remembered the way they had made you feel. there was nothing else like that in the world.

leaning against the railing, you watched as the sun began to sink down into the earth for the night, the sky blossoming with color. you could hear the sea beneath you, the water heaving back and forth, the waves crashing against the earth, devouring the bottom of the structure where you stood.

“i think i never really appreciated stuff like this,” you said quietly.

sunghoon hummed. “why not?”

“it didn’t seem like it mattered,” you said. “it seemed like everything else was bigger and more imminent. but maybe i had it backwards.”

“maybe.”

for the first time in a long time, the silence wasn’t so loud. it didn’t feel like your thoughts were haunting you, pulling you back into a dark abyss of emotions that kept you up at night. everything was just there.

when the sky turned dark, sunghoon decided he would take you home. you did speak a little bit in the car, but after a while it was just the radio and the gloomy, looming night. you liked it that way.

sunghoon helped you out of the car and led you up the doorsteps like a proper gentleman, even though it was utterly unnecessary. “i had a good time with you tonight,” he said. 

strangely, you felt likewise. you didn’t know if it was because of him, or the environment, but nevertheless, you were glad you forced yourself out of bed that day. “i did too,” you said. “we should do that again.”

sunghoon was pleasantly surprised by the initiative. “do you have anywhere in mind?”

you thought about it. “there’s a restaurant my father liked,” you told him. “i’ll text it to you when i get inside.”

sunghoon nodded. “okay. i’ll be waiting.”

“have a good night, sunghoon.”

he reached out for your hand and kissed it. “you as well.” he walked back a few steps and watched you go inside before he left.

you didn’t run into anyone when you came in so you went straight to your bedroom and took a shower. you were moisturizing yourself when someone knocked on the door. “honey, it’s me. can i come in?” 

you glanced up at the door. “yes, it’s unlocked.”

your mother entered the bedroom and closed the door behind her. “how was the date?”

“he was different than i was expecting him to be.”

your mother tilted her head. “in a good way or a bad way?”

“i’m not sure yet,” you said. sunghoon had been nice enough. you just had a lot going on, and being back here made you remember everything.

“well, you have time to figure it out,” she said. she came to sit beside you on the bed. “do you want to go out with him again?”

“yes.” you knew that much.

she looked pleased. “good. that’s good. i’m glad you’re putting yourself out there and finding a man of your own. i started talking to your stepfather about arrangements.”

arrangements. well, sunghoon had picked a good time to ask you out. truthfully, it was the last thing you wanted. “mom?”

“yes, dear?”

“do you ever think about dad?” you asked. you knew she hardly talked about him, and you never mentioned him to her first, but today his memory was particularly strong.

she she didn’t answer immediately. it was a while before she finally said, “i try not to.”

you wondered why, but you didn’t ask. “i just feel like you moved on really fast. and i don’t know, i don’t think he deserved that.”

“i remember him one way and you remember him another,” your mother said. she stood up. “goodnight. get some rest. i want us all to have breakfast together tomorrow.”

you restrained yourself from groaning in disgruntlement. ever since you started locking yourself in your room for half the day, she had been trying to force these family meals. sometimes it would be breakfast and sometimes it would be dinner. and it was absolutely awful because jake would always sit there as if he had never done anything wrong.

but it would be fine. you would get through it. because maybe that was what you did. you got through things.

day by day, you found yourself looking more and more forward to your next date with sunghoon. it had been a long time since you went to that restaurant you told him about. after your father died, it was like the world pulled you in the other direction, and everything that was his was so far away, part of another life you once had.

you almost wished you could go back to it. but you knew that was impossible, so the next best thing was to wrestle out of this one and start something new.

before you knew it, you were sitting before sunghoon, eating things that you used to eat, drinking stuff you used to drink. it was bittersweet.

after a while, sunghoon very gingerly asked, “can i ask when your father died?”

“like two years before my mom married my stepfather,” you said, looking down at your plate. if you closed your eyes, you could see him sitting there, talking about how much he liked the songs the band was playing.

you didn’t know if he was a mind reader or something, but he pressed, “do you think she moved on too fast?”

yes. maybe. i don’t know anymore. when you told her that you did, your mother had said something that confused you. you had no idea how she remembered him, or what that was supposed to mean. “it just feels like she was running from something,” you said. “and i didn’t feel like i really had time to process what happened before she married into this new family.”

“have you ever considered therapy?”

“no.”

“why not?”

“i never really thought about it,” you told him. “i guess i was worried about other things.”

“like getting married?” it was such a harmless question, but it felt like there was something he was getting at.

“i mean, yeah…”

sunghoon took a sip from his cup. “well, my mom says you can bury a body, but it’ll still be right there where you left it. you have to face those sorts of things.”

the conversation was getting heavy. maybe too heavy for a second date. “i like the music they play here,” you whispered. “the music they played at the pier was nice too.”

sunghoon smiled. “do you like music?”

you nodded. “yes. i used to sing in the choir. when i was little i watched my grandmother play the piano. i wanted to learn how to play it in college but i never had time.”

“you have time now,” he replied simply. 

your brows furrowed a moment. that was true. it had seemed so small in the grand scheme of things, learning to play an instrument, but now there was really nothing holding you back. “i guess so.”

“i’d like to hear you sing some time,” sunghoon said with genuine interest. 

you smiled timidly. “i think i’m a bit rusty, but i wouldn’t mind doing a tune or two. what about you? do you sing?”

sunghoon made a face, moving his head from side to side. “a little bit. i’m not whitney houston or anything but i can hold a note.”

you laughed. “i heard there’s a festival happening on the tenth. would you be interested in that?”

“are you asking me on a date?” sunghoon teased. 

“i thought that was the point of this.”

“it is,” he said. “and for the record, i would love to be at this festival with you on the tenth. i’ll clear my schedule right now.”

“if you’re busy, it’s okay—”

“nope,” sunghoon interrupted, already reaching for his phone. “i’m calling my assistant and telling him to cancel everything i have scheduled for that day.”

you had already been smiling, but it somehow grew even bigger. “that’s really nice of you.”

sunghoon’s eyes raked over your face, your smile. “it’s what you do for a girl you like.”

something about that made your heart flutter in a way that felt forbidden, but you didn’t know why.

and if you thought that was a lot, then nothing could prepare you for when sunghoon walked you up the steps to your house like he had done on the first date, only this time asking, “can i kiss you?”

when you came to think of it, you weren’t sure if jake had ever kissed you on the lips. he had kissed other parts of your body and held you in his arms, but he had never put his lips to yours, and you never knew how badly you wanted that until now. “yes,” you whispered. 

sunghoon craned his head down so that his lips could reach yours. the kiss was soft, tender. in a way it felt like he was merely testing the waters, but it made a fierce heat spread through your chest, and when he pulled away,  you felt light as a feather.

“was that okay?” he asked, taking in your face with concern.

“yes,” you said again, because you didn’t know what else to say. a smile broke out across your face.

“good,” he said, reluctantly stepping down. “good night.”

“good night, sunghoon.”

it was safe to say that the dates didn’t stop there.

you spent months going out with sunghoon, and the more you did, the less you thought about anyone else. when you were with him, it felt like the two of you were the only people in the world, but not because you were alone. because he had a way of making everything else not matter.

the two of you did various activities together. the music festival was a blast, and he was tall, so he got good videos. you went bowling a few times, and that got super competitive. he even had the idea of taking dance classes, and it was the silliest thing, but you did it, and you enjoyed it. everything felt so easy.

the worst part was the waiting. sitting at home, knowing he was at work, knowing that it would be a while before he responded to your messages. but you always texted each other good morning and good night, no matter what. sometimes you texted him things anyway, if you really just had something to get off your chest, knowing that he would read it later.

it did finally give you the inspiration you needed to get out of bed and stop merely existing. you took up piano like you wanted, and the instructor came in a few times a week, helping you bit by bit.

you started sleeping more, and the dark circles went away. there were still hard times and harder thoughts, but you didn’t feel this unshakable sense of doom anymore. it felt like things were happening the way they were supposed to, and for the first time in a long time, you were doing things just because you wanted to do it.

that felt like a superpower you never knew you had. your mind was at ease more often that not, even though it could still be hard when you saw jake and remembered the way things were. but you told yourself that the way things were was not necessarily the same as the way things should be.

one day, you went over to sunghoon’s apartment for the first time. “you have a nice place,” you said, taking in the sight of everything. it was neat, organized. the furniture selection was tasteful. 

“thanks. perks of being a businessman,” he chirped. “may i interest you in a glass of pinot noir?”

you giggled. “yes, you may.”

the two of you sat at a table, drinking wine, talking about anything and everything under the sun. it felt comfortable. safe. you just came as you were, and he was okay with that.

one thing led to another, and you found yourself in bed with him. at first it was just kissing. his lips against your lips, then against your jaw, then against your neck. it made your breath hitch. then it was touching. he paused, asking if you it was okay, and his hands wandered more and more, his eyes glued to your face, searching your every expression for a hint.

at some point, you wound up naked. his lips had been everywhere, your face, your chest, your abdomen, but then his face was between your legs, and he said, “i want to make you feel good. tell me if you want me to stop.”

at first, you had started to go into your mind, but it was hardly ever a good place to be. you slowly eased into the moment and let yourself relax. and that was the best choice you could have made. when you came, he kissed you down there and said that you were the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

you wanted to return the favor. he had said you didn’t need to, but you insisted; it would feel wrong if you didn’t give back. so begrudgingly he let you, and when you took him into your mouth, you pulled out every trick you knew to please him, because there was never the alternative of being mediocre.

sunghoon was very receptive. you liked the way his body reacted on its own, those responses raw and natural. you liked the way his voice sounded when he urged you on, saying things like, “fuck, just like that. you’re so good at that. how are you so good at that?” he had a steady hand in your hair as he held it behind your head.

when he came, you swallowed everything, your eyes fixed to his as you did. he looked like his soul had been dragged out of him, his eyes hazy, his chest heaving.

when you pulled away, you said, “thank you for letting me suck your cock, sunghoon.”

sunghoon blinked, like it took him a moment to process what you said, which was fair, all things considered. “what did you just say?”

you really hadn’t even meant to say it, but it was ingrained.

sunghoon was looking at you hard. “where did that come from? that’s really weird.”

your face burned. “i-i’m sorry, i thought you would like it.”

“don’t be silly. that’s nothing you need to thank me for,” he said. he pulled you off the floor, back up to the bed with him. “who taught you to say that?”

you didn’t know how he knew that, but your heart was racing. you had been hiding this truth from him for so long. you were afraid that if you told him, he would change his mind about you and everything you had would be nothing, and you couldn’t take another loss, you just couldn’t. 

but you couldn’t lie to him either, so reluctantly you confessed as quietly as you could, “jake…”

sunghoon’s brows furrowed together. “had he touched you?”

you swallowed. “yes… but i wanted him to!”

sunghoon put his pants back on and handed your clothes back to you. you were afraid he was going to make you leave, but he asked, “when did this start?”

“i don’t know. it was months ago,” you said. it felt like forever ago and just yesterday at the same time. “i wasn’t getting suitors, so i asked him to help me dress more attractively. he took me to the mall and bought me clothes. he also bought… lingerie. he told me to have it on and wait for him. and later that night he came in and we… were together.” your eyes watered. “i’m sorry. i understand if you don’t want to be with me anymore. i know i was supposed to wait. he said i could lie, that my husband would lie, but i can’t do it. i’m sorry, i’m sorry.”

“stop,” sunghoon said, gentle but firm. “having sex doesn’t defile you. stop crying. tell me the full story.”

so you did. you told him about jake and his friends. you told him about chaewon and the mall. you told him about the party, the vacation, what you saw in the kitchen, and how jake had chosen the company over you. you told him what jake had said, that if you couldn’t make him happy, you would make no man happy. that things with no value go in the trash. by the end of it, sunghoon’s face was grim.

“you do realize that that’s coercion and manipulation?”

“what?” you croaked. you didn’t know what you expected him to say, but it wasn’t that.

sunghoon continued, “none of what you just told me is normal. you just told me that he took advantage of your grief and insecurities to make you consent to having sex with him, and that he physically abused you and let his friends abuse you as well.”

“he loves me. he said so,” you whispered, but you had already started to doubt that.

sunghoon grabbed you by the shoulders. his touch wasn’t rough, but you could feel the graveness of it. “a man who loves you will not put his hands on you. a man who loves you will not lie to you. a man who loves you will not make you perform sexual favors simply so that you can meet a friend and then become aggressive because you’re inexperienced. that is a man who is using you. that is a man who gets off on controlling you and eroding your sense of self.”

for some reason, that only made you cry more. you knew jake was no good for you. you knew that he was a liar and he hit you and he was probably not a good person, but you had never been good at letting go. it was the single hardest thing in the world.

sunghoon’s eyes softened. he wiped the tears from your face with his thumb. “darling, he made it so that your self worth hinged on his validation to such an extent that whenever he got angry, you would blame yourself. you would think, ‘well, if i never messed up, he wouldn’t have hit me.’ but there’s no such thing as perfection, least of all to men like him. men like him don’t give you the space you need to mistakes and grow. they want to break you down so that there’s nothing left of you but what they want you to be. don’t let him break you down by believing his lies.”

“you don’t understand. at first, he was helping me…” you whispered. 

“i understand how you might believe that, but it was never about helping you. he may have done things that you feel have benefited you, but it was always for his own gain.” sunghoon tilted your chin up. “why do you want suitors?”

it was such an outlandish question. “because i want to get married.”

“why?”

“because…. i want to have a family.”

“why?”

“because that’s what i’m supposed to do.”

“why?”

you didn’t understand why he was asking this question over and over and it was frustrating. “because that’s how i grew up.”

“exactly,” sunghoon said. “you want those things because the rest of the world told you that you’re supposed to want it. they dress it and make it sound pretty too. but you know what happens to most people? they marry a person they don’t really know or barely like. they have kids with this person without an inkling of an idea what a commitment it is to be a parent. they fuss and fight with this person and the children grow up watching, learning, absorbing, and they internalize it as their picture of love so that when they go into the real world, they can’t identify a performance of it from the real thing. and the cycle repeats.”

it made you remember what chaewon had said about why you couldn’t have sleepovers at her house. she had always complained about her parents’ incessant arguments.

sunghoon kissed your forehead and continued, “so if you’re going to marry someone, if you’re going to have children, at least do it on your own terms. do it because you want to. don’t do it because you think that’s all there is to life. it’s not. you’re very young.”

he was the first person to ever say anything like that to you, and that went for a lot of things you had heard him say over the months. but when you were brave enough to follow his advice, it did make you happier, so maybe he was right. 

“i want to marry you,” sunghoon said. “but i don’t want you to agree to it because you think you have to. i want you to agree because you like me, and you think that we will make each other happy.”

“i do like you,” you said, wiping your eyes. “you make me happy. more than anyone else.”

“are you sure?” sunghoon asked warily. 

“yes,” you told him. you wrapped your arms around him. “i want you in my life forever.”

“okay,” sunghoon said, sighing in relief. “okay. then sit down. we should talk about that.”

you followed him to the bed, sitting beside him, watching him, half clothed and barely even noticing. his words were echoing in your head, giving you so much to think about, things you had never considered, and that was the thing you liked about sunghoon that was so scary. he put things in your head that went against everything you ever heard, everything you had ever let yourself believe about the world.

that night honestly ended too soon, but the good news was that you weren’t dreading going back home for once.

at the next dinner, you knew the night was going to be exciting. everyone was seated in their usual spots, and your mother interrogated everyone about their days. 

you took a more active position for once, asking jake, “how’s things with the company?”

“i’m glad you asked, sister,” jake said, smiling. it was always weird seeing him act pleasant. “things are running smoothly. we’re currently trying to ascertain the most efficient means of implementing some new initiatives i had in mind that could boost our worker productivity and overall profitability. and you? how are things going with, what is it, mr. park?”

“i’m glad you asked, brother,” you echoed, matching his smile. “mr. park wants me to be mrs. park.”

the table went silent for a moment. you saw the forks freeze as everyone took that in. 

your stepfather was the first to say, “i think that’s a wonderful idea!”

“honey, that’s amazing,” said your mother, the delight shaping her face. “i’m so proud. are you serious?”

“very,” you said. you glanced at your stepfather. “obviously, i need your blessing, but…”

“i can’t think of anything more fantastic," he interrupted.

“i think i’m going to cry,” your mother said, clasping her hands over her mouth. “my baby is getting married! i’m getting a grandchild!”

it felt like forever before your mother and her husband finally stopped bombarding you with a million questions about things you hadn’t even had time to consider yet, but it was obvious that they were pleased. 

jake, on the other hand, was not. you were alone in the kitchen, grabbing something extra to drink when jake popped up in the entrance. “you can’t marry him,” he said. 

“i believe that decision is up to your father, and he seems more than thrilled about it,” you replied.

it was like he didn’t hear you. “you can’t marry him,” he said again. 

you spun around and crossed your arms. “and why not?”

“because you’re mine,” jake declared. he walked up until he was standing directly in front of you, his face nearly touching yours. “did you forget that already? i don’t touch you for a couple of months and you spread your legs for the first willing man in a suit like a good little whore? is that what you are? a whore?”

you grabbed a knife from the knife holder and pointed it at him. “don’t talk to me like that!”

jake’s eyes widened. “baby, put the knife down.”

“no!” you exclaimed. something about the entire interaction made you feel so triggered. “you made me like this! i believed you. i thought you loved me!”

“i do. i do love you, baby, i swear-“

you jabbed the knife at him. “stop lying to me! you only love yourself! you said you were going to fix me, but you just wanted to break me down. you said you were doing what’s best for me, but you were doing what was best for yourself!”

jake leapt back, stumbling. “okay, okay, i’m sorry, i’m sorry- let me make it up to you, okay?”

“no,” you said firmly. “i’m done with you. i’m moving in with sunghoon.”

jake didn’t look like he was taking that well. you could see it in his eyes. the shock, then the anger. he was quiet for a moment, just glaring at you, but at last, he said, “you’ll never find another man like me.”

“i sure hope so.” you turned and walked away.

every time you saw jake around the house after that day, he was sure to look at you with nothing but contempt, as if you had done something to break his heart and not the other way around. 

but you didn’t care. something good was finally happening to you, and you weren’t going to let him ruin it. you weren’t going to let your life revolve around his happiness anymore. for once, this was about you. and that was okay. it felt like it was okay.

it didn’t take long for you to remember how much you hated moving. the process was beyond annoying, even with people hired to do the heavy lifting for you. it was especially hard when you moved out of the house you grew up in, your father’s house. every memory you had ever made for the first twenty something years of your life was in that house, and you had to leave them there, or try to bring them somewhere the walls looked different, and the stairs didn’t sound the same, and the doors weren’t what you were used to. somewhere they didn’t fit.

at least now you were going somewhere you wanted to be. this house had never been a home. you walked around it the last few days of your staying, and it felt like a shackle was at your feet, letting you go just far enough to get around here, but keeping you inside.

the kitchen made you remember that night with jake and his friends, the way their hands had felt on your body, how trapped you had felt. it reminded you of the way his hand went across your face when you woke late. your closet reminded you of the doom you felt waiting for him to come up to your bedroom, dreading it. the living room made you remember the day the investor stopped by to see him. the stairs made you remember hearing him and chaewon together. when you put all of those thoughts together… you really hated this house.

“that’s the last of it,” you said in relief as you came in to sit on sunghoon’s couch. well, it was yours now too. “thanks for letting me move in.”

sunghoon snorted. “well, we’re getting married, so i think that’s only fair.”

i am getting married. to think something you had dreamed of your whole life was now becoming a tangible reality, and you were doing it for the right reason too. not because it was what everyone expected, but because you genuinely wanted it. you glanced up at sunghoon. “i don’t think i’m going to talk to jake anymore.”

“good,” he said, nodding. “that’s good.”

your feelings for jake had been complicated, hard to shake even when you began to comprehend the truth of the harm he had done to you. but for some reason, that night in the kitchen, when he said those things to you, it was like a switch had gone off in your head. maybe even a month prior, you would have told yourself that you deserved it, that you had insulted him by going off with another man and had somehow earned his cruelty. but every month with sunghoon made you realize that what you had felt around jake was not butterflies, but fear.

you didn’t want to live every single day on edge. you wanted to be with someone who made you feel safe. someone who made the world feel quiet. someone who made your life feel rich with possibility. someone like sunghoon. “i was so stupid to believe him,” you murmured.

sunghoon shook his head. “you weren’t stupid,” he said. he approached the couch and dropped beside you. “you were vulnerable. he knew that and he preyed on you. the good thing is that you started to recognize the trap for what it was, and you didn’t let yourself get stuck in it. that counts for something.”

your brows furrowed as you became lost in thought, pondering the way things had been, how you had been so deceived. “he was nice sometimes. especially in the beginning.”

sunghoon chuckled. “of course he was. it’s easy to forgive someone when you’re clinging onto the good parts of them.”

“it’s almost like you’re speaking from experience.”

“well, there’s a lot of things you still don’t know about me,” sunghoon said. “but i’ll trust you if you can trust me.”

you reached for his hand. “i do trust you.”

sunghoon smiled. “i’m getting you a ring. and i’m going to propose to you properly. somewhere with good music. then we’re gonna go to dinner and you’re gonna tell me what you want to do in the next phase of your life, and i’ll tell you something about the last phase of mine.” he squeezed your hand. “deal?” 

you looked down at your joined hands, and a wide grin broke across your lips. “deal.”

you were truly happy with sunghoon. happier than you had been since before your father died. part of that was because your understanding of happiness had changed. you did things because they fulfilled you, and not because you were told that you should find it fulfilling. it didn’t feel like you were performing. with sunghoon, you could truly just be, and he still accepted you with open arms no matter what.

sometimes you would make mistakes. sometimes the ways of the life you had before you and sunghoon met emerged, but when it did, sunghoon helped you get through it so that you could start to unlearn behaviors that were never truly meant to serve you.

and you learned so much about yourself now that you were finally letting yourself exist. you wanted to travel more, learn more instruments, learn more languages, eat different food, meet different people. you wanted to pick up new hobbies and wear new clothes and do something random just because.

you had been in the middle of selecting color arrangements for your wedding when the mention of a familiar name on the news got your attention. the news anchor was saying, “tonight’s breaking news, ceo jake sim has been removed from office after several subordinates came forward alleging that he engaged in illicit sexual relationships with them. the allegations are currently under investigation, and no criminal charges have been announced at this time.”

oh, how you would have loved to have been a fly on the wall at the house. things with no value go in the trash. there’s a mercy in that. i’d rather him go to hell.

as the days turned to weeks, and the weeks turned to months, though, no matter how great your life had become, you knew there was still something missing.

you tapped your feet against the ground as you sat at the back of the cafe. you had texted chaewon from sunghoon’s phone, still knowing her number by heart after all these years. you’d had little hopes that she would respond, but she did, and now you were waiting.

it had been so long since you last saw each other, you didn’t know what to expect. you didn’t even feel like the person you were when everything happened. it felt like a life that someone else had lived.

when you finally saw chaewon approaching, the air fled your lungs. she sat down at the table in front of you, and up close, she seemed to have become a different person too. 

“hey,” you said shakily. 

chaewon didn’t smile. “hey.”

“long time, no see. you look good,” you told her, because it was true. she had always looked good, her worst days were another person’s very best. but her hair was longer now, and she had dyed it.

“as do you,” she said, “but we’re a little past small talk, don’t you think?”

you swallowed. it was strange, being so careful around her, the person you had once felt the most comfortable with. “i suppose we are.”

chaewon cut to the chase.  “my brother made me block you. he says you set it up. is that true?”

it was the hardest thing to admit. “yes.”

chaewon scoffed. “wow. how could you do that? do you know that i got pregnant?”

“what?”

“yeah,” she said, sitting back in her chair. “luckily, jaehyun convinced my parents not to make me keep it. i was so scared.”

“did it… go okay?” you asked tinily. it felt like a stupid thing to say. “the abortion?”

“it was fine, i guess,” she said, shrugging her shoulders. “i cramped and bled for a few days. after that it was easier.”

you nodded. it took you a moment to find the words. “chaewon, i am… so sorry. sending him after you… that was awful of me. i heard you and jake in the kitchen that night and i was angry. i was jealous. i’ve been jealous of you almost my whole life. and i chose to do something that i knew would hurt you because of it. looking back, i can see how wrong it was. you didn’t deserve it at all and it cost me our friendship, and i didn’t understand that that was the realest thing i had. i know there’s nothing i can say to erase the impact of that trauma, but i can promise that i won’t let my emotions get the better of me like that again. i’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if i have to.”

chaewon was quiet a long time. “i appreciate your apology, but i don’t know if i’m ready to forgive you right now, or if i ever will be.”

that cut deep, but you couldn’t blame her. “that makes sense.”

“congratulations on your engagement,” she said, gesturing to your hand. “i hope he treats you well and you have a good life together. goodbye.”

“goodbye, chaewon,” you whispered. you watched her rise and walk away, almost as quickly as she had come. the moment was over before it really began, and you sat there not knowing if she would ever come back, not knowing if you had said the right thing, not knowing if there was anything in the world you could do to keep her there.

Ria grabbed your hand. “She wants a piercing.” Soo looked at the sky. Hana was already moving toward the door.

The club outfit had been Ria’s fault entirely. The top was small — that was the only word for it, small and black and doing everything a top could reasonably be asked to do. The skirt wasn’t much better. You’d spent the whole night at the club feeling like the main character, which was the intended effect, and the cold air outside had done nothing to make you feel less exposed.

You pushed the door open and the warmth hit you first. Then the smell — ink, clean soap, something faintly chemical underneath it. Black walls covered in flash art. Low red lighting that made the whole place feel like a deliberate secret. Something slow playing from speakers you couldn’t locate.

Two guys inside. One in the back with his head down over a drawing tablet. One at the front counter. The one at the front counter looked up.

He was tall even on the stool, long legs stretched out in front of him, forearms resting on the desk like he owned the surface and everything past it. Full sleeve on his left arm. Silver rings on most of his fingers. Dark hair pushed back slightly. One earring. The kind of face that got you in trouble if you looked at it for too long — sharp jaw, dark eyes, a mouth that was currently sitting in the very early stages of a smirk.

He took in all four of you in about two seconds. Then his eyes found you and the smirk finished forming. “We’re open,” he said. “Barely.”

Ria and Hana peeled off toward the flash wall immediately. Soo planted herself near the door with her arms folded. Which left you walking up to the front counter alone, bare legs, tiny skirt, heels clicking on the concrete floor.

You watched him watch you walk over. He didn’t pretend he wasn’t watching. Didn’t do the polite thing where you glance away and back. He just watched, easy and unhurried, the way someone looks at something they find genuinely worth looking at, and when you got to the counter and leaned on it his eyes moved — slowly, and with complete lack of apology — from your face down to your chest and back up again. Held eye contact like nothing had happened. You’d been looked at before. This was different. This was a man who had decided he wasn’t going to pretend. “Hi,” you said.

“Hi.” His voice was low. Even. The smirk hadn’t moved. “Can I help you?”

“I want a piercing.”

“Yeah?” He leaned back on the stool, arms folding across his chest, the sleeve shifting with the movement. His rings caught the red light. “What are you thinking?”

“Tragus.” You reached up and tapped the outer ridge of your ear, which meant your arm lifted and your top shifted and you watched his eyes drop again, briefly, before they came back to yours like he wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about it. “I’ve been putting it off. I’m in a decisive mood.”

“Decisive,” he said.

“Very.”

“I can see that.” He said it like it meant something else. Then: “How much have you had tonight?”

“Enough to be excellent company.”

He looked at you. Really looked — quiet and thorough, taking in your face, the flush across your chest, the way you were leaning on his counter in that top — and then his tongue pressed briefly against his cheek like he was trying not to smile properly. “Can’t pierce you with alcohol in your system, baby.”

Baby. Like he’d been calling you that for years. Like it was already established. “That’s a rule?” you said.

“That’s the rule.”

You leaned further onto the counter, closing some of the distance between you. His eyes went exactly where you expected them to go and stayed there for a beat longer than was professional before dragging back up. His expression didn’t change. He was completely comfortable with being caught, which was — honestly — impressive. “What if I promised to be very good?” you said.

“I’m sure you would be.” His voice was smooth, unhurried. “Still no.”

“What if—”

“You can come back tomorrow,” he said. “Sober. I’ll pierce your tragus.” A pause, his eyes dropping once more, quick and deliberate, before landing back on yours. “Or whatever else you want.”

The air between you did something. “That sounds like more than a professional offer,” you said.

“I’m a professional.” The smirk was fully settled now. “The offer’s professional. What you do with it is up to you.”

You held his gaze. He held yours back without any effort at all, completely at ease, like this was just how Tuesday night went for him. It was annoying. It was also working. “I don’t know where this place is sober,” you said.

He was already reaching under the counter. He slid a card across the desk with two fingers — didn’t look down to do it, kept his eyes on you the whole time. STUDIO 13. NISHIMURA RIKI. PIERCING.

You picked it up. “Your personal card,” you said.

“Goes straight to me.”

“Bold.”

“Efficient,” he said.

You looked at the card. Then at him. “I’m Y/N.” His eyes went down again — unhurried, completely unapologetic, a slow look that started at your face and made its way south before coming back up — and then he said, “Y/N,” like he was just trying the name out. Like he’d be using it again. “You gonna remember that?” you said.

“Yeah,” he said simply. “I’m going to remember that.”

The way he said it made it about more than your name. Behind you, Ria made a noise she covered poorly with a fake cough. You didn’t turn around. “Come back sober,” Riki said. “I’ll take care of you.”

“You keep saying that.”

“Because I’m going to do it.” He picked his phone back up, easy as anything, like the conversation was filed away now and he was done performing — except the smirk stayed. “Get home safe, Y/N.” Dismissed. Warmly, cockily, with complete confidence that you’d be back.

You picked up the card, slid it into your bag, and let Soo steer you to the door because your own legs had made a decision to co-operate with his energy and you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.

Outside Ria grabbed your arm with both hands. “Y/N. The way he looked at you—”

“Ria.”

“He looked at your tits like—”

“Ria.” Hana was fanning herself. Even Soo was quiet, which was its own verdict. The Uber was three minutes away and you looked at your phone and felt your face doing something warm that you were crediting entirely to the alcohol.

Inside, Heeseung finally looked up from his drawing tablet. He’d watched the whole thing. Ten feet away. Nobody had noticed. He looked at Riki.

Riki had his phone in his hand but he was looking at the door — at the space where you’d just been standing in that top, leaning on his counter, letting him look — with an expression Heeseung couldn’t quite name. Something had landed and settled behind his eyes.

“Who was that?” Heeseung said.

Riki looked down at his phone. “Some hot girl.”

“Some hot girl,” Heeseung repeated.

“Wanted a tragus piercing.”

“Uh huh.” Heeseung looked at the counter. At the space where Riki’s personal card had been sitting ten minutes ago, now somewhere in your bag on the way home. “You give clients your personal card often?”

Riki said nothing. Heeseung looked back at his tablet. “Right,” he said quietly, and said nothing else.

Three weeks later you were standing outside Studio 13 again and this time you were completely, annoyingly sober. “I don’t know why I’m here,” you said.

“Because Riki said come back sober and you kept his card for three weeks,” Ria said, pushing the door open.

“I kept it by accident.”

“In your purse.”

“That’s where cards go.”

“You don’t keep any other cards in your purse, Y/N. I’ve seen your purse. It’s a graveyard of receipts and one lip liner.” You followed her inside because the alternative was standing on the pavement arguing with her and you’d already lost this argument six times on the way over.

Ria had a tattoo appointment. That was the reason you were here. You were just here for moral support. You were going to sit in a chair and look at your phone and not think about the guy who had looked at you like that and said I’ll take care of you with complete sincerity and a smirk that should have been annoying.

The door swung shut behind you. Same as before — black walls, flash art, red light, the slow dark playlist. A different energy in the daytime though, busier, more lived-in. Jay was at the side counter doing something with ink caps, talking loudly to no one in particular. Jake was sweeping near the back. Heeseung was visible through the half-open door of the back room, head down, working.

No one at the front desk. You relaxed slightly. Ria was already at the counter, checking in for her appointment, and you drifted toward the flash wall and started looking at the art because it was genuinely good and also because you needed something to do with your eyes.

You heard the door from the back open. Heard footsteps. Heard someone say, “Riki, someone’s here—” You turned around because you were a person with normal human reflexes and not because your body had already clocked the name.

Riki came through the back door with a pair of gloves half-on, looking down at the appointment book, and then he looked up.

He saw Ria first. Then his eyes moved — one smooth, unhurried slide — and found you standing by the flash wall in your jeans and your jacket looking like someone who was absolutely only here for moral support. “Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” you said. There was a pause that lasted slightly too long for two people who didn’t know each other.

“You came back,” he said.

“Ria has an appointment.”

“Right.” He looked at you. “And you’re just here for Ria.”

“Correct.”

“Nothing to do with the card.”

“I forgot I even had it.”

“Uh huh.” He pulled the second glove on, still looking at you, and the smirk had settled into something warmer now — less performance, more genuinely pleased. “How’s the tragus feeling? Still decisive?”

Ria made a sound from the counter that she turned into a cough. You didn’t look at her. “I’m considering my options,” you said.

“Good answer.” He turned to Ria, professional now, easy switch. “Ria, yeah? Heeseung’s got you, he’s just finishing up. Five minutes.”

“Perfect,” Ria said, and then immediately looked at you with an expression that meant she was storing everything and you would be debriefed extensively later.

Riki came around the counter. Didn’t go back to the desk — came and stood near the flash wall, close enough to talk, far enough to be plausibly looking at the art. “You look different,” he said.

“I’m sober.”

“That’s probably it.” His eyes did the thing — a brief, easy drop and return, taking in the jacket, the jeans, the way you were standing — and then he was looking at your face again like that was just how he operated. Open about it. Unbothered. “Still good though.”

“You’re very confident,” you said.

“I’m accurate,” he said. You looked at Riki. He looked back. This close you could see the bar through his tongue properly — silver, subtle when his mouth was closed, noticeable when he talked — and the ring in his ear and the way his rings shifted when he crossed his arms.

“So,” he said. “You actually want the piercing or did you come all the way here just to tell me you forgot my card existed?”

“I could still want the piercing.”

“You could.” He tilted his head slightly. “Do you?”

You held out for three more seconds. Then: “Yeah.”

His smile did the thing again — the slow, settled version, the one that looked like satisfaction and something warmer underneath it. “On the house,” he said.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know.” He was already moving back toward the piercing station, unhurried, like it was decided. “Come on.”

The piercing chair was in a partitioned section near the back — semi-private, its own mirror, a tray of tools laid out with the kind of precision that told you he took this seriously. He snapped a fresh pair of gloves on and gestured to the chair and you sat down and tried to look like you were not thinking about the last time you’d been in this general vicinity, considerably less sober, telling him he had criminally pretty eyes. You were thinking about it.

He adjusted the chair height without asking, tilted the light, and then stepped in close to look at your ear. His fingers were gentle when they touched the outer ridge — thumb pressing lightly to test the cartilage, professional and careful — and he was close enough that you could smell whatever he was wearing, something dark and clean. “Tragus is a good choice,” he said, still examining your ear. “Suits you.”

“You can tell that from my ear?”

“I can tell from your face.” He stepped back, reached for the marking pen. “You’ve got good bone structure. Something small here draws attention without being loud.” He met your eyes in the mirror. “You’re already loud enough.”

“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“It was one.” He marked the spot with the pen — quick, precise — and then held up a small mirror so you could check the placement. His hand was steady. Everything about him was steady, which was both reassuring and slightly irritating. “Good?” he said.

“Good.”

He put the mirror down. Reached for the needle. And then paused, looking at you in the main mirror with an expression that was more direct than the smirk — more level. “You nervous?” he said.

“No.”

“Your jaw is doing something.”

“My jaw is fine.”

“Y/N.”

“I’m a little nervous,” you said. “About the needle. Not about—” You stopped.

“Not about?” he said.

You looked at him in the mirror. He looked back. The smirk was quiet right now, just his face, just the question sitting there. “The needle,” you said. “I said what I said.”

He let it go. Looked back at your ear, positioned his hands. “Breathe in,” he said. You breathed in. “Out.”

You breathed out and he moved — quick and precise and over before you’d finished processing it. A sharp bite of pressure, brief, clean, and then his hands were already switching out the needle for the jewellery, smooth and practiced. “Done,” he said.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.” He stepped back to let you see in the mirror. Small flat-back stud, exactly where the mark had been, sitting perfectly. “What do you think?”

You looked at it. Turned your head slightly. It was — actually exactly right, the placement, the size, the way it sat. “I think you’re good at your job,” you said.

“I know.” But he said it lightly, without the edge, and when you looked at him in the mirror he was looking at the piercing with something that read like quiet pride. Like he actually cared that it was right.

He peeled his gloves off. Started going through aftercare — saline spray, what to avoid, how long to leave it — and you listened and watched his hands and thought about how he’d looked at you when you walked in. That slow, settled smile. You came back. Like he’d known you would. “Any questions?” he said.

“No.”

“Good.” He handed you the small aftercare card. His fingers brushed yours when he passed it over and he didn’t move his hand immediately, just let the contact sit there for a second before stepping back. “You should come back in four weeks so I can check it.”

“Is that standard?”

“For you it is.”

You looked up at him. He was close still, leaning against the counter beside the chair, arms crossed, completely at ease with the proximity and what he was saying and the way he was looking at you. “That’s a very smooth way to make a follow-up appointment,” you said.

“I’m a smooth guy.”

“You’re a cocky guy.”

“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” He smiled properly. “Four weeks, Y/N. I’ll be here.” From the main floor, very clearly, you heard Jay say to Jake in a voice that carried: “Twenty says she’s back in two.”

Heeseung appeared in the doorway of his room as you were walking back out to wait for Ria. He looked at you. Then at Riki, who was cleaning up the station behind you. He said nothing.

When you were out of earshot, he leaned in the doorway and looked at Riki with a level expression. Riki didn’t look up. “Don’t.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

Heeseung was quiet for a moment. “She coming back?”

Riki stacked the packaged jewellery back in the tray. “Four weeks.”

