kat

You have been waiting for this moment for months, even years. You are finally moving out. It is because of college, but still, it is a new beginning far from home — a brand-new chapter in your own space. A mix of excitement and nervousness settles in your chest, because living alone requires a lot of responsibility, and you are not sure if you are ready to handle it all.

For the past five minutes, you have been staring at the mountain of boxes crammed into the trunk and backseat of your car like a game of Tetris. You are wondering how you are going to carry so many boxes up to the third floor where your apartment is. With a deep breath, you finally grab one of the boxes, and immediately stagger under its weight.

"Maintenance. Sorry for the inconvenience" reads the sign taped to the elevator doors.

Drops of sweat form on your temples, down the back of your neck, and pool on your spine, making your shirt stick to your skin. Of course it would be hot as hell on the day of your move, and of course the elevator wouldn't be working — talk about lucky.

You take another deep breath, hug the box against your chest, and begin climbing the stairs slowly, careful not to lose your balance.

Your arms are trembling and your breathing is almost as heavy as the box by the time you finally reach the first floor, forcing you to set it down for a moment to rest. But just as you pick it up again, mentally preparing for the next flight of stairs, the sound of footsteps coming down from above catches you off guard.

A man is coming down the stairs. He’s tall, wearing a button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, revealing the prominent veins on his forearms. His jaw is sharp — probably sharper than any knife you’ve ever seen. He looks so put-together that you suddenly feel embarrassed by your sweaty face and disheveled state.

Seeing you, he stops immediately, his eyebrows furrowing with mild concern. "Whoa. Let me help you with that." His voice is low and smooth, the kind of voice that sends a shiver down your spine before you can stop it.

You blush, heat rising from your neck to your cheeks. "Oh, you don’t have to. I can manage—"

"I insist," he replies gently, waiting with his hands hovering, giving you the choice. You let him take the box, and the relief is immediate — your arms practically sing in gratitude. He lifts it as if it weighs nothing, cradling it against his chest with just one arm — the same box you were struggling to carry with both. "I’m Jay, by the way."

You quickly wipe the sweat from your forehead and try to fix your hair because you want to look at least a little presentable for the incredibly good-looking man helping you. "Thank you so much. I’m y/n. I’m moving in today, to apartment 3B."

Jay’s expression softens, and a warm smile spreads across his face. "3B? That’s interesting. I live right next door, in 3A." He nods toward the stairs. "Looks like we’re neighbors." He gestures ahead. "After you."

You both climb the remaining stairs together and your heart still pounding. You can’t tell if it’s from the physical effort earlier or from his company. Because of the nerves, the words start tumbling out before you can stop them.

"I’m starting college this week. I got accepted and everything, and I was so excited when I found this apartment. It’s the first time I’ve ever lived away from home, so I’m really thrilled… but also kind of terrified? Like, what if I get lost on campus? What if my classes are way harder than I expected? I brought way too much stuff, I’m kind of attached to my things, you know?" You let out a breathless laugh. "Sorry, I’m probably talking too much. I get really chatty when I’m nervous."

Jay glances at you as you walk, the box still balanced effortlessly in his arms. He doesn’t look annoyed — in fact, he seems amused, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You’re not talking too much. It’s a big change, but you’re doing great."

You bite your lower lip, watching him as you climb. There is something intriguing about him that sparks your curiosity. "And you? Are you a student too, or…?"

He chuckles softly, shaking his head. "No, I’ve already graduated. I work at a company downtown." He says it casually, offering no further details — which only makes you even more curious.

You reach the landing of the second floor and have to stop to catch your breath, while Jay doesn’t even seem slightly winded — it’s honestly impressive. "My parents helped me pack my bags, but they’re hours away now. It’s exciting, though. New city, new people. I just hope I don’t ruin everything."

"You won’t," Jay says gently. "Everyone feels like that at the beginning. The nervousness is normal. Besides, you seem like you have a good head on your shoulders. You’ll find your rhythm." He sets the box down carefully in front of your door. "Ready for another round?"

The words hit you like a spark. "Ready for another round." And before you can help it, your mind immediately drifts, imagining Jay on top of you, his strong body pressing you into the mattress, that same low voice murmuring the question against your neck while his hands pinned your wrists above your head. Heat flooded your face and settled lower in your belly.

You quickly shake your head, trying to push the thought away, desperately hoping your blush isn't too obvious. "Yes, let's do it."

He carries the rest of the boxes for you, going up and down the stairs multiple times. Meanwhile, you keep rambling nonstop about what you are studying, where you are from, and how you are feeling about this new phase of your life. He listens as if he genuinely cares, and even though you can’t quite place the age difference between you two, you feel surprisingly comfortable with him.

When the last box finally makes it through the door, you stand in the hallway with a grateful smile. "Thank you so much, Jay. Honestly. I don’t know what I would have done without you."

"Glad I could help. Moving is a big step. If you need anything else, I’m right next door." With that, he returns to his own apartment, leaving you surrounded by a sea of boxes that will clearly take hours to unpack.

A few days pass. You unpack — not everything, just the most important things. Your first classes are overwhelming. You get lost twice, accidentally walk into the wrong lecture hall, and sit through an entire lecture on quantum physics before realizing your mistake. But as embarrassing as it was, that mistake ended up leading you to a guy named Jake, who turned out to be incredibly nice and cute.

Now you are standing outside Jay’s door with a plate of cupcakes in your hands, ready to properly thank him for helping you with the move. The thing is, you can’t really bake; you tried making the cupcakes yourself but ended up burning the batch, so you had to go to the bakery on the corner to buy a box of them instead. They look a bit too professional, but since he doesn't know about your complete lack of kitchen skills, you're confident he won't suspect a thing — especially since you took them out of the box and arranged them nicely on a plate just to be extra safe.

You knock on his door, your heart pounding hard in your chest. He opens it a moment later, and his face lights up when he sees you. "Hey, neighbor," he says, leaning against the doorframe. "How are classes going?"

"Good," you reply, pushing the plate forward with a little too much force. "Great, actually. I only got lost twice today, which is an improvement." Your smile widens. "I brought these for you. For helping me with the move. I made them myself."

He looks at the cupcakes, then back at you, this time raising an eyebrow. "You made these?"

"Yes," you say, nodding firmly with your chin held high, trying to look confident. "From scratch. All by myself. I’m pretty good at baking."

He picks up one of the cupcakes and examines it, narrowing his eyes as he brings it closer to his face. You feel your determination starting to crumble.

"Really?" he asks with a smile, clearly testing how long you will keep up the lie. "From scratch?"

You hold his gaze for three whole seconds before you look away in embarrassment. Your shoulders drop and your face turns as red as a tomato. "Okay, fine. I bought them at the bakery on the corner. I took them out of the box so you would think I’m a functional adult who knows how to bake." You laugh at yourself. "I tried making them the other day, Jay. I set off the smoke alarm. I’m a danger to this entire building."

He throws his head back and laughs — not mocking you, but with a genuine, warm laugh that makes you feel less embarrassed about pretending you had baked the cupcakes. "Oh my God, you actually burned them?"

"I once burned noodles. I’m a total disaster in the kitchen."

He steps aside, still smiling, and gestures for you to come in. "Alright, come in. I’ll split one of these ‘homemade’ cupcakes with you. It’s the least I can do for someone who put so much effort into the task."

Your mom’s voice whispers in the back of your mind: "Don’t talk to strangers and definitely don’t go into their apartments, sweetheart." But is he really a stranger? He is your neighbor who carried all your boxes without complaining, and the way he stands there holding the plate of cupcakes with that smile makes you not hesitate at all.

You follow him inside. He leads you to the kitchen, grabs two small plates, and carefully unwraps a vanilla cupcake, splitting it in half before sliding one piece toward you.

"Have a seat," he says, pointing to the stool by the kitchen island.

"So, you mentioned you work downtown? What exactly do you do?" you ask as you sit down.

"I’m a lawyer," he replies, taking a bite of his half and nodding in approval. "Good choice of bakery, by the way."

You laugh, biting into yours. "A lawyer. That makes a lot of sense. You have this… I don’t know how to say it without sounding weird, but you have this organized vibe. Like you’re really good at arguing without even raising your voice."

His smile widens. "People have definitely told me that before that I have a ‘courtroom voice.’ It’s just my normal voice, only lower and slower. People tend to listen when you don’t yell."

"You’ll have to show me someday. If I ever get in legal trouble, I’ll know exactly who to call."

"Please don’t get in legal trouble. But if you do, I’m your guy."

The conversation flows just as easily as it did on moving day, and before you know it, you’re venting about your annoying professor, how massive the campus is, and all the times you’ve already managed to get lost. Between all the talking, the cupcakes completely disappear, leaving the coffee he made to sit cold and barely touched in your mug. There’s just something about him that instantly puts you at ease.

Despite the age gap, he never talks down to you or makes you feel small, which makes talking to him completely effortless. It’s just so comforting to have someone around who listens to you with that much care and attention — especially when he happens to be incredibly good-looking, leaving you totally hooked since the very first day.

As he walks you to the door when you finally get up to leave, he snatches a pen and a post-it note to scribble something down. Before you know it, he’s pressing the paper into your palm, his fingers brushing lightly against yours and sending a sudden warmth to your cheeks as he says, "Here’s my number, in case you ever need anything."

"Thank you," you say, smiling a little too wide.

He nods. "Anytime. Seriously. Don’t be a stranger."

────────

The grocery bags dig painfully into your fingers as you stand in the lobby, staring at the elevator doors that are still under maintenance. You look at them as if a miracle might happen — maybe if you stare for one more second, God will take pity and finally fix it. Nothing happens, of course, which makes you let out a long sigh of frustration. It has been days since you moved in and the elevator is still not working.

Your arms already hurt from carrying way too many bags. You definitely should have made two trips, but stubbornness won.

Reaching the second floor is pure torture; your arms are burning, those plastic handles are digging right into your palms, and the bags keep swinging awkwardly against your legs. Trying to stop and adjust your grip only makes things worse, to the point where you're seriously considering just sitting right there on the stairs and crying.

You finally collapse against the wall at the third-floor landing, letting the bags slide to the floor just to catch your breath. Right then, the door to 3A clicks open and Jay steps out — perfectly dressed for work with that annoyingly handsome lawyer look that instantly makes your stomach do a little flip.

He sees you immediately. For a second, his eyes take in the whole scene — your flushed face, the many overloaded bags, and the way you are leaning against the wall breathing heavily. A light, amused laugh escapes him. It is not mocking, just genuinely entertained, as if he expected nothing less from you.

"Carrying heavy stuff again?" he asks, walking toward you. "You really don’t learn, do you?"

Before you can even open your mouth to protest, he is already reaching for the bags, picking them all up at once as if they weigh absolutely nothing. His strong arms support the weight so effortlessly that his biceps press against the fabric of his dress shirt, making it completely impossible for you not to stare.

He turns and walks toward your door, carrying everything like it is nothing.

At your doorstep, Jay sets all the bags down carefully against the wall and turns to face you. His expression is calm, almost unreadable, but there is something more in it. You understand it the moment he starts speaking in a gently scolding tone. "You really shouldn’t carry so much at once," he says, crossing his arms. "It’s not safe and it’s clearly too heavy for you. Make two or three trips next time. Look at your hands, they’re all red. You were hurting yourself. Why? Because you’re way too stubborn, huh?"

You glance down at your palms, and they are red where the plastic handles dug in. "I was fine," you say, though even you do not believe it. "I almost made it."

"Don’t be stubborn."

"You sound exactly like my dad," you reply, crossing your arms to mimic him. "He’s always telling me I’m too stubborn for my own good."

Jay’s lips curve into a small smile. "Because you really are," he says with so much certainty that you cannot even argue back. "I’m serious. Next time, make multiple trips or just text me. I’d rather help than watch you struggle like that."

There is a protective tone in his voice that makes your cheeks warm with a mix of embarrassment and something else stirring low in your stomach. He is lecturing you like a child, but somehow it sounds kind of hot coming from him.

Then he glances at the grocery bags again. Now that the scolding is over, he seems to actually pay attention to what is inside them. He picks one up and looks inside — it is full of frozen meals, instant noodles, ultra-processed food, and canned goods. "Look, I know you’re in college now, but that doesn’t mean you have to live on processed food. It’s quick, sure, but you need real fresh stuff, not just things that come out of a can. Eating like this long-term isn’t good for you. You could get sick."

You blink, caught off guard by the extra lecture. He is fully in dad-mode now, and there is something strangely attractive about how seriously he takes it, like he is genuinely worried about you. "Okay, okay. I get it… I already told you I’m a disaster in the kitchen, so I just grabbed whatever is easiest so I don’t starve."

Jay’s expression softens a little. "I’m not trying to scold you. I just know how easy it is to fall into bad habits when you’re living on your own for the first time." He pauses and adds in a gentler voice, "If you ever need help in the kitchen, you know where to find me. I’m not exactly a chef, but I know how to make real meals."

Your mind wanders again because you can’t help it — you picture him in your kitchen, standing right behind you while teaching you how to cook, his hands guiding yours, the warmth of his body against your back…

"I’ll try to do better, I swear. Thanks for helping again. I think I owe you something now. How about brownies as a thank you this time?"

Jay shakes his head, chuckling softly. "You don’t owe me anything. Just be more careful next time." He glances at the heavy bags one more time. "Need help carrying these inside?"

You shake your head quickly. "I can handle it from here. I bet you’re busy, you look like you’re heading to work."

He checks the watch on his wrist. "Yeah, I have a meeting soon, but the offer stands anytime." Before turning to leave, he gives you one last firm look. "Take care of yourself."

After he leaves, you drag the bags inside, one half first and then the other, just like Jay suggested.

That night, you are sprawled on the couch, scrolling through your phone, when you open your contacts. You saved Jay’s number, of course, but you have been telling yourself you don’t need to text him. It is an emergency-only number, but then you think about him carrying your groceries, the effortless way he took them from you, and the gentle scolding in his voice. Before you can overthink it, you are already typing a message to him.

────────

It is already past midnight and you have been staring at the same page of your textbook long enough for your vision to blur. Your brain has officially given up — it is impossible to absorb a single word more after hours of studying.

You are about to slam the book shut to take out your stress on it and drag yourself to bed when a soft knock sounds at the door. Your heart jumps slightly because you were not expecting anyone, especially not at this hour.

Another knock.

You get up slowly, stretching your sore muscles, and walk to the door. When you open it, Jay is standing there, looking different tonight without his formal work clothes and lawyer posture. He is wearing a simple white t-shirt, gray sweatpants, and is barefoot. He looks relaxed, holding a bottle of red wine — as if he made the sudden decision to knock on your door and came straight over without even putting shoes on.

"Hey," he says, his low voice making your stomach flip. His eyes scan over you, taking in your tired face, messy hair, and pajamas. Something in his expression softens.

"Hey," you reply softly, matching his tone.

"Hey," he repeats, then laughs when he realizes what he just did.

"Hey," you answer again, this time with a small smile. "You already said that."

"I know." He laughs again, shaking his head. "I just… it’s late."

"Very late."

"I know." He lifts the bottle slightly. "I bought this earlier today but… it’s no fun drinking alone."

You look at the wine, then back at him. The way he is standing there — messy hair, ridiculously handsome, and a little too soft — makes going back to bed suddenly seem like a very stupid choice. "Are you inviting me to drink with you?"

"I’m asking if you want to take a break. From everything."

The way he looks at you with those inviting eyes makes the decision easy, but you decide to tease him first. "I don’t usually drink with strangers."

"We’re not strangers," he says, his voice soft. Your teasing does not seem to faze him.

"We’re not exactly friends either," you reply, tilting your head and studying his reaction.

The corner of his mouth lifts into a small, almost lazy smile. "Then let’s change that."

You pretend to consider it for a moment, even though you were already fully committed the second you saw him at your door. "Mmm, okay. But let’s do it at your apartment. Mine is a mess."

His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Alright, whatever you want."

You grab your keys and follow him, also barefoot, to the door next to yours. His apartment is clean and organized as always, which makes the space feel strangely comforting. In the kitchen, he pours two glasses of wine and hands you one, his fingers brushing against yours for half a second and sending a spark through your body.

"Cheers," he says, raising his glass.

"Cheers," you repeat, gently clinking your glass against his.

You take a sip and let out a small, involuntary hum of appreciation — it is much better than you expected, probably the most expensive wine you have ever tasted. He gestures toward the living room. "Come on, let’s sit," he says, leading the way to the couch. You follow and settle onto his couch, trying to look more relaxed than you actually feel.

"This is nice," you say, taking another sip.

He sits on the other end of the couch — close enough to talk comfortably, but far enough to be polite. "It’s just wine." He takes a sip, watching you over the rim of his glass.

"I mean relaxing… not thinking about classes for the first time."

He nods, understanding. "You think about classes a lot."

"It’s pretty much my entire life right now," you admit with an awkward little laugh, taking another sip.

"I remember going through that too. Everything revolving around exams, assignments, and exhausting responsibilities."

You tilt your head, studying him. "You make it sound like ancient history."

"Sometimes it feels like it." He takes a sip, not breaking eye contact. "I still remember when I was in college. I used to think a bad grade would ruin everything." A dry laugh escapes him as he shakes his head. "There’s so much pressure."

Suddenly you find yourself wanting to know more about him, drawn by the experienced tone in his voice and posture. The wine is already loosening your tongue, so you ask. "How old are you, anyway?"

A small, playful smile appears on his lips. "I’m old enough."

You narrow your eyes, trying to hold back a smile. "That’s not an answer."

"It’s the only one you’re getting." He takes another sip.

"That’s annoying," you say, leaning forward slightly and resting your elbows on your knees.

"Maybe I am annoying." He shrugs, but there is a sparkle in his eyes that tells you he is enjoying this.

"You’re avoiding the question," you accuse, pointing a finger at him.

"I’m protecting my privacy."

"From what? Your neighbor?" You laugh, raising an eyebrow.

"Especially from my neighbor."

You pout, pretending to be hurt. "Fine. Keep your secrets."

"Everyone has secrets," he says, his voice dropping to a lower, more intimate tone.

"I don’t." You are not even sure why you say it. Maybe it is the wine, or the way he is looking at you right now.

"Everyone does." He holds his ground. "You have secrets too."

Your pulse quickens. "I don’t."

"Yes, you do."

You swallow hard. The air between you feels thicker now, charged with something you can’t quite name. You shift slightly on the sofa and notice how easy it would be to reach out and touch him. "So you have a lot of secrets, huh?" you ask, curious.

"Yes. Quite a few."

"Like what?" you press, wanting to see what he will give you.

"If I told you, they wouldn’t be secrets anymore." His lips curve into a slow, almost predatory smile.

"Touché." You raise your glass in an ironic toast, making him laugh.

A comfortable but heavy silence settles between you for a moment, thick with tension as you exchange glances and take slow sips. The wine is definitely doing its job — making your words come out slower, your laughter easier, and your body warmer.

"How old are you?" he asks, breaking the silence.

You blink, caught off guard. "Me?"

"Yes, you." He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. "You asked me, so I’m asking you back."

You smile, deciding to play his game. "I’m old enough."

A low, surprised laugh escapes him — rich and genuine. "That’s my line."

"I know." You take another sip to hide your smile.

"You stole my line."

You just shrug. "I borrowed it."

"That’s not how borrowing works."

"Yes, it is."

He laughs again. "You’re impossible."

"Am I? What else?" You raise an eyebrow, challenging him.

"You’re something," he says, his voice dropping again.

"What?" You are not sure what he means by that.

"I don’t know yet." He keeps his eyes fixed on you. "But I’m figuring it out."

You feel your cheeks heat up and take another sip of wine to try to hide your reaction. Jay, however, keeps watching you, and you can tell he noticed.

"You know what I’ve noticed?" By now your voice is a little slurred, so you have to be careful with the words that come out of your mouth.

"What?" His wine glass is almost empty. He sets it on the coffee table and turns all of his attention to you.

You lean back on the couch, turning to face him more directly. Your knee brushes against his thigh, but neither of you pulls away. "You don’t talk much about yourself."

He tilts his head, frowning slightly. "Don’t I?"

"No. You listen, but you don’t share. Like, you’re dodging right now. You give answers, but you don’t really answer."

"Well, I’m trying to protect myself," he says simply.

"Protect yourself from what?" You lean forward, genuinely curious now.

"From getting too attached." The words are honest, and you definitely were not expecting them.

You stare at him, your hand frozen halfway to taking another sip. "From what?"

"To you." His voice is almost a whisper, making your pulse race and your skin flush.

"Why would you get too attached to me?"

He stays silent for a moment, his eyes tracing over you as if he wants to memorize every detail. "Because it’s easy to get attached to you."

"No, it's not," you say, shaking your head as a small, incredulous laugh escapes you.

"It is." His voice is gentle but firm, leaving no room for argument. "You just don’t see it."

You look away, feeling your entire body grow warmer. "You’re dodging again."

"I’m being honest." He leans forward slightly, and you can smell him now — a masculine scent mixed with the light sweetness of the wine.

You set your glass on the coffee table and turn to face him completely, the wine making you bolder. "You’re giving me half-answers. You’re telling me just enough to make me curious, but not enough."

He stays quiet for a moment, thinking. "What do you want to know?"

You hold his gaze. "Something real. Truly honest."

Silence stretches between you, thick with something heavy and suffocating that you can't quite name. Then he whispers, "I think you’re beautiful."

Your breath catches, and for a second you are not sure you heard him correctly. "That’s not—" you begin, but he interrupts you.

"It’s honest."

"You can’t just say that," your voice barely comes out as a whisper.

"I just did." His gaze doesn’t leave yours for even half a second.

"It’s too… direct."

"You asked for it." He says it simply, like it is the most natural thing in the world.

"You’re a tease," you say, not sure if you are complaining or not.

"Wait until you find out what else I am. You want to know me? Then make sure you’re ready."

You do not know what to say or what to do, so you look away, your face burning.

When he finally walks you to your door, you are a little unsteady on your feet. He steadies you with a gentle hand on your waist, and the touch is enough to send shivers through your body. "I’m fine," you murmur, even though you are swaying slightly.

"You’re drunk," he says, smiling at your messy state.

"I’m a little tipsy," you reply, giving him a blurry-eyed look.

"You’re drunk."

"It’s the same thing," you mutter dismissively.

"No, it’s not." He is looking at you with that warm, steady gaze that makes your knees feel weak.

You smile, light and tipsy. "Yes, it is."

At your door, you miss the lock twice. He laughs softly before helping you. "Thank you," you whisper. "For this, for the wine, the company, and everything."

His lips curve into a small, warm smile. "Good night, old enough.:

You smile again — you seem to always be smiling when he is around. "Good night, old man."

You step inside, close the door, and lean against it with your heart racing and your whole body warm from the wine and his words — still smiling like an idiot.

A few minutes later, you are curled up in bed when your phone buzz on the nightstand.

────────

You have been tossing and turning on the mattress for what feels like hours — shifting positions, turning to the other side, but nothing helps. You can’t fall asleep — you mind refuses to stop, racing with thoughts about exams, deadlines, and the weight of all your responsibilities pressing down on your shoulders. You need air, you need to feel like you are not suffocating in that apartment, surrounded by boxes you haven't even had the time to unpack yet. There are several unfinished notes on your desk that constantly remind you that you are not doing enough, no matter how hard you try.

So you go up to the rooftop. The cool night air hits your face and lets you breathe again.

The city is an endless sea of lights — countless tiny glowing points in the darkness that remind you how small you really are. You sit on the old bench near the edge of the roof, pulling your knees up to your chest and wrapping your arms around them like a shield.

Your thoughts slowly begin to calm as the minutes pass, and the knot in your chest loosens just a little.

Then the door creaks open behind you.

You turn quickly, your body instantly on alert and your heart racing. And there he is — Jay. He is wearing sweatpants and a black shirt, something about this casual, almost domestic look makes your heart skip a beat. He sees you immediately and stops. Surprise flashes across his face for a second before it turns into that familiar half-smile.

"Can’t sleep either?" His voice is low, almost intimate in a way that makes you shiver.

You shake your head. "I have too much on my mind right now…"

He nods as if he completely understands — and he really does. Walking toward you, he stops at a respectful distance before sitting on the bench beside you — close enough for you to feel the warmth of his body, but not so close that he invades your personal space. "Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all." You shift over a little even though there is already enough space.

He leans back, looking up at the sky, which is beautiful tonight with a full moon and stars shining brightly. The silence stretches between you. He doesn’t force conversation; he simply sits there observing the sky and the city with you. The silence is not awkward — it is actually comforting, especially when you are with him.

"I can’t sleep," you admit, breaking the silence with words that slip out before you can stop them. "I try, but my brain just won’t stop. Every time I close my eyes, I start thinking about all the things I have to do, all the things I haven’t done, and all the ways I’m probably going to mess everything up."

"What’s on your mind?" His voice is gentle and patient as always, showing that he is ready to listen.

"Everything." You let out a shaky sigh. "College, exams, being away from my family for the first time… It’s a lot. I thought I was ready, that I could handle it. But sometimes it feels like I’m drowning and I don’t know how to swim. Literally."

"I know how that feels," he says after a long moment of silence. His eyes stay fixed on yours, and there is something raw in them — something honest. "I remember feeling exactly like that. Like everything was too much and I was too small to handle it."

"You’re talking about yourself. That’s new," you say softly. "You always ask about me, but you never—"

"You already have enough on your plate," he cuts in gently.

You blink, caught off guard. "What?"

"You’re stressed about college, adjusting to a new city, and far from your family," he keeps his gaze steady on you, his expression sincere. "You don’t need to hear about my problems too."

"That’s not how it works." You shake your head as something warm and confusing blooms in your chest. "We’re supposed to share things. That’s what—" You pause, searching for the right word. "That’s what friends do."

"I don’t want to burden you when you’re already dealing with so much, and I certainly don’t want to make it worse."

You stay quiet for a moment, his words stirring something you cannot quite name — but it feels good. "That’s really… kind," you finally say.

"I try." He shrugs, a small smile playing on his lips.

The silence settles again, and you sit together quietly for a while longer. Then, out of nowhere, he tilts his head and asks, "How’s your succulent doing?"

You laugh at the unexpected question. "You’re asking about my plant?"

"I remember you mentioned it." He turns toward you — fully turning his body — with a small playful smile on his lips. "I bet you gave it a name."

You shake your head, still smiling. "I haven’t named it yet… but it’s still alive, which is honestly impressive."

"You’re supposed to water it," he says in a gently scolding tone.

"I know." You look away, feeling a little guilty about slowly killing a plant.

"But you forget." There is no judgment in his voice, only warm amusement.

"I forget." You laugh — something you always do when you are with him. "I have a lot on my mind, okay?"

"You’re a plant killer." He smiles, making you grin even wider.

"I’m not a plant killer! I’m just… forgetful. It is surviving, which is more than I can say about myself sometimes."

Something in your words changes his expression. It is still gentle, but now there is a hint of concern. "You’re doing better than you think."

You don’t know what to say, so you just look at him, with the words stuck in your throat.

"Does the succulent at least have company?" he asks after a moment, his voice light as always.

You blink, confused by the sudden question. "What?"

"Other plants, maybe some flowers, something to keep it company. Plants get lonely too."

You laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t think it gets lonely. It’s just a plant, after all."

"All living things have feelings. It definitely feels lonely," he says with so much conviction that you almost believe him.

"That’s not scientifically accurate," you reply, not entirely sure if what you are saying is accurate either.

"I never said it was." He shrugs. "I’m a lawyer. I deal with arguments, not facts."

"They’re the same thing."

"Not at all." He shifts closer to you on the bench, making sure you are listening. "Facts are objective. Arguments are subjective. I make a living turning subjective arguments into something that sounds like objective facts."

"That’s… something. And you’re so weird."

"I’m just concerned about your plant’s loneliness." His voice is incredibly serious, showing that he is taking this very seriously.

"You’re worried about my plant," you say, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, just like I worry about you."

You don’t know what to say again — Jay has a way of leaving you speechless. Your cheeks flush and you look away. "I’ve never received flowers before, anyway…" you say softly, the secret slipping from your lips.

Jay is not sure he heard you correctly. "What did you say?"

Even though you hesitate, you repeat it, louder this time. "I’ve never received flowers." You look down at your hands, fidgeting with your fingers. "I had a boyfriend before, but he was an idiot. He never did anything romantic like giving me flowers or taking me for dates."

He stays silent for a long moment, his gaze fixed on you while your heart pounds loudly in your ears. He is thinking about something — you can tell by the way his jaw tightens. "Would you want to go on one? With me."

You stop breathing the moment you hear his words and everything around you seems to freeze. "What?"

"A date. A real date where I pick you up, open doors for you, and take you somewhere nice. It doesn’t have to be romantic if you don’t want it to be. It can just be two people spending time together. Whatever makes you feel comfortable."

Your heart is beating so hard you are sure he can hear it, your mouth is dry, your palms are sweaty, and the words feel stuck in your throat again. Jay is asking you out on a date — a real date. The age gap has been on your mind since the day you met — he is a lawyer and you are still trying to figure out how to live on your own, but every interaction with him feels safe, like he truly sees you.

"Jay, I—" You stop, taking a shaky breath.

"You don’t have to answer right now," he says gently, giving you time to think.

"No, I—" You take another deep breath, and this time the words come out steady. "Yes. Yes, I want that."

His face transforms — a slow, warm smile spreads across his lips and reaches his eyes, making your stomach flip and your heart race just like always.

"Great," he says softly. "I’ll plan something."

A shy laugh escapes you as the reality of it sinks in. "What do you like to do on dates? I’m sure you’ve been on plenty."

He leans forward a little, resting his elbow on his knee. "I want to know what you like. That’s what matters right now, tell me your preferences so I can plan something good for you."

As you think for a moment, you suddenly feel embarrassed by how limited your preferences are. "I’m kind of picky, honestly. I like pasta, I hate anything too spicy, and I don’t like overly sweet desserts. Oh, and I’m not a big fan of seafood unless it’s fried. Is that too much?"

Jay listens attentively, nodding as if he is absorbing every detail. "Not at all. Being picky isn’t a problem, it actually makes it easier to get it right." He pauses, a playful glint appearing in his eyes. "You know, for someone who’s a disaster in the kitchen, you have very specific opinions, princess."

The nickname lands softly between you — affectionate and teasing, with a hint of warmth. Your breath catches, your face flushes instantly, and you lower your head to hide the redness in your cheeks and the smile forming on your lips.

"I… You can’t just say that," you murmur, looking at him through your lashes.

"Why not?" He is smiling even more now, clearly enjoying your reaction. "It suits you. You have high standards and you know exactly what you want, even if you pretend you don’t."

You cover your face with both hands for a second, peeking through your fingers. "You’re going to make me regret saying yes."

"Too late," he murmurs, his voice low and affectionate. "You already said yes."

You lower your hands and meet his gaze, your heart racing in the best possible way. Jay stands up suddenly and offers you his hand. "Come on, it’s getting late and you have class tomorrow. Let’s get you back inside before you freeze."

You take his hand — which is so much bigger than yours — and let him help you up. He doesn’t let go afterward, his fingers stay intertwined with yours as you walk together toward your floor. The elevator is no longer broken, but you both take the stairs anyway, wanting to prolong the moment a little longer.

Stopping at your door, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear with his free hand. “I'll text you about the date,” he says softly. "We’ll pick a night that works."

You nod, still feeling a little shy about everything. "Okay… Good night, Jay."

"Good night, princess."

────────

The next day, you are more nervous than you have ever been. Every notification on your phone makes your heart skip a beat, terrified that it is Jay confirming the date. Your stomach is in knots with a mix of panic and hope, even though you want to go on this date, you are still incredibly nervous about it.

Your phone buzzes while you are in the library trying to study. "Friday at seven? I’ll take care of everything. Just be ready for a proper night out."

The words "proper night out" send a shiver through you. He is taking this seriously, treating it as something special, even though he said it didn’t have to be romantic. Still, it means something. Smiling so wide that your cheeks hurt, you text back agreeing.

When Friday finally arrives, the butterflies in your stomach refuse to calm down. In fact, they become even more restless as the time of the date gets closer. Hours before, you start getting ready — taking your time as you choose an outfit that makes you feel confident and beautiful. You spend extra time on your makeup, keeping it natural but enhancing your eyes and lips, making sure everything is perfect.

Exactly at seven, you take the elevator down. Jay had insisted on waiting outside the building instead of knocking on your door. "I want you to have the full experience," he had texted earlier, and the gesture made you smile despite your nerves. The moment you step out onto the sidewalk, you see him leaning against his sleek black car parked at the curb. He looks unfairly handsome in a tailored dark shirt and pants.

For a moment, he simply looks at you — slowly scanning from your face to your dress and back up again as his smile widens. "You look beautiful," he says, taking a step closer. "Really, truly beautiful."

Your cheeks flush quickly and a smile forms on your lips. "Thank you. You look really handsome too."

Before you can say anything else, he reaches inside the car and pulls out a beautiful bouquet of flowers. "I remembered what you said on the rooftop…"

The bouquet is perfect, wrapped so beautifully that it makes your chest tighten. "Jay…" you whisper as you reach out to take the flowers. "They’re beautiful. I don’t even know what to say."

Without thinking, you give him a grateful hug. His arms wrap around you immediately, one hand resting on your lower back while the other gently caresses the nape of your neck. "You don’t have to say anything. Just enjoy tonight. That’s all I want."

When you pull away, still smiling widely, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear and asks, "Ready to go, princess?"

You nod, holding the flowers like a lifeline. He opens the car door for you, waiting until you are settled before closing it gently. When he slides into the driver’s seat, he looks at you with a playful smile. "Seatbelt, please. Safety first."

You laugh and buckle up. "Such a gentleman."

"Only for you."

The drive starts peacefully, soft music playing in the background as you talk. He asks about your day and teases you lightly when you admit that you spent half of your class daydreaming about tonight and that it took you forever to choose what to wear.

You can’t stop stealing glances at him — the way his hands rest easily on the steering wheel, those large hands with long fingers, and the way he looks at you at red lights as if making sure you are still real.

After a few minutes, you notice the city lights fading and buildings giving way to trees. "Where are we going?" you ask curiously, realizing he has been driving for a while — much farther than you expected. "This is pretty far from our building. Are you taking me somewhere to kill me?"

Jay laughs, keeping his eyes on the road. "I’m not going to kill you. I’m just taking you to a place I love, and I think you’ll love it too."

The drive takes about thirty minutes, but when you finally arrive, the restaurant leaves you breathless. You immediately understand why he chose it — it is cozy and elegant, with a stunning view of the city. He reserved a intimate corner table with the perfect view.

He pulls out the chair for you, and as soon as you sit down, he leans in slightly to whisper in your ear, "Relax, okay?"

The dinner unfolds perfectly. You order pasta — creamy, exactly the way you like it — and he chooses a steak dish, offering you a bite from his fork with a raised eyebrow that feels far more intimate than it should. You talk a lot, and he listens as always, head tilted and eyes focused only on you.

You tell him about the friendships you are making in college, about the strange noise your AC is making, and absentmindedly mention the doorman. "He’s nice, I think… but sometimes he looks at me like he knows something I don’t."

Jay’s expression shifts with something unreadable for half a second, but he quickly covers it with a soft chuckle. "He’s probably just in a bad mood. Or maybe he sees how much you’re distracting your poor neighbor."

You laugh. "Poor neighbor? You seem to be handling it pretty well."

His foot brushes against yours under the table. "Barely."

In the middle of the conversation, Jay’s phone buzzes on the table. He glances at it, frowns, and silences it, slipping it into his pocket.

But a few minutes later, it buzzed again. Jay sighs. "I need to take this. It’s probably an emergency with a client. I won’t be long. I’m really sorry."

"Go ahead. I’ll be here judging the dessert menu."

He leans in and gives you a quick kiss on your temple before standing up. "I’ll be right back, princess."

The casual display of affection makes your heart race as you watch him walk away. While he is gone, you take a sip of your wine, observe the people around you, and study the dessert menu.

He returns after about five minutes, sliding back into his seat with an apologetic smile. "All sorted. Where were we?"

When the check arrives, Jay pays without hesitation, even though you offered to split it. Outside, the night air is cold, so he drapes his jacket over your shoulders when he notices you shivering. Then he pulls you closer for a moment, wrapping his arms around you. "Thank you for saying yes," he murmurs against your hair.

You look up at him, smiling. "That was the best decision I’ve made in a long time."

The drive back feels shorter than the trip there, unfortunately — you wish this moment could last forever. Jay keeps one hand on the wheel and the other holding yours, his thumb tracing lazy circles that send shivers down your spine. You arrive at the building sooner than you would like, but instead of stopping at the curb, Jay drives into the underground garage.

You unbuckle your seatbelt. "Thank you, Jay. For everything, the flowers, the dinner, the evening… I had a really great time."

He turns to you, that slow smile playing on his lips. "I’m glad, princess."

You reach for the door handle, but his hand moves quickly, wrapping around your wrist and stopping you. Your breath catches at the unexpected contact. "Wait, aren’t you going to thank me properly?"

You blink, confused. "I just did? The hug outside the restaurant and just now."

Jay chuckles, and his gaze shifts into something hungrier. "That was sweet, but I was thinking of something a little more fitting for the end of a perfect night."

Without overthinking it, you lean across the console and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. "Thank you," you whisper again, pulling back to see his reaction.

His smile widens. "Still not enough, princess. Come here."

He cups the back of your neck and pulls you closer. The kiss starts soft, his lips meeting yours hesitantly, and you quickly melt into it, which makes him deepen the kiss while still keeping a slow, deliberate pace. His tongue traces your lower lip, and you part for him with a small sigh.

What begins as one kiss turns into many, you lose count as they grow more intense, hungry, and urgent.

Somehow, you end up climbing over the console. His hands guide your hips until you are straddling his lap in the driver’s seat. The space is tight and the steering wheel presses against your back, but you couldn't care less right now. His hands roam along your sides, sliding up your dress until they rest on your thighs, his thumbs drawing circles that make you whimper against his mouth.

You kiss him again and again, tangling your fingers in his hair and tugging gently, which draws a low groan from him. That only encourages you — hips start moving on their own, pressing against the growing hardness beneath you. The friction makes you gasp, and Jay clearly loves the sight — he squeezes your thighs, encouraging your movements.

"God, you’re incredible," he whispers against your mouth between kisses. "So responsive… so perfect."

Jay pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, breathing hard. "You deserve better than this, princess. Our first time shouldn’t be in a car like a couple of impatient teenagers."

You kiss him again, more intensely, nipping at his lower lip. "I don’t care, I want you right here."

He groans, sliding his hand into your hair to pull you into another hungry kiss. "You’re so eager, princess… and so perfect grinding against me like this."

His mouth moves down to your neck, sucking lightly and drawing more whimpers from you. Your movements become restless, rubbing harder, chasing friction. "Jay…" you whisper between kisses. "I need you, please."

His hands find the hem of your dress, slowly pulling it up inch by inch with clear appreciation until he discards it onto the passenger seat. "Beautiful," he murmurs reverently as he stares at your tits. "So beautiful." He leans down, pressing hot, wet kisses along the soft skin, then his tongue circles one nipple before sucking it deeply into his mouth.

You arch your back, a moan escaping your lips. He gives the same attention to the other tit, licking, sucking, and grazing the sensitive skin with his teeth while his hand massages and caresses the first. “You taste so good,” he praises, his voice muffled. "These perfect tits in my mouth… you’re already trembling. So sensitive for me."

He kisses lower, along your sternum and ribs, then back up — worshipping every inch of you while you keep grinding against him. Your panties are soaked, and the friction against his hardness only turns you on more.

He waits until you’re trembling in his lap before he finally moves. Reaching between you, he lowers his pants and boxers just enough to free himself, and when he does, your eyes widen. He is big — thick and hard. The sight makes your mouth water and heat pool low in your belly.

Jay reaches into the glove compartment, fumbling for a condom. He tears it open and rolls it down his length with surprising skill while you watch, hypnotized and a little intimidated by his size and thickness. "You’re… really big," you say softly.

Jay notices your nervousness and caresses your cheek, trying to soothe you. "We’ll go slow, princess. I’ve got you. My good girl can take it."

He helps you shift your panties to the side, guiding you as you sink down onto him. The stretch is intense but delicious — you take him inch by inch, breathing deeply as he fills you completely, murmuring praises nonstop. "That’s it, princess… so tight, so good for me… so fucking perfect around me."

You bury your face in his neck as you sink all the way down, taking him completely until your ass is pressed firmly against his lap. "Oh God… you’re so, so big," you moan, still adjusting to the intense stretch.

The age difference flashes through your mind — he is older, more experienced, probably used to women who knew exactly what they were doing. You want to be good for him, so once you feel ready, you start moving — bouncing with almost frantic energy, desperate to please him. Your hips move and grind fast, determined.

"Easy, princess," Jay groans, gripping your hips to slow you down. "Slow… just like that. You feel incredible, but there’s no rush. I’m not going anywhere."

You moan, your cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and arousal. "I just… you’ve probably been with so many others who were better at this. I want to make it good for you. I want to be the best—"

He cuts you off with a deep kiss, then pulls back to look into your eyes while still guiding your movements into a slower, deeper rhythm. "Hey, none of that. It’s just you right now, and you’re already the best, baby. Look at how perfectly you take me." He thrusts up gently to emphasize his words, drawing a moan from you. "You’re my princess."

You relax into his words and the rhythm he sets, moving your hips in deep, grinding motions instead of frantic bouncing. It feels even better this way — his thickness brushing against every sensitive spot inside you. "Like this?" you ask breathlessly, your voice shy but needy.

"Just like that," he praises, his voice rough. "So good for me. So wet… so tight. You’re perfect, listen to those pretty sounds you make."

You keep whispering to him the whole time — shy confessions and soft, breathless questions. "You feel so good, Jay… I feel so full. Does it feel good for you? Tell me if you’re enjoying it."

He groans, his hands roaming over your back, squeezing your ass, then returning to your tits so he can lick and suck them while you ride him. "I love it. I love everything you do. The way you squeeze me… the way you say my name. You’re ruining me, princess."

The pleasure builds uncontrollably, intense and overwhelming, leaving both of you sweaty and breathless. He slides a hand between you to your clit, circling it with his thumb in time with your movements. You tremble hard, moaning and gasping, telling him how close you are, how good he feels, and how much you have wanted this since the day you moved in.

When you come, your walls pulse tightly around his thickness and your body shakes as you cry out his name. Jay follows right after, holding you firmly against him as he finishes into the condom with a deep groan, murmuring endless praises. "That’s it, come for me… so beautiful giving yourself to me completely… my perfect girl."

You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard. He wraps his arms around you tightly, kissing your temple while his hands gently caress your back. "You okay?" he whispers after a while. "Was it too much?"

"It was perfect," you murmur, nuzzling into his neck. "Better than I imagined. Thank you for slowing me down when I got too excited. I probably embarrassed myself, right?"

He shakes his head lightly and laughs, then he gives you one last kiss on your temple and helps you climb back into the passenger seat, watching as you slip your dress back on. "Don’t forget these," he says, reaching for the bouquet.

You take it with a happy smile. "I wouldn’t dare."

He walks around the car to open your door and intertwines his fingers with yours as you walk toward the elevator. Once inside, he pulls you close and kisses you the entire way up to your floor.

"Your place tonight?" you ask against his lips.

Jay’s hand slides to your lower back, pulling you even closer. "Yes, because I’m not done with you yet. I need you in my bed. The thought of you in my sheets, smelling like me when you wake up… it drives me crazy."

The elevator doors open and he pulls you down the hallway toward his door, unlocking it effortlessly. The moment you are both inside, he takes the flowers from your hand, sets them on the counter, and turns to you with hungry eyes. "Come here," he growls, pulling you into a deep, desperate kiss. His hands cup your face first, then slide down your body. "Let me take care of you properly this time."

He leads you to the bedroom and there, he undresses you slowly, admiring and kissing every inch of exposed skin. When you are completely naked, he steps back and looks at you with pure admiration and desire. "Fuck, look at you… so perfect. Every curve, every inch… all mine tonight."

He removes his own clothes and guides you onto the bed, settling between your spread thighs. His warm palms caress them, spreading you open even more. His mouth is on you immediately, licking a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit before circling the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue, savoring you. "Mmm, already so wet," the vibration of his voice makes you gasp. "You taste so sweet, princess. Like you were made for my mouth."

You let out a shaky moan, your fingers tangling in his hair and pulling him closer. "Jay… that feels incredible. Oh God—"

He slides a finger inside you, curling it against that sweet spot while his mouth continues sucking and licking. The suction around your clit, the rhythm of his finger stroking that perfect spot deep inside — it all turns the pleasure into something deliciously overwhelming. He adds a second finger, then a third, carefully stretching you as he pumps them in and out.

Your hips move against his face as the pleasure intensifies. "Don’t stop… please, Jay, just like that," you moan, your voice breathless and desperate. He eats you out like a starving man — licking, sucking, and thrusting his fingers into you until your thighs shake around his head and you fall apart with a long, loud cry. You clench and pulse around his fingers as the orgasm crashes through you.

Jay doesn’t stop right away, he keeps licking and fingering you through it, prolonging every sensation until you are limp and panting. Only then he drags his mouth up your body, leaving a trail of wet, open-mouthed kisses along your stomach, between your breasts, and up your neck. "You taste like heaven," he murmurs, his voice rough with desire. "I could do this all night, make you come on my tongue until you go stupid."

He grabs a condom from the nightstand and rolls it on quickly over his hard, leaking cock. You reach down, wrapping your hand around his thick, hard length — stroking him slowly, feeling the weight, the pulsing heat, tracing the veins with curiosity. "I want it raw, Jay… I need to feel you, please."

He groans deeply, his hips pushing forward into your fist. "Baby… protection first, remember? I’ll still make you feel good even with the latex between us, I promise." After kissing your forehead, he positions himself at your entrance and pushes in inch by inch, his eyes locked on yours the entire time. You feel a burning stretch as your walls slowly give way to him, every thick pulsing vein dragging against your sensitive insides. When he’s halfway in, you look down between your bodies and see the clear bulge pressing out against your lower belly.

He notices it right after and quickly slides a hand down to press against the bulge, feeling it move under his palm as he sinks deeper. "Fuck, look at that. You see how deep I am? My cock is rearranging your insides, princess. Stretching this tight pussy so you can see it from the outside."

Your hand joins his, pressing against the visible outline, feeling him move inside you from both the inside and the outside. He teases you mercilessly, thrusting slow and deep so the bulge shifts under your combined touch. "You’re taking me so well, like this pussy was made for my cock. So greedy, swallowing every inch."

He sinks the rest of the way in with a guttural groan, bottoming out completely. "Shit… so tight, so hot. You’re already milking me."

His thick cock fills you so completely that every movement presses against sensitive spots that steal the breath from your lungs. His thrusts start controlled and incredibly gentle instead of brutal force. One hand stays intertwined with yours above your head, while the other caresses your cheek, squeezes your breast, and lightly pinches your nipple before soothing it with his thumb. "You look like pure sin wrapped around me… My beautiful princess, creaming all over my cock, taking every inch like a good girl. I’m going to ruin you for anyone else."

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer. "Jay… it feels so good. You’re so deep, I can feel you everywhere." He leans down, capturing your lips in a messy kiss as his hips move faster in a devastating rhythm that pushes you closer and closer to the edge.

You come hard around him, your walls fluttering and clenching tightly as you cry out. He does not stop, thrusting deep and steady, prolonging your orgasm until you are shaking. "Fuck, that’s it, come on my cock, baby."

Jay follows right after, burying himself as deep as possible with a long, broken groan of your name as he cums, pulsing inside you. He stays buried deep for long moments afterwards, holding you close and covering your face, neck, and shoulders with soft kisses until both of your breathing steadies.

Eventually, he pulls out carefully, discards the condom, and returns from the bathroom with a warm, damp cloth. He cleans you both gently, murmuring more praises the entire time. "You were perfect, princess. So responsive, so beautiful when you come for me." He pulls the sheets over both of you and wraps you in his arms.

Your head rests on Jay’s chest while his fingers trace a lazy path along your spine, down to the curve of your waist. Without a word, you shift, turning onto your side. Jay follows naturally, molding his body against yours from behind in a perfect spoon. His chest presses against your back as he slides an arm around your waist, pulling you even closer. You can already feel him half-hard again against the curve of your ass, sending a fresh wave of heat through your body.

He nuzzles into the back of your neck, placing soft kisses there. "You okay?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough in the quiet room.

"More than okay," you whisper back, pressing lightly against him. "I like feeling you close like this."

Jay reaches for another condom from the nightstand. You hear the faint rustle as he puts it on, then his hand returns to your body, tenderly caressing your side and hip. He lifts your top leg slightly, hooking it over his, opening you up for him. The thick head of his cock brushes against your entrance before he pushes in slowly, inch by inch, until he is buried completely inside you.

"So good," he whispers against your neck, sliding a hand up to caress your breast. His fingers massage gently, his thumb circling your nipple until it hardens under his touch.

He starts moving — slow, deep rolls of his hips, thrusting unhurriedly so you can feel every inch of his thick cock dragging against your walls. While he fucks you, his hand on your breast never stops worshipping it — squeezing, rolling your nipple between his fingers, occasionally pinching lightly before soothing it with gentle caresses. And his mouth keeps placing open-mouthed kisses along the back of your neck, back, and shoulder.

You reach behind you, running your fingers through his hair as you move with him. "Jay… deeper like that feels so good."

His thrusts become a little deeper, but still controlled. "You take me so well every single time. Look at how perfectly you fit around me. I could stay inside you forever." His mouth finds the sensitive spot on your neck, sucking hard enough to leave a mark while he continues playing with your breasts — pinching, rolling, and caressing until your nipples are deliciously sore. Only then he slid his hand down to your clit, circling it in time with his thrusts. The combination of sensations is overwhelming and pushes you closer and closer to the edge. "You’re so close… I can feel you squeezing me. Come for me again, princess."

And you do. Your walls contract rhythmically around his thickness as you moan his name, your body trembling in his arms. Jay follows right after you, burying his face in your neck with a deep groan as he comes, filling the condom.

You turn your head slightly to capture his lips in a lazy kiss. "I feel so safe with you," you whisper. "And so wanted."

He stays inside you until the aftershocks fade, then carefully pulls out, discards the condom, and cleans you both once again with gentle care. He pulls the sheets up around you both and draws you back into his arms, spooning you again.

Jay’s hand rests tenderly on your stomach, tracing small circles there. You feel deeply in love and completely at peace as you start to drift off to sleep, safe in his arms.

Sunlight is already filtering through the curtains by the time you slowly wake up the next morning —.only to realize the space beside you is empty, even though the warmth of Jay’s body and the faint scent of his cologne still linger around. You stretch and sit up to look around the room, noticing one of his shirts draped over the back of a chair. Slipping it on, you pad barefoot out of the bedroom toward the kitchen, drawn by the rich aroma of coffee and food already filling the air.

Jay is at the stove, flipping eggs while a plate of toast and cut fruit waits for you on the counter. You walk up to him and wrap your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek against his back. "Good morning."

He turns off the stove and turns around, settling his hands on your hips. His gaze softens instantly when he sees you wearing his shirt. "Good morning, princess. You look way too good in my clothes."

You laugh softly and tilt your face up, expecting a kiss. He leans in but pauses with a playful look. "Ah, but you haven’t brushed your teeth yet. No good-morning kisses until after breakfast."

You pout and dramatically pull away. "Not even a kiss on the cheek? You’re so cruel."

With a sigh, he gives in — pressing a long kiss to your cheek, then another to your forehead. Before you can say anything, he effortlessly lifts you and sits you on the edge of the kitchen counter, standing between your knees. "There. Now I can look at you properly while I finish this."

