KEVEN

“Do you guys remember Mister Tall from my zip-tie episode? Yeah, me too. Turns out he’s actually Mister Tall and Dominant, but he wasn’t being dominant with me, or at least not as much as he wanted to be. It’s like I could smell it on him, but he wouldn’t do it, like he was holding himself back or something. Now, the obvious answer is to say, ‘Hey, Mister Tall and Dominant, why won’t you just fuck me the way you want to?’ and then it’s a done deal, right? You talk about it, you fix it, sex gets better, you move on. But because my brain works a very specific and certain way, my thought process was: how can I get him to do it, without telling him to? Because apparently just saying the words is a fucking death sentence.”

“It’s all very silly and stupid, and I should have just brought it up to him. He’s a sweetheart, and the moment I told him it was like a switch had flipped. I didn’t know you could have such an extensive conversation about kinks, I didn’t realize how many actually exist, how long a conversation could be about it. I like to think I’m pretty well-versed, but apparently I am not. Let’s just say I’m still learning about kinks, especially about the ones I like the most. The last four days have been very… active for me. My ass hurts. Still. But I’m getting off-topic now.”

“Have you ever had someone straight up ask you what you want, and you can’t answer? You can’t verbalize exactly what you enjoy, you rely on experience, you know what feels good when it’s happening. But when you’re not in the moment, when you’re standing outside of it, what the fuck do you want? What the fuck do you like? It’s weird, it’s like my brain shuts off. I think that’s why I asked the other guy, the one I hooked up with before, because in a very weird and strange and off-putting way, he knows me. I still can’t comprehend how he knows me, if I look back and analyze every interaction we’ve ever had, there’s no logical reason for why he knows me so well. I must be easy to read or something, I don’t know.”

“At first, I thought I asked him for advice because he’s a pretty active guy. And by active, I mean he’s had sex with everyone and their mother, I mean, you’ve probably fucked him. I am not using hyperbole here, I am so serious when I say every-fucking-body. If you need sex advice, you ask the sex guy, right? Logical. I have friends I could have asked, fuck, I could’ve asked on this fucking podcast and had you guys send in your goddamn advice, but I asked him. And it’s sitting with me in a heavy way, why I made that choice, why I trust his advice before even asking for anyone else’s. And the logical reason is because he’s the sex guy, right? But the more I think about it, it’s because he knows me, I trust him. Do you guys fucking know what he told me? That I’m not submissive. What the fuck? He basically said I’m someone who needs to fuck, not someone who needs to be fucked. Again, what the fuck?”

“It’s kinda weird, it’s like he knows me without me giving him permission to know me. I think I always thought that being learned is a conscious thing, like, a choice you make. You tell people your secrets, you show them your vulnerable side, you cry, you laugh in front of them, and they pocket all of these different facts about you. What about when it’s not your own choice? When you accidentally show sides of yourself that you don’t mean to, and now some guy has all this random-ass information about you. He knows what you like, who you are, what you look for, and they’re all facts that you didn’t mean to give him, and they’re all true. It’s fucking weird. But now I trust him, and he’s not someone who seems like he… could be trusted, I guess. I’m not really even sure if he knows my name.”

You pause, thinking. Then you laugh a little, because your listeners don’t press play on your podcast to listen to silence, and a tiny laugh breaks up the seriousness of it all. “That was a lie, he definitely knows my name. I think. I know some things about him too, I guess, weird shit, though. I know his phone number, his Instagram username. I know at least five people that he’s slept with. I know why he fucks so often… kinda. I know when he’s lying, or when he’s intentionally trying to piss me off, I know the difference between his insults. Sometimes they’re real–and they fucking hurt–but sometimes he’s just deflecting, or he wants to get out of the conversation. I know he’s a fucking asshole. I know that he doesn’t like being understood, he fucking hates it if you even come close to knowing what’s underneath all the bullshit– I know– I know it bothers him that I never know what I want.”