Heeseung looked at the ceiling. Looked back down. “Right,” he said, and went back into his room.

Riki looked up once — just once — at where you’d gone back to sit with Ria, talking and laughing, your hand coming up to touch the new piercing gently like you were checking it was real. He looked back down at the tray. Picked up his phone. Set it down again. Four weeks was a long time.

You were back in two weeks. You told yourself you had a legitimate reason. The piercing felt slightly tender on one side and the aftercare card said to come back if anything felt off and this was a medical concern, essentially, and had nothing to do with anything else. Ria, when you told her this, said “uh huh” in the exact same tone Riki had used and you’d hung up on her.

You pushed the door to Studio 13 open at four on a Thursday afternoon.

Jay was at the front counter this time. He looked up, recognized you, and his whole face did something delighted. “Y/N,” he said, like you were a returning champion.

“Hey.” You unwound your scarf. “Is Riki—”

“In the back.” Jay was already leaning back in his chair, tilting toward the hallway. “Riki.”

“I could have just—”

“RIKI. Your girl’s here.”

From the back, a pause. Then footsteps. Riki appeared in the doorway with a black coffee in one hand and his phone in the other and when he saw you something moved across his face — quick, controlled — before it settled into the usual. “Two weeks,” he said.

“I know.”

“I said four.”

“The piercing felt off.”

He looked at you. You looked back. He took a slow sip of his coffee. “Come here,” he said. Back in the piercing section again. The chair, the mirror, the tray. He set his coffee down on the counter and snapped gloves on and tilted your chin to the side with two fingers, turning your head so the light hit the piercing properly.

He was quiet while he looked. Close, the way he’d been last time, close enough that you were aware of exactly how tall he was and exactly how little space existed between you. “Looks fine,” he said.

“It felt tender.”

“New cartilage piercing. It’s going to feel tender.” He turned your head a fraction more, examining the entry and exit points. “You sleeping on it?”

“Sometimes.”

“Don’t.” His thumb pressed gently just below the piercing, checking the tissue. “You’re not rotating it, are you?”

“The card said not to.”

“People do it anyway.”

“I follow instructions.” He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. His fingers were still at your jaw, light but there, and in the mirror you could see him looking at the piercing with that focused, careful expression he got when he was working — like the rest of him went quiet and it was just this, just the task, just making sure it was right.

“It’s fine,” he said again, quieter this time. “A little irritated but nothing bad. You’re cleaning it?”

“Twice a day.”

“Good girl.” He said it the same way he said everything — even, unbothered — and went right back to examining the piercing like he hadn’t just said it, like it was nothing, like your entire nervous system hadn’t just done something embarrassing.

He stepped back. Pulled one glove off. In the mirror you watched him look at you — your face this time, not the piercing — and the focused work expression shifted back into something more personal. His eyes moved down briefly, back up. Unhurried. Unapologetic. “You didn’t just come for the piercing check,” he said.

It wasn’t a question. “I was in the area,” you said.

“Y/N.”

“I was.”

“Okay.” He pulled the second glove off, dropped them both in the bin. Leaned against the counter beside the chair with his arms crossed, looking at you with that steady, patient expression. Like he had all the time in the world and was fully prepared to wait you out.

The rings on his fingers caught the light. The bar through his tongue was visible when he spoke and sometimes when he didn’t, a small flash of silver that your eyes kept going back to without your permission. “Can I ask you something?” you said.

“Go ahead.”

You nodded toward his mouth. “Does it affect anything? The tongue piercing.”

The corner of his mouth pulled up. He knew exactly what you were asking and you both knew you both knew it. “Depends what you mean by anything,” he said.

“Talking,” you said. “Eating.”

“No,” he said. “It doesn’t affect talking or eating.”

The way he said it made the implication sit in the room like a third person. “And what about—” you started.

“Yes,” he said simply. You looked at him. He looked back at you, completely relaxed, the smirk at about thirty percent, like he was letting you sit in the answer rather than pushing it.

“That was going to be a different question…” you said.

“Was it?” It wasn’t.

You looked away first, which you were counting as a tactical retreat rather than losing, and he made that almost-laugh sound again and pushed off the counter. “Come out front,” he said. “I’ll get you the saline to take home.”

Jay was now pretending to organize a drawer he had clearly already organized when you came back out. Jake had appeared from somewhere and was leaning on the wall near the door with his phone out. The effort to look casual was extraordinary.

Riki went behind the counter, got the saline, slid it across to you.“Stop sleeping on it,” he said.

“I’ll try.”

“Don’t try. Just don’t do it.”

“You’re bossy,” you said.

“I’m thorough.” He leaned on the counter. His forearms were right there, the sleeve on full display this close — you’d been trying not to look at it properly but it was a lot of work. Intricate blackwork, something that looked botanical near his wrist, darker geometry climbing toward his elbow. “Like the sleeve?” he said.

You looked up. He’d caught you. “It’s good work,” you said.

“Heeseung did most of it.”

“Heeseung tattooed you?”

“First one when I started here.” Something shifted slightly in his face — not closed off, just more considered. “Kind of a thing between us.”

You wanted to ask what kind of thing. Something in how he’d said it made you not push. “You do your own piercings?” you said instead.

He tilted his head so you could see the earring. “This one.”

“Doesn’t that hurt more when it’s yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“And you did it anyway.”

“I do most things anyway,” he said. He said it lightly but there was something under it, something matter-of-fact about pain being a variable he’d simply accounted for. You looked at him for a second longer than you meant to. “Four weeks,” he said, quieter now, just to you. “Come back in four weeks and I’ll check it properly. And if you’re in the area before that—” he held your gaze — “you know where we are.”

“Very smooth,” you said.

“You keep saying that.”

“You keep proving it.” He smiled. The real one — not the smirk, not the performance, the actual smile that did something to his whole face. You’d only seen it once before, the night you came in drunk when he laughed at something Ria said, and it was worse up close and sober.

You picked up the saline. Shouldered your bag. “Thanks for checking it,” you said.

“Anytime.”

You were halfway to the door when Jay said, loudly, to no one: “Two weeks. Called it.”

“Jay,” Riki said, flat.

“I’m just saying—”

“Jay.” You pushed the door open and let it close on whatever Jay said next. On the pavement you breathed in cold air and stood there for a second. I do most things anyway. You thought about that the whole way home.

You texted Ria that night.

you: the piercing was fine btw. just irritated.

Ria: sure

you: it was a legitimate medical concern

Ria: how did he look

you: that’s not relevant

Ria: how did he LOOK

You stared at your phone. Put it face down. Picked it up again.

you: good. he looked good. go to sleep.

Ria: 😭😭😭 Y/N YOU ARE SO DOWN BAD

You put your phone on the charger and lay on your back in the dark and stared at the ceiling. The bar through his tongue caught the light when he talked. Yes, he’d said. Like it was nothing. Like he said it every day. You put a pillow over your face.

Across the city, Studio 13 was closing up. Heeseung was cashing out. Jake was wiping down surfaces. Jay was retelling the afternoon to Sunghoon, who had come in for his evening shift and was listening with the specific expression of someone enjoying information they could use later.

Riki was at the piercing station. Cleaning the tray. Doing the same task he’d done a hundred times. “She came back in two weeks,” Jay said.

“I heard,” Sunghoon said.

“I called it.”

“You did call it.”

“Riki,” Jay said. “You owe me twenty.”

“I don’t owe you anything,” Riki said. “We didn’t make a bet.”

“Spiritually we did.” Riki said nothing. Put the tray away.

“She’s coming back in four weeks,” Jay told Sunghoon.

“Or two,” Sunghoon said.

“Or two,” Jay agreed.

“Both of you,” Riki said, without heat, “can shut up.”

They did not shut up. He let them talk and went back to the tray and thought about the way you’d looked at his mouth when you asked about the piercing. The way your eyes had gone somewhere specific and come back and you’d tried to cover it with a different question.

He’d watched the answer land. Had watched you process it and look away and call it a tactical retreat when it wasn’t. He was good at reading people. He’d had to be, for a long time, for reasons that had nothing to do with tattoo shops or piercing chairs.

You were going to come back before four weeks. He put the tray away and picked up his coffee and didn’t say any of that out loud.

You were back in ten days. You didn’t have a reason this time. You’d run out of reasons. You showed up at three on a Wednesday with two coffees and the vague awareness that something had shifted from I’m in the area to something you didn’t have a word for yet. Jay opened the door before you reached it. “She’s got coffee,” he announced into the shop.

“Jay—”

“Is one of those for me?” He was already holding the door open, looking at the cups in your hand with genuine hope.

“No.”

“Y/N.”

“I brought two.”

“There are multiple people here who drink coffee.”

“There are two coffees,” you said. “Do the math.”

Jay looked wounded. You walked past him into the shop and he let the door close and called after you: “I’m telling Riki you were mean to me.”

“Please do.” Riki was at the front counter. Actually at the counter this time, not coming through from the back, sitting on the stool with his forearms on the desk and his phone in his hand. He looked up when you came in and his eyes went straight to the cups. Then to your face. Then he smiled — not the smirk, not the performance, just a real and immediate thing that he didn’t seem to think about first. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey.” You put one of the coffees on the counter in front of him. “I didn’t know how you take it.”

He looked at the cup. Looked at you. “Black is fine,” he said.

“Lucky guess.”

“Is it?” He picked it up. His fingers overlapped yours on the cup for a second before you let go — brief, probably accidental, neither of you addressed it. He took a sip. Put it down. “Ten days.”

“I know.”

“Getting closer to two weeks, not further.”

“I’ve been busy,” you said. “This was the first chance I had to—”

“Y/N.”

“What?”

“You don’t need a reason,” he said simply. You looked at him. He looked back, completely even, like he’d just said something neutral about the weather. “Sit down.”

That was how it started. Not with anything dramatic. Just you sitting on the other side of the counter on a Wednesday afternoon with a coffee while Riki worked through his admin, and the conversation that happened around it — easy and unhurried, drifting from one thing to another, the kind of talk that didn’t feel like it was going anywhere because it didn’t need to.

You learned things without asking for them. That he’d been at Studio 13 for two years. That he and Jay had met here. That he had opinions about piercing placement that were borderline philosophical and he’d share them unprompted if you let him.

He learned things back. That you were in your final year. That Ria had been your best friend since you were sixteen. That you had three other piercings already and had done two of them yourself, which made him look up from his phone with an expression that was equal parts impressed and horrified. “You did your own helix,” he said.

“With a kit.”

“A kit.”

“People do it.”

“People also do a lot of things I have to fix,” he said, and leaned across the counter to look at your ear without asking. His fingers found the helix piercing, examining it with the same careful focus he brought to everything, and you sat very still. “It’s crooked,” he said.

“I know.”

“I can fix it.”

“I know.”

He was still looking at your ear, close, his thumb light against the cartilage. “Why haven’t you?”

“I kept meaning to.” You paused. “And then I found Studio 13 and I figured I’d—”

You stopped. He pulled back just enough to look at your face. His expression said he’d heard the end of the sentence even though you hadn’t said it. “Figured you’d what?” he said.

“Come here eventually,” you said. “For things.”

The smirk appeared. “For things.”

“Piercings.”

“Right.” He stepped back, let you breathe, picked his coffee back up. “I’ll fix it whenever you want.”

“Add it to my tab.”

“You don’t have a tab. Everything I do to you is on the house.” He said it completely straight and then looked at his phone, leaving you to sit in the everything I do to you by yourself.

Jay appeared from the back at that exact moment, looked at you both, looked at the counter between you, and went directly back the way he came without saying anything, which was somehow more powerful than if he had.

Hana came with you the following Wednesday. She had been angling to see the shop since Ria had described it in approximately four hundred texts and the second she walked in she stopped in the middle of the floor and looked around with wide eyes. “Oh,” she said. “Oh this place is cool.”

Jake, who was at the side counter, looked up. Hana looked at Jake. Jake looked at Hana. You filed that away.

Riki was with a client in the piercing section — you could see him through the partition, gloved up, talking the client through something in that low steady voice. You hadn’t told him you were coming. You weren’t sure why, except that you’d wanted to know what it felt like to walk in and see him before he saw you. It felt like something, as it turned out.

He was focused on his client, head tilted, hands precise. He’d pushed his sleeves up and the full length of the tattoo was visible now — blackwork that climbed from his wrist to somewhere past his elbow, detailed and dark. He was saying something that made the client laugh. Patient and calm and completely in his element.

You stood there and looked at him for maybe four seconds too long.

“Y/N,” Hana said quietly beside you.

“What.”

“You’ve got a face on.”

“I don’t have a face.”

“You’ve got a very specific face.” She looked at Riki. Looked at you. “Oh you are done.”

“I’m looking at the flash art,” you said, and turned to look at the flash art.

Jay materialized at your shoulder. “She does this every time,” he told Hana, like you weren’t standing right there. “Comes in, looks at him, then looks at the wall.”

“I can hear you,” you said.

“I know.” Jay smiled. “Coffee?”

Riki’s client left at half past three. He came through from the partition still pulling his gloves off and stopped when he saw you and Hana at the counter with Jay. The gloves came off slower. “You didn’t text,” he said to you.

“Spontaneous visit.”

“Hm.” He dropped the gloves, came around to the main counter. His eyes moved to Hana briefly, assessing, friendly. “Friend?”

“Hana,” you said. “She wanted to see the shop.”

“Welcome.” He said it to Hana and then his attention came back to you in that way it always did — like you were the fixed point and everything else was peripheral. “How’s the piercing?”

“Fine. Good.”

“You sleeping on it?”

“Mostly not.”

“Y/N.”

“Mostly not. I’m a side sleeper, it’s a process.”

He leaned on the counter. His coffee was cold by now but he picked it up anyway. “I’ll fix the helix today if you want. While you’re here.”

“Yeah?”

“Chair’s free.” Hana’s elbow found your ribs with surgical precision. You ignored it.

“Okay,” you said.

The helix took ten minutes. Precise, careful, the same focused quiet he brought every time. Afterwards he checked the tragus — habit, he said, like that was a normal thing, like of course he was checking it — and you sat in the chair and let him and looked at his face in the mirror while he was looking at your ear.

Up close like this you could see things you couldn’t from the other side of a counter. The small scar through his left eyebrow, barely visible. The way his jaw set when he was concentrating. The rings on his fingers — he took them off for client work and put them back on after, and watching him slide them back on was a thing you were apparently noticing now.

He caught you in the mirror. Didn’t call you out. Just held your gaze for a second and then looked back at the piercing, and the corner of his mouth moved slightly. “Good,” he said. “Helix looks better. You’ll need to re-do the aftercare cycle.”

“I know.”

“You actually know or you’re saying you know?”

“Riki.”

“I’ll write it down.”

“I literally work a piercing counter in my memory called things Riki has told me,” you said.

He went still for a half second. Then: “Yeah?”

“You’re very thorough,” you said. “It sticks.”

He looked at you in the mirror. Steady, quiet, something behind his eyes that was more than the usual easy confidence — something that had weight to it. “Good,” he said, quieter.

He stepped back. Started cleaning up. Normal, routine, the way he always moved through the shop like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. “Same time next week?” he said. It wasn’t really a question.

“Sure,” you said.

In the main shop, Hana was sitting on the counter watching Jake explain the difference between traditional and neo-traditional tattooing with the energy of someone who had found religion. Jay was watching this with profound satisfaction. When you came back out Hana looked at you and then at Riki behind you and then at you again. “We should go,” you said.

“Should we,” Hana said.

“Yes.”

“Jake was just explaining—”

“Hana.” She got up, reluctantly, and said goodbye to Jake in a way that suggested she was also going to be back before four weeks. Jake watched her go with an expression that Riki clocked and then looked away from like he hadn’t seen it.

At the door you turned back. Riki was at the counter, already on his phone, or pretending to be. “Thanks for the helix,” you said.

“Anytime.” He didn’t look up. “Wednesday?”

“Wednesday,” you said. Jay made a noise. Riki didn’t look at him. You pushed the door open and the cold air hit you and behind you you heard Jay say, quiet and satisfied to no one in particular: “Regular.”

The Wednesday visits became a thing. Not every week, sometimes every ten days, but consistent enough that Jay started having your coffee order ready. Consistent enough that Jake stopped looking surprised when you walked in. Consistent enough that Heeseung, who said little and noticed everything, started nodding at you when you arrived like you’d passed some quiet assessment he’d been running.

Riki never texted first. You did sometimes — nothing significant, a meme about piercings, a question about aftercare that you probably knew the answer to. He always replied. Never with much. But always.

The counter between you was becoming a problem. Not the physical one — the metaphorical one. The distance that was exactly the right size for this isn’t anything yet and felt increasingly inadequate for what was actually happening in the space between you every Wednesday afternoon. He looked at you like you were a decision he’d already made. You were starting to think you had too.

Daniel texted on a Thursday.

Daniel: hey, haven’t seen you around much. you ok?

You stared at it. You and Daniel had two seminars together and a loose group chat and approximately nothing else, and this was the third text this week.

you: yeah all good, just busy

Daniel: we should get coffee sometime

you: I’m pretty slammed rn, sorry

You thought nothing of it. You mentioned it to Riki the following Wednesday — offhand, in the middle of a conversation about something else, not thinking. “This guy in my seminar keeps texting,” you said. “It’s starting to get annoying.”

Riki was writing something on the appointment book. His pen slowed.“What guy?” he said.

“Daniel. We’re in the same module. He keeps asking for coffee.” Riki’s pen stopped. You looked up. His face was the same — neutral, easy — but something had shifted underneath it. Something had gone very still in the specific way of a thing that was actively being held still.

“You said no?” he said.

“Obviously. I’m not interested.”

A pause. He looked back at the appointment book. Wrote something. “Good,” he said.

Just that. Good. You looked at him for a second. “Riki.”

“Hm.”

“Are you—”

“Helix check,” he said, and stood up from the stool. You let him redirect you. Sat in the chair. Let him check the helix he’d fixed two weeks ago and didn’t need to check again. His hands were as steady as they always were. His voice was as even.

But when you looked at him in the mirror his jaw was set in a way it wasn’t usually and his eyes, when they met yours in the reflection, had something in them that was more than the usual warm certainty. Something that looked a lot like mine with nowhere to go yet. You looked away first. Neither of you said anything about it.

Daniel was waiting outside your seminar on Tuesday. Not accidentally. He was leaning on the wall opposite the door with his phone out, and when you came through he pushed off and fell into step beside you like it was coordinated, like he’d timed it. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey.” You kept walking.

“Good seminar?”

“It was fine.”

“I thought Professor Kim made a good point about the—”

“Daniel.” You stopped. Turned to face him. He was decent looking, objectively — tall, friendly face, the kind of guy who probably did well in situations where persistence read as flattering. “What’s going on?”

He smiled. Easy, practiced. “I was thinking we could grab that coffee.”

“I said I was slammed.”

“You’re not slammed right now.”

“I have somewhere to be.”

“Where?”

You looked at him. “That’s not really—”

“I’ll walk you,” he said. Like that was a reasonable response. Like the answer to I have somewhere to be was I’ll come.

“Daniel.” You kept your voice even. “I appreciate it but I’m not interested. Okay? Not trying to be harsh, just being clear.”

Something moved across his face — not anger, more like recalibration, like he was filing this away as a temporary obstacle. “Maybe just as friends,” he said.

“I’m good. Thanks though.” You walked away. Heard him say something behind you — see you Thursday — and didn’t respond. You texted Ria about it on the bus.

you: the Daniel thing is getting annoying

Ria: what happened?

you: he waited outside my seminar

Ria: ew

you: I told him straight I’m not interested

Ria: good. are you telling riki?

You stared at that.

you: why would I tell riki??

Ria: because you tell riki everything now??

you: I do not tell riki everything

Ria: you told him about your mum’s cat

you: that came up naturally and I’m not telling him, it’s not a big deal

You put your phone in your bag. You didn’t tell him.

Wednesday came and you sat at the counter with your coffee and talked about other things — Hana and Jake’s ongoing situation, which was developing at a glacial pace that was driving Ria insane. A new flash piece Heeseung had drawn that you’d been looking at for twenty minutes when you came in. Whether you should get a second tragus on the other ear. “Yes,” Riki said, without hesitation.

“That’s a very immediate answer.”

“It’s an obvious answer.” He looked at your ears, both sides, that assessing look. “Symmetrical double tragus. Come in next week.”

“Maybe I want to think about it.”

“You don’t need to think about it.”

“Riki.”

“You came in drunk wanting a tragus piercing,” he said. “You knew then. You know now.”

You looked at him. He looked back with the patience of someone who was completely certain and was willing to wait for you to catch up. “Fine,” you said.

He smiled. “Next week,” he said.

The following Tuesday Daniel was outside your seminar again. This time you saw him before he saw you and you changed direction, took the long way to the exit, added seven minutes to your walk. Small, manageable.

On Thursday he was in the coffee queue behind you. “Coincidence,” he said, and smiled at you, and you smiled back tightly and paid for your coffee and left.

On Friday he messaged. Again.

Daniel: hey saw you in the queue yesterday, why’d you leave so fast?

You didn’t reply. And he messaged again on Saturday.

Daniel: did I do something wrong?

You showed it to Ria over the phone that night. She was quiet for a second. “He’s not taking the hint,” she said.

“I didn’t hint. I said directly I wasn’t interested.”

“Then he’s not taking the direct statement.”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. “Tell Riki.”

“Ria—”

“Y/N I’m serious, tell—”

“It’s fine. I can handle it.”

“I know you can handle it, that’s not the—” She stopped. “Just tell him. You know you want to.” You didn’t answer that.

Wednesday came around, you’d been at the counter for forty minutes. Jay had come and gone twice. Jake had shown Hana something on his phone that made her laugh and Riki had looked at that for approximately one second before very deliberately looking elsewhere.

You were mid-sentence about something — your dissertation, probably, you’d been complaining about your dissertation — when the door opened.

Sunghoon came in from his afternoon off, still in his jacket, unwinding his scarf. He was unfairly attractive and moved through the shop like he knew it, dropping his bag behind the counter and immediately coming over to where you were sitting. “Y/N.” He leaned on the counter beside Riki’s stool, friendly, easy. “How’s the tragus?”

“Good.” You touched it briefly. “Riki’s doing the other side next week.”

“Nice. You should let me draw something for you. Little custom piece, just here—” he touched his own collarbone— “would suit you.”

“Yeah?”

“Hundred percent.” He looked at Riki. “Right?” Riki was looking at his phone. “Riki,” Sunghoon said.

“Hm.” He didn’t look up. Sunghoon looked at you with a small what’s his problem expression. You looked back with a I genuinely don’t know expression.

You talked to Sunghoon for twenty more minutes. He was easy to talk to — funny, straightforward, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. He showed you his portfolio on his phone, talked you through a couple of pieces, asked about your university course with actual interest.

Riki stayed on his stool. He wasn’t on his phone. You could tell because you kept looking over and the screen was dark. He was just sitting there in the specific stillness of something being actively held in place, forearms on the desk, jaw set. When Sunghoon went to the back to change into his work clothes you turned to Riki. “What’s wrong with you?” you said.

“Nothing.”

“You’ve said four words in the last twenty minutes.”

“I’ve been busy.”

You looked at the dark phone screen. Looked at him. “Riki.”

“I’m fine.” He finally looked at you. His face was even, controlled, the expression he wore when he was putting effort into the expression. “You want more coffee?”

“No.” You kept your voice low. Jay and Jake were across the room but still. “Talk to me.”

Something moved behind his eyes. For a second you thought he was going to — actually going to, drop whatever this was and say it. His jaw shifted. His eyes moved over your face and then away. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Forget it.”

“Riki—”

“Forget it, Y/N.” Quiet. Final. Not angry — worse, flat. Decided.

You looked at him for a long moment. He looked at the counter. You picked up your bag. “I’m going to head,” you said.

He looked up then. Quick, like he hadn’t expected it. “You don’t have to—”

“I have stuff to do.” You stood up. Your voice was even, you’d made sure of it. “I’ll see you next week for the tragus.”

“Y/N—”

“Bye, Riki.” You said goodbye to Jay on the way out. Waved at Jake. Pushed the door open into the cold.

Behind you, through the glass, you heard Jay say something. Heard Riki’s voice, short and clipped. Didn’t hear the words. You walked to the bus stop and stared at the road and felt something hot and frustrated sitting in your chest that you didn’t have a clean name for.

He texted at nine that night.

Riki: I’m sorry about today

You stared at it.

Riki: I get like that sometimes. I don’t like it.

Another one, a minute later.

Riki: It wasn’t about Sunghoon. It wasn’t about you.

Riki: ok it was about Sunghoon.

You sat on your bed with your phone in your hand and read that three times.

you: do you want to tell me what “getting like that” means??

A pause. Longer than his usual response time.

Riki: Not over text. Wednesday?

you: yeah

you: Riki, Sunghoon was just being friendly

Riki: I know. I know that. It doesn’t always

The message cut off. Like he’d deleted the end of it and sent what was left.

Riki: Wednesday. I’ll explain.

Riki: night Y/N

You got there at three. Jay handed you your coffee without being asked and then found somewhere else to be, which meant Riki had said something to him beforehand, which meant he’d been thinking about this. Riki was at the counter. He looked up when you came in and the usual ease wasn’t fully there — not gone, just quieter, like he’d dialed something back. “Hey,” he said.

“Hey.” You sat down. Wrapped both hands around the coffee. “So.”

“So.” He exhaled. Looked at the counter for a second, then at you. “I get possessive.” He said it straight. No build up, no softening — just put it on the counter between you like something he’d decided you should see.

“Okay,” you said.

“I don’t like it,” he said. “It’s not — I’m not trying to make it your problem. I know Sunghoon wasn’t doing anything. I know you weren’t doing anything. It just—” He stopped. His jaw shifted. “It sits wrong. Someone else in your space. Being the thing making you laugh.”

You looked at him. His eyes were on the counter, which was unusual — Riki who held eye contact through everything. “Has it always been like that?” you said.

“Yeah.” Simple. “Better than it used to be.”

“What was it like before?”

He looked up. “Worse.” A pause. “I dealt with it badly. I’m not—” He stopped again. “I’m not like that anymore. I don’t act on it. But I feel it and sometimes it makes me go quiet and disappear into my own head and that’s not fair to you.”

You sat with that. “Why are you telling me this?” you said.

He held your gaze. “Because you asked.”

“People don’t always answer when you ask.”

“I know.” Something in his face. “You should know what you’re—” He stopped himself again, and you heard the end of that sentence clearly even without the words. What you’re getting into. What I am.

“Riki,” you said. “If Sunghoon had been doing something—” You held his eyes. “Or anyone. I’d handle it. That’s not— I’m not someone who needs protecting from other people’s attention.”

“I know that.”

“But I’m also not—” You paused. Chose the words. “I’m not interested in other people’s attention. Okay? That’s just—” You shrugged. “That’s just where I’m at.”

The silence that followed had weight to it. Riki looked at you. Really looked — the way he did sometimes, like he was reading something underneath the surface of what you’d said, like he was checking if you meant it.You meant it. “Okay,” he said quietly.

“Okay,” you said.

He exhaled. Something in his shoulders dropped slightly — barely visible, but there. “Tragus,” he said.

“Tragus,” you agreed. He stood up from the stool. And as he passed behind the counter his hand came down briefly on yours where it rested on the surface — just for a second, just his fingers over your knuckles, warm and solid — and then he was moving through to the piercing section and the moment was gone.

You sat there for a second. Then you followed him. Across the room Jay looked at Heeseung in the doorway of his office. Heeseung looked back. Neither of them said anything.

It happened on a Friday. Not a Wednesday. Not planned. You’d come in with Hana at five because she’d finally committed to a small piece on her ankle and wanted moral support, and by the time Jake was finishing up the linework the shop had emptied out — Sunghoon’s last client gone, Jay heading out with his jacket half on, Heeseung locking his office with his keys already in his hand. “You good to close?” Heeseung said to Riki.

“Yeah.” Riki was wiping down the front counter. “Go.” Heeseung looked at you. Brief, unreadable. Looked back at Riki. Said nothing and left. Jay pointed finger guns at you on his way out. You ignored him.

Jake finished Hana’s piece at half past six. She sat up and looked at it in the mirror with the expression of someone who had just made a very good decision, and then she looked at you and at Riki and made a different kind of decision entirely. “I’ll get a cab,” she said.

“I’ll come,” you said.

“You don’t have to.” Serene. Innocent. Absolutely deliberate. “I’m fine on my own.”

“Hana—”

“I’ll text you when I’m home.” She hugged you, said goodbye to Jake, said goodbye to Riki with a smile that communicated volumes, and then she was gone and Jake was heading out behind her and the door swung shut and the shop was quiet.

Just you and Riki. He was at the front counter. You were near the piercing section. The red light was low and the playlist had shifted to something slower, something with bass underneath it, and the flash art on the walls looked different when there was no one else here — more intimate, like the shop had exhaled. “You can head,” Riki said. He wasn’t looking at you. Wiping the counter, routine.

“I know,” you said.

You didn’t move. He stopped wiping. The silence lasted four seconds. You counted. Then he looked up. The expression on his face wasn’t the smirk. Wasn’t the work focus. It was something stripped back — something that had been running underneath everything for weeks and was apparently done waiting. “Y/N,” he said. Low.

“Yeah,” you said. Like you were answering a question he hadn’t asked yet.

He put the cloth down. He came around the counter and crossed the floor and he didn’t stop until he was right in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up slightly, and his hand came up to your jaw — not grabbing, just his fingers along the side of your face, tilting you toward him — and he looked at you for one more second like he was making absolutely sure.

Whatever he saw made his mind up. He kissed you and it was nothing like the slow build you’d been expecting — it was immediate, certain, his mouth on yours like he’d been thinking about it for weeks because he had been, and you got your hands into his shirt and kissed him back and the sound he made low in his throat did something catastrophic to your ability to think.

His hands moved — jaw, then your waist, pulling you in until there was no space left between you — and you felt the rings on his fingers through the fabric of your top and his body was solid and warm and there, fully there, nothing held back.

You bit his lower lip without planning to. He pulled back half an inch. His eyes were dark, his breathing had changed, and he looked at you with an expression that rearranged something in your chest. “Do that again,” he said quietly, “and we’re not stopping.”

“Good,” you said. And you did it again. He walked you back until your shoulders hit the wall beside the piercing partition — not rough, controlled, one hand flat against the wall beside your head and the other at your waist, and he kissed you deeper this time, slower, like he had you exactly where he wanted and wasn’t in any rush now that he did.

His tongue — god, his tongue, the bar was there and present and you felt it and made a sound into his mouth that you would have been embarrassed about if his hand hadn’t tightened on your waist the second you did it. “There it is,” he said against your mouth.

“Shut up,” you breathed.

“You’ve been thinking about it.” Not a question. His lips moved to your jaw, your neck, unhurried. “Since I told you.”

“Riki—”

“Yes,” he said, quoting you back to yourself, and you felt him smile against your throat.

“You’re so—”

“I know.” He pulled back to look at you. His hair was slightly wrecked, his eyes were very dark, and he looked at you with the kind of focus he usually reserved for his work — total, precise, like you were something he intended to get exactly right. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to stop talking,” you said.

“No you don’t.” He was right. You didn’t.

“I want—” You stopped. His thumb had found the hem of your top, tracing the skin at your waist, barely moving, just there. Your brain was doing something unhelpful. “I want you to keep going.”

“Keep going,” he repeated. Like he was logging it. “That’s not very specific.”

“Riki.”

“I want to hear you say it.” His voice had dropped, lower than usual, and there was something in it — not a demand exactly, more like an invitation with weight behind it, like he already knew and wanted you to catch up. “Tell me.”

You looked at him. He looked back, steady, patient, his thumb still tracing that small arc at your waist.

“I’ve wanted you for weeks,” you said. “You know that.”

“I know.” He leaned in, his mouth at your ear. “I wanted to hear you say it.” His hands moved — both of them, finding the hem of your top, sliding underneath to your bare waist, warm palms spreading across your skin — and you exhaled shakily and his mouth came back to yours and the patience dissolved.

Somewhere on the walk from the counter to the wall you got his shirt off and you put your hands on his chest and then his stomach and then lower and found the waistband of his jeans and his breath caught — actually caught, an involuntary thing, the first crack in the steady control — and you looked up at him.

His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark and fixed on your face. “Keep going,” he said. His own words back. Low and rough. You undid his jeans. Your hand found him and he was — there was a Jacob’s ladder — you stopped. He watched your face process it.

“Riki,” you said.

“Yeah.” His voice was rough now, the evenness wearing thin at the edges.

“When were you going to—”

“When it came up.”

“It’s come up.”

“It has,” he agreed, and something in his expression was almost amused except he was too far gone for amused, too focused, his hands gripping your waist with more pressure than before. “Still want to keep going?”

You looked at him. “Are you serious right now.”

He laughed — real, brief, surprised out of him — and then his forehead dropped to yours and you felt him exhale and then his mouth was on yours again and the laughing was done. Your jacket off your shoulders and it hit the floor and his mouth was on your throat before it landed — open, hot, his tongue against your pulse point and the piercing bar cool against your skin and you made a sound that echoed off the black walls. “Riki—”

“I know.” His hands were at the hem of your top, shoving it up, impatient in a way that cracked the usual control wide open. “Off.”

You got it off and his hands were on your tits and his mouth came back to yours.

He walked you back into the wall beside the piercing partition — not slow, not careful, just direct — and pinned you there with his body and his hands were everywhere and yours were too and it was nothing like the slow careful thing you’d half imagined. It was desperate. Both of you. Weeks of it.

“You have no idea,” he said against your jaw, your throat, lower, his mouth on your collarbone, “how long I’ve—” He stopped. His teeth grazed your skin. “Fuck.”

“Tell me,” you breathed.

“Since you walked in here in that dress,” he said into your skin. “Since you leaned on my counter and looked at me like that. I’ve been—” His hands found your jeans, the button, the zip. “Since then.” He shoved your jeans down your hips and you kicked them off and his hand pushed between your thighs and found your pussy through the thin fabric still there and pressed and your hips rolled forward hard.

“There,” he said. Low, rough, satisfied. “There you are.” His fingers moved — slow, deliberate, feeling the heat of you through the fabric — and he looked at your face while he did it. Watching. Taking everything. “Soaked already,” he said. “Were you like this the whole time?”

“Don’t—” you started.

“You were.” He pushed the fabric aside and his fingers touched your folds directly and you choked on a breath. The rings were cold, the contrast of it shocking and good and — “Riki—”

“Good girl,” he said quietly. Like it meant something. Like you’d done something right just by responding to him. His fingers moved through your folds and found your clit and you grabbed his shoulders and held on. “So wet. So fucking — look at you.”

“Please—”

“Please what.” His fingers kept moving, unhurried despite everything, despite the fact that you could feel how much he wanted this — felt it against your hip, hard, his own breathing gone ragged at the edges. “Say it.”

“I need—”

“Say it, Y/N.”

“I need you to fuck me,” you said. “Now, Riki, please—” He made a sound low in his throat and his fingers disappeared and he was shoving his own jeans down, just enough, barely, one hand braced on the wall beside your head — and then he looked at you, dark eyes and wrecked hair and jaw set hard.

“Here?” he said. Rough. “Right here?”

“Yes—”

His hand found your pussy again, two fingers pushing inside, testing, and you made an embarrassing sound and he groaned at the feel of you — “fuck you’re—” — and then his fingers were gone and he was there, the head of his cock at your entrance, and you hooked your leg over his hip. He pushed in. Both of you went still. His forehead dropped to yours. Your nails were in his shoulders. The Jacob’s ladder — you felt every single one and your mouth fell open and you heard him exhale shakily above you. “Riki—”

“I know.” His voice was barely there. “I know, just — fuck — just give me a second—”

“Don’t stop,” you said. “Don’t stop, keep—”

He moved. There was nothing controlled about it. That was the thing — Riki who was steady and certain and always in possession of himself — gone. Completely. He fucked you against the wall with his jeans half down and yours on the floor and his rings cold against your thigh where he’d hooked your leg higher and the bar of his tongue in his teeth when he looked at you and it was overwhelming, the closeness of it, the sound of it in the empty shop.

“Good,” he said, rough and low, his hips rolling into you, setting a pace that had your head dropping back against the wall. “Good girl, just like — yeah, just like that—”

“More—”

“Yeah?” He shifted his angle and you cried out and he did it again, deliberate, watching your face. “There?”

“Yes — yes, don’t stop—”

“I’ve got you.” His mouth found your throat. “I’ve got you, you’re doing so — fuck, Y/N, you feel—” He broke off. His rhythm stuttered and recovered. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”

The praise landed somewhere it had no business landing, warm and devastating, and your hips were moving to meet him and your clit was grinding against him with every thrust and you were already… “Riki I’m going to—”

“Do it,” he said immediately. “Cum for me. Come on.” His hand moved between you and his thumb found your clit and pressed and you shattered — your whole body going taut, his name in your mouth, your nails breaking skin on his shoulders — and he fucked you through it, relentless, not letting up—

“That’s it,” he said against your ear, rough and wrecked. “That’s it, good girl, god you’re—” He followed you over the edge not long after — his rhythm breaking, his breath gone, his forehead hard against the wall beside your head — and the sound he made when he came was low and helpless and you felt it everywhere.

There was silence that followed apart from the playlist over the shop speakers. The red light under the door still illuminated. Both of you still against the wall like butter of you planned to move soon, his weight partly on you and partly on his arm and neither of you in any hurry to fix that.

Your leg slid down from his hip. He pulled back enough to look at your face. His hair was completely wrecked. His mouth was slightly swollen. He looked at you with an expression that had nothing performed in it — just open, just him, something that hadn’t had a name all this time and still didn’t quite yet. “Hi,” he said.

You laughed. Surprised out of you, real. He smiled — the real one, the one that changed his whole face — and pressed it briefly into your hair.

You found the back room couch eventually. His shirt on your shoulders. The rings back on his fingers because he’d put them on out of habit and then looked at his own hands like he hadn’t noticed himself doing it. You lay on your back. He sat with his back against the couch, forearm on his knee, looking at the floor. “So,” you said.

“So,” he said.

“What happens now?” you said.

He was quiet for a moment. “What do you want?”