As he moves around the kitchen, your eyes wander until they stop on the refrigerator. Something catches your attention — photos are held up by magnets, but one in particular stands out: a Polaroid of Jay smiling with his arm around a woman’s shoulders. You hadn't noticed it on your previous visits to the kitchen — you had been too focused on him. "Who is that?" you ask curiously, nodding toward the fridge. "The woman in the photo with you?"

Jay glances over while sliding a plate toward you. "That’s my sister. We don’t look much alike, I know. We’re actually half-siblings."

You tilt your head, studying the photo for another second. They really do not look very similar, but that is not unusual for half-siblings. "She looks nice," you say lightly, accepting the plate he offers. "Breakfast looks delicious, by the way. You really didn’t have to."

"I wanted to," he replies, stepping between your knees and stealing a quick peck. "After last night, it feels right to take care of you this morning… and maybe every other morning too."

You smile shyly. "Speaking of last night… it was incredible. You made everything feel so good, so right. I keep replaying every part of it in my head."

He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb gently caressing your cheek. "You were perfect, baby. I loved every second of it." He leans in and kisses the corner of your mouth. "You’re so beautiful when you let go for me."

"You’re going to make it really hard for me to focus in class today." You take a bite of the toast, savoring it. "Oh, by the way, I’m going out with some new friends from college tonight. They invited me to a party, it’s a chance to get to know each other better outside of class."

Jay nods, resting a hand on your thigh and stroking it lightly. "Sounds fun. Just be careful, okay? Text me when you get there and when you’re heading back."

"I will," you say, stealing another quick kiss from him. "I won’t stay out too late anyway. I have an early class tomorrow."

He picks up a piece of fruit from the plate and brings it to your mouth, brushing his fingers teasingly against your lips. "You deserve to have fun… I’ll be here if you need anything when you get back."

You stumble out of your friend’s car a little after 1 a.m., waving goodbye as you sway on your feet. You make your way toward the building entrance and suddenly remember that you promised to text Jay — which you didn’t. So you call him to let him know you arrived and are heading up. In response, he says he is waiting for you.

When you reach the third floor, Jay’s door is already open and he is waiting for you. "Heyyy," you say cheerfully, immediately wrapping your arms around his waist and pressing your face against his chest. "I’m back. Just like I promised."

Laughing Jay’s arms wrap around you automatically as he looks at you more closely. "You’re pretty drunk, princess. How was the party?"

"So much fun," you ramble, clinging to him tighter as he guides you inside and closes the door. "We danced, there was a shot game, and my new friends are so funny. I laughed so hard my stomach hurt." You tilt your head up, puckering your lips. "Kiss?"

Instead of a proper kiss, he gives you a quick one on your forehead. "You smell like a distillery and your shirt is soaked, what happened?"

You look down at the sticky stain on your shirt and pout. "Someone spilled on me. It’s gross. But I still want kisses, real kisses." You try to pull his face down, standing on your tiptoes. "I missed you all night. I kept thinking about you during the party… about how nice you were last night. We should do that again right now."

Jay gently holds your wrists to stop you. "Not tonight, princess. You’re drunk."

"But I want you," you beg, pressing closer, but he doesn’t give in at all. "You’re so hot, so gentle, and… big. Please?"

He shakes his head and guides you toward the bathroom. "No. Only when you’re sober and can remember everything clearly. Right now, I’m just taking care of you, okay?"

"Let’s get you cleaned up," he says gently once you reach the bathroom. Reaching for the hem of your wet shirt he carefully pulls it off, followed by the rest of your clothes.

"You’re always so gentle with me," you murmur, watching him adjust the shower temperature. "No one has ever been this gentle. I really, really like you, Jay."

He smiles softly and helps you into the shower, joining you still fully dressed so he can take care of you. Jay keeps one hand on your waist to steady you while the other runs soapy over your shoulders and arms.

The alcohol in your system makes your emotions spill out easily before you can stop them. "I think… I think I’m falling for you," you confess, your tongue loose, making your cheeks flush. "Is that crazy? It feels too fast. I know I’m younger and still figuring everything out, but being with you just feels right. You make me feel safe, wanted, and special."

Jay pauses for half a second, processing what he just heard, but then continues washing you carefully — lathering the floral-scented body wash over your skin. "This smells like… girl stuff," you say, a little curious. "Is it yours?"

He looks away for a moment before answering. "It’s my mom’s. She left some things here the last time she came to visit."

"Ah," You rest your forehead against his chest as the water runs over both of you. "I meant it, though. About falling for you. Even if it’s too soon… I can’t help it."

Jay wraps his arms fully around you under the spray of water, holding you close — voice is full of affection when he finally replies. "Hey… look at me, princess." He gently lifts your chin. "What you’re feeling… I feel it too." Softly, he kisses your forehead, then the tip of your nose. "We don’t need to rush or label anything right now. Just know that I’m here and I care about you a lot."

Even in your alcohol-fueled haze, his words calm the part of you that was worried you were moving too fast. "Really? You feel it too?"

"I do." He continues washing you carefully — your arms, your back, your sides — just taking care of you. "Being with you is easy. Natural. So let’s just enjoy it, okay? One day at a time."

Jay finishes rinsing you off and helps you out of the shower. Wrapping you in a towel he dries you gently before dressing you in one of his shirts. By the time he guides you to bed, you are already sleepy. He helps you lie down and you snuggle into the sheets, murmuring one last "I really like you" before falling asleep.

────────

The following days feel almost too good to be real.

You wake up in Jay’s bed, wrapped in his arms and wearing one of his shirts. He always wakes up before you to make breakfast and greet you with a good morning kiss and that smile that still makes your heart flutter. But on some mornings, you pull him back into bed to cuddle before classes and work, and without any argument, he makes time to make you feel loved.

When you get home from class, tired, Jay is already there to greet you cheerfully despite his own exhaustion. He texts you during the day, asking how your classes are going and reminding you to eat. When you are together, he pulls you in for slow, affectionate kisses — the kind that make your legs weak. Some nights you cook together as he tries to teach you how to make proper meals. Other nights he orders takeout and you eat on the couch while you tell him every detail of your day. He still doesn’t share much about himself, always dodging the subject, but you do not push — you don’t want to be invasive.

The sex is frequent — sometimes slow and worshipful, his mouth and hands adoring every inch of you until you are trembling and coming apart. Other times it is faster and more urgent — against the kitchen counter, in the shower, on the couch, in his home office. One night you try baking cookies together, ending up covered in flour and laughing as he kisses the mess off your cheek. Another night you start watching a movie cuddled together, but the movie is forgotten halfway through when clothes come off and he fucks you right there on the couch.

Suddenly everything feels so domestic — he now keeps an extra toothbrush for you, your notebooks are on his coffee table, and some of your clothes are scattered around his apartment. It is undeniable that you are falling deeper and deeper in love.

On a Sunday afternoon, you are studying on his couch while Jay is in his home office, working on a complicated case that demands his full attention. After hours buried in books and notes, concentrating is almost impossible. At this point, your mind keeps wandering to him without permission. When your brain finally gives up, you close the book with a dramatic sigh.

You walk down the hallway and peek into his office. Jay is sitting at his desk with his sleeves rolled up, looking unfairly attractive as he concentrates on reviewing some papers. "Jay?" you call, walking in without waiting for an answer.

He looks up, and the moment his eyes meet yours, the tension in his shoulders softens. "Hey, princess. How are the studies going?"

Boring." You take a few steps closer and don’t ask for permission — you simply climb into his lap, settling on his thighs and wrapping your arms around his neck. You leave a trail of kisses along his jaw, then his cheek and lips. "I missed you. Pay attention to me? Just for a little while?"

One of his hands rests on your waist while the other continues organizing the documents. "I’d love to, baby, but this case is a nightmare. There are documents everywhere. I’m going crazy with these."

You nuzzle into the curve of his neck and kiss him there. "You’ve been in here for hours… you deserve a break." Your hips move subtly against him, restless, the friction sending a spark through both of you. You feel him twitch beneath you, already starting to respond to your movements.

Jay’s grip on your waist tightens. "Princess…" There is a warning tone in his voice, bordering on frustration. But as you grind against him, you can feel him beginning to harden, and that gives you hope — you think he might give in.

"You’re really testing me today." He pulls you into a kiss, fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of your neck. When he pulls away, it is with a frustrated sigh.

"That's the point," you whisper, smiling proudly against his lips as you continue grinding, slower this time, feeling him get even harder.

Jay curses under his breath, gripping your hips more firmly. No matter how hard he tries to hold back, he can’t, the desire is uncontrollable. He reaches between you and unzips his pants. "Fine, but you’re going to behave." He frees his hard, throbbing cock and pulls your panties and shorts to the side. This time there is nothing between you — no latex barrier, just him.

You sink down onto him slowly, and the new sensation hits you immediately — it’s different, hotter, more intimate. Every ridge and vein is raw against your walls, the skin-to-skin contact sends a shiver through your entire body and makes you moan as you settle fully onto him. The stretch feels deeper and more overwhelming than ever.

For a moment, it feels perfect — connected, raw.

But then his hands close firmly on your hips, holding you completely still. "Don’t move," he commands, his voice noticeably deeper and rougher. "Stay just like this. No grinding, no whimpering. I’m serious."

His cock pulses hot and heavy inside you, and you can barely focus on what he said. "Jay… oh my God, you feel—"

"I said don’t move," he interrupts, repeating it more harshly this time. His free hand returns to the stack of papers while the other arm stays wrapped around your waist, keeping you in place.

At first, you try to obey — resting your head on his shoulder and breathing deeply every time his cock twitches inside you, but the longer you sit there, the harder it becomes. You let out a soft moan as your hips twitch involuntarily. "Jay… please, just let me move a little bit."

"I told you not to move. Jesus, you’re really pushing it today." The irritation is clear in every word now, and his grip on your waist tightens even more. "I have a deadline. I can’t afford to get distracted like this."

Again, you try to stay still — you really do, until frustrated tears prick at your eyes — but your body betrays you with small, involuntary movements of your hips. "I’m sorry… I can’t help it. This is driving me crazy. I need you to move, please."

Jay’s jaw is tense and his breathing comes in heavy bursts — clearly fighting the urge to thrust up into you. "You think I don’t want to? You’re so tight and wet around me right now, but I can’t. I have work to do and you’re not letting me focus." His tone grows even harsher. "Stop squirming. Be a good girl for me and just sit there.”

But you do not listen — you roll your hips again, letting out a moan as he rubs against that sensitive spot inside you. "Jesus Christ. I told you I have work and this is fucking important."

"But I missed you and this is torture. Please, please just fu-"

He cuts you off sharply. "You always miss me, always need something. Kisses, hugs, my cock, my fucking attention. You practically live here now, your things are all over my apartment, you sleep in my bed like it’s yours. Isn’t that enough attention? You know what? I need you to get off so I can actually finish this case."

The words hurt, making your chest tighten — tears of frustration turn into something heavier and spill down your cheeks. "I didn’t mean to be annoying… I just wanted to be close to you."

"Yeah, well, wanting to be close to me doesn’t magically make my deadline disappear. I’m already behind because of distractions like this." His hand on your hip tightens even more, holding you completely still, the pressure bordering on uncomfortable. "You have your own apartment right next door. Just give me a few hours alone, for once."

You stare at him in disbelief at what you just heard. Suddenly the intimate position feels humiliating — the way you are still stretched around him while he looks at you like you are nothing but am annoyance. "You want me to leave? Like this… right now"

"I’m telling you to give me some space." With no patience left, he lifts you off him, leaving you empty and trembling. "Go to your place, take a nap, study, whatever. Just let me work."

You stand there with shaky legs, wiping away your tears, feeling small, vulnerable, and unwanted. With a quiet, trembling breath, you whisper, "…Okay."

It's past 9 PM when Jay finally steps out of his office, having finished dealing with that pile of papers. The silence hangs heavy now, normally you would be humming, curled up on the couch waiting for him, or laughing at something silly on your phone. Without you, the space feels too empty. He had been rude — way too rude — and he sees that now. He owes you an apology, so he walks over to your door, but just as he is about to knock, he notices the door is not fully closed — it’s slightly ajar, allowing him to hear low murmurs of voices.

Frowning, he pushes the door open a little more and steps inside, finding a guy standing right at the entrance to your living room, putting on a jacket. The guy turns at the sound of the door, his expression quickly shifting to surprise. "Ah, hi. You must be Jay. She talks about you a lot."

He looks over the other guy’s shoulder toward the couch where you are sitting with your knees pulled up. The guy cleans his throat, sensing the tension between the two of you. "I was just leaving… It was really nice talking to you." He gives you a small wave. "Text me if you need anything else, okay?"

You smile and wave back. "Yeah. Thanks, Jake. Drive safe."

As Jake heads for the door, Jay blocks his path. "Wait. What exactly were you doing here?"

Jake blinks, surprised by the sudden question. "She seemed pretty down when we texted, so I decided to stop by and check if she was okay. Anyway, I’m heading out. Nice to meet you, man."

He steps aside, letting Jake pass. The door closes behind him, leaving just the two of you in the suddenly too-quiet apartment.

You stand up, hugging yourself. "Jay… what are you doing here?"

The regret he felt for being so harsh with you is quickly replaced by jealousy and irritation. "I came because my place was too quiet without you. I started thinking maybe I was too hard on you earlier, but clearly you didn’t waste any time finding company."

You frown, confused by what he means. "He’s just a friend. I told you about him before, we met during my first week on campus when I accidentally walked into the wrong lecture hall. I was upset after you basically kicked me out, so I texted him. We weren’t doing anything, just talking."

Jay lets out a short, bitter laugh and steps closer. "Talking late at night like it’s a casual visit. You mentioned him before, of course, but I didn’t know you two were close enough for house calls."

The hurt from earlier mixes with frustration now. "You were so rude, Jay. You made me feel like I was an annoying pest who can’t function without your attention. I understand you’re stressed with work, but you didn’t have to push me away and kick me out like that. I felt embarrassed."

He closes even more of the distance between you, standing close enough that you can feel the jealousy radiating off him. "You’re the one who can’t sit still for five minutes without demanding something, climbing into my lap while I’m trying to meet a deadline, whimpering and squirming like a spoiled brat because you ‘missed me’."

You take a step back, but the couch hits the back of your legs. "I just wanted to be close to you."

"But the world doesn’t revolve around your need for attention. I love having you around, but today? You made it impossible for me to concentrate, and the second I ask for a few hours to actually get things done, you run straight to this Jake guy?" Jay doesn’t care that nothing happened — the image of another guy in your space, late at night, while you were upset, makes his blood boil.

"I didn’t run to him! I was crying when he got here and he just listened. Unlike you, who basically told me to leave because I’m too much."

Jay’s laugh is harsh this time, completely humorless. "Too much. Yeah, that’s one way of saying you’re a spoiled brat who demands attention every second, and the moment things get difficult, you replace me with whoever is most convenient."

Neither of you speaks for a long moment. You look away, Jay’s jaw clenches, and soon his gaze drifts from your face to the way you are hugging yourself, then lower, lingering on your bare legs. The jealousy is still burning in his chest, mixed with the memory of you sitting on his cock earlier, demanding attention, all needy.

"Come here," he says, nodding toward the couch.

You hesitate, biting your lip, which makes Jay exhale sharply and close the distance. His hand wraps around your wrist, guiding you toward the couch. "We’re not done talking about this."

He sits on the couch and pulls you closer until you are lying across his lap, your stomach pressed against his thighs. Your shirt has ridden up naturally, but he is not satisfied. "This is in the way." His fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and panties, pulling them down and tossing them aside — leaving your ass completely bare for him.

Jay’s palm rests on one of your cheeks, squeezing the flesh possessively. "You’ve been pushing all day… needing attention, teasing me, and then Jake shows up at your place, and I’m supposed to just swallow that?" His fingers dig harder into the flesh. "You’re mine, and it’s time you learn what happens when you piss me off this much."

His hand makes slow circles over your skin, almost soothing. "How many spanks do you think you deserve for acting like this?"

Your heart races as you try to process his words — head turning slightly to look at him. "What? Are you serious?"

He meets your eyes with a firm, dark expression — one you have never seen from him before. "Very serious. You’ve been spoiled all day, teasing me on purpose. So tell me, how many do you think you deserve?"

You swallow hard, your cheeks burning with embarrassment. "I don’t know… Five? Maybe?"

Jay lets out a mocking laugh. "Five? That’s way too low, baby. You’re going to take twenty, and you’re going to count each one out loud. If you lose count or mess up, we start over. Understood?"

You hesitate but eventually whisper, "Yes… okay."

"Good girl." His hand lifts and the first spank comes without warning — firm and sharp, the sound echoing through the silence. You jolt, a surprised moan escaping you — heat spreads instantly across your bare skin, the sting stronger than you expected.

"One," you gasp.

He immediately rubs the spot in slow, soothing circles, calming the hot skin where he struck.

"Two," you say after the next spank lands on the other cheek.

Jay keeps a steady rhythm — delivering hard spanks followed by almost tender caresses. Then his fingers slide lower, tracing your wet folds, spreading them teasingly, brushing against your entrance, lightly circling your clit before pulling away.

"What a spoiled little brat," he murmurs during one of the pauses, rubbing your reddened cheeks while two fingers tease your slit again. "You’re already getting so wet… You like this, don’t you?"

You moan instead of answering, which earns you another sharp spank. "Five."

He continues, the spanks leaving marks and building heat across your ass. Now his fingers are dip inside you, moving with slow, shallow thrusts, curling just enough to brush that sensitive spot and make you clench around him desperately. But he always pulls back before you can get close to the edge.

"Six… seven… ah!"

By ten, tears prick your eyes, your thighs trembling as the sting turns into a pulsing heat.

Jay pauses longer this time, massaging your sore ass and spreading your cheeks so he can tease your entrance again. "You’re mine. When you need attention that badly, you come to me, even if I’m stressed, even if I tell you to leave." A finger pushes deep inside you, staying there while his thumb brushes your clit.

You lose track amid the overwhelming sensations and he makes you start over, just as he warned. "Back to one." During the restart, two more fingers slide inside you, moving in a torturous rhythm. "You feel how wet you are? This is what happens when you forget who you belong to."

"You’re mine. Your time, your attention, this body. I don’t share it." Spank. Soothe. Tease. "Say it."

"I’m yours," you moan.

"Louder." Another spank.

"I’m yours, Jay!"

When he finally reaches twenty, you are a trembling mess with tears streaming down your face. Jay finally pulls you up and turns you so you are sitting in his lap. His hands stay on your ass, carefully massaging the sore flesh and you press yourself against the hard bulge in his pants, burying your face in his shoulder. "You did so well, my good girl."

Jay lifts your chin, meeting your eyes. For a moment, he just looks at you — really looks at you — taking in your flushed cheeks and tear-streaked face. Then he leans in and kisses you. One hand remains on your sore ass, squeezing gently, while the other slides into your hair. He kisses you like he needs to claim every part of you — hungry, insistent, his tongue tracing your lower lip before sliding inside. You melt into him, moaning against his mouth as you start slowly grinding your hips.

He pulls back just enough to trail his mouth along your jaw, nipping at the sensitive spot below your ear. "Still so needy… even after all that." Then he kisses you again, deeper and hungrier, tongues sliding together with fervor. The hand on your ass slips between your bodies to tease your wet folds with light circles and shallow dips — keeping you right on the edge.

When he pulls away, a thin string of saliva connects you for a second before breaking. "On your knees, princess."

Obediently, you slide off his lap and kneel between his spread thighs. Jay looks down at you, one hand lazily stroking your hair as he frees himself from his pants — his cock springs out, thick, heavy, and already leaking at the tip.

"Open. Tongue out," he says, tapping your lower lip with two fingers. You open your mouth and obediently stick your tongue out. He leans forward and spits directly into your mouth. The warm, viscous saliva lands on your tongue, degrading in a way that makes you shiver. "Swallow that first," he instructs. You swallow while keeping your eyes locked on his. He nods with a satisfied hum. "Now show me how sorry you are for pushing me today."

You start with kisses along his length before dragging your tongue from base to tip. Jay groans, his fingers tightening in your hair, but he doesn't force you — not yet. His thickness stretches your lips as you finally take him into your mouth. He is big enough that you can only take about half before he hits the back of your throat. Your hand wraps around the base, stroking what does not fit in a steady rhythm.

"Fuck… that’s it," he murmurs, tilting his head back for a moment before his gaze returns to you. He doesn't want to miss a single second of this. "Look at me while you suck it."

You do, looking up at him with teary eyes, and the sight makes his cock twitch in your mouth. When you pull back to catch your breath, he slaps his cock against your tongue a few times, leaving strings of saliva connecting you, before guiding you back down. "Yeah, just like that… good girl."

Between bobs, when you pull back to breathe, you say breathlessly, "I’m sorry for distracting you and for Jake being here." Then he guides you down again.

Jay’s hips start moving, pushing a little deeper and testing your limits. Tears continue to prick your eyes from the stretch, but you keep going, hollowing your cheeks and moaning around him.

When he finally gets close, Jay’s grip tightens, his thighs tense, and his breathing becomes ragged. "I’m going to come. Don’t waste it, swallow everything." You nod around him, doubling your efforts and with a deep groan, he comes down your throat — thick, hot pulses that you swallow eagerly, not letting a single drop escape.

He pulls out slowly, a string of saliva and cum connecting your lips to the tip before it breaks. "Open your mouth. Show me."

You open your mouth, sticking your tongue out to prove you swallowed everything. “That’s my good girl.”

He helps you up, pulls you back into his lap, and kisses you, tasting himself on your tongue. Your hips start moving on their own, pressing against the growing hardness beneath you that makes Jay groan into your mouth, one hand sliding down to grab your bare ass and guide your movements.

"Still not satisfied? Such a greedy little thing." Even though he just came, his cock is already stirring again, hardening beneath you as your wet pussy slides along his length.

You gasp against his mouth, your hands gripping his shoulders. "Jay… I need you so bad."

He answers by kissing you again, but soon pulls back to meet your eyes. "Then take what you want."

You don’t hesitate, not even for a second. Rising on shaky knees, you reach down and align the thick head of his cock against your entrance, and slowly you sink down, gasping at the stretch and every inch that fills you. The lack of a barrier makes him feel impossibly thicker than the last time in his office — hotter, more intimate. The spanked skin of your ass burns as you settle fully against his thighs.

"Fuck," Jay hisses, his head falling back against the couch for a moment as his hands grip your hips hard enough to leave bruises, holding you fully impaled on him. "So wet… so fucking tight like this."

You start moving, rolling your hips in a slow, deep rhythm, the angle letting you feel every ridge and vein raw inside you, pulling broken moans from your throat. One of his hands slips under your shirt to caress one tit while the other stays on your ass, squeezing the soft flesh in time with your movements. The mix of pleasure and stinging burn makes everything more intense.

"That’s right," he growls, thrusting up to meet you. "This is what you wanted all day, isn’t it? My attention. My cock." You lean forward, kissing him messily while you bounce, moving your hips faster.

With a low curse, he wraps his arms around you and suddenly flips you, laying you down on the couch cushions, driving him even deeper which pulls a sharp cry from you.

Now he is on top, pinning you beneath him — one of your legs hooked over his shoulder as he starts thrusting into you with deep, powerful strokes — hips snapping forward, burying himself to the hilt each time and the lack of a condom lets you feel every raw inch.

Clinging to his back, your nails dig in as the pleasure borders on overwhelming. Jay’s face hovers above yours, his hair damp with sweat falling into his eyes. Rhythm falters for a second as he looks at you, something darker flashing across his face, the jealousy from earlier — the image of Jake leaving your apartment — has not disappeared. "Are you on the pill?"

You shake your head, breathless, barely able to form words between moans. "No, I’m not."

He thrusts harder, hitting deep against your cervix as if to emphasize the point. "Good," he growls, eyes locked on yours. "Actually, fucking perfect. Maybe I’ll knock you up tonight, put a baby in you so you won’t even think about another guy like Jake. You’ll stay right here with me, we’ll have a beautiful family, me, you, and our kids. No more distractions."

The words should have shocked you, but in the heat of the moment — with him fucking you raw, his body claiming yours completely — they only send a fresh wave of arousal through you. Moaning loudly, your legs tightening around his waist. "Jay… fuck—"

He groans at your reaction, his hips moving harder. "You like that idea, don’t you? My cum deep inside you, getting you pregnant so everyone knows you’re claimed." One of his hands slides down to press lightly against your stomach, as if he can already imagine it.

The couch creaks beneath you both, the sound of skin slapping against skin and the wet noises of him fucking you filling the room. Jay’s earlier irritation fuels every deep thrust, but so does possessiveness — the need to claim you completely after the stressful day. He presses you deeper into the cushions, his hips moving in a way that grinds against your clit with every stroke.

When you finally come, it is intense — your walls contracting tightly around his cock as you scream his name. Jay follows right after, burying himself as deep as possible, and you feel the hot pulses of his cum filling you, thick and warm.

For long minutes, Jay simply holds you — kissing your neck, your jaw, your swollen lips — his cock softening slowly inside you, but as the minutes stretch on, you feel him coming back to life, pulsing against your sensitive walls. "Already?" There is a playful tone in your voice.

"I can’t help it." He moves, pressing one last kiss to your mouth before slowly pulling out. You moan at the loss, feeling his cum start to leak out of you, but his hand quickly reaches down to push it back inside you with two fingers. "Don’t waste it."

He leans back on the couch, stroking himself until he is fully hard again. "Turn around. Hands on the backrest."

You obey, your body trembling as you shift position, kneeling on the cushions, gripping the top of the backrest and arching your back slightly while Jay moves behind you, his gaze fixed on the evidence of the earlier spanking — your cheeks still red with visible handprints — as one of his palms smooths reverently over the heated skin before squeezing firmly.

"Fuck, look at this… Still so red from your lesson." His cock brushes against your entrance before he thrusts deep inside you in one powerful stroke, the new position letting him sink even deeper as the head of his cock presses against spots that make your toes curl drawing a loud moan from you while you grip the backrest tighter as he bottoms out.

Jay starts fucking you with firm, powerful thrusts — deep and deliberate, the couch creaking beneath you both — as every thrust makes your sore ass bounce and the red marks darken even more with the impact, his eyes unable to leave them while his thumbs press into the soft flesh, pulling you back onto his cock repeatedly.

"These marks… they look so good on you." Without warning, he lands a hard, stinging spank on your right cheek, the already sensitive skin making you cry out and clench hard around his cock as Jay groans at the sensation, his hips stuttering for a moment before he resumes his deep rhythm.

He gives your left cheek another spank, making you writhe and moan again as you push back against him desperately despite the burn — or maybe because of it — the mix of pain and pleasure making you even wetter, the previous creampie turning everything obscenely wet and messy.

"That’s it," he praises, smoothing his hands over the fresh marks he just added. "Squirm for me. I love how sensitive you are right here." He gives you one more spank, lighter this time but still enough to make you shudder, and immediately soothes the area with his hands, massaging the sore flesh while he continues thrusting deep and hard from behind.

Jay leans over you, bracing one hand on the back of the couch beside yours while the other reaches down to rub tight circles on your clit. His chest presses against your back, his lips brushing your ear as he speaks between thrusts. "You’re going to take every drop again, princess. I’m going to give you my babies, keep you so full you won’t even think about anyone else."

When you come again — hard, your vision blurring from the overwhelming sensations — Jay follows right behind, burying himself deep with a groan and flooding you with another load of hot cum. He stays inside you for a long time afterward, thrusting slowly through the aftershocks.

Finally, he pulls out carefully and pulls you into his arms, stroking your back in slow, gentle movements. "You’re a mess, princess. Come on, let me take care of you."

He stands up with you in his arms and carries you to the bathroom. Once inside, he turns on the shower, adjusts the temperature, and removes the rest of both your clothes before guiding you under the hot spray with him where the water cascades over you both. Jay takes his body wash, lathers it between his hands, and runs them over your skin — being extra careful around your sensitive ass, massaging the foam in light circles that ease some of the sting.

"Maybe I was a little too rough tonight," he says, his hands moving along your thighs, cleaning away the evidence of the many rounds. "Work stress got to me, and then seeing Jake… I took it out on you more than I should have. You handled it really well, but I’m sorry if it was too much."

You lean back against his chest, letting the water rinse off the soap as you tilt your head to look at him. "It hurt… but it also felt good. In a weird way. I just hated feeling like I was bothering you earlier. I didn’t want to annoy you while you were working. I just… missed you a lot."

After rinsing you, he turns off the shower, wraps you in a towel first, then himself and dries you carefully, paying extra attention to your ass and rubbing some soothing lotion he finds in the cabinet. "There. Better?"

"Much better," you admit, reaching up to touch his face. "Thank you for taking care of me like this."

He leans down and kisses your forehead. "You make it easy to want to take care of you." Pulling you closer, his voice shifting to something even calmer and more sincere. "I don’t know what I’d do without you around. I can’t imagine coming home and not having you here like this. You just… fit. Right here with me."

You hug him tightly, burying your face in his chest. "I feel the same. I always want to be close to you because you make everything feel better."

Smiling against your hair, Jay guides you to the bed and pulls the covers back, lying down beside you to pull you close against his chest. One arm wraps around you securely, his hand rests gently on your ass — not squeezing, just warm and protective over the sensitive skin.

You snuggle even closer, your leg draped over his as exhaustion finally takes over completely. "Stay the night?" you ask sleepily.

"Wouldn’t dream of leaving," His fingers trace lazy circles on your back until your breathing evens out and you fall asleep.

Next morning you stir slowly, feeling the pleasant ache in your muscles and Jay’s heavy arm draped over your waist, his body curled protectively against your back. He feels you waking up and trails lazy kisses along your shoulder before moving up the side of your neck. "Good morning, baby," he murmurs, his voice still rough with sleep as his hand slides to your stomach. "Sleep well?"

You turn in his arms, smiling despite the slight soreness when you move, and reach up to brush the messy hair from his forehead. "Yes… thanks to you."

He leans in and kisses you properly — slow and sweet, the kind of kiss that makes you melt. At this point, he couldn't care less that neither of you had brushed your teeth yet. "You were incredible last night. Let me make it up to you a little more with breakfast."

Jay borrows a pair of your sweatpants that look comically tight on his incredibly nice ass, making you laugh as he models them. In the kitchen, you work side by side like so many mornings before — he cracks eggs for scrambled eggs while you toast bread and slice fruit. Small touches are stolen throughout: a hand on your lower back as he reaches past you, a quick kiss on your temple when you hand him the salt shaker, a playful bump of his hip against yours.

"You’re in a good mood today," you tease, leaning against the counter while he plates the food.

"I can’t help it when I wake up next to you." He sets the plates on the table and pulls you in for another kiss before you both sit down.

After eating, you start getting ready for college and he for the office. Jay kisses you one more time before heading back to his apartment next door to get ready for work. You take a long shower and, once dressed in jeans and a comfortable blouse, you step out into the hallway at the same time he does, looking impeccable in his work clothes.

He quickly pulls you in for a proper goodbye, hands gently cradling your face as he kiss your forehead, lingering there for a long moment. "Have a good day at class. Text me when you’re done." With one last soft kiss on your lips, he pulls away with a smile. "See you later, princess."

College passes in a whirlwind of classes and notes, but your mind keeps drifting back to Jay — the way he holds you, the sweet words, the kisses. He has not sent many messages during the day, which is a little unusual, but you figure he must be busy at work.

When you finally get home in the early evening, you step into the elevator and press the button for the third floor. Just before the doors close, a woman you have never seen in the building before enters, but something about her face seems vaguely familiar.

The woman smiles politely as the elevator starts moving. Curiosity gets the better of you and before you can stop yourself, you ask, "Hi… do you live here? I’ve been in the building for about two months and I don’t think I’ve seen you around."

She nods, laughing lightly. "Yes, I do, but I’ve been away on a work trip. I’m a lawyer and a complicated case kept me out of town longer than expected. I actually got back this morning."

"Wow. That sounds intense… By the way, my name is y/n. Nice to meet you."

The woman’s smile widens. "Nice to meet you too. Jay has already told me about you. He’s mentioned his sweet neighbor a few times."

Your heart flutters with joy — Jay talked about you to the neighbors. It feels special, like proof that you are really becoming a bigger part of his life. "He did? That’s nice to hear."

The elevator dings on the third floor and you both step out together. A small flicker of confusion crosses your mind — she is going the same way — but you don’t think much of it. Maybe she lives farther down the hall.

Then you see Jay standing there and your face lights up immediately. He hadn't texted you all day, and seeing him now makes excitement bubble up inside you. You walk toward him with a radiant smile.

At the same moment, the woman also walks straight up to him. When she reaches him, she wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him — a deep, familiar, affectionate kiss. Jay’s hands settle on her waist automatically as he eagerly kisses her back.

The world stops.

Your feet freeze mid-step and everything inside you turns cold and numb. It takes a moment for your brain to process what you are seeing, but then the pieces fall into place with painful clarity. That was Jay’s wife. The woman in the Polaroid photo he casually said was his "sister." The late-night calls he claimed were from the office. The feminine body wash he said belonged to his mom. The distant restaurant he took you to on your first date, probably so no one nearby would recognize him. The way the doorman sometimes looked at you with that judgmental expression, like he knew something — he did. All the small inconsistencies you had ignored because you were so blinded by how gentle and attentive he seemed.

Every sweet word, every touch, every promise of "you’re mine" had been built on lies. He was married. His heart already belonged to someone else, and you had been nothing but a convenient distraction from the apartment next door — blind, eager, and so in love with the version of him he showed you that you never saw the truth.

Jay’s eyes meet yours over his wife’s shoulder, and for a fraction of a second, something like panic or guilt flashes across his face. The shock turns into pure pain, making you practically run to your door as you fumble for your keys while hot tears blur your vision.

You lean against the door, sliding down to the floor as sobs begin to escape you. Your chest hurts as if someone had ripped a hole in it. All the cute moments — the kisses, the touches, the date, the bouquet — turn ugly and humiliating in your memory.

You cry hard, knees pulled up to your chest, as disappointment turns into shame for having fallen so completely for the man who made you feel special, desired, and loved… and it was all a lie.

The thin walls allow you to hear muffled voices — his wife asking about his day, the normalcy of their conversation only making everything worse. You press your hands over your ears, trying to block out the sound, but the damage is already done. Your heart is shattered.

The man you had grown so attached to — the one who held you so tenderly after sex, who made you breakfast and promised more comfortable days like that — was someone else’s husband, and you had been the other woman without even knowing it.

you step off the plane a few days earlier, notebook already full of notes, press badge hanging around your neck like a second heartbeat. mid-twenties, passionate about the sport since you first watched it as a kid in your living room, knees tucked under a blanket while your family cheered at the screen.

you earned this assignment through sharp reporting and a knack for getting players to open up, chasing stories in smaller leagues and building connections one honest conversation at a time. this is your first world cup covering the men’s side, and the pressure feels exhilarating, a mix of nerves and pure thrill that keeps your pulse quick.

sunghoon park stands out even before the tournament begins.

you know him, everybody does.

starting centre-back, atlético de madrid's star, vice-third captain of south korea's team despite being one of the younger leaders in the squad. his reputation precedes him: ice-prince composure on the pitch, elite defending that reads plays before they happen, precise tackles that disarm attacks without unnecessary force, aerial dominance in duels, and the rare ability to stay calm when everyone else loses their head. fans call him "the wall", a nickname earned through countless highlights of last-ditch clearances and steady leadership. teammates respect him because he leads by example, voice steady in the dressing room, never raising it unless absolutely necessary, offering quiet words of encouragement that carry weight.

off the pitch he carries a quiet politeness, almost shy, with sharp features and dark hair that falls just so, making him look more model than footballer sometimes, his presence drawing second glances even in casual team arrivals. but on it, he transforms into something unforgettable, every movement calculated, his focus turning the chaos of the game into something almost predictable for those watching closely.

the group stage opener arrives fast. south korea versus a tough czech republic known for physicality and counter-attacks, their players built like athletes who thrive on intensity and sudden bursts forward.

the stadium is packed, flags waving in vibrant waves of red and green, chants echoing off the sleek architecture and blending into a roaring symphony. you sit in the press box, heart racing as the teams line up, the bright lights casting long shadows across the pitch.

sunghoon wears the armband tonight as one of the captains rotates, his posture straight, eyes focused under the intense glare. the whistle blows and the match unfolds like a carefully choreographed dance, every pass and movement carrying the weight of national pride.

south korea dominates possession early, controlling the tempo with crisp passes that slice through the midfield. sunghoon organizes the backline with quiet gestures, shouting instructions that cut through the noise, his voice clear and authoritative without ever sounding frantic. when the opponent launches a dangerous cross in the 22nd minute, he rises highest, heading it clear with perfect timing, his body suspended for a moment in perfect athletic poise. you scribble notes furiously: park’s reading of the game is elite. anticipates runs before they develop. tracks shadows and feints with uncanny precision.

the first goal comes from a set-piece he delivers, his long ball finding a teammate who finishes clinically. 1-0. the crowd erupts in a wave of cheers and horns, the energy surging through the stands and into the press area, making your skin tingle.

half-time brings tactical adjustments, the players jogging off with measured steps, sunghoon’s expression unchanging, focused, a thin sheen of sweat on his brows but nothing else. you watch from your seat, analyzing every detail, the way he wipes his face with the hem of his jersey before disappearing into the tunnel.

second half tests them. the opponent pushes hard, physical challenges flying in, boots clashing against shins in audible thuds that make you wince from afar. sunghoon absorbs a heavy tackle but gets up immediately, brushing dirt from his jersey like it’s nothing, his face only shows determination. another key interception in the 68th minute prevents a certain equalizer, his sliding perfectly timed, the ball rolling safely out of bounds as the crowd holds its collective breath.

his composure never cracks, even as the minutes tick down and fatigue sets in for everyone else. south korea holds firm and adds a second goal late, a moment of clinical finishing that seals the result.

final whistle: 2-0. clean sheet. perfect start.

the stadium pulses with celebration, and you lean back in your seat, notebook overflowing, already replaying every touch from the ice-prince at the heart of it all.

the mixed zone after the match is chaotic, journalists crowding the barriers with cameras flashing and recorders thrust forward like eager weapons. the air feels humid and charged, thick with the scent of sweat, grass, and lingering adrenaline from the pitch. the players file through in waves, some pausing for quick quotes with tired smiles, others walking past with headphones on, heads down, lost in their own debriefs. you wait patiently near the designated spot, assigned specifically to sunghoon today, your notebook clutched tight and questions already mentally rehearsed.

when he approaches, towel around his neck, hair damp with sweat and slightly tousled, jersey clinging slightly to his frame from the exertions of ninety minutes, your pulse quickens despite your professionalism. he looks every bit the ice prince under the harsh mixed zone lights, broad shoulders still squared from the game, but up close there’s a subtle tiredness mixed with quiet satisfaction in his eyes, a faint flush on his cheeks that speaks to the effort he poured out.

“sunghoon park,” you begin, microphone steady in your hand, voice warm but professional, cutting through the surrounding din. “congratulations on the win and the clean sheet. you were instrumental at the back tonight. how did the defense hold up against their physical attacks?”

he stops fully, turning toward you with deliberate care. his gaze meets yours directly, polite and attentive, dark eyes steady without any hint of evasion. a small, shy smile touches his lips, the kind that barely shows but feels genuine, softening the sharp lines of his features for just a moment. “thank you. the team prepared well. we communicated a lot on the pitch, stayed compact. it’s a good start, but we know every match gets harder.”

you nod, following up smoothly, the words flowing as the crowd noise fades into background static. “your aerial duel win in the first half was crucial. and that long ball leading to the first goal — was that something practiced in training, or instinctive?”

“a bit of both,” he answers, voice calm and low, carrying that measured tone that makes every syllable feel intentional. “the coaches drilled set-pieces endlessly, but reading the moment… that comes with experience and trust in your teammates.” he shifts slightly on his feet, still looking at you, water bottle in one hand, the towel draped casually.

then you ask the tougher one, the kind that makes some players defensive or curt. “some analysts said before the tournament that the backline might struggle with pace. how do you respond to that after tonight?”

sunghoon pauses briefly, considering, then lets out a genuine laugh — soft, surprised, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that lights up his whole expression. it’s rare post-match, especially after a high-stakes opener, cutting through the usual post-game formality like a breath of fresh air.

“you came prepared with the tough questions, didn't you?” he teases lightly, tone playful but not mocking, a hint of warmth threading through. “i think we showed tonight that we can handle it. pace is one thing, but positioning and timing matter more. we’ll keep proving it match by match.”

you smile back, the chemistry instant and easy, a natural rhythm settling between question and answer. the interview flows naturally after that, a few more questions about team spirit and his leadership role as vice-third captain. he answers thoughtfully, adding small details that most players gloss over — the specific calls he made during transitions, the way the defenders rotated coverage to blunt counters, little insights born from hours on the training ground.

when it ends, he gives a slight bow of his head, respectful and understated. “good questions. thank you. see you.” his eyes linger just a second longer than necessary, holding yours with that same quiet intensity from the pitch, before he moves on down the mixed zone.

you stand there for a moment amid the continuing chaos, replaying the laugh in your head, the way his voice dipped on certain words. "he's handsome, but you're professional. remember the boundaries", you remind yourself firmly, even as your notes feel heavier with more than just match analysis. but the spark is undeniable.

back at the team hotel later that night, the lobby hums with subdued celebration. the space feels alive yet restrained, players and staff moving between rooms in quiet clusters, some heading to recovery sessions with ice baths and physio tables waiting, others grabbing late snacks from the discreet buffet setup in the corner. the hotel is modern, luxurious but secure, with sleek marble floors, towering glass windows overlooking the atlanta night, and strict curfew rules for the squad enforced by attentive staff. you’re staying on one of the lower floors, same as some media and support staff, close enough to the team’s area for convenience but separated by careful zoning that keeps interactions professional and contained.

jet lag keeps you awake, a restless energy humming in your veins, so you head to the lobby lounge for a quiet coffee, laptop open as you type up your match report, fingers flying across the keys in the dim glow. the lights are dimmed low, casting warm pools across the plush seating, soft piano music playing faintly from hidden speakers, a gentle melody that blends with the occasional murmur of conversation.

you’re halfway through your notes, capturing the rhythm of the defense and the weight of sunghoon’s contributions, when movement catches your eye near the entrance.

sunghoon walks in wearing a simple black hoodie and sweats, hair still slightly damp from a shower, the fabric of his clothes loose and comfortable after the intensity of the pitch. he looks younger like this, less captain, more guy in his early twenties carrying the weight of a nation on broad but unassuming shoulders. he spots you almost immediately, hesitation flickering across his face for a brief second before he approaches with measured steps.

“are you still working?” he asks quietly, voice gentle so as not to disturb the quiet space, his korean accent wrapping around the english words comfortably, smooth and familiar.

you look up, surprised but pleased, a small smile tugging at your lips. “yeah, i couldn't sleep. jet lag plus post-match adrenaline. you? should you even be down here this late?”

he gives that small shy smile again, the one that softens his sharp features, and sits in the armchair across from you after a subtle nod seeking permission.

“brief recovery session ran long. and yes, technically within limits if i don’t stay too long.” he glances at your screen with mild curiosity. “are you writing about the match?”

“i'm trying to capture it right. you made it easy with that performance,” you reply, closing the laptop slightly to give him full attention, the screen’s glow fading. conversation starts light, about the game, the flow of possession and the moments that stood out. he talks about specific moments — the tackle on the 68th, how the roar of the crowd affected concentration and forced quicker decisions, the way the backline shifted as a unit to snuff out threats.

you share observations from the press box, how the team’s shape looked solid from above, the defensive lines holding like a well-oiled machine even under pressure. the words come easily, trading perspectives that deepen the understanding of the ninety minutes.

“the jet lag is brutal,” he admits after a pause, leaning back into the cushions, his posture relaxing just a fraction. “it feels like my body is still somewhere over the pacific, caught between time zones. but nights like tonight make it worth it, the win settling something in the chest.”

you nod, sipping your coffee. “i get it. first world cup for me covering like this. the energy is addictive, but exhausting. what helps you unwind? besides perfect defending, obviously.”

he chuckles softly, the sound warm and low in the quiet lobby, a rare unguarded moment. “music sometimes. or thinking about simple things back home. korean food, especially. samgyeopsal after a win would be perfect right now. or even just ramyeon, spicy and comforting. the hotel options are good, but nothing beats street food at home late night after training.”

“ramyeon sounds heavenly,” you agree, smiling as the memory of your own recent meal surfaces. “i had some earlier from a local spot nearby. spicy, just right, with that perfect chew. if you get a chance off-schedule, there’s a place a short drive away that does authentic versions, the noodles are great. though i’m sure team nutrition has you on lock with carefully balanced meals.”

he listens intently, eyes brightening with quiet interest, nodding along as details unfold. the talk drifts naturally — small recommendations for hidden spots, funny stories about travel mishaps like delayed flights and lost luggage in past tournaments, how the world cup atmosphere feels different from league play, more electric and heavy with expectation. he asks about your reporting background, genuinely curious, leaning forward slightly. you tell him about covering smaller leagues first, the grind of rainy pitches and modest crowds that built your eye for the game. he shares a bit about balancing football with everything else, the pressure of being a leader despite his age, the quiet moments needed to stay grounded.

time slips by. maybe twenty minutes, maybe thirty, the lobby emptying further as staff dim the lights even lower and the piano music fades to a softer hum. neither wants to end it abruptly, the conversation weaving comfortably, but reality lingers in the back of both minds.

“i should head up,” he says eventually, standing slowly, stretching with subtle care for his body after the match. “i have a curfew and all of that. but… this was nice. unexpected, but nice.”

“yeah,” you reply, meeting his gaze steadily. “good talk, sunghoon. rest up. next match comes quick.”

he pauses before leaving, that shy smile returning, warmer now in the low light. “goodnight. and thanks again for the interview earlier. you made it… interesting, and easier.” his words carry a little extra weight, the small spark from the mixed zone flickering brighter here in the soft lights of the lounge.

you watch him walk toward the elevators, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands in a casual gesture, footsteps quiet on the marble. alone again, you reopen your laptop but type slower, mind replaying the conversation in fragments. professional. friendly. nothing more. yet the easy chemistry lingers like the aftertaste of good coffee, warm and subtly persistent.

-------

the days after the opening win settle into a rhythm that feels both exhausting and electric. south korea’s second group match arrives, and the team looks even sharper under the georgia sun. the next days settle into tournament rhythm, a steady pulse of preparation and anticipation that fills the air around the venues. training sessions you observe from afar, positioned along the sidelines with other accredited media, notebooks ready and cameras clicking discreetly. press conferences hum with questions in multiple languages, analysis fills late nights back at your temporary workspace. south korea prepares with focused intensity, the squad sharpening transitions and set-piece routines.

sunghoon leads defensive drills with quiet authority, voice steady as he directs younger defenders, demonstrating positioning with precise gestures and calm corrections. his movements remain fluid even in practice, reading imaginary attacks before they unfold, adjusting lines with a few words that carry across the pitch. you catch his eye once across the green during a water break, the brief connection unexpected amid the bustle of cones and passing sequences. he offers a small nod, almost imperceptible, but it warms something in your chest, a quiet acknowledgment that lingers longer than it should.

back in the hotel, paths cross again briefly — a hallway hello in the early evening, his damp hair suggesting another recovery session, your arms full of notes and a coffee cup. another shared elevator ride with staff present, where conversation stays light and public, comments on the weather, the quality of training pitches, nothing that draws attention. the spark simmers beneath the surface, subtle glances and polite smiles building something unspoken match by match.

the second group game arrives under the stadium lights once more. another win, 3-1 this time, the scoreline reflecting growing confidence in the squad. sunghoon marshals the defense like a conductor, his voice cutting calmly through the noise. two key tackles in the first half snuff out dangerous counters. a perfectly timed interception in the 55th minute sparks a fast break. sunghoon scores the opener from a corner, powerful header that sends the ball rocketing into the net, his timing impeccable as he rises above the defenders. composure intact even as teammates pile on him in celebration, the stadium erupting in a sea of red and cheers that shake the stands. you watch from the press box, fingers flying over your keyboard, noting how his positioning seems almost predictive.

post-match mixed zone, you’re the one they send for the team interviews again. when sunghoon reaches you, jersey still on, towel draped around his neck, he lingers. the interview starts professional — questions about the clean sheet streak, his leadership, the set-piece organization, how it felt contributing at both ends. “feels good for the team. defense first, always, but if i can help attack too… it adds something extra.” he answers with more ease now, small smiles appearing. the tease comes again when you ask about a near-miss. “you notice everything, don’t you?” that laugh returns, genuine and rare, soft and crinkling the corners of his eyes, shared just between you amid the surrounding chaos.

the moment stretches comfortably, his answers thoughtful as before, offering insights into the team’s adjustments at halftime and the way the crowd’s energy fueled the second half push. as you wrap up, he pauses instead of moving on immediately.

“you’re becoming the regular,” he says quietly, almost teasing. “it's good to see a familiar face.” his eyes hold yours a second longer before he nods politely and continues down the line. you keep the questions sharp yet fair, the rhythm between you flowing smoother with each exchange, that easy chemistry threading through the professional exchange like a hidden current. the warmth from the brief laugh carries you through the rest of your notes that night.

that night in the hotel lobby, the coffee area is quieter. you’re there with your notes when he appears again, hoodie up, looking refreshed but still buzzing from the win.

“mind if i join?” he asks. this time he seeks you out more deliberately, crossing the quiet lounge with purposeful steps and sitting longer in the armchair across from you. you gesture to the seat across.

conversation flows easier this time. he shares a funny story about a younger teammate’s celebration in the dressing room. you tell him about a chaotic press conference earlier. talk turns to korean food recommendations again — he describes his favorite spots back in seoul with quiet enthusiasm, making you imagine the crowded streets, and the perfect balance of flavors that remind him of home after tough matches.

“are you still craving that ramyeon?” he sends a subtle glance toward the hotel menu.

“always,” you laugh.

you swap travel stories, laughing softly over delayed flights and unfamiliar customs in distant stadiums. jet lag conversations deepen slightly into dreams and why this sport matters, the shared passion for the game threading through late-night reflections. the spark feels warmer, comfortable, hovering in the pauses between words.

by the third group match, a dominant 2-0 victory seals top spot in the group. clean sheets stacking up, a testament to the defensive solidity built over months. sunghoon’s leadership shines through every organized line and timely command on the pitch. he scores the first goal from a corner kick, rising powerfully to head it into the net. his celebration is restrained — a fist pump, quick hug with teammates — but you catch the rare wide smile. his defense remains elite, another strong performance with crucial blocks.

the post-match interview flows like you're old friends now, easy banter mixed with sharp analysis under the mixed zone lights. you’re now the unofficial go-to for the team.

“you’re making my job look too good,” you joke lightly, microphone steady but tone warmer than strict professionalism. sunghoon’s answers come thoughtfully, but he lingers noticeably after each question, adding small extras just for you.

“or you’re making me look good,” he replies softly, eyes warm with that subtle crinkle at the edges, the response quick and genuine. “that goal felt good for the fans,” he says, then softly after the mic dips, “thanks for the steady questions. keeps me grounded.”

the chemistry is obvious to anyone watching closely, but nothing improper. just easy rapport.

the hotel becomes your shared in-between space. quick hallway greetings turn into short conversations when paths cross. one evening after training, you’re heading back to your room when he appears around the corner.