Your brows furrow, irritation bubbling in your gut. “But why does that even bother him? None of my choices affect him, nothing I do should matter. Why does he even care? I could literally go the rest of my life letting other people make my own choices for me, and it would have no effect on his life whatsoever. Why is he so interested in knowing? You know, I’ve actually never wondered that, why he even gives a fuck. He came to my–”

You cut yourself clean off, eyes widening. “I’m losing track because he actually pisses me off more than anyone I’ve ever met in my entire life. This outro today is full of my rambling, I’m so sorry if you’re sitting at home thinking what the fuck is she talking about? My bad, for real. Anyways, the point is that I brought it up to MT&D, and he’s been fucking me right ever since, thanks to Mister Piss-Me-Off. I guess. Mister Tall is a good guy, I think the only guy who’s ever put so much into me, figuratively and literally. He lets me figure my shit out on my own, he lets me bring it to him, and he accepts all of it, even me. He’s patient, he’s kind, he’s a fucking sweetheart and I probably don’t deserve him. But I have him, so no one else can, and I’m not sorry about it.”

“I hope you all have a great night, or a great rest of your day, whatever time it is for you. Sorry that the think piece today was… whatever the fuck that was, but it was unscripted, as always.”

You press stop on your laptop. You spent the whole first forty-five minutes talking about backshots which led to libidos which led to fucking Viagra before the confession segment, and for some reason, you don’t really feel the need to listen to it all again. The pauses, the stuttering, everything could stay today. You pull up Spotify, and before you know it, the episode is uploaded. 

You check your phone and your lock screen is lit up from notifications, forty fucking two from the group chat Yunjin added you to last night. She planned a night out this Friday, or, Jihyo planned it for one of the girls she’s friends with. The invitation was offered to you and Yunjin, so she passed it along to San, Wooyoung, Yunho and the rest of their frat, who were all now in this orgy of a fucking group chat on your phone. You, Yunjin, and eight men. Eight. 

You don’t even read the messages. You pull up your thread with Yunho and see three silver bubbles awaiting your reply.

yunho: is ur car still making that noise?  yunho: i have class at 4 but im free after. oh fuck u work today right yunho: im going to class now but i can look at it after class!! come over after ur done work

You smile at your screen, immediately typing back. 

you: yes it is im scared pls fix it handy man you: did u ever watch handy manny growing up  you: lowkey thats u you: but yes ill come over after work have fun at class <3

Checking the time, you realize you’re supposed to be at work in thirty minutes. Thirty. 

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter under your breath, shooting up out of your bed like gravity doesn’t apply to you. Racing around your room that was now dirty again, you search for a bright purple collared shirt and a clean pair of jeans. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” you repeat under your breath, ripping through the pile of clothes on your floor, no longer caring if what you grab is dirty or clean. You need to do fucking laundry.

You didn’t check the cleanliness of either article of clothing before throwing them on your body, rushing to your bathroom to fix your hair, and applying a little makeup before your shift. There’s a lot of people who go to the gym you work at, a lot of beautiful, gorgeous people. Filling your water, throwing a snack into your purse, you rush out to your car that seems angry at you for even trying to drive it. 

“Be nice to me,” you order from the driver’s seat, ignoring the singular, loud click, and the grinding noises that follow when you throw the transmission into drive. You don’t even turn music on for your quick trip, you’re too close to being late, and for you, arriving anytime after fifteen minutes before your shift is considered late.

You’re reminded no one gives a fuck when you walk inside, throwing your purse under the counter, placing your water where you always keep it, beside the monitor that shows you everyone who scans in. You greet the coworker you’re relieving with a smile, clock in, and even though your nervous system just experienced twenty different levels of adrenaline, it all calms when you stand behind the counter, prepared to do absolutely fucking nothing for the next four hours. 

The last hour of your shift is when you actually leave the counter. Re-racking weights, mopping the floors, sanitizing machines, it’s easy shit, it’s why you applied in the first place. They don’t give you an extreme amount of hours, the work is the exact opposite of grueling, and you get to stare at gorgeous, muscled people for hours. It’s an easy, well-paying job that you don’t mind working, especially when you get snippets of campus gossip when people walk inside. 