You thought about the card in your bag. The Wednesdays. The way he’d looked at you across the counter every single time like you were a decision he’d already made. “I don’t know yet,” you said. Honest.

“Okay,” he said. Easy. No pressure in it. His hand found yours in the dark. Didn’t make anything of it. Just held on. You stayed on the couch until the playlist rolled over twice. At some point the I don’t know yet became irrelevant because his mouth found your throat again and his hands were back under his shirt on your skin and the question got buried under something more immediate.

You left at nine. He walked you to the door. Held it open, leaned in the frame. The cold air hit you and you turned back. He looked wrecked and unbothered about it. Shirt on, jeans done up, rings on every finger. Hair a disaster. Looking at you with that expression — the settled one, the certain one. “Wednesday,” he said. You nodded.

Neither of you said anything about what it was. That was the agreement, unspoken, the way most things between you and Riki were unspoken. You came in on Wednesdays. Sometimes other days. Sometimes he texted at ten at night — nothing explicit, just you up or studio’s empty — and you went, and nobody named what that meant. It worked. Mostly.

The sex was — there wasn’t a word for it that didn’t sound inadequate. Compulsive was close. Inevitable was closer. Like once the wall had come down neither of you had any interest in rebuilding it, like your bodies had been having a conversation for months and were now just speaking plainly.

He learned you fast. Faster than anyone had. What made you gasp versus what made you come apart completely. The difference between what you asked for and what you actually wanted. He paid attention the way he paid attention to everything — totally, precisely — and used it with a focus that should have been illegal.

You learned him too. That the control was real but thin in the right circumstances. That his jaw set right before it cracked. That he made sounds he didn’t seem to know he was making. That he said your name differently when he was close — shorter, sharper, like he didn’t have room for the full shape of it. That he always, always pulled you back when you tried to move away after. Not possessive. Just — unwilling to let the warmth go yet. You were trying very hard not to think about what that meant.

Three weeks after the first time, on a Tuesday night, you were in the back room of Studio 13 with Riki’s shirt on the floor and your jeans somewhere near the door and his mouth on your throat and his hand between your thighs and the playlist coming through the walls and everything was fine, everything was exactly what it was, unnamed and manageable —

And then he said I’ve got you in that low rough voice right against your ear and something in your chest did a thing it wasn’t supposed to do. You filed it away. Dealt with it later. Later didn’t come because he did something with his tongue that made later completely irrelevant.

Wednesday afternoon. Counter. Coffee. Normal. Easy. The same as it had always been except for the part where it wasn’t because now you knew exactly what his hands felt like and what sounds he made and what his face looked like when the composure cracked and sitting on the other side of a counter from him in the middle of the afternoon was — a different experience than it used to be.

He was telling you something about a client — complicated custom piece, back and forth for weeks on the design — and you were listening and also watching his hands move when he talked, the rings catching the light, and thinking about those hands on your waist last night and… “Y/N.”

You looked up. He was looking at you with the quiet knowing expression. “I was listening,” you said.

“You weren’t.”

“I was. Custom piece. Back and forth on the design. Client keeps changing their mind.”

He tilted his head slightly. The corner of his mouth. “What were you thinking about?”

“The flash art.”

“Hm.” He leaned on the counter. His forearms right there, the sleeve on full display, and he looked at you with that unhurried certainty. “You were looking at my hands.”

“I was looking at your rings.”

“Y/N.”

“They’re interesting rings.”

He held your gaze for a long moment. Then he looked down at his hands, turned them over slowly, looked back up at you with an expression that was doing something to your ability to function. “Come back tonight,” he said.

“I was here last night.”

“I know.”

“And the night before.”

“I know.” He didn’t look remotely apologetic. “Come back tonight.”

You looked at him. “We should probably — this probably shouldn’t be—”

“Probably,” he agreed, like the word meant nothing.

“Riki.”

“Tonight, Y/N.”

You looked at your coffee. At him. At the rings on his hands that you had been thinking about and were now not admitting to thinking about. “Fine,” you said.

He picked up his own coffee. Satisfied. Like there had never been any other outcome. From across the shop Jay said nothing. He had learned, over the past three weeks, that saying things got him absolutely nowhere and had adapted accordingly. He simply made eye contact with Sunghoon across the room and they had an entire conversation without words.

That night after Studio 13 closed, which had become its own specific thing — the red light, the quiet, the shop breathing differently when it was empty. Riki had barely locked the front door before you were crossing the floor toward him and his expression when he turned around and saw you moving like that— “Hi,” he said.

“Hi.” You reached him. Your hands went to his chest, his jaw, pulling him down, and he came without resistance, his hands finding your waist immediately, already knowing where to go.

He kissed you slow this time. Deliberately slow, like he was making a point, like the urgency of the last few weeks had shifted into something that wanted to take its time. That was somehow worse. “Riki,” you said against his mouth.

“Hm.”

“Stop going slow.”

“No.” He kissed your jaw. Your throat. Slow and deliberate, his hands sliding under your top to your bare waist. “I spent all afternoon thinking about this.”

“So did I, that’s why—”

“That’s why we’re taking our time.” His mouth at your collarbone. “I want to—” A pause. His lips against your skin. “I want to take you apart properly. Not fast.”

Your hands tightened in his hair. “That’s not fair,” you said.

“No,” he agreed, and kept going. He got your top off and looked at you in the low light the way he always did — that slow, unapologetic assessment that moved over you like you were worth looking at carefully — and then his mouth found your tits and your head fell back.

His tongue. The bar of it, cool and present, circling your nipple, and you made a sound and his hands tightened on your waist. “Good girl,” he said against your skin. “Just like that.”

“Riki—”

“I’ve got you.” He moved to the other side, same slow attention, his hands holding your waist like you might float away. “I’ve got you, just — yeah, just feel it.” You were going to lose your mind. Your hands found his shirt and he let you get it off and then he was walking you back to the couch in the back room and laying you down and looking at you from above with dark eyes and that expression — the open one, the one that had no performance in it.

He got your jeans off slow. His hands running down your thighs as he pulled them, his mouth following, pressing to your hip, the inside of your knee, and by the time he got back up to your folds you were already soaked. “Riki, please—”

“Please what.” His breath against your inner thigh. Close, not close enough.

“Please—”

“Tell me what you want.” His lips brushed your folds, barely, just the suggestion of pressure. “Tell me.”

“Your mouth,” you said. “Please, your mouth—” He gave it to you. The bar of his tongue against your clit and you grabbed the back of the couch and held on. He ate your pussy like he had nowhere else to be — thorough, focused, the same attention he gave everything — and the sounds he made against you, low and hungry, like he was getting something from it—

“God—” your hips rolled and his hands held them down, firm, keep still, and the loss of control of that made it worse in the best way. “Riki I’m — don’t stop, don’t—”

“Not stopping,” he said against your clit. “Cum for me. Come on.”

You did. He worked you through it until you were pulling at his hair telling him too much, too much and he pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh and came back up your body and looked at your face with an expression that was — satisfied wasn’t the right word. Reverent was closer, which was a thing you were absolutely not processing right now. “Good girl,” he said quietly.

“Stop calling me that,” you said, breathless.

“No,” he said simply, and kissed you.

When he finally pushed inside you both exhaled like something had been solved. Slow, this time. Deep. His forehead against yours, his arms bracketing you, his rings cool against the side of your face where his hand was. “Okay?” he said.

“Yeah.” Your voice wasn’t working right. “Yeah, keep — please keep going.”

He moved. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that had you feeling every ridge of the ladder on every stroke and your mouth kept falling open and he watched it happen. “You feel it,” he said. Low, not a question.

“Yes—”

“Good.” His hips rolled deeper and you gasped. “That’s good, you’re so — fuck, Y/N—” His composure was fraying at the edges, the rhythm getting less controlled. “You take me so well. Every time. Like you were—” He stopped himself.

You looked up at him. His jaw was set, his eyes dark, something moving behind them that he’d just pulled back from saying. “Like I was what,” you said.

He looked at you. For a second — just a second — something was right there on his face, unguarded, something that went past the physical and landed somewhere neither of you had named yet. He kissed you instead of answering.

You let him. Filed it away. Pulled him closer and let the question dissolve into the drag and heat of him moving inside you and his mouth on yours and his hand sliding between you to find your clit— “Riki—”

“I know,” he said. “I know, come on, cum for me again, you can—”

“I can’t—”

“You can.” His thumb on your clit, his cock deep, his voice at your ear. “You can, good girl, come on, let me feel you—” You came with his name in your mouth and your whole body shaking and he followed you with his face pressed into your throat and the sound he made was low and broken and yours.

After his thumb moving slow at your hip. The ceiling. The playlist. You were thinking about like you were— and what came after it. You were thinking about I’ve got you and how he said it every time, always, like a reflex, like something that came from somewhere deeper than the moment.

You were thinking about the fact that you knew what his laugh sounded like — the real one, the surprised one — and that you’d been collecting these things without meaning to and the collection was getting heavy. “Riki,” you said.

“Hm.”

“What are we doing.”

Silence. His thumb stopped moving. Then, carefully: “What do you want to be doing.”

You stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”

He was quiet for a long moment. You could feel him thinking — that specific quality of his silences, weighted, considering. “I’m not good at this part,” he said.

“What part.”

“The—” A pause. “Saying things.”

“You say things to me all the time.”

“Not these things.”

You turned your head to look at him. He was looking at the ceiling, jaw slightly tight, the expression of someone navigating something carefully. “What things,” you said quietly.

He turned his head. Your faces close in the dim light. His eyes moved over yours. “I don’t want you going anywhere,” he said. Finally. Quietly. “That’s — that’s what I’ve got right now.”

It wasn’t everything. You both knew it wasn’t everything. But it was Riki, who didn’t say things, saying a thing, and it landed with the weight of something much larger behind it.“Okay,” you said.

“Okay,” he said. His thumb started moving again. You looked back at the ceiling. The unnamed thing stayed unnamed. But it was there, in the room with you, and you both knew it.

The thing about not naming something was that it didn’t stop it from being a thing. It just meant you had no language for it when it started to matter. Four weeks into whatever this was, Ria staged an intervention.

Not a dramatic one — she didn’t have people over or make a presentation, she just showed up at your flat on a Saturday morning with coffee and pastries and sat across from you at your kitchen table with the expression of someone who had been patient for a very long time and was cashing that in now. “Talk,” she said.

“About what.”

“Y/N.”

“I don’t know what you want me to say, Ria.”

“I want you to say what’s happening with Riki.”

You picked up your coffee. “We’re—”

“If you say friends I’m leaving and taking the pastries.”

You put your coffee down. “It’s complicated.”

“Is it? Or is it simple and you’re making it complicated because you’re scared?”

You looked at her. She looked back with the patience of someone who had known you for six years and had seen every version of your avoidance. “We haven’t put a name on it,” you said.

“Why not.”

“Because—” You stopped. Because he’d said I don’t want you going anywhere and you’d said okay and neither of you had pushed past that. Because every Wednesday and every late night felt like building something and neither of you would say what you were building. “It’s working the way it is.”

“Is it.”

“Yes.”

“You like him.”

“Obviously.”

“Like like him.”

“Ria—”

“Y/N.” She leaned forward. “You went back to that shop every week for two months before anything happened. You know his coffee order, his schedule, what makes him laugh. You’ve met his friends. He checks your piercings as an excuse to be close to you.” She paused. “That’s not complicated. That’s you being terrified.”

You stared at the table. “He’s not easy to read,” you said. Finally.

“He gave you his personal card the night he met you,” Ria said. “Heeseung told me he’d never done that before.”

“When did you talk to Heeseung?”

“Jake texts me sometimes.”

“Jake texts you.”

“That’s not the point.” She pushed a pastry toward you. “The point is that boy is absolutely gone for you and you both keep dancing around it and it’s making everyone at Studio 13 insane, apparently.”

“Everyone?”

“Jay’s exact words were if they don’t sort it out soon I’m locking them in the back room.”

You put your face in your hands. “I don’t know how to do this with him,” you said, muffled. “He doesn’t say things. I don’t push. We just—”

“So say something first,” Ria said simply. “You’re not someone who waits, Y/N. That’s not you. You’re doing it because you’re scared he won’t say it back.” You lifted your face. Said nothing. She was right and you both knew it.

You didn’t say anything that Wednesday. You came close — sitting at the counter, coffee in hand, Riki talking about something, his rings on the desk, his eyes finding yours every few sentences the way they always did — and the words were right there, and you looked at his face, and you thought about Ria’s voice saying terrified, and you said nothing. He looked at you at one point like he knew something was moving behind your eyes. “What,” he said.

“Nothing.” You smiled. “Keep going.” He held your gaze for a second. Let it go.

The following Saturday Sunghoon texted you. Not unusual — you’d exchanged numbers for shop-related things, flash piece ideas, scheduling. He was easy to talk to, straightforward, the kind of person whose texts read exactly like his voice.

Sunghoon: hey, you said you were thinking about a collarbone piece right

you: yeah still thinking

Sunghoon: I drew something. wanna see

He sent a photo. Small, delicate, blackwork — something botanical, two thin stems crossing, minimal and precise. It was exactly your taste and you had no idea how he’d known that.

you: sunghoon this is gorgeous

Sunghoon: right? come in monday, I’ll show you the full size version. riki’s off monday so it’ll be quiet

you: sounds good, see you then

You didn’t think anything of it. Sunghoon was your friend. He’d drawn something for you. You were going to look at it. You didn’t mention it to Riki because there was nothing to mention.

Monday the shop was quieter without Riki in it, which was a thing you noticed and filed away as information you didn’t love having. Sunghoon had the drawing laid out on the counter when you arrived — full size, done properly on transfer paper, and it was even better than the photo. You stood over it with him pointing out the details, his hand close to yours on the paper, talking through placement and sizing and whether to add a third stem.

Jay was pretending to do something at the other counter.bHeeseung was in his office with the door open. “Here,” Sunghoon said, and pressed the transfer paper lightly to your collarbone to show you the placement. His hand steadied it against your skin, professional, and you looked in the mirror and thought yes, that was exactly right. Your phone lit up on the counter.

Riki: you at the shop?

You looked at it. Jay looked at it. Sunghoon didn’t see it.

you: yeah, sunghoon drew something for me. just looking at placement

The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.

Riki: k

One letter.

Riki: looks good?

you: really good actually. he’s talented

The dots again. Then nothing. No reply. You put your phone down. Sunghoon was still talking about the third stem. You looked at the transfer in the mirror and tried to pay attention and felt something uneasy settle in your chest.

Riki was at the counter when you arrived Wednesday. You knew within ten seconds that something was wrong. Not visibly wrong — he looked the same, said hey the same, had your coffee ready the same. But his eyes when they met yours were flatter than usual. The warmth was there but dimmed, like something had been turned down. You sat. Picked up your coffee. “How was your day off?” you said.

“Fine.” He was looking at his phone.

“Did you do anything?”

“Not much.” Jay appeared from the back, clocked the atmosphere in approximately two seconds, and disappeared again.

You watched Riki scroll his phone. His jaw was set. Not dramatically — just tight, controlled, the way it got when he was holding something still. “Riki,” you said.

“Hm.”

“Look at me.” He looked up. The flat quality was more visible face to face. Something was moving behind his eyes that he was keeping on a very short leash. “What’s wrong?” you said.

“Nothing.”

“You’ve said twelve words since I got here.”

“I’ve been busy.”

You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the effort of it — the effort of sitting in whatever this was and keeping it even. “Is this about Monday?” you said.

Something shifted in his jaw. “No.”

“Riki.”

“It’s not about Monday.”

“So it is about Monday.”

He put his phone down. Flat on the counter. He looked at you with an expression that was very controlled and also not controlled at all if you knew what to look for, and you knew what to look for now. “You went in on my day off,” he said.

“Sunghoon drew something for me. I told you.”

“I know what you told me.”

“Then what—”

“His hands were on you.” Quiet. Final. Like he’d been sitting on it for two days and it had compacted into something very small and very dense.

You stared at him. “He was showing me placement. For a tattoo. That’s his job.”

“I know that.”

“Then—”

“I know that, Y/N.” His voice was still even but something was pushing at the edges of it. “I know it doesn’t mean anything. I know Sunghoon wasn’t — I know.” He looked at the counter. “It doesn’t stop it feeling—” He stopped.

“Feeling what,” you said. He was quiet for a long moment.

“Wrong,” he said. “It feels wrong. Someone else’s hands on you feels wrong and I don’t know how to make that—” He stopped again. His thumb pressed against the counter. “I’m trying to be rational about it.”

“You went quiet for two days,” you said.

“I know.”

“That’s not — Riki, you can’t just go quiet every time something—”

“I know.” He looked up. His eyes were direct now, no flatness, just the real thing underneath — something frustrated and raw and tired of itself. “I know it’s not fair. I’m telling you I know that. I just—” A breath. “I don’t know how to feel it and not do that. I’m working on it.”

You looked at him for a long moment. “You went quiet instead of talking to me,” you said.

“Yes.”

“And you’re telling me now because I pushed.”

“Yes.” He held your gaze. “I would have told you. I just needed to — I needed it to be smaller before I could say it without it being—” He gestured vaguely. “A lot.”

“Is it smaller now?”

“Somewhat.”

You picked up your coffee. Looked at it. Put it down. “You know that there’s nothing—” you started.

“I know.” Immediately. “Y/N, I know. This isn’t about you. This isn’t about Sunghoon. It’s mine, it’s a me thing, and I’m not trying to make it your problem.”

“It becomes my problem when you disappear.”

“I know.” His jaw shifted. “I’m sorry.”

You looked at him. He looked back, steady, the thing behind his eyes open now in the way it only got when he’d pushed past the control on purpose — when he was giving you something deliberately. “Don’t disappear,” you said. “Whatever it is — just say it. To me. Not in your head for two days.”

“Okay,” he said. His hand moved across the counter and covered yours briefly — the rings cool, the weight of his palm familiar. “Okay, Y/N.”

The touch lasted a few seconds. He didn’t make anything of it. Just let it be there and then pulled back. From the back room, completely audibly, Jay said to someone: “finally.”

“Jay,” Riki said flatly.

“I’m just saying—”

“Jay.”

That night, late. He was in your flat, his idea — he’d texted at nine, not you up or studio’s empty but just your name, which was new. He was on your couch with his legs stretched out and his head back and his eyes on your ceiling and you were beside him close enough to feel the warmth of him and neither of you had moved toward the other yet. Just sitting. Existing in the same space. “Can I ask you something?” you said.

“Yeah.”

“The possessiveness.” You kept your voice even. “Where does it come from.”

A pause. He was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer. “Control,” he said finally. “Or — fear of losing it. Things I care about.” His thumb moved against his own knee. “I spent a long time in situations where things got taken. People I — things I couldn’t protect.” He stopped. “I don’t talk about it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I know.” A pause. “I want to. I just — not yet.”

Not yet. Not never. Not it’s not your business. Not yet meant there was a timeline. Meant he was thinking about it. Meant you were someone he was moving toward telling.

You leaned your head against his shoulder. He went still for a second — surprised, you thought, by the smallness of it, the casualness — and then his head dropped against yours and you felt him exhale. “The collarbone piece,” he said eventually. “Let me do it.”

You lifted your head. Looked at him. “You do tattoos?”

“Heeseung taught me. I’m not on the books for it but—” He met your eyes. “I want to do it. If you want.”

Sunghoon’s drawing. Riki’s hands. “Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”

Something settled in his face. Quiet and satisfied in a way that had nothing to do with the smirk. “Okay,” he said.

You put your head back on his shoulder. His arm moved — slow, like he was checking it was allowed — and settled around you. The unnamed thing pressed closer. Neither of you named it. But his arm tightened slightly and you let it, and that was something too.

The collarbone piece took two sessions. Riki had been clear about that upfront — small piece, delicate linework, he wanted to do it right and doing it right meant not rushing. You’d sat in the chair in the back room of Studio 13 on a quiet Tuesday morning with his hands on your collarbone and his face close and his full attention on the work and tried very hard to be normal about it. You were not normal about it. “Stop tensing,” he said, without looking up.

“I’m not tensing.”

“Your shoulder is up by your ear.” You lowered your shoulder. He glanced up briefly — dark eyes, the focus in them softening for just a second when they met yours — and then back down. “First line’s the worst,” he said. “Then you’ll settle.”

“I’ve been tattooed before.”

“Not by me.” He said it simply. Like it was just a fact. Which it was. But the way he said it landed like something more — like not by me was its own category, its own distinct experience, and he was right, as it turned out, because when the needle touched your collarbone the small shock of it dissolved almost immediately into the warmth of his hands steadying you and his voice saying good, just like that, breathe — and you settled.

You watched his face while he worked. This version of him — the work version, focused and quiet and completely present — was one of your favorites. All the usual energy went inward. The smirk was gone, the easy confidence was still there but different, channeled into precision. He moved the machine in small careful arcs and his free hand was always on you, always steadying, always aware of exactly how much pressure to use. “You’re staring,” he said.

“You said that to me once before.”

“You were staring then too.”

“Maybe I just have a specific staring problem.”

The corner of his mouth moved. He didn’t look up. “Maybe you do.”

He kissed you after the session. Not immediately — he’d finished, stepped back, examined the work with that quiet critical eye, declared it good. You’d looked in the mirror and felt something warm move through your chest at the sight of it — the two stems, thin and precise, sitting exactly right on your collarbone. “It’s perfect,” you said.

“I know.” He was already at the sink, washing his hands, and you could hear the smile in it even without seeing his face. You got up from the chair. Crossed the small space between you. And when he turned around you were right there and his expression shifted — from satisfied work-focus to something more personal, more immediate — and you put your hand on his jaw and kissed him.

He kissed you back with his damp hands at your waist, careful not to touch the fresh tattoo, and it was slow and unhurried and tasted like coffee and something that was just him and when you pulled back his eyes stayed closed for a second. Opened. Looked at you. “Hi,” he said quietly.

“Hi,” you said. His thumb moved at your waist. The rings. The warmth of his palms through your shirt.

“Come back Thursday for the second session,” he said.

“I know, you told me.”

“Just making sure.” He kissed you again before you could respond — quick, soft, his mouth on yours for just a moment — and then stepped back and handed you the aftercare sheet and was professional again, mostly, except for the way his eyes followed you to the door.

Thursday’s second session was longer. More detail, more shading on the stems, a small shadow that made the whole thing lift off the skin. You sat in the chair and he worked and you talked — properly talked, the way you did at the counter but quieter, more contained, just the two of you in the partitioned space.

He told you about growing up. Small things — not the things he kept locked, but around the edges of them. A younger brother. Moving schools twice. Being good at things with his hands from early on, carving things, taking things apart to see how they worked. “Is that why the piercing?” you said.

“Partly.” He shifted the machine slightly. “Partly because it’s — immediate. You do it right and you see it right away. No waiting to find out.”

“You like knowing things work.”

He glanced up. “Yeah.”

“Control thing.”

A pause. “Yeah,” he said again, quieter. You let that sit. Didn’t push.

“Tell me something else,” he said, after a moment. Deflecting but not — more like redirecting, like he wanted the conversation to keep going just in a different direction.

So you told him things. About your course, your family, the flat you’d moved into two years ago that still didn’t feel completely yours. The way Ria had been your anchor through everything since you were sixteen. How you’d wanted to study abroad and hadn’t and sometimes still thought about it. “Why didn’t you?” he said.

“Felt like running away from something.”

“Were you?”

You thought about it. “Probably.”

He looked up. His eyes on yours, level. “What were you running from.”

“Someone,” you said. “It doesn’t matter now.”

He held your gaze for a moment. You watched something move through his expression — something careful, something that might have been jealousy at its very distant edges but was mostly just — paying attention. Storing it. Like everything you gave him went somewhere it would be kept.

“Their loss,” he said. Simply. Looked back down. You looked at the top of his head and felt the unnamed thing press against your ribs from the inside.

He finished the piece in two hours. You both looked at it in the mirror — his chin near your shoulder, your reflection side by side — and neither of you said anything for a moment. “Well,” you said.

“Yeah,” he said. It was exactly right. Better than right. The kind of thing that looked like it had always been there, like your skin had been waiting for it.

You turned. He was right there, closer than you’d clocked, and you put both hands on his chest and looked up at him and he looked down at you and the moment expanded slightly. “Thank you,” you said.

“Don’t thank me.”

“Riki—”

“It was for me as much as you,” he said. Quiet. Direct. No smirk in it. “I wanted to put something on you. That’s—” He stopped. His jaw shifted. “That’s a me thing. Don’t thank me for it.”

You looked at him. He looked back, steady, and the naked quality of what he’d just said sat between you — I wanted to put something on you — and neither of you moved for a second.

Then you kissed him. Slow, deliberate, your hands spreading on his chest. He made a low sound and his arms came around you — gentle because of the fresh tattoo, careful, his hands at your back instead of your waist — and he kissed you back like he had time, like he wanted to use it.

When you broke apart he kept his forehead against yours. “Stay,” he said. Low. “Tonight. Just—” A pause. “Just stay.”

“Okay,” you said. You ate takeout on the floor of the back room because the couch was small and the floor had more space and Riki sat with his back against the couch and you sat between his legs with your back against his chest and it was so domestically comfortable that it was almost alarming.

He ate with one arm around you. His chin occasionally dropping to your shoulder to look at whatever you were showing him on your phone. His thumb making that small absent arc at your hip that he did when he wasn’t thinking about it.

“Ria thinks we need to define this,” you said, at some point. His arm didn’t tighten. Didn’t loosen. He was quiet for a moment.

“What do you think?” he said.

“I think Ria is right about most things.”

“Hm.” His thumb kept moving. “What would you define it as.”

You turned your head slightly. His face was close — close enough to see the detail of the scar through his eyebrow, the silver of his earring, the way he was looking at you with that careful open expression he only had when there was no one else around. “I don’t know,” you said. “What would you.”

“Mine,” he said. Quiet. Simple. Like it was the most obvious answer.

Your heart did something inconvenient. “That’s very you,” you said.

“Is it wrong?”

You turned back to face forward. His arm around you. The takeout. The red light. “No,” you said. “It’s not wrong.”

You felt him exhale against the back of your head. Slow, like something had released. His lips pressed briefly to your hair. Not a kiss exactly — too soft, too absent, more like a thing he did without deciding to.

You stayed on the floor until midnight. Talked about nothing important. Everything slightly important. He told you Jake was obviously falling for Hana and was handling it terribly, which you already knew, and you told him Ria had started texting Jake directly to speed the process along, which he did not know and which made him laugh — the real one, sudden, surprised. You stored it.

“I should go,” you said eventually. You had a nine AM seminar and the responsible thing—

“Yeah,” he said. Made no move to untangle himself from around you.

“Riki.”

“Five minutes.”

“You said that twenty minutes ago.”

“Five more minutes.” You leaned back into him and gave him the five minutes. He pressed his mouth to the side of your head again — that soft, absent thing, lips in your hair — and you closed your eyes and thought about mine and the way he’d said it like it was just the truth.

When you finally stood up he walked you to the door the way he always did. Unlocked it. Held it open. You turned back. He kissed you in the doorway — unhurried, thorough, one hand cupping your jaw and the other flat against the doorframe — and you kissed him back and it went on longer than a goodbye kiss needed to, longer than was practical, until he pulled back and looked at you with dark eyes and slightly wrecked composure.

“Wednesday,” he said. His thumb traced your jaw once before dropping.

“Wednesday,” you said. You made it to the end of the street. You looked back. He was still in the doorway, leaning on the frame, watching you go. When he saw you look he didn’t pretend he hadn’t been watching. Just held your gaze across the dark street. You turned back around and smiled at the pavement the whole way to the bus stop.

Heeseung had told everyone to come to his flat for dinner on Saturday — no occasion, just food, just all of them in the same place — and you’d arrived with Ria who had told you she’d been waiting for this invitation for weeks, which meant Jake had told her about it before Riki had told you, which meant something.

Heeseung’s flat was calm and dark-walled like the shop, art everywhere, music at a volume that allowed conversation. Jay was already there and immediately pulled Ria into an argument about something. Jake appeared from the kitchen and the way his face changed when he saw Ria was something you were going to tell Riki about later.

Riki was on the couch. He looked up when you came in and the smile that happened was immediate and unguarded — no performance, no build up, just his face doing the thing it did when you appeared, the thing you didn’t think he knew it did. He moved over without being asked. You sat beside him. Close. His arm went across the back of the couch behind you — not around you, but there, present, the rings near your shoulder.

Sunghoon arrived twenty minutes later and dropped onto the armchair across from you and looked at you both with an expression of great satisfaction. “You two sorted?” he said.

“Sunghoon,” Riki said.

“What? Last month you were—“ He stopped. “I’m just asking—”

“We’re sorted,” you said. Sunghoon grinned. Riki’s arm moved from the back of the couch to actually around your shoulders, like Sunghoon asking had given him permission to stop pretending he wasn’t doing it.

Dinner was loud and easy and everyone talked over everyone and Jay told a story about a client that got more elaborate every time he told it and Ria fit in like she’d always been there and Heeseung sat at the head of the table and said little and watched everything with quiet satisfaction.

After dinner you ended up back on the couch. Riki beside you, your legs across his, his hand resting on your ankle. The conversation had split across the room — Jay and Sunghoon, Ria and Jake in what looked like an increasingly interesting exchange, Heeseung in the kitchen. “You good?” Riki said quietly, just to you.

“Yeah.” You looked at the room. “This is nice.”

“They like you.”

“Jay likes everyone.”

“Heeseung doesn’t,” he said. Simple. “He likes you.”

You looked at him. “How can you tell?”

“He invited you.” He said it like it was obvious. “He doesn’t do this for everyone. He did it because—” A pause. His hand moved slightly on your ankle. “Because you’re—” He stopped.

“Because I’m what,” you said softly.

He looked at you. The room was noisy around you but it felt like it had contracted to just this, just his face and yours and the thing he was about to say. “Important,” he said. Quiet. “Because you’re important.”

Your heart did the inconvenient thing again, harder this time. “Riki,” you said.

“Yeah.”

“That word—”

“I know what word I used.” You looked at him. He looked back, steady, not taking it back, not softening it. Just — sitting in it, the way he sat in most things, patient and certain.

Across the room Jay said something loud and everyone laughed and the moment breathed. Riki’s hand moved from your ankle to your calf. Warm. Present. “Stay tonight,” he said. Low enough that it was only for you. “Not at the shop. Mine.”

His. His flat, which you hadn’t been to, which was a different thing than the back room couch. A different kind of staying. “Yeah,” you said.

He nodded. Looked back at the room. But his hand stayed on your leg and his shoulder was warm against yours and you sat in the important and let it settle into something that felt permanent.

Later, when most people had gone and Ria was helping Heeseung with something in the kitchen and it was just you and Riki by the door putting your jacket on he turned you by the shoulders. Kissed you slowly, his hands on your face, thumbs at your jaw. The kind of kiss that had no agenda, no direction, just wanted to exist. When he pulled back he looked at you for a long moment.

The word boyfriend was right there in the room. Neither of you said it. But his hand found yours and held it, and he didn’t let go the whole way to his flat, and somewhere in the space between mine and important and his fingers between yours on a dark street — the unnamed thing finally had a shape. You just hadn’t said it out loud yet.

His flat was on the third floor of a building that had seen better decades, the kind of place that was held together by good bones and someone who actually cared about the space inside it. You didn’t know what you’d expected.

More of the shop, maybe — dark walls, flash art, the deliberate aesthetic. And there was some of that. Dark furniture, a few framed pieces on the walls, one large canvas above the couch that was either very expensive or done by someone he knew and you suspected the latter. But it was also — lived in, in a specific way. Books stacked in an order that made sense only to him. A record player in the corner with a small collection beside it. The kitchen clean in the way of someone who cooked properly and cleaned as they went.

It was a home. Actually a home. That surprised you and you didn’t know why it surprised you and then you thought about what he’d said — I spent a long time in situations where things got taken — and understood it. He’d built this. Deliberately. Piece by piece. “Stop analyzing it,” he said from the kitchen.

“I’m not analyzing it.”

“You have your analyzing face on.”

“I don’t have an analyzing face.”

He appeared in the kitchen doorway with two glasses of water and looked at you standing in his living room in your jacket still on and raised an eyebrow. “Take your jacket off,” he said. “You’re staying.” You took your jacket off.

You fell asleep on his couch. Not intentionally — you’d been talking, the record player on low, and somewhere between one subject and the next the warmth of him beside you and the late hour pulled you under. You were aware of it happening distantly, the conversation getting slower, your eyes getting heavy, and you didn’t fight it.

You woke up in his bed. He’d moved you. At some point while you slept he’d carried you — or walked you, half-conscious — to the bed and put you in it and the duvet was pulled up and his pillow smelled like him and you lay there in the early grey morning and stared at the ceiling and felt something enormous and inconvenient sitting on your chest.

You heard him in the kitchen. The quiet sounds of someone who knew how to exist in the morning without disturbing anyone. You lay there and thought about mine and important and the collarbone tattoo and his hand in yours on the dark street and the back room couch and two months of Wednesdays and the card he’d slid across the counter the first night like he’d already decided.

You thought about Ria’s voice. You’re terrified. You were terrified.

He was at the kitchen counter with his back to you when you came in. Making coffee, unhurried, still in the clothes from last night minus the jacket. Rings on his hands already. You didn’t know if he’d slept. He turned when he heard you. Took in your expression with one look. “Hey,” he said carefully.

“Hey.” You stood in the kitchen doorway. Your heart was doing something loud. “You moved me.”

“You were asleep on my couch.”

“You could have woken me up.”

“You looked tired.” Simple. Like it was nothing. Like carrying you to his bed was just a practical thing he’d done without thinking. “Coffee?”

“Riki.” He looked at you. Really looked — reading whatever was on your face with that careful focus, taking it in.

“What’s going on,” he said.

“Nothing. I just—” You stopped. Started again. “I woke up in your bed and it—” You pressed your fingers to your mouth briefly. “It felt like something.” He was quiet. Waiting.

“I think this is something,” you said. “I think it’s been something for a while and we keep not saying it and I’m—” You exhaled. “I’m tired of not saying it.”

The kitchen was very quiet. Riki leaned back against the counter. Crossed his arms. His expression was the open one — no performance, no control layered over it, just his face and whatever was behind it. “Say it then,” he said quietly.

You looked at him. “I want this to be a thing. A real thing. I want—” You. “I want the name.”

He uncrossed his arms. Crossed the kitchen in three steps and he was right in front of you and his hands came up to your face — both of them, palms at your jaw, tilting your face up — and he looked at you for one long second. “It’s already a thing,” he said. “It’s been a thing.” His thumb moved at your cheekbone. “I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”

“That’s very smug,” you said. Your voice wasn’t fully steady.

“I know.” He wasn’t smiling. His eyes were serious, dark, right there. “Y/N.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not good at the words,” he said. “You know that. But this—” his thumbs traced your face, gentle and deliberate “—this is not nothing. This hasn’t been nothing since you walked into my shop.”

Your hands found his wrists. Held on. “Okay,” you said.

“Okay,” he said. He kissed you. Soft, slow, his hands still on your face like he wanted to hold the moment still. You kissed him back and felt the unnamed thing finally, finally settle into something with a shape and a weight and a name you’d figure out the exact word for later.

When he pulled back he pressed his forehead to yours. “Boyfriend is a weird word,” he said.

You laughed. Surprised out of you, real. “It really is.”

“But yeah.” His mouth curved. “That.”

“That,” you agreed. He kissed you again, brief and warm, and then stepped back and handed you a coffee and the domesticity of it — his flat, his coffee, his hands, the morning — hit you somewhere soft.

“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll make breakfast.”

“You cook?”

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

“Riki I’ve known you for months and I’ve never seen you eat anything that wasn’t takeout or coffee.”

“That’s at the shop.” He was already at the fridge. “At home I cook.”

You sat at his kitchen counter on a stool and watched him move around his kitchen with the same ease he brought to everything — competent, unhurried, knowing where things were — and drank your coffee and felt the warmth of the morning settle around you. “What are you making?” you said.

“Eggs.”

“Just eggs?”

“Good eggs.” He glanced back. “Don’t underestimate eggs.”

They were good eggs. You ate at his kitchen counter side by side, your shoulder against his, and the conversation came easy the way it always did — drifting, unhurried, one thing opening into another. He told you about the record player, how he’d found it at a market two years ago and had to carry it up three flights on his own. You told him about the flat you’d wanted that you hadn’t got and ended up in your current one instead and how it had turned out better. “Things usually do,” he said.

“Philosopher.”

“Just paying attention.” His hand found yours on the counter between you. Covered it. Not making anything of it — just there, warm and present. You turned your hand over and his fingers slid between yours. You sat like that until the coffee was cold.

He walked you out two hours later. Down the three flights and out onto the morning street, quiet at this hour, pale winter sun doing its best. He had his jacket on, hands in his pockets, walking beside you in the direction of the bus stop. “You don’t have to walk me,” you said.

“I know.” He walked you anyway. His shoulder bumping yours occasionally. Not holding your hand now — just beside you, present, taking up the right amount of space. At the bus stop he turned to face you. “Wednesday,” he said.

“Wednesday,” you said. Then: “Actually I might come Tuesday. I need to talk to Heeseung about extending the collarbone piece.”

Something moved across his face. Quick, then gone. “You want to extend it?” he said.

“Just the stems, maybe. One more.” You looked at his expression. “What?”

“I’ll do it,” he said. Immediate.

“I know you’ll do it—”

“I mean — the extension. Let me do it.” His jaw was doing the thing. “Not Heeseung.”

You looked at him. Understood. “Okay,” you said.

“Okay.” The jaw relaxed. A short exhale.

You reached up and kissed him — he leaned down to meet you before you’d fully extended, like he’d been waiting for it — and it was brief and warm and tasted like coffee. “Tuesday,” you said against his mouth.

“Tuesday,” he said. The bus appeared at the end of the road. He stepped back. Hands back in his pockets. Watching you with that settled, certain expression. “Text me when you’re home,” he said. New. That was new.

“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “Okay.”

You texted Ria from the bus.

you: we sorted it

The reply was immediate. She’d been awake, waiting.

Ria: WHAT

you: it’s a thing. officially.