”long day?” he asks. you nod. he walks with you partway, voice low. “we appreciate the fair coverage.”

that night’s lobby meeting stretches further into the quiet hours. recommendations turn personal — favorite movies for recovery days, the ones that distract the mind without demanding too much attention, music playlists that help settle the adrenaline.

your hands brush reaching for drinks from the low table between you, a small touch that sends a small jolt through the air. the eye contact lingers a beat longer each time, charged yet restrained. nothing crosses lines, but the connection feels real, slow-building, like extra time in a tight match where every second carries weight.

late nights in the lobby or coffee corner grow. you talk about pressure, how the tournament amplifies everything.

he admits quietly, “it helps having someone outside the team bubble to talk to. makes it feel less heavy.” you share your own experiences covering high-stakes matches. nothing crosses lines. just comfort. mutual understanding. a crush that simmers beneath polite words.

group stage wraps with top spot secured. advancement feels earned. sunghoon’s clean sheets and that set-piece goal make headlines. you write positively, balanced. you and sunghoon exist in this careful space — reporter and player, budding friends, something warmer underneath the surface of every exchanged word and glance. the ice prince thaws just a little for you in these stolen moments, and you find yourself looking forward to every post-match moment more than you should, the story and the person behind it intertwining in ways that feel both exciting and dangerously delicate.

-------

round of 16 hits on day 13. the atmosphere around the stadium crackles with higher stakes, the air thicker with tension and the roar of fans who have traveled far for this knockout stage. the opponent is tricky, technical, a side known for quick combinations and clever movement that demands constant vigilance. the match is tighter, every touch and challenge carrying the weight of potential elimination, the pitch bathed in bright lights that cast long shadows across the players.

sunghoon shines again, his presence at the back a steady anchor amid the intensity. a spectacular sliding tackle in the 40th minute prevents a goal, his body extending fully with perfect timing, the ball cleared safely as the crowd gasps and then erupts in relief. he organizes relentlessly, voice cutting through the noise with calm instructions, gesturing to teammates to maintain shape, reading the flow of the game with that trademark composure. south korea wins 1-0, a late goal sealing it in dramatic fashion. the clean sheet streak continues, another hard-fought shutout that speaks volumes about the defensive unit’s resilience and cohesion.

post-match, the mixed zone is busier than ever, journalists pressing closer to the barriers, cameras flashing in rapid bursts, the energy electric with the thrill of advancement. voices overlap in a dozen languages as players make their way through, some pausing for brief comments, others moving with exhausted determination. when it’s sunghoon’s turn with you, he lingers the longest yet, his jersey still marked with grass stains and sweat, hair damp and slightly tousled from the battle.

“it was a tough one today,” you say on mic, keeping your tone professional yet warm amid the surrounding chaos.

he answers thoughtfully, detailing the defensive adjustments and the importance of staying compact against their technical threats, his words measured and insightful as always. then, after the formal part winds down and the recorder clicks off, his voice softens, eyes meeting yours with quiet sincerity.

“i know i say this a lot, but… your questions help me reflect properly. see you around the hotel?” the invitation is casual, professional on the surface, but layered with that familiar spark.

that night, the elevator moment happens in the quiet hum of the team hotel. the lobby has mostly emptied, soft lighting casting gentle glows across the marble floors as staff move discreetly in the background. you both end up in the same car after curfew hours, the doors sliding shut to leave just the two of you inside for a brief ride. he presses his floor, you yours, the numbers lighting up softly on the panel. the space feels smaller, more intimate, with the faint scent of his post-shower freshness mingling with the neutral hotel air.

he glances at you with a small grin, the expression boyish and relaxed after the high of the win. “technically we're not breaking rules if it’s just elevator talk, right?” his tone is light, teasing in that understated way.

you laugh quietly, the sound echoing softly in the enclosed space. “team rules are strict. but i won’t tell if you don’t.”

he chuckles, the sound low and warm, filling the brief silence as the elevator ascends smoothly. “good. wouldn’t want to get the reporter in trouble.”

the ride is short but charged, the two of you whisper-joking about imaginary coach surveillance cameras hidden in the corners, trading playful exaggerations about what the staff might think of late-night elevator rides. his eyes crinkle with amusement, the tension of the match melting away in these stolen seconds of normalcy.

when the doors open on your floor, he says softly, “sleep well,” his gaze holding yours for a lingering moment before the doors begin to close behind you. you step out into the hallway, the warmth in your chest blooming brighter, carrying you toward your room as the elevator continues upward.

texts begin the next day. the mixed zone buzz still echoes in your mind as you wrap up another solid interview with sunghoon, the post-round-of-16 energy lingering in the air like static. you give him your number after the formal questions end and the recorders are away, framing it casually as “professional follow-up if needed for quotes or any clarification on comments.” your voice stays steady and professional, but your fingers brush lightly when you hand over the small slip of paper with the digits neatly written. he takes it with a small nod, that shy smile touching his lips again, eyes flicking up to meet yours for a beat longer than necessary.

“thank you. i’ll keep it professional,” he says softly, tucking the note carefully into his pocket.

his first message comes that evening, the notification lighting up your phone screen while you sit in your hotel room reviewing notes. it is a simple photo of his dinner plate with a perfectly arranged meal — grilled protein, colorful vegetables, and a small portion of rice — caption “hotel version of home food. still not as good as ramyeon.”

you smile immediately, the image capturing the quiet discipline of his routine even after a big win. you reply with a meme about strict diets and athlete life, something light and relatable that pokes gentle fun at the sacrifices. he sends back a laughing emoji — rare for him, you imagine, given his usual reserved nature — followed by a single “exactly” that makes your grin widen.

from there, the messages stay light, comforting, a gentle thread connecting the tournament days without crossing into anything overt. he sends silly pitch-side observations during training breaks: “jay almost tripped over a cone today. classic.” the photo attached shows a blurred moment of near chaos on the practice field, his dry humor shining through in the sparse words. you send encouraging articles about south korea’s impressive run or funny football memes that capture the absurdity of the world cup bubble, ones that make him reply with “this one’s accurate” or a simple thumbs up that somehow feels warmer than it should.

there's nothing flirty on the surface. just connection. mutual crush energy that both of you feel but respect the boundaries around, keeping exchanges safe and supportive amid the mounting pressure.

hotel moments multiply in the days that follow, the shared spaces becoming familiar territory for these careful interactions. late-night lobby talks stretch longer, the soft piano music and dimmed lights creating a private world away from the team’s stricter routines. one night on day 15 he brings a small herbal tea from the team area (within rules), the warm cup steaming gently as he sets it down on the low table between you. “thought you might like this. helps with the late nights,” he says quietly, his voice low enough to blend with the ambient hum of the lounge.

you talk about life outside football — his interests in ice skating from younger days, the way the rhythm on the ice once felt like an escape before football took over completely, describing the cold air and smooth glides with a rare nostalgic softness. you share your journey into sports journalism, the early struggles of proving yourself in press boxes filled with veterans, the thrill of finding stories that go beyond the scoreline. hands brush when passing the cup back and forth, the fleeting contact sending small sparks up your arm each time. eye contact lingers, dark eyes holding yours across the table with quiet intensity, the air feels charged but controlled, heavy with unspoken understanding as the hours slip by unnoticed. the conversations flow naturally, deepening the connection without rushing it, each word and glance adding another layer to the careful space you both navigate.

-------

quarterfinals arrive around day 18. the stakes feel heavier in the air, the stadium packed with fans whose chants create a wall of sound that vibrates through every seat and press box. the match is intense, a real battle against a formidable side that matches south korea’s determination with sharp attacks and physical duels. every minute stretches, the tension thick on the pitch under the bright lights.

sunghoon is everywhere — key tackles that stop dangerous breakthroughs in their tracks, precise interceptions that shift momentum, and steady leadership in extra time when fatigue threatens to creep in. his voice remains calm yet commanding, organizing the backline with gestures and short calls that cut through the roar. they win 2-1 in a dramatic finish, the late goal sending the entire bench and crowd into frenzy. the team erupts in joy on the pitch, players hugging, jumping, the relief and pride visible in every exhausted smile and raised fist. advancement to semifinals secured, a milestone that echoes through the night.

the hotel celebration that night is big but contained — music pulsing softly in the common areas, players laughing in groups, sharing stories of key moments from the match, staff joining in with congratulatory claps and snacks passed around. the atmosphere buzzes with pride and cautious optimism, lights a little brighter than usual, but everyone mindful of the next challenge looming. you observe from the edges as a reporter, keeping professional distance, notebook in hand and a quiet smile as you absorb the scene without inserting yourself into the core festivities.

later, when things quiet and the main areas begin to empty, sunghoon finds you outside near the hotel gardens, away from the main buzz. the paths are softly lit with low lanterns, the greenery lush and fragrant under the clear seattle sky. the stars are bright overhead, scattered across the dark canvas, the night air warm and still, carrying faint traces of desert breeze and blooming flowers.

“big win today,” you say as he approaches, his steps quiet on the stone path, still dressed in comfortable post-celebration clothes, hair slightly tousled from the long day.

he nods, sitting on the bench beside you with a comfortable distance that still feels close. “the team deserved it. everyone gave everything out there.”

after that, conversation flows deep and unhurried, it comes naturally. he talks about the pressure of the knockout stages, how every match feels like the last, the weight of national expectations sitting on his shoulders alongside the physical demands. his voice stays low and reflective, sharing small vulnerabilities about staying focused when the world watches.

you share how covering it has been a dream but emotionally draining too, the rollercoaster of emotions from the press box mirroring some of the intensity on the field, the responsibility of capturing moments fairly while feeling the pull of the story. an hour passes easily under the stars, time slipping by as words weave between match analysis, personal reflections, and quiet laughter at lighter memories from the tournament so far.

at one point your hands brush again while gesturing animatedly about a particular play, the contact warm and lingering. neither pulls away immediately, the touch extending a second or two longer than accidental. prolonged eye contact follows — his dark eyes soft, searching, reflecting the garden lights and something deeper. the almost-moment hangs in the warm air, charged with crush energy that peaks in the silence, hearts beating a little faster in the quiet night.

he clears his throat gently after a beat, the sound soft and respectful, pulling back just enough to keep the line intact. “i’m glad you’re here for all this. it makes the nights easier, you know?”

you smile, warmth spreading through your chest. “me too, sunghoon.”

he doesn’t push further. respect keeps the line intact, boundaries honored even as the connection deepens. but the friendship has grown, your bond is undeniable in these stolen moments of calm. as you both head inside separately, walking toward the entrance at a respectful distance, the tournament feels brighter, the stars a little clearer, the shared moments adding layers of comfort amid the beautiful game’s relentless pace.

-------

the semifinal week hits like a wave. south korea’s run has captured hearts back home and around the world. media pressure mounts daily — press conferences packed with reporters, questions sharper and more insistent, expectations heavier with every passing hour. training sessions stretch longer under the los angeles sun, tactics refined with extra repetitions, fitness pushed to the limit. sunghoon leads with that signature calm, directing drills and encouraging teammates, but you notice the subtle signs of strain in his shoulders when he thinks no one watches. as vice-third captain, he shoulders quiet responsibility, guiding younger players through tough sequences, voice steady even as fatigue sets in.

you feel the pressure too. your reports gain traction, interviews with the team sought after by bigger outlets. every day brings new deadlines, analysis pieces, and the growing awareness that this story — both the team’s and the one quietly unfolding between you and sunghoon — feels bigger than expected. you keep boundaries professional in public, but the hotel has become a sanctuary of sorts, a place where conversations breathe easier away from the cameras.

one particularly grueling training day ends late. the team disperses for recovery, bodies tired but spirits high. you’re walking the designated paths near the hotel, notebook in hand, reviewing notes under fading light when sunghoon appears. he wears team-issued sweats, hair slightly messy from the shower, a fresh scent of soap following him. a quick glance around confirms the area is quiet, within allowed boundaries for light activity.

“do you mind if i join for a short walk?” he asks, voice low and gentle. his eyes carry that familiar shy warmth, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

you nod, closing your notebook. “of course. rough day out there?”

he falls into step beside you, the path winding gently around landscaped gardens, away from main entrances but still visible enough to stay appropriate. “yeah, long one. legs feel heavy, but we needed it. that drill where the cones kept falling — your face was priceless when you were watching from the side.”

you tease softly, a light laugh escaping. “don’t remind me. you looked so focused, and then everything just tumbled. the younger guys won’t let it go, huh?”

he chuckles, the sound easing the day’s tension, shoulders relaxing a fraction. “no, they keep replaying it in the dressing room. i told them to focus on their own mistakes next time.”

gradually the conversation deepens as the sky turns deep blue, stars emerging one by one overhead. he talks about pressure first, voice thoughtful. “it builds differently in a tournament like this. every mistake feels like it could end everything. as captain… even vice… you feel it for the whole squad. not just for yourself.”

you listen closely, the gravel path crunching softly under your steps. “i can see it in how you carry yourself. what keeps you going when it gets this heavy?”

he thinks for a moment, steps slowing. “dreams from when i was younger. playing at this level, bringing pride home. and… smaller things now. quiet moments like this. reminders that there’s life beyond the pitch.” he glances at you, the air feels thicker. “honestly, you’ve become one of my favorite parts of this crazy tournament. talking to you after matches, the texts, these walks… it makes the pressure feel less lonely. like there’s something steady.”

your heart skips a beat at the admission. you look at him, the words hanging gentle between you under the starlight. “same for me, sunghoon. covering this has been incredible, the biggest assignment of my career, but getting to know you has made it special. in a way i didn’t expect. your perspective after games… it helps me see the match differently too. it makes me better, even.”

he nods, a soft smile appearing. “i’m glad. sometimes after a tough session i look forward to what you might ask next, or what meme you’ll send. it keeps things balanced.”

neither pushes further. hands brush once as you both gesture toward a nearby bench, the contact warm and lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary. prolonged eye contact follows under the stars — his dark eyes soft, searching, full of unspoken feelings. tension coils warmly, but respect holds strong. you sit briefly on the bench, the wood still holding daytime heat.

“tell me about seoul,” you say quietly. “what do you miss most when you’re away like this?”

he leans back slightly, voice warm with memory. “the streets at night, family meals where everyone talks over each other, my little sister teasing me. the quiet ice rink i visit off-season. it feels freeing, just gliding without thinking about the next match.”

you share your own stories in return. “my hometown had this small park where we’d kick a ball around as kids. football was always the escape, even before i started writing about it. now being here, covering your run… it brings that feeling back.”

the walk ends too soon, the hotel lights drawing closer, but the connection sinks deeper, roots forming in these simple, honest exchanges. you part ways near the entrance with quiet goodnights, the warmth of the conversation carrying into the night.

-------

semifinal day arrives heavy with anticipation. the opponent is formidable, a european side with attacking flair and experience in high-stakes matches. the stadium pulses with energy, south korean fans loud and proud, waving flags that create a sea of red across the stands. you sit in the press box, nerves alight as the match kicks off, heart pounding in time with the roar that greets the first whistle. sunghoon anchors the defense, composure like ice even as attacks rain down in waves. early chances for both sides keep everyone on edge. he makes a crucial block in the 18th minute, sliding perfectly to deny a shot, his body a wall that refuses to break.

the first half ends 0-0, tense and locked, both teams probing for weaknesses without success. you scribble notes furiously, the press box filled with the sound of typing and whispered analysis.

second half explodes with action. south korea scores first on a counter, sunghoon’s precise pass starting the move with perfect vision. celebrations are wild, players piling on each other as the stadium shakes. but the opponent equalizes quickly, the drama building with every minute. yellow cards fly, tempers flare, and extra time looms like a shadow. in the 82nd minute, sunghoon wins a vital aerial duel, clearing danger with powerful timing. the team pushes forward relentlessly. in the dying moments of regulation, a dramatic goal from a set-piece they practiced all week seals it.

2-1. south korea reaches the final.

the stadium erupts in pure ecstasy. players collapse in joy and exhaustion on the pitch, embracing, shouting, some dropping to their knees. sunghoon’s face shows rare pure emotion — relief, pride, tears barely held back as he hugs teammates tightly, the ice prince mask cracking in the best way. you watch from above, heart full, a lump in your throat at the magnitude of the moment.

mixed zone post-match is electric, buzzing with louder voices, brighter lights, and the raw energy of a team one step from history. when sunghoon reaches you, sweat-drenched and glowing with exhaustion and triumph, the interview carries extra weight. you ask about the resilience, his leadership, that final clearance, keeping your voice steady despite the rush of feelings.

he answers thoughtfully, voice steady for the cameras, detailing the defensive shape and the belief within the squad even when the score was level. as it wraps, he leans slightly closer to the mic, eyes on you with subtle softness that feels intimate amid the chaos. “thank you for being here,” he says quietly, almost under his breath but picked up on audio. “through all of it.”

the words are professional on the surface, but the delivery and his gaze carry more — warmth, gratitude, and that deeper connection built over weeks. fans and viewers notice immediately. social media lights up with theories about the “vibe” between south korea’s ice prince and the reporter.

he lingers afterward, as always, a stolen smile shared when cameras shift away for a moment. “we did it,” he murmurs, voice low and tired but happy, stepping just a fraction closer.

you nod, pride evident in your expression. “you did. incredible performance. that clearance in the 82nd… everyone in the press box held their breath.”

for a brief second the mixed zone noise fades into background static. he opens his arms slightly in a quiet offer, and you meet him in a quick, careful hug — nothing overt, just a brief, warm press of shoulders and arms, his jersey damp against you, the scent of grass and effort and victory surrounding the moment. it lasts only a heartbeat or two, respectful and hidden in the bustle, but the tension spikes sweetly, hearts beating harder in the small space between you. his hand rests lightly on your back for that instant, steady and reassuring, before you both pull away, cheeks flushed.

“get some rest,” you whisper, voice soft. “you earned it.”

he nods, eyes lingering on yours with that searching softness. “talk soon. hotel later if you’re around?” the words carry quiet hope. you smile, the almost-moment hanging in the air like the roar of the crowd still echoing outside. the connection feels stronger than ever, charged with everything unsaid, yet still carefully contained.

-------

the following days blur with celebration and preparation for the final. the hotel atmosphere buzzes with a mix of joy and focused energy, players moving between recovery sessions and light meetings, laughter echoing down hallways but tempered by the knowledge of the ultimate test ahead. sunghoon’s texts increase slightly in frequency, still light but warmer, carrying a quiet affection that makes your phone feel heavier in your hand each time it lights up.

a food pic arrives one evening with the caption “recovery meal. missing home flavors… and good conversations.” the image shows a neatly plated dish, simple yet carefully arranged, the kind of balanced food that fuels but never fully satisfies the craving for something familiar. you reply with an encouraging article about the final and a meme about dramatic semifinals that perfectly captures the chaos of extra time. he sends back “exactly this” followed by a laughing emoji, the rare sign of his amusement that always brings a smile to your face.

tension builds in beautiful, restrained ways throughout the week. stolen smiles across the lobby when eyes meet from a distance, quick and private amid the staff and players milling about. inside jokes during brief hallway passes — references to the falling cones or that memorable elevator ride — whispered in passing with soft chuckles that linger in the air after you part. these small exchanges become anchors in the busy days, tiny moments of normalcy that recharge both of you.

one evening he finds you in the coffee area again, the lounge quieter than usual after a long day. you’re typing up notes, shoulders tight from hours at the laptop, when he approaches with that familiar shy warmth. he sits across from you, voice low. “long day for you too?”

you nod, closing the screen slightly. “deadlines never stop. but watching you all out there makes it worth it. how are your legs holding up after that semifinal?”

he smiles, leaning back. “sore, but manageable. don’t burn out yourself. this final… we’ll need your steady questions after. you always make me think clearly when i answer them.”

the support flows naturally between you. you listen as he shares the weight of the upcoming match, offering quiet encouragement in return. “you’ve carried so much already. the way you lead the younger guys, the composure under pressure — it shows. rest those shoulders tonight, okay? ice them like the physios say.” he chuckles softly at your gentle teasing about resting his legs, the sound warm and easy, but underneath simmers deeper feelings — mutual crush evolving into something tender, real, built on weeks of understanding and respect.

another quiet moment near the gardens happens on a cooler evening, shorter this time due to stricter schedules and earlier curfews. the paths are dimly lit, the air carrying the faint scent of night-blooming flowers. hands brush again while walking side by side, the contact sending a familiar spark up your arm. neither pulls away right away. eye contact holds, his dark eyes soft in the low light.

“whatever happens in the final… i’m grateful for these weeks,” he says softly, voice sincere and a little vulnerable. “the talks, the texts, even the quick hallway jokes. it’s helped more than you know. having someone outside the team bubble who sees me as more than just the defender.”

you feel the same, words careful but heartfelt. “i’m grateful too, sunghoon. covering this run has been a dream, but getting to know you — the real you behind the ice prince reputation — has made it unforgettable. you’ve helped me stay grounded too, reminded me why i love the game in the first place.”

no lines crossed. just deepening connection, slow and respectful, hearts leaning closer as the biggest match approaches. you part ways with a quiet goodnight, the warmth of his words carrying you back to your room.

the week ends with the team focused and bonded tighter than ever. you prepare your notes for the final, mind full of sunghoon — the defender, the leader, the person who’s quietly become so important through shared laughs, supportive words, and those stolen moments of understanding. the final awaits, but this connection feels like its own victory already, a beautiful thread woven through the chaos of the tournament.

-------

the final week feels like the world has narrowed to a single point. south korea against a powerhouse european side — technically brilliant, physically strong, full of world-class attackers who can change a game in one moment. the hotel is quieter now, heavier with focus. players move through the halls with serious faces. laughter still comes, but it is softer, shorter. training is sharp, tactical, almost silent except for sunghoon’s calm instructions. he stands tall on the pitch, directing the backline with steady words, but you see the weight he carries.

media pressure peaks. every interview, every press conference asks about destiny, about making history, about what it would mean for the whole country. cameras follow the team everywhere. questions get harder. you feel it too, your own reports read by more people each day. but in the middle of all this, you and sunghoon steal small moments. a hallway smile when no one else is looking. a text at night that says “rest well. big day soon.”

the deeper connection from the semifinals carries them both. tension waving underneath, but they keep it light and supportive. inside jokes about elevator rules and ramyeon cravings ease the nerves when things feel too heavy.

the day before the final dawns clear and warm. new york’s sun rises early, painting the hotel windows in soft gold. you wake up with butterflies already dancing in your stomach. today is the last full day before everything reaches its peak. you know sunghoon must feel it even more. as vice-third captain, the expectations sit right on his shoulders. you spend the morning in the press area, typing notes and preparing questions, but your mind keeps drifting to him.

around midday, after the morning training session ends, you see him in the hotel lobby. he looks tired but composed, hair still damp from the shower, wearing simple team sweats. his shoulders seem a little tighter than usual. when his eyes find yours across the space, he gives a small nod. you walk over casually, keeping your voice low.

“hey,” you say softly. “how are you feeling today?”

he glances around to make sure no one is paying too much attention, then sighs a little. “honestly? i'm nervous. more than i thought i would be. this is the final. everything we worked for. what if i make a mistake out there? what if the team needs me and i am not sharp enough?”

his voice is quiet, almost a whisper. you see the worry in his dark eyes, the way he rubs the back of his neck. the ice prince mask is slipping just for you. you step a little closer, not touching yet, but near enough that your presence feels warm.

“sunghoon,” you say gently, “you have been incredible this whole tournament. that sliding tackle in the round of 16, the header in the group stage, the way you read the game in the semifinal. everyone sees it. the team trusts you. i trust you. one match does not erase all the good you have already done.”

he listens, eyes softening as he looks at you. “thank you. it helps hearing that from someone outside the squad. the coaches say the right things, teammates too, but sometimes it still feels heavy. like the whole country is watching.”

you nod, understanding. “it is heavy. but you do not carry it alone. not really. and tomorrow you will go out there and do what you always do — stay calm, read the play, lead by example. that is who you are.”

a small smile touches his lips. “you always know what to say. makes me feel steadier.”

the conversation flows easier after that. you walk together toward a quieter corner of the hotel, a small seating area away from the main bustle. no one bothers you. the moment feels private even in a busy place. you sit side by side on a comfortable couch. your knees brush lightly. neither of you moves away. the contact is simple but comforting, a quiet reminder that you are here with him.

“remember that time in the elevator?” you ask, trying to lighten the mood with an inside joke. “when we joked about coach cameras everywhere?”

he chuckles softly, the sound low and warm. it relaxes his shoulders a bit. “how could i forget? you said you would not tell if i did not. best deal i made all tournament.”

you laugh together, the sound mixing nicely. for a few minutes the final feels farther away. you talk about ramyeon again, what you would both eat right after the match if you could. he describes his favorite spot back in seoul in more detail this time — the spicy broth, the way the noodles feel, the late night vibes with friends. you share stories from your own travels, funny moments from smaller matches you covered before this big one. the talk helps. his voice grows calmer. the nervous edge fades little by little.

later that afternoon, after some recovery work, he texts you. the message is simple. “coffee area in twenty minutes? if you are free.”

you reply quickly. “see you there.”

when you arrive, he is already waiting with two cups of herbal tea. he hands one to you, fingers brushing yours on purpose this time. the touch lingers. you both sit close, closer than before. your arm rests near his on the table. the lobby is quiet enough that it feels like your own small world.

“i keep thinking about the first match,” he says after a sip. “how everything started. you were there with your questions. now here we are. final tomorrow. it feels fast and slow at the same time.”

you nod, turning to face him more. “it does. i have watched you grow even in these weeks. not just as a player. as a person. you let me see the real you. that means a lot.”

he looks at you, eyes steady and warm. “you let me see the real you too. not just the reporter. the person who loves the game, who works hard, who cares. it has been nice. more than nice.”

the words hang between you, full of meaning. tension builds again, the good kind that makes your heart beat faster. you lean in slightly. he does the same. your shoulders touch now, a gentle press that feels safe and exciting. his hand rests near yours on the table. fingers brush, then stay close, almost holding but not quite. the almost is sweet. it stretches the moment, makes it deeper.

“are you scared?” you ask quietly, wanting to give him space to share more.

he thinks for a second. “yes. a little. not of playing. but of letting everyone down. the fans, my family, the team…” then he adds, whispering, almost as if he was scared of pronouncing those words. ”what if i am not enough tomorrow?”

you turn your hand and gently squeeze his fingers for a brief moment. the contact is warm and reassuring. “you are enough, sunghoon. you have already proven it. tomorrow you will play like you always do. strong, smart, calm. and no matter what, i will be proud. the reporter part and the friend part.”

he squeezes back, just as gentle. his thumb rubs a small circle on the back of your hand before you both let go, aware of the surroundings. but the touch stays with you. his eyes look softer now, less nervous.

“thank you,” he whispers. “really. these talks… they help me breathe better. you help me.”

the rest of the afternoon passes in similar small moments. you walk together again near the gardens when schedules allow. the sun is lower, casting long shadows. this time you walk closer, arms brushing with every step. he tells you more about his younger days, the ice skating dreams, the pressure he felt even as a kid. you share your own fears about big assignments, how you sometimes doubt if your writing captures the real feeling.

“you do,” he says firmly. “your questions always make me think deeper. you see things others miss.”

the compliment warms you. you stop near a quiet bench. he sits first. you sit right beside him, thighs touching. the closeness feels natural now. his arm rests behind you on the bench, not quite around you but close enough that you can lean back into the support. you do. your head rests lightly against his shoulder for a few seconds. he does not move away. instead, he leans in too. the contact is soft, comforting. you stay like that for a minute, breathing together under the fading sky.

“whatever happens tomorrow,” he says quietly, voice close to your ear, “i am glad we had this. the connection. it is special.”

“me too,” you reply, heart full. “very special.”

you pull back after a while, but the warmth remains. he walks you partway to your floor later, the elevator ride shared again. this time it is just the two of you. no jokes about cameras. instead, quiet talk. his hand finds yours for a short squeeze as the doors open on your floor.

“rest well,” he says, eyes holding yours. “i will see you after the match.”

“you rest too,” you answer. “you will be great. i believe in you.”

that night the texts continue.

he sends a simple message. “can't sleep yet. thinking too much.”

you reply right away. “what is on your mind?”

“the final. the team. you.” the honesty makes your chest tight in a good way.

you send back encouragement. “you have prepared perfectly. tomorrow you step on the pitch and do what you love. i will be watching every move. cheering in the press box even if i stay professional on the outside.”

he sends a photo this time — just his hand holding the team badge on his sweatshirt, nothing fancy. “this means more with good support. thank you.”

the conversation goes on for a while, light and deep mixed together. he tells you a funny memory from training camp to ease his own nerves. you share a silly story from your first big assignment. laughter comes through the phone even if you can not hear it. slowly his messages slow down. “starting to feel tired. thanks for talking. goodnight.”

“goodnight, sunghoon. sleep well.”

the day before the final ends with you lying in bed, mind full of him. the way his shoulder felt under your head. the gentle squeeze of his hand. the nervous look that softened when you comforted him. the connection has grown so much closer, physically and emotionally. touches that linger. words that mean more. respect still holds everything together, but the tenderness is real. hearts leaning in as the biggest night of the tournament waits just ahead.

-------

the next morning comes early. you see him briefly at breakfast from across the room. he looks focused but calmer. when your eyes meet, he gives a small smile, the kind meant only for you. you smile back, sending silent support. the final is hours away, but the bond you built feels strong enough to carry through whatever comes. sunghoon is still nervous deep down, you know that. but he also knows he is not alone. your words, your presence, your gentle touches — they have become part of his strength. and for you, watching him chase history while sharing these quiet moments has become the most beautiful part of the whole world cup.

the hours before kickoff pass in a blur of preparation. you review your notes one last time in the press area. sunghoon sends one more text in the afternoon. “final walk through done. feeling ready. your words from yesterday helped a lot.”

you reply quickly. “you got this. go out there and be the wall they need. i am proud already.”

his answer is short but warm. “see you on the other side.”

as the team bus leaves for the stadium later, you watch from the hotel entrance. he catches your eye through the window for a brief second. the small nod he gives carries everything — gratitude, nerves, connection. you wave subtly, heart full. the day before the final has brought you closer than ever. touches, talks, comfort, shared silence. the final waits, but this quiet story between you already feels like a win worth cherishing.

-------

the stadium is a cauldron of noise and color long before kickoff, fans from both nations filling every seat, waving flags, singing chants that echo for miles. the air feels electric, thick with anticipation and the weight of history. you take your place in the press box high above the pitch, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. your notebook sits open, but your eyes keep drifting to the field where the teams warm up.

south korea in their iconic red shirt, sunghoon is wearing the captain’s armband tonight, standing tall among his teammates. his expression is focused, that ice-prince calm masking the storm you know is inside after all the quiet talks and shared moments. he moves with purpose during the warm-up, stretching, touching the grass, talking quietly with younger players. you watch every step, remembering the way his shoulder felt under your head, the gentle squeeze of his hand, the nerves he let you see the day before. national anthems play, voices rising strong and proud. sunghoon stands straight, hand over his heart, eyes distant but determined. the whistle blows and the final begins.

the match is a chess game from the start.

both teams circle each other carefully, probing for weaknesses without giving much away. south korea defends resolutely, staying compact and organized. sunghoon is everywhere at the back — reading runs before they develop, winning aerial duels with perfect timing, distributing the ball calmly from the back to start attacks. you lean forward in your seat, eyes locked on him, scribbling notes but mostly just watching the way he commands the defense. his voice carries across the pitch even from your high position, steady instructions cutting through the roar.

the european side presses high, trying to force mistakes, but the defense holds firm. chances come and go. a shot from the opponent is saved brilliantly by the keeper. a dangerous cross is cleared by sunghoon’s powerful header, his body leaping high, timing exact. the crowd roars with every tackle, every clearance. you cheer loudly from the press box every time he wins a duel, your voice joining the thousands of korean fans, heart swelling with pride and worry at the same time. “come on, sunghoon,” you whisper under your breath when a striker gets too close.

0-0 at half-time. the players jog off, faces tired but focused. sunghoon claps teammates on the back, saying quiet words of encouragement. you can see the tension in his shoulders from afar, the way he glances toward the press box once, searching briefly. you hope he feels your support even from this distance.

second half mirrors the first. intense, cagey, every ball contested like it is the last. sunghoon makes a heroic block in the 60th minute, throwing his body fully in front of a powerful strike. the impact looks painful. pain flashes across his face for a split second, but he rises quickly, brushing dirt from his jersey and waving teammates into position, voice strong again. you stand up in the press box, cheering wildly, hands clapping until they sting.

“that’s it! keep going!” the fans around you roar in agreement. he looks toward the stands, toward you, for just a moment, a tiny nod almost imperceptible, but it warms you through.

the game stays locked. legs start to tire as the minutes tick down. extra time begins, the stadium even louder now, the pressure mounting with every pass. sunghoon keeps organizing, never stopping, even as exhaustion shows in slower movements. he wins more duels, makes more key interceptions, leading by pure example.

you watch him the whole time, heart aching with every challenge he faces, proud of how he pushes through. the connection you built makes every moment feel personal. you want this for him so badly. you want him to be happy.

in the dying minutes of extra time, the 118th, disaster strikes. a quick counter from the opponent catches the defense stretched. a through ball splits the line perfectly. sunghoon lunges desperately, sliding with everything he has left, but the striker rounds the keeper and slots it home.

0-1. south korea is losing.

the stadium erupts in the opponent’s favor, their fans exploding in joy. heartbreak crashes down on the korean side like a wave. the clock ticks away the final moments. south korea pushes desperately for an equalizer, throwing numbers forward, but time runs out cruelly.

sunghoon stands motionless for a second on the pitch, hands on his hips, chest heaving. then he turns his head toward the press box again and again as the whistle approaches. he searches for your face in the crowd, eyes scanning desperately through the sea of people. devastation etches his features clearly now — the pain, the disappointment, the exhaustion. but he stays composed for the team, moving to clap teammates on the back, head high even as the reality sinks in. you cheer his name loudly through the pain in your own chest, voice raw, willing him strength across the distance. “sunghoon! i'm so proud of you!”

the final whistle confirms it.

defeat. 0-1.

the european side celebrates wildly, piling on each other, jumping and shouting. south korea’s players drop to the grass, exhausted and emotional, some covering their faces, others staring blankly at the sky. tears start to flow for many. the weight of coming so close only to fall short hits hard.

sunghoon gathers them slowly, moving from player to player with purpose even as his own eyes glisten.

he puts an arm around the younger ones, pulling them into huddles, voice steady despite the tears he is fighting back. you see him wipe his eyes quickly with the back of his hand, shoulders shaking once before he straightens again. he consoles them with quiet words, hugging tightly, letting some cry on his shoulder while offering comfort in return. they console him too — teammates patting his back, sharing the pain, reminding him how far they came together.

the group stands close in the middle of the pitch, a circle of red jerseys bonded through the heartbreak, sunghoon at the center, leading even in defeat, tears falling freely now as he lets the emotion show while still holding the team together. the moment is raw and beautiful, full of pride mixed with sorrow, the end of an unforgettable run.

medal ceremony follows under the bright stadium lights. the atmosphere is a strange mix of celebration for the winners and quiet pride mixed with sorrow for the runners-up. silver medals hang around necks, gleaming against the red jerseys. sunghoon steps up to receive his with quiet dignity, head held high even as his eyes glisten with unshed tears.

the crowd gives warm applause for the south korean team, chanting their names in appreciation for the run that captured so many hearts. he claps for his teammates, a small, bittersweet smile on his face, but you can see the weight in his posture from your place in the press area. the journey meant everything, and ending here still hurts.

media duties come next. the mixed zone feels somber this time, the usual buzz replaced by quieter voices and heavy emotions. players move through slowly, some with red eyes, others forcing smiles for the cameras.

when sunghoon reaches you, his eyes are teary, shoulders heavy with exhaustion and disappointment. his hair is damp, jersey still marked from the battle, the captain’s armband still on his arm. you keep the interview professional at first, but your voice is gentle, full of care.

“sunghoon, a heartbreaking end after an incredible run. what does this silver mean to you and the team?” you ask, microphone steady but tone soft.

he swallows hard, voice thick but clear as he answers. “it means a lot. we gave everything we had out there. i am proud of the journey, the fans who supported us, the fight we showed together. we will learn from this and come back stronger.” his eyes stay locked on yours the whole time. tears threaten to spill over. the professional facade cracks slightly, the ice prince letting the emotion show more than usual. the moment feels intimate even with cameras rolling.

as the camera holds and the interview continues for a few more questions, you cannot help it. under the barrier, your hand reaches out briefly for his arm, a quick but affectionate squeeze of comfort on his forearm, fingers lingering for a second longer than strictly necessary. the touch is warm and reassuring, right there in public where anyone could notice. he squeezes your hand back gently with his own, eyes saying everything words cannot — gratitude, shared pain, the depth of the connection built over these weeks. the affection is clear in the way his fingers press softly against yours before you both pull away, careful but meaningful. fans will dissect the moment later on social media, replaying the clip, but right now it is just for the two of you, a small anchor in the heartbreak.

you continue with one more gentle question about the team spirit. he answers thoughtfully, voice a little steadier thanks to the touch. “the guys fought so hard. i am proud to lead them. we came so far together.”

the interview ends. he lingers longest with you, teary-eyed and reluctant to move on. you reach out again quickly, this time touching his arm openly for a moment, a light, comforting rub along his sleeve, right there in the mixed zone. “you were amazing out there,” you whisper softly, eyes full of pride and care. “the whole tournament. i mean it.”

he nods, leaning slightly into the brief contact, his own hand covering yours for a heartbeat. “thank you,” he whispers back, voice cracking just a little. “for everything. the talks, the support, being here. it made a difference. really.” his eyes are still glistening, but the small smile he gives you is real and warm, full of affection that goes beyond the game. the public touch feels bold but right in this emotional moment, a quiet way of saying i am here with you.

he finally moves on after one last lingering look, shoulders a little lighter, the comfort from your touch and words carrying him forward. you stand there watching him go, heart full despite the loss, the connection between you stronger than ever even in defeat.

-------

hours later, when the stadium empties and the bittersweet hotel celebrations wind down, the corridors grow quiet. music fades, laughter turns softer, and players slowly retreat to their rooms to process the loss in private. you sit in a quiet corridor near the team floors, away from everyone, the area dimly lit with soft wall lights casting gentle shadows. the air feels still after the chaos of the day. you are replaying the match in your mind, the pride and the pain, when footsteps approach.

sunghoon finds you there. he has changed into a simple black hoodie and sweats, hair messy from the shower, eyes still red from the tears on the pitch and the emotion that followed. he looks tired but real, the captain’s mask completely gone now. you stand up slowly as he approaches, heart beating faster.

“hey,” you say softly, voice barely above a whisper.

he stops close, closer than usual, looking at you with raw emotion that makes your chest tighten. his dark eyes search yours, glistening again under the low lights.

“i kept looking for you out there. in the final moments — when the goal went in, when the whistle blew. seeing you in the press box helped more than you know. it kept me going. it also reminded me why we fought so hard.”

silence stretches between you, heavy with everything unsaid over the weeks — the late night talks, the gentle touches, the shared laughs, the comfort you gave each other. the corridor feels like your own private world, far from cameras and teammates. he takes another small step closer, the air thick with tenderness and vulnerability.

“we lost the cup tonight,” he says, voice low and sincere, cracking just a little. “it hurts. a lot. but… i already won. having you here these weeks — getting to know you, talking after every match, those late nights in the lobby, the garden walks, your support when i was nervous. you made this whole journey feel like a win. even in defeat. i don’t know what happens when we go home, when the tournament ends and real life starts again, but i’d really like to keep seeing you. properly. no more careful lines. no more crazy boundaries. no more hiding how i feel.”

your heart swells so much it feels like it might burst. tears prick your own eyes as you look at him, this man who led with quiet strength through the entire world cup.

“sunghoon… i feel the same. you’ve been the best part of this tournament for me too. not just the football. the real you. the way you listened, the way you let me in, the way you made me laugh even on hard days. i don’t want this to end either.”

he steps even closer, almost closing the distance completely. the air thickens with all the built-up tension from weeks of slow glances and gentle touches. you smile through the emotion, trying to lighten it like you always do, voice soft and teasing.

“you know… i was half expecting you to kiss me right here, like iker casillas did with sara carbonero back in 2010 after the final.”

sunghoon blinks for a second, processing the words, then lets out a genuine laugh — surprised, warm, and full, breaking through the sadness in a beautiful way. his shoulders shake lightly as he chuckles, eyes sparkling despite the red rims and the loss.

“casillas did that because he won the world cup,” he points out, still chuckling softly, the sound echoing gently in the empty corridor. “he was champion. i'm not. i lost. so… bad timing on my part, huh?”

the silly joke lands perfectly. both of you start laughing quietly together, the sound mixing with the leftover emotion, tension easing into something sweeter and lighter. you reach out and touch his arm, squeezing it affectionately, feeling the warmth through the hoodie sleeve. he covers your hand with his own, holding it there, the contact grounding and tender. the laughter fades slowly into soft smiles, but the closeness remains.

he reaches up gently with both hands, cupping your face with careful, warm palms. his thumbs brush your cheeks softly, wiping away a stray tear you did not realize had fallen. “but if it’s okay… i’d still like to kiss you now. not because of a trophy. not because we won or lost. just because of you. because of us. these weeks meant everything to me.”

you nod, heart racing, whispering “yes” with a smile that trembles a little from the emotion.

the kiss is soft, tender, full of all the weeks of slow-burn tension and respect. his lips meet yours gently at first, sweet and unhurried, tasting of shared heartbreaks and quiet joys, of late night talks and comforting hugs. one of his hands slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading lightly into your hair. you lean into him, hands resting on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under the hoodie. the kiss deepens just a touch, still respectful but full of affection, pouring out everything you both held back for so long. when you pull apart, foreheads resting together, breathing softly in the quiet corridor, he smiles, eyes shining.

“we’ll win the next one,” he murmurs, voice warm against your skin. “together. whatever comes after this.”

you nod, smiling back, fingers tracing his arm gently. “together sounds perfect.”

the tournament ends in silver, bittersweet but proud.

but for sunghoon and you, it marks the beginning of something golden. friendship blossomed into more, slow and steady, just like extra time in a tight match — worth every minute, every glance, every touch, every quiet conversation that led to this moment in the dim corridor.

the future waits, but right now, in each other’s arms, the loss feels a little smaller.

taglist: @solonenova, @neabrownn, @drowsypanther, @redessertired, @pinkdazed, @enhypenlvrsstuff, @strwberrylhs, @insignificantlillady, @vanillakirstein, @jaeynslutt, @d2iose, @gchirpy, @k13endall, @phjayyy, @unnatrual, @kookiesnkim, @kpopishgirlie, @kaejua, @ineedjaeyun, @moonchild-31, @cortised, @borderdaytwo, @wonrlls, @heartsski, @dollhoonki, @kristynaaah, @d1m-cataclysm, @bitemhoon, @wh0re4deonnu, @heesno1gooner, @nota10butadefinite8, @f3mmef4rie, @nishimura-kitty, @chanchamm, @meowseongg, @heelvcr, @peachyaeger, @hazelira, @h4esexng, @thisisalwaysthat, @jungwonnielover, @heehee67, @hoonsonenonly, @alleiraa

A/N :: i cant even put into words how much i HATE the first part, but pls dont let it scare you away because the rest is good💔 this is a very old draft haha thought id post something while im working on my longer fics (SURPRISE SURPRISE!!!)

Jake has always been a jealous type since you’ve known him. Ever since you and him got together three years ago, he got envious of the tiniest things. Even seeing you ask for directions in an amusement park from another male made his blood boil with anger. 

You told him it was kind of upsetting you, and he has tried to control it ever since. But it's just so hard, when in his eyes you are the most beautiful and precious thing ever. 

So, instead of trying to control it, he buried the thoughts deep down in his mind. He just hid it that he felt jealous every time you had to go out, possibly meeting someone you know and seeing you smile while talking to someone else.

“She told you she's with her friends” Sunghoon’s voice rasps through the phone’s speaker.

Jake walks around in the living room, almost nervously as he bites down his nails. It is a Thursday night, and you are out with your friends working on a uni project. 

He wanted to trust you and not act childish, so he let you go without saying anything, not even a sneaky comment about how you could’ve just invited your friends over to do the project in your shared apartment.

But here he is, on the phone with his best friend who tries to reassure him as much as he can. Sunghoon finds it funny how Jake gets upset at the smallest things ever. It surprises him a little bit, because before he got with you, he was never like this. 

“What if one of her friends wants to get with her?” He questions, earning a sigh from the other side of the phone. 

“Man, you are seriously something else since you guys are together” Sunghoon says, having the audacity to laugh. 

Jake stops circling around in the living room and looks out of the window, biting his lower lip down. “Are you saying that if you had a girlfriend you wouldn't be—”

“Straight up possessive?” Sunghoon interrupts “No”

“I'm not possessive” Jake projects, clenching his teeth together tightly. “I'm just worried”

Another sigh from the other side of the phone, and Jake is seriously beginning to debate if he should just simply put the phone down and, maybe, maybe… go after you. He knows where you meet your friends all the time, it's always the same bar on the corner of the street.

“Alright” Sunghoon says after a few moments of silence. Jake thinks this is finally the time when he says ‘don’t be a loser’ or something like that, and puts the phone down. “I'm coming over” 

Jake’s eyes widens suddenly hearing the words from his friend, and he opens his mouth to say something back, to deny it, but he already hears the small ‘beep’ that indicates the end of the phone call. 

-

Jake lays on his couch, not feeling like moving a singular muscle when he hears a key in the door. He glances over at it, just to see Sunghoon stepping in. He doesn't even know since when Sunghoon has a key to your apartment, but he doesn't really care at this point. This man has invalidated his private space a long time ago, and he doesn't bother to leave any time soon.

Sunghoon laughs when he sees his best friend laying on the couch unbothered, having his eyes on the tv but not really watching it.

“Jeez, you look faded, man,” Sunghoon comments, putting his leather jacket on one of the kitchen’s chairs.

“I'm not faded” Jake mumbles back, sitting up weakly.

Sunghoon hops down next to him on the couch, slightly pushing his arm to move away. “You are overreacting” he states.

“Thanks, that's really reassuring!”

Sunghoon runs a hand through his dark locks, putting both of his legs on the couch “I’m serious. Have you ever looked in the mirror? Why would she want anyone else when you— nevermind” he trails off mid sentence, turning his head away to look at the glowing tv screen, the light hitting his face making his soft features stand out more.

Jake frowns his brows in slight confusion. Why did Sunghoon get shy all of a sudden? He looks stressed, which isn't an usual thing to see on his face. Not when he was about to compliment his best friend; it was a casual compliment and nothing else.

“What?” Jake lets out a small chuckle, gaze staying on his best friend “when I what?”

“You look good, Jake. You don't have to worry about her cheating on you” Sunghoon barks finally, eyes still avoiding Jake at all cost. He wanted to say handsome, he wanted to say more, but he decided it was for the better to keep his mouth shut. Jake doesn't have to hear all his thoughts about him.

Jake chuckles again, but this time it's different. It sounds like he's satisfied with the compliment. “Thanks” he smiles to himself. “But that doesn't really help. My mind just can't stop” 

Sunghoon ducks his head back and looks at the ceiling, he’s starting to get fed up by hearing the same thing over and over again all the time. Then, just as if a light bulb lit up in his mind, he straightens his back “I have an idea”

Jake looks up at him, cocking a brow curiously. “What is it?”

“I can prove to you that she only wants you. I can test her”

Jake grimaces “You want to flirt with my girlfriend?”

Sunghoon runs his hand down on his face, gesturing with his hands while he explains. Sure, if you word it like Jake, the idea doesn't sound so good… “No, no. I mean, kinda, but she won't fall for it. Trust me. I can flirt with her and everything, and I will tell you everything she tells me. So you will know everything about our interactions.”

Jake curls up in a ball at the end of the sofa, pulling his knees up to his chest and biting down his nails as he thinks through the idea. It seemed very bad at first, but now that he thinks about it maybe it isn't that bad. Sunghoon flirts with you, just like a stranger would. But he can tell him about all of your interactions, how you react to each of his words. Yes, you know that Sunghoon is Jake’s best friend, but it isn't a problem since you guys never actually talked that much, just rushed greetings and goodbyes. 

This is all what Jake wants. This is all he has been wanting ever since you two got together. Ever since he kissed you for the first time, ever since he tasted you for the first time. Knowing how you react when you talk with someone else and he's not there.

“So, what do you think?” Sunghoon asks, snapping Jake out of his cloudy thoughts.

“And what if she does cheat on me?” Jake assumes. 

“She won—”

“No, I’m serious. I'm not overreacting, or whatever. What if she really does?” His tone is serious, meaning every word he says.

Sunghoon bites down his lip, seriously thinking. “Well, then we fuck” he shrugs.

“What the fuck? And what do I gain from that?” Jake exclaims, throwing a pillow at the dark-haired boy. 

“I don't know, man. You can— like— watch?” He says the last part of the sentence like it's the most forbidden thing to say, like it's a slur, quietly. But he still says it, and Jake heard it very well.

“Watch? Are you serious?” He asks, knitting his brows together “You want me to watch how you fuck my girlfriend?” he lets out a nervous giggle, ignoring the shivers that run down his spine at the idea.

Sunghoon throws the pillow back, and Jake catches it smoothly. “Okay, look, I know it sounds bad— like— very bad.” he starts, and licks his lips. Jake looks at him with brows knitted together, eyes as big as ever. Sunghoon looks away from his heavy gaze for a moment. “But, if you think about it… You have to work on your skills. You have to control yourself, to not get jealous.”

“Come on, my jealousy is not that bad”

“You called me to talk about how much it irritates you that your girlfriend went out with her friends to do a project for school” Sunghoon says, in a tone that makes Jake look childish and dumb.  

“Well, yes—”

“The call lasted for two hours. You said it yourself. Your mind can't stop making up shit”

Jake bites down his lip until it bleeds, looking Sunghoon up and down for a flash of moment, trying to take in what he's saying exactly. It's not that bad. You would never actually cheat on him, right? You wouldn't fall for his best friend. 

“Okay”

“What? Really?” Sunghoon asks, surprised at the sudden mind changing. He would never have thought that Jake would let him even try to flirt with you, but letting him fuck you was the bigger thing that made his heart skip a beat. If things go well, obviously. The fact that he would watch it is just cherry on top.

“Yes” Jake lets out a huff and stands up, walking to the kitchen to drink a glass of water. After this conversation he will need something way stronger than water tonight.

Sunghoon follows him, still being flabbergasted by Jake's words. “I can't believe you actually said yes”

Jake turns away from the sink, facing the overly happy Sunghoon “Go home before I change my mind” 

-

A few days, maybe two weeks have passed since the agreement with Sunghoon, and Jake would lie if he would say he was able to stop thinking about it. When you got home, he welcomed you with kisses and hugs, and you could practically not scrape him off of you until you went to sleep. 

He even milked information out of you, making you tell him every single detail about your night. Honestly, it wasn't big of a deal. Meeting your friends for project work never was. You tried to tell Jake about the details of the biological research you guys did, but he didn't care about that. Obviously. 

All the things Sunghoon said kept him up at night. What the bigger trouble was is that he didn't only imagine him flirting with you and felt jealous. That wasn't the case at all. The thing is that he didn't feel even a grain of jealousy as he imagined you with him. 

His mind kept going back to Sunghoon sitting on the couch in a black sleeveless top and black sweatpants, practically begging him to let him flirt with you. He couldn't help, but he had to admit that he found it a little bit hot. Imagining that Sunghoon, his best friend, getting intimate with you, his girlfriend, was even hotter. 

He'd been thinking about Sunghoon so much in the past few days that he had to realize that he found his best friend attractive. Was he okay with that? Jake didn't know. Because even though he found Sunghoon visually appealing, and the thought of him pounding into you made him hard, he still had you. His girlfriend. 

The girlfriend he protected at all cost, the girlfriend he jerked off to on the nights you were out with your friends, working on whatever biology project you had. The girlfriend he loved and admired with his full heart. 

