𝓯𝓻𝓪𝓷 ⋆.𐙚 ̊

You were sweating profusely that your sleeping clothes were sticking to you, like a second skin. It's uncomfortable—laying on your bed, tossing and turning relentlessly.

Oh, it's cold? You proceed to cover yourself with the blankets. Oh, it's hot? You tossed it aside, shivering and sneezing after doing so. The cycle repeats itself until you were beyond frustrated.

You were so caught up in your own train of thoughts that you weren't aware of how someone had entered your apartment via the front door. You didn't hear the soft, barely audible footsteps until…

Knock knock.

"Baby? Are you in there?" Jake's muffled voice was heard from the other side of the door.

You made a soft sound of acknowledgment and he took that as his sign to enter your room. You watched as your sweet and beloved boyfriend of two years appeared in your vision.

He must've came over the moment his classes end, judging from his bag hanging on his left shoulder and his signature thick, black-rimmed glasses that rests squarely on the bridge of his nose.

Jake's features softened, cooing at your state. "Aw, my poor girl. How you feeling?"

He asked, closing the door behind him as he placed a plastic bag filled with medicines down on the bedside table. He sat on the edge of the bed, removing his bag and leaned forward to feel your temperature, using the back of his left hand. He pressed it against your forehead and you couldn't helped the involuntary sigh that escaped from your lips at the cooling contact.

He hummed, dropping his hand, drawing a whine of protest from you. "You have a fever. Have you eaten?"

You shook your head, your bottom lip jutting out unconsciously. "No, not yet. I feel like shit," you croaked out, wincing at how hoarse your voice sounds.

Jake didn't mind, pulling out a plastic bottle of water from the plastic bag. He unscrewed the lid easily, helping you to sit up with you leaning against the bed-frame.

"Here, drink some water and I'll make you something simple. Think you can eat porridge?" He questioned, eyes never leaving your face while he held the end of the bottle, allowing you to drink at your pace.

"Probably not, the only thing I can stomach for now is water," you answered and he clicked his tongue in disappointment.

"You need to eat so you can take your meds," he chided in a gentle tone, never the type of boyfriend to raise his voice at you.

You huffed, crossing your arms. You're well-aware of your childish behavior and how you're on the verge of throwing a fit. But can he blame you? If there's one thing you loathed the most, it will be the idea of taking medicine.

You knew it'll help to quicken the process, allowing you to recover soon but the thought of the bitterness entering your mouth was enough for you to put your foot firmly down on the ground.

"I don't want to. All I need is just some rest and I'll feel better tomorrow," you insisted, despite knowing that won't happen, considering how your barely being yourself now.

Jake sighed, the sound full of both fondness and exasperation. That's when an idea hits him. Too bad you weren't looking at him, for you were too busy looking out of the window. You saw movements along with the rustle of clothes from the corners of your visions. Facing the front, you looked down to see him now laying on his stomach and in between your legs.

It didn't take you long to connect the dots, watching with bated breath as he traced your thighs with his large, warm hands, leaving goosebumps behind in his wake. Your breath audibly hitched when he pushed your oversized shirt up, revealing your stomach and your already soaked underwear.

Your teeth sank into your bottom lip as he cupped you through your underwear, thumb pressing down on your cunt. Your hips instinctively jerked forward but Jake was quick to pin you down, holding you in place.

"Ah ah, I didn't say you can move," he clicked his tongue, glancing at you beneath his eyelashes.

You whimpered, fisting the sheets as you twist them between your fingers. "Jake, please.."

"Please what? Be good and tell me what you want," he said, voice dripping with nothing but utter sweetness, the kind of sweetness one can find in a cafe.

You couldn't speak, not when he leaned forward to lick a stripe up your entrance, further soaking the thin fabric until it's practically hugging your cunt, further accentuating the outline of it. You let out a loud and breathless gasp, trying to move—to push yourself further into his mouth but the vice-like grip on your hips tightened.

"Just do something already," you snapped, only to burst into a mini coughing fit the moment you finished speaking.

Jake chuckled, face buried between your legs. The vibration traveled through your thighs, drawing a moan from you as he tugged your underwear aside slowly, wanting to savor the lewd scene of strings of your arousal being stretched as wide as possible, like a spiderweb until they snapped.

"You're lucky you're sick."

That was all he said before he dived in, wrapping his lips around your clit and sucked on it, hard. He swirled his tongue at the bud that's peeking out of the hood, moving it in a slow, languid clockwise motion before lapping at it eagerly, like a dog in heat. It's messy and sloppy, the bedroom filled with slurping sounds that blends in with your moans and whines.

"Oh fuck, r-right there, hngh," you moaned, grabbing a fistful of his silky-smooth black hair, fingers threading through them as you yanked him close enough for the sharp tip of his nose to bump against your clit.

You grinded your hips against his nose, using it to get yourself off while he ate you out like a man on a mission. Jake was generous enough to let you be, releasing his grip on your hips so he can sling your right leg over his shoulder instead. You hooked your right leg around his neck, pulling yourself even closer, if that's still possible.

Jake alternated between broad licks and kittenish flicks, the difference giving you whiplash. You let out a series of angelic and sinful sounds as he started paying more attention to your clit, the stimulation making your thighs quivered as you squirmed about on the sheets, further wrinkling them in the process.

Saliva dripped from his mouth, landing on your pussy and inner thighs. Some trickled down, landing on the sheets or moving along the outline of your pussy lips, leaving you shivering under the light, fleeing sensation. However, both of you didn't care about the mess you're making.

You made an inhumane noise when something long and slender was being pushed in. It's his finger. Unlike the usual, when Jake will finger you ruthlessly, he kept it shallow and light, not wanting to push you further than you already are. Especially when you're running a fever and how everything was more sensitive than usual.

"Jake, g-gonna cum, hah," you panted, eyes rolling to the back of your head.

Your movements grew sloppy and frantic as he curled his one, singular finger expertly, enough to brush it against that one spongy spot for you to nearly black out. He hummed, not bothering to detach his face from your dripping pussy. But instead, he pushed further in, like he couldn't get enough of your sweet, addictive and intoxicating taste.

He diverted his attention back to your now swollen and red nub, sucking and lapping away at it while shallowly pumping his finger in and out of you. The double penetration was enough to tip you over the edge. You cum while chanting his name like it's a sacred prayer, back arching off the bed with a beautiful arch that could put the crescent moon itself to shame.

Your gummy walls convulsed violently around his tongue and finger as he ate you through your climax, showing no signs of stopping. Jake greedily drank everything you have to offer, not wanting to let a single drop go to waste. It was only when you whimpered from the sensitivity and you tugging on his hair was when he finally showed you mercy.

The bottom half of his face was glowing. His lips and nose was covered in a layer of your fluids, looking like a scene shot straight out of a pornographic movie. His tongue darted out, licking and tracing his own lips, swallowing it without breaking eye contact from you.

"Do you wanna eat and take your meds now?" He rasped out, voice slightly low, scratchy and rough around the edges.

You sighed, head hitting the pillow again. "…You're carrying me to the kitchen."

Your boyfriend chuckled, wiping the rest of your fluids with the hem of his shirt as he pushed himself up. In doing so, it revealed his toned stomach—something you were supposed to be used to but your heart still fluttered at the sight of it, like the true traitor it is.

"You should be grateful that someone's able to tolerate your temper," he teased, easily carrying you bridal-style.

You shot him a glare. "Hey, what's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

jay stared at him, eyebrows pinched slightly. “a gesture? hee… she’s not just some friend. you know what they were.”

heeseung sighed, adjusting his tie. “they’re long over it, though. sunghoon’s moved on—he’s literally getting married later. inviting her shows there’s no bad blood. it’s just mature.”

jay hesitated for a long second.

“...man, i don’t know….” he muttered, shaking his head. his thumb scrolled through the other names on the list.

“dude, it’s okay,” heeesung said firmly, patting jay’s shoulder. “let it go.”

——

“shit—i’m nervous as hell.” sunghoon muttered, running a hand through his carefully styled hair. “this… fuck, this is really happening.”

the waiting room felt too small. the groom paced back and forth near the window, tugging at his collar even though it was perfectly fitted. the ceremony was starting in fourty minutes—his heart wouldn’t stop racing. 

jake watched him from the couch, eyebrow raised. “you good?”

“yeah—just—just nervous,” he sighed, putting his hands on his hips. 

jake stood up and walked over, placing a hand on his shoulder. “hey, it’s okay—big day and all. you’ve been through a lot, but you’re here now! you’re doing it, man!”

sunghoon let out a shaky breath, staring at the floor.

jake studied him for a second, then lowered his voice. his eyebrows furrowed in concern, jake was the best man, after all. “alright, look… do you need a hit? cig or something? just to take the edge off real quick.”

damn it—sunghoon was supposed to stop. but it’s so fucking hard. 

he didn’t even hesitate. “fuck, sure.”

they slipped out a side door that led to a quiet courtyard behind the venue. the evening air was cool, and the distant sound of guests and crews chatting inside felt muffled. jake handed him a cigarette and lighter, then clapped his shoulder.

“don’t take too long, yeah? i’ll cover for you.”

jake disappeared back inside.

he closed the glass doors.

sunghoon sighed before lighting the cigarette with unsteady fingers, taking a long drag. the smoke burned his lungs, but it didn’t calm the storm in his chest. he closed his eyes, leaning against the stone wall.

damn.

he’s really getting married today. 

in less than an hour, he would stand in front of everyone and make things official—vows, rings, signatures, the whole forever shit. a few minutes that would last the rest of his life. 

the thought made his stomach twist. every inhale of smoke felt heavier, like it was stuffing and pressing down on the weight already crushing him. 

sunghoon took another drag, longer this time, holding it longer than usual. the tip of the cigarette glowed bright orange in the dim courtyard light as he exhaled slowly, watching the smoke curl up and disappear into the night air.

this was supposed to be the happiest day of his life.

so why did it feel like he was standing at the edge of something… irreversible?

there’s no way he was getting cold feet on his wedding day. no, no—this was a normal feeling, wasn’t it? people get nervous all the time. sooha and him had planned this for months—almost a year. 

it’s fine.

he ran a hand through his hair, messing up the styled strands. his mind wouldn’t stop spinning. 

would things be different if it was with—

“sunghoon?”

he opened his eyes.

you were standing there, frozen a few meters away, holding a small gift bag. the silk, rose champagne dress hugged you nicely, in all the way he remembered. you froze the second your eyes met. 

sunghoon’s heart dropped to his tummy.

“...yn?”

your lips parted in surprise. “what are you doing here?” your voice came out quiet, almost hesitant. the wind almost took it away from him. 

he let out a weak, breathless laugh, smoke slipping past his lips. “i needed some air. couldn’t stay in there anymore.”

the silence that followed was heavy and awkward. you shifted on your pretty heels, glancing back toward the venue door like you wanted to escape. sunghoon couldn’t stop staring at you.

you’ve gotten prettier since the last time he saw you—almost 5 years ago. you looked beautiful, still the most beautiful girl he’d ever laid eyes on. and your eyes—behind those glittery eyelids, your eyes were glassier. 

he hated how familiar this felt. 

right, you thought.

“...i should go back insid—” you started softly. 

“wait.”

sunghoon stepped forward without thinking and gently grabbed your wrist. the moment his fingers touched your skin, something electric shot through both of you. he pulled you aside quickly without thinking twice, around the corner behind a tall flowering hedge where the lights didn’t quite reach.

just like all those secret nights before.

his eyes wouldn’t leave your face.

“why did you—? sunghoon,” your eyebrows pinched slightly, but you didn’t pull away your hand. “you’re smoking again.” 

a low, bitter chuckle slipped out of him, smoke curling between the two of you. he looked down at the glowing cigarette between his fingers, then back at you with heavy, longing eyes.

“it’s hard,” he admitted quietly. “if i don’t smoke… i think about you instead. and that’s a much worse habit.”

the words hung in the cool night. your breath caught, and for a second, neither of you spoke. sunghoon took another slow drag, but his gaze never left yours. 

it’s a lie, really. it didn’t matter if sunghoon smoked or not—because you were always on his mind. nonetheless. 

you averted your gaze, bringing your arms up to hug yourself. the champagne dress suddenly felt too thin under his stare.

“what are you talking about…” you whispered, voice shaky. “don’t be ridiculous, sunghoon. you’re getting married… you’re—you’re getting married.”

the cigarette burned between his fingers as he flicked the ash away, stepping just a little closer—not enough to touch, but enough that you could feel the warmth from his body.

“yeah, i am.” he said lowly, his fingers itching to cup your face. “doesn’t stop me from standing here wishing i wasn’t, though.”

your eyes flicked back up to his. there it was—that quiet pull. that look in your eyes was the same one you had five years ago when you were tucked underneath him, begging him to please give you a second chance.

you shouldn’t have come—but it still wouldn’t stop sunghoon from wishing he was married to somebody else today.

“sunghoon—just,” your voice cracked. you took a shaky breath, hugging yourself tighter. “just stop it. i’m here today because heeseung invited me, okay? i wasn’t even going to come at first—but i… i just wanted to see you off. properly. that’s all.”

sunghoon frowned, his expression darkened. the cigarette was long forgotten on the ground. he stepped even closer until the space between you felt almost nonexistent. 

“really?” he breathed, voice low and edging with something painful. “really, yn? you’ll just watch and let me get married to another woman that’s not you?”

the words hit hard. your lips parted, but nothing came out. before you could find your voice and the words to say, sunghoon’s hand moved—cuppung your face with a gentleness that didn’t match the look in his eyes. his thumb brushed your cheek once, then he backed you up until your shoulders met the cool stone wall behind.

your breath hitched. his other hand pressed flat against the wall beside your head, caging you in. he was so close you could smell the cigarette smoke, mixed with his cologne and his nervous sweat under his expensive tux.

“is that it, yn?” he whispered, forehead nearly resting against yours. his eyes dropped to your lips, fingers brushing your skin. “tell me right now that you’re fine watching me marry her—that we didn’t spend years loving and giving each other our firsts—and i’ll go.”

but you didn’t say anything. your hands trembled at your sides, fingers brushing against the front of his tux like you wanted to push him away, but couldn’t do it.

sunghoon leaned in slowly. so slowly. his nose brushed yours. his lips hovered just a breath away from your own, close enough that you could almost taste him. close enough that one tiny movement would close the gap and ruin everything. 

your eyes fluttered shut. his grip on your face tightened just a fraction.

“hm, yn? tell me you don’t love me anymore.”

the silence stretched for two heartbeats. 

then your fingers curled into his tie. you gripped the silk tightly, and slowly pulled him down. your voice came out shaky, barely above a whisper, but shattered what was left of his control.

“... what are you going to do if i still do?”

that was all it took.

sunghoon crashed his lips into yours with a wrecked sound, kissing like a man who was drowning and you were the only air left in his lungs. there was nothing gentle about it—it wasn’t a gentle, romantic, reunion kiss, it was years of guilt, longing, and frustration poured out as he tilted your head back against the stone wall and deepened the kiss instantly.  

his tongue slid against yours, hungry and familiar, while one hand slid down to grip your waist, pulling your body flush against his.

you kissed him back just as desperately, tugging harder on his tie like you could keep him here. a soft, broken whimper escaped your throat and he swallowed it whole, pressing you harder into the wall.

the taste of smoke and mint on his tongue was making your head spin. his body was burning against yours, the crisp tux doing nothing to hide how badly he wanted you.

after a few heated seconds, sunghoon suddenly pulled back just enough to speak, breathing ragged against your lips.

“not here,”

before you could respond, he grabbed your hand and pulled you along with him. he moved fast, leading you through a different back door further down the courtyard. it was a room used for wedding preparations—folded chairs stacked against the wall, extra table linens, vases, and a wooden table in the centre.

the door clicked shut.

the second it closed, sunghoon was on you again.

he pushed you up against the nearest wall, kissing even harder than before now that you both had your privacy. both of his hands were on your waist now, sliding down to grip your hips as he pressed his body into yours. 

you moaned softly into his mouth, hands flying up to his hair, ruining his wedding hair. he groaned at the feeling, the sound vibrating down your body.

“fuck, i missed you,” he muttered between kisses, barely pulling away long enough to speak. he wanted to make it up for all the time he couldn’t kiss you. “missed you s’much.”

with a low groan in his throat, sunghoon grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted you effortlessly. you gasped and instantly wrapped your arms around his neck. he set you down on the edge of the wooden table, stepping between your legs and pulling you right to the edge so your bodies were flush again.

the champagne dress rode up your thighs as he pressed closer, hands roaming up your sides, mouth never leaving yours.

sunghoon pulled back from the kiss just enough to look at you—lips swollen, eyes glossy, chest heaving. the sight of you like this snapped the last thread of whatever nonexistent control he had left.

without a word, he pushed you down.

his hand pressed firmly against your chest, guiding you until your back met the white tablecloth. you gasped softly as you laid flat, the movement made your dress ride up higher on your thighs, and sunghoon didn’t waste a second.

he stayed standing between your legs, eyes dark and hungry as they raked over you. his hands slid up your thighs, pushing the dress higher until it bunched around your waist. 

“fuck… look at that,” he breathed, fingers hooked into the waistband of your white lace panties—much like his future wife’s dress—then slowly dragged them down your legs. sunghoon shoved it in his pocket. 

you were completely exposed to him now, laid out on the table like a feast. 

you’re so wet, it’s glistening. you’re so wet for him.

sunghoon’s hands gripped your thighs, spreading them wider. your pussy twitched at the cool air hitting your soaked folds, and the sight made a guttural sound rumble in his chest.

“shit, yn…” he whispered, dripping with lust. “look how wet you are. and you’re telling me to stop?”

he didn’t wait for an answer. 

the groom leaned in and dragged his tongue slowly up your slit, collecting and scooping every drop of your arousal with a hungry groan. the moment his warm tongue touched your clit, your back arched off the table. he wrapped his lips around the sensitive bud and sucked, flicking it with the tip of his tongue at the same time.

“sunghoon!” 

one of your hands flew to his hair, gripping the dark strands tightly as he devoured you. he was relentless—licking, sucking, burying his face deeper between your thighs like he wanted to drown in your taste. the wet obscene sounds of his mouth against your pussy filled the small storage room, mixing with your broken moans.

sunghoon pulled back for just a second, lips shiny with your slick, and spat directly at your opening before diving back in messier. his tongue pushed inside you, fucking you with it—thrusting his muscle back and forth like a dick as his nose rubbed against your clit like a dog. 

he looked up at you through his lashes, lips glistening. 

“you taste so fucking good,” he rasped, the vibration making you whimper. “missed eating you out like this all the time.” 

your legs started shaking around his head. sunghoon tightened his grip, forcing your thighs open wider as he ate you like a man who was unsure when else he’d have this.

he flattened his tongue and licked along, slow stripes up your entire cunt before focusing back on your clit, sucking and flicking until your hips were grinding against his face. your back arched on the table.

“s—sunghoon—! hoonie—fuck!”

your thighs clamped around his head but he forced them open again, groaning into your pussy as he felt you trembling. he inserted his two fingers and began thrusting them back and forth—curling his digits while sucking on your clit till your whole body seized up.

you came hard on his tongue with a broken cry, hips jerking against his face as pleasure crashed through you. sunghoon didn’t stop—he kept licking and fingering you through it, drawing out every last shake and whimper until you were gasping, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes.

he stood up straight between your legs, quickly unbuckling his belt and unzipping his tux pants. his cock sprang out, hard and leaking as he stoked himself, eyes locked on you. 

when was the last time he’s gotten this hard?

sunghoon swallowed the lump in his throat, positioning his cock right between your folds where he slid the head between them back and forth. but before he pushed in, he leaned in slightly, sucking the inside of his cheek.

“...why didn’t you reply to me?” he whispered, chest heaving. “five years. i texted you, emailed you—reached out so many fucking times… and you just disappeared. if you still love me, why didn’t you tell me?”

you were breathing heavily from your orgasm, dress bunched around your waist, legs wrapped loosely around him. you looked up at sunghoon with glassy eyes.

“because we can’t be together, hoonie,” you breathed, voice cracking. “we… this… it was doomed from the beginning. we both knew that.”

his jaw clenched. 

“i don’t wanna hear that shit right now,” he hissed, then pushed inside you in one deep thrust.

you both moaned aloud as he buried himself to the hilt, your walls still pulsing from your orgasm. he didn’t give you time to adjust—started fucking you hard, the wooden table creaking under every brutal snap of his hips. 

sunghoon was getting married today, but he was still stuck up on the girl who made him felt like the world was his five years ago.

the groom leaned to kiss his ex-lover messily as he pounded into you, one hand gripping your thigh, the other tangled in your hair. the sound of skin slapping skin filled the storage room. 

“ah—ngh—!” you moaned, all high pitch and lewd as he fucked you hard and deep. your arms extended to loosely wrap around his neck, kissing him back just as needy.

sunghoon pulled back to rest his forehead against yours. “it’s because of him, isn’t it?”

you whimpered when the tip of his cock kissed your cervix. sunghoon snapped his hips harder.

“intak. it’s because of that fuckass intak—because you were guilty you were cheating on intak the whole time you were with me?”

your eyes widened, a broken whimper escaped your lips when he kept hitting that soft, good spot inside you that made your toes curl. “w—wait, wait—hah!”

sunghoon didn’t stop. he fucked you with punishing, jealous, deep thrusts as he spoke through his gritted teeth.

“i knew, baby. i always fucking knew. i didn’t care—i told you i didn’t care. i wanted you so bad i was willing to share you if that’s what it took… i kept hoping you’d finally choose me and leave him—but you never did.”

he thrust particularly hard, making the table legs scrape against the floor. it was hard to reply. it was hard to form words—not when each time sunghoon railed you deep, the words in your brain scattered like dominos and your mouth could only form moans and his name.

“you loved us both, didn’t you?” his voice cracked with bitterness and lust. sunghoon loved you more—he knew that. he knew he loved you more than intak could ever. even after five years, he doubted intak ever knew he was being double two–timed. 

“you left me cause you were guilty you couldn’t pick. instead of saying anything… you just disappeared. i could’ve—i would’ve—”

a particularly rough snap of his hips made you cry out, your nails digging into his broad, toned shoulders through his shirt. tears were slipping down your temples now, from pleasure, pain, years of guilt, and the fact that he just called you out like that.

sunghoon’s rhythm faltered for a second as he watched a tear fall. he leaned in and licked it off your skin before kissing you messily. “—i would’ve waited.”

he pulled almost all the way out and slammed back in, making you cry out his name. 

“but tell me how the fuck we’re supposed to be done when your pussy is still squeezing me like this.” 

sunghoon kept fucking you deep, hips rolling into yours with long, possessive strokes. the anger in his voice was still there, but it was melting into something heavier. 

“i’m sorry…” you choked out between moans, clinging to him. “hoonie, i’m so sorry—i didn’t know what to do then. i hurt you… and i couldn’t face it anymore. i’m so fucking sorry—”

“shh,” he cut you off. 

he slowed his thrusts, turning them into deep, sensual, intimate rolls that made you feel every inch, every texture of him. he leaned down, pressing his forehead to yours, eyes locked on you as he moved inside. 

“it doesn’t matter anymore,” he murmured against your lips. “i’ve missed you so much. you make up for everything that happened.”

sunghoon kissed you slowly, deeply, swallowing your whimpers as he rocked into you. one of his hands slid under your back to pull you closer so your chests were pressed together. the other cradled the side of your face, thumb brushing your tears. 

his lips moved from your mouth to your jaw, then down your neck where he sucked gentle marks into your skin like a proof he was here with you. he was here with you while waiting to be called up to the church. 

“i still love you,” the groom murmured against your throat, burying himself to the hilt, just feeling you pulse around him. “i never stopped.”

you wrapped your arms around his neck as you held him close.

“you were supposed to be my wife—you’re supposed to be wearing that wedding dress today.”

the words hit you like a knife. before you could even respond, he straightened up, pulling out of you almost completely before slamming back in with a brutal thrust. 

a sharp cry tore from your throat. 

he grabbed both your legs, folding them up and pressing them toward your chest. with one arm, he hooked them over his left shoulder, nearly bending you in half on the table. the new angle made him sink so much deeper that your eyes rolled back.

then sunghoon started fucking you hard again.

the sound of skin slapping skin echoed loudly in the small storage room as he railed into you, eyes locked on your face the entire time. 

“shit—” he groaned, sweat dripping down his temple, hair completely ruined. “you’re supposed to be my wife.”

every thrust was possessive and heartbroken. your mouth fell open in a silent scream of pleasure, hands scrambled—one gripping his arm, the other clawing at the white tablecloth. 

sunghoon reached into the inner pocket of his tux jacket with his free hand, pulling out a small velvet box—the ring he was supposed to give jake, the best man, to hold during the ceremony.

he didn’t even hesitate. 

while still fucking you mercilessly, he opened the box with his teeth, took out the beautiful diamond ring meant for his bride, sooha, and grabbed your left hand.

“hoonie—!” you gasped, eyes wide. you weren’t sure what to feel about it.

he slid the ring onto your finger, watched as it sat perfectly on your ring finger like it should have been.

“you’re mine,” he growled, pounding into you even harder, the ring glinting under the dim light with every thrust. you squeezed around his cock harder, the guilt turning into pleasure real quick. “—i’m yours too, baby. i’ve never stopped being.”

“this is your ring, this should’ve been your ring.”

your walls clenched hard around him at his words, a broken sob–moan ripping out of you as another orgasm started building dangerously fast. the sight of his fiance’s ring on your finger while he fucking you on his wedding day was so wrong it made your head spin.

but you also couldn’t deny the pleasure you were getting out of it. 

“i can’t—i can’t hold it, shit,” you groaned, gasping. sunghoon’s rhythm turned messy and desperate, losing all control. “oh my gosh, hoonie, ‘m cumming—!”

you moaned out loud, shaking as another orgasm crashed into you—your pussy clenched around him, pulsing and gushing as you came with a cry of his name.

sunghoon too, burying himself to the hilt with a wrecked moan, forehead pressed against your legs as he came hard. thick, hot spurts of his cum flooded deep inside you, filling you up as his hips jerked through every wave. he kept grinding into you slowly, pushing his release deeper. he needed you to keep every drop.

“take it… fuck, that all of me,” he panted, trembling slightly.

for a long moment, the only sounds in the room were both of you breathing heavily. sunghoon slowly lowered your legs, but he stayed buried inside, not wanting to pull out yet. he leaned down and kissed you—slow, deep, full of everything he couldn’t say. 

her ring on your finger glistened as you cupped his face. 

he finally pulled out carefully, watching as his cum leaked out of your swollen pussy onto the white tablecloth. sunghoon helped you sit up, fixing your dress with gentle hands—you too, tying his tie properly. 

his forehead rested against yours, eyes closed.

“...do you have to go back?”

——

“hey, is it true?” 

“hm?” you murmured sleepily, nuzzling closer to him.

the room was dark except for the light coming from his desk lamp. the two of you were naked underneath the blanket, tangled in his sheets. your head rested on his chest while his fingers traced hearts and his name up and down your bare arm.

sunghoon shifted slightly, looking down at you. 

“you’re dating intak?”

.

your eyes widened instantly. you say up so fast the blanket slipped down your chest and you had to quickly pull it up. “what?”

sunghoon didn’t move, he stayed laying on his back, one arm still loosely behind his head as he watched you. his voice stayed calm.

“i heard it from my friends. they said you two have been dating for a while… or at least that’s how it is.” he paused for a second, then added quietly, “well… i’m just asking. really.”

the silence that followed felt suffocating. you pulled the blanket up even more, wishing if it was visible, it would hide the way your heart was hammering against your ribcage. 

“um, hoonie, i—” your voice cracked. you didn’t know what to say. you’re not sure how to come clean. not sure how to react. the guilt was written all over your face. how were you supposed to say it?

yes. i’m dating hwang intak. 

“yn,” he said softly, cutting you off. sunghoon reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. “just be honest with me.”

he wasn’t angry. no—sunghoon was never an angry person. there was no rage in his voice, no accusation; just quiet disappointment and raw curiosity. his eyes searched yours like he was trying to understand what you were doing. 

“i’m not mad,” he continued, almost reassuringly. “i just… i thought i was the only one. that’s all.”

he let out a small breath, the corner of his lips twitching into a sad, half–smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“so… are you dating him?”

this was embarrassing. you were sitting there, naked in his bed, while the boy you were secretly seeing asked you about the other boy you were seeing. 

you stared at him, lips slightly parted. the way sunghoon was looking at you made the guilt twist even deeper in your tummy. would it have been better if he was mad? that way, you could reply with anger too.

you swallowed hard, gripping the blanket.

“...yeah,” you whispered, voice barely audible. “i’m dating him.”

sunghoon’s jaw tightened just slightly, but he didn’t look away. he simply nodded, taking a deep breath.

“i’m sorry,” you said quickly, the words tumbling out. “sunghoon, i’m really sorry. i didn’t know how to tell you. it started before… before what we have got serious—and i know—i know it’s fucked up… i know.”

you hugged the blanket tighter to your chest, eyes starting to water. gosh, you sounded like a manipulator. 

“i’m not even happy with him anymore,” you admitted, voice cracking. “it just doesn’t feel real with him.”

sunghoon was quiet. he was processing your words before he slowly sat up, the blanket pooling around his waist as he faced you properly. his hand reached out to gently hold yours.

“then why don’t you break up with him?” he asked, direct. “i’m right here, yn. you know how i feel about you. this isn’t going to change anythig—i’m not going anywhere.”

you looked down at your intertwined fingers, thumb brushing nervously over his knuckles. the silence stretched. 

“...it’s, um… it’s hard,” you whispered. 

sunghoon tilted his head slightly, thick eyebrows furrowed.

“why?” he asked. “if you’re not happy… if you say you want this,” he gestures between the two of you, squeezing your hand. “then why stay with him?”

you bit your lip, averting your gaze elsewhere. 

“because i feel guilty,” you confessed, another jab to your chest. “he’s been good to me. he really loves me. and i…i care about him too. i don’t know how to end it without completely breaking him. i don’t know how to do this without hurting someone.”

sunghoon sighed, his free hand went up to scratch the back of his neck—a habit he does often. 

he stayed quiet for a few seconds, just staring at your intertwined hands. 

then he asked,

“what about me?”

he looked up, meeting your eyes. when did you find it in you to look at him? “what do you feel about me?”

you squeezed his hand tiger, fresh tears sliding down your cheeks.

“i love you,” you whispered, but full of certainty. “i really do, hoonie. it’s not the same as what i feel for him, trust me. it even scares me how much i feel for you. i keep coming back to you even when i know i shouldn’t—because i love you so much. i’m in love with you.”

you leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his shoulder.

“i’m sorry i dragged you into this mess. i never meant to hurt you. i just… you’re the one i think about when i’m not with you.”

sunghoon let out a soft sigh, hand coming up to caress your hair. 

“i love you too.” he murmured, kissing the top of your head, then brought your face up to kiss your temple and cheek. he’d go for a smoke, but he promised you he’d stop. bad habits.

“way more than i should.”

——

“take it… fuck, that all of me,” he panted, trembling slightly.

for a long moment, the only sounds in the room were both of you breathing heavily. sunghoon slowly lowered your legs, but he stayed buried inside, not wanting to pull out yet. he leaned down and kissed you—slow, deep, full of everything he couldn’t say. 

her ring on your finger glistened as you cupped his face. 

he finally pulled out carefully, watching as his cum leaked out of your swollen pussy onto the white tablecloth. sunghoon helped you sit up, fixing your dress with gentle hands—you too, tying his tie properly. 

his forehead rested against yours, eyes closed.

the silence felt personal before his phone started ringing loudly on the floor where it had fallen out of his pocket earlier. the sharp sound shattered the moment.

both of you froze. 

before either of you could move, the door to the storage room swung open—

—jake, heeseung, and jay stood there with sooha right behind them.

time stopped.

sooha’s eyes widened like it was going to pop out of her sockets—her hand flying up to cover her mouth. the bouquet she was holding slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a thud. her gaze dropped to your disheveled dress, your flushed face, the cum still dripping down your thighs, the marks on your neck, the stained lipstick… 

and the diamond ring—her engagement ring—sitting on your finger.

“sunghoon…?” she murmured like she was still trying to process it, her voice coming out a broken whisper.

the boys’ eyes widened as well.

“fuck…” heeseung muttered first, hissing through his teeth before he looked down on his shoes, pressing on his nose bridge. he looked down at his shoes, clearly stressed. “shit… sunghoon, what the hell…”

jake looked completely stunned, mouth slightly open like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. jay immediately went tight–lipped, his eyebrows pinched together. the three of them weren’t exploding in anger—it was worse.

pure disappointment mixed with exhaustion, like they… they had almost expected something like this might happen but still hoped it wouldn’t.

heeseung genuinely thought sunghoon was over it when he decided to email you the invitation. 

sooha’s lips trembled—she wasn’t sure what to feel. she knew there was someone in sunghoon’s life before—one he never fully talked about. but it was years ago! years ago. it was an ancient shit history that went on.

“what the fuck—?!” 

her voice finally broke through the realisation. she pushed past the three boys, forcing her way to the front. 

the second she moved forward, you and sunghoon scrambled off the table. you turned your face immediately, unable to look at her with the shame burning through your entire body. sunghoon stood in front of you on instinct. 

“what the fuck, sunghoon?!” she screamed, all heartbreak and rage. she shoved his chest hard. he stumbled back slightly, but not hitting you. 

“on our wedding day?!”

she hit his chest again, and again—frantic hits fueled by pain. “why the fuck is she here—?! why are you fucking her on our wedding day?”

jay looked at heeseung, he looked away.

“stop—sooha, stop,” sunghoon spoke. he grabbed both of her shoulders to stop her from hitting him, but she struggled, sobbing. 

“fuck… sooha, please,” sunghoon sighed, holding her shoulders tighter to steady her. “listen to me.” he continued, grabbing her wrists firmly to stop her from hitting him again.

she was crying. “listen to you? what the fuck do you have to say to me?!”

sunghoon glanced at you for a split second, then back at her. his grip on her wrists loosened, but he didn’t let go completely.

“i’m sorry that it happened like this—i really am,” he swallowed the lump in his throat. you shifted on your heels, darting your tongue out to wet your dry lips. “i… i can’t marry you, sooha. i’m so fucked up over yn—i can’t.”

sooha’s breath hitched. your eyes widened, and you found yourself tugging on the back of his blazer to hint at him—what? 

sunghoon disregarded both. 

heeseung, jake, and jay stayed completely silent by the door, unsure if they should step in or disappear. 

the groom swallowed the lump in his throat before fully letting go of her wrists, biting down his bottom lip. 

