🐶🐰

The fire alarm in the whole dorms didn't just beep; it shrieked like a banshee on a caffeine bender. It was 1:14 AM, and Y/N was currently standing on the sidewalk in a pair of oversized flannel pajama pants and a "Support Your Local Library" t-shirt, looking like she’d just been through a minor war.

Beside her, Chenle was holding a plate of half-seared wagyu beef, looking absolutely offended. "I was at a critical temperature, Y/N! The searing process is a sacred ritual! If the sensors can't handle a little expensive smoke, they shouldn't be in a luxury dorm”

"Lele, you’re literally holding a five-hundred-dollar steak in your slippers. Priorities," Y/N deadpanned, though she couldn't help the loud, bark-like laugh that escaped her.

"Very funny" Chenle fired back, his high-pitched laugh cutting through the chaos of sleepy students.

That’s when the Royalty descended.

Coming through the lobby doors were the four guys who basically owned the campus lease. Mark was at the back, looking stressed, probably carrying three different laptops in one backpack. But the front trio? They looked like they were walking a runway, even in lounge gear.

Haechan was currently clinging to Jaemin’s back like a koala, cackling as Jaemin tried to shake him off with a look of pure, murderous boredom.

"I’m telling you, Nana, the girl from the psych department literally asked if she could 'study my brain,'" Haechan yelled over the alarm, his eyes scanning the crowd. "I told her she could start with the physical anatomy, and she almost fainted. Girls are so weak for the music department."

Jaemin didn't even crack a smile, though his eyes were dancing with that unpredictable chaos. He was wearing a tight grey hoodie that showed off the sheer mass of his arms—gym sessions with Jeno clearly paid off.

"She probably just wanted to see if there was actually anything inside your skull, Hyuck. It’s a scientific curiosity."

He suddenly stopped, his gaze snagging on Y/N and Chenle. Jaemin’s vibe shifted instantly—from chaotic roommate to the predatory, observant fuckboy the campus whispered about. He took a slow sip of his extra-strong black coffee, his eyes lingering on the way Y/N’s hair was a mess of sleep-tangled waves. He didn't say a word, just gave a slow, deliberate nod that felt like he was memorizing her face for later.

Then there was Jeno.

Jeno wasn't laughing. He was wearing a simple white tank top and black joggers, the silver Tag Heuer on his wrist glinting under the streetlights. He looked like a god sculpted from granite—176.5 cm of lean, Doberman like muscles, with a waist so narrow it seemed unfair. When he saw the group, his captain persona took over.

"Hyung, let’s check if the RA needs help with the headcount," Jeno quietly said to Mark. His voice wasn't loud, but it had that Alpha frequency that made people instinctively move.

Haechan, spotting Y/N, finally hopped off Jaemin. He strolled over with a smirk that was 10% charm and 90% trouble. "Well, if it isn't the Finance prodigy and Mark’s favorite cousin. Y/N, you look... cozy. Is 'homeless chic' the new vibe?"

Y/N didn't blink. She’d dealt with Eric’s manipulation for years; Haechan’s teasing was like a breeze. "It’s called 'I actually sleep at night,' Haechan. You should try it. Might help with the dark circles under your ego."

Haechan gasped, clutching his chest. "Jaemin! Did you hear that? She’s violent. I love it."

Jaemin stepped up beside Haechan, his aura heavy and magnetic. He leaned in just a bit too close to Y/N, smelling like expensive cologne and high-grade espresso. "She’s not violent, Hyuck. She’s just honest. It’s a rare trait around here." He looked Y/N dead in the eye, his voice dropping to a private, silky register. "You’re Y/N, right? Mark mentions you. Usually followed by a 'don't let Haechan near her.'"

"Mark’s a smart man," Y/N retorted, though the way Jaemin’s eyes tracked her lips made her pulse skip a beat.

Suddenly, a ball—a stray baseball from some idiot playing in the dark—came flying toward the group. Without even looking, Jeno’s hand shot out. Thwack. He caught it mid-air, barely a foot from Y/N’s head.

The silence that followed was heavy. Jeno turned the ball over in his hand, his expression serious, alluring, and terrifyingly calm. He looked at the group of frat boys who’d thrown it. He didn't yell. He just stood there, his presence so commanding that the guys across the lawn visibly swallowed and started apologizing profusely.

Jeno turned his gaze to Y/N. For a second, his eyes crinkled into that famous, soft eye-smile that made him look like the most innocent boy on earth. "You okay? Didn't mean to let the chaos get that close."

"I'm fine, J—Jeno. Thanks," Y/N stuttered, surprised by the sudden gentleness.

But then, the smile vanished as a text chimed on his watch. He looked at it, his jaw tightening, the Doberman returning in an instant. The shift was visceral. He looked at Y/N again, but this time his eyes weren't soft. They were dark, intense, and filled with a raw, dominant energy that seemed to strip away her defenses. It was the look of a man who didn't just want to protect you—he wanted to own the space you stood in.

"Jaemin-ah, Haechan-ah. Let’s go," Jeno said, his tone leaving zero room for argument. "The RA cleared the floor. I have a 9 AM Business Ethics exam, and I’m not failing because you two want to flirt with Mark’s family in the street."

"Sir, yes, sir!" Haechan joked, though he actually started moving.

Jaemin lingered for a second, his eyes sliding from Y/N to Jeno, a silent communication passing between the two best friends—the kind of look that suggested they shared more than just a dorm room. He gave Y/N one last, lingering smirk before turning on his heel.

As they walked away, Y/N heard Haechan’s loud whisper: "I'm telling you, she's got that 'I hate you' look that usually turns into an 'oh my god' look by the third date."

"Shut up, Haechan," Jeno’s deep voice rumbled, but he didn't deny it.

Chenle poked Y/N in the arm with his steak fork. "You’re staring. And your face is red. Please tell me you aren't falling for the his act. I can't have my best friend dating someone who spends more on watches than I do on cars."

"I'm not staring," Y/N lied, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I'm just wondering how Jeno’s waist is smaller than mine. It’s scientifically offensive."

"Sure," Aieza said, appearing out of the shadows with Jeoffrey. "And I’m sure that look Jeno gave you was just him 'checking for injuries.' Girl, you’re in trouble. That wasn't a a normal look. That was a 'You're coming home with me' look."

Y/N looked back at the dorm entrance, catching one last glimpse of Jeno’s broad shoulders before he disappeared inside. He was a mystery—a gentle protector one second and a dominant, alluring force the next. And for the first time since Eric, Y/N felt a spark of something that wasn't fear. It was hunger.

—-

The walk to the West Wing at 2:45 AM felt like a walk toward a gallows Y/N had spent months trying to avoid. Mark had been frantic—his Creative Writing final was due at 8:00 AM, and his laptop charger had sparked and died. Jeno had his spare.

"Just use the code, Y/N. Jeno’s a night owl, he’ll be up gaming or finishing his Business brief," Mark had pleaded over the phone. "He won't mind. He’s the most chill guy I know."

Chill was not the word Y/N would use. Jeno was a "pillar," sure, but he was a pillar made of reinforced steel that looked like it could crush you if you leaned too hard.

The hallway was silent, the air smelling of floor wax and late-night desperation. Y/N reached Room 402. Her fingers trembled as she punched in the code. The lock clicked with a sound that seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

She pushed the door open just a crack. The room was bathed in a deep, moody blue light from a series of LED strips. The air was thick—warm, smelling of expensive sandalwood and the sharp, clean scent of a recent workout.

The room was quiet, the dim yellow lights flickering occasionally. She reached the door and found it slightly ajar.

"Mark?" she called out softly. No answer.

She pushed the door open, stepping into the dark entryway. The only light came from the blueish glow of a computer monitor in the corner. She could hear the faint sound of heavy breathing and the rustle of fabric from the bed tucked behind the partition.

She froze. In the shadows, she saw a silhouette—a broad back, the rhythmic movement of someone deeply occupied. Her mind immediately went to Mark.

"Oh my god, Mark! Finally!" she hissed, her voice a mix of relief and teasing. "I didn't think you had it in you to actually bring a girl home. Sorry for the mood-kill, but you need your charger or you’re going to fail that Creative Writing essay."

The movement stopped instantly.

A girl’s voice, high-pitched and panicked, squeaked from the darkness. "Wait... Mark? Who is Mark?"

The girl scrambled out from under the figure, grabbing her shirt from the floor. She looked at Y/N, then at the man standing up, and then back to Y/N. "You’re his girlfriend? He said he was single!"

"No, I—" Y/N started, her face heating up. "Wait, you’re not Mark?"

The girl didn't wait for an answer. She shoved past Y/N, sobbing something about "liers" and "jerks," and bolted out of the dorm.

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.

The man in the room reached out and flicked the wall switch. The overhead lights hummed to life, flooding the room with a clinical, white glare.

It wasn't Mark.

Jeno stood there, shirtless, his chest heaving. The light caught the sweat glistening on his abdominal muscles—lines so sharp they looked carved from granite. His hair was a mess, falling over eyes that were no longer soft or friendly. They were dark, narrowed, and vibrating with a terrifying intensity.

He looked down at himself, then at the empty doorway, then finally, his gaze landed on Y/N.

"Do you have any idea," Jeno said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in Y/N’s chest, "what you just did?"

Y/N felt the air leave her lungs. The friendly group project leader was gone. In his place was a man who looked like he could snap the world in half. "Jeno... I—I thought you were Mark. The room was dark, and he’s my cousin, I just—"

"just ruined my night," he interrupted, taking a slow step toward her. The sheer physicality of him was overwhelming. He was 176.5 cm of pure, harnessed power, and as he closed the distance, Y/N felt her back hit the cold wood of the door she’d just entered.

"I’m so sorry," she stammered, her eyes darting everywhere but his bare chest. "I’ll do anything to make it up to you, I swear. I just needed to give Mark his—"

Jeno slammed his hand against the door beside her head. The sound was like a gunshot in the small room. He leaned in, his face inches from hers. The scent of him—expensive cologne, salt, and something raw and masculine—clouded her senses.

"Anything?" he echoed. His voice was a velvet rasp. He wasn't smiling. The eye-smile that made everyone trust him was nowhere to be found. Instead, his jaw was set, the muscles in his neck cording.

His eyes dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second, an intense, hunger-filled look that made Y/N’s knees go weak. The dominance he radiated was magnetic, a gravitational pull that demanded submission. He looked at her not as a friend’s cousin, but as a predator looks at something it’s decided to keep.

His other hand came up, not to touch her, but to grip the edge of the doorframe, effectively trapping her in the heat of his personal space. The silence stretched, thick with a tension so sharp it felt like it could draw blood.

Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs. She’d spent so long rebuilding her confidence after Eric, convincing herself she was invisible, but under Jeno’s gaze, she felt exposed. She felt seen.

Jeno’s gaze softened just a fraction, but the intensity didn't fade. He reached out, his fingers grazing the hair near her ear, before his hand moved down to her forehead.

He gave her a sharp, dismissive flick on the brow.

"Get out," he said, the command quiet but absolute.

Y/N blinked, the sudden release of tension making her lightheaded. "What?"

Jeno stepped back, the coldness returning to his expression as he grabbed a discarded hoodie from the chair. He didn't look at her as he pulled it over his head, hiding the muscles that had just been inches from her.

"You said you'd do anything," he said, his voice flat but carrying a hidden promise. "Come back here after your last lecture tomorrow. Don't be late."

He turned his back to her, dismissing her as if she were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, yet the air in the room still felt like it was on fire.

"Go," he added, without turning around.

Y/N didn't wait. She turned and practically ran into the hallway, her heart still racing at a tempo she couldn't control. She had seen the other side of the campus's golden boy—and she had a feeling her life was about to get much more complicated.

—-

The morning sun felt like a personal insult. Y/N sat in the back of her "Advanced Portfolio Management" lecture, her brain currently a corrupted file of Jeno’s shirtless silhouette and the sound of his hand slamming against the door.

Beside her, Chenle was busy scrolling through a luxury car auction on his tablet, looking remarkably refreshed for someone who had been eating steak on a sidewalk at 2:00 AM.

"You’re vibrating," Chenle whispered, not looking up from a vintage Porsche. "It’s distracting. If it’s about the Finance midterm, just remember: when in doubt, blame the inflation rates."

"It’s not the midterm," Y/N hissed, her pen hovering uselessly over her notebook. "It’s Jeno."

Chenle’s head snapped up, a devious grin spreading across his face. "The Doberman? What did he do? Did he bark at you? Or did he do that thing where he stares at people until they apologize for existing?"

"He told me to come to his room after my last lecture. To 'make up' for... an incident."

Chenle’s cackle was so sharp it earned a glare from the professor. "Oh, you are toast. Jeno doesn’t do 'favors.' He does transactions. If you’ve ended up on his debt sheet, you might as well just hand over your soul now. It’ll save time."

Y/N groans.

She’s doomed.

——-

By 4:15 PM, Y/N was standing in front of Room 402 again. She’d changed out of her homeless chic pajamas into a pair of fitted black jeans and a cropped knit sweater—not because she wanted to look good for him, she told herself, but because she needed to feel like she had some armor.

She knocked.

"Enter," a voice rumbled from inside. Deep. Level. No "please" attached.

Y/N stepped in. The room was different in the daylight—cleaner, sharper, but no less intimidating. Jeno was sitting at his desk, his back to her. He was wearing a black compression shirt that made the 176.5 cm of his frame look like a weapon. He didn't turn around immediately; he was typing away at a Business Ethics paper, the click-clack of the keys the only sound in the room.

"Close the door," he said.

Y/N did. The click of the lock felt final. "I'm here. What do you want, Jeno? A coffee run? Someone to write your footnotes?"

Jeno stopped typing. He stood up slowly, the movement fluid and predatory, and finally turned to face her. He wasn't smiling. He looked at her with a clinical sort of intensity, his eyes scanning her from her sleep-deprived dark circles down to her boots.

"I don't need coffee," he said, stepping into her space. He was close enough now that she could see the slight dampness of his hair—he’d just showered. "And I certainly don't need help with my work. What I need, Y/N, is for you to learn that you can't just barge into a man’s room and expect him to be chill about it."

"I told you, I thought you were Mark—"

"I don't care who you thought I was." He reached out, his hand wrapping firmly around her nape. It wasn't painful, but it was possessive. His thumb grazed the sensitive skin behind her ear, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core. "You cost me a very... high-energy night. And since you offered to do anything..."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "You're going to help me with my recovery."

Y/N’s heart was trying to escape her chest. "Recovery? What does that even—"

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, a dark, playful glint finally breaking through his serious facade. He pointed to the corner of the room where a professional-grade massage table and several rolls of athletic tape sat.

"I have a varsity match tonight. My traps are locked up, and Haechan has the manual dexterity of a goldfish," Jeno said, his voice dropping to that silky register. He started pulling the compression shirt over his head in one smooth motion, exposing that sculpted, granite-like torso again. "You’re a Finance major. You’re good with your hands—precise. You’re going to work the tension out of my shoulders, and then you’re going to tape my back."

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to her, the muscles rippling with every breath. "And if you do a bad job, the debt carries over to tomorrow. With interest."

Y/N stood there, frozen. The boy in front of her was literally demanding she touch him as a form of penance. It was arrogant. It was absurd.

"What are you waiting for?" Jeno asked, glancing back over his shoulder, his eyes heavy and demanding. "The clock is ticking, Y/N."

She took a step forward, her fingers trembling as she reached for the muscle rub on his nightstand. As her hands finally made contact with his skin—burning hot and incredibly firm—she heard him let out a low, guttural hum of approval.

"Better," he rasped. "Now, don't stop until I tell you."

She’s definitely screwed.

The air in the room became thick with the scent of menthol and Jeno’s skin. Every time Y/N’s palms slid over the broad expanse of his shoulders, the muscles coiled and jumped under her touch like live wires. She was trying to be clinical—to focus on the knots in his upper traps—but it was impossible when the man was basically a living anatomy chart.

"You're stiff," Y/N muttered, her voice slightly breathless.

"That’s what happens when you spend four hours in the weight room trying to forget a girl interrupted your..." Jeno paused, a low, vibration-like chuckle rattling through his chest. "Actually, never mind. Just keep going. Lower."

Y/N’s fingers dipped toward the small of his back, right where his joggers hung low on his hips. She could see the faint indentations of his Apollo’s belt, and her brain momentarily short-circuited.

"I thought you said your traps were locked up," she challenged, though her hands didn't move away.

Jeno suddenly turned. It was too fast for her to react. In one fluid motion, he grabbed her wrists and pulled her forward, forcing her to stumble between his spread knees. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, but because of the height difference, they were now eye-to-eye.

"You're very bad at following instructions, Y/N," Jeno murmured. He didn't let go of her wrists. Instead, he pulled them behind her back, forcing her chest to arch toward his bare one. The heat radiating off him was dizzying. "You’ve been staring at the scar on my shoulder for three minutes. And your heart is beating so loud I can hear it over the AC."

"It's the caffeine," she lied, her eyes darting to his lips.

Jeno’s gaze darkened, that predatory look returning in full force. He leaned in, his nose brushing against hers. "Is it? Because you look like you’re waiting for me to do something much worse than ask for a massage. You have that look in your eyes... the one from last night. The hunger."

He let one of her wrists go, his hand traveling up to cup her jaw, his thumb dragging slowly across her lower lip, pulling it down just enough to expose the white of her teeth. "Should I give you what you’re looking for? Or should I make you work for it all semester?"

The tension was a physical weight, a wire pulled so tight it was screaming—

Click.

The door swung open with a violent lack of ceremony.

"Jeno-ya, have you seen my—oh."

Jaemin stood in the doorway, a half-eaten green apple in one hand and his other hand lazily tucked into the pocket of his silk pajama pants. He didn't look shocked. He didn't even look embarrassed. He just stood there, his eyes scanning the scene—Jeno shirtless and dominant, Y/N flushed and trapped—with a look of pure, unadulterated amusement.

"Am I interrupting the 'recovery' session?" Jaemin asked, his voice a smooth, chaotic drawl. He took a loud, crunching bite of the apple, leaning against the doorframe. "Because it looks a lot more like a hostage situation. Or a very expensive private performance."

Jeno didn't move. He didn't even flinch. He just kept his hand on Y/N’s jaw, his eyes still locked on hers for a lingering, agonizing second before he slowly turned his head toward his roommate.

"Jaemin. Get out," Jeno said, his voice flat and dangerous.

Jaemin didn't budge. He strolled into the room, tossing the apple core into the trash can with perfect accuracy. He stopped right behind Y/N, the scent of his expensive, dark cologne mingling with Jeno’s sandalwood. He leaned over her shoulder, his face inches from hers as he looked at Jeno.

"Now, now, Neno. Don't be greedy," Jaemin purred, his hand coming up to rest lightly on Y/N’s waist—a direct challenge to Jeno’s hold. "Mark’s favorite cousin is clearly stressed. Maybe she needs a second opinion on those knots."

He looked at Y/N, his eyes dancing with that unpredictable, fuckboy energy. "What do you think, Y/N? Jeno’s a bit... blunt, isn't he? I have much softer hands."

Jeno’s grip on Y/N’s other wrist tightened just a fraction. The air in the room didn't just feel hot anymore; it felt combustible. Two of the most dangerous men on campus were now using her as the rope in a very high-stakes game of tug-of-war.

"She’s busy, Jaemin," Jeno growled, his jaw setting.

"She looks like she's vibrating," Jaemin countered, his smirk widening as he felt Y/N’s pulse under his palm. "Are you scaring her, Jeno-ya? Or are you just making her want things she shouldn't?"

The atmosphere was a powder keg, the air thick with the competing scents of Jeno’s heat and Jaemin’s cool arrogance. Y/N felt like she was being dismantled under their collective gaze—until the heavy silence was shattered by a frantic, rhythmic pounding on the door.

"Jeno! Jaemin! Tell me she’s in there!"

Mark didn't wait for an invite. He burst in, looking like he’d been through a metaphorical blender. His hair was sticking up in three different directions, and he was clutching a stack of papers like a shield. He froze, his eyes darting from Jeno’s bare chest to Jaemin’s hand on Y/N’s waist.

"Oh, thank God," Mark exhaled, completely oblivious to the sexual tension high enough to power the entire West Wing. "Y/N, I’ve been looking everywhere! I forgot to give you the keycard for the library annex—wait, why is your face the color of a fire engine?"

The spell broke.

Jaemin let out a sharp, melodic laugh and pulled his hand away from Y/N’s waist, reaching for his apple again. "Relax, Mark. We were just testing your cousin’s flight-or-fight response. Results are in: she’s a 'freeze' type." He winked at Y/N, the predatory intensity vanishing into a mask of effortless, playful boredom. "It was just a bit of fun, sweetheart. You looked so serious, we couldn't help ourselves."

Jeno finally let go of her wrists. He stood up, stretching his arms over his head in a way that made his lats flare, and let out a relaxed, easy-going chuckle—the eye-smile returning as if the dark, hungry predator of five minutes ago had never existed.

"Yeah, sorry Y/N," Jeno said, his voice light and frustratingly casual. "I didn't think you'd actually take the 'debt' thing seriously. I just wanted to see how long you'd last before you called me an asshole. You’re too easy to rile up."

He looked at Mark, dismissing Y/N entirely. "She’s all yours, man. She’s a decent masseuse, though. Tell her to keep her day job in Finance."

Y/N felt the blood in her veins turn from liquid fire to pure, icy humiliation. They were laughing. It was a game. A way to kill time between lectures—a "prank" on the cousin of their friend. The way Jeno had looked at her lips, the way his voice had dropped... it was all just a practiced routine.

"You guys are actually pathetic," Y/N said, her voice trembling not with fear, but with a sudden, sharp rage.

The laughter stopped. Mark blinked, confused. "Wait, Y/N—"

"No, Mark. Shut up." She turned her gaze to Jeno and Jaemin, her eyes stinging. "You think because you own this campus, everyone is just a prop in your boredom? Go to hell, Jeno. And take your 'sacred ritual' steak and your god-complex roommate with you. You're both fucking losers."

She didn't wait for a rebuttal. She shoved past Mark, nearly knocking him over, and bolted into the hallway.

"Y/N! Wait!" Mark called out, but he stayed put, looking between his roommates in shock.

Inside the room, the silence was no longer playful. Jaemin’s smirk had faltered, his gaze fixed on the door. Jeno, however, looked like he’d been slapped. The casual, "it was just a joke" mask crumbled instantly. He looked at his hands, then at the door, the weight of what he’d just done—the way he’d played with her dignity just to keep his own guard up—hitting him like a freight train.

"That... didn't go how I thought it would," Jaemin muttered, sounding uncharacteristically quiet.

Jeno didn't answer. He grabbed his hoodie from the bed, shoving his arms through it as he sprinted for the door.

"Jeno? Where are you going?" Mark asked.

Jeno didn’t say anything.

He burst into the hallway, his long legs eating up the distance. He saw her near the elevators, her back to him, shoulders shaking slightly. She was hitting the 'down' button with a Ferocity that suggested she wanted to break the panel.

"Y/N! Stop!"

She didn't stop. She turned into the stairwell instead, the heavy fire door slamming shut behind her. Jeno caught it just before it latched, swinging it open with enough force to dent the wall.

"Y/N, listen to me—"

"Leave me alone, Jeno! Go find someone else to 'test'!" she yelled, her voice echoing off the concrete stairs as she descended.

Jeno didn't take the stairs. He vaulted over the railing, dropping down a half-flight to land directly in front of her, blocking her path. He looked desperate, his jaw tight and his eyes dark with a raw, genuine urgency.

———

Jeno vaulted over the railing, his boots hitting the concrete with a heavy thud that echoed through the stairwell. He blocked the exit, his chest heaving, sweat beginning to bead at his hairline. The Golden Boy polish was entirely stripped away, leaving something raw and jagged in its place.

"I’m sorry, okay? Dammit, Y/N, just wait," he ground out, his voice cracking with a mix of frustration and genuine distress. He ran a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but her eyes. "I lashed out. I was... I was frustrated. You have no idea what it’s like to be that close and then have the rug pulled out. It physically hurts, Y/N. Blue-balling a man isn't just a joke—it’s a goddamn nightmare. I was mad and I took it out on your pride because mine was taking a beating."

Y/N stared at him, the initial sting of humiliation cooling into a hard, cynical clarity. She took a slow, stabilizing breath, crossing her arms.

"So, because your anatomy was throwing a tantrum, you decided to treat me like a punchline?" she said, her voice dropping to a level, mature frequency that seemed to catch him off guard. "Listen, Jeno. I’m an adult. I get that you were... occupied. I can move past the embarrassment. But don't you ever do that to a woman again. We aren't just 'incidents' or 'mood-killers.' We have feelings, and we aren't props for you to use when you're feeling cocky and discard when you're frustrated."

She sighed, her posture softening just a fraction. "And look... I’m sorry too. For barging in. It was a mistake. Let's just call it even and stop the games."

Jeno looked at her, truly looking at her, and for the first time, the Doberman looked like he’d been kicked. "Even," he repeated softly. "Yeah. Even."

——-

They fell into a rhythm.

It started with a text from Jeno:

Unknown number: “Mark says you’re failing Macroeconomics. My notes are better than his. Don't make it weird.”

Then came the shared 3 AM study sessions where they discovered they both had a borderline-obsessive interest in vintage watch movements and a shared hatred for the campus cafeteria’s "mystery stew." Jeno started showing up at her library cubicle with her exact coffee order—extra shot, no sugar—without her asking.

The group chat was a war zone.

Half Wit(Haechan): Why is Jeno suddenly a domestic housewife? I saw him carrying Y/N’s heavy-ass textbooks today. My back hurts just watching the simp behavior.

Half Wit: and why is my nickname Half wit? Which one of you Waitlist Rejects changed it again?

Suppository of Bad Opinions(Jaemin): He’s just clearing the debt, Hyuck. It’s a very long-term payment plan.

Suppository of Bad Opinions(Jaemin): ..and jesus christ my nickna.. what is wrong with you guys

Jeno: She’s just Mark’s cousin. I’m being polite.

Y/N: And he’s just a guy with a nice watch. Relax.

Y/N: And btw I changed them. Half wit sounds cute on you Hyuckie. Its just so.. you.

Half Wit(Haechan): fuck you.

The denial was top-tier, even as Jeno started subconsciously territorializing her. If they were at a party, his hand was always on the back of her chair. If another guy lingered too long, Jeno’s would suddenly emerge—not loud, just a quiet, heavy presence that made the air feel thin until the intruder left.

But Y/N on the other hand, doesn’t mind the attention at all.

Or does she really don’t mind.

——

The rain wasn't just falling; it was punishing the windows of Room 402. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark room where Y/N and Jeno were mid-boss-fight in Elden Ring.

"I have to go," Y/N said, glancing at the window as a branch scraped against the glass. "If I don't leave now, the bridge to the East Wing will be underwater."

"Don't be stupid," Jeno grumbled, not looking away from the screen. "The wind is hitting sixty miles per hour. You’ll get blown into the decorative pond and I’ll have to explain to Mark why his cousin drowned in six inches of water. Just stay."

"Jeno—"

"It’s a storm, Y/N. Not a choice. Use my bed. I'll take the floor."

He tossed her a grey hoodie—one that smelled so overwhelmingly like him it made her dizzy. When she emerged from the bathroom wearing it, the hem hitting mid-thigh, Jeno’s controller clicked. He died in the game. He didn't even care.

"Floor's too cold," Y/N insisted an hour later, looking at him wrapped in a single blanket on the hardwood. "I'm not an asshole, Jeno. There’s room."

"Are you sure?," he rasped, his back to her.

She didn't reply. She stayed on the floor. Jeno was worried that he kept asking her every 5 minutes. 15 minutes later, she was shivering.

Suddenly, the blankets were ripped away. In one blurred, effortless motion, Jeno scooped her up. She gasped, her hands instinctively clutching his biceps—rock hard and warm. He tossed her onto the mattress and climbed in beside her, pulling the heavy duvet over them both.

"Stay still," he commanded, his voice vibrating against her ear.

He pulled her back against his chest, her spine flush against his heat. And then, the air in the room changed. It became heavy. Electric. Y/N felt it first—the unmistakable, rigid heat of him pressing against the small of her back. Her breath hitched.

Her brain is panicking; she’s not moving at all.

She doesn’t even know why Jeno’s doing this.

She tries to pinch Jeno’s skin to try to pry him away.

But Jeno didn't pull away. Instead, his hand drifted to the hem of the shirt she was wearing, his fingers skimming the skin of her hip. Agonizingly slow.

He traces her skin with tiny circles, and she could feel herself getting wet from the act.

Jeno leaned in, his lips grazing her earlobe before he gave it a sharp, tiny nip that made her toes curl.

"You're so tense," Jeno whispered, his voice a dark, velvet promise. He gave her lobe a quick lick as ihs hand traveled higher, his thumb tracing the curve of her waist. "Is it the storm? Or is it because you can feel what you're doing to me?"

"J-Jeno... we s-shouldn't," she whispered, her heart hammering.

"Shouldn't what?" he provoked, his touch turning bold, his palm sliding up her inner thigh, slow and deliberate, making her gasp as he found her clothed clit. "Shouldn't admit that you’ve been thinking about this since the fire alarm? Shouldn't talk about how wet you are right now just from me touching your leg?"

He gently flipped her over, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, his body a heavy, dominant weight above her. His eyes were dark—no more Golden Boy, no more just friends.

"Baby, please," he rasped, his forehead resting against hers, his breath hot on her lips. "I’ve been so patient. But if you don't tell me to stop in the next three seconds, I'm going to show you exactly how much debt you actually owe me."

Y/N didn't say stop. She pulled him down, and the Doberman finally broke his leash.

The shift in Jeno was visceral. It wasn't just a mood change; it was as if he had finally authorized himself to take what was his. His grip on her wrists was like iron bands, pinning them to the headboard with a strength that made it clear she wasn't going anywhere unless he decided she could.

"You know.. you like to talk so much, Y/N," he growled, his voice dropping into a register so low it felt like a vibration in her very bones. "Let's see if you can keep that energy when I’m actually inside you."

He didn't give her a chance to breathe. He slid down the bed, his movements fluid and predatory. When he parted her legs, he didn't do it gently; he forced them wide, his broad shoulders wedging between her knees.

"Jeno, wait—" she gasped, her head hitting the pillow as he dove in.

He didn't wait.

He ate her out with a focused, rhythmic aggression that was borderline territorial. His eye not leaving her as he devours her pussy, smirking as he enjoyed her squirming state.

When she tried to close her legs, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of his tongue, he growled against her skin, his fingers digging into her thighs to keep her exposed.