The first hour, the gossip makes you feel uneasy. Two women scanned in, giggling about Mister Tall and Dominant and Mister Piss-Me-Off. You had to will your face from going pale as you smiled at them, acknowledged them while they scanned their student IDs.

Then the second, two guys you’ve never seen before smacking each other’s chests about how you can’t trust bitches. You had curses on your tongue, ready to fire before you heard the rest– even Unscripted is a fucking cheater. You actually gasped at that, then they looked at you like you had three heads, so you forced your expression back into neutral. A cheater?!

In the third hour now, you can’t stop scrolling social media, typing Unscripted in every search bar you can think of. It’s filled with discourse: MT&D vs. PMO, is emotionally cheating the same as physically cheating, who is Unscripted, there’s a fucking megathread on r/Unscripted. 

“Wow, playing on your phone on the clock? Should I call your manager?”

You smack your phone down face-first against the counter, caught red-handed. Wooyoung stands in front of you, a lazy smirk on his lips, hair pulled back off his tanned, angled face, gym bag over his shoulder. He’s covered in droplets of rain, in your deep internet dive you didn’t even notice that it was pouring outside, slamming against the concrete just beyond the clear, gym doors. Fitting. 

“Fuck off,” you sneer, pushing yourself off the counter, crossing your arms. Friends again, yes, but you fear your dynamic might never change from exactly this.

His brow lifts, making sure you see him curiously glancing down at your phone. “Whatcha lookin’ at? Something you shouldn’t be looking at while you’re working?”

“You’re gross,” you throw back at him, picking up on what he’s insinuating. “You haven’t been here to run at night in weeks.”

“Drama,” he sings. “It’s been, like, a little over a week, I just haven’t felt like it.” He throws his elbows over the counter, head tilting as he teases, “Look at you, paying attention to what I’m doing. Do you time me, too?”

You thin your eyes, “I do, and I think you’re really brave for running in public.”

His lips part, brows scrunching, “What’s that supposed to mean?” You immediately laugh, and he stands up straight again, palms braced on the counter. “What the fuck does that mean?”

“Come talk to me when you can run a five-minute mile,” you’re still laughing as you say it. 

“I run a six-minute mile!” he argues, voice raising in pitch, clearly offended.

“Then go run it, asshole.” You point towards the treadmills. “Stop bothering me while I’m on the clock.”

“Fine,” his lips tighten before a smile curves them again. “Wouldn’t want to take you away from your amateur, homemade videos.”

You roll your eyes, forgoing an answer. Wooyoung leaves and you pick your phone back up instead of starting your closing duties, opening the subreddit and scrolling.

MT&D/PMO MEGATHREAD – KEEP ALL DISCUSSION HERE

unpopular opinion: tall & dominant deserves sm better

Theory: I think PMO is the overstimulation guy

is anyone else wondering who PMO is? if he’s fucked everyone, someone has to know him

“I trust him” LMAOOO she bouta get her heart broken again grab ur popcorn yall

You curse under your breath. Maybe you shouldn’t have clicked post so quickly. Maybe you should have at least listened to the episode before letting the fucking internet get to it first. There’s still no way to connect it back to you, so you take a calming breath, run your fingers through your hair, and leave your phone under the counter while you start your closing rounds.

Your calming breath does absolutely fucking nothing to help you. All you can do is think while you work, you didn’t even notice Wooyoung leaving, and surprisingly, he didn’t bother you before he left. He probably assumes he’ll see you back at his house, which he will, if you can get the fuck out of this building. When you come back to your phone, you’re scared that you’ll touch the screen and a million messages of ‘are you Unscripted?’ will pop up one after another. Instead, it’s just the stupid fucking group chat that you still refuse to open. 

Instead, you open Spotify, and your heart sinks immediately when the numbers next to your episode are already outperforming every other episode you’ve ever posted. The spike is alarming enough that you shove your phone into your back pocket, sprint around the gym to shut all the lights off, and grab your keys to fucking leave.