“i’m sorry—i really tried.”

without another word, he reached back and grabbed your wrist firmly, pulling you out of the storage room and storming past his stunned friends and sooha. you barely had time to react as he dragged you down the hallway, away from the hall, away from the guests and the disaster he’d just detonated.

neither of you looked back.

The party is Mina’s idea. It always is. You’ve stopped pretending otherwise — stopped doing the thing where you spend twenty minutes debating whether you’re really feeling it before Mina gives you the look and you both know you’re going regardless.

It’s a Friday in late September, the air outside finally tipping from warm to something with a bite in it, and you’ve been in your dorm room since two in the afternoon staring at the same paragraph of Middlemarch without absorbing a single word.

“You need to get out of this room,” Mina says from your bed, where she’s been watching you not read for the past hour. She’s already dressed — black top, dark jeans, the gold hoops she only wears when she’s decided the night is going to be worth the effort. She decided before she came over. The last hour has been a courtesy. “You’ve been staring at that book like it cheated on you.”

The word lands between you, briefly. Mina’s face doesn’t change “George Eliot is a menace,” you say.

“You love George Eliot.”

“I love George Eliot when I’m not trying to produce fifteen hundred words on her narrative voice by Monday morning.” You close the book. It’s not like you’re reading it anyway.

The thing about Delta Kappa parties is that they are, by any objective measure, too much. Too loud, too hot, the bass sitting somewhere in your sternum, red cups and bodies everywhere you look. Mina thrives. You tolerate it with the specific resignation of someone who knows they’re going to have a good time despite themselves and finds this faintly irritating.

You’re on your second drink when you see Sunghoon. He’s across the room near the kitchen doorway, mid-conversation with someone you don’t recognise, laughing at something. Head tipped back the way he always did — that particular way, unhurried and a little private, like whatever amused him was his alone. You used to love that about him. You watch it for maybe three seconds before you look away, which feels like a victory of some kind.

Four months. Four months since you’d found out, since you’d sat on your dorm room floor and read a conversation thread you were never supposed to see, since everything you thought you’d built with him had turned out to be built on something rotten underneath.

Two years of your life. Your first real relationship. You’d thought it would last.

You look away. You drain the rest of your cup.

“He’s here,” Mina says, appearing at your elbow with the precision of someone who has been watching.

“I know.”

“Do you want to leave?”

“No.” You mean it. “I’m not leaving a party because of Sunghoon Park.”

She studies you for a moment with that particular look — the one that measures the difference between actually fine and performing fine with uncomfortable accuracy. Whatever she finds seems to satisfy her, because she clinks her cup against yours and says, “Then let’s get another drink.”

You’re at the makeshift bar — someone’s kitchen counter pressed into service — when you become aware of someone standing beside you. Not waiting for the bottle. Something else. A specific quality of attention that you register before you’ve consciously clocked it. You look up. Jake Sim looks back.

You know who he is the way you know most things about the people who exist in Caldwell’s uppermost stratum — passively, through cultural osmosis, without ever having chosen to learn. Captain of the Wolves. Dean’s son. The name that comes up in a specific tone of voice, like a warning dressed as gossip.

Up close he is, unfortunately, exactly as good-looking as that reputation implies. Tall, built through the shoulders and chest in the way that years of hockey builds — not showy, just solid, like his body was designed to take up space and does so without apology. Dark eyes. A jaw that should probably be illegal. A mouth curved at the corner like he’s already three steps ahead of the conversation and finds this mildly entertaining.

“You’re doing maths,” he says.

You blink. “What?”

“Your face.” He nods at you, vaguely. “Very intense for someone just standing at a bar.”

“I’m making a drink.”

“You’ve been staring at that vodka for forty-five seconds.”

“I didn’t realise I was being timed.”

“You weren’t.” He reaches past you for the bottle — close enough that you catch something clean and faintly expensive — pours his own cup, sets it back.

“I’m Jake.”

“I know who you are.” Something moves through his expression. Amusement, maybe, or the specific satisfaction of a fact confirmed.

“Most people do,” he says, and there’s no arrogance in it, just a statement of observable reality, which is somehow worse. “And you’re—”

“Also a person,” you say.

That gets a real smile. Brief, but actual. “Fair enough.”

You should find Mina. You’re aware of this the way you’re aware of the coursework due Monday and the fact that it’s past midnight — true, noted, irrelevant. Instead you stay where you are and let the conversation go where it goes, and it goes somewhere you didn’t expect.

He’s good at this. That’s the thing you clock first and keep clocking — the way he makes conversation feel like it has momentum, like you’re building toward something together, the timing of his humour landing slightly off-beat in a way that catches you. He asks questions and actually listens to the answers. You know it’s a formula. You know it has worked on an uncountable number of girls at an uncountable number of parties exactly like this one, and knowing that should make you immune to it, and it doesn’t.

Mina finds you at some point, clocks the situation in under a second, raises her eyebrows precisely two millimetres — a full paragraph in two millimetres — and disappears back into the crowd.

At some point his hand finds the small of your back. Light. Questioning. You don’t move away from it. At some point, close enough that you feel the words more than hear them, he says: “We could get out of here.”

You think about Middlemarch, which you’re not going to read tonight regardless. You think about the two years you spent being someone’s person and the four months since that have felt like learning to walk in a body that’s been subtly rearranged. You think about Sunghoon somewhere in this house with his head tipped back, laughing.

“Okay,” you say.

His room is in the east block upperclassmen housing — a single, because of course, because Jake Sim has probably never had to negotiate space with anyone in his life. It’s tidier than you’d have guessed. You file this away without meaning to, the way you’re still filing things even now, even when you’ve told yourself you’re not doing that anymore.

He closes the door and you’re already turning toward him and then his mouth is on yours and it’s nothing like how he acted downstairs — no charm, no ease, just heat and intent, his hands gripping your face and kissing you like he’s already decided exactly how this goes.

You grab his shirt and walk him backwards and he turns you instead, smooth and immediate, your back hitting the wall beside the door hard enough to knock the breath out of you and you don’t care, you’re already pulling at his shirt and he’s already got your top halfway up your body.

He strips it off you and his mouth drops straight to your throat, open and hot, and then your bra is unclasped and gone before you’ve fully registered his hands at the back of it.

Then his mouth is on your tits and he makes a sound low in his chest like the sight of them was specifically designed to ruin him. His hands cup them, squeezing, thumbs dragging slow over your nipples and watching your face while he does it. You feel your cheeks go hot because his expression is entirely too focused, too attentive, like he’s cataloguing your reactions and filing it away for later use.

He bends his head and takes one nipple into his mouth, tongue working in slow wet circles. Your head drops back against the wall on a moan you didn’t mean to let out that loud.

“Yeah,” he says against your skin, rough and pleased, “get loud,” and bites down lightly you gasp and your nails find his shoulders through his shirt.

He marks you up like he has all the time in the world — mouth dragging from your tits to your throat to your collarbone and back again, teeth and tongue, leaving his work on your skin with a thoroughness that should feel like too much and instead just makes you want more.

His hips grind into yours against the wall, the hard line of his cock pressed against your core through clothing, slow and deliberate, the friction makes you roll up into it and he does it again to which you make a sound that’s honestly embarrassing.

“Bed,” you manage, and he pulls back just enough to look at you — mouth-bitten, dark-eyed, satisfied with himself in a way you don’t have the capacity to be annoyed about right now — and walks you to it.

You land on the mattress and he’s over you immediately, his mouth back on your tits before you’ve stopped bouncing on the mattress, you’re pulling at his shirt until he lets you get it off him and then his jeans are gone and yours are gone and he’s settled between your thighs in just his boxers and the weight of him is — a lot, in the best way, solid and warm and pressing you into the mattress, his hips grind down slow as his cock drags against your pussy through the thin fabric of your panties, you grab his shoulders to hold onto something.

He does it again. Slower.

His mouth is still at your nipple, tongue working it stiff while his hips keep that maddening rhythm, grinding into you with enough friction to make your thighs clench around him but not enough to give you anything real, you can hear how wet you are, can feel it and judging by the way his jaw tightens he can too.

“Jake,” you say, and it comes out more desperate than you intend.

“I know,” he says, like that’s an answer, and then he’s moving down your body.

He hooks your underwear off, throws it somewhere and finally puts his mouth on your pussy. Your back comes off the mattress.

He licks into your folds slowly, taking his time, his tongue dragging from your entrance up to your clit in one long stroke and then doing it again, his hands are spread flat on your inner thighs holding you open and still and there is nothing to do but take it.

He’s good — infuriatingly good — like he’s genuinely interested in making you cum, like this is something he wants to do rather than something he’s doing to get to the next thing. You’ve got one fist in the sheets and one pressed to your own mouth to which he pulls your hand away from your face without looking up. “Don’t,” he says against your cunt, and goes back to work.

His tongue finds your clit and stays there, tight focused circles, two fingers then press at your entrance and push in slow, curling immediately, finding the spot that makes your hips jolt and working it with patience that feels almost cruel.

The sounds coming out of you are loud and continuous and undignified and he hums against you like he approves, the vibration travelling straight up your spine, and you can feel yourself getting close embarrassingly fast, your walls clenching tight around his fingers, your whole body chasing it.

“Don’t stop,” you manage, “don’t — please —“ and he doesn’t, his tongue relentless on your clit and his fingers curling deep, and you cum on his mouth with your thighs shaking, his name coming out broken and too loud for the room.

He works you through every second of it, tongue gentling, fingers slowing until you’re twitching and oversensitive and pulling at his hair to get him off you, he comes back up your body looking composed in a way that feels like a personal attack. There’s something dark and satisfied in his expression as he looks down at you and kisses you before you can say anything, slow, and you taste yourself on his tongue.

His cock is hard against your hip, straining against his boxers, you reach between you and wrap your hand around him and feel him shudder. He’s thick and heavy in your palm, already slick at the tip and when you stroke him his composure cracks — hips pushing into your grip, jaw tightening and a low rough sound forming against your mouth.

You work him slow and watch his face and feel something warm and powerful settle in your chest. “Condom,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says and reaches for the nightstand.

He pushes in slow and you feel every single inch. The stretch of him opening you up, thick and relentless, your walls giving way around his cock, you dig your nails into his back and breathe through it until he’s fully seated. You’re so full it sits somewhere between pleasure and pain and then he rolls his hips and it tips firmly into the first one.

He starts slow — deep, grinding strokes, his cock dragging against every nerve of you, the weight of his hips pinning yours into the mattress and his mouth finds your tits again immediately, like he can’t help it, tongue working your nipple while his hips keep their deep rhythm and you stop being capable of thoughts that go anywhere.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he says against your breast, low and rough, and bites down on the swell of it and soothes it with his tongue and does it again somewhere else.

“Jake—”

“I know,” he says, his thumb finds your clit. The added pressure makes you gasp and your hips jolt up to meet his and he makes a sound that isn’t quite a groan and picks up the pace.

The slow grind gives way to something sharper. His hips snap against yours and the headboard knocks the wall and the wet sounds of it fill the room. You have completely stopped caring about anything except the way his cock fills you on every stroke, deep and thick, the drag of him pulling back and driving in again setting off a chain reaction of sensation that climbs fast.

He shifts your leg up higher over his hip and the angle changes, deeper, and the sound you make at that is genuinely obscene. “Yeah?” he says, doing it again, deliberate. “There?”

“Yes,” you manage, “there, don’t stop, please—”

“Dirty when you want something,” he says, low and pleased, and fucks you harder.

His thumb circles your clit without stopping, his cock drives into your cunt again and again and his mouth marks your throat. The build crests too fast to catch — you cum for the second time harder, walls clenching rhythmically around him, his name coming out wrecked and he follows you over with his hips buried deep and his face pressed to your throat, low broken sounds against your skin as he cums.

The room goes quiet. You stare at the ceiling. Your body has been taken apart and put back together slightly differently and everything feels warm and loose and heavy.

That, you think distantly, was either the best or worst decision you’ve made in months.

Possibly both.

Jake disposes of the condom, comes back, drops onto the bed beside you. The quiet settles. It’s almost comfortable — the dark, the warmth, both of you just breathing. And then…

“You can go whenever,” he says. Flat. Casual. Already looking at the ceiling like you’re no longer the most interesting thing in the room. Like you’ve been downgraded, in the last thirty seconds, from a person to an inconvenience that’s resolved itself.

You blink. You can go whenever. Not you don’t have to rush, not do you want some water, not even basic human decency. Just — you can go. Door’s there. Thanks for coming.

Something cold moves cleanly through the warmth in your chest and extinguishes it. You sit up. “Right,” you say. Your voice comes out level. You’re proud of that.

He says nothing. He is staring at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head like a man with absolutely no awareness that he’s just been profoundly rude, or perhaps perfect awareness and total indifference, which is worse.

You find your clothes in the dark with quiet methodical efficiency — jeans, top, shoes, bra shoved into your bag because life is short. You do not look at him while you dress and he does not look at you. At the door you pause, and you genuinely don’t know why, some reflex kicking in from a life spent being polite to people who haven’t earned it.

“Bye, then,” you say.

“Mm,” says Jake Sim, at the ceiling not even at you. You want to scoff in his stupidly hot face.

You close the door behind you.

The walk back across campus takes twelve minutes and you spend all twelve of them with the cold night air doing its best against the heat in your face. Not embarrassment — or not only that. Something sharper. The specific anger of someone who knew exactly what they were walking into and walked into it anyway and is now annoyed at themselves for being annoyed.

I knew, you think, with each step. I knew what he was. Everyone knows what he is. I just—

You’d let the hour at the bar do its work. You’d let the conversation and the hand at the small of your back and the dark eyes and the unfair jaw do their work, and you’d told yourself it was fine because you were going in clear-eyed, and the sex had been — god, the sex had been amazing — but then he’d opened his mouth and reminded you exactly who he was and now here you are, at one forty in the morning, crossing the quad with your bra in your bag.

You text Mina. still up?

The reply is immediate. obviously. how was it?

You stare at your phone for a moment. come to mine, you type back.

Mina is sitting up in your bed when you get back, laptop open, a bowl of cereal balanced on her knee that she definitely made while waiting. She takes one look at your face as you come through the door and sets it on the nightstand. “Tell me.”

You drop your bag, toe off your shoes, and sit on the end of the bed. You press your fingers to your eyes for a moment. “The sex,” you say carefully, “was genuinely incredible. Like — top three of my life, Mina. Easily. Potentially top two.”

“Okay—”

“And then, the moment it was over, he looked at the ceiling and told me I could go whenever.” You drop your hands. “In the tone of someone dismissing a tradesman. Like I’d come to fix his boiler.”

Mina’s expression moves through several stages. “He did not.”

“He absolutely did.”

“What did you say?”

“I said bye then and closed the door.”

“Bye then?”

“I panicked and defaulted to manners.” You flop backwards onto the duvet. “I knew. That’s the thing. I knew exactly what he was before I ever spoke to him and I did it anyway because—” You gesture at the ceiling. “I don’t know. Because I’m tired of being careful. Because Sunghoon was across the room being beautiful and I wanted to feel something that wasn’t about him.”

Mina is quiet for a moment. Then: “Was it, at least something that wasn’t about Sunghoon.”

You consider this with the ceiling. “Yes,” you admit. “Annoyingly, yes. Right up until he opened his mouth.”

“He really is the worst,” Mina says, with the conviction of someone delivering a verdict.

“He really, genuinely is.” You stare upward. “He’s got such a good cock though, Mina. Like. I’m annoyed about it. I’m actively annoyed.”

Mina puts her face in her hands. You watch her shoulders shake. “It’s not funny,” you tell her, and then you’re laughing too, and the tight mean thing in your chest loosens by a fraction, and outside the window Caldwell goes on being loud and indifferent and fully lit up, and you are fine.

You’re fine. You’re completely fine.

The week after the party you are, by any reasonable measure, completely fine.

You turn in the Middlemarch essay on Monday morning — fifteen hundred words on narrative voice, mostly written Sunday afternoon in a single focused stretch that you attribute to having gotten something out of your system.

You go to your Tuesday seminar and your Wednesday lecture and you have coffee with Mina on Thursday at the place near the English building where they do the good almond croissants, and you do not think about Jake Sim.

Or you think about him the normal amount. The amount that is appropriate for a person you slept with once at a party and will probably never speak to again, which is to say occasionally and without weight, the way you might think about a film you watched on a plane — enjoyable in the moment, not something you’d seek out again, largely irrelevant to your actual life.

This is what you tell yourself. Mina does not challenge it, which means she’s either convinced or she’s decided to let you have it, and knowing Mina it’s the second one.

Sunghoon texts you on Wednesday. Just — hey, saw you at Delta Kappa Friday. you looked good. You stare at it for a long time. You don’t reply.

You see Jake on Monday. You’re crossing the main quad, coffee in hand, bag over one shoulder, running approximately four minutes late for your seminar, and he’s coming the other direction with Jay Park and someone you don’t recognise, all three of them in Wolves gear, clearly post-practice.

He’s laughing at something Jay said, head tilted back, and he looks — easy, and loose, and completely unbothered by anything in the known universe, which you knew, which is exactly what you expected, and yet something about seeing it in person at ten forty-three on a Monday morning makes your jaw tighten anyway.

He doesn’t see you. Or he does and gives no indication of it, which amounts to the same thing. You look straight ahead and keep walking and do not think about it for the rest of the morning.

You think about it a little bit in the afternoon. By evening you’ve filed it away under irrelevant and moved on, which is the correct and mature response and you’re proud of yourself.

The sickness starts on Wednesday morning. You wake up with your stomach doing something wrong — not dramatic, not the sharp unmistakable rebellion of food poisoning, just a low persistent nausea that sits behind your sternum like it’s made itself at home. You lie still for a moment, waiting for it to pass.

It doesn’t.

You get up, make it to the bathroom, sit on the edge of the tub for ten minutes breathing carefully, and then it eases enough that you can brush your teeth and get dressed and tell yourself you’re fine.

You’re not fine by Thursday morning.

The nausea is worse — still not acute, still this low insidious wrongness, but it’s there when you wake up and it doesn’t fully lift, and your coffee tastes like something burnt and metallic and you push it away after two sips which Mina clocks immediately from across the table at the place near the English building.

“You’re not drinking your coffee.”

“I’m not feeling it today.”

Mina looks at the cup. Looks at you. “You have never in three years of knowing you not felt like coffee.”

“There’s a first time for everything.” She watches you for a moment with that look. You look back at your laptop and don’t say anything else.

By Saturday you feel actively, genuinely terrible.

Not sick-sick — no fever, no aches, nothing you can point to as a specific illness — just this relentless creeping nausea that is worst in the morning and fades by afternoon and makes the idea of eating before eleven o’clock an abstract and unpleasant concept.

You cancel your Saturday morning coffee with Mina, which you have never done, and she’s at your door by noon with a container of crackers and a forensic expression. “Talk,” she says.

“I think I’m coming down with something.”

“What kind of something.”

“I don’t know, Mina, a virus. A bug. Something that’s going around.”

She sits down on your bed and opens the crackers and holds them out to you and you take one because the sight of them is, somehow, the most appealing thing you’ve encountered all week. You eat it slowly. Your stomach does not immediately rebel. You take another one. “How long?” Mina asks.

“Since Wednesday morning.”

“And it’s worst in the morning.”

“Yes.”

“And you can’t drink coffee.”

“It tastes wrong.” Mina is quiet for a moment. You eat another cracker and look at the wall. “I’m sure it’s just a bug,” you say.

“Yeah,” Mina says, in a tone that means something else entirely. “Probably.”

The conspiracy theories start that evening, though. It’s the two of you on your bed with Mina’s laptop open and a bag of pretzels between you, and it begins reasonably enough — you googling nausea worse in morning possible causes and working through the list with the detached efficiency of someone who is definitely not spiralling. Stress. Acid reflux. Inner ear issues. Viral gastroenteritis. Dietary changes.

“Have you eaten anything different lately?” Mina asks.

“No.”

“Stressed about something?”

“When am I not stressed about something.”

“Fair.” She scrolls. “It says here inner ear problems can cause—”

“I don’t have inner ear problems, Mina.”

Mina scrolls further. You eat a pretzel and watch her face and wait for it. You know it’s coming. You’ve known since Saturday morning, if you’re being honest, since she’d sat on your bed with that specific expression and said probably in that specific tone, and you’ve been not-thinking about it with considerable effort for the past several hours.

“Okay,” Mina says, carefully, still looking at the screen. “What if.”

“No.”

“I haven’t said anything yet.”

“You don’t have to.” You pull the laptop toward you and close the tab. “It’s been less than two weeks. It’s too early for that. It’s a bug.”

“You used a condom?”

“Obviously.”

“They’re not a hundred percent.”

“It’s a bug,” you say. “It’s a completely normal bug that normal people get and it has nothing to do with — it’s a bug.”

Mina looks at you with the expression of someone who has several more things to say and has made a strategic decision to not say them yet. “Okay,” she says. “Bug.”

By Sunday you can’t keep breakfast down. You sit on your bathroom floor at eight in the morning with your back against the tub and your forehead against your knees and you think about the party, and Jake’s room, and the nightstand, and the condom, and you think no very firmly and repeatedly and it doesn’t help at all.

You text Mina. can you come over

She’s there in seven minutes. She doesn’t say anything when you open the door, just looks at your face, and you nod back at her.

The Caldwell campus drugstore is a five minute walk from your building and has, blessedly, a single-occupancy bathroom at the back that Mina sweet-talks the Saturday cashier into letting you use on the grounds that you’re not feeling well, which is at least entirely true. It’s a very small bathroom.

The two of you fill it completely — you on the closed toilet lid, Mina with her back against the sink, the test sitting on the edge of it between you with three minutes on Mina’s phone timer counting down. Nobody says anything.

The tile is white. There’s a motivational poster on the back of the door — you’ve got this! in yellow letters — that you stare at with a feeling you can’t fully name.

Two minutes.

“It’s probably negative,” you say.

“Probably,” Mina says.

“The condom—”

“Yeah.” “And it’s been less than two weeks. Like. The timing—”

“The timing is actually about right,” Mina says, gently, “for symptoms to—”

“Stop,” you say.

One minute.

You watch the timer. The timer watches back. Your hands are completely still in your lap which surprises you — you’d have expected them to shake, but instead you feel very calm in the specific way that you get sometimes when something is about to happen and your body has decided that panic is a resource to be conserved.

The timer goes off.

Neither of you moves for a second. Then Mina picks up the test and looks at it. Her face does something — a flicker, fast and controlled, there and gone — and she hands it to you without speaking.

Two lines.

You look at it for a long time.

“Okay,” you say, finally.

“Yeah,” Mina says.

The motivational poster on the wall says you’ve got this! in yellow letters and you stare at it and think about Jake Sim telling the ceiling you can go whenever and feel something move through you that is too big and too complicated to have a name yet.

“Okay,” you say again. Like if you keep saying it, it’ll start meaning something useful.

—

You don’t go to him straight away. That feels important somehow — that you don’t just spiral out of that drugstore bathroom and make a beeline for the Hargrove Center in a panic, that you go back to your dorm first and sit with it for a while like a person with some degree of self-possession.

You and Mina order food you mostly don’t eat and sit on your bed with the test face-down on the nightstand like if you can’t see it it’s less real, and you talk around it for a while before you talk about it directly, which is its own kind of processing.

“You don’t have to decide anything today,” Mina says.

“I know.”

“You don’t have to tell him today either.”

“I know.” You pull your sleeves over your hands. “But I feel like — I don’t know. He should know. Like in or not he’s — it’s his. He should know.”

Mina is quiet for a moment. “Okay,” she says. “But eat something first.”

You eat half a portion of noodles. It’s the most you’ve managed in days and your stomach accepts it cautiously, like it’s making no promises. Then you change your top, put your shoes on, and look at Mina.

“Don’t come with me,” you say.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You were absolutely going to.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. “Text me the second you’re out.”

The Hargrove Center is a twenty minute walk across campus and you use all twenty minutes to rehearse what you’re going to say, which turns out to be a complete waste of time because the moment you push through the side door and the cold air of the rink hits you — that particular sharp smell of ice and equipment — your prepared sentences evaporate entirely.

Practice is just wrapping up. You can see them from the entrance, the Wolves coming off the ice in clusters, helmets off, sticks in hand. Jay Park says something that makes Riki Nishimura laugh. Jungwon Yang is already halfway to the boards.

And Jake is — there, centre ice, still, talking to one of the assistant coaches with his helmet under his arm and his hair pushed back from his face, and even from here he looks like someone who has never had an uncontrollable variable in his life.

You wait.

You’re good at waiting. You’ve spent the last two weeks being good at things you didn’t choose to be good at.

He sees you when he comes off the ice — clocks you in the way that people clock something unexpected in a familiar space, a brief recalibration. Something moves across his face, too fast to read. Then it’s gone and he’s walking toward you with the easy unhurried stride of someone who has decided to be unbothered and you stand your ground and wait for him to reach you.

“Hey,” he says. Like you’re an acquaintance. Like he’s mildly surprised to see you and finds it mildly unremarkable.

“I need to talk to you,” you say. Something shifts.

The easy expression doesn’t disappear exactly but it adjusts, becomes more guarded. He glances around — Jay is watching from the boards with open curiosity, Riki less subtly — and then jerks his head toward the corridor off the main rink.

You follow him into it. It’s quieter here, the noise of the rink muffled, the overhead lights slightly too bright. He turns and faces you with his arms crossed and his weight back, and waits. You had sentences. You had very good sentences, all the way across campus.

“I’m pregnant,” you say.

The corridor goes very quiet. Jake looks at you. His expression does several things in quick succession that he doesn’t quite manage to keep off his face — shock, and something that might be fear, and then a shuttering, a closing, something careful dropping down over all of it.

“Okay,” he says.

“Okay,” you repeat.

“That’s — okay. How far—”

“I just found out today. So.” You fold your arms across your chest. “Not far.”

He nods slowly. His jaw is working. He looks at the floor for a moment and then back at you and the careful expression is fully in place now, composed and unreadable, and you don’t know whether to be relieved or furious about it.

“Are you sure it’s mine,” he says.

The corridor goes even quieter somehow.

You look at him. “What did you just say.”

“I’m just—” He shifts his weight. “We don’t know each other. I don’t know who else you’ve been—”

“Are you calling me a slut.” It comes out flat. Not a question.

“I’m not calling you anything, I’m just saying I don’t know—”

“You’re the only person I’ve slept with in four months.” Your voice is very level. “I was in a relationship. It ended. I haven’t — there’s been no one else. There’s only been you.” You look at him. “And I can’t believe I’m standing here explaining that to you.”

“I’m not trying to—”

“You literally just implied I could have slept with someone else.” The level voice is beginning to fray at the edges. “You literally said that. To my face.”

“Look, I just—”

You slap him.

You don’t plan it. Your hand moves before the decision has fully formed, the sharp crack of it landing across his cheek, and then there’s a ringing silence and your palm is stinging and Jake’s head has turned with the force of it and he’s looking at you now with an expression you haven’t seen on him before. Not angry. Something more complicated than angry.

“Don’t ever,” you say, quietly, “imply something like that to me again.”

He says nothing. His hand has come up to his cheek, not pressing, just — there. His jaw is tight.

“I thought you should know,” you say. “That’s all. I thought you deserved to know because it’s yours and you deserved to know. I haven’t decided anything yet and I’m not asking you for anything.” You pull your bag higher on your shoulder. “Okay?”

“Okay,” he says. Low. You walk back out into the cold. You text Mina out and she sends back seventeen question marks which is fair.

You tell her you’ll explain when you get back and spend the walk home feeling the particular hollow exhaustion of someone who has done the thing they needed to do and now has no idea what comes next.

You’re back in your building, one flight up, when you hear him behind you. “Hey—”

You turn. Jake is in the stairwell, still in his practice gear, slightly out of breath like he walked fast to get here, and you have absolutely no idea how he found out which dorm you’re in and you’re going to have questions about that later.

“How did you—“

“Jay knew,” he says, which explains nothing and everything.

He comes up the last few steps and stops on your landing and runs a hand through his hair and looks like someone who has been having a very difficult internal conversation at speed. “Can I—”

“No,” you say.

“Two minutes.” You look at him. He looks back. The mark from your hand has faded from his cheek but his expression is still doing that thing — complicated, unreadable, something working behind it.

“Two minutes,” you say, and unlock your door. Your room is small and suddenly smaller with him in it. He stands just inside the door like he’s not sure he’s allowed further in, which is the most uncertain you’ve seen him, and you sit on the end of your bed and look at him and wait.

He reaches into his jacket. He puts a stack of bills on your desk. You look at the money. You look at him. “Jake.”

“It’s enough to cover — whatever you decide.” He’s not quite meeting your eyes. “I’m not — look. I don’t want a kid. I’m not in a place for that. We don’t know each other. But I’m not going to just—” He stops. Starts again. “Take it. Whatever you need it for.”

You stare at the money for a long moment. “Are you going to want to be involved,” you ask. “If I decide to keep it.”

Something crosses his face. “I don’t — I haven’t—” He exhales. “I don’t know.”

“Okay,” you say. “That’s honest at least.”

“Are you going to keep it,” he asks. Quietly. Like he’s not sure he has the right to ask.

You look at the money on your desk. You look at him — standing in your doorway in his practice gear, jaw tight, trying very hard to look like someone who has this handled and not quite managing it — and you think that this is the first time he’s looked like a person to you. Not the reputation, not the corridor composure, not the ceiling of his bedroom. Just a person who is as blindsided as you are and coping with it badly.

“I don’t know yet,” you say. “I’ll let you know when I do.”

He nods. He looks at you for a moment longer than necessary. Then he picks up the money from your desk and puts it on your nightstand instead, like the desk was somehow wrong, like the four feet of distance makes a difference, and you don’t say anything about it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, at the door. “For what I said. At the rink.”

You look at him. “Which part.”

“All of it.”

He closes the door behind him and you sit on your bed in the quiet of your room for a long time, the money on your nightstand and the weight of everything pressing down, and then you pick up your phone and call your sister.

She picks up on the third ring. “Hey, you.” Hannah’s voice is warm and slightly distracted in the way it always is — you can hear one of the kids in the background, the particular high-pitched negotiation of a five year old who wants something and has decided now is the time. “Give me two seconds.”

Then, away from the phone: “Lily, baby, I said after dinner. After. Yes. Because I said so, that’s why.” A door closing.

Then: “Okay. Hi. Sorry. What’s up?”

You open your mouth. You’ve been sitting on your bed for forty minutes since Jake left, the money on your nightstand and your phone in your hand, and you’ve composed this conversation approximately thirty times in your head and all thirty versions started more coherently than what actually comes out, which is: “I did something kind of stupid.”

“How stupid.”

“Significantly.”

A beat. Hannah has always been good at letting silence do its work, at not rushing in to fill it with the wrong thing. It’s one of the things you’ve always loved about her. “Okay,” she says. “Tell me.”

So you tell her. All of it — the party and Jake and the test and the corridor and the slap and him in your room with the money — and Hannah listens through all of it without interrupting, which is its own kind of gift, and when you’re done there’s a moment of quiet that feels like her sorting through it.

“Okay,” she says again. “First question. Are you physically okay?”

“Yes.”

“Second question. Do you have someone with you?”

“Mina’s coming over in an hour.”

“Good.” You can hear her moving around, the soft sounds of her kitchen. “Third question, and I want you to actually think about it before you answer — not what you think you should say, not what’s practical, not what he wants or what anyone else wants. Just you.”

She pauses. “Do you want to keep it?”

You look at the money on your nightstand.

You think about the question the way she asked it — stripped of everything else, just you, just the truth of it underneath all the noise.

The thing is, you already know. You’ve known since the bathroom floor this morning, since you sat with your back against the tub and your forehead on your knees. It’s why the knowing has been so terrifying — not because you’re uncertain but because you’re not, and being not uncertain makes it real in a way that uncertainty would have postponed.

“Yeah,” you say. Quietly. “I do. I just — I don’t want it to be his. I don’t want to be tied to someone who—” You stop. “I don’t want the situation. I just want—”

“The baby,” Hannah says. “Yeah.” She’s quiet for a moment. “Those are two separate things,” she says. “The situation and the baby. They feel like the same thing right now but they’re not.”

You hear her sit down somewhere. “Marcus and I — when I had Lily, things with us were not good. You remember. We were not in a good place. And I thought about it the same way — I want her, I just don’t want this. And it was hard. It was genuinely really hard. But she’s five now and she’s the most annoying, amazing person I’ve ever met and I can’t — I can’t imagine.”

You press the back of your hand to your mouth.

“I’m not telling you what to do,” Hannah says quickly. “I promise I’m not. Whatever you decide I’m with you. I just — you asked.”

“I know,” you manage. “I know you’re not.”

“Is he terrible?” she asks. “This Jake person.”

You think about the corridor. The money. I’m sorry. For what I said. All of it. “I don’t know yet,” you say. “He’s — I don’t know what he is.”

“Okay.” Hannah’s voice is careful and warm. “You don’t have to know yet. You don’t have to know anything yet except what you want. Everything else gets figured out.”

You sit with that for a moment. “I’m keeping it,” you say. Out loud, to another person, for the first time. It lands differently than it did in your head — more solid, more real, like something that has been decided rather than something being considered.

“Okay,” Hannah says, and she says it the way Mina says it — not okay as in fine but okay as in I’ve got you. “Then we figure out the rest.”

You tell Mina when she comes over and she holds your hand and doesn’t say anything for a long moment and then says “okay, what do we need to do” in the tone of someone rolling up their sleeves, which is exactly right, which is why she’s your person.

You tell Jake two days later.

You find him after morning practice on a Wednesday, same side entrance to the Hargrove Center, and this time he sees you coming and something in his posture adjusts — not quite bracing, just becoming more careful, more deliberate, the way he gets when he’s paying attention. “Hey,” he says.

“I’m keeping it,” you say.

He goes very still. You watch him process it — the stillness and then the almost imperceptible movement of his jaw, the way his eyes go somewhere internal for a second before coming back to you. He looks like someone doing rapid and complicated mathematics. “Okay,” he says finally.

“You don’t have to be involved. I meant that when I said it. I’m not — I’m not asking you for anything except to know. You deserved to know and now you know and whatever you decide to do with that is up to you.”

“I said I’d provide,” he says. “I meant that.”

“Money isn’t the same as involved.”

“I know.” He shifts his weight. His hands are in his pockets and he’s looking at you with that careful expression, the one you can’t fully read. “I don’t — I’m not going to be the guy who just throws money at it and disappears. That’s not—” He stops. “I don’t know what I am yet. But I’m not that.”

You look at him for a long moment. There is, underneath the practice gear and the careful composure and the history of the last two weeks, something that might be decency in there. It’s buried. It’s inconsistent. You’ve seen it appear and disappear enough times already to know better than to trust it yet. But it’s there. “Okay,” you say. “Then figure out what you are and let me know.”