Y/N was sobbing, her hands fumbling for his hair, half-pleading for him to stop because the pleasure was too sharp, too much to handle.

"P-Please... Jeno, stop, I c-can't—"

He pulled back for a split second, his face glistening with her wetness, his eyes dark and void of any mercy. "I didn't tell you to speak. You’re going to take every bit of this."

He rose up, stripping off his boxers to reveal the sheer, terrifying reality of him.

His cock was thick, heavy, and looked impossible.

Y/N’s eyes widened, her breath hitching in a sob of genuine shock.

"Jeno, you’re... you’re too big. It won't fit," she whispered, her voice trembling.

A dark, slow smirk spread across his face—one that had nothing to do with the Golden Boy everyone else knew. He grabbed her waist, his thumbs bruising the skin of her hips, and positioned himself at her entrance.

"I’ll make it fit," he rasped,

his voice a chilling, dominant promise.

"And you’re going to thank me for it."

He drove into her in one deep, uncompromising surge. Y/N’s back arched off the bed, a silent scream caught in her throat as her body stretched to accommodate the intrusion.

He didn't give her time to adjust. He began to fuck her with a brutal, steady cadence, each thrust bottoming out, his weight crushing her into the mattress.

"Look at me," he commanded, his hand coming up to grip her chin, forcing her tear-filled eyes to meet his. "You thought this was a game? You thought you could just walk away after ruining my night? You’re mine now. Every inch of you."

When the bed wasn't enough, he hauled her up. He carried her to the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, the cold plaster a sharp contrast to the furnace of his skin. He slammed her back against the surface, the impact rattling the frames on the wall. He fucked her there, gravity adding to the depth of every strike, his mouth pressed against her ear as he whispered things that would have made Haechan’s jaw drop—mean, possessive, filthy commands that stripped away her last bit of resolve.

"Beg for it," he hissed, his teeth grazing her neck. "Tell me you’re a mess for me. Tell me you want me to never stop."

He was a force of nature, a Doberman that had finally tasted blood and refused to let go. By the time he finally let her collapse back onto the sheets, she was a shaking, spent wreck, and Jeno was hovering over her, looking down at his handiwork with a terrifying, satisfied hunger.

Jeno wasn't finished. Not even close. The raw, primal adrenaline of finally breaking through her defenses had turned into something darker, a relentless hunger that bordered on cruelty.

He hauled her off his own mattress, his grip on her arm unyielding as he dragged her across the small room. He threw her face-down onto Jaemin’s perfectly made bed. The scent of Jaemin’s clean, expensive laundry detergent hit her nose, a stark contrast to the musk and heat of what was happening.

"Jeno, please... not here," she sobbed, her fingers clawing at the silk sheets.

He didn't listen. He drove into her from behind, a sudden, violent intrusion that made her vision go white. He leaned down, his chest crushing her into Jaemin’s pillow, his voice a low, toxic hiss in her ear.

"You’ve gotten tighter since we moved to this bed, haven't you?" Jeno spat, his thrusts heavy and punishing.

"What is it, Y/N? Does the thought of Jaemin watching us turn you on? You like the idea of the pretty boy seeing you like this? You disgust me."

He punctuated the insult with a thrust so deep it felt like it hit her soul.

"You’re a little slut for the attention, aren't you? But he’s not here. Only I am."

He didn't let her answer. He dragged her up again, this time toward the glowing setup of his gaming desk. He sat her on the edge of the desk, pulling her legs over his shoulders. The cold metal of the keyboard was under her palms as he entered her again. This time, he slowed down. It was worse. It was a slow, agonizingly deep stretch that forced her to feel every ridge, every inch of his impossible size.

"Look how wet you are," Jeno praised, though his voice sounded like a threat.

"So tight. So warm. You’re shaking, Y/N. Is it because it feels delicious? Tell me how much you love it."

She let out a broken, high-pitched keen, her head falling back as the pleasure finally began to override the pain. "It... it feels... god, Jeno..."

"Good," he gritted out. "Because we're not done."

He turned her around, shoving her against the large floor-to-ceiling window. The storm was still raging outside, the lightning illuminating her bare chest as he pressed her firmly against the cold glass. Anyone looking up from the quad could see the silhouette of her breasts flattened against the window, the image of her vulnerability laid bare for the world.

"Panting like a little animal," Jeno mocked, his hands gripping her waist so hard he knew he was leaving marks. He fucked her against the glass, the window rattling with every impact. "Look at yourself. Crying and begging while you're on display. This is who you really are."

He spun her around one last time, forcing her to face him. He looked terrifying—sweat-soaked, eyes blown wide with a dominant, possessive fever. He was reaching his limit, his muscles cording with tension.

"Jeno, don't... please don't come inside," she pleaded, her voice cracking. "Ple—"

"Shhh," he snapped, his fingers tangling in her hair to pull her head back. "You think you have a choice? You’re mine. I’m going to leave my mark so deep you'll feel me for a week. You're my property tonight, Y/N. Only mine."

He let out a guttural, animalistic growl as he delivered three final, brutal thrusts, bottoming out completely.

He really came inside her, hot cum filling her walls.

He ignored her cries and filled her, his heat blossoming inside her in a way that felt like a permanent seal.

She screams as he cums with him, tilting her head back.

He leaned in, his teeth sinking into the junction of her neck and shoulder.

"Mine," he whispered, a dark, final command. "Don't you ever forget it."

And it all went dark.

——

The sunlight hit the room with a brutal, clinical glare. Y/N was tangled in Jeno’s sheets, her body aching in places she didn't know existed, her skin a map of faint bruises and dried salt. Jeno was still asleep, his arm thrown over her waist like a lead bar, even in sleep refusing to let go.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

"RISE AND SHINE, SINNERS!" Haechan’s voice boomed through the door, followed by the frantic jingling of keys. "I have iced Americanos and a burning desire to know why Jeno’s door has been locked for ten hours! If there’s a dead body in there, I’m calling the RA!"

"Haechan, stop," Mark’s voice came from the hallway, sounding mortified. "They're probably just... sleeping in because of the storm."

"Sleeping? In Jeno’s room? Mark, you're so precious," Jaemin’s voice drawled, sounding dangerously amused. "I can smell the bad decisions from here. Move over, I’m opening it."

The lock clicked.

Y/N’s heart stopped. She looked at Jeno, who was just starting to stir, his eyes fluttering open to see the door swinging wide.

"Oh," Haechan stopped dead in the doorway, his eyes landing on Y/N’s clothes scattered on the floor and her head peeking out from under Jeno's duvet. "Well. That's... that's a lot of skin for 9:00 AM."

Jaemin leaned over Haechan’s shoulder, his gaze sweeping over the room—the desk, his own bed, and finally, the marks on Y/N’s neck. His smirk didn't reach his eyes this time.

"I told you my bed was more comfortable, didn't I, Y/N?" Jaemin purred, though his jaw was visibly tight.

Jeno didn't even look embarrassed. He just pulled Y/N closer to his chest, his eyes cold and challenging as they met his roommates'. "Close the door," he rumbled. "We're busy."

Haechan stood frozen in the doorway, the tray of iced coffees in his hands tilted at a dangerous, forty-five-degree angle. He blinked once. Twice. Then a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face, wide enough to be classified as a public safety hazard.

"Mark," Haechan whispered, not taking his eyes off the bed. "Don't look. Your innocent, Finance-prodigy cousin has been devoured by the Doberman. It’s a crime scene. There are no survivors."

"I told you to knock!" Mark wailed from the hallway, covering his eyes with his hands while simultaneously trying to peek through his fingers. "Y/N?! Is that—is that my hoodie on the floor? Jeno, I will actually kill you! She’s my family!"

Jaemin, however, didn't look scandalized. He leaned against the doorframe, his eyes tracing the absolute wreck of his own bedsheets across the room before settling on Y/N’s flushed face. "I hope you’re planning on paying the dry-cleaning bill for my duvet, Jeno," Jaemin said, his voice a smooth, dry cocktail of amusement and salt. "Though, judging by the state of the window, you two were a bit... preoccupied with the architecture."

Y/N felt like her soul had left her body. She scrambled to pull Jeno’s heavy duvet up to her chin, her hair a bird’s nest of chaos. Beside her, Jeno didn't even reach for a shirt. He just sat up, leaning back against the headboard with a terrifyingly calm, post-coital arrogance.

"The door was locked for a reason, Hyuck," Jeno rumbled, his voice still gravelly from sleep. "Get out. And leave the coffees."

"Oh, we’re not going anywhere!" Haechan chirped, practically skipping into the room and plopping down on the only clean chair. "I want details. I want a PowerPoint. Did he bark? Tell me he barked. Jeno has loyal dog energy, but we all know he’s a beast when he’s hungry."

"Stop!" Y/N finally found her voice, though it was slightly hoarse. She looked at the three of them—Mark looking like he was having a stroke, Haechan vibrating with gossip, and Jaemin watching her with that unreadable, dark smirk. "It’s not what it looks like. Okay?"

"It looks like you two tried to recreate the Kama Sutra in a dorm room," Jaemin pointed out, gesturing to the desk.

"It’s just... physical," Y/N blurted out, her face burning. "We’re just fuck buddies. Stress relief. Right, Jeno? It’s a transaction. Very Finance-friendly. Low commitment, high yield. It’s not a 'thing.'"

The room went deathly silent.

Haechan’s jaw dropped. Mark stopped hyperventilating. Jaemin’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. All eyes shifted to Jeno.

Jeno, who had been looking at Y/N with a possessive, almost softened gaze just seconds before, went completely still. His expression didn't shatter; it hardened into a mask of cold, unreadable granite. He slowly reached for a stray t-shirt on the floor and pulled it on, the fabric straining against his back.

"Yeah," Jeno said, his voice suddenly flat, devoid of the warmth it had held five minutes ago. "Just fuck buddies. Like she said."

He stood up, grabbing his phone and wallet. He didn't look at Y/N. He didn't even look at his friends.

"I have a meeting with the coach," Jeno muttered, his jaw set so tight it looked like it might snap. He brushed past Haechan and Jaemin, his shoulder catching the doorframe with a dull thud. "Mark, take her to breakfast. She’s probably hungry."

He disappeared into the hallway without a backward glance.

Haechan whistled, a low, long sound. "Oof. 'Fuck buddies.' Y/N, you just hit the Captain with a metaphorical steel chair. I’ve seen him take a 90mph fastball to the ribs with more grace than that."

"What?" Y/N stammered, feeling a sudden, cold pit in her stomach. "That’s what it is! We literally agreed... well, we didn't agree, but it's obvious! He was so mean to me last night! He called me a slut!"

Jaemin walked over to the bed, picking up his discarded apple core from the night before. He looked at Y/N with a pitying, knowing smile. "Sweetheart, Jeno is a Doberman. He’s mean because he’s territorial. He doesn't fuck people he doesn't want to own. You just told a man who spent four hours marking you as his property that he’s just a 'transaction.'"

Jaemin leaned in, whispering so only she could hear. "Good luck with that. Jeno doesn't do 'casual.' He just does 'obsessed.'"

——-

The next two weeks were a study in absolute frost.

Jeno didn’t just give Y/N the cold shoulder; he acted as if she had been digitally erased from his reality. In the hallways, his gaze would pass right over her, as if she were a piece of dorm furniture. If they were in the same room, he stayed on his phone or laughed with the guys, his Golden Boy eye-smile on full display for everyone except her.

The dominant, possessive predator from the storm night had vanished, replaced by a polite, distant stranger.

Y/N was spiraling. She found herself staring at the bruises on her thighs as they faded into pale yellow, her skin feeling strangely empty without the weight of his hands. She told herself she was relieved. This is what "fuck buddies" means, right? No strings. No drama. But every time she caught a whiff of his sandalwood cologne in the air, her pulse would jump, waiting for a grip that never came.

The breaking point happened in the student lounge.

Y/N was sitting with Haechan and Mark, trying to focus on a spreadsheet, when Haechan leaned in, tapping a rhythm on the table with his pen.

"Man, Jeno is really back on his bullshit," Haechan remarked, popping a grape into his mouth. "I saw him leaving the Delta Gamma house this morning. And last night? He was at that lounge downtown with that girl from the dance team—Mina? They looked... well, let's just say Jeno isn't suffering from any 'physical frustration' lately."

Y/N’s fingers froze on the keyboard. A cold, sharp hollow opened up in her chest, making it hard to swallow.

"Oh," she said. It was small. Pathetic. Her face fell, her eyes dropping to the glowing cells of her Excel sheet as the numbers blurred.

"Wait, Y/N, are you okay?" Mark asked, his protective cousin-radar pinging. "I thought you said it was just a transaction? You shouldn't care if he’s... diversifying his portfolio."

"I don't," she lied, her voice thick. "I just... I didn't realize he moved that fast. I mean, it’s fine. He’s Jeno. Why would he actually like someone like me? I’m just Mark’s cousin. I’m the 'safe' option."

She felt a hot tear prick the corner of her eye and she quickly wiped it away, pretending she was tired. She felt stupid. She felt used. But more than anything, she felt a terrifying, shameful craving. She didn't want the polite Jeno who ignored her. She wanted the mean, scary Jeno who had pinned her against the glass and told her she belonged to him.

That night, Y/N went to the shared kitchen to get water, hoping the dorm was empty. It wasn't. Jeno was there, leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone. He was wearing a fresh shirt, his hair styled, smelling like expensive gin and success. He looked like he was heading out for another "diversification" of his portfolio.

He didn't look up when she entered. The silence was deafening, punctuated only by the hum of the refrigerator.

"Heading out?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"Yeah," Jeno said, his tone perfectly neutral. It was the Captain voice—professional, distant, and utterly devoid of the heat that had burned her skin two weeks ago. "There’s a party at the frat. Don't wait up for the group to get back."

"Haechan said you were with Mina last night," she blurted out, her jealousy finally winning over her pride.

Jeno finally looked at her. His eyes were like ice. He didn't deny it. He didn't explain. He just shrugged. "She doesn't give me lectures on 'feelings' after we're done. She knows exactly what it is. It’s easier that way, don't you think?"

He stepped closer, invading her space just enough to make her breath hitch, but he didn't touch her. He looked down at her neck, where the last of his marks had finally disappeared.

"You got what you wanted, Y/N," he whispered, his voice a low, mocking drawl. "No 'thing.' No commitment. Just two people who happened to be in a room together during a storm. If you’re sad about it, that sounds like a 'you' problem."

He went to walk past her, but Y/N reached out, her hand trembling as she grabbed his forearm. The heat of his skin sent a jolt of pure electricity through her. "Jeno, stop being like this."

He stopped. He looked down at her hand on his arm, then back up at her face. A dark, dangerous flicker returned to his eyes—the first sign of the beast she had been missing. He leaned down, his lips inches from hers, his voice dropping into that terrifying, dominant rumble.

"Like what? I'm being a good 'buddy,' aren't I? Or are you realizing that being ignored by me is worse than being ruined by me?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled his arm away, leaving her standing alone in the cold kitchen, her heart racing and her body screaming for the man she had just tried to push away.

——

The frat house was a chaotic blur of strobe lights and cheap tequila. Y/N pushed through the crowd, her head spinning—partly from the two shots she’d downed to find her courage, and partly from the sight of Jeno across the room, leaning against a pillar while a girl in a tight dress whispered in his ear.

She marched up to him, her eyes flashing. "You’re an asshole, Jeno!"

Jeno didn't even flinch. He looked at her over the rim of his red cup, his expression bored. "I’m at a party, Y/N. Go find Mark."

"Don't tell me what to do! You act like I don't exist and then you come here to... to do this?" She gestured wildly at the room. "Just leave me alone. Forever. Don't even look at me."

"Gladly," Jeno rasped, his jaw tightening as he turned his back on her.

Y/N stormed off toward the bar. She drank until the edges of the room blurred. She was so drunk that she when she came back to the drinks table, she didn’t have her left shoe on( until a first year returned it).

She danced and was laughing, downing drinks after drink..

until she ran into a familiar face—Eric.

Her ex-boyfriend, a guy who knew exactly which buttons to push.

He pulled her into his space, his hands sliding down to her waist.

Because she was too drunk, she didn’t exactly cared or maybe she simply doesn’t recognize him.

"You look like you're having a rough night, Y/N," he murmured, his breath smelling like beer.

Jeno saw it. From the corner of the room, his Golden Boy mask fractured.

He watched Eric’s hand dip dangerously low, watched him lean into Y/N’s neck. Jeno’s glass crackled in his grip. When he sees Eric trying to kiss her,

Jeno moved before he could think, shoving through the crowd.

He didn't punch Eric—though his knuckles white-knuckled into fists—he just stepped between them, his presence an immovable wall of muscle and silent rage. "She’s leaving," Jeno said, his voice a low, vibrating threat.

"Who the hell are you?" Eric started, but one look at Jeno’s dark, predatory eyes made him stumble back.

Jeno grabbed Y/N’s arm, dragging her out of the house. "Let me go!" she screamed, stumbling as they hit the cool night air. "You don't get to care! You’re just a 'buddy,' remember? Go back to your dance team girl!"

"”Y/N stop” Jeno growled, pulling her into a secluded, empty bedroom in the back of the house to get away from the noise. She started sobbing, tears falling down her cheeks.

"Make me!" she yelled, hitting his chest. "I hate you! I hate how you look at me and I hate—"

Jeno snapped. He grabbed her waist and hauled her toward a walk-in closet, kicking the door shut. The darkness was absolute, smelling of cedar and Jeno’s furious heat. He spun her around, slamming her front-first against the hanging coats.

"You want to play the 'fuck buddy' card?" Jeno hissed in her ear, his hand tangling in her hair to pull her head back, exposing her throat. "Fine. Let's act like it. No romance. Just me taking what I want because I’m bored."

He didn't undress her. He just hiked her skirt up and shoved her panties aside. He entered her in one brutal, dry surge that made her gasp, her fingers clutching a leather jacket for balance. It was a punishment. A quick, dirty, dominant reclamation.

"Is this what you wanted?" he rasped, his thrusts short and violent, hitting her so hard the hangers rattled. "You want to let some loser touch you just to get a rise out of me? You’re pathetic."

"J-Jeno..." she sobbed, her body betrayed by the familiar, overwhelming stretch of him.

"Don't say my name," he commanded, his teeth sinking into her shoulder as he quickened the pace. He was a machine, driven by pure, jealous adrenaline. He reached around, his thumb finding her clit and grinding against it with a mean, clinical precision until she was screaming into the wool coats.

He came with a guttural roar, pinning her body against the wall with his weight until he finished, his breath coming in jagged heaves.

The silence that followed was heavy. The anger drained out of him, replaced by a sudden, sharp guilt as he felt her shaking beneath him. He pulled away, adjusted her clothes with trembling hands, and didn't say a word.

He didn't take her back to the dorms. He drove her straight to his apartment, the car ride silent except for the sound of the heater. He carried her inside, her head lolling against his shoulder in a drunken, post-climax haze.

In his bathroom, the lights were dimmed. Jeno sat her on the edge of the tub, his movements now hauntingly gentle. He stripped her clothes off, his eyes lingering on the red marks he’d left on her hips. He didn't look mean anymore; he looked devastated.

He washed her with a warm cloth, his touch feather-light as he cleaned her skin. He didn't say anything as he dried her off and pulled his own softest t-shirt over her head. He lifted her into his bed, the sheets still smelling like the night of the storm.

As he climbed in behind her, he didn't stay distant. He pulled her back into his chest, his arms wrapping around her in a protective, suffocating hold. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his eyes wide and longing in the dark.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, so quiet he wasn't sure if she heard him. "I'm a goddamn mess, Y/N."

She fell asleep to the steady, heavy thrum of his heart, finally safe in the cage he’d built for her.

——

The morning sun filtered through the blinds in sharp, golden slats, cutting across the tangled mess of Jeno’s duvet. Y/N woke up slowly, her head throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache from the tequila, but her body felt strangely weighted down and warm.

The weight was Jeno.

He was still asleep, his face tucked into the crook of her neck, his arm draped heavily over her waist as if anchoring her to the mattress.

The "Doberman" was gone; in the soft morning light, he just looked like a boy who was exhausted from a war he’d been fighting with himself.

As the memories of the closet—the cold glass of the window from weeks ago, the mean whispers, and the way he’d tenderly bathed her just hours ago—slammed back into her brain, Y/N let out a shaky breath. She tried to shift, but Jeno’s grip immediately tightened, his fingers digging into her hip.

"Don't move," he mumbled, his voice a thick, gravelly morning rasp.

"Jeno, we need to talk," she whispered, her voice cracking. "We can’t keep doing this. The 'fuck buddy' thing... it’s making us both crazy. You’re acting like a psycho, and I’m... I’m miserable."

Jeno finally opened his eyes. They weren't cold anymore. They were bloodshot and raw. He sat up slowly, leaning his back against the headboard, pulling the sheet up to his waist but keeping one hand firmly on her ankle, needing the contact.

"I can't do it anymore, Y/N," he said, his voice dropping into that honest, heavy tone he only used when they were alone. "I tried. I went out. I tried to fuck other people. I tried to act like you were just Mark’s cousin again."

He let out a dry, bitter laugh. "But every time I touched someone else, I was just pissed off that they weren't you. I was pissed off that they didn't look at me the way you do when I’m... when I’m being mean to you."

Y/N sat up, the oversized t-shirt sliding off one shoulder. "You were mean because you were jealous. You almost broke that closet door, Jeno."

"Because I hate that I want you this much," he confessed, finally looking her in the eye.

The mask was officially dead. "I’m not a 'fuck buddy' guy, Y/N. I’m a 'this is mine' guy. I don't want a transaction. I want to know where you are, who you’re with, and I want to be the only person who gets to see you like this."

He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a reverent, quiet intensity.

"No more lies. No more 'physical frustration' excuses. I want you. Properly. Even if it makes me a loser, even if Mark kills me."

He tilted his head, a ghost of his dominant smirk returning.

"But if we do this, if you’re actually mine... there’s no going back to being 'just friends.' You belong to me. Understand?"

Y/N looked at him—the boy who cared for her silently and the man who wrecked her against walls—and finally let out the breath she’d been holding for weeks. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his.

"I think I’ve belonged to you since the storm, you idiot."

Jeno didn't say anything. He just surged forward, pulling her into a kiss that wasn't mean or punishing—it was desperate, deep, and final. The lie was over.

——-

The peace lasted exactly twelve minutes.

Jeno was still sprawled across the bed, his chin resting on Y/N’s shoulder as he lazily traced patterns on her arm, when the sound of the front door’s smart lock chimed with a cheery beep-boop.

"I’m telling you, he’s not dead, he’s just moping!" Haechan’s voice projected through the hallway with the force of a theatrical performance. "The Doberman is in his kennel, licking his wounds because Y/N called him a 'transaction' and hurt his wittle feelings!"

Jeno froze. Y/N scrambled to pull the duvet up to her chin.

"Guys, we shouldn't just walk in," Mark’s voice trailed behind, sounding like a man who had aged ten years in a single night. "Jeno? You in here? We brought hangover soup and—"

The bedroom door swung open.

Haechan, Mark, and Jaemin stood in the doorway like a three-man jury. They didn't see the cold stranger or the frat-party player. They saw Jeno, shirtless and glowing, practically wrapped around Y/N in a way that screamed mine louder than any verbal confession.

The silence was deafening for exactly three seconds.

"OH!" Haechan screamed, throwing the bag of takeout into the air. "I KNEW IT! I KNEW THE 'DIVERSIFYING PORTFOLIO' WAS A SCAM!" He started doing a victory lap around the small bedroom, clapping his hands. "Look at them! They look like a Pinterest board for 'Toxic but Aesthetic Couples'! The transaction has been finalized!"

Mark covered his eyes with both hands, groaning toward the ceiling.

"Jeno, she is wearing your shirt. Again. In your bed. Again. My soul is leaving my body. I am ascending to heaven. Tell my mother I loved her."

Jaemin, however, strolled into the room with terrifyingly calm grace. He leaned over the foot of the bed, his eyes scanning the two of them with a slow, smug grin. He noticed the faint, fresh marks on Y/N’s collarbone that Jeno hadn't quite managed to hide.

"So," Jaemin purred, looking at Jeno.

"I take it the 'fuck buddy' contract has been terminated? Or are we just in the middle of a very intense... business meeting?"

Jeno didn't even look annoyed. He just pulled Y/N back against his chest, his arm locking around her waist in a blatant display of possession. "Get out, Jaemin. And Haechan, if you do that dance one more time, I'm throwing you off the balcony."

"He’s back!" Haechan yelled, pointing a finger at Jeno. "The territorial growl! The Doberman is fed and happy!"

Haechan then turned to Y/N, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"So, Y/N, as the official representative of the 'I-Told-You-So' committee... how was the 'transaction' last night? Did he give you a discount for being Mark’s cousin?"

"Haechan!" Mark yelled, finally uncovering his eyes to shove Haechan toward the door.

"Stop! Don't make it weirder than it already is!"

"It can't get weirder, Mark!" Haechan cackled, resisting the shove. "Jeno has a hickey on his neck the size of a postage stamp! Y/N, I didn't know you were a carnivore! I guess the quiet ones really do bite back."

Y/N hid her face in Jeno’s chest, her muffled voice coming out in a groan. "I hate all of you. Every single one of you."

"Don't worry, sweetheart," Jaemin said, winking at her as he followed the others out. "We’ll leave the soup on the counter. Try to stay hydrated. Jeno looks like he’s planning on keeping you here until at least Tuesday."

As the door slammed shut and their chaotic laughter faded down the hallway, Jeno let out a long, heavy sigh against Y/N’s hair. He tightened his grip, pulling her under the covers until they were completely hidden from the world.

"They're right about one thing," Jeno whispered, his voice returning to that dark, dominant rumble that made her heart skip.

"What's that?"

"I’m definitely keeping you here until Tuesday."

All rights reserved

Note: I removed the angst haha I thought I could finish it in an hour but I never thought I needed more time. But tada!

well, again, this was pre-written. I forgot about it, and found it again.. i decided to have this posted here so I could share it

But tada! Hehe here you go. 🥹 actually, I wasn’t supposed to post this because It was supposed to be only for my friends’ eyes only. However, since I love you all I decided to tweak it a bit and rewrite it for you guys. I am not confident with this part because again, it’s a story formed out of my friends’ combined imagination. You guys judge. Love ya’ll!!!!

To those new here, this is a part II for this. Or you can read The Doberman’s debt alone. If you don’t wanna get freaky with Jaemin. ;)

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LOML<3 (Jeno) : Just finished the late shift at the gym. I'm outside your door with those overpriced macaroons you like. Open up?

Y/N: It’s 11:30 PM. I’m in my homeless pajamas, Jeno. Go away.

LOML<3 (Jeno) : I've seen you in flannel pants and a library t-shirt, Y/N. You still look like a ten. Plus, the macaroons are getting lonely. Don't be heartless.

When she opened the door, he wouldn't just give her the food. He’d lift her off her feet, bury his face in her neck, and let out a long, weary breath—the kind that said she was his only "off" switch in a high-pressure world.

"You're late," she’d whisper into his shoulder. "I'm here now," he’d respond, his grip tightening. "And I'm not going anywhere."

For those two months, that was the truth.

They were untouchable. They were the gold standard. They were the couple everyone assumed would end up with a house, a dog, and a shared bank account by twenty-five.

To the students of the West Wing, Jeno and Y/N weren’t just "dating"—they were an institution. They were the couple that made the library look like a movie set and the campus cafeteria feel like a five-star lounge.

If Jeno was the Doberman Captain—all sharp lines, discipline, and a protective streak that could freeze a room—then Y/N was the only one who held the leash. She didn't just walk beside him; she challenged him.

They had a specific frequency. You’d see them in the common room at 10:00 PM: Jeno with his head in her lap while he memorized baseball plays, and Y/N ruthlessly highlighting a 500-page audit report.

They were walking across the quad, Jeno effortlessly carrying Y/N’s heavy leather laptop bag over one shoulder while his other arm was draped firmly around her waist, pulling her into his side.

"Jeno, give me my bag," Y/N teased, reaching for the strap. "You have practice in ten minutes. You’re going to be late because you’re playing bellhop."

Jeno didn't even look at the bag. He just tightened his grip on her waist, his eyes scanning the crowd with that terrifyingly calm gaze that made other guys look away. "I’m the Captain. Practice starts when I get there. Besides," he leaned down, his voice dropping to that silky register, "if I let you carry this, how am I supposed to justify keeping you this close?"

Y/N rolled her eyes, but her smile was bright enough to blind. "You’re so dramatic. It’s finance textbooks, not a child."

"It’s your textbooks," Jeno corrected, stopping in front of her lecture hall. He tucked a stray hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering on her jawline. "Which makes them more important than the game. Pick you up at four?"

Jeno was still staring at the lecture hall doors with a faint, uncharacteristic soft smile when the peace of the morning was violently dismantled. He watched as Y/N slid inside the building.

"Oh, look at him. He’s glitching. The Doberman has been rebooted into a Golden Retriever," a voice sang out with malicious glee.

Jeno didn't even have to turn around to know Haechan was leaning against a nearby tree, looking like he had spent the last ten minutes recording the entire interaction for his "Evidence of Jeno Being Whipped" folder.

"I’m literally going to be sick," Mark groaned, standing next to him with his face buried in his hands. "I saw the thumb on the jawline, Jeno. I saw it. That’s my cousin. We shared a sandbox, and now you’re... you’re doing that with your thumb."

"It’s called affection, Mark. You should try it sometime," Jeno deadpanned, sliding back into place as he adjusted his grip on his own gear.

"Affection? You looked like you were ready to guard that door with a riot shield until she came back out," Chenle chimed in, stepping out from behind a pillar while aggressively checking his watch. "Also, Jeno, if you’re going to be a bellhop for free, you’re ruining the market. I have three suitcases arriving from Paris this afternoon. I’ll pay you in protein shakes and silence."

The three of them swarmed Jeno before he could make a break for the baseball fields.

"Seriously though," Mark said, finally looking up, his expression a mix of betrayal and genuine confusion. "How? It’s been two months and I still wake up in a cold sweat remembering that I’m the one who introduced you. I’m the catalyst for my own nightmare."

"You’re just mad because Jeno doesn't look at you with predatory hunger when you ask him for help with your lyrics," Haechan teased, dodging a half-hearted shove from Jeno.

"I don't look at anyone with predatory hunger," Jeno muttered.

"Liar!" Chenle shouted, pointing a finger at him.

"I saw you at lunch yesterday. Y/N took a bite of your sandwich—the sandwich you never share, the one you’d fight a freshman for—and you just sat there looking like you wanted to thank her for the privilege of her saliva touching your bread. It was pathetic. I almost lost my appetite, and my lunch cost sixty dollars."