Ria: I KNEW IT I HAVE BEEN SAYING does he even know the word boyfriend???

you: he said it’s a weird word

Ria: oh my god he’s so him

you: he made me eggs

Ria: Y/N!!!

you: they were really good eggs

Ria: I am going to cry. IM SO HAPPY!

You put your phone in your pocket and looked out the bus window at the city going past and felt something settled and warm sitting in your chest where the unnamed thing used to be.

Daniel saw you get off the bus. You didn’t notice him. You were texting Riki — something small, a photo of a dog outside the coffee shop you were passing, the kind of thing you sent now because you could — and you walked past him without looking up.

He watched you go. Watched the way you were smiling at your phone. He knew about the tattoo shop. He’d heard you mention it. He’d put things together — the visits, the name that came up, the way you’d brushed him off every time since October.

He pulled out his own phone. Started looking. It didn’t take long. Public record. The charge, the conviction, the sentence. He read it twice. Read the name again. Looked up Studio 13. He sat with it for a long time. Then he texted Soo.

Daniel: hey, you’re friends with Y/N right. I need to tell you something about someone she’s seeing.

The thing about finally naming something was that it changed the texture of everything. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just — small shifts, accumulating. The way he texted now, more often, nothing significant but there. The way he said my girlfriend to a client who asked about the collarbone piece, casual, not looking at you when he said it, and you’d had to look very hard at the flash wall for a moment. The way his hand found yours in public without him thinking about it first. Small things. Heavy things.

You were catastrophically gone for him and had been for a while and now there was nothing to hide it behind.

The first Tuesday after you came into Studio 13 at noon and Riki was with a client so Jay made you coffee and sat across from you at the counter with the expression of someone who had been waiting to say something. “So,” he said.

“Don’t,” you said.

“I just want to say—”

“Jay.”

“I called it.” He held up both hands. “First week you came in. I said to Sunghoon, I said that girl is going to wreck him, and I was right—”

“I didn’t wreck anyone—”

“In a good way.” He was grinning. “He’s different. He’s — I’ve known Riki for two years and he texted me last Sunday morning just to talk. Riki. Texting. On a Sunday. Because he was in a good mood and wanted to—”

“Jay.” Riki’s voice from the piercing section, flat. He’d finished with his client without you noticing.

“I’m just saying—”

“I heard what you were saying.” Riki came around the partition and looked at you and the expression on his face when it landed on you was the thing Jay had been describing without being able to name it — something unlocked, something that had been held tight for a long time and wasn’t anymore.

He came to the counter. Leaned down and kissed you hello like it was something he’d been doing for years. Brief, warm, his hand on your jaw for just a second. Jay made a noise. Riki sat on his stool without acknowledging him. Picked up his coffee. “How’s the collarbone?” he said.

“Good. I want to talk about an extension.”

“I know what I’ll doing with it.”

“I haven’t told you what I want yet.”

“I know what you want.” He met your eyes. Completely certain. “Trust me.”

You looked at him. Thought about the first piece — how right it had been, how it had looked like it had always been there. “Fine,” you said.

Jay, very quietly, said: “He’s so different.”

The extension happened the following Thursday. One more stem. Slightly longer than the others, curving toward your shoulder, a small bud at the end that he’d added without asking and that was so exactly right you hadn’t been able to speak for a moment when you saw it. “Riki,” you said.

“Hm.” He was examining the placement, focused.

“The bud.”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t ask for that.”

“No.” He glanced up. Brief, the focus breaking for just a second. “Do you like it?”

You looked in the mirror. The three stems, the new one curving outward, the small closed bud at its tip. Something that looked like potential. Like something about to open. “Yeah,” you said. “I like it.”

He looked back down. Said nothing. But his free hand, steadying your shoulder, pressed slightly. Small. Deliberate.

Three weeks in and the shape of things had settled. Wednesdays at the shop. Tuesday evenings at his flat, which had become a specific thing — you’d bring food, he’d already have the record player going, and you’d eat on his couch or his kitchen floor and talk until one of you fell asleep. Some Fridays at yours, which he’d come to twice now and moved through with the particular attentiveness of someone learning a space they planned to know well.

His things had started appearing at your flat. A hoodie, first — left behind, not retrieved. Then a phone charger. Then a record he’d brought over to show you something and hadn’t taken back. You didn’t point any of this out. Neither did he.

You had a key to Studio 13. That had happened without discussion — Riki had taken it off his keyring one night when you’d arrived before him and handed it to you and gone back to what he was doing. You’d stared at it for a full ten seconds.

This was how he said things. Not in words. In the key. In the bud on the stem. In text me when you’re home and Sunday morning texts and the way he always, always knew when something was wrong before you’d said anything. You were learning his language. It was quieter than most people’s but it was fluent.

Four weeks in, on a Wednesday night after Studio 13 closed as usual. But tonight the energy was different from the second you’d locked the front door behind you — something in the way he’d looked at you across the shop all evening, something that had been building since you’d arrived and had nowhere to go while there were other people present.

He kissed you against the front counter the second the lock clicked. Not soft. Not the hello-kiss or the goodbye-kiss or the slow deliberate thing from his kitchen. This was four weeks of officially named wanting, his hands in your hair and your hands in his jacket and both of you breathing differently inside ten seconds. He pulled back. Looked at your face. “Hi,” you said.

“Hi.” His voice was rough already. His hands moved from your hair to your waist, sliding under your top to bare skin, and you felt his rings and exhaled. “Been thinking about you all day.”

“I was here all evening.”

“I know.” His mouth found your jaw, your throat. “Worse.”

“Riki—”

“I know.” He pulled your top up and off and looked at you in the low red light the way he always did — that slow, deliberate sweep that moved over you like you were something he was committing to memory. The collarbone piece. His hands on you. “God,” he said quietly. Not performing it. Just — reacting.

“Come here,” you said. He came. He got you onto the front counter. Which was new. Which was — you looked around the shop, the dark windows, the closed door, and then his hands were on your thighs spreading them and he was standing between them and the location became very irrelevant. “Here?” you said.

“Here.” He kissed you again, deep, his tongue against yours and the bar of it doing what it always did to your ability to think. His hands pushed your skirt up your thighs, found your underwear, pushed it aside — and his fingers were there, at your folds, and you grabbed the edge of the counter.

“Riki—”

“Already.” His fingers moved through your folds, slow, feeling you. “Fuck, Y/N, already—”

“Don’t be smug—”

“I’m not.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw, your throat. “I’m really not.” His fingers found your clit and circled and your hips rolled forward. “That’s it. That’s—” A breath. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

“Tell me,” you breathed.

He pushed two fingers inside you and your head fell back. “This,” he said, low, watching your face. “Every time. Every fucking time you walk in here I want—” His fingers curled and you gasped. “Yeah. That. I want that sound.”

“More—”

“More?” He kept the pace slow. Deliberate. His thumb finding your clit while his fingers moved and the combination was devastating. “You sure? We’re not in a rush.”

“Riki I swear to god—”

He laughed — low, warm, real — and his fingers moved deeper and his thumb pressed harder and you grabbed his shoulder and held on. “Good girl,” he said against your throat. “So good. So wet for me, every time, like you spend all day—”

“I do,” you said, breathless. “I do, okay, is that what you want to hear—”

“Yes,” he said simply, and meant it, and his fingers moved faster. You came with your face pressed into his neck and his name in your mouth, his fingers working you through it, not stopping until you pulled at his hair and told him too much, too much—

He pulled his hand back. Pressed his mouth to your temple. Your cheekbone. The corner of your mouth. “Good girl,” he said again, softer. “You’re so—”

“Don’t you dare say something nice right now,” you said. “I can’t handle it.” He pressed his smile into your hair.

You got his jeans open. Got your hand on his cock and felt him exhale sharply against your neck —that involuntary thing, the crack in the control — and stroked slowly and felt every bar of the ladder and heard him make a sound that was almost pained. “Y/N—”

“Yeah?”

“I need—” His hips pushed forward slightly. “Fuck, I need you to—”

“Need me to what.” You kept the pace slow. His own medicine.

His forehead dropped to your shoulder. “Please.” The please from Riki — rare, wrecked, genuine — landed somewhere it always landed and you let go of him and pulled him forward by his waistband and he understood, got his jeans down, stepped between your thighs.

He pushed inside in one slow stroke and you both went still. His hands braced on the counter either side of you. Your hands on his chest. The shop around you, the red light, the flash art on the walls watching everything. “Okay?” he said. Rough. Always asked.

“Move,” you said. “Please, Riki, move—” He moved.

The front counter was cold under your hands and he was warm everywhere else — his chest against yours, his mouth at your throat, his hips rolling into you in a rhythm that started slow and deliberate and got less controlled as it went. “You feel—” He broke off. His jaw set. “Every time. Like the first time, every—”

“Don’t stop talking,” you said. “I like it when you talk.”

He made a rough sound. “You like it.”

“Yes—”

“Good girl for telling me.” His pace shifted deeper and you choked on a breath. “Good girl for always — fuck — for always telling me what you want—”

“Riki—”

“I’ve got you.” His hand slid between you, found your clit, and you arched. “I’ve got you, come on, cum for me, you can—”

“I just—”

“I know.” His thumb circled. “Do it again. Come on. Let me feel you cum on my cock, Y/N—”

The degradation and the praise all tangled together and his thumb and the ladder on every stroke and his voice at your ear and you shattered again — harder this time, your whole body locking up, his name loud enough that it bounced off the dark walls—

He followed you. His rhythm breaking, his breath gone, his hands gripping the counter so hard you heard his rings knock against it — and the sound he made when he came was the broken one, the helpless one, the one you collected and kept.

After the both of you on the front counter, you sitting, him leaning against it beside you. Still not fully dressed. The playlist had long since ended and the shop was quiet except for both of you getting your breathing back. You looked at the flash art on the walls. “We just did that on the front counter,” you said.

“We did.”

“Where clients sit.”

“I’ll clean it.”

You looked at him. He looked back with the wrecked-and-unbothered expression, his hair completely destroyed, his rings catching the low light. “You’re not even slightly embarrassed,” you said.

“No.” Simple. His hand found your knee. “Are you?”

You thought about it. “No.” He smiled. The real one.

You leaned your head on his shoulder and he turned his face into your hair and you sat on the front counter of Studio 13 at midnight and the warmth of it — the us of it — felt like something you could live inside. “Stay,” he said. Into your hair.

“At yours?”

“Here. Couch in the back.” His hand moved at your knee. “Don’t want you to go yet.”

You lifted your head. Looked at his face. “Riki. I’m not going anywhere,” you said.

His eyes moved over yours. The thing behind them — the possessive, careful, quietly terrified thing that drove the jealousy and the silence and the hand always finding yours — settled. “I know,” he said. Like he was practicing believing it.

“I know you know.” You put your hand on his jaw. “I’m telling you anyway.” He turned his face into your palm. Brief. Eyes closing for just a second.

Then he stood up, pulled you off the counter, kept your hand in his. “Couch,” he said.

“Couch,” you agreed.

You were asleep within minutes with Riki’s jacket over you and his voice low in the background talking to someone on the phone — his brother, you thought, distantly, the conversation too quiet to hear properly — and the red light under the door and the smell of ink and his hoodie under your cheek.

You were asleep and warm and his and the storm was three weeks away. It felt like nothing could touch this.

Daniel texted your friend Soo on a Wednesday night. She didn’t tell you immediately. That was the first thing — she sat on it for four days, turning it over, looking at the record he’d sent her, reading it and rereading it. The charge. The conviction. The length of the sentence. Assault. Grievous bodily harm. Victim: female.

She read those words and thought about you and made a decision she believed was the right one. She texted you on a Sunday.

You were at Riki’s flat. Sunday morning, late, the good kind of late — his record player going, both of you in the kitchen, you on the counter watching him make coffee with the focused competence he brought to everything. His hair was wrecked. He had a bruise on his collarbone that was your fault and he’d looked at it in the mirror that morning with an expression of complete satisfaction that had made you throw a pillow at him. Your phone lit up on the counter beside you.

Soo: hey can we talk today. it’s important.

Soo: it’s about Riki.

You looked at the screen. “What,” Riki said. He’d clocked your face without turning around. He did that.

“Soo wants to talk.” You kept your voice neutral. “About you.”

He turned. Read your expression. His jaw did the thing — the subtle set — but his voice stayed even. “What about me?”

“She didn’t say.”

A pause. He looked at the coffee. Back at you. “When?”

“Today apparently.” He nodded. Said nothing. Turned back to the coffee and you watched his shoulders and thought about the tension in them and didn’t ask.

You met Soo at the coffee place near yours at two. She was already there when you arrived. She had her hands around her cup and her expression was the one she got when she was about to say something she’d rehearsed — careful, prepared, slightly guilty around the edges. You sat down. “Just tell me,” you said.

She put her phone on the table. Turned it to face you. A screenshot. A public record database. The name — Nishimura Riki — and below it the details, dry and legal and devastating in their simplicity. Charge: Assault occasioning grievous bodily harm. Victim: Female, 28. Sentence: 14 months. Probation: 12 months.

If one were to ask why you were so terrified of going to the dentist, you could spend hours going on and on about how scary the feeling of the dentist drilling your teeth.

You knew they were doing it for your own good and how it's part of their job. But you couldn't helped it! Not when you were able to hear and feel the vibrations running down your body, from head to toe.

You disliked the feeling of having two to four equipments shoved into your mouth, forcing you to open it as wide as possible so they wouldn't sliced your sensitive gum on accident. You had to squeeze your eyes shut whenever you went to an appointment, which only further enhanced the sensation of feeling them doing god-knows-what on your poor teeth.

The last time you went for one was five years ago. Five years of actively avoiding going to the dentist. Five years of treating it like it's some sort of contagious virus. Five years of doing everything you can to come up with pathetic, flimsy and creative excuses whenever your mother proposed going to the dentist.

It was easy when you were still a college student, able to use your academics and club activities to defend yourself, telling her you didn't have the time to slot in an appointment. But when you graduated, you didn't have any means of weapon anymore, leaving you defenseless and acting like a sitting duck.

Much to your disappointment, your mother reacted faster than you expected. You were in your room, doomscrolling away on your phone, utterly bored out of your mind when she barged in without knocking, causing you to jump, yelping when the device landed squarely on your nose.

"Mom! What the hell!?" You exclaimed, rubbing your sore nose as you glared at her.

She ignored your outburst, a determined look on her face. "Get dressed, (Name). We're going to the dental for an appointment."

You groaned the moment you heard that, sinking into your bed. "But mom, I told you that I don't need it."

She clicked her tongue in disapproval. "I don't care what you have to say. Just get up and you better be dressed in the next five minutes or I'm dragging you out of the house myself."

You shivered, knowing how strict your mother can be when she's threatening you. Thus, you were left with no choice but to oblige—getting out of bed, throwing on more appropriate clothes. Although, how appropriate can you be when you're only going to a dentist appointment, where the dental is just a fifteen minutes drive away?

You settled on an oversized faded graphics shirt with a pair of pants. It wasn't too lazy nor was it too much, perfectly resting in the middle. Once you were done, you headed down to the living room, where your mother was waiting. She looked up, clearly pleased to see you and got up from the couch, sliding her phone into her bag.

"Good, you're ready. Let's go, the sooner we do this, the sooner you'd be done," she said, opening the door and stepped out, leaving you following her hot on her heels with a resigned sigh as you accepted your fate.

~

You were already shaking the moment you got into the car, which only got even worse once you arrived at the dental.

Your mother entered confidently, greeting the receptionist—a woman looking to be in her late 30s, cheerfully, like she wasn't responsible for your current state. The two chatted like they were old friends while you sat on the couch, fiddling with your trembling hands to distract yourself.

You let your eyes drift about, taking in the surroundings—the countless impressive certificates framed and hanged on the wall on your right. Every certificate had the same name—Nishimura Riki. You knew studying dental isn't a smooth-sailing process nor was it easy by any means, which meant that whoever this Riki person is, has to be extremely smart and gifted.

"…ed that you managed to convince your daughter to come over today," the woman told your mother in a hushed tone.

You strained your ears, trying to eavesdrop on their conversation while they paid you no mind, oblivious.

Your mother chuckled. "I had to threaten her or else we won't be here today. Is Dr. Nishimura in today? I haven't seen or heard his voice."

"Oh, he's running a little late. But don't worry, you can sit and wa—"

Ding.

The bell above the front door chimed, announcing the arrival of another person. At this, the receptionist paused mid-sentence, turning to the door from where she sat and she sent a friendly, professional smile to the newcomer.

"Ah, there he is. Speak of the devil."

Out of sheer curiosity, you turned to the entrance and your mind malfunctioned.

He's tall, tall enough to command the room without even trying. The man was dressed in black from head to toe with a pristine white coat donned over it, a takeaway cup of iced coffee and a pair of black-framed glasses resting on the bridge of his nose. He pushed it up with his left index finger mindlessly, like it's a reflex rather than an instinct, flashing the receptionist an apologetic smile.

"Sorry I'm late. Traffic was worse than I expected," he said, voice low and smooth and it flowed across the clinic effortlessly.

You barely heard anything, unable to tear your eyes away from the sight before you as you drank in every tiny detail, committing it to your memory. Pitch-black hair that's slightly tousled—either from the morning breeze, him rushing over or him running his hand through it. A sharp and elongated nose. A pair of kissable, full and thick lips.

No fucking way…

Your breath hitched, unaware of how you're clenching your fists with your nails digging into your palms. You didn't have to think twice, easily admitting that the man standing by the entrance is downright the most handsome man you've seen in your entire life.

"Dr. Nishimura, good morning. I see you're late as always," the receptionist greeted sarcastically.

Your pulse stuttered, eyes widening slightly when you heard his name. That's Dr. Nishimura? The very same dentist your mother had been insisting on bringing you to? You expected someone else—a middle-aged man with gray hair and a bald spot visible.

You didn't expect this—for the dentist to be this good-looking and dangerous for your sanity and heart. Speaking of your heart, it slammed against your ribcage when he glanced around the waiting room, even though there was no one else but you seated on the couch, before his gaze landed on your figure.

It took all of you to not flinched when you locked eyes with him. It was only for a second before he ventured further into the clinic, disappearing after rounding a corner. Your shoulders sagged with relief the moment he was gone, able to breathe properly without feeling suffocated.

Maybe, just maybe, you might find going to the dentist a little more tolerable now.

~

"(Name)? You may enter now. Dr. Nishimura is ready to see you," the woman seated by the high-rise receptionist counter informed you.

You nodded, standing from the couch, only to pause when you realized your mother remained seated, showing no signs of following you. At your bemused look, she waved you off with a dismissive flick of her wrist, shooing you away like you're some sort of persistent, annoying fly. Even though she's the reason why you're here in the first place.

"You can handle it yourself. You're a big girl now, I'll be here waiting when you're done," she said.

You swallowed, heart pounding in your chest when it hits you—that you'd be alone in the room with the man who oozes sex appeal. The thought of being in the same room and breathing in the same air space made your hands trembled like fallen leaves. Still, you didn't want to do anything that could lead to you being kicked out.

Not to mention, your mother is with you too. You can only imagined she won't have a positive reaction if she finds out your attraction to the dentist.

With that, you plastered a what you hoped was an assuring smile before heading to the one and only opened door after rounding a corner. A young-looking woman greeted you once she spotted you lingering by the doorframe awkwardly, hesitant on entering.

"Good afternoon! You must be (Name), right?" She greeted and you nodded, not trusting in your voice.

She gestured to the dental chair in front of her, her left hand holding an equipment. "You can place your things on the chair on your right and sit whenever you're ready. We'll begin once the dentist is here."

Right, you don't see him anywhere and a part of you felt disappointed while another part felt relieved.

Disappointed that you won't be able to see him just yet. Relieved that it won't be just the two of you, saving you from the sheer awkwardness. You did as you were told—placing your things down on the chair before getting onto the long dental chair, feeling the smooth surface beneath your skin.

You leaned against it, accepting the shielded sunglasses to protect your eyes from the blaring light which will be turned on in a short while. Your breath stuttered when someone tall entered your vision and you were grateful you had slipped the sunglasses on, the dark and tinted frames allowing you to shamelessly stare at him.

The man was no longer wearing his previous outfit, now dressed in the standard navy-blue scrubs with a mask covering the bottom half of his face. His hands were covered in a pair of white, disposable gloves. You sworn drool nearly trickled down your chin at how the thin, tight material was wrapped around his long, slender fingers, wondering how it'd feel shoved down your throat or into your cu—

"Let's see… (Full Name), twenty-five and…" He spoke up, voice deep and smooth, effectively snapping you out of your trance, only for his voice to trail off as he stared at the iPad held in his left hand, eyebrows furrowed.

"And what?" You asked, feeling anxious and nervous.

His lips curled up in an amused smirk. The sight of it shouldn't have made your stomach somersaulted, but it did, much to your horror and embarrassment. His eyes flicked up, locking with yours. Despite the tinted frames hiding your eyes, his gaze was sharp enough to burn through them, making you feel exposed.

"You haven't gone for an appointment since you were thirteen?" He drawled, faint mischief seeping into his voice, sending shivers down your spine.

Your face and cheeks flushed. "I didn't have the time for it."

The look the older man gave you said he doesn't believed your words. "Oh? Is that so? What could you possibly be busy with when you were thirteen?"

You opened and closed your mouth, unable to come up with a response. Seeing you struggling earned a chuckle from him, the sound sending heat pooling in the depth of your stomach. Riki handed the iPad back to the younger woman—who you assumed it must be his assistant.

"In any case, you're here for a regular check-up. So don't worry, you won't feel any pain," he said, not looking at you as he examined the stainless steel equipments laid out on the doctor's cart.

The woman moved to your left side, clipping a light, turquoise-colored paper towel around your neck loosely. You shifted, readjusting your position and felt the upper section of the chair leaning backward, the motion taking you along as well. You clenched your fists that rested by your sides, heart pounding against your ribcage as you sensed a presence behind you.

Through the frames of the sunglasses, Riki's head popped into your view, his hair hovering over his eyes but it did nothing to hide his piercing, focused gaze. You visibly flinched when he gently tapped your chin with his gloved right fingers.

"Come on, open wide for me," he murmured.

And god, you couldn't blamed anyone else but you and your mind for going off-track and for thinking of something else entirely. Something that involved him using you to chase his pleasure. Still, you complied because you wanted to be good for him. After all, who wouldn't want to be good for a handsome-looking man like Riki himself?

He squinted his eyes, switching on the light, causing you to squeeze your eyes shut out of instinct, only for you to reopen them when you remembered you're wearing the sunglasses. You felt something cold, small and metallic inside your mouth. Riki started off with a physical exam of your entire mouth, using the small mirror to check around your teeth and gums while gently tugging your lips up, forcing you to further widen your mouth.

The woman remained on standby, inserting a equipment into your mouth. You heard a faint sucking sound and assumed it's used to suck up your saliva, so you won't choked on it during the treatment.

It's nerve-wrecking, to say the least.

It felt like you're a patient laying on the surgery table, ready to be operated. Except in this case, it's more upfront and you're wide awake.

You forced yourself to look everywhere but the dentist himself, who's inspecting every inch and cavern, without leaving any minor or major area unseen. After what felt like forever, he was done and removed the small mirror from your mouth.

"Good news, your teeth looks fine but since you haven't been to a dentist for ten years, there's lots of plaque and tartar along your gum lines. It has swollen up but it'd be back to normal once I'm done," he reported, summarizing his findings.

You blinked, knowing there's a catch behind it. "And what's the bad news?"

"You have to come back six months later for a follow-up."

Well, that wasn't what you're expecting. If anything, that's supposed to be the good news. You won't mind coming back for the second time to be near him. You swallowed, shoving the unnecessary and distracting thoughts out of your mind, not wanting to leave a wrong impression on him.

"..Alright, I'll talk to my mom later," you answered.

Riki hummed, not saying anything else—an unspoken sign to end the conversation. You were disappointed, as you wanted to talk and interact with him more but you knew time wasn't on your side. Not when your mother was waiting for you outside.

You opened your mouth again when he wheeled back to his previous position, closing your eyes to let him start on the treatment.

~

"You looked different."

You blinked at your friend's sudden words, which sounded more like a statement than anything else. The two of you—you and Ningning, were having lunch at a cafe situated in the neighborhood. You're close with her, treating her like the sister you never have and vice versa. Even your families have been introduced to each other.

"What are you talking about?" You asked, leaning forward to sip your iced drink from the straw provided.

Ningning arched an brow, eyes never leaving your face. "Not appearance wise. More like…" Her voice trailed off, squinting her eyes as she scanned you with her intense gaze, tearing down the invisible walls you built around yourself, "are you in love?"

You choked on your drink. The cold, sweet liquid went down the wrong pipe and you repeatedly whacked your own chest, bursting into a coughing fit. Ningning made no move to help you, glued to her seat and a triumphant smirk stretched across her face.

"So I was right," she declared.

You flipped her off. "No, you're not. Don't get too arrogant, Ningning. You're being delusional."

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. "Yeah right. I've known you for five years, (Name). I can tell when someone managed to catch your attention. So, spill it. Tell me everything."

You hesitated. "…I went to a dental appointment yesterday."

As you expected, the girl's eyes widened until they nearly popped out of its sockets. "What!? I thought you're afraid of the dentist!"

"Not so loud!" You hissed, eyes darting left and right when a few customers glanced your way at her sudden outburst. "My mom forced me to go and I couldn't say no anymore."

Ningning nodded, giving you her fullest attention.

You chewed on your bottom lip. "And the dentist is…"

"Is?" She echoed, getting impatient. "Come on, spit it out already."

You waved your hands about, making random gestures. "And he's hot."

A brief silence.

Different emotions flickered across her face. Surprise, realization followed by acceptance with a hint of mischief. She leaned forward, elbows digging into the edge of the table with her hands cupping her own face.

"So, that's why you went there. You wanted to see him," she drawled, eyes glowing with mischief as she shot you a knowing look.

Your cheeks flushed and you rushed to defend yourself. "I didn't know he's working there in the first place."

Ningning snorted, not believing you. "Right, and pigs can fly. Anyway, what are you planning on doing now?"

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb. Are you gonna try to slide into his pants or what?"

You choked on air. "Ningning!"

"I'm trying to help you out here," she pointed out, unfazed with how absurd the idea sounded, "I'm assuming he's older than you and that's even better. Older guys is more experienced than guys our age. They know how to make you beg, cry and sq—"

You reached across the table, slapping your hand over her mouth, silencing her mid-sentence. However, it didn't last long when something wet and slimey touched your palm, drawing a strangled shriek from you as you dropped your hand, wiping it on the napkin provided.

"You're disgusting," you complained.

"God forbid a girl from wanting her friend to get laid," she retorted.

You sighed, leaning into your seat. "I'm going back for a second appointment since I haven't been to a dental for a while."

Ningning snickered. "Do you really believe that? Girl, I think he just wanna see you again."

You kicked her in the shins under the table. "Stop being an enabler and try giving me some helpful advice."

She raised an brow. "Are you sure you want me to do that?"

You paused. "…No."

"That's what I thought. Time to put our brains to good use and come up with a plan to get into your hot dentist's pants!" She exclaimed, overjoyed for some reason as she clasped her hands together.

"I'm starting to regret this…"

~

Even though Riki told you to visit six months later, you found yourself in the dental three months later—three months earlier than the mentioned time period. If the past you were to see your current self—seated on the small couch of the dental's waiting area, you're certain your past self would have fainted on the spot or assumed they were hallucinating.

This time round, your mother wasn't available to accompany you, due to her being at work as it was a weekday, much to your relief. After all, you weren't just here for a simple follow-up. No, you're here to seduce him, hoping to catch him when he lowered his guard, like you're the bait and he's a fish swimming about in the ocean.

You worn something simple at first glance but if someone were to take a closer look, they'd be able to notice the minor efforts you put in—the way you opted for a miniskirt rather than pants, even though you're practically shivering from the freezing temperature being blasted from the overhead air-conditioner. The way you put on light makeup to make yourself looked presentable. It wasn't over the top but it's enough to make people do a double-take. The way you put in effort in your hair and appearance was more than enough to tell anyone what you're planning and your unspoken intentions.

The receptionist—who you weren't sure whether she's oblivious or pretending to not notice anything, peered at you over the edge of the counter.

"(Name)? You can enter now. Dr. Nishimura is ready to see you."

It's almost embarrassing and comical with how you jumped up from the couch, perking up at the mention of the dentist's name. You forced yourself to walk as per usual instead of skipping to the room, where the man was already waiting for you. Your breath hitched when you realized the woman from before was nowhere to be seen, clearing your throat once you arrived.

Riki raised his head, showing off his signature (and deadly) black-framed glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose. Surprise flickered across his face at the sight of you before it was gone once he blinked. He lowered the iPad he's holding in his right hand, eyes darting between the screen and your face, like he's trying to connect the dots together.

"Didn't I tell you to come back six months later? Why are you back so soon?" He asked.

You have a feeling he knew the reason why you're back. Not to mention, the way he scanned you from head to toe—taking in your appearance followed by his eyes darkening a shade didn't go unnoticed. Satisfaction curled around your frame, pleased to know whatever you're wearing and how you looked has an effect on him.

"My teeth's hurting so I thought I'd dropped by for you to check on it," you answered innocently.

Riki eyed you, trying to figure out whether it's worth calling you out for lying to his face. Only for him to rethink his decision. He merely sighed and gestured to the empty dental chair before him.

"Fine, lay down and I'll take a look at it."

At that, you fully stepped into the room and laid on the chair. Your body flinched when he inched close to you as he clipped the paper towel around your neck. Shivers ran down your spine at the light, fleeting sensation of his fingers grazing your skin. You weren't sure whether it was done on purpose or intentionally. But, there's a small part of you that wished it was the latter.

You slipped on the tinted sunglasses that was handed to you, straining your ears to hear him moving about as he prepared the necessary equipment, followed by the snapping of disposable gloves as he slipped it on. You sworn you saw something silver glimmered under the overhead lights but it was gone when you blinked.

Riki wheeled himself over, spreading his legs slightly and you obediently opened your mouth, allowing him to examine the insides.

Even though this was your second time, you still weren't used to the weird, uncomfortable feeling of having something small and round poking around your gums and the back of your teeth, causing you to squirm about on the chair.

"Stop moving. I might end up accidentally hurt you," he murmured, voice soft but firm enough for his words to come off as a warning.

And fuck, you hated how you're already dripping between your legs. You can only prayed that it won't leave a visible wet spot behind, or you won't know how to face him afterwards.

Riki was oblivious to the countless thoughts running through your mind. He narrowed his eyes, faint wrinkles forming as he focused on the task at hand—checking every inch of your mouth.

When he was done with his inspection, he said nothing, wordlessly pulling the small mirror out of your mouth and wheeled himself to your left side. Riki stepped on something, refilling the new, empty plastic cup with water as you pushed yourself up, leaning over to gargle and rinse. You can feel his eyes fixated on the back of your head the entire time, the room filled with awkward and thick silence, until he broke it.

"You're not exactly good at being subtle," he commented, his gaze never leaving your face.

Your cheeks flushed. "What are you talking about?"

Riki chuckled. "Your teeth showed no signs of it hurting and it looks perfectly fine to me. If I were you, I'd tell the truth rather than lying."

You mentally cursed yourself for being such a fool, thinking you were able to trick him. You clenched your hands that rested on your lap, unsure of what to say. The dentist, on the other hand, didn't move. He simply waited patiently, like he has all the time in the world.

You plucked up the remains of your courage, lifting your eyes to meet his. "I think you're really hot and I want you."

Silence.

Well fuck, I didn't mean to say that.

A wave of remorse and embarrassment hits you the moment those words left your mouth. You felt warm, flustered with the bold words and confession. You were about to say something—that you're joking or how you didn't mean it when Riki reacted.

He chuckled, like this was the most hilarious thing in the world. Like nothing else he experienced can compare to this. The man stretched out his legs, showing off how long his limbs were as a cocky smirk took over his handsome face.

"Oh? I didn't take you as the bold type, but I guess you can never judge a book by its cover," he commented, amusement dripping in his voice.

You made a strangled sound. "I-I didn't mean to. I'm so—"

He paid your stuttering no mind, raising his free, gloved right hand, using two fingers to make the simple yet attractive gesture.

"Come here," he demanded, voice steady and even.

Anticipation and excitement pumped through your veins at his words and you weren't going to let this rare opportunity go to waste. You got off the chair, walking towards him, noting how he spread his legs wider so you're standing in the middle.

Riki had to tilt his head up to meet your gaze. You almost gasped out loud when he hooked an arm around your waist, tugging you down until you're awkwardly straddling his lap, hands on his broad, firm shoulders to brace yourself.

Your breath hitched, stomach flipping at the feeling of his arm around your waist, his touch burning through the thin layers of your clothes. He shamelessly scanned you, practically undressing you with his eyes, making you clenched down on nothing. You flinched, teeth sinking into your bottom lip when Riki moved his arm lower and lower, until it slid under the skirt.

His hand was warm, touch rough but gentle at the same time as he caressed your skin lazily and slowly, clearing taking his time in riling you up—

Smack!

You jolted on the spot at the sudden, strong and quick pain from his hand smacking your left asscheek. Your nails dug into the fabric of his blue scrubs, unable to face him and averted your eyes to the side. However, he wasn't pleased with your avoidance, considering how he reached out to grip your chin, tight enough to draw a pained whimper as he forcefully turned your head forward, forcing you to face him.

"Don't look away from me, doll. You wanted this, don't you?" He murmured, thumb stroking along your jawline. "Dressing like a slut and begging to be fucked. How would your parents act if they find out how you're willing to do anything for an older man?"

You made a pathetic, soft sound at his crude words that's mixed with mockery. It's a dangerous combo, dangerous enough for you to be dripping, panties getting soaked with your arousal.

"P-Please, sir," you begged, earning a low groan from him.

"Fuck, get on your knees for me, doll," he instructed, giving your asscheek one strong, absolute squeeze before you dropped, sinking to your knees.

You knew what he wanted you to do and you wasted no time—hooking your fingers over the hem of his pants, pulling it down until it landed around his ankles, leaving him in a pair of black Chrome Hearts boxer. You swallowed, mouth watering at the visible tent, poking against his right inner thigh.

Your eyes flicked up, waiting for his permission—which was easily granted to you with him nodding his head. His boxer came off, having the same fate as the pants.

You had to jerk your head back to avoid getting slapped when his cock sprung free from its restraints. It stood upright, tall and smug. The big, fat mushroomy tip have turned a ferocious shade of red—a sign of neglection. A bead of precum rested on the tip, glistening under the lights.

"Fuck," he hissed, thighs twitching when you wrapped your hand around his cock, fingers barely touching. The thought of that sliding into you made chewed on your cheek, desperately craving for it.

Looking at him all innocently, you leaned forward to give a kitten lick to the tip, collecting the bead of precum with your tongue, making a lewd and slow display of you spreading it across your lips without breaking eye contact.

Riki's eyes darkened a shade, his jaw twitching. You squeaked when he shot out his left hand, grabbing a fistful of your hair and yanked your head forward, causing his cock to slide up your face until it touched your hairline.

"You think you're in control just because I ask you to suck my cock?" He sneered, pulling your head back, smirking at the wide, pleading and teary gaze you're giving him.

"Do it properly or you won't get anything," he warned you.

"Sorry…"

You winced when he pulled your head further back. "Sorry what?"

You gulped, knowing you're already leaking like a fucking faucet. "Sorry, sir…"

"Good girl."

What the fuck.

The sound you made was something you didn't know you're capable of. Riki made a mental note, tucking your reaction aside for future purpose. You leaned forward, taking him into your mouth with your hand holding the base, slackening your jaw and hiding your teeth with your lips, not wanting to accidentally hurt him.

Riki watched, heavily breathing as inch after inch of his cock disappeared into your mouth until he's hitting the back of your throat. He cursed under his breath, able to feel how warm and tight your cavern was.

You were surprised when he moved his hand down, tucking a few stray strands of hair behind your left ear. The action was tender and sweet—a huge contrast to how he was behaving a few minutes ago.

You began moving, bobbing your head back and forth, leaving visible spit behind on his warm, thick cock. You used your hand to touch the areas you couldn't reached, ensuring not to leave anywhere untouched. Riki groaned, tilting his head back, showing off his Adam's Apple that moved up and down vigorously.

A low series of sounds slipped from his lips—groans, grunts and cursing. You weren't aware his voice could go even deeper, deep enough for your brain to melt. Determined to make him break and fall apart, you pulled away with a loud "pop", snapping a string of saliva into half and trailed the visible, protruding veins along the sides of his cock.

At the same time, you moved to fondle with his heavy balls. Poor thing seemed to be on the verge of exploding with how it's full of thick, rich cum. It's messy and filthy—you sucking him off with drool trickling down your chin and landing either on the floor or your skirt. The thought of someone potentially walking in stirred further arousal in your stomach.

You gagged when Riki gave an experimental thrust into your mouth without warning. Your reaction only spurred him on, allowing him to fuck your mouth, using you like a fleshlight and a toy. Like you're nothing more than a tool for him to seek his own pleasure. You sat there—on your knees between his legs, looking pretty like a trophy wife.

"Shit, so fuckin' good for me, aren't you?" He moaned, voice low and raspy.

You couldn't helped it, hand sliding between your legs and pushed your soaked panties aside and touched yourself—fingers collecting your slick followed by circling your own clit. The sensation made your eyes rolled back, moaning around his cock. The vibrations traversed down the length of his cock, drawing a long moan from the man.

But it wasn't enough. Your fingers weren't making the cut, too short to reach deeper. You needed more. Something longer, thicker and bigger.

It didn't take him long to figure out what you're doing. When he caught up, he laughed—low and degrading.

"Touching yourself when you're sucking me off? Needy little girl, can't even wait for five minutes," he mocked.

You made a muffled sound, showing no signs of stopping as you continued fucking yourself with it, stretching your entrance as more slick dripped down your fingers.

"You'll let me cum in your mouth, right? Gonna swallow all of it and behave for me? Gonna show me how good you can be?" He asked, bringing his head back up to gaze down at you.

You couldn't speak, not when your lips was stretched wide around the thick grith of his cock. You can only rapidly blinked your eyes, making a muffled sound that's similar to you saying "yes, yes, yes." Riki huffed, amused at your obedience. His thrusts grew sloppy and his moans get louder, like he doesn't care that they are in his workplace, doing something as scandalous behind his wife's back.