Besides, who said he can’t find two people attractive at the same time? He isn't in love with Sunghoon, his best friend since high school. He is still in love with you. 

And jerking off to two people in the shower while you were away was even more exciting. It felt a little forbidden, dangerous. 

It was always the same scenario that had popped up in his mind; Sunghoon fucking deep into you while your moans are echoing in the room. He sits on a chair, watching and touching himself.

This fantasy in his mind made him come so hard he didn't even know he was able to be all alone, without you. So he let himself keep going. And he didn't tell you, he was way too worried that you would break up with him. 

The small plus that Sunghoon planted the idea into his mind in the first place made it at least three times better, because he kept remembering that this was an agreement at the end of the day. It might happen in real life too.

You were surprised when Jake let you go for the night easily, even though you never mentioned you are working on the project with your friends or anything like that. You had no idea about the fact that when you were not home, he was playing with himself while thinking of you and his best friend. Sometimes together, sometimes not.

The truth is that you started to feel like the atmosphere was suffocating. Sure, in the past week you were working on the school project with Sunoo and Jungwon (your friends), but school made you so depressed at the same time. 

Coming home after a long day on campus and having your boyfriend kissing every inch of skin on your body was good, sometimes. However there were times when all you wanted to do is sleep without feeling any worry of school or anything. You felt like you were missing out on that. 

“Really?” Sunoo’s voice drops, looking at you like you just told him that you are pregnant.

“I'm serious. Not even a ‘the project again?’, he just said yes” you shrug as you explain, pulling your glass of cocktail closer to take a sip from the straw.

Jungwon chuckles “That's not your boyfriend, y/n. Somebody stole him and cloned him, I’m telling you”

The conversation by the bar counter is interrupted by the overly hot bartender who has been looking at you all night, practically eye fucking but who cares about the details. He steps closer when he sees Sunoo's glass being empty and gives you a soft smile. “Another one of those?” he asks, and Sunoo nods.

You watch as he works on the drink, the sleeves of his black shirt rolled up perfectly on his arms, just so his forearms are flexing with every move. 

He tosses the glass to Sunoo on the black marble counter when he's done and walks away back to his colleagues.

“Girl” Jungwon slaps your arm playfully “I know Jake is still your boyfriend even though he acts suspiciously careless but that was crazy”

You laugh, eyes flickering between him and Sunoo “What was crazy?”

“Eye fucking with the bartender on a random friday night” Jungwon adds “Now that's something”

“I mean, If you were single or if he wasn't hot I would say it's nothing” Sunoo says, chugging down the rest of his own drink “But Park Sunghoon is something”

You tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear at the mention of the name, your eyes finding Sunghoon in the corner again, his eyes still glued to you although he's chatting with one of the other bartenders.

“He’s the hottest boy on campus” Sunoo looks at him too, shaking his head. 

This whatever thing between you and Sunghoon started around two weeks ago. You already knew him - somewhat - because he's your boyfriend's best friend, but you never had a conversation with him. That changed two weeks ago, when he randomly came up to you after class. He asked if you needed a ride home, and he was just so bubbly and kind that you had to say yes. After that, he might’ve taken that as a sign that you wanted to get closer to him, because he kept inviting you to the bar where he worked after school, he kept offering you rides home which you gladly accepted, and he kept saying you should go to the library together sometime. 

You weren't exactly against getting closer with him. Sure, you had Jake, and Sunghoon was his best friend but all this time Sunghoon’s sudden change of behavior just suggested that he wanted to be friends with you. He knew you were Jake's girlfriend. 

Talking with him felt different than talking with Jake. It's not that you weren't absolutely obsessed with Jake, being with that man felt like winning the lottery, but Sunghoon was approaching you with kindness. He cared about your day while he drove you home, at least he pretended to care about it. Sometimes he even asked back about your biology project you’ve been working on with Sunoo and Jungwon, and you often caught him smiling at you while you talked about the interesting — for you, for someone it could be boring — facts about fishes and their behavior.

In the past few days you might have realized that Sunghoon made you feel in some kind of way. Something scarily close to how Jake made you feel. However, it didn't make you question your feelings for Jake. It made you confused, but you decided to ignore that and enjoy both of their presence at the times when you were with them.

“Whatever.” You shake your head, turning it away from Sunghoon and fixing it on your glass instead “I would never leave Jake. Besides, Sunghoon is only my friend.”

Sunoo sighs, running a hand through his blond hair “I don't want to say anything that would mess up your mind, but Sunghoon definitely wants you too”

-

Your fingers are tangled in Jake’s black locks, pushing him closer to your dripping folds as he devours you. You are laying on your bed, you just got back from a long school day. He told you he couldn't wait for you to get home, and as soon as you stepped inside, he kissed you like he never did before.

When he made you lay down on the edge of the bed and spread your legs, you noticed he was already hard but you didn't question it. 

This time, you let your thoughts leave your mind, letting him do whatever he wanted with you. 

He let out a gasp, his breath caressing your exposed core so heavenly. He backs up a little and looks up at you. You don't look at him, you keep your eyes on the ceiling, one hand in his hair and the other gripping the sheets next to you. 

He swallows and gets back to work, carefully tracing your wetness with his tongue, then he slurps on your clit. You let out a moan at that, but it sounds lifeless.

You enjoy it for sure, you always enjoy it when he eats you out or does intimate things with you. This time you promised yourself to let the thoughts escape your mind, to finally let go a little. However you couldn't stop the thoughts of Park Sunghoon flowing into your mind, and you hated it. A little bit.

“Is this good?” His voice is soft, his index finger reaching up to your clit as he begins to do circular moves on it.

“Yes” you say, trying to sound breathless, but your voice is concerningly firm.

He pushes down harder, the sudden sensation on the bundle of nerves makes you arch your back and let out a moan. He smirks at the sound you make and keeps doing the same movement with his finger. With his other hand, he traces your entrance, teasing the wet hole before he pushes his index and middle finger inside at the same time. 

The sounds you make are finally genuine, and you grip his hair tightly to hold onto something.

“Fuck, you are so tight” he hisses, curling his fingers upwards to press it to your walls.

You whimper “Fuck, Hoon”

Jake is in the middle of speeding up when you let out those two words. He stops immediately, eyes snapping up from your core right into meeting your eyes. 

He pulls out his fingers and wipes it in the sheets. Your heart is beating faster than ever in your chest when you see his sharp look, and you feel like it's about to explode at any moment. 

“Jake, I’m sorry I don't know why—”

He stands up, smoothing his sweatpants out, trying to hide his painfully obvious erect. “Why?” is all he asks, voice coming out more shy than he intended it. He swallows hard, you see the way his Adams apple bobs in his throat.

The lack of reaction surprises you. When the name slipped out of your mouth, you thought he would snap and yell at you. Knowing how possessive Jake can be, especially at a vulnerable moment like during sex, you would've never thought he would just ask why. 

That's why you didn't know what to say.

You prop yourself on your forearm, observing the way he crossed his arms in front of his chest “I’m sorry” you apologize once again.

“Did he fuck you?” 

Your eyes widen, and you feel your cheeks turning crimson at the sudden question. You should’ve expected this one. “No,” you shook your head. “I wouldn't cheat on you”

“Then why did you say his name? Out of all people” Jake hisses, his mind going back to the agreement  once again. The same agreement  he just couldn't get his mind off in the past weeks. Seems like you and him are on the same page, yet it hurts him so bad. 

You bite down your lips, sitting down fully on the bed. You try to cover your exposed breasts with your arms, suddenly feeling way too naked and vulnerable in front of him. 

“I can't lie to you” you begin, taking a deep breath “He has been approaching me in the past weeks, for some reason. He’s very kind, but I thought his intentions were to become friends. I mean, Sunghoon knows you are my boyfriend, right?” you try and look up, into his intense gaze. “I didn't even notice but I guess I… fantasized about him a little. In the past days. But, that doesn't mean I don't love you, Jake. You are my everything and you know that” 

The end of the monologue sounds like you just tried to save your skin, but when you look at him again you see him listening to your every word. And by listening I mean he actually looks like he was interested in what you said, unlikely when you told him about the biology project.

“So” he sits down on the edge of the bed, turning away from you “You want both of us?” he fidgets with his nail. 

You have to think that through for a moment. You were more than confused in the past weeks, the sudden approaching by Sunghoon made your whole world flip around, but you still love Jake. No one could ever question your feelings for him. So, looking at these things all together, you could say yes. It was just weird to think about it like that, because you sounded greedy. 

“Yes” you say in a bitten whisper, between your teeth.

You fix your gaze on your knees, but after a silent beat, you look up. Though, Jake doesn't even have a cool spot on the bed where he had been sitting before. 

Great. He got up and ran away or something, because when you went out to the kitchen + living room, he wasn't there either. 

Oh, what have you done…

-

“What's up, pretty?” 

You jolt your head up at the familiar voice, being faced with the smiley Sunghoon. “Why are you all alone?”

You shrug, looking back at the top of the barcounter, trying not to cry. It has been two hours since the thing between you and Jake, and after you dressed up you made your way straight to the bat where Sunghoon works, you don't know why either. That was the dumbest place you could’ve ran away to. 

During these two hours, two different waiters served you, and Sunghoon just started his shift around twenty minutes ago.

“What's wrong?” his voice softens, tilting his head as he observes you.

You, you want to say, but that would be a little rude.

“Nothing” you bark instead, fidgeting with your own finger instead of looking up at him. 

He pushes his tongue to the inside of his cheek, taking your state in for a few moments before he slaps his palms on the countertop. “Alright” he begins “I see that you are sad, so, what about coming with me tonight for dinner? I’ll cheer you up?” he tries, looking at you with puppy eyes. 

You sigh, trying not to smile at his sweetness “Sunghoon, you know I have a boyfriend… who also happens to be your best friend. You can't keep doing this” your stomach twists as soon as you say the word ‘boyfriend’ out loud. Do you really have a boyfriend? You can absolutely not handle Jake breaking up with you. If something, that will ruin you. 

You swallow hard, and just like if he could read your mind, he says:

“Something happened between you and Jake?” He says it like it's a statement rather than a question. Though, he doesn't seem so concerned about it. His tone is filled with curiosity.

How ironic, Sunghoon being the one who's asking this question “It's complicated.” you say, trying to close the topic as soon as possible.

“You know you can tell me,” he presses.

You clench your jaw tightly, hesitating if you should tell him about the little story or not. The way he looks at you, black shirt sleeves rolled up on his forearm while his palms are on the countertop, tilting his head and looking so cute but also masculine at the same time… it's driving you crazy. “He was eating me out and I kind of might have said a different name. That's all” you say, and the sudden topic of your and Jake's sex life makes him freeze in place for a moment.

“Really?” his voice is slightly more high pitched than before, you don't miss that. He crosses his arms and leans on the countertop, leaning forward to be able to whisper “And what name did you say?” 

You swallow the lump in your throat, getting lost in his dark eyes. He frowns with his thick eyebrows, his expression seeming more serious than before “Yours”

He leans back, humming to himself. The loss of his presence close to you lingers in the air as he moves away to the sink, grabbing a glass and drying it with a towel. “Hm, that's interesting, cuz’ me and Jake have a… how do I say it… an agreement ” he says casually, not looking up while doing his work.

You knit your brows together in confusion. What is he talking about? 

“What agreement ?”

“We figured Jake has to work on his obvious jealousy issues. So, we made a bet that if you fall for my flirting and want to have sex with me, he has to watch it” he places the glass down next to the other ones with a clinking sound that feels heavy in the bar, because in your mind suddenly everything else is silenced. His tone is so calm and casual it nearly makes your blood boil. 

Your heart pounds against your chest heavily. Was it all a game to him? - that is one of the main questions inside your head right now, and you rather shove down the part inside of you which felt excited about the idea.

He turns to you, and his heavy gaze breaks the train of thoughts inside your head. “I guess saying my name during sex makes it up too” he offers a smile.

You don't smile back at him. He lets out a small laugh at your confused reaction, ducking his head down for a moment. 

“So, are you in, angel?” he tilts his head, his smile as sweet as ever.

You bite down your lower lip and nod without hesitation. You love Jake, you really do, but Sunghoon has been driving you crazy since you talked with him for the first time. Having them two at the same time sounds a little bit too good to be true. You knew you had to decide as fast as possible.

He hums in approval, walking around the counter so he can be next to you. “I didn't think you would say yes this fast”

You shrug, finally smiling back at him. Sunghoon leans closer to press a small kiss at your earlobe before he whispers “I’ll give you a ride home”

-

Sitting on the passenger seat next to Sunghoon who is holding the steering wheel with one hand while his other is swinging out of the window has never been so awkward. You don’t even attempt to take a glance at him, feeling too embarrassed.

The air feels oddly suffocating, and your heart is still pounding in your chest. You couldn't stop thinking about Jake ever since you got out of the bar. Last time you were home, he magically disappeared. So, where is he? Did he really run away? Did he get home after that?

Upbeat music radiating from the radio snaps you out of your thoughts, and you finally take a gaze at Sunghoon who is humming along with the beat, tapping on the outside of his car’s door with his fingers.

He must have turned the radio up not so long ago, because you clearly remember the dead silence that filled the car a few minutes ago. Seems like you were so lost in your thoughts you didn't even notice it.

“Traffic is shit these days” he comments to himself, pulling out sunglasses from the glove box and sliding it on the bridge of his nose with a smooth move. 

You are currently stuck in the traffic for the past twenty minutes, which makes this whole situation even more embarrassing for you, knowing where you are going with what suppose. 

You turn away from the window to look at him, getting tired from looking at the same damn electricity pole in these past minutes. “Do you think he's home now?”

When you got into the car, you decided to tell him about every single detail, including the one where he literally disappears out of nowhere.

Sunghoon nods, keeping his eyes on the road.

You furrow your brows “How are you so confident?”

Without a word, he reaches to the backseat, rummaging in his bag for his phone. He hands it to you, the chat with Jake being opened.

you : dude, u fr ran away? dont be a pussy lol. we had an agreement , remember?

Jake : i know. i just needed time to think, thats all

you : are you home now, babyboy? 

Jake : yes

Jake : babyboy…?

you : nice, me n yn are going to your place like rn 

Jake : what? why?

Your eyes scan the messages, your hands gripping the phone a little bit too tightly. “You don't want to answer him or what's up with the last message?”

He shrugs nonchalantly, not being bothered by it in the slightest “We’ll tell him everything once we get there” 

“Makes sense,” you mumble, throwing his phone at the backseat. “Baby Boy?” 

A smile tugs in the corner of his lips, but he bites it down “Just joking”

-

The golden light of the sunset from outside creeps its way into the room through the small gap between the curtains, shining at the spot right where you and Sunghoon sit on yours and Jake's bed, making out.

You both sit on your knees, he has one of his hands on your waist to keep you stable while he stuffs your mouth with his tongue and you let out small moans. 

When you got to Jake’s and your place, Sunghoon explained everything to Jake. He said he was still in the deal, and you guys basically started it right away. It still felt somewhat absurd, especially because you never would've thought Jake would like this kind of stuff.

So, that's why you and Sunghoon are sitting on the middle of the king sized bed, while Jake sits on a chair settled right in front of the bed, watching you. His eyes are flickering between you and Sunghoon, unsure who to watch.

Sunghoon kisses differently than Jake. He’s more rough, like there's no tomorrow. He moves his lips on yours like if it's possible to eat you up, then he is able to do it. 

You can feel Jake's eyes on you, but when you open yours for a moment and glance at him, you see that his eyes are fixated on Sunghoon. He sits still. His posture is straight, his arms are awkwardly on his lap and he doesn't move. 

You would be worried that he feels uncomfortable, but Jake himself said it: he’s still in the deal. And you don't have time to overthink it, since Sunghoon bites down your lip, and you can't help the sound that comes out of you. 

“Fuck” you mumble, pulling back to take off your shirt. 

Sunghoon doesn't try to be subtle with his staring, his eyes immediately set on your red lacy bra, and you see Jake's eyes looking at you from the corner of your eyes too. 

You gulp, straightening your back to push out your chest more. You can't help but feel both excited and nervous at the feeling of their eyes on you, looking up and down at you hungrily.

In the next moments, Sunghoon takes off his shirt too, and your eyes fly to his toned abs. His upper body is perfectly worked out, from his wide shoulders to his small waist. 

He glances at Jake, then smirks at you when he looks back. “Alright” he starts, and grabs you by your wrists.

Before you could ask what he's doing he makes you sit at the end of the bed, leaning your back against the bed frame as you face Jake now, who’s sitting impatiently in the chair in front of the bed. 

Sunghoon shifts next to you and grabs your jaw firmly, turning your head away from Jake to kiss you deeply, his tongue moving roughly in your mouth. While one of his hands holds your jaw, his other makes its way down to your chest, teasingly hovering over one of your boobs. Then he caresses your skin between your breasts with his index and middle finger, making your back arch up in anticipation. He smiles into the kiss and moves his hand lower, pushing down your stomach slightly. 

“Sunghoon” you moan softly into the kiss.

“Shh” he pulls away, licking his lips “let's put on a show for him” 

Your eyes shift to Jake, who’s leaning a little bit forward in his chair. Sunghoon’s hand moves to the button of your jeans. He’s unbuttoning it so slowly that you are sure if he doesn't rip it off of you in the upcoming few seconds your wetness will be visible on your pants. 

When he finally undoes it and pulls it down, throwing it away next to the bed, he grabs both of your thighs, still sitting next to you and giving Jake a clear view as he spreads your legs. 

Jake bites down his lower lip, palming the front of his own — now very uncomfortable — jeans. 

You eye his very obvious bulge, trying to keep the sounds in your throat, but it's getting harder with each second. You can't stop thinking about both of them ruining you, even though the agreement  was only about Jake watching you and Sunghoon. 

You pull up your knees, and Sunghoon moves his palm to your core, massaging your wetness with his slender fingers. He pushes down roughly, and you moan. 

“Fuck, Hoon” you hum, one of your hands going up to grab onto the bed frame. 

Sunghoon’s eyes shift to the top of the bed frame, and he smiles down at you “Great idea” he starts, and you frown your brows at him.

“Do you have any handcuffs?” he asks, his voice sounding way too innocent for this question.

You stutter, making eye contact with Jake who's silent “Uh- yeah it's in the front drawer”

Sunghoon pulls out the said drawer on the bedside table and laughs at the sight “I knew you are a nasty ass couple. I fucking knew it” 

He pulls out two pink handcuffs and grabs your hands, handcuffing them together. “Is this okay?” 

He asks, and when you nod he moves them above your head, cuffing them to the bedframe with the other handcuff. 

“Don't be too greedy” he comments and moves his hand down again, his fingers circling through the wet fabric rougher than before.

“Hmpp— Sunghoon—” you choke out, closing your eyes.

Sunghoon looks at Jake, who still has his right hand on his clothed cock, palming it heavily. “Jake, you should look at yourself now. You look so pathetic.”

A small whimper leaves Jake, and you snap your eyes open to look at his flushed cheeks and heavy eyelids. “You haven't touched yourself because I haven't told you yet. What a good boy” Sunghoon adds, then looks back at you. 

You would be lying if the dirty talk he spoke (yes, even with your boyfriend) didn't turn you on even more. Besides, you are sure you look even more pathetic than Jake, being tied up helplessly and laying on the bed, looking up at him with big eyes.

Sunghoon leans down and presses a kiss in-between your breasts, and god, you want to grab onto his hair so much, but all you can do is to ball up your fists desperately. He hooks his fingers onto both sides of your red panties and pulls them down with a smooth move, throwing it aside probably around where your jeans landed too. 

He looks up at you, shaking his head “Wearing matching underwear, what a slut” 

He glances at Jake again “Do you want to see me finger her?” he asks, voice rough.

Jake nods heavily, and you’ve never in your life seen him being so submissive. Especially for another male, now if something, that was new. 

“Good” he turns his head back to you again as he mumbles, and he leans down to press a kiss on your forehead “I’m going to be rough to make him suffer more” he whispers in your ear like it's some secret. “Is that okay, love?”

And you can't help but nod your head, not knowing exactly what you are signing up for. “Yes”

He gently licks your earlobe, but before you could fully focus on that interesting sensation, his fingers firmly penetrate your leaking hole, making you nearly scream.

“Oh my—” you arch your back, and you hear him chuckling next to your ear. 

He doesn't start off slowly or anything like that, no, instead he moves his ring and middle finger in and out in a fast rhythm. The wetness of your pussy makes it way easier to move, but he still struggles to set up a steady rhythm at first. 

You look at Jake through your knees, he’s biting down his lip so hard it probably bleeds by now. You imagine what he could be thinking about: he probably wishes it was him who was fingering you so hard, and not his best friend. 

Sunghoon lets out a deep sigh, his own aching bulge making it hard for him to keep his rhythm steady and not stutter with his fingers. It's also Jake's presence that feels heavy, but having both of you under his dominance makes his ego boost. 

Sunghoon glances at Jake, and the sight of him, being so desperate to touch himself yet so silent, almost makes his jaw drop. His face is so red, his skin is probably aching for a touch. Sunghoon finds himself wanting to touch his best friend, but he looks back at you quicker than ever when you let out a breathy moan, distracting him.

“You can—” he clears his throat, looking back at Jake who's listening to his every word closely “Touch yourself.” he adds in a commanding voice.

And he doesn't have to tell Jake twice, who is already out of his pants when you look at him while Sunghoon’s long fingers curl inside of you, your mouth hanging agape as you watch him getting out of his boxer, sitting down at the chair with his hard dick in his hand. He has his eyes on you, his precious girlfriend, prettier than ever, laying on the bed, offering yourself like you are a whore.

Sunghoon suddenly adds a third finger, and your vision goes dizzy for a second, letting out a guttural moan. “Take it” is all he tells you.

The stretch is insane, you feel like your walls are about to rip at any moment. He slows down as he sees you struggling, his other hand caressing your hair softly. 

He shifts his gaze to Jake again, who is groaning helplessly in the chair now, leaning back as he strokes his cock. 

“Don't cum” Sunghoon says to Jake, and he pulls his fingers out of you too. 

You take deep breaths, disappointed at the fact that he didn't let you or Jake come. 

He fixates his eyes on Jake, moving his hand to his own hardness now. “What do you want?” he asks gently.

Jake lets go of his shaft, grabbing the armrest of the chair. He hesitates before talking, his eyes flickering between Sunghoon and you “I— Can you kiss me too?” 

The question comes a little unexpected, and you frown your brow at Sunghoon for a moment, just to scan his reaction. He looks surprised too, but he doesn't back up. If anything, he gets on all fours and crawls to the end of the bed, looking at Jake for the whole time.

He doesn't even look back at you, and Jake doesn't bother to take a glance at you either, they just lean in as Sunghoon approaches the man in the chair. Sunghoon kisses him just like he kissed you before: roughly. 

It's torture, because you know exactly how it feels and you know exactly what must Jake feel. The latter’s hands wrap on the sides of Sunghoon’s face, pulling him closer, deeper into the kiss. 

You can't look away from them. Both of them are undeniably hot, and seeing them kiss is also not the least attractive thing you've seen. Sunghoon sits on his knees so he can run his fingers through Jake's dark locks, his fingers grasping his hair into his fists. They look like this is practice for them, like they have been doing this since they knew how to kiss. 

You hear Jake whimper into the kiss, Sunghoon probably bit down his lip. Then, Sunghoon yanks Jake back by his hair, making him look up, a string of saliva still connecting their lips together. “You are so needy, Jae” he smirks and lets go “Sit with your back to the bedframe. I want you to have a clear view”

Jake just nods and crawls to the bedframe, leaning his back against it as he sits down next to you. He’s too embarrassed to look down at you, but you look at him. You have never seen Jake this desperate and needy in your whole life, and it was such a big turn on. He looks pitiful and embarrassed, face red and hair messy because Sunghoon messed it up during their kiss.

However, you don't have much time to enjoy the view of Jake, because Sunghoon stands next to you and undoes the handcuffs that kept you still by the bed. 

He leads you to the end of the bed by your wrists, gesturing you to sit down on the edge of the bed. You do as he tells you, laying down and propping yourself on your forearms to look up at him from under your lashes.

In this position, you see nothing of Jake who's sitting by the bed frame, his semi-hard cock already in his hand again, stroking it vaguely. You only see Sunghoon who squats down in front of you, his eyes shifting behind your back, at Jake. 

“What do you want me to do to her?” He asks, like you aren't even there.

There's a silent beat before the answer comes. “Undo her bra. I want to see her breasts bounce while you fuck her”

Jake’s voice is firm again now, seems like he gained back his confidence he usually has when it's just the two of you. Sunghoon gives him a sly smirk before turning back his attention to you, looking at you like you are the only woman in the world. He pulls his eyebrows together as he looks up, eyes big like a puppy's.

“Can I undo your bra, angel?” 

You nod your head, and his hands are already caressing your back up and down as he reaches for the back of your bra and undoes it with a soft click that feels like an echo in the silent room. You hear Jake murmur when Sunghoon throws your bra away and looks at him. “You want to see her breasts, hm? It must feel so bad that you can't see them right now and it's me seeing them. They look pretty good, right, Jae?” 

You hear something behind your back, and you recognize the sound : Jake is definitely stroking himself again. Sunghoon’s dirty talk works on him better than anything else, and even though it surprises you it makes you oddly turned on too. 

“They are so round, and the nipples are so hard…” he continues, now setting his eyes on your breasts. Jake knows all of it, he knows how your breasts look like more than anything else, but now he only can see your back and it makes him impatient. “Angel, your breasts are perfect” Sunghoon softens his voice, it's crazy that you can make a difference between when he's talking to Jake and when he's talking to you so easily. His whole demeanor changes. “Can I fuck these pretty tits? Please?”

He still squats in front of you and his hands are on your sides, thumbs softly pushing your stomach down as he looks up at you with his pretty, thick eyebrows knitted together. You just can't say no to this. You bob your head, and he finally reaches town to his pants to free his cock that's aching to be touched. 

There's pre-cum spilling out of his flushed tip, and he smears it over his cock with his hand before he stands up in front of you, looking over your head straight at Jake like you were only here when he was squatting in front of you. 

“Baby, I don't want to waste lube yet…” Sunghoon grabs your hair and yanks your head so you look up at him as he offers you a sweet smile “Would you be so kind and let me use your mouth instead?” He lets your hair loose so you can nod, no words coming out of your mouth. 

He moves his hand from your hair to your face and grabs your jaw as he pushes his thumb into your mouth eagerly, forcing you to open it. Sunghoon slightly slaps your cheek before letting your jaw go and he puts his leaking cock to the tip of your tongue. He pushes in slowly, and he moans when he meets the warmness of your saliva, your tongue immediately licking the part of his cock that entered your mouth. 

You lick off all the pre-cum that has leaked in your mouth and begin to move your head, looking up at him from under your lashes while doing it. However his gaze doesn't meet yours, he has his eyes fixed on Jake who still sits in the end of the bed with spread legs, but he's not touching himself anymore. He's completely silent as he watches the scene unfold before him. 

You do your work and bob your head at Sunghoon’s cock while he stays still, one of his hands tangling in your hair to lead you slightly. There's a vein going down from the base of his cock to his tip, and you slide your tongue across it earning a soft whimper. 

After a few moments he averts his gaze away from Jake and suddenly pulls out of your mouth, slapping your cheek again slightly in a form of appreciation. “Fuck, angel, you did such a good job” he comments, his gaze flickering between you and your boyfriend “He taught you so well how to suck dick, you could be a whore by now” 

Jake's brows furrow together at the mention of you with other men, but he doesn't say a word. He lets Sunghoon talk. “Though he is very possessive of you so that isn't in your vision board, I’m guessing” he lets out a laugh “But… seems like he doesn't mind it when you are with me. He's still hard, even though he already jerked off once” 

Sunghoon eyes Jake, and he looks at him like he's just a piece of meat and nothing else. His eyes darted from his flushed face and sharp eyes to his lap and a sly smile tugs in the corner of his lips “Or am I that special, Jae?” 

Jake runs a hand through his messy black hair, looking away from Sunghoon’s dark gaze. “You are not special, it's just a one time thing” he murmurs. 

“A one time thing?” Sunghoon repeats mockingly “Don't act like you don't jerk off to the image of me and your girlfriend together” 

You furrow your brows confusedly at that, looking up at Sunghoon who still has his eyes on the man behind your back “Sunghoon…” you try to hush him 

“It’s none of your business” Jake barks

“It’s hot” Sunghoon says back, like it's the most casual thing ever. But was their friendship ever casual? 

Before Jake could say anything at that, before he could address everything, that he might have slight feelings for his best friend too, Sunghoon is looking at you again. 

“You warmed up my cock so well, love” he reaches down to grope your breast, pinching your nipple that makes you let out a choked sound. “It’s time to ruin these cuties”

He bites down his bottom lip as he moves closer to you again, pushing his hard and flushed cock between your breasts. “Push them together” he commands, and you do as you were told.

He slides his cock upward, the saliva you left on it and the pre-cum it's mixed with makes it move easily. He rolls his hips, watching as his cock slides between your breasts while you push them together so they wrap around it better. “Fuck” Sunghoon’s thrusts stutter while more and more pre-cum leak out of his cock. But before he could come, he grabs onto your shoulders and pushes himself away from you, leaving you with your breasts covered in your own saliva and his pre-cum. 

He looks over at Jake again to see his reaction, and he just sits there while eyeing Sunghoon with his head tilted back toward the bedframe. 

“Do you want to fuck her?” Sunghoon asks, and you turn your head around to look at him too.

Jake's eyes flicker between you and Sunghoon for a few moments before he shakes his head which surprises you. “You fuck her. That was in the agreement.”

“Let's make another agreement,” Sunghoon suggests, looking at both of you. “If you’ll be a good boy and won't touch yourself while I fuck your girlfriend, we both fuck her. How about this?” 

Jake nods with you at the same time, totally synched up. Having both of them in you is all you want right now. Not just Sunghoon, not just Jake, but both of them at the same time. 

“Awesome” Sunghoon smiles, his gaze darkening “Jake you sit back in the chair, y/n you go to the side of the bed.” he commands, and Jake practically jumps out of the bed to sit back into his chair that's placed in front of the bed. 

“Let's make sure you’ll be good for me” Sunghoon says as he walks over to Jake with both handcuffs in his hands, clicking them open to handcuff his hands to the armrests. After he’s done, he gives him a satisfied smirk. “Now you definitely won't touch yourself, right?” he looks down at Jake who is now totally tied up to the chair. Then after a few silent moments, Sunghoon decides to lean forward and click one of the handcuffs open. Jake blinks up at him. 

“You know what? The choice is in your hands, Jae. I give you the right to touch yourself but… as you can see, I left one of the handcuffs on for a reason.” He turns around, not giving any more shit about Jake.

You sit down on the edge of the bed, but Sunghoon gestures to you to stand up instead. “Turn around and bend over, beautiful” 

You get on fours on the bed and bend over slowly, arching your back teasingly to put a show up for him. Sunghoon bites down his lip as he watches your ass get in the air and your chest pushed down to the sheets. He puts his hands on your waist possessively, pulling you closer to himself. “What a good girl” he murmurs as he strokes his cock and places it to your entrance, then pushes in firmly without any warning. You grasp the sheets in your fists, trying to swallow a high-pitched scream. 

He begins to move easily, thrusting deep into you with every roll of his hips until you become a moaning mess. Sunghoon on his own is groaning after every move, enjoying how deep he can go inside you to fill you up. 

He places one of his hands on the arch of your back while his other hand lingers on your waist, digging his thumbnail into the skin of your stomach. Your walls wrap around him so perfectly like you were meant to be filled up with his length, too bad it's Jake who owns you. 

You try to keep your head down on the mattress while Sunghoon pounds into you, the skin-to-skin sound filling up the room. Jake sits in the chair eagerly, trying so hard to not touch himself. It’s hard, because he can feel his cock twitch every time he sees Sunghoon penetrate you deeply as your pussy drips. 

Sunghoon’s hand comes up to the back of your head to pull you by your hair so you can talk. “You like it?” he asks, breathless.

“Yes” you cry out, feeling a drop of tear spilling from your eye “Please Sunghoon keep fucking me like this” you beg.

Sunghoon smiles and furrows his brows in pleasure as you arch your back even more so he can hit you just at the right angle. “You heard that, Jake?” he turns his head towards his friend, who grabs the armrest so hard that his knuckles have turned white. “He likes how I fuck her”

Jake swallows hard, biting the inside of his cheek down as he feels the rage building up in himself. This scenario only worked well in his head — he thinks, though he's undeniably hard again. 

With a long groan, Sunghoon pulls out of you and strokes himself, pushing your back down with his hand to make you arch deeper. “Good girl” he says when he sees you back shrinking down deeper, and after a few moments he spills his cum all over your back with a soft whimper escaping him. 

“Shit” he mumbles when he comes, making a mess of your back. Then, he looks at Jake who’s still sitting in his chair helplessly, one hand cuffed to the armrests and the other grasping the other armrest as hard as he can, trying to restrain himself. 

“You listened to me.” Sunghoon states, analyzing Jake’s state by looking him up and down. “You are so cute like this, Jae. Just sitting in your small chair whining like a puppy while you try to restrain yourself from touching. But you’ll do it eventually, right? Because when you put food in front of a puppy and tell him to not eat, he’ll eat it after a few desperate whines anyway.” He leans forward, their faces close together while you still try to gain yourself together on the bed. “Right?” 

“Just… undo the handcuff already” Jake turns his head away, feeling like he can't look into his best friend’s eyes right now. Not like this. Not in this state. He reaches his cuffed hand as much as he can towards Sunghoon, the chain clinking slightly as he shakes it. 

Sunghoon hums but then gives in and undoes the handcuff, letting Jake’s hand totally free. Now he's not under his mercy, not anymore. Jake massages his red wrist with his other hand, fixing his gaze on his own hands instead of looking at Sunghoon who’s still hovering above him.

“So, are you going to analyze the veins on your hand or would you rather come to see that beauty laying in your bed, hm?” Jake finally looks up and glances at you, who’s sitting on the bed with messy hair and a dirty back. You make eye contact with him for a thin moment, but you both realize it's a bit awkward. 

You’ve never been this vulnerable in this relationship, and neither had him. It’s a new thing, and you aren't sure how things will be after this night. 

Jake walks over to you and leans down to hint a kiss on your forehead. It’s the most gentle thing that has happened to you today. Then, he cups your cheeks with his hands and leans down to kiss you deeply. “Are you okay?” he whispers, only for you to hear. You nod your head in his hands, opening your eyes to look at him.

Jake pulls away from you, letting your face go. Then, he looks at Sunghoon, something pitiful in his eyes. “So, did I do good?” a small smile tugs in the corner of his lips as he asks, and Sunghoon just lets out a laugh. 

“Of course you did” Sunghoon answers, folding his arms in front of his chest “You earn a prize” then, both of them look at you as you sit on the edge of the bed and they are towering right in front of you. 

You suddenly stand up from your place and walk over to them, grabbing both of their heads and pushing them close to each other until their lips meet. Then, you pull your hands away and just watch as the scene unfolds in front of you and they deepen the kiss, Jake’s tongue darting out to lick Sunghoon's lips.

Their hands can't find their places, Jake sometimes grabs onto Sunghoon's neck while Sunghoon's hands get glued to his waist, but they grope each other hungrily everywhere they can touch.

You sit back on the bed to spread your legs, your hand going down to your core. You start to message your clit, watching them kissing each other. Jake lets out a small moan when Sunghoon goes down with his head, kissing on his neck now. He bites and sucks the skin there, and Jake runs his hand into his dark locks “Fuck, Hoon”

Your thumb remains on doing circular moves on your clitoris while you move your middle and index finger between your folds, sliding them down and up. You feel the tension building up in your nerves as the two men in front of you get hungrier and more in heat. Sunghoon goes lower and bites Jake’s collarbone, and Jake can't help but close his eyes to enjoy, feeling every wave of heat the kiss brings go down to his arousal.

“Can I… can” Jake mumbles between small whines, and you push your middle finger in your pulsing hole. “Can I choose a — ah— prize?” 

Sunghoon backs up, looking at him with wide eyes “What do you mean?” 

Jake bites down his lip, unsure if he should really say his thoughts out loud. “Would you give me head?” 

“What?” 

Jake feels his cheeks becoming crimson color, and he turns away “Nevermind” 

You stop your movements and pull your finger out of yourself, watching all of this with pure curiosity. What is up with Jake? Since when is he like this? 

“Okay, you fucked up the whole mood” Sunghoon says as he walks around the room to collect his clothes, already putting his shirt back up. 

“But what about Jake’s prize? He didn't touch himself” you question, kind of confused and disappointed by the sudden cut-end of the night. 

“Maybe next time” Sunghoon pulls his jeans up, doing his buttons. When he turns back around, he faces two blinking faces. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I thought this was… you know, a one time thing” Jake mumbles. 

Sunghoon lets a laugh out “We already talked about this” 

You and Jake share a look while Sunghoon looks for his socks then puts them on, after finding it eventually. “You want to keep doing this?” you dare to ask, and Sunghoon nods casually. 

“Why not? Did you guys have fun? I think we can keep this thing up. As long as no one knows about it… I don't want people to think I’m a weird pervert or something”

“So you want to do it in secret” Jake says, nodding to himself as he lets the words sink in. 

“Yeah” Sunghoon pulls his phone out of his jeans's pocket, checking his messages “Shit, I got called in for work stuff. I have to go.”

“We’ll talk about it, I guess” you add before he goes away, waving goodbye. 

And in the next moment, you and Jake are left alone in complete silence, and for a moment you avoid his gaze. You feel that again, that weird vulnerable feeling you felt when you accidentally said Sunghoon's name while you two had sex. Fiddling with your fingers, you ask “Do you think it's a good idea?” 

Jake folds his arms as he thinks for a moment, then nods “I’m not against it”

“What?” you question, genuinely surprised. That would mean he has to share you with someone, and last time you checked Jake definitely wasn't the type to do that. “You would share me with Sunghoon?”

“Look, I— I don't know, okay? He’s my best friend and I know you are in good hands when you are with him.” he stops for a moment, mouth going dry. “I have to work on my jealousy issues. They cloud my every day, and trust me y/n it’s not good. I hate it, I don't want to have it. I feel like this could help. Sunghoon is open minded and… well, you find him attractive, don't you?”

You bite down your lip until it bleeds a little, your teeth leaving a small wound on it. If he asked you this a few hours or days ago, you would definitely lie to this question. But now, everything has changed. 

“Yes, I do”

“So are you in? It wouldn't be a big thing if it's just between the three of us, right?”

You hesitate for a moment before you say: “Yes”

A/N :: WOOHOOO!! if you reached the end of this, thank you for reading this story ♡ every like, comment (especially comments), reblogs and support is very very appreciated!! and don't be angry about this VERY open end because 🥁🥁🥁 part 2 is comingggg cuz i only wanted to make this as a short smut oneshot as funsies with no specific plot written down in my drafts but its already kinda long and i absolutely fell in love with this plot, and i feel like i can add so much more feelings and stuff to it!! so stay tuned, maybe this'll become my first series

you know this version of yourself very well. it’s the one that immediately starts accounting for error before drawing conclusions, and the one that treats uncertainty as concrete evidence you’ve got everything wrong. by the time you reach your car, you couldn’t even pull your stupid phone out of your stupidly tight jeans, because the pocket seemed vacuum sealed to your thighs once you sat down.

the drive home is full of revision. memories, mostly, on the phone: did you dream all of lee heeseung up? who the hell started those conversations? who called you last night?

was this all one-sided?

every turn at every corner feels excruciating. the green lights are too slow and every second that passes makes you want to reach for your phone, call him immediately, and ask just what the fuck that was. your palms stick against the steering wheel and the thought of hearing his response makes your stomach twist unpleasantly.

it just can’t be possible. there is just no way that you’re this unlucky.

the rest of the journey is blank. you didn’t even turn on the radio, nor did you bother to plug in the carplay. it’s almost pathetic how fast you slide out of the leather seat, how hard you slam the door to the driver’s, and how desperately you punch in the code to your apartment. you mess it up once, which earns a small cuss under your breath, but none of it overshadows the confusion.

you can’t possibly text him like this. ringing him would only lead to something even worse. you might say something you don’t mean, or fuck things up in that signature way of yours.

so, you settle for the same routine as always: shower, lunch, nap, and try not to lose your mind throughout the day. at some point, you think it cannot possibly be this serious—you’ve never met the man like this, never spoken to him in person, and not once have you heard his voice utter your name in real life. it is absolutely ridiculous that your knees almost buckle in the shower, at the mere thought that this truly might have meant nothing. just nothing.

there is an attempt to move through the day without acknowledging the hundred pound weight on your shoulders. perhaps it’s because you’ve spent weeks with your brain at full power that it’s starting to swirl with all kinds of things now.

you’re dragging your feet against the floorboards as you make your way to the kitchen. caffeine might help, maybe. there’s no logic or sound reasoning behind the decision, but you reach for your favourite mug and position it under the coffee machine anyway. your bottom lip is swollen from biting down on it, a habit you never really got around to unlearning from middle school, and for a fleeting, pathetic moment, you think that this is your fate.

your knuckles almost go white, grip tightening on the edge of the marble island, like it’ll help regulate your feelings any better. an annoying chime plays from the coffee machine a few seconds later—hot ribbons of steam curling into the air—but you don’t even feel like drinking it at all, really.

half-heartedly, you take the mug and head straight for your bedroom. your hair is still damp against your neck, the apartment smells like your shampoo, and for a moment, you catch a whiff of cigarette smoke from the neighbour above your unit. your things are still in a mess from last night—from when you were still on the phone with him, falling asleep with a sour mood and paper notes crumpled at the foot of your bed, books still flipped open to important pages that you conveniently wiped from your memory an hour ago.

and, your phone. face down, on your night stand, plugged into the wall and far too quiet for your comfort, as if lee heeseung could sense what was wrong with you from miles away.

“hello?”

you end up calling.

you’re sitting on the edge of your bed, shoulders slouched and back hunched over like it’ll do anything to ease the emptiness in your stomach. a screen is pressed up to your cheek, and you swear your nails might snap off if you hold your phone any tighter than you are now; the phone’s been ringing for a while, and now that he’s finally picked up, every thought decides to somersault out of the fucking window—straight down and plummeting into the concrete pavement outside.

“hey, y/n.” he says. “i’m… fuck—sorry. i’m with some friends right now. are you okay?”

he’s out of breath.

yelling in the background. plastic on plastic, some whistling, someone else calling yeonjun’s name.

you swallow thickly, but it gets caught in your throat halfway. your voice comes out more defeated than you intended. “why did you look at me like that?”

silence. you can hear his heavy breathing through the speaker, and all it does is make you pick at the skin around your nails. ears picking up everything, there’s voices layered over each other, the sound of something sharp cutting against snow, or ice. it stops momentarily when he finally understands the question, soft, but loud enough for your heart to pound.

“what?”

“like you didn’t know me,” you almost fucking whimper, and all you can think is: god, how much more humiliating can this get? “why?”

your free hand comes up to rub at the bridge of your nose, until little bursts of pressure bloom behind your eyes. all of this is giving you a headache, and there’s a split second where you think you should just hang up and save yourself the trouble. this is just how it is. your luck. your fingers knead, and knead, and knead—but it’s no use. all you can hear is him.

“y/n,” he mumbles. “can we meet? tonight?”

“you can’t just do that,” you breathe shakily. “tell me why. please.”

time has been moving wrong all day. everything feels delayed and stretched and slow in this awful, unbearable way. five seconds between responses starts feeling like whole afternoons, and minutes feel like centuries. you spent weeks getting used to talking to him whenever something happened—sending him stupid pictures and complaining about classes and saying things before thinking because there was always tomorrow, and that’s exactly what you did last night.

but now that tomorrow is here… shit, it doesn’t even matter anymore.

“y/n,” his voice breaks just a little—not very sure if it’s the horrible connection on campus, if he’s even still there. you imagine, just for the sake of your sanity, that he’s running his hands through his hair, breathing wrong, panicking. anything like those movies where the guy realises he’s going to lose it all. “i know it doesn’t make any sense—”

“what do you think, huh? do you think any of it does?”

“i know—shit, i know.”

your fingers keep kneading at your skin because the headache’s spreading now, radiating into your temples in slow pulses. you keep pressing harder like pain somewhere else will make this one smaller. it doesn’t work.

“i think we should meet in person,” he answers, calm again, like it’s how he’s always been. somehow, it pisses you off even more, when you know he can hear the shake in your voice. “i gotta go. i’m sorry.”

he’s never apologised to you before. not even for missing your calls.

“what the fuck are you sorry for, heeseung?”

you hear him breathe in, then out. he sounds exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with sleep.

“i’m just…” his voice catches faintly, before smoothing back out. “i’m sorry.”

the line goes dead.

you stay, just for a while, phone still pressed against your ear like the warmth of your skin might coax him back and force an explanation out of him. your shoulders fold further into themselves until your spine starts to ache, but moving would mean admitting the call is over, and you’re not quite ready to do that yet.

your eyes remain fixed on nothing in particular—the opposite wall, maybe, where the late afternoon light stretches unevenly across the paint and catches the tiny imperfections in the plaster that you’ve somehow never noticed despite living here for months.

your stomach really hurts. sour and hollow, underneath your ribcage, compelling you to lower your phone and lock your screen before you can over-analyse the messages from last night.

you draw a deep breath through your nose, falling back against the mattress until your shoulder blades scratch against your duvet.

you are not crying over a man you’ve technically never even met.

this is absolutely fucking ridiculous, you mutter under your breath, but you still wipe under your eyes and try to blink all the salt out of your eyes anyway. your phone dies eventually because you forget to plug it back in, and now, all that’s left is you, the tear-stained sheets and meaningless pieces of paper.

─────────────────────────

two weeks ago, park sunghoon was on the brink of losing his shit.

it was purely emotional. probably more emotion than anyone on the team has ever seen him display, and lord, was it utterly humiliating. he wonders if anyone on the team still thinks about it, given how the locker room goes dead silent every time he steps in—and it’s literally like he just got named captain all over again.

practice ended badly. not disastrously, because no one broke anything, and maki didn’t start a petty argument between the goalkeeper and him. yeonjun barely screamed at the little freshmen, and only one of them cried post-cool down—so by all technical definitions, it had been productive enough.

and still, he was irritated.

it had been building for days now, in that same slow, ugly way tension knots all your muscles before becoming pain. finals always fucked everyone over, but not enough to stop them from showing up—mentally, though, they’re elsewhere. sunghoon had been there, before he had decided he was tired of making shitty excuses for his terrible performance.

shortcuts irritate him. he’s watching people cut corners before his very eyes because they assume he’s as tired as them—well, he is, but that’s besides the point.

he hated it.

metal lockers slammed shut one after another while conversations overlapped in every direction. someone was laughing too loudly, and sunghoon was almost certain the obnoxiously loud carly rae jepsen echoing through the room belonged to maki’s fucked up speakers again. the locker room was humid in that unpleasant post-practice way—the air thick with damp towels, deodorant and sweat drying into fabric, hot enough that stepping in after the rink always felt vaguely suffocating.

sunghoon walks further into the space and, while it isn’t the most obvious thing in the world, conversations shift around him in tiny ways he’s learnt to recognize over the years. a few voices lower, someone moves their legs in so he can pass. one of the freshmen instinctively straightens up halfway through pulling his shirt over his head.

his duffel hangs off one shoulder. sweat drips slowly from his temples, sliding down the side of his neck before disappearing into the dark collar of his shirt. his whole body feels heavy today, and not even in the satisfying way—just fucking heavy. his shoulders ache in that deep, irritating way that suggests recovery isn’t catching up anymore, and lately sleep hasn’t been doing much except making him conscious again.

it’s fine. everything had been feeling vaguely wrong for a while now, anyway.

yeonjun’s already on his way out when he brushes past him, shoulder bumping his with enough force to be annoying but not enough to start anything. “have a wonderfully peaceful night,” he mutters with that unbearably cocky, punchable grin.

any other day, sunghoon might’ve shoved him into a locker.

instead, he dropped his bag beside the end of the bench, and listened to the wood creak underneath his weight. the freshmen lingering nearby begin moving almost immediately. one shifts two lockers down, and another grabs his things and suddenly remembers he has somewhere else to be. by the time sunghoon looks up from his phone properly, half of them have disappeared entirely.

he watches one hesitate after accidentally making eye contact. the kid immediately looks away, picks up his shit, and leaves.

sunghoon looks back down. god, his shoulders hurt.

the muscles between his shoulder blades have been tightening more lately. sleep’s been shit. practice feels slower. finals are making everyone stupid. nobody can pass properly anymore, or communicate once they’re on the ice. everything seems held together by routine and whatever miscroscopic amount of discipline he can force onto everyone else.

whatever. it’s manageable, he thinks. everything always is, if you’re strong and willing and miserable enough. eat properly, sleep properly, train properly, study properly. repeat until wanting anything else becomes inefficient or a distraction, until it’s ordinary and until enough days pass that discomfort isn’t discomfort anymore, and simply morphs into the default.

maybe that’s why the past few weeks have felt stranger than anything else—nothing has gotten easier. his schedule has been become even more hellish than before, his muscles still ache and everyone expects more from him; but there’s been this stupid, absurd sense of anticipation stitched quietly into the gaps of his day.

he’s excited for something. for someone.

he checks his phone when he has nothing to do. sleeps later, thinks about conversations while stretching or when someone says something that you mentioned in passing. none of it means anything, at least individually, but it feels so a embarrassingly noticeable once he becomes aware of it together.

“…i’m serious, though.”

his thumb stills over his lockscreen. sunghoon doesn’t look up immediately, because the sentence barely reaches his ears at first. locker room noise tends to sound a lot like static after practice, but then your name slips, and suddenly every other sound becomes painfully irrelevant.

there’s a burst of laughter from somewhere to his left.

“y/n? yeah, i know. she’s prettier than i thought.”

sunghoon’s hand had been unlocking his phone without thought, thumb dragging upward automatically before freezing halfway. his forearm rests against his thigh, veins standing out faintly beneath skin flushed warm from practice, and he only notices after a second that his wrist has gone rigid enough to make the tendons ache.

the fabric of his jersey sticks unpleasantly against the centre of his back, where it hasn’t dried yet.

“fuck, i still remember that dress.”

“she’s fine as fuck, seriously,” someone snorts. “wonder if she’d let me tap. you think?”

“don’t be a fucking asshole,” sunghoon hears, the laughter echoing and bouncing off the walls suggesting that nobody is really bothered by this except him. “you’re not in her league, man.”

more laughter. sunghoon doesn’t think he’s ever been this pissed off before, truly, because now his fist is balled so tight that his knuckles are starting to pale. his ears are beginning to ring, and all his body decides to do is amplify the voices of his teammates who decided you’d be the centre of their attention tonight.

someone tosses their towel onto the bench he’s on. maki’s finally out, he notices, quieter now that he’s packing his things up.

“who knows if she’s desperate… might have a chance.”

“shut the fuck up!”

sunghoon rolls one shoulder once and immediately regrets it. something pulls underneath his shoulder blade where he took a hit earlier. his body feels strangely swollen after practice—muscles tight and full and unpleasantly warm under skin that suddenly feels too small to sit comfortably in. his thighs ache where they press against the edge of the bench, palms still feeling vaguely raw from his gloves.

the conversation goes on, and he tries not to listen. realistically, these men would never get anywhere near you. he wouldn’t let them, but that’s besides the point. willingly giving this his attention would only lead to something he can’t take back, and he knows it.

“you got her number?”