"Does she actually have a leash, or is it metaphorical?" Haechan asked, circling Jeno like a shark. "Because I heard a rumor that if she snaps her fingers, you’ll actually sit. We should test it. Mark, snap your fingers."

"I am not snapping my fingers at my friend," Mark hissed.

"Do it, Mark. For science," Chenle urged.

Mark let out a frustrated sound, his eyebrows practically disappearing into his hairline.

"I just... I don't get it. Jeno, you’re the guy who used to scare away her dates by just standing near them. Now you’re the one she’s yelling at for not wearing a coat when it’s 50 degrees out. And you put the coat on."

Jeno stopped walking, looking at Mark with a terrifyingly calm expression.

"Because she was right. It was cold."

"He’s gone," Haechan whispered, horrified.

"The Doberman is dead. He’s been replaced by a sentient Husband Material robot."

"He’s not a robot," Chenle corrected, looking at his phone.

"Robots are efficient. Jeno is currently five minutes late for practice because he was busy tucking a stray hair behind a girl’s ear. That’s a hardware malfunction."

Jeno finally broke through their circle, starting a light jog toward the fields to avoid further roasting.

"Go to class, you losers! And Mark—tell your aunt I’m coming over for dinner on Sunday!"

Mark froze, his jaw dropping as Jeno disappeared around the corner. "Dinner? On Sunday? That’s family night! That’s my night for galbi!"

Haechan patted Mark’s shoulder with mock sympathy. "Face it, Mark. You’re not the favorite son anymore. You’re just the guy who lives in the shadow of the Doberman and the Finance Prodigy."

"I hate it here," Mark whispered to the sky. "I actually hate it here."

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The West Wing was usually quiet on Tuesday afternoons, a sanctuary of high ceilings and the distant sound of the campus clock tower. Y/N moved down the hallway toward Apartment 402, the weight of a heavy leather tote bag on her shoulder and two iced Americanos in her hand. She was early, a rare occurrence, but the thought of surprising Jeno before his late-afternoon seminar was too tempting to pass up.

She slid her spare key into the lock, the mechanism clicking with a familiar, heavy thud.

"Jeno? I brought the caffeine fix, don't say I never—"

The sentence died in her throat, air evaporating from her lungs.

The living room was bathed in the amber glow of the 3:00 PM sun, but it wasn't Jeno waiting by the window.

Jaemin was leaning against the marble kitchen island, his back to her. He was freshly back from a run, his chest heaving in a slow, rhythmic cadence that made the muscles of his back ripple under skin slicked with sweat.

He didn't scramble for a towel. He didn't even seem surprised. He just tilted his head back, letting a stream of ice-cold water from a bottle pour over his throat, the excess droplets racing down the carved lines of his abdomen before disappearing beneath the dangerously low waistband of his grey joggers.

"Well, well," he hummed, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seemed to travel across the floorboards. He turned around slowly, the smirk on his face sharp enough to cut. "The Princess is early. And here I thought I had at least ten more minutes of freedom."

Jaemin didn't move to close the distance immediately. He stayed against the island, his arms folded over his bare chest, showcasing the terrifyingly perfect definition of a man who treated his body like a temple and his charm like a weapon.

"Jeno’s at the library," Jaemin said, his eyes tracing the way Y/N’s grip tightened on the coffee cups. "But you knew that, didn't you? Or maybe... you were hoping for a change of scenery."

"I... I thought he was here," Y/N managed, her voice a pitch higher than usual. She tried to look at the fridge, the toaster, the wall—anywhere but the way the sunlight was dancing off the damp curve of his shoulder. "Put a shirt on, Jaemin. It’s a shared space."

"It’s my space," he corrected softly. He finally moved, his bare feet silent as he prowled toward her. Every step was deliberate, a predatory grace that made the room feel suddenly, claustrophobically small. "And it’s hot, Y/N. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed the heat."

He stopped just inches away. The scent of him—sea salt, cedar, and the raw, electric heat of a workout—hit her like a physical force. Jaemin was taller than he looked when he was sitting in class; he loomed over her, his presence an intoxicating weight.

He reached out, not to touch her, but to take one of the coffees from her trembling hand. His fingers brushed hers—cold condensation meeting his searing skin—and the contact felt like a live wire. He didn't pull away. He let his knuckles linger against the back of her hand, his gaze dropping to her neck, where her pulse was jumping frantically.

"You're staring," he whispered, his voice dropping into a register that was purely for her. He leaned down, his face hovering just beside her ear, his breath hot against her skin. "Is it the sweat? Or is it the fact that for once, the Doberman isn't here to keep you on your leash?"

Y/N felt the back of her knees hit the edge of the hallway table. She was trapped between the wood and the heat of him. Jaemin tilted his head, his nose almost brushing the line of her jaw. He was being utterly, ruinously shameless.

"I wonder," he murmured, his eyes dark and swirling with a playful, dangerous light as they finally met hers. "If I leaned in just an inch more... would you scream for him? Or would you keep it our little secret?"

He let his hand slide from the coffee cup to the small of her back, his palm flat against the fabric of her shirt, pulling her just a fraction of an inch closer until the heat of his bare chest was nearly touching her. The tension was a cord pulled so tight it was vibrating, the air in the room thick enough to drown in.

"Jaemin..." she breathed, a warning that sounded more like a plea.

He just smiled, a slow, devastating curve of his lips. "Your heart is racing, Y/N. I can feel it through your clothes. Tell me... does Jeno make you feel this nervous? Or am I just that much more... interesting?"

What the fuck is going on? Y/N mind was racing; she doesn’t wxactly know why Jaemin is doing this. Jaemin is such an eye candy. He’s pretty and really hot. She acknowledges that. However she has Jeno.. His best friend. Why would he tease her like this?

The heavy thud of the front door swinging open broke the spell.

Jeno walked in, his baseball bag slung over his shoulder, looking every bit the disciplined Captain—until he saw the scene in his living room. His eyes narrowed instantly, his protective streak flaring like a signal fire.

"Jaemin," Jeno’s voice was a low warning, the kind he used before a confrontation on the field. "Why are you standing three inches away from my girlfriend while you’re naked?"

Y/N practically jumped back, her face a bright, incriminating crimson. She began fanning herself with her hand. "Jeno! You're back! It’s... it’s really hot in here, right? The AC must be broken."

Jaemin didn't even flinch. He just straightened up, flashed Jeno a dazzling, perfectly innocent smile, and finally grabbed a discarded towel from the back of the couch to drape over his shoulder.

"She was just helping me look for my contact lens on the floor, Jen," Jaemin lied effortlessly, patting Jeno’s shoulder as he walked past him toward the hallway. "You really should keep the place cleaner. It’s a hazard for our guest."

He paused at the door of his room, looking back over his shoulder at Y/N with a final, devastating wink that only she could see.

"Have fun studying, kids. Try not to let the 'humidity' get to you."

He shut his door with a soft click, leaving Y/N standing there, still flushed and clutching the takeout, while Jeno dropped his bag and wrapped a possessive arm around her waist, his eyes still fixed suspiciously on Jaemin’s door.

"What was he actually doing?" Jeno asked, his voice dropping into that protective, silky register as he tucked her head under his chin.

"Being Jaemin," Y/N exhaled, finally feeling her heart rate slow down. "Which is to say... being a menace."

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The common area of Apartment 402 was a battlefield of highlighters, discarded snack wrappers, and chaotic energy. Even without Jeno, the West Wing felt crowded. Mark was aggressively debating a case study with Donghyuck, while Chenle and Jisung were hovering over a laptop, laughing at something that definitely wasn't academic.

"If I see one more derivative, I’m dropping out to become a professional gamer," Donghyuck groaned, tossing his pen at the ceiling.

"You'd have to actually be good at games for that, Hyuck," Jaemin chimed in from the armchair, his legs draped over the side as he flicked through a magazine. He looked effortless, a contrast to the frantic stress radiating from the table.

"Y/N, save us," Mark pleaded, looking at her. "Tell them my logic is sound."

"I’m staying out of this," Y/N laughed, standing up and gathering her hair into a messy bun. "In fact, I’m going to go make those homemade pizzas I promised. If you lot stay out of the kitchen, you might actually get fed."

The shift in atmosphere was immediate. The muffled shouts and laughter from the living room became background noise as Y/N stepped into the kitchen. She started laying out the dough, the flour dusting her fingers as she tried to focus on the simple, tactile task.

She didn't hear the footsteps—Jaemin was notoriously silent—but she felt the shift in the air.

"Need a hand, Princess? You know I'm the only one here who actually knows the difference between oregano and basil."

Jaemin was suddenly there, leaning against the counter. He didn't wait for an answer. Before she could move, his large hands settled firmly on her waist. It wasn't a tentative touch; it was a heavy, shameless grip that pulled her back just a fraction.

"Jaemin, stop," she whispered, her heart doing a frantic staccato against her ribs.

"Stop what?" he asked, his voice light and airy, the picture of innocence. "I’m being friendly. Jeno’s busy, and the guys are starving. I'm just here to help."

He leaned over her shoulder, ostensibly to look at the sauce she was prepping.

"What are we doing first? The crust looks a little thin."

Y/N tried to keep her hands steady, explaining the process of the toppings, but she was acutely aware of how close he was.

She doesn’t know if she liked the attention—the pretty boy of the group was focusing all his gravity on her—and that realization made her feel sick with guilt and dizzy with adrenaline.

As she reached for the cheese, she felt it—the ghost of a sensation.

A soft, lingering brush of his lips against the sensitive skin of her neck. It was so subtle she almost thought she imagined it.

"Did you just..." she turned her head, her face flushed.

Jaemin let out a melodious, teasing laugh, his eyes crinkling. "Did I what? What are you talking about, Y/N?."

He stepped even closer, his body now flush against her back. The friendly pretence was evaporating. As he moved to "help" her spread the sauce, she felt the unmistakable, hard pressure of him against her.

His hard cock was pressed against her ass. Her breath hitched, her hands hovering uselessly over the pizza dough.

The playful mask didn't just slip; Jaemin threw it away. He let out a low, dark hum as he leaned into her, his hips beginning a slow, agonizingly deliberate grind against her.

"You're so tense," he whispered, his voice dropping into a demeaning, velvet growl right in her ear.

"Is this too much for you? Does the perfect little girlfriend feel like she's breaking? You're a mess for me, aren't you?"

Before she could protest, his hands moved from her waist, sliding up with predatory speed to cup her breasts. His palms were large, covering her completely as he began to massage them through her shirt with a rhythm that was purely carnal.

"Jaemin... t-the guys... t-they're right there," she choked out, her head falling back against his shoulder.

"Shh..they aren't looking," he hissed, his grip tightening as he forced her to lean over the counter.

He was in heat now, the shamelessness reaching a breaking point. He bent her forward, his weight pinning her against the cold marble as he continued to grind into her with a desperate intensity. "Jeno doesn't have to know how much you like this. He doesn't have to know how good you feel against me."he whispers.

The reality of the situation hit Y/N like a bucket of ice water. The sound of Mark’s laugh from the other room snapped the tether.

"N-No" she gasped, using every bit of her strength to shove back against him. She scrambled away, her chest heaving, her hands shaking so violently she had to grip the edge of the fridge. "This... this is wrong. You’re—you’re his best friend, Jaemin! I can’t—"

She couldn't even finish the sentence. Stuttering and humiliated, she smoothed her shirt with trembling hands and practically bolted back into the living room, her face a frantic shade of red.

Five seconds later, Jaemin strolled back into the room. He looked perfectly composed, not a hair out of place. He caught Y/N’s eye and gave her a bright, cheery smile as he sat back down in his armchair.

"Pizza’s gonna be a few more minutes, guys," he announced to the group, his voice steady and light. "Y/N just needs a moment to let the dough... rise."

He winked at her—a silent, wicked promise that this was far from over—before picking up his magazine as if he hadn't just tried to dismantle her world.

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The air in the apartment was thick with the frenetic energy of a man preparing for war. Jeno was in Captain Mode organized, intense, and radiating a magneti power. Cardboard boxes of protein bars and stacks of freshly laundered West Wing jerseys littered the sofa, while the sharp, metallic tang of his favorite cologne clung to every surface.

Y/N was kneeling by his open suitcase, carefully smoothing out a hoodie, when she felt his shadow loom over her. Before she could tuck the sleeve in, Jeno’s large hands slid under her arms, lifting her with effortless strength and settling her firmly onto his lap as he sat back on the edge of the bed.

"Focus on me for a second," he murmured. His voice had dropped into that low, authoritative thrum that usually made people move out of his way on the field, but for her, it was laced with a thick, persuasive sweetness.

"Jeno, the flight is in four hours, and you haven't even packed your cleats," she laughed softly, trying to twist around to look at him, but his grip on her waist was ironclad.

"The cleats can wait," he said, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin beneath her ear. "I’m more worried about you. Stay here while I’m gone. Just for the week. The city is a mess during championship season, and I’ll be a thousand miles away. I’ll feel better knowing you’re behind a keycard I trust. Plus... Jaemin will be here to look out for you."

Y/N froze for a fraction of a second. "Jeno, I have my own apartment. It has three locks and a doorman." She pulled back, searching his dark, steady eyes. "And Jaemin? He’s... he’s a handful. You know how he is. He doesn't exactly have a 'protective' bone in his body that isn't wrapped in sarcasm."

Jeno chuckled, a deep, resonant sound that vibrated against her chest. He looked so sincere, the picture of a concerned boyfriend. "He promised me he’d be on his best behavior. I’ve already talked to him. He’s going to make sure you’re fed, keep you company, and—most importantly—keep everyone else away."

He leaned in, pressing a lingering, possessive kiss to her jawline, his lips warm and demanding. "Do it for me? I need to know my girl is safe so I can keep my head in the game. Please, Princess?"

He looked the part of the devoted protector so perfectly that Y/N felt her resistance crumble. She didn't see it—couldn't have seen it—but as she rested her forehead against Jeno’s shoulder in a silent 'yes,' Jeno’s gaze shifted.

Over her shoulder, he caught Jaemin’s eyes. Jaemin was leaning against the doorframe, a half-eaten apple in one hand and a dangerous, knowing glint in his eyes. There was no words spoken, just a slow, imperceptible nod from Jeno—a "passing of the torch"—and a sharp, predatory smirk from Jaemin in return.

It wasn't a request for a babysittxer; it was a silent, orchestrated invitation to a game Y/N didn't even know she was playing yet.

"Good girl," Jeno whispered into her hair, his hand giving her hip a firm, final squeeze. "Nana will take excellent care of you. Won't you, Jaemin?"

"The best," Jaemin’s voice drifted from the doorway, light and utterly devoid of its usual mockery. "I’ll make sure she gets exactly what she needs."

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Three days into the trip, the apartment was quiet.

Y/N was sprawled across Jeno’s bed, her oversized sleep shirt riding up her thighs as she focused intensely on a mobile game.

The door creaked open. Jaemin didn't knock; he never did. He was dressed in loose gym shorts, his hair damp and messy.

"You’re losing," he remarked, flopping onto the mattress beside her. The bed dipped under his weight, and the sudden heat of his body made the air feel thin.

"I am not. Go away, Nana," she muttered, elbowing him.

"Move over. If you're going to occupy my best friend's bed, the least you can do is share the screen."

He began to poke at her phone, sabotaging her moves and sparking a chaotic flurry of banter.

They wrestled over the device, laughing and breathless, until Jaemin pinned her wrists above her head, looming over her with a grin that didn't reach his eyes.

Suddenly, the laughter died. Jaemin wasn't looking at the phone anymore. His gaze had dropped, heavy and hungry, to the wide neckline of her shirt. Because she was lying flat, the fabric gaped open, offering a clear, unobstructed view of her bare breasts.

"Jaemin..." she warned, her voice trembling.

"You're not wearing a bra, Princess," he whispered.

His shamelessness was back, but this time it was darker, more concentrated.

"Does Jeno know you stay like this when he’s gone? So... accessible?"

"Get off," she breathed, but she didn't push. The thrill of his attention was a forbidden drug, and her body was already reacting, her nipples hardening under his intense stare.

Jaemin tilted his head, his tongue peeking out to swipe across his bottom lip. "I have a question. A very polite, friendly question." He leaned down until his nose brushed against the valley between her breasts. "Can I suck them? Just for a second."

:)

"W-what? No—"

He didn't wait for the 'no' to land.

Jaemin disappeared under the hem of her oversized shirt like a predator into a cave. The darkness of the fabric tented over them as he found her.

When his mouth latched onto her nipple, Y/N let out a broken gasp, her fingers tangling in the sheets.

He wasn't gentle. He used his tongue to swirl around the peak before drawing the whole length of her into his mouth, sucking with a rhythmic, demanding pressure. The sensation sent a direct jolt of electricity to her core.

She was already slick, her body betraying her loyalty to Jeno with every wet, needy pulse.

"You like that, don't you?" his muffled voice came from beneath the shirt, vibrating against her skin.

He crawled downward, his hands sliding up her inner thighs to pry her legs wide. He didn't bother removing her lace panties. Instead, he buried his face in the crook of her groin, licking her clit through the thin, damp fabric. It was agonizingly slow.

The friction of the lace combined with the heat of his tongue was a specialized torture.

"Please, J-Jaemin..." she sobbed, her hips arching off the bed.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his face flushed and his eyes wild. His pretty face glistening with her wetness.

He let out a menacing, low chuckle.

"Please what? Please stop? Or please remind you why you’re such a good little cheat?"

He didn't give her time to answer. He shoved two thick fingers past the edge of her panties, driving them deep inside her. He began to fuck her with a brutal, relentless pace, his thumb working the fabric against her clit until the world blurred into a haze of white heat.

"Look at you," he taunted, his voice a demeaning silk.

"Drenched for your boyfriend's roommate. You're so pathetic, Y/N."

The climax hit her like a physical blow, her walls clamping down on his fingers as she cried out his name—a sin she couldn't take back.

Jaemin watched her come, a look of pure, arrogant triumph on his pretty face. When she finally slumped back into the pillows, spent and shaking, he slowly withdrew his hand. He looked at his glistening fingers, then—with a direct, soul-piercing gaze—he sucked them clean.

"You're pretty when you're ruined," he said casually, sitting up and stretching as if they had just finished a casual conversation. He stood up, adjusted his shorts, and headed toward the door. "I’m going back to the gym. Try to get some sleep, Princess. You look exhausted."

He left without a backward glance, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving Y/N in the silence of Jeno’s bed, wondering how a lookout had managed to set her entire life on fire.

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A few days went by and Y/N is basically still thinking about what happened. The air in the apartment had become a physical weight. Every time Y/N moved from one room to another, the hair on her arms stood up. She felt hunted, but the predator wasn't hiding; he was simply waiting.

She spent the evening in a state of high-alert avoidance. When she tried to watch TV, she heard Jaemin’s door click open, and she immediately bolted for the kitchen. When she tried to read in Jeno’s room, she heard his low, melodic hum in the hallway, and she locked the door. But the West Wing wasn't big enough to hide from a man who had the keys to every exit.

By midnight, thirst finally drove her out. The apartment was bathed in the ghostly blue glow of the city lights filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. She moved silently, her bare feet padding against the hardwood, heading for the kitchen island.

She had just touched the cold glass of the faucet when the temperature in the room seemed to spike.

She didn't hear him approach, but suddenly, the scent of sea salt and adrenaline was everywhere. Jaemin didn't just walk up to her; he materialized like a shadow. Before she could turn, his large, calloused hands clamped onto her waist.

"Still running, Princess?" he murmured against the shell of her ear. "You're going to trip if you keep looking over your shoulder."

"Jaemin, let go," she gasped, but her protest was weak, muffled by the sheer gravity of his presence.

He didn't listen. With a sudden, explosive movement, he gripped her under her thighs and hoisted her up. Y/N let out a startled yelp as he slammed her down onto the cold marble of the kitchen island. Her phone and a stack of Jeno’s mail were swept aside in one violent motion, clattering to the floor like discarded afterthoughts.

He stepped between her knees, his body a solid wall of heat that pinned her in place. He looked down at her, his eyes dark, blown out, and utterly devoid of the playful persona.

"Jeno’s gonna be here soon," he whispered, his voice a dark, velvet promise that sent a shiver of terror and longing down her spine. "That means for meantime, he doesn't exist. Tonight is mine. I’m going to make sure that when he touches you again, you still feel me screaming in your bones."

He reached for the hem of her shirt, his knuckles brushing the sensitive skin of her stomach. "You’ve been a very good girl this week, Y/N. You stayed where he told you to stay. You let me 'look after' you. But you haven't learned the most important lesson yet."

"And what's that?" she breathed, her hands instinctively coming up to rest on his broad, bare shoulders.

Jaemin leaned in, his lips hovering a breath away from hers, his gaze fixed on her mouth with a terrifying hunger.

"That you don't belong to a man who isn't here to claim you," he hissed. "You belong to the one who’s actually willing to break you."

He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He reached for the button of his shorts, the metallic click sounding like a gunshot in the quiet kitchen. He was already fully, dangerously hard—thick, veiny, and pulsing with a demand that made Y/N’s head light.

Unlike Jeno’s usual gentle, reverent approach, Jaemin grabbed her hair, tilting her head back to expose the long line of her throat. He looked at her with a predatory smirk before he positioned himself.

"Last chance to run, Princess," he taunted, though he didn't move back an inch. "But we both know you’ve been waiting for this since the second Jeno walked out that door."

With a sudden, forceful lunge, he drove his painfully erect big cock into her, the sheer size of him stretching her until she thought she might snap.

His thrusts were painfully slow but really harsh, only for her to let out sounds of pleasure.

She was screaming at this point; it is being swallowed by the high ceilings of the apartment as the final lesson officially began.

He didn't let her recover. He hauled her off the table and dragged her toward the bedroom, the very place she was supposed to be "safe." He threw her onto the mattress and dived between her legs, his thrusts getting even faster, even more relentless.

The bed frame groaned under the violence of his movements. Jaemin leaned down, his mouth catching her breast, sucking the nipple into his mouth with a punishing pressure while his hand reached down to find her clit. His, handsome sweaty face smirks down at her, licking his lips as he continues to fuck the daylights out of her.

He worked her with a cruel, expert precision, his fingers a blur as he whispered filth into her ear.

"You're ruined, Princess. You're never going to be able to look at him the same way. Every time he touches you, you're going to feel me inside you."

Y/N was losing her mind. Her eyes were crossing, her vision swimming in white spots as she felt her climax building like a tidal wave.

She was screaming, her voice raw, her body arched in a perfect, desperate bow under his weight.

Jaemin’s pace became frantic, a blurring speed that pushed her over the edge.

He didn't slow down; he drove deeper, his teeth baring as he prepared to release. Y/N tried to gasp out a warning, to tell him not to, but the words were lost in a moan.

Jaemin let out a low, guttural growl as he filled her completely, his body shuddering with the force of his come.

The silence that followed was broken not by a heartbeat, but by the sharp, violent slam of the front door.

Y/N froze, her chest heaving, her skin slick with Jaemin's sweat. "Jeno?" she wheezed, terror flooding her veins.

The bedroom door flew open. Jeno stood there, his baseball bag still on his shoulder, his eyes dark and unreadable as they took in the scene: his girlfriend pinned to his bed, dripping with his best friend's release.

Jaemin didn't scramble. He didn't even look guilty. He slowly pulled out, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room, and sat up, leaning back on his elbows. He looked at Jeno and gave him a slow, knowing smirk—the kind of look shared between teammates who had just executed a perfect play.

"Perfect timing, Jen," Jaemin said, his voice completely calm. "She was just starting to learn her lesson."

Jeno didn't yell. He didn't charge at Jaemin. Instead, he dropped his bag and walked over to the bed, his gaze raking over Y/N’s trembling, ruined form. He reached out and ran a thumb over her swollen lip, his expression shifting into something terrifyingly satisfied.

"I told you he’d take good care of you," Jeno murmured, his voice dropping into that possessive, velvet register.

He looked up at Jaemin, a dark, orchestrated understanding passing between them.

"Did she give you any trouble, Nana?"

"None at all," Jaemin chuckled, grabbing a towel to wipe his hands.

"She’s a fast learner. I think she’s finally ready for the both of us.

Y/N looked between them, her heart dropping into her stomach as the realization hit. The "lookout," the trip, the isolation—it wasn't a mistake. It was a trap.

The atmosphere in the room shifted from chaotic to cold and calculated the moment Jeno dropped his bag. There was no comfort for Y/N, no soft reunion. Instead, Jeno stepped toward the bed with a look of dark, simmering hunger that made the Doberman look like a wolf.

"Rest?" Jeno echoed her silent plea, a cruel smirk tugging at his lips as he unbuckled his belt.

"You’ve had all week to rest while my best friend did my job for me. Now, you’re going to show me how much you missed me."

Without a shred of his usual gentleness, Jeno grabbed her by the hair, his knuckles white as he forced her to her knees at the edge of the bed. He didn't ask; he commanded.

He shoved his cock—already thumping and heavy—into her mouth with a forceful thrust that made her eyes water instantly.

"Suck it," he growled, his voice a low, demeaning vibration.

"Show me you haven't forgotten the taste of your boyfriend while you were busy being a slut for Jaemin."

He began to fuck her mouth with a relentless, rhythmic pace, his hands gripping her head to guide her deeper.

Tears escaped her eyes, tracking down her cheeks as she struggled to keep up with his dominance. Jeno didn't care. He spat out mean, dirty words, mocking the way her throat worked until he finally groaned, his body tensing as he came down her throat, forcing her to take every drop.

Jaemin leaned over, his thumb catching a stray tear on her cheek. "Aww, look at her," he cooed, his voice sweet but his eyes freezing cold.

"She’s so sensitive now." Suddenly, his grip tightened on her chin.

"Stop crying. Sit on him. Now."

Jaemin forced her to straddle Jeno, who was lying back against the headboard, his eyes hooded and dark. He made her face him, her legs spread wide, exposing everything to his predatory gaze.

"Ride him, Y/N," Jaemin commanded, kneeling between her open knees.

"Let's see if you can still handle the Gold Standard."

She struggled, her muscles aching and her mind reeling, but as she began to move on Jeno, Jaemin leaned in.

He buried his face in her exposed, dripping pussy, his tongue found her clit with a terrifying accuracy.

The overstimulation was instant. With Jeno filling her from below and Jaemin eating her out from the front, Y/N’s head fell back, her screams echoing through the apartment.

Jeno reached up, his large hands catching both of her nipples, pinching and twisting them in sync with her frantic movements.

"You like being our toy, don't you?" Jeno hissed, his hips bucking up to meet her with bruising force.

As she reached the peak, her body vibrating on the edge of a shattering climax, both men suddenly stopped. The silence was deafening.

"Please..." she sobbed, her hips twitching in a desperate search for friction. "Please, I need to—"

"Need to what?" Jaemin laughed, his face glistening with her wetness as he looked up at her.

"You want to cum? You have to ask properly."

"Kneel," Jeno ordered, his voice like iron.

Broken and completely undone, Y/N slid off them and onto her knees on the mattress, her head bowed. "Please... can I cum? Please, Jeno... Jaemin..."

"Pathetic," Jeno remarked, though his eyes were blazing. "Let's give the little toy what she wants."

They flipped her onto her stomach, the transition fast and professional. Jeno positioned himself at her pussy, while Jaemin—whose cock was pulsing with an aggressive, veiny heat—lined himself up with her ass.

They drove home at the same time.

Y/N’s world ended. The dual sensation of being filled in both holes, the sheer girth of them stretching her to her absolute limit, fried her nervous system. Saliva dripped from her chin onto the sheets as her mind went blank. They fucked her with a brutal, synchronized power, their bodies slamming against hers until the bed hit the wall repeatedly.

"Ours," Jaemin growled, his hands digging into her hips. "You belong to both of us now."

Jeno gripped her neck tightly, slightly stopping her airflow as he thrusts in and out of his girlfriend.

Y/N was too overwhelmed, pleasure was all over her body.

Until the final explosion. They both came deep inside her at the exact same moment she hit a screaming, soul-shattering climax.

She collapsed into the pillows, a ruined, beautiful mess, while the two men looked at each other over her body, the plan finally, perfectly complete.

Y/N had finally thought she could rest now that it’s done.

Or could she really?

NOTE: this started when me and my friend jokingly made a plot about the hottie in the next room at work. Then I got teased. Now they think I have a crush with this dude. Help.

PS don’t let them see thigs.

——-

The fire alarm in the whole dorms didn't just beep; it shrieked like a banshee on a caffeine bender. It was 1:14 AM, and Y/N was currently standing on the sidewalk in a pair of oversized flannel pajama pants and a "Support Your Local Library" t-shirt, looking like she’d just been through a minor war.

Beside her, Chenle was holding a plate of half-seared wagyu beef, looking absolutely offended. "I was at a critical temperature, Y/N! The searing process is a sacred ritual! If the sensors can't handle a little expensive smoke, they shouldn't be in a luxury dorm”

"Lele, you’re literally holding a five-hundred-dollar steak in your slippers. Priorities," Y/N deadpanned, though she couldn't help the loud, bark-like laugh that escaped her.

"Very funny" Chenle fired back, his high-pitched laugh cutting through the chaos of sleepy students.

That’s when the Royalty descended.

Coming through the lobby doors were the four guys who basically owned the campus lease. Mark was at the back, looking stressed, probably carrying three different laptops in one backpack. But the front trio? They looked like they were walking a runway, even in lounge gear.

Haechan was currently clinging to Jaemin’s back like a koala, cackling as Jaemin tried to shake him off with a look of pure, murderous boredom.

"I’m telling you, Nana, the girl from the psych department literally asked if she could 'study my brain,'" Haechan yelled over the alarm, his eyes scanning the crowd. "I told her she could start with the physical anatomy, and she almost fainted. Girls are so weak for the music department."

Jaemin didn't even crack a smile, though his eyes were dancing with that unpredictable chaos. He was wearing a tight grey hoodie that showed off the sheer mass of his arms—gym sessions with Jeno clearly paid off.

"She probably just wanted to see if there was actually anything inside your skull, Hyuck. It’s a scientific curiosity."

He suddenly stopped, his gaze snagging on Y/N and Chenle. Jaemin’s vibe shifted instantly—from chaotic roommate to the predatory, observant fuckboy the campus whispered about. He took a slow sip of his extra-strong black coffee, his eyes lingering on the way Y/N’s hair was a mess of sleep-tangled waves. He didn't say a word, just gave a slow, deliberate nod that felt like he was memorizing her face for later.

Then there was Jeno.