“Fuck,” you mutter when you feel the cold rain hitting your back, twisting the key in the door, pulling on it twice because you have to, just to be sure the gym is locked properly. You run to your car, cursing like a sailor with every step, you only let out a breath when you’re seated in the driver’s side. You shove your key in the ignition, turning it, and your car clicks. Once. That's it. 

“No,” you mutter, turning it again. It clicks, but it doesn’t fucking start, the dash doesn’t even light up. You refuse to believe it. You try again, click. “Are you fucking kidding me!?”

You fish out your phone from your pocket, hands still covered in droplets of rain, you dial Yunho. It rings five agonizing times before you make the loudest sound of frustration you’ve ever summoned, hanging up. 

Before texting him, your eyes catch on the group chat. There aren’t any new messages from the last time you checked, but the thread is still at the top of your screen, begging for attention. The last text sent is from Wooyoung, and all it says is ‘ur fucking stupid san’.

You call him. Three rings, and his confused voice pours into your ear, “Hello?”

“Hi,” all of your frustration is wrapped up into one singular word. “I’m… my car won’t start, and I was supposed to come back to your house anyway, and you just left the gym–”

“I’m on my way. Stay in the car, it’s storming,” he says, and then hangs up. You pause for a second before dropping your phone from your ear back into your lap, a little dumbfounded at how simple that was. 

Sighing, you try turning your key in the ignition again, frowning when it clicks back like it’s fucking taunting you. Why did you call him? Why did you ask him for advice? Why did he say yes before you even asked the question?

You shiver for the entire ten minutes it takes for him to get to you. Rain should be comforting, the soft, rhythmic noises of water hitting the glass on your windshield, even the rough pangs slamming against the steel hood of your car, you can’t find any fucking comfort right now. Especially as he pulls up beside you in a low, blacked-out sports car you have to squint to make sure he’s actually inside of. 

You curse when freezing droplets hit your back again, jiggling his door handle that’s fucking locked. “Unlock it!” you yell at his window, and it’s raining so hard you can’t even hear it unlock, you tug at the black handle until it finally gives. 

“Jesus Christ you’re fucking soaked,” is the first thing he says when you tumble into his passenger seat, immediately greeted by the smell of him. Masculine, not too heavy, mixed with the scent of a thunderstorm.

“No shit.” You hug yourself, cringing at the feeling of your hair sticking to you. At least it’s warm.

“What’s wrong with your car?” he leans forward to look over your body, like he’d be able to see the issue through the rain, from a different vehicle.

“Do I look like a fucking mechanic?” you snap, finally looking at him. Immediate consequences for your actions, for asking him to get you— you don’t have it in you to banter with him, your humor was stolen by the internet. “I tried to start it and it wouldn’t start.”

“Damn,” he stares at it like he might revive it with his fucking eyes. His hair is down again, messy over his face, his tank still on his body, sweatpants on his legs. Fuck him. You feel heat on your backside seeping into your clothes, your skin, and you finally look around, taking in the details of his car. 

“What the—?” you mutter, staring at the black leather seats, the manual shifter, the wide, dimmed screen at the center of the dash. “Are you rich?”

“What?” His brows furrow, sitting back in his seat. “No, I’m not rich, why the fuck would I be rich?” 

“Your car is nice.” You run a hand over the leather of the center console, feeling the lines in the soft material with your palm. “Your seats are heated and you drive stick. That means you’re probably rich.” 

He snorts, “I’m rich because I drive stick? Did you hit your head on the Smith?” 

“It would explain why you’re so arrogant,” you shrug, crossing your arms as you sit back in your seat. “Let me guess: mommy’s boy? She gets you everything you want because you’re her smart, perfect son?”

“Where am I taking you, Virgin?” He sits properly in the driver’s seat, right hand moving to the gearstick, and your eyes slide toward it as you hear him press the clutch. His tattoo peeks over his forearm, small, intricate details, thorns of a rose. 