“think i do. we were in the same freshie group.”

wonderful.

his tongue is pressing against the inside of his cheek, and his jaw is ticking. he swears if he bites down any harder that a tooth might shatter, but sunghoon does his best to keep his eyes trained on the screen in his hands.

someone says something else, but he doesn’t even remember what. he only remembers the feeling of his jaw hurting, the edge of his phone case digging into his palm, and the slow, annoying feeling of anger coursing through his veins.

it’s hot in here. sunghoon feels it all—anger, resentment, the guilt and embarrassment, too, because he really wants it to stop. he really, really needs it to. there’s something deeply unpleasant in having to listen to a group of people talk about you like this is all you are, that your face and body, no matter how gorgeous it may be, is your most interesting feature.

do these people know you the way he does?

they don’t. they never could.

park sunghoon’s throat suddenly feels dry in a way water won’t, can’t fix. his shoulders stay tense while his gaze drags over your messages and something inside him twists. it’s obvious that this was never supposed to become anything, and that a relationship built on a lie would crumble before he could begin enjoying it.

it’s just… one late-night call becomes another, then another, and another. somewhere between protein shakes and assignments and practice schedules, he moves everything aside for you, and realises he wants you more than anything he’s ever wanted in his life.

“could you guys just shut the fuck up?”

the words leave his mouth before he gets the chance to think about them. the social repercussions don’t even matter anymore, nor were they even factored in to begin with. his voice doesn’t come out loud, which somehow makes it worse—it stays low and level and entirely lacking in visible irritation, like he’s asking somebody to pass him a bottle instead of telling half the room to stop talking.

the effect is immediate, anyway.

conversations taper off unevenly until the entire room is quiet. somebody lets out a laugh that cuts itself short halfway through, and somewhere behind him, a locker closes gently.

sunghoon only realises he’s spoken after the silence reaches him, and suddenly, his own breathing sounds louder than before. his shoulders ease by a fraction and his fingers loosen around his phone, just enough for him to feel the imprint left across the centre of his palm from holding it too tightly.

nobody says a thing. sunghoon doesn’t even know who was speaking anymore. that detail doesn’t seem important now—not compared to the things that were said, and definitely not compared to what had slipped out of his own mouth immediately after.

park sunghoon sits in the locker room with sweat cooling against his skin, realising something he spent the next two weeks trying very hard to negotiate with.

he wants you.

slowly, surely, quietly, he wants you.

at some point, it felt easier not to think about; topped with all the things he already has to deal with, accepting this fact is not particularly beneficial for him.

fourteen days after that—today—he’s done with practice again, same old, same old; walking into locker rooms that are hyperaware of his existence, everyone treading on egg shells until he gets out of the place and into his car.

he knows people noticed. yeonjun had asked if he was alright on the walk over to the parking lot and tried unusually hard not to sound like he was asking. no grin nor stupid comment attached, it’s plain, awkward concern delivered badly enough that sunghoon knew it was real.

“you good?”

what the fuck is he supposed to say to that?

that he’d heard your voice three hours ago, spent the entire session replaying the shake in your voice, and wanted to rip his heart out of his chest?

that the only time he was so sure of someone, he’s already fucked it up?

it’s his fault that he couldn’t answer and instead settled on walking away. park sunghoon heard you on the phone three hours ago and knew he’d be thinking about it the entire session—but now that he’s actually getting into his car, on the way to see you, his heart is beginning to pound harder.

his shoes scrape quietly against the asphalt of the parking lot as he walks. his duffel drags his shoulder lower on one side, dark blue hoodie sleeves rolled up to his elbows—sunghoon’s hand reaches into his pocket automatically and wraps around his keys before he even gets to the car.

You: where are you? 20:08

Y/n: [Shared a location] 20:08

─────────────────────────

the text came at 7 in the evening. you spent the previous 3 hours wondering where it went wrong, recalling every word exchanged, every misunderstood conversation that you dismissed in the moment. it’s incredibly easy to move past things in the heat of the things, you realise—it just seems silly now, almost childish, that you let those things slip past you.

you left the house in a random zip-up, shorts riding up your thighs with every forward step you took. there’s an annoying little hill you need to climb to get to this park, obscured by dark green trees and stray cats that rub against your legs if you stand still for too long, and you’ll usually start panting by the 2 minute mark.

once you finally reach the top, it’s unmistakable. an old playground swing, a plastic slide, and a bench that sat directly behind the big, interactive structure modelled after a sunflower. your feet feel heavy as you move, slippers scratching against the concrete, and you accidentally kick a few pebbles as you walk.

this feels like a waste of your time. heeseung messaged around thirty minutes ago, and he’s still nowhere in sight—eventually, you’re hunched over the park bench table, hands in your hair, trying to get this nausea to alleviate itself.

so what if lee heeseung decided he wanted nothing to do with you? the magnitude at which this is affecting you is starting to seem ridiculous. you keep telling yourself that a boy shouldn’t matter this much, that talking means nothing, and that modern love is nothing but a cruel endeavour that you’re constantly gambling on. so what if you lose, you think, but the feeling of your heart spilling out of your ribs is pressing so deep into your heart that it’s killing you.

your fingers are pressing into the bridge of your nose again. the streetlamps feel warm over your head, slipping through your fingers when you run them over your face. you think you must look horrible right now, but so does everyone else—never mind that the occasional parkgoer jogs past and stares you down: that is what you choose to tell yourself.

some kid walks by with her mom, pointing at the slide, and it almost makes you laugh when she hesitates before saying ‘no’.

just as the thoughts begin to tone down, swirling less and less, you catch a familiar figure in your peripheral: tall, broad, sleeves bunched at the elbows and dark brown hair falling over his eyebrows, looking as tired and miserable as the day you saw him a week ago.

this can’t be real.

the yellow light washes over his face and bathes him in a warm, almost greenish light. the moment he steps into focus, you’re already on your way up—standing next to the bench, hands shaking like you can’t quite believe this is actually happening.

“y/n—”

three steps later, you’re already on your way out.

what follows is immediate: park sunghoon, tired, red eyes, lounging a big ass bag on his shoulder, jogging towards you with a stride so big that it almost scares you. you can’t bear to look at him like this, like he’s actually hurt over what he’s done, even if you don’t specifically know what it is yet.

everything’s blurry as you move. you can’t feel your stomach, and it took you more than a reasonable amount of effort just to turn away and start walking. you can hear him, faintly—sunghoon calling out your name, as familiar as every night before this one, as sweet and genuine as it had always been—but has it really, though?

“is this some fucking joke to you?”

your voice cracks on the very last word, embarrassingly enough. as if the tears running down your cheeks wasn’t enough shame to carry around, sunghoon has to hear you like this. vulnerable and hurt and wanting answers.

“y/n, please. just stop walking away from me,” he pleads, out of breath from how far he’s been trailing you. the downhill slope isn’t that far away from here, and you can see a few couples taking a night stroll—as if the universe insists on rubbing it in your tear-stained face. “let me explain.”

“what is there to explain?”

you weren’t stupid. it feels like a cruel insult that sunghoon thinks you even need an explanation; he was heeseung. you’d been calling, texting, falling for someone completely different, and the worst part is that it doesn’t even fucking matter in the way he thinks it does.

“i wanted to tell you,” sunghoon blurts out, and the moment it leaves his lips, your feet suddenly stop working. it’s like your heels are anchored to the ground by something invisible, urging you to turn around—everything in his voice screams for you to do just that, to face him, to see how hurt he is by the lie he chose to tell. “y/n, please.”

you can’t. you just can’t.

it’s incredibly corny. this whole scene just seems like a big fuck-you from the universe, dragged straight out of a drama, because god knows you were never deserving of something so beautiful and easy. love had to strangle it’s way out of your hands, somehow. it’s to a point where there’s people staring, whispering as they pass you two.

“you know what? i wouldn’t even have fucking cared, anyway.” you sighed, blinking to get your vision to clear up. “you didn’t even have to lie to me.”

sunghoon is stunned at that. his whole body feels cold, locked in place, and his heart’s pounding so hard that he can hear the blood rushing in his ears. by the time you eventually do turn around, his throat is already constricting, dry and tight, looking down at you—hand running through your hair, glassy eyes staring into his. the guilt weighs heavier now, sinking it’s claws into his neck, so deep that he can feel it nick his heart.

“what?”

he needs to rip it out.

sunghoon genuinely feels like his guts are going to spill out. your eyelashes are wet with tears and he can tell you’re trying your best not to burst into tears, and he hates himself for being the reason for it; he has to dig his fingers into his palms just so he can stop himself from reaching out for you.

selfishly, for a second, he lets himself memorise your face. he thinks it’ll be the last time he sees it. there’s something about you—even when your cheeks are red and your eyes are swollen with hurt, that he wants to see it all.

sunghoon wishes he could undo everything. perhaps, if he had just went up to you that friday night, underneath the stairs with his best smile and most polite greeting, he’d been able to hate himself a little less, and possibly not hurt you at all.

this is what he gets, isn’t it?

it’s a shame.

“i really liked you.” you sniffle. your eyes are deliberately avoiding his. sunghoon’s never leave your face. “heeseung or not, doesn’t even matter now, does it?”

for a second, sunghoon genuinely thinks he misheard you.

the streetlights blur, morphing into bright lines in your vision, and somebody laughs somewhere downhill. a bicycle rolls past, a dog barks behind you, and it is just unbearable how you have to focus on all these sounds just so you can distract yourself from the uneven breaths of your own body.

“i liked you too, y/n.”

sunghoon genuinely forgets how to breathe. his chest expands automatically, but the air never seems to reach his lungs, caught somewhere between his ribs and throat where everything suddenly feels too tight.

all this time, he thought he knew exactly how tonight would go. you’d tell him to fuck off, to stop following you, and he thought he would. it started off like that: the walking part, the not-being-able-to-look-at-him-without-crying. he prepared for it, every night, leading up to this one: imagined you laughing in his face, telling him to leave, to never call again, but this barely fits the mould.

every time he convinced himself that honesty could wait one more day because he needed more time, needed the timing to be better, needed to figure himself out first—all of it feels rotten, so useless and meaningless now.

you stand there with tears drying on your cheeks, eyes swollen and exhausted, and all he can think about is how much easier this could have been for you if he’d just been honest from the beginning. he should’ve never answered, nor should he have went with it when you started getting a little bolder. he should’ve never gone this far to feed his own selfishness.

park sunghoon doesn’t deserve to stand here and watch you cry over him.

“you could’ve told me.”

his fingers curl against his palms until his nails bite crescents into skin. he barely feels the sting. somehow, hearing you say it doesn’t feel relieving at all—not in the way he imagined it would, during all those nights where he let himself think about impossible things before forcing himself to sleep. he thought this moment, if it ever existed, would feel warm. he thought—maybe—there’d be this stupid sense of vindication buried underneath the guilt, a ugly selfish satisfaction that would prove he wasn’t completely insane for wanting you.

all he finds is more guilt, painted by a crystal clear picture of what could’ve been.

the image arrives all at once and it’s unbearable in how ordinary it is. walking up to you that first night instead of watching from a distance. introducing himself properly, and a few weeks later, he’s sitting across from you at some stupid coffee place after class. he’d be seeing his contact under his actual name and listening to you complain through his speakers without feeling his stomach drop every time you said “heeseung.” such painfully normal things that people do every day without thinking, and somehow they feel impossibly far away now, like he’d reached out and ruined them before they even had the chance to become memories.

his hand comes up to his face and presses hard against his mouth. you’re sniffling so much that your nose is beginning to redden. he notices the cuts on your lips, probably from biting down on them, and all he can see is you in the library, far away and out of reach.

“i should have told you,” he acknowledges. it doesn’t do anything to alleviate the pounding headache you have. “i thought that if you didn’t know—fuck, i don’t know. i thought you would’ve liked me better like that… if you didn’t know.”

“how the fuck does that make any fucking sense?”

for the first time today, you’re looking at him. his eyes are red around the edges, the skin underneath them looking darker than normal and his lashes look damp under the streetlights. there’s something almost unbearable about it, the way he looks more exhausted than guilty, like he’s been carrying this around for weeks and would be the one bearing most of the pain.

still, despite it all, you want to wipe the tears away.

“i wasn’t lying,” his lip trembles slightly, “when i said that everyone’s scared of me. that night—fuck, i saw you, y/n. i knew you wouldn’t look at me—”

“what the fuck? really, what the fuck?” you cut him off, voice tapering off into that high, disbelieving tone. “how—just how? how did you think this would turn out, sunghoon? did you think we’d live happily ever after when i—when we spent months talking like that?”

you’re breathing wrong. everything feels so wrong. all of this feels so impossibly fucking wrong. you need to go home.

he flinches at your response. your eyes burn with all the movement in your peripheral, and your chest tightens with every passing second. you laugh, and it sounds horrible—small, breathless, like the sight in front of you is simply too baffling to process properly.

sunghoon’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. you stare at him, expecting something, anything, but the words refuse to make it past his throat.

“what the fuck is wrong with you, sunghoon?”

there is something painfully tragic about walking away from a good thing. honestly, if you tried hard enough, you could probably forgive him. you could pretend he never lied to you, and that everything he said after that first lie wasn’t a lie, either. you could pretend he was honest and truthful and all those good things, but the thing about pushing it down is that it always bubble back up eventually.

both things can be true: that it’ll always come back, and you’ll always believe that sunghoon could’ve been it.

“y/n—”

“don’t. just don’t fucking—don’t. don’t call me, don’t do anything. i can’t, i just can’t right now.”

you never really knew heeseung at all, now that you think about it. you remember being a freshman and watching him shoot hoops by the cafeteria one sunny tuesday morning—jiwon mentioned how cute he looked, and perhaps as some act of politeness between two newly introduced friends, said that the two of you would look good together. even now, you think that if heeseung had ended up being exactly like sunghoon, you still would’ve fallen.

but that would mean you never fell for heeseung at all, doesn’t it?

with sunghoon here, standing in front of you, all you see is the hardworking, ambitious, weirdly terrified boy you got to know. you see him in front of his computer thinking too hard, and you see him looking surprised that you smiled at him. it feels strangely dissonant that this will be the last time you get to stand this close to him, or that it’ll be the final time you hear his voice.

“you’re such a coward.”

you don’t know what he says after that, because you turn and walk away so quick that anything he mumbles next falls a step too short behind you. the words feel so bitter on your tongue, and you still taste it even as you walk past that one broken street lamp around fifteen feet away, lingering by the time you step into your apartment.

when you walk into your bedroom, you stay by the door a little longer, shoulder pressed against the wooden frame.

ironically enough, you left your phone behind. face down, still plugged to the wall.

then, almost as a final act in this depressing film, you slump over and slide to the floor, crying over something that shouldn’t matter as much as it does.

it takes you a while to crawl into bed.

you blame the exams. that’s definitely why you’re too exhausted to speak to jiwon, despite the multiple texts from three hours ago detailing your predicament. now that she’s practically begging for you to pick up, three hours later, you just can’t.

instead, you scroll. scroll and scroll and scroll, through chats and messages that have nothing to do with heeseung, now that you know the truth—and as you do, a message pops up at the bottom.

lee heeseung: Get home safely, Y/n. 21:09

lee heeseung: I’m sorry for everything 21:10

─────────────────────────

the sun rises another day. it spills into sunghoon’s room in familiar strips of gold, slipping through the blinds and cutting across the walls in uneven slants that make the dust visible. tiny particles drift through the light lazily, suspended in the air and blinding enough that he has to lift a hand over his eyes instinctively, staring through the gaps between his fingers and pretending, stupidly, that if he stays still long enough, he’ll somehow fall back asleep.

he doesn’t.

his shirt is still where he threw it last night, half across the room and gathering dust in the middle of the floor. his once-superbly-clean desk is a mess, in the same way his room is lately—never dirty enough to clean, yet tidy enough not to notice.

his notes are spread all over. he’s pretty sure he should’ve stapled and organized them a long, long time ago, but he honestly could not care anymore. there’s that charger hanging halfway off the edge of his bedside table, a half-empty glass collecting warmth from the morning air, and his hockey bag remains unopened by the door from last night’s practice. he finds it amazing that he still manages to attend—just spectacular that nobody can tell how terrible he’s feeling, and even more so, miraculous that he’s able to do his job the same.

and, his curtains. left open for september’s autumn, long after that quiet summer when he still had you to call.

park sunghoon spends a little longer staring at the window once his eyes stop hurting from the brightness. the sunlight shifts slowly over his sheets as the minutes go by, reaching his hands where they rest against his stomach, and warm enough that it still reminds him of you.

the first thought he has is that he’s being selfish.

it’s embarrassing, honestly, how little he’s done in a month and how exhausting it all still feels. all he does is wake up, lie here, go to practice, come back, and sleep. heeseung’s always got someone new over, jake and jay are physically incapable of doing anything quietly, and sunoo, jungwon, and riki are too afraid to ask why he never speaks at dinner anymore—not that he did much of that to begin with, anyway. he chooses not to believe them when they say he seemed happier when the sun stayed out longer.

a month is barely enough time to break a habit, but it’s long enough that nobody asks anymore. there were those few weeks back in july where he’d let a laugh slip in front of his brothers and didn’t feel immediately disgusted by the sound of it afterwards. he supposes you brought out that side of him—the one that doesn’t need to act all perfect and gorgeous and saintful. at some point, he even let himself eat a tub of ice cream because riki asked nicely enough for him to stay and watch a movie. it didn’t feel difficult then, of course.

yeonjun stopped trying to irritate him after a while, probably realising it wasn’t possible. now, he just avoids it out of pity instead, and sunghoon knows it. nobody says it out loud, but they all look at him differently these days; like he’s become quieter in a way they can’t quite fix, and they don’t know whether to drag him out of it or leave him there in this pit he’s chosen to bury himself in.

he shuts his eyes, and it doesn’t help. all sunghoon sees is that fucking library, and you, standing between metal shelving under the evening sun—squinting and pouting, warm cheeks and messy hair from running your fingers through it all day, and back then, sunghoon wanted nothing but to do the same. that stupid expression you made, pretending like your eyes weren’t watering from all the dusty books and the harsh light hitting your irises, too.

he sees himself telling you to sit on his side, your smile, and how he almost froze up then and there.

all the brains in the world and none of it did anything for him then, and even less now. he spent years believing everything had a formula—that if he worked hard enough, controlled enough, became enough, things would eventually make sense and fall into place. but there was nothing logical about wanting to sit in uncomfortable, sticky heat because it touched your skin first, or remembering the exact way your eyebrows moved when you were confused, or missing somebody so intensely that even morning light starts feeling like fate; there was nothing sensible in falling for someone that makes him act so unpredictably.

“listen, dude. you gotta get the fuck up.”

sunghoon doesn’t realise how badly his neck aches until he turns away from the window. the movement pulls uncomfortably down his shoulders, stiff from sleeping wrong and doing absolutely nothing for days that didn’t involve practice. to his right stands lee heeseung, leaning against the doorframe with one eyebrow raised, looking mildly offended by the fact that somebody could sleep until ten in the morning.

“this is pathetic, do you realise that?” he sighs, pushing himself off the frame and strolling into sunghoon’s room with that same easy, unaffected energy he’s always had. carefree in a way that feels irritating today, and familiar in a way that reminds him too much of you. for a brief second, sunghoon sees it—the appeal. why you looked at him first, and why it was easy to do so. “man. you don’t even run in the morning anymore.”

“get out,” sunghoon mumbles, rolling over onto his side. his skin is cold where it leaves the sunlight and the sheets feel warmer than they should, sending a brief chill down his spine. “i am not in the mood to deal with you.”

“deal with me?” heeseung lets out this dramatic breath of disbelief and sunghoon hears the familiar squeak of his desk chair protesting under sudden weight. wheels scrape softly against the floor before rolling closer and closer until heeseung’s annoyingly charismatic face enters his peripheral. “everyone’s been dealing with your moping, hoon. it gets obvious when it’s six instead of seven after, like, two days—”

“okay.”

“okay?” heeseung repeats immediately, eyebrows lifting. his elbow lands on the arm rest and his chin settles into his hand. “okay.”

sunghoon shuts his eyes. the silence feels like summer all over again.

“do you wanna tell me why the fuck you’re being all weird?”

heeseung’s voice softens slightly. not enough to make a big thing out of it, because god knows how bad sunghoon would freak out and punch him in the mouth for that—but it’s enough to show the concern building up over the past few weeks.

sunghoon opens his eyes again, and somehow, seeing and hearing it for himself only annoys him more. sure, he knows it’s ridiculous and childish and just unfair, but he can’t help himself.

heeseung shouldn’t be worried. nothing happened to him. he didn’t stand in the park and watch you walk away, and he didn’t spend a month replaying every conversation, trying to figure out which version of him you liked more—and he did not ruin anything.

he swallows and stares at the windows again, drifting away from heeseung’s face.

the sunlight’s moved further away.

“i’m fine,” sunghoon says—his voice comes out flatter than intended. regardless, he does nothing to make himself sound any more convincing, and even if he did, he knows heeseung would see right through it.

the chair squeaks again as his friend leans further back, an unconvincing scoff being the only thing that leaves his lips. a soft thud as the backrest hits the wall, sunghoon would’ve glared at him any other day—but now, he can’t seem to find the energy.

“y’know, for someone who spent years acting all emotionless,” heeseung mumbles under his breath, “you’re shit at pretending like you don’t have them.”

it’s a decibel too loud to be accidental. sunghoon can’t even get angry now, because he knows better. after all this time, he really does—he knows better than to get angry at anyone else but himself.

he doesn’t answer. heeseung watches him for a little longer, head tilting slightly as his eyes drift over sunghoon’s face, lingering around the redness in his eyes and the exhaustion dragging down his expression. there’s a brief moment where he looks like he wants to say something and thinks better of it.

“…you know, i still think what you did was insane. i still don’t get why you didn’t just tell her.”

sunghoon closes his eyes. he’s not trying to avoid it, believe him—he’s spent majority of his days holding the guilt against himself, on his shoulders, feeling it weigh down on his chest for days a time. he doesn’t necessarily disagree.

“you talked to someone for months, pretending to be somebody else, and expected that to work?”

sunghoon’s jaw almost shatters from how hard he’s clenching it. he imagined you saying those same words to him, at some point. your gentle smile behind his eyelids seem to be one of many things preventing him from beating the shit out of the guy.

lee heeseung notices it, and can’t help but sigh. “you looked happier, hoon. really.”

sunghoon wishes he just went back to sleep. he doesn’t know what good this is doing him, really—he’s aware of it. it’s lying everywhere, the proof scattered around like meaningless scraps: his reduced sleep, terrible appetite and unwillingness to see any girl that isn’t you.

he knows better than anyone how happy he was.

“didn’t know what it was at first,” he says. “thought you made it to the olympic lineup or something. shit’s no joke.”

he’s not even looking at sunghoon anymore. “i know it when i see it. checking your phone every five minutes, laughing more. then you came home looking like someone fucking died.”

heeseung scratches at the back of his neck, but sunghoon looks away before he can utter the last word.

“do i know her?”

“no.”

sunghoon’s answer is immediate. too quick not to raise his other eyebrow, apparently. heeseung notices, and sunghoon notices that heeseung notices—but both never look each other in the eye.

“…okay.” heeseung mutters. his eyes drift around the room instead, trying to keep themselves occupied, if only for the sake of not looking too long at his miserable, bed-ridden friend’s face. his fingers tap idly against the armrest once, twice, before stopping altogether.

“you’re making this way worse for me, heeseung,” sunghoon deadpans, hand coming up to rub at his eyes. the scene feels oddly intimate for someone who still doesn’t know half of what sunghoon’s done. “it’s getting on my nerves.”

“good.”

sunghoon shoots him a look. heeseung just smiles, soft and underpainted with concern that hurts him to even acknowledge. for all the effort sunghoon’s spent making himself difficult to read—for all the years of swallowing things whole and convincing himself that if nobody saw him, then nothing could really touch him—he’s still shocked that people notice when things go bad.

after a few, quiet minutes of sunghoon wishing for heeseung to vanish into thin air and heeseung’s incessant staring, he speaks again.

“…you going to sunoo’s thing this weekend?”

he completely forgot about that. sunghoon blinks slowly, the memories coming back to him now—he remembers, vividly, your voice on the phone, rambling about the stupid thing for five minutes.

you sounded ridiculously excited. obvious now why that was, it still feels just as bitter as it did back then. “what?”

he knows what. he doesn’t know why he’s acting like he doesn’t have a clue what heeseung’s saying.

“sunoo was freaking out yesterday,” he laughs to himself, head tipping back slightly as the chair rocks under him. one foot drags absentmindedly against the floor while his fingers hook around the edge of the armrest. “said he only needs two more people before he reaches the donation limit. i wonder how long the queue’s gonna be.”

sunghoon can vaguely predict where this conversation is going. his eyes narrow a little, and thinks he’ll genuinely kill lee heeseung if he even suggests going to that ridiculous event. if anybody came up and asked him for donations, he’d give it. fine. whatever. just not while publicly exchanging his dignity for it—

“you should go.”

of course.

sunghoon stares at him, blank-eyed with lips pressed together so tightly they almost disappear.

heeseung looks back for exactly half a second before exhaling through his nose, rolling himself backwards in the chair, spinning once and pushing himself off the wall with one foot.

“okay—listen. you need it, man. you’re acting like the love of your life just died, and shit, sitting around and waiting to stop missing her isn’t gonna fix anything.”

sunghoon lets out a quiet laugh through his nose. humourless, if anything. his hand drags slowly down his face, pressing hard enough over his eyes that little bursts of colour bloom behind his eyelids, like he could wipe the exhaustion—or the irritation—straight off his skin. “you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“ah-ah,” heeseung immediately lifts a hand and wiggles his weirdly long index finger right in sunghoon’s face. nothing productive is going to come out of this conversation, sunghoon realises, so he just decides on shutting up for the rest of the conversation. “i know you keep acting like she already decided on hating you. it’s fine, y’know, if she does.”

heeseung sighs before slapping his palms against his thighs. he gets up in one, swift motion. “don’t you think she has every right to, sunghoon?”

his throat tightens.

“i—”

“shut up,” heeseung cuts him off instantly. “you’re such a control freak, it weirds me out. how did sooha even deal with all that?”

sunghoon is already pushing himself up from the bed. he will hang lee heeseung out to dry—upside down, in nothing but his boxers on this cold, dry autumn day.

though, by the time sunghoon actually manages to sit upright, heeseung’s already halfway out the door. with his hand still clasped around the metal doorknob:

“if she hates you, you should probably let her say that herself.”

the door shuts before sunghoon gets the final word.

he sits there, just for a moment. blanket pooled at the waist, room quiet except for a heater that doesn’t work very well. outside, there’s leaves scraping against the roof and sunghoon just stares at the closed door like it might open up again, with a completely different approach or words that won’t scare him the way heeseung’s did.

it does not.

─────────────────────────

you spent most of your summer waiting.

there’s something cruel about time. unstoppable, immovable, and somehow always aware of when you want it to move faster. it stretches itself thin when you need relief and collapses in on itself when you want more.

summer had always felt like that—golden and lazy and unbearably alive through the heat—but this year, it moved strangely, like someone had pulled all the warmth out and left only an afterglow.

your routine had gone to shit.

you slept at four in the morning, most days, and woke up at around eleven. lunch only happened when there was enough to get by in the fridge, and if your air-fryer was clean enough from the night before—jiwon often had to drag you by the ear to make that happen. half your laundry stays unfolded, because god knows where you disappear to in the middle of folding it, and the books from a month ago still stay.

there are hours spent doing nothing, and yet, the exhaustion lingers. stays in your bones, fusing with you, and refusing to leave.

the worst part isn’t even that you miss park sunghoon, either. it’s how often you reached for him, that being without him feels as significant as loss.

how ironic, considering you never had him to begin with.

you’re curled up on your couch, cheek squished up against the fabric and your knees tucked to your chest. oh jiwon is somewhere in this apartment with you—you’re not exactly sure where, but the soft banging of pots is enough to make a guesstimate.

“what’re you doing?” you yell, half-heartedly because you’re still aware enough to acknowlege your neighbours. “jiwon?”

she doesn’t respond. probably something about dinner, you think. the show on tv is loud enough for her voice to fade into the background, anyhow.

summer break ended some time ago—and with it went the warmth and heat and fuzziness that came with the man on the other end of the line. autumn arrives eventually, cruel in the way all inevitable things are, forcing you and everyone else to spend a little longer indoors because of the increasing cold. september is especially vicious; the air is sharper now, thinner, and you stop walking through that park altogether because every bench and every couple under those stupid yellow streetlamps reminds you too much of him.

for a guy that claimed to be so mundane, he sure takes up an absurd amount of your headspace—even now, even after more than a month of waiting and leaving and forcing yourself not to say things you wouldn’t be able to take back, he still lingers.

your hand still hovers over your phone after seeing something stupid online. you still walk past cute cafés and think he’d probably hate this place. you still watch movies and mentally bookmark scenes because you think he’d have too much fun analysing them with you and somehow, make the whole experience annoyingly enjoyable at the same time.

you still doubt yourself, and you still hear his voice afterwards—steady, certain, monotonous and so lovingly boring—pulling you back up before you spiral too far.

the silence fills your room like a slow-moving plague, settling into corners and underneath your blankets and against your walls until eventually, you start relying on old conversations to fall asleep.

you remember his laugh before his face, and you loved him before you saw his eyes. there’s something pathetic in that, you think, almost gullible—that after everything, after all the anger and humiliation and crying and weeks spent convincing yourself that this should not matter as much as it does—you still soften at the thought of him.

you hate that. you hate that he lied to you, and somehow, still ended up becoming so woven into parts of your life—enough for it to feel impossible to pull apart.

you hate it all, but never him.

“heeello?”

you blink before seeing jiwon’s legs standing right in your line of vision. blocking the subtitles, more like it.

she stares down at you from above with one eyebrow raised, afternoon light shining behind her head, casting her face into shadow in a way that feels unnecessarily threatening for someone holding an empty pot.

“what are you doing? get out of the way.” you squint, shifting ever so slightly—and completely uselessly—to get a full view of the text on screen. your head tilts one way, then the other, as though changing the angle will somehow let you see through her body.

she narrows her eyes and tilts her head, hair falling over her shoulder fluidly. she does that motion where she’s about to hit you with the pan, but you flinch hard enough for her to laugh and lower it down. “welcome back! have fun spacing out? i’ve been asking what you want for dinner, for like, five minutes.”

jiwon follows your line of sight and twists around, just enough to get a proper look at the tv, rolling her eyes before her mouth pulls strangely to one side.

“…you know you watched this last night, right?”

of course she knows that. cons of sharing a netflix account with your best friend, and co-habiting with her for the past month.

your eyes drift back to the screen and the episode progress bar, sitting near the end and there’s already that stupid little preview box hovering in the corner asking whether you want to continue to the next episode. you don’t remember a single thing that happened, and can’t find the energy to recall.

you let out a long sigh and prop yourself up properly against the sofa, blanket bunching around your waist. jiwon’s folding her arms now, a slight frown on her face, and you dislike it immensely.

“…what?”

she stares at you for another second before walking over and dropping onto the other side of the couch, pulling one leg up beneath herself.

“…okay,” she says slowly, looking at you in that way people do when they already know the answer. “are we gonna keep pretending you’re okay or am i finally allowed to ask? will you blow up on me again, or—”

“jiwon—”

“it’s fine, y’know,” she babbles on, immediately waving the hand holding the ladle, before circling around the coffee table. she drops down right next to you with enough force to make the cushions dip. pulling one leg underneath herself, she points dramatically to the apartment around her. “i can just stay here forever, cook forever, and clean forever. it’s alright!”

you stare at her, then glance at the pot, and finally, at the folded laundry sitting on the armchair.

you pinch at the bridge of your nose.

“…i didn’t ask you to do all that,” you mutter under your breath, eyes dropping back to the paused show. your fingers knead at the skin there once, twice, before your hand drops into your lap. you let out another sigh and lean your head back against the sofa. “i’m fine by myself—”

jiwon turns immediately. her eyebrows pull together, and her jaw almost goes rigid. “i do it because i care about you. don’t make me regret it.”

she’s already looking away afterwards, fiddling with the sleeve of her hoodie, and reaching over to adjust the blanket pooled around your legs.

your head hurts. the room is too quiet, again, without that show playing, or the music blasting on the home speakers.

how is it that the missing piece in your life is shaped exactly like park sunghoon?

summer. so useless, and yet, you were so alive.

“listen.” jiwon’s voice cuts through your thoughts. you turn, and she’s twisted sideways now, one leg tucked under herself and chin resting against her palm while her other hand reaches over to steal the remote. she clicks it twice before deciding against turning anything on again.

“about that thing this weekend—”

your jaw hangs. “are you kidding?”

jiwon’s eyes widen immediately. she sighs, both hands dragging down the sides of her face before slapping against the backrest of the couch.

“okay, i know we agreed to go together to the charity event, and all the different booths and shit like that, but my dad’s finally in town again, and i just—”

you wave your hand quickly, once before she can finish, eyes not leaving the screen as your fingers start picking at the seam of the blanket. “oh, yeah, no. i’ll just skip. it’s all good.”

jiwon turns properly this time. her forehead creases. “…what? what about the money?”

you shrug one shoulder and scratch absentmindedly at a loose thread near your knee. “it comes back. it’s all good. if it’s that big of a deal to you, ask your dad to apple pay me.”

jiwon stares at you for a second too long before setting the remote down, scooting across the couch in one smooth movement until her knee bumps against yours. she squints slightly, head tilting as she searches your face. “okay,” she says slowly, one hand reaching over to pinch the fabric over your thigh. “not funny.”

you squeal, and she just grumbles.

then, she nudges your knee with hers again. “but seriously,” she says, shoulders relaxing as she turns more towards you and props her elbow against the backrest, “you need to get the fuck outside.”

you let out a quiet laugh. “you’ve been stuck with me this entire time. we need to go outside.”

jiwon shakes her head immediately and sits up straighter, her fingers slipping off the blanket and flat against your forearm instead. “no,” she says. “that’s not what i mean.”

you look away, and she notices. of course, she notices.

her thumb taps once against your skin before she lets her hand drop.

“…i know you’re avoiding seeing him,” she mutters, eyes drifting briefly around the apartment—the dishes, the curtains that haven’t been opened properly all week, the same hoodie you’ve worn thrice in a row—before settling back on you. she presses her lips together and reaches over to smooth the blanket over your knee again. “but you’re throwing everything away for that.”

you don’t say a thing. you feel like a coward. you feel like a liar. you feel like a lot of things, but jiwon’s looking at you like you’re not.

“…you’ve been talking about that stupid fundraiser since february,” she continues. “you made me pay thirty dollars to get matched with strangers…. among other things. you’ll pay me for that, right?”

she realises, a second too late, that you’re not laughing.

you look away, eyes locked on something outside the window. you can’t really tell with how your vision begins to blur. she waits for a response, but when it becomes clear she isn’t getting one:

“you wanted to go.”

your hand comes up and presses against your mouth.

you remember sitting in the library during finals with your laptop open, and your notes everywhere and thinking about it between lectures. your brain would drift whenever revision got unbearable, and suddenly, you’d be imagining what you’d wear and whether heeseung would actually come, and if he’d be as nice as everybody said he was.

it felt harmless then. stupid and harmless. a little reward waiting at the end.

you remember texting jiwon about it. making jokes, pretending not to care.

but now, you remember another thing.

you remember sitting in the exact same library with someone only two feet away. you remember somebody asking if you’d eaten, and somebody telling you to stop being perfect. somebody remembering your schedule better than you did. somebody finding you in that secluded corner, where the world didn’t exist beyond it, if only for a few hours.

you remember leaving that library and not thinking about lee heeseung at all.

your thumb presses harder against your lip. you’ve been biting at a piece of dead skin on your cuticle unconsciously. “that’s embarrassing.”

jiwon frowns.

“…i don’t think i actually wanted him.”

she doesn’t interrupt.

you keep staring at the television instead, eyes tracing shapes that stopped moving minutes ago. your fingers keep smoothing over the blanket stretched across your lap, flattening the same crease over and over until the friction starts irritating your palms. eventually, your thumb catches on loose thread and you pick at it absentmindedly, winding it once around your finger before letting it snap back. “…i think i just liked wanting something. he was hot, yeah, and people liked him.”

“thought maybe…” you bite down on your bottom lip. “i don’t know. maybe if somebody like that liked me back, then that would mean something.”

everyone’s always told you that you had terrible luck.

you remember teachers saying things like that’s unfortunate and friends joking that your life always sounded a little too dramatic to be accidental. wrong place, wrong time—missing buses. getting sick before things you cared about, liking people that didn’t like you back. liking people too late. liking people wrong. liking people at all.

“proving that i’m not all that unlikeable...” you mumble. “but i’m just as unlucky as everyone says.”

it was never that serious to complain about. it mostly served it’s purpose as comedic relief in other people’s lives, but as one knows, after the age of sixteen—everything just seems self-deprecating instead of humorous.

“you like him.”

jiwon’s voice is slightly too quiet for it to be a declaration. she says it softly enough that you could pretend you didn’t hear, or so that you could roll your eyes and say obviously not and she’d just let you.

you try to think about all the reasons why you don’t, and why you can’t. you think about lying, about the trust, about the humiliation and about standing in the middle of the park, crying like that in front of someone who played you like a puppet.

and still, you do not say a thing.

“i think…” she starts quietly, eyes dropping to where your hands meet before lifting back to your face. “it doesn’t actually change anything. the one you like is still sunghoon, y/n. no amount of this—whatever this is that you’re doing—is going to change that.”

“you fell for who he was. the name was irrelevant, wasn’t it?”

jiwon watches you for a while after that, shoulders sinking further into the couch. she studies your face, one hand disappearing into the sleeve of her hoodie while the other stays resting over the blanket draped across your legs, fingers absentmindedly playing with yours.

she glances at the television once—the paused menu, your reflection sitting small and folded into yourself against all that dead blue light—and exhales quietly through her nose before shifting closer to you.

“can i say something else that might piss you off?”

you keep your eyes forward, rubbing your thumb over the edge of the blanket. “what?”

jiwon squints at you for a second before nodding once, slowly, like she’s 99% sure you will get pissed off anyway at the statement she’s going to make.

“okay. i think you’re being unfair—not to him, though. just yourself,” she says. “i’ve been watching you do this thing for a month now. you keep saying he’s bad for you.”

you look down. she notices, of course.

“maybe he is. probably. whatever,” jiwon mutters under her breath, trying to remember what point she was trying to make. “but i don’t think that’s why you’re cancelling on m—”

“you cancelled, by the way.”

“still. you’re just scared that all those feelings will come back, or that they’ll be completely gone, and it’s scary.” she’s looking forward now, too. she finds it harder to be serious when she’s looking at you in the eye. “it was real, right? everything?”

right.

you hum in acknowledgement, low and partially absent, eyes still fixed somewhere near the bottom corner of the television where the subtitles would usually sit. jiwon watches your face for another second too long, before taking it as permission to continue. honestly, she’s a little surprised you haven’t mauled her yet. a month ago, she would’ve gotten a cushion launched at her head by now.

“the more like you pretend he isn’t real, the more it’ll hurt,” she sighs. “you can forgive him, or don’t, i’m not gonna tell you what to do like we’re fifteen again. oh, that was a really bad time for both of us—ow!”

your fingers dart out before you can stop yourself, pinching the soft skin above her knee hard enough for her whole body to jolt sideways with a startled squeal. she swats uselessly at your hand, rubbing furiously at the spot through her sweatpants before shooting you the most deeply offended look she can manage.

“could you just listen to me for once?” she groans, collapsing dramatically into the couch cushions. “i’m trying really hard to be wise here.”

you roll your eyes, but the corner of your mouth betrays you anyway.

“there it is,” jiwon points immediately, grinning so wide it almost irritates you. “see? you’re capable of experiencing joy!”

“i’m about to experience violence.”

“that’s my girl!”

she laughs to herself before the smile gradually slips away again, replaced by something more serious. her fingers fold together in her lap, thumbs rubbing absentmindedly against each other as she stares down at them for a moment, gathering whatever was left of her courage. when she looks back up, there’s none of that usual teasing left on her face.

“look,” she sighs. “i’m not trying to convince you that what he did wasn’t awful, because it was. i wanted to punch him just from hearing about it, and i still kinda do.”

she wrinkles her nose. “but i also watched you spend almost your entire summer waiting for him to call. you kept pretending you were watching movies when you were really staring at your phone, and you even stopped walking through that park because every bench reminded you of him.”

your throat tightens.

“you don't have to forgive him,” she continues, shaking her head slowly, reaching over to brush a strand of hair away from your face. “honestly, maybe you never will. maybe you shouldn't. but i don't think hiding from the world is the same thing as moving on, y/n.”

you keep your eyes fixed on the ceiling, on the little crack running along the corner where the paint has started to peel. “what if i see him,” you mumble, barely louder than the hum of the fridge from the kitchen, “and i still want him?”

jiwon's expression doesn't change. she takes a moment before her mouth parts slightly, just enough to answer. “then you'll know.”

"and if i don't?"

she shrugs gently, her hand lingering over yours for another second, thumb brushing your knuckle once before it falls back into her lap. she looks almost sad when she says it. "then you'll know that, too."

the apartment falls quiet again. somewhere outside, a car door slams, and a few birds chirp before scattering into the clouds. someone's drilling something in the apartment above you. someone's yelling something in the street. the world keeps going, indifferent and loud, the way it always does when you seem to be

“okay.”

jiwon watches you for a second longer, like she's checking the word for cracks. she must not have found any, or perhaps a few too many to name, because she just lets it go.

─────────────────────────

by the time you reach campus, the fundraiser is already in full swing.

the entire quad has transformed overnight into something almost unrecognisable. white canopy tents stretch across the lawn in neat, uneven rows, their fabric flapping in the wind whenever the cold september breeze decides to pass through.

handmade banners hang crookedly above each stall, painted with far too much enthusiasm and not nearly enough artistic ability—bright acrylic letters bleeding into one another, beneath glitter and shiny lettering that catches the afternoon sun every time somebody walks past.

“come visit booth 6!” “free drinks at booth 52!” “stand a chance to win—”

somewhere off to your left, somebody is aggressively advertising homemade brownies through a megaphone that crackles every other sentence, while another group has somehow convinced the jazz society to play live beside the engineering department’s robotics display. the music overlaps with laughter, conversations, applause and the occasional groan from somebody losing money at one of the carnival games, until it all melts together into any introvert’s worst nightmare.

jiwon, as foretold, is busy smiling, shaking hands and pretending to enjoy the company of the stepfather she’s complained about for the better part of four years, leaving you to fend for yourself amongst a sea of strangers. you’re beginning to wonder if any of this was even worth not paying her the thirty dollars for bailing. you could’ve been at home instead, cocooned underneath your duvet with instant noodles balanced precariously on your stomach while you binged that stupid show she keeps interrupting halfway through every episode—but apparently you did not need to be “sixty dollars broker,” and allegedly, according to her, “exposure builds character.”

students drift through the walkways in slow, uneven currents, weaving around one another with paper cups warming their hands and tote bags slipping from tired shoulders. autumn has only just begun settling over campus, leaving enough warmth in the afternoon sun to coax everyone outside while the breeze nips at exposed skin, carrying with it the smell of caramel popcorn, burnt coffee, fried food and fresh paint that still hasn't completely dried on half the handmade signs.

every few steps, someone brushes your shoulder without meaning to, and another laughs so loudly it echoes between the buildings. the quad feels impossibly alive, like the entire student body had been holding its breath for weeks and finally remembered how to exhale.

you've just realised how long it'd been since you'd seen campus like this.

exam season had stripped everything bare. the library became the centre of everybody's universe, swallowing entire afternoons until the only sounds left were pages turning, keyboards clacking and chairs scraping softly against carpet. everyone looked permanently exhausted beneath fluorescent lighting, surviving almost exclusively on caffeine and blind optimism, and now they're outside again.

clubs are recruiting first-years with embarrassingly enthusiastic chants, and the fourth-year students are pretending they aren't equally interested in the free tote bags.

autumn seems to bring something different into the air. meanwhile, summer, as you've known it, was spent mostly indoors or at the corner store fifteen minutes from campus, where you'd stand in front of the instant noodle shelf for far longer than necessary before carrying the same cup outside to eat on the outdoor seating. there were a handful of evenings where you'd glance up every time a dark-haired guy walked past, stomach flipping before common sense caught up with you. there were even more where you caught yourself wondering whether park sunghoon had ever been here before, whether he'd ever stood in front of the same vending machine deciding between two drinks, whether he'd look out for you the same way you did.

every single time, you wanted to walk straight into incoming traffic for even entertaining the thought. it's ridiculous. he literally lives on campus.

you spend quite a bit of time walking around the place. the sun isn’t too brutal at this time of day, and for once, you don’t dread seeing a bunch of people you know—there’s moments where you make eye contact with an old friend, a new acquaintance or someone who’s friends with someone you know, and they wave like they’ve known you for years. your feet begin to hurt by the end of the hour, and when you look down, you realise you’re holding an overpriced sea salt latte, a bag of homemade cookies, and a doodle of you a second-year student made for $5.

there’s a few flyers in your bag, too. you don’t even remember being interested in crocheting, but alright. somewhere along the way, you’ve lost the map that some student union members handed you when you first walked in, and for fifteen blissful minutes, you convinced yourself that you’ve never been to this part of the quad before.

it works. for a while.

you’re patting your jeans down. perhaps you folded it or crumpled it together with receipts or other useless junk from the day, but it’s literally vanished. nevertheless, your feet are carrying you to unknown places, through thickening crowds and high-pitched laughter that feels impossible to distinguish which direction it originates from.

somebody almost knocks your latte out of your hand. you almost cuss him out, before he whispers a ‘sorry!’ and joins a snaking queue, spilling onto the footpath.

“my god.”

you’re back at sunoo’s booth. pastel pink, covered in ikea string lights that are certainly not suited for outdoor use, the banner above spelling exactly what you signed up for: soul searching.

it sways gently overhead, now slightly lopsided after surviving what looked like several hours of relentless traffic. whoever had decorated the booth this morning had given up on maintaining any sort of order—heart-shaped balloons floated at uneven heights, paper cupid arrows had started peeling away from the tent poles, and one of the volunteers was hurriedly taping another handwritten sign across the front of the table.

queue full! please scan the qr code to join the line! we'll text you when it's your turn ♡

"honestly," somebody behind you mutters as they walk by. "this is way better. nobody’s standing for two hours.”

“right? i’m hoping they move me to the front,” their friend responds. “i bought the early ones too… i feel so fucking desperate. at least we’re in the line at all.”

you glance towards the front, almost absentmindedly. they weren’t wrong—the line that had wrapped halfway around the quad earlier had disappeared entirely, replaced instead by clusters of students with phones in hand. they’re hopping around and comparing wait times while volunteers hurried between the very few tables available, trying to answer stupid questions before the next wave arrived.

you did pay for this. your latte’s gone warm, anyway, and the condensation is starting to drip down onto your sleeves. might as well find out whether your ticket's even still valid.

the qr code sits laminated against the edge of the registration table, surrounded by little hand-drawn hearts and stars that look suspiciously like sunoo's work. you fish your phone out of your tote, thumb hovering over the camera app for just a second before lifting it. you step closer to get a clearer view, tongue poking at your cheek—

"hold on.”

you glance up, blinking slowly until sunoo comes into focus. he’s dressed in all sorts of shades of pink, from hot to muted to pastel, and his cheeks have hearts face-painted onto them.

“y/n! you actually came!”

he breaks into a wide grin, so wide that it almost scares you. for a brief moment, you wonder if this is even the kim sunoo you know, considering he was never too worried for your attendance when the fundraiser was first brought up.

before you can even say hello, he's already leaning across the table, volunteer lanyard swinging forward as he peeks at the ticket confirmation on your screen. you hadn’t realised it’s already loaded, displaying the ‘early-bird’ status right at the top. in bold, like it wasn’t humiliating enough just being here.

“i paid, so…”

he circles around the table.

“exactly!” his finger points at your phone. “early bird. you’re lucky!”

you nod slowly, like you understand where this conversation’s about to go. truth be told, you don’t, so in order to hide the confusion, your eyes dart around to avoid his.

"…early-bird participants get priority once they join the queue.”

strange. the other laminated sign your eyes land on, which is pasted right behind sunoo’s head, conveniently says otherwise.

early-bird = guaranteed queue number! ♡ NO PRIORITY sorry!!! :( ♡

“i’m pretty sure that’s not how it works—”

“it literally is.” sunoo declares, with such effortless confidence that you might’ve believed him if not for the piece of paper taped up behind him. he still wears that smile, his cheeks rounding in a way that makes it dangerously easy to nod along, right until one of the volunteers at the registration table slowly lifts his head and looks over.

he deadpans. “sunoo.”

“what?”

“…since when?”

kim sunoo doesn’t even bother turning around to answer his fellow volunteer. you suppose being the organiser has its perks, because he simply says, “since today! operational changes are needed, aren’t they?”

all the guy can do is sigh and rub at his temples.

“great!” sunoo beams, already uncapping a marker with his teeth before flicking the cap into his palm. he hunches over the clipboard, the tip squeaking furiously across the paper in quick, decisive strokes, barely pausing to breathe before thrusting it back against his chest. “congratulations, y/n!”

you narrow your eyes. “on what?”

“you’re next!” he tears a small ticket from the pad with a sharp riiiip, stamps it against the clipboard with far more force than necessary, then slides it into your hand like he’s finalising an important legal transaction.

“sunoo, there’s literally people waiting behind me.”

sunoo merely raises an eyebrow. he tilts his head, peering past your shoulder with enough curiosity that, against your better judgment, you glance back too.

you don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

a queue of complete strangers is, in fact, staring directly at the two of you. some look mildly confused, others openly entertained, but most are just pissed off. one guy even checks his phone, like he’s trying to figure out whether he’s somehow joined the wrong line, and how he, too, could join ‘priority-access’.

“huh."

when you turn back around, sunoo’s already smiling again, not a shred of shame anywhere on his face. “you’re making this up, aren’t y—”

“prove it.”

“okay, then.”

─────────────────────────

a volunteer pulls the canvas flap aside for you with an overly enthusiastic smile, hair sticking to his forehead from the (presumably) constant back and forth sunoo’s making him do. for such a small booth team, the place is surprisingly put-together, and the online queue isn’t glitching out the way other booth’s are. you had to admit that you were somewhat glad you came.

“good luck,” he whispers, to which you reply with a confused expression before walking in.

the noise disappears almost immediately.

the bustle outside dulls into a soft, muffled hum behind layers of canvas, leaving the tiny booth wrapped in an unexpected sort of quiet. sunlight filters through the cream-coloured fabric overhead, warming the little space in soft patches until everything inside glows honey-gold.

it smells faintly of vanilla and paper, with the lingering sweetness of somebody’s perfume clinging stubbornly to the air from the last pairing. you wonder where they went to after their five minutes of alone time—did they go to grab coffee? did he say something to piss her off, and she stormed out early? is that why sunoo’s giving you priority?

you stop just after the entrance.

“oh.”

it’s… actually kind of nice.

someone had gone through an embarrassing amount of effort decorating the place. ivy vines wind around the tent poles alongside more tiny string lights, and battery-powered candles flicker lazily in the centre of a small round table dressed with a cream linen cloth.

a little glass jar is overflowing with folded paper stars. it sits between two untouched bottles of water, and it almost makes you wonder how much money they poured into this thing, before you remember that they probably went over the donation limit a long, long time ago.

somebody had even scattered fake rose petals across the tabletop, though several had already drifted onto the flimsy plywood beneath the chairs.

there’s only two seats. complimentary seat cushion, too, also pink and plaid. you sigh, seeing how it was already squished flat from all the people sitting on it before you, but you make your way regardless. the amount of walking you’ve put yourself through has done no justice to your feet, anyway.

the first thing you notice is that whoever’s sitting across from you is going to bump your knees, unless he happens to be significantly shorter.

you don’t really mind it. the tent is only so big, and god knows how they even managed to squeeze a table through that narrow entrance. still, it’s enough to make you silently hope he isn’t particularly tall, either.

you let out a quiet breath through your nose.

beside the battery-operated candle sits a neat stack of laminated cards bound together by a stainless steel ring, each one printed with colourful lettering and tiny doodles tucked into the corners.