Jeno wasn't laughing. He was wearing a simple white tank top and black joggers, the silver Tag Heuer on his wrist glinting under the streetlights. He looked like a god sculpted from granite—176.5 cm of lean, Doberman like muscles, with a waist so narrow it seemed unfair. When he saw the group, his captain persona took over.

"Hyung, let’s check if the RA needs help with the headcount," Jeno quietly said to Mark. His voice wasn't loud, but it had that Alpha frequency that made people instinctively move.

Haechan, spotting Y/N, finally hopped off Jaemin. He strolled over with a smirk that was 10% charm and 90% trouble. "Well, if it isn't the Finance prodigy and Mark’s favorite cousin. Y/N, you look... cozy. Is 'homeless chic' the new vibe?"

Y/N didn't blink. She’d dealt with Eric’s manipulation for years; Haechan’s teasing was like a breeze. "It’s called 'I actually sleep at night,' Haechan. You should try it. Might help with the dark circles under your ego."

Haechan gasped, clutching his chest. "Jaemin! Did you hear that? She’s violent. I love it."

Jaemin stepped up beside Haechan, his aura heavy and magnetic. He leaned in just a bit too close to Y/N, smelling like expensive cologne and high-grade espresso. "She’s not violent, Hyuck. She’s just honest. It’s a rare trait around here." He looked Y/N dead in the eye, his voice dropping to a private, silky register. "You’re Y/N, right? Mark mentions you. Usually followed by a 'don't let Haechan near her.'"

"Mark’s a smart man," Y/N retorted, though the way Jaemin’s eyes tracked her lips made her pulse skip a beat.

Suddenly, a ball—a stray baseball from some idiot playing in the dark—came flying toward the group. Without even looking, Jeno’s hand shot out. Thwack. He caught it mid-air, barely a foot from Y/N’s head.

The silence that followed was heavy. Jeno turned the ball over in his hand, his expression serious, alluring, and terrifyingly calm. He looked at the group of frat boys who’d thrown it. He didn't yell. He just stood there, his presence so commanding that the guys across the lawn visibly swallowed and started apologizing profusely.

Jeno turned his gaze to Y/N. For a second, his eyes crinkled into that famous, soft eye-smile that made him look like the most innocent boy on earth. "You okay? Didn't mean to let the chaos get that close."

"I'm fine, J—Jeno. Thanks," Y/N stuttered, surprised by the sudden gentleness.

But then, the smile vanished as a text chimed on his watch. He looked at it, his jaw tightening, the Doberman returning in an instant. The shift was visceral. He looked at Y/N again, but this time his eyes weren't soft. They were dark, intense, and filled with a raw, dominant energy that seemed to strip away her defenses. It was the look of a man who didn't just want to protect you—he wanted to own the space you stood in.

"Jaemin-ah, Haechan-ah. Let’s go," Jeno said, his tone leaving zero room for argument. "The RA cleared the floor. I have a 9 AM Business Ethics exam, and I’m not failing because you two want to flirt with Mark’s family in the street."

"Sir, yes, sir!" Haechan joked, though he actually started moving.

Jaemin lingered for a second, his eyes sliding from Y/N to Jeno, a silent communication passing between the two best friends—the kind of look that suggested they shared more than just a dorm room. He gave Y/N one last, lingering smirk before turning on his heel.

As they walked away, Y/N heard Haechan’s loud whisper: "I'm telling you, she's got that 'I hate you' look that usually turns into an 'oh my god' look by the third date."

"Shut up, Haechan," Jeno’s deep voice rumbled, but he didn't deny it.

Chenle poked Y/N in the arm with his steak fork. "You’re staring. And your face is red. Please tell me you aren't falling for the his act. I can't have my best friend dating someone who spends more on watches than I do on cars."

"I'm not staring," Y/N lied, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I'm just wondering how Jeno’s waist is smaller than mine. It’s scientifically offensive."

"Sure," Aieza said, appearing out of the shadows with Jeoffrey. "And I’m sure that look Jeno gave you was just him 'checking for injuries.' Girl, you’re in trouble. That wasn't a a normal look. That was a 'You're coming home with me' look."

Y/N looked back at the dorm entrance, catching one last glimpse of Jeno’s broad shoulders before he disappeared inside. He was a mystery—a gentle protector one second and a dominant, alluring force the next. And for the first time since Eric, Y/N felt a spark of something that wasn't fear. It was hunger.

—-

The walk to the West Wing at 2:45 AM felt like a walk toward a gallows Y/N had spent months trying to avoid. Mark had been frantic—his Creative Writing final was due at 8:00 AM, and his laptop charger had sparked and died. Jeno had his spare.

"Just use the code, Y/N. Jeno’s a night owl, he’ll be up gaming or finishing his Business brief," Mark had pleaded over the phone. "He won't mind. He’s the most chill guy I know."

Chill was not the word Y/N would use. Jeno was a "pillar," sure, but he was a pillar made of reinforced steel that looked like it could crush you if you leaned too hard.

The hallway was silent, the air smelling of floor wax and late-night desperation. Y/N reached Room 402. Her fingers trembled as she punched in the code. The lock clicked with a sound that seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

She pushed the door open just a crack. The room was bathed in a deep, moody blue light from a series of LED strips. The air was thick—warm, smelling of expensive sandalwood and the sharp, clean scent of a recent workout.

The room was quiet, the dim yellow lights flickering occasionally. She reached the door and found it slightly ajar.

"Mark?" she called out softly. No answer.

She pushed the door open, stepping into the dark entryway. The only light came from the blueish glow of a computer monitor in the corner. She could hear the faint sound of heavy breathing and the rustle of fabric from the bed tucked behind the partition.

She froze. In the shadows, she saw a silhouette—a broad back, the rhythmic movement of someone deeply occupied. Her mind immediately went to Mark.

"Oh my god, Mark! Finally!" she hissed, her voice a mix of relief and teasing. "I didn't think you had it in you to actually bring a girl home. Sorry for the mood-kill, but you need your charger or you’re going to fail that Creative Writing essay."

The movement stopped instantly.

A girl’s voice, high-pitched and panicked, squeaked from the darkness. "Wait... Mark? Who is Mark?"

The girl scrambled out from under the figure, grabbing her shirt from the floor. She looked at Y/N, then at the man standing up, and then back to Y/N. "You’re his girlfriend? He said he was single!"

"No, I—" Y/N started, her face heating up. "Wait, you’re not Mark?"

The girl didn't wait for an answer. She shoved past Y/N, sobbing something about "liers" and "jerks," and bolted out of the dorm.

The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating.

The man in the room reached out and flicked the wall switch. The overhead lights hummed to life, flooding the room with a clinical, white glare.

It wasn't Mark.

Jeno stood there, shirtless, his chest heaving. The light caught the sweat glistening on his abdominal muscles—lines so sharp they looked carved from granite. His hair was a mess, falling over eyes that were no longer soft or friendly. They were dark, narrowed, and vibrating with a terrifying intensity.

He looked down at himself, then at the empty doorway, then finally, his gaze landed on Y/N.

"Do you have any idea," Jeno said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that vibrated in Y/N’s chest, "what you just did?"

Y/N felt the air leave her lungs. The friendly group project leader was gone. In his place was a man who looked like he could snap the world in half. "Jeno... I—I thought you were Mark. The room was dark, and he’s my cousin, I just—"

"just ruined my night," he interrupted, taking a slow step toward her. The sheer physicality of him was overwhelming. He was 176.5 cm of pure, harnessed power, and as he closed the distance, Y/N felt her back hit the cold wood of the door she’d just entered.

"I’m so sorry," she stammered, her eyes darting everywhere but his bare chest. "I’ll do anything to make it up to you, I swear. I just needed to give Mark his—"

Jeno slammed his hand against the door beside her head. The sound was like a gunshot in the small room. He leaned in, his face inches from hers. The scent of him—expensive cologne, salt, and something raw and masculine—clouded her senses.

"Anything?" he echoed. His voice was a velvet rasp. He wasn't smiling. The eye-smile that made everyone trust him was nowhere to be found. Instead, his jaw was set, the muscles in his neck cording.

His eyes dropped to her lips for a fraction of a second, an intense, hunger-filled look that made Y/N’s knees go weak. The dominance he radiated was magnetic, a gravitational pull that demanded submission. He looked at her not as a friend’s cousin, but as a predator looks at something it’s decided to keep.

His other hand came up, not to touch her, but to grip the edge of the doorframe, effectively trapping her in the heat of his personal space. The silence stretched, thick with a tension so sharp it felt like it could draw blood.

Y/N’s heart hammered against her ribs. She’d spent so long rebuilding her confidence after Eric, convincing herself she was invisible, but under Jeno’s gaze, she felt exposed. She felt seen.

Jeno’s gaze softened just a fraction, but the intensity didn't fade. He reached out, his fingers grazing the hair near her ear, before his hand moved down to her forehead.

He gave her a sharp, dismissive flick on the brow.

"Get out," he said, the command quiet but absolute.

Y/N blinked, the sudden release of tension making her lightheaded. "What?"

Jeno stepped back, the coldness returning to his expression as he grabbed a discarded hoodie from the chair. He didn't look at her as he pulled it over his head, hiding the muscles that had just been inches from her.

"You said you'd do anything," he said, his voice flat but carrying a hidden promise. "Come back here after your last lecture tomorrow. Don't be late."

He turned his back to her, dismissing her as if she were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, yet the air in the room still felt like it was on fire.

"Go," he added, without turning around.

Y/N didn't wait. She turned and practically ran into the hallway, her heart still racing at a tempo she couldn't control. She had seen the other side of the campus's golden boy—and she had a feeling her life was about to get much more complicated.

—-

The morning sun felt like a personal insult. Y/N sat in the back of her "Advanced Portfolio Management" lecture, her brain currently a corrupted file of Jeno’s shirtless silhouette and the sound of his hand slamming against the door.

Beside her, Chenle was busy scrolling through a luxury car auction on his tablet, looking remarkably refreshed for someone who had been eating steak on a sidewalk at 2:00 AM.

"You’re vibrating," Chenle whispered, not looking up from a vintage Porsche. "It’s distracting. If it’s about the Finance midterm, just remember: when in doubt, blame the inflation rates."

"It’s not the midterm," Y/N hissed, her pen hovering uselessly over her notebook. "It’s Jeno."

Chenle’s head snapped up, a devious grin spreading across his face. "The Doberman? What did he do? Did he bark at you? Or did he do that thing where he stares at people until they apologize for existing?"

"He told me to come to his room after my last lecture. To 'make up' for... an incident."

Chenle’s cackle was so sharp it earned a glare from the professor. "Oh, you are toast. Jeno doesn’t do 'favors.' He does transactions. If you’ve ended up on his debt sheet, you might as well just hand over your soul now. It’ll save time."

Y/N groans.

She’s doomed.

——-

By 4:15 PM, Y/N was standing in front of Room 402 again. She’d changed out of her homeless chic pajamas into a pair of fitted black jeans and a cropped knit sweater—not because she wanted to look good for him, she told herself, but because she needed to feel like she had some armor.

She knocked.

"Enter," a voice rumbled from inside. Deep. Level. No "please" attached.

Y/N stepped in. The room was different in the daylight—cleaner, sharper, but no less intimidating. Jeno was sitting at his desk, his back to her. He was wearing a black compression shirt that made the 176.5 cm of his frame look like a weapon. He didn't turn around immediately; he was typing away at a Business Ethics paper, the click-clack of the keys the only sound in the room.

"Close the door," he said.

Y/N did. The click of the lock felt final. "I'm here. What do you want, Jeno? A coffee run? Someone to write your footnotes?"

Jeno stopped typing. He stood up slowly, the movement fluid and predatory, and finally turned to face her. He wasn't smiling. He looked at her with a clinical sort of intensity, his eyes scanning her from her sleep-deprived dark circles down to her boots.

"I don't need coffee," he said, stepping into her space. He was close enough now that she could see the slight dampness of his hair—he’d just showered. "And I certainly don't need help with my work. What I need, Y/N, is for you to learn that you can't just barge into a man’s room and expect him to be chill about it."

"I told you, I thought you were Mark—"

"I don't care who you thought I was." He reached out, his hand wrapping firmly around her nape. It wasn't painful, but it was possessive. His thumb grazed the sensitive skin behind her ear, sending a jolt of electricity straight to her core. "You cost me a very... high-energy night. And since you offered to do anything..."

He leaned down, his lips brushing against the shell of her ear. "You're going to help me with my recovery."

Y/N’s heart was trying to escape her chest. "Recovery? What does that even—"

He pulled back just enough to look her in the eye, a dark, playful glint finally breaking through his serious facade. He pointed to the corner of the room where a professional-grade massage table and several rolls of athletic tape sat.

"I have a varsity match tonight. My traps are locked up, and Haechan has the manual dexterity of a goldfish," Jeno said, his voice dropping to that silky register. He started pulling the compression shirt over his head in one smooth motion, exposing that sculpted, granite-like torso again. "You’re a Finance major. You’re good with your hands—precise. You’re going to work the tension out of my shoulders, and then you’re going to tape my back."

He sat down on the edge of the bed, his back to her, the muscles rippling with every breath. "And if you do a bad job, the debt carries over to tomorrow. With interest."

Y/N stood there, frozen. The boy in front of her was literally demanding she touch him as a form of penance. It was arrogant. It was absurd.

"What are you waiting for?" Jeno asked, glancing back over his shoulder, his eyes heavy and demanding. "The clock is ticking, Y/N."

She took a step forward, her fingers trembling as she reached for the muscle rub on his nightstand. As her hands finally made contact with his skin—burning hot and incredibly firm—she heard him let out a low, guttural hum of approval.

"Better," he rasped. "Now, don't stop until I tell you."

She’s definitely screwed.

The air in the room became thick with the scent of menthol and Jeno’s skin. Every time Y/N’s palms slid over the broad expanse of his shoulders, the muscles coiled and jumped under her touch like live wires. She was trying to be clinical—to focus on the knots in his upper traps—but it was impossible when the man was basically a living anatomy chart.

"You're stiff," Y/N muttered, her voice slightly breathless.

"That’s what happens when you spend four hours in the weight room trying to forget a girl interrupted your..." Jeno paused, a low, vibration-like chuckle rattling through his chest. "Actually, never mind. Just keep going. Lower."

Y/N’s fingers dipped toward the small of his back, right where his joggers hung low on his hips. She could see the faint indentations of his Apollo’s belt, and her brain momentarily short-circuited.

"I thought you said your traps were locked up," she challenged, though her hands didn't move away.

Jeno suddenly turned. It was too fast for her to react. In one fluid motion, he grabbed her wrists and pulled her forward, forcing her to stumble between his spread knees. He was still sitting on the edge of the bed, but because of the height difference, they were now eye-to-eye.

"You're very bad at following instructions, Y/N," Jeno murmured. He didn't let go of her wrists. Instead, he pulled them behind her back, forcing her chest to arch toward his bare one. The heat radiating off him was dizzying. "You’ve been staring at the scar on my shoulder for three minutes. And your heart is beating so loud I can hear it over the AC."

"It's the caffeine," she lied, her eyes darting to his lips.

Jeno’s gaze darkened, that predatory look returning in full force. He leaned in, his nose brushing against hers. "Is it? Because you look like you’re waiting for me to do something much worse than ask for a massage. You have that look in your eyes... the one from last night. The hunger."

He let one of her wrists go, his hand traveling up to cup her jaw, his thumb dragging slowly across her lower lip, pulling it down just enough to expose the white of her teeth. "Should I give you what you’re looking for? Or should I make you work for it all semester?"

The tension was a physical weight, a wire pulled so tight it was screaming—

Click.

The door swung open with a violent lack of ceremony.

"Jeno-ya, have you seen my—oh."

Jaemin stood in the doorway, a half-eaten green apple in one hand and his other hand lazily tucked into the pocket of his silk pajama pants. He didn't look shocked. He didn't even look embarrassed. He just stood there, his eyes scanning the scene—Jeno shirtless and dominant, Y/N flushed and trapped—with a look of pure, unadulterated amusement.

"Am I interrupting the 'recovery' session?" Jaemin asked, his voice a smooth, chaotic drawl. He took a loud, crunching bite of the apple, leaning against the doorframe. "Because it looks a lot more like a hostage situation. Or a very expensive private performance."

Jeno didn't move. He didn't even flinch. He just kept his hand on Y/N’s jaw, his eyes still locked on hers for a lingering, agonizing second before he slowly turned his head toward his roommate.

"Jaemin. Get out," Jeno said, his voice flat and dangerous.

Jaemin didn't budge. He strolled into the room, tossing the apple core into the trash can with perfect accuracy. He stopped right behind Y/N, the scent of his expensive, dark cologne mingling with Jeno’s sandalwood. He leaned over her shoulder, his face inches from hers as he looked at Jeno.

"Now, now, Neno. Don't be greedy," Jaemin purred, his hand coming up to rest lightly on Y/N’s waist—a direct challenge to Jeno’s hold. "Mark’s favorite cousin is clearly stressed. Maybe she needs a second opinion on those knots."

He looked at Y/N, his eyes dancing with that unpredictable, fuckboy energy. "What do you think, Y/N? Jeno’s a bit... blunt, isn't he? I have much softer hands."

Jeno’s grip on Y/N’s other wrist tightened just a fraction. The air in the room didn't just feel hot anymore; it felt combustible. Two of the most dangerous men on campus were now using her as the rope in a very high-stakes game of tug-of-war.

"She’s busy, Jaemin," Jeno growled, his jaw setting.

"She looks like she's vibrating," Jaemin countered, his smirk widening as he felt Y/N’s pulse under his palm. "Are you scaring her, Jeno-ya? Or are you just making her want things she shouldn't?"

The atmosphere was a powder keg, the air thick with the competing scents of Jeno’s heat and Jaemin’s cool arrogance. Y/N felt like she was being dismantled under their collective gaze—until the heavy silence was shattered by a frantic, rhythmic pounding on the door.

"Jeno! Jaemin! Tell me she’s in there!"

Mark didn't wait for an invite. He burst in, looking like he’d been through a metaphorical blender. His hair was sticking up in three different directions, and he was clutching a stack of papers like a shield. He froze, his eyes darting from Jeno’s bare chest to Jaemin’s hand on Y/N’s waist.

"Oh, thank God," Mark exhaled, completely oblivious to the sexual tension high enough to power the entire West Wing. "Y/N, I’ve been looking everywhere! I forgot to give you the keycard for the library annex—wait, why is your face the color of a fire engine?"

The spell broke.

Jaemin let out a sharp, melodic laugh and pulled his hand away from Y/N’s waist, reaching for his apple again. "Relax, Mark. We were just testing your cousin’s flight-or-fight response. Results are in: she’s a 'freeze' type." He winked at Y/N, the predatory intensity vanishing into a mask of effortless, playful boredom. "It was just a bit of fun, sweetheart. You looked so serious, we couldn't help ourselves."

Jeno finally let go of her wrists. He stood up, stretching his arms over his head in a way that made his lats flare, and let out a relaxed, easy-going chuckle—the eye-smile returning as if the dark, hungry predator of five minutes ago had never existed.

"Yeah, sorry Y/N," Jeno said, his voice light and frustratingly casual. "I didn't think you'd actually take the 'debt' thing seriously. I just wanted to see how long you'd last before you called me an asshole. You’re too easy to rile up."

He looked at Mark, dismissing Y/N entirely. "She’s all yours, man. She’s a decent masseuse, though. Tell her to keep her day job in Finance."

Y/N felt the blood in her veins turn from liquid fire to pure, icy humiliation. They were laughing. It was a game. A way to kill time between lectures—a "prank" on the cousin of their friend. The way Jeno had looked at her lips, the way his voice had dropped... it was all just a practiced routine.

"You guys are actually pathetic," Y/N said, her voice trembling not with fear, but with a sudden, sharp rage.

The laughter stopped. Mark blinked, confused. "Wait, Y/N—"

"No, Mark. Shut up." She turned her gaze to Jeno and Jaemin, her eyes stinging. "You think because you own this campus, everyone is just a prop in your boredom? Go to hell, Jeno. And take your 'sacred ritual' steak and your god-complex roommate with you. You're both fucking losers."

She didn't wait for a rebuttal. She shoved past Mark, nearly knocking him over, and bolted into the hallway.

"Y/N! Wait!" Mark called out, but he stayed put, looking between his roommates in shock.

Inside the room, the silence was no longer playful. Jaemin’s smirk had faltered, his gaze fixed on the door. Jeno, however, looked like he’d been slapped. The casual, "it was just a joke" mask crumbled instantly. He looked at his hands, then at the door, the weight of what he’d just done—the way he’d played with her dignity just to keep his own guard up—hitting him like a freight train.

"That... didn't go how I thought it would," Jaemin muttered, sounding uncharacteristically quiet.

Jeno didn't answer. He grabbed his hoodie from the bed, shoving his arms through it as he sprinted for the door.

"Jeno? Where are you going?" Mark asked.

Jeno didn’t say anything.

He burst into the hallway, his long legs eating up the distance. He saw her near the elevators, her back to him, shoulders shaking slightly. She was hitting the 'down' button with a Ferocity that suggested she wanted to break the panel.

"Y/N! Stop!"

She didn't stop. She turned into the stairwell instead, the heavy fire door slamming shut behind her. Jeno caught it just before it latched, swinging it open with enough force to dent the wall.

"Y/N, listen to me—"

"Leave me alone, Jeno! Go find someone else to 'test'!" she yelled, her voice echoing off the concrete stairs as she descended.

Jeno didn't take the stairs. He vaulted over the railing, dropping down a half-flight to land directly in front of her, blocking her path. He looked desperate, his jaw tight and his eyes dark with a raw, genuine urgency.

———

Jeno vaulted over the railing, his boots hitting the concrete with a heavy thud that echoed through the stairwell. He blocked the exit, his chest heaving, sweat beginning to bead at his hairline. The Golden Boy polish was entirely stripped away, leaving something raw and jagged in its place.

"I’m sorry, okay? Dammit, Y/N, just wait," he ground out, his voice cracking with a mix of frustration and genuine distress. He ran a hand through his hair, looking everywhere but her eyes. "I lashed out. I was... I was frustrated. You have no idea what it’s like to be that close and then have the rug pulled out. It physically hurts, Y/N. Blue-balling a man isn't just a joke—it’s a goddamn nightmare. I was mad and I took it out on your pride because mine was taking a beating."

Y/N stared at him, the initial sting of humiliation cooling into a hard, cynical clarity. She took a slow, stabilizing breath, crossing her arms.

"So, because your anatomy was throwing a tantrum, you decided to treat me like a punchline?" she said, her voice dropping to a level, mature frequency that seemed to catch him off guard. "Listen, Jeno. I’m an adult. I get that you were... occupied. I can move past the embarrassment. But don't you ever do that to a woman again. We aren't just 'incidents' or 'mood-killers.' We have feelings, and we aren't props for you to use when you're feeling cocky and discard when you're frustrated."

She sighed, her posture softening just a fraction. "And look... I’m sorry too. For barging in. It was a mistake. Let's just call it even and stop the games."

Jeno looked at her, truly looking at her, and for the first time, the Doberman looked like he’d been kicked. "Even," he repeated softly. "Yeah. Even."

——-

They fell into a rhythm.

It started with a text from Jeno:

Unknown number: “Mark says you’re failing Macroeconomics. My notes are better than his. Don't make it weird.”

Then came the shared 3 AM study sessions where they discovered they both had a borderline-obsessive interest in vintage watch movements and a shared hatred for the campus cafeteria’s "mystery stew." Jeno started showing up at her library cubicle with her exact coffee order—extra shot, no sugar—without her asking.

The group chat was a war zone.

Half Wit(Haechan): Why is Jeno suddenly a domestic housewife? I saw him carrying Y/N’s heavy-ass textbooks today. My back hurts just watching the simp behavior.

Half Wit: and why is my nickname Half wit? Which one of you Waitlist Rejects changed it again?

Suppository of Bad Opinions(Jaemin): He’s just clearing the debt, Hyuck. It’s a very long-term payment plan.

Suppository of Bad Opinions(Jaemin): ..and jesus christ my nickna.. what is wrong with you guys

Jeno: She’s just Mark’s cousin. I’m being polite.

Y/N: And he’s just a guy with a nice watch. Relax.

Y/N: And btw I changed them. Half wit sounds cute on you Hyuckie. Its just so.. you.

Half Wit(Haechan): fuck you.

The denial was top-tier, even as Jeno started subconsciously territorializing her. If they were at a party, his hand was always on the back of her chair. If another guy lingered too long, Jeno’s would suddenly emerge—not loud, just a quiet, heavy presence that made the air feel thin until the intruder left.

But Y/N on the other hand, doesn’t mind the attention at all.

Or does she really don’t mind.

——

The rain wasn't just falling; it was punishing the windows of Room 402. Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark room where Y/N and Jeno were mid-boss-fight in Elden Ring.

"I have to go," Y/N said, glancing at the window as a branch scraped against the glass. "If I don't leave now, the bridge to the East Wing will be underwater."

"Don't be stupid," Jeno grumbled, not looking away from the screen. "The wind is hitting sixty miles per hour. You’ll get blown into the decorative pond and I’ll have to explain to Mark why his cousin drowned in six inches of water. Just stay."

"Jeno—"

"It’s a storm, Y/N. Not a choice. Use my bed. I'll take the floor."

He tossed her a grey hoodie—one that smelled so overwhelmingly like him it made her dizzy. When she emerged from the bathroom wearing it, the hem hitting mid-thigh, Jeno’s controller clicked. He died in the game. He didn't even care.

"Floor's too cold," Y/N insisted an hour later, looking at him wrapped in a single blanket on the hardwood. "I'm not an asshole, Jeno. There’s room."

"Are you sure?," he rasped, his back to her.

She didn't reply. She stayed on the floor. Jeno was worried that he kept asking her every 5 minutes. 15 minutes later, she was shivering.

Suddenly, the blankets were ripped away. In one blurred, effortless motion, Jeno scooped her up. She gasped, her hands instinctively clutching his biceps—rock hard and warm. He tossed her onto the mattress and climbed in beside her, pulling the heavy duvet over them both.

"Stay still," he commanded, his voice vibrating against her ear.

He pulled her back against his chest, her spine flush against his heat. And then, the air in the room changed. It became heavy. Electric. Y/N felt it first—the unmistakable, rigid heat of him pressing against the small of her back. Her breath hitched.

Her brain is panicking; she’s not moving at all.

She doesn’t even know why Jeno’s doing this.

She tries to pinch Jeno’s skin to try to pry him away.

But Jeno didn't pull away. Instead, his hand drifted to the hem of the shirt she was wearing, his fingers skimming the skin of her hip. Agonizingly slow.

He traces her skin with tiny circles, and she could feel herself getting wet from the act.

Jeno leaned in, his lips grazing her earlobe before he gave it a sharp, tiny nip that made her toes curl.

"You're so tense," Jeno whispered, his voice a dark, velvet promise. He gave her lobe a quick lick as ihs hand traveled higher, his thumb tracing the curve of her waist. "Is it the storm? Or is it because you can feel what you're doing to me?"

"J-Jeno... we s-shouldn't," she whispered, her heart hammering.

"Shouldn't what?" he provoked, his touch turning bold, his palm sliding up her inner thigh, slow and deliberate, making her gasp as he found her clothed clit. "Shouldn't admit that you’ve been thinking about this since the fire alarm? Shouldn't talk about how wet you are right now just from me touching your leg?"

He gently flipped her over, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand, his body a heavy, dominant weight above her. His eyes were dark—no more Golden Boy, no more just friends.

"Baby, please," he rasped, his forehead resting against hers, his breath hot on her lips. "I’ve been so patient. But if you don't tell me to stop in the next three seconds, I'm going to show you exactly how much debt you actually owe me."

Y/N didn't say stop. She pulled him down, and the Doberman finally broke his leash.

The shift in Jeno was visceral. It wasn't just a mood change; it was as if he had finally authorized himself to take what was his. His grip on her wrists was like iron bands, pinning them to the headboard with a strength that made it clear she wasn't going anywhere unless he decided she could.

"You know.. you like to talk so much, Y/N," he growled, his voice dropping into a register so low it felt like a vibration in her very bones. "Let's see if you can keep that energy when I’m actually inside you."

He didn't give her a chance to breathe. He slid down the bed, his movements fluid and predatory. When he parted her legs, he didn't do it gently; he forced them wide, his broad shoulders wedging between her knees.

"Jeno, wait—" she gasped, her head hitting the pillow as he dove in.

He didn't wait.

He ate her out with a focused, rhythmic aggression that was borderline territorial. His eye not leaving her as he devours her pussy, smirking as he enjoyed her squirming state.

When she tried to close her legs, overwhelmed by the sheer intensity of his tongue, he growled against her skin, his fingers digging into her thighs to keep her exposed.

Y/N was sobbing, her hands fumbling for his hair, half-pleading for him to stop because the pleasure was too sharp, too much to handle.

"P-Please... Jeno, stop, I c-can't—"

He pulled back for a split second, his face glistening with her wetness, his eyes dark and void of any mercy. "I didn't tell you to speak. You’re going to take every bit of this."

He rose up, stripping off his boxers to reveal the sheer, terrifying reality of him.

His cock was thick, heavy, and looked impossible.

Y/N’s eyes widened, her breath hitching in a sob of genuine shock.

"Jeno, you’re... you’re too big. It won't fit," she whispered, her voice trembling.

A dark, slow smirk spread across his face—one that had nothing to do with the Golden Boy everyone else knew. He grabbed her waist, his thumbs bruising the skin of her hips, and positioned himself at her entrance.

"I’ll make it fit," he rasped,

his voice a chilling, dominant promise.

"And you’re going to thank me for it."

He drove into her in one deep, uncompromising surge. Y/N’s back arched off the bed, a silent scream caught in her throat as her body stretched to accommodate the intrusion.

He didn't give her time to adjust. He began to fuck her with a brutal, steady cadence, each thrust bottoming out, his weight crushing her into the mattress.

"Look at me," he commanded, his hand coming up to grip her chin, forcing her tear-filled eyes to meet his. "You thought this was a game? You thought you could just walk away after ruining my night? You’re mine now. Every inch of you."

When the bed wasn't enough, he hauled her up. He carried her to the wall, her legs wrapped around his waist, the cold plaster a sharp contrast to the furnace of his skin. He slammed her back against the surface, the impact rattling the frames on the wall. He fucked her there, gravity adding to the depth of every strike, his mouth pressed against her ear as he whispered things that would have made Haechan’s jaw drop—mean, possessive, filthy commands that stripped away her last bit of resolve.

"Beg for it," he hissed, his teeth grazing her neck. "Tell me you’re a mess for me. Tell me you want me to never stop."