You turn to go. “Can I—” He stops. You look back. “Can I have your number,” he says. “Properly. So we can — so it’s easier to—”

“To what.”

He looks, briefly, like someone who hasn’t thought this far ahead. “Talk,” he says. “If we need to.”

You look at him for a moment. Then you take out your phone and hold it out. He puts his number in and hands it back and you save it under Jake Sim (do not text unless necessary) which you do not show him. “I’ll be in touch,” you say.

Jake doesn’t mean to tell his friend— or he does, but not like this, not in the locker room with his gear half off and Riki eating a protein bar on the bench across from him and Jay taping his wrist in the corner and Jungwon doing something on his phone. It comes out the way things come out when you’ve been holding them too long and the effort of holding them finally exceeds the effort of saying them.

“I got someone pregnant,” he says.

The locker room goes quiet. Riki stops chewing. Jay puts down the tape. Jungwon looks up from his phone. “I’m sorry,” Jay says, with the careful enunciation of someone who wants to make sure they’ve heard correctly. “You what?”

“You heard me.”

“I heard you, I just want to make sure I—” Jay sets down the tape fully and turns to face him. “Who.”

“Girl from Delta Kappa. Three weeks ago.” Another silence. Jay is looking at him with an expression that Jake doesn’t particularly enjoy — something between concern and the specific look of someone doing the maths on how this could have happened and arriving at several uncomfortable conclusions about Jake’s general life choices.

“Are you—” Jungwon starts.

“I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I was going to ask.”

“Then what.”

Jungwon looks at him steadily. “Is she okay.”

Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. Thinks about you in the corridor at the rink and your voice going flat and your hand cracking across his face, and then you in your dorm room — calm and certain and telling him you weren’t asking him for anything, which was somehow the part that landed hardest. “I think so,” he says. “She’s — yeah.”

“Do you like her?” Riki asks, with the bluntness of someone who has not yet learned that some questions require more runway.

“I don’t know her,” Jake says.

“That’s not what I asked.” Jay shoots Riki a look. Riki shrugs and takes another bite of his protein bar.

“What are you going to do?” Jay asks, turning back to Jake.

Jake leans his elbows on his knees and looks at the floor. The locker room smells like it always does — ice and rubber and effort — and it’s familiar in a way that is almost destabilising right now, how normal everything around him is when nothing feels particularly normal. “I don’t know yet,” he says. “Be there, I think. As much as she’ll let me.”

“As much as she’ll let you,” Jay repeats. Something in his tone.

“She’s not — she’s not soft.” Jake looks up. “She’s not going to make it easy.”

“Should she?”

Jake looks at him. Jay looks back, steady and unhurried. “No,” Jake says, after a moment. “Probably not.”

Jay nods once. Picks the tape back up. “Then figure it out,” he says, like it’s simple, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and Jake sits with that in the familiar smell of the locker room and thinks that he probably needs to.

—

The truce, when it forms, is not announced. It happens gradually over the following week — a text from him checking if you need anything, which you respond to with I’m fine thanks and nothing else. A text from you three days later telling him your first appointment is booked for the following week, which he responds to with do you want me there and you respond with not yet and he responds with okay and that’s it, that’s the whole exchange, and somehow it’s the most civil conversation you’ve had.

He doesn’t push. You note this without letting it mean too much. You’re not friends. You’re not anything with a name. You’re two people who made a mistake that turned into something neither of you planned for, and you’re figuring out how to exist in the same orbit without either of you combusting, and most days it feels manageable and some days it feels impossible and on the days it feels impossible you call Hannah, who answers on the third ring and lets the silence do its work.

It’s something, you think. It’s not much but it’s something. For now, that has to be enough.

The thing about Caldwell though, is that it’s a big campus until it isn’t.

Thirty thousand students, four faculties, two libraries, a quad the size of a small park — and yet somehow the people you most want to avoid have an unerring instinct for occupying the same coffee shop, the same corridor, the same stretch of pavement at the same time.

You’ve been navigating this for four months with Sunghoon and you’ve gotten good at it. You know his schedule well enough to avoid it without meaning to, the way you learn the shape of someone after two years and can’t quite unlearn it.

Which is why it catches you off guard when he’s just — there. The library café, a Tuesday afternoon, three weeks after the test. You’re at a corner table with your laptop and a cup of tea you’ve been nursing for an hour because coffee is still wrong and probably will be for the foreseeable future, and you’re halfway through a close reading of Middlemarch chapter forty-two when someone pulls out the chair across from you and sits down and you look up and it’s Sunghoon.

He looks, as he always looks, like something assembled with unreasonable care. Dark hair, clean jawline, the particular quality of stillness he has that used to make you feel calm and now just makes you feel tired.

“Hey,” he says.

You look at him. Then at the chair he’s sitting in. Then back at him. “I didn’t say you could sit.”

“I know.” He doesn’t move. “I just wanted to talk.”

“Sunghoon.”

“Five minutes.”

You close your laptop. Not because you’re agreeing, but because whatever he’s about to say you want to be looking at him when he says it. “Five minutes,” you say. “And then you’re going to go away.”

Something moves through his expression — not quite hurt, but adjacent. He folds his hands on the table. He has nice hands. You spent two years noticing his hands. “I saw you at Delta Kappa,” he says.

“I know. You texted me.”

“You didn’t reply.” He looks at you steadily. “You were talking to Jake Sim.”

There it is.

You keep your face very neutral. “I was at a party. I talked to a lot of people.”

“Jake Sim isn’t a lot of people.” Something in his voice shifts — not quite possessive, not quite jealous, threading that needle with the precision of someone who knows he doesn’t have the right to either and is trying to disguise it as concern. “He’s not a good person to get involved with.”

“Thank you for that,” you say. “I’ll bear it in mind.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” You look at him. “Sunghoon. You don’t get to come sit at my table and tell me who I should and shouldn’t talk to. You gave that up.”

His jaw tightens. “I know I did.”

“Then why are you here?”

He’s quiet for a moment. Outside the café windows the quad is grey and overcast, students moving across it with their heads down against the wind, and Sunghoon is looking at you with an expression you know — you’ve catalogued it, the way you’ve catalogued everything about him, two years of accumulated knowledge you can’t seem to put down. It’s the expression he gets when he wants to say something and is choosing his words with care.

“I miss you,” he says.

You look at him for a long time. The honest answer is that you miss him too — or you miss the version of things you thought you had, which isn’t exactly the same as missing him but lives close enough to it that the distinction is hard to maintain on a grey Tuesday afternoon with him sitting across from you looking like that.

You miss having a person. You miss the shape of your life before it got complicated in every possible direction.

But you also know what he did.

You know it with the specific clarity of something you’ve gone over enough times that it’s stopped being sharp and started being just — true. A fact about him. A fact about what he chose. “I know,” you say. Carefully. “But that’s not my problem to fix.”

He nods. Slow. Like he expected it and it still costs him something. He stands up, pushes the chair back in, and then pauses with his hands on the back of it. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Actually? You look—” He stops.

“I look what.”

“Tired,” he says. “You look tired.”

“I’m fine,” you say.

He looks at you for a moment longer. Then he goes, and you open your laptop, and you stare at Middlemarch chapter forty-two for a while without reading any of it.

You don’t tell Jake about Sunghoon.

There’s no reason to.

You and Jake are not — whatever you are, it doesn’t include telling each other things. It includes occasional texts, one appointment you went to alone where a doctor confirmed what you already knew and gave you a due date that made it real in a new and specific way, and a strange careful politeness that exists between you like a temporary structure neither of you fully trusts.

He texts you on a Friday evening. how are you feeling

You look at it for a while. Fine. Less sick this week.

that’s good

A pause. Then: do you need anything?

You think about your sister’s voice. You don’t have to know anything yet except what you want. You think about Jake in your dorm room, the money on your nightstand, I’m not going to be the guy who just throws money at it. You think about how many times in the past three weeks he’s almost been decent and then done something to complicate it.

I’m okay, you send back. Thanks.

He sends a thumbs up and you put your phone face down and tell yourself this is fine, this arrangement is fine, and mostly you believe it.

You find out about the girl on a Saturday night.

You’re not looking for it — you’re not the kind of person who goes searching for things they don’t want to find, you learned that lesson with Sunghoon — but Caldwell is a big campus until it isn’t, and Mina’s friend group overlaps with the hockey crowd in the specific way that happens at schools where athletes are their own ecosystem but not a fully separate one.

It’s Mina who tells you, with the careful expression of someone who has been sitting on information and decided you’d rather hear it from her. “I heard Jake hooked up with someone last weekend,” she says. Not leading with it, not burying it either. Just: here is a thing that is true.

You look at your coffee. You’ve graduated back to coffee this week, weak and milky, which feels like a victory. “Okay,” you say.

“You’re allowed to have feelings about that.”

“We’re not together, Mina.”

“I know.”

“He can do whatever he wants. We’re not — there’s nothing between us. We’re just—” You move your hand in a vague gesture that encompasses the entire situation. “This.”

“I know,” Mina says again, in the tone that means she has more to say and is choosing not to. You continue to drink your coffee.

The thing is — and this is the part you don’t say out loud, the part you turn over privately in the quiet of your own head — the thing is that you know she’s right.

You are allowed to have feelings about it.

You do have feelings about it, somewhere underneath the very reasonable and correct observation that Jake Sim owes you nothing beyond basic decency and whatever co-parenting arrangement you eventually figure out.

You have feelings about it the way you have feelings about a lot of things lately — in the muffled, at-a-distance way, like they’re happening to someone slightly removed from you and you’re watching through glass.

You’re pregnant with his baby and he’s sleeping with someone else and you’re not together and you have no claim on him and all of that is true simultaneously and you’re not sure what to do with the fact that it still sits in your chest like something uncomfortable.

“I don’t care,” you tell Mina. She looks at you with the expression that means I know you and I know that’s not entirely true but I love you so I’ll let you have it.

“Okay,” she says.

—

Jake texts you on Sunday.

heard you’ve been doing better. that’s good

You stare at the message for a long time. Yeah, you type back. Thanks.

A pause. Then: can I take you to your next appointment?

You put the phone down. Pick it up. Put it down again.

The question sits there, simple and direct, and the thing about it is that it isn’t nothing. It’s not the gesture of someone who is just throwing money at a situation. It’s — something. Small and tentative and probably not enough and something nonetheless.

It’s in two weeks, you send back. I’ll let you know.

okay, he says. no pressure.

You put the phone down and look at the ceiling and think about a girl you don’t know and a Saturday night you weren’t part of and the specific stupidity of having feelings about either, and then you think about your next appointment and the due date the doctor gave you and the small impossible reality of all of it, and you decide that you are going to take a nap and deal with every single one of these things later.

Later, you think. All of it later.

He comes to the appointment, in the end you let him. You texted him the details the night before — time, building, room number — and he’s there when you arrive, standing outside the health centre with his hands in his jacket pockets and his breath fogging in the cold, and he looks up when he sees you coming and something in his expression does that thing, that complicated unreadable thing, and he falls into step beside you without saying anything.

Inside, in the waiting room, you sit next to each other in plastic chairs with a magazine between you that neither of you reads. A couple across the room are holding hands. You and Jake sit with six inches of space between you like a demilitarised zone.

“You okay?” he asks, quietly.

“Fine,” you say. “You?”

“Fine,” he says.

The nurse calls your name and you both stand up and Jake follows you in and stands slightly to the side while the doctor talks and asks questions and pulls up the scan on the screen, and you look at it — the small impossible blur of it, the heartbeat a flickering certainty on the monitor — and you feel the thing in your chest that you’ve been keeping at distance move closer without permission.

Beside you Jake goes very still.

You don’t look at him. You look at the screen.

“Everything looks perfect,” the doctor says.

You nod. You don’t trust your voice.

In the corridor after, walking back out into the cold, Jake is quiet for a long time. Longer than usual even for him.

You’re almost at the path that splits — his way, your way — when he says, without looking at you: “That was—”

“Yeah,” you say.

He nods. Puts his hands back in his pockets. “I’ll walk you back,” he says.

You think about the girl he slept with. You think about Sunghoon in the library café. You think about the scan on the monitor and the heartbeat that is real and certain and not theoretical anymore.

“Okay,” you say.

He walks you back. You don’t talk much. It’s not uncomfortable exactly — it’s something more complicated than that, something neither of you has a name for yet, and when you reach your building he stops at the bottom of the steps and looks at you and opens his mouth and then closes it again.

“What,” you say.

“Nothing,” he says. “Just — take care of yourself.” You look at him for a moment.

“You too,” you say, and go inside.

—

Sunghoon doesn’t give up. You’d half expected him to — one conversation in the library café, you’d said your piece, he’d said his, and you’d thought that would be the end of it. Sunghoon has always been precise about things, economical, not the type to repeat himself unnecessarily. You’d thought he’d take the answer and file it and move on.

Instead he texts you on a Wednesday. Just — how are you doing. No punctuation, which for Sunghoon is practically shouting.

You don’t reply.

He texts again on Friday. can we get coffee sometime? just to talk?

You stare at it for a long time.

You show it to Mina, who makes a face. “Don’t,” she says.

“I’m not going to,” you say.

He finds you on campus on Monday — the English building, your own territory, which feels deliberate. He’s waiting near the entrance when you come out of your seminar and you see him before he sees you and for one uncharitable second you think about turning around and going back inside.

You don’t. You keep walking. “Hey,” he says, falling into step beside you.

“Sunghoon.”

“I just want to walk with you.”

“I didn’t say you could.”

“I know.” He walks with you anyway, hands in his coat pockets, quiet for a moment in the way that used to feel comfortable and now just feels like pressure. “How are you feeling?”

You glance at him. “Fine.”

“You look better than last time I saw you. Less tired.”

“Thanks,” you say, flatly.

He’s quiet again. The path curves toward the quad and you keep walking and he keeps pace and you’re aware — acutely, uncomfortably aware — that you’re starting to show. Not dramatically, not in a way that’s obvious under your coat, but enough that you know. Enough that it’s a matter of time.

“I meant what I said,” Sunghoon says. “In the library.”

“I know you did.”

“I’m not trying to pressure you.”

“You’re walking next to me uninvited,” you say. “What would you call that?”

He stops. You stop too, half a beat later, and turn to look at him. He’s standing in the middle of the path with that precise, careful expression and something underneath it that isn’t quite what he’s performing, and you know him well enough to know the difference and wish you didn’t.

“I made a mistake,” he says. “I know I did. I know what I did and I know it was—” He stops. Starts again. “I just want a chance to—”

“Sunghoon.” You keep your voice even. “I can’t do this right now. I genuinely cannot — there is too much happening in my life right now for me to also be doing this. Okay? Please.”

He looks at you. Something in his expression shifts — a question forming, something he’s noticed that he can’t quite place. “What’s happening?” he asks. Carefully.

“Nothing that’s your business,” you say. “Please just — let me go.”

And he lets you go.

But the problem is that Caldwell is a big campus until it isn’t.

The problem is that two weeks later you’re at a party you didn’t particularly want to attend — a smaller thing, a friend of Mina’s, an apartment off campus — and both of them are there. Jake and Sunghoon.

You don’t notice Jake first. You notice Sunghoon, across the room with his circle, and you note it and move on, you’re good at that now. You get a drink — water, the specific reality of being the only sober person at a party hitting — and find Mina and settle into the corner and decide you’ll stay an hour and then leave.

You notice Jake about twenty minutes in.

He’s near the kitchen with Jay, and there’s a girl — tall, dark-haired, laughing at something he’s said with her hand on his arm and her body angled toward him in the specific way that means something. You see him lean in to say something close to her ear. You see her laugh again. You look away.

You look back to Mina, who is mid-conversation with someone and hasn’t clocked it, and you drink your water and you are fine, you are completely fine, this is exactly what you knew was happening and seeing it in person doesn’t change anything and you are fine.

You last another twenty minutes before you decide you’re going to get some air.

The problem is that getting air requires passing the kitchen. Jake sees you at the same moment you see him and something in his expression shifts — that recalibration, that adjustment — and the girl’s hand is still on his arm and you keep walking, eyes forward, almost past— “Hey.”

His voice.

You stop. You turn. He’s stepped slightly away from the girl, who is watching with a politely curious expression. “Hey,” you say.

“You’re here,” he says, which is not his most articulate moment.

“Briefly,” you say. “Don’t mind me.” Something moves across his face.

“You okay?”

“Fine.” You smile at him — pleasant, neutral, the smile of someone who is absolutely fine. “Enjoy your night.” You keep walking.

The air outside is cold and you stand on the small concrete step outside the apartment and breathe it and tell yourself the tightness in your chest is just the stuffiness of the party and not anything else.

You hear the door behind you. “Hey—”

You turn, expecting Jake, and it’s Sunghoon. Of course it’s Sunghoon.

He’s in his coat, hands in his pockets, and he looks at you with that careful expression and says “I saw you come out” like that explains what he’s doing here, which it does, which doesn’t make it better.

“I needed air,” you say.

“I know.” He comes to stand beside you. Close, but not touching. “You looked upset.”

“I’m not upset.”

“You have a face,” he says, gently, and you hate that he’s right, hate that after four months and everything that happened he can still read you like that. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Is it Sim?” Something in his voice changes — not quite hard, not quite angry, threading the needle. “Are you involved with him?”

“That’s not your business.”

“I’m asking because I’m worried about you, not because—”

“Sunghoon.” You turn to face him. “Please stop. Please just—”

The door opens behind you. Jake comes out. He takes in the scene — you and Sunghoon, close, Sunghoon’s expression, yours — in about half a second and his jaw tightens in a way you’ve learned to read as something being suppressed.

“Everything okay?” he asks. Looking at you, not at Sunghoon.

“Fine,” you say, for what feels like the hundredth time tonight.

“She said she’s fine,” Sunghoon says. His voice is even. “So you can go back inside.” Jake looks at him. Something passes between them that has nothing to do with you — some older, unnamed thing.

“I wasn’t talking to you,” Jake says.

“Then walk away.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Jake.” Your voice is sharper than you intend. “It’s fine. Go inside.”

He doesn’t go inside.

He stays where he is with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on Sunghoon, and Sunghoon stays where he is with that precise stillness, and the cold air between all three of you is doing a lot of work.

“You’re the one she’s been seeing,” Sunghoon says, to Jake. Not a question.

“That’s not your business,” Jake says.

“It is when you’re—” Sunghoon stops. Something has crossed his face — he’s looking at you, at your coat, and the realisation moves through his expression slowly and then all at once.

His eyes find yours. “Are you—”

“Don’t,” you say.

“Are you pregnant?”

The step goes very quiet.

Jake goes very still.

You look at Sunghoon and there is a specific kind of exhaustion that moves through you — the exhaustion of someone who has been managing too many things for too long and has just watched one of them slip out of their hands.

“That,” you say, carefully, “is none of your business.”

“It’s his, isn’t it.” Not looking at Jake. Looking at you. Something in his voice that you don’t have a name for — not anger, not hurt, something more complicated and less clean than either. “You hooked up with Jake Sim at a party and now you’re—”

“Sunghoon—”

“What were you thinking?” And there it is — the composure cracking, the precision slipping, something rawer underneath. “What were you actually — with him, of all people—”

“Hey.” Jake’s voice is hard. “Watch yourself.”

“You stay out of it—”

“She told you it’s none of your business—”

“I’m talking to her—”

“Then talk to her with some respect—”

“Oh that’s rich, coming from you.” Sunghoon turns to Jake fully now and the precise stillness has sharpened into something else. “Everyone knows what you are. Everyone knows how you treat—”

“And everyone knows what you did,” Jake says, low and flat. “So don’t stand here and act like you’ve got the moral—”

“Stop.” Your voice cuts through both of them. They both look at you. “Both of you. Stop.”

A beat. “I’m going home,” you say. “This is—” You gesture at the three of you, at the step, at all of it. “I’m not doing this.”

“I’ll walk you—” Both of them, simultaneously.

“Neither of you will walk me anywhere.” You pull your coat around you. “I want to go by myself and I want both of you to leave me alone tonight. Okay?”

Sunghoon opens his mouth.

And then — later, when you try to reconstruct the exact sequence, it’s hard to isolate the moment it tips — he reaches for your arm, a gesture, just trying to stop you leaving, and Jake moves at the same time, stepping forward, his hand coming out to push Sunghoon back, and Sunghoon turns, and the angles are all wrong, and Jake’s elbow catches you across the side of your face.

It’s not hard. It’s not a real blow — it’s the edge of the motion, glancing, the kind of thing that in any other circumstance would be an accidental knock in a crowded corridor that you’d shake off and keep walking.

But you make a sound and stumble back.

Jake turns and sees your face and goes completely white. “Fuck—” He reaches for you.

“Don’t touch me.”

Your hand comes up. Your voice has gone very quiet. The side of your face is throbbing, low and dull, and underneath it everything else — the tiredness, the party, Sunghoon’s face when he realised, the girl’s hand on Jake’s arm — all of it presses in at once and you are so, so tired.

“I didn’t — it was an accident, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know it was an accident,” you say. Still quiet. Still very controlled. “I know that.”

“Are you okay? The baby—”

“I’m fine. It was my face, not—” You stop. Press your fingers briefly to your temple. “I’m fine.”

Jake is looking at you with an expression you haven’t seen on him before — something undone about it, all the composure gone, something almost desperate. “Let me take you home—”

“No.”

You look at him. Then at Sunghoon, who has gone very still and very pale. “I’m going to get Mina. I’m going to go home. And I don’t want either of you to contact me tonight.”

You take out your phone. You text Mina. You wait on the step with your back to both of them until she comes out, takes one look at your face, takes your arm, and walks you away without saying a word.

Behind you, you don’t look back.

Jake texts at midnight. I’m so sorry. please tell me you’re okay

You look at it for a long time. I’m fine, you send back. Goodnight Jake.

He sends: I’m sorry again

Those two words, and you put your phone face down and stare at the ceiling of your dorm room and Mina is asleep in your desk chair with a blanket over her because she refused to go home and you love her for it, and the small dull ache in your temple has faded to almost nothing, and the baby is fine, you’re fine, everything is fine.

You don’t text him back.

He tries on Sunday.

A text at nine in the morning — can we talk please? — that you look at and put face down without replying.

Then at eleven: I know you’re angry. you have every right to be. I just want to talk.

Then at two in the afternoon, which shows either impressive persistence or a complete inability to read a room: I’m going to keep texting until you tell me to stop.

You text back: stop.

He texts back: okay. I’m sorry.

You put the phone in your drawer.

He doesn’t stop.

Well, he stops texting — he respects that, or he tries to, mostly — but he finds other ways. There’s a bag outside your dorm room door on Monday morning: crackers, the specific brand you’d been eating in the early weeks, ginger tea, a punnet of the green grapes that you’d mentioned once in passing to him that you’d been craving. No note. Just the bag.

You stand in your doorway looking at it for a long time.

You bring it inside. You eat the grapes. You do not text him to say thank you and you do not text him to say stop and the not-texting feels like its own kind of answer that you’re not ready to examine yet.

On Tuesday he’s outside your building.

Not lurking — he’s sitting on the low wall by the entrance with his hands between his knees and his jacket on against the cold, and he stands up when he sees you come out and he doesn’t move toward you, just — stands there, and waits, and lets you decide.

You stop on the steps. “Jake.”

“Five minutes,” he says. “I know I don’t deserve them. Five minutes and then I’ll go and I won’t — I’ll leave you alone if that’s what you want.”

You look at him. He looks back. He has, you note, the specific appearance of someone who hasn’t been sleeping well — not dramatic, just a tightness around his eyes, a quality of having been somewhere difficult in his own head for the past two days.

Good, says a part of you.

The other part steps down off the steps and stands in front of him and crosses her arms and says: “Five minutes.”

He exhales. “I’m sorry,” he says. “For Friday night. For — all of it, the whole night, but specifically for—” He stops. His jaw works. “I should never have let it get to that point. I should have walked away from him the second it started and I didn’t and you got hurt and you’re — the baby could have—” He stops again. Something in his face that isn’t composure. “I will never forgive myself for that. I need you to know that. It keeps me up.”

You look at him. “It was an accident.”

“It was an accident that happened because I couldn’t keep my head.” His voice is flat with self-assessment. “Same difference.”

“It’s not the same difference.”

“It’s close enough.” He looks at you steadily. “I’m also sorry for the girl at the party. I know you saw. I know we’re not — I know you don’t have any claim on me and I don’t have any claim on you and technically I didn’t do anything wrong but I’m still sorry because I saw your face and I knew and I did it anyway and that’s—” He stops. “That’s not who I want to be. With this. With you.”

The wall by the entrance is cold and grey and a girl from your floor passes you both with her earphones in and doesn’t look up and the world keeps moving indifferently around this conversation.

“You hurt me,” you say. Not the elbow. The other thing. The girl at the party and the ceiling of his bedroom and the weeks of almost-decency that kept getting complicated. “Not — not physically. You just keep—” You stop. “Every time I think maybe you’re a person you do something that reminds me why I shouldn’t think that.”

He takes that. Doesn’t deflect, doesn’t explain, just takes it. “I know,” he says.

“I need you to be consistent,” you say. “I can’t — I’m going to have your baby, Jake. We’re going to be in each other’s lives for a very long time. I need you to be someone I can rely on or I need you to be completely absent because the in-between is—” Your voice doesn’t shake. You’re proud of that. “It’s too hard. I can’t do the in-between.”

He’s quiet for a moment. The wind moves across the quad and he looks at you with that expression — the undone one, the one without composure — and says: “I don’t want to be absent.”

“Then be consistent.”

“Okay.”

“That’s it? Okay?”

“What else do you want me to say?” He’s not defensive — it’s a real question, earnest in a way that sits oddly on him, like a piece of vocabulary he hasn’t used much. “Tell me what you need and I’ll do it. Specifically. I’m not good at—” He moves his hand. “Guessing. Feelings. Whatever this is. But if you tell me what it looks like I’ll do it.”

You look at him for a long moment.

“No more girls,” you say. “Not while we’re — not while this is what it is. I know I have no right to ask that but I’m asking.”

Something shifts in his expression. “Done,” he says. No hesitation.

“And show up. When you say you’re going to show up, show up.”

“Done.”

“And don’t fight people on my behalf. I can handle my own situations.”

His jaw tightens slightly. “That one’s harder.”

“Jake.”

“Done,” he says. “Okay. Done.”

You look at him. He looks back. The five minutes has long since passed and neither of you has moved and the cold is starting to get into your fingers.

“The grapes were good,” you say finally.

Something in his expression — brief, warm, gone almost immediately. “I’ll get more,” he says.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” He says it simply. No performance in it.

You nod. You pull your coat tighter. “I have a seminar,” you say.

“I know. Go.” He steps back, hands in his pockets. “Thank you. For the five minutes.”

You go.

He tells his father that evening.

He doesn’t plan to. He goes to his dad’s office on the east side of the admin building for what is ostensibly a standing weekly dinner that they do on Tuesday evenings — a thing they’ve done since Jake’s freshman year, his dad’s attempt at maintaining something normal in the specific abnormality of being the dean’s son at your own father’s university. They go to the Italian place two blocks off campus. They talk about the team, the season, coursework, the usual rotation.

Except tonight Jake sits down across from his father and picks up the menu and puts it down again and his dad looks at him over his own menu with the steady, unhurried attention that has always been the most disarming thing about him — the way he looks at you like he has all the time in the world and means it — and says:

“What’s going on.” Not a question. His dad has never really needed to make them questions.

Jake puts his menu down. He looks at the table. He thinks about you on the steps this morning saying every time I think maybe you’re a person and the specific accuracy of it, the way it had landed not like an attack but like a diagnosis.

“I got someone pregnant,” he says.

The restaurant is quiet around them — mid-evening, not full yet, the soft noise of other people’s conversations providing cover. His dad sets his menu down with the deliberate care of someone who is choosing his response carefully.

“How far along,” he says.

“About eight weeks.”

His dad nods slowly. He’s a big man — Jake has his build, the same broad shoulders, though his dad carries more grey now at his temples and something steadier in his face, something earned. He looks at Jake with the expression that Jake has never been able to fully decode — not anger, not disappointment exactly, something more complicated and more patient than either.

“Tell me about her,” he says.

Jake blinks. Of all the things he’d expected — “What?”

“The woman. Tell me about her.”

Jake opens his mouth. Closes it. He thinks about you — the flat voice in the corridor at the rink, your hand cracking across his face, I can’t do the in-between. The grapes. The way you’d said the grapes were good like it cost you something to admit it.

“She’s—” He stops. Tries again. “She’s a third year. English lit. She’s sharp. Like — she doesn’t let me get away with anything, she just looks at me and calls it and moves on. She’s not—” He shifts. “She didn’t want this to be mine. She told me that. She wants the baby, she just didn’t want it to be complicated, and I’ve made it complicated.”

“How.”

Jake looks at the table. Lists it. The slap he deserved, the money that was clumsy, the girl at the party, Friday night and the elbow and her face and the specific look she’d had, controlled and exhausted and done.

His dad listens to all of it without interrupting. When Jake finishes there’s a pause — his dad picks up his water glass, drinks, sets it back down.

“Do you like her?” he asks.

Jake looks up.

“It’s a simple question,” his dad says.

“We don’t — I don’t know her. Not really.”

“That’s not what I asked, son.”

Jake is quiet for a moment. He thinks about you outside your building this morning, arms crossed, giving him five minutes you didn’t have to give. The way you’d said I need you to be someone I can rely on like it was the most reasonable thing in the world, like you weren’t asking for anything extraordinary, just — consistency. Basic human consistency. The thing he has never had to be for anyone.

“Yeah,” he says. Quiet. “I think so.”

His dad nods. Like that’s the piece he needed. Like everything else was context and that was the information.

“Then be someone worth liking,” he says. Simply. Like it’s obvious. Like it’s the only thing that matters and everything else is just logistics.

Jake looks at him.

“You’ve never had to work for anything,” his dad says, and it’s not unkind — it’s just true, delivered with the directness of someone who has been watching this coming for a long time. “Not really. Not the things that count. You’re talented and you’re smart and things have always — moved for you. And that’s partly my fault.” He meets Jake’s eyes. “But she’s right. You can’t be the in-between. You’re going to be someone’s father. That’s not a thing you can be inconsistent about.”

Jake absorbs this.

“I know,” he says.

“Do you?”

“I’m trying to.”

His dad looks at him for a long moment. Then he picks his menu back up. “Good,” he says. “That’s the right answer.” He glances over the top of it. “Order something. You look like you haven’t eaten good in a while.”

Jake looks at the menu.

“Dad,” he says.

“Mm.”

“I really—” He stops. “I’ve really made a mess of this.”

His dad lowers the menu slightly. Looks at him with that steady, unhurried attention. “Yes,” he says. “But messes can be cleaned up.” He raises the menu again. “The carbonara is good tonight.”

Jake picks up his menu.

He end up ordering the carbonara.

—

The thing about consistency is that it’s quiet.

It doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t arrive with a gesture or a speech or a moment you can point to and say — there, that’s when things changed. It just accumulates, slowly, in the background of your ordinary life, until one day you look up and realise the weight you’ve been carrying has shifted without you noticing.

Jake shows up.

That’s the only way to describe it. He shows up in the small ways, the unglamorous ways, the ways that don’t make for a good story but add up to something anyway. He texts when he says he will. He’s outside your building on Wednesday mornings because you have a seminar and the walk takes you past the science quad where the wind is brutal and he started walking with you three weeks ago without asking and has not stopped. He brings food — not always the crackers and ginger tea, sometimes just the grapes, sometimes something from the good Thai place near the rink that you’d mentioned once you were craving and didn’t expect him to remember.

He remembers things.

This is, you find, the most disarming thing about him. More than the jaw and the shoulders and the specific quality of his attention when he’s fully in a conversation.

He remembers that you take your tea with one sugar and that you’re writing your dissertation on George Eliot and that your sister’s youngest is called Lily and that you cannot watch medical dramas right now because they make you anxious in a way you can’t fully explain. He files things away and uses them with a quietness that suggests he’s not doing it to impress you — he’s just paying attention.

And god, it’s harder to be angry at someone who pays attention. You’re still trying.

Your bump begins appearing at eleven weeks.

Not dramatically — not one morning you wake up transformed, just a gradual undeniable softening of the line of your stomach that means your jeans sit differently and your favourite hoodie, the oversized one you’ve worn for three years, suddenly doesn’t hang quite right. You stand in front of your mirror on a Thursday morning and put your hand flat against it and stay there for a moment with the strange doubled feeling that has been following you for weeks now — the unreality of it and the complete reality of it, existing simultaneously, refusing to resolve.

Mina notices before you say anything. She’s been noticing for two weeks, you suspect, and has been waiting for you to bring it up, which is one of the reasons she’s your person.

“You’re showing,” she says, on Friday afternoon, without preamble.

“A little,” you say.

“How do you feel about that?”

You think about it genuinely. “Weird,” you say. “Good weird. Mostly good weird.”

Mina nods. “Have you told Jake?”

“He’ll notice,” you say. “We’re — we’ve been spending time together. He’ll see.”

Mina looks at you with the expression that means she has registered the significance of we’ve been spending time together and is choosing, for now, not to make anything of it. “Okay,” she says.

“Don’t,” you say.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were going to.”

“I really wasn’t,” she says, in the tone that means she absolutely was.

He notices on Saturday.

You’re at this Thai place — his suggestion, your agreement, the two of you in a corner booth with menus neither of you needs because you’ve been here enough times now that you already know — and you’ve taken your coat off because the restaurant is warm and you’re wearing a fitted top and when you reach across the table for the soy sauce you catch him looking.

Not rudely. Not in a way that makes you want to cover yourself. Just — looking, with that attentive expression, taking in information.

“Don’t,” you say.

“I’m not doing anything.”

“You have a face.”

“I have a face,” he says, which is almost a smile. “You’re showing.”

“I know.”

“You look—” He stops. Considers his word choice with unusual care. “Good,” he says finally. “You look good.”

You look at him across the table. “That was very diplomatic.”

“I meant it.”

“Jake.”

“I genuinely meant it.” He meets your eyes. “You look good. You’ve looked good for a while. I just—” He stops again. “Didn’t say it. You looks beautiful actually.”

The restaurant is warm and smells like lemongrass and the couple at the next table are arguing quietly about something and the ordinary world is going on all around you and Jake Sim is sitting across from you saying you look good with an expression that has nothing performative in it, no angle, no formula.

You pick up your menu that you don’t need and look at it. “Thank you,” you say, at the laminated page.