♡ conversation starters ♡

you already know this is going to be terrible. who the hell pitched this?

#5 what’s your most irrational fear?

too intimate.

your fingers flip through the stack, anyway. there’s an identical set resting on the opposite side of the table, presumably waiting for whoever draws the short straw across from you.

#8 if you could relive one day of your life, which would you choose?

too deep. nobody thought these through. you keep flipping, snorting under your breath every few cards.

#10 what’s your biggest regret?

#11 when did you last cry?

#12 do you fall for looks, or personality?

your smile fades before you realise it had even appeared at all. another prank by the universe, you suppose.

the cards settle back onto the table with a soft tap. your hands find their way to the armrests, tapping against the wood, anything to stop thinking about the guy you’re not supposed to be thinking about.

outside, somebody cheers loud enough for it to seep through the canvas walls, followed by another chorus of laughter that slowly dissolves back into the fundraiser’s usual chatter. you glance instinctively toward the entrance, expecting the fabric to move.

nothing. the chair opposite you remains empty, and no one’s walking through that tarp.

you check your phone. it’s been three minutes.

you’re drumming your fingers lightly against the edge of the table now, watching the fake candle flicker. the tiny plastic flame sways with every movement of the air-conditioning fan someone had hidden near the ceiling of the tent, convincing enough that you almost forget it isn’t real.

the things you do in pursuit of love, you think.

it’s almost funny, now that you’re sitting here.

you remember signing up for this thing with only one person in mind—someone you barely knew, someone you had no right to like because of all the missing pieces your imagination had so generously filled in. back then, this booth felt like a shortcut. maybe you’d sit across from lee heeseung, maybe he’d smile at you, maybe the universe would finally decide to do you one favour in this unlucky life of yours.

there was a point where you thought you knew your type. the kind of guy that seemed so easy to trip and fall on your face for. maybe it was that new year’s party, when you caught him standing at the front of the house with a cigarette between his fingers, the street light catching against his jaw while everyone else laughed somewhere behind you. maybe it was those tuesday mornings outside the cafeteria. maybe it was the words of everyone around you, but either way, you never really heard his voice, or stood close enough to know how he laughed, what he sounded like when he was tired, or whether he was a better listener than talker.

distance has a funny way of disguising itself as depth. you mistake wondering for understanding, admiration for affection, until one day you’ve built an entire person out of scattered glances and second-hand stories. maybe that was all the crush had ever been—a collection of assumptions, stitched together by not knowing enough.

perhaps, it was never about lee heeseung at all.

park sunghoon is a fucking headache. he lingers in every inconvenient corner of your life, occupying your thoughts long after he shattered your heart and broke your trust that summer night. it’s almost cruel how thoroughly he’s rooted himself into your memory—his voice still finds you before your own thoughts do, his quiet laugh still sneaks into your head whenever something stupid happens. you remember the thoughtful pauses before he’d answer your questions, the accidental sincerity he always seemed embarrassed by, and the unwavering certainty with which he’d tell you that you were capable of things you never believed you could do yourself.

despite the lies, the betrayal, despite everything. despite the way he looked at you that night, like he couldn’t bear to lose you, and still let you walk away—you realise that there isn’t a single part of you that wishes it had been lee heeseung from the beginning.

the canvas shifts.

at first, it’s nothing more than a shadow moving across the pale canvas, followed by the dull scrape of shoes against packed grass outside. somebody murmurs something—a volunteer, probably—and another voice answers too quietly for you to make out.

your heart’s beating out of your chest. the last time you felt like this, it was january first, and also three in the morning.

the flap rustles once before stilling again, as though whoever’s on the other side already regrets doing this. you let out a quiet laugh through your nose, watching the silhouette hesitate in the narrow entrance where the fading warmth of september collides with the dry chill of the portable air-conditioner humming somewhere overhead.

the afternoon sun outlines him first. he’s tall, broad, holding a bouquet of flowers in his right hand. he turns halfway around to mumble something behind him, and through the gap in the canvas, you catch a glimpse of someone suspiciously resembling sunoo. whatever he says earns him a sharp slap between the shoulder blades and an exaggerated shove forward, the bouquet wobbling dangerously in his grip before he manages to catch it against his chest.

your fingers are still tracing the laminated edge of one of the conversation cards when the canvas finally parts. he stumbles through the entrance, muttering what sounds like an embarrassed complaint under his breath, one hand instinctively reaching back to steady the flap before it swings shut behind him.

you only realise who he is when he looks up.

the sleeves are shoved up to his elbows like they always are, but he looks better than the last time you saw him—cleaner, less wrecked, like he’s actually been sleeping well now that you’re not around. his hair has grown out just enough to fall over his eyebrows, and despite everything, despite the month that’s wedged itself between the two of you, you remember every single feature on his face, and just how much you missed it.

that’s when you realise that a month and a half is nearly not enough time to forget.

for one impossible second, relief blooms before your brain catches up to your body.

the world seems like it’s flipping upside down, now. park sunghoon freezes, like he wasn’t expecting either; your pulse is slamming against your ribs so violently that you swear he must be able to hear it. you can hear your blood rushing in your ears by the time you stand up—chair screeching violently against the plywood as you shove yourself backwards, the legs offering some resistance before jerking free with your force.

your knees collide with the underside of the table hard enough to send the fake candle wobbling between the two of you. it’s tiny, plastic flame is flickering, almost mocking.

every instinct you have screams the same thing: leave.

sunghoon notices (of course he does), and something inside his expression crumbles just enough for you to feel like you’ve been stabbed in the heart.

his shoulder sinks by barely an inch, the hand which holds the bouquet to his stomach now dropping to his side. he doesn’t move any closer, too afraid to even breathe audibly, just standing by the entrance with the afternoon light outlining his familiar silhouette.

his eyes are soft, a gentle smile painted across his face, as though he’s trying to show you how much it hurts not seeing you for so long.

you’re just like how he remembers. golden light on your face, diffused now from the tent’s shade, bright eyes looking up at him the same way it did in the summer. perhaps it’s because of his dreams that this doesn’t feel as shocking as he’d thought it’d be—that one evening in the library between bookshelves replays like a highlight reel behind his eyelids, and in a way, he thinks it’s helped with his what little sleep he's managed to get recently.

and, in the same vein, he looks everything like the boy you've spent the last month trying to forget.

“…you.”

your voice is barely a whisper. sunghoon swallows, and his lips part once before closing again. you want to scream at him, maybe even punch him in the face. with that sad look on his face, you think he might even let you.

“y/n.”

you don’t hesitate. the moment sunghoon sees you grabbing your things, ready to turn around and leave—he speaks again, rushed with a tinge of desperation.

“please. five minutes, it’s all i need.”

what could he possibly say that would undo all of this?

park sunghoon bites down on his bottom lip, trying to stop it from trembling. you’re staring at him with glassy eyes, hands shaking from either anger or just pure despair, waiting for an answer that might not even fix anything at all.

your shoulders stay angled towards the exit, eyes not meeting his. you’re afraid that if you look at him properly, you'll remember everything all over again.

“i'm sorry, y/n.”

you should’ve left as soon as you saw that frame in the sun—as soon as your heart sank and your mind briefly flashed to sunghoon.

silence stretches between the two of you. you’re somewhat thankful for the loud noise outside that helps dampen it. the laughter sounds impossibly far away from where you stand.

“not because i got caught lying to you.” his fingers tighten around the bouquet, knuckles paling beneath flushed skin. “i think about it every day. it never leaves.”

your molars grind together until your temples start to pulse. the muscles in your jaw ache from holding back everything that wants to come spilling out, and you realise, belatedly, that you're digging your fingernails so deeply into the canvas strap of your tote that the fabric has started to wrinkle beneath your grip. you’re blinking the salt away, too, trying not to let it drip down your cheeks. “why did you do that to me, sunghoon?”

your voice comes out quieter than you intended. it’s nothing short of humiliating. sunghoon stares at you for a little while longer, and it really does feel like his heart’s being ripped out of his ribcage all over again. there’s nothing nice about seeing someone you love in tears, much less because of you.

“i didn't think it’d go far.” his voice is barely above a whisper now. “that’s not an excuse. i know it isn’t. i realised that really early on.”

his thumb catches on the edge of the brown paper wrapped around the flowers, smoothing the same crease over and over until it begins to tear.

“i just...” he laughs quietly through his nose, and it breaks somewhere in the middle. “i was terrified, y/n.”

your breath catches. you just can’t understand. every word from him feels like relief and a new betrayal all over again, and for a moment, you wonder how you’re still standing here. there’s half of you that feels glad that he cares enough to show up again—and another that never wants to see his pretty face again.

“the only lie i ever told you,” he continues, finally forcing himself to meet your eyes, “was that i was lee heeseung. everything else was real. all the calls, conversations, every second i spent listening to your voice.”

sunghoon says it like a confession. like an intimate secret he’s yet to admit to anyone else but you, because truly, he hasn’t. it’s stupid how long he’s allowed this to suffocate him.

“i was scared of how much i wanted you, and i let it go on, because it was the best thing that’s ever happened to me. i didn’t want to lose you, and i acted selfishly because of that.”

“you could’ve told me from the beginning.” your hand comes up instinctively, thumb dragging beneath your waterline before another tear has the chance to fall. you sniffle once, sharp and involuntary, and sunghoon feels it somewhere behind his ribs. “you could have. do you have any idea how humiliating that was?”

the words roll off your tongue before you can think twice. “i made myself look like a fucking idiot in front of you.”

sunghoon's breathing falters. his grip tightens around the bouquet until the brown paper crumples loudly in the silence, stems bending awkwardly beneath his fingers. he can't bring himself to look away from your face—not when your eyelashes are clumped together with tears, not when the skin beneath them has gone raw from how hard you're rubbing at it.

“i know.”

his voice barely survives the distance between you.

“every time i think about you,” he swallows hard, the muscles in his throat straining around the words. “i think about everything you trusted me with, and all i can remember is that i stood there and let you keep believing me.” his eyes fall to the floor for the briefest moment before finding yours again, impossibly guilty. “you deserved better than that.”

“i put you through so much,” park sunghoon adds, his voice so quiet you're forced to listen for it. “i was selfish. i convinced myself that if i told you the truth, i’d lose you, even if i deserved to.”

his thumb smooths absently over another crease in the bouquet's wrapping paper. “every day i waited after that, for the right time, for when it was easiest for me—it just got harder, and then it got impossible.”

he exhales shakily. “there was never going to be a good time. i knew that.”

you stare at him, at the bouquet he'd probably spent too long choosing. you imagine how out of place he must've looked picking those out, asking the store owner which ones would be good, knowing nothing about flowers, buying whatever was recommended to him without a second thought.

and then you're looking at the circles beneath his eyes—better now than they were before, but still there, still belonging to a boy who somehow looks exactly like the person you spent all summer missing, and the person who broke your heart in the very same breath.

“you could’ve told me,” you whisper again, the words catching somewhere behind your teeth. your fingers curl helplessly around the strap of your tote until the rough canvas digs into your palm. “you could’ve walked up to me that first night. i would’ve—”

another tear slips free before you can force the last word out. your breath catches violently in your chest, chin dropping toward your collarbone as a broken sob tears through you before you have the chance to swallow it back.

sunghoon moves before he thinks. the bouquet lands forgotten against the table with a muffled rustle, baby's breath spilling over the edge of the table as he closes the distance between you in two hurried strides. his hand comes up instinctively—halfway to your face, halfway to your shoulder, he doesn't even know anymore—before stopping inches from your face.

"...y/n."

sunghoon freezes. fingers trembling, not knowing if he's allowed to be this close to you again, not knowing if he gets to touch you just because you're crying. nevertheless, his hand curls slowly into a fist before falling uselessly back to his side.

your shoulders shake harder.

you clap a hand over your mouth as if that'll somehow muffle the sound, but it only turns each breath into something more desperate and more painful. tears slip between your fingers anyway, dripping onto the backs of your knuckles before disappearing into the sleeves of your top.

sunghoon feels sick. everything is telling him to touch you, to hold you, to do everything he can to rid you of the tears staining your face. wiping your tears away with his thumb and all, like how he’s imagined doing a hundred selfish times over the phone—to tell you it’s okay.

something’s siphoning all the air out of his lungs. "...i'm sorry," sunghoon whispers again, voice splintering under the weight of the words. "i’m sorry, y/n. please, don’t cry, please.”

there’s a tiny part of you that wants to lean into him. instead, you let out something between a laugh and another sob. you drag the heel of your palm beneath your eyes, every tear replaced by another before you can finish catching your breath. vision blurry as you stare down at sunghoon’s shoes, he shuts his eyes.

“i didn’t care,” you sigh. “i wouldn’t have cared.”

your ears don't catch the quiet sniffle that escapes sunghoon. his own vision has long since blurred, tears gathering stubbornly along his waterline until the fairy lights overhead fracture into soft, indistinct halos. he doesn't bother wiping them away, not when you're crying like this—not when every broken breath that leaves you sounds like something he's carved into your chest with his own hands.

“i fell for you, hoon.” you look up at him then, your eyes swollen and shining beneath the warm fairy lights strung across the ceiling of the booth. tears cling to your lashes, catching the light every time you blink. “you could’ve told me.” your voice cracks again, almost pleading. “you could have.”

the words seem to find every hollow place inside him.

his shoulders, already drawn painfully tight beneath the navy hoodie, sink another inch, the tension draining from them so suddenly he almost folds into himself. his hand, still hovering uncertainly between the two of you, curls instinctively before slowly uncurling again. this time, he doesn't stop.

fuck it.

park sunghoon’s touch brushes your cheek so lightly you barely feel them at first. gentle, like he doesn’t know quite how to handle you—warm and careful and everything you’ve ever needed.

his palm settles against the side of your face, thumb sweeping gently beneath your eye to catch the tear before it slips past your jaw. your skin burns beneath the touch, not because it hurts, but because you've missed it without ever knowing what it felt like—it's unbearably familiar for something entirely new.

you don’t mean to lean into him, but your body does it anyway.

for the smallest moment, your cheek rests against his palm, and the breath sunghoon lets out is so quiet that it almost disappears beneath the hum of the air-conditioner overhead. a sigh escapes him, almost as if he can’t believe how much he’s hurt you—and before you break into a sob again, you speak.

“maybe...” you whisper, voice shrinking beneath the weight of the thought—of park sunghoon and you, of that stupid new year's party, of library afternoons and late-night phone calls and every version of the future that never got the chance to exist. “maybe we’d be fine. maybe we’d be happy, if that’s what you even wanted—”

“it is.”

there isn’t a trace of hesitation.

sunghoon's thumb stills against your cheek as fresh tears spill over his own, his forehead dipping just enough that he's looking at you from beneath damp strands of dark hair.

“it’s all i’ve ever wanted,” he mutters. “you are all i’ve ever wanted.”

park sunghoon has never been a decisive person.

it sounds contradictory when you consider everything he's responsible for, but those decisions were never really decisions at all. hockey is straightforward once you've watched enough game tape, drilled the same movement until your muscles remember it better than your brain does, or spent enough hours on the ice for instinct to replace hesitation. there is always a coach standing behind the glass with a whistle around his neck, always someone older, better, more experienced to tell you where your feet should be and how to fix what you've done wrong. school isn't much different. people call him gifted, but sunghoon knows discipline has always done more for him than talent ever could. if you study enough, if you sacrifice enough sleep, if you repeat something often enough, eventually the answer reveals itself.

life has always rewarded certainty. show up, work harder, do better—and there is comfort in that. an almost mechanical predictability to it all, completely untouched by human emotion.

but you have never worked like that. this, whatever this is—it has never operated on that principle.

sunghoon has known he loves you for longer than he's been willing to admit it aloud. what he hasn't known—not for a single day since you walked away from him beneath that streetlamp—is whether seeing you again would heal the wound or rip it open all over. every version of the future he imagined ended differently: maybe you'd scream at him, maybe you'd ignore him. maybe you'd look at him with the same quiet disappointment that had followed him into every waking hour for the past month. there was no correct answer to memorize, no strategy to rehearse, and no amount of discipline capable of guaranteeing that he wouldn't lose you all over again.

he even tried searching for it.

three in the morning, phone balanced against his chest, he'd typed every variation of lied about my identity and fell in love that he could think of into reddit, reading through strangers' catastrophes until the sun came up. none of them sounded quite like his, and none of them ended with an answer worth believing. he’s pretty sure 75% are engagement bait.

there wasn't a guidebook for getting back the only girl he'd ever loved. there was, however, an annoyingly persistent lee heeseung.

his friend spent the better part of yesterday refusing to let him back out, talking over every pathetic excuse sunghoon came up with until there were none left to hide behind. sunoo only agreed to squeeze him into today's schedule after extracting the promise of unlimited access to his card for food deliveries over the next month, grinning so hard throughout the negotiation that sunghoon briefly considered leaving on principle alone. jake had sat through the entire story for the first time without interrupting once, only burying his face in his hands whenever the second-hand embarrassment became physically unbearable. jay, jungwon and riki had been considerably less diplomatic.

yes, he'd fucked up. spectacularly.

yes, there was every possibility you'd never want to look at him again.

no, none of them blamed you for it.

they still told him to come anyway. because if you were going to reject him, then he deserved to hear it from you—not from the version of you he'd spent the last month inventing inside his own head. park sunghoon is not every sure if he’ll ever move on from it, from you, though he sincerely hopes he doesn’t have to.

“i can’t—i can’t hate you, hoon. i tried so hard, and it never worked, so what do i do now?”

the words seems to knock the air from his lungs.

sunghoon's thumb stills against your cheek. even now, even after hearing the words, he can't let himself believe them immediately. his thick eyebrows draw together in quiet disbelief, lashes still damp, mouth parted around a breath that never quite leaves him.

“i think about you so much it hurts.” a laugh escapes you, exhausted more than amused, and you shake your head as tears gather at your chin. when you look up at him, the expression in your eyes drives something sharp straight through his chest. “i just don't know what to do.”

your fingers find his wrist without thinking, curling around it lightly. beneath your touch, his pulse stutters wildly, and sunghoon has the absurd, terrifying thought that if you hold him there any longer, you'll feel exactly how badly he's falling apart.

“i still want you,” you whisper. “so tell me, what do i do?”

sunghoon’s face crumples with relief, so sudden that it almost looks like pain. his shoulders shake before he even realises he's crying again. he presses his lips together, turning away for a second as a breathless, disbelieving laugh slips through his nose, and when he looks back at you, his eyes are wet and helpless and impossibly soft.

every sleepless night and every terrible decision has led park sunghoon here, standing in front of you and bracing for an ending that was never truly his to decide. you are the only thing he has ever looked at and thought, i might not get this back if i lose it, and that realization terrifies him more than failure ever could.

everything else feels survivable. the carefully constructed life he's spent years maintaining—he could lose all of it and eventually claw his way toward something new. he knows himself well enough to believe that, and well enough to know that you are different.

the mere thought of you turning around and walking away again is enough to hollow him out from the inside. it followed him into quiet rooms and sleepless mornings, into practices and lectures and every place he tries to forget you. for the first time in his life, there is something he cannot outwork, outthink, or outrun.

and still, even now, that something is standing here with tears on her face and her hand wrapped around his wrist, asking him what to do.

sunghoon’s wiping uselessly at his eyes. “i don't know,” he admits. “i don’t know what you’re supposed to do.”

your chest immediately drops. there’s that churning feeling again. you pick up on every movement of his, from the way his eyes never leave yours to how he can’t seem to speak up.

“i spent months trying to decide that for you, and look how that turned out,” another shaky breath leaves him, and his shoulders shudder with it. “if you want to yell at me, do it. if you want time, take it. if you wake up tomorrow and realize listening to me was a mistake, i’ll understand.”

sunghoon looks into your eyes. somewhere between the apologies and confessions, the distance between you has disappeared without either of you noticing. your knees almost brush, breaths mingling in the tiny booth, warm enough to fog the already close air between you. the fake candle flickers quietly in your peripheral, behind the abandoned bouquet and scattered conversation cards.

he blinks, just once, watching your eyes soften as they stare back at his. they never leave him, and they’re not searching for answers anymore.

“but if you're asking me what i want,” sunghoon mutters, taking a deep breath in. “i want you. i want you to let me stay, and i want it to be your decision.”

“you hurt me.” you swallow. “forgiving you doesn't magically make all of that disappear—but i’m tired. i’m really tired of being scared.”

“so this is my decision,” you step closer until the space between you disappears entirely. “stay.”

oh, park sunghoon is certain, now.

certainly, for the first time, he cares about someone other than himself, more than his stupid hockey games and ridiculous quizzes that he’d ace regardless if he studied or not—

certainly, the girl he loves is here, in front of him. her heart is in his hands and he’s trying not to crush it, because hurting her means hurting himself. she’s uncomplicated, and she’s beautiful, even in this kind of light, even with tears running down her face—looking at him like he’s all she’s ever asked for, despite everything he’s done.

certainly, he loves you.

all of you.

your arms find sunghoon’s waist with a familiarity that steals what little breath he has left. the movement is so instinctive neither of you seem to think too much about it. sunghoon's hand remains against your cheek for one lingering heartbeat, before his other joins it, cradling your face with impossible care, thumbs brushing absently beneath skin still warm from tears.

the space between you disappears altogether.

your arms slide further around his back, bunching the fabric of his hoodie between your fingers, the last of the tension leaves his body in one long, shaking breath. sunghoon’s own limbs slip around your shoulders, drawing you against his chest so gently it almost hurts, his chin resting lightly atop your head as though he’s afraid that if he lets go now, you’ll disappear all over again.

“i love you, y/n.”

the confession comes easier than he expected—true, almost painfully so, for far too long.

you tighten your hold around him, your cheek pressed against the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

“i love you, too, hoon.”

for a second, park sunghoon forgets how to breathe.

all those nights spent lying awake, replaying every conversation until sunrise—every version of this moment he'd imagined, every argument he'd had with himself, every impossible outcome he'd tried to prepare for—they dissolve so quietly that he almost doesn't notice them leaving.

the questions that had followed him for weeks no longer demand answers. the guilt is still there, the hurt is still there, and he knows neither of them will disappear overnight, of course—but for the first time in months, park sunghoon knows one thing for sure:

he does not care, and he will keep loving you despite it all.

─────────────────────────

the fundraiser slowly forgets about the two of you.

by the time you step out of the little booth, there’s an insanely long queue that won’t stop staring at you and sunghoon—a bouquet sits in the crease of your elbow, and the man by your side is smiling so wide that it’s borderline embarrassing. he might as well put a sign on your head.

the sun’s begun sinking lower behind the engineering building, bathing the pathways in that familiar honey-gold light that always seems to arrive when you and sunghoon are together. conversations swell around you as students drift from stall to stall with paper bags hanging from their wrists and half-melted ice cream in their hands. somewhere behind you, sunoo lets out an aggressively theatrical cheer before somebody—jungwon, if you remembered correctly—smacks him hard enough to shut him up.

neither of you acknowledge it.

park sunghoon’s hand finds yours instinctually. he’s not even looking at you to see if you’re fine with it, but it doesn’t matter anyway. your fingers intertwine with his, warm and steady and weirdly tight—you glance down and feel the heat rushing up your cheeks.

“…you know,” you mumble, watching your joined hands swing gently between you as you walk down the wide path. “i think this is technically our first date.”

sunghoon blinks. date? you? you and him? on a date?

the crowd has thinned out considerably, but when you glance back towards the familiar pink tent, the queue is somehow still moving. students continue drifting in and out of the little canvas booths, phones in hand as volunteers wave them forward one pair at a time. sunoo catches your eye from behind the registration table, arms folded dramatically across his chest as if he's personally responsible for the greatest love story in university history. you can't help but to smile, and sunoo notices immediately. with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, he flicks his wrist in a half-hearted shooing motion before waving the two of you away.

you laugh under your breath.

ahead of you, the fundraiser is slowly settling into the evening. a handful of student union members balance precariously on folding ladders, looping warm string lights from one streetlamp to the next until little pockets of golden light begin blooming across the walkways. conversations soften as the afternoon crowd disperses, replaced by the quieter rhythm of people lingering instead of rushing somewhere else. somebody nearby is packing away handmade jewellery while another stall is still desperately trying to sell the last of their brownies to anyone willing to make eye contact.

your hand is still in sunghoon's. neither of you talk.

“oh.”

you glance sideways. he’s staring ahead, eyebrows pinched together in the sort of concentration that seems excessive for something this simple.

you snort. “that’s all you have to say?”

“i'm thinking,” sunghoon murmurs, finally allowing himself a quiet chuckle. his thumb absently brushes against the back of your hand before he looks over at you. “does this mean i have to pretend i don't already know everything about you?”

“i wouldn't say everything...” you mumble, nudging his shoulder with yours before looking away a little too quickly. you don't have to see his face to know he's smiling. you can feel it somehow, in the way his gaze lingers a second too long, in the quiet that stretches between you while he leans ever so slightly closer, just enough that the warmth radiating from his hoodie brushes your arm.

“you blush really easily.”

“i do not!” your eyes widen, yet, still refusing to meet his.

“you're so pretty, y/n,” sunghoon says before he has the chance to psyche himself out of it. the compliment leaves him with such effortless certainty that it almost catches him off guard. “so cute when you're shy. blushing like that in front of me...” he continues, the corners of his mouth lifting into the smallest grin. “i don't think i've ever seen anything prettier.”

you squeeze his hand so hard he almost laughs again.

“god,” you mutter, finally daring a glance at him before immediately looking away again, cheeks burning beneath the string lights overhead. “you're still so annoying!”

the fundraiser eventually disappears behind you. after sunghoon’s insistence on sharing an overly-sweet milkshake, his hands are full with paper bags, filled to the brim with overpriced homemade desserts and a few too many keychains. neither of you remember who suggested leaving first—at some point, the booths become smaller in the distance, and the chatter fades into little more than background noise.

there isn’t really a destination. there doesn’t have to be, you both know that—but it helps with the conversation. it flows easier than any of you expect, familiar, curious and gentle in the same way it’s always been.

you stop by a convenience store because sunghoon insists you’re hungry. allegedly, your stomach rumbled on the walk here, so he rushes into the store so fast that there isn’t enough time to protest. the high-school part-timer stares at him weirdly as he wordlessly pays for both ramyeon cups, spending the next five minutes pretending not to hear you complaining about it.

you eat, anyway. sunghoon can’t help but take a picture, too. you almost hit him on the head for that.

an hour later, the walk to your apartment is slower than it needs to be. autumn has finally settled over the city, the breeze cool enough to make you tug your sleeves over your hands every few minutes. leaves skitter across the pavement whenever the wind picks up, collecting around your shoes before scattering around them again, and somewhere overhead the sky melts from gold into a dark, deep blue.

you pass through that same park—cyclists pass every now and then, bells chiming politely before disappearing further down the winding path, elderly couples taking a night stroll with plastic bags hooked around their fingers. the atmosphere is completely different now, though nothing tangible has really changed.

the two of you keep walking. sunghoon feels like he's going to explode from the amount of dessert you'd somehow convinced him to share with you, but the weight tugging at his shoulders feels lighter now. maybe it's because your hand is folded so naturally into his that neither of you have thought about letting go—or the fact that you managed to get rid of all those bags, thanks to him.

“it's nice to talk to you,” you murmur after a while, your gaze lingering on the river instead of him. the city stretches across the water in ribbons of gold and white, every reflection trembling with the movement of the current. “without the phone. easier to hear you.”

another breeze rolls against the river, cool enough to send little ripples across the water and lift loose strands of your hair across your face.

“uuuuhuh, i’m sure.” sunghoon smiles at you, easy-going and so reassuring it makes your pulse race. “keep pretending like we didn’t meet how we did.”

“the hell?”

you glance at him. all he does is squeeze your hand once—then, the corners of his mouth lift into that small, effortless smile.

your heart gives an embarrassingly obvious thump. you let out a laugh before you can stop yourself, ducking your head almost immediately as warmth rushes into your cheeks. “don’t look at me like that—”

“like what?”

sunghoon stops walking. your footsteps falter a beat too late.

your hands are still joined, the sudden halt tugging you backwards before you can catch yourself. you stumble lightly into his chest, the front of his hoodie brushing against your sleeves as his fingers tighten instinctively around yours to steady you. your free hand lands against the warmth of his ribs, and for one, disorienting moment, all you can hear is the wind behind you and the quiet hitch in his breathing.

sunghoon looks down. you're close enough now that the warm lights stretching across this dim path catch in his eyes, turning the dark brown almost amber beneath the glow. a strand of your hair has fallen across your cheek again, flowing in the breeze—and sunghoon, stupidly, reaches up without thinking.

his knuckles brush your skin first—then his fingertips. they slip carefully beneath the loose strand, tucking it behind your ear with a tenderness that makes your chest ache. it lingers for a moment longer than necessary, five seconds too much just to move a strand of hair away, and his thumb rests lightly against your temple as though he’s trying to memorise the shape of your face underneath his touch.

oh. you can’t tear your eyes off of him.

park sunghoon looks like someone you could know forever. a gaze so gentle that you’d think he’s known whoever he’s looking at for a thousand years—a touch so tender that it’s unbelievable that he’s never loved anyone else.

the smile tugging at the corners of his lips dissolves into something almost disbelieving. sunghoon’s forehead dips, just enough so that your face comes into full focus, and the space between you disappears disappears so gradually that neither of you seem to notice how your noses almost brush.

his breath ghosts over your lips. warm, nothing like the cold air that’s enveloping you both. sunghoon hesitates for a moment—even now, he wonders just what he’s done to deserve this. he wants you to choose, and you do.

closing the distance, your lips find his with all the gentleness of someone coming home after being gone for too long.

for one impossible, weightless moment, the whole world seems to narrow until it is nothing more than the warmth of your mouth against his. the quiet rush of wind rolling off your skin, your hand tightening ever so slightly around the fabric gathered at his chest—every sleepless night, every apology, every version of this moment he'd rehearsed alone in his room dissolves the instant you kiss him back.

park sunghoon's convinced nothing has ever felt this right.

you're soft against him, kissing him with the same quiet hesitation you've carried all evening, as though you're still afraid that pressing yourself any closer might shatter whatever fragile thing the two of you have only just managed to rebuild. meanwhile, sunghoon melts into it like he's been starving—he holds himself back for only a heartbeat before months of missed chances quietly unravel between you, his hand sliding around your waist with a tenderness so instinctive it almost startles him. he gathers you closer, careful enough to let you pull away whenever you want. you do not.

instead, your fingers slip from the front of his hoodie to the back of his neck, threading into the soft hair resting there. the movement draws the smallest, almost inaudible breath from him, and before he realises he's doing it, he's smiling into the kiss.

it’s contagious. you’re smiling now, too.

your lips part around a tiny, breathless laugh, and the sound is enough to make a smile form on his face. sunghoon leans in again without thinking, chasing another kiss, only for the movement to catch you off guard. you stumble back half a step, dragging him with you by the collar of his hoodie until the both of you have to force yourselves to stand properly.

your foreheads bump together as his arm tightens instinctively around your waist, trying to stop you from losing your balance.

“do you kiss all your girlfriends like this, sunghoon?”

“don’t piss me off,” his arm loosens from your waist for half a second, just enough for you to stumble before he catches you immediately, pulling you back against his chest with an annoyed sigh. “i don’t kiss anyone else.”

“i could’ve died right here. do you even care about me? should i just die right now?”

“i’m not even going to answer that, y/n.”

─────────────────────────

“who gave you my number?”

by the time the two of you find yourselves right outside your apartment building, the streets have grown quieter. most of the shops have already pulled their shutters halfway down, leaving only convenience stores and late-night cafés spilling warm light onto the pavement. the walk here had taken nearly an hour—your car is still parked at campus, but sunghoon promised to pay the overnight fee anyway. neither of you remember deciding to take the longer route back to your place, but every turn just seemed like another excuse to keep talking.

you stop right in front of your building. the path is uneven here, the road tilted upward; the automatic doors slide shut behind somebody leaving, and the chime hums softly before settling into silence again.

“sooha,” you smile. the blush that infects sunghoon’s face spreads like a wildfire—you’re the one teasing now, after an entire day of his antics. “you had a thing with her, i’m guessing?”

“well, i wouldn’t call it a thing,” sunghoon sighs, thumb rubbing against the back of yours. he swallows before looking at you again. “i’ll be honest with you—we were hooking up.”

he watches your expression carefully for a shift. anything that'll tell him you were upset, or livid—anything at all. he swore he wouldn't blame himself if you were. how would he have known that the love of his life would waltz right in thirty minutes after sooha's exit?

sunghoon adds on a little too quickly. “it was before you.”

“how long?” you ask, tilting your head. curiosity, it seems, but these are dangerous waters that sunghoon’s treading. based on past experiences, his partners (can he even call them that?) never took to well to a previous acquiantance.

sunghoon almost considers lying, just to make himself sound better, before deciding against it. he's never been too good at that anyway. “on and off. a few months, maybe. nothing that meant anything.”

he exhales through his nose, something between a laugh and a wince. “i know. i wasn't—i didn't handle it well. i never called it anything, and i never made her think it was anything, but i also never stopped it when i probably should have.” he pauses, “that’s my fault.”

it's such a sunghoon answer. blunt and completely unflattering to himself, a lack of an attempt to soften it into something easier to hear. you almost want to laugh at how little effort he puts into making himself look good, like it hasn't occurred to him that he could, and you’d never be able to prove otherwise.

you nod, trying to hold your laugh in at the sight of his face. he looks like he's just seen a ghost, no matter how much he tries to hide it—lips pursed together instinctively, eyes wide and scanning yours for any hint of anger. “okay. good to know.”

you give his hand a small squeeze before beginning to loosen your fingers from his, only enough to shift your grip more comfortably. “i appreciate the honesty.”

sunghoon keeps staring. “that's it?”

“were you expecting more questions, hoon?” you can't help but smile now, your free hand covering your mouth in an attempt to hide how adorable you find him. “i didn't know you back then. you were still staring at me weird from the stairs.”

“i was not staring,” sunghoon shakes his head, a stray strand of hair falling loose over his brow with the motion. “you were staring. i’m surprised heeseung didn't notice.”

your jaw drops, mouth falling open in mock offense. "excuse me?"

“whatever. it’s over now, right?” sunghoon sighs, dragging a hand down his face in dramatic disapproval, fingers pausing briefly over his eyes like he's shielding himself from the sight of your face. "not really trying to share you with him."

“you're so annoying!” you shove at his shoulder, and he barely rocks with it, solid where he's standing, biting back a grin like he's trying—badly—to look unaffected.

sunghoon's mouth curls into a smile that reaches his eyes—dark in this dim light. he's still taller than you despite standing a few steps higher, your face now level with his, close enough that you can count the individual strands of hair falling loose over his forehead.

his hair is still a mess from the wind, and from your fingers ruffling through the strands earlier—sticking up at odd angles he clearly hasn't bothered to fix, like it hadn't even occurred to him. his cheeks are still faintly red, yet to fully fade since you first touched his skin, and his ears are airbrushed with a soft pink he probably has no idea is visible.

you hope no one else has ever gotten to see it on him before.

it's quiet. no dogs this time, for some reason. it’s just the low hum of the streetlight above you, buzzing faintly, flickering once before steadying again. an occasional cricket announces its presence somewhere in the bushes lining the building, and beneath that, nothing. though, there’s just your own heartbeat, loud and unreasonable in your ears, and the sound of sunghoon breathing, slow and careful like he's trying not to disturb whatever this is.

sunghoon’s hand is still loosely wrapped around yours, thumb tracing an invisible circle over your knuckles—it’s not quite a habit yet, but close to being one, you can tell. you can feel the calluses along his palm, rough from what you assume is hockey, a strange and grounding kind of proof that this is real, that he's real, standing this close to you at almost midnight with his heart clearly in his throat.

and then, there’s you. even in this horrible, fluorescent lighting—the kind that makes everyone look a little sick—you look undeniably beautiful to him. almost glowing, or maybe he's just sleep-deprived enough that his eyes are playing tricks on him. either way, he thinks, quietly and with helplessness, that he has never wanted to kiss someone this badly in his entire life.

his gaze drops, just briefly, to your mouth. then back up, like he's asking permission before he's even said anything at all.

“can i kiss you, y/n?”

the question is so earnest it hurts. his voice is breathy, needy, everything that you could possibly ever need in a man right in front of you. you feel like if you fall for it—answer him right now, that your life ends here, because this is a trap, or a dream, or all of it at once.

you’re already leaning into him, tilting your head until your noses are brushing each other’s. sunghoon’s breathing so heavily that you feel it against your bottom lip, teasing, just asking for that final push.

one of his large hands settle at your waist. waiting. always waiting.

the kiss is slower than the last one. a little more desperate, maybe—you feel sunghoon’s large arms wrap around you again, tighter now, tongue swiping against your bottom lip, moving you as he pleases just so he can get the most of you.

you taste like him.

the thought’s driving him crazy. you've already confessed everything worth confessing tonight; now, there is only the quiet luxury of learning each other properly, without distance, without static, without the countdown of a call timer reminding either of you that morning would eventually come.

it’s messy in the way that two people are when they’re starving for each other. borderline greedy, too much tongue and then not enough at all, your hands running along the upper part of his back as you keep him anchored to you. sunghoon’s lips feel so perfect when they’re against yours, he genuinely believes that this is what he’s been chasing for all twenty-four years of his life.

every time one of you pulls back to breathe, the other closes the distance again without thinking, as though separating has become something your bodies no longer understand. your fingers wander instinctively over the broad line of his shoulders before settling against the back of his neck, keeping him close without ever needing to ask.

sunghoon’s hands remain anchored at your waist, warm through the fabric of your clothes, thumbs tracing absent little movements that make your pulse flutter for reasons you can't quite explain.

“not here, hoon—” you mumble against his lips before he pulls you right back in. so annoying. sunghoon’s lips crash into yours again, still just as curious, palm flat against the small of your back.

“hm?” the sound vibrates softly between you before he finally relents, resting his forehead against yours instead. one of his hands slides carefully along the curve of your side until it settles once more at the small of your back, holding you as though he'd forgotten any other way to stand. “...tell me where, then.”

you shake your head once, trying very unsuccessfully to compose yourself before meeting his eyes again.

you’re huffing, trying to catch your breath when your hands fall to his chest. the guy is looking at you with the most feverish smile, eyes narrowing because he knows he’s got you flustered.

“upstairs,” you murmur, barely louder than the evening breeze slipping between the apartment buildings. your fingers fist at his hoodie. “come upstairs.”

─────────────────────────

park sunghoon likes to think that he’s good at sex.

there’s nothing complicated about it, really. he knows he’s good at most things.

his body—he knows it’s the kind most people would kill for, the kind other men spend half their lives trying to build. of that, he’s well aware. hockey, school, laundry, cooking, smiling and talking as if nothing’s ever the matter. he’s reduced it to a science: technique, precision, mastery, painstakingly perfected.

the data is there. they scream, they cry out of sheer pleasure, they moan like no one else exists but him, but park sunghoon. he predicts it in the same way he knows he’ll get that perfect score, and make that one ‘lucky’ shot—it’s calculation in it’s most unsurprising form.

human bodies are scientific. their anatomy is roughly similar, so he knows if he moves just like this, whispers just like that, she’ll fold. she’ll crumble underneath him like it’s her first time ever sleeping with a man, clinging onto sunghoon like what he’s doing is some lost art among the modern male.

there’s significant amounts of advice online to tell him how to please a woman. it’s not rocket science applying these concepts in practice, as he’s done—and sure, it’s done himself favours. there were nights where sunghoon couldn’t believe that he’d ever quit hook ups, but soon realised that that’s just how his brain works: that that’s just what the dopamine rush whispers into your ears as you cum for the third consecutive time.

there is a nice predictability in sex. it’s instinct, and where there is instinct, there is nature and nature is almost always studied—even if it’s an utter waste of time, stress relief aside.

though, when he finds himself stumbling into your apartment, kicking off his shoes and slide his hoodie off his back while simultaneously trying to keep his lips on yours, he finds himself wanting time to slow itself down.

just something about you, he thinks. that look on your cute face, staring at him like you didn’t know what to do with the heat pooling between your legs; you stumble against him a few times while you both try to find your way to your bedroom, shoulders nudging against light switches and shoving a few chairs out of place. your laundry is still on the couch from this morning, you note—but when sunghoon puts his hand on your jaw, forcing you to look at him—the reminder fades completely.

“what am i going to do with you?” sunghoon grins, letting his ass fall to the edge of the bed. sitting up, his hoodie’s discarded somewhere by the entryway, and the only article of clothing left being his jeans. his hands roam your body—up and down, before looping around your waist and pulling you between his spread legs. “so pretty.”

you whimper when his hands begin sliding underneath your top. “can i, baby?”

it’s almost pathetic how fast you nod. your hands rest on his shoulders, eyes locked on the way he leans closer to your belly. sunghoon’s slender fingers move up your warm skin, now burning hot under his touch, and eventually, he lifts your shirt completely.

“you sure about this, y/n?” sunghoon looks up, pupils blown with his cheek resting against your bare stomach. “we can stop. whatever you wanna do—”

“n-no,” you sigh, watching sunghoon’s eyes blink up at you, so dazed. “i want you, hoon.”

he hums at your response, turning his head so his lips touch the skin of your belly. they’re still wet from your earlier kisses, pressing nice and slow until he reaches from your belly button to your ribcage. truthfully, sunghoon’s mind has already gone to mush at the mere scent of you: the sweat from the day and your perfume blending into one, the heat from your body, that he just can’t help but to start leaving hickeys along the exposed area.

“i’ll make you feel so good, y/n,” he mumbles against your skin. “but you gotta be good for me. you can do that, can’t you?”

oh. he’s that kind of guy.

something’s flipping in your stomach—simmering low, intense, nothing like you’ve ever felt before. you stare down at him, face visibly flushed from the way he’s touching you; your knees almost buckle upon hearing his voice, and sunghoon can’t help but let a chuckle out at that in between kisses.

“can’t hear you. speak up for me.”

you swallow, feeling sunghoon’s hands exploring further—until his thumbs are right on your nipples, bypassing your annoying bra, rubbing gentle circles, smiling up at you like he’s done nothing too crazy.

“y-yeah, i can,” your voice comes out a tad too soft for his liking, evidently, because his little grin fades into something more displeased.

sunghoon stands up instead, large hands hooking around the hem of your shirt and helping to pull it off of you. your arms point to the ceiling, naturally, letting the fabric part from you with a gasp—the cold air hits your skin, and the wet imprints of kisses on your stomach feel even icier now.

he moves back to your stomach, taking in your scent; it’s even more potent now when you’re bare like this. curiosity gets the better of him once his nose bumps against your bra, his hair nuzzling against your chest as one of his hands move to unclasp it. effortless.

“sunghoon, stop teasing,” you whine, watching him lean back. sunghoon pulls your bra off of you on one swift motion. it’s an understatement to say that you were pretty—just gorgeous when you’re naked in front of him like this.

he ignores you. asshole.

sunghoon’s fingers hook around your skirt next—not quite pulling it down just yet. then, almost as if you’ve done something wrong, he stands up.

you forget how huge he is for a second. when the dim warmth of your lamp hits him, you lose your breath completely. every muscle is highlighted in orange, the definition outlined by shadows that leave you wanting, and it’s like air is caught in your throat from how unfairly good he looks.

“i’ll ask again,” sunghoon mutters, hands back down to your waist, and then your hips, and then he’s flipping you over onto the mattress. “you’ll be good for me, won’t you?”

whatever. fuck it.

all sense of reasoning leaves your body at once. sunghoon cages you between his arms, staring into your eyes, and the look in them sends pure electricity through your veins. he looks hungry, thirsty, like he needed you right now or he’d die.

and still, he waits for an answer.

“i’ll be s-so good, hoonie, i promise.”

the nickname doesn’t leave a bad taste in his mouth anymore. it’s been a while since he’s heard it—but when it comes from you, god, it sounds like it’s dripping in honey and coaxing him into whatever trap you laid out for him.

“gonna fucking kill me,” he rasps, pulling away before pressing a kiss to your cheek, down to your jaw, then to the patch of skin underneath your earlobe. the feeling of his warm tongue sliding against your skin makes you shudder—combined with his fingers pressing into your back, feeling every inch of skin, savouring the feeling of you;

when sunghoon first walked in, he noticed how unbearably you your room was. decorated in posters of your favourite bands, little trinkets here and there that he has no clue how you keep organized. his eyes glazed over your desk, your laptop, your lamp, and everything that you chose to keep that would now remind him of you—right now, your legs are wrapped around his hips, heels digging into his ass while he grinds nice and slow against the warmth of your pussy—feeling right through your panties, skirt tossed somewhere in the corner of the room.

what was most interesting about your room was that mirror in the corner—perhaps he was a pervert for wondering, only for a moment, if you had ever touched yourself in front of that very reflection. he could imagine your legs spread in desperation, knuckles deep in yourself as you chased whatever high you terribly wanted.

did you think of anyone? did you get off to the sound of his voice? though, most importantly, would you let him ruin you in front of that little mirror of yours?

“can i take this off?” he whispers into your ear, hands roaming down from your neck and to the lace around your panties—you nod again, and the chuckle that escapes his lips only sends shivers down your spine.

your legs fall to the side of his thighs, leaving you bare and spread in front of his eyes. “what about you?”

sunghoon literally laughs in your face. “be patient, baby. haven’t even gotten you nice ‘n loose yet.”

your breath hitches at his vulgarity. the image pops up behind your eyelids: sunghoon’s long, pretty fingers buried somewhere deep in you, curled at the perfect angle and prodding at that one spot that makes you sees stars—how long would it take for him to get there? would he even know how to?

famous last words, as they say. it takes four minutes for sunghoon to have your thighs pinned to the mattress, three to have the tip of his index and middle fingers inside of you and two to get you whimpering like a hot, pathetic mess.

maybe just one to get you soaking his wrists.

“what’s wrong, baby?” sunghoon pouts. his eyes are glimmering in the dark, the tiny light left outside reflecting off his irises. in this atmosphere it just seems like a mockery. “too much for my pretty girl? she can’t seem to get enough, though.”

and then his eyes flick down to where you suck him in—glistening, disgustingly sloppy and wet where you take every inch like it was always meant to be yours. it’s times like these where you truly believe fate is real; because there’s just no way you were this close to going your entire life without this—without sunghoon’s fingers buried knuckle deep into you.

“h-hoon, ugh—fuck!” you squeal when he curls his fingers just right, and he just watches, an eyebrow raised like you were some intriguing specimen. just a body underneath his touch, poking and prodding and spreading you as wide as he can, as best as he can. everything he does seems to illicit some reaction from you, too amusing for him to stop. “please, gonna cum, i’m gonna cum, ngh—”

“so quick?” sunghoon sighs, kissing his teeth. “god, you’re so cute. must be too much, then?”

and then, he slows down. ripping your delicious orgasm right from your useless fingers.

“n-noooo,” you drawl, nails clawing into sunghoon’s veiny forearms as he nods slowly, expecting a coherent answer. what a mistake, as if you could even think straight right now. “it’s not—it’s not, fuck, i can take it.”

sunghoon chuckles, head tilting up just enough to get your pretty face in full view. “reaaally? need my permission to cum, too?”

your stomach flips at the way he says it—low and sultry and teasing, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. rearranging your guts with his hands alone, whispering these ridiculous things to you, expecting zero reactions. is he stupid? has he lost it?

“you trying to snap my fingers off? relax, baby. can’t have that.”

the humiliation washes over you rather quickly, but disappears just as fast when you feel every muscle in your body beginning to lock up. the words can’t even find themselves, too lost in your mushy brain—everything narrows down to the man with his hands between your legs, pumping his stupidly long fingers in n’ out, watching you lose every piece of sanity you have left.

“who’d have known. such a sensitive girl,” and his thumb brushes against your swollen clit with just enough pressure to have you twitching, but never to cross that final, potentially fatal line. “do you always cum this fast?”

sunghoon sighs dramatically. if you couldn’t see his face, you’d have assumed that he was irritated with you—but your eyes haven’t left his, nor the red in his cheeks and his slightly parted lips, groaning whenever you buck your hips against his palm, feeling the friction of your clit against his skin. they occasionally glance down at the tent in his pants, fighting against tight cloth to be freed, twitching and already forming a dark, wet patch where his tip would be.

“oh my god,” you moan, gripping tight around his wrists. there’s a part of you that just wants to sit up and grind against his hand yourself, but that’d be much too embarrassing to live with. “can’t—can’t, i j-jus… can’t, please, hoonie—”

the words ring a bell that he can’t quite recall, is what he would say if his memory was absolutely terrible. the man remembers exactly when and where you said those terrible, terrible things, under a streetlamp and in a park he had never seen before; so sure that he’d never see you again, and now, here you are, losing your mind and at his mercy.

“oh.” sunghoon grins. cocky little bastard. “you close? gonna make a mess on hoonie? c’mon, soak me. won’t stop ‘till you do.”

there’s something utterly perverted about him tonight. hoonie was never an exclusive nickname, of course—generic by all means. sooha had taken great pleasure moaning and whimpering that exact term a hundred-something nights ago, and sunghoon swears that he must’ve been in a completely different body then. wonders how he ever let the name reach his ears without gritting his teeth, but now that you’re here… it’s like a completely different world has opened before his eyes, and his cock has never, ever been harder.

how could he have fucked anyone else when you existed? how could you have slept with other people when he was right there? the selfish thought invades his sick brain as fast as he feels his cock swell up.

never-mind that. this is way more important—there comes a point during sex where all the pleasure folds in on itself and magnifies by tenfold, becoming it’s own force, taking over your nervous system—nothing matters. sunghoon doesn’t matter. your pride definitely does not matter.

so it’s not really your fault, is it? couldn’t possibly be, even if you’re sitting yourself up (with an unreasonable amount of effort) and grinding your hips against his large, calloused hands, and whining like a bitch in heat against his mouth. even less so now that sunghoon’s letting you—his breath is taken from him when your tongue slides against his, wet and soft and everything he needs to get that pretty cunt fluttering around his digits.

“my filthy girl,” he moans between kisses, his warm breath ghosting against your glossy lips. your arms are running up and down his shoulders and finding a place to stay anchored, and when they finally do, sunghoon doesn’t wince one bit when your nails dig in, out, and in again. “just look at you, fucking yourself stupid on my fingers.”

you don’t hear him. genuinely. it’s all buzzing and static and you feel yourself starting to shake from the hip up. you shudder when he flexes his fingers, and it’s like everything you’ve ever done has led to tonight, every choice, every mistake.

“h-hoonie, ‘m sorry—fuck, need more of you,” you press a searing kiss to his bottom lip, almost missing completely and letting your mouth fall open against his anyway. your breath feel like fire against his skin, and sunghoon can only groan when he feels your walls spasming around his slender fingers. “please, i’ll be so good.”

sunghoon does that same, amused grin on his face, just watching you pant underneath him. the expression only reminds you of that night: you in the kitchen, and him, watching you from the front door on new years eve.

the corner of his lips turn upwards and it’s nothing short of pure perversion—tongue poking at the inside of his cheek, face red with heat crawling up his neck, and an eyebrow cocked up. “are you actually begging me right now? while you’re riding my hand like this?”

you nod your head, frantic. of course you’re fucking begging. it’s been an entire lifetime of teasing and sunghoon’s still dangling the idea of fucking you in your face, just revelling in your visceral and absolutely humiliating reactions.

your mind’s going blank. every thought diverges into park sunghoon and every desire has his stupidly handsome face plastered onto it. your stomach’s so tense that it’s starting to hurt, and you feel lightheaded from how often your breath gets taken right from you—so close, and yet, still so far.