He was a force of nature, a Doberman that had finally tasted blood and refused to let go. By the time he finally let her collapse back onto the sheets, she was a shaking, spent wreck, and Jeno was hovering over her, looking down at his handiwork with a terrifying, satisfied hunger.

Jeno wasn't finished. Not even close. The raw, primal adrenaline of finally breaking through her defenses had turned into something darker, a relentless hunger that bordered on cruelty.

He hauled her off his own mattress, his grip on her arm unyielding as he dragged her across the small room. He threw her face-down onto Jaemin’s perfectly made bed. The scent of Jaemin’s clean, expensive laundry detergent hit her nose, a stark contrast to the musk and heat of what was happening.

"Jeno, please... not here," she sobbed, her fingers clawing at the silk sheets.

He didn't listen. He drove into her from behind, a sudden, violent intrusion that made her vision go white. He leaned down, his chest crushing her into Jaemin’s pillow, his voice a low, toxic hiss in her ear.

"You’ve gotten tighter since we moved to this bed, haven't you?" Jeno spat, his thrusts heavy and punishing.

"What is it, Y/N? Does the thought of Jaemin watching us turn you on? You like the idea of the pretty boy seeing you like this? You disgust me."

He punctuated the insult with a thrust so deep it felt like it hit her soul.

"You’re a little slut for the attention, aren't you? But he’s not here. Only I am."

He didn't let her answer. He dragged her up again, this time toward the glowing setup of his gaming desk. He sat her on the edge of the desk, pulling her legs over his shoulders. The cold metal of the keyboard was under her palms as he entered her again. This time, he slowed down. It was worse. It was a slow, agonizingly deep stretch that forced her to feel every ridge, every inch of his impossible size.

"Look how wet you are," Jeno praised, though his voice sounded like a threat.

"So tight. So warm. You’re shaking, Y/N. Is it because it feels delicious? Tell me how much you love it."

She let out a broken, high-pitched keen, her head falling back as the pleasure finally began to override the pain. "It... it feels... god, Jeno..."

"Good," he gritted out. "Because we're not done."

He turned her around, shoving her against the large floor-to-ceiling window. The storm was still raging outside, the lightning illuminating her bare chest as he pressed her firmly against the cold glass. Anyone looking up from the quad could see the silhouette of her breasts flattened against the window, the image of her vulnerability laid bare for the world.

"Panting like a little animal," Jeno mocked, his hands gripping her waist so hard he knew he was leaving marks. He fucked her against the glass, the window rattling with every impact. "Look at yourself. Crying and begging while you're on display. This is who you really are."

He spun her around one last time, forcing her to face him. He looked terrifying—sweat-soaked, eyes blown wide with a dominant, possessive fever. He was reaching his limit, his muscles cording with tension.

"Jeno, don't... please don't come inside," she pleaded, her voice cracking. "Ple—"

"Shhh," he snapped, his fingers tangling in her hair to pull her head back. "You think you have a choice? You’re mine. I’m going to leave my mark so deep you'll feel me for a week. You're my property tonight, Y/N. Only mine."

He let out a guttural, animalistic growl as he delivered three final, brutal thrusts, bottoming out completely.

He really came inside her, hot cum filling her walls.

He ignored her cries and filled her, his heat blossoming inside her in a way that felt like a permanent seal.

She screams as he cums with him, tilting her head back.

He leaned in, his teeth sinking into the junction of her neck and shoulder.

"Mine," he whispered, a dark, final command. "Don't you ever forget it."

And it all went dark.

——

The sunlight hit the room with a brutal, clinical glare. Y/N was tangled in Jeno’s sheets, her body aching in places she didn't know existed, her skin a map of faint bruises and dried salt. Jeno was still asleep, his arm thrown over her waist like a lead bar, even in sleep refusing to let go.

THUD. THUD. THUD.

"RISE AND SHINE, SINNERS!" Haechan’s voice boomed through the door, followed by the frantic jingling of keys. "I have iced Americanos and a burning desire to know why Jeno’s door has been locked for ten hours! If there’s a dead body in there, I’m calling the RA!"

"Haechan, stop," Mark’s voice came from the hallway, sounding mortified. "They're probably just... sleeping in because of the storm."

"Sleeping? In Jeno’s room? Mark, you're so precious," Jaemin’s voice drawled, sounding dangerously amused. "I can smell the bad decisions from here. Move over, I’m opening it."

The lock clicked.

Y/N’s heart stopped. She looked at Jeno, who was just starting to stir, his eyes fluttering open to see the door swinging wide.

"Oh," Haechan stopped dead in the doorway, his eyes landing on Y/N’s clothes scattered on the floor and her head peeking out from under Jeno's duvet. "Well. That's... that's a lot of skin for 9:00 AM."

Jaemin leaned over Haechan’s shoulder, his gaze sweeping over the room—the desk, his own bed, and finally, the marks on Y/N’s neck. His smirk didn't reach his eyes this time.

"I told you my bed was more comfortable, didn't I, Y/N?" Jaemin purred, though his jaw was visibly tight.

Jeno didn't even look embarrassed. He just pulled Y/N closer to his chest, his eyes cold and challenging as they met his roommates'. "Close the door," he rumbled. "We're busy."

Haechan stood frozen in the doorway, the tray of iced coffees in his hands tilted at a dangerous, forty-five-degree angle. He blinked once. Twice. Then a slow, mischievous grin spread across his face, wide enough to be classified as a public safety hazard.

"Mark," Haechan whispered, not taking his eyes off the bed. "Don't look. Your innocent, Finance-prodigy cousin has been devoured by the Doberman. It’s a crime scene. There are no survivors."

"I told you to knock!" Mark wailed from the hallway, covering his eyes with his hands while simultaneously trying to peek through his fingers. "Y/N?! Is that—is that my hoodie on the floor? Jeno, I will actually kill you! She’s my family!"

Jaemin, however, didn't look scandalized. He leaned against the doorframe, his eyes tracing the absolute wreck of his own bedsheets across the room before settling on Y/N’s flushed face. "I hope you’re planning on paying the dry-cleaning bill for my duvet, Jeno," Jaemin said, his voice a smooth, dry cocktail of amusement and salt. "Though, judging by the state of the window, you two were a bit... preoccupied with the architecture."

Y/N felt like her soul had left her body. She scrambled to pull Jeno’s heavy duvet up to her chin, her hair a bird’s nest of chaos. Beside her, Jeno didn't even reach for a shirt. He just sat up, leaning back against the headboard with a terrifyingly calm, post-coital arrogance.

"The door was locked for a reason, Hyuck," Jeno rumbled, his voice still gravelly from sleep. "Get out. And leave the coffees."

"Oh, we’re not going anywhere!" Haechan chirped, practically skipping into the room and plopping down on the only clean chair. "I want details. I want a PowerPoint. Did he bark? Tell me he barked. Jeno has loyal dog energy, but we all know he’s a beast when he’s hungry."

"Stop!" Y/N finally found her voice, though it was slightly hoarse. She looked at the three of them—Mark looking like he was having a stroke, Haechan vibrating with gossip, and Jaemin watching her with that unreadable, dark smirk. "It’s not what it looks like. Okay?"

"It looks like you two tried to recreate the Kama Sutra in a dorm room," Jaemin pointed out, gesturing to the desk.

"It’s just... physical," Y/N blurted out, her face burning. "We’re just fuck buddies. Stress relief. Right, Jeno? It’s a transaction. Very Finance-friendly. Low commitment, high yield. It’s not a 'thing.'"

The room went deathly silent.

Haechan’s jaw dropped. Mark stopped hyperventilating. Jaemin’s eyebrows shot toward his hairline. All eyes shifted to Jeno.

Jeno, who had been looking at Y/N with a possessive, almost softened gaze just seconds before, went completely still. His expression didn't shatter; it hardened into a mask of cold, unreadable granite. He slowly reached for a stray t-shirt on the floor and pulled it on, the fabric straining against his back.

"Yeah," Jeno said, his voice suddenly flat, devoid of the warmth it had held five minutes ago. "Just fuck buddies. Like she said."

He stood up, grabbing his phone and wallet. He didn't look at Y/N. He didn't even look at his friends.

"I have a meeting with the coach," Jeno muttered, his jaw set so tight it looked like it might snap. He brushed past Haechan and Jaemin, his shoulder catching the doorframe with a dull thud. "Mark, take her to breakfast. She’s probably hungry."

He disappeared into the hallway without a backward glance.

Haechan whistled, a low, long sound. "Oof. 'Fuck buddies.' Y/N, you just hit the Captain with a metaphorical steel chair. I’ve seen him take a 90mph fastball to the ribs with more grace than that."

"What?" Y/N stammered, feeling a sudden, cold pit in her stomach. "That’s what it is! We literally agreed... well, we didn't agree, but it's obvious! He was so mean to me last night! He called me a slut!"

Jaemin walked over to the bed, picking up his discarded apple core from the night before. He looked at Y/N with a pitying, knowing smile. "Sweetheart, Jeno is a Doberman. He’s mean because he’s territorial. He doesn't fuck people he doesn't want to own. You just told a man who spent four hours marking you as his property that he’s just a 'transaction.'"

Jaemin leaned in, whispering so only she could hear. "Good luck with that. Jeno doesn't do 'casual.' He just does 'obsessed.'"

——-

The next two weeks were a study in absolute frost.

Jeno didn’t just give Y/N the cold shoulder; he acted as if she had been digitally erased from his reality. In the hallways, his gaze would pass right over her, as if she were a piece of dorm furniture. If they were in the same room, he stayed on his phone or laughed with the guys, his Golden Boy eye-smile on full display for everyone except her.

The dominant, possessive predator from the storm night had vanished, replaced by a polite, distant stranger.

Y/N was spiraling. She found herself staring at the bruises on her thighs as they faded into pale yellow, her skin feeling strangely empty without the weight of his hands. She told herself she was relieved. This is what "fuck buddies" means, right? No strings. No drama. But every time she caught a whiff of his sandalwood cologne in the air, her pulse would jump, waiting for a grip that never came.

The breaking point happened in the student lounge.

Y/N was sitting with Haechan and Mark, trying to focus on a spreadsheet, when Haechan leaned in, tapping a rhythm on the table with his pen.

"Man, Jeno is really back on his bullshit," Haechan remarked, popping a grape into his mouth. "I saw him leaving the Delta Gamma house this morning. And last night? He was at that lounge downtown with that girl from the dance team—Mina? They looked... well, let's just say Jeno isn't suffering from any 'physical frustration' lately."

Y/N’s fingers froze on the keyboard. A cold, sharp hollow opened up in her chest, making it hard to swallow.

"Oh," she said. It was small. Pathetic. Her face fell, her eyes dropping to the glowing cells of her Excel sheet as the numbers blurred.

"Wait, Y/N, are you okay?" Mark asked, his protective cousin-radar pinging. "I thought you said it was just a transaction? You shouldn't care if he’s... diversifying his portfolio."

"I don't," she lied, her voice thick. "I just... I didn't realize he moved that fast. I mean, it’s fine. He’s Jeno. Why would he actually like someone like me? I’m just Mark’s cousin. I’m the 'safe' option."

She felt a hot tear prick the corner of her eye and she quickly wiped it away, pretending she was tired. She felt stupid. She felt used. But more than anything, she felt a terrifying, shameful craving. She didn't want the polite Jeno who ignored her. She wanted the mean, scary Jeno who had pinned her against the glass and told her she belonged to him.

That night, Y/N went to the shared kitchen to get water, hoping the dorm was empty. It wasn't. Jeno was there, leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone. He was wearing a fresh shirt, his hair styled, smelling like expensive gin and success. He looked like he was heading out for another "diversification" of his portfolio.

He didn't look up when she entered. The silence was deafening, punctuated only by the hum of the refrigerator.

"Heading out?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.

"Yeah," Jeno said, his tone perfectly neutral. It was the Captain voice—professional, distant, and utterly devoid of the heat that had burned her skin two weeks ago. "There’s a party at the frat. Don't wait up for the group to get back."

"Haechan said you were with Mina last night," she blurted out, her jealousy finally winning over her pride.

Jeno finally looked at her. His eyes were like ice. He didn't deny it. He didn't explain. He just shrugged. "She doesn't give me lectures on 'feelings' after we're done. She knows exactly what it is. It’s easier that way, don't you think?"

He stepped closer, invading her space just enough to make her breath hitch, but he didn't touch her. He looked down at her neck, where the last of his marks had finally disappeared.

"You got what you wanted, Y/N," he whispered, his voice a low, mocking drawl. "No 'thing.' No commitment. Just two people who happened to be in a room together during a storm. If you’re sad about it, that sounds like a 'you' problem."

He went to walk past her, but Y/N reached out, her hand trembling as she grabbed his forearm. The heat of his skin sent a jolt of pure electricity through her. "Jeno, stop being like this."

He stopped. He looked down at her hand on his arm, then back up at her face. A dark, dangerous flicker returned to his eyes—the first sign of the beast she had been missing. He leaned down, his lips inches from hers, his voice dropping into that terrifying, dominant rumble.

"Like what? I'm being a good 'buddy,' aren't I? Or are you realizing that being ignored by me is worse than being ruined by me?"

He didn't wait for an answer. He pulled his arm away, leaving her standing alone in the cold kitchen, her heart racing and her body screaming for the man she had just tried to push away.

——

The frat house was a chaotic blur of strobe lights and cheap tequila. Y/N pushed through the crowd, her head spinning—partly from the two shots she’d downed to find her courage, and partly from the sight of Jeno across the room, leaning against a pillar while a girl in a tight dress whispered in his ear.

She marched up to him, her eyes flashing. "You’re an asshole, Jeno!"

Jeno didn't even flinch. He looked at her over the rim of his red cup, his expression bored. "I’m at a party, Y/N. Go find Mark."

"Don't tell me what to do! You act like I don't exist and then you come here to... to do this?" She gestured wildly at the room. "Just leave me alone. Forever. Don't even look at me."

"Gladly," Jeno rasped, his jaw tightening as he turned his back on her.

Y/N stormed off toward the bar. She drank until the edges of the room blurred. She was so drunk that she when she came back to the drinks table, she didn’t have her left shoe on( until a first year returned it).

She danced and was laughing, downing drinks after drink..

until she ran into a familiar face—Eric.

Her ex-boyfriend, a guy who knew exactly which buttons to push.

He pulled her into his space, his hands sliding down to her waist.

Because she was too drunk, she didn’t exactly cared or maybe she simply doesn’t recognize him.

"You look like you're having a rough night, Y/N," he murmured, his breath smelling like beer.

Jeno saw it. From the corner of the room, his Golden Boy mask fractured.

He watched Eric’s hand dip dangerously low, watched him lean into Y/N’s neck. Jeno’s glass crackled in his grip. When he sees Eric trying to kiss her,

Jeno moved before he could think, shoving through the crowd.

He didn't punch Eric—though his knuckles white-knuckled into fists—he just stepped between them, his presence an immovable wall of muscle and silent rage. "She’s leaving," Jeno said, his voice a low, vibrating threat.

"Who the hell are you?" Eric started, but one look at Jeno’s dark, predatory eyes made him stumble back.

Jeno grabbed Y/N’s arm, dragging her out of the house. "Let me go!" she screamed, stumbling as they hit the cool night air. "You don't get to care! You’re just a 'buddy,' remember? Go back to your dance team girl!"

"”Y/N stop” Jeno growled, pulling her into a secluded, empty bedroom in the back of the house to get away from the noise. She started sobbing, tears falling down her cheeks.

"Make me!" she yelled, hitting his chest. "I hate you! I hate how you look at me and I hate—"

Jeno snapped. He grabbed her waist and hauled her toward a walk-in closet, kicking the door shut. The darkness was absolute, smelling of cedar and Jeno’s furious heat. He spun her around, slamming her front-first against the hanging coats.

"You want to play the 'fuck buddy' card?" Jeno hissed in her ear, his hand tangling in her hair to pull her head back, exposing her throat. "Fine. Let's act like it. No romance. Just me taking what I want because I’m bored."

He didn't undress her. He just hiked her skirt up and shoved her panties aside. He entered her in one brutal, dry surge that made her gasp, her fingers clutching a leather jacket for balance. It was a punishment. A quick, dirty, dominant reclamation.

"Is this what you wanted?" he rasped, his thrusts short and violent, hitting her so hard the hangers rattled. "You want to let some loser touch you just to get a rise out of me? You’re pathetic."

"J-Jeno..." she sobbed, her body betrayed by the familiar, overwhelming stretch of him.

"Don't say my name," he commanded, his teeth sinking into her shoulder as he quickened the pace. He was a machine, driven by pure, jealous adrenaline. He reached around, his thumb finding her clit and grinding against it with a mean, clinical precision until she was screaming into the wool coats.

He came with a guttural roar, pinning her body against the wall with his weight until he finished, his breath coming in jagged heaves.

The silence that followed was heavy. The anger drained out of him, replaced by a sudden, sharp guilt as he felt her shaking beneath him. He pulled away, adjusted her clothes with trembling hands, and didn't say a word.

He didn't take her back to the dorms. He drove her straight to his apartment, the car ride silent except for the sound of the heater. He carried her inside, her head lolling against his shoulder in a drunken, post-climax haze.

In his bathroom, the lights were dimmed. Jeno sat her on the edge of the tub, his movements now hauntingly gentle. He stripped her clothes off, his eyes lingering on the red marks he’d left on her hips. He didn't look mean anymore; he looked devastated.

He washed her with a warm cloth, his touch feather-light as he cleaned her skin. He didn't say anything as he dried her off and pulled his own softest t-shirt over her head. He lifted her into his bed, the sheets still smelling like the night of the storm.

As he climbed in behind her, he didn't stay distant. He pulled her back into his chest, his arms wrapping around her in a protective, suffocating hold. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his eyes wide and longing in the dark.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, so quiet he wasn't sure if she heard him. "I'm a goddamn mess, Y/N."

She fell asleep to the steady, heavy thrum of his heart, finally safe in the cage he’d built for her.

——

The morning sun filtered through the blinds in sharp, golden slats, cutting across the tangled mess of Jeno’s duvet. Y/N woke up slowly, her head throbbing with a dull, rhythmic ache from the tequila, but her body felt strangely weighted down and warm.

The weight was Jeno.

He was still asleep, his face tucked into the crook of her neck, his arm draped heavily over her waist as if anchoring her to the mattress.

The "Doberman" was gone; in the soft morning light, he just looked like a boy who was exhausted from a war he’d been fighting with himself.

As the memories of the closet—the cold glass of the window from weeks ago, the mean whispers, and the way he’d tenderly bathed her just hours ago—slammed back into her brain, Y/N let out a shaky breath. She tried to shift, but Jeno’s grip immediately tightened, his fingers digging into her hip.

"Don't move," he mumbled, his voice a thick, gravelly morning rasp.

"Jeno, we need to talk," she whispered, her voice cracking. "We can’t keep doing this. The 'fuck buddy' thing... it’s making us both crazy. You’re acting like a psycho, and I’m... I’m miserable."

Jeno finally opened his eyes. They weren't cold anymore. They were bloodshot and raw. He sat up slowly, leaning his back against the headboard, pulling the sheet up to his waist but keeping one hand firmly on her ankle, needing the contact.

"I can't do it anymore, Y/N," he said, his voice dropping into that honest, heavy tone he only used when they were alone. "I tried. I went out. I tried to fuck other people. I tried to act like you were just Mark’s cousin again."

He let out a dry, bitter laugh. "But every time I touched someone else, I was just pissed off that they weren't you. I was pissed off that they didn't look at me the way you do when I’m... when I’m being mean to you."

Y/N sat up, the oversized t-shirt sliding off one shoulder. "You were mean because you were jealous. You almost broke that closet door, Jeno."

"Because I hate that I want you this much," he confessed, finally looking her in the eye.

The mask was officially dead. "I’m not a 'fuck buddy' guy, Y/N. I’m a 'this is mine' guy. I don't want a transaction. I want to know where you are, who you’re with, and I want to be the only person who gets to see you like this."

He reached out, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a reverent, quiet intensity.

"No more lies. No more 'physical frustration' excuses. I want you. Properly. Even if it makes me a loser, even if Mark kills me."

He tilted his head, a ghost of his dominant smirk returning.

"But if we do this, if you’re actually mine... there’s no going back to being 'just friends.' You belong to me. Understand?"

Y/N looked at him—the boy who cared for her silently and the man who wrecked her against walls—and finally let out the breath she’d been holding for weeks. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead against his.

"I think I’ve belonged to you since the storm, you idiot."

Jeno didn't say anything. He just surged forward, pulling her into a kiss that wasn't mean or punishing—it was desperate, deep, and final. The lie was over.

——-

The peace lasted exactly twelve minutes.

Jeno was still sprawled across the bed, his chin resting on Y/N’s shoulder as he lazily traced patterns on her arm, when the sound of the front door’s smart lock chimed with a cheery beep-boop.

"I’m telling you, he’s not dead, he’s just moping!" Haechan’s voice projected through the hallway with the force of a theatrical performance. "The Doberman is in his kennel, licking his wounds because Y/N called him a 'transaction' and hurt his wittle feelings!"

Jeno froze. Y/N scrambled to pull the duvet up to her chin.

"Guys, we shouldn't just walk in," Mark’s voice trailed behind, sounding like a man who had aged ten years in a single night. "Jeno? You in here? We brought hangover soup and—"

The bedroom door swung open.

Haechan, Mark, and Jaemin stood in the doorway like a three-man jury. They didn't see the cold stranger or the frat-party player. They saw Jeno, shirtless and glowing, practically wrapped around Y/N in a way that screamed mine louder than any verbal confession.

The silence was deafening for exactly three seconds.

"OH!" Haechan screamed, throwing the bag of takeout into the air. "I KNEW IT! I KNEW THE 'DIVERSIFYING PORTFOLIO' WAS A SCAM!" He started doing a victory lap around the small bedroom, clapping his hands. "Look at them! They look like a Pinterest board for 'Toxic but Aesthetic Couples'! The transaction has been finalized!"

Mark covered his eyes with both hands, groaning toward the ceiling.

"Jeno, she is wearing your shirt. Again. In your bed. Again. My soul is leaving my body. I am ascending to heaven. Tell my mother I loved her."

Jaemin, however, strolled into the room with terrifyingly calm grace. He leaned over the foot of the bed, his eyes scanning the two of them with a slow, smug grin. He noticed the faint, fresh marks on Y/N’s collarbone that Jeno hadn't quite managed to hide.

"So," Jaemin purred, looking at Jeno.

"I take it the 'fuck buddy' contract has been terminated? Or are we just in the middle of a very intense... business meeting?"

Jeno didn't even look annoyed. He just pulled Y/N back against his chest, his arm locking around her waist in a blatant display of possession. "Get out, Jaemin. And Haechan, if you do that dance one more time, I'm throwing you off the balcony."

"He’s back!" Haechan yelled, pointing a finger at Jeno. "The territorial growl! The Doberman is fed and happy!"

Haechan then turned to Y/N, his eyes sparkling with mischief.

"So, Y/N, as the official representative of the 'I-Told-You-So' committee... how was the 'transaction' last night? Did he give you a discount for being Mark’s cousin?"

"Haechan!" Mark yelled, finally uncovering his eyes to shove Haechan toward the door.

"Stop! Don't make it weirder than it already is!"

"It can't get weirder, Mark!" Haechan cackled, resisting the shove. "Jeno has a hickey on his neck the size of a postage stamp! Y/N, I didn't know you were a carnivore! I guess the quiet ones really do bite back."

Y/N hid her face in Jeno’s chest, her muffled voice coming out in a groan. "I hate all of you. Every single one of you."

"Don't worry, sweetheart," Jaemin said, winking at her as he followed the others out. "We’ll leave the soup on the counter. Try to stay hydrated. Jeno looks like he’s planning on keeping you here until at least Tuesday."

As the door slammed shut and their chaotic laughter faded down the hallway, Jeno let out a long, heavy sigh against Y/N’s hair. He tightened his grip, pulling her under the covers until they were completely hidden from the world.

"They're right about one thing," Jeno whispered, his voice returning to that dark, dominant rumble that made her heart skip.

"What's that?"

"I’m definitely keeping you here until Tuesday."

All rights reserved

NOTE:

I got so excited about this and forgot about the time. I was not supposed to finish it but I did.

So surprise?

It was also supposed to be a drabble!

But.. oh well..

——————————————————————————————-

The afternoon sun filtered through the blinds of the NCT Dream dorm, casting long, honey-colored stripes across a living room that smelled faintly of laundry detergent and overpriced takeout. It was one of those rare, stolen moments of domestic chaos where the members weren’t rushing to a music show or a recording booth. Instead, they were piled onto the oversized sectional sofa like a litter of puppies, a cacophony of shouting over a video game and the rhythmic thud-thud of a stray basketball being dribbled in the hallway.

In the center of this whirlwind sat Y/N. As the group’s long-time close friend and unofficial "big sister," she was the calm eye of the storm. And right now, that eye was focused entirely on Park Jisung.

Jisung, despite being a towering presence on stage with sharp, predatory movements and a gaze that could pierce through a camera lens, was currently a folded-up origami version of himself. He was tucked into the small space beside Y/N, his long legs tangled awkwardly because he didn't quite know where to put them.

"Jisung-ah, you're hovering," Y/N teased, her voice warm. Without waiting for a protest, she reached out, grabbed his wrist, and pulled him toward her. "There’s no room on this couch because Chenle is taking up three seats. Just sit here."

Before he could process the command—his brain currently stuck in a loop of don't trip, don't be weird, don't let her hear your heart—he found himself settled firmly on Y/N’s lap.

The room went silent for a micro-second.

Jisung froze. He felt the soft fabric of her sweater against his back and the solid, grounding weight of her hands resting casually on his waist to keep him steady. His First Life energy kicked in—that pure, wide-eyed innocence that made him look like he had just arrived on Earth and was still figuring out the atmosphere. His ears, notoriously treacherous, turned a vibrant shade of sunset pink.

"Oh my god," Haechan deadpanned, dropping his game controller. "Are we actually witnessing this? The Popping God is being treated like a toddler at a daycare."

Y/N didn't even look up. She was busy brushing a stray lock of hair out of Jisung’s eyes, her touch lingering with a terrifyingly casual affection. "Look at him," she cooed, her voice dripping with that 'babying' tone that Jisung both lived for and despised. "I remember when you were just a tiny sprout. Now you’re so big, your knees are practically hitting your chin, but you’re still just my little Jisungie."

Jisung shifted, his analytical side screaming at him to find a logical exit strategy, while his emotional side was busy melting into a puddle. He wanted to be seen as a man—someone who could protect her, someone with depth and intensity—but here he was, being cradled like a prize-winning kitten.

"Noona," Jisung mumbled, his voice hitting that deep, resonant bass that usually sent fans into a frenzy, though it currently lacked any authority. "I’m too heavy. I’m literally over six feet tall."

"Shh," she said, reaching for a bowl of sliced peaches on the coffee table. She picked one up with a fork and held it to his lips. "Eat. You’ve been practicing too hard. You’re losing your cheeks."

Jisung’s eyes darted to the side. Chenle was doubled over, muffling his high-pitched cackle into a throw pillow. Jeno was wearing a grin that was far too amused for Jisung’s liking, and Jaemin was watching with an expression of pure, unadulterated jealousy.

"I wish someone would feed me peaches," Jaemin sighed dramatically, leaning his head on Mark’s shoulder. "I also practice hard. I also have cheeks."

"You have a savior complex, Nana, you don't need peaches," Haechan snapped, before turning his sights back to the main event. He leaned forward, squinting at Jisung. "Seriously, Jisung-ah, do you want us to go get your pacifier? Or maybe Y/N can sing you a lullaby before your afternoon nap? It must be so nice to be the maknae. Some of us have to actually sit on the furniture like adults."

The jealousy in the room was palpable, disguised as teasing. They all adored Y/N—she was their anchor—but the way she doted on Jisung was a special kind of torture for the rest of them.

Y/N finally looked at Haechan, a slow, witty smirk spreading across her face. "Haechan-ah," she said, her tone sharp and sweet all at once. "I’d offer you a spot, but I’m afraid the sheer weight of your ego would collapse the floorboards. Besides, I only baby the ones who are actually well-behaved. You’d probably try to pickpocket me or set the curtains on fire the moment I patted your head."

The room erupted. A series of “pfft”s echoed off the walls as Haechan clutched his chest, looking genuinely wounded by the accuracy of the remark.

"Burned," Mark whispers.

Amidst the chaos, Jisung took a quiet bite of the peach she was offering. He hated being babied. He hated that she didn't see the way his pulse spiked when she touched him, or how he spent hours thinking about the thoughtful, introspective conversations they had when they were alone. He wanted to be the one she leaned on.

But then, Y/N shifted her weight, pulling him a little closer to ensure he wouldn't slip, and rested her chin on his shoulder for a brief second to see the TV screen. The scent of her perfume—something soft and floral—surrounded him, and Jisung felt that familiar, clumsy warmth bloom in his chest.

He might be a baby in her eyes for now, and he might have just dropped his phone onto the floor for the third time today (which Renjun was currently pointing out with a loud groan), but as he sat there in the middle of the chaos, he realized he didn't mind the baby treatment quite as much if it meant he got to be the one in her arms.

He looked at the laughing faces of his friends—the jealousy, the brotherhood, the noise—and then back at Y/N, who was already reaching for another peach for him.

"Next time," Jisung thought, he was already sketching out a plan, "I’ll be the one offering the seat."

But for today? He’d just be her Jisungie.

——//

The atmosphere in the living room had shifted from chaotic to domestic, but Jisung’s internal state was a frantic mess. As the game on the screen flashed with neon lights, Y/N was mid-sentence, playfully scolding him for nearly dropping his controller for the tenth time.

"Jisungie honestly, how do you have such incredible footwork on stage but can’t hold a piece of plastic without it sliding through your fingers?" she laughed, reaching over to pinch his cheeks.

It was that specific moment of distraction that did it. Jisung, trying to readjust his seating while simultaneously reaching for his water bottle, caught his elbow on the edge of the glass. The movement was sharp and uncoordinated—pure clumsiness. The glass tipped, sending a direct wave of ice-cold water straight into Y/N’s lap and across the front of her thin cream-colored top.

"shit..”she gasped, jumping up as the fabric immediately turned translucent, clinging to her skin.

"Noona! I’m sorry, I—I’ll get a towel—" Jisung scrambled, his face flushing a deep, humiliated red.

"It’s fine, it’s fine," she said, already retreating toward the hallway. "I need to dry off before it stains. Stay there, you klutz."

She disappeared into the bathroom. Jisung sat on the edge of the sofa, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He felt like an idiot. His clumsiness was at an all-time high, but beneath the embarrassment, something else was brewing—a heavy, suffocating heat. He grabbed a handful of paper towels and followed her, driven by a mix of guilt and a desperate need to apologize properly.