“Your house.” You force yourself to look away as you pull the seatbelt over your front. Your eyes betray you as he shifts into reverse, then first as he pulls out of the parking lot. 

“Is this the aftermath of watching your amateur videos, or do cars just really get you going?” he asks coolly, not even looking at you as he pulls out onto the main road. 

You look up, mortified that he caught you. His hair sits behind his shoulders like he ran his fingers through it as he pulled into the parking lot, but it’s the purple bruising his neck that catches your eye. Purple that wasn’t contrasting his golden skin an hour ago. 

Immediately, you grill him. “Where were you?” 

He looks at you from his peripherals, for just a split second. “What?”

“Where were you before you picked me up?” 

“Getting the skin sucked off my dick.” His lips curve a little as he says it, humored by his own answer. 

“What?” You blink at him, dumbfounded. “Why’d you pick me up then?”

Like it’s the only plausible answer, he replies simply, “You called me.” 

“Yeah, but I could have called someone else,” you argue. “You didn’t have to leave a hookup, or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” he retorts under his breath in a huff of amusement. “Do you want me to take you back to your car? Or would you rather wait here so I can pick back up where I left off?”

You gruff a sound of irritation instead of answering. You pull out your phone, turning your brightness down before checking your Spotify stats again, then refresh the subreddit. It's all growing— the listens, the posts, the debates, you feel fucking sick. 

“Why’d you call me?” he asks. You don’t even look up. 

“I don’t know. Yunho didn’t answer.”

There’s a pause before he speaks again, your nail sliding against your screen and the rain hitting the car the only noise. “What’s wrong with you?” 

“Huh?” You look up at that, locking your phone, letting it fall into your lap. “Nothing.” 

“You’re quiet,” he notices. “Your battery’s probably just dead, Virgin, it’s not a big deal. Yunho can jump it tomorrow.” 

“I don’t—” you start, then cut yourself off. “I know, it’s fine. Sorry.” 

He looks at you, brows furrowed. “Seriously, what the fuck is good with you?” 

“Nothing!” you stress, voice raising. “Fuck, nothing is fucking wrong.” 

You fall into silence again. Your phone feels hot in your lap, begging for you to pick it up, to see what everyone’s saying about you. You bounce your knee, looking out the window, teeth clamping over your bottom lip.

“Virgin—”

“I swear to god, if you don’t shut the fuck up I’ll actually fucking kill you,” you finally turn to him, voice so calm it’s almost scary. 

His lips tighten, palm leaving the gearstick to raise it in defense, but he doesn’t answer. For what feels like ages you sit there, arms crossed over your chest, mind reeling over every little thing you can’t control. You shouldn’t have posted the episode. If the man sitting beside you listened to it— you can’t even think of that fucking happening or else you might actually throw your guts up.

Staring through the windshield, you realize you don’t know where you are. You should have gotten back to his house five minutes ago. Your body straightens, fight or flight kicking in, head snapping to the side, “Where are we going?” 

“You’ll see,” he answers casually, too fucking casually for it to be down pouring, driving this far outside of campus. He's kidnapping you. He’s kidnapping you and you’re going to fucking die. 

“I’m serious, Wooyoung,” you press, tone holding the weight of it. “Take me home.” 

He glances at you, your hand gripping the center console, the other tightened in a fist in your lap. “You seem like you need to hit something, Virgin. I’m taking you somewhere you can do it.” 

“The only thing I want to fucking hit is you,” you sneer, anger returning to your tone. “I shouldn’t have fucking called you.” 

“Well, you did.” He looks at you again, brows high and lips tight as if he’s saying you’re shit out of luck. “We’re two minutes away, just try it. If you want to leave, for real, then we’ll leave.” 

Your jaw clenches, unclenches, and you sit back in the seat, defeated. “If you kill me, I’ll haunt you. That's a promise.”

“I don’t need your blood on my hands, Virgin,” he says through a breath, turning the steering wheel with the edge of his palm onto a side street only lit by dim orange every other block. It does nothing to ease your racing heart. 