“yes, pleasepleaseplease, i—”

“god, you’re greedy,” sunghoon mumbles under his breath, using his free hand to push you backwards. your spine hits the mattress with a recoil, and the springs creak just enough to muffle the pathetic whine that slips off your lips. “just an ungrateful girl. fine, then.”

and then, there’s nothing. just that mind-numbing feeling of having your body be sent to heaven, only to be denied at the pearly gates.

your heart’s pounding at the sight of him: warm, glistening skin under the dimness of your lamp, chest heaving as he pulls his fingers out from your slick entrance—it feels increasingly, unbearably empty as he retracts his ridiculously long digits. sunghoon does nothing but enjoy the view, eyes glazing over the way your body twists and turns at his cruel punishment.

“come on. again.”

who does he think he is, really? you kiss and make up, and in the same day, he makes you beg for a little gratification? does he have any idea what he put you through? to be truthful, you could go on and on about how he doesn’t deserve any sort of control over you—

“please, hoonie. i’ll take everything—fuck, just fuck me already.”

fuck it. you don’t care. it doesn’t matter that park sunghoon is toying with you. you need him, you need all of him, you need every inch of skin that he’s willing to give and every word he’ll spit at you.

park sunghoon isn’t exactly inexperienced with sex. he knows that intimacy is one of man’s greatest discoveries, and it’s only natural that he participates in it. as one does. what’s not normal is that he’s never felt this before: this insatiable, lustful heat simmering in his core, making his cock twitch before it’s even been touched.

god, you look so perfect—spread bare beneath him with inner thighs soaked in your own juices, whining and pleading and begging for a taste of him, as if he wasn’t holding himself back already. you’re truly the greediest, just taking and taking even if he tries to take his time.

there’s blood lingering in his mouth and the metal feels sharp on his tongue, and still, he continues biting on his lip. sunghoon’s eyes never leave yours, hands coming down to unbuckle his belt with a single hand—the other pins your knees open, and while you squirm under the pressure, you never quite gain the courage to defy.

when sunghoon finally leans forward, the scent of him is enough to overwhelm your nervous system; he grunts when your arms wrap around his neck, and your nose nuzzles against his neck like it has nowhere else to go. a deep breath in and it’s like you’ve never felt more alive than now.

“this enough for you?”

he picks up on everything. from the way your eyes never stay on his for too long, to the way you twitch when he presses his briefs right against your cunt—your breathy moans in his ear as he leans in close, and how quickly you stain the spandex with your slick, mixing with his sticky pre.

“this should be fine, right? my girl can cum juuust like this.” sunghoon’s voice is the only thing cutting through the fog in your head. it’s spinning so much that gripping onto him is serving as the only anchor to your consciousness. your nails drag along this trapezius, sinking into the superficial skin, waiting for a reaction that never comes—instead, all he can offer is a mocking smile, fangs bare and taunting.

his hips are teasing. he moves them slow, taking his time with every drag of up and down, the fabric sliding between your pretty folds and swollen clit; there’s a brief second where he feels the tip of his cock slide into you through the barrier of clothing, only to slip free when he slides up again.

“so perfect,” sunghoon whispers into the conch of your ear—you don’t realise what he’s said until you feel his sharp teeth gliding against your helix, before he finally nips at it. “you’re so perfect, baby. made for me, aren’t you? can’t believe i almost let you go.”

sunghoon thinks about how ridiculous he must look right now—humping your poor cunt like he’s in heat, holding himself back for reasons beyond him, whispering these obscenely intimate things in your ears like he doesn’t want to fuck you right this second. the strain on his cock is getting too much; blood’s rushing down, he’s aching, and he doesn’t know how much longer he has left before he flips you over and has your ass slapping against his skin.

“hoon, fuck, i’m gonna cum,” you say, bucking your hips up just once. wrong move. “please, don’t fucking stop—it feels so good.” sunghoon’s head turns in your direction, nose brushing against your cheek before his mouth meets yours again. he doesn’t care that they don’t latch properly, nor that he’s practically drinking in your saliva, or that he’s gonna cum just from feeling the friction between your bodies. all sunghoon truly cares about is that you’re holding him like he’s all you truly need in this world.

“yeah? just from this?” sunghoon’s hand comes up to grip at your jaw, thumb and index pressing deep into the flesh of your cheeks. his body feels heavy on top of you, quick little movements doing the most to get you both over the edge—and though he still seems a little more composed than you, it all goes to shit when your fingers graze the sides of his ribs. “fuck—do it. cum for me, please, y/n—”

his hands run up your arms until his fingers are tracing your palms, slithering between your own, before finally interlacing. sunghoon’s pressing sweet kisses to your jawline as you moan into thin autumn air, feeling the vibrations of his groans against your throat; he moves at a frenzied pace, chasing friction that won’t ever compare to being buried tip to cervix, but it’s all he can get right now.

“i’m fucking cumming, hoon, oh my god—”

twenty seconds. twenty seconds is all he needs to have you gushing all over the spandex of his briefs, and twenty-five is all you need to chase his lips because you know you’ll scream if you don’t. perhaps around thirty for him to stop feeling like the room is spinning, and him along with it—your tongues meet and circle on another’s again, moans clashing between desperate attempts to slow down, and it’s only sixty for him to finally hook his thumbs around his boxers and shove them down his thighs.

thwap.

sunghoon’s heavy in a way you can’t say out loud. words get caught in your throat, with nothing but a pathetic hitch in your breath being audible. he’s so unbelievably pretty, flushed a deep red from the relentless teasing he’s put you through, serving as confirmation that he’s wanted this as much as you have.

he stares for a minute, catching his breath, before his hand reaches for you—spreading your folds wide between his fingers, watching it glisten under the orange light, almost sparkling if he could look close enough. the sheets below are soaked with you—a large, wet patch that’s darker compared to the rest of the pink duvet.

“thought about this pretty pussy for weeks,” sunghoon lets his saliva collect in the well of his tongue, before spitting a thick glob riiight onto your entrance. “and now you’re aaaall mine. aren’t you, baby?”

sunghoon looks up just as the name rolls off his tongue. you look absolutely wrecked, hair tangled in places where you didn’t even know it could get tangled—tear stains running down your face and highlighting the flush on your cheeks so well. your eyes are wide, caught between staring at his leaking cock and his expectant eyes, shifting between the two every now and then;

a reverent sigh leaves you when sunghoon begins pumping himself, nice and slow using his hand, spreading the pre all over his hardened length. sounds of wet slick echo through the room as he strokes, just enough to get himself wet, before his knees shift forward and he’s finally, finally letting himself touch you without a stupid barrier.

“gonna stuff this pussy full,” sunghoon hisses through his teeth. “pump you full of my cum, fuck, i can’t hold back anymore—” his right hand wraps around the base of his cock, the back of your knees brushing against his thighs as he pulls you flush against him. you’re still heaving by the time he taps his mushroom tip against your folds, running it along the wetness of it, once or twice before aligning himself with you.

“you’re so… annoying,” you huff, eyebrows pinched together, watching his jaw go slack at how warm you feel even from the outside. sunghoon’s stomach is in knots, anticipating the moment he finally sheathes himself all the way, how you’d probably claw at his skin from the sheer stretch—

and that’s exactly what you do.

“f-fuuuuck, hoon! it’s too—you’re too—”

park sunghoon is thick. so undeniably heavy and dizzying, pushing past your walls, and as much as you clench and squirm around him, they offer no real resistance. your pussy takes him in like it needs him—squelching when he bottoms out at last, big arms caging your relatively smaller head between them—all the air in your lungs feels like it’s being siphoned out.

who the fuck is this big? when was the last time you’ve had something this huge inside of you?

“o-oh my fucking god,” his eyes screw shut for one, weightless second, before they shoot back open. he stares down at where you two finally meet, your velvet walls fluttering around him so warmly, a desperate whimper clawing it’s way out of his throat that’s interrupted by a messy kiss.

“so perfect, baby, you’re so perfect,” he mumbles against your swollen lips, hips at a standstill because he plain refuses to move—convinced that he’ll cum as soon if he so much as shifts his weight. “wish you could see your face. so pretty when you’re taking me.”

“you’re… fucking… crazy,” you whisper against his mouth before your hands tangle in his hair; they bunch around the dark locks, pushing his lips against yours again, and he laughs between the sloppy attempts to lock your lips together—noses bump and his forehead thuds against yours. “just fuck me, please, hoon.”

“look at what you do to me,” he sighs, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. borderline addictive the way you wriggle underneath his touch, like you know his size would knock you out cold, but you still beg through small movements. “all your fault, isn’t it? and you keep asking for more. just a needy little slut for me, huh?”

and then his hips retract—pulling out halfway, your cunt still weeping from the reduced contact. he looks back down, hair falling over his forehead, marvelling at the way his cock glistens with you. so utterly filthy.

you whimper when you feel the emptiness. his veins slide against your gummy walls as he pulls out agonizingly slow. “don’t wanna hear you complaining tomorrow morning, then.”

sunghoon’s pace is slow at first. gentle, sweet thrusts that still manage to make you see stars—he’s too afraid to hurt you, too busy savouring in the sweet moans that sprinkle in his name every once in a while. he feels hot, every bone in his body begging for him to hurry and stuff you full of his cock—but how could he? you’re taking him so well just like this, and all he wants is to drag every second out longer, until he dies blissfully happy in this pussy of yours.

“fuck, mmngh—” and the man slams his lips against yours as his fingers find yours again. you wonder just how many times you’ve managed to kiss tonight, but the thought immediately wipes itself clean when he angles his hips so deliciously right that you feel him all the way in your throat.

“shit, i can’t—you’re too fucking big,” the sound of your breath shakes, too much for his brain to compute, and something primal claws at his sick brain until all he’s thinking about is folding your knees up and bullying your cunt ‘till it’s red. you moan into nothing, hands running over every hard-earned muscle in his back, eyes screwing shut because looking at him feels like a perverted form of self-torture. “fuck, you feel so good, hoonie.”

“yeah?” and sunghoon literally feels every thread of sanity snap when you say his name again. “fuck, look at me then—wanna see your pretty face.” your thighs shake with every slap of wet skin, his heavy body shifting the bed closer to the wall as he pounds and pounds and pounds. his hands move the damp strands of hair out of your eyes, ensuring the perfect, unobstructed view.

you mewl, all sweet and so coaxing when he presses an innocent kiss to your cheek. it’s wet and salty on his tongue, but sunghoon’s smiling so wide that you think he must’ve truly fucking lost it completely.

“want you harder, hoon—not enough, please,” you whisper against his mole. there’s just something in the way you’re batting your eyelashes at him that he thinks is sending his nervous system into overdrive, but it’s irrelevant now. your pleas sound like honey to his ears, but the one singular thought that keeps circling his mind is if you’ll be able to take him like that.

his hands slide back down, stopping right where your tits are—his thumb grazes the hardened bud before he begins to palm at the mound of flesh. “f-fuck—”

“god, can’t hold myself back anymore,” sunghoon’s nose nuzzles against your neck and he takes his time breathing in your scent. the smell of your shampoo lingers, now masked mostly by sweat and fading perfume, and it faintly reminds him of a familiar library where all he could focus on was you, you, you.

you, beautiful you. you who’s underneath him now, pleading with him to give you what you want—still so naive, still so unaware, asking for things you have no idea what to do with—you, who bats her eyelashes with a curiosity he doesn’t know how to address, not without showing you.

he licks a long stripe along your jaw, rutting into you a little faster now. sunghoon’s hands find their way to the sides of your head; rationality has long left him, and his brain’s all foggy with visions of you. he wonders if he could take you just as well on the counter, on the desk, or by the window, and he just gets needier.

he’s getting sloppy and his brain’s all fuzzy. he’s not even sure what the rush is; when there’s someone else in his bed, he almost always finds it easier to take his time. teasing, foreplay, whatever the fuck you wanted to call it—he realised that the reactions he got were much more visceral.

but now—god, he needs you to cum around his cock as soon as possible.

“f-fuck, ngh—pussy was made just for me,” he mutters under his breath, pushing himself up—he towers over you like this, lowlights bathing his skin in warmth all over again as his arms wander down to your waist, then your hips, and then to the back of your knees. “w-what’s wrong, hm? gotta speak up, baby. let me hear you. all that talking was just for show, huh?”

“f-fuuuuh—hoon, please, t-too much—”

“ah-ah, take it like the good girl you are,” his eyebrows knit together in focus, and a bead of sweat rolls down his face, down his chin and drips right onto the valley of your breasts. “y-yeaaah, see? just like that.”

you’re choking on a sob by the time he folds your knees up—brutal, to say the least. your tits get squished by your thighs as he pins your legs up, sunghoon’s rough fingers wound tight around the soft flesh, bullying his way into your poor cunt.

the sounds echoing through the room might as well be featured in a porno. your moans mix until it’s an amalgamation of yeses, gentle sobs, and sunghoon’s relentless teasing. every thrust knocks the wind out of you, your hands clawing at his wrists and leaving red streaks—but the pain barely even reaches him—the only thing on sunghoon’s mind is how gorgeous you look underneath him, taking every inch like it’s what you were born to do, moaning the name he spent so long hating;

“f-fuck, i love you, love fucking this pussy so much—” he hisses through his teeth, eyes zeroed on the way your eyes roll every time he buries himself to the hilt. your head tilts back, throat bobbing as you swallow back embarrassing moan after embarrassing moan—sunghoon’s making it difficult with the way he presses against your belly with one hand, the other holding your left thigh up. “shit, baby, you can be louder than that, can’t you?”

oh, fuck park sunghoon. fuck this stupidly huge cock drilling it’s way through you, and fuck this ridiculously gorgeous man who has you biting back screams, fuck everything, fuck how good you feel—your vision is clouding, stars exploding behind your eyelids every time you shut them, and all you can do is just sit and take it. “s-sunghoon, a-ah—slow down, i’m gonna fucking cum again—”

he kisses his teeth, now resorting to grinding his hips against yours. the angle is new, almost beautiful in it’s discovery. his hands are too curious, before settling on the fat of your ass, palming and fondling and treating it like his personal stress-toy until—

smack.

the moan you let out on contact is nothing short of humiliating. his palm smooths over the handprint, now blooming red right before his eyes, and your brain actually short-circuits for a second.

“fuck,” sunghoon laughs, mocking, rude and mean all in one. “you into that shit?”

the sting sends electricity through your body. sunghoon pulls his hips back just enough, before sliding back between your pretty folds so slow that it actually makes you gasp. every single time he pushes himself back in, it’s like you have to get used to it all over again—the stretch never becomes familiar, always melting your brain and forcing every coherent thought you have to mere nonsense.

“god, you’re such a fucking slut,” sunghoon’s head tilts back momentarily, his hair falling with the gravity and sending little drops of sweat down his neck and onto his back. his heart’s beating all wild now, cock aching for more friction, more force, more of you; so greedy and full of desire, bringing his hand up to land another harsh blow to your ass.

“a-ah—hoon!” you hiss, but you never really try to stop it. you squirm, hips jerking with every slap he decides to give you, but sunghoon knows your cunt tells a different tale: your pussy clenches around him so tight that it’s suffocating him, just begging for his load, and it’s driving him insane. “t-too rough, i can’t—slow down, fuck, you’re gonna break the bed in half—”

it’s true. the frame’s creaking upon each thrust, headboard slamming against the walls, but why would sunghoon care? fuck, he’ll buy you a whole new bedroom if he has to, so long as you just let him have you like this for a little longer.

“don’t give a shit, haa—i’ll buy you a new one, mm? fuck you again ‘till we break that one too. bet you’d want that, wouldn’t you?” he grins, and the corner of his lips turn up sharply when he sees how utterly fucked out you look. there’s this familiar expression he’s seen on other girls—when sunghoon proves to be too much for them to handle, and they end up tapping out—but it’s none of that on you. no matter how much you cry that you can’t take it, you cling onto him like the only thing you know, want, and need is him.

“answer me.”

and the coil in your stomach begins to tighten almost instantly—you don’t even realise that his hands have made it’s way up to your jaw, thumb and index pressing into the bone. a small squeal escapes your throat, and there it is again; that innocent look written all over your face, making sunghoon’s stomach do somersaults. his grip gets firmer with each passing second, before you finally manage to speak:

“y-yes, fuck, need it—i want it, pleasepleasepolease, sunghoon!”

it’s times like these were sunghoon really is convinced he’ll never quit sex. not when there’s a woman like you, with a pussy like this, with a voice so sweet that it makes his chest ache and his cock drip pre. it’s quite a confusing matter, actually, considering he’s never been one to talk too much during the act—that shit just leads nowhere, and feelings get confused by the time he comes down from his high, but god, he doesn’t think his mouth can stop at this rate, not when it’s you he’s buried in.

“yeaaah? gonna cream all over me, baby? make a mess all over this cock, come on.” sunghoon nods feverishly, both hands pinned to the undersides of your knees now, pushing you deeper and deeper into the mattress. your mind tries to catch up, but the pace at which he moves is too relentless for any real thought to form.

his hair falls over his face when he leans forward, just enough to press his full weight down on you. sunghoon’s washboard abs tense every time your nails claw at his chest and just thinking felt weirdly impossible now. your mind’s reduced to slush, ears ringing with wet smacks and constant grunts from the man above you. there’s an occasional moan that slips from him, to which he realises, far too quickly, turns you on more than you’d (probably) ever be willing to admit. mental note for the next time he decides to rearrange your guts, he supposes.

sunghoon glances down again. just for a moment. in the past twenty seconds that’ve passed, you both don’t realise how close you’ve got, damp foreheads pressed against each other in something sweet in the midst of all the roughness. his grunts have transformed into something else completely—now laced with need and breathy pleas, begging.

“there we go, yeah—cum on my cock, please, baby. i’m so fucking close—”

“i love you.”

the words almost kill him.

something seems to have snapped almost instantaneously. park sunghoon’s lips crash into yours with newfound fervor, and every muscle in his body seems to be operating on the sole purpose of getting you to come undone. he’s so fucking tired, truly—but the pain fades and all the soreness in his muscles from yesterday’s practice is irrelevant now.

“yeah? you love me?” his pussydrunk face is the only thing in view, a small gasp slipping when he feels you clench down on him. his hips begin to stutter, jerk, pace faltering. his eyes stare into yours through the gaps in his damp hair, waiting for an answer. “fuck, say it again—please.”

“i love you, sunghoon,” you whisper, almost sultry, your voice barely reaching his ears but ghosting against his lips anyway. “i-i love you—”

a starving man he proves to be. his lips lock with yours again, and this time, they never really leave. his tongue swirls around yours, drinking up every sound that you have to offer, still rutting into your cunt like he needs to fuck a whole new generation into you. your core tenses up so much that you think you’re gonna pass out from the impending orgasm—all sunghoon does is moan into your mouth, fingers intertwining with yours as he abuses your pussy with ruthless strokes.

“i love you, y/n,” the words are so sweet it makes your head spin. it doesn’t correlate at all with the obscene view beneath you, his soaked pelvis and your thighs pressed up against your stomach—your hole squelches with every roll, now much messier and haphazard, and the high is so close that you can almost taste it on the tip of your tongue. “that’s it, baby. let it out for me, just like that.”

so cruel.

“c-cumming, fuck, i’m gonna cum, hoon—”

a revelation comes to sunghoon as soon as your walls begin spasming around his length—sunghoon has never had sex this good. you get impossibly tighter, and your moans are broken up by your lungs trying to take in more air. you sob when it hits, almost blinding in it’s entirety as sunghoon continues fucking you through it, feeling how you soak him from the inside and how it gets disgustingly easy to pound into you when you’re this wet.

“fuuuck, o-oh my god,” a guttural sound claws it’s way out of his throat. his forehead dips again, lips still glossy and tasting just like you, entranced by the way your pretty lips part in a silent scream that ends as a loud gasp. “you’re so fucking tight when you cum, shit—”

sunghoon is gone. just chasing his own release, sloppy thrusts making your juices splurt everywhere; your moans amplify and you’re barely holding your sanity together by the time you come back from whatever plane of reality you decided to visit. his thumb digs into the dip behind your knees, still trying to push his cock deeper into you, tip grazing your cervix every now and then—god, it’s pure filth. you’re half convinced that you might have to take the stairs tomorrow if you want to avoid your upstairs neighbour.

humans are truly just animals. sunghoon proves just as much with how frantic he is to spill himself inside of you. truthfully, the thought is stirring him on more than he’d like to admit—which is kind of scary, if he thinks too long about it. it’s a shame that he’s incapable of that right now, because all he manages to babble is:

“please, y/n, can i? let me cum inside of you, please, please—shit, need to fill you up, wanna see it dripping out of you all fucking night, please.”

and you, as drunk on him as he is on you, nods like it’s all you’ve ever needed in life.

sunghoon’s hips snap against your ass, eyebrows knit in frustration and lips parted to let an animalistic groan out. you take it, all of it, from the way he kisses you like he wants to eat you up, to the way he thumbs at your clit because he just needs you to unravel with him again. selfish as he is, he can’t have this alone—not when you look so beautiful breaking.

it takes ten seconds for you to cum for the second time, and him, eleven. it’s all heat and lust and pure hunger condensing into one, singular moment, where he buries himself to the hilt and spills months worth of holding back.

your walls pulse around him. your clit throbs unapologetically under his restless thumb, still circling nice ‘n slow as if you weren’t already gasping for air as it is. his dick almost feels like it’s getting bigger, twitching as it shoots load after load, hot and thick as it paints every crevice.

god, what the fuck. sunghoon’s panting when he finally collapses on top of you, the soreness from yesterday creeping up on him—though he has reason to believe it may be more of your doing. his face buries itself into your neck, not before his hands finally let your thighs loose, dropping right next to his, and for a minute, the two of you simply lay there.

sunghoon breathes you in again, slow enough that the scent of you settles somewhere deep in his chest. your arms slip around his neck without hesitation, fingers disappearing into the soft hair at the nape of it while your lips find his forehead in small, absent kisses that feel less like affection and more like habit. he lets out a quiet sigh against your shoulder, eyes falling shut as warmth spreads through him in steady waves.

“you smell good today.”

he lets himself believe, just for now, that it can stay this way, though it is probably foolish. if he were being honest, every sensible part of him should still be waiting for the other shoe to drop, for you to wake up and realise you've chosen the wrong person, for the guilt he's carried around for months to finally become heavier than whatever it is you've found in him. even after all of it, all you’ve dragged each other through—you’re still here, trusting him with your body.

confusing, he thinks. you’re so confusing.

“hoon,” you mumble against his skin. he hums in response. “you’re being weird—oh my god. stop sniffing me, i’m getting ticklish.”

he hums against your skin before taking another deep breath in. “don’t care.”

before you, none of this would have unsettled him. there had been other people, other nights, other attempts at filling the empty spaces—and it had been good. he had learned very early that casual was easy to survive because it demanded so little of him—he could leave before morning and return to his life unchanged, carrying nothing home except the faint smell of someone else’s perfume and the relief of having avoided being known. it never bothered him. if anything, he preferred it that way.

“can we wait a little longer?”

“didn’t know you were into cockwarming. you’re sick in the head.” you sigh dramatically, earning a groan from sunghoon—he shifts his weight slightly, hissing when he feels you squeeze around him again.

“just give me a minute,” he answers. “need to remember my first with you. should we take a selfie?”

you fist at his hair and sunghoon winces. “fuck, i was just kidding.”

four in the morning.

the clock on your nightstand blinks the numbers back at you in soft, white light, stubborn and familiar. nine months ago, that hour belonged to a stranger's voice crackling through your speaker and a crush that felt enormous simply because it was all imagination.

you remember lying awake with your phone pressed against your cheek, convinced the boy on the other end of the line was someone else entirely, and now the room is quiet enough to hear the city breathing beyond the windows.

sunghoon shifts against you, cheek warm where it's pressed to your chest, his hair a soft mess beneath your fingers. when he tilts his head up, tiredness still clings to him around the edges of his eyes, but they find yours immediately, like they've learned the route by heart. there is something almost unfair about it—that the boy who once hid behind another person's name now looks at you with such terrifying honesty.

“can you get off of me now?”

sunghoon lifts his head just enough to look at you, cheek still resting against your chest, dark hair falling messily across his forehead. he considers the question with suspicious seriousness before leaning over to press another lazy kiss against your collarbone. “no.”

luck and fate. such intangible concepts, but the feeling creeps up on you regardless. the universe seems unusually generous now, which scares you—after everything that’s happened, after all the ways the two of you managed to hurt each other before finding your way back, it feels dangerous to believe that happiness could be this simple.

and still—something tells you that this feeling might be yours to keep, anyway, so long as you keep choosing for it to.

sunghoon shifts closer, his voice rough with impending sleep as he presses his face into the warmth beneath your jaw. “i love you, y/n.”

when your eyes flutter open the next morning, the blinds are only half-shut, thin ribbons of sunlight slipping through the gaps and painting pale gold across the floor. there's a t-shirt bunched around your waist that definitely wasn't there when you went to sleep, and your hair is sticking to your cheek in a way that immediately informs you that you’ve slept in way too long.

you stretch with a quiet groan, arms reaching above your head until your shoulders pop pleasantly, then roll onto your left side in search of the cooler side of the bed—but instead, you’re greeted by more warmth.

for a brief, sleepy second, you wonder if autumn has somehow changed its mind overnight. is it summer again?

but then, you see him.

park sunghoon is sprawled face-down across your mattress like somebody dropped him there and forgot to pick him back up. one arm is flung over the edge of the bed, the other trapped beneath your pillow, and his dark hair sticks out in every possible direction. sometime during the night, he'd apparently migrated until three-quarters of his body occupied your side of the bed while you clung to the remaining sliver.

his bare back is outlined by faint shadows of the morning, still unfairly sculpted while knocked out cold. it annoys you, just a little, but enough that you briefly consider stealing the blanket back out of spite.

instead, you stay where you are and watch him.

you watch the slow rise and fall of his ribs beneath your fingertips, the tiny hitch in his breathing every few breaths, and the way one hand twitches occasionally against the mattress as though he's still reaching for you in his sleep.

you lean forward until your lips brush the warmth of his shoulder—but the words you whisper there are too soft for him to hear.

“i love you too, park sunghoon.”

he sleeps through your confession, completely unaware of the smile that finds your face as you settle next to him again. your heart slows just a fraction, calming when your breathing unconsciously matches the rhythm of the man beside you.

time seems to slow itself down. the morning birds are quieter than usual, the grandmother across the street has spared the neighborhood her daily yelling, and when you look over at your calendar, there is nothing waiting for you there.

for a love this gentle, the universe has chosen to be unusually generous.

lucky you!

─────────────────────────

hoonie <3: [Attachment] 20:28

hoonie <3: I’ll be over after practice 20:28

hoonie <3: Yeonjun and Maki keep asking about you it’s starting to piss me off 20:29

hoonie <3: Also did you change my contact? 20:34

y/n: yes heeseung 20:40

y/n: oops i meant Park Sunghoon. my favourite boyfriend out of 10 20:40

hoonie <3: I’m going to walk into traffic 21:12

y/n: ????? ur so dramatic Hello 21:15

© kissued 2026 — do not repost, edit, redistribute or translate my work without prior permission and credit. all my work is strictly fictional and not an accurate representation of these people in real life.

You had no idea how your professor even knew you. You were always in the second row seat in the corner, tucked away, fixed on your laptop. You procrastinated, studied, got the grades and went the fuck home, never speaking even once in class. Not when you dropped your pencil about 5000 metres away from you (right in front of your seat-partner) and they didn't notice so you chose to stay quiet for the rest of the class and went home and googled all the notes. Desperate times, desperate measures.

And then came your professor calling you to her office, telling you how perfect you’d be to tutor her weakest students for the upcoming final exam! Yipee!

Euijoo and Jaeyun. How could one even begin to describe Euijoo and Jaeyun?

They were such paradoxes, two bodies of complete irony, the sun and moon in one. They were part of the biggest and most famous frat on campus, &-En—the one known for epic parties, charity fundraisers that broke records and a roster of members who looked like they’d stepped out of a casting call for ‘University: The Musical’.

Both of them were campus royalty, the faces on every frat party flyer, every sports event poster, every stupid candid photograph people uploaded with captions about ‘college memories <3’. In summary, they were impossible to miss.

And ridiculously beautiful too.

Jaeyun with his soft black hair that always somehow fell perfectly over his forehead no matter how recklessly he moved, pretty in a quiet way that snuck up on you unexpectedly. He smiled at everyone, held doors open, remembered names; people talked about how he once carried an intoxicated freshman girl all the way back to her dorm because none of her friends could manage it properly.

Euijoo, his dyed hair a vibrant slash of autumn against the grey campus concrete, sitting on benches, gently coaxing skittish campus cats to eat from his hand. He had the kind of face people wrote songs about after making prolonged eye contact once. You’d once seen him climb a damn tree to grab an apple for some giggly group of girls who ran their manicured claws along his chest.

But despite the frat parties and loud crowds and expensive jackets and stupidly attractive friends, neither of them had ever seemed cruel. Frat-boyish? Absolutely. They roughhoused with their friends on campus lawns, walked around in sweats and sleeveless shirts like they were born for magazine covers, and showed up to lectures smelling faintly of expensive cologne and sleep deprivation.

But they were gentle, kind. You noticed things. The way Jaeyun always bowed politely to professors, the way Euijoo slowed his pace whenever someone walked beside him, the way they listened when people spoke.

Soft boys hidden beneath loud lives.

So when Professor Choi had asked you to stay behind after class, you genuinely thought you were being accused of plagiarism or tax fraud or something equally horrifying. Instead, she folded her hands together over her desk and smiled.

“I have two students who desperately need help before finals,” she said. “And I think you’d be perfect for tutoring them.” You had opened your mouth to reject the offer immediately—because absolutely not—before she continued.

“Euijoo and Jaeyun.”

“…What?”

Professor Choi laughed softly at your expression. “They’re struggling badly in biology.”

“That can’t be true,” you blurted before you could stop yourself. You had never, not once, spoken a word to either of them. Which was exactly why this whole situation was so bad. Because now you had to speak to them. Repeatedly.

“For two months?” you repeated weakly.

“Just until finals.” Professor Choi nodded sympathetically. “They’re both nice boys, it would be a pity if they failed.”

Yeah it would be a pity if you just jumped off a building right now.

You stared at her. She smiled brighter, like this was a gift. “They specifically asked for someone academically reliable, someone focused.” Which was apparently professor-code for antisocial. You sighed into your hands while she slid a paper toward you containing their schedules. “Please try your best with them,” she said gently. “They’re good boys.”

Good boys.

Right.

That was how you ended up back in your tiny one-person dorm later that night, sitting cross-legged in front of your mirror with your skincare half-done and biology notes scattered across your bed. The dorm was only yours because of your grades—a tiny mercy granted by scholarship credits and endless academic validation. It was small but quiet, and right then, it felt painfully too quiet. It was the kind of silence that amplified the impending doom.

You stared at your reflection. Tomorrow. Tomorrow you were going to sit across from Euijoo and Jaeyun for two entire hours pretending you were capable of functioning like a normal human being. You imagined awkward silences, you imagined humiliating yourself instantly, you imagined them leaning over your shoulder to ask a question and your brain physically short-circuiting.

Maybe they’d hate tutoring, maybe they wouldn’t show up, maybe they’d stare at you waiting for conversation while you slowly dissolved into the floor. Your stomach twisted as the harrowing reality closed in around you—tomorrow you were going to translate the Krebs cycle and mitochondrial DNA to Jaeyun, with his pretty, sharp eyes, and Euijoo, with his pretty, flame-kissed hair. Tomorrow, your beautifully silent, anonymous world was going to crack wide open. You dropped backward onto your mattress with a groan, one arm covering your face.

There were going to be the longest months of your life.

_____________

“Tutoring.” 

“For the fifteenth fucking time—” Euijoo sighed, massaging his temple, “—yes. Tutoring. Biology. Final exam. Two months. Do you need me to draw a diagram?”

Nicholas stared at him like he’d just told him he was someone from an alien planet who’d travelled to earth to study humans. Beside him, Sunghoon chomped away at his jar of cheese balls.

“Why are you so interested anyway?” Jaeyun asked, not looking away from his game on the tv, “You usually don’t give a shit about either of us.” “Yes I do.” Nicholas said in a defensive tone, “I give a shit about you two more than anyone else. Right Hoon?” “I can neither confirm nor deny.” 

Nicholas threw a cushion at his head. The frat house was unusually calm for once. Music still hummed faintly somewhere upstairs, and people moved through the halls every few minutes, but the main lounge had settled into the lazy atmosphere that only existed after midnight.

Jaeyun sat cross-legged on the carpet in grey sweats and a black hoodie, controller in hand. Euijoo occupied the far end of the couch, long legs spread comfortably,  hair messy from showering. Both of them looked unfairly good for someone discussing biology tutoring at one in the morning. Nicholas, meanwhile, looked personally victimized.

“I still don’t understand how this happened,” he muttered. “You two failing biology feels very incorrect. You’re the only ones here who actually study.”

“Ew studying.” Sunghoon said, his silver hair gleaming in the soft light.

“We’re not failing,” Jaeyun defended.

“You got a thirty-two.”

Jaeyun paused. “…Okay but the class average was bad too.”

“The average was seventy-one.”

Sunghoon snorted into his cheese balls. Before Jaeyun could throw something at him, the front door opened, letting in a burst of cool night air and two more of their brothers.

“Heard the death sentence was finalized,” Fuma said, hanging his jacket by the door.

“It’s not a death sentence,” Jaeyun muttered, his car on screen crashing into a wall. He tossed the controller aside in defeat.

Jungwon blinked. “Still talking about tutoring?”

“Unfortunately,” Euijoo muttered.

“Oh, you guys got lucky.” Fuma dropped onto the armchair with a grin. 

Jaeyun looked over. “How?”

Jungwon pointed lazily toward them. “I talked to Professor Choi earlier this week.”

Euijoo frowned, the reddish-orange of his hair seeming to burn a little brighter under his suspicion. “Why were you talking to Professor Choi?”

“She likes me.”

“You literally helped her carry boxes one time.”

“And now we’re connected spiritually,” Jungwon said seriously.

Sunghoon made a thoughtful noise. “That’s beautiful.”

“Anyway,” Jungwon continued, “I told her to get you idiots the best tutor possible before finals destroyed your GPAs.”

Nicholas gasped softly. “You care.”

“I care about the frat reputation,” Jungwon corrected instantly. “If two of our members fail biology, people will think we’re stupid.”

“We are stupid,” Sunghoon said.

“That’s not the point.”

Fuma leaned back comfortably. “I know who your tutor is, actually.”

Euijoo lifted his head slightly. “You do?”

“Top of the class,” Fuma said simply. “Like ridiculously top of the class.”

“Great.” Jaeyun groaned immediately. “So they’re gonna hate us.”

“Nah.” Fuma said. “She’s just quiet.”

Silence. Actual, physical silence. It was like the entire world had just collapsed, the way all of them stared at Fuma. 

“…She?” Nicholas repeated slowly.

“It’s a she?” Sunghoon sat upright so fast the jar of cheese balls nearly flew off his stomach.

Fuma blinked at them. “Yes?” The room exploded.

“No one said it was a girl!” Nicholas yelled.

“Why would we assume that?!” Jaeyun shouted back.

“Because tutors are always men named Daniel!” Sunghoon argued passionately.

Euijoo rubbed his face tiredly while Nicholas looked personally betrayed. “You let me picture some forty-year-old economics major this entire time.”

“She’s not even an economics major,” Fuma said.

“That’s not the issue.”

“Wait.” Jaeyun stared at Fuma suspiciously now. “You know her personally?”

“Not really,” Fuma admitted. “We’ve talked a few times.”

Nicholas gasped dramatically. “Oh my god. Fuma has female acquaintances.”

“Please grow up.”

“Wait. Is she at least normal?” Jaeyun asked, head tilted like a curious pup. 

Fuma stared at him. “You’re asking if someone’s normal while Nicholas is currently wearing sunglasses indoors.”

Nicholas pointed at him. “Fashion never sleeps.”

Sunghoon grabbed another handful of cheese balls. “Important question though.”

Euijoo already looked tired. “What.”

“Is she pretty?”

Jaeyun groaned loudly. “Why does that matter?”

“Because,” Nicholas said as though explaining basic mathematics to children, “if I’m being forced into academic rehabilitation, I at least deserve visual motivation.”

“You’re not even being tutored,” Euijoo said.

“I’m emotionally involved.”

Fuma shrugged. “I mean…yeah.”

Immediately, Nicholas sat upright. “Yeah?” he repeated eagerly.

Fuma looked amused now. “Pretty. In a scary smart way.”

Jaeyun sighed deeply and leaned back against the couch behind him. Sunghoon winced, “Oh you guys are finished.”

“Fantastic.” Euijoo groaned into his hands.

“Don’t act miserable,” Jungwon said. “You’re the ones who ignored every warning sign before exams.”

“We were busy,” Jaeyun argued weakly.

“With what?” Sunghoon asked. Jaeyun opened his mouth. Then closed it again.

Nicholas pointed at Euijoo accusingly. “You better not flirt your way out of this.”

Euijoo looked offended. “I don’t do that.” All four of them stared at him. Jaeyun burst out laughing first.

“Bro,” Sunghoon said through laughter, “you once got an extension because Professor Lee said you looked exhausted.”

“I was exhausted.”

“You smiled at her once and she extended the deadline for the whole class,” Nicholas corrected.

Fuma, meanwhile, looked entertained. “Honestly? I can’t picture her tolerating either of you.”

“Great,” Jaeyun muttered. “Love that for us.”

“She’s really quiet,” Fuma continued. “But nice.”

Nicholas narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Pretty and quiet.”

“Yes, Nicholas,” Jungwon sighed. “Women exist.”

“Do you think she’s mean pretty or cute pretty?” Sunghoon asked seriously.

“Can you freaks focus?” Jaeyun said.

“No, wait,” Nicholas interrupted. “This matters.”

“It absolutely does not.”

“It does,” Sunghoon insisted. “There’s a psychological difference.”

A moment later, both of their phones buzzed at the exact same time. Nicholas lunged forward instantly like a starving animal detecting food.

“Ohoho.”

Jaeyun narrowed his eyes. “Don’t.”

Too late, Nicholas had already snatched Jaeyun’s phone from beside him while Sunghoon practically folded himself over the couch trying to read Euijoo’s screen upside down. Nicholas read aloud in the most robotic voice imaginable:

“Hello. This is regarding tomorrow’s biology tutoring session.”

Sunghoon lost it immediately, nearly choking on a cheese ball. “Oh my god,” he wheezed. “That’s terrifyingly formal.”

Nicholas continued dramatically. “Would 4:30 PM at the science library be suitable for both of you? Please let me know if adjustments are needed. Thank you.”

The room dissolved into laughter. Jaeyun dragged a hand down his face. “Why does it sound like an email from the government?”

Euijoo, despite himself, smiled a little. “It’s polite.”

Nicholas clutched his chest. “‘Please let me know if adjustments are needed.’ Euijoo, she thinks you pay taxes.”

Sunghoon wiped tears from his eyes. “You’re gonna show up tomorrow and get assigned homework and a retirement plan.”

Jaeyun grabbed his phone back with an exhausted sigh. “She already hates us.” He decided.

“I don’t think she hates you,” Fuma said.

“She texts like she’s the dean.” Nicholas argued. The phone buzzed again suddenly and Nicholas immediately lunged for it like a feral animal. “Oh my god there’s more.”

Euijoo held the phone out of reach effortlessly. “Get away from me.”

Jaeyun checked his own screen first and snorted. A follow-up message.

“Also, please bring any previous test papers if possible so I can identify which topics need the most attention.”

The room went silent again. Then Nicholas whispered, horrified, “She’s so organized what the fuck.”

Sunghoon looked genuinely afraid now. “You guys are meeting a real academic weapon tomorrow.”

Jaeyun dropped backward onto the carpet dramatically. “I’m calling in sick.”

“You can’t call in sick to tutoring,” Jungwon said.

“Watch me.”

Fuma laughed quietly while Euijoo typed out a reply. “4:30 works. We’ll be there. Thanks.” Short and simple. But he reread it twice before sending anyway. Nicholas noticed immediately.

“Oh?” he said slowly. “Why are you typing so carefully?”

Sunghoon clutched Nicholas’s arm with faux shock. “He wants the tutor to think he’s literate.”

Jaeyun pointed accusingly at Fuma from the floor. “This is your fault for telling them she’s pretty.”

“I said she seemed nice!”

“Same thing,” Nicholas argued.

Euijoo ignored them completely, tossing his phone beside him before standing. “I’m sleeping.”

“Same.” Jaeyun agreed, running a hand through his hair. “We’re gonna pass biology. Which is why we,” he said, emphasizing the word as he looked pointedly at Nicholas and Sunghoon, “are going to bed at a reasonable hour so we can actually focus tomorrow.” This announcement was met with exaggerated gasps and mock applause. 

“The &-En pillars, turning in before midnight? For studying?” Nicholas clutched his heart. “The world is ending.”

Jungwon made a dramatic gagging noise “We’re witnessing history here.”

Sunghoon pointed at them solemnly with a cheese ball between his fingers. “Good luck, scholars.” 

“Can’t wait to hear all about your future A pluses tomorrow.” Nicholas crowed. 

Euijoo flipped him off lazily as he headed toward the stairs, but despite the chaos behind him, his mind lingered strangely on tomorrow. Jaeyun was on the same thing, the stiff, painfully formal text not leaving his mind. It was like someone was trying very hard not to say the wrong thing and something about it felt strangely endearing. 

Till tomorrow it was.

__________

You were about to combust. You were about to die.

It was 4:31. One minute late, yeah of course they hated you. Why wouldn't they? You were the one who sent that grandma ass text to them last night so now they obviously thought you were some stuck up nerd who ate data reports for breakfast.

‘Would 4:30 PM at the science library study hall be suitable for both of you?’ Suitable for both of you—you sounded like someone’s divorced aunt scheduling a dentist appointment. Cool, this was so cool.

You sat tucked into the far corner of the science library, half-hidden behind a stack of biology textbooks you’d arranged in front of you like defensive barricades.You’d arrived twenty minutes early out of sheer panic and now you were spiraling. Your outfit situation certainly wasn’t exactly helping either.

Every decent shirt you owned had apparently decided to unionize overnight and sit in the washing machine damp and unusable, leaving you with exactly one option: a white button-up that dipped lower at the collar than you normally liked. One wrong move and you’d be in jail for flashing everybody. Which meant you’d spent the entire walk to the library awkwardly tugging at it every thirty seconds like a Victorian woman protecting her honour. 

Your thumb mindlessly scrolled through videos as you waited, desperate distraction after desperate distraction until you landed on some stupid clip of a raccoon stealing cat food while dramatic orchestra music played in the background. The raccoon knocked over the bowl and you snorted before you could stop yourself.

And immediately after, the universe decided it hated you as a laugh sounded behind you—warm and surprised and very close.

“Oh my god,” a voice said through barely contained laughter. “Is that a raccoon edit?”

Your soul left your body and you nearly launched your phone across the library. You whipped around so fast you nearly elbowed your water bottle off the table.

And there they were.

Tall—that was your first coherent thought—just offensively tall.

Jaeyun stood slightly behind Euijoo, black hair falling messily over his forehead, soft eyes crinkled from laughing. Even in something so simple—a navy hoodie with the sleeves pushed up and loose grey sweatpants—he looked so majestic, a sort of Adonis. 

And Euijoo—jesus fucking christ. The hair was somehow even worse in person, softer-looking under the library lights, messy in a way that looked accidental and intentional all at once. He wore a black zip-up over a white shirt, rings glinting faintly as he adjusted the strap of his bag. 

You were going to die here.

“I—” you stammered instantly, locking your phone screen so fast it nearly slipped from your hand. “It just came up on my feed, I wasn’t—”

Jaeyun lost it. “No, no,” he said quickly, holding his hands up. “I’m not judging you. The music made it ten times funnier.”

“It just autoplayed,” you said quickly, fumbling to lock your phone so aggressively you almost dropped it. “I wasn’t searching for raccoon content specifically.” There was a pause and Euijoo’s mouth twitched slightly.

“Specifically?” he repeated quietly. Heat rushed into your face so violently you considered throwing yourself through the nearest library window. 

You closed your eyes for one brief moment. “Okay,” you thought to yourself. “This is horrible.”

“You text exactly how I imagined.” Jaeyun was visibly delighted now. “The ‘please let me know if adjustments are needed’ almost made me stand up straighter.” 

Euijoo nodded beside him. “Very professional.”

“I don’t talk like that normally,” you defended instantly.

Jaeyun raised an eyebrow. “You sure?”

“Yes,” you lied. Of course your antisocial dumbass always talked like that. 

Euijoo finally sat down across from you, movements easy and relaxed while you sat there like a frightened woodland creature. “I’m Euijoo,” he said gently.

You nodded too fast. “I know.” Silence, your eyes widened. “I mean—not like weird know,” you corrected immediately. “Not stalker-ish. Just like campus-knowledge know. Like everybody knows—not everybody, probably, statistically speaking that wouldn’t even make sense—”

Yeah the universe should have just killed you already.

Euijoo looked down for a second, hiding a smile. Jaeyun had physically bent forward laughing now. And somehow, impossibly, the panic in your chest loosened a little.

“I’m Jaeyun,” he offered kindly, like you weren’t actively self-destructing in front of them.

You nodded again. “I know that too.” Jaeyun stared at you. You stared back in horror. “Jesus Christ,” you mumbled, covering your face with one hand. “Can I restart this entire interaction?”

“No,” Jaeyun said immediately. “Absolutely not.” 

Euijoo leaned back slightly in his chair, watching you fumble with an expression that was far too entertained for someone who was supposed to be struggling biology students.

“This is the best first meeting I’ve ever had.” He added softly.

You peeked through your fingers suspiciously. “You’re making fun of me.”

“A little,” Jaeyun admitted.

“But affectionately,” Euijoo said.

Oh.

Oh ok where was your gun. 

You dropped your hand back onto the table and immediately knocked your pen onto the floor. The three of you watched it roll away in silence. You stared at it. Then stared ahead instead.

“I’m leaving it there,” you decided quietly.

Jaeyun laughed so hard he had to lean back in his chair. Euijoo shook his head, smiling properly now before leaning down to pick the pen up for you. Your heart nearly stopped from embarrassment when his fingers brushed yours lightly handing it back.

“Thank you,” you said far too formally.

“You’re welcome,” he replied with equal seriousness, “Now should we start before any more accidents happen?” “Yep.” Jaeyun replied enthusiastically, pulling out a genuinely massive folder from his bag, “You wanted all our tests right?” Universe, where was the damn gun.

The session itself started chaotically. Mostly because Jaeyun and Euijoo apparently shared one singular brain cell when placed together. At one point, Jaeyun confidently identified the mitochondria as “the thing that does vibes.” Euijoo had immediately buried his face in his hands while you stared at them in genuine disbelief.

“It’s the powerhouse of the cell,” you said weakly.

“Right,” Jaeyun nodded seriously. “That’s what I meant. Vibes.”

And somehow—somehow—it got easier after that. The tightness in your shoulders slowly disappeared the longer the session went on. The awkwardness never fully vanished—you still nearly choked on your water when Euijoo leaned closer to look at your notes once—but it became manageable. 

Jaeyun asked questions constantly, even if half of them sounded ridiculous at first. “So wait,” he’d said at one point, frowning at his worksheet, “if enzymes speed reactions up, why don’t they just keep going forever?” And instead of pretending to understand when he didn’t, he genuinely waited for your explanation, brows furrowed in concentration.

Euijoo was quieter. He absorbed things carefully, eyes flicking between your diagrams and textbook while he listened. Sometimes he’d go silent for a full minute before suddenly asking something terrifyingly specific that forced you to rethink how you explained the concept. You liked that a lot more than you expected.

And they were nice. God, they were annoyingly nice. Jaeyun apologized every single time he interrupted you, even accidentally. Euijoo kept sliding your highlighters back toward you whenever they rolled too far across the table because apparently your motor skills deteriorated under stress.

At one point, while you were explaining cellular respiration, you’d gotten too into it and started gesturing aggressively with your pen.

Jaeyun blinked at you. “You really like biology.”

You froze mid-sentence. “I mean,” you said awkwardly, “academically.”

Jaeyun laughed softly. “No, I mean it’s cool.”

Now why did your chest suddenly feel so tight? Probably because nobody usually called your interests cool.

Then, near the end of the session, something genuinely shocking happened. Jaeyun got a question right. Not partially right. Actually right. You’d stared at his paper for a full three seconds before looking up slowly.

“See?” Jaeyun immediately pointed at the answer triumphantly. “Academic weapon.”

Euijoo leaned over to look and blinked. “Wait, you actually got that?”

“Why do you sound surprised?”

“Because I know you.”

Jaeyun looked offended while you laughed before you could stop yourself. Both of them looked up immediately. And for one horrifying second, you realized that was probably the first time you’d laughed properly around them for the past three hours. 

Jaeyun grinned instantly like he’d won something.“You’re way less scary when you laugh.”

“I was scary?”

“You text like my mother.” Jaeyun reminded you.

Euijoo nodded solemnly beside him. “Very intimidating.”

.By the time the session ended, your notes were scattered everywhere, Jaeyun had somehow eaten two protein bars during a lesson on DNA replication, and Euijoo had finally understood something he’d been stuck on for weeks.

And weirdly—you’d had fun.

__________

Once you got back home, a realization hit you that made you genuinely sit down and think about life for a second.

That tutoring session had been….actually great?

You were back in the sanctuary of your dorm, the door locked firmly against the world. You’d dumped your bag, kicked off your shoes and were about to collapse into your usual post-social-interaction coma when it hit you, so foreign and unexpected that it made you genuinely stop and think about life for a second.

They hadn’t laughed at you meanly even once. Okay, they laughed at you constantly, but not cruelly—a particularly mind boggling difference. And they’d listened to you too, to your very quiet voice which was akin to the flap of a butterfly’s wing. Jaeyun had looked genuinely excited when he finally understood something. Euijoo had quietly thanked you after you re-explained transcription for the third time without sounding annoyed. Nobody had treated you like some awkward invisible thing sitting in the corner.

You sat down on the edge of your bed in complete silence, staring at your wall like you’d just uncovered a government conspiracy. Then you fell backward onto your mattress, staring at the ceiling. You’d expected arrogance, disinterest—frat boys who’d spend two hours scrolling through their phones while you suffered quietly beside them.

Instead they’d just been…..two guys who were genuinely disgusting at biology and genuinely grateful for the help. It was cool. It was, dare you think it, great. The feeling that settled in your chest was weird—a low, warm hum of something like accomplishment, mixed with a strange, lingering awareness of Jaeyun’s eager eyes and the careful way Euijoo had handed you your pen.  It was nice, suspiciously so and now you felt strange; like maybe these months weren't going to destroy you after all.

Shaking your head slightly to dispel the peculiar buzz, you decided the best course of action was a hard reset. A return to your most reliable, private comfort.

The cursor hovered over the familiar title. You’d bookmarked this one last week, a slow-burn enemies-to-lovers fic in your favourite fantasy fandom, renowned in the comments for its particularly… thorough eighth chapter. 