The bathroom door was ajar. Jisung pushed it open slightly, the words "I'm really sorry" dying in his throat.

Y/N was standing in front of the mirror, her back to him. She had discarded her wet outer layer, leaving her in a delicate, lace-edged camisole that was damp and hugged every curve of her waist and the flare of her hips. The dim bathroom light caught the line of her spine and the softness of her skin. Her shirt clinging tightly onto her bra covered boobs.

Jisung felt the air leave his lungs. He should have looked away. He should have been the shy, polite boy everyone thought he was. But as he watched her struggle to pat the water off her shoulder, something in him took over. He stopped seeing her as the person who babied him and started seeing her as the woman he had wanted for years.

He stepped inside, the click of his slippers on the tile muffled. He was close—close enough to see the goosebumps on her arms. He felt a sharp, pulsing ache in his pants, a physical manifestation of the tension he’d been suppressing.

"I told you I’d help," he said. His voice didn't crack. It was low, steady, and held a resonance that made Y/N freeze.

She started to turn, her eyes wide. "Jisung, you should be in the—"

The space was tight. As she pivoted, her hip brushed firmly against him. She tried to steady herself, stepping back, but the movement only caused her backside to press directly against the rigid heat behind his fly.

The silence that followed was deafening.

Y/N’s breath hitched. She didn't move. She couldn't. The boy she had been feeding peaches to a week ago was gone. In his place was a wall of solid muscle and an intimidating, dark energy. Jisung didn't pull away. Instead, he leaned in, his chest pressing into her back, effectively pinning her between his body and the cold marble of the sink.

"You think I'm just a kid, don't you?" he whispered into the shell of her ear. The heat of his breath made her shiver.

He didn't wait for an answer. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his lips grazing the sensitive skin there. He started with a light, agonizingly slow kiss just below her jawline, then another, firmer one on her pulse point. He felt her heart racing—a frantic, trapped-bird flutter.

"J-Jisung..." she breathed, her hands clutching the edge of the sink so hard her knuckles turned white.

"Shh," he murmured, his voice a velvet command. He moved lower, peppering slow, deliberate kisses along the line of her neck toward her collarbone. His hands, usually so clumsy, were suddenly steady and predatory. One hand slid around her waist, pulling her flush against him so she could feel every inch of his arousal, while the other moved up, his long, elegant fingers splaying across her ribs.

He was manipulating the moment with a quiet, introverted intensity. He wasn't rushing; he was savoring the way she was trembling under his touch. His hand climbed higher until he cupped her breast through the thin fabric, his thumb finding her nipples and teasing it with a slow, agonizing pressure.

"You’re so loud for someone who’s supposed to be taking care of me," he whispered, his teeth grazing her earlobe. "Do you like this? Being the one who's helpless?"

He leaned his weight into her, letting her feel the full scale of his bulging cock against her ass. He was dominant, his shadow completely swallowing hers in the mirror. He watched her expression—the shock melting into a heavy, dazed surrender. He was playing with her, asserting a side of himself she had never been allowed to see.

Just as he dipped his head to bite softly at the junction of her shoulder and neck, the front door of the dorm slammed open.

"WE’RE BACK! Did you miss us?" Haechan’s voice boomed through the hallway, followed by the chaotic scuffle of feet and Jeno’s laughter.

The spell didn't break immediately. Jisung didn't jump back. He stayed there for three more seconds, his hand lingering on her chest, his body still pressed firmly against hers. He looked at her reflection in the mirror—his eyes dark, hooded, and entirely unrepentant.

"We aren't done," he breathed, the words vibrating against her skin.

He stepped back just as the sound of footsteps approached the bathroom. In a flash, his expression smoothed out, the intensity retreating behind a mask of youthful innocence. He reached down and picked up a stray towel from the floor, looking like the helpful, shy boy again.

"Jisung? Y/N? You guys in there?" Chenle called out, rapping on the door.

Jisung opened the door, blinking at Chenle with a perfectly practiced look of mild confusion. "Yeah. I spilled water on Noona. Just... helping her clean up."

He walked past the members without a word, his gait smooth and confident. Y/N stayed in the bathroom, staring at her reflection, her breath still ragged and her skin burning where his hands had been. She looked down at her damp shirt, realizing for the first time that the baby of the group was gone, and he had just marked her as his.

——————————————————————————————-

The dining room was a stark contrast to the heavy, electric silence of the bathroom. It was a riot of noise—the clatter of chopsticks against porcelain, the hiss of opening soda cans, and the unrelenting banter of six boys who had far too much energy. A spread of spicy fried chicken and steaming bowls of ramyun sat in the center of the table, the steam rising into the air.

Jisung sat in his usual spot, the picture of composed innocence. He was quiet, occasionally nodding at a joke Haechan made, his eyes downcast as if he were still the shy, introverted maknae they all knew. Beside him, Y/N sat rigid. Her skin was still humming from the encounter in the bathroom, her heart rate refusing to settle.

"Noona, you're not eating," Jeno noted, his eye-smile appearing as he pointed a chopstick at her untouched plate. "You're usually the first one to dive into the honey-butter chicken."

"I... I think the beer hit me faster than usual," Y/N managed to say, her voice slightly strained. She took a small, shaky sip of her drink, trying to ground herself.

Under the table, hidden by the heavy drape of the tablecloth, Jisung’s hand moved.

He didn't hesitate. There was no "clumsy" fumbling this time. His large, warm hand found the hem of her skirt, sliding upward with a terrifyingly calm precision. When his fingers made contact with the damp silk of her underwear, Y/N’s entire body jolted. She let out a muffled gasp, disguised quickly by a fake cough.

"Slow down, Noona," Haechan teased, leaning across the table. "If you're already tipsy, let us know okay?"

Jisung’s thumb found her clit. He began to rub circles, slow and agonizingly deliberate, his touch heavy and demanding. He wasn't looking at her; he was staring at his own ramyun, a small, ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. He was being a menace now, calculating exactly how much pressure it took to make her breath hitch.

Y/N felt her vision blur. The noise of the room—Chenle’s high-pitched laugh, Renjun’s bickering—became a distant hum. All she could feel was Jisung. He began to pick up the pace, his fingers working with a rhythmic, ruthless speed against her clit.

"I’m just... really sleepy," Y/N murmured, her head dropping. She covered her face with both hands, her elbows resting on the table. It was the perfect cover; to the members, she looked like a lightheaded drunk trying to keep the room from spinning. In reality, her eyes were squeezed shut, her teeth biting into her lower lip to keep from moaning.

Jisung leaned in closer to her, his shoulder brushing hers. "Are you okay, Noona?" he asked, his voice a masterpiece of feigned concern. "Do you need to go lie down?"

As he spoke, he slid two fingers inside her.

The intrusion was sudden and deep. Y/N’s hips bucked instinctively against his hand, mouth hung open, her muffled moan lost in the sound of Jaemin knocking over a cup. Jisung didn't stop. He began to pump his fingers, his movements fast and wet, the friction sending waves of unbearable heat through her. He was relentless, his knuckles grazing her as he drove her toward the edge in the middle of a crowded room.

The risk was intoxicating. The members were inches away, talking about choreography and schedules, completely oblivious to the fact that their "innocent" maknae was systematically breaking their friend down right next to them.

Jisung’s speed increased, his fingers curling inside her to find the exact spot that made her toes curl in her shoes. He was subtly shifting his body, leaning back so his cock pressed against her thigh, reminding her of what was waiting for her. He was intimidating in his silence, his dominance expressed through the sheer audacity of what he was doing.

Y/N couldn't hold on any longer. A sharp, white-hot spasm tore through her. She finally came.

She collapsed further into her hands, her body trembling violently as she came on his hand, the sensation so intense it left her lightheaded and gasping for air.

Jisung felt the rhythmic pulses of her climax, the warmth coating his fingers. He let out a low, quiet laugh—a sound that blended perfectly with the laughter of the group, though it held a much darker, more triumphant edge.

He slowly withdrew his hand. Under the table, Y/N was a mess of overstimulated nerves, her breath coming in shallow, ragged bursts.

Jisung looked around. The members were distracted by a heated debate between Mark and Haechan. With a flick of his eyes toward Y/N, he brought his hand up. He didn't reach for a napkin. Instead, he slowly, deliberately brought his fingers to his mouth.

He looked her dead in the eye, his gaze hooded and piercing, and sucked his fingers clean, one by one. The sight was devastatingly carnal—a silent claim of ownership.

He pulled his fingers away with a soft, wet sound and picked up his chopsticks as if nothing had happened.

"The chicken is really good tonight," Jisung said, his voice back to its soft, introverted tone. "Don't you think so, Noona?"

Y/N could only stare at him, her heart thudding against her ribs, finally realizing that the boy she had babied was gone, and the man who had replaced him was far more dangerous than she ever imagined.

——————————————————————————————-

The guest room was silent, the air heavy with the scent of old wood and the lingering dampness of the night. It is already 2:00 AM, and the dorm had finally succumbed to a drunken, heavy quiet. Y/N lay beneath the thin quilt, her heart still echoing the frantic thrumming from the dinner table. She thought she was alone—until the door creaked.

A tall, dark silhouette slipped inside.

"Jisung?" she whispered, her voice cracking.

"I can’t sleep, Noona," he murmured. In the shadows, he looked like the boy she had always known—shoulders hunched, voice soft, a bit lost. He didn't wait for an invitation. He pulled back the covers and slid in beside her.

For a few minutes, they just lay there. He was a furnace of heat against her back, his breathing rhythmic. Then, his hand moved. It wasn't a sudden grab; it was a slow, agonizing crawl of his fingers under the hem of her oversized sleep shirt.

Y/N froze. It’s just an accident, she told herself. He’s just restless. But then his thumb began to draw slow, hypnotic circles on the small of her back. The skin-to-skin contact was electric, sending a jolt of pure adrenaline through her nervous system. Slowly, his hand ascended her spine, his fingers dancing over each vertebra until they reached the clasp of her bra.

Snap.

The sound was sharp, final. Before she could gasp, Jisung’s demeanor shifted with the speed of a predator. He grabbed her shoulder and flipped her onto her back with a strength that left her breathless. The "innocent" boy was gone. His eyes were dark, hooded, and entirely unyielding.

Without a word, he ducked his head beneath her shirt. The heat of his mouth against her breast was a shock that made her back arch. He wasn't gentle. He sucked and bit at the sensitive nipples, his tongue rough and demanding.

"J..Jisung, w-wa... wait..we s-shouldn't..." she whimpered, her hands coming up to push at his shoulders.

He let out a low, manipulative whine, a sound of mock-frustration that vibrated against her skin, but his grip on her waist only tightened, his fingers digging into her hips. When she tried to move again, he lunged upward, pinning both of her wrists above her head with a single large hand.

"Shut up," he commanded. The voice wasn't his usual bass; it was a cold, demeaning growl that sent a shiver of terror and desire straight down her spine. "I’m tired of being your baby. You’re going to stay still and take this."

He crashed his lips against hers, a bruising, possessive kiss that tasted of suppressed years of want. He was an alpha in the dark, his body heavy and suffocatingly masculine. When he broke the kiss, he moved to her neck, marking her with deep, angry bruises that would be impossible to hide.

"Don't move," he hissed against her pulse point.

He stripped her with a clinical, aggressive speed.

Jisung kneeled and began to strip, showing his toned body to her.

He pulls her shorts and underwear off, not breaking the eye contact. Y/N was so scared to move or to say anything.

The Jisung in front of her isn’t the one she babied anymore.

This is the Jisung who is scary and dangerously dominant.

He moved between her legs, and spat on his hand.

Pumping himself as he aligns his huge cock on her hole.

The sheer size of him made her eyes wide with a new kind of panic.

It was so huge that it almost didn’t fit. Luckily, she was gushing of wetness.

He didn't tease. He drove into her in one deep, forceful motion, his face contorting with a mix of pain and primal triumph, letting out a “fuck”.

The missionary position was brutal. He leaned his full weight onto her, his sweat dripping onto her chest, his thrusts slow and so deep they felt like they were reaching her soul. He watched her face, his expression mean and focused, enjoying the way she fell apart beneath him.

Then, he wanted more.

He scooped her up, his dancer’s strength making her feel weightless and vulnerable. He carried her to the large floor-to-ceiling window. The streetlights below cast a pale, sickly glow over her naked skin. He pressed her against the cold glass, the contrast of the freezing pane and his searing body making her gasp.

"Look," he whispered in her ear, his hand gripping her jaw to force her to look out at the empty street. "Anyone could see you like this. My Noona... looking like a mess for me."

He began to fuck her again, standing up, his arms hooked under her thighs as her legs dangled uselessly. Each thrust was a deliberate, slow invasion. He was trying to feel every inch of her, his movements rhythmic and punishing. She was completely exposed to the world, held only by the man who had spent his life pretending he didn't want to break her.

He plays with her clit as he bounced her onto his humungous cock, biting her shoulders as he stops himself from cumming too quickly.

He gave her a quick weirdly angled kiss before he slammed her back against the wall, the thud echoing in the small room. Her body was like a rag doll for him. She was being tossed around.

But it felt deliciously good.. Jisung’s cock filled her so good that she’s almost crossed eyes at how delicious Jisung was pumping his huge cock in and out of her.

Until Jisung was nearing the end.

His breath coming in jagged, hot bursts.

"Jisung, p—please," she begged, her head lolling back, sweat rolling down her face..

"D—Don't... don't cum i-inside. P-Please."

A dark, sexy laugh escaped him—a sound that was entirely devoid of the shy boy. He didn't slow down. He accelerated, his body hitting hers with a rhythmic slap that was deafening in the silence.

"You want my kids," he growled, his voice thick with a terrifying certainty. He gently bites down her neck.."You want everyone..” he punctured every thrust with his words “to know ..” ..”you belong to me."

His voice was too rasped, cussing as he finally came. Hot cum filling inside her and she screams, cumming along him.

He didn't pull out. He surged forward one last time, pinning her to the drywall as he emptied himself inside her. He let out a low, guttural groan, his forehead dropping onto her shoulder as his body trembled with the force of the release. He pulls out his sofrening cock.

The silence that followed was heavy. The only sound was their synchronized, ragged breathing. Jisung’s skin was slick with sweat, his body radiating a heat that felt like a fever. After a long moment, he didn't pull away with a joke or a blush. He simply scooped her up again and walked into the attached bathroom.

He set her in the tub and turned on the warm water, the steam beginning to fill the room. He was silent, his movements efficient as he used a cloth to clean the evidence of his aggression from her thighs. He didn't look like a cute baby anymore; he looked like a man who had finally claimed what was his.

He looked up at her, his eyes finally softening, though the intensity remained.

"I’ve spent three years watching you treat me like a child," he said, his voice level and raw. "Do you understand now? I don't want a noona. I want you."

Y/N stares at her face for a long time.

He stares back.

Y/N reached out, her fingers trembling as she touched his wet hair. The fear had faded into a deep, grounding realization. "I understand, Jisung."

"I love you," he said. It wasn't a sweet confession; it was a statement of fact, heavy and demanding. "And if you ever try to baby me in front of them again, I’ll remind you of this night until you can't walk."

"I… I love you too," she whispered.

Jisung let out a long breath, finally leaning his head against the edge of the tub. He reached out and took her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles—clumsy and shy for a fleeting second, before his grip tightened, reminding her exactly who was in control.

He smiles towards her and she smiles back and stared at each other for a long time.

Now they would have to think about a way to explain things to his hyungs.

SONG RECO: INSOMNIA - Haechan

NOTE: lemme be honessst… this has been sitting on my notes for 5 years and and and I only modified some things because basically, I didn’t know that the members would all grow up like this (help). I added things here and there to make it better. But here!!! I’m half asleep rn I’m so sleepy.. I’m so tired. I worked my ass to finish this huhu

I hope you all like it!

I haven’t proof read anything. Because I’’ so sleddpy

This is a continuation of the preview.

Please enjoy ;)

ʕ⁠っ⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠ʔ⁠っ ♡ ʕ⁠っ⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠ʔ⁠っ ♡ ʕ⁠っ⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠ʔ⁠っ ♡ ʕ⁠っ⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠ʔ⁠っ ♡ ʕ⁠⁠•⁠ᴥ⁠•⁠ʔ

The party at Jaemin’s house was exactly what you’d expect from a frat-adjacent bash hosted by a guy whose parents clearly had old money and zero oversight on their resumes. The bass was vibrating the expensive crown molding, and the air smelled like a mix of high-end cologne and cheap citrus-flavored regret.

Haechan was already three nursing majors deep into a conversation about the structural integrity of the human ribcage—or something equally ridiculous that he was using to make them laugh. He looked effortless, leaning against the back of the big sofa, his tan skin glowing under the dim LED strips. He was in his element: the social chameleon, the guy who could talk his way into a vault and make the guards thank him for the intrusion.

Then, Y/N walked in.

She wasn’t trying. That was the most annoying part for everyone involved. She was wearing something that should have been casual, but on her, it looked like a provocation. She moved with that fierce, don't-mess-with-me intensity that had been forged in the fires of her past, yet she was laughing at something Jisung had said, her whole body shaking with the force of it.

"Holy—" Chenle stopped mid-sip of a drink that probably cost more than a textbook. "Is it just me, or did Y/N actually decide to become a lethal weapon tonight? She looks incredible."

"She looks like she’s going to break someone’s heart and then send them the medical bill," Renjun remarked, though even he looked slightly impressed. He nudged Haechan hard in the ribs with his elbow. "Hey genius. Your best friend is currently turning the entire living room into a group of neck-sprain victims. You seeing this?"

Haechan didn’t even look up from the girl he was currently "charming" with a story about a fake cat he supposedly owned. "I see a girl who probably spent forty minutes trying to find her keys before leaving the house," he said, his voice flat and bored. "She’s just Y/N. If she’s a lethal weapon, she’s a butter knife. Blunt and mostly used for toast."

"You’re a terrible liar," Mark muttered, adjusting his Student President persona to a concerned friend. "The guy by the speakers has been staring at her for ten minutes straight. You don't care?"

"Why would I care?" Haechan asked, finally turning his head just enough to catch a glimpse of Y/N across the room. He caught her eye for a split second—a spark of mutual, long-standing irritation passed between them—and he immediately looked away, yawning. "I have my own demographic to attend to."

Enter Na Jaemin.

If the room was a solar system, Jaemin was the sun that everyone—planets, moons, and space debris alike—wanted to crash into. He was undeniably the prettiest man on campus, a jock with the face of a Renaissance painting and the personality of a very friendly, very confused golden retriever. He had that classic dual-personality energy—on one hand, he was the most dedicated worker you’d ever meet, a guy who had literally rebuilt his own physical strength through sheer, stubborn willpower after a back injury that would have sidelined anyone else. On the other hand, sometimes he’s total weirdo… which is probably why Y/N dated him.

Jaemin navigated the crowd, moving with a grace that was only slightly undercut by the fact that he stopped to stop for a second and smack Jeno’s shoulder as he passed. He was a creature of comfort and skinship, a philanthropic soul who would give you the shirt off his back but might also try to wear your hat while he did it.

"Y/N!" Jaemin’s voice boomed over the music. He navigated to her like a heat-seeking missile and immediately draped an arm over her shoulder, pulling her into his side. "You look like you need a drink that doesn't taste like battery acid. I made a special batch of peach tea in the kitchen. No booze, just vibes."

He leaned down, his nose grazing her temple for a second—the infamous Jaemin scent-check—and smiled. It was the kind of smile that made people forget he had cheated on her two years ago. They were "friends" now, a dynamic that Y/N handled with her typical I-survived-worse resilience.

Moving to the "VIP” table (which was just a couch Chenle had claimed), the commentary began.

"Oh, look at that," Renjun said, his voice loud enough to carry over the bass. "Jaemin’s doing the arm drape. Classic. I bet they’re back together by midnight."

"They look good together," Chenle added, glancing sideways at Haechan, who was currently staring intensely at his phone. "Very aesthetic. Very power couple. I might bet five hundred that they leave together."

"I’d take that bet," Mark piped up, playing along. "The chemistry is undeniable. It’s like they never broke up."

Haechan finally snapped. He stood up, abandoning the nursing majors without a second thought, and marched over to where Y/N and Jaemin were "flirting"—which mostly consisted of Jaemin showing her a high-res photo of a stray cat he’d photographed that morning.

"You’re standing in the way of the airflow, Jaemin," Haechan said, sliding between them with the tactical precision of a riot cop. "And Y/N doesn't like peach tea. It gives her... thoughts."

Y/N arched a perfectly groomed eyebrow. "It does not give me 'thoughts,' Haechan. And since when are you the beverage police? Go back to your fan club."

"I'm protecting the public," Haechan retorted, his low voice vibrating with a sarcasm that didn't quite hide his annoyance. "If you drink that, you'll start laughing at his jokes, and once you start laughing, he’ll try to cook for you. We all remember the Great Risotto Incident of Sophomore Year. I’m saving your life."

"He’s being sweet, Haechan," Y/N said, deliberately stepping closer to Jaemin. "Unlike some people who act like they’re being paid to be a nuisance."

Jaemin, completely oblivious to the tension, just beamed at both of them. He reached out and patted Haechan’s cheek, then did the same to Y/N. "You guys are so loud. It’s cute. Like two squirrels fighting over a nut." He then leaned in and whispered something into Y/N’s ear that made her let out a genuine, unapologetic laugh.

"Come on," Jaemin said, grabbing Y/N’s hand. "I want to show you that new lens I got. It’s upstairs away from the noise. I’ve been practicing my lighting."

"Oh, for the love of—" Haechan started, but Y/N was already being led away.

As they ascended the stairs toward the bedrooms, Y/N looked back over her shoulder. She didn't blow a kiss; she didn't wink. She just gave Haechan a look that said, 'Try and stop me.'

Haechan stood at the base of the stairs, his jaw tight. He looked like he wanted to follow them, then like he wanted to set the house on fire, then finally settling on a look of profound indifference that fooled absolutely no one at the table behind him.

"So," Chenle called out, his voice dripping with malice. "About that five hundred dollars..."

"Shut up, Chenle," Haechan snapped, his eyes still glued to the spot on the landing where Y/N had vanished. "I'm just worried she'll break his camera. She's clumsy. It's a liability issue."

"Sure, Haechan," Mark smiled

"Liability. That’s definitely what it is."

⍝ʕ´•ᴥ•`ʔ⍝ ⍝ʕ´•ᴥ•`ʔ⍝ ⍝ʕ´•ᴥ•`ʔ⍝ ⍝ʕ´•ᴥ•`ʔ⍝ ⍝ʕ´•ᴥ•`ʔ⍝ ⍝ʕ´•ᴥ•`ʔ⍝

Downstairs, Haechan was putting on a clinic in Performative Indifference. He had successfully convinced a group of nursing majors that his name was "Donghyuck, the world’s only professional professional," but his eyes were darting toward the staircase every time a floorboard creaked.

"So," one of the girls said, leaning in, "do you usually spend the whole party checking the structural integrity of the second floor, or am I just that boring?"

Haechan didn’t miss a beat. He gave her that crooked, heart-thief smile that usually worked like a charm. "I'm just waiting for the exact moment the bass drops so I can manifest a pizza. It’s a specialized skill."

"He’s actually just waiting for his ego to come back down the stairs," Renjun shouted from the sofa, where he was currently holding Chenle’s hair back while the younger boy tried to invest in a houseplant by pouring expensive cider into its pot.

"Renjun, shut up and go back to being the group’s resident gargoyle," Haechan retorted, though his knuckles were white where he gripped his soda. He hadn't touched a drop of alcohol. He was a creature of logic and calculation—the kind of person who needed to be two steps ahead of everyone else, and you couldn't do that if your brain was swimming in Jaemin’s Special Peach Tea. He was a strategist by nature, someone whose mind was a labyrinth of wit and observation, yet here he was, being outmaneuvered by a guy who had literally just spent five minutes sniffing a sofa cushion because it smelled like memories.

An hour passed. Two. The nursing majors eventually realized they were competing with a ghost and migrated toward the dance floor.

"Text from the boss," Renjun announced, holding up his phone. "Y/N says she’s staying late. Tells us to head to her apartment and let ourselves in. The code is still the same."

"Still late?" Mark asked, looking genuinely concerned. "It’s 2 AM. Jaemin’s parents are literally in Switzerland. Do we think—"

"We think they’re catching up on 'cinematography,'" Chenle cackled, finally letting go of the plant. "Five hundred dollars, Haechan. Just admit she’s finally fallen for the pretty-boy jock again. He has a back injury to protect, he needs someone to carry his tripod!"

Haechan stood up so fast his chair screeched. "I’m going. Not because I care, but because Y/N’s apartment has better snacks and I refuse to pay for an Uber alone."

The scene at Y/N’s apartment three hours later was a masterpiece of college-life tragedy. Chenle was sprawled across the rug, clutching a throw pillow like it was a long-lost lover. Jisung, being the tallest, was draped over the armchair like a discarded coat, snoring in a way that sounded like a broken radiator. Mark and Renjun had managed to make it to the guest bed, leaving the living room a graveyard of exhausted bodies.

Haechan was the only one awake. He sat on the kitchen counter, illuminated by the hum of the refrigerator, staring at the front door. He felt like he was losing his mind. His brain—that sharp, tactical instrument—was currently running 4,000 simulations of what was happening at Jaemin’s, and 3,999 of them ended with him throwing a toaster into a lake.

Then, the jiggle of keys.

The door swung open, and Y/N stumbled in. She wasn't just party tired. She was "I-can-smell-the-tequila-from-here" drunk. She was swaying, her hair a wild halo of messiness, her heels dangling from one hand.

Haechan stood up, his face set in a scold that had been simmering for hours. "Oh, look who decided to grace us with—"

"Haechan-ie!" she chirped, her voice three octaves higher than usual. She lunged forward, not so much walking as falling in his direction.

He caught her, the scent of expensive perfume and cheap agave hitting him like a physical blow. He felt her heat—that fierce, radiant energy she always carried, now turned up to a fever pitch by the alcohol.

"You’re a mess," he hissed, trying to keep his voice down so he didn't wake the sleeping giants in the living room. "Where’s Jaemin? Did he drop you off like a sack of potatoes or did you walk?"

"He’s... he’s sleeping," she mumbled, her head lolling onto Haechan’s chest. "I took a taxi. I’m a responsible... adult. A sexy, responsible adult."

"You’re a liability," Haechan grumbled, but his hands were surprisingly gentle as he steered her toward her bedroom. He was annoyed, yes, but beneath that was the fierce protectiveness that had defined their friendship since the locker incident. He hated seeing her like this—vulnerable, blurred at the edges.

He pushed her bedroom door open with his foot and maneuvered her onto the bed. She groaned, rolling onto her back.

"I'm gonna puke," she announced to the ceiling.

"Don't you dare. This rug cost more than my car," Haechan said, quickly grabbing a basin from the bathroom. He returned to find her trying to peel off her top, her movements clumsy and frustrated.

"It’s stuck," she whined, looking at him with big, watery eyes. "Haechan, help. It’s tight. I can’t breathe."

Haechan froze. The tactical part of his brain—the part that knew exactly how to talk to girls—suddenly short-circuited. He was tan, he was hot, he was the guy girls whispered about, but right now, his heart was drumming against his ribs like a frantic bird.

"Fine," he muttered, closing his eyes for a second to center himself. "I'm helping. Just... stay still."

He reached out, his fingers trembling slightly as he worked the zipper of her dress. He tried to look at the wall, at the posters, at the ceiling—anywhere but the smooth, golden skin of her back. He managed to slide the fabric down her arms, his breath hitching as his knuckles grazed her shoulder blades. He was trying to be the "best friend," the "protector," the "sober one," but the proximity was lethal.

"Turn around," he commanded, his voice lower and raspier than usual.

She turned, her face inches from his. Her eyes were glazed but intense. "You’re so pretty, Haechan," she whispered, reaching up to poke his nose. "Why are you so pretty and so..mean?"

"It’s a brand," he said, trying to pull a clean t-shirt over her head.

Suddenly, she reached back, unhooking her bra through the loose fabric of her dress before he could stop her. She tossed it toward the chair with a wild girl flourish and then, before Haechan could even process the movement, she grabbed both of his hands.

With a strength fueled by intoxication, she pulled his palms directly onto her bare chest.

Haechan’s brain didn't just short-circuit; it exploded.

The contact was electric. He could feel the frantic beat of her heart beneath his palms, the soft, warm curve of her, and the sudden, overwhelming realization that she wasn't just "the girl who called out his bullshit." She was everything.

"See?" she murmured, her eyelids drooping. "Loyal. My heart... is loyal."

Haechan sat there for a full minute, his hands still hovering in the air where she had pulled them. He let out a breath he felt like he’d been holding since high school.

Haechan was paralyzed. A very real, very undeniable physical reaction was making itself known in his jeans—a betrayal of his own body. He was flustered, his face heating up to a shade of red that would have put Renjun’s temper to shame. He wanted to pull away; he wanted to never move again.

But then, her hands relaxed. Her head fell back against the pillow, her breathing evening out into the heavy, rhythmic cadence of sleep. She was out.

"You’re going to be the death of me," he whispered to the quiet room.

He didn't take advantage. He didn't linger. With a shaking hand, he finished pulling the oversized t-shirt over her, tucked her under the duvet, and placed the basin on the floor next to her. He stood up, adjusted his clothes with a wince of discomfort, and walked out of the room, closing the door softly.

He didn't go back to the kitchen. He didn't wake the guys. He collapsed onto the tiny, uncomfortable loveseat in the corner of the living room, staring at the ceiling. His body was wired, his mind was a chaotic mess of "What if" and "How dare she," but he stayed there.

Because as much as he was a notorious fuckboy, a tactical genius, and a witty Gemini, he was, above all, hers. Even if he wasn't ready to say it out loud yet.

———-

The sun was Y/N’s personal enemy. It filtered through the blinds like a laser beam specifically calibrated to melt her brain.

She groaned, her hand wandering over the duvet to find her phone, but she stopped mid-reach. Something was off. Specifically, her clothes. She was wearing an oversized t-shirt that definitely wasn’t the dress she’d worn to Jaemin’s. And—she poked her chest—she was definitely missing a structural layer of support.. She doesn’t have her bra.

Then, it hit her. Not the whole memory, but a jagged, high-definition shard of it.

Haechan’s hands. Warm. Large. Her own voice mumbling something about a “loyal heart” while she practically forced him into a physical examination of her anatomy.

Y/N sat up so fast her vision blacked out for a second. “Oh my god,” she whispered into the empty room. “I didn’t. I couldn't have.”