But two minutes he promised, and two minutes it was until he was pulling into a fairly lit parking lot, backing into a space right at the front. You don’t realize how tense you actually are until he turns the car off, your body physically relaxing, melting into the heated, leather seat. 

He reaches between you into the backseat, giving you a view of the expanse of his chest peeking out from the tank, his chain that slides with the stretch of his body. You slide your eyes to the parking lot in front of you, silent until he throws something on your lap. 

You look at him, brows lifted. He nods at the fabric in your lap, “You look like Barney. Put it on.” 

“I’m in my work uniform.” You look down at your bright purple shirt, your Barney-colored shirt. You frown, but pick up the sweatshirt anyway, black with white detailing on the back. You unclip your seatbelt to tug it over your head. 

“Better,” he looks satisfied before he reaches for his door handle, grabbing his wallet and keys from the cup holder before getting out. Begrudgingly, you follow, finally looking at the sign over the entrance. 

Bat Ball Indoors— with a phone number beneath it. You stop in your tracks, blinking at the sign, putting the pieces together in your mind. Not only did he take you to a fucking batting cage, it’s a janky batting cage? 

When you glance at the side, ready to berate him for taking you to a goddamn batting cage instead of taking you home, he’s already at the front door, gripping the handle. “Are you coming, or do you enjoy getting rained on?”

You tug the hood over your head, jogging toward him. “Are you paying for this shit, Mister Rich?” 

He opens the door for you, “Get inside.” 

Hugging yourself again, you’re greeted by lighting that’s too fucking yellow, somehow still bright enough to make you squint. It’s warmer inside, not heated, but a dry warmth that’s an immediate comfort from the stickiness of outside. Your sneakers scuff against the floor, and when you look down, it’s covered with tracks, other people whose sneakers did the same. 

“Jung!” You pick your head up to see an old man behind the counter. Bald, short, he stands behind a register that looks like he’s had it since the nineties. Actually, you’d put your money on the fact that the entire place hasn’t changed since the nineties. 

There’s baseball shit on the walls, signs reading something about cleats and helmets, the glass covering the lights is stained with yellow. There's a faint cigarette smell, but it’s not overpowering or uncomfortable, it compliments the scent of rubber and rain. 

Wooyoung talks to the man, you can’t be bothered to listen as you finally notice the cages. Separated by old, heavy netting, there’s only three and they’re all empty. Long tunnels of turf, a target made by red tape on ripped, black netting at the back of each cage, a tiny black machine beside the target you can only assume shoots balls at you. You want to go home. 

“Thanks,” you hear Wooyoung say at the same time as the cash register rings. You bring your attention back to him and he’s smiling like this is his favorite place in the fucking world. “Come on, Virgin.”

You look behind you and the bald man doesn’t seem to be bothered by the nickname, or he’s so old he just doesn’t hear it. You follow Wooyoung to the farthest cage, still confused enough that you don’t know what question to ask first. He’s holding a bat, a helmet, everything scuffed, clearly worn. 

You choose to not ask a goddamn thing. “I’m not putting that on my head,” you eye up the helmet hanging off his fingers. It’s still somehow bright red, even if it’s covered in streaks of black and white, a line of black electrical tape stretching over the front. 

“Oh, yes you are,” he says sternly, pushing the helmet straight into your chest. It sends you backward a step, but instinctively your hands wrap around it. The inside looks… used. You cringe. “My bet is that you’ll get hit in the head with a ball at least once. You need it.” 

Your top lip lifts, “What the fuck are we even doing here, Wooyoung?” 

“You’re gonna hit some balls,” he says, slotting the bat between his thighs. He reaches forward, stealing the helmet from your chest just to pull it down over your head. “Balls that aren’t mine, in case that wasn’t clear.” 

You push your hair out of your face, scowling under the helmet. “I wouldn’t give me that bat if I were you.” 

He hands you the bat automatically, amusement glimmering in his eyes. “Go take your anger out on something that isn’t me.” 