How could he care when someone—a girl younger than him, was willing to do anything for him? He wasn't blind to how you looked at him the moment you first saw him. How you were fidgeting on the spot with your mother beside you, the older woman oblivious to what her daughter was up to. Riki knew it's only a matter of time before you reached your limit, but he didn't expect it to be this quick.

Not that he's against it.

He didn't warn you, simply cumming down your throat as he painted it in the shade of his cum. You gagged, throat constricting around his cock, ensuring to swallow every droplet, not letting any go to waste. Riki went limp in the chair, panting unsteadily and you took that as your sign to pull back, wincing at how sore your jaw was from the rough treatment.

Your lips was red, puffy and swollen. You remained where you were, resting your chin on his right knee while waiting for his instruction, like the good and obedient dog you are. Riki patted his lap twice, catching the way your eyes lit up. You scrambled to your feet, settling yourself on his strong, muscular thighs—like a queen sitting on her rightful throne.

Riki hissed when his eyes darted down, seeing your pussy glistening under the bright overhead lights. He pressed his thumb over your clit, savoring the choked moan you let out, eyes fluttering shut at the mere contact.

"Sensitive," he noted, twisting his thumb in a slow clockwise motion, dark and hooded eyes never leaving your face, taking in every micro-expressions you made—clamping your swollen lips shut, eyes squeezed shut and breathing through your nose.

"C-Can't," you choked out, squirming and thrashing about on his lap, like you weren't sure you wanted to push or pull him closer.

Riki hummed, his right hand holding you firmly, locking you in place. The cool surface of his wedding ring pressed into your skin, through the fabric of your clothes, causing your body to break out into goosebumps.

"Can't?" He repeated, having the time of his life watching you struggle to no vain. "I thought you'd be better than her, but I guess I was wrong."

Now, your mind was clouded with lust, barely sane enough to comprehend his words but that doesn't mean you weren't quick enough to connect the dots—his glowing wedding ring and the usage of the word 'her'. You should feel guilty or ashamed of yourself for going after a older, married man but you didn't care.

Why should you, when he looked at you with nothing but raw, unfiltered desire?

The dentist clicked his tongue, teasingly pushing his thumb into your fat pussy lips, so close but yet so far. The light, sudden intrusion drew a whimper from you but before you could do anything, he was quick to pull his hand out, earning a disappointed sound of protest. Riki brought his thumb—the very same thumb covered in your slick, to his lips and licked it up, without breaking eye contact.

Your breath hitched at his bold, lewd action, cunt practically begging to be filled. Riki looked over your shoulder, cursing under his breath when he noticed the time.

"You should get going. I have another appointment soon," he said, wiping his thumb on his pants, pretending nothing happened. Like he didn't have you sucking him off or straddling his lap a few seconds ago.

You blinked, bemused and still trying to calm down after the high. Most importantly, you didn't even get to cum yet!

"What? But what about me?"

Riki smirked, gripping your chin with his hand. "Bad girls like you don't get to cum just yet. I'll see you next time."

You left the dental in a daze. And if you tried to cum with the combined help of your measly fingers and useless toys, then that's nobody business but yours.

~

"You're doing it again."

You paused, in the midst of chewing your fried chicken. You're in Ningning's house, seated by the dining table with a box of fried chicken and four bottles of soju. Two were already empty, one was half-full while the final bottle was still sealed tightly. Your friend didn't break eye contact, raising an brow as she looked at you over the rim of her cup.

"You have that look on your face," she commented, "the kind of look where you've done something and you're not telling me."

You gulped, feeling exposed with how accurate she is. But then again, she wasn't your close friend for nothing, with how she's able to read you like an opened book. You knew better than to hide from her, considering how persistent she can be—bugging you until you give her an answer that satisfies her.

You swallowed after chewing thoroughly. "I went over last week and something happened."

That got her interest and she sat up. "Oh? What is it?"

You leaned back in your seat, now sitting in a cross-legged position. "…I suck him off."

"You what!?"

"Calm down!"

Your friend shot you an incredulous look. "Are you even hearing yourself? How do you want me to calm down when you just told me that you sucked him off? Where did you do it?"

Your brief hesitation was enough for her to let out a scandalous gasp, a hand covering her mouth as she stared at you with wide eyes.

"No way… you did it in the dental room…"

You groaned, wishing a hole will magically appeared so it can swallowed you whole and hide you from the world. "Ningning, please…"

Your friend brushed off your words, practically vibrating on the spot from the jaw-dropping news. "This is insane! I'm proud of you though."

"Not helping."

Ningning's eyes lit up and she leaned forward a little. "So, how was it? Was he good?"

You paused, a few scenes flashing in your mind and your cheeks flushed red, uncrossing your legs to rub your thighs together. "Yeah, he's good. Better than the hook-ups I had before."

She whistled. "Damn, that's impressive. Are you gonna see him again?"

You fiddled with your fingers. "He said he'll see me next time."

Your friend nodded firmly, like that have confirmed everything. "Yeah, he definitely wants you. Is he taken?"

Your heart dropped at her question, remembering a certain word he said. A word that acted like a harsh reminder of the real reality and the inerasable sin you have committed.

"…Yeah, he's married," you answered, opting to stare at a random spot of the table.

"He's married!?" She yelled at the top of her lungs. "What the hell? I feel like it's my fault for pushing you to do this."

You snapped your head up, surprised by her words. "What? No, it's not your fault. You didn't know he's married. If anything, it's mine. I'm the one who should take responsibility for this."

Ningning stared at you before sighing. "What do you plan to do now?"

"I don't know, just avoid him for as long as I can," you replied, shrugging your shoulders.

She gave you an unreadable look, like she knew something you don't and clasped her hands together. "Let's move on, shall we? These bottles ain't gonna finish by themselves."

~

It seemed like you can only avoid him for so long.

You have gone two months without stepping foot into the dental—making a new record for yourself. You spent your free time hanging out with Ningning, taking long walks and so on, doing everything and anything to keep yourself occupied. However, no matter what you do or where you were, your mind kept drifting back to Riki.

You could still remember the faint musky smell invading your mouth, the weight of his cock on your tongue, how your jaw muscles were sore afterwards, how sticky and soaked your underwear was and how you couldn't walked in a straight line afterwards. You hated how your mind kept replaying a certain moment, over and over like a broken cycle.

The moment when he touched you with his thumb. You've seen how long his fingers were—probably able to reach deeper places, able to stretch you out with ease before he fucks you until you see stars.

You were in your bed, watching a random show on your iPad while your mom was away for work, leaving you alone at home when your phone's ringtone went off. Not tearing your eyes away from the screen, you stretched your right hand out to pick up the device, accepting the call without checking the screen and placed it on speaker mode.

"Hello?"

"You're avoiding me, aren't you?"

You nearly dropped your phone when a familiar deep, low voice spoke up, disrupting your short moment of peace and quiet. You knew who it was immediately. How could you not when the source of the voice had been haunting you, be it whether you're asleep or awake. You swallowed, no longer paying attention to the show as it continued playing.

"…Who's this?" You asked, your heart hammering against your ribcage.

A chuckle. "Don't tell me you've forgotten who I am."

You tightened your grip on your phone. "How did you get my number?"

"From the system. But I'm not here to talk about that. Here's what's gonna happen. You're gonna come to this address tonight, alone," he instructed.

You scoffed. "Who are you to tell me what to do?"

"Oh? I have retrieved the footage of that day. Imagine how my wife'll react if she finds out."

You frowned, pushing yourself up to lean against your pillow. "Are you blackmailing me?"

Riki hummed on the other line. "So what if I am? If my memory serves me right, you were the one that wanted something to happen and I was going with the flow."

You stared at your phone, an incredulous look settling on your face. "You can't be serious right now. How was I supposed to know you're married?"

"Maybe you should've checked properly before making your move," he drawled, clearly relaxed while you're fuming on the spot, "don't be stupid, (Name). If you don't show up, I'm sending the footage to your mother."

You spluttered. "You—!"

Before you could finish your sentence, he had hung up, leaving you staring at your phone like it had committed a grave sin. You should do something—tell your mother or asked Ningning for advice. You should do the right thing by going to the authorities, to file a report but a small part of you hesitated. You hated how your body was giving the opposite reaction of your mind—demanding for you to go, to see him and let him touched you.

As much as you hated it, you're already drunk on his touch and you want more.

Bzzt, bzzt.

You snapped out of your train of thoughts, looking at your phone to see an unknown number sending you an address. No greetings and nothing else. Just the address—simple and straightforward. You didn't tap on it, staring at it like it will magically vanished on its own if you stared hard enough.

Sighing, you got out of bed and went to change, having made up your mind as you mentally prepared yourself for what's to come.

~

Five hours later, you found yourself standing in front of a seemingly empty house. You double-checked, confirming you're at the correct place before knocking on the closed, oak door with your right fist, pointedly ignoring how your hand was trembling.

Knock, knock.

You picked up the sound of approaching footsteps before it opened from the other side, revealing none other than Riki himself—the culprit responsible for your inner conflict.

You couldn't helped it—eyes scanning him from head to toe as you drank in the sight before you. This is the first time you've seen Riki out of his working hours and he's dressed in a simple black hoodie, the hood tugged down and a pair of gray sweatpants hanging dangerously low around his hips.

You sworn you saw something red just a few centimeters above the hem of his sweatpants before it was hidden from your view again. A pointed cough forced you to look up, locking eyes with him and when he gave you a knowing, dark look, you knew you were caught red-handed.

"See something you like?" He purred, voice low and velvety smooth.

Clearing your throat, you crossed your arms and stood your ground. "You wished. I'm here to tell you that I'm not gonna do anything with you."

Riki paid you no mind, shamelessly checking you out. His heated gaze lingered longer than usual on your exposed, unblemished skin of your legs. Your stomach betrayed you, doing a somersault when he licked his bottom lip, the pinkish tip of his tongue poking out briefly before it was gone when you blinked.

"Sure, whatever you say," he replied, moving aside, "wanna come in?"

You glared at him. "Are you deaf or something? Did you not hear what I said?"

Riki huffed. He stepped forward, closing the distance with one large stride until he's directly in front of you, close enough for you to get a faint whiff of his cologne.

"Don't be a brat, doll. Get inside or I'll make you," he warned you.

You boldly tilted your chin up, a defiant look glowing in your eyes. "Make me."

Riki clicked his tongue. One moment you're standing outside his home and the next moment, you're forcefully dragged inside. You gasped, air punched out of your lungs when your back collided with the door, closing it from your combined weight as he kissed you. The kiss was rough, violent and demanding.

He didn't care about your comfort or discomfort, using his stronger and larger frame to pin you against the door, leaving you helplessly sandwiched. You had to tilt your head back, your neck muscles starting to ache but you ignored it. You choked out a whimper when he bit down on your lips, hard enough to draw blood.

The metallic taste filled your mouth and you parted your lips when he ran his tongue along the seam of your lips, granting him access. Your lack of resistance earned a low hum of approval from him, the sound sending vibrations down your body and heat pooling in your stomach.

"You talk too much for someone who's insistent on stopping this," he murmured.

"Shut up. Less talking and more moving," you retorted, yelping in pain when he yanked your hair back until the column of your neck was fully exposed.

Riki chuckled, his warm and minty breath grazing your lips. "So demanding. What happened to you not wanting to anything with me, hm? You say that but this."

He paused, his left hand sliding down your body, only for him to cup your clothed pussy. His palm covered the area between your legs entirely, applying a little force to touch your clit through the thin fabric of your pants and underwear. The sudden contact ripped a whimper from you, unable to hold it back.

"This is more honest than you," he continued, drawing his head back to take in your flushed expression, his hair falling over his forehead.

"Fuck you," you hissed, your voice wavering at the end and it didn't go unnoticed by him. Of course it didn't.

Riki said nothing, hooking his arm around your waist and easily flung you over his shoulder. You squeaked, flailing your limbs about like a wild, frantic chicken. You whacked him repeatedly with your clenched fists but it was futile. To him, your attacks felt like nothing, like there's no weight in it.

"Stop! Put me down!" You shrieked.

Smack!

You stilled at the sharp, stinging pain on your right asscheek. Your cheeks and ears turned red, mortified when you can feel more slick trickling down your inner thighs. You stopped fighting, surrendering to your fate while he carried you like you're a sack of potatoes. You heard a door being pushed open before he closed it with his feet.

You were tossed onto silky soft sheets, hair fanning out beneath your head with Riki hovering over you—one hand on the side of your head while the other held onto your waist, his touch firm and possessive. He didn't do anything, letting his eyes rake down your figure, taking his time in appreciating the breathtaking view before him.

You, on the other hand, squirmed about on the sheets, feeling shy, timid and nervous. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" He asked, sliding his thumb beneath your shirt, tracing random patterns on your skin, leaving his warm touch behind.

You involuntarily shivered. "..Like you've thought about this."

A glint glimmered in his eyes. "Of course I have. You don't know how long I've waited for this, waiting for you to show up, only to see someone else instead. I couldn't stop thinking about it, how good you were to me, how pretty you looked on your knees and how delicious the sounds you made."

You swallowed, momentarily taken aback at the sincerity in his voice and how serious he was. Riki continued, his gaze unblinking and unwavering, voice lowering slightly, like he's tell you a sacred secret.

"You don't know how many times I rewatched the footage, wishing it was your mouth instead of my hand, how she couldn't compare to you. How it doesn't feel right with her. How I wished it was you instead."

The more he spoke, the lower his hand traveled. You didn't register him pulling your pants down, until you felt cool air kissing your bare legs. You watched with bated breath as Riki scooted off the bed, sinking to his knees on the floor.

You made a startled sound when he tugged you forward with one hand wrapped around your right ankle until your lower half hovered in the air, both legs hoisted over his broad, firm shoulders.

The man buried his face between your legs, directly into your pussy. No words could described the amount of embarrassment you felt when he greedily inhaled your scent, like it's some sort of drug. You parted your lips, about to say something, only for your voice to give up when he licked a slow, fat stripe up your pussy, through your underwear.

"Oh fuck," you moaned, eyes rolling up to the back of your head. You gripped and twisted the sheets beneath your palm while the other blindly reached down to tug on his pitch-black hair.

Riki moaned, the sound muffled as it sent vibrations down your legs, making you twitched in his vice-like grip. He traced the outline of your cunt with his tongue, further soaking the already soaked fabric, teasing you for a few minutes until you're nothing but a flustered, trembling mess.

"R-Riki, please.." You begged oh so sweetly for him.

And god, the way his name rolled off your tongue so prettily nearly made him cum right there and then. He never knew hearing his own name from someone else's mouth could be this arousing. He hummed, further spreading your legs apart, like he wants to be buried between them forever, until his last dying breath.

"Please what, doll? Be a good girl and use your words, tell me what you want," he purred, voice lowering an octave.

You sobbed, hips jerking forward as he tugged your underwear into the middle, revealing parts of your dripping, glistening pussy. Riki watched with fascination at how your pussy lips clamped onto your underwear, refusing to let it go. He played with you for a while—twisting and tugging the fabric against your clit, mesmerized with how you rocked your hips against it, yearning for more.

Smack!

You flinched, making a hoarse, strangled sound when he delivered a light but powerful slap directly on your cunt. You attempted to close your legs but he held you down, fingers digging into the meat of your thigh.

"Time's ticking, sweetheart. I don't have all day, unless you want my wife to see you dripping for a married man," he taunted you.

You whimpered, tears prickling your eyes as it blurred your vision slightly. "T-Touch me."

"Touch you? But I'm already touching you," he teased, his hand never stopping as he continued his action, watching how you're struggling to form a coherent sentence.

He's so mean that it's starting to piss you off but there's a sick, twisted part of you that actually liked it. Like how he's acting innocent when deep down, he knew what you want and he isn't afraid of making you begged for it. Plucking up the remains of your courage, you reached out to grab his hand and brought it to where you ached for him.

You gave him your best doe-like impression, similar to the one you did in the dental room. "Wan' you to touch me here, please, sir?"

Riki's breath hitched, cock twitching against the loose restraints of his sweatpants. He doesn't have to look down to know he's already leaking, soiling his own pants. He groaned, the sound low, deep and guttural, like you've already ruined him, even when he hasn't done much yet.

He wasted no time in jumping into action—pulling your underwear down your legs and flung it aside, fully revealing your pussy to him. He dived in like a man on a mission, all tongue and spit as he ate you out with determination. It's messy and nasty, saliva dripping down his chin as he alternated between fast, kitten licks and flat, long stripes against your cunt.

You couldn't recognized the kind of sounds you were making, similar to a pornstar. Your mind spun, unable to focus on anything else but Riki's hot, slimey and rough tongue rapidly licking up your pussy, like a famished man. His mouth moved a little lower, locating your entrance with ease. You jolted when he collected your slick with two fingers before slowly pushing them into your entrance.

The sudden intrusion made you arched your back off the bed, nails scrapping against his scalp as he poked and stretched his fingers in a scissors-like motion. You were right—his fingers felt way better than your own or any of the sex toys you owned. They were long, slender and thick that it made you feel full, even if you haven't taken his cock yet.

"Fuck!"

You cried out when his fingers curled against your g-spot, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut. Having found your sensitive spot, Riki put the newly-discovered information to good use. He pumped his fingers in and out of you, creating a lewd squelch sounds that echoed among the four walls of the bedroom.

"C-Close, hngh," you panted.

Riki hummed, pushing his face deeper until the tip of his nose brushed against your clit peeking out of the hood. You took that as your sign to grind against the small surface, rocking your hips against it greedily and clumsily, feeling the all-too familiar of a pressure building in your stomach. You didn't get to warn him, cumming with your entire might. Your walls convulsed around his fingers as you reached your climax.

The man didn't slow down or stop. He continued eating you through your orgasm, not caring how sensitive you were. He lapped up your newly-produced slick like it's cow's milk, not wanting to let a single drop go to waste. It's only when you weakly pulled at his hair was when he finally relented, moving back to let you catch your breath.

Your pulse jumped at the sight of him—his lower half was covered in your slick. His thick and plump lips looked even more swollen than before. Riki pushed himself up and you got the message, scooting further up the bed, watching with anticipation coursing through your veins as he made quick work of his clothes.

They were removed one by one until he's nude. Your eyes locked in on the red kiss mark tattoo above his right hipbone, finding it more attractive than it should be. Riki hovered over you, throwing your legs around his waist. You watched, gulping nervously as he wrapped a hand around himself and slowly stroked his cock, spreading the leaking precum around it.

He aligned himself against your entrance, rubbing the tip against your puffy folds, collecting the remaining slick. Riki didn't push in, eyes flicking up to yours. When you nodded, he moved, pushing his tip beyond your folds. You squeezed your eyes shut, teeth sinking into your lip, feeling yourself being stretched impossibly wide until it's borderline painful.

It felt like centuries when he bottomed out, letting you adjust to the thick grith of his cock. The pain eventually subsided, replaced by a numbing, consistent feeling. You felt every ridge grazing against your gummy walls, how they helplessly fluttered around him, sucking him in.

"Fuck, you're so tight," he hissed, his breathing uneven, jaw muscles twitching while fighting against the tempting urge to pound into you until the bed breaks.

You reached out, wrapping your arms around his neck to bring him down. He met you in the middle, capturing your lips in a sweet, slow passionate kiss that lasted for just a few seconds, resting his forehead against yours.

"You can move," you mumbled.

At that, Riki set a rough, brutal pace. It sent your body moving up and down vigorously. In a desperate need to see your entire body, he pushed your shirt up, fumbling to remove your bra but somehow managed to do, freeing your breasts. Your nipples hardened immediately, pink and pebbled.

He ducked, sealing his lips around your left nipple, sucking on it like a newborn baby. You cried out, pushing your chest further into his mouth with your legs locked around his waist, letting him rearranged your insides to the shape of his cock. You threw your head back, moaning and whimpering at the intoxicating feeling of his cock sliding in and out of your gaping entrance.

It's powerful, his heavy and cum-filled balls smacking against your asscheeks with every thrust. You sworn he's hitting even deeper—a feat you didn't know was possible in the first place.

Your mouth dropped open when he shifted a little, easily locating the one delicate spot hidden between your walls, the tip ruthlessly abusing the same spot, over and over as it drew more and louder moans from you.

"Too much, ngh," you sobbed, scratching your nails down his back, leaving burning red lines behind, like a physical claim.

Riki mockingly laughed against your wet, hardened nipple. "Too much? You're squeezing me so tight I can barely move."

You couldn't keep up with it—his rapid pace, his hips slapping against yours and his mouth attacking every inch of skin, leaving it either wet or marked up. You could barely breathed, having to breathe through your opened mouth than your nose. You outright sobbed when Riki snaked his hand down to rub your clit, timing it at the same pace as his thrusts.

Your thighs trembled like fallen leaves, feeling a second climax coming. "Riki—fuck, g-gonna cum, please."

"Yeah? Cum for me, doll."

All it took was for him to give a rough, fierce pinch to your clit for you to tip over the edge. Your body shook from the strong intensity of your orgasm, walls violently fluttering around his cock as transparent liquid sprayed everywhere. Some landed on your sweaty, intertwined bodies while some landed on the sheets.

Riki didn't slow down, fucking you through your orgasm, turning a deaf ear to your sobs and pleas for him to stop. He was quick to follow, delivering one final and long thrust, burying himself to the root and spilled deep inside of you, pumping you full of his cum, thick and hot. Your walls convulsed weakly, trying to milk him dry as you laid there, letting him do as he pleased.

You pushed at his chest, trying to shove him away but he pinned them above your head. He slowly rolled his hips against yours, pushing his cum deeper into you while savoring the breathless moan you let out—

INSPIRED BY : What You Need - The Weeknd

(+ Slow It Down - Ty Dolla $ign)

What could be worse than going to the restaurant with your boyfriend a week after you found out that he’s been cheating on you? Oh right, you don’t know. Ethan orders for himself without asking what you're having first, catches himself halfway through, and asks you anyway. You already know what you want because you always know what you want here.

His phone sits face up next to his water glass. It lights up twice in the first ten minutes. Both times he glances down, thumb hovering, before setting it back exactly where it was. "Sorry," he says, not looking up from the screen the third time. "Work thing."

You nod like that made sense. You've heard about Heeseung's terrible taste in restaurants, about his coworker’s dog, about traffic on the way here ; three separate stories he's started and abandoned mid-sentence because his attention keeps sliding sideways toward that phone.

"You could put it away," you say, tired enough that it comes out flat.

"I know. I will." He actually doesn't.

The waiter brings your food and Ethan eats fast, he’s already somewhere else in his mind. You ask about his sister's move to Daegu and get half an answer before his phone buzzes again and he actually picks it up this time, thumb moving across the screen, brow furrowed like the message requires real concentration.

You watch him read it. You watch his jaw do a small tightening, and you already know before he opens his mouth. "I have to go in," he says. "They need someone to cover a shift. I'm really sorry, I know we just got here."

Work doesn't call people in at 9:47 at night for office emergencies. You've known things like this for months now, small inconsistencies that don't line up if you actually stack them next to each other, which is why you stopped stacking them.

"Now?" you ask anyway, knowing how it will end up.

"I wouldn't if I didn't have to." He's already reaching for his wallet, already half out of his seat. "I'll make it up to you. Promise."

You tell him it's fine and to go, that you'll finish eating and head home. He kisses the top of your head, distracted, already checking his phone again as he walks toward the door, and you sit there with a plate you've lost interest in and a boyfriend-shaped absence across the table.

Your phone buzzes. Heeseung.

Heeseung [9:54 PM]

you good?

saw ethan's location just switched to "downtown" lol at 9pm

You stare at the message for a second too long before you type back.

Y/N [9:54 PM]

he had a work thing apparently

Heeseung [9:55 PM]

mhm. sure he did

You almost put the phone down.

Y/N [9:55 PM]

please don’t start

Heeseung [9:57 PM]

wasn't gonna say anything. i'm very good at not saying things

Y/N [9:57 PM]

you're the worst at not saying things btw

Heeseung [9:58 PM]

rude.

i've been holding back SO much tonight and this is the thanks i get

You find yourself smiling at your phone, alone at a table for two, food going cold in front of you. Even though you couldn’t care less.

The waiter comes by to clear Ethan's plate and asks if you need anything else, and you're halfway through saying no when your phone buzzes again.

Heeseung [10:05 PM]

where are you?

sending someone to get you before you sit there being sad and pathetic

Y/N [10:05 PM]

wdym I’m not sad and pathetic

Heeseung [10:06 PM]

you're eating alone at a restaurant your boyfriend just ditched. what else could it be?

address please.

You give him the name of the place mostly because arguing about whether you're pathetic or not would take more energy than you have left right now. Fifteen minutes later Heeseung walks in wearing a jacket you’ve seen plenty of times, scanning the room until he finds you, and drops into the seat across from you like he's been there the whole time.

"You didn't have to come, you know." you state.

"I know that very well. I wanted to see you sad and pathetic in person." He picks up the menu even though you're clearly done eating, flips through it without really looking. "Also I was bored."

"Comforting."

"I try." He waves the waiter over before you can stop him, orders a drink for himself, and when the bill comes a few minutes later he reaches over and takes it before you can even move your hand toward it.

"Heeseung."

"Yeah?"

"Give me that."

"No." He's already pulling out his card, not even glancing at the total.

"I can pay for my own food."

"Never said you couldn't." He hands the card to the waiter without looking at you, and something about how easy it is for him : he acts like it costs him nothing and like it’s something he has to do but does it naturally. The inside of your stomach is tingling and obviously not because of the food you had earlier.

"I'm being serious, I don't need you to—"

"I know you don't need me to." He lifts his gaze and looks at you with less joking in it than a second ago. "I want to. Learn how it’s not the same."

"That's not the point."

"What's the point, then?"

You freezes, not an answer or a talk back could reach your mind, and he grins like he's won something.

"Aw, look at that," he says. "I missed that face."

"I fucking hate you."

"You don't. You're just annoyed you can't win an argument about who gets to pay for your dinner, which, by the way, is a very weird thing to be stubborn about."

"It's called having self-respect."

"It's called being difficult for no reason, but sure, we can call it self-respect if that makes you feel better." The card comes back and he signs without checking the receipt, tucks it away, and stands up casually. "Come on. I'm parked badly and I will get towed."

"You fucking asshole."

"You keep saying that like it's news." He holds his hand out, not really an offer so much as an assumption you'll take it, and you do.

He gets in to start the car, and has a cigarette lit before you've even got your seatbelt on. The window cracks an inch, cold air cutting through the smoke smell that's already filling the small space.

"You know those are terrible for you," you say.

"Groundbreaking information. Thank you." He takes a drag, one hand on the wheel, not pulling out of the spot yet.

"I'm dead serious. You should stop."

"I should do a lot of things." He glances at you sideways, smoke curling out the window. "You should stop pretending you don't know your boyfriend's cheating on you. We're both just walking around not doing things we should, I guess."

The car goes quiet except for the engine idling. You look straight ahead at the brick wall of the restaurant, at nothing. "I don't know what you're talking about," you say in a breathy tone.

"Sure you don't." He's not looking at you now either, tapping ash out the window, voice even, done pretending along with you. "His location switches off every other night. He checks his phone at dinner like it's gonna bite him if he doesn't. Tonight he left you at a restaurant for a 'work thing' that doesn't exist, and you didn't even ask him to explain it properly. You just let him go."

"That's not—" You stop and start again. "It's complicated."

"It's really not." He finally pulls out of the spot, one hand on the wheel, cigarette still between two fingers. "You don't want to deal with it. Which, fine, your business. But don't sit there and tell me you don't know, because I’m aware for the phone thing tonight too, and you didn't look surprised. You looked like someone who's done the math already."

There isn't a version of an answer that isn't just agreeing with him. So silence is the best option you could have at this moment.

"I'm not trying to make it worse, okay?" he says, softer, some of the edge gone out of his voice. "I just don't really feel like watching you sit through dinners like that and pretend it's normal."

"Why do you even care?"

He takes another drag and lets it out slow.

"Good question," he says finally without elaborating further, yet you don’t want to know more of it, because you're not sure you want to hear the answer any more than he seems to want to give it.

He drives you around the city for a while then turns left instead of right at the light that would've led back toward your apartment. The road opens up eventually, streetlights getting sparser, and then there's the smell of salt before you see the water. He parks in a mostly empty lot facing the beach, cuts the engine, and the quiet that follows feels different from the quiet in the restaurant parking lot. It’s less loaded.

"Why are we here?" you ask.

"I needed air that doesn't smell like your ex's cologne." He's already pulling his jacket off, tossing it into the back seat. Underneath he's just in a black tank top, and it's warm enough out that it makes sense, summer nights here never really cooling off the way you'd expect. "Also I like it here. Don't make it a big deal."

"He's not my ex."

"Give it time." He says it lightly, already opening his door, not wanting to hear you argue back. "Come."

You get out as sitting in the car alone would feel worse than following him. The sand is cool yet the air isn't, and he walks ahead of you toward the water without checking if you're behind him, hands in his pockets and shoulders loose.

"You could've warned me we were going to the beach," you say, catching up. "I'm in the wrong shoes for this."

"You're in shoes. That's more preparation than I did."

"You're wearing actual sneakers."

"Correct. Preparation." He glances back at you, the corner of his mouth pulling up. "Take them off if you're gonna complain the whole time."

"I'm not complaining, it was just a statement."

"Same thing, coming from you."

You shove his shoulder, and he barely moves as he laughs, low and light, as your annoyance is the most entertaining thing that's happened to him all week. The water's dark ahead of you, waves you can hear more than see, you can feel the knot in your belly loosening up.

"So this is the fresh air you talked about," you say, kicking your heels off like he told you to, sand cold between your toes. "Very noble of you, considering your lungs are probably black at this point."

"They're totally fine."

"You just smoked an entire cigarette in a closed car ten minutes ago."

"The window was cracked."

"Barely an inch."

He stops walking. He turns to look at you, and there's a specific kind of offense on his face, you can see that’s it’s fake. "Okay, you don't get to smoke-shame me and then act like you weren't the one who wanted to eat a hundred tons of sugar last week."

"That has nothing to do with your lungs."

"It's about hypocrisy, Y/N." He's already crossing his arms, which should've been your first warning. "You wanna talk about people ruining their bodies, we can talk about those candies."

"That's not remotely the same thing, and you know it."

"I don't know anything. I'm just a guy with fucked up lungs, apparently, standing here, getting attacked—"

"I didn't attack you, I made a freaking statement—"

"—run," he says, it's not really a warning and it's already happening, he's moving toward you before the word's even fully out. You don't think and you just run, already laughing three steps away, sand slowing you down and you probably look embarrassing and isn't because he's not much faster, both of you stumbling across the beach. He's close behind you, close enough that you can hear him laughing too, breathless, yet you don't look back and just keep going toward nothing in particular, the water loud beside you and your own heartbeat louder, making you forget why you were sad in the first place.

"Slow down!" you yell back at him, though you're the one speeding up. "Your lungs can't take this!"

"They're taking it fine, actually—" He's gaining on you, voice rougher now from the running, the laughing, both. "Better than yours, probably, all that complaining you do about stairs—"

"I don't even complain about stairs—"

"You complained about stairs yesterday. To my face."

"That building has no elevator, that's a legitimate—" You don't get to finish, because his hand catches your arm, hard enough to throw your balance off, and you're laughing too much to fight it anyway.

"Got you—"

"You didn't—"

He did. Your feet tangle in the sand and his do too trying to compensate, and there's a second where it could've gone fine, where you both could've just stopped, but now you're both going down, and he twists at the last second so he hits the sand first and you land half on top of him, knocking whatever air he had left in those apparently terrible lungs straight out of him.

"Okay," he wheezes, staring up at the sky, chest moving fast under you. "Okay, that one's on me."

You're still laughing, you can't stop, face pressed near his shoulder, sand in your hair, in your clothes, everywhere. "You caught me on purpose."

"I caught you very badly on purpose."

"Your lungs are so fucked."

"Please stop talking about my lungs." He's laughing too, you can feel it more than hear it, his chest shaking under where you're braced against him, and neither of you moves to get up right away, and it takes a second before either of you remembers there's a reason you're supposed to pull away from this.

"Great," you say, still not moving off him. "Now I'm covered in sand. This was a bad idea."

"It was my favorite plan I've had all week."

"You've had bad judgment all week, then." You finally push yourself up, brushing sand off your arms, off your legs, a losing battle. He sits up slower, still catching his breath, watching you try to fix your hair with zero success.

"I'm also thirsty," you add.

"There's water in the car."

"Warm water in a car that smells like cigarettes doesn't count."

He stands, holds a hand out to pull you up, and doesn't let go right away once you're on your feet. He looks at you for a second, he seems like he's deciding something. "Come to mine. Shower, water, whatever you need. It’s better than dropping you off covered in sand at eleven at night."

"Heeseung, I don't need—"

"You keep saying that word like it changes anything about what I'm gonna do anyway." He's already walking back toward the car, keys spinning once around his finger. "Come on."

His apartment turns out to be nothing like you expected, which annoys you a little, because you'd built some idea of his place in your head ; messy, small ; and instead the elevator opens straight into something enormous, floor-to-ceiling windows facing the city, furniture that looks like it costs a hundred racks, which does.

"This is insane," you say, standing in the doorway, still not fully inside. "You live here? Alone?"

"Don't sound so betrayed about it."

"I pictured you in, like, a studio apartment with a mattress on the floor."

"Wow. Thank you for that image of me." He drops his keys on the counter, shrugging like the apartment doesn't warrant comment. "Bathroom's down the hall, second door. There's towels in there. I'll find you something to change into that isn't full of sand."

You still haven't moved from the doorway, taking in the size of it, the quietness of a place too clean to belong to someone who bickers the way he does. "How do you even afford this?"

"Very boring answer. Ask me another time." He's already disappearing down the hall, calling back over his shoulder. "Towels. Bathroom. Go before you track sand into my very expensive rug."

You linger by the counter instead of heading for the bathroom yet, arms crossed, sand still clinging to your ankles. "Okay, but—when am I getting home tonight? I have work in the morning."

He reappears from the hallway with a folded shirt and shorts in hand, tossing them onto the couch for you. "Never. You live here now. I've decided."

"Heeseung."

"It's already, what, eleven thirty? You're covered in sand, your options are a shower here or a shower at home in forty-five minutes of traffic smelling like a beach." He shrugs, entirely too pleased with his own logic. "I'll drive you back whenever. Or you sleep on the world's most comfortable couch and I take you home before work. Very generous offer, considering my lungs are apparently on their way out."

"That's not what I asked."

"Yeah, and I answered better questions in my life." He nods toward the hallway, unbothered. "Go shower. I'm not driving anywhere until you stop smelling like low tide."

You get out of the shower first, dressed in the shirt and shorts he left you, both too big, sleeves falling past your hands. When you find him in the kitchen he's just in sweatpants, no shirt, hair still wet, and you stop in the doorway far too long before catching yourself.

"What?" he says, not even looking up from the glass of water he's pouring.

"Nothing. Put a shirt on, it's weird."

"It's my apartment, and it's hot. I'm not putting a shirt on for you." He slides the glass across the counter toward you, finally glancing over, and whatever's on your face makes something shift in his. "Are you flustered right now?"

"No."

"You're a little flustered."

"I'm annoyed." You grab the glass just to have something to do with your hands, and drink half of it too fast. "Some warning would've been nice."

"A warning for what, my own kitchen?"

"For the— " you point directly at him, at the general fact of him, "—situation."

"There's no situation. This is just what I look like." A shit eating grin appears on his face, fully enjoying this, leaning against the counter. "You can look away if it's that distressing."

"I'm not even looking."

"You're looking right now."

"I'm looking at you to argue with you, and you look so dumb right now."

"Sure it is." He pushes off the counter, grabs a pack of cigarettes off the counter, and heads for the balcony door without the will to talk back. You follow, mostly out of spite, and the air outside is warm, the city spread out below, making the apartment's size make a little more sense. He lights up, leaning on the railing, and you stand a few feet away, arms crossed against a chill that isn't really there.

The smoke drifts toward you on the next breath of wind and you cough slightly, covering the lower half of you face with your hand.

His eyes stay on the city while a silent chuckle almost escapes him. He shifts slowly, moving to stand on your left instead, angling himself so the smoke pulls away from you and out over the railing. A quietness installs itself between you.

He flicks ash over the railing, and glances at you. "You want a drink or something? I've got wine, I think there's soju somewhere too."

"Wine would be good."

He disappears inside for a minute, comes back with two glasses and the bottle tucked under his arm, he sets everything down on the small table between the balcony chairs. You sit, and he drops into the chair across from you, pouring without measuring, more in yours than his.

"How did we even meet?" you say, mostly to fill the silence, turning the glass by its stem. "Like, before Ethan and I were even together. I feel like I always just knew you as his friend."

"You did. That's exactly what happened." He takes a sip to give himself time to recoil on the memory. "We met at that party his roommate threw, where it had the terrible speaker system. You spilled something on my shoes and apologized for like ten minutes straight."

"I did not apologize for ten minutes."

"You did. I still remember the shoes, they were new."

"You're exaggerating."

"I'm really not, I still have them." He leans back, glass balanced on his knee. "Then Ethan started talking about you nonstop for like a month before he actually got the balls to ask you out. It was unbearable. I heard about your laugh before I heard you laugh."

You laugh a little despite yourself. "That's embarrassing," you say.

"For him, mostly. I didn't say anything." He swirls the wine, not quite looking at you now. "You were different back then. I mean—Not different-different. I just think that you were, like, less careful about everything."

"Careful how?"

"You used to argue with me for fun. Now half the time you're arguing with me because you're arguing with something else and I'm just the nearest target." He says in a chuckle. "I liked the fun version better. Not that this version's bad, though."

You take your time before replying. Your fingers slowly roll the glass between your palms as you watch the wine reflect the light, letting the silence fill the space while you think.

"I didn't notice it happening," you say finally.

"Fair enough. That's usually how it goes."

He gives you time. He sits beside you in comfortable silence, his glass resting against his knee while the distant sounds of the city soften the moment.