He goes back to his menu too. Neither of you says anything else about it. But the air between you has shifted by some small degree and you both know it and neither of you is ready to name it yet and that, you think, is okay.

For now that’s okay.

The not-naming becomes its own kind of language eventually.

He walks you to your seminar on Wednesday and waits fifteen minutes in the wrong direction from the rink to do it, which you know because you’ve looked at the campus map, which you will not be telling him. You bring him coffee one morning — just once, without explanation, the specific order you’ve heard him give three times now — and he takes it without making anything of it which is exactly right. You text him a photo of a onesie Mina finds online that says future hockey player as a joke and he sends back a voice note that is mostly him laughing, genuine and unguarded, and you listen to it twice.

You do not examine why you listen to it twice.

Sunghoon texts once more — I hope you’re okay. I mean that.

You look at it for a long time. You think about the library café and the step outside the party and the way his face had looked when he realised. You think about two years and what they were and what they turned out to be underneath.

I’m okay, you send back. Take care of yourself.

He sends a single: you too.

And that, you think, is the end of that chapter. It doesn’t feel like closure exactly — closure implies a clean line, and there is no clean line, just a gradual and mutual putting down of something that had gotten too heavy to carry. But it feels like something finished. Something that needed to be done.

You feel lighter, after.

Jake finds out about the dissertation.

Not in a dramatic way — you’re in the library one afternoon, the two of you at adjacent tables because you’d both ended up there independently and moving would have been more pointed than staying, and he leans over at some point and looks at your screen and reads two sentences and says: “You write like this normally?”

“Like what.”

“Like—” He gestures at the screen. “Like that. Like it means something.”

You look at him. “It’s an academic paper.”

“I know what it is.” He looks faintly annoyed, the way he gets when he’s trying to say something and the words aren’t cooperating. “I’m saying it’s good. It sounds like you.”

You turn back to your screen. You are not going to make anything of this. You are a reasonable and self-possessed adult and you are not going to sit in the library and catch feelings because Jake Sim said your writing sounds like you.

“Thanks,” you say, at your laptop.

“I’m serious. It’s—” He picks up his pen. “Good.”

“You said that.”

“Because I mean it.”

You look at him. He looks back, pen between his fingers, entirely unaware that he’s just done something dangerous, and you look back at your dissertation and breathe carefully and remind yourself of all the reasons this is complicated.

There are many reasons. They are good reasons. You know them all.

The night it almost becomes something, it’s late November and it’s cold enough that your breath fogs and Jake has walked you back from the library and you’re standing at the bottom of your building’s steps in the dark and neither of you is moving.

“I should go in,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says.

Neither of you moves.

You’ve been doing this — the standing, the not-moving, the conversations that go slightly longer than they need to — for three weeks now. It has a shape, this thing between you, even if it doesn’t have a name. It has weight. You’re both aware of it and both moving around it with the particular carefulness of people who have been burned recently and are not in a hurry to be burned again.

“Jake,” you say.

“I know,” he says. Like he already knows what you’re going to say. Like he’s been having the same conversation in his own head.

“I just need it to stay—” You gesture between you. “Like this. For now. Okay? I need it to stay manageable.”

He looks at you. “Is it not?”

You look back. “Less and less,” you admit.

Something moves through his expression. Warm and complicated and controlled. “Okay,” he says. “We’ll keep it manageable.”

“Okay.”

“I just need you to know—” He stops. Starts again. “I’m not going anywhere. Whatever this is, whatever speed it goes. I’m not going anywhere.”

The cold is sharp and the steps are lit by the yellow glow of the entrance light and you are eleven weeks pregnant and standing in the dark with the father of your baby who is looking at you like you’re something worth staying for, and you think about all the reasons this is complicated and you think about your sister’s voice — those are two separate things — and you think that maybe, maybe, the situation and the feeling don’t have to be the same thing.

“Goodnight, Jake,” you say.

“Goodnight,” he says. You go inside.

At the top of the first flight of stairs you take out your phone.

You open his name — Jake Sim (do not text unless necessary) — and you look at it for a long moment.

You change it to Jake.

Just Jake. Nothing else.

You put your phone in your pocket and go to bed.

—

He asks you out on a Tuesday.

Not dramatically — not with any of the ceremony you might have expected from someone who has spent the better part of four months being alternately infuriating and disarming. He just falls into step beside you on the Wednesday morning walk to your seminar and says, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes forward: “Let me take you to dinner. A real one. Not Thai because we’ve done that.”

You look at him. “Are you asking me on a date?”

“Yes.”

“Just like that.”

“Did you want me to make it complicated?”

You look back at the path ahead. The quad is grey and cold and a girl on a bike nearly takes out a first year near the fountain and life goes on all around you, indifferent and ordinary. “No,” you say. “I didn’t want it complicated.”

“Friday,” he says. “Seven. I’ll pick you up.”

“I know where the restaurants are, Jake. I go here too.”

“I know you do.” He glances at you sideways. “Let me pick you up though.”

You look at him. That expression — patient, certain, not performing anything. Just asking.

“Friday,” you say. “Seven.”

He nods. Looks back at the path. The corner of his mouth does something that isn’t quite a smile and is better than one.

The restaurant he takes you to is small and Italian and not the kind of place you’d have expected from him, which you’re finding is a theme — Jake Sim consistently failing to be what you expect in the specific ways that make him hardest to keep at distance. It’s candlelit without being try-hard about it, the kind of place where the pasta is made that morning and the wine list is handwritten and the tables are close enough that you’re aware of his knee near yours under the table for the entirety of dinner.

You talk. That’s the thing — you just talk, the way you have been talking for weeks now on walks and in the library and over Thai food, except tonight there’s no pretence of it being anything other than what it is. He asks about your dissertation and actually listens to the answer. You ask about the season and he tells you about the conference standings with genuine animation, hands moving, and you watch him and think about the ceiling of his bedroom in September and the corridor at the rink and the bag outside your dorm door and all the distance between those things.

“What,” he says, catching you looking.

“Nothing,” you say. “You’re different.”

“From what?” He laughs.

“From who you were in September.”

He’s quiet for a moment. He turns his wine glass slowly on the table. “Yeah,” he says. “I think I am.”

“Is that — do you mind that? Being different?”

He looks at you. “No,” he says. Simply. “I don’t mind it at all.”

You look back at your pasta.

Under the table his knee settles against yours and stays there and you don’t move away from it and neither does he and you eat your dinner in the warm candlelit ordinary of it and let yourself be there, fully, without managing it from a distance.

Outside afterward the cold hits and you’re pulling your coat around you when his hand finds yours. Not reaching, not making a thing of it — just his hand finding yours in the dark like it already knows the way, fingers threading through, warm and certain.

You let him.

You walk back across campus like that, not talking much, and when you reach your building you stop at the bottom of the steps and he turns to face you and you look at him in the yellow entrance light and you think about goodnight, about all the goodnights, about the careful distance you’ve been keeping.

“Come up,” you say.

His expression does that thing — complicated and warm and something that isn’t quite controlled anymore. “You sure?”

“I just asked, didn’t I?”

He follows you up.

Your room is warm and small and familiar and he’s been in it before but not like this — not with the door closed and the lights low and both of you knowing exactly what this is. He stands just inside the door and looks at you and you cross the room and kiss him.

It’s different from September.

September was heat and momentum and two people who didn’t know each other doing something that felt like a decision.

This is — slower. His hands come up to your face the way they did at the party but gentler, more deliberate, like he’s paying attention to something he nearly missed before. He kisses you like he has something to say and this is the only language that fits, and you feel it move through you differently than anything has moved through you in a long time.

“Hey,” he says, against your mouth.

“Hi,” you say back.

He pulls back just enough to look at you — really look, the way he does now, the full attentive weight of it — and his thumb traces your cheekbone and he says, quietly: “You’re so beautiful. Do you know that?”

“Jake—”

“I mean it.” You can tell he means it. It’s in his face, unguarded and certain. “I’ve been — I should have said it a long time ago.”

You look at him for a moment. Then you pull him back down.

He undresses you slowly, which is new — September was efficient, purposeful, barely stopping. Now he takes his time like he’s making up for it, his mouth following the line of your throat, your collarbone, his hands sliding your top off with a care that makes your breath catch. When he gets to the soft curve of your stomach he stops.

He goes to his knees.

You look down at him, breath held, and he puts both hands flat and warm against your bump and just — holds them there. His forehead drops forward to rest against you. The room is quiet. You put your hand in his hair without thinking about it.

“Hey,” he says softly. Not to you.

Your throat tightens.

He turns his head and presses his lips to the curve of your stomach, gentle, then again, then moves his hands slowly like he’s learning the shape of it, and you feel something in your chest come undone quietly and without ceremony.

“Jake,” you say, and your voice is not entirely steady.

He looks up at you. His eyes are dark and very serious. “Okay?” he asks.

“More than okay,” you manage.

He stands back up and kisses you again and walks you back to the bed.

He lays you down and settles over you and his mouth goes back to your tits immediately — you’d forgotten, or you’d tried to forget, the specific focused obsession of it — his hands cupping them, heavier now, thumbs dragging slow over your nipples until you’re arching up into his mouth.

“Perfect,” he murmurs against your skin, “you’re so perfect,” and the praise lands warm and low in your stomach and you pull at his shirt until he lets you get it off.

He’s as good-looking as you remembered, which is annoying.

His mouth works down your body and his hands slide your underwear off and then he looks up at you from between your thighs with an expression that makes your brain go briefly offline. “Okay?” he says again.

“If you don’t—” you start.

He puts his mouth on your pussy and the rest of that sentence evaporates.

He goes slower than September. That’s the difference — the same precision, the same devastating accuracy with his tongue on your clit and his fingers curling deep into your walls, but slower, like he wants to take you apart carefully this time, like he’s paying attention to every sound you make and adjusting accordingly.

Your hands find his hair. Your hips roll up. He holds them down with one forearm across your hips and doesn’t stop, doesn’t change pace, just keeps that steady merciless rhythm until you’re shaking and pleading and your walls are clenching around his fingers and you cum on his tongue with his name coming out wrecked and too loud for the room.

He comes back up your body looking — different than September. Still composed, still that infuriating ease, but underneath it something open. Something that wasn’t there before.

He reaches for his jacket on the floor. Finds his wallet to grab a condom.

You start laughing.

He looks at you confused. “What.”

“Jake.” You press your lips together. “We don’t — I’m already pregnant.

He looks at the condom in his hand. Looks at you. Something crosses his face and then he laughs too — real and unguarded, the laugh from the voice note, the one you listened to twice — drops it back on the floor and comes back to you.

“Fair point,” he says, against your mouth.

“Incredible,” you tell him. “You’re incredible.”

“Shut up,” he says, warmly, and kisses you.

He flips you over.

Not roughly — carefully, one hand at your hip and one at your shoulder, mindful, and you end up straddling him and looking down at him and his hands settle on your hips and he looks up at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen.

“You good?” he asks.

“Very,” you say, and sink down onto him.

The sound he makes is low and immediate and deeply satisfying. You feel every inch of him filling you, your walls stretching around his cock, and you go slow — partly because of the bump, partly because you want to, partly because watching his face as you take him is something you want to draw out. His jaw is tight. His hands on your hips are firm but not directing, just — there, holding on.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel—”

“I know,” you say, and roll your hips.

His head drops back.

You find your rhythm — slow, deep, the grind of your hips meeting his, and his hands tighten and his hips push up to meet you and his mouth falls open and he is, you think, the best-looking thing you’ve ever seen like this, undone and flushed and completely present, all the composure stripped away.

“Perfect,” he says, rough and low, watching you move. “You’re so perfect, look at you—”

The praise moves through you like heat and you move faster, his thumb finds your clit and you gasp and his other hand spreads warm and careful over your bump and the gesture — the gentleness of it, the instinct of it — tips something over in your chest that you’re not going to examine right now because you’re busy, but you feel it, you feel it clearly.

You cum the second time with his cock buried inside you and his thumb on your clit, his hand on your stomach and his eyes on your face. He follows you not long after with his hips driving up and your name in his mouth, said like it means something, said like he’s been saving it.

Afterward you lie tangled together in your narrow dorm bed, which is not really built for two people but is managing. His hand is resting on your stomach with a naturalness that would have been impossible three months ago and you’re staring at the ceiling and feeling the particular peace of someone who has been braced for a long time and has just, finally, put it down.

“Come to my game next week,” he says.

You turn your head to look at him. “What?”

“Home game. Friday.” He’s looking at the ceiling too. Casual. Except you know him well enough now to know when the casual is covering something. “Come watch.”

You look back at the ceiling. “Okay,” you say.

He turns his head. “Actually?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you say. “Yes. I’ll come to your game.”

The corner of his mouth. That almost-smile that’s better than a real one. “Okay,” he says, and looks back at the ceiling, and his hand stays where it is, warm and certain.

—

The following week is small moments.

Tuesday he brings you the grapes and stays to help you outline your next dissertation chapter, sitting on your floor with his back against your bed and your notes spread between you, and he asks better questions than you expect and you don’t tell him that.

Wednesday the walk to your seminar, his shoulder bumping yours, the coffee he brings without asking — your order, exact, without you saying anything.

Thursday a voice note at eleven at night: just wanted to check you were okay. don’t reply if you’re asleep.

You reply and end up talking for forty minutes.

Friday morning he’s at your door.

In one hand, coffee. In the other, folded fabric — dark blue, the Caldwell Wolves crest on the chest, white lettering across the back. SIM. 9.

He holds it out. “You don’t have to,” he says, before you can say anything. “It’s not — I’m not trying to make it a thing. I just thought—”

You take it from him.

You pull it over your head immediately. It’s enormous on you — falls to mid-thigh, swamps your shoulders, the fabric soft from washing. You look down at it and then up at him. His expression is something you don’t have a word for.

You reach up and pull him down by his jacket lapel and kiss him, there in your doorway, in the yellow morning light, slow and certain.

When you pull back he looks — stunned, almost. Like he didn’t expect it even after everything.

“What was that for,” he says with a big grin.

“The jersey,” you say. “Come on. We’ll be late.”

The Hargrove Center is loud in a way that is different when you’re in the stands rather than the corridor — a living, moving noise, four thousand people and the echo of the ice and the announcer’s voice bouncing off the rafters. Mina is beside you, which you’d insisted on, and she’s wearing a Wolves scarf she definitely did not own before today and is eating a pretzel with the focus of someone who has decided to enjoy this.

Someone sits down on your other side.

You look over. He’s older — Jake’s build, the same broad shoulders, grey at his temples, a Wolves cap and a measured, unhurried expression.

“You must be—” he starts while smiling at you with the same grin Jake gave you not long ago.

“Dean Sim,” you say. “Hi.”

He looks at you for a moment with that steady attention that is so recognisably Jake’s that it almost makes you laugh. He’s smileing — warm, real. “He talks about you,” he says. “Quite a lot.”

“Good things, I hope.”

“Mostly.” He settles back in his seat. “He told me about the grapes.”

You look at him. He looks back with an expression of someone who finds this mildly amusing and is being polite about it.

“He remembered I was craving them,” you say.

“I know,” Dean Sim says. “That’s why he told me.” He looks out at the ice where the Wolves are warming up, Jake moving with that particular ease that is the same on ice as off it, unhurried and certain.

“He’s better than he knows how to show yet,” his dad says, quietly. Not performing it. Just — true. “But he’s getting there.”

You watch Jake on the ice.

“Yeah,” you say. “I know.”

The Wolves win.

Not narrowly — convincingly, the way they do when Jake is in the kind of form he’s been in lately, sharp and present, the kind of player who makes everyone around him better just by being fully there. You find yourself on your feet twice without meaning to be and Mina is absolutely losing her mind beside you in a way that suggests she has been quietly wanting to attend a hockey game for some time and has simply been waiting for the invitation.

After the final buzzer the arena stays loud, the celebration on the ice spilling into the stands, and Dean Sim shakes your hand and says it was lovely to meet you with a warmth that is entirely genuine, and you watch him go and think that Jake got the best of him, underneath everything.

And then the jumbo screen above the ice lights up.

You see it before you process it — your name, in big white letters, and then: JAKE SIM WANTS TO KNOW — WILL YOU BE HIS GIRLFRIEND?

The arena does not go quiet because four thousand people do not go quiet, but there is a definite shift — a ripple, a collective awareness, people turning and pointing and the noise changing character. Mina grabs your arm. You stare at the screen.

“Oh my god,” Mina says.

“Oh my god,” you say.

“Are you — are you going to—”

And then he’s there.

Full hockey gear, skates and all, somehow having gotten from the ice to the stands in the time it took you to register what the screen said, and he’s standing at the end of your row with his helmet under his arm and his hair damp and his face doing that thing — the unguarded thing, the thing without composure — and four thousand people are watching and Mina has both hands over her mouth.

“Well?” he says. Over the noise. Just to you.

You look at him. You look at the screen. You look back at him.

“You’re insane,” you say.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Is that a yes?”

You laugh — real and helpless, the kind that comes from somewhere you haven’t accessed in a while — and you step over Mina’s knees and go to him and he meets you halfway and you kiss him in the Hargrove Center in front of four thousand people and full hockey gear and the crowd does what crowds do when they witness something and the noise is enormous but you don’t hear any of it.

When you pull back his forehead drops to yours.

“Yes,” you tell him. “Obviously yes.”

He exhales — slow, like something released. His hand comes up to your face. His thumb at your cheekbone, the way it always is. “Good,” he says.

“Good,” you say back.

Behind you Mina is making a noise that suggests she is going to be telling this story for the rest of her natural life.

—

Three weeks later you are officially four months pregnant and the bump is undeniable now, round and real, and you’re sitting on Jake’s bed in his room — tidier than September, same room, different everything — with your legs across his lap while he reads something for class and his hand rests on your stomach with the absent certainty of someone who has stopped thinking about it and started just doing it.

The Wolves won again last night. His jersey, what you wore last night and have been to every game, is on the back of his chair.

Outside the window Caldwell goes on being large and indifferent and fully lit up, and in here it is warm and quiet and ordinary in a way that is — everything, actually. The whole thing. The specific ordinary of someone else’s presence that you’ve been missing without knowing how to name it.

“Hey,” Jake says, without looking up from his page.

“Hey,” you say.

“You good?”

You look at him — at the line of his jaw and the hand on your stomach and the room that used to be just a room and is now something else, something yours — and you think about September, about the corridor and the money and the slap you don’t regret. You think about Mina in the drugstore bathroom and Hannah on the third ring and the heartbeat on the monitor that made everything real.

You think about how none of this was the plan and how a plan was never the point.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m good.”

He turns a page. His hand stays where it is. Outside, Caldwell. Inside, this.

Good, you think. I’m more than good.

Everything about it is wrong, yet you still chose to go with it anyways.

Mr. Lee was your best friend's dad, at first you were trying to be respectful about him and his marriage.

That's why you didn't dare to do anything

But now that he's divorced the temptations are too hard to refuse.

You're currently at his mansion. On the way to the kitchen to get some snacks Amara, your bestfriend is on her way from her school two hours away.

You're looking around the pantry and the cupboards for snacks, your eyes land on the cereal neatly tucked away in the pantry, then you grabbed a bowl from the dishwasher and poured the milk on the cereal, you then grabbed orange juice and poured it on your glass.

You're given house access privileges last year during spring break

You thought nobody was around. Because during this time, Mr. Lee was usually at his desk job forty five minutes away. But to your surprise the door opened and shut, the sound echoed throughout the house

"Mara?" You called out, thinking it was your bestfriend making the noise

"Amara is not here yet" A deep voice replied from behind

"M-mr. Lee, I didn't notice you there..." You stammered trying to keep it cool

Amara confided in you during the divorce. It ended very badly, and this is your first time seeing him since during the holidays months ago.

He looked good, he looks healthier, happier.

"Please, don't be modest. Call me Heeseung. You've been my daughter's bestfriend for ages..." He flashed you his pearly whites

"Of course, Heeseung..." Your voice came out clipped

"You've changed a lot since Iast so you during the holidays..." He stated

There was an instant burn in your cheeks, realizing he was paying enough attention to notice the changes you're currently going through.

Calling your bestfriend's dad by a first name basis fells so odd, you're not used to it. You've know the Lee's for years yet you never called him by his first name.

You suddenly became thirsty, you took a sip of the orange juice you've taken out not too long ago

"Did Amara tell you anything about her mom and I?" He suddenly asked

The sudden question suddenly caught you off guard, accidentally spitting out the orange juice all over yourself.

You quickly scramble to find kitchen towels but there was none that's currently close to you. During the scramble Heeseung's hand suddenly sticks out to you offering you a towel.

You smiled at him while you clean yourself up with the towel he gave you.

You noticed that his eyes roamed everywhere.

"She did... Mr—Heeseung..She did and I'm sorry about it..." Your voice filled with pity

"No need to pity me...It was fun while it lasted...." He smiled bitterly

Then Heeseung was intensely looking at you, by instincts you look down, realizing all this time you weren't wearing a bra. And you're wearing the tiniest shorts know to man with half of your cheeks peeking out.

And you spilled juice on yourself not too long ago making your white T-shirt basically see through and transparent

"Excuse me, I'm gonna clean myself up in the bathroom.." You quickly excused yourself

While you're on the way to the bathroom heeseung suddenly grabs your wrist

"Wait." He stops you

Then he pins you to the nearby wall, he doesn't stop smothering you with kisses as you didn't attempt to stop his actions. You didn't pull away from his venomous touch.

"I'm sorry... I shouldn't have... This is wrong" He suddenly pulled back, realization hitting him

"This is so wrong Heeseung, We shouldn't be doing this" You stated

"So you do you want me to stop?" He smirks

"I..I don't know" You bit your lip

"You need to use your words" He says

Heeseung knew he was obviously crossing an unspoken boundary that he shouldn't be crossing. You're literally his daughter's bestfriend. He also acknowledges that you're young. Too young—Yet he can't help himself. He knows an attractive woman when he sees one, and you are attractive. Beautiful long silky hair, curves enough to make any man water.

"This is wrong Heeseung... So wrong" You bit your lips, looking down at the floor

"Then tell me to stop..." He manages to breathe out

"But I don't want you to stop..." Your voice clipped with shame

"Then I won't sweetheart..." Heeseung said

Before he crashed his lips on yours, this time his kisses were hungry, sloppy and hard. His lips were soft, yet his tongue was tangled inside with your own.

You couldn't stop yourself, you couldn't help indulge yourself on the temptation he brings upon you.

You didn't fight him, instead you gave him an opening to where there's no coming back

He slowly drags you to his room, he pulls you close, still peppering kisses all over your neck and collarbones. He leads you to his bedroom. Once you're inside he takes of his clothes

"Do you need help with your clothes babygirl?" He asks for permission

"Yes" You nod along, giving him permission

He didn't waste a second and takes of your shirt, now nothing is left but your bare chest, he threw the clothes somewhere absent mindedly. His body was amazing, for someone his age he's maintaining his physique pretty well. Heeseung's body was toned, not too much muscle and not too bulk either. The suits he usually wears don't his body any justice, while he looks good wearing suits, it makes him look a little frumpy.

He then pushes you to his bed. It creaked once you've hit the soft mattress

Heeseung puts you in a position where he's under you

"Are you sure you want to do this?" He asked once again, like he's hesitating

"There's no turning back from this, Heeseung..." You declared

"As you wish.." He flashed you a devilishly naughty smile

He gives so kisses once again. He sucks onto your skin, then his kisses move onto your neck, then your collarbones and onto your lower stomach. Your breath hitches as he inched closer and closer to your pussy

He flashed you those charming round eyes before continuing.

Heeseung doesn't give mercy to your shorts and he takes them off with one swift motion. Then he takes off your underwear with the same precision, tossing them onto the floor. Then he indulges himself in the sight on of your clit before diving into it.

He doesn't take long before he dives into it, the moment Heeseung buried himself and his tongue into your slit, you immediately started seeing stars

The lewd sound of him sucking echoes throughout the room, your moans accompanied them.

You bit your lips you suppress the moans, trying to be as silent as possible

"Louder baby, let me hear you" He encourages, like he's having fun with what he's doing

You feel yourself closer to the climax, you grab harder into his hair, digging deeper into his scalp as you burry his mouth further into you.

"Fuck I'm so close Heeseung..." You managed to moan out

He doesn't speak back, he just sucks the life out of you until you're cross-eyed

You're so close to climax, your stomach is in knots until he pulls back

"Why'd you stop?" You moan out in disappoinment

"I didn't say you could come babygirl.." He states, before licking the excess liquids around his mouth

"Face down, ass up." Heeseung barks his orders

"W-what?" You stammered

"You heard me"

You immediately comply to his orders, putting your head down onto the bed while your ass is up, for the better access on Heeseung's part.

You suddenly feel Heeseung's dick on the entrance of your clit. You take a deep breath, bracing yourself for him

"I'll be gentle babygirl, don't you worry..." He chuckles

With that Heeseung slams into you, contradicting his earlier promise. You moan out in pleasure and in pain, tears slowly pools in your eyes and the slowly cascade into the mattress.

You grab onto the sheets for support whole Heeseung thrusts without no mercy, his thrusts were wild and untamed, he doesn't seem to tire, he goes faster and faster. While he thrusts into you, his hands land onto your nipples and he plays with them in a circular motion. Then he's dipping his hips onto yours, you feel his balls hitting the butt. You moan out in pain

"Fuck Heeseung!" You shout

"That's it..Take my fucking cock..." He thrusts "You're so fucking tight baby...So tight like a virgin..." He says

You hug him tighter and tighter as he goes deeper and deeper into you. For the second time you feel yourself climax.

"I'm about to come again Heeseung..." You tell him

"Don't cum yet baby... I'm close fucking close..."

Heeseung even picks up his pace, now he's moving at an impossible pace, almost too fast to keep up with.

"Fuck.."

The both of your climax at the same time, the liquids mix inside of you as you catch your own breath. You feel amazing and lightheaded at the same time, panting from the exhaustion this had brought upon you.

"You're amazing baby..." Heeseung praises

Before you could reply a piercing sound interrupts the both of you. Heeseung's phone on the night stand suddenly rings.

You immediately tense up

"Who is it?" You asked glancing at his phone

"Amara." He says before answering the phone and motioning 'Be quiet' with his hands

On the other side of the phone you could hear Amara's sweet voice

"Hey dad, I was on my way home but I passed by Walmart. Do we need anything at home? She's not answering her phone, maybe she's sleeping or taking a bath..." The 'She' Amara was referring to was definitely you

Everything came dawning on you now. You just fucked your bestfriend's dad. Your clothes are everywhere, your one whole hot ass mess and you're in his bed. While your bestfriend is clueless about it.

Emotions mix up in your chest. The guilt of being with him, shame of hiding it and the misery of carrying this secret.

You storm out of the room while Heeseung is talking with Amara, picking up your clothes and dashing back into her room, cowering in fear.

a/n: listen to me, was essential for me to do this after the dream i had. js trust the process guys ! :b

ᯓ★ !

hearing the ping of your phone immediately as you put it down made you smile. looking down at the new message ‘ for your nails baby get something pretty for me <3’ followed by a cash deposit into your account.

you loved getting your nails done; picking out pretty colors and fun designs — you especially loved going home and showing sunghoon what he spent his hard earned money on.

“hoonie!”

the boy had his phone to his ear talking to jake ; lazily sitting in the chair. his sweats low on his hips , black shirt slightly lifted up revealing his stomach. “hey baby.” he mouthed , you sat down next to him he wrapped his arm around your shoulder.

“jake , ima call you back.” he said. “yeah , she just came in— shut up , i’ll see you tomorrow.” he hung the phone up , ready to give all his attention to you. “you got them?”

“look!” excitedly holding your hands out. “i even got gems this time and a 3d flower.” he watched you go into detail about what exactly you told your nail lady. “aren’t they pretty?”

“so pretty baby , you know i love spending money on your nails every month.”

he held your hands , caressing them; the smell of the vanilla lotion you kept in your car filling his nostrils as brought your hand to kiss your knuckles. “your hands are so soft, baby.”

you knew sunghoon didn’t spend money on your nails every month just to see you bring back different variations of pinks and gossip from the salon. “i know , the lotion is so worth it.” you caressed his cheek , your hands traveling down his neck; down his torso. “fuck.” he sighed as you reached his waistband.

“keep going baby.” he sighed, feeling the warmth of your hand on his stomach. your hand slipped into his sweats , palming his half hard cock. he cursed under his breath as you massaged his cock. “fuck baby , take me out.”

he lifted his hips up allowing you to pull his sweat down enough to free his erected cock; his tip leaking with precum as it sat against his stomach. “touch it pretty.”

he groaned feeling your soft hands wrapping around his cock. “so warm baby , keep going.” you stroked him softly , kissing his neck. his head was thrown back against the couch , eyes half open as your hand moved up and down. “fuck baby , ima about to cum.”

your thumb swiping across his tip; making him cum , covering your hand. “shit.” he sighed as his load spill over your hand , his eyes finally opening, right as you were two of your freshly done nails that were covered in his cum into your mouth , sucking on them.

“shit.” he chuckled breathlessly, throwing his head back. “you’re gonna fucking kill me.” you giggled. “so pretty baby.” he kissed your lips. “i should pay you back.” he gently pushed you on to your back , hovering above you.

you loved getting your nails done , but you loved sunghoons reaction the most

And right now he was dancing with her.

Karina, the senior idol known for her sharp visuals and even sharper stage presence. The collab stage had been hyped for weeks a sultry, powerful performance blending his group’s sharp choreography with her sensual concept.

The concept photos alone had made fans lose their minds. Tonight’s live stage was supposed to be the climax. You knew it was just work. You knew collabs like this happened all the time. You knew jungwon had rehearsed with karina for hours without a single complaint, treating it like any other professional gig.

But knowing and seeing were two very different things.

On the monitor, the lights dimmed to a deep crimson. Jungwon moved with that effortless, predatory grace he was famous for loose hips, sharp isolations, that signature smirk playing on his lips as he matched karina’s every step. Their bodies came close, too close, during the bridge.

Her hand slid down his chest in a choreographed move that looked far too intimate under the stage lights. He spun her, caught her waist, dipped her low while the crowd screamed, your stomach twisted.

You weren’t new to this industry. Jealousy was supposed to be something you outgrew after debut. Yet here you were, main vocalist of your own rising girl group, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste blood, watching your boyfriend look at another woman like the choreography demanded like he was enjoying it just a little too much.

The final pose had them pressed together, faces inches apart, breathing heavy under the spotlights. The audience erupted. Karina laughed breathlessly and jungwon flashed that charming, boyish grin he usually reserved for you.

You turned away from the monitor before the lights even came up. By the time the show ended and both groups were back in the shared artist van heading toward the dorms, you had perfected the art of polite silence.

You sat in the back row, earphones in, staring out the window at Seoul’s glittering night lights. Your members chattered around you, still buzzing from the successful joint concert, but you only offered short nods and small smiles.

Enhypen had their own van, but you both knew the plan. After the usual post show debrief and quick costume changes at the company building, you would slip away separately and meet at the secret apartment the one your agencies didn’t know about, paid for with pooled savings and careful scheduling.

A tiny two bedroom hideout in a quiet residential area where you could be just be you and jungwon for a few stolen hours.Tonight, the drive felt endless.

When you finally unlocked the door and stepped inside, the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with your favorite vanilla diffuser hit you. The apartment was dark except for the soft glow of the city filtering through the half closed blinds.

You kicked off your shoes, dropped your bag, and headed straight for the kitchen to pour a glass of cold water. Anything to occupy your hands.The front door clicked open ten minutes later.

Jungwon stepped in still dressed in his stage outfit black shirt unbuttoned at the top, silver chain glinting against his collarbones, hair slightly tousled from the performance. He looked unfairly good under the low light, cheeks still flushed from the adrenaline.

He spotted you immediately and that trademark teasing smile curved his lips. He called out your name , voice low and playful as he locked the door behind him. “You disappeared so fast after the show i was looking for my favorite noona.”You didn’t answer. Instead, you took a slow sip of water, eyes fixed on the glass.

He tilted his head, cat like eyes narrowing in amusement as he shrugged off his jacket and tossed it over the couch. “Silent treatment already? The stage lights must’ve been brighter than I thought.”

Still nothing.

Jungwon padded closer, barefoot now, until he was leaning against the kitchen counter right beside you. He smelled like stage smoke, sweat, and that warm, addictive scent that was purely him. “Come on, baby talk to me or are you going to make me guess what’s got my pretty girl all pouty tonight?”

You set the glass down a little harder than necessary. “I’m not pouty.”

“Oh?” He leaned in, voice dropping into that flirty register he knew made your knees weak. “Then why won’t you look at me? And why do you have that cute little crease between your brows? The one you get when you’re jealous.”

Your head snapped up at that. “I am not jealous.”

Jungwon’s grin widened, delighted. He reached out and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, fingers lingering against your skin. “Liar i saw you backstage on the monitor feed you were staring daggers at the screen the entire time karina and I were performing. It was kind of hot, actually.”

You swatted his hand away, cheeks burning. “It’s just choreography. I know that but did she have to press up against you like that? And that dip? The fans were screaming like it was a proposal.”

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “It’s a collab stage, baby. We practiced it a hundred times. It means nothing.”

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered, turning to rinse the glass just so you wouldn’t have to face him. “You weren’t the one watching your boyfriend get all touchy with a senior idol who looks like she stepped out of a magazine.”

Jungwon moved behind you before you could escape. His hands settled lightly on your hips, warm through the thin fabric of your oversized hoodie. He didn’t press, just rested there, chin brushing the top of your head. “My boyfriend, huh? Possessive much?”

You tried to shrug him off, but he only tightened his hold, pulling your back flush against his chest. His lips ghosted along the shell of your ear. “I like it when you’re possessive. Makes me want to remind you exactly who I belong to.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine, but you stubbornly kept your voice cool. “Maybe you should remind karina instead she seemed pretty comfortable.”

A low, amused laugh escaped him. “There it is.” He spun you around gently but firmly, backing you up until your hips met the edge of the counter. His hands braced on either side of you, caging you in without fully trapping you.

Those sharp, feline eyes sparkled with mischief and something darker, warmer. “My baby’s jealous. Actually jealous over a stage performance. Should I be flattered or should I start apologizing?”“You’re enjoying this way too much,” you accused, but your voice had already softened, betraying you.

“Guilty.” Jungwon dipped his head, nose brushing yours in that teasing almost kiss he loved to torture you with. “Seeing you all fired up because of me? It’s cute. Dangerous, but cute. Makes me want to kiss that pout right off your face.”

You turned your head at the last second so his lips landed on your cheek instead. He hummed in mock disappointment.“Still mad?” he murmured against your skin, trailing soft kisses along your jaw. “Fine then I’ll just have to work harder to make it up to you.”