You take the handle cautiously and it’s heavier than you expected it to be, your eyes go wide as you fix your grip. It’s silver, or it used to be, now covered in scratches, small dents, patches where the metal has worn off, leaving asymmetrical marks of black. The handle is sticky, covered in old athletic tape, you hate how it feels in your hands. Looking back up at Wooyoung, you fantasize about how satisfying it would be to swing it at the side of his head. 

You glance at the cage instead, specifically the small square of turf that’s basically nonexistent. That's probably where you stand. Like he can read your thoughts, Wooyoung points to it, “Stand there. I’m gonna put a token in, then you hit the ball with the bat. Easy enough, right?”

“How many?” you ask, walking towards the spot of nonexistent turf. He answers twenty-five as he grabs the token from his pocket, sliding it into some kind of control panel. The machine turns on and you jump at the sound of the mechanical noise until it clunks, a ball shooting straight out.

You yelp as it flies right past you, jumping backward. You whip around to Wooyoung, “What the fuck?!” 

“You were supposed to hit that, by the way,” he points to the ball now on the ground, the hit saved by netting along the back wall. 

“Oh, go fuck yourself,” you sneer, turning back to the machine that was making noise again. You try to fix your hold on the bat, staring at the hole the ball comes out of across the turf, but it flies past your head before you’ve even registered that it shot out. You stand straight up, turning back to Wooyoung who looks fully amused. “It’s fucking broken.” 

“It’s not broken, dumbass,” he points his hand towards the machine. “You just wasted two balls. Focus.” 

You push a breath through your lips, focusing. You swing the bat over your shoulder, aligning your hands, and as the ball shoots out after the clunk, you swing. And miss. 

Refusing to look behind you, your lips scrunch in frustration, gripping the bat harder. You swing, it shoots past you. You actually fucking growl in frustration, and Wooyoung’s laughter follows.

You refuse to feel embarrassed. Turning around, you sneer, “You think this is fucking funny?”

“Extremely,” he’s grinning, leaning up against the side wall, arms crossed over his chest. “Keep your eye on the ball, Virgin.” 

“It’s too fucking fast!” you shout just as another ball whips past you. You jump again, and his snorted laughter just pisses you off more. “This is fucking bullshit, and you’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he muses from behind you. “Keep your legs shoulder-width apart and bend your knees.” 

“I’ve played Wii Sports, thanks,” you huff, but as you look down at your feet, you need to spread them. And bend your knees more. Fixing your stance, you stare at the machine again, and for the sixth goddamn time, you miss. 

“Nineteen left, in case you can’t count.” 

“I can fucking count!” you shout back, ignoring how quickly his laughter follows. 

“Relax your arms, Virgin. Keep your body solid, but let your arms be loose.” 

You don’t change a thing as you miss the seventh ball. Jaw locking, you brace your core, relaxing some of the tension in your arms. On your eighth swing, you feel a little resistance, you can hear the ping of the ball just slightly connecting with the metal of the bat. 

You stand straight up, eyes wide. “Oh my god.” Turning to see where it landed, watching it roll along the floor, you ask him, “Did you hear that!? Did you see it!?” 

“Try hitting it next time.” 

“I’ll fucking kill you,” you bite back. “I’ll hit you with the fucking bat, with my shoulders squared and my grip fucking loose you bitch—” Another ball swings past. “Fuck you, look what what you did. You made me miss another one!” 

You can hear his smile as he says, “You missed the one before it, too.” 

“I fucking hit it!” you yell back, fixing your stance again. You don’t even graze the tenth ball, and your shout of anger reverberates through the entire fucking building. 

“You’re swinging too late,” Wooyoung’s tone is direct, guiding. It wouldn’t help even if it was nice. 

“No fucking shit,” you shoot back. 

“Swing earlier, then.”

You stand straight up, brows tied together as you turn around to look at him. “Why are you acting like my fucking coach? Do you want to come do it yourself?” 