"You know he doesn't deserve the amount of patience you're giving him, right?" he says eventually, not looking at you when he says it, trying to make it easier for both of you. "Whatever he's doing, wherever he's going at nine at night—you're sitting there making excuses for him. I watched you do it tonight."

"It's not that simple."

"It’s obviously not simple, we both know that. I'm saying you deserve someone who doesn't make you rehearse excuses for him in your head before he's even said anything." He looks over at you, his gaze serious. "You're smart. You're funny, when you're not exhausted, which lately is rare. You shouldn't be spending this much of yourself on someone who’s always checking his phone at a dinner with you."

"You don't know everything that's going on, so stop—"

"I don't need to know everything. I already know enough." He sets his glass down, leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees. "I'm not trying to convince you to do anything, okay? I just don't think you hear it enough, so I'm saying it. You deserve better than what he's giving you. That's it."

You look down at your glass instead of at him, throat tight from what you’ve been holding since you found out.

"Like it matters to you, anyway." you mumble quietly.

He lets the silence settle between you once more. Taking a deep breath, he seems to consider his next words carefully, revealing nothing before he's ready.

"It does," he declares finally. "I'm not gonna make it more complicated than that tonight."

You let the subject rest, and he doesn't volunteer anything more. Together, you sit quietly, listening to the muted sounds of the city while the wine slowly warms in your hands. Somehow, the silence says more than words you could find.

After some time, you both decided to watch a movie to ease everything out. Now, you’re curled up on the couch, the bottle of wine you two polished off leaving a soft warmth in your veins. The TV flickers with some late-night drama that you couldn't force yourself to be invested in even if you wanted to. Your head feels pleasantly light, and whatever usually fuels your arguments has faded, leaving behind nothing more than lazy teasing.

A new scene unfolds on screen : dark lighting, tangled sheets, the actors lost in a heated and sensual moment. The woman arches under her partner’s touch as his hands glide slowly over her body ; caressing, teasing, worshipping. The sounds are low and breathy, filling the room.

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, and the wine makes you bold. You glance at Heeseung beside you. "I…I’ve never done that with Ethan," you murmur, voice coming out as a whisper. "Not like that, at least."

Heeseung’s head snaps toward you, eyes wide with real shock. "Wait—what? Never? Not even close?"

You shake your head, biting your lip as embarrassment and frustration mix with the alcohol. "No. It’s always been…rushed. He never wanted to explore things or try new things. Like he doesn’t have the patience for it." Your gaze lingers on the screen for another second before returning to him. "Do you…know how to do that? Like, really touch someone like that?"

Heeseung keeps his eyes on you, his usual smirk nowhere in sight. Something unspoken passes between you. "Y/N…" he starts, voice low and careful, a flicker of heat in his eyes.

You shift slightly, scooting an inch closer on the couch. "Show me? I want to know everything. Touch me the way he’s touching her. Please?"

He swallows, and finally slowly nods, setting his empty glass aside. "Alright. But tell me when it's too much, okay?" His voice has dropped, rougher now. He reaches out, starting gentle. His fingers brush along your arm, tracing slow lines from your wrist up to your shoulder. "Like this," he murmurs, eyes locked on yours. "Pay attention to how your skin feels under my hand." His palm flattens against your collarbone, sliding down your side in one smooth caress, mapping the curve of your waist through your shirt.

You shiver, the wine amplifying every touch. Emboldened, you lean into him, and he scoots closer too, until your thighs press together. His other hand joins in, fingertips grazing your neck, then trailing down your chest with feather-light pressure.

"Tell me what feels good," he instructs softly, his hand venturing lower, stroking along your hip and the top of your thigh. "Here?" He squeezes gently, then lets his palm glide back up, bolder now.

The space between you disappears as you both shift nearer, bodies turning toward each other. Your hand finds his chest, feeling the thrum of his heartbeat, and slide up to his neck. His breath grows heavier. His fingers slip under the hem of your shirt, caressing bare skin ; warm, exploratory, following the line of your ribs.

You look up at him, lips parted. He meets your gaze for half a second before closing the distance. Tongues meet, slow and deep at first, turning more insistent as your fingers thread into his hair. He pulls you closer, one hand firm on your lower back while the other continues its caress, sliding higher under your shirt.

His kisses grow fiercer, nipping at your lower lip before soothing it, bodies pressing together on the couch as the moment spirals deeper.

You automatically swing your leg over, straddling Heeseung’s lap as the kiss deepens. Your knees sink into the couch on either side of him, bodies aligning perfectly. He groans softly into your mouth, his hands finding your waist instantly, gripping you to steady the sudden movement. "Y/N…" he breathes against your lips, pulling you closer.

His fingers dig in a little too hard at first ; eager, hungry from the built-up tension ; and you yelp sharply against his mouth, a quick flash of pain cutting through the haze of wine and heat. He pulls back immediately, eyes wide with concern, his grip loosening right away. "Shit—sorry," he murmurs. One hand gently rubs the spot on your waist where he’d gripped too tightly. "Didn’t mean to. You okay?"

You nod quickly, still breathing hard, the sting already fading into the warmth. "Yeah…I’m fine. Don’t stop."

Relief flashes across his face, quickly renewed by that same heated look. He leans in again, capturing your lips in another urgent kiss. his time, there's a new caution in the way he touches you. His hands glide slowly along your sides, lingering as though giving you every chance to pull away before one drifts lower. He cups your ass firmly, squeezing with just the right pressure ; possessive, appreciative ; as he pulls you tighter against him.

You moan softly into the kiss, rolling your hips instinctively. His tongue slides against yours, deeper and more demanding now, while his fingers knead your ass, encouraging the movement. The kiss turns messy, breathless, both of you lost in the heat as his other hand stays anchored at your waist, guiding you closer. The undeniable spark between you push everything else away.

You’re both breathing heavily when Heeseung pulls back just enough to speak, his voice low and gentle against your ear. "Come off my lap for a second, baby," he murmurs, hands sliding soothingly along your thighs. "Turn around for me."

You nod, a little dazed from the wine and the intensity, and shift off him. He helps guide you, turning you so your back is to his chest. He settles back against the couch, spreading his legs and pulling you between them until you’re nestled against him, your back flush to his front. His arms wrap around you from behind, one hand resting on your stomach while the other strokes your thigh.

"Spread your legs for me," he says softly, lips brushing the shell of your ear. "As far as you can. Let me see you."

You obey, parting your thighs wider, heat flooding your face as the position leaves you open and exposed. Heeseung hums approvingly, his fingers teasing lightly along the inside of your thigh, drawing slow circles that inch higher but never quite touch where you’re starting to ache.

"My pretty girl," he whispers, the praise making you shiver. His hand keeps stroking closer and closer until you’re squirming. "Has he ever fingered you?" he asks almost hesitantly, he already suspects the answer.

You shake your head, voice small. "No…He never did. He only ever made me suck his dick and...he was so rushed to put it in."

Heeseung exhales sharply, a mix of disbelief and irritation flashing through him. "Fuck…alright. I’ve got you."

He’s careful ; painfully so. His fingers slide under your clothes, gently parting you before one fingertip circles your entrance, gathering wetness. "Tell me if it hurts or if you want me to stop," he murmurs, pressing a soft kiss to your neck.

Slowly, he eases one finger inside you, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust to the stretch. He moves gently, curling carefully, his other arm holding you against his chest. "Breathe, Y/N. I’ll make it good for you."

He adds a second finger only when you start rocking back against his hand, still cautious, focusing entirely on your reactions as he begins to pump them in a sluggish rhythm. His thumb finds your clit, teasing light circles while he fingers you with patient strokes.

You gasp sharply as Heeseung’s fingers suddenly hit harder, the angle shifting and sending a jolt of pain through you. Your body tenses, a small cry escaping your lips.

He freezes instantly, eyes widening in panic. "Shit—sorry, sorry," he blurts, quickly easing his fingers out of you. "I didn’t mean to—fuck, are you okay? I’m so sorry, Y/N." He repeats the apology under his breath, one hand gently rubbing your thigh while the other hovers uncertainly, clearly rattled.

You catch your breath, the sting fading fast in the haze of alcohol. A smirk slowly tugs at your lips as you look back at him over your shoulder. "Are you really sorry?"

"Yes," he says immediately, voice earnest. "Of course I am."

You turn around fully to face him, still sitting between his legs. "Then get on your knees in front of me."

He blinks, then lets out a short disbelieving scoff, assuming you’re joking. "What? Right now?"

Your expression stays serious, eyes locked on his. "I said get on your knees."

The smirk on his face fades when he realizes you mean it. After a beat of hesitation, he slides off the couch and drops to his knees on the floor in front of you, looking up at you with surprise and growing desire.

"Come closer," you order softly.

He shifts forward on his knees until he’s right between your spread legs, hands resting tentatively on your thighs as he waits for your next instruction, breath a little uneven.

You lean back slightly, looking down at him. "Lick it."

Heeseung’s eyes darken instantly. Without another word, he leans in, pressing his mouth to you. His tongue drags slowly through your folds at first ; warm and soaked ; before he settles into long hungry strokes, focusing on your clit with just the right pressure. His hands grip your thighs to hold you open as he licks you with focused intent, the earlier apology shifted by eager obedience.

You let the pleasure build for a few moments, your hand threading into his hair as his tongue works you over with growing confidence. But then you tug gently, pulling him back.

"Stop." you say, voice breathy yet firm.

Heeseung pulls away immediately, lips glistening, looking up at you with hooded eyes and a hint of confusion. His chest rises and falls quickly.

You smirk down at him, still holding his hair. "You’re not going to continue until you say sorry…while you’re eating me out."

He blinks once, processing the command, then an almost amused smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "You’re serious?"

You raise an eyebrow, waiting.

He leans back in without further protest. His tongue returns to you before he murmurs the words right against your core, the vibrations sending sparks through you. "I’m sorry," he breathes, licking a long stripe up your folds. "Sorry for being too rough…" Another slow swirl around your clit. "I won’t hurt you again."

He keeps going, alternating between soft apologies and dedicated licks, his voice low and muffled as he eats you out. "Sorry, baby…fuck, you taste so good." His hands grip your thighs a little tighter as he buries his tongue deeper, still repeating quiet "sorry"s between every lick and suck, the blend of submission and hunger making the moment even more intense.

You lean back further, letting him worship you like that ; his apologies vibrating against you with every stroke of his tongue.

You slide your fingers deeper into his hair, gripping it firmly as you pull him closer against you. Heeseung’s eyes flutter half-closed ; sleepy and hazy with lust ; his ears flushed a pretty shade of pink from the heat and the wine. The sight makes something wicked twist in your lower belly.

"Well, would you look at yourself," you tease, voice breathy but filled with amusement. "On your knees, ears all pink, eyes looking half-asleep like a fucking loser."

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, lips shiny and swollen, a lazy smirk spreading across his face despite the grip you have on his hair. His sleepy eyes narrow playfully. "Loser?" he scoffs, breath hot against your skin. "Says the one who’s been missing out for months and is now dripping all over my face. If I’m such a loser, why are you pulling my hair like you never want me to stop?"

You tug his hair a little harder in response, and he lets out a low, amused chuckle, vibrating right where you need it.

"Keep talking shit and I might actually stop," you warn, though your hips roll forward, chasing his mouth.

Heeseung’s smirk only widens, pink ears burning brighter. "Yeah? Then I guess this loser better shut up and keep saying sorry…" He dives back in with renewed energy, tongue pressing flat and slow, murmuring one last muffled "Sorry, baby" against you before focusing entirely on making your teasing backfire.

You feel it building fast ; the tight coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter in your core while his tongue works you relentlessly. His sleepy eyes stay locked on yours whenever he pulls back for air, pink ears still burning, that smug little smirk never fully leaving his face even while he’s buried between your thighs.

Your grip in his hair tightens, hips rolling against his mouth as your breathing turns ragged. "Heeseung—fuck, I’m—"

Right as the orgasm crests, right as you’re about to tip over the edge, he pulls back completely. His mouth leaves you with one last slow, teasing lick before he sits back on his heels, lips glistening, looking far too pleased with himself.

You let out a frustrated whine, thighs trembling. "What the hell—"

He chuckles lowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His eyes are sleepy-lidded, but sparkling with mischief. "Not yet," he murmurs, voice rough. One finger lazily traces up your inner thigh, barely brushing where you need him. "You were talking so much shit earlier about me being a loser…thought you could handle a little teasing."

You glare down at him, still panting, the denied orgasm leaving you aching and frustrated. He leans in again, pressing the softest, almost innocent kiss right above your clit, then another on your thigh ; carefully avoiding where you’re throbbing.

"What is it?" he teases, voice low and amused. "All worked up and squirming. Were you really about to cum that fast on my tongue? Cute."

He blows a gentle stream of cool air against your wet folds, making you jolt, then gives you one torturously light lick before pulling away again.

"Beg a little nicer and maybe I’ll let you finish," he says with a smirk, pink ears still flushed as he watches your reaction, clearly enjoying edging you way too much.

Your hand tightens in his hair again, torn between wanting to pull him back in and wanting to throttle him for stopping.

You’re still catching your breath on the couch, legs shaky from the cruel edge, when Heeseung rises from his knees. He climbs over you, hovering above your body with his hands braced on either side of your head. His face is flushed, those sleepy eyes dark with want as he looks down at you.

You bite your lip, heart racing. Slowly, you lift one leg and slide your foot up between his thighs, pressing the sole against the obviously hard bulge straining through his sweatpants. You rub it teasingly with your toes, pressing on it with gentle pressure, feeling him twitch under your foot.

His breath hitches sharply, hips jerking forward into your touch. "Y/N," he warns, voice low and strained.

You look up at him with soft, fakely innocent eyes, a sweet little smile playing on your lips even as your foot continues its lazy; pressing, rubbing, tracing the outline of his cock through the soft fabric.

"What?" you murmur softly, batting your lashes. “You edged me…seems only fair I play with you a little."

He lets out a shaky laugh, forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder for a moment. His arms tremble slightly as he holds himself up, clearly fighting the urge to grind harder against your foot.

"Fuck, you’re evil," he breathes, with only affection and raw desire. His eyes flutter half-closed again as you keep rubbing him so gently, the contrast between your soft gaze and the teasing pressure of your foot making him groan quietly above you.

The air between you crackles, thick with tension as he hovers there, letting you toy with him.

You’re still looking up at him with those soft eyes when he suddenly pulls back. He stands just long enough to shove his sweatpants and boxers down in one motion, kicking them aside. His cock springs free, hard and flushed. Before you can fully process, he’s back on the couch, gently turning you around again so your back is pressed to his chest ; just like earlier.

You blink in confusion, still wobbly. "Heeseung, what are you—?"

While staying silent, he wraps one arm around your waist, pulling you firmly against him. With his free hand, he guides his cock, rubbing the thick head slowly up and down your soaked core. The pressure is heavy and hot as he glides it between your folds, coating himself in your wetness, letting you feel every inch of his length sliding against your sensitive skin.

"Just feel it," he murmurs against your ear. "Gotta get you used to me first."

The grind makes you whimper, your body tensing as the blunt head nudges at your entrance. Then he pushes in ; slow and gentle. The stretch is intense. You yell out at the burn, your hands flying back to grip his thighs.

Heeseung stops instantly, burying his face in the crook of your neck. "I know, baby, I know," he whispers soothingly, voice dull and tender. "You’re doing so good." One of his hands slides down to caress your lower stomach in comforting circles, trying to ease the discomfort. "I’ve got you, Y/N. I’m right here."

He stays still inside you, whispering sweet nothings against your skin while his fingers keep gently rubbing your stomach. Gradually, the pain starts to melt into a deep ache. When your breathing evens out a little, he begins to move. His thrusts are slothful at first but quickly turn sloppy, messy and uncoordinated from the alcohol and the overwhelming heat of the moment. Wet sounds fill the room as he rocks into you from behind, one arm banded around your waist while the other continues caressing your lower belly.

"Fuck…sorry, it’s—shit, you feel too good," he groans, the pace erratic and desperate, hips snapping up into you with needy and imperfect strokes.

His thrusts are getting sloppier, hips stuttering as the dizziness makes his pace messy and desperate. Next, on one particularly eager push, his cock slips out completely with a wet pop, loud enough to be heard in the entire living room.

You squirm hard in his lap, a needy whimper escaping you at the sudden empty feeling. Your body instinctively rocks back, searching for him again.

Heeseung lets out a breathy chuckle against your neck. "Easy, baby…"

He grips the base of his cock and gives it a couple of lazy slaps against your soaked cunt; wet smacks making you jolt and moan. The head nudges your clit with each tap, fooling you until you’re trembling.

And without warning, he lines himself up and pushes back in with one thrust, burying himself deep into you cunt. You gasp at the sudden fullness, your back arching against his chest as he groans deeply.

"Shit…that sound," he mutters, voice rough. His arm tightens around your waist, holding you in place while his other hand returns to caress your lower stomach. He starts moving again, still sloppy and uncoordinated, but deeper now ; each thrust punctuated by the wet sounds of skin meeting skin.

He kisses along your shoulder, whispering hotly, "You’re so fucking wet…hear how you take me?"

His hips snap up messily, cock sliding in and out as he keeps you pressed tight against him, lost in the pleasure of it all. You’re lost in the flow of his cock sliding in and out of you, the filthy sounds of your pussy filling the room with every sloppy thrust, when your phone starts ringing on the coffee table. The screen lights up with Ethan’s name.

You notice that it doesn't stop Heeseung from doing his work. If anything, his hips snap up harder, driving deeper as he reaches over and grabs your phone. You try to protest through a moan, but he answers the call and puts it on speaker, setting it down nearby.

"Hey, man," he says casually, voice only slightly strained as he keeps fucking you tirelessly from behind. The squelching sounds are loud and clear.

Ethan’s voice comes through, sounding worried. "Heeseung? Where’s Y/N? She’s not home yet and she’s not answering her phone. Is she with you?"

"Yeah, she’s right here," Heeseung replies, one hand gripping your hip tighter as he thrusts up into you again, making you bite down on your lip to stifle a moan. "She’s a little busy though."

You squirm in his lap, embarrassed heat flooding your face even as pleasure keeps building. Heeseung leans closer to your ear and whispers, "Let him hear how wet you are," before picking up the pace.

The obscene, slick sounds of his cock plunging into your soaked pussy echo clearly through the speaker.

Ethan pauses. "What the fuck is that sound? Is she okay?"

Heeseung lets out a low chuckle, still thrusting deeper. "She’s more than okay. I’m fucking her right now, bro. That’s the sound of her pussy taking my cock."

You moan despite yourself as he hits a particularly good spot, unable to stay quiet.

"Can you hear that?" Heeseung asks tauntingly, angling his hips so the wet noises get even louder. "Hear how soaked she is? Those are her moans too. She’s been missing this for a long time."

Ethan’s voice cracks with shock and anger. "What the hell, Heeseung?! Y/N—!"

Before Ethan can finish, Heeseung cuts him off, still buried deep inside you, voice low and possessive as he speaks directly into the phone :

"You might be what she wants…but I’m clearly what she needs."

He hangs up quickly, tossing the phone aside. His arms wrap around you tighter as he resumes fucking you with intensity, mouth pressed to your neck.

"Focus on me, baby," he murmurs hotly. "Just feel how full you are."

The sounds continue as he drives into you, the interruption only making him more eager. You barely have time to process the call ending before your phone starts buzzing repeatedly on the table. Message after message from Ethan lights up the screen ; vibrating angrily one after another.

Heeseung glances at it but doesn’t stop. His hips keep rolling up into you in that same relentless pounding, cock stretching you open with every wet thrust.

"Damn…he’s blowing up your phone," he mutters with a dark chuckle. One arm stays banded around your waist, holding you firmly in place on his lap while his other hand reaches down to rub slow circles over your clit.

He keeps fucking you through the mess. Your phone vibrates again and again ; texts popping up rapidly.

You moan helplessly, eyes fluttering as pleasure overrides everything else. "Heeseung…he’s—"

"I don't fucking care," he whispers, nipping at your earlobe. "Let him text. You’re mine right now."

He angles his hips and thrusts up hard, making you cry out as the head of his cock hits that perfect spot over and over. The phone keeps buzzing but Heeseung only fucks you harder, the sounds of your bodies utterly drowning out the vibrations.

His hand on your lower stomach presses down gently, making you feel every inch of him sliding in and out. "Hear how loud your pussy is for me?" he groans, voice rough. "Keep taking it, baby. Just like that."

You’re a mess ; moaning, squirming, gripping his thighs as he continues pounding into you from behind, unbothered by the nonstop stream of notifications. The phone eventually goes silent for a few seconds only to start vibrating again. Both of you wouldn't care less. Heeseung’s only focus is the way your walls clench around him as he fucks you through it all.

So that's what you've been missing out all this time.

Eventually, there comes a point where you stop asking who's right and who's wrong because the years blur the details until only the feeling remains. You no longer remember the first offense—only the certainty that if a room catches fire, you'll check whether Nishimura Riki is still inside before you leave.

After all, neither of you ever fought fair— honestly, why would you?

See, mercy is naturally reserved for people you love and indifference is for strangers. Hatred, on the other hand— real hatred—is far more intimate. It learns your habits, memorizes your weaknesses, and waits until you're already bleeding before deciding exactly where to press.

That's the part people never seem to understand.

They like to believe hatred has humble beginnings because it reassures them that it can also be undone; they tell themselves that, given enough patience, enough time, someone will eventually show forgiveness.

But leniency is reserved for those who believe the other deserves it.

You never did.

Nishimura Riki never deserved— nor earned—that leniency.

There's this thing called irony. You've had enough of it, yet it just keeps coming back anyway— unwanted, unprompted—as if it simply can't help itself. As if its sole purpose in life is to ruin yours every single time it decides to show up.

Funnily enough, today is no exception.

The automatic doors of Incheon airport slide open, spitting you and the rest of R3SET into the humid Seoul air. Cameras flash somewhere in the distance— paparazzi already swarming your arrival; Hye-ri walks on your left, Mina on your right, and Sera trails a step behind with her hood pulled low.

You're finally— finally—done with the world tour.

By now, every city has bled into the next; hotels all smelled the same, airport lounges became second homes, and every day dissolved into the same cycle of soundchecks, stages, and performances so loud you had to get your hearing checked on a regular basis. Somewhere along the way, you'd forgotten what it felt like to wake up in the same bed twice.

But today, for the first time in months, you're home.

Which, as irony would have it, is exactly where everything is about to go wrong.

You’re clutching a water bottle in your hand, trying to make sure your face is shielded from the flashes with the other yet your pathetic little instinct says it’s a good idea to reach for your phone when it buzzes in your pocket.

As you glance down to the screen— expecting a welcome-back email from your manager or something absolutely useless like that— you see instead the HYBE logo staring right back at you.

Subject: Year-End Special Collaboration Project – Confirmed Pairing

Your thumb hovers but you already know. Deep in your gut, you fucking know.

But you open it anyway.

...R3SET's Y/n will be paired with ENHYPEN's NI-KI for the 4-minute original dance performance piece. Joint choreography development begins immediately. Mandatory attendance at all scheduled practices, filming days, and rehearsals. Non-compliance will result in...

The rest blurs, it doesn't even matter.

"Fuck." The word slips out under your breath, low and venomous.

Your fingers tighten around the phone until your knuckles crack hard— nails digging crescents into your palm. You keep squeezing until the skin breaks and warm little lines of pain bloom.

Hye-ri notices, her eyes flick to your white-knuckled grip, then away, and Mina's shoulders stiffen. None of your members speak, hah, they know better. Everyone knows talking about the devil is a no-go.

See, some people pray before they sleep, some people do skincare, or meditation. You? You rehearse arguments with Nishimura Riki, you plot his downfall, and you clench your teeth so hard they might break in your mouth.

It's become routine, really, and now you can already hear his stupid voice in your head— sharp, accented, dripping with disgust. "Ugly bitch. Always ruining shit for everyone else."

The same things he's muttered under his breath every time your paths crossed at award shows. The same venom you've always returned by feeding your private hate account the most unflattering behind-the-scenes clips you could find of him.

Usually, if he dared looking smug on stage, you made sure someone clipped the moments he stumbled or looked exhausted.

Petty? Maybe. Satisfying? Abso-fucking-lutely.

A staff member in a Hybe windbreaker rushes past, nearly colliding with you and your shoulder slams into his. Pain flares, but you barely register it, you're too busy being angry.

"Shit— sorry," you mutter automatically, voice flat. The staff blinks at you, startled, but you're already moving again, eyes burning holes into the floor.

Mina finally breaks the silence, voice low enough that only the group can hear. "You good?"

"No." Your laugh is bitter, barely a sound. "They paired me with that fraud, of course I'm not good."

Sera's hand brushes your arm in silent support, but she doesn't say anything. What is there to say? Erm...Good luck? Don't kill each other? The company doesn't care if you hate Riki, they want the drama and the numbers— the "tension" that fans already whisper about in forums.

You force your fingers to unclench, blood dots your palm in tiny red half-moons but you wipe it discreetly on your sweatpants.

The roar of fans and cameras grows louder as you approach the arrival gate— bright lights, screaming voices chanting your name and phones held high are waiting for you. You pull your black facemask up over your nose and mouth in one smooth motion and roll your shoulders back, lift your chin, to let the practiced smile bleed into your eyes even if it never reaches your mouth.

Hye-ri links arms with you on cue, Mina waves with both hands, bright and bubbly and you all fall into formation like muscle memory.

"Y/n unnie! Welcome back!"

"R3SET fighting!"

You bow slightly toward the crowd, eyes crinkling above the mask in the perfect illusion of gratitude. Let's just say, inside, your mind is a storm of curses in three languages.

Nishimura fucking Riki.

You can already picture the first practice: his tall frame taking up way too much space in the studio, that stupid frown, the way he'll deliberately step on your timing just to watch you fail. The way his hands will have to touch you during lifts and turns because the choreographer will demand chemistry you'll never have.

You want to break something. Preferably his ugly nose.

But the cameras are rolling, the fans are watching and on top of everything, the company email has made it very clear— this project is non-negotiable. So you keep smiling behind the mask, waving with one hand while the other stays clenched around your bottle.

'Let's see how long we last before one of us actually tries to kill the other', you think as you move toward the waiting vans.

You already know the answer.

Not long.

You might wonder what brings a woman and a man to such lengths of hatred. And the difficult part is that there's no real explanation; it's just an accumulation really— tiny cuts over years that fester into something grotesque.

One day you're both wide-eyed trainees sweating through sixteen-hour days, and the next you're fantasizing about drop-kicking Nishimura Riki off a stage mid-performance while smiling for the fans.

That's the thing, it's not dramatic movie-villain origin shit. It's the slow poison of shared survival in an industry that chews up kids and spits out Barbie dolls.

A stolen practice slot here, a whispered rumor there, a public meltdown that paints you as the problem while he plays the misunderstood genius, and a TV scandal that ruined everything. Add in sleep deprivation, pressure, and the fact that you both watched each other's dreams nearly die, and boom— they created the perfect nemesis.

By now, you've replayed every second so many times it feels like a greatest-hits album in your brain. Riki’s smug little smirk when he nailed a combo you'd been killing yourself over. The way he'd mutter "amateur" just loud enough for you to hear during evaluations. Your secret satisfaction when his group's early promotions hit minor bumps.

It's all so stupid and so fucking deep at the same time. Because that's the problem with hatred— it doesn't have to make sense to become permanent. Some people have childhood trauma... you just have Nishimura Riki.

The flashbacks hit you sometimes like a bad smell you can't escape. It always starts the same way; elimination day on I-LAND; the lights were way too bright, the cameras too close, and the air felt thick enough to choke on. You remember the way the eliminated trainees stood in that sterile line, faces blank or streaked with tears. Riki's japanese hyung Hajime —his only real anchor in that cutthroat dorm—didn't make the final cut. The announcement echoed through the hall like a death sentence and even now, years later you can still hear it.

The kid had talent, sure, but the system didn't care. It pushed and pushed and pushed until even the strongest cracked under the weight of evaluations, rankings, and endless comparisons.

You were just trying to survive too, right? Everyone was. Thats why you did what you did that day, and why you kept doing it out of pure pettiness.

The company fed you lines about "growth" and "teamwork," when talking about the trainee program, but really it was a meat grinder dressed up in sparkly dresses. Children— literal teenagers—breaking down in practice rooms at 3 am., vomiting from exhaustion, smiling for the livestreams like nothing was wrong. Friendships formed and shattered in the span of a single ranking drop.

Loyalties? Laughable.

You did what you had to do: submitted the feedback that protected your own team. Cold? Maybe. Necessary? In that hellscape, yes.

Riki, though, didn't see it that way. He exploded in the hallway afterward, voice cracking with rage, calling you out in front of everyone. That moment branded him "difficult" and nearly cost him everything. You watched his dream wobble on the edge while yours steadied and the industry kept spinning, indifferent to the bodies it left behind.

Some debuted. Some didn't.

But we’ll get to that story another time.

Back in the present, a couple days passed since you came back to Seoul— you're now sitting in a Hybe conference room turned temporary press hall, legs crossed tightly under the table so no one sees your knee bouncing like it's trying to escape your body.

It's the kickoff press conference for the year-end special collaboration, cameras are everywhere and so are reporters with microphones poised like weapons. Your members are seated a few chairs down, shooting you sympathetic glances when they think the cameras aren't looking.

Across from you, flanked by his members, sits the devil himself: Nishimura Riki.

He looks disgustingly repulsive in his all-black fit— sharp jawline, dyed blond hair styled just right, that stupid tall frame slouched like he owns the room. You want to throw your mic at his head and watch it split open.

The MC, some overly enthusiastic guy in a suit two sizes too tight, beams at the crowd. "Welcome everyone! Today we're excited to announce this groundbreaking collaboration between R3SET and Enhypen! Let's hear from the groups themselves!"

Forced applause ripples through the room and you plaster on your idol smile— eyes bright, lips curved— the works. Inside your head it's a completely different scene:

'Smile wider, you fraudulent prick. I hope your next flip lands on your neck.'

Riki mirrors your expression perfectly. To the cameras, you two look like respectful colleagues but up close? His eyes scream 'I hope you trip on stage and eat shit in front of twenty thousand people.'

The MC shoves a mic toward you first. "Y/n! How do you feel about partnering with Riki for this high-stakes piece?"

You lean forward slightly, voice honey-sweet and professional. "I'm really honored to be working with someone as talented as Riki. We're both dedicated to this, so I know we'll deliver something amazing for the fans."

Translation: 'I would rather gargle battery acid than spend one minute in a practice room with that entitled dance prodigy asshole.'

Riki's turn comes. He chuckles lightly, the sound obviously practiced, but you catch the micro-twitch in his jaw. "Yeah, same. Y/n has great stage presence. Looking forward to creating something cool together."

'Cool?' you think. 'I'll create a crime scene, maybe.'

The MC eats it up. "Ah, such great chemistry already! Let's do a quick joint Q&A. Reporters, go ahead."

A reporter stands. "There have been past rumors of some tension between you two from trainee days. How will you overcome that for this project?"

The room goes a little quieter— your smile doesn't falter, but your nails dig into your thigh under the table.

Riki answers first, voice calm. "Trainee days were tough for everyone. We've both grown a lot since then. Right, Y/n?"

You nod, locking eyes with him. "Absolutely. Water under the bridge, we're focused on the performance now."

Water under the bridge? More like gasoline on a bonfire.

Another reporter asks, "Riki, what's your first impression of working with Y/n?"

He tilts his head, pretending to think. "She's very... determined. Always gives 110%. I respect that."

Determined. Just a way of saying 'ruthless backstabber,' for him.

You jump in before he can enjoy his little jab. "And Riki's technique is insane. It'll be fun pushing each other, right?" Your tone is light, playful even and the audience laughs appreciatively.

The press conference drags on like a hostage situation— they make you do a short segment where you both stand up and demonstrate a basic partner hold for the cameras. His hand lands on your waist— firm and professional, but you can tell he’s dying to take it off. Your skin crawls but you place your hand on his shoulder like the choreographer instructed earlier in rehearsal. Up close, he smells like expensive cologne and it makes nausea rise so violently in your throat that you want to throw up on the spot.

"Relax your grip," he mutters under his breath, smile still plastered on for the flashing cameras. "Or are you trying to claw me in front of everyone?"

"Shut the fuck up and smile, giraffe," you whisper back, voice sugary.

His fingers press harder into your waist— just enough to bruise, not enough for anyone else to notice. You dig your nails into his shoulder in return and the cameras click wildly.

You both separate after the pose, returning to your seats— of course, your members are trying not to laugh nervously while Jake leans over to whisper something to Riki that makes his jaw clench. Good, you hope it breaks.

The MC claps. "Wonderful! Now, let's hear some fan questions!"

A staff member reads one aloud: "What's one thing you're excited to learn from each other?"

You go first this time. "I'm excited to learn Riki's precision in footwork. He's known for it."

And you're also excited to learn how far you can push him before he snaps on camera.

Riki's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "Y/n's charisma in performance is next level. I'll definitely pick up some tips on audience connection."

The back-and-forth continues— every compliment laced with venom only the two of you can taste. The audience eats up the "tension" as chemistry.

Oh God, if only they knew you'd spent the van ride here mentally drafting apology tweets for the hypothetical day you actually murder him.

At one point, they project concept art for the performance on a big screen behind you— dark, intense, sensual choreography planned; close partner work, lifts and prolonged eye contact. The MC gushes about it and you nearly choke on your own spit.

Great. Just what you need—his hands all over you while yours fantasize about elbowing him in the ribs until he throws up his organs.

Riki's expression stays neutral, but you swear you see his eye twitch— he probably imagines the same thing in reverse.

Halfway through, they bring out small gifts— matching bracelets symbolizing the collaboration. You have to clasp one on his wrist while cameras zoom in; his skin is warm, you hate it— but he’s obligated to return the favor, fingers brushing yours with shameless disgust.

Then the press conference wraps with more applause and photo ops; you stand side-by-side for group shots, shoulders barely touching but close enough that you can feel his body. His hand brushes your lower back as you pose— publicly supportive, privately a threat.

"After this, I'm blocking your number again," you mutter as the cameras flash.

"Already did that months ago, ugly bitch," he whispers back cheerfully.

As the event ends and staff start herding everyone out, you catch his eye one last time across the room— needless to say, it's pure murder, zero remorse.

You smirk behind your polite nod.

Game on, Riki. Someone's going to break. You just hope it's him. (though if it's you, at least you'll take him down with you.)

The van ride back to the dorm is quiet, your members chat lightly about the schedule while you stare out the window, palm still stinging from earlier, replaying every micro-interaction. His grip. His whisper. That fucking ugly smirk.

Oh god— hatred has turned you into a creature of rage and despair, it’s starting to become pathetic.

You pull out your phone and open the secret hate account; it's time to upload that one blurry shot you sneaked during the photo op where he looks slightly constipated under the bright lights.

Petty? Yes. Therapeutic? Immensely.

For your sake— somewhere across the city, Riki's probably doing the same thing, so it’s only fair. You log into your @nishimurafraud aka “that bitch gotta go” and do your thing, quickly posting the ridiculous picture with the caption, ‘thank you to the fan who snapped this horrible shot of dickimura’.

You laugh to yourself— it’s true that it’s childish and ridiculous but no one will ever know it was you anyway.

Nishimura Riki needs to die.

Not in a cute "hahaha i hate you" way. You mean it in the bone-deep, stomach-churning, 'if I had a knife I'd turn him into human barbecue meat' kind of way.

Every time you picture his stupid face your blood pressure spikes so hard you can hear your heartbeat in your ears. He's not even attractive to you anymore— years of hatred have warped him into this tall, lanky, smug-faced asshole who moves like he's God's gift to dance but looks like a little bitch when he's off-guard.

Ugly on the inside, ugly on the outside. Perfect match.

And now —a few days after— the locked studio on the fifth floor of the Hybe building feels like a prison cell designed specifically to torture you. Soundproof walls, mirrors on every surface, no windows, and a door that clicks shut with a sound that makes your skin crawl.

Just you, him, the choreographer who already left a couple times for a "quick break" (though he’s probably hiding from the murder vibes), and four hours of mandatory choreography creation time.

You stretch in the corner, trying to ignore how his presence sucks all the oxygen out of the room— Riki’s scrolling on his phone like he has all the time in the world, legs spread obnoxiously wide on the floor, he’s wearing a pair of ugly oversized sweats and a chrome hearts tank.

He probably thought he looked oh so good that morning when he got dressed— fun fact, he doesn’t.

"You gonna stand up or just sit there?" you snap, not even bothering to look at him.

"Don't talk to me, just do your job and shut up." he clicks his tongue, knee bouncing, annoyed.

You let out a breathy chuckle, "I don't care about what you want, just stand up and let's get to work. Try not to be a lazy slop for once."

"Oh give me a break," he hisses the second the choreographer is gone, not even looking up. “Start alone if you’re so eager to work.”

What you’re gonna do is start throwing punches.

You laugh humourlessly. "Keep throwing your little fits and maybe they'll finally send you back to Japan, dickface."

His head snaps up, those dark eyes narrowing into slits. "At least I have talent worth exporting. What do you have? Average face, average moves, and a shit personality."

"Fuck you," you spit, stepping into the center of the room. "Let's just get this over with."

The choreographer left a rough structure: heavy partner work, intense eye contact, sharp isolations into fluid lifts. Of course. Because the company wants chemistry. What they're going to get though, is a motherfucking homicide report.

You start with the basics— mirroring footwork. Riki's annoyingly precise, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking impressed, instead, you mutter under your breath, "Stiff as a fucking board. Do you even bend or is your spine made of rebar?"

Riki stops mid-count, turning to you with a glare that makes you want to punch his teeth in. "Stop looking at me and then maybe you’ll realise how off-beat you are… no wonder they paired you with me— someone actually good."

"Good?" You step closer, hands on your hips. "You're sloppy as shit. The only reason it works is because you're young and pretty and the delusional fans like that overgrown baby face. One day that shit's gonna catch up and you'll just be another weirdo doing Tiktoks in your mom's basement."

He barks a laugh that sounds like it hurts. "Coming from you? That's rich. You're mid at best on a good day, repulsive on every other."

The insults fly faster as you run the first section again, every correction turning into verbal evisceration.