The tags were a delicious wall of text, you immediately spotted your favourites: size kink, bondage, degradation, a mating press and a full fucking nelson? Oh weren’t you in for a treat tonight. You skimmed them, a ritual as comforting as the first sip of tea. Your eyes caught on something and a faint, unrelated echo of Jaeyun’s voice—“For real? Oh, hell yeah!”—flitted through your mind before you firmly pushed it away. This was your time, your space.

You clicked open. The prose was immersive, pulling you instantly into a torch-lit chamber where the two protagonists, after chapters of biting dialogue and fraught glances, finally faced the precipice of their desire. The author was a master of the slow reveal, of the aching detail—the hesitant brush of a calloused knuckle against a jawline, the hitched breath that was more telling than any confession.

You read curled up on your bed, the dim glow of your laptop the only light. As the characters’ verbal sparring dissolved into breathless, urgent whispers, your own breathing began to subtly sync with the rhythm on the screen. A familiar, low thrum of heat started in your belly, a pleasant counterpoint to the weird buzz still lingering from the afternoon.

One hand scrolled slowly, absorbing every beautifully crafted sentence. The other drifted down, slipping beneath the waistband of your sweatpants and underwear. Your touch was light at first, exploratory, mirroring the tentative explorations described in the text. 

The hero’s voice in your head, low and rough with praise—“You’re doing so well, just like that…”—coalesced with the memory of a different kind of approval, of two sets of eyes fixed on you with grateful focus.

You pushed the thought away, focusing on the fiction, on the safe, controlled fantasy. Your fingers moved with more purpose, circling in the slow, practised rhythm that you knew worked. Your back arched slightly off the mattress as a particularly vivid line of description—a bite against a collarbone, a whispered command—sent a sharp jolt through you.

The sensations built, a steady crescendo. The warm hum in your chest from earlier seemed to migrate, to fuse with the physical heat coiling tighter and tighter low in your body. The images from the story—tangled limbs, sweat-slicked skin, desperate pleas—flashed behind your closed eyelids. 

For a fleeting second, the fantasy blurred at the edges; the careful hands in the story weren’t entirely fictional, they were unexpectedly gentle, handing you a pen, and the voice murmuring praise was eager, relieved, saying you got one.

It was that confusing, illicit overlap—the real, strange warmth of the day colliding with the reliable, fabricated heat of the story—that finally tipped you over the edge. Your breath caught, a soft, stifled sound in the quiet room as the tension shattered into waves of release, leaving you trembling and spent against your pillows.

For a long moment, you just lay there in the aftermath, the blue light of the laptop screen casting everything in a cool, unreal glow. The peculiar buzz was gone, dissolved into a heavy, physical lassitude. The weird feeling of accomplishment was still there, but it was quieter now. 

You closed the browser tab with a soft click, the finality of the sound sealing the chapter on both the story and the day. The months stretched ahead, but the dread was now just shadows, and for now, the shadows felt manageable. You suddenly couldn't wait for the next session two days later.

Meanwhile on the other side of the campus—

“So…”

“So.”

“She’s hot.”

“Oh my god she’s so damn hot.” 

Jaeyun was lying on his back on his bed, one arm behind his head, staring at the constellation of glow-in-the-dark stars stuck haphazardly to his ceiling. Euijoo was perched on the edge of his own meticulously made bed, ostensibly examining a highlighter as if its chemical composition was the most fascinating thing in the world.

They were supposed to be reviewing the notes you’d helped them make. The pages were open on Jaeyun’s desk and Euijoo’s bed, covered in highlighted terms and doodles on the margins. Neither was looking at them.

Jaeyun turned his head on the pillow, his dark eyes finding Euijoo’s profile in the dim lamplight, whose shoulders slumped as if released from a wire. He dropped the highlighter.

“What the fuck are we even thinking about?” He breathed, his words fervent.

“How we find our tutor hot.” Jaeyun deadpanned. 

It was a floodgate opening. The careful focus, the respectful masks they’d worn for two hours in the library fell away completely, revealing the sheer, dizzying impact you’d had on them. Another silence followed, mostly because neither of them knew where to even begin. Because it wasn’t just one thing. It was everything all at once. Their minds (hive mentality perhaps) were fixated on the ravishing beauty of you. And the shirt.

Oh that damn shirt.

Cut so dangerously, both of them could see everything when you leaned forward, unaware of your own skin because you were so engrossed in biology. But neither of them was willing to admit how much heat had flushed between their legs at the sight of your cleavage. 

Jaeyun groaned into the mattress dramatically. “The glasses thing almost killed me.”

Euijoo looked over immediately. “Right?”

“Like why was she pushing them back up every thirty seconds?” Jaeyun sat up halfway, scandalized. “How am I supposed to focus on mitochondria during that?”

“The way she explains things,” Jaeyun continued, his gaze drifting back to the ceiling, seeing not stars but the intense, thoughtful furrow of your brow. “It’s like…..her voice just cuts through all the noise in my head about this stupid class. Kinda hot.”

“I know,” Euijoo agreed, running a hand through his hair, messing it. “And she has this…this tiny little frown she does.” He breathed, “I think I almost lost it.”

“And her hands,” Jaeyun said, almost to himself, “I’m going to be so weird about her hands.”

“Go ahead.” Euijoo laughed, then sighed, “Wow. We’re kind of the worst people to ever exist right now.”

“We are.” Jaeyun conceded, a grin tugging at his mouth. “Man what the hell would she think of us right now? She’s just so…” “Hot.” Euijoo finished for him, the word definitive. “Incredibly hot.”

“I was going to say innocent but yeah that too.” Jaeyun hummed.

Euijoo laughed under his breath. You did look so….soft. Warm eyes, nervous hands, pretty lips constantly pressing together after you spoke like you were mentally reviewing every sentence for errors. Euijoo leaned back in his chair smiling helplessly now while Jaeyun buried his face into a pillow.

“She looked so excited when we understood something,” Euijoo murmured.

“She looked at me like I’d solved world hunger when I got that answer right.”

“To be fair,” Euijoo said, “I was also shocked.” Jaeyun threw a pillow at him.

“But seriously,” Jaeyun continued, “she’s weirdly easy to be around.”

That was the strangest part. Usually people acted different around them. Too eager, too shy, too damn performative. But you were so fucking awkward that it circled back around to honesty. Every expression showed on your face immediately, every embarrassed thought practically announced itself out loud. And the funniest thing? You clearly had no idea how pretty you were.

Euijoo remembered the exact moment you laughed properly for the first time. How you’d immediately looked startled afterward, like the sound escaped accidentally. Jaeyun remembered the way you frowned at your notes while concentrating, lips moving silently as you reread things. Both of them remembered how softly you’d thanked Euijoo for picking your pen up.

Jaeyun turned his head toward Euijoo suddenly. “She definitely thinks we’re cooler than we are.”

“Oh, absolutely.”

Jaeyun sighed dramatically. “This is bad.”

Euijoo raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because now I actually wanna go to tutoring.” A beat passed.

Then Euijoo admitted quietly, “…Yeah.”

They lapsed into silence again, but this one was charged, buzzing with shared, stunned realization. Jaeyun sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “We can’t be weird about this,” he said, his tone serious but his eyes still bright. “We cannot fuck this up by being…you know. Us. Around girls.”

“What are you talking about? We’re amazing around girls.” 

Jaeyun stared at him. Then burst out laughing. “No, we’re not.”

“Yes we are!”

“Euijoo, you accidentally flirt with baristas.”

“Yeah and you once thanked a girl for handing you a receipt and she turned red.”

“That sounds like her issue.”

“Exactly this.” Euijoo pointed accusingly at him. “You can’t do this cool boy shit with her.”

“You can’t do it with her either then!” Jaeyun said.

Euijoo leaned back in his chair looking deeply unbothered. “I’m naturally charming.”

“You’re naturally annoying.” Jaeyun ran a hand through his hair before dramatically breathing out and putting on the face of someone who hadn’t devoured two tubs of (Jungwon’s) ice cream an hour ago. “Okay. New rule.”

Euijoo already looked tired. “Why are you like this?”

“We act normal.” “We do act normal.”

“No flirting.”

Euijoo barked out a laugh. “You say that like we planned to flirt with her.”

“You smiled at her like three times.” “That’s literally normal human activity, Jaeyun.”

“You picked her pen up.” “It rolled near me, you freak?”

Jaeyun pointed at him triumphantly. “Ahh, getting defensive are we?”

Euijoo threw another pillow. This one hit him directly in the face.

“Okay,” Jaeyun mumbled through laughter, shoving the pillow away. “Fine. Maybe we’re both screwed. But—” He shrugged his shoulders, “We’re gonna be normal, good students. We’re gonna sit down and learn and pass this godforsaken final.”

“And we don’t stare,” Euijoo added, as if making a pact.

“Right. No staring. At her hands, or her mouth, or the way her hair falls—”

“Jaeyun.”

“Sorry.” He flopped back onto the bed with a groan, draping an arm over his eyes, “You really think we’ll be able to survive the next one?”

Euijoo didn’t have an answer. He just looked at the neat, precise handwriting on the notes you’d helped them create—your handwriting—and felt a confusing, thrilling surge of anticipation that had absolutely nothing to do with cellular respiration and everything to do with the quiet, brilliant girl who had, in two short hours, rewritten their entire expectations for the months ahead. Euijoo then realised just how high their libidos were. 

Yeah, they were absolutely fucked.

_______________

You were not a virgin by any means.

You’d had sex approximately one time in your life, a virginal sacrifice with your first, shitty boyfriend. 

The memory of your first and only time was less a memory and more a clinical footnote, a checklist of sensations: pressure, a little pain, a lot of awkward shifting, the smell of his cheap cologne, and a profound, echoing sense of ‘is this it?’ It was over quickly, and the only thing that had trembled was your resolve to ever do it again.

You hadn’t cum, not even close. You hadn't known you were supposed to, not really. The messy, overwhelming crescendos described in books and movies felt like mythical geography, a place you’d heard of but never visited. 

Even by yourself, with your own fingers, the journey often petered out into a gentle, sighing plateau—a soft orgasm that was more a relief of tension than a transformation of it. Pleasant, but faint, like hearing a symphony from another room five kilometres away.

That distance, that gap between what you read and what you felt, was precisely why you’d plunged into the world of fanfiction. 

The stories were a map to a territory you couldn’t seem to reach on your own. The authors didn’t just describe sex; they charted the emotional and physical crevices of pleasure—the winding paths of anticipation and the seismic shifts of release. You read them to understand, to feel it vicariously, to try and translate the words on the screen into a language your body could finally speak.

You’d always been able to recognize when someone was objectively attractive—you had eyes after all. But that recognition was a detached, aesthetic appreciation—like admiring a painting or a well-designed car.

It had never, not once, translated into a visceral, physical want. The idea of actually fucking someone from your real life had seemed vaguely abstract, and entirely separate from the specific hunger you cultivated with your curated stories.

Until today.

Until the fifth tutoring session. Because as always, the universe hated your very existence.

Somewhere between the first session and the fifth, things had shifted so naturally that you hadn’t even noticed it happening at first.

The formality disappeared in pieces. First went the painfully stiff texting—your original messages had looked like official university announcements. By the second session, Jaeyun had replied to one of your carefully structured texts with: coming rn don’t perish without us. And somehow after that, the entire dynamic cracked open.

Then went the awkward silences. Not completely—you were still you, unfortunately—but enough that tutoring no longer felt like performing a social experiment under observation.

Now Euijoo and Jaeyun just…..talked to you, which you couldn't even believe was humanly possible. They talked to you casually and constantly. 

Jaeyun, especially, had apparently decided that your concentration existed solely to be destroyed.

“You know,” he’d said during the third session while leaning dramatically across the table, “if mitochondria are powerhouses, does that technically make me an energy source?” You didn’t even look up from your notes.

“No,” you replied flatly. “You make everyone around you more tired actually.”

Jaeyun gasped like you’d stabbed him directly in the chest while Euijoo laughed quietly beside him.

And the worst part? You liked it.

You liked it so damn much it made your chest physically hurt.

Euijoo started sitting closer without realizing it, shoulder occasionally brushing yours when both of you leaned over the same worksheet. Jaeyun started stealing your pens constantly because apparently he lost every writing utensil he touched within seven minutes.

Both of them had developed this annoying habit of looking at you whenever something funny happened, like your reaction was somehow part of the experience now.

And outside tutoring sessions—

God.

That was where things became genuinely surreal.

The first time Jaeyun called your name across campus, you genuinely turned around expecting there to be another person behind you. Instead, you found him jogging down the library steps toward you with Euijoo beside him.

“Yo.” Jaeyun said breathlessly, like this was a completely normal way to address your tutor, “did you finish the bio review sheet?” You nearly walked into a pillar and Euijoo noticed instantly.

“She does that a lot around us,” he murmured thoughtfully.

“I hate both of you,” you replied automatically. But your face burned the entire walk afterward.

Then came the coffee. The horrifying, relationship-coded coffee. By the fourth session they’d started showing up with drinks already in hand, not even asking anymore. Jaeyun remembered your order after hearing it once and Euijoo started quietly sliding pastries toward you whenever your studying went too long and you forgot to eat.

“You look dead,” he’d said simply one afternoon while placing an iced coffee beside your laptop.

“That’s because I’m studying.”

“We never noticed.” Jaeyun drawled sarcastically. 

You stared at both of them suspiciously over the rim of your coffee. “You’re weirdly caring.”

Jaeyun blinked. “Were we supposed to let you deteriorate?”

“Yes,” you answered immediately. “That’s what most people do.” The way both their expressions softened afterward made something uncomfortable twist warmly in your chest.

And somehow, impossibly, people had started noticing. Because apparently being repeatedly seen around two of the most well-known boys on campus transformed you from ‘that quiet girl from Biology 212’ into a subject of active campus curiosity. You started catching looks, whispers, double takes. The first time it happened, you nearly had a nervous breakdown.

You’d been sitting on the edge of the basketball court one afternoon trying desperately to finish a lab report while Jaeyun and Euijoo played with some of the others from the frat. 

You weren’t even supposed to be there. Jaeyun had somehow convinced you by saying: “Just sit there and work. Your academic aura might help us.”

Which was stupid and yet you came anyway, because you were a dumbass.  You sat cross-legged on the bleachers with your laptop while the sound of sneakers squeaking against the court echoed around you.

At first you genuinely managed to focus.

Then Jaeyun yelled:

“THIS SHOT’S FOR YOU, MY TUTOR.”

The entire court erupted immediately. You looked up in horror just in time to watch him completely miss.

Nicholas collapsed onto the floor laughing and Sunghoon screamed so loudly someone from the next court turned around.

Jaeyun pointed accusingly at the hoop. “She distracted me!”

Euijoo grabbed the ball next, grinning toward you lazily.

“This one’s for her then.”

“You are not helping—”

Swish.

The ball went clean through the net. The entire gym exploded. You physically covered your face with your hands while Jaeyun shouted betrayal at the top of his lungs.

After that, it only got worse. Now people knew you. Or at least knew of you.

You earned the following monikers:

“The bio tutor.”

“The girl Euijoo keeps looking for.”

“The one Jaeyun annoys constantly.”

It should’ve made you uncomfortable and maybe it did a little. But every time one of them spotted you across campus and their entire face brightened in recognition before they waved you over like it was the most natural thing in the world, you somehow forgot to care.

And then came the damned fifth session. 

You were in the zone, explaining the intricacies of protein synthesis, when Jaeyun had gotten a question spectacularly right, a complex one about tRNA anticodons.

“Holy shit, I did it!” he burst out, a grin splitting his face. He turned that brilliant, triumphant smile directly on you. “You’re a genius, honey. An absolute genius.”

Honey.

The pet name landed like a spark on dry tinder. It was casual, warm, dripping with unthinking affection and your pencil stilled on the page.

Not even thirty seconds later, Euijoo, who was quietly connecting another dot, looked up from his notebook, his hair falling into his eyes. “So if I follow this….it’s like an assembly line, and the ribosome is the foreman reading the blueprint?” At your nod, a look of profound satisfaction had settled on his face. “Huh….you make it make sense, doll.”

Doll.

Two pet names in under a minute. 

Honey. Doll.

Your calm shell developed a hairline fracture and a slow heat began to pool in your stomach. You finished that session on autopilot, your mind replaying the words in their voices.

And now, you were back in your dorm and the heat felt like a wire about to bust. You could feel the hunger at the bottom of your throat, screaming at you to satiate it. 

You didn’t even wait to change out of your clothes, your mind fixed on wanting those calloused hands that fumbled highlighters to be steady on your naked skin.

You wanted to know if Euijoo’s focused intensity in solving a problem would translate to the focused intensity of his gaze on your body. You wanted to hear Jaeyun’s saccharine sweet voice groan against your neck for a reason that had nothing to do with biology.

You opened your laptop, bypassing your usual bookmarks. You navigated to a story you’d saved but never dared to read: a lengthy, explicit fic. 

Un, deux, trois. 

Perfection.

You clicked on it, the threesome tag seemed to wink at you.

As the story unfolded—two devoted knights finally claiming their wary, brilliant queen—you didn’t see fictional characters in a fantasy castle. 

You saw a library study carrel pushed against a wall. You saw Jaeyun’s broad shoulders blocking out the lights, his eager mouth finding yours. You felt Euijoo’s careful hands, the ones that took such neat notes, mapping your ribs with a scholar’s attention to detail.

In the story, one lover whispered praises while the other drove the heroine to the edge. 

In your mind, it was Jaeyun’s voice, hot in your ear, “You’re so smart, honey, so perfect for us,” while Euijoo’s steady, relentless touch between your legs unraveled every coherent thought you’d ever had all while he was moaning, “Such a good doll for us, yeah?”

You chased the feeling, the image of the two of them—their contrasting hair, their gentle focus now turned devouring—so vivid behind your eyelids. The soft, sighing plateau you were used to wasn’t the destination tonight. 

You were climbing that staircase to heaven, the coil of heat tightening beyond its usual limits, spurred on by the illicit, perfect fantasy of them.

Your breath hitched, your back arching off the bed. The release, when it crashed over you, was not a faint echo from another room. It was a symphony played right in the heart of you, loud, shuddering, and utterly transformative. For the first time, your body understood the map perfectly. 

And it had two very specific, very real guides to thank for the journey.

Oh well.

Wasn't this so fucking great for you?

__________

They say ladies and gentlemen, that necessity is the mother of invention. In this situation, the necessity was your pussy yelling to be touched…….to the thought of both of them.

The aftershocks of that first, real orgasm left you feeling like a new person inhabiting an old skin. The world had shifted on its axis, and the new gravitational pull had two names: Jaeyun and Euijoo.

By the ninth tutoring session, your situation had officially evolved from “minor academic inconvenience” into “active psychological horny warfare.”

Because apparently both of them had decided pet names were part of your curriculum now.

Every “honey, can you explain that again?” from Jaeyun was a bolt of heat straight to your core. Every low, thoughtful “doll, I think I’ve got it now,” from Euijoo made your breath catch. 

“Honey, pass me the worksheet.”

“Doll, you skipped question four.”

“Sweetheart, if I fail this exam I’m blaming you personally.”

You were going to pass away. At first you’d genuinely thought they were doing it accidentally but then Jaeyun called you “pretty tutor” after getting an answer right and winked when you nearly inhaled your own spit. So no.

Definitely intentional. 

Which was exactly why your dignity had deteriorated enough for you to do something deeply embarrassing one night at two in the morning.

You copied the entire text of that life-altering fantasy threesome fic into a blank Google Doc. Then, with a feverish, shameless focus, you used ‘Find and Replace.’ The fictional knight with the eager heart became Jaeyun and the one with the careful hands became Euijoo. And of course you even rewrote some parts on your own with details that reminded you of them. Then you immediately hide the document inside three different folders.

It was a raw, unvarnished act of carnal need—nothing else was fucking satisfying you anymore. 

The document became your secret altar, a place where their imagined voices—“That’s it, honey, take it,” and “So perfect for us, doll, so good”—could play out in explicit detail against the stark white page. You returned to it often, each visit a temporary balm that only deepened the ache.

You’d told yourself it was harmless. But even you knew it wasn’t.

The present session was another exercise in sustained composure. You were all reviewing for the upcoming midterm, a thick cloud of shared academic stress mingling with your own, far more potent, personal tension.

You’d joked around in the beginning, a rare comedy moment from you, that you’d made report cards for the both of them before the exam, just for motivation. They’d tried to sneak a peek at your laptop and you immediately pulled it away.

But now, nature was calling, so you sighed and closed your textbook with a decisive thump that made them both look up

“I’m trusting you both alone for five minutes,” you warned, pushing yourself off your chair. You pointed at both of them threateningly. “And don’t touch my laptop.”

Euijoo raised both hands innocently. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

As you walked towards the library restrooms, the echo of your words felt hollow. Your laptop sat open on the table, your Google Drive a single careless click away.

The second you disappeared around the corner, Jaeyun leaned back in his chair dramatically. “She still doesn’t trust us.”

“To be fair,” Euijoo said calmly, “you do act like a raccoon with Wi-Fi.”

“I trusted you.” Jaeyun gasped.

But despite the joking, neither of them actually touched your things at first. Jaeyun flipped through his own notes while Euijoo absentmindedly reread one of your annotated diagrams. Then Jaeyun noticed the document tab still open behind your biology slides. His eyes narrowed.

“…What’s that?”

Euijoo glanced over lazily. “Probably notes.”

“Maybe it's the report cards.” Jaeyun snorted. 

“Report cards.” Euijoo snorted, shaking his head. 

But his eyes drifted to your laptop. Jaeyun followed his gaze. The unspoken thought passed between them, a current of shared, guilty curiosity. 

“Just… a quick look?” Jaeyun whispered, his finger already hovering over the touchpad. “To see if she actually made us report cards?”

Euijoo didn’t say no. He just leaned in, his heart hammering a strange rhythm against his ribs and Jaeyun clicked before common sense could stop him.

And both of them froze instantly.

Complete silence.

Jaeyun blinked once. Then twice. Euijoo leaned forward slowly, eyes widening the further he read.

The document that filled the screen had no title. But the first line stole the air from the room.

‘Jaeyun’s mouth was hot and demanding on yours, while Euijoo’s clever fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your—’

A jolt, white-hot and seismic, went through both of them. Jaeyun’s hand jerked back from the laptop as if burnt and Euijoo’s breath left him in a silent rush.

For a second, there was only the hum of the library and the deafening roar of blood in their ears. Horror—at being caught—flared for a single, blinding moment. But it was instantly, overwhelmingly, drowned out by a surge of pure, undiluted relief so powerful it was dizzying.

You thought about this. About them. Like this.

They scanned the text, their eyes flying over phrases, seeing their own names woven into acts of breathtaking intimacy—praise, possession, shared focus. It was their fantasy, the one they’d only whispered about in their room, written out in your unmistakable prose.

“Oh my god,” Jaeyun breathed, his voice ragged.

Euijoo couldn’t speak. He was re-reading a line where he was described as ‘methodical, worshipful, leaving no inch of skin uncharted.’ His face was on fire.

“No way,” he whispered, dragging a hand over his face slowly, stunned disbelief melting into something dangerously close to delight. “You’re kidding.”

Jaeyun let out a quiet laugh of pure disbelief and leaned back in his chair. “Oh my god.”

The sound of footsteps approaching made both of them sit up immediately. Jaeyun clicked back to the biology slides at lightning speed while Euijoo tried very hard to look normal—which failed instantly because both of them looked visibly brighter when you sat back down.

You paused immediately. “…Why do you both look guilty?”

“Crazy accusation.” Jaeyun said quickly. Euijoo picked up a pen before he laughed accidentally.

Your eyes narrowed. “Oh my god. What did you do?”

“Nothing,” both of them answered far too fast. You stared harder.

Jaeyun cracked first. “There’s a party tonight.”

“What.”

“At the frat house,” he continued casually. “You should come.”

You blinked.

“No.”

“Why not?” Euijoo asked, quieter.

“Because I enjoy surviving social situations.”

Jaeyun leaned across the table dramatically. “We’ll stay with you the whole time.”

“That is not reassuring.”

“It should be.”

You looked between both of them suspiciously. Something definitely felt off. But there was also something strangely warm about the way they looked at you now.

Every shred of self-preservation you’d ever cultivated screamed at you to say no. Frat party? With them? It was a spectacularly bad idea, a one-way ticket to a social and emotional disaster.

Then Jaeyun hit you with the look. 

His dark eyes went wide and pleading, his bottom lip jutting out just a fraction. It was a full-force, hopeful puppy-dog stare, completely at odds with the sinful things he’d just read about himself.

Beside him, Euijoo didn’t say a word. He just watched you, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips, as if he could see the exact moment your resolve would crumble.

It crumbled instantly.

“…For like one hour,” you muttered. 

Jaeyun actually cheered, a soft, triumphant “Yes!” that he immediately tried to smother, looking around the library with a guilty grin. Euijoo ducked his head, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter, strands of his hair falling forward to hide his face.

“Why am I getting the feeling my life’s about to get really complicated?” You chuckled weakly. 

They both laughed then, a shared, relieved sound that eased the last of the tension. It was a laugh that said, ‘Yeah, it is, and we’re in it together.’

“I should… probably head out early,” you said, gesturing vaguely towards seemingly nothing. “To, uh, get ready, for my one-hour sentence.”

Euijoo watched you for a second before asking quietly, “What are you gonna wear?”

“Oh my god, good question.” Jaeyun immediately looked delighted.

You stared at both of them in betrayal. “Why are you acting like this is the Met Gala?”

“Because this is important,” Jaeyun replied seriously.

“It’s literally a frat party”

“So you’re saying you don’t respect our respectable establishment.” Jaeyun pouted up at you. Stupid pretty pink lips.

“I hate when you say things with confidence because it makes me nervous.” You groaned.

Jaeyun laughed while Euijoo leaned back in his chair, still looking strangely pleased just from the fact you’d agreed at all. You slung your bag over your shoulder and stood.

“Okay. One hour,” you warned again. “And if either of you abandon me there, I’m transferring universities.”

“We’ll text you the address.” Jaeyun said, his voice still bright with victory.

“Don’t be late.” Euijoo added, the quiet command in his tone sending a fresh shiver down your spine.

You disappeared around the corner before either of them could answer. The second you were fully out of sight, silence dropped over the table again.

Jaeyun slowly leaned back in his chair and Euijoo exhaled through his nose, dragging both hands over his face briefly. Jaeyun looked over immediately.

“So.”

Euijoo already knew where this was going. “Don’t.”

“She likes us.”

Euijoo stared at the ceiling like he was seeking divine patience.

Jaeyun grinned helplessly. “No, because actually think about this. She wrote about us.”

“Jaeyun.”

“She thought about us enough to write things down.”

“I’m aware,” Euijoo muttered, ears burning all over again. Because unfortunately, he was very aware. Jaeyun drummed his fingers against the table thoughtfully before glancing sideways at him.

“You know why I invited her, right?” He said, biting his lip, an annoyingly attractive habit he had.

Euijoo lowered his hands slowly. “Because you have no survival instincts?”

“That too.”

Jaeyun’s grin turned slightly nervous underneath the humor now.

“But also because…” He hesitated once. “Maybe tonight gives us a chance to actually talk about it.” Euijoo went quiet.

Talk about it.

Oh.

Euijoo would have been lying if he said he wasn’t going to combust if he didn’t do all the things he’d read in the document to you in real life. 

Jaeyun sighed dramatically, though his smile lingered. “If we don’t talk about it,” he muttered, “I’m gonna keep thinking about it until I fail biology again.”

Euijoo laughed quietly at that, though his own heart was beginning to race. Then after a second, he quietly admitted, 

“…Yeah. Me too.”

___________

Your dorm looked like a small-scale crime scene.

Clothes covered half the floor. Makeup products sat scattered across your desk like evidence. Three separate outfits had already been rejected and thrown violently onto your bed over the course of forty-five minutes. You stared at yourself in the mirror with narrowed eyes.

This was stupid.

You were acting stupid.

It was just a party.

Not even a date, definitely not a date. Just one hour at a frat house with two boys you unfortunately found devastatingly attractive.

Cool.

So normal.

Your gaze drifted back toward the black dress hanging from your closet door which you had been trying hard to ignore. You’d bought it months ago during one of those dangerous online shopping spirals that happened at two in the morning when your brain convinced you that yes, actually, you were the type of person who attended rooftop parties and drank sparkling cocktails while looking mysterious.

Reality had proven otherwise and so the dress remained untouched ever since. Until now.

You grabbed it cautiously. It was short, scandalously short, short enough that your legs were on full display and your ass was perfectly framed and your chest was accentuated. The fabric hugged you more than your usual clothes did, soft black material dipping slightly at the neckline while the hem stopped mid-thigh. You stared at your reflection in silence. You looked pretty. Which was honestly a little alarming. Why the fuck were you putting in this much effort for some dumb party you wouldn’t have even heard of two months ago?

A knock sounded at your door before you could spiral further.

“You alive in there?” your friend Yujin called.

“Debatable.”

Yujin pushed the door open anyway and immediately froze. Then her jaw dropped. “Oh, you bitch.”

You blinked. “What?”

“You’ve been hiding all that under cardigans?” she demanded dramatically, stepping fully inside. “That is criminal behavior.”

Heat rushed into your face instantly. “It’s too much, isn’t it?”

“Too much?” Yujin repeated like she was personally offended. “You look hot!”

You glanced at yourself again uncertainly. The dress really did look good, which unfortunately made you even more nervous. Because they were going to see you in it. Your stomach flipped violently.

You groaned into your hands. “Why did I agree to this?”

“Because they’re hot and nice to you.” Yujin replied instantly, fixing one of your earrings for you.

Yujin had been one of your only real friends since first year—mostly because she’d adopted you against your will after catching you eating dry cereal alone outside a lecture hall once. And she knew you all too well.

You grabbed your small bag while trying very hard not to think about how Jaeyun would probably whistle obnoxiously the second he saw you. Or how Euijoo would look at you quietly for one dangerous second too long.

Your heart was already beating too fast. This was a disaster.

The frat house was visible from halfway down the street. Music pulsed through the night air loud enough that you could feel the bass before you even reached the front lawn. Groups of students crowded outside laughing loudly beneath strings of warm lights wrapped around the porch railings.

You stopped walking. Yujin kept going for three steps before realizing.

“Oh no,” she sighed, turning back toward you. “Don’t do this.”

“I can still leave.”

“You absolutely cannot.”

“I suddenly remembered I love staying home.”

Yujin grabbed your wrist before you could retreat. “You survived tutoring sessions with two campus heartthrobs,” she informed you firmly. “You can survive one frat party.”

People moved around you constantly as you approached the house, music and laughter spilling from open windows while colored lights flashed faintly inside.

Your nerves worsened with every step. Then the front door opened and you were about to evaporate into thin air. 

But instead of Jaeyun or Euijoo, Fuma appeared in the doorway first. He blinked once when he saw you. Then slowly grinned. 

“Well damn.”

You immediately wanted to disappear. “Please don’t start.”

“I didn’t even say anything.”

“You implied it with your face.” He chuckled, “Never thought you’d actually come.”

Yujin snorted beside you while Fuma stepped aside to let both of you in, music immediately swallowing the conversation the second you crossed the threshold.

The frat house was warm and loud and overwhelming in the exact way you’d feared. Lights flashed dimly across crowded rooms while people moved everywhere at once, laughter rising over music, conversations overlapping into noise. Someone nearly ran into you carrying chips before apologizing and disappearing upstairs again. You instinctively moved closer to Yujin. Fuma noticed immediately.

“You’ll survive,” He laughed quietly before guiding you through the hallway. People looked over as you passed and somehow that made you even more aware of the tight fabric clinging to your skin.

“Where are they?” you asked, trying to sound casual and failing spectacularly.

Fuma’s grin widened knowingly. “In the kitchen.”

You barely had two seconds to mentally prepare before Fuma led you around the corner and there they were.

Oh, this was just fucking unfair.

Fuck you universe. 

Jaeyun sat on the kitchen counter laughing at something Nicholas was saying, sleeves rolled up over his forearms, dark hair messy like someone had run their hands through it repeatedly. A silver chain rested against the collar of his black shirt and—

Right.

You need to be breathing.

Very important for life.

Beside him, Euijoo leaned against the counter with a drink in one hand, hair pushed back slightly from his forehead. He wore a dark grey shirt that fit annoyingly well beneath an open black jacket.

What you would have given to be fucked stupid on that stupid counter with their stupid fingers. 

Stupid stupid hot boys.

Both of them looked up at the exact same time. The conversation around the kitchen kept going normally, but the second their eyes landed on you, something shifted.

Jaeyun straightened slowly. Euijoo’s gaze moved over you once before returning to your face. A chill ran down your spine instantly. You suddenly became hyperaware of every inch of exposed skin.

Jaeyun recovered first. “Holy shit, am I in heaven?”

“You look beautiful.” Euijoo said quietly over the noise before Jaeyun could speak again.

Your heart betrayed you so violently you almost considered going to church and confessing your sins. But then again you probably would have imagined them fucking you in that tiny little booth so you steered away from the idea. 

Nicholas whipped around so fast he nearly dropped his drink. “Oh my god,” he gasped dramatically. “Academic weapon spotted.”

Sunghoon looked up from where he’d been stealing fries directly off Jungwon’s plate and actually paused mid-bite. “Wait,” he said slowly. “Fuma undersold this situation severely.” You opened your mouth to respond and nothing came out.

Jaeyun’s grin widened immediately. “There she goes.”

“I’m—” you started, then stopped. Because unfortunately your brain had ceased functioning the second both of them looked at you like that.

“Thank you.” You managed finally, voice weirdly high. “I almost didn’t wear this.”

Jaeyun blinked. “Why?”

You gestured vaguely at yourself like that explained everything. “This is…a lot of skin.” You immediately looked down at the floor. “This is why I wear cardigans,” you muttered.

Jaeyun laughed softly. “No, seriously,” he said, still looking at you with that same dangerously warm expression, “you look really pretty.”

You physically short-circuited.

“Okay,” you said quickly, pointing at him. “You can’t just say things like that immediately after I arrive.”

“Why not?”

“Because—” You said as if it was the most obvious fact in the world, “I need adjustment time.”

Nicholas burst out laughing. “Adjustment time?” he repeated.

“Yeah.” You defended instantly, “Not everyone’s a social butterfly like you guys.”

Sunghoon nodded thoughtfully. “Honestly valid.”

Euijoo smiled beside you now, placing a protective hand on the small of your back, “I think we’re gonna get a drink before she faints.”

“Excuse me—”

“Great idea!” Jaeyun hopped off the counter, “I’ll come with.”

Getting a drink was number infinity on the list of tasks that required three persons. But hey, who were you to complain? Some sort of pure angel who didn’t thirst over the two boys she tutored? 

"Come on." Jaeyun chirped, already weaving through the crowd. "The good stuff's out back, quieter there."

Quieter was an understatement. 

He led you through a chaotic kitchen, out a creaking screen door, and into a small, enclosed back porch. It was shrouded in shadows, lit only by a single, buzzing yellow bug light. A large, dented cooler sat against one wall, filled with ice and bottles. The roar of the party was muffled here, reduced to a dull thump. It felt secluded, dare you say intimate.

“See? Much better." Jaeyun said, rummaging in the cooler. "What's your poison, honey?"

You asked for something simple, so that you could hold onto it like a lifeline. As he fished out a hard seltzer and cracked it open, Euijoo leaned against the doorframe, blocking the most obvious exit back to the house. 

Handsome motherfucker.

"So," Jaeyun began, handing you the cold can. His tone was light and conversational. "The tutoring's really helping. I think we might not totally bomb the midterm."

"It's all you guys," you said, taking a small sip. "You're doing the work."

"We have a good teacher," Euijoo said from his post. His voice was quiet, but it carried perfectly in the hushed space. "Very…..thorough."

There was a beat of silence, filled only by the distant bass. The air, which had been cool, suddenly felt thick and warm like being covered in sticky honey.

Jaeyun took a swig from his own beer. "Thorough is a good word for it." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes finding yours in the dim light. "Like that document you were working on. That was incredibly thorough.”

The can in your hand felt like a block of ice. 

The document.

Oh.

Euijoo pushed off the doorframe. He didn't move aggressively, but with a slow, deliberate intent that made your breath catch. He walked towards you, his steps quiet on the wooden planks, until he was standing right in front of you. 

Then he lifted an arm, placing his hand flat on the wall just beside your head, leaning in slightly. He wasn't touching you, but he’d effectively caged you in, his body blocking one side, the rough wall of the house at your back.

Jaeyun didn't move from his spot by the cooler, but his watchful gaze was just as potent. He took another slow drink, his eyes never leaving your face.

"No more running, doll," Euijoo said, his voice a low, intimate rumble. The stupid, stupid pet name, here and now, was a weapon, said in that deep and husky voice of his. "We saw our names on it.”

"All of it." Jaeyun added softly.

"So we need you to be truthful with us, doll." Euijoo continued, his free hand coming up to gently tilt your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes. "Was that just a fantasy? Or do you want it to be reality?”

You could lie. You could try to laugh it off. But under the weight of their combined focus—Euijoo's searching gaze and Jaeyun's patient silence—all your defenses shattered. The truth was a living thing in your chest, pounding to get out.

You swallowed, your voice barely a whisper. "I do.” “What was that, doll?” Euijoo said, tightening his grip on your chin, “Speak up, pretty girl.”

“I—” You said, drawing in a shuddering breath, “I want it to be real.” 

The words seemed to change the very atmosphere. Euijoo's eyes flared, a hot, satisfied gleam in the dim light. Jaeyun let out a slow, controlled breath, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Aww, honey. You like us that much?" Jaeyun pressed, needing the final confirmation. You nodded, unable to form more words.

For a long moment, no one moved. Your confession hung in the air like a paper lantern, transforming into a new reality that they were enjoying far too much. 

Then, Euijoo’s thumb brushed once, softly, against your jawline before he dropped his hand. He straightened up, removing his arm from the wall, breaking the cage. The sudden lack of his proximity felt like a winter chill.

Jaeyun stepped forward then. He didn't touch you, he simply took your limp hand and wrapped your fingers more securely around the cold can of seltzer you'd almost forgotten you were holding.

"Good," Jaeyun said, his voice strangely gentle. "That's all we wanted to know."

Euijoo gave you one last, unreadable look—a mix of that blazing heat and something softer, almost approving. "Enjoy the party, pretty girl.” 

And then, just like that, they turned and walked back through the screen door into the roar of the house, leaving you alone on the quiet, shadowed porch, clutching your drink with trembling hands, your entire world having just been thrillingly upended.

What the actual fuck had just happened?

And why the fuck were your panties so drenched? ________________

Whilst agreeing to come to the party, you had forgotten one very important detail.

You were the world’s most antisocial person who detested crowds with every fibre of her being. 

Pushing back into the house had been like diving into a wall of sound and heat. The earlier introductions felt like a distant dream. Now, every shouted conversation, every burst of laughter, every accidental brush against you in the crowded hallway felt like a violation, the bass from the speakers an assault on your sternum.

Anxiety, a cold, slithering thing, began to coil in your stomach, tightening around the lingering heat. You scanned the pulsing mass of bodies for a familiar face—specifically, Yujin. You finally spotted her near the kitchen island, but any hope of rescue died instantly. She was draped over Nicholas’s shoulders, laughing uproariously at something he was shouting, a red plastic cup held aloft in a toast. She was in her element, completely and utterly off-duty as your safety net.

A wave of pure, claustrophobic panic crested over you. You couldn’t breathe. You needed out. Now.

Your feet moved before your brain fully caught up, carrying you on a desperate search through the shifting crowd. You found them—of course—in a slightly quieter corner of the living room, holding court with a small group. Euijoo was leaning against a bookshelf, listening to something Sunghoon was saying with a faint smile. Jaeyun was animatedly telling a story, his hands flying.

You didn’t have the capacity for social grace. You walked right up to them, interrupting the flow. Jaeyun’s story trailed off. You knew you probably looked wild-eyed and pale, a deer caught in a wolf pack’s den.

“I need to go home,” you blurted out, your voice strained over the music. “Now. Can one of you…?” You glanced desperately between Euijoo and Jaeyun, unable to finish the sentence. Take me? Save me?

The easy smiles faded from their faces. Euijoo straightened up, his gaze sweeping over you, taking in your tense posture and your white-knuckled grip on your bag. Jaeyun’s expression shifted from surprise to immediate concern.

“Where’s Yujin?” Jaeyun asked, his voice cutting through the noise.

You just gestured vaguely, miserably, towards the kitchen. “With Nicholas. She’s…..busy.”

Euijoo didn’t ask another question. He simply nodded, a decisive dip of his chin. “I’ll get my keys.” He pushed off the bookshelf.

“I’m coming.” Jaeyun said instantly, already falling into step beside him. He shot an apologetic look at their friends.

Yet another task that did not require three people. Especially when the panties of one of the person’s was wetter than water itself.

Minutes later, you were sliding into the backseat of Euijoo’s clean sedan, Jaeyun got in the passenger side. The moment the doors closed, the cacophony of the party was severed, replaced by an absolute, crushing silence.

The engine purred to life. Euijoo navigated out of the packed street, his eyes fixed on the road. Jaeyun stared out the passenger window. No one spoke.

The silence in the car was thick with everything that had been said and everything that hadn’t. It was louder than the party had been. You sat in the back, curled slightly into the door, watching the streaks of streetlights pass over their profiles—Euijoo’s focused stillness, Jaeyun’s uncharacteristic quiet. The only sounds were the soft hum of the engine and the turn signal’s steady, mocking click.

Enjoy the party, he’d said. You were definitely not enjoying the car ride.

The silence stretched through every turn, every stoplight, a suffocating blanket over the three of you. By the time Euijoo pulled into a visitor spot near your dorm, the tension had coiled so tight you felt you might snap. You moved to unbuckle your seatbelt, a mumbled "Thanks for the ride" already forming on your lips.

"Which floor?" Euijoo's voice cut through the quiet, calm and matter-of-fact. He was already turning off the engine.

"Oh, you don't have to—I can get up on my own," you stammered, the idea of them escorting you amplifying your anxiety tenfold.

"It's late." Jaeyun said, his tone leaving no room for argument as he popped his door open. The finality in his voice brooked no protest.

The walk across the dimly lit quad was just as silent as the car ride, their footsteps a synchronized echo behind you. The main lobby was deserted, the fluorescent lights humming overhead. You jabbed the elevator button, wishing for the stairs but knowing your heels—chosen in a moment of foolish, fantasy-inspired bravery—made that impossible.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft ding. The three of you stepped into the mirrored box, and the close quarters made the silence even more profound. As the doors closed, sealing you in, your awareness of your own body became acute, screamingly so. 

Your little black dress, which had felt so daring and powerful when you'd put it on, now felt like a trap. The hem was so short, the neckline plunged so deep. In the mirrored walls, you could see everything—the expanse of your thighs, the shadowed curve of your cleavage. And you could see them. You didn't dare look directly, but in the reflection, you caught it. 

Jaeyun's gaze, usually so open and bright, was dark and fixed—not on your face, but tracing a slow, deliberate path down your reflected form. Euijoo stood with his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed, but his eyes in the mirror were like lasers, burning with an intensity that made your skin prickle. He was staring right at the deep V of your neckline, his expression unreadable but utterly focused. They weren't even trying to hide it. The acknowledgment of your fantasy had stripped away all pretense.

You stared rigidly at the ascending floor numbers, your face flaming, your earlier dampness returning with a vengeance. The elevator seemed to crawl.

Finally, with another merciful ding, the doors opened on your floor. You practically bolted out, the click of your heels on the linoleum too loud in the empty hallway. You led the way to your door, fumbling with your keys, painfully aware of the two presences looming behind you.

You got the door open and stepped across the threshold into the familiar, safe darkness of your dorm. You turned, a hurried "Okay, well, thanks again, goodnigh—" already tumbling out.

But before you could swing the door shut, a hand shot out. Jaeyun’s fingers curled around the edge of the door, not forcefully, but with an undeniable firmness that stopped its motion completely. You looked up, your heart hammering against your ribs.

Euijoo took a single, slow step forward, crossing the threshold to stand just inside your doorway, crowding your personal space. He looked down at you, a faint, cocky smirk playing on his lips—the same smirk you’d imagined a hundred times in your writing. His voice was a low, teasing rumble that vibrated in the small space between you.

“What, doll?” he asked, his eyes glinting with challenge and promise. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”

The air in your doorway vanished, replaced by the heat of their presence. They were inside your space, their taller frames casting shadows over you in the dim light from the hallway.

You stumbled back a step, your heels catching on the rug, and they followed, a synchronized unit. Jaeyun released the door, letting it swing shut behind them with a soft, final click. The sound sealed you in with them. The familiar safety of your dorm was instantly transformed into an electrically charged arena.

You were backed against the edge of your desk, with nowhere else to go. Euijoo didn’t touch you, but he stood close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body. Jaeyun leaned against the closed door, his arms crossed, watching with a lazy, predatory interest.

“You’re shaking.” Jaeyun observed, his voice soft but clear in the quiet room. 

“It’s cold,” you lied, your voice a thin thread.

Euijoo’s smirk deepened. He reached out, not to grab you, but to gently take a strand of your hair between his fingers, rubbing the silky texture. 

“Liar.” He murmured, his tone conversational, almost casual. “Pretty little liar. Thinking about things you shouldn’t be thinking about with the guys you tutor standing right here.”

His words, so blunt, so filthy in their simplicity, sent a jolt straight through you. You whimpered, a tiny, pathetic sound you immediately wished you could take back.

Jaeyun pushed off the door and took a few steps into the room, his gaze sweeping over your cramped space before landing back on you. 

“This where you wrote it?” he asked, nodding toward your laptop on the desk behind you. “Where you dreamed up all those pretty little scenes? Where you imagined what we’d feel like?”

Each word was a gentle probe, prying you open. They were talking about your deepest secret like they were discussing the weather, and the casual confidence of it was unraveling you faster than any overt aggression could have.

“I…” you tried, but no other words came.

Euijoo’s finger released your hair and trailed down the side of your neck, a whisper of a touch that made you shudder violently. 

“You described it so well, honey,” he continued, his voice dropping to that intimate rumble. “The way you wanted to be touched, the way you wanted to be praised. Damn, almost made it seem real.”

Jaeyun was right in front of you now, standing beside Euijoo, boxing you in completely. “So here’s the question,” Jaeyun said, his eyes locked on yours. He reached out and cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking over your cheekbone. “All that imagination…..do you want to see what the reality feels like?”

The question hung there, immense and terrifying. Your fantasy, your secret, was being offered back to you, in flesh and blood and breath. Your mind screamed a dozen warnings, but your body, still humming from the elevator, from their stares, from their filthy, casual words, had only one answer.

You swallowed, your throat dry. “Yes,” you whispered, the word barely audible.

“What was that, doll?” Euijoo’s head tilted. “We didn’t quite hear you.”

They were making you say it. They were making you claim it. The humiliation was a fire in your veins, mixing with the desperate want. Oh how pathetically you wanted them. 

“Yes,” you said again, your voice trembling but louder.

Jaeyun’s thumb stilled on your cheek. A slow, beautiful smile spread across his face. He glanced at Euijoo, and they shared a look—a look of shared understanding, mutual hunger and triumph.

“Alright then,” Euijoo said, his smirk softening into something devastating. His hand came up to cradle your other cheek, so you were held between them, the center of their dual attention. “Good girl.”

Jaeyun leaned in, his lips brushing your ear. “That’s our clever girl,” he murmured, the praise sinking into your soul like a brand. “Now, let’s see how real we can make it for you.”

You always knew that you had a penchant for staying in the clouds, in the solitary heaven you’d created for yourself where everything was perfect and you were perfect and all was rainbows and cupcakes. Daydreaming was such a good way to escape this depressing and dark, real world.

But now?

Reality had never felt like such a fucking dream.

The first thing you registered after that was the solid press of Jaeyun's body against yours. One of his hands found your waist while the other cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his kiss. There was nothing tentative about it—he kissed you like he'd been waiting for permission for weeks, mouth warm and demanding, tongue sliding against yours before you could even think to part your lips.

You made a sound against his mouth, somewhere between a gasp and a whimper, and he swallowed it whole. His palm slid down from your waist to grip your thigh, hitching your leg up around his hip. Your dress rode up higher, the fabric bunching around your hips as his fingers found bare skin.

"Been thinking about this aaall night, honey," he murmured against your throat, lips trailing down to the sensitive spot behind your ear. “You wore this tiny little thing for us, yeah?” His fingers pressed into the soft flesh of your inner thigh, teasing, luxurious. “You’re too damn sweet, baby."

A rustle of movement from across the room reminded you that you weren't alone. Your eyes fluttered open, dazed, and found Euijoo settled into the desk chair he'd pulled into the corner. He leaned back, legs spread wide, one hand resting casually on his thigh. His gaze was heavy-lidded, tracking every movement Jaeyun made against you like he was studying something precious.

"Oh please, don't stop on my account," Euijoo said, his voice low and smooth. A small smile curved his lips. "I'm enjoying the show, doll."

Heat flooded your cheeks, but before you could formulate a response, Jaeyun's fingers found your cunt through the damp fabric of your panties. Your breath hitched, head falling back against the wall. He pressed two fingers against you, rubbing slow circles over the soaked cotton, and you felt yourself clench around nothing.

"Already this wet?" Jaeyun's voice was husky with surprise and satisfaction. He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and pulled them down, letting them fall to your ankles. "God, you've been hiding this from us all this time, haven't you? Sweet little girl, so quiet and proper—"

His words dissolved into a groan as he dipped his fingers between your folds, finding you slick and ready. He circled your clit once, testing, and your whole body jolted like an electric shock.

"That's it," he breathed. "That's it, honey."

Jaeyun worked you open slowly, one finger sliding inside, then two, curling and pressing until you were gripping his shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of his shirt. The stretch was delicious, the pressure building low in your belly as he pumped his fingers in and out, his thumb pressing against your clit in rhythm.

Euijoo watched unmoving, but you saw the way his hand tightened on his thigh, the way his jaw tensed—when your breathing turned ragged, when your hips started rolling forward to meet Jaeyun's hand, he spoke.

"Look at him, doll. Look at what he's doing to you."

Your eyes found his across the room—dark, intense, focused entirely on you. The eye contact sent a thrill straight through you, and your walls fluttered around Jaeyun's fingers.

"You gonna cum for him?" Euijoo's voice dropped lower. "Let him feel it."

Jaeyun pressed harder, palm grinding against your clit as his fingers curled deep, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. "That's it, honey. Let go—I've got you."

The orgasm hit you like a wave breaking, sudden and immense. Your back arched off the wall, a cry tearing from your throat as your body seized and shuddered around his hand. 

It was nothing like the careful, solitary orgasm you'd given yourself in this very room before—this was devastating, all-consuming, pulling you under and leaving you gasping for air.

"Fuck….” Jaeyun muttered, watching you come apart against him. "Look at you. Fucking beautiful."

Before you could catch your breath, strong hands were lifting you. Perhaps it was under the stupor of your newfound pleasure that you didn't even notice Euijoo crossing the room, his arms sliding under your knees and back as he carried you the few steps to your bed. He laid you down gently, the mattress dipping under your weight.

“My turn?” He said, and it wasn't a question.

Euijoo settled between your thighs, pushing your dress up past your hips until you were bare to him, glistening and sensitive. 

Jaeyun moved to the head of the bed, propping himself against the wall, one hand reaching down to brush the hair from your face.

Euijoo's first touch was a kiss—soft, almost reverent, pressed to the inside of your thigh. Then another, higher; then his tongue, flat and warm, sliding through your folds from bottom to top.

You whimpered, hips bucking, oversensitive from your first orgasm. But Euijoo held you down with firm hands on your thighs, anchoring you as he worked you open with his mouth.