But she did. She remembered the look on his face—that rare, wide-eyed flicker of genuine shock that stripped away the fuckboy armor he wore so well. She remembered his tan skin looking almost flushed under her bedroom light.

She crawled out of bed, moving with the grace of a newborn giraffe, and cracked the door open.

The living room was a scene of devastation. Chenle was currently using a pizza box as a pillow. Mark was asleep sitting up, his head tilted back at an angle that looked medically impossible for a student president. Renjun was awake, staring at a wall with a cup of coffee, looking like he was contemplating the heat death of the universe.

And there was Haechan.

He was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, scrolling through his phone. He looked infuriatingly good for someone who had slept on a two-person loveseat. His tan skin was glowing in the morning light, and he was already dressed in a fresh hoodie, looking sharp, while everyone else looked like they’d been through a blender.

Y/N took a deep breath, channeled her inner fierce protector,and stepped out.

“If anyone speaks louder than a whisper, I’m suing for emotional damages,” she announced, her voice scratchy but still carrying that signature bite.

The sound of her voice made Haechan’s thumb freeze on his screen. He didn't look up immediately. He took a slow, deliberate sip of whatever was in his mug before finally meeting her eyes.

“Look who’s alive,” he said. His voice was lower than usual—that gravelly, morning register that usually made people lean in. “I was about to check if we needed to call a priest or a hazardous waste team.”

Y/N marched into the kitchen, ignoring the way her heart was currently trying to tap-dance its way out of her ribs. She grabbed a glass and filled it with water, standing just a little too close to him. Her intuition was screaming. He was acting normal—too normal. For a guy who usually didn't let her live down the "bunny panties" incident, he was being suspiciously quiet about her midnight antics.

“Where’s Jaemin?” she asked, mostly to see if he’d twitch.

Haechan’s jaw tightened, a micro-movement only she would notice. “Probably still in his darkroom, developing photos of his own ego. He sent a text. Said thanks for the ‘help’ last night.”

He finally looked her up and down, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second on the oversized shirt—which, she now realized, was his shirt that she’d swiped from his gym bag months ago.

“Nice outfit,” he remarked, his voice dropping to a velvety smirk. “It looks better on you than it does on me. Though, to be fair, you were a little... aggressive about the wardrobe change last night.”

Y/N’s face went from pale to nuclear red. “I was drunk. I don’t remember anything.”

“Really?” Haechan leaned in, the scent of his cologne—something woody and expensive—filling her senses. He was using that dual-natured charm, the one where he looked like he was about to tell a joke but his eyes were saying something much more intense. “Nothing at all? Not even the part where you insisted on a… physical demonstration of your loyalty?”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she lied, her voice an octave too high.

From the floor, Chenle suddenly bolted upright. “Did someone say loyalty? Is that a new crypto-currency?”

“Go back to sleep, Chenle,” Renjun snapped without moving his head. “Haechan’s just being a menace. Like every other day that ends in 'y'.”

Haechan didn't pull away. He stayed in Y/N’s personal space, his eyes searching hers with a terrifyingly sharp intelligence. He was calculating her reaction, watching the way her pulse jumped in her neck. He knew she remembered. And she knew he knew.

“You’re a terrible liar, Y/N,” he whispered, so low the others couldn't hear. “But don't worry. Your secret is safe with me. Mostly because I’m still trying to figure out if I should charge you for the therapy I’m going to need.”

“You loved it,” she hissed, her unapologetic wit finally kicking back in. “Admit it. It was the highlight of your year.”

Haechan let out a short, dry laugh, but he didn't deny it. Instead, he reached out and flicked a stray hair away from her forehead. His fingers lingered for just a second too long on her skin—a touch that was far too deliberate for just best friends.

“Keep telling yourself that,” he said, sliding past her to wake up the rest of the group. “Now, move. I’m hungry, and since you tried to assault me with your ‘loyalty’ last night, you’re paying for the hangover breakfast.”

As he walked away, swatting Jisung’s dangling leg to wake him up, Y/N watched him. She saw the way he walked—confident, attractive, and entirely too aware of the power he had. She knew he was hiding something behind that witty banter, something that had kept him awake on that sofa while she slept.

The tension in the room was thick enough to cut with a knife, but as always, they masked it with chaos.

“Haechan!” Mark groaned from the chair. “Why are you so loud?”

“Because the world needs to know I’m a survivor!” Haechan shouted, throwing a cushion at Mark’s face. “Y/N tried to kill me with her bare hands last night! It was traumatic!”

Y/N rolled her eyes, grabbing a pillow to join the fray. “I should have finished the job!”

They were back to the love-hate, the banter, and the "just friends" routine. But as Y/N caught Haechan’s eye across the messy living room, she saw a flicker of that flustered boy from the bedroom—and she knew, for the first time in years, the tactical genius had finally lost his edge.

———

The group migrated to The Grease Pit, a diner whose primary purpose was serving high-sodium solutions to people who had made questionable life choices the night before.

Renjun sat at the head of the table like a judge presiding over a particularly messy divorce. Mark was nursing a black coffee as if it were holy water, while Chenle was busy trying to convince a unimpressed waitress that they needed a private booth for "confidential business negotiations." Jisung was just trying to keep his head upright, his long limbs tucked awkwardly under the small table.

“So,” Renjun began, tapping his spoon against the ceramic mug with a rhythmic, threatening clack. “Let’s review the timeline. Y/N leaves with Jaemin to ‘look at lenses.’ Haechan spends the next two hours looking like he’s about to fight the concept of photography itself. Then, Y/N shows up at the apartment at 3 AM wearing Haechan’s shirt, and Haechan looks like he’s seen a ghost—or a very tan angel.”

Haechan, who was currently dissecting a pancake with the surgical precision of a man who didn't want his hands to shake, didn't look up. He was leaning into that classic "AB" temperament—cool, rational, and completely unpredictable. To anyone else, he looked bored. To Y/N, who could smell his tactical deflection from across the table, he looked like he was vibrating on a frequency of pure stress.

“It’s a vintage shirt, Renjun. I was being a good friend and providing a textile-based service to someone who smelled like a tequila distillery,” Haechan said, his voice dropping into that smooth, effortless register that usually shut people up.

“You hate sharing clothes,” Jisung mumbled, squinting through the sunlight. “Last week you almost bit Chenle’s hand off because he touched your hoodie.”

“Chenle’s hands are covered in expensive lotions and ego; they leave stains,” Haechan shot back.

“And what about the ‘lenses’?” Chenle leaned in, his eyes bright with mischief. “Y/N, did you actually see any cameras, or was Jaemin just practicing his ‘caring nature’ on you? I hear he’s very... affectionate when he’s reflecting on his photography.”

Y/N slammed her water glass onto the table, her intuition flaring. She saw the trap. If she defended Jaemin too much, Haechan would get that weird, sharp edge to his wit. If she didn't, the guys would never let it go.

“Jaemin showed me his portfolio from his volunteer trip,” Y/N said, her voice loud and unapologetically steady. “He’s dedicated to his craft. He spent forty minutes explaining the lighting on a stray cat in a back alley. It was actually very sweet. And yes, he did the nose-smell thing. It’s part of his charm.”

“He smelled you?” Haechan’s fork scraped loudly against his plate. He finally looked up, his eyes narrowing. “For forty minutes?”

“I’m very fragrant, Haechan. Deal with it,” she retorted.

“And then?” Mark asked, trying to be the diplomatic student president but failing to hide his grin. “How did we get from Jaemin’s cat photos to you stumbling into the apartment and... well, whatever happened in your room?”

The table went silent. Even the sound of the diner’s griddle seemed to quiet down.

Y/N felt the ghost of Haechan’s hands on her skin from the night before. The memory was a hazy, terrifying blur of heat and vulnerability. She looked at Haechan, expecting him to throw her under the bus with a witty comment about her "loyalty demonstration."

Instead, Haechan did something unexpected. He leaned back, draped an arm over the back of his chair, and gave the group a slow, devastatingly attractive smirk. It was his "fuckboy" shield—the mask of the guy who didn't care about anything.

“What happened,” Haechan said, his voice dropping an octave, “is that Y/N realized she can’t handle her liquor, and I realized I’m a saint. I had to peel her off the ceiling. She tried to tell me I was pretty—which, obviously, I am—and then she fell asleep mid-sentence. It was tragic. I basically did community service.”

He was lying. He was lying through his teeth to protect her from the embarrassment of the bra incident. He was being tactical, using his reputation as a flirt to make the whole thing sound like just another "Haechan handles a girl" story.

“You’re a saint?” Renjun scoffed. “You’re a menace who happened to be in the right place at the wrong time.”

“Believe what you want,” Haechan shrugged, though Y/N noticed his foot was tapping a frantic rhythm against the leg of the table. He looked at her then—a brief, intense look that bypassed the banter and hit her right in the gut. It was a look that said, 'You owe me,' but also, 'Are you okay?'

“Anyway,” Y/N cut in, her fierce protectiveness rising to the surface to shield them both. “The only thing you guys should be worried about is the fact that Chenle is currently trying to pay for this breakfast with a rewards card for a jewelry store he doesn't own.”

“It’s a platinum card!” Chenle protested, successfully diverting the attention of the group as they began to bicker over the bill.

The tension broke, replaced by the usual chaotic noise of their friendship. But as the breakfast continued, Y/N felt a strange weight in the air. She watched Haechan—the guy who knew exactly how to woo girls, the guy who was notorious for his fleeting connections—and realized he hadn't made a single joke about her underwear all morning.

He was being quiet. Reflective.

When they finally left the diner, Haechan lingered by the door, waiting for Y/N to catch up. The rest of the guys were already heading toward Mark’s car, arguing about whose turn it was to pick the playlist.

“Hey,” Haechan said, his voice low enough that only she could hear.

“Hey,” she replied, bracing herself for a witty insult.

“The shirt,” he said, not looking at her. “You can keep it. It’s a good look for a ‘loyal’ person.”

He didn't wait for her to answer. He turned and walked toward the car, his hands shoved in his pockets, his tan skin catching the light. He looked like the same old Haechan—the witty, intelligent, slightly annoying best friend.

But Y/N stood on the sidewalk, the morning air cool against her skin, and realized that for the first time in years, her bullshit detector was silent. Because there was no bullshit in what just happened. There was just a very loud, very terrifying silence that felt a lot like something they weren't supposed to be obvious about.

——-

Three days had passed, and the air between Haechan and Y/N was vibrating like a high-tension wire in a thunderstorm.

They were in Y/N’s kitchen. Technically, Haechan was "helping" her fix a leaky faucet, mostly because he’d claimed he was a mechanical prodigy and she’d called him a useless pretty face. Now, he was sprawled on his back under the sink, his tan legs sticking out, while Y/N sat on the counter above him, eating chips and narrating his failures.

"You know, for a tactical mastermind, you've spent ten minutes swearing at a washer the size of a Cheerio," Y/N said, crunching loudly.

"The washer is a sociological metaphor for your personality, Y/N," Haechan’s voice echoed from the cabinet, muffled but still carrying that bourbon-smooth resonance. "Small, stubborn, and currently making my life a living hell."

"I'm not the one who told the nursing majors I was a 'professional professional,'" she shot back, grinning. "How’s that going, by the way? Did the one with the blonde highlights ever text you back?"

There was a loud clank of metal on metal. Haechan slid out from under the sink, his hair a mess, a smudge of grease across his cheekbone. He looked infuriatingly attractive. He sat up, resting his elbows on his knees, and looked at her with that dual-natured gaze—one part playful, one part terrifyingly sharp.

"She did," he said, his voice dropping into that low, flirtatious register he usually reserved for targets. "But I told her I was busy performing emergency surgery on a kitchen sink. She found it heroic. I found it a tragedy that I’m spending my Friday night with a girl who smells like sour cream and onion."

Y/N rolled her eyes and hopped off the counter, landing inches away from him. Her intuition—that sharp, bullshit-detecting radar—tripped. He was using the banter as a shield. He was leaning into the "fuckboy" persona because the alternative was acknowledging the fact that he was currently wearing the same shirt she’d slept in three nights ago.

"You're a liar, Lee Haechan," she said, leaning over him to grab a paper towel. "You're not busy. You’re just bored because your usual tricks aren't working."

She reached out and wiped the grease off his cheek.

The movement was too domestic. Too quiet. Haechan froze. His breath hitched—a tiny, microscopic sound that made Y/N’s heart do a violent somersault. He looked at her, and for a second, the witty, tactical genius was gone. In his place was the guy with the rare blood type—the one who was a rational alien one minute and a deeply eccentric, sensitive soul the next.

"You're still wearing my shirt under that," he noted, his voice barely a whisper.

"It's comfortable," she countered, her fierce protective wall crumbling just a little. "And it’s technically mine now. Squatter's rights."

"Is that right?" Haechan stood up slowly. He was taller than her, and in the small space of the kitchen, he felt massive. He stepped into her personal space, his chest almost brushing hers. "You take my clothes, you take my Friday night, and you assault me with 'loyalty' speeches while you're drunk. You're a very expensive friend, Y/N."

"Then stop hanging out with me," she challenged, her voice trembling just enough to be dangerous. "Go find a nice nursing major who won't make you fix her sink."

Haechan’s eyes darkened. He reached out, his hand hovering near her waist, before he took a detour and grabbed the bag of chips next to her.

"I would," he said, the witty mask sliding back into place like a visor. "But who would protect the world from your fashion choices if I wasn't around? Those bunny panties aren't going to mock themselves."

"I will actually kill you," she breathed, but she didn't move away.

"You'll try," he smirked, leaning down until his lips were inches from her ear. The heat radiating off him was making her head spin. "But we both know you'd miss me too much. I'm the only one who knows exactly how you like your coffee and which of your fierce looks is actually just you being hangry."

He pulled back, giving her a wink that was so obnoxious it almost hurt. He was acting cute—that specific, calculated aegyo that usually annoyed their friends to death. But standing this close, watching the way his eyes crinkled, Y/N realized that when he didn't try to be cute, he was actually devastating.

"Get out of my kitchen," she said, pushing his chest.

"I'm going, I'm going," he laughed, grabbing his tools. He walked toward the door, but stopped, looking back at her. "By the way, Y/N?"

"What?"

"The sink is still leaking. I didn't actually fix it. I just wanted to see if you'd keep feeding me chips if I stayed under there long enough."

"HAECHAN!"

She threw the crumpled paper towel at him, and he ducked out of the door, his laughter echoing down the hallway.

Y/N stood in the silent kitchen, the sound of the dripping faucet the only thing breaking the quiet. The unspoken things were no longer just loud; they were screaming.

And from the hallway, she heard him shout back, "I'll be back at eight for the 'loyalty' sequel! Don't wear the shirt—I want it back!"

———-

The bar was called The Velvet Underground..

A dim, wood-paneled hole-in-the-wall that smelled of expensive scotch and secrets. It was a far cry from Jaemin’s neon-soaked frat house. Here, the lighting was amber and low, casting long, flickering shadows over the leather booths.

"I'm bored," Chenle announced, swirling a drink that probably cost more than the table it sat on. "And when I'm bored, I become a menace to society. Let's play Truth or Dare. But college rules. No what's your favorite color bullshit."

Renjun leaned back, crossing his arms. "The last time we played this, Mark ended up trying to lead a protest in a chicken suit. I'm in."

Haechan sat opposite Y/N, his thumb tracing the rim of his glass. He looked devastating in the low light—the shadows accentuated the sharp line of his jaw and the honey-tan of his skin. He had that dual-natured air about him tonight; one second he was laughing at Jisung’s height, the next he was staring into the middle distance with a cold focus that made him look completely untouchable.

"Hyung.. Truth or Dare?" Chenle smirked, eyeing Haechan,his eyes gleaming with the predatory instinct of a bored billionaire.

Haechan didn't blink. "Dare. Obviously. I have no truths worth telling you people."

"Fine," Chenle’s grin widened. "I dare you and Y/N to go into that supply closet behind the bar for seven minutes. No phones. No lights. Just... mutual irritation."

The table went quiet. Mark shifted uncomfortably, his instincts screaming bad idea, while Renjun just raised an eyebrow, clearly checking his watch.

Y/N felt the air leave her lungs. Her intuition—that sharp, internal radar—was screaming that this was a trap. But she was Y/N. She didn't back down. She didn't show fear. She survived childhood trauma and habitual heartbreak; she could survive seven minutes in a closet with a guy who knew exactly how to ruin her.

"Fine," Y/N said, standing up and sliding her chair back with a loud thud. "But if he tries to do that cute voice, I’m coming out early and I’m bringing a lawsuit."

Haechan stood up, his movements fluid and predatory. "Don't flatter yourself, little miss bunny. I need the break from your shouting anyway."

——-

The closet was tiny. It smelled of floor wax, cedar, and Haechan’s woody, citrusy cologne. When the door clicked shut, the darkness was absolute.

Y/N backed up until her spine hit a shelf of industrial-sized detergent bottles. She could hear Haechan’s breathing—steady, rhythmic, and entirely too close.

"Five square feet," Haechan’s voice cut through the dark. It was lower than usual, vibrating in the small space like a cello string. "Technically speaking, this is a nightmare. I can't even move my arms without hitting you."

"Then don't move," Y/N snapped, though her heart was hammering against her ribs so hard she was sure he could hear it. "Just stand there and be a 'professional professional' for six more minutes."

"You're shaking," he noted.

"I'm cold."

"Liar."

She felt him move. The air shifted, and then he was there—a solid, warm presence looming over her. He didn't touch her, but the proximity was electric. He was using that unpredictable, eccentric energy of his; one second he was the annoying best friend, and the next, he was the guy who had held her heart in his hands three nights ago.

"You remember the bedroom, don't you?" he whispered. His voice was a weapon—sexy, low, and terrifyingly intimate. "You remember what you did with my hands."

"I was drunk, Haechan. It didn't mean anything."

"Your heart was beating exactly like it is right now," he countered. He reached out, his fingers finding her jaw in the dark. His skin was warm, his touch surprisingly steady. "Is that a lie, too? Is your heart a deflection?"

"Shut up," she breathed, her fierce exterior finally cracking.

"Make me."

It wasn't a slow build-up. It was a collision.

Haechan crashed his lips against hers with a hunger that had been simmering for years under the guise of "best friends." It wasn't cheesy; it was desperate. It was the sound of two people finally stopping the bullshit.

He tasted like whiskey and heat. His hands found her waist, pulling her flush against him until there wasn't a single millimeter of air left between them. Y/N wrapped her arms around his neck, her fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as if she could merge with him.

He groaned into the kiss, a low, guttural sound that sent a jolt of pure electricity down her spine. His tongue swept against hers, dominant and sure, claiming her in a way that made her knees go weak. He was a notorious fuckboy, a master of fleeting connections, but this felt like an anchor. It was fierce, intense, and unapologetically wild.

Haechan’s hands slid down to her hips, lifting her slightly until she was pinned between the shelves and his body. He was hard—undeniably, painfully hard—and he didn't try to hide it. He pressed into her, his kisses moving to the sensitive skin of her neck, his teeth grazing her pulse point.

"Seven minutes isn't enough," he hissed against her skin, his breath hot. "I’m going to lose my mind."

Y/N pulled his face back to hers, her eyes searching his in the sliver of light coming from under the door. "Then lose it," she whispered. "I've been waiting for you to stop being a goddamn bitch."

The next five minutes were a blur of friction and muffled gasps. They made out with a ferocity that felt like a long-overdue storm. It was messy, it was hot, and it was the most honest they had ever been with each other.

Click.

The door swung open.

Renjun stood there, looking at his watch. "Time’s up. If you're dead, I’m not carrying the bodies."

Haechan and Y/N stepped out.

To the casual observer, they looked normal. But to their friends, who were currently staring at them like they were under a microscope, something had shifted.

Y/N’s lipstick was slightly smudged, her hair a little too voluminous. Haechan was adjusting his hoodie, his face a mask of bored indifference, but his ears were a bright, tell-tale crimson.

"So?" Chenle leaned forward, grinning. "Did you kill each other?"

"Almost," Y/N said, sliding back into her seat and immediately grabbing a handful of nuts like her life depended on it. "He tried to explain the plot of a documentary about ants. I nearly choked him."

"It’s an award-winning documentary!" Haechan shouted, his voice regaining its usual annoying pitch. He sat down, not looking at her, but his foot immediately found hers under the table, hooking around her ankle. "She has no appreciation for the natural world. It’s a tragedy."

"You two are exhausting," Mark sighed, looking relieved.

The game continued. The banter returned. To the world, they were still the love-hate best friends who would never, ever work out. But as Y/N felt the heat of Haechan’s leg against hers, she knew the silent things were no longer silent. They were a roar.

And Haechan? He just took a sip of his drink, his eyes gleaming with a new, dangerous secret.

————

The goodbyes were a chorus of lingering jokes and the sound of car doors slamming. Chenle had been poured into a car, still insisting he could buy the bar if they didn't stop playing peasant music,and Renjun had given Haechan a look that suggested he knew exactly how much of a saint Haechan wasn't.

Finally, the street was quiet, save for the hum of the city and the idling of Haechan’s car.

"Get in," Haechan said, his voice dropping into that low, resonant frequency that always felt like it was vibrating directly against Y/N’s skin. "Before you decide to walk home and get into a fight with a trash can."

"I'm a survivor, Lee. The trash can wouldn't stand a chance," Y/N shot back, but she slid into the leather passenger seat.

The interior of the car felt like a different world. The dashboard lights cast a soft, clinical glow over Haechan’s tan skin, highlighting the concentrated, tactical focus in his eyes. He didn't pull away immediately. He sat there, hands on the wheel, his knuckles white. The rational, calculating side of his temperament was clearly warring with the chaotic, eccentric energy that usually dictated his more notorious impulses.

He drove in silence for three blocks before he swerved into a dark, secluded side street near her apartment complex, killing the engine with a suddenness that made the air in the car feel twice as thick.

"The sink is still leaking," he said, his voice barely a whisper, yet loud enough to fill the space.

"I know," she replied, her heart hammering.

"And you're still wearing my shirt."

"I told you. Squatter's rights."

Haechan turned in his seat, his eyes searching hers with that uncanny, dual-natured intensity. One second he looked like the boy who used to tease her about her bunny panties; the next, he looked like a man who was done pretending. He reached out, his index finger caressing her lower lip, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw with a possessive, heavy heat.

"I’m tired of being tactical, Y/N," he murmured.

He didn't wait for her to call his bullshit. He pulled her toward him, and this time, the kiss wasn't just desperate—it was a declaration. It was deep, raw, and tasted of the whiskey they’d shared and the years they’d spent acting like they didn't want to tear each other’s clothes off.

Y/N climbed over the center console, her movements fierce and unapologetic, landing in his lap. The car was cramped, the leather groaning under them, but neither of them cared. She was magnetic, a force of nature fueled by the darkness she’d survived, and Haechan was the only one who knew how to handle that kind of intensity without breaking.

His hands were everywhere—mapping the curves of her body through the oversized hoodie, his touch large and warm against her skin. He was a master of the game, a man who knew his way around every girl on campus, but with Y/N, his usual fuckboy polish was gone, replaced by a frantic, genuine need.

"H—Haechan," she gasped, her head falling back as his lips found the sensitive hollow of her throat.

"I’ve got you," he rasped, his sexy voice vibrating against her skin.

He slid his hand beneath the hem of the hoodie, his fingers grazing the skin of her thigh, moving upward with a practiced, predatory grace. He wasn't being the cute best friend now; he was being the rational alien who knew exactly which buttons to press to make her lose her mind.

Until his hand went south.

When he found her clit, she was already slick, her body betraying the cool exterior she tried so hard to maintain. Haechan let out a low, triumphant sound—a mix of a growl and a laugh—as he slipped his fingers inside her.

Y/N arched against him, her fingers digging into his shoulders, her breath hitching in a series of sharp, vocal gasps. He was slow at first, rhythmic and deliberate, his thumb working in a way that made her vision blur at the edges. He was watching her, his eyes dark and focused, observing every shiver and every muffled moan like a scientist studying a beautiful, chaotic reaction.

"Tell me," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear as he increased the pace. "Tell me who's being tactical now."

"Shut... up," she managed, her eyes fluttering shut. "Just... don't stop."

He didn't. He used his fingers with a lethal precision, his touch firm and knowing, driving her toward a ledge she’d been hovering over for years. Every thrust of his hand was a reminder of their love-hate history—the fights, the loyalty, the shared secrets, and the undeniable magnetism that had finally snapped.

“Fuck baby.. you’re so tight”, Haechan sighs, watching her as he continues to fuck her with his fingers.

Y/N’s world narrowed down to the sensation of him—his heat, his scent, and the overwhelming friction of his fingers inside her. She felt the climax building like a tidal wave, fierce and unstoppable, until she finally broke. She cried out his name, her body shuddering in his arms as the waves of pleasure crashed through her, leaving her breathless and clinging to him like he was the only solid thing in the universe.

Haechan held her, his heart racing against her chest, his own breathing ragged. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, inhaling the scent of her, his hand slowly coming to a rest as she softened against him.

The car was silent again, save for the distant sound of a siren and their synchronized, heavy breathing. The "unspoken" things weren't just loud now; they were the only thing left.

Haechan pulled back just enough to look at her. He reached up and wiped a stray tear from her cheek—not a sad one, but the kind that comes from a release of years of tension. He looked flustered, his usual mask completely shattered, but he still managed a small, crooked smirk.

"So," he whispered, his voice still thick with desire. "Does this mean I don't have to fix the sink tomorrow?"

Y/N let out a wet, genuine laugh, her whole body shaking. She hit his chest weakly. "You're still a dick, Lee Haechan."

"Yeah," he said, pulling her back into a soft, surprisingly tender kiss. "But I'm your dick. And don't you forget it."

He didn't make it obvious. He didn't say the word "love." But as he started the car to finally drive her the last few yards to her door, his hand remained firmly on her knee, and for once, neither of them was looking for a way out.

———

The morning sun hit Y/N’s apartment with a level of disrespect that only 9:00 AM on a Saturday could manage.

Y/N was in the kitchen, aggressively attacking a bag of coffee beans, when the front door code chirped. In walked the four horsemen of her impending migraine: Mark (carrying a box of donuts like a peace offering), Renjun (looking like he was ready to fight the sun), Chenle (complaining about the thread count of the spare pillows), and Jisung (tripping over his own feet).

“Why are you all here?” Y/N asked, her voice a scratchy, loud boom. “Do you not have homes? Do you not have families who miss you?”

“We’re here to witness the aftermath,” Chenle said, hopping onto her kitchen island like it was his personal stage. “Renjun and I have a bet going on whether you and Haechan finally killed each other in that car ride home, or if you just sat in a heavy, pathetic silence.”

“It was silence,” a voice smooth as velvet and twice as dangerous rang out from the hallway.

Haechan appeared, leaning against the doorframe of the bathroom. He looked incredibly, unfairly put together. His tan skin was glowing, his hair was perfectly messy, and he was wearing a fresh shirt—though Y/N noticed it was the same brand he’d been wearing the night before. His "AB" nature was on full display: cool, detached, and playing the role of the rational observer while his eyes flickered with a hidden, electric intensity.

“She spent the whole ride complaining about the humidity,” Haechan lied, sliding into the seat next to Chenle. He reached out and snagged a donut, his fingers nimble and steady. “I almost dropped her off at a 24-hour car wash just to see if the cold water would reset her personality.”

Y/N didn't even look at him. She couldn't. If she looked at him, she’d see the guy who had been breathing her name into her neck eight hours ago. Instead, she channeled her survivorenergy.

“I was complaining about your driving, Haechan. You take corners like you’re trying to escape a crime scene,” she snapped, finally turning around with a pot of coffee.

“I’m not so sure about that.. You guys didn’t fuck or anything right? Haha”, Chenle joked, giving both of them knowing looks.

“I wouldn’t touch her even with a ten foot pole. And by the way, I take corners with precision,” Haechan denied, then suddenly shifted gears. He put on a high-pitched, pouty voice, blinking his long lashes at her. “But Y/N-nie is so mean to meeee! Why does my best friend hate me so much? I just want a tiny sip of coff-eeeee!”

“Oh my god, stop,” Renjun groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Haechan, you are literally twenty-one years old. You are not cute. You look like a golden retriever with a head injury.”

“He’s doing it again,” Jisung whispered, terrified. “The aegyo. It’s a biohazard.”

Haechan didn’t stop. He leaned toward Y/N, his lower lip jutting out in that calculated, "cute" way that usually made her want to throw a shoe at him. He’s literally making a diversion so that he could steer away his friends from grilling them about fucking.

“Pleeaaaase? Just one sip? For your favorite person in the whole wide woooorrrllld?”

Y/N felt a spike of heat that had nothing to do with the coffee. She knew what he was doing. This was his cover. He was acting like the annoying, "acting-cute-to-piss-you-off" best friend so the guys wouldn't notice the way he was actually eyeing her collarbone.

“If you don't shut your mouth, I will fill it with literal grounds,” Y/N said, pushing a mug toward him with enough force to make the liquid splash. “And stop doing that face. You look like a dehydrated raisin.”

“Ouch,” Haechan said, dropping the act instantly. He took a sip of the coffee, his sexy, low voice returning. “Your kindness is a deliberate act of defiance, isn't it? Just like we discussed.”

Mark looked between them, his intuition tingling. “You guys are being… weirder than usual. Did something happen in that closet? Besides the ant documentary?”

Haechan didn’t even flinch. He was a master of distraction. He reached out and casually ruffled Y/N’s hair—a move that was classic 'best friend' but felt like a brand on her skin.

“Nothing happened, Mark. We just realized we both hate the same things. For example, your sweater vest,” Haechan said, pointing at Mark’s chest.

“Hey! This is a classic!” Mark protested.

“It’s a cry for help,” Chenle added, and just like that, the conversation veered into a chaotic debate about Mark’s fashion choices.

Under the table, out of sight of the boys, Haechan’s foot found Y/N’s. He didn't just hook her ankle this time. He slid his foot up her calf, a slow, deliberate caress that made her breath hitch.

Y/N glared at him, but he was busy laughing at something Renjun said, looking for all the world like he didn't have a care in the universe. But as he laughed, his thumb—resting on the handle of his mug—was trembling just a fraction.

And as she kicked him under the table, hard enough to make him hiss "Ouch!" while maintaining his smirk, she realized the bullshit was finally gone. They weren't just best friends anymore; they were two people standing on the edge of a cliff, pretending they weren't about to fall.

“So,” Chenle said, looking at the two of them. “Who’s coming to the beach house next weekend? Jaemin said he’s bringing his new underwater camera.”