"You're rushing the transition, can't keep up, ugly ass?" he sneers during a spin combo.

"Shut up," you fire back. "Fix your damn posture before I break it for you."

By the time you reach the partner lifts, the air is drenched with venom; he has to grip your waist and lift you into a hold, his fingers dig in hard—bruising, punishing. You retaliate by digging your elbow into his shoulder as you balance.

"Watch it," he growls, voice low.

"Make me, bitch."

The lift goes up— for three seconds it's almost beautiful—technically. But then you shove off him harder than necessary on the dismount, and he pushes you back just enough that you stumble.

"You fucking—" You whirl on him, fists clenched.

"What do you want now?" His chest is heaving, face inches from yours. Up close he's even uglier— that stupid mole, the way his lip curls like he smells something rotten. You. "You know what y/n? I hope this stage is where your career dies, that'll finally shut you up. I think you’ve gotten way too comfortable.”

You shove him hard in the chest and he shoves right back. For a split second you're both seconds away from throwing actual punches— knuckles white, breathing ragged, eyes screaming murder. Your heart is pounding with rage and something sickeningly close to adrenaline.

The studio door clicks open before you can use your fists— a staff member walks in, freezing at the sight of you two practically snarling at each other.

"Everything... okay?" the staff asks hesitantly.

You step back first, forcing that professional mask on. "Perfect. Just working through some difficult transitions."

Riki wipes sweat from his brow, smiling like an angel for the staff. "Yeah. Great progress."

The staff nods awkwardly and leaves after reminding you of the schedule— the door locks again and you both exhale like you've been holding your breath for an hour.

"Stay the fuck away from me until we have to touch again," you mutter, grabbing your water bottle.

"Gladly."

The session drags like that for hours— insults layered between actual choreography notes, every touch turning into a power struggle. By the end you're both exhausted, bruised, vibrating with hatred and you leave without a word, slamming the door behind you.

Later that night, in the Enhypen dorm, Riki's sprawled on the couch scrolling through his phone with a scowl that could curdle milk. Jake walks in from the kitchen, humming, clearly in a good mood. He clears his throat, trying to sound casual at first. "So... choreo with Y/n today? I caught some of the teaser clips from the press conference earlier. She looks really good..."

Riki doesn't look up immediately, but his eyebrow twitches. "You're kidding, right?"

Jake continues, slower. "I mean... no, and you're probably gonna laugh but I've been thinking about her a lot lately. I don't know, man, I might... have a bit of a crush. Like, actually considering shooting my shot after this project wraps. She seems cool."

Jungwon, from the hallway, goes, "Oh shit, here we go..."

Riki slowly lowers his phone, staring at Jake like he just confessed to arson— the silence stretches for a beat before he explodes with disbelief "There's 7 billion people on this planet and you chose her? Good job man... nah, good job."

Jake chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Come on, she's not—"

Jay, overhearing from the other couch, jumps in. "She's not all that bad come on... you're lying to yourself it's dramatic."

"I'm not. She's ugly, bitchy, and dumb. What the fuck could he even see in her." Riki sits up straighter, fully committed and disgusted. "You're seriously just going to forget everything she did? All that... for a mid, ridiculous bitch?"

Sunoo intervenes, rolling his eyes, "You don't need to say all that Riki, don't call her a bitch. Honestly it's not that deep, we were young and..."

"Aaaand i don't care." Riki cuts off. "Good luck Jake, you're gonna regret this. You're gonna get herpes all over your dick— gonna start shooting your intestines straight out of your ass."

Jake is half-chuckling, half-horrified. "Dude... what the hell are you even saying."

"What im saying is, if you pursue that, I'm disowning you as a member. Find someone else. Anyone."

Jay wheezes from the couch. "Let him do whatever he wants to do. Y/n isn't even bad, she's sweet and pretty"

"You're dead wrong," Riki says, dead serious. "While you're at it Jake, do me a favor and take my place in rehearsal so I won't have to lift her disgusting ass again."

The words feel good, cathartic even, he pictures your face during that final shove in the studio and smiles spitefully at the ceiling. The satisfaction slandering your name brings him is unmatched.

Okay, you really didn’t make much of an effort these past few weeks— you’ll admit it. But, to your credit, pretending to tolerate Nishimura Riki was already taking more restraint than you possessed. The company wanted chemistry but come on— let’s be honest, subtlety had never been your strong suit when it came to him.

Back in the R3SET dorm, you’re sprawled across the couch in oversized sweats, phone glowing in your hand like a bomb that just went off. The email from Hybe sits open on the screen, the words burning into your retinas. Hye-ri pads in from the kitchen with two iced americanos, sliding one onto the coffee table before dropping down beside you.

“Oh shit, man, I’m in deep trouble,” you mutter, shoving the phone toward her.

Hye-ri leans over, reading quickly. “What happened?”

You snort despite yourself. “Company just sent me an email… apparently people all over social media are saying me and Nishimura look like we despise each other. Like… hello? Duh? Tell me something I don’t know.”

Hye-ri winces, sipping her drink. “They really need to media train you, oh my god. You need to retake the whole class.”

You chuckle coldly, “This hatred cannot be media trained out of me, Hye-ri,” you say, half-laughing, half-serious, “I’ll drag that motherfucker down, whatever it takes. No one can convince me to stop.”

“Okay but at least be slick about it, Y/n.”

“Hell no. If I start behaving normally these crazy ass fans might start—” you gag dramatically, “—shipping me with him.”

Hye-ri hesitates, then pulls out her own phone with a sympathetic grimace. “Umm… I hate to break it to you, Y/n. Don’t be mad okay? But like… they already do.”

She types quickly, and turns the screen toward you. A random tweet stares back: “Oh i know that angry enemy sex must be sooo good. #yn #niki”

Oh fuck these people, come on.

“Ew what the heck???” You recoil, shoving the phone away like it’s contagious. “Ugh I’m gonna throw up, hold my hair.”

Hye-ri laughs, rubbing your back as you dramatically fake-heave into a pillow. “It’s just delusional fans, unnie. They ship anything that breathes in the same zip code. But yeah… the company’s not wrong about the optics.…”

You sit up, running a hand through your hair. Every interaction with Riki these past weeks had been a masterclass in restraint— smiling for the cameras while imagining shoving him off a balcony— and now Hybe was sniffing around like you’d personally ruined their precious brand synergy.

“They want me to play nice,” you say bitterly, staring at the email again. “But every time I’m in the same room as him it feels like my skin’s on fire. Like my body remembers every shitty thing he’s ever said or done and just… revolts. Literally what do they want me to do for a whole month ?”

Hye-ri lets out an awkward laugh, she knows that topic is highly sensitive and she doesn’t really know how to talk about it. “Well, just don’t talk to him, try to be neutral and don’t bother arguing with him.”

It’s so hard not to argue when Nishimura Riki is another level of messy. The kind that makes your stomach turn and your skin want to peel itself off just from sharing the same air— he’s the toxic spill that contaminates everything it touches.

And since the company doesn’t give a damn about your mutual revulsion— here you are, dragged into another locked studio at 9 PM for a forced 12-hour overnight practice because the higher-ups decided “chemistry needs time” and deadlines don’t care about your desire to see him drop dead.

It’s been a week since the talk in the dorms with Hye-ri, and you tried— god you really tried to follow her advice, but it’s impossible.

The mirrors probably make it worse— every angle reflects his repulsive presence. You can’t escape him. Your skin prickles the second the door locks and it’s just the two of you under the cold lights.

Riki’s already there, scrolling on his phone with that bored expression that says he’d rather be anywhere but near you. It’s a good thing you feel the same way.

The choreographer dips out around midnight with a vague “review the footage yourselves.” Leaving you two in hell. You start the first run-through in silence; during a simple mirroring sequence, his arm brushes yours accidentally and you jerk away like he’s diseased, skin crawling violently.

“Try not to fucking touch me,” you snap. “Are you spatially impaired or something?”

“That’s not even a thing, you idiot. And you think I wanna be touching a backstabbing bitch?” Riki’s lip tighten. “Don’t think i forgot everything you did back then.”

You roll your eyes, “Oh for fuck’s sake, just shut up for once.”

The tall man snaps, he turns to you and looks down with hatred, “No, everyone’s forgetting your little bitch act but I won’t. You sold out Hajime just to save your own ass cause you’re an egoistic idiot… Should I continue or do you actually feel guilty for once?”

The words hit like acid, your blood boils and you whip around, hatred flaring. “And your little public tantrum right after? Exploding in the hallway, screaming at me in front of everyone, nearly tanked my entire evaluation. Don’t act like you were some saint, Riki. We both know you’re the bitch here.”

He stares at you with pure loathing, “Whatever you say, one day you’re gonna have to face it y/n, let’s just finish this shit so I don’t have to look at your face anymore.”

Some time after; the micro-sabotage starts small but vicious. In the next lift sequence, he “missteps,” his foot catching your ankle just enough to make you stumble hard.

Pain shoots up your leg but you recover by raking your nails subtly down his arm as you catch yourself— leaving red lines under his sleeve. Riki hisses but keeps moving, eyes burning.

Your skin crawls every time his hands land on your waist for the holds. It feels violating, wrong. You dig your fingers into his shoulder harder than needed, hoping it bruises deep.

“Disgusting,” you mutter under your breath during one close turn.

You force some semblance of work conversation because the company is monitoring progress, but even that doesn’t work.

“Your count is off on the transition,” you say through gritted teeth, skin prickling as you reset positions.

“Yeah, because you’re rushing it like an amateur,” he replies.

It keeps going until you both have no saliva and inspiration left and around 5 am, during the most intense partner sequence— close holds, prolonged eye contact, bodies pressed together for balance—you both mistime the transition.

Your foot catches his, and his arm wraps around you instinctively as momentum pulls you down. You crash to the practice floor in a tangle of limbs, his body half-covering yours, chests heaving.

For a second, neither of you moves.

His face is inches from yours, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—thighs, chest, the press of his hand still on your waist.

“Get off me,” you whisper, but your voice comes out rougher than intended.

He doesn’t immediately, his eyes flick down to your mouth with disgust, then back up. “You’re the one still holding my shirt.”

You are, your fingers are fisted in the fabric. You release it like it burned you, bile rising in your throat.

You scramble up, heart pounding with rage— you both avoid eye contact, but the image of his body over yours lingers like a scar until you’re seconds away from throwing up.

Around 6 am, another company email hits and obviously yours is brutal: Y/n’s sections lack conviction. Visible panic affecting flow. Fix immediately or risk replacement.

You read it in the corner, alone, hands starting to shake as the pressure, exhaustion, and years of fighting catch up. Panic claws at your throat so you turn away, trying to breathe through it, hating that you’re cracking even a little.

Riki notices from across the room, of course, he doesn’t comfort— he stays in his corner of the room, a mocking smirk creeping onto his face despite the exhaustion. This, is his favorite sight, he thrives whenever he sees you break even a little.

So all he can do is laugh coldly, he despises you, hates how you get under his skin, hates that he can’t stop seeing images of your younger self betraying him over and over.

But what he loves though— is that you could be begging on your knees and he’d still want you dead.

You push open the studio door a couple hours later, legs like lead and eyes burning from the all-nighter; every muscle screams, your ankle still throbs from that “accidental” trip, and your brain is a delightful cocktail of rage and exhaustion.

You’re thinking about the long nap you’re gonna take as soon as you’re home, when you spot Sim Jake leaning against the wall a few meters down, looking unfairly fresh for this ungodly hour. He’s holding a small paper bag, shifting his weight like a nervous puppy.

“Hey y/n,” he says, offering a shy smile as you approach. “I… uh, grabbed some pastries earlier. Got extra ones I won’t finish. Want some?”

He holds the bag out and you blink at him, brain too fried to compute kindness immediately. Extra my ass, those look suspiciously hand-picked.

Before you can answer, the studio door swings open again— Riki steps out right behind you, tall frame radiating pure irritation— his eyes land on Jake, the pastries, and you standing there and his jaw tightens so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t crack. He huffs loudly- dramatic as ever—shoves his hands in his pockets, and stalks off down the hall without a word.

Jake watches him go, then glances back at your narrowing eyes as they stare at Riki’s retreating back.

He chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So… about those pastries. And, um… would you maybe wanna grab lunch sometime? When we’re not both half-dead from schedules.” He glances around quickly, making sure no staff is lurking.

So it wasn’t about the pastries at all.

You raise an eyebrow, suspicion kicking in instantly. Is this a trap? Is Riki putting him up to this so he can watch you crash and burn? Some elaborate plot to humiliate you?

“Is there a catch?” you cross your arms.

He shakes his head, sincere. “No catch. Just me.”

You let out a tired but genuine little chuckle. “Mhh okay then. Okay. Lunch sounds good.”

His face lights up like you just handed him a winning lottery ticket and you take a pastry from the bag— still warm—before waving him off to head toward the van waiting downstairs.

Cute. Annoyingly wholesome. The anti-Riki.

Back at the dorm you collapse onto your bed for approximately three seconds before your stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead. Right. Food.

You drag yourself to your laptop, intending to quickly google whether that leftover kimchi jjigae in the fridge is still safe or if it’s entered its “biohazard” era and fingers moving on autopilot, you hit the search bar.

And remember what we said about irony? Well it seems that bitch is the main character in your life— it lives and thrives on your embarrassment.

Your search history pops up first on your phone, snapping you back to reality. Oh well.

nishimura riki dance technique, nishimura riki dancing fancam, nishimura riki best moves, enhypen niki choreography breakdown, nishimura riki footwork analysis

You stare, then you stare harder. Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me.

You’ve forgot to mention this part of the hatred— the one where, no matter how many times you make yourself throw up, you still can’t stop yourself from analyzing the enemy— studying his technique so you can dismantle it during practice.

Riki precision really is…. insane— it hurt to admit but it’s the truth. The way he isolates his movements, the control in those lifts, the ridiculous height giving him lines you had to match or exceed… You’ve been rewatching his clips more than you care to admit, picking apart what makes him good so you could be better.

So you could beat him.

“Fucking hell,” you groan, slamming the laptop shut and face-planting into your pillow.

Stockholm syndrome probably. Yeah.

Needless to say— a few days later you find yourself sitting next to Sim Jake while he talks about different foods he misses from Australia. Interesting— but also existentially confusing, because here’s this cutie pie of a man rambling sweetly about meat pies and Vegemite like it’s the pinnacle of human cuisine— and your brain keeps short-circuiting back to someone’s dancing skills.

“—and honestly the Tim Tams are killer, but nothing beats a proper Aussie burger with beetroot,” Jake says, his knee brushing yours under the table as he leans in a little closer. “You ever tried any of that stuff? I’d love to make you my infamous version sometime.”

You blink, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Is that an invitation?”

His eyes crinkle, clearly pleased. “It’s definitely an invitation. I make a mean one.” He steals a fry from your plate, holding eye contact the whole time like it’s a dare.

And it’s nice— really nice. Jake feels nice, and safe and everything in between. A good friend.

You laugh, reaching over to snag one of his own fries in retaliation, letting your fingers linger just a second longer than necessary. “Bold move. I see how it is— you lure me in with pastries and now you’re offering private cooking lessons.”

He chuckles, low and easy, shifting so his arm rests along the back of your chair. “What can I say? I like spoiling good company. And you…” His gaze flicks over your face, appreciative. “You make it easy to want to spoil.”

Oh. Oookay. Sim Jake’s got game.

Your stomach does a stupid little flip despite yourself— it’s been so long since anyone looked at you without layers of politeness or pure venom, that the attention feels almost foreign.

“Yeah? Keep talking like that and I might start thinking this lunch is less ‘casual hang’ and more ‘date,’” you tease, tilting your head as you take a sip of your drink, watching him over the rim. You don’t even mean it at first, it just slips out, friendly and teasing.

Much to your surprise Jake doesn’t miss a beat. “Would that be so bad?” he asks, voice playful but with a genuine edge underneath. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, schedules be damned.”

You feel heat creep up your neck but play it cool, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Ah… dangerous territory, Mr. Australia. I might actually say yes to that burger night you know?”

“Deal then,” he says immediately, his smile widening into something brighter and flirtier.

And who knows? This could be good, right? There’s not shame in wanting to hang out with sweet Jake and get a taste of normal life, burgers and all.

Mid-project evaluation hits like a goddamn truck— and honestly everyone expected it (everyone = you and your own brain).

The conference room feels narrower than usual, air thick with disappointment— suits from the creative team sit across the table like judges at an execution, projecting footage of your latest run-through on the big screen.

The choreography looks technically good in moments— your footwork clean, his lines ridiculous as always—but the notes flashing across the slide are brutal: Lacks cohesion. Emotional disconnect visible. Partner chemistry reads as forced tension rather than intentional fire. Fix by weekend or we reevaluate the performance slot.

You clench your jaw so hard it aches, nails digging into your thighs under the table. Of course it’s not cohesive, how the fuck do they expect magic when every touch makes your skin crawl like you’re hugging a venomous snake?

Riki sits a few seats away, face blank like he’s above it all, but you catch the micro-twitch in his jaw— he hates this as much as you do. Good.

The exec in the middle drones on, voice flat and disappointed. “We’re seeing potential, but the audience needs to feel something. Right now it looks like you two are tolerating each other at best.”

Tolerating? You almost laugh out loud. Try actively plotting each other’s demise between counts.

Your manager shoots you a warning glance, so you force a polite nod, but inside you’re screaming. Even in your twenties, this makes you feel like a kid getting grounded all over again—stuck in detention with the one classmate who ruined every group project. No phone, no freedom, just endless practice until you “get it right.” The infantilizing tone of it all makes your blood boil. You’re professionals… sort of— but sure, they should lock you in a room like misbehaving toddlers.

The meeting is short and soul-crushing. “We’re locking the studio for the full weekend,” one exec says flatly. “No outside schedules. Fix it.”

You don’t even look at Riki as you leave. You don’t need to— the tension follows you both like a shadow.

48 hours to manufacture chemistry out of pure hatred is a flawed way of proceeding. Give it a lifetime— and then maybe just maybe it’ll be enough.

The studio door clicks shut 7 pm that next Friday, the lock engaging like a prison cell. No choreographer. No staff. Just the two of you, mirrors on every wall as you stretch in the corner, trying to ignore how his presence sucks the oxygen out of the room. Riki’s already there, him and that obnoxious slouch.

There’s something you have yet to admit— it’s that you learned Nishimura Riki the way soldiers learn battlefields— every weakness mapped, every tell memorized, every micro-expression a potential opening for attack. You could recognize his silhouette before your own reflection: the tall frame, the slight tilt of his head when he’s about to strike, the way his shoulders tense right before a difficult transition. But no matter how much you study him, you could never pin point why you loathe him so much.

It’s like your ambition had slowly borrowed his face— every late-night practice, every ranking you clawed for, every mirror check— his standard was burned into your brain. This comes from the principle that, there are people you love because they understand you— and then there are people who understand you because they’ve spent years trying to defeat you.

Hatred kept you facing one another long after affection would’ve looked away.

It’s better this way.

Two ugly souls like yours could never be more than rivals.

The first run-through starts in heavy silence— you move into position and Riki does the same. No words are uttered, just eyes tracking every shift of weight, every breath, every subtle adjustment.

You’ve been hanging out a lot with Jake this past week— as often as the schedule allowed, and you’ve started to wonder if giving him a chance was a good think. Technically speaking— Jake was a total sweetheart, he carried his heart on his sleeve, offered amazing advice and had good cooking skills.

But— and here it comes— you really weren’t ready for anything serious. Common excuse really, but that wasn’t an excuse, you just really didn’t have time to waste on trying to flirt with a man. Busy life, it seemed.

Now currently in a very busy session, you watch the precise snap of Riki’s isolations, the way his long limbs cut through the air with infuriating control. Bastard. How does he make it look so effortless?

Your body mirrors him instinctively now— years of obsession making your muscles anticipate his timing even as your mind screams to disrupt it.

Riki circles you during the mirroring sequence, gaze sharp on your footwork— and damn it if you don’t feel it like a physical touch— analyzing, cataloging, judging. When your ankle wobbles slightly from exhaustion, his lip twitches.

The partner section begins a while after, his hands land on your waist for the lift, the contact burning. Your skin crawls with disgust, but your body betrays you— muscles relaxing into the hold for a split second before you catch yourself.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper viciously, bodies pressed together.

“Like what? Like I wanna throw you out the window?” he mutters back, fingers flexing on your waist. “Because that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Liar, your hands are shaking.”

“They’re not shaking, they’re restraining themselves from choking you.”

This is vile. You dig your fingers into his shoulder harder than necessary as he lifts, feeling the muscle tense under your grip and Riki adjusts his stance minutely, correcting for your weight without missing a beat. It’s almost like he knows exactly how you balance, how you breathe through the strain.

You dismount with a shove and and he pushes back just enough on the next turn to throw your timing. Still absolutely no words are uttered, there’s just a silent war in the mirrors— your reflection showing the way your eyes narrow when his hand lingers a fraction too long on your back during a spin.

His reflection shows the tight set of his jaw when your thigh brushes his during a close hold.

You break the moment by “accidentally” stepping on his foot hard enough to make him curse— and from there, insults get more creative and more personal.

“You’re nothing without the company propping you up,” he spits out.

“Says the overrated dance prodigy who throws tantrums when he doesn’t get his way,” you fire back. “Hajime would be embarrassed.”

His eyes flash dangerously. “Leave him out of your fucking mouth.”

The air crackles, you’re both breathing hard, circling each other like fighters in a ring by then. You wouldn’t be honest if you didn’t mention that every lift brings unwanted awareness: the heat of his chest against yours, the strength in his arms that you catalog despite yourself, the way your bodies slot together technically perfect even as your minds revolt.

Your stomach twists with nausea and something worse— betrayal by your own nerves firing at his proximity. You hate this, you hate how the body remembers his grip like muscle memory. You want him to be a shadow, something you never notice, someone who never crosses your mind, but life’s unfair it seems.

The next sequence brings you chest to chest. His hand slides up your back for the hold— punishing. Your body reacts again, traitorous warmth spreading despite the nausea. You hate it. You hate him, you hate him you hate him. You hate yourself more for the split-second where your fingers curl into his shirt like they belong there.

“Get your hands off me properly,” you hiss.

“Make me.”

So you shove him and he shoves right back— petty as always. For a moment it looks like you might actually come to blows— fists clenched, eyes locked in pure murderous intent. You notice the vein in his neck when he’s holding back from shoving you harder— and it’s fascinating how loathing changes a person’s body.

A particularly difficult lift leaves you pressed right against him for balance. His breath fans hot across your collarbone and your heart hammers.

For three terrifying seconds your bodies move in perfect sync, like they understand each other better than you do. Disgust floods you immediately after and you shove away harder. Riki releases you like you’re poison, but not before you feel the slight tremor in his hands.

Betrayed by your own fucking bodies.

Around 2 am., you both call for a break, collapsing on opposite sides of the studio. Your muscles burn like thousand fires. When your phone buzzes, you pick it up, expecting a check-in from Hye-ri.

It’s Jake instead.

Jake: Hey… someone sent me a tweet from your account. Look, I know we’ve only hung out a couple times but I thought things were good. This doesn’t seem like you but the screenshot looks real. I’m pretty disappointed. Maybe we should just… not do lunch anytime soon. Sorry.

You click fast on the screenshot, heart hammering, and when you open it, your mouth drops. It’s a tweet, a singular tweet… of yours???

“i’m gonna break Sim Jake’s heart and he doesn’t even know it 😈😈”

You stare at the screen, dumbfounded.

What. the. fuck?

The tweet is so obviously fake— ridiculous wording, wrong tone, obviously poorly edited. You almost start giggling maniacally, because it definitely lacks effort, but Jake, sweet gullible Jake, bought it.

“Fucking hell,” you whisper, stuck between laughing and crying. Is he really that stupid to think you’d ever be that obvious?? You might need to step up your game.

You: can’t you see it’s edited??? how stupid can you be Jake please 😭😭

Jake: no i took editing classes and that’s not edited.

You stare at the message, blinking hard.

You: tell me you’re joking please.

Jake: no, im not. Take care y/n.

The chat goes quiet and you lower your phone slowly, the pieces clicking into place with icy clarity. That wording, that timing. The way it conveniently blew up your one decent thing right in the middle of this hell.

Nishimura fucking Riki.

Would anyone be surprised? He’s the only one who’s childish enough to attempt to ruin your relationships like that. Absolute lack of skills.

Rage explodes in your chest like a grenade, because who else would be this stupid? Who else would try to ruin every attempt at happiness you made?

You stand up so fast the room spins for a second, storming across the studio toward him. He’s still sitting against the wall, looking annoyingly unbothered.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap, shoving your phone in his face.

Riki glances at the screen, then back up at you with zero remorse, and no intention of hiding. “Didn’t even make anything up. Everyone knows you have a loud mouth… you would’ve said it eventually.”

Your blood boils. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you? I actually liked him.”

“Well i don’t really care about what you like,” he says flatly, pushing himself up to his full height. “So get over yourself.”

He towers over you, but you don’t back down an inch, tilting your chin up defiantly. “You’re so self-centered it’s insane. This had nothing to do with you, Nishimura.”

“Keep talking, Y/n. I don’t give a fuck.” Riki clenches his jaw. “If you wanna be a homie hopper go do that somewhere else, far away from my friends.”

Oh. Now he crossed a hard line. The motherfucker is gonna have to pay.

The slap happens before you can think, your palm connects hard with his cheek, the sound cracking through the empty studio like a whip. Riki’s head snaps to the side and for a second he stills, contemplating his options, his hair falling on his face.

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek and he nods, trying to hold himself back.

Then he grabs your wrist in a vice grip, yanking you closer. It looks like you might actually stab each other— both of you burning with rage, chests heaving, bodies practically vibrating with it. His fingers are tight around your wrist, heat pouring off him and you glare up at him, breath ragged, pulse hammering in your ears.

“Don’t put your hands on me.” Riki says, fingers leaving a white mark on your skin.

“Well next time you call me that, i’ll make sure i’m putting my hands on your lifeless body instead.” you try to escape his grip, but he doesn’t let go.

“Watch it,” he warns, voice low and dangerous, “before I actually lose it.”

“Wouldn’t you love to?” you tilt your head.

“Oh I would.”

The air shifts— you feel it deep down pressing on your ribs as your words hang between you like a challenge

“Then hit me, come on.” Your voice drops, eyes locked on his. “Hit me.”

The second you say that, something ignites in Riki’s gaze— it’s impossible to miss. And god if you don’t love the way you destabilise him.

The grip on your wrist tightens, then loosens by fractions. You’re breathing the same air, faces inches apart, and it’s so filthy— so disgusting. His eyes drop for a split second before snapping back up.

But then Riki lets go of your wrist like it burns him, shoving you back a step as disgust twists across his face, but it doesn’t quite hide the way his breath catches.

“Get out of my face,” he spits, turning away sharply.

Without hesitation, you turn on your heel and storm out of the main studio toward the attached bathroom, slamming the door behind you. The lock clicks and you twist the faucet on full blast before you start scrubbing your wrist like you can erase the ghost of his grip.

The water’s ice-cold but you don’t care. His touch is still there. Burning. Disgusting. You scrub harder, nails digging into your own skin, until your hands are raw and red.

Even then, your stomach twists. Part of you wants to throw up right into the sink— purge the memory of his body against yours, the way your wrist fit perfectly in his hand, the split second where rage had twisted into something darker and heavier.

But beneath the nausea sits an ache low in your gut, something warm and unwelcome that you refuse to name.

No. Absolutely not. I’d rather die.

Eventually you step back into the break room because the company’s made it clear: no leaving the premises. Two couches, a mini-fridge, and dim lights are the only things between you and the devil.

Riki’s already sprawled on the far couch, one arm thrown over his eyes like he can pretend you don’t exist— so you take the opposite one, kicking your shoes off and lying down with your back to him.

Neither of you naps. How could you?

The air is thick with the knowledge that the other person is right there, close enough to stab, close enough to—

You stare at the wall, eyes wide open, hyper-aware of every shift on the other couch. He’s probably plotting how to smother you with a pillow— that would be the most logical thing. Despite the fatigue clawing at you, heavy and bone-deep after the all-night practice, your body stays wired.

Adrenaline and hatred make for terrible bedfellows.

After a long silence, Riki’s voice cuts through the dark. “You know, I thought you’d finally grow up someday and accept that what you did was wrong.”

You don’t turn around. “I don’t really care what you think. I’m trying to rest, so shut up.”

“You’re not.” A pause. “You’re not gonna be able to sleep with me here.”

You huff, “And whose fault is that?”

“Mines.” His tone is almost smug. “You’re scared, right? Scared I’ll hurt you in your sleep. Well just know I wouldn’t hesitate, not even for a second.”

You roll over to face him, propping yourself up on one elbow. “Oh and what would you do? Ruin my relationships like a childish bastard? Or what?”

Riki sits up slowly, manspreading on the opposite couch with deliberate arrogance, he looks almost manly— a shame he’s such an asshole. His eyes lock onto yours across the dim room.

“Oh come on, get over it. You really thought I was gonna let you go out with my friend? You’re funny, Y/n. Really fucking funny.”

“No, I didn’t think so either,” you snap back, sitting up fully now. “But now you’re just gonna have to pay. Im not gonna let a weak boy like you step on me like that.”

“Funny.” He leans back further, maintaining eye contact like it’s a challenge. “What are you gonna do then?”

In one smooth motion you pull out your phone, digging through your photos with angry swipes and you turn the screen toward him, a petty little smile tugging at your lips. It’s a screenshot of a pretty compromising video of him to say the least…

“I got this from a telegram group chat a while back. Didn’t think I’d ever use it but oh well… You wouldn’t want this to get out, right? I mean… everyone knows you’re a disrespectful cunt but this? Oh this is awful.”

You play the first few seconds just to taunt him— it shows young Riki, stressed and exhausted, swearing at staff member during a meltdown— the audio is grainy but clear enough. Deep down you know he was just a kid under crushing pressure, but right now you’re too greedy for revenge to care for ethics.

Riki’s expression hardens instantly. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh I would, Nishimura.”

“You’re doing all that for some dick?” He laughs, but it’s sharp and bitter. “Damn, I knew you were desperate but wow…”

“Don’t play with me. I’m seconds away from handing that video to a hate account.”

“Goddamnit Y/n, if you’re so eager to get dicked down you could’ve asked anyone else that isn’t my friend. And you sit here and act so surprised like you didn’t have it coming.”

You scoff, you’re not bruised— far from it, but he’s touched a sensitive spot. It’s not like you were ever planning to sleep with Jake, come on, but he doesn’t have to know that.

“Well good job, Nishimura.” Your thumb hovers over the screen. “You and your loud mouth have just earned yourselves another controversy.”

Riki jolts from the couch almost immediately, lunging toward you. You scramble back but he’s faster— in seconds you’re tangled aggressively on the couch as he tries to snatch the phone from your hand. You push, hit him in the chest, elbow him wherever you can reach but he desperately grabs for the device, long limbs pinning you down in the struggle.

“I’ll kill you, Y/n. I swear to god if you posted that shit—”

“I thought you didn’t care about it?” you taunt breathlessly, still fighting him. “You were so confident two seconds ago?”

He grabs your wrist hard then, you push back with everything you have until somehow you’ve got him pinned beneath you on the couch, breathing ragged.

“Do not. Touch me.”

Riki freezes— perhaps he’s an asshole, but even he knows a hard no when he hears one. His hand drops away instantly. “Delete that video,” he warns, voice low and dangerous, “before I ruin your whole life.”

“You already ruined my life by existing, you self-centered prick.”

“Watch me ruin it more. If you post that video, Y/n…”

“Oh god, you’re so dramatic.” You roll your eyes, feigning indifference. You turn off your phone with a deliberate click. “Relax, will you? Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

Riki stares at you for a long moment, chest still rising and falling sharply, before he pushes himself up and returns to his own couch. “You better delete that shit—I swear if you—”

“Oh shut that thing up.”

The moment fades after that, leaving only heavy silence, you both try to rest again— you lie back down, pulling a thin blanket over yourself, but your eyes refuse to close. You’re too aware of his presence, too on edge.

He’s going to kidnap you in your sleep or something. Poison your water. Smother you. Anything.

But despite every instinct screaming to stay vigilant, exhaustion tugs at the edges of your mind. You breathe slowly, deliberately, trying to force your body to relax. And yet, against all reason, you become hyper-aware of his breathing across the room.

It’s steady at first, then hitches slightly every few minutes— like he’s replaying the fight, or the slap, or the way your bodies had tangled just minutes ago. You analyze it without meaning to, noting the rhythm, the occasional sharp inhale, the way it deepens when he shifts on the couch.

Somehow, despite everything, the sound of Nishimura Riki breathing becomes the only thing you hear in the dark.

You hate it. You listen anyway.

“Oh girl, Nishimura Riki wants to fuck you. Hard.” Hye-ri says from her chair, legs crossed as a makeup artist dusts highlighter across her cheekbones.

It’s been a few days since the whole weekend …thing— it’s gone excessively slow but time pays off, or whatever people say when they’re trying to sound wise. The locked studio torture finally ended, the performance notes improved just enough to satisfy the company, and now here you are— back in the comfort of your group’s dressing room at the company building, getting dolled up for tonight’s award show.

Your members are scattered around the mirrors in various states of glam, chatting and laughing like the weekend from hell never happened.

At least on the surface.

You nearly choke on your coffee. “Hye-ri, what the actual fuck?”

She grins at you through the mirror, completely unbothered, while the makeup artist dabs at the corner of her eye. “I mean, you gotta admit he looks like he wants to eat you up.”

“You’re so gross, I don’t even know why we’re friends…” you mutter, tilting your head so your own artist can blend the eyeshadow.

Even then, the memory of that charged weekend—his grip on your wrist, the way your bodies tangled on the couch, the unwanted ache that still lingers—makes heat crawl up your neck.

Disgusting.

Hye-ri laughs, “Cause we’re both freaked out, duh… but the problem with you is that you draw the line at enemies. Like come on, be young and free— what’s so wrong about a little bit of hate sex?”

Oh, so now she’s resorted to saying these freaky things in front of the staff? Oh my.

“Hye-ri what the fuck??” You whip your head toward her, much to your makeup artist’s annoyance. She gently guides your face back forward with a soft sigh.

“Just face it, Y/n,” Hye-ri continues, waving a hand dramatically. “That man wants you. Bad. But he’s just too… angry all the time. A shame.”

“No he doesn’t. Stop making stuff up.” You glare at her reflection. “And stop talking about him. I’m trying to focus.”

“Yeah yeah you’re avoiding the topic as always, but you’re right— focus on not breaking your legs with those high heels. I swear to god, this company is evil.” She turns toward the makeup artists with a sweet smile. “No offense, you’re a sweetheart.”

“None taken,” the artist replies with a chuckle, carefully applying gloss to your lips. “I know they push you guys a lot. God, I wouldn’t even know how to walk in these heels, Y/n.”

“I don’t even know how I do it either…” you sigh, staring at the deadly stilettos waiting by your chair. “I’m gonna break my legs one day.”

A while after, once the final touches are done, you slip into the high heels. In one smooth motion you stand, testing your balance— strangely enough, the confidence hits almost immediately; the heels make your legs look endless, powerful, like you could conquer the entire red carpet and still have energy left to step on someone’s neck.

Specifically a certain tall asshole’s.

You pull out your phone, snap a quick mirror pic—legs for days, sleek black dress hugging every curve, hair and makeup sharp enough to cut glass— and post it on Twitter with a caption that makes you smirk: “I step on mean boys for a living.”

A bit risky, sure. But you like the thrill of posting something just controversial enough to make people talk.

You put your phone down and turn toward the girls. “Selfie time. We look too good not to.”

Hye-ri and the other girls crowd in happily, striking poses in the mirror; you snap a few group shots— arms around each other, and save it for the staff to post on the group account later.

Eventually, you all gather your things and head out; you strut toward the waiting cars in formation, heels clicking against the floor. Inside the vehicle— you’re chatting with Sera about tonight’s award show— the KGMAs—leaning forward despite the seatbelt as the city lights streak past the tinted windows.

“I’m telling you, if we dont take anything home tonight I’m actually gonna cry. Not on camera, obviously, but later? Full breakdown. We’ve been killing it this year.”

Sera nods, adjusting the strap of her dress. “Same. You especially. That solo stage last month? Insane. They better recognize it.”

With that, your phone buzzes in your lap— you glance down and nearly laugh out loud.

@nriki.mura liked your tweet.

The notification glows mockingly for half a second before vanishing.

Oh my god. Caught him lacking.

You can practically picture it— his thumb slipping, the immediate panic, the frantic un-like. The mental image of Nishimura Riki, Mr. Untouchable himself, accidentally simping over a picture of you is almost too good.

Amused, you open your messages without hesitation.

You: You know i saw you like my tweet right?

Mina, ever the nosy one, leans over your shoulder almost automatically. “You’re talking to Nishimura?”

“Yeah,” you say, chuckling. “He accidentally liked my tweet.”

Hye-ri, from the seat across, perks up immediately. “See??? I was right. He does wanna fuck you.”

“Oh drop it, Hye-ri,” you laugh, shaking your head even as heat creeps up your neck.

Riki texts back almost immediately.

Riki: wtf are you talking about.

You: you just liked my tweet then deleted it, pathetic 😭

Riki: shut your mouth. I thought it was someone else for a second.

You: so you’d like the pic if it wasn’t me?

Riki: Everything you do is ugly because you make it ugly. You’re repulsive, so yeah i’d like if it wasn’t you.

You: Yeah i bet. Even my dancing’s ugly right? Must be why you’re always analyzing it.

Riki: what are you even talking about. Get a grip.

You: I think deep down you’re very jealous of me.

See, that’s a personal conviction you’ve had for years— Riki hides behind all that hatred but there’s a deep respect there. Something he’s never been able to accept but you’ll shove it in his face ever so often.

Riki: Youre funny.

You: yeah yeah, it was envy all along wasn’t it?

Riki: Shutup y/n

You: Shhh, answer me. You want to be me, right?

You: actually don’t answer, i already know the answer.

You drop your phone in your lap with a satisfied smirk as the van slows to a stop at the venue. Got him. Hye-ri glances at you, eyebrow raised. “That whole exchange looked tense as hell. You good?”