His mouth found the sensitive spot beneath your ear and you couldn’t stop the small sigh that escaped traitorous body. Jungwon noticed immediately, of course he always did.

“See?” he whispered, voice husky now. “Your body knows who it wants even if your pretty mouth is still sulking.”You pushed at his chest half heartedly. “won”

“Hm?” He caught your wrists gently, pinning them to the counter behind you with one hand while the other tilted your chin up, forcing you to meet his gaze. The teasing light in his eyes had shifted into something hotter, more intense. “Tell me what you’re thinking use your words, baby or I’ll keep guessing until I get it right.”

The proximity was overwhelming. His body heat, the way his thigh had slipped between yours without you realizing, the familiar scent of him mixed with the faint remnants of stage makeup. Jealousy still simmered low in your belly, but it was rapidly morphing into something else something needy and possessive.

“I hated it,” you admitted quietly, eyes dropping to his lips. “Watching her touch you watching you smile at her like that even if it’s fake i know it’s your job, but I wanted to drag you off that stage.”

Jungwons breath hitched the playful mask cracked just enough to show the raw hunger underneath. “Fuck, baby say that again.”

“I wanted you all to myself,” you whispered, voice gaining strength. Your free hand came up to fist the front of his shirt. “Not sharing you with the lights, the cameras, or her.”

Something possessive flashed across his face. In one smooth motion he released your wrists, cupped your face, and kissed you deep, claiming, nothing like the teasing brushes from earlier. His mouth moved against yours with intent, tongue sliding in when you gasped, tasting like the cherry lip balm he always stole from your bag.

You kissed him back just as fiercely, pouring all the evening’s frustration into it. Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging lightly the way you knew drove him crazy. He groaned into your mouth, pressing his body fully against yours until you could feel every hard line of him.

When he finally pulled back for air, his forehead rested against yours, breathing ragged. “You have no idea what you do to me when you get like this,” he rasped. “All jealous and possessive makes me want to mark you up so everyone knows exactly who you belong to.”

“Then do it,” you challenged, eyes locked on his. The jealousy had burned away into pure heat now. “Remind me remind yourself.” Jungwon’s control snapped beautifully.

He lifted you onto the counter in one effortless move, hands sliding under your hoodie to grip your waist. His mouth found your neck again, sucking and biting hard enough to leave faint marks that would need careful covering tomorrow. You arched into him, a soft moan escaping as his teeth grazed your pulse point.

“Mine,” he growled against your skin, hands roaming higher, pushing the fabric up. “Say it.”

“Yours,” you breathed, helping him tug the hoodie over your head. The cool air hit your skin, quickly replaced by the warmth of his palms and then his mouth as he kissed down your collarbone.

Your own hands were busy, fumbling with the buttons of his shirt until you could push it off his shoulders, revealing the toned chest and faint sheen of sweat still lingering from the performance. You raked your nails lightly down his abs, feeling the muscles jump under your touch.

Jungwon hissed in pleasure, capturing your lips again in a messy kiss. “Bedroom,” he muttered against your mouth. “Now or I’m taking you right here on the counter.”

You laughed breathlessly, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Counter’s fine.”He groaned, half laugh, half desire. “Greedy tonight, aren’t we?”

“Only because you made me watch you dance with someone else.”

“Fair point.” He nipped at your lower lip, then scooped you up properly, carrying you toward the bedroom while your mouths stayed fused together.

The short hallway felt endless. By the time he kicked the bedroom door open and laid you down on the bed, both of you were breathing hard, clothes half gone. Jungwon hovered over you, eyes dark and reverent as he took in the sight of you flushed, hair spread across the pillows, lips swollen from his kisses.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick. One hand traced down your side, fingers hooking into the waistband of your leggings. “All worked up because of a silly stage my jealous little star.”

You tugged him down by the silver chain around his neck. “Stop talking and show me who you really want.”His answering smile was pure sin. “As you wish.”

Clothes disappeared in a blur of impatient hands and whispered curses. When skin finally met skin, the relief was electric.jungwon took his time despite the urgency thrumming between you kissing every inch he could reach, murmuring praise and teasing taunts in equal measure.

“You think I could ever look at her the way I look at you?” he whispered as his lips trailed lower, across your stomach, teasing the edge of your panties. “No one else gets this. No one else gets me like this.”

You threaded your fingers through his hair, guiding him exactly where you needed him. When his mouth finally found you, hot and insistent, your back arched off the bed with a broken moan. He worked you open with tongue and fingers, relentless and skilled, until you were trembling, whispering his name like a prayer and a curse.

Only when you were gasping, teetering right on the edge, did he pull back. You whined at the loss, but he was already crawling up your body, kissing you so you could taste yourself on his tongue. “Want you,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “Need you right now.”

You nodded frantically, legs wrapping around his hips to pull him closer. “Then take me. Please, won—”

He entered you in one smooth thrust, both of you groaning at the perfect fit. For a moment he stayed still, buried deep, letting you adjust while he pressed open mouthed kisses along your jaw.

Then he started moving slow at first, deep rolls of his hips that had your toes curling. The teasing flirt from the kitchen was gone, replaced by raw, focused intensity. Every thrust felt like a claim, every moan he drew from you a victory.

You met him thrust for thrust, nails digging into his shoulders, leaving crescent marks that mirrored the ones he’d left on your neck. The jealousy that had started the night had transformed into this frantic, passionate proof that he was yours and you were his, no stage, no collab, no audience could change that.

“Harder,” you demanded, voice wrecked.

Jungwon obliged with a low growl, picking up the pace. The bed creaked beneath you. Skin slapped against skin. Your names fell from each other’s lips in broken gasps.

He shifted angles, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Your orgasm built fast and overwhelming. You tried to warn him, but all that came out was a strangled cry as pleasure crashed over you, clenching around him.

“Fuck—” jungwon followed right after, hips stuttering as he spilled inside you, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

For long minutes afterward, the only sounds were your ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city outside. Jungwon collapsed half on top of you, careful not to crush you, one arm draped possessively over your waist.

Eventually he lifted his head, brushing damp strands of hair from your face with surprising gentleness. The teasing smile returned, softer now, sated.

“Still jealous?” he asked, voice hoarse.

You pretended to think about it, tracing lazy patterns on his chest. “Maybe a little you did look pretty good out there with her.”

He laughed, the sound rumbling pleasantly against you. “Brat.” He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, then your lips. “Next time there’s a collab, I’m dragging you on stage with me instead. No more making my girlfriend watch from the sidelines.”

You smiled against his mouth. “Deal but only if I get to be the one pressing up against you.”

“Possessive,” he teased, but his eyes were warm, full of affection. “I love it and i love you.” Your heart fluttered the way it always did when he said it so casually, like it was the simplest truth. “I love you too even when you’re being an annoying flirt on stage.”

Jungwon grinned, rolling you both so you were tucked against his chest. “Good because I plan on making you jealous again sometime. Just so I can bring you home and remind you exactly how much I’m yours.”

You swatted his arm lightly, but snuggled closer, contentment settling over you like a warm blanket. The stage lights, the screaming fans, the choreographed touches they all faded away in the quiet safety of this apartment.

Here, under the soft glow of the bedside lamp, there was only jungwon’s steady heartbeat under your cheek, his fingers drawing lazy circles on your back, and the unspoken promise that no collab, no performance, no amount of jealousy could ever come between you.

Outside, Seoul kept shining. Inside, you fell asleep wrapped in the arms of the only idol who had ever truly mattered.And tomorrow, when the makeup artists asked about the faint marks on your neck, you’d just smile and say it was from the intense choreography.

No one needed to know the truth.

The truth was yours alone.

jake huffed out a sigh, leaning back against the edge of his side of the tub and sinking a little bit beneath the water, legs opening to go on either side of your waist where you sat opposite to him.

he gave you an annoyed look.

"why the hell are you sitting all the way there? why aren't you on my lap?" he grumbled.

you let out a small hum as you lifted your arms up from the water. stray, wet red petals sticking to your skin as you stretched them above your head, arching your back and puffing out your chest a little as you let out a small moan.

"but i'm so comfortable on this side~" you said in a teasing tone, acting innocent despite the cheeky smile you made no effort of hiding on your face

jake's eyes immediately went up to your arms before immediately falling back to your chest. your nipples were so, so close to being revealed, but the darn bubbles still kept you barely hidden from his hungry eyes.

your smirk widened. your boyfriend was just so obvious sometimes.

you brought your hands down slowly to caress your neck and shoulders before floating over your chest.

"besides, i think you like the view from rightttt over there, hmm~?" you chuckle, dragging the petals down your skin and over the swell of your chest, bringing them over your nipples and giving your right breast a little squeeze, lifting them over the bubbles so that he could get a better look.

jake's eyes darkened and his breathing and heart rate stuttered, eyes narrowing and darkening as he let out a little growl.

"the fuck are you doing?" he snarls, feeling his member twitching beneath the water, the telltale signs of him getting hard.

"hmm?" you feign, sitting up straighter and tilting your head at him. "i'm just relaxing jakey. are you not right now? is the water too hot for you?"

jake's eye twitched. "don't act like you don't know what you're doing." he said accusingly. "your sitting there all wet, covered in the roses i bought you for our date today, and you think my mind isn't screaming at me right now?"

you slowly traced his calf under the water next to you, running your fingers up and down his leg.

"and just what is your mind screaming at you exactly?" you tease, licking your lips, his gaze falling on the shine of your lips.

the ends of jake's mouth tugged down into a scowl, the top half of his body moving up to grab you.

"why don't you get over here so i can show yo-"

he's suddenly cut off as you bring your right leg up, placing it on his chest and stopping him from leaning towards you, your smile widening as you felt him freeze. you leaned back on the tub's other edge and gently applied pressure on his chest with your feet, making him lean back.

"hasty aren't we?" you tsk, watching the restraint in his eyes waver. he let you push him back, his eyebrows furrowing even more. you ran your foot down his chest, feeling it heaving, warm breaths falling over your foot as you dragged it down and down, stopping right over his member that you knew would be hard.

jake gave you a look that screamed 'watch it', before you're gently pressing down on him. you gave a sly smirk at the groan that escaped him and watched the water slosh around from the movement of his hips bucking up, watching him lean forward and hang his head, breathing in and out faster now.

he staggered in another shaky inhale as he looked at you through his hair that fell over his eyes.

"you think you're funny?" he hissed, yet made no move to move you, his hand coming down to massage your foot resting on his dick. "'think it's my turn to laugh now baby."

you tilted your head, feeling yourself become wetter between your own legs despite the water surrounding you. you sat up and grabbed a petal floating between you two. without breaking eye contact, you lifted it and gave it a slow, soft kiss. jake's eyes followed the movement, grip tightening on your foot.

your other hand lifted and brushed away the petals over your chest, now giving your boyfriend a full view of your wet breasts, bringing down the petal you kissed to caress over one of your nipples, feeling it harden and perk up at the softness of the flower.

you heaved out a sigh, bringing it back up and then flicking it at his face. you tried not to laugh at the stunned look on jake's face.

"that funny enough for you?"

you let out a yelp as your suddenly dragged forward by your foot, falling chest to chest against jake, the soapy water sloshing back and forward and spilling a little over the edge of the bathtub.

jake slams his lips over you before you could tease him any further, one arm going behind your head to grip your hair and the other winding low around your waist, moving you to forcefully grind down on his hard member.

you gasp against his lips and jake growls, diving back into you with his tongue, licking your lips and tongue furiously and just as furiously bucking his hips up into you, feeling your thick wetness seeping out and coating him. you whimper at the feeling, arms winding around his neck as you kissed him back harder, letting him take the lead.

he pulled your hair to tug your face away from him, tilting it upwards so that he could look down at you with a flushed, angry look.

"not laughing anymore huh? cat got your tongue?" he snarled. his eyes fell from your blushing cheeks down to your neck and chest where a few petals remained stuck on your skin. he's tilting your head back even more and opened his mouth to bite you right where the roses where, tongue coming out in between bites and kisses to lick at them as he began placing hickies on your warm skin.

he grinded you down harsher, growling at every little shaky mewl and whine that fell from your lips.

"god you look so fucking good." he groaned. "so wet and pretty, covered in roses. just for me, yeah baby? gonna let me cover you in marks the same colors as the roses, won't you?"

you let out another high pitched moan as you felt jake's sucking increase, feeling him playing with the petals over every patch of skin he sucked hickies over.

his dark eyes are hazy with lust, tracking every shift of your body through half-lidded gaze. watching as rose petals cling to your damp skin before he claims each spot with his teeth.

his voice is wrecked as he speaks.

"fuck. riding me like this while i mark you up? so pretty covered in wet roses baby... ughh..."

his hands grip your hips tighter when you grind down particularly hard, a groan tearing from his throat as water sloshes over the edge. the bathwater does nothing to hide how badly he wants you, not with his cock twitching under that perfect heat between your thighs.

he leans forward to catch a petal stuck to your collarbone between his teeth before sucking another bruise right over it.

"gonna make sure... every petal leaves a mark." he nips at your pulse point. "my fucking artwork."

jake pulls back just enough for you both to watch one single red petal drift between where your bodies are nearly joined, only for him snap his hips up sudden and rough, sending it swirling away in the ripples before sealing his mouth over yours in filthy claim.

the bathroom is thick with steam, the scent of roses and vanilla scented bubbles clinging to the damp air. jake leans back against the sloped tub, water sloshing gently as your thighs bracket his hips, fingers tracing idle patterns over your slick skin where rose petals stick like temporary tattoos. his eyes are black with want, tracking how each slow grind of your hips makes more petals float around in soapy ripples.

his voice is almost a ruined rasp. "look at you… fucking showing off now." his palm splays possessively over your stomach when you arch into another roll of your hips. "pretty girl putting on a whole damn performance-"

the words cut off in a hissed curse as you grind down again on him, bubbles frothing between where your bodies are joined. one of his fingers trace a petal near your perked nipple before he's slowly leaning down and licking it before encasing the bud with his lips, using his tongue to drag it towards your nipple so that he could clamp his lips around it and sucking hard, causing you to let out another drawled whimper as you grind down in jerks.

jake's heart skips a beat as he feels your body respond, of your whimper vibrating against his lips still sealed around your nipple. the bathwater sloshes wildly as you jerk against him, sending petals swirling in chaotic circles around your tangled forms. his mouth is still working at your skin, voice muffled and rough as he chokes out, "fuck, that's it- squirm on me. justtt like that…"

his free hand slips between you, but not before snagging a stray floating petal, thumb finding your clit with ruthless precision and using the petal to press over your pearl while his teeth scrape over the pebbled peak he'd just been sucking. the dual sensation has you gasping and eyelids fluttering, hips stuttering in ragged little circles as pleasure coils tight in your gut.

you took in a deep breath and scoffed, leaning forward to be chest to chest and wrestling your arms around his neck, causing him to pause his rubbing on your clit as he gives you a suspicious look.

"careful now," you whispered leaning into his ear, right hand lifted to slowly twirl his hair with your fingers. "we wouldn't want you to be alone in this tub now do we?"

jake's jaw tightened and he clicked his tongue in annoyance. "try leaving this tub and see where that gets you. i fucking dare you." he said in a low tone, clear warning laced in his tone.

you let out a little giggle, giving another slow rock over his member that had him clenching his fists. leaning over to hold your face above your boyfriend's, lips skimming his in a near kiss.

"oho~ is that a challenge?~" you purred, tugging on his hair with the hand that was twirling the strand.

nostrils flaring, the boy's dark eyes flashed with a dangerous mix of arousal and irritation at your teasing. that little tug on his hair sent a shockwave straight to jake's cock, making him twitch beneath you in the water. his jaw clenched tighter, instincts bristling at being taunted.

"you think this is funny, testing me?" he rumbled through gritted teeth.

letting out a him and pretending to think with a tilt off your head, you looked down at him with a sly smile. "well, just a teeny tiny bit." you leaned back down to litter his face with kisses, shivering a little as the movements caused you to grind over his fingers that were still frozen over my nub.

one second you were peppering his face with kisses, the next you were being yanked forward. jake's lips crashed against yours in a searing, possessive kiss that stole your breath, teeth nipping at your bottom lip hard enough to sting before his tongue invaded. the water sloshed violently as he hauled you fully onto his lap, one hand gripping the back of your neck like a vice while the other slid down to squeeze your ass roughly.

he broke the kiss to growl heavily on your lips

"teasing me? bad fucking idea."

then without warning, he flipped you around so fast bubbles flew everywhere. now it was your back pressed against jake's chest as the steamy air hit exposed skin for half a second before his mouth latched onto that sensitive spot where shoulder meets neck and sucked bruise after bruise into existence over where rose petals stuck there earlier.

he kissed up your neck and bit your ear lobe, opening his eyes to spot another stray petal floating in the water and grabbed it in a flash with his left hand with ease, bringing it back down to your clit where his thumb began rubbing the rose petal in slow, maddening circles, just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble but never enough to truly push you over. his other hand splays possessively across your hipbone, fingers digging in just shy of painful when you gasped and tried to grind down for more friction, one hand of yours gripping his thigh and the other ineffective holding the wrist off the hand that was running the petal on you.

he tutting mockingly into your ear. "aww, what's wrong? thought you could tease me all night and now this is all it takes?" his free hand drags up your ribcage to flick an exposed perked nipple.

the petal finally shreds from the relentless friction against your clit, leaving a smear of pink pigment on flushed skin. jake doesn't miss a beat, replacing it immediately with two fingers pressed together tight, resuming that same torturous pace while his cock throbs neglected beneath the water.

a broken moan escapes you, confidence suddenly diminishing as you jerk on his lap, grinding yourself down more on his now fully erect heard on.

jake felt your sudden shift, the way your teasing bravado crumbled into desperate, shuddering need against him. a dark, satisfied smirk curled his lips as he watched the back of your neck flush pink with every drag of his fingers over that oversensitive bundle of nerves.

"look at you… whining for me now." jake said, voice dripping with condescension and lust. "where'd all that sass go?" he bit down on the slope of your shoulder. not hard enough to hurt, just enough to make you jerk.

his two-fingered torture continued mercilessly; circles so light they were almost a taunt until finally he pressed down, firm and unrelenting while simultaneously grinding his hips up in one rough thrust beneath the water, letting you feel exactly how painfully hard he was. the friction alone had him gritting teeth.

the petal remnants floated around the two of you like pink confetti as steam rose off your bodies. jake's breathing ragged behind you while you squirmed pathetically between tortured pleasure he controlled entirely.

you turned around in his lap and leaned forward, draping your heaving wet chest against his and breathing hard, stuffing your face into his neck and beginning to pepper slow kisses into his neck, not pausing in your squirming but grinding down harder onto his fingers and wrapping wet hands around his neck.

you dragged your plump lips up his neck and kissed his ears that you knew were sensitive, nipping at his right ear lobe.

"sass is still there handsome." you breathed into his ear, threading and twirling your fingers through his hair and giving it a sharp tug, warmth blooming through your body from him hissing sharply and feeling his fingers twitch beneath your legs, loosing their rhythm. "bet you wanna fuck it righttt outta me, dontcha~"

jake's breath hitched violently the second your teeth grazed his earlobe, that one spot that always wrecked him. his fingers stuttered against you, rhythm breaking completely as a sharp hiss escaped through clenched teeth. the tug on his hair sent electric jolts down his spine, making every muscle in his body lock up for half a heartbeat.

"fuck-" his hips jerked upward involuntarily, chasing friction where he badly he needed it.

the smugness radiating off you was maddening. he loved it, loved how bold and bratty you got when teasing him. but right now? it was fucking lethal. his eyes burned into the side of your face as steam curled between you two; water sloshing wildly with each restless shift of either of their bodies.

you giggled, actually giggled at him.

jake's pupils dilate.

you brought a hand down to grasp the one teasing your clit, lifting it into the exposed air between you two, kissing his fingers one by one, nuzzling into the digits.

"my man really was such a gentleman today." you whispered lovingly, a genuine smile replacing my smug one this time. "took such good care of me, didn't you jakey?~"

jake's chest tightened at the sudden shift in your tone. the teasing edge melting into something softer, sweeter. the way you kissed each of his fingers so tenderly made something warm and possessive unfurl in his gut.

his thumb brushed your lower lip, watching with quiet intensity as water droplets slid down your cheeks from damp hair. the rose petals were wilting around you both. pink blooms sinking sadly into cloudy bathwater.

he cleared his throat, gulping.

"yeah… i-i did."

you hummed, taking his thumb tracing your lips into your mouth, licking it before giving it a harsh suck.

a trail of saliva connected between his thumb and your lips as you took it out of your mouth, looking at him from beneath lashes.

"hmm... thinking of giving him a reward. buttt i still wanna tease him a little. maybe i should leave him alone in this bathtub so he couldd take care of himself. does seeing me in wet petals do the trick for you jakey? is that all it takes?~"

jake's breath stuttered, his entire body going rigid as he watched the obscene string of saliva stretch between your lips and his thumb. his dark eyes tracked the glistening connection. hypnotized by it until you broke it with your words and that sinful little smirk.

for a second, jake just stared.

then something in him snapped.

the hand that you had been kissing and sucking went to grip your neck, a surprised gasp escaping your lips as you felt his fingers tighten, thumb pressing into your pulse point.

he pulled you forward, looming over your face as you stared up at him wide eyed.

a raw, dark look fell over his features, and you gulped this time in nervousness.

jake flexed his fingers around your throat, and he felt it bob up and down from unsurety. his grip tightened just slightly. not enough to hurt, but enough that you felt the promise of control in his hold. his gaze dropped to your throat, watching the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath his fingertips like a predator mesmerized by prey.

no words. just heat. just possession.

the water lapped quietly around you both as jake slowly but deliberately leaned down until his lips hovered a hair's breadth from yours, breath mingling with yours in thick tension.

the air between you crackled. every second stretched thinner and thinner with anticipation.

he looked over you, eyes half lidded now. there was a few seconds of silence before his lips moved.

a simple, hushed, "okay" was all you heard, and before you could process or question anything, his other free hand gripped your waist before he's suddenly slamming you down on his dick.

the sudden, brutal thrust knocked the air from your lungs. jake's cock sinking into you in one punishing motion.

water sloshed violently over the tub's edge as his grip on your waist turned bruising, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks while he held you flush against him.

jake didn't speak.

he just moved.

hips jerking up sharply beneath you with zero finesse, pure control taking over. the wet slap of skin on skin echoed off tile walls as steam curled around both of your bodies. jaw clenched tight, eyes screwed shut like he was fighting not to lose it completely right then and there.

every ragged breath escaped through gritted teeth. the pleasure almost too much after teasing each other for so damn long.

his control was hanging by a thread. each upward snap of your boyfriend's hips drove you deeper into winding pleasure, waves crashing against the tub's porcelain sides with every rough thrust. his free hand, the one not still circling your throat, gripped your waist, veins popping along his forearm from restraint.

he wasn't gentle. this wasn't sweet or slow. it was claiming. every ragged breath that punched out of him sounded like a growl. every time he bottomed out inside you, it sent ripples through both your bodies and splashed more rose petals onto wet tile floors.

the bath had long since lost its relaxing atmosphere. now it just felt feverish and electric between panting breaths.

jake's breath came in short, controlled grunted gasps, each one hot against your damp skin as he continued to pound into you with relentless intensity as he chased the friction.

his thumb stroked your throat, not squeezing anymore, just a possessive touch while his other hand slid down to grip your ass hard, helping each brutal thrust upward. every time he bucked his hips up like this? it sent a shockwave through both of you. the wet slap echoing louder than before.

you gasped at the intense pounding, both hands clattering to grip the one squeezing your neck. "j-jake!" you moaned, whining as he squeezed slightly. "nghhh... w-wait!"

but he still didn't say anything.

jake ignored your pleas. not out of cruelty, but because his mind was drowning him. the way you gasped his name like that? the desperate whine in your voice? the wet roses he oh so charmingly brought for you clinging onto your skin reminding him of the hickies he loved leaving on your skin? all that only fueled the fire.

his grip on your throat tightened a fraction while his other hand clamped down harder on your ass, forcing you to take every single punishing thrust with no reprieve. water sloshed onto the floor in messy waves. half of the bubbles long since dissipated from all movement.

he was lost. lost in the heat of skin and water and sweat. lost chasing that high only your body could give him.

no words came from the boy… just guttural sounds tearing from his chest with each snap of hips upward.

the rhythm of hulk of his body beneath you became erratic. thrusts turning sloppier, more desperate as the coil in jake's stomach tightened to a breaking point. the grip on your throat loosened entirely now, hand sliding up to cradle the back of your head instead, fingers tangling in wet hair.

he brings his face even closer, and you think you're about to kiss but then he stops just a shy breath away from connecting your lips. he just tilts his head towards you until your forehead connects, noses touching but still not fucking kissing you.

"you gonna tease me again?" he asks in a low and deep, serious tone, making you feel the vibrations as you lose your mind, clutching desperately at his chest.

you tried to keep eye contact, but the feeling of your orgasm creeping up and the way he was fucking into your body knocked all air out of you. "w-what- hnnngghhh ughhhhh!!" you get cut off by a harsh and deep pound that bounced you hard on his lap, grinding onto him more as your pussy clench harder around him.

jake's lips curled into something feral, a smirk that wasn't quite a smile, more of a predator baring teeth. the second you clenched around him like that, his entire body shivered.

he felt it. felt the way your walls fluttered, the telltale tension coiling in your belly that you were close. and jake? he was going to make damn sure you fell first.

without breaking eye contact or foreheads, he shifted just slightly, adjusting the angle so his next thrust hit even deeper, right where it would wreck you most, making you cry out. at the same time, his free hand slid between your bodies and pressed two fingers hard against your clit again. not teasing this time, but ruthless. rubbing tight circles with perfect pressure while still pounding into you from below.

the water trembled violently with each movement and jake let out a deep sigh that ended with a growl.

"i said..." a harder thrust "you gonna tease me again? my baby gonna give me what i want next time? or am i gonna have to punish her?"

his voice was pure gravel. low, dangerous, and vibrating with the weight of his dominance. each word punctuated by another brutal thrust that made your vision blur at the edges.

the threat in his tone wasn't empty. he could see it. the way your body trembled on the edge, how every nerve ending sparked from overstimulation. but he wanted words. wanted you to admit you'd tease him again… or beg for forgiveness.

either way? you were gonna get it.

his fingers on your clit pressed harder, enough that it burned in a good-bad way. and when he spoke again? it came out as a dark purr right against your lips.

"answer me y/n."

you shivered at the power that rolled over him, deciding that caving in right now seemed better then denying either of yours' release any longer.

you choked, lips trembling to get the words out. "gonna.... mmhmm... g-gonna be good. n-no more... huhhh... fu-uchkkk teasing- j-jake. please... im s-so close!"

the second those desperate, pleading words left your lips, jake's entire expression shifted. something primal and satisfied flashing in his dark eyes. that was all the confirmation he needed.

he rewarded you immediately.

the hand on your clit switched from punishing to perfect. fingers moving in slick, quick circles that matched the brutal pace of his hips. every thrust now aimed directly at that sweet spot inside you. every snap of his pelvis calculated to push you closer and closer to the edge.

a rough groan tore from jake's chest as he felt how tightly you clenched around him. your body betraying just how close it really was. steam still curled off both sweaty bodies, the water long gone lukewarm but neither cared.

jake felt the exact moment you shattered, your body tensing like a bowstring before snap, a broken cry tore from your lips as your orgasm ripped through you, waves crashing over every nerve. jake didn't slow down. not even for a second. he rode it out with you, hips still pistoning upward to milk every last shudder and twitch from your overstimulated body. but he wasn't far behind. the way you clenched around him in those aftershocks and the desperate little whimpers spilling from swollen lips sent him hurtling closer toward his own release with zero mercy.

his thrusts grew jagged, less controlled and then suddenly, he was flipping the both of you over, the front of your chest crashing into the edge of the tub with your hands gripping the edge and head dangling over, breasts pressed to the cool porcelain as jake grasped your hips from behind, lifting them up and looming over you, continuing his pounding to chase his release.

jake's breathing was ragged, his muscles coiled tight as a spring with the effort of holding back, just long enough to savor the way your body yielded beneath him. water dripped from his bangs onto your shoulder blades as he leaned over you, one hand braced on the tub's edge while the other gripped your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints.

the sound of skin hitting wet skin echoed off tiles, alongside jake's guttural groans right by your ear every time hips collided.

his release hit him like a lightning bolt, white-hot and electric. a strangled groan ripped from his throat as he buried himself to the hilt, hips stuttering wildly just as his orgasm tore through him, finishing and dumping everything he had inside you.

for a few heartbeats, he just shuddered above you, every muscle locked tight as pleasure wracked his body.

he didn't pull out. not yet. instead, jake slumped forward, forehead pressing between your shoulder blades and panted against your damp skin like a man who'd just run miles without stopping.

the silence that followed was thick… only broken by heavy breathing and occasional drips echoing in steamy bathroom air.

he stayed like that for a long moment. forehead resting against your back, both yours breathing slowly evening out as the aftershocks of pleasure subsided. the water had gone completely still now, just quiet.

eventually, jake pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder blade. then another to the curve of your spine. just affection in the form of light touches while catching his breath. the steam had long since dissipated leaving just warm humid air between both bodies, but your boyfriend made zero move pull away yet.

you felt him begin to slowly press kisses on your neck and shoulder blades, before he's finally pulling out.

the australian exhaled a slow, content sigh as he finally eased out of you, careful to avoid any sudden movements that might startle or overwhelm. his lips trailed one last kiss up the slope of your neck before straightening slightly.

the water was getting cold.

he reached over to turn on the faucet again, adjusting the temperature back to warm so fresh water could fill in where it had been displaced from all movement earlier. bubbles started reforming on surface, and rose-scented steam curling upward once more.

jake trailed his hands down your body till the landed on your hips, and gently turned you around, his hands warm and careful as they guided your body to face him. his dark eyes, still slightly hazy with lingering pleasure, scanned your face, taking in every detail. the flush on your cheeks till the damp strands of hair stuck to forehead.

you both looked at each other for a few seconds in silence, before he lowers his eyes down to your slow heaving chest, watching it rise up and down, eyes locking onto the bubbles and what's left of the rose petals clinging to your skin like a lifeline.

without a word, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your lips. and then he's burying himself slowly into you again.

the kiss started gentle, almost sweet. but jake couldn't resist deepening it. his lips moved against yours with quiet hunger, the taste of water and shared breath mixing between you. one hand cradled the back of your head while the other slid down to press against your lower back, pulling you closer until there was no space left between.

you broke the kiss with a groan, feeling your walls weakly flutter and grip him, still wonderfully sensitive. "easy boy." you scolded him like you would a dog, flicking his forehead.

jake scrunched his nose at the forehead flick but ignored your scolding.

instead of easing up like a sane person would, he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck, lips brushing over damp skin as he inhaled deeply. the rose scent clung to both of you now; sweet and floral mixed with sweat.

then he's lifted your right leg slightly, hooking it over hip so he could kiss down your jawline then lower.

lips traced a slow, worshipful path down your collarbone, each kiss lingering just a second longer than the last. his teeth grazed lightly over your shoulder

a full-body tremor ran through you at the sensation that had jake smirking against your skin. smug bastard. he knew exactly what he was doing. knew how sensitive you were post-orgasm.

his hands slid around to grip either side of waist as continued mapping kisses lower down then dipping toward chest with no hurry whatsoever.

he took his time. kissing every inch of exposed skin like he was memorizing it. when he reached the curve of your chest, his lips hovered just above one peaked nipple, breath warm against damp skin.

then finally he closed the distance. a soft, open-mouthed kiss to your nipple first, then a teasing lick. not quite sucking yet. just tasting an savoring how sensitive you were after everything that had happened.

his hands squeezed gently at your hips all while doing this, keeping you anchored close as steam curled lazily around both bodies once more.

you sighed in bliss, eyes closing and tilting your head to lean comfortably on the tub and running my hands through his hair, letting him do what he wanted.

jake melted into your touch. the way your fingers threaded through his damp hair sending little shivers down his spine. it felt nice, like something out of a daydream.

his lips finally sealed over one nipple, sucking gently at first, testing the sensitivity before gradually increasing pressure with each pull.

the warm water lapped around you both once more.

one of jake's hands slid up to cradle your neglected right breast, thumb brushing in slow circles while his mouth worked on the left one. the other hand remained on your hip, thumb absently stroking skin there in quiet rhythm. he switched to your other nipple after a few moments, treating it with the same devoted attention. kisses, licks, and soft sucks. every now and then he'd nip lightly with his teeth just to hear the little gasp it pulled from you.

at some point, jake leaned back slightly. only enough so he could press a proper kiss right on your lips again, softer this time. a slow brush of mouths that tasted like shared breath and love.

"next time..." he starts, leaning his whole body weight on top of you, grinning slowly as you scrunched your face at the feeling of himself nudging himself deeper inside, "just sit on my lap when i tell you to."

"sigh... yes sir...."

maybe next time you can beg jake to see him covered in wet petals too.

author's note: BAHAHAHA i'm actually so embarrassed right now GOODBYE- it's not that good it's my first time writing smut but i've really been wanting to write this one soooo yeah. idk how other writers write smut so well. hopefully this was good enough T_T

reblog, like and comment if you liked this!

-twocups

"Of course," you say automatically, because that's what you do. Say yes. Exceed expectations. Maintain the 4.0 that's going to get you into Stanford. "What do you need?"

"I need you to tutor someone." She pauses, and something in that pause makes your stomach drop. "Park Sunghoon. Senior English. He's taking it for the fourth time."

Oh. Everyone knows Park Sunghoon. Hard not to when he rolls into the parking lot every morning in a black Mustang that's louder than the first bell, leather jacket slung over one shoulder, looking like he walked out of a movie about teenagers your parents wouldn't let you watch. He's in your English class this year—always in the back row, usually late, definitely not paying attention. "I don't know if I'm the right person—"

"You're exactly the right person. Top of the class, excellent communication skills, patient." Mrs. Morrison leans forward, her expression softening into something that looks almost like desperation. "He needs to pass this class to graduate. And between you and me, I think he needs someone who won't give up on him."

The weight of expectation settles on your shoulders—familiar, heavy, accepted. This is what you do. You help. You achieve. You make your parents proud and your teachers grateful and everyone believes you can fix anything if you just try hard enough. "When would I—"

"Tuesdays and Thursdays after school. Library, four to five. I've already cleared it with him." She smiles like this is settled. "Thank you. I knew I could count on you." You leave her office with a sinking feeling and the distinct impression that you've just been assigned the impossible.

—

Thursday afternoon, 4:02 PM. You're in the library with your AP Lit textbook, notes on The Great Gatsby, and growing certainty that Sunghoon Park isn't going to show up.