Haechan’s eyes snapped to Y/N’s. The "love-hate" look was back, but there was a new, dangerous layer underneath it.

“I’m in,” Haechan said, his voice dropping an octave. “I’ve been meaning to see if Y/N can actually swim, or if she just floats like a piece of drift-wood.”

“I’ll drown you,” she promised, her heart racing.

“I’d like to see you try,” he winked.

——-

The beach house was a sprawling, glass-fronted masterpiece perched on a cliffside that looked like it belonged in a luxury travel magazine. Naturally, it was Jaemin’s.

The group was currently scattered across the private cove. Jaemin, true to his eccentric nature, was waist-deep in the surf wearing a full wetsuit and a pair of high-end goggles, trying to take emotive underwater photos of a very confused crab. Renjun was sitting under a massive umbrella, looking like a Victorian widow mourning the concept of fun, while Chenle was trying to teach Jisung how to "properly" sabre a bottle of champagne with a credit card.

“He’s going to drown that crab,” Y/N muttered, squinting at Jaemin’s neon snorkel. She was lounging in a black bikini, looking radiant and fiercely attractive—a fact she remained blissfully unaware of as she focused on her annoyance.

“He’s documenting the crustacean experience, Y/N. Show some respect for the arts,” Haechan’s voice rumbled beside her.

He was stretched out on the lounge chair next to hers, his tan skin glistening with salt and sun. He looked effortless, the notorious fuckboy persona dialed down into a relaxed, predator-at-rest vibe. But Y/N could see the way his eyes tracked the movement of the waves—and the way they occasionally snagged on the curve of her hip.

“You’re just glad he’s busy so you don't have to explain why you’re still wearing my sunglasses,” she shot back, reaching over to snatch them off his face.

Haechan caught her wrist mid-air. His grip was firm, his thumb grazing the sensitive skin of her pulse point. The playful banter died in her throat. The "unspoken" things from the closet and the car weren't just loud anymore; they were a physical weight between them.

“I’m going up to the house to get a real drink,” she said, her voice a bit too sharp. “This sun is making me hallucinate that you’re actually tolerable.”

“I’ll come,” Haechan said, standing up with a fluid grace that made Mark, who was passing by with a tray of fruit, pause.

“You guys okay?” Mark asked, looking between them. “You look like you’re about to fight. Again.”

“Always, Mark,” Haechan smirked, but his eyes never left Y/N. “It’s the only way she knows how to communicate. It’s charming, really.”

——

The house was empty. The rest of the guys were staying by the water, and the silence of the high-ceilinged living room felt like a vacuum.

Y/N didn't even make it to the kitchen. She was halfway across the hallway when a hand clamped around her waist and hauled her backward. She was spun around and slammed against the cool, white wall, the air leaving her lungs in a sharp gasp.

Haechan didn't look like the "cute" best friend anymore. He looked like the mastermind who had finally cornered his target. His eyes were dark, a storm of dual-natured intensity that made her knees turn to water.

“No more jokes,” he rasped, his sexy voice vibrating against her skin. “No more 'bunny panty' bullshit. No more pretending I’m not losing my goddamn mind over you.”

He didn't wait for her to answer. He claimed her mouth with a ferocity that was almost violent, his hands gripping her thighs and hiking her up until she had to wrap her legs around his waist to stay upright. He moved her like she weighed nothing, manhandling her through the nearest door—a guest bedroom—and kicking it shut behind them.

He didn't put her on the bed gently. He threw her onto the mattress and followed her down, his body a heavy, tan-skinned weight that pinned her effortlessly.

“Haechan,” she breathed, her fierce soul meeting his intensity head-on. She wasn't scared; she was electrified. She wanted the roughness. She wanted the truth of him.

He was relentless. He stripped her with a frantic, rough energy, his hands possessing every inch of her as if he were finally claiming territory he’d been eyeing for years. When he entered her, it wasn't a slow, romantic glide; it was a hard, deep thrust that made her back arch and a jagged cry escape her lips.

“You’re mine,” he hissed into her ear, his teeth grazing her lobe. “Tell me you know it.”

“I... know,” she gasped, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back, drawing blood as he increased the pace.

He was rough, his movements powerful and unapologetic. He used his strength to move her, flipping her over, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand while the other mapped the curve of her spine. He was a notorious fuckboy for a reason—he knew exactly how to drive a woman to the edge—but with Y/N, it felt like he was trying to drive himself there, too.

The heat in the room was suffocating. Every time she tried to speak, he silenced her with a kiss that tasted like desperation and salt. He was teasing her, pausing just when she was about to break, his eyes searching hers with a cruel, beautiful intelligence.

As they reached the peak, Haechan’s grip on her wrists tightened. He leaned down, his sweat dripping onto her skin, his breathing a series of ragged, guttural hitches.

“I could,” he whispered, his voice a low, dangerous growl against her temple. “I could stay right here. I could finish inside you and make sure you never think about Jaemin or anyone else ever again. Should I, Y/N? Should I leave my mark?”

Y/N’s head thrashed against the pillow, her body a live wire of pleasure. “Haechan... please...”

He leaned in, the tension in his body screaming as he hovered on the absolute edge. He let out a low, frustrated sound, his self-control winning by a fraction of a millimeter. At the last possible second, he pulled out, his release hitting her skin in a hot, frantic rush as he collapsed against her, his heart hammering like a drum.

They lay there for a long time, the only sound the distant crash of the waves and their synchronized, desperate breathing.

Haechan finally pulled back, looking down at her. His hair was a mess, his tan skin flushed, and for the first time in their entire history, he looked completely vulnerable. He reached out and tucked a damp strand of hair behind her ear.

“You’re a nightmare, Y/N,” he murmured, his voice returning to that soft, bourbon-smooth register.

“And you’re a disaster,” she whispered back, a small, genuine smile breaking through her exhaustion.

He laughed—a real, unapologetic laugh—and kissed her forehead. He didn't say he loved her. She didn't say it back. But as he pulled the duvet over both of them, his arm draped possessively over her waist, the silence between them was finally, blissfully, honent.

——

The sun was dipping below the horizon, painting the sky in violent shades of bruised purple and gold, by the time Haechan and Y/N descended the wooden stairs back to the cove.

The air was cooling, but Y/N felt like she was still radiating heat. She had done her best to scrub the just manhandled glow off her skin, but her lips were a tell-tale swollen pink, and her legs felt like they were made of overcooked noodles. Beside her, Haechan was the picture of AB-blood-type serenity. He’d swapped his shirt for a fresh linen one, and his brain was back online, his face a mask of cool, bored indifference.

The boys were gathered around a bonfire that Chenle had probably paid a local professional to start, given how perfectly it was burning.

"Oh, look who decided to rejoin the mortal realm," Renjun said, not even looking up from the stick he was using to poke at a marshmallow. "We were about to send a search party, but then we figured you'd just gotten stuck in a loop of insulting each other's ancestors."

"The ice machine was acting up," Haechan said, his voice as smooth as the scotch in Jaemin's hand. He sat down on a driftwood log, leaning back with a casual confidence that didn't betray the fact that he’d spent the last two hours being anything but cool. "It took a while to convince it to cooperate. I had to use my charm on the kitchen appliances since Y/N's personality was scaring them."

"Two hours?" Jaemin asked, tilting his head. He was still in his wetsuit, his hair damp and messy, looking like a literal sea god. He leaned over and did his trademark move—a quick, quirky sniff of Haechan’s shoulder. He paused, his nose wrinkling. "You smell like... expensive hotel soap and a very specific brand of sea-salt spray. Which is weird, because we're at a beach, but you smell like fresh sea-salt spray."

Haechan didn't flinch, but Y/N saw the muscle in his jaw jump. "It's called hygiene, Jaemin. You should try it sometime instead of smelling like a wet otter."

"And you," Chenle pointed a glowing marshmallow at Y/N. "You look like you just ran a marathon. Your hair is doing a thing. A very... bird's nest thing."

"I took a nap," Y/N snapped, her fierce intuition kicking in to cover her tracks. She sat down as far from Haechan as possible, which was her first mistake. "The sun gave me a headache. Unlike some people, I don't have an ego to keep me upright 24/7."

"A nap?" Mark asked, looking between the two of them. His brain was clearly running the numbers. "In the same house? While Haechan was 'fixing the ice machine'?"

"He's a loud worker, Mark. It's hard to sleep when someone is narrating their own 'mechanical genius' to a refrigerator," she shot back, grabbing a drink from the cooler.

The silence that followed was heavy with suspicion. The boys weren't stupid. They had watched this love-hate tennis match for years, and the atmospheric pressure around the two of them right now was high enough to cause a weather event.

"Anyway," Jaemin said, breaking the tension by pulling out his camera. "I got the shot. The crab looked very pensive. I think it’s a Gemini. Very dual-natured. Very 'I'm going to pinch you but I also want a snack.'"

Haechan let out a dry laugh. "Sounds like someone I know."

"If you're talking about me, I'll pinch your throat," Y/N muttered, but she couldn't hide the small, private spark in her eyes when she finally caught Haechan’s gaze across the fire.

He didn't wink. He didn't make it obvious. He just held her stare for a second—a look that was dark, possessive, and entirely too knowing—before turning back to tease Jisung about his fear of seagulls.

The night went on, filled with the usual chaos—Chenle trying to buy a boat on his phone (that was questionable.. but oh well), Renjun threatening to throw the marshmallows into the ocean, and Mark trying to organize a "bonding" campfire song.

As the fire died down to embers, the group started heading back up to the house. Haechan lingered, waiting for Y/N to finish packing up her towel.

"Hey," he whispered, his sexy voice barely audible over the waves.

"What?" she asked, not looking up.

"Your 'nap' was very loud," he teased, leaning down so his lips brushed the shell of her ear. "I think the ice machine was impressed."

"Shut up, Haechan," she hissed, her heart doing that familiar, frantic dance.

"Make me," he challenged, the witty, rough man from the bedroom flickering in hiseyes for a split second before the "best friend mask settled back into place.

They walked back up the beach, three paces apart, insulting each other the whole way. To the boys watching from the balcony, they looked exactly the same as they did in high school. But as Haechan reached out to "accidentally" brush his hand against hers in the dark, they both knew the game had changed forever.

The final night at the beach house was supposed to be a "civilized" goodbye dinner, but given that Chenle had discovered a vintage wine cellar and Jisung had managed to accidentally set a decorative driftwood centerpiece on fire, "civilized" was a distant dream.

By 1 AM, the house was a graveyard of empty bottles and exhausted bodies. Mark and Jaemin were passed out on the deck chairs, and Chenle was somewhere in the kitchen trying to explain the stock market to a very sleepy Jisung.

Haechan and Y/N had vanished ten minutes ago.

They were in the laundry room—a choice by Haechan, who argued that "no one ever looks for anything productive like clean towels at 1 AM." He had Y/N hoisted up on the humming dryer, her legs wrapped tightly around his waist, the vibration of the machine adding a low-frequency hum to the friction of their bodies.

It was rough, urgent, and fueled by the frustration of having to play "just friends" all evening. Haechan’s hands were clamped onto her hips, his fingers digging into her skin with a possessive strength that left no room for doubt. He was manhandling her with a focused, dark intensity, his kisses biting and deep.

"You... were... flirting with the bartender... earlier," Haechan rasped between heavy, jagged thrusts, his voice a low growl of possessive irritation.

"He was... nice," Y/N gasped, her head hitting the wall behind her with every rhythmic movement. "Unlike... you."

"I'll show you nice," he hissed, his grip tightening as he drove into her, the rough edge of his temperament taking over. He was teasing her, his thumb pressing into her hip bone, his eyes locked onto hers with a look that said he was seconds away from breaking his own rules.

Suddenly, the heavy thud of footsteps echoed in the hallway outside.

"Haechan? Y/N?"

It was Renjun. And he sounded dangerously close.

Both of them froze. Haechan stayed buried deep inside her, his muscles locked, his forehead resting against hers as they both strained to hear through the thin door. The dryer chose that exact moment to let out a loud, high-pitched beep signaling the end of a cycle.

"I know you're in there," Renjun’s voice came from right outside the door. He sounded annoyed and suspiciously sober. "I can hear the dryer. And I know neither of you has ever done a load of laundry in your entire lives. It’s statistically impossible."

Haechan’s eyes widened, a rare flash of genuine panic crossing his face. He looked at the door, then back at Y/N, who was trying—and failing—to stifle a hysterical laugh.

"We're... looking for my favorite socks!" Haechan shouted, his voice jumping an octave into his "cute but annoying" register. "Y/N lost them! She’s a thief, Renjun! A sock thief!"

"Open the door, Haechan," Renjun said, his hand rattling the knob. "I need a towel. My drink spilled because Chenle thinks he’s a bartender."

"No!" Y/N yelled, her voice vibrating against Haechan's chest. "I’m... I’m naked! I’m changing! Haechan is just... being a pervert and won't leave!"

"I'm helping!" Haechan added, desperately trying to pull his shorts back up while Y/N scrambled to adjust her top, her face flushed a deep, tell-tale crimson.

"I’m counting to three," Renjun said, his voice dropping into that "I-will-actually-murder-you" tone he used when he was truly done with their antics. "One... two..."

Haechan scrambled to the door, leaning his back against it just as Renjun pushed. He put on his most bored, fuckboy expression, though he was breathing like he’d just run a marathon.

"Relax, gargoyle," Haechan said, cracking the door just a few inches and sticking his head out. He looked disheveled, his tan skin damp with sweat. "Y/N is having a fashion crisis. If you go in there, she’ll probably claw your eyes out. She’s very protective of her... laundry."

Renjun squinted at him, his sharp intuition scanning Haechan’s face. He looked past him at Y/N, who was now standing by the dryer, frantically folding a single damp towel with the intensity of a woman possessed.

"Why are you both sweating?" Renjun asked, his eyes narrowing. "The laundry room isn't that hot."

"It's the dryer, Renjun! Thermodynamics!" Haechan chirped, ruffling Renjun’s hair to distract him—a move that usually resulted in a fistfight.

"Don't touch me," Renjun snapped, swatting his hand away. He grabbed a towel from a basket near the door, giving them both one last, long, deeply suspicious look. "You two are the weirdest people I have ever met. If I find out you were doing something stupid like trying to see if you could fit in the washing machine, I'm leaving you both at a gas station on the way home."

Renjun turned and walked away, grumbling about Gemini energy and idiot best friends.

As soon as his footsteps faded, Haechan leaned his head against the door and let out a long, shaky breath. He turned to Y/N, who was still holding the damp towel, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

"That," Haechan whispered, his sexy voice returning as he stepped back toward her, "was way too close."

"You said you were a tactical genius," she teased, dropping the towel and reaching for the hem of his shirt.

"I am," he smirked, pulling her back into him, his hands finding her waist with that familiar, rough possessiveness. "Tactically speaking... he’s gone. And we still have five minutes before the dryer starts cooling down."

He didn't wait for her to reply. He lifted her back onto the machine, the unspoken things finally silenced by the only language they both truly understood.

The drive back from the beach house was a masterclass in atmospheric pressure. Mark, Renjun, Chenle, and Jisung were in the lead car, likely debating whether the beach house needed a professional exorcism after their stay. This left Haechan and Y/N alone in his car, the interior smelling like expensive leather, salt air, and the lingering, heavy scent of each other.

The silence wasn't the usual comfortable quiet of best friends. It was thick, humming with the frequency of everything that had happened in closets, bedrooms, and laundry rooms.

Haechan drove with one hand on the wheel, his tan fingers tapping a restless rhythm. He looked cool—the strategist back in his element—but his eyes were constantly flicking to the passenger seat. Y/N was staring out the window, her fierce profile silhouetted against the passing streetlights. She was wearing his oversized hoodie again, the sleeves swallowed her hands, making her look softer than her bullshit-detector personality usually allowed.

"You're being quiet," Haechan said, his voice dropping into that low, bourbon-smooth register that bypassed her brain and went straight to her pulse. "It’s unsettling. I feel like I should be checking for a pulse or a hidden weapon."

"I’m just thinking about how much I’m going to enjnoy not seeing your face for at least twelve hours," she shot back, but the bite wasn't there. It sounded like a reflex, a tired script they both knew by heart.

Haechan let out a dry, short laugh. He slowed the car as they entered the city, the neon signs of downtown reflecting off the windshield. "Twelve hours? You’ll be texting me by 2 AM because you can’t find your remote or you saw a spider that looked personally offended by your presence."

"In your dreams, Lee."

"My dreams are currently occupied by other things, Y/N. Things that involve laundry rooms and tactical errors in judgment."

Y/N finally turned to look at him. Her intuition—that uncanny ability to see through his masks—saw it then. The fuckboysmirk was gone. The acting cute sefense mechanism was offline. For a guy who was notorious for his fleeting connections, he looked... grounded. Heavy. Like he’d finally found something he couldn't just charm his way out of.

He pulled the car to a stop in front of her apartment building. Usually, this was where he’d make a joke about her bunny collection and speed off. But the engine stayed off. The silence in the car became deafening.

"We can't keep doing the bit, can we?" Y/N asked, her voice small but unapologetic.

Haechan leaned his head back against the headrest, staring at the ceiling of the car. He looked like the rational, AB-natured alien trying to calculate an equation that didn't have a solution. Then, he turned his head to look at her. His eyes were dark, intense, and for the first time, completely transparent.

"The bit is exhausted," he murmured. He reached out, his hand sliding across the center console to cup the back of her neck. His thumb traced the line of her jaw with a possessive, rough tenderness. "I'm a notorious disaster, Y/N. I’m an ass, I’m arrogant, and I’m probably going to annoy you for the rest of your life."

"Probably?" she whispered, leaning into his touch.

"Definitely." He pulled her closer, his forehead resting against hers. "But if you think I’m letting you go back to just best friends after this weekend... then you’re not as smart as I thought you were."

He didn't say the word "love." Heechan wasn’t like that. He is not going to give away the whole game just yet. But as he kissed her—a slow, deep, lingering kiss that tasted like a promise—the mask didn't just slip. It shattered.

"Go inside," he whispered against her lips, his voice raspy and full of an intensity that made her knees weak even while sitting down. "Before I decide the car is the next place we should check the thermodynamics of."

Y/N let out a genuine, radiant laugh. She climbed out of the car, pulling the hoodie tighter around her. She didn't look back until she reached the glass doors of the lobby.

Haechan was still there, watching her, his hand resting on the window ledge. He gave her a sharp, two-finger salute—the same one he’d used since high school—but the look in his eyes was entirely new.

She disappeared inside, her heart a fierce, loyal roar in her chest. And as Haechan drove away, he didn't turn on the radio. He just sat in the quiet, a witty, tan-skinned mastermind who had finally realized that the best move he ever made was losing the game entirely.

————

The big reveal didn't happen at a fancy dinner or a dramatic meeting. It happened because Haechan, despite being a genius(as he thought he was), forgot that Chenle had installed a smart-lock system on the Neo-Brew private backroom where the group gathered.

The boys were already there, surrounded by bubble tea and calculus homework. When Haechan and Y/N walked in, they weren't just walking close; they were tangled. Haechan had his arm draped heavily over Y/N’s shoulders, his fingers playing with a strand of her hair, while Y/N was absentmindedly leaning her head against his bicep.

The silence that hit them was louder than a gunshot.

Renjun stopped mid-sip, his eyes bugging out. Mark dropped his highlighter. Chenle slowly pulled out his phone, likely to check the exchange rate of "I Told You So" coins.

"So," Renjun said, his voice dangerously level. "The laundry was that productive, huh?"

Haechan didn't even flinch. He just pulled Y/N closer, his fuckboy mask officially retired and replaced by a smug, possessive grin. "Actually, the laundry was a disaster. But the partnership agreement has been finalized."

"Are you... together?" Jisung asked, looking like he was watching a glitch in the Matrix. "Like, holding hands, gross stuff, together?"

"Grosser than that, probably," Y/N added, her unapologetic wit cutting through the tension. She felt the heat in her cheeks but stood her ground. "And if any of you say 'I told you so,' I will personally ensure your social lives end today."

"I told you so!" Chenle shrieked, slamming a fist on the table. "Mark, pay up! Five hundred! I knew the laundry room was a den of sin!"

"We’re happy for you," Mark said, ever the diplomat, though he was handing Chenle a crumpled bill. "But please, for the love of the student body, keep the 'partnership agreement' out of the library."

And just like that, the air in the room changed. The static of years of "maybe" and "should we" finally cleared, leaving behind something vibrant and new. The tension that had once been a source of friction shifted into a steady, glowing warmth. It was a reset—a complete overhaul of their history that didn't just fix the cracks but filled them with gold. Their friendship hadn't ended; it had simply bloomed into something prettier, fiercer, and far more dangerous for everyone else's peace of mind.________________________________________

-End-

BONUS!

Haechan decided their first "official" date needed to be a masterpiece. He planned a night at a high-end, experiential rooftop restaurant that required a six-month waiting list. He wanted to show her he could be more than just the guy who teased her—he could be the guy who treated her.

It started failing the moment they arrived.

"I’m sorry, sir," the maitre d’ said, looking at Haechan’s perfectly tailored, tan-skin-accentuating suit. "We have a strict 'no-denim' policy."

Haechan looked down at his designer jeans that cost more than a fridge. "These are literal works of art. They’re a fashion statement."

"They’re pants with pockets, sir. Please leave."

Result: They ended up at a local carnival that looked like it hadn't passed a safety inspection since 1994.

"It’s... nostalgic?" Haechan tried, looking at a carousel horse that was missing an ear.

"It looks like a tetanus shot waiting to happen," Y/N laughed, grabbing his hand. "Come on, pretty boy. Let’s go on the Ferris wheel."

The Ferris wheel was fine until they reached the very top. Then, with a mechanical groan that sounded like a dying whale, it stopped. The lights flickered and died, leaving them suspended in the dark, swaying in the wind.

"Tactically speaking," Haechan muttered, clutching the safety bar, "this is not how I envisioned the evening ending."

"Are you... scared of heights?" Y/N asked, leaning in, her intuition picking up on the slight tremor in his hand.

"I am not scared. I am critically aware of the distance between us and the pavement," he snapped, his sexy voice jumping an octave.

"You're cute when you're terrified," she teased, sliding closer to him.

"I'm not cute! I'm—"

He was cut off by a sudden thump as the car swayed violently. Haechan didn't think; he lunged for Y/N, wrapping his arms around her like a shield. He was manhandling her again, but this time it was out of pure, frantic protectiveness.

"If we die here," Haechan whispered into her hair, his heart racing against her chest, "I just want you to know that the laundry room was my favorite part of the decade."

"We're not going to die, you idiot," she said, though she held him back just as tight.

Ten minutes later, the ride lurched back to life. When they finally touched the ground, they were both windblown, covered in sticky residue from a nearby cotton candy machine that had "exploded" during their wait, and Haechan had a giant grease stain on his suit.

They walked back to the car, sharing a single, lukewarm hot dog.

"Worst date ever?" Haechan asked, leaning against the driver's side door, looking disheveled and entirely too handsome.

"Absolute disaster," Y/N agreed, reaching up to wipe a smudge of pink sugar off his nose.

He caught her hand, kissing her palm. The best friend mask was gone, the "fuckboy" was retired, and all that was left was the witty, tan-skinned boy who had finally found the only person in the world who could handle his bullshit.

"Same time next week?" he smirked.

"Only if we go somewhere with a functioning exit," she laughed, pulling him in for a kiss that tasted like cheap sugar and a future that was finally, perfectly obvious.

©Jenoppang2

Recommended song: INSOMNIA - Haechan (this is fucking eargasm)

NOTE: THIS HAS BEEN SITTING ON MY NOTES FOR 5 YEARS. I was hesitant to post it because:

1. I find the plot weird and cheesy

2. I do not know what tumblr was 5 years ago.

But yeah.. here’s a sneak peak?

You judge the plot. Anw, ENJOY!

ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜.ᐟ ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜.ᐟ ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜.ᐟ ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜.ᐟ ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜.ᐟ ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜.ᐟ ദ്ദി◝ ⩊ ◜.ᐟ

The air in the Neo-Brew cafe was thick with the scent of roasted beans and the sound of Lee Haechan being an absolute menace.

“Jesus fucking Lee fucking Haechan... fucking stop!” Y/N’s voice sliced through the Krnb playing over the speakers. She didn't just push his head away; she shoved it with the palm of her hand like she was trying to reset his internal hard drive.

Haechan didn’t even stumble. He just bounced back, his lower lip jutting out in a pout that he clearly thought was devastating. When he did this—the calculated baby act—it was like watching a master class in psychological warfare. Haechan or Lee Donghyuck was tan-skinned, radiant in a way that felt unfair, and possessed a voice that sounded like expensive bourbon poured over velvet. But right now, he was just a nuisance.

“But I missed youuuu!” he whined, the pitch of his voice hitting a frequency that only dogs and annoyed best friends could hear. He lunged again, aiming a wet kiss at her cheek. “My life was a dark, hollow void for the three hours we were apart, Y/N. Admit it, you felt the shift in the Earth’s axis too.”

“The only shift I felt was my blood pressure skyrocketing,” she retorted, pivoting her chair so her back was a metaphorical brick wall. She pulled out her phone, fingers flying across the screen. “Go find a mirror to flirt with. Or a plant. I’m sure the ferns here would love to hear about your ego.”

Haechan sighed, a dramatic, lung-collapsing sound, and draped himself over the back of her chair. He was a creature of dualities—one second a tactical mastermind who could charm the security codes out of a bank teller, the next a chaotic whirlwind who didn't know when to shut up. He had that rare, unpredictable temperament—coolly rational when things went south, but hopelessly eccentric in the quiet moments.

“You’re texting that guy from the psych department, aren’t you?” Haechan’s eyes narrowed, his chin resting on her shoulder. “The one who wears vests? You can’t trust a man in a sweater vest, Y/N. It’s a red flag for ‘I have a spreadsheet of my feelings.’”

“He’s nice,” she said, not looking up.

“He’s a snooze-fest. Also,” Haechan leaned in closer, dropping his voice to that honeyed, low register that usually made girls within a five-mile radius lose their ability to blink, “does he know about the bunny panties? Because I feel like that’s a ‘third date’ confession.”

Y/N froze. The memory of Haechan walking into her room three years ago to borrow a charger—only to find her mid-outfit change, wearing a pair of high-waisted briefs with tiny white rabbits on them—flashed behind her eyes.

“I will literally end your bloodline,” she hissed, grabbing a nearby velvet cushion and slamming it into his face with the precision of a professional hitman.

“It was a cute look!” he muffled into the fabric, laughing. “Very… aerodynamic!”

They hadn’t always been this synchronized in their mutual irritation. Back in high school, Haechan had been the guy who thought he could bypass the laws of physics. Their first real encounter involved him trying to "tactically" jump a gap between two lockers to impress a girl, only to get his hoodie snagged, leaving him dangling like a confused pendulum.

Y/N, who at the time was navigating a world that felt like it was made of glass after a childhood that taught her safety was a myth, had stopped and stared. She didn't laugh. She just looked at him with an uncanny intuition that saw right through his "cool guy" facade.

“You look like a moron,” she’d said.

“I’m performing a social experiment on gravity,” he’d replied, his ears turning pink.

She’d sighed, climbed a bench, and unhooked him. She hated his arrogance, hated the way he moved like the world owed him a favor. But then he’d bought her a strawberry milk and didn't say a word when he saw her hands shaking from an anxiety spike later that week. They became a team by accident—the girl who could smell bullshit a mile away and the boy who was made of it, yet somehow always had her back.

They’d drifted a bit when college hit—Haechan becoming the campus’s most notorious "heartbreaker" and Y/N rebuilding herself into a radiant, unapologetic force of nature—but they always ended up back in the same orbit.

⍝ʕ´•ᴥ•`ʔ⍝ ⍝ʕ´•ᴥ•`ʔ⍝ ⍝ʕ´•ᴥ•`ʔ⍝ ⍝ʕ´•ᴥ•`ʔ⍝ ⍝ʕ´•ᴥ•`ʔ⍝ ⍝ʕ´•ᴥ•`ʔ⍝

The chime above the cafe door rang, and the rest of the circus arrived.

Renjun walked in first, looking like he was already planning the funeral of whoever spoke to him first. Behind him was Chenle, who was currently complaining about the low-quality leather in his latest sports car, followed by Jisung, who looked like a very tall, very lost baby bird in a vintage NASA sweatshirt. Bringing up the rear was Mark—the student president, the golden boy, the only person in the group who actually looked like he had his life together.

“If I see one more public display of Haechan being a leech, I’m calling animal control,” Renjun said, dropping into the chair next to Y/N. He glared at Haechan. “Sit up straight. You’re embarrassing the table.”

“I’m showing affection!” Haechan protested.

“You’re showing a lack of boundaries,” Chenle added, sliding a gold credit card onto the table as if it were a coaster. “Y/N, do you want me to buy you a new best friend? I saw a guy in the business lounge who looked much more stable.”

“Please,” Y/N sighed. “Make it a two-for-one deal.”

Haechan clutched his chest. “Ouch. My heart. It’s physically breaking. Mark, tell them I’m a delight.”

Mark smiled, that earnest, 'I-have-a-4.0-GPA' smile. “You’re… a lot, Haechan. But hey, you’re our a-lot.” He clapped his hands together, shifting into president mode. “Anyway, Jaemin’s parents are out of town. The frat is throwing a bash at their place tonight. Massive sound system, questionable punch, the works.”

Haechan’s eyes lit up. The tactician in him was already calculating. He leaned back, the fuckboy smirk returning to his lips. “A party? Excellent.. I’ve been meaning to expand my horizons. There’s a group of nursing majors who haven't been exposed to my charms yet.”

“Translation: he’s going to strike out with three girls and then spend the rest of the night eating Jaemin’s snacks,” Y/N muttered, finally putting her phone away.

“Watch me, little miss bunny panties,” Haechan winked, his voice dropping an octave. “I’ll be the life of the party. You, meanwhile, will probably be found in a corner psychoanalyzing the DJ.”

“Better than being the guy the DJ has to kick out for trying to request his own covers,” she shot back.

They stared at each other for a beat too long—a silent, buzzing contest of wills. To the outside world, it looked like they were one second away from a fistfight. To their friends, it was just Tuesday.

“I’m going,” Y/N said, grabbing her bag. “But only because I want to see you get rejected in person. It’s my favorite sport.”

“It’s a date!” Haechan chirped, knowing full well that calling it a "date" was the fastest way to get her to throw her latte at him.

She didn't throw the latte. She just rolled her eyes and walked out, her laughter echoing back from the street—loud, bright, and fierce. Haechan watched her go, his smirk softening for a fraction of a second into something dangerously close to genuine, before he turned back to the guys.