“Peachy,” you reply, stepping out carefully.

The heels are already murdering your feet, but you make it look effortless because that’s the job. Paparazzi flashes explode around you as you wave, smile, bow politely toward the chanting fans, all while your mind replays the text thread.

Pathetic, indeed.

Inside, the atmosphere buzzes— you spot Enhypen across the hallway and Jake nods awkwardly in your direction, the unresolved drama still hanging between you like an awkward third wheel.

You have to admit you didn’t really try to fix things or clarify things— if a man jumps to conclusions like this? He’s not worth the hassle.

Riki, standing beside him, glares with professional precision— polite smile for the cameras, murder in his eyes when they flick toward you. You return the energy with a sweet wave.

Eat shit, giraffe.

A little while later you’re called on stage with the girls for a quick pre-award segment. You sit gracefully on the tall stool, bare legs crossed in front of you, the dress riding up just enough to show the deadly heels. You tap your foot distractingly as you chat with the MC, answering questions about your group’s comeback with charm.

“There’s so many things happening for you guys this year! A string of collaborations, new album coming soon, are you excited?” The MC asks you.

“We’re super excited, and we’re sure the fans are gonna love it, we’ve been working hard on it. We can’t wait !” you answer with a gentle smile, looking out at the audience.

All the while, from his seat in the venue, Riki’s forced by the idol image to look at the stage. He’d rather do anything else, but it’d make him look really bad if he didn’t pay attention— unnecessary drama. So he looks, half-listens and nods, almost like he gives one too many fucks. His eyes trace the backdrop, the stage floor, anything really— to not have to look at you.

But after a while, he’s run out of things to observe, so he lets his eyes drop to your hands, the ones clasping the mic like it’s a hammer. You look graceful, a complete opposite of the girl he knows privately— you smile and nod gently, speaking with a calm and polite tone.

No curse words, no filthy mouth.

Then Riki’s attention shifts down, to where your heels are tapping on the floor, rather distractingly. Your legs are classily crossed in front of you, slightly extended, creating a vision of horror in his mind, they’re smooth, reflecting the lights of the venue— and the heels— they’re evil. High, black with a red sole, they look absolutely illegal; not to him though, he doesn’t really care.

But his eyes trail down your ankles, to the way your foot bends, taps and goes back up again. It’s hypnotic, better than having to stare at your face at least. Then your legs uncross, stretch, and Riki’s breath catches for a split second— he straightens in his seat, pinching his thigh through his slacks, and forces his gaze upwards.

Mistake, big one. Because the second he does, he’s looking at your thighs, right where the hem of your dress hikes up. And soon enough— he finds himself unable to tear his eyes away, captivated by the way they lead like a path all the way down to your footwear. Ironic, right?

He keeps telling himself it’s anatomy, bone. Muscle. Fabric. Leather. Anything.

But the first mistake was looking, the second was realizing he wanted to look again.

He slips out during the commercial break almost automatically, heading straight for the bathroom, the door clicks shut behind him and he braces against the sink, stomach churning.

Riki throws up, harsh and sudden, the taste of bile burning his throat. Disgusting. He’s disgusted by the way his body reacts— knows it’s excessive, knows it’s pathetic, but he can’t help it. He needs to throw up in hopes of getting your out of his body, his system.

He couldn’t stop looking at your stupid legs tonight. Ever since that picture you posted.

Heels are something that links to you— you’ve always worn a lot of heels—and he can’t deny that your legs do look aesthetically pleasing in them.

But he despises that he feels this way.

The bathroom mirror reflects someone he doesn’t recognize— a man repulsed not by what he’s seen, but by what he’s felt. It’s to wonder if revulsion and desire are closer relatives than anyone likes to admit.

Riki splashes water on his face, gripping the edges of the sink until his knuckles turn white. Against his better judgment, his mind replays the image: the endless line of your legs, the sharp heel, the way you tapped your foot almost absentmindedly while talking. Clinical, he tells himself. Just observation. Professional obsession. Nothing. more.

And yet, even now, the image lingers.

Heeseung finds him a few minutes later when he returns to the seats. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah,” Riki mutters, forcing a neutral expression. “I’m fine.”

He sits back down, but the thoughts don’t stop. He keeps wondering what it means to feel like this about a part of your body. The hatred is still there, burning strong— but somehow, despite everything, so is something else he refuses to name.

Irony has caught you in its nettles once again. A few days after the award show, you trip on the stairs at the company building, miss a step like a clumsy idiot, and sprain your ankle badly enough that the world tilts sideways. The pain shoots up your leg like fire, sharp and unforgiving. Of course. Because the universe clearly isn’t done laughing at you yet.

Physical therapy becomes your new hell. You can’t come to rehearsals anymore, which means blessed silence from Nishimura Riki for a little while— instead of dealing with his bullshit, you spend the days propped up on your dorm couch, ankle elevated, ice packs rotating, and your nose buried in self-help books.

Atomic Habits. The Body Keeps the Score.

Anything to understand why your brain keeps betraying you with unwanted thoughts about that asshole— his grip, his breathing in the dark break room, the charged way he looked at you after the slap.

Maybe you’re the one who needs fixing, you think bitterly, flipping another page. The books talk about trauma bonding and nervous system regulation, but none of them have a chapter titled “What to do when your mortal enemy makes your stomach ache in ways you refuse to name.”

Eventually the company, with its infinite lack of mercy, decides you’re “habilitated enough.” They shove you into another industry event— heels and all.

Fans lose their minds, flooding social media with concerned threads: “Y/n’s ankle is clearly injured, why is she in stilettos again???”

“Protect her at all costs!!”

“Hybe is evil, make it make sense.”

You see the posts but say nothing. Complaining would get you labeled irresponsible or difficult— so you smile through the pain, walk like everything’s fine, and silently curse the entire system. One day I’ll burn it all down. Preferably while wearing flats.

A couple of hours after that specific event, back in the dorm with your ankle throbbing, your phone lights up.

Riki: is the injury gonna impact our rehearsals

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts.

You: don’t worry you’ll get your 5 minutes of fame eventually just let me fucking heal my leg first

Riki: i’m just asking goddamn

You: yes it is, i can’t dance for a while

Riki: ok well i’ll talk to the choreographer to change the pairs

You: ok

There’s a pause before he sends another message.

Riki: did you leave your charger in the dance studio ?

You: no i didnt ?

Riki: oh okay

You: why the fuck are you even talking to me istg it’s all you do these days

Riki: i’m not i’m just asking stuff about work

You: well you know i never bring my charger

Riki: no i don’t

You: yes you do asshole

Riki: ok and what’s your point?

You: my point is stop talking to me

Riki: no

You: are you trying to make me mad?

Riki: no, is your leg okay?

You: and why do you care

Riki: i don’t. i’m asking if it’s gonna take long to heal because im trying to finish the dance. and why were you even in heels today, are you stupid?

You: cause company told me to.

Riki: and why didn’t you defend yourself

You: cause i can’t hello??

Riki: yes you can, you’re such a pussy sometimes, your legs’ fucked up and they got you walking in heels, and somehow that’s fine with you. It’s stupid.

You: you’re stupid

Riki: you need to stop wearing heels

In response, you snap a quick photo of the heels you’re still wearing— bare legs in the frame, nothing crazy, just skin and straps and the faint bruise blooming around your ankle. You caption it simply: “how about no?”

Riki: why are you sending me this??? wtf y/n delete that shit

You: they’re just legs chill. I know you think i’m disgusting and all but these are just motherfucking legs.

Riki: it’s not that, just delete it. it’s weird

You: nah, deal with it, throw up for all i care

Jokes on you, he did the other day. And because you love pissing him off more than is probably healthy, you send another photo. This one riskier not necessarily explicit though— leg extended, heel dangling from your feet, the angle deliberately provocative.

You: there u go, one more so you can really really throw up

He takes a bit to answer.

Riki: stop sending me that shit

You: aw, is nishimura scared of throwing up or something?

Riki: i don’t even want to. i’m gonna block you

You: don’t even want to what?

Riki: throw up

At the same moment in Riki’s dorm room— it’s quiet except for the hum of the airco. He was sprawled on his bed, phone in hand when the first picture came through. With that, something in his stomach flipped hard— he told himself it was disgust. Pure, simple disgust.

But his body betrayed him completely.

Right now? The second photo hits harder. Your bare legs, the sharp line of the heel, the way it dangles teasingly from your foot makes Riki’s mouth open, he throws the phone on the bed like its burned him, and he smacks his palms on his face, tugging at the roots of his own hair. He loathes it— loathes how quickly he is to replay it in his head, to try and remember every detail because he can’t be caught dead looking back at it.

It’s just goddamn legs. Goddamn heels.

So why is blood rushing south almost immediately? Maybe because irony is the biggest factor in this story— he’s hard within seconds. Riki doesn’t even know why. He’s not a teenager anymore, he can’t just get boners from stupid photos like that— especially not from someone he despises.

Horror slams into him like a truck. What the fuck is wrong with him? He detests it. Detests you. Detests the way his cock twitches at the sight of your stupid legs in those stupid heels.

Riki locks his bedroom door without thinking, breathing ragged. He blames it on the stress, perks of being mister worldwide famous, and grabs his phone to delete the picture— screw that, the whole chat.

He tries to look away. He really does. But against his better judgment, his eyes keep drifting back— and images burn into his retinas.

See, heels have always been your thing — long before this, you wore them constantly, strutting around like you owned every room.

Now? They’re weaponized against him.

Riki opens the chat again, scrolling through the two photos guiltily. Over and over. His hand moves almost absentmindedly to palm himself through his sweatpants, breath hitching.

This isn’t about you. It’s the heels. Just the heels.

He then pulls up pictures of other models in heels, random Instagram posts, anything to convince himself it’s not you. Riki stares at these women’s legs, analyzing their footwear like an expert.

But it doesn’t work.

His mind betrays him completely. The images shift— his brain being the most traitorous creature in the whole world, shows him your heels digging into his back, your legs wrapped around him, plays the sharp click of stilettos against the practice room floor while he fucks you senseless-

“Fuck… you,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

In seconds he’s up and running to the bathroom to throw up for the nth time this month.

Riki relieves himself, hating you more than ever. Hating himself even worse.

The company building feels eerily quiet on your break day as you hobble through the familiar halls with your sprained ankle still wrapped and aching, clutching a thin folder of paperwork you came to retrieve. The quick meeting with the exec goes smoothly enough— some signatures on scheduling adjustments, a few polite nods about “taking it easy,” and the usual nonsense about image management. Nothing you haven’t heard a hundred times before.

You’re almost out the side entrance, already dreaming of crashing on your dorm couch with takeout and zero responsibilities, when you bump straight into Jake.

Literally.

Your good foot catches on the edge of the hallway carpet and you stumble— Jake’s hands shoot out instinctively, steadying you by the elbows before you face-plant. For a second, both of you freeze.

“Shit— sorry,” you mutter, stepping back carefully. Your ankle throbs in protest.

Jake’s eyes drop almost automatically to your injured leg, the careful way you favor it. “Hey… you okay?” His voice stays soft, concerned, but the awkwardness between you thickens the air like smoke.

You haven’t spoken properly since the fake tweet disaster, not a single text, not a single clarification. You can’t say it wasn’t convenient, you’d hate to admit you find no interest in explaining yourself to Jake.

“Yeah. Just… clumsy,” you say, forcing a half-smile. “What are you… erm, doing here on a break day?”

“Picking up some lyric sheets for next week.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing around the empty hallway. After a pause, he adds quietly, “We’ve… um, never really talked about what happened. With the tweet and all.”

You cross your arms, leaning against the wall to take pressure off your ankle. Here we go. “Yeah. About that, you didn’t even let me explain, it was Riki.”

Jake blinks, tilting his head like you spoke another language. “What?”

“It was Riki,” you repeat, irritation already bubbling. “The whole thing was fake, he made it up to fuck with me.”

Jake stays silent for a long moment, processing. Then, almost gently —like he explains something to a child—he says, “Well… I think we gotta talk about this at some point, Y/n.”

“About what?”

“About your obsession with him.”

You stare at him, disbelief shooting through you “Excuse me?”

He can’t be serious right now.

“Y/n, seriously.” Jake’s voice stays calm, patient, which only pisses you off more. “Why would you even come to the conclusion that he’s the one who invented some kind of grand scheme…”

“Because he told me, for fuck’s sake.”

“I don’t know… why would he even do that?” Jake sighs, rubbing his temple. “And if you hate him that much, why’s he all you ever talk about then?”

And there you thought Jake was sweet, turns out he’s just clueless.

“Are you seriously doing this right now?” you scoff.

Right because when has it ever been his business?

“Yeah.” He meets your eyes steadily. “It’s honestly… obvious how Riki’s occupying all your emotional life. You were too caught up in your hatred that you didn’t even notice me, I’m pretty sure.”

“Um? Yes I did. I went out with you, didn’t I?” You laugh, sharp and humorless. “I thought you’d understand that with everything Riki’s done to me, it’s obvious I’m gonna hate him.”

It feels like you’re being scolded for some reason, and you don’t like that. Not one bit.

“You’re obviously hurt and you feel things deeply,” Jake continues, still in that gentle, patronizing tone. “But you gotta wake up and realize how fucked up it all is.”

You feel irritated as fuck, he’s talking to you like you’re a two year old, spelling out basic emotional logic as if you haven’t lived it for years.

The day was going smoothly and now some totally out of line weirdo is making it hard for you to be patient.

“Like, if I ask about your day, you answer in three words,” Jake continues, almost absentmindedly gesturing with his hands. “But if someone mentions him, you suddenly have a whole thesis. He’s said awful things to you and so have you. I just don’t get why you still bother.”

“Well I’m sorry that bothers you, Jakey,” you reply, voice dripping with sarcasm. You tap his shoulder lightly, ironic and vain. “Have a great day, yeah?”

You turn to leave, but Jake’s words keep echoing as you limp down the hallway. He speaks facts, deep down, you know it— come on you’re not that dumb; but what you are though, is too proud to admit out loud.

Even after all this, part of you feels attracted to the violence. Used to it. Addicted, maybe. The constant flight mode becomes your normal— at least it feels more alive than any soft conversation with Jake ever could.

Hatred feels familiar, secure in its own twisted way. It demands nothing soft from you, no vulnerability. That’s just the way things are.

Some people like their food sweet, others don’t like it at all— and prefer eating nails.

Riki’s a master at pretending nothing’s bothering him— he wears indifference like second skin— untouchable, the golden dancer who smiles for cameras and carries the weight of millions without flinching.

He knows something’s essentially missing inside of him, knows he’s looking for something that’s not here, and that will never be. But he constantly tones that part of him down.

That’s why, tonight, in this high-end hotel suite with its dim lights and silk sheets, he tries to slip into that role again.

The girl beneath him is pretty, sweet, all soft curves and gentle laughs, she kisses him back eagerly, fingers threading through his hair as he presses her into the mattress. Her skin is soft, her dimples press against his cheeks when she kisses— and for a while it works.

His hands roam her body, lips trailing down her neck until she sighs his name like a prayer; and he tells himself this is what he wants. He deepens the kiss, hips rolling against hers, heat building in a way that should feel right.

But something shifts.

With that, sudden unease crawls up his spine like ice water, his stomach twists and the air feels wrong. Riki tries to push past it, kissing her harder, hands gripping her waist almost automatically. Focus. She’s pretty. She’s lovely even. She’s not—

It just doesn’t work.

He pulls away after a long silence, considers telling her the usual excuse of ‘it’s not you, it’s me’, but when he opens his eyes it is not her face he sees.

It’s your sharp eyes glaring up at him. Your mouth twisted in that familiar sneer, your hands gripping his forearms.

Riki jumps back like he’s been burned, heart slamming against his ribs. What the fuck.

He’s definitely going crazy, he concludes, the room spinning slightly as panic claws at his throat.

“I— sorry,” he mutters, voice hoarse. He stands up in one smooth motion, running a hand through his messy hair. “I need a minute.”

The girl sits up, confusion flickering across her pretty features, she looks hurt. “Riki… are you okay?”

He forces a soft smile, the one he saves for people who deserve his leniency, sweet. “Yeah. I’m sorry. Got a lot on my mind tonight. Work stuff. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I’m not into this.”

She watches him carefully as he walks to the mini-fridge and grabs a bottle of whiskey. He twists the cap off and takes a long swig, the burn grounding him for half a second.

“It’s fine,” she says quietly, already reaching for her clothes. “I can go if you want.”

Riki feels a pang of guilt. She’s sweet, too sweet for a walking shit-show like him. “No, you don’t have to… I’m really sorry. You’re great. This is on me.”

She dresses slowly, offering him a small, understanding smile. “It’s okay. Really. Take care of yourself, yeah?”

He nods, watching her leave with gentle eyes, the door clicks shut behind her and the silence rushes in like a wave. Riki collapses back onto the bed, bottle in hand, he stares at it for a second like he’s gonna start confessing his sins to it, then he drinks.

He drinks. And drinks. And drinks some more until the edges of the room blur and his thoughts turn hazy.

Tipsy now, he turns on the Tv for noise, he hates the silence, he needs something to focus on. A commercial flashes across the screen— some luxury brand, a model’s legs strutting in high heels. The camera zooms in and Riki instantly buries his face in the covers with a groan.

Eventually, when he’s proper drunk and the world is tilting pleasantly, he decides it’s enough, his stomach hurts.

His phone feels heavy in his hand as he tries to text Heeseung— something incoherent about needing to talk or needing someone to pick him up.

Riki recoils, embarrassed even through the alcohol haze.

He doesn’t need any fucking help.

Or does he? Maybe he does need therapy—

But his thumb slips as he tries to figure that out, and by some force of nature— he ends up calling the very ghost that haunts him instead.

You pick up after a few rings, voice dry and annoyed. “Why the fuck are you calling me?”

Riki tries to click the ‘hangup button’ but his fingers are shaking with adrenaline.

Screw that, on second thought, he doesn’t really try to hang up all that hard…

He laughs instead , low and miserable, rolling onto his back until the ceiling spins. “Are you so mad at me, Y/n?”

You scoff on the other end, “When am I not? Anyway let me repeat myself— why did you call me?”

“Yeah but you’re different mad, I should’ve known…” His words slur together incoherently as he closes his eyes, the room still turning.

“Huh?” your thoughts are a mess of ‘whatthefuckishesaying’

“You don’t even fight with me anymore.” Riki’s voice comes out as a whisper, almost like he knows he’s stepping in a dangerous zone.

He hears you scoff on the other line, all superior and bitchy— and he has to fight not to laugh in your face, because honestly with that level of alcohol in his blood, it would sound much more like a happy giggle than anything else. He doesn’t want that now, does he?

“Are you… drunk?” you suddenly seem to come to your senses.

“Yeah…” He nods stupidly at the ceiling. “But you didn’t insult me today.”

It sort of reminds Riki of when he was a kid— staying underwater in his parents’ swimming pool until there was not an ounce of air left in his lungs. He would push himself deeper, lungs burning, vision spotting, just to see how long he could last before breaking the surface gasping.

That same reckless thrill sits in his chest now, however unrelated— talking to you while drunk feels like holding his breath too long. Dangerous. Addictive.

He knows he should come up for air, but he stays under, waiting for the moment you push him harder.

“Are you a masochist or something? You want me out of your life but here you are basically begging me to insult you.” you huff on the other end.

“I’m not. I kept waiting.” he shakes his head like you can see him.

“Waiting for what, you weirdo?”

Riki’s waiting for the moment you’re finally going to be done with his bullshit and hang up— because he couldn’t possibly bring himself to be the one to do it— blame it on the whiskey.

“For you to start a fight.” he answers solemnly.

“Oh god, you’re so weird. You’re drunk, you’re not even making any sense… just hang up and go fuck yourself.”

“Don’t ignore me. Don’t ignore what I said.” Riki’s voice goes lower, a little firmer maybe.

“I didn’t even see you today, what the fuck are you even talking about?” he can hear you anxiously slap your thigh in annoyance.

“I don’t like it when you ignore me. You piss me off, I piss you off and—”

“Stop conjugating verbs, Nishimura. I don’t have time for your bullshit.” you cut him off, proper angry.

“You know, normal people don’t live like this.” He rolls over clumsily, nearly dropping the phone; he’s not even making any sense, just casually assembling random thoughts that have been in his head and mashing them together in hopes you’ll understand his point.

“Good job genius, thanks for pointing that out. Now call Heeseung or Jay, I’m gonna block you. Or don’t call anyone, I don’t give a fuck if you choke in your sleep or something.”

That’s it, that’s the moment you’re finally done with his bullshit and you’re about to hang up and he’s… confused?

“Don’t block me Y/n wait—” Riki groans, not even realising how pitiful he sounds.

“Literally what the fuck is wrong with you.” you snap. “Why are you being like this, you sound so pathetic.”

After a beat, his mind drifts to different topics he’d like to address, but the only thing he can think of is that little stunt you pulled. “The post you made. Was it about me?” he asks, naively.

You almost laugh, incredulous and also very much embarrassed for him, “What are you even talking about?”

“The one with the heels.”

“No it wasn’t.” you say immediately, hating that he thought it was about him (although it clearly was).

“It waaaas,” he sing-songs, burying his face in his pillow. He’s half trying to hide how affected he was, and half trying to tease you.

“You’re so self-centered it’s insane, it wasn’t even about you.” you chuckle mockingly, “God Nishimura you’re being my little bitch right now, you know that?”

“Stop calling me that. I’m… mean to you. So you step on mean boys. So it was about me,” Riki goes on, persuaded.

“Well do you want me to step on you or something? Cause it sounds like you’re begging for it.”

That’s it. A couple words— he doesn’t even count how many— and he’s sent back to the state he was in a couple days back.

It’s all so pathetic, and he’s drunk out of his mind, but at the same time it’s you. It’s your fault, you’re doing this to him, you’re making his blood spike like a pervert, you’re dissecting him unknowingly, revealing things he didn’t even know about himself.

Notwithstanding, it’s impossible that it could be you, it has to be something else.

It’s like teenagers when they suddenly discover they have a penis and they wanna jump everything and anything; that’s probably what’s happening. He’s discovered he may or may not have a tendency to… enjoy women wearing heels, and he’s totally projecting.

“Fuck.” Riki throws his head back, palming his forehead. “Don’t say that.”

But his tone of voice only pumps you meaner, “Get off my phone then if you’re not happy. What’s your problem anyway? Can’t handle a little bit of alcohol? You’re a pussy.”

“See? I like you better when you’re like this. Mean.” he breathes out.

“Well get help.”

“I know I should.”

“Yeah you should. Now bye, I’m blocking you.” You hang up without a second thought and it’s over just as fast as it started.

Riki stares at the ceiling, phone still pressed to his ear even after the line goes dead. What the fuck are you doing with his head?

Eventually he grabs his phone again, thumbs clumsy as he opens his notes app— his writing is messy, drunk letters stumbling across the screen.

She blocks peple (people) when it starts to get a little bit intse (intense).

He stares at the words for a long time, the screen blurring. Even drunk, even miserable, he cannot stop cataloging you. Cannot stop thinking about you. And cannot stop adding to the list of things he’s noticed about you.

The hatred burns hotter though. Always has.

Kwn is an amazing artist you know? Especially in that one video clip where she kisses Kehlani near the car and all— that’s just a fact. You love her tracks, her voice, everything. But right now? You beyond hate her.

The past week’s been a blur of physical therapy, awkward silences, and the lingering ghost of Riki’s drunk phone call. He never mentioned it afterward and neither did you; it just sits between you like an unexploded grenade— ignored, but always there. A moment of vulnerability that echoes with a lot of ‘what ifs’.

What if he was under the influence all the time? Would he be softer, funnier with his words? More honest?

Your ankle’s better now, enough for light practice, but the company wastes no time dragging you back into the studio. No mercy. No rest. Just endless work.

That’s why now, you stand in the practice room, mirrors reflecting your slightly stiff posture, the choreographer flipping through self-tapes on his tablet with a deep frown. Riki leans against the wall a few feet away, fiddling with the strings of his sweatpants between his spread legs, looking as unbothered as ever.

The choreographer sighs heavily. “It looks stiff. The company’s not gonna like this at all.” He rubs his temples. “Come on Y/n, you’re usually excellent. I’ve worked with you for years and I’ve never seen you so out of it.” He turns to Riki. “And you, Riki— what’s going on?”

What’s going on, is that a leech is sucking out every ounce of talent out of you and leaving a distracted woman hollowed out by rage.

That’d be the appropriate answer but instead you say force a neutral expression. “It’s just stress.” and you make the mistake of adding, “It’s the song. It’s probably too fast.”

The choreographer looks at his tablet for a beat, thumb hovering over it, then nods slowly. “Well, how about we try something else, yeah? This choreo’s pretty simple. Get a good view, learn it, and I want you guys to prepare it for the end of the evening. I’ll come back when you’re done. Just work through it. This one’s slower and it’ll get you in the right headspace.”

He hands you the tablet but Riki snatches it from your hands almost immediately— ever the childish one. He’s a little bit too confident for someone who called you begging you for insults…

You doubt he even remembers it, but you want to rub it in his face. Instead— because workspace doesn’t allow it— you stay professional, snatching it right back and pressing play.

The opening notes fill the room. ‘Touch Myself’ by Kwn. You let it play for a bit, the rnb beat mellow and nice but when she starts singing it’s a whole different story.

See, the thing is, the lyrics are extremely explicit, pornographic arguably— or maybe you’re just being dramatic but that’s what being too close to Nishimura Riki does to one.

You glance up at the choreographer, wondering if he even speaks enough English to understand “I touch myself just thinking about you.”

Probably not.

Riki’s English is trash, but he knows that much and you see it in the way his jaw tighten.

The other man leaves with a casual wave, dismissing your obvious discomfort and the door clicks shut behind him.

You hate Kwn and her stupid song.

You stand up immediately, crossing your arms, “I’m not doing that.”

“Erm, yes you are,” Riki says flatly, like he’s talking to a toddler.

“Fuck no.”

At that, he rubs his temple, letting out a long exhale.

“They should terminate your contract. Can’t even get over yourself for the sake of your job...” he lets out a small huff, looking down at you like you’re the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen.

“Have you seen the choreo? Are you really agreeing to this?” you tilt your chin towards the tablet. “That shit is vile. I’m not doing that.”

“Well it’s not like we have a choice. Trust me I’d rather be eating nails right now, Y/n. So get over yourself and just learn the goddamn thing.” he snaps.

You sit back down with a huff and get a good look at the choreo on the tablet. It’s heavily sensual—nothing insane certainly, but paired with the nature of the lyrics… damn. Slow body rolls, close proximity, lingering touches, prolonged eye contact. The kind of performance that sells sex and tension— definitely not something you’d like to be doing with that smug prick. But either way you need to get over yourself, it’s not like you have a choice…

So after a while of sitting there, hearing his annoying breathing, you finally get the hang of it, it’s not really complicated, just an easy routine; the complicated part is the tension you need to bring to it, something you don’t have. Or rather, not in the adequate form.

You stand up and move to the center with him, the mirrors reflecting you both as you start running it. You rehearse a few steps, tablet in hand, trying to figure out the footwork while he watches through the reflection.

“Your other foot, dumbass.” he goes, pointing at your left foot.

You listen, because unfortunately, he is right— it was the left foot; and you move along, following the movements of his body in the glass.

The tension simmers immediately— albeit it not being the required one, it’s still tension right? Every brush of his hand on your waist feels deliberate, every step brings you closer and the lyrics pulse through the speakers like a taunt.

Every now and then, you deliberately sabotage the whole thing, pushing a little on the left until he fumbles it, stepping on his foot while maintaining a neutral stance.

The thing is, and you’ve admitted it— you don’t just hate Riki. You need him to hate you back. It’s that or you’d rather die.

So you push and push, until his pupils drown in anger and he’s seconds away from pinning you to the nearest wall— devoid of any good intentions.

During the chorus is the part when you have to look at each other the most, it’s prolonged eye contact.

You unconsciously lipsync the words “I touch myself just thinking about you” as you focus on the dance and miss a count, distracted by the little something in his eyes.

You’re stupid.

Riki looks right back, eyes dropping your lips as you mouth those filthy words— and he messes up his part a little bit.

“Stop fucking looking at me. Just dance,” he says defensively, voice low.

“Am I supposed to just look at the goddamn ceiling?” you spit back, rolling your eyes.

Riki stops dancing all of a sudden, gets closer, towering over you. “Well I don’t care. Just don’t look at me.”

You follow, the song still playing but you’re both unmoving, “Why does that bother you so much?”

“It doesn’t. You’re just annoying.” His dyed blond hair falls on his forehead, sweaty and so awfully disgustingly delicious you want to die.

Wait what?

“It clearly does if you’re bringing it up.” you distract yourself with counter attacks, it’s easier this way.

“Just stop arguing and listen to me before I—”

“Before you what? Huh?” You get closer, menacing even though hes taller.

He snickers, looking down at you like you’re a crumb under his shoe. “Who do you even think you are, acting like that? You know it’d take me two seconds to make you trip and faceplant right?”

He’s so infuriatingly mocking it sends a chill down your spine, it’s not even the words, it’s the tone itself— like he could push you right now and feel nothing but contempt.

That’s the way things have always been, so why does it feel so confusing?

“Stop talking to me like that.” you glare at him, titling your chin like you can somehow surpass him in height.

“Yeah? What are you gonna do?” he’s so smug it drips with it.

“I swear, Nishimura, I’ll punch you right now.”

Riki looks down at you, a small cruel smirk tugging at at the corner of his mouth, “Go ahead, brat. All yours. Hit me.”

The words shouldn’t sound like this, they shouldn’t sound so dirty. But it’s like lately, all he says has a subtle undertone to it— and why is his voice so goddamn low and velvety?

“Well thanks for the consent, motherfucker.” You push him back hard so he can’t crowd you. “Now get back.”

He grabs your wrist in turn, pushing you close to him menacingly. “I said hit me, not push me. Are you scared of me or something?”

You chuckle, defiant. “Scared? Oh give me a break.”

Riki grabs your fist; you’re surprised he isn’t even flinching at the contact. He tightens your fingers deliberately until you’re ready for a punch, and then holds it over his own cheek.

“Come on. Do it.”

His fingers burn around yours. He’s dying for it, he needs the fight, needs the violence. He craves the collision— the crack of bone, the bloom of pain, the certainty that comes with a hit landed cleanly. Anger is familiar territory— violence is the only conversation he’s ever known how to finish.

“Don’t touch me.” you say, in vain, because it comes out as a breathy plaint.

“We’re way past that.”

“You’re so disgusting. You get off on doing disgusting things like that, don’t you? Fucking pervert.” your eyes are bored in his now, more honest that your bodies have ever been.

Then Riki does something so out of character— yet so him, and your lungs suddenly become a mere accessory rather than organs.

He grabs your throat suddenly, long fingers wrapping around it, squeezing not too tight but firm enough to make your pulse jump under his fingers. The pressure is controlled, thumb pressing lightly against the side of your neck where your heartbeat flutters wildly. His grip’s warm, steady, dangerous and you can feel the restrained power in his hand, the way his fingers flex as if debating how much tighter he could go.

It sends a rush of heat through you despite everything.

“Don’t call me that,” he says, triggered.

His shoulders broaden as he squares himself, every tendon in his forearms standing out beneath taut skin.

Riki’s so close now, nose brushing yours, eyes burning with pure fury, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t dying from how exhilarating it feels.

“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want.” You push his buttons on purpose, loving the way his anger tastes— like something filthy and sour on your tongue.

“Fuck you, Y/n.”

There’s a thin line between hatred and desire—and only then, you’re starting to feel it dissolve until you can no longer tell whether the pounding in your chest is fury or fascination, whether you want to shove him away or pull him closer just to understand why he gets beneath your skin like that.

“Mm, fuck me?” You tilt your head, defiant, lips inches from his.

Riki loses it. Air sticks in his lungs and his eyes flutter shut for a split second— he’s forgotten how to breathe now, the words ricochet through him, splintering whatever fragile restraint he’d been clinging to.

His jaw tightens so hard it aches, a muscle feathering beneath his skin as he swallows back something he can’t afford to say.

“Don’t say shit like that.” he goes instead, but it comes out breathy.

“Why? Scared?” You get closer, pushing every button you can reach.

Because close just isn’t close enough— and flustered isn’t nearly flustered enough. Because you want him reeling, struggling to even function, you want him to be putty in your hands— just out of pure spite.

Riki’s stuck between two different worlds— he wants to push you off, watch you fall and trip but at the same time he wants to fuck the attitude right out of you— teach you a lesson.

He doesn’t acknowledge it, but he feels it somewhere low, warmth spreading. He’s too far gone.

Your mouths hover dangerously close, so much so that you can feel his breath, hot and ragged against your lips. His hand tightens slightly on your throat, not hurting, just holding. Claiming almost, in all its irony.

But the choreographer’s voice echoes faintly from the hallway, and you’re both forced to pull away instantly, breathless, chests heaving.

The moment’s over and the bodies are done speaking.

Riki turns sharply and stalks toward the bathroom, fists tight at his sides while you scratch your arm anxiously, nails digging into skin as if you can claw the tension out of your body.

Three days after the practice room incident, Hybe decides to play nice— characteristically… They organize a mandatory “team bonding” dinner for everyone involved in the collaboration project—R3SET, Enhypen, choreographers, and a few other staffs.

The official reason is to “build chemistry” and “celebrate the upcoming performance.”

The real reason, you suspect, is damage control after too many rumors about visible tension between you and Riki.

The company hates bad optics.

“Touch myself” hasn’t really resulted in anything good, apart from fuelling your self hatred.

The choreographer wasn’t exceptionally happy, and so were you— for fucks sake, because of him, you’d been forced to confront that you were an entirely too deprived woman.

It’s true, that’s the only viable answer, you haven’t done anything with anyone in years, and so it’s only natural that any physical touch sends you into a whole different headspace— even if it’s not one you’d desire. Desperate times.

So, the dinner is held at a private restaurant downtown, dim lighting, long wooden tables, expensive hanwoo beef, and enough soju to drown in. You show up with your members, ankle mostly healed but still a little stiff, wearing simple black pants and a sophisticated top. You tell yourself it’ll be just fine, Riki’s most likely forgotten about it already.

But the second you walk in, your eyes find him across the room. You end up near the middle of the long table, directly across from him.

He looks annoying in all black, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy, his eyes flick to you every few minutes— totally unreadable. You don’t look away, god you never do.

Jake sits a few seats down, trying to make polite conversation with Sera— you wouldn’t fail to mention you’re still slightly annoyed at him, but that feels like background noise compared to the live wire stretching across the table.

Rage is merely just rage when it’s not directed at Nishimura Riki.

Hye-ri leans toward you at one point, whispering, “He keeps staring. You good?”

“I’m fabulous,” you mutter, stabbing a piece of beef harder than necessary.

Riki’s voice cuts through the chatter a moment later, directed at no one in particular but clearly meant for you. “Some people should probably stay off their feet more. Wouldn’t want another dramatic injury right before the performance.”

You smile sweetly, tilting your head. “Some people should probably mind their own fucking business.”

The table quiets a little. Jake shifts uncomfortably and Sunoo coughs into his drink amused.

Riki leans back in his chair, lips curving into that infuriating half-smirk. “Just looking out for the team. Wouldn’t want you to trip on stage because you’re too stubborn to rest properly.”

“Touching,” you reply, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Didn’t know you cared so much about my well-being, Nishimura.”

“I don’t.” His eyes lock onto yours. “I care about the performance not sucking because of you.”

The air crackles and Hye-ri kicks you under the table. Of course you kick her back.

The rest of dinner is a masterclass in passive-aggressive warfare; every time someone mentions the collaboration, Riki finds a way to slip in a subtle jab. Every time, you fire back sharper until by dessert, the tension feels thick enough to choke on.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom just to breathe, splashing some water on your neck— soothing the physical reaction he’s inflicted upon you. When you come out, Riki is leaning against the wall in the hallway, waiting.

“Running away already?” he asks, voice low.

“Fuck off.”

He steps closer, crowding you against the wall without actually touching you. “You’ve been quiet lately. No insults. No nothing. Almost like you’re avoiding me.”

You lift your chin, refusing to back down. “What? You’re gonna beg me for insults again?”

Riki’s jaw tightens and for a second, something dangerous flickers in his eyes, you’re not sure he knows exactly what you’re referring to though. “You wish.”

Then he walks away, leaving you standing there with your heart pounding and your hands clenched into fists.

That night, you dream— you dream like you haven’t dreamt in months. See, you had the habit of dreaming about totally incoherent things, your older brother getting kidnapped by aliens, your step mom catching a cold and growing wings… and that dream doesn’t differ, it’s totally incongruous.

In it, the studio’s empty, mirrors stretching endlessly in every direction, the lights are low and warm. You’re dancing, but it’s no longer really choreography.

Riki’s hands are on your waist, pulling you flush against him— there’s no hatred in the movement this time— only hunger. You shove him, but he spins you around and presses you against the mirror, cold glass against your front, his body hot and solid behind you.

“You talk so much shit,” he whispers against your ear, one hand sliding up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher. “But look at you now.”

You gasp as his fingers find bare skin. “Fuck you.”

“Yeah?” Riki’s voice is rough, dangerous. “You want that?”

In the dream you hate him and want him in equal measure. You push back against him, grinding, feeling how hard he is, his hand wraps around your throat from behind— not tight enough to hurt, but enough to make you arch. His other hand slips between your legs, teasing, stroking, making you moan despite yourself.

“You’re so fucking wet for someone who hates me,” he murmurs, biting your shoulder. “Say it. Say you want me to fuck you.”

“I hate you,” you breathe, but your hips roll back against his hand anyway.

He laughs, low and dark, pressing you harder into the mirror. “Liar.”

The dream shifts and suddenly he has you on the floor, legs wrapped around his waist as he thrusts into you— deep, angry, perfect. Every snap of his hips feels like punishment and reward at once. You scratch down his back, drawing blood and he bites your neck hard enough to leave marks. The mirrors reflect a hundred versions of you two like fucking animals— sweat-slick, desperate, beautiful in the worst way.

“I hate you,” you moan as he fucks you harder.