At 4:15, you're proven wrong. He walks in like he's doing you a favor—leather jacket, ripped jeans, boots that definitely violate dress code. His dark hair falls into his eyes, and when he spots you at the corner table, something crosses his face. Resignation, maybe. Or irritation. "You're my tutor?" he says by way of greeting, dropping his backpack on the table with a thud that makes the librarian shoot him a warning look.

"Looks like it." You gesture to the empty chair. "Have a seat." He sits, sprawling in the chair like he owns it, and pulls out an absolutely destroyed copy of Of Mice and Men. The cover's hanging by threads, pages dog-eared and crumpled. "So," you start, trying to figure out where to begin. "Mrs. Morrison said you're taking senior English again?"

"Fourth time." He says it flat, like it doesn't bother him, but you see the tension in his jaw.

"Okay. What's giving you the most trouble?"

He laughs—short and bitter. "All of it. The reading. The writing. The whole goddamn thing."

"Have you read the book?" You nod at Of Mice and Men.

"I tried." He flips it open randomly, stares at the page like it personally offended him. "The words just—they don't make sense. I read the same line five times and still don't know what it says."

Something clicks in your brain. The way he's holding the book. The frustration that seems deeper than just dislike. The fact that he's clearly not stupid—he wouldn't have made it to senior year four times if he was—but something's not connecting. "Can you read this page out loud for me?" you ask gently.

His expression shuts down immediately. "No."

"Sunghoon—"

"I said no." He's already standing, grabbing his bag. "This is pointless. I'm not some charity case for you to fix so you can put it on your college applications."

"That's not—" You're standing too now, and the librarian is definitely watching. "I'm trying to help."

"I don't need help. I need people to stop pretending I'm going to magically get this shit." His voice is low, controlled, which somehow makes it worse. "I'm stupid. Everyone knows it. Let's not waste each other's time."

"You're not stupid."

He looks at you then—really looks—and for a second you see past the armor. There's hurt there. Years of it. "Yeah?" he challenges. "Then why can't I read a fucking book that every other senior finished in a week?"

"Because I think you might be dyslexic." The word hangs between you. He goes very still.

"What?"

"Dyslexia. It's a learning disability that affects reading. The way you described it—reading the same line multiple times, words not making sense—those are classic signs." You're speaking carefully now, aware that this could go very wrong. "My cousin has it. He's brilliant. Mechanical engineer at Purdue. But reading was hell for him until he got diagnosed and learned strategies."

Sunghoon is staring at you like you're speaking another language. "That's not—I'm just—" He stops. Tries again. "Nobody ever said—"

"Have you ever been tested?"

"No. Teachers just kept saying I wasn't trying hard enough." The bitterness is back, but underneath it there's something else. Hope, maybe. Fragile and dangerous.

"Sit down," you say quietly. "Please. Let me show you something." He hesitates, then slowly sinks back into the chair. You pull out a blank piece of paper and write a sentence in clear print: THE CAT SAT ON THE MAT. "Read this."

He stares at it for a long moment. "The... cat... sat..." He stops, frustrated. "Some of the letters keep moving."

"Exactly." You pull out a red plastic sheet—the kind photographers use for color correction—from your bag. Your cousin's old trick. "Try reading it through this."

He looks skeptical but places the red sheet over the paper. His eyes widen. "The cat sat on the mat." He reads it perfectly. Looks up at you with an expression you can't quite name. "What the fuck."

"Colored overlays help some people with dyslexia. The colored filter reduces visual stress and makes the letters more stable." You're trying to keep your voice steady, professional, but your heart is racing. "This doesn't mean you're stupid, Sunghoon. It means your brain processes visual information differently."

He's still staring at the paper through the red sheet, reading the sentence over and over like he can't believe it. "All this time," he says finally, voice rough. "All these fucking years, and it was just—"

"Not your fault," you finish firmly. "Never your fault." He looks at you then, and something shifts in his expression. The armor cracks, just a little.

"Can you—" He stops, clears his throat. "Can you teach me? Actually teach me, not just make me read shit I can't understand?"

"Yes," you say without hesitation. "But we're going to need more time than an hour twice a week."

"I work at my dad's garage after school most days. Can't really get out of that."

"Evenings?"

He hesitates. "There's a diner. Miller's, out on Route 40. They have booths in the back, it's quiet. I could meet you there. After the garage closes. Seven?"

Your mother is going to have opinions about you spending evenings at a diner with Park Sunghoon. Your father is going to ask if this is really the best use of your time when you should be focused on AP classes and scholarship applications. "Seven works," you hear yourself say.

His smile is small but genuine. "Okay. Tuesday?"

"Tuesday." He leaves with the red plastic sheet folded carefully in his pocket, and you sit there in the empty library wondering what you've just started.

Mrs. Henderson, the librarian, appears at your elbow. "That was kind," she says quietly.

"I just showed him a color filter."

"You gave him hope." She pats your shoulder. "Sometimes that's more important."

You pack up your things slowly, thinking about Sunghoon's expression when he read that sentence. About years of being told he wasn't trying hard enough. About intelligence that doesn't fit in the boxes that schools make. About the fact that you just agreed to spend your evenings in a diner with the most dangerous boy in school.

And the scariest part? You're looking forward to it.

—

Tuesday night arrives too fast and too slow at the same time. You tell your mother you're studying at the library. It's not technically a lie—you are helping someone study. She doesn't need to know the someone is Park Sunghoon or that the library is actually a diner on the edge of town.

Miller's Diner looks like it hasn't changed since 1955. Red vinyl booths, checkerboard floor, a jukebox in the corner playing Tiffany. The smell of coffee and frying oil. A handful of truckers at the counter, a couple of farmers in the corner booth, and exactly zero people from school.

Sunghoon is already there, sitting in the last booth by the window. He's changed out of his leather jacket into a plain black t-shirt, and there's grease under his fingernails. He sees you and something in his expression softens. "You came," he says, like he half-expected you to bail.

"I said I would." You slide into the booth across from him, setting down your bag full of books and teaching materials. "Did you think I wouldn't?"

"People make promises they don't keep." He shrugs. "Had a few tutors give up before."

"I'm not going to give up."

"We'll see."

A waitress appears—Sally, her name tag says, probably in her fifties with kind eyes and a skeptical expression when she looks at Sunghoon. "What can I get you kids?"

"Coffee, black," Sunghoon says. "And a chocolate milkshake."

You raise an eyebrow. "Both?"

"Coffee's for staying awake. Milkshake's for when reading gives me a headache." He looks almost defensive. "What?"

"Nothing. I'll have the same."

Sally writes it down, her skepticism softening into something that might be approval. "Be right back."

When she's gone, you pull out your materials. You've spent the past four days researching dyslexia, strategies, techniques. Your cousin sent you a care package—more colored overlays, a reading ruler, special paper with slightly tinted backgrounds that's easier on dyslexic eyes. "Okay," you start, spreading everything out. "First things first. I'm not a diagnostician, so I can't officially test you for dyslexia. But I can teach you strategies that help people with dyslexia read more effectively."

"Like the red sheet."

"Exactly. Different colors work for different people." You push the stack of overlays toward him. "Try these on a page of your book. See which one makes the words most stable."

He pulls out Of Mice and Men, that same destroyed copy, and starts testing. Blue—no good. Yellow—better. Green—worse. Red— "Red's still best," he says finally.

"Then red it is. I also got you this." You slide over a reading ruler—a long transparent strip with a colored bar that helps track lines of text. "And this paper." Special cream-colored pages. "Some people find it easier to read on colored backgrounds."

He's looking at all of it like you've just handed him gold. "You did all this for me?"

"It wasn't a big deal. My cousin had extras."

"It's a big deal to me." His voice is quiet. Genuine. "Nobody's ever—" He stops. Starts again. "Thank you."

Your heart does something complicated in your chest. "You're welcome. Now let's see if we can get through chapter one together."

For the next hour, you work. You read passages out loud while he follows along with the red overlay and reading ruler. You stop every few paragraphs to discuss what's happening, to make sure he's comprehending. When he gets frustrated with a particularly difficult section, you break it down sentence by sentence. The milkshakes arrive halfway through. You're both so focused you barely notice Sally setting them down.

"This is about friendship, right?" Sunghoon says suddenly. You're on chapter three now, George and Lennie planning their dream farm. "Like, George takes care of Lennie even though it makes his life harder."

"Yes. Exactly." You're surprised by how quickly he's grasping the themes. "Why do you think George does that?"

"Because Lennie's the only person who sees him as more than just some ranch hand. Because having someone need you is better than being alone." He pauses. "And maybe because George knows what it's like to be different. To not fit."

You stare at him. That's a deeper reading than half your AP class came up with. "That's—that's brilliant, Sunghoon."

He looks up, startled. "Really?"

"Really. You're understanding the emotional core of the story. That's harder than just reading the words."

"But I can't write a paper about it. Can't spell half the words I'd need."

"So we'll work on that too. Writing strategies. Spell check. Audio recording your ideas and transcribing them." You're already making notes. "There are ways around every obstacle."

"You really believe that?"

"I really do."

He takes a long drink of his milkshake, studying you over the rim of the glass. "Why are you doing this? And don't say it's for college apps. You've got those locked down."

The question catches you off guard. You consider lying, giving some easy answer about community service or helping others. But something about the way he's looking at you—open, genuine, vulnerable—demands honesty. "Because nobody should feel stupid when they're not," you say finally. "Because intelligence comes in so many forms and school only tests for one. Because you deserve someone who sees you as more than just a problem to fix."

His expression does something complicated. "You don't even know me."

"Then tell me about you. Who is Park Sunghoon when he's not in the back of English class?"

He hesitates, then: "I work at my dad's garage. Park's Auto Repair, down on Fifth Street. Been working there since I was twelve. Can rebuild an engine blindfolded."

"Really?"

"Really. Cars make sense to me. They're logical. If something's broken, there's a reason. A fix. It's all mechanical. No hidden meanings or metaphors or bullshit."

"Unlike English class."

"Unlike English class." He grins—the first real smile you've seen from him. It transforms his whole face. "But mostly I build cars. Race them, sometimes."

"The Mustang?"

"The Mustang. '67 Fastback. Bought it for five hundred bucks three years ago when it was basically a rusted shell. Been rebuilding it piece by piece ever since." There's passion in his voice now, the same passion that's been missing when he talks about school. "She's almost done. Just needs a new transmission and some body work."

"She?"

"All cars are she." He says it like it's obvious. "You probably think it's stupid. Racing."

"I think it sounds exciting. Terrifying, but exciting."

"You scared of going fast?"

"I'm scared of everything going wrong."

He studies you for a moment. "You're not what I expected."

"What did you expect?"

"Stuck-up. Judgmental. Like everyone else who's got their shit together." He's playing with his milkshake straw now, not quite looking at you. "But you're not. You're... nice. Actually nice, not fake nice."

"You're not what I expected either."

"What did you expect?"

"Honestly? Someone who didn't care. Someone who'd blow off tutoring or not even try." You pause. "But you're trying really hard. You care about this even though it's difficult."

"I care about graduating. Getting out of this town."

"Where would you go?"

"Anywhere. Indianapolis, maybe. Or Detroit. Somewhere with real garages, real racing circuits. Somewhere I'm not the Park kid who can't read." The bitterness creeps back into his voice.

"You can read. You're reading right now."

He looks down at the book, the red overlay, the progress you've made. "Yeah. I guess I am."

For a moment, you just sit there. The diner's nearly empty now, the jukebox playing something slow. Through the window, you can see the Mustang parked under a streetlight, all black paint and chrome, beautiful and dangerous. "Same time Thursday?" you ask.

"Same time Thursday." He pauses. "And... thanks. For not giving up on me after one session."

"I told you I wouldn't."

"Yeah, but people say a lot of things."

"I'm not people."

His smile is small but genuine. "No. You're really not."

You leave the diner at nine, and your mother's waiting up when you get home. "The library was open until nine?" she asks, voice carefully neutral.

"I was helping someone study. Lost track of time."

"Someone?"

"A classmate." Not technically a lie.

She studies your face, and you wonder if she can see it—the flutter of something new and dangerous. The feeling that tonight was about more than just teaching someone to read. "Just be careful," she says finally. "Senior year's important. Don't let anyone distract you from your goals."

"I won't, Mom."

But later, lying in bed, you think about Sunghoon's smile when he read that first sentence. About the passion in his voice when he talked about his Mustang. About the fact that you're already looking forward to Thursday. And you wonder if maybe, possibly, you're already distracted.

—

The next six weeks blur together in a pattern: School. Student council. Thursday tutoring in the library for appearances. Tuesday and Thursday nights at Miller's Diner for actual progress.

You learn things about Sunghoon: He drinks his coffee black because his dad taught him that's how men drink it, but he'd secretly prefer cream and sugar. He's left-handed. He has a younger sister, Soo-ah, who's in eighth grade and wants to be a vet. His mom left when he was ten and he doesn't talk about it. He can identify any car by the sound of its engine. He's terrified of failing English again. He thinks Holden Caulfield from Catcher in the Rye is whiny but he understands why the character's so angry at everything.

You learn how to teach him: Breaking chapters into smaller sections works. Audio books help, but he feels guilty using them, like they're cheating. He comprehends better when he can discuss ideas out loud rather than writing them down. His spelling is creative but phonetic. When he's frustrated, he needs five minutes to walk it off before trying again. Positive reinforcement matters more than criticism. He works twice as hard as anyone you've ever met.

You learn things about yourself: that you look forward to Tuesday and Thursday nights more than any other part of your week. You started leaving your hair down instead of in a ponytail. You think about him during AP Calc. The sound of an engine makes your heart race now, wondering if it's his Mustang. You're lying to your parents about where you spend your evenings and you don't feel guilty enough about it.

By mid-October, Sunghoon's reading at a tenth-grade level—not great, but light years beyond where he started. He got a B-minus on his Of Mice and Men essay. Mr. Peterson, the English teacher, wrote "significant improvement" on the top. "I can't believe it," Sunghoon says, staring at the paper like it might disappear. You're in your usual booth at Miller's, chemistry homework spread out in front of you (because you still have actual classes), his English work in front of him.

"I can. You earned it."

"We earned it. I couldn't have done this without you."

"You did the work. I just showed you different strategies."

He looks up, and there's something intense in his expression. "It's more than that. You believed I could do it. That matters."

The air between you feels charged suddenly. You're very aware that you're sitting in a back booth of a diner where nobody from school ever comes, that it's just the two of you and Sally wiping down counters, that Sunghoon is looking at you like you're something more than just his tutor. "I should—" You gesture vaguely at your chemistry homework. "Midterm next week."

"Right. Yeah." He clears his throat, looking away. "You want help?"

"You want to help with chemistry?"

"I'm good at it. Sciences make sense. They're like cars—everything has a reason, a reaction, a cause and effect." So you trade. He helps you understand molecular bonds and chemical reactions, explaining them with an ease that surprises you. You help him with his reading comprehension questions for Catcher in the Rye.

It's past ten when you finally pack up. Sally's given up pretending she's not watching you two, a small smile on her face as she tops off Sunghoon's coffee for the third time. In the parking lot, you walk toward your car—a sensible Honda Civic your parents bought you junior year—but Sunghoon catches your wrist. "Hey," he says. "You want to see something?"

"See what?"

"The Mustang. Properly. I finished the transmission last week."

You should say no. It's late. Your mom's going to ask questions if you're not home by ten-thirty. You have homework still. "Yeah," you hear yourself say. "I'd like that."

He leads you to the Mustang, parked under the streetlight like always, but this time he opens the hood. The engine gleams underneath—chrome and steel and meticulous care. "You rebuilt all of this?" you ask, genuinely awed.

"Most of it. Dad helped with some of the specialized stuff, but yeah. Took three years." There's pride in his voice. "Want to hear her run?"

"Please." He slides into the driver's seat, and when he turns the key, the engine roars to life. It's loud and powerful and sounds like controlled chaos. He revs it once, and you can feel the vibration in your chest.

When he kills the engine and gets out, he's grinning. "What do you think?"

"I think she's beautiful."

"Yeah?" He's standing close now, close enough that you can smell motor oil and coffee and something that's just him. "You want to go for a ride sometime?"

Your heart's racing. "Where would we go?"

"Anywhere. Nowhere. There's this place, about twenty minutes out of town. The quarry. People race there sometimes." He pauses. "I could teach you to drive stick shift."

"My parents would kill me."

"They don't have to know."

It's a terrible idea. Sneaking around. Going to the quarry where kids race and drink and do all the things that good students don't do. Getting into a car with a boy your parents definitely wouldn't approve of. "Saturday?" you ask.

His smile is worth every risk. "Saturday. Pick you up at eight?"

"I'll meet you. The QuickMart on the edge of town."

"You don't want me picking you up at your house."

"My dad owns a shotgun and strong opinions about boys. So no."

He laughs—full and genuine. "Fair enough. QuickMart at eight."

You drive home with butterflies in your stomach and the sound of that engine still echoing in your ears. When you slip in the front door at 10:45, your mom's reading on the couch. "Library close late again?" she asks.

"Big project. Sorry."

She studies you over the top of her book. "You're smiling a lot for someone who's been doing homework all night."

"Just had a productive study session."

"Uh-huh." She doesn't believe you, but she doesn't push. "Get some sleep. You look tired."

In your room, you try to focus on chemistry but your mind keeps drifting to Saturday. To the Mustang. To Sunghoon's smile and the way he looked at you in the parking lot. Your phone rings. The landline extension in your room. You pick up. "Hi." It's him. You don't know how he got your number, but you're glad he did.

"Hi."

"I just wanted to make sure you got home okay."

"I'm fine. It's like fifteen minutes."

"I know. But still." He pauses. "I'm looking forward to Saturday."

"Me too."

"Good. Get some sleep. I'll see you Thursday."

"See you Thursday." You hang up, and you're smiling so hard your cheeks hurt. Your best friend Wonyoung is going to lose her mind when you tell her about this. If you tell her about this. Because maybe some things are meant to be secret. Maybe some things are just yours.

—

Saturday night at 7:55 PM. You're standing in the QuickMart parking lot wearing jeans and a sweater, telling yourself this is fine. This is normal. Lots of people go to the quarry on Saturday nights. (Except you're not lots of people. You're the girl who spends Saturday nights doing extra credit or organizing student council activities or watching movies with Wonyoung while she talks about her on-again-off-again thing with Jake Sim.)

The Mustang rumbles into the parking lot at exactly eight, all black paint and chrome gleaming under the fluorescent lights. Sunghoon leans over to open the passenger door, grinning. "You came."

"You sound surprised."

"Half-expected you to bail. Come to your senses."

"Maybe I came to my senses by showing up."

His grin widens. "Get in." You do. The interior's been restored too—black leather seats, a tape deck, the smell of new upholstery and possibility. "Buckle up," he says, and then he's peeling out of the parking lot, and you're pressed back against the seat as the engine roars.

He drives fast but controlled, taking the roads out of town with easy confidence. The radio's playing—some rock station, The Bangles bleeding into Bon Jovi. The windows are down and the October air is cold and crisp and perfect. "Where'd you tell your parents you were going?" he asks over the music.

"Wonyoung's house. Movie night."

"She covering for you?"

"She doesn't know. I'll call her later, make sure our stories match if anyone asks." You glance at him. "Where'd you tell your dad?"

"That I was going to the quarry. He doesn't care as long as I'm home by midnight and don't wreck the car."

"Different parenting styles."

"You could say that."

The quarry is exactly what you expected and nothing like it at the same time. It's an old limestone quarry, abandoned for years, now filled with water that's probably freezing and definitely not safe to swim in. There's a flat area at the top that's become the unofficial racing strip—a quarter mile of cracked pavement with enough room for two cars to line up side by side.

There are maybe twenty cars already there when you arrive. You recognize some from school—Jay Park's Camaro, Jake Sim's pickup truck, a few others. Music blasts from someone's stereo. A group of kids stands around a bonfire that's definitely illegal. Sunghoon parks at the edge of the group, and immediately people start gravitating toward the Mustang. "Yo, Hoon!" A guy you vaguely recognize from auto shop class—Jay, you think—jogs over. "Transmission finally done?"

"Finished her last week." Sunghoon gets out, popping the hood. "Want to see?" You get out too, feeling wildly out of place in your neat jeans and sweater while everyone else is in leather and ripped denim and the kind of casual confidence that comes from belonging.

"Holy shit," Jay says, looking at the engine. "You did this yourself?"

"Mostly. Dad helped with the specs."

More people gather, asking technical questions about compression ratios and torque and things you don't understand. You stand slightly apart, and that's when you notice her. A girl about your age, leaning against a cherry-red Corvette, watching you with undisguised curiosity. She's gorgeous—leather jacket, dark lipstick, the kind of effortless cool you've never managed. She walks over. "You're new."

"I'm—yeah. First time here."

"I can tell." She's not mean about it, just observational. "I'm Ryujin. That's my car." She gestures to the Corvette. "You're Sunghoon's tutor, right?"

Apparently everyone knows. "Yeah. How did you—"

"Small town. Word travels." She studies you with sharp eyes. "You seem nervous."

"Is it that obvious?"

"Little bit. But don't worry. Nobody bites. Well, Jay bites sometimes, but only if you ask nicely." Despite yourself, you laugh. "There we go. You have a smile." Ryujin nods toward where Sunghoon's still showing off his engine. "He talks about you, you know."

Your heart skips. "He does?"

"All the time. 'My tutor this, my tutor that. She's so smart. She actually believes I can pass.'" Ryujin's expression softens. "It's good for him. Having someone who sees past the reputation."

"What reputation?"

"Park's delinquent kid. The one who can't hack it academically. The loser who's going to end up pumping gas at his dad's garage for the rest of his life." She says it matter-of-factly, but there's an edge of anger underneath. "People are assholes."

"He's not—he's brilliant. He's just dyslexic."

"I know. But nobody else seems to get that." She glances back toward Sunghoon. "Anyway. I'm glad he brought you. He doesn't bring people here. It's his space, you know? The fact that he wanted to share it with you means something."

Before you can process that, Sunghoon's back, sliding an arm around your waist casually, naturally, like he's done it a hundred times before. "You good?" he asks.

"Yeah. Ryujin was just introducing herself."

"Ryu's good people. Wins half the races here."

"Only half?" Ryujin says, mock-offended. "Try three-quarters, Park."

"You want to test that?"

"You challenging me?"

"Maybe." They're grinning at each other, and you realize this is friendship. This is his people—the ones who see him as more than the kid who failed English three times.

"I'll race you later," Ryujin says. "Right now, I think you were going to teach your girl to drive stick." Your girl. The words settle warm in your chest.

Sunghoon leads you back to the Mustang, away from the crowd. "You ready for this?"

"To drive your baby? The car you've spent three years restoring?"

"To learn something new." He opens the driver's door. "Come on. Slide in." You do. The driver's seat feels different—powerful, dangerous. Sunghoon gets in the passenger side, talking you through the basics.

"Clutch, brake, gas. Three pedals instead of two. You're going to push the clutch all the way down, put her in first gear, then slowly let the clutch out while giving her gas. Too fast, she'll stall. Too slow, she'll—" The engine dies immediately. "—stall. That's okay. Everyone does that the first time. Try again."

It takes six tries before you manage to actually move forward without stalling. By try seven, you're doing laps around the parking area, grinding the gears occasionally but mostly getting it. "You're a natural," Sunghoon says, and he sounds impressed.

"I'm terrible at this."

"You're learning. That's different." He guides you through shifting to second, then third. "Feel that? The way she catches when you hit the right spot? That's perfect."

You do three successful laps, and on the fourth, you catch him watching you instead of the road. "What?"

"Nothing. You just—you look happy."

"I am happy."

"Good."

You park after the fifth lap, heart racing with adrenaline and something else. Something that might be dangerous. "That was amazing," you say.

"You did great."

"No, I mean—this. Being here. Learning something completely unrelated to school or college applications or my parents' expectations. Just—doing something for me."

He's looking at you with that intense focus that makes your stomach flip. "You don't do things for yourself much, do you?"

"I'm busy."

"That's not an answer."

"No," you admit. "I don't. Everything I do has a purpose. An end goal. Get into Stanford. Make my parents proud. Secure my future."

"What do you want? Not your parents. You."

The question catches you completely off guard. Nobody's asked you that before. Nobody's cared to ask. "I don't know," you say finally. Honestly. "I've spent so long doing what I'm supposed to do, I'm not sure what I want anymore."

"That's sad."

"That's realistic."

"Maybe." He shifts in the seat, turning to face you fully. "You want to know what I think?"

"What?"

"I think you're scared. I think you've built this perfect life, this perfect plan, and you're terrified of anything that might mess it up. But I also think—" He pauses. "I think you're only here, in this car, at this quarry, because part of you wants something different. Something real."

Your heart is pounding. "And if I do?"

"Then maybe you should let yourself have it."

You're sitting in his Mustang, at a quarry where people race and break rules, with a boy who makes your heart race faster than any engine, and you're tired. So tired of being good. Of being perfect. Of doing everything right. "Teach me to race," you say suddenly.

His eyes widen. "What?"

"Teach me to race. Actually race. Not just drive around a parking lot."

"That's—do you know how dangerous that is?"

"I'm asking anyway."

He studies you for a long moment. "You're serious."

"Completely."

A slow smile spreads across his face. "Okay. But not tonight. You need more practice first. Real practice. We'll come back next Saturday. And the Saturday after that. I'll teach you everything."

"Everything?"

"Everything." The word hangs heavy with promise. The night continues. You meet more people—Jay, who's loud and funny and clearly Sunghoon's best friend. Yuna, who drags her boyfriend Sunoo around by the hand and asks you about student council. Niki, who's only sixteen but drives better than half the seniors here.

You watch three races. Ryujin wins two of them, Sunghoon wins the third. The way he drives is like watching art—controlled chaos, perfect timing, raw skill. At eleven, he takes you back to your car at the QuickMart. "Same time next week?" he asks.

"Same time next week."

"And Thursday. Diner."

"I'll be there."

He leans across the console, and for a moment you think he might kiss you. But instead, he just tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "Drive safe," he says.

"You too." You call Wonyoung from the parking lot, apologizing for the short notice, establishing your alibi. She's suspicious but covers for you without question, because that's what best friends do.

When you get home, your mom's asleep but your dad's still up, reading in his study. "Good movie?" he asks.

"Great movie."

"You and Wonyoung have fun?"

"Always."

He studies you over his reading glasses, and you wonder if he can see it—the change. The fact that his perfect daughter just spent the evening at an illegal street racing spot with a boy he'd definitely disapprove of. "Get some rest," he says finally. "You have SAT prep in the morning."

"Right. SAT prep."

In your room, you strip off your sweater, and it smells like motor oil and bonfire smoke and freedom. You should wash it immediately. Instead, you fold it carefully and put it in the back of your closet, where the smell might linger just a little longer. You lie in bed thinking about Sunghoon's hands on the steering wheel. About the way he looked at you when you said you were happy. About the fact that for the first time in your carefully planned life, you have a secret that's just yours.

And you're not sorry about it at all.

—

November arrives cold and sudden, turning Millbrook into a postcard of autumn—all orange leaves and early frost, the smell of wood smoke and approaching winter. You and Sunghoon fall into a rhythm. Tuesdays and Thursdays: Miller's Diner. Books and milkshakes and watching him improve week by week. He's reading at grade level now. Got a B on his Catcher in the Rye essay. Mr. Peterson keeps looking at him like he doesn't quite believe the transformation.

Saturdays: The quarry. Learning to drive—really drive. Stick shift, speed shifting, the physics of acceleration and control. The first time you beat Niki in a practice race (his reaction time was slow, you didn't actually outdrive him, but still), you screamed so loud Sunghoon laughed until he cried. Weekdays: Stolen moments between classes. His hand brushing yours in the hallway. Notes passed during English (ironic, since he can actually read them now). The way your heart jumps every time you see the Mustang in the parking lot.

It's not dating. You're not calling it dating. That would make it real, and real things have consequences. But it's something. Something that makes you smile when you should be concentrating on calculus. Something that has Wonyoung giving you knowing looks across the lunch table. "You're going to have to tell me eventually," she says one Monday, stealing a fry from your tray.

"Tell you what?"

"Who he is. The guy you're sneaking around with."

Your heart stops. "I'm not—"

"Please. You smell like motor oil every Saturday night. You smile at your phone. You're distracted in student council meetings." She grins. "I'm your best friend. I know everything."

"It's complicated."

"Complicated is fun. Uncomplicated is boring." She leans closer, voice dropping. "Is it Park Sunghoon?"

You nearly choke on your water. "What? No. Why would you—"

"Because he looks at you in English class like you're the only person in the room. And you look back the same way when you think nobody's watching."

"We're—I'm tutoring him. That's all."

"Uh-huh. And I'm the Queen of England." But she doesn't push, because Wonyoung gets boundaries. "Just be careful, okay? I know you. You're all-or-nothing. When you fall, you fall hard." The problem is: she's right. You're falling.

—

The first time Sunghoon holds your hand (really holds it, not just brushes against it), you're at the diner on a Thursday night in mid-November. You've just finished analyzing a chapter of Lord of the Flies, and he's frustrated because the symbolism still doesn't quite click. "Why can't the conch just be a conch?" he says, stabbing at his milkshake with a straw. "Why does everything have to mean something else?"

"Because that's how literature works. Golding's commenting on society, civilization, human nature—"

"Through a fucking seashell."

"Through a symbol that represents order and democracy." You're trying not to smile at his frustration. "You're overthinking it."

"I'm underthinking it. That's my problem. Everyone else sees this deep meaning and I just see a story about kids on an island."

"The story IS about kids on an island. The symbolism is just another layer."

He looks at you, and something in his expression softens. "How do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Make me feel like I'm not stupid even when I don't get something."

"Because you're not stupid. You just learn differently."

His hand reaches across the table, covering yours. It's not accidental this time. It's deliberate, warm, sending electricity up your arm. "Thank you," he says quietly. "For everything. For not giving up. For making me believe I could actually pass this class."

Your throat is tight. "You're going to pass. You're going to graduate."

"Because of you." He doesn't let go of your hand. Neither do you. Sally comes by to refill coffee and doesn't comment on it, but you see her smile.

When you leave that night, he walks you to your car like always, but this time he doesn't step back. He stands close, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him even in the November cold. "I've been wanting to ask you something," he says.

Your heart's in your throat. "Okay."

"There's a race next Saturday. Real race, not just practice. Winner takes two hundred bucks." He pauses. "I want you to come. Not to race. Just to watch. To be there."

"I'm always there on Saturdays."

"I know, but—" He runs a hand through his hair, looking uncertain for the first time since you've met him. "I want you there as mine. Not my tutor. Not my friend. As—as my girl."

The world narrows to just the two of you, standing in a diner parking lot under harsh fluorescent lights that suddenly feel romantic. "Sunghoon—"

"I know it's complicated. I know your parents wouldn't approve. I know I'm not the kind of guy you're supposed to be with." The words rush out. "But I like you. More than like you. Have for weeks. And I think—I hope—you might feel the same?"

You should say no. Should remind him about Stanford, about your carefully planned future, about all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Instead, you reach up and kiss him. It's brief and sweet and tastes like chocolate milkshake and possibility. When you pull back, he's staring at you like you've performed a miracle. "Yeah," you say, breathless. "I feel the same."

His smile is brilliant. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." You kiss him again, longer this time, his hands coming up to cup your face, gentle and sure. "I'll be there Saturday. As yours."

"As mine," he repeats, like he's testing out the words. "I like the sound of that."

You drive home giddy and terrified, the taste of him still on your lips. Your phone's ringing when you get to your room—the landline, Sunghoon's voice on the other end. "Hi," he says.

"Hi. You just saw me twenty minutes ago."

"I know. I missed you already." You can hear the smile in his voice. "Is that stupid?"

"No. It's—" Perfect. Terrifying. Everything. "It's really sweet."

You talk for an hour about nothing and everything. About his sister's soccer game and your student council drama and what it felt like to finally kiss each other after weeks of dancing around it. When you finally hang up, it's past midnight, and you have a chemistry test tomorrow you haven't studied for. You don't even care.

—

Saturday's race is different from practice runs. There's money on the line, real stakes. The crowd's bigger—maybe thirty cars, fifty people. You spot a few seniors from school and hope they don't recognize you. Sunghoon's racing against Jay, best two out of three. The Mustang versus the Camaro. Both engines roar at the starting line, and you're standing with Ryujin and Yuna, heart in your throat. "He's good," Ryujin says, watching the cars line up. "But Jay's reckless. Could go either way."

"Sunghoon's better," you say with more confidence than you feel.

"Look at you. All defensive of your man." She grins. "It's cute."

The flag drops. They're off—two bullets of metal and gasoline, neck and neck down the quarter mile. Sunghoon takes the first race by half a car length. Jay takes the second by less. The third race is for everything.

You can barely watch. Can barely breathe. The engines scream, the crowd roars, and then Sunghoon crosses the finish line first by inches. The crowd erupts. Jay's laughing, shaking Sunghoon's hand, because it's all good fun until it's not. Money exchanges hands. And then Sunghoon's walking toward you, adrenaline-high and grinning, and he picks you up and spins you around right there in front of everyone. "Did you see that?" he says, breathless.

"I saw. You were amazing."

"I had good motivation." He sets you down but doesn't let go, his forehead resting against yours. "Wanted to win for you."

"Sunghoon—" He kisses you, right there in front of everyone, and it's not brief or sweet. It's deep and claiming and says mine more clearly than words ever could.

When you break apart, half the people there are staring. Including Jake Sim, who's in your AP History class and definitely knows who you are. "Shit," you mutter.

"What?"

"Jake goes to our school. This is going to be all over by Monday."

Sunghoon's expression hardens. "Is that a problem?"

"My parents—they're going to—"

"Hey." He cups your face, making you look at him. "If you want to keep this quiet, we can keep this quiet. I get it. I'm not exactly parent-approved material." The hurt in his voice kills you.

"No. I don't—I don't want to hide." The words surprise you, but you mean them. "I'm tired of hiding. Of being perfect. Of living my life for everyone else's approval."

"You sure?"

"Completely."

His smile is slow and genuine. "Good. Because I'm done pretending you're just my tutor."

The rest of the night is perfect. You meet his friends properly—Jay and his girlfriend Jungwon, Niki who's secretly a poetry nerd, Yuna and Sunoo who are the most wholesome couple you've ever seen. They accept you immediately, and it's strange and wonderful to be part of a group that doesn't care about GPAs or college applications or any of the things that usually define you.

Around eleven, Sunghoon pulls you away from the crowd, leading you to a spot overlooking the quarry. The water's black and still below, stars reflected on the surface. "I've been thinking," he says, sitting on the hood of the Mustang and pulling you to stand between his legs. "About after graduation."