He pushes off the wall, uncrossing his arms, “I played for fourteen years. Ball.” 

You turn just as the ball shoots past you. “Fuck!” 

He comes up beside you, holding his hand out for the bat. You hand it to him, then the helmet as you ask, “You played in high school?”

“Four to eighteen,” he explains as you switch positions with him, backing up to where he stood leaning up against the wall. You can only assume his stance is perfect. Knees bent, knuckles lined up along the bat, fingers flexing and unflexing along the handle. 

“Why’d you stop?” you wonder, letting your head rest against the wall. From where you stand, it’s like slow motion, the sound of the machine, the muscles in his back flexing as he swings, his biceps, his forearms… he hits the ball perfectly. “You’re a fucking asshole.” 

He laughs, stepping backward, “I quit because I didn’t want to play in college. Everyone thought I would, but I was over it. I’m a finance bro now.” 

When he pulls the helmet off, you push off the wall, taking it from his hands to put it back over your head. “Finance bro doesn’t really suit you.” 

He hands you the bat, “Yeah? What would suit me, then?” 

“A master’s degree in sex education,” you quip. He huffs a laugh and you smile, too, because you know that joke was fucking funny. You quickly realize you didn’t learn a thing from watching him as you line yourself back up, and he knows it too when you miss another goddamn ball. 

“You’re still doing it wrong, Virgin.” 

You know. Yet you bite back anyway, “Wooyoung, I literally just fucking copied you.”

“You were watching me,” there’s amusement in his tone, accompanied by the truth of it. “Not watching me.” 

You feel heat in your ears, you blame it on the helmet. Feigning ignorance, you mutter, “That’s what I was supposed to be doing.” 

You swing again. 

“Swing earlier.” 

You loose a steadying, cool breath, and swing earlier. The following crack through the building confuses you until you feel the vibration in your arms, watching as the ball soars through the cage. 

“I hit it?” You whip around to face him and he’s already smiling. Running straight to him, you scream, “I fucking hit it!” 

You don’t even process that you’ve wrapped yourself around him, that he’s laughing with one arm around you. “I’m a fucking professional. Draft me for the fucking NHL.” 

He lets you go, laughing harder, “That’s hockey, Virgin.” 

“Who fucking cares?” you shout, pointing back toward the cage. “I hit the fucking ball!” 

He nods his chin toward it, “Go do it again.”

So you do. In the last remaining ten balls, you successfully hit six, and even though it’s out of twenty-five, you feel like a goddamn professional, ready for the big leagues. What was only supposed to be one round quickly turned into two, trading places with him just to scoff and berate him for his skill. Your palms sting, your arms ache, the helmet is glued to your fucking forehead, at one point your hoodie was thrown in the corner, sweat sliding down your spine. Your body is tired, but your mind is alive; you aren’t ready to go home yet. 

“Thanks, Mr. Choi,” Wooyoung gives baldie a wave on your way out, and you thank him quietly from behind Wooyoung in the midst of pulling his hoodie back over your head. It had stopped raining at some point while you were inside but the air is still heavy with humidity, the cool air meeting the warm pavement leaving a thick layer of fog on the ground. 

“Spooky,” you mumble absentmindedly, watching the fog rising as you walk toward his car. “Are you hungry?”

His hair is frizzy now, curling at the ends, golden skin flushed with exertion from slamming the last eight balls across the cage. He shrugs, one hand for the handle, “I could eat.”

“Well, I’m hungry,” you shoot him a look from across the roof of his car, one that says I was only asking you to be nice. “Get your wallet out, Mister Rich.”

He’s smiling by the time you sit in the passenger seat. “Are you ever going to let that go?”

“Nope,” you answer plainly in a single huff of breath. “Where are we going?”

He turns his key in the ignition, and the engine comes to life beautifully in a smooth, effortless sound. You wish your car sounded like that right now. 

“There’s a diner up the road,” he offers, pressing the clutch, throwing the gearstick into first.

“Wow,” you scoff. “Just a diner? Mister Rich is taking