Your stomach drops. "What about it?"

"I'm not going to college. Can't afford it even if I wanted to, and honestly? I don't want to. I want to work with my dad, take over the garage eventually. Maybe open my own shop someday."

"That sounds perfect for you."

"But you're going to Stanford. All the way across the country." The reality of it sits heavy between you. You've been so focused on now—on Tuesdays and Thursdays and Saturday nights—that you haven't let yourself think about graduation. About what happens when your carefully planned future collides with this unexpected present.

"Maybe I don't go to Stanford," you say quietly. His eyes widen."Maybe I stay. Go to Indiana State or Purdue. Somewhere closer."

"No." He says it firmly. "Absolutely not. You're not giving up Stanford for me."

"It wouldn't be giving up. It would be choosing—"

"You'd resent me. Eventually. You'd look back and wonder what if, and you'd hate me for it." He takes your hands. "I care about you too much to let you do that."

"So what, we just break up when I leave?"

"I don't know." The honesty in his voice breaks your heart. "I haven't figured that part out yet. All I know is that I want you to go chase your dreams, even if it means losing you."

You kiss him to shut him up, to stop the conversation from going somewhere too painful. His hands settle on your waist, pulling you closer, and for a while there's nothing but this—the two of you, the Mustang, the stars overhead. "We have seven months," you murmur against his mouth. "Seven months before we have to figure any of that out."

"Seven months."

"So let's make them count."

"Yeah." He kisses you again, deeper. "Let's make them count."

You stay like that for a while—his hands in your hair, yours in his, the city glittering below and the night cold around you—and the kissing shifts into something else slowly, the way things do when you’ve been holding back for a long time and the holding back finally stops. "Hey," he says softly, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hands frame your face, thumbs tracing your cheekbones. "You sure?"

You’ve never been more sure of anything. "Yes." He kisses you again—slower now, intentional, one hand sliding down your waist—and then he’s reaching past you to recline the passenger seat, and you climb over the console and into his lap, and the Mustang’s interior is small and warm and entirely yours.

He undresses you carefully, methodically, like he’s done everything in his life—with patience and complete attention. Your sweater first, then his jacket, his eyes on your face the whole time, watching for hesitation. There isn’t any.

"You’re beautiful," he says, and it’s so simple and so honest that it lodges somewhere in your chest and stays there.

His hands are warm everywhere they touch—down your sides, over your hips, learning you the way he’s learned everything that matters to him: slowly, thoroughly, like he means to know it forever. When his fingers find the hem of your jeans, he pauses. "Still yes?"

"Still yes." He takes his time. That’s the thing about Sunghoon—he has always taken his time with things that matter. His mouth finds your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, and you’re acutely aware of the city lights through the windshield and the sound of both of you breathing and how small and perfect this space is.

He works you open with his fingers first—slow and attentive, watching your face, adjusting when your breath catches—his thumb circling your clit in a rhythm that makes your hips roll against his hand involuntarily. You grip the headrest behind him and he says your name, just your name, low and reverent. "Okay?" he asks.

"More than," you manage. "Don’t stop." He doesn’t. He keeps going until you’re shaking and breathless, until you come with your forehead dropped against his shoulder and his name in your mouth like a prayer. He holds you through it—both arms, steady—and presses his lips to your temple like it matters, which it does, which everything does with him.

When you finally shift, rising over him, his eyes stay on yours. His hands settle warm on your hips, steadying but not directing—letting you set the pace, the depth, the whole thing, because that’s always been how he is with you. He gives you the wheel.

You take him in slowly. He exhales long and low, jaw tight, hands gripping your hips hard enough to feel it, and you understand in that moment that he’s been holding back too. That there has been patience on both sides of this for months, accumulating. "You okay?" he asks, voice rough.

"Perfect," you say, and mean it in every possible sense. You move together—unhurried, finding the rhythm, his cock filling you completely, his thumb finding your clit again as you roll your hips—and it’s nothing like you expected and exactly what it should be. He tips his head back and watches you with dark eyes and that unguarded expression he only ever gives you, the one that has no performance in it at all.

His hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the underside of your tits, and you arch into the touch. He sits up, mouth finding your throat, and the change in angle makes you gasp. "There," you breathe. "Right there—"

"I’ve got you," he says against your skin, and he does. His arms wrap around you, pulling you tight against him, and he rocks into you from below, steady and deep, and you hold on and let go at the same time. The second orgasm builds faster, sharper, and when it breaks you’re holding his face in your hands and looking right at him and he’s looking back with something in his expression that you have no word for but will spend a long time remembering.

He follows you, his whole body pulling you closer as he does, your name on his lips like a finish line he’s been driving toward this whole time.

Afterward you stay tangled together in the reclined seat. The city still glitters through the windshield. His heartbeat slows under your palm. Your head fits perfectly in the curve of his neck, like it was made for exactly that purpose, which you are starting to believe it was. "Seven months," you say quietly, into the warmth of his chest.

He presses his mouth to the top of your head. "Seven months," he agrees. "Every single one."

—

Monday arrives with exactly the fallout you expected. Jake Sim must have told someone, who told someone else, who told everyone, because by second period the entire school knows you're dating Park Sunghoon. The reactions vary:

Wonyoung: "FINALLY. I've been waiting for you to admit it. Also, he's hot. Well done." Your lab partner in Chemistry: "I didn't know you were into bad boys." Some random freshman: "Aren't you supposed to be smart?"

The worst is lunch. You're sitting with Wonyoung and your usual student council crowd when Sunghoon appears. "Can I sit?" he asks, looking directly at you, ignoring everyone else.

The table goes silent. This is unprecedented. Park Sunghoon doesn't sit with the honor students. The honor students don't sit with the kids who've failed English three times. But you're not most honor students. "Yeah," you say, scooting over to make room. "Sit."

He does. Drops his lunch tray next to yours like he belongs there, which apparently he does now. The student council people exchange glances. Wonyoung's grinning like Christmas came early. "So," Sunghoon says, stealing a fry from your tray. "What are we discussing? Student council stuff? World domination?"

"Both," Wonyoung says immediately, because she's never met an awkward silence she couldn't fill. "We're planning the winter formal. Theme, decorations, the whole thing."

"What's the theme?"

"Winter Wonderland. Very original, I know."

"You could do Winter Racing. Decorate with checkered flags and—" He stops, looking at your expression. "What?"

"That's actually not a terrible idea."

"Don't sound so surprised."

The conversation continues, and slowly, impossibly, your two worlds start to merge. Wonyoung asks Sunghoon about cars. He asks her about whatever Jake drama is currently happening (apparently there's always Jake drama). Your student council friends warm up when they realize he's funny and not actually scary. By the end of lunch, it almost feels normal.

Until you're walking to English and Principal Morrison stops you in the hall. "Can I see you in my office?" she asks. Not quite a question.

Your stomach sinks. "Now?"

"Now."

Sunghoon squeezes your hand once before you follow Morrison down the hall. Her office still smells like coffee, but there's no warmth in her smile today. "I've been hearing things," she says once the door closes. "About you and Mr. Park."

"We're dating." You say it firmly, even though your heart's racing. "Is that a problem?"

"That depends. Is this relationship interfering with your tutoring duties?"

"No. He's doing better than ever. You've seen his grades."

"I have. Which is why I'm concerned." She leans forward. "You're an exceptional student with a bright future. Stanford. Pre-law. You've worked very hard to get where you are."

"I'm aware."

"Park Sunghoon is a nice young man, but he's not on the same path you are. I'd hate to see you distracted. To see your focus shift away from your goals." The implication is clear: he's not good enough for you. He's going to drag you down.

"With respect, Mrs. Morrison, my personal life is my business." Your voice is steady even though you're shaking. "I'm maintaining my grades. I'm fulfilling my student council responsibilities. What I do outside of school isn't up for discussion."

"I'm just trying to look out for you—"

"I don't need looking out for. I need people to trust that I can make my own decisions." You stand. "Is there anything else?"

She sighs. "Just—be careful. That's all I'm saying."

"I will be. Thank you." You leave her office furious and shaking, and Sunghoon's waiting in the hall even though he's definitely supposed to be in class.

"What did she say?" he asks.

"That I'm making a mistake. That you're going to ruin my future." The words taste bitter.

His expression shuts down. "Maybe she's right."

"Don't." You grab his hand. "Don't do that. Don't let other people's opinions make you doubt this."

"I'm not good enough for you. Everyone thinks it. Hell, I think it sometimes."

"Good enough according to what? Their standards? Fuck their standards." The profanity feels good, rebellious. "You make me happy. That's what matters."

"Your parents are going to lose it when they find out."

"They'll find out when I'm ready to tell them." You kiss him quick, not caring who sees. "And when they do, I'm not changing my mind."

His smile is small but real. "You're kind of badass when you're angry."

"I'm learning from you."

"Nah. This was always in you. You just needed permission to let it out."

—

Thanksgiving arrives, and with it, the dreaded family dinner where your parents expect you to discuss your college applications and your perfectly planned future. Instead, you spend the morning texting Sunghoon while your mother prepares turkey. Sunghoon: What are you wearing?

You: Why, are you coming over to see me?

Sunghoon: No, but I'm thinking about you. Want to picture it accurately.

You: Sweater and jeans. Very exciting.

Sunghoon: Everything about you is exciting.

You: Smooth talker.

Sunghoon: I'm working on my English skills. My tutor's really good.

You: Your tutor thinks you're pretty great too.

Sunghoon: Just pretty great?

You: Fishing for compliments?

Sunghoon: Maybe. Is it working?

You: You're incredible. Happy now?

Sunghoon: Very. What time's dinner?

You: Six. Why?

Sunghoon: Because I'm picking you up at eight. There's a place I want to show you.

You: It's Thanksgiving. I can't just leave family dinner.

Sunghoon: Sure you can. Tell them you're going to Wonyoung's.

You: I use that excuse too much.

Sunghoon: Then tell them the truth. That you're seeing your boyfriend.

The word stops you. Boyfriend. He's never used it before. You've never defined what this is, too scared to put labels on something so new and fragile. You: Is that what you are? My boyfriend?

The little text bubble appears, disappears, appears again. Finally: Sunghoon: I want to be. If that's okay with you.

Your heart soars. You: It's more than okay. I'll see you at eight, boyfriend.

Sunghoon: See you at eight, girlfriend.

Dinner is exactly as expected—your dad asking about Stanford applications, your mom discussing scholarship opportunities, your older brother (home from MIT for the holiday) pontificating about the importance of networking. Around seven-thirty, you clear your throat. "I'm going out after dinner," you announce.

Your mother looks up from the pumpkin pie. "Out where?"

"To see someone."

"Wonyoung?"

"No. A friend. From school."

Your father's fork pauses halfway to his mouth. "What friend?"

This is it. The moment of truth. You could lie, make up another excuse, keep hiding. Instead: "His name is Sunghoon. He's my boyfriend." The silence is deafening.

"Boyfriend?" your mother repeats faintly.

"Since when do you have a boyfriend?" your brother asks.

"Since October. We've been seeing each other for about two months."

Your father sets down his fork carefully. "Who is this boy? Do we know his family?"

"Park's Auto Repair. His dad owns it."

Recognition flashes across your father's face. "The Park boy? The one who's failed English multiple times?"

"He's passing now. Because I've been tutoring him."

"That's what this is about?" Your mother's expression clears with relief. "You're tutoring him. That's not dating, honey."

"It started as tutoring. It became dating. There's a difference."

"Absolutely not." Your father's voice is firm. "You are not dating that boy."

Your heart pounds, but you keep your voice steady. "I am. And I'm going to see him tonight."

"You are not leaving this house."

"I'm eighteen. You can't stop me."

"We can take away your car. Your allowance. We can make this very difficult for you."

The threat hangs in the air. Your mother looks distressed, your brother shocked, your father furious. "Do what you need to do," you say quietly. "But I'm still going." You stand, grabbing your coat, and your father stands too.

"If you walk out that door to see that boy, there will be consequences."

"I understand."

"You're throwing away your future for someone who isn't worth it."

That snaps something in you. "He's worth more than you know. He's kind and smart and he works harder than anyone I've ever met. The only people who can't see that are people who judge based on grades and class and things that don't actually matter."

"Grades matter. Your education matters. Stanford matters."

"I know. And I'm still going to Stanford. I'm still maintaining my 4.0. I'm still doing everything I'm supposed to do." You pause at the door. "I'm just also choosing to be happy." You leave before they can respond.

The Mustang's idling at the end of your driveway, and when you climb in, Sunghoon takes one look at your face and knows. "You told them."

"I told them."

"And?"

"And my dad's pissed. My mom's horrified. My brother thinks I've lost my mind." You buckle your seatbelt. "But I did it. I chose you."

His expression does something complicated. "You didn't have to—"

"Yes, I did. I'm tired of hiding. Tired of living my life for other people's approval." You take his hand. "Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere special. You'll see."

He drives out of town, past the quarry, along back roads you've never seen. The radio plays soft—Fleetwood Mac, "Landslide"—and his hand stays linked with yours. After twenty minutes, he pulls onto a dirt road that leads to a field. In the distance, you can see Indianapolis's skyline glittering, all lights and possibility. "What is this place?" you ask.

"My spot. When everything gets too much—school, my dad, all of it—I come here." He parks, and you both get out. The November air is freezing, but he pulls a blanket from the trunk, spreading it on the hood of the Mustang. You climb up, and he settles behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, chin on your shoulder. The city sparkles in the distance, close enough to see but far enough to feel like a different world.

"I've been coming here since I was fifteen," he says quietly. "Whenever I felt like I didn't fit anywhere, I'd drive out here and look at the city. Remind myself that there's more than just Millbrook. More than just people who think I'm stupid."

"You're not stupid."

"I know that now. Because of you." He holds you tighter. "You changed everything for me. Not just teaching me to read—though that's huge. But making me believe I'm worth something. That I have value beyond fixing cars."

"You always had value. I just helped you see it."

"Same thing you did for me, you did for yourself." He turns you to face him. "Before us, you were so focused on being perfect that you forgot to be happy. Now look at you. Standing up to your parents. Choosing what you want instead of what you're supposed to want."

"I'm terrified."

"Good. Being terrified means it matters."

You kiss him as the city lights blur behind your closed eyes, and it feels like standing at the edge of a cliff—scary and exhilarating and exactly where you're supposed to be. "I'm falling in love with you," you whisper against his mouth. The admission feels huge, terrifying.

He pulls back to look at you, his expression soft and open and completely vulnerable. "Good," he says. "Because I fell in love with you weeks ago. Just been waiting for you to catch up." You laugh, and cry, and kiss him again, and in the distance Indianapolis glitters like a promise that maybe, just maybe, everything's going to be okay.

—

Your parents aren't speaking to you. Well, they're speaking—terse, polite conversations about dinner times and whether you need the car—but the warmth is gone. Your mother looks at you like you're a stranger. Your father's disappointment is a physical presence at every meal.

They took away your allowance but not your car (you need it for student council, and they're not quite willing to sabotage that). They've forbidden Sunghoon from coming to the house. They've made it clear that this relationship is temporary, a phase, something you'll grow out of when you come to your senses. You've made it equally clear that you disagree. The upside is: You're no longer sneaking around. The downside: Everything is harder now. But you have Sunghoon, and somehow that makes it bearable.

—

The first real snow falls on a Tuesday in mid-December. You and Sunghoon are at Miller's Diner, working through a Lord of the Flies essay that's due Friday. He's gotten good at this—organizing his thoughts verbally, using voice-to-text for first drafts, then going back to clean up spelling and grammar. "So Piggy represents intelligence and reason," he says, "but nobody listens to him because he doesn't fit their idea of what a leader should be."

"Exactly. What does that say about society?"

"That we're idiots who value the wrong things?" He grins. "That sound about right?"

"Bit cynical, but not wrong." You're making notes for him to reference later. "What evidence supports that?"

He flips through the book—using his red overlay, reading more fluently than he did three months ago. It's not perfect. It's probably never going to be easy. But it's worlds better than where he started. "Here," he says, pointing to a passage. "Where they're voting for chief and everyone picks Ralph because he's good-looking and has the conch, even though Piggy's clearly smarter."

"Perfect. Use that quote, explain why it matters, connect it to real-world examples."

"Real-world examples like people thinking I'm dumb because I can't read?"

Your heart squeezes. "Yeah. Like that."

He's quiet for a moment, then: "You know what's weird? I used to hate English. Hated everything about it. But now—" He gestures at the books, the notes. "It's not so bad. Some of it's actually interesting."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I mean, Golding's kind of depressing, but he's got a point. People do judge based on stupid shit. They make assumptions. And the conch thing—order versus chaos—that actually makes sense when you think about it."

You're grinning so hard your cheeks hurt. "You're doing literary analysis. Voluntarily."

"Don't sound so shocked."

"I'm not shocked. I'm proud."

His smile is soft, genuine. "Thanks. For not giving up on me."

"Never." Sally brings your milkshakes—chocolate for him, strawberry for you, a routine she's memorized by now. The diner's nearly empty, just a couple of truckers at the counter and you two in your usual booth.

"How are things at home?" Sunghoon asks carefully.

"Tense. My mom keeps leaving college brochures on my desk like I've forgotten about Stanford. My dad barely looks at me." You stir your milkshake. "But I'm not backing down."

"I hate that I'm causing problems with your family."

"You're not. Their expectations are causing problems. I'm just finally standing up to them."

"Still." He reaches across the table, taking your hand. "If you ever want to—if this gets too hard—"

"Don't." You squeeze his fingers. "I'm not giving up on us. Not for them. Not for anyone."

"Even if they cut you off? Refuse to pay for Stanford?"

The fear in his voice breaks your heart. "I'll figure it out. Loans, scholarships, whatever it takes."

"You shouldn't have to—"

"But I will. Because you're worth it." You mean every word. "Besides, I'm not doing this just for you. I'm doing it for me. For the first time in my life, I'm choosing what I want instead of what everyone else wants for me."

His expression softens. "What do you want?"

"You. Stanford. A future where I don't have to choose between love and ambition." You pause. "Is that too much to ask?"

"No. It's exactly right."

You work for another hour, then Sunghoon walks you to your car like always. The snow's still falling, turning the parking lot into a winter postcard. His hands settle on your waist, pulling you close. "You cold?" he asks.

"A little." He shrugs out of his jacket—that same leather jacket he always wears—and drapes it over your shoulders. It's warm from his body heat and smells like him, motor oil and cologne and something that's just Sunghoon. "You're going to freeze," you protest.

"I'll survive. Besides, you look good in my jacket." You do. You've seen yourself in mirrors, in car windows—his too-big jacket swallowing you up, making you look dangerous and claimed and exactly like someone who'd date Park Sunghoon.

You kiss him in the falling snow, and it's perfect. Movie-perfect. The kind of moment that would be cheesy if it wasn't so real. "I love you," he says against your mouth.

"I love you too."

"Even though I'm causing problems with your parents?"

"Especially because of that. You make me brave."

His smile is everything. "You were always brave. You just needed permission to show it."

—

The winter formal is the third Saturday of December, your mother assumes you're going with Wonyoung or solo. She's bought you a dress—beautiful, conservative, exactly the kind of thing the future Stanford student should wear. "I'm going with Sunghoon," you tell her Friday night at dinner.

She nearly drops her fork. "Excuse me?"

"To the winter formal. Sunghoon's my date."

"Absolutely not."

"I'm going either way. You can't stop me."

Your father sets down his newspaper. "We can forbid you from going at all."

"Then I guess I'm forbidden." You stand, taking your plate to the sink. "But I'm still going. So you can either accept that I'm going with Sunghoon, or you can spend the evening knowing I'm there against your wishes. Your choice." You leave before they can respond, and you're shaking but proud. Standing up to them is getting easier, but it still takes everything you have.

Saturday arrives clear and cold. You get ready at Wonyoung's house—she's going with Jake (they're on-again this week), and she helps you with your hair and makeup. "You're really doing this," she says, watching you in the mirror. "Going with him. In front of everyone."

"Yeah."

"Your parents are going to lose it."

"They already have."

"And you're okay with that?"

You think about it—really think about it. About the future you'd planned, the one where you did everything right and made everyone proud. About the future you're building now, messier and scarier but entirely yours. "Yeah," you say finally. "I'm okay with it."

The dress your mother bought hangs in your closet at home. Instead, you're wearing something Wonyoung helped you find—still nice, still appropriate, but edgier. A dark red dress that your mother would call too much and you call perfect. Sunghoon picks you up at Wonyoung's at seven, and when he sees you, he stops mid-step. "Wow."

"Good wow or bad wow?"

"Incredible wow." He's wearing actual dress clothes—dark slacks, button-down, tie. He looks unfamiliar and handsome and still completely him. "You're beautiful."

"You're not so bad yourself."

He hands you flowers—simple roses from the grocery store, but the gesture makes your heart melt. "Ready?"

"Completely."

The dance is in the school gym, transformed with the Winter Racing theme that won the student council vote (Sunghoon's idea, your influence). Checkered flags, silver and white decorations, lights that make everything sparkle. When you walk in together, conversations stop. People stare. This is unexpected—the valedictorian and the kid who failed English, together at the most visible school event of the year. But Sunghoon's hand is firm in yours, and you're done hiding. "Want to dance?" he asks.

"I should warn you—I'm terrible at it."

"Then we'll be terrible together."

He leads you to the dance floor just as a slow song starts. His hands settle on your waist, yours on his shoulders, and you sway to music that's probably supposed to have actual dance steps but you're both improvising. "People are staring," you murmur.

"Let them."

"Doesn't it bother you?"

"Used to. But then I figured out that people's opinions don't change who I am. I'm still the guy who rebuilt a Mustang from scrap. Still the guy who's finally passing English. Still the guy who's somehow dating the smartest, most beautiful girl in school." He pulls you closer. "Their opinions don't matter."

"When did you get so wise?"

"I have a really good tutor." You laugh, and the tension breaks. The next song is faster, and Wonyoung drags you both into a group dance with her and Jake and some other student council people. Sunghoon's terrible at dancing but enthusiastic, and watching him attempt choreography he's clearly making up is the highlight of your night.

Around nine, you slip outside for air. The December night is freezing, and you're shivering in your dress when Sunghoon's jacket settles around your shoulders. "You need to stop giving me your jacket," you say. "You're going to get hypothermia."

"Worth it." He stands behind you, arms around your waist, chin on your shoulder. "You having fun?"

"The most fun. You?"

"Better than I expected. Though I still think the refreshments are weak. Diner milkshakes are better."

"Obviously."

You stand there in comfortable silence, watching your breath fog in the cold air, and you think about how much has changed since September. How you've changed. "What are you thinking?" Sunghoon asks.

"That I'm happy. Really, genuinely happy. And that scares me."

"Why?"

"Because happiness like this doesn't last. Because we're graduating in June and you're staying here and I'm going to California and—" Your throat tightens. "Because I don't know how to keep this when everything's pulling us apart."

His arms tighten around you. "We'll figure it out."

"How?"

"I don't know yet. But we will." He turns you to face him. "I love you. That's not going to change just because you're three thousand miles away."

"Long distance is hard."

"So? Lots of things are hard. Reading's hard. Racing's hard. Standing up to your parents is hard. But we do them anyway because they matter." He cups your face. "You matter. We matter. And I'm not giving up on us just because it's going to be difficult."

You kiss him, tasting determination and promise and the future you're both trying to hold onto. "Seven months," you say. "We have seven more months before Stanford."

"Then let's make them count."

The rest of December passes in a blur of finals and family tension and stolen time with Sunghoon. You ace your finals (because some things don't change). He passes English with a B-minus (because some things do). Christmas is awkward. Your parents got you practical gifts—a new laptop for college, organizational systems, things that say we're investing in your future whether or not we approve of your present.

You spend Christmas night at the quarry with Sunghoon and his friends, sitting around a bonfire, drinking hot chocolate spiked with peppermint schnapps that Ryujin brought. "To surviving senior year," Jay toasts, raising his mug.

"To graduation," Niki adds.

"To getting the hell out of Millbrook," Ryujin says.

"To the people who make staying worthwhile," Sunghoon says, looking directly at you.

Everyone drinks, and you lean into Sunghoon's side, warm despite the December cold, surrounded by people who've become your friends as much as his. This is what family should feel like, you think. Not obligation and expectation, but choice and acceptance and love. "What are you thinking?" Wonyoung asks. She's on Jake's lap (they're very on-again), but her eyes are on you.

"That I'm exactly where I'm supposed to be."

"Even though it's complicated?"

"Especially because it's complicated."

She smiles. "Good answer."

Later, Sunghoon drives you home, but instead of dropping you off, he parks down the street. "I got you something," he says, pulling a small wrapped box from his jacket pocket. "For Christmas."

"Sunghoon, we said no gifts—"

"I know. But I saw this and thought of you." You unwrap it carefully. Inside is a keychain—simple silver, with a tiny Mustang charm attached. "It's from my car," he explains. "Well, a replica. Because wherever you go, whatever happens, you'll have a piece of us. A piece of this."

Your eyes are burning. "It's perfect."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You lean across the console to kiss him. "I love it. I love you."

"I love you too."

You sit there in his Mustang, engine off, snow falling outside, and you make promises you hope you can keep. That distance won't change things. That you'll make it work. That love is enough. You want to believe it. You have to believe it. Because the alternative—losing him—is unthinkable.

—

January through March pass faster than you want them to. Stanford acceptance letter arrives in early March—thick envelope, congratulations, everything you've worked for. Your parents are ecstatic. They throw you a celebration dinner, invite relatives, act like your relationship with Sunghoon is a phase that's ending now that you've gotten into your dream school. You don't correct them. You just smile and accept congratulations and hold the letter that represents your future while thinking about the boy who represents your present.

Sunghoon's proud when you tell him. Genuinely, completely proud. "Stanford," he says, kissing you in the diner parking lot. "That's huge."

"It doesn't feel huge. It feels like goodbye."

"It's not goodbye. It's—" He pauses, searching for words. "It's see you later."

"That's optimistic."

"I'm learning optimism from you."

Spring arrives with brutal honesty about the future. Graduation is June seventh. You leave for Stanford's summer orientation June twentieth. That gives you less than two weeks after graduation before everything changes. The quarry races continue through April, and you've gotten good. Not as good as Sunghoon or Ryujin, but good enough to win against Niki (who's actually trying now) and to place second against Jay (who's still reckless but respects your skill). "You should race for real," Ryujin says one Saturday night in mid-April. "There's a circuit in Indianapolis. Real tracks, real prizes. You could do it."

"I'm going to California in June."

"But you're here now."

You look at Sunghoon, who's watching you with that expression that means he's proud and scared and trying not to show either. "One race," you say. "Before I leave. A real one."

His smile is beautiful and sad. "Yeah. One real race."

You tell your parents you're staying after school for a student council project on the last Friday of April. Instead, you drive to Indianapolis with Sunghoon, Ryujin following in her Corvette, to register for your first real race. The track is terrifying and exhilarating. Professional. Dangerous. Everything the quarry isn't. "You don't have to do this," Sunghoon says as you're filling out forms.

"I want to."

"Why?"

"Because I've spent my whole life playing it safe. Doing the smart thing. The responsible thing." You sign your name with a flourish. "I want one irresponsible thing to remember. One time I did something just because it scared me."

"Racing scares you?"

"Terrifies me. That's why I have to do it."

The race is scheduled for the second Saturday in May. That gives you two weeks to practice, to prepare, to possibly come to your senses (you don't). You practice at the quarry every Saturday, and Sunghoon teaches you things he's learned from years of racing. How to take curves at speed. When to brake and when to accelerate. How to listen to the engine, to feel when the car's about to lose traction. "You're good at this," he says after a particularly clean run. "Natural."

"I have a good teacher."

"Best teacher you ever had?" He's grinning, cocky.

"Most humble, definitely."

The night before the race, you can't sleep. Sunghoon calls at midnight. "You nervous?" he asks.

"Terrified."

"Good. Use that. Fear keeps you sharp."

"What if I crash?"

"You won't."

"But if I do?"

"Then I'll be there to pull you out and tell you you're an idiot for racing in the first place." His voice softens. "But you won't crash. You're too good for that."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because I've watched you do impossible things. Ace AP classes. Stand up to your parents. Take a kid who couldn't read and teach him to love literature. Racing is just one more impossible thing you're going to conquer." You fall asleep with your phone pressed to your ear, his breathing steady on the other end, feeling brave and terrified and ready.

Race day arrives sunny and perfect. The track in Indianapolis is packed—real racers, real crowds, real stakes. You're racing in the amateur division, but that doesn't make it less intimidating. Your parents think you're at a college prep seminar. Wonyoung knows the truth and made you promise to be careful. Sunghoon's in the pit area, having helped prep the Mustang (you're borrowing his car for this, because yours is sensible and slow and entirely wrong for racing). "You ready?" he asks, checking the tire pressure for the third time.

"Ask me after."

"You're going to be great."

"You're biased."

"Completely. Doesn't make it less true."

Ryujin appears, already in her racing suit. "You're up in fifteen. Stop overthinking it."

"I'm not overthinking—"

"You're absolutely overthinking. It's what you do." She grins. "Just drive like you do at the quarry. Pretend you're trying to beat Niki's sorry ass."

"I heard that!" Niki calls from somewhere nearby.

The fifteen minutes pass too fast. Suddenly you're in the Mustang, helmet on, strapped in tight. The engine's roar is familiar now, comforting. You can do this. The flag drops. You're off, and for the first few seconds you can't think, can barely breathe. Then muscle memory kicks in. Sunghoon's lessons, hours of practice, raw instinct.

The track blurs. You're not first—not even close—but you're not last either. Sixth out of twelve. Holding your own. Lap two: you pass someone. Fifth place. Lap three: someone passes you. Back to sixth. Lap four (final lap): You see an opening. A gap between two cars. It's risky. Probably stupid. You take it.

The Mustang responds perfectly, threading the needle, and suddenly you're fourth. The finish line approaches and you're laughing inside the helmet because you're doing it, you're actually doing it— You cross the line in fourth place. Not first. Not even podium. But fourth out of twelve in your first real race, and when you pull into the pit area, Sunghoon's there pulling you out of the car and spinning you around and kissing you right there in front of everyone. "Fourth place!" he's saying. "In your first fucking race!"

"I can't believe I did that."

"I can. I knew you would." He's grinning so wide it must hurt. "You were amazing."

Ryujin finished second (because of course she did), and she's laughing at both of you. "Not bad for a brainiac. You've got real potential."

"Thanks."

"You racing again?"

The question makes your stomach drop. Because the answer is no. You're leaving in five weeks. This was it. Your one race. Your one irresponsible thing. "Probably not," you say quietly.

Ryujin's expression shifts to understanding. "Right. Stanford." She squeezes your shoulder. "Then I'm glad you got to do this one. Fourth place is nothing to sneeze at."

The rest of the afternoon passes in a celebration. Jay brings beer (illegal but who cares), and you all sit in the parking lot reliving the race, analyzing turns, celebrating small victories. This is freedom, you think. This is what it feels like to do something just because you want to, not because it's part of a plan or looks good on applications or makes anyone proud. This is what it feels like to be young and reckless and alive.

Later, Sunghoon drives you back to Millbrook, and you're quiet, processing. "You okay?" he asks.

"Yeah. Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how in five weeks this is over. This—" You gesture between you. "—is over."

His hands tighten on the steering wheel. "It doesn't have to be over."

"How? You're here. I'm going to be three thousand miles away."

"We'll figure it out. Phone calls. Visits. We'll make it work."

"Do you really believe that?"

He's quiet for a long moment. "I want to. I'm trying to."

"But?"

"But I'm scared." The admission costs him. "I'm scared that you'll get to California and realize there's a whole world of guys who aren't broken. Who can read without colored filters. Who graduated on time and don't work at their dad's garage."

"Sunghoon—"

"I'm scared you'll forget about the small-town kid who fell in love with you over milkshakes and car engines."

You reach across the console, taking his hand. "I could never forget you. You changed my life."

"For now. But in a year? Two years?"

"Forever," you say firmly. "You changed me forever."

He pulls over at your usual spot—the overlook of Indianapolis, the city glittering in the distance. Turns to face you fully. "I love you," he says. "I'm always going to love you. But I also love you too much to make you choose between me and your dreams."

"What does that mean?"

"It means—" He swallows hard. "It means when you leave for Stanford, I'm not going to hold you back. I'm not going to guilt you or make you feel bad for living your life. I want you to experience everything. To be free."

"I don't want to be free. I want to be with you."

"You can't have both. Not really. Not with three thousand miles between us."

Tears are streaming down your face now. "So what, we just break up? Pretend this never happened?"

"No. We love each other for the next five weeks. We make every moment count. And then—" His voice cracks. "And then we let each other go."

"I don't want to let you go."

"I don't want to let you go either. But we have to."

You climb into his lap in the front seat of the Mustang, kissing him desperately, trying to memorize everything—the taste of him, the feel of his hands, the way he holds you like you're precious and breakable and strong all at once. "Five weeks," you whisper against his mouth.

"Five weeks," he agrees. "Let's make them perfect."

He drives. Not back to town—not yet. He takes the back roads out past the quarry, past the field where you used to watch Indianapolis glow, until he finds a stretch of empty road where the stars are visible and the nearest person is miles away. Then he parks. Neither of you speaks for a moment. The Mustang idles and then goes quiet and the May night presses warm against the windows. "Come here," he says softly.

You go. You cross the console and fit yourself against him and he holds you so tight it almost hurts, his face buried in your hair, both of you breathing like you’ve been running. This time it isn’t urgent the way the first time was—that first night at the overlook, the months of held breath finally released. This time it’s slower and sadder and more deliberate, the way you do something when you know you’re doing it for the last time in a long time.

He undresses you like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s filing it away somewhere safe. Every piece of clothing that comes off, his hands follow—mapping your shoulders, your waist, the curve of your spine—and you do the same for him, learning by touch what you already know by heart. His chest, the line of his collarbone, the old scar on his ribs from a car part that slipped when he was sixteen. "I love you," you say, against his shoulder. Not for the first time. But with a weight to it you haven’t used before.

"I love you," he says back, and pulls you closer. He lays you back in the reclined seat and takes his time. His mouth traces down your throat, your collarbone, the curve of your breast—lips finding your nipples, soft at first and then less so, until your fingers are in his hair and you’re arching up toward him. He smiles against your skin and keeps going.

His hand slides down your stomach, fingers stroking through your folds with the ease of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing now, who has paid close attention every time before this. He finds your clit and works it slow and steady until your hips are rocking against his hand and you’re whispering his name at the dark of the car ceiling. "Sunghoon—"

"I know," he says. "I’ve got you. I always have you." He pushes two fingers into your pussy and curls them, thumb still on your clit, and you come apart quietly—the way you do now, the way you’ve learned to, teeth pressed into your lower lip, breathless and shaking and his. He holds you through it, watching your face like he’s trying to memorize that too.

Then he settles between your thighs and presses into you slowly—taking his time even now, or maybe especially now—and you wrap your legs around him and pull him closer and closer until there’s no space between you at all. He moves like the night is long and he intends to use all of it. Deep and unhurried, his cock filling you completely with every thrust, his forehead resting against yours so you’re breathing the same air, his eyes open and on yours the whole time. It’s almost too much—the eye contact, the closeness, the specific weight of knowing what this is. You don’t look away. Neither does he.

He shifts his angle and you gasp and his jaw goes tight and he keeps it there—that exact angle, the head of his cock dragging against the right place every time—until the tension winds up tight and sharp and breaks in a long wave that makes you clutch his shoulders and hold on. He follows you—"I love you," he says, rough and honest and helpless, right at the end—and stays there, arms around you, both of you catching your breath while the Indiana night hums outside.

You stay tangled together for a long time. Long enough that the windows fog. Long enough that somewhere in the dark a car passes on the far road and its headlights sweep briefly across yours and neither of you moves. "Don’t let go yet," you say quietly.

His arms tighten. "Not yet," he says. "Not yet."

—

The last five weeks of senior year pass in a blur of lasts. Last student council meeting. Last AP exam. Last time sitting in your assigned seat in English class. Last ordinary Tuesday at Miller's Diner. You and Sunghoon make a pact: No talking about Stanford. No discussing the future. Just now. Just these five weeks. It's denial and it's beautiful and it's breaking both your hearts.

Prom happens the third weekend of May. You go together—officially, publicly, to hell with anyone who has opinions. Your parents don't speak to you for three days after, but you don't care because you have pictures of you and Sunghoon in formal wear, his arms around your waist, both of you smiling like nothing bad is coming.

Senior Week is a blur of parties and celebrations. The quarry fills up every night with graduates celebrating freedom and dreading change. You race twice more—not officially, just for fun—and win once against Jay (he claims the track was slippery).

Wonyoung throws a party at her house the Saturday before graduation. Her parents are gone for the weekend (conveniently), and half the senior class shows up. "I can't believe this is almost over," she says, slightly drunk on the punch that someone definitely spiked. "We're leaving. All of us. Going to different colleges, different states. Everything's changing."

"Not everything. We'll still be friends."

"Promise?"

"Promise." But even as you say it, you wonder if it's true. If friendships survive distance and change and growing up. If anything survives that.

The Tuesday before graduation, you and Sunghoon are at Miller's Diner for the last time. You both know it without saying it—after graduation, this routine ends. Sally brings your milkshakes without asking. "Last week of school?"

"Last week of everything," Sunghoon says.

She pats his shoulder sympathetically. "You kids going to be okay?"

"We're going to try to be."

When she's gone, you're both quiet. There's no homework to do. No tutoring needed. Sunghoon passed English with a B. He's graduating. Everything you worked for together is complete. "I've been thinking," he says finally. "About us. About what happens after."

"You said no future talk."

"I know. But we need to talk about it. We can't just pretend—"

"I know." You take a shaky breath. "What have you been thinking?"

"That I love you. That I'm always going to love you. But that trying to hold onto something when we're both moving in different directions is just going to hurt more in the end."

The tears are already falling. "So what are you saying?"

"That I think we should make a clean break. After graduation. You go to Stanford, I stay here, and we don't drag it out with phone calls and promises we can't keep."

"I could keep them. I would keep them."

"For how long? A semester? A year? Eventually you'd meet someone there. Someone smart and ambitious who's going places. Someone who fits your future better than a mechanic from Millbrook."

"Don't do that. Don't diminish yourself."

"I'm being realistic. You deserve someone who can give you everything. I can only give you parts and pieces and long-distance phone calls."

You're crying harder now. "You give me everything that matters. You make me happy. Isn't that enough?"

"Not when it means holding you back."

"You're not—"

"I am. Your parents are right about that." He reaches across the table, taking both your hands. "You're meant for amazing things. And I'm so proud to have been part of your journey. But I can't be the thing that keeps you from flying."

"I don't want to fly without you."

"You don't have a choice. We both know this was always temporary. We just pretended it wasn't."

You're sobbing now, and Sally's watching from behind the counter with sad eyes, and Sunghoon's crying too even though he's trying to hide it. "I don't want this to end," you manage.

"Neither do I. But it has to." He stands, pulling you up with him, holding you while you both fall apart. "But we still have four more days. Let's not waste them being sad."

—

Graduation Day arrives. You're wearing your honor cords, valedictorian medal, all the symbols of everything you've achieved. Sunghoon's in his cap and gown next to you in the alphabetical lineup, grinning like a kid because he's actually here, actually graduating. "We did it," he says.

"You did it. This was all you."

"Couldn't have done it without you."

The ceremony is long. Principal Morrison gives a speech about futures and potential. You give your valedictorian speech about change and growth and becoming who you're meant to be. (You wrote it thinking about Sunghoon. Everyone assumes it's about college.) When they call his name—"Park Sunghoon"—the cheering is loud. His dad is in the stands, looking proud and slightly shocked. His sister's jumping up and down. You're clapping so hard your hands hurt.

He walks across the stage, accepts his diploma, and when he looks out at the audience, he finds you. Smiles. Mouths "we did it." You mouth back "you did it."

After the ceremony, there are pictures and celebrations. Your parents are polite to Sunghoon when he appears in family photos, but the frost is still there. His dad shakes your hand, thanks you for helping his son, doesn't quite meet your eyes. "Party at the quarry tonight," Jay announces to everyone. "Everyone's invited. Last blowout before we all scatter." You and Sunghoon exchange glances. Tonight. This is it.

The quarry is packed for graduation night. Someone's brought a whole sound system. The bonfire's huge. There's alcohol and celebration and the particular bittersweet feeling of knowing everything's about to change. You stay close to Sunghoon all night. Dancing when the music's good, sitting on the hood of the Mustang when you need quiet, kissing like you're trying to memorize the taste of him.

Around midnight, he pulls you away from the crowd. "Come with me. I want to show you something." He drives out to the overlook—your spot, where Indianapolis glitters in the distance. Parks the Mustang and leads you to sit on the hood, arms around you, both of you looking at the city. "I'm going to miss this," he says quietly. "Every part of this."

"Me too."

"You changed my life, you know. Before you, I thought I was stupid. Broken. Going nowhere. But you saw something in me that nobody else did. You made me believe I could be more."

"You were always more. I just helped you see it."

"Same thing." He turns you to face him. "I'm going to let you go tomorrow. It's going to be the hardest thing I've ever done. But I need you to know that you're the best thing that ever happened to me. That these eight months were the happiest I've ever been." You're crying again, and he wipes your tears with his thumbs. "I need you to promise me something," he continues. "Promise me you'll go to Stanford and be brilliant. Promise me you'll chase every dream. Promise me you won't look back and regret this. Regret us."

"I could never regret us."

"Promise me anyway."

"I promise." Your voice is shaking. "But only if you promise me something too."

"Anything."

"Promise me you'll be happy. That you won't let anyone make you feel small again. That you'll remember you're brilliant and talented and worthy of everything good."

"I promise." You kiss him one last time at the overlook, the city glittering behind you, and it's desperate and perfect and goodbye.

The next morning, you're packing for Stanford. Your room is full of boxes, your whole life sorted into keep and leave behind. There's a knock on your door. Your mom. "Can I come in?"

"Yeah."

She sits on your bed, looking at all the boxes. "I've been thinking. About you and that Park boy."

Your stomach drops. "Mom—"

"Let me finish." She takes a breath. "I don't approve. I want to be clear about that. I think he's a distraction. I think he represents everything you're supposed to be moving away from."

"Thanks for the honesty," you say bitterly.

"But." She looks at you, really looks. "I've also watched you this year. You've been happier. More confident. More yourself than I've seen in a long time. And I can't ignore that he's part of that." You don't know what to say. "I'm not saying I approve. I'm not saying I think this will last. But I am saying—" She pauses. "I'm saying I see that he matters to you. And that you matter to him. And that's worth something."

"We broke up," you say quietly. "Yesterday. Decided it was better to end it than try to make long distance work."

Her expression softens into something that might be sympathy. "I'm sorry."

"Are you really?"

"I'm sorry you're hurting. Even if I think it's for the best." She leaves, and you sit among your boxes, holding the keychain Sunghoon gave you for Christmas, crying for everything you're losing.

—

You leave for Stanford orientation on June twentieth. Your parents drive you to the airport, help you check your bags, hug you goodbye. "We're proud of you," your dad says. "So proud."

"Make the most of this opportunity," your mom adds. "Don't waste it." You nod, unable to speak around the lump in your throat.

The flight to California is long. You press your forehead against the window and watch Indiana disappear beneath you. Somewhere down there is Millbrook. Miller's Diner. The quarry. A black Mustang and a boy who taught you to fly. You pull out your phone, scrolling to his contact. He hasn't called or texted since graduation night. Clean break, like he said.

Your finger hovers over his name. One call. One message. Just to hear his voice. You don't do it. You're strong enough to keep the promise you made. Instead, you clutch the Mustang keychain and cry quietly into your complimentary ginger ale while the flight attendant pretends not to notice.

Stanford is beautiful. Your dorm is nice. Your roommate is friendly. Orientation is overwhelming and exciting and everything you hoped for. But at night, alone in your new bed in your new life, you dream about engines and milkshakes and a boy who made you brave enough to claim your future. You just wish that future could have included him.

—

FOUR YEARS LATER

Stanford Law School graduation is held outdoors in perfect California sunshine. You're wearing your JD regalia, cum laude honors cord, everything you worked for. Your parents are in the stands, beaming. Your brother flew in from Boston where he's doing his medical residency. Wonyoung's here too—she's at UCLA, came up for the weekend to celebrate.

The ceremony is long. When they finally call your name, the cheering is loud, and you walk across the stage thinking about all the paths that led you here. Four years of undergraduate. Three years of law school. Summers clerking at firms in San Francisco, making connections, building a future. You have a job lined up at a prestigious firm. You have your whole career ahead of you.

You did everything you planned. Everything you were supposed to do. And you're proud. You are. But sometimes, late at night, you still dream about a diner in Indiana and a boy who taught you that plans aren't everything.

You haven't spoken to Sunghoon since the day you left. Kept your promise to make a clean break. Forced yourself not to check his social media (you blocked it all the first week at Stanford because you knew you'd be too tempted).

Wonyoung updates you occasionally. Sunghoon's still in Millbrook, working at his dad's garage. Took it over last year when his dad had a heart attack. Business is good. He's doing well. She never mentions if he's seeing anyone. You never ask.

After graduation, there's a reception. Food, drinks, celebration. You're talking to a professor about your upcoming job when your phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number. Unknown: Congratulations, Dr. soon-to-be lawyer. I always knew you'd do amazing things.

Your heart stops. You know that phrasing. That voice. You step away from the reception, hands shaking as you reply. You: Sunghoon?

Unknown: Yeah. It's me. Sorry for texting out of the blue. I just—I saw Wonyoung's Instagram. You graduating. I wanted to say I'm proud of you.

You: How did you get my number?

Unknown: Wonyoung. Made her promise not to tell you I asked for it. Didn't want to pressure you.

You: It's been four years.

Unknown: I know. Too long. Not long enough. Both.

Your heart is racing. You look around at your graduation party, at your future unfolding exactly as planned, and you make a decision. You: Are you in California?

Unknown: Flew in this morning. I'm actually in Palo Alto. At a coffee shop near campus. I understand if you don't want to see me. I just thought—hoped—maybe you'd want to grab coffee. Catch up.

This is crazy. You have a reception to get back to. People waiting. A whole celebration planned. You: Where?

He sends you an address. It's ten minutes from where you're standing. "I need to go," you tell Wonyoung, grabbing your purse.

"Go where? We're celebrating you—" She sees your expression. "Oh my god. He's here, isn't he?"

"How did you know?"

"Because you only look like that when it's about him." She grins. "Go. I'll cover for you with your parents."

"You knew he was coming?"

"He asked for your number last week. Told me he wanted to congratulate you. I didn't think he'd actually show up." She pushes you toward the exit. "Go. Find out what four years has done to you both."

The coffee shop is small and crowded with students. You spot him immediately, sitting at a corner table, wearing jeans and a button-down shirt that's so different from the leather jacket and ripped jeans you remember but somehow still completely him. He sees you and stands. Older. Broader. Still beautiful. "Hi," he says.

"Hi." For a moment you just stare at each other, and then he's crossing the distance and pulling you into a hug that feels like coming home. "You're here," you say into his shoulder. "You're really here."

"I'm here." He pulls back to look at you. "You look amazing. Different. More—I don't know. More yourself."

"You look good too. Really good."

You sit, and for a minute it's awkward. Four years is a long time. You're not the same people who said goodbye in Indiana. "So," he starts. "Law school. That's huge."

"Thanks. What about you? Wonyoung said you took over the garage?"

"Yeah. Dad's heart couldn't take the long hours anymore. So now it's Park & Son Auto Repair." He smiles, proud. "We're doing well. Expanded last year. Hired three new mechanics."

"That's amazing."

"Not as amazing as law school."

"Different amazing."

The conversation flows easier after that. You tell him about Stanford, about your classes, about the firm job you're starting in San Francisco in August. He tells you about the garage, about his sister (she's at Purdue studying veterinary science), about life in Millbrook (some things change, most things don't). "I've been following you," he admits after an hour. "Not in a creepy way. But Wonyoung posts about you sometimes. I couldn't help checking."

"I blocked your social media that first week at Stanford."

"I know. I noticed."

"I had to. If I didn't, I would have looked every day. Tortured myself with missing you."

"Did you? Miss me?"

You look at him—really look. At the boy who taught you to be brave. Who believed in you before you believed in yourself. Who let you go because he loved you too much to hold you back. "Every single day," you admit. "For four years. Every day."

His expression does something complicated. "Me too."

"Then why didn't you call? Text? Anything?"

"Because I made you a promise. To let you go. To let you have your future without me pulling you back."

"That was a stupid promise."

"Maybe. Or maybe it was what we both needed." He reaches across the table, taking your hand. "You did it. Everything you set out to do. Would you have done that if I'd been calling every week? Visiting every break? Being a constant reminder of Millbrook?"

"I don't know," you admit.

"I do. You needed to be free to become who you were meant to be. And look at you." His smile is soft, proud. "You're brilliant. You're successful. You're everything I knew you would be."

"I'm also alone." The admission hurts. "I dated. Nothing stuck. Nobody was—"

"Was me?"

"Was you."

He's quiet for a long moment. Then: "I'm still in Millbrook. Still working at a garage. Still the guy who can barely read without colored overlays."

"I don't care about any of that."

"You should. You're about to start your career in San Francisco. You're going to be surrounded by successful people. People who—"

"Are you seriously still doing this? Four years later, you're still telling me I'm too good for you?"

"I'm being realistic."

"You're being scared." You squeeze his hand. "I'm scared too. I don't know how we'd make this work. San Francisco and Millbrook are three thousand miles apart. But—" You pause, heart racing. "But I've spent four years doing the practical thing. The smart thing. The thing everyone expected. And I've been successful and professional and completely miserable."

"You're not—"

"I am. Because I've been trying to fill a hole that's shaped like you." Tears are streaming down your face now. "I love my career. I love what I do. But I don't love doing it alone. I don't love going home every night to an empty apartment. I don't love dating men who check all the boxes except the one that matters."

"What box is that?"

"Making me happy. Making me feel alive. Making me feel like myself." You're full-on crying now. "You did that. Four years ago, in a town I couldn't wait to leave, you made me happier than I've been before or since."

He's crying too. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I don't want practical. I want you."

"I'm in Millbrook. You're starting a job in San Francisco."

"Then we'll figure it out. Phone calls. Visits. I'll fly home every few months. You can come to California. We'll make it work."

"That's what we said four years ago."

"No. Four years ago you decided we couldn't make it work. You didn't even give us a chance." You stand, pulling him up with you. "I'm not asking for perfect. I'm not asking for easy. I'm asking for a chance to try."

He studies your face, searching for certainty. Whatever he sees must convince him because suddenly he's kissing you, right there in the coffee shop, and it's desperate and perfect and tastes like four years of missing him. When you break apart, you're both laughing and crying. "I can't believe you flew three thousand miles to see me graduate," you say.

"I've been wanting to for four years. Today I finally worked up the courage."

"I'm glad you did."

"Me too." He kisses you again, softer. "So what now?"

"Now we try. For real this time. No clean breaks. No letting each other go."

"Long distance is hard."

"So? Lots of things are hard. We do them anyway because they matter." You smile, using his words from four years ago. "You matter. We matter."

"I love you," he says. "Never stopped."

"I love you too. Let's not waste any more time pretending we don't."

—

SIX MONTHS LATER

You're back in Millbrook for Christmas break, sitting in Miller's Diner in your old booth. Sally brings milkshakes without asking—chocolate for Sunghoon, strawberry for you. "Some things never change," she says, grinning.

"Best things don't," Sunghoon replies.

The past six months have been hard. San Francisco and Millbrook are three thousand miles apart. Your work hours are brutal. His garage has been expanding and demanding more time. But you've made it work. FaceTime calls every night. Visits once a month (you fly to Indiana or he flies to California, alternating). Texts throughout the day, sharing the small moments. It's not perfect. It's often frustrating. But it's worth it. "I've been thinking," Sunghoon says, playing with your fingers across the table.

"About?"

"About the future. Our future."

Your heart skips. "Okay."

"The garage is doing well. Really well. Well enough that I could hire a manager. Take a step back from the day-to-day."

"What would you do instead?"

"Move to California. Be with you."

You nearly drop your milkshake. "What?"

"I've been talking to some shops in San Francisco. There's actually a demand for mechanics who specialize in classic car restoration. I could start my own business. Build it up." He pauses. "But only if you want that. I don't want to pressure you. I know your career is important. I know you need space and independence and—"

You kiss him to shut him up. "Yes."

"Yes?"

"Yes, I want you to move to California. Yes, I want to build a life with you. Yes to all of it."

His smile is brilliant. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. I'm done with long distance. I want you there when I come home from work. I want weekends together. I want normal."

"Normal is overrated."

"Normal with you isn't."

He pulls a small box from his jacket pocket, and your breath stops. "I was going to wait until Christmas," he says. "Make it romantic. But I can't wait any longer." He opens the box. Inside is a ring—simple, beautiful, with a tiny diamond that catches the diner's lights.

"Four years ago, I let you go because I thought it was the right thing. Turns out, letting you go was the stupidest thing I ever did." He takes your hand. "I don't want to let you go again. Ever. So—will you marry me? Put up with late-night phone calls about carburetor problems? Let me mess up your very organized closet with my disorganized life? Build a future together that's messy and complicated and completely ours?"

You're crying and laughing and nodding all at once. "Yes. Yes, absolutely yes." He slides the ring onto your finger, and it fits perfectly. Like it was always meant to be there.

Sally's watching from behind the counter, grinning. "About damn time," she calls over.

Sunghoon laughs, pulling you around the table to sit in his lap. "We did it backwards. Fell in love, broke up, spent four years apart, and now we're getting engaged."

"Who says there's a right way to do this?"

"Fair point." He kisses you softly. "I love you. Have since that first day in the library when you called me brilliant."

"I love you too. Have since you looked at me like I could save you."

"You did save me. In every way that matters."

You sit in Miller's Diner, in the booth that's been yours for years, with a ring on your finger and a future stretching out ahead of you. It's not the future you planned when you were eighteen and valedictorian and sure you had everything figured out. It's better.

Because plans are just maps, and the best destinations are the ones you find by taking the scenic route. The ones that surprise you. The ones that feel like coming home.

And Sunghoon—dyslexic, street-racing, brilliant Sunghoon—feels exactly like coming home. "What are you thinking?" he asks, reading your expression like he's always been able to.

"That I'm glad I took the assignment. That day in Principal Morrison's office."

"Best assignment you ever got?"

"Best decision I ever made was showing up to tutor you. Second best was getting in this Mustang with you that first Saturday night."

"Third best?"

"Loving you. Choosing you. Over and over, every single time."

His kiss tastes like chocolate milkshake and promise and forever. "Let's get out of here," he says. "I want to take you to the overlook. Show you how Indianapolis looks on a winter night."

"Haven't we been there a thousand times?"

"Yeah, but never as fiancés." He grins. "Every view's better when you know you're keeping it forever."

You leave Miller's Diner hand in hand, and Sally calls out "Congratulations!" as the door swings shut behind you. The Mustang's parked outside, still beautiful, still loud, still the car he built from nothing with patience and skill and determination. Kind of like what you built together. "Ready?" he asks, opening the passenger door for you.

You slide in, the leather seat familiar and perfect. He climbs in the driver's side, starts the engine, and it roars to life. "Ready," you say. And you are. Ready for California. Ready for the future. Ready for whatever comes next, as long as it's with him.

He pulls out of the parking lot, and the Mustang's taillights disappear into the Indiana night, carrying two people who fell in love over milkshakes and literature and the radical act of seeing each other clearly.

Some stories end with goodbye. This one starts with it—and becomes something better.

With the plastic box tugged under your arm, you typed in the message quickly as you were waiting for the traffic lights to turn green so you could finally rush home. 

you : i got the thing. ill be home in probs like 5 mins.

You couldn't deny the nervousness that took over your body. The lights finally changed, and you snatched the box out from under your arms and threw it in your tote bag. You made your way to the other side of the road with quick steps, getting lost in the big New York crowd. 

Just another busy Friday morning. Every person has a different goal. A different place they go to. Most probably go to work, but who knows? Maybe they are on their way to one of their loved ones in the hospital, or they are going on a date (even though it's eleven in the morning). 

Personally, you were on your way to your new apartment. You freshly moved out of the college dorm to your own apartment, and it was pretty hard to pretend like you felt sad for your roommate while she was sobbing in your arms when you told her the news. The truth was that you were straight up cheesing inside the whole time. You couldn't wait to have your own personal space, without anyone interrupting your study sessions or series binge sessions. But the best part : you finally had enough time to be with your boyfriend alone. 

Jake was your first ever boyfriend, which was a kinda embarrassing thing to admit at the age of twenty. However, you felt like you just entered your youth, even if it was late. You tried to ignore that part. People usually do cringy teenager type of things when they are sixteen, but you missed out on that. 

You weren't the type to complain a lot, but one day you found yourself spilling your heart out to Jake about it while your head was in his lap, his fingers caressing your head as he nodded understandingly. 

That's where the idea came from : the lipsmackers, now tossed in your bag next to your breakfast you got from the bakery on the corner of the street. 

It was Jake’s idea. He said, and I quote “We should start doing those ‘cringy’ things, then” 

You wanted to say ‘no’ so bad, because still, you are in college, a twenty year old independent woman who has a successful career in front of her. You almost did say no, but thinking it through, it can't hurt, right? 

So, Jake made you write a list of things you missed out on when you were a teenager. The things your friends would brag about to you, knowing damn well you are a lonely loser. The things that made you so insecure you couldn't stop scratching your arms. 

Lip Smackers were on top of the list. It was so nostalgic, at a time they were all over the stores. Well, you never had anyone to do it with. Until now.

You push down the bell next to your apartment door. Jake should be there, because he spent last night with you. You binged all the three Maze Runner movies, and neither of you noticed how much the time passed. By the time you finished, it was already four am. 

Soon, the door opens and the most gorgeous boy you have ever seen in your life smiles at you. Then he steps closer and wants to press a kiss on your lips, but you stop him.

“Remember, no kissing” you say, teasingly. You and Jake decided to not kiss until you got the lipsticks. It was anticipating, because you made the list two days ago, and you kiss, like, all the time. 

He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his lips are tugging upwards “Someone is strict” he comments, leading you in the apartment and closing the door behind you.

You set your bag down by the table, pulling your breakfast and the plastic box out of it. Jake glances at it, then his eyes find you again. “So? When do we start? I don't think I can handle another day without kissing you” 

He steps closer, grabbing you by your waist. And he moves dangerously close, his lips breezing your skin ever so slightly. 

You look up at him, smiling “We can do it now”

                             ⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆

You fiddle with the box a bit before you can open it, your hands shaking. Jake is sitting on the bed in front of you, and you could tell he just can't wait, because his back is perfectly straight and he has his hands on his knees as they are crossed. 

Your heart is thumping in your chest. You don't even know how to play this game properly. It sounds so dumb — a grown woman being anxious to play a kissing game with her boyfriend. It's straight up ridiculous. But the lipsticks bring back so many memories, and most of them being bad, you just can't help your feelings. 

When you finally manage to get the lipsticks out of the box, you look up at Jake.

“Okay. Cover your eyes. And don't cheat” You tell him, and he nods as he lowers his head and buries his head in his hands.

You look down at the six different lipsticks, indicated in vivid colors. You end up picking the sprite one first. As you apply it on your lips, you taste it a little bit, the sweet flavor getting on your tongue. It tastes horrible, like every candy from the 2000s. It's not much of a surprise.

You throw the green bottle back to the other ones, mixing them together.

“You can look now,” You insist. 

Jake looks up faster than the speed of light, his eyes landing on your glistening lips. He's so freaking cute when he's all excited but can't get what he wants yet. 

You smile softly “You are really excited”

“I am” he doesn't deny it, he gets on his knees so he can crawl towards you. 

He moves slowly, almost hesitant like it's your first kiss ever. Like it's his first kiss ever. He gulps nervously, Adam's apple bobbing visibly in his throat. Jake leans down and presses his soft lips onto yours. He doesn't move at first, and you don't either, because you have no idea what to do.

After a few moments, you feel his tongue darting out and licking your bottom lip. He grabs onto your shoulders and pulls you closer to taste it better, but his tongue only licks your lips and he's very careful with it.

He pulls back, looking up for a moment. “Hm” he humms, thinking “I think… Sprite? Maybe?”

You nod heavily, feeling your cheeks getting red. “You got it right on the first try. That's good” 

“Alright, next one” He hurries, lowering his head again.

You let out a small laugh, picking out the next lipstick. You hesitate for a moment, should it be Coca Cola or Fanta? Coca cola is an iconic flavor, he would get it fast, meaning he wouldn't kiss you for long… But Fanta is his favorite. Maybe he would get that even faster.

But again, Fanta is his favorite. Bingo.

You pick up the neon orange bottle with more confidence now, smearing it all over your lips. Once. Then twice. Then thrice. 

“I'm done” You smile and close your eyes, this game is so fun after all. 

You keep your eyes closed but hear the bed creaking under his weight as he crawls closer again. He's so so slow, it makes you want to pull him closer as fast as possible. It feels like he's doing it on purpose.  

He leans down, your eyes are still closed. You feel his hot breath hitting your skin, your slick lips offered to him. His lips feel softer this time on yours, he kisses you like he's trying to hold back. You know it, it happened before. It makes you feel a little more excited, knowing he's trying his best to control himself.

He licks your lips again. Once, then twice. Jake tilts his head slightly and licks your lips once again, this time he licks into your mouth. It's a bit awkward, he’s hesitant with it, but you let him. His hands find the side of your burning hot cheeks, and he tilts your head upwards for more availability. The angle feels better now, and you straight up make out at this point. His tongue finds yours continuously, and his lips are moving hungryly on yours. 

He kneels between your legs, but you feel him crawl closer, gesturing you to move back. And you do, until your back hits the bedframe. The kiss never breaks, his movements are far away from hesitant. Jake moves his hands from your cheeks to your waists, squeezing it slightly.

“This one is… good…” he manages to spit out, then he dives onto the softness of your lips again. 

Jake bites down your bottom lip, and you can't stop a small moan from getting out. You let your hands wander and you ran them through his soft brown hair, grabbing onto the back of his head to push him closer. 

His hands feel hot against your skin as he pushes your shirt upwards. 

He breaks the kiss, and you finally open your eyes to meet his. His pupils are blown wide and his whole face is red like he's tipsy, drunk on your lips. Not to talk about his glossy lips, the lipstick messily smeared all around his mouth, some of it on his cheeks. 

“Can I take this off?” He asks softly, tugging your shirt.

You nod and help him, then your eyes flick to his yellow-black striped shirt. A silent gesture, but he gets what you want immediately and takes it off. He tosses both of the shirts aside and fiddles with his zipper. Your eyes track his every movement. 

“Fuck” he cusses when he finally unbuttons his jeans and pulls it down, throwing it aside.

The next thing you know is that he’s on your neck, sucking on the smooth skin. It will probably leave marks later. 

He works his way down with his mouth, and you take a deep sigh before you look down at his back, watching how his back muscles flex with every movement, every time he leans lower and every time he moves his hands on your hips.

“Jake… Please” you beg. He looks up at you, his fingers hooking onto your pants as he pulls them down without teasing.

His tone is soft when he asks “Please what, angel?” 

You swallow, squirming in your place “I want you”

He smirks up, and moves back up to kiss you. As he kisses you, he still feels the vague taste of the Fanta on his tongue. He grinds his hips down, you feel his bulge against your panties, fabric to fabric.

“What do you want from me? Be specific?” He tilts his head, looking at you with those big puppy eyes.

You are sure you are about to melt. Why is he soft and cute, but also so handsome and hot at the same time? How is that possible?

You lick your lips, looking down at his body hovering above you. “I want you inside of me, please, Jake” you whisper. 

He smiles, grinding down again. His bulge presses to your wet panties, the fabric is — gosh — so thin. 

“Hm, what a nasty girl…” he mumbles, kissing on your cheek. “I gotta prepare you for that, then, because I don't think you can take it right away”

He drags a line with his index finger  across your chest, between your breasts, across your stomach, and then he plays with the lace of your panties for a while. Jake sees the anticipation on your face, and it makes him nearly laugh. He ends up letting out a small giggle as he pulls the panties down. 

How could he ever tease you rudely when you look at him so softly? 

He circles on your wet clit, and you let your head fall back on the bedframe. When you are about to catch your breath and get yourself together, you feel two of his long fingers sliding inside your dripping hole. Your hand flies to grab his muscular arm, letting out a moan. 

“Jake!” you scream when he curls his fingers inside, just the right way. He moves them fastly, setting up a rhythm. You clench around his fingers, the stretch makes you see stars when he scissors his fingers impatiently.

As he plumps his fingers inside with his right hand, he holds you in place with his other one, his thumb caressing your stomach. 

When you are about to burst, your mind going dizzier than ever, he pulls his fingers out. 

You take deep breaths, chest rising and falling heavily. He moves his hand up to your face and pushes his fingers inside of your mouth suddenly, forcing you to suck on them. Your mind is already so fucked up that you just do whatever he tells you to do. “Good…good girl” he mumbles, the sight of you sucking on his digits and tasting yourself turning him on more than it should be.

“Do you think you are ready now?” Jake asks but he's already pulling his boxers down, out of breath.

You nod, and watch him as he reaches to the bedside table and pulls out a condom and lube. He rolls up the condom and smears lube over his cock, making it slippery. Jake lines up against your entrance and he sucks his breath in as he pushes in. He always does this, you’ve noticed it already. 

You moan as your muscles tense, grabbing the sheets next to you to keep yourself steady. He stops, a small whine leaving his mouth.

“Are you okay?” He eyes you up and down, and his gaze sets on your face. You look at him, your eyes half lidded and your gaze hazy. 

“Yeah” you breath, barely audible. 

But Jake hears it, and he starts to move slowly. Even though he stretched you out with his fingers, you still feel like your walls are about to break at any moment.

You arch your back as he pushes again and bottoms out slowly. You feel him slightly shaking, a sign that he's still trying to control himself. 

His shaky breaths caresses your skin. 

“Jake” you mumble out, and he immediately looks at you. “You can go faster” you add.

You don't need to tell him twice, he picks his pace up and starts going in a faster rhythm, kneeling up on the bed so he can fuck inside you deeper. 

You moan out his name as he spreads your legs wider and lifts your hips. This angle makes it better to reach your G spot with every thrust, his movements getting smoother, the lube helping him out a lot. 

“So pretty and tight for me” Jake digs his nails onto your calves and moves them around his waist, gesturing you to lock them around him so he can get deeper. And you do it, trying to ignore the fact that your legs are beginning to give up and tremble.

Jake moves effortlessly in and out of you, and you open your teary eyes to look up at him, watching as he bites down his bottom lip. His muscles tense and flex with every move, and he keeps his eyes on your smooth wetness between your legs. The lube is mixed with your juices by now, and he can't get enough of the sight.

The bed creacks every time he bottoms out, the bed frame hitting the wall progressively. You grab the sheets like your life depends on it, the lipsticks slowly rolling to the edge of the bed until they fall down on the floor with a thud. 

You feel how you are falling apart slowly, your legs are undeniably trembling. Jake moves his hands from under your thighs to the curve of your ass, caressing in slightly. 

“Take it” he commands, thrusting hard. 

“Shit, Jake I’m going to—” without being able to finish the sentence, it happens. It's so sudden that you don't even realize what happens. 

Not until Jake stops his movements and pulls out. He leans down and presses a kiss on your neck, giggling “I didn't know I could make you squirt” 

You widen your eyes, the adrenaline still rushing through your body when you look down at your legs. Jake kneels up again and starts to stroke himself, looking at your pussy being covered in your juices you squirted out. Jake is also covered in it, his dick and abdomen glistering. 

Jake whimpers as he strokes himself, biting down his bottom lip. He comes into the condom with a whine escaping his lips a few moments later. He spanks your cunt with his dick, slightly pushing it between your wet folds. Then, he collapses onto the bed and steadies himself by putting his palms next to you on the bed. 

You are still dizzy and high by your enormous orgasm, probably your biggest one yet. You are also kinda shocked and embarrassed by how you ruined the sheets, but it seems like Jake isn't bothered by it. 

He lays down next to you, exhausted. You both turn to look at each other on the bed, just watching each other gasping for air. 

“I'm… sorry” you say after a few silent minutes, referring to the way your sheets are all wet now.

“Sorry? You don't have to be sorry” Jake smiles at your awkwardness. “This was probably our best session yet, if you’d ask me”

You can't help but smirk at that. “Yeah?”

Jake nods “Yes. Next time we play this guessing game we should spice it up a little”

You cock an eyebrow “Spice it up? This wasn't spicy enough?” 

“What I mean is that next time you should put it on your other lips” 

Your jaw nearly drops, and you hit his arm playfully. You try to hide how the idea doesn't make you disgusted at all, no, you will probably even think of it more than you should later. 

“You are such a freak, Jake Sim”

“But you love it” he leans closer, pressing a kiss on your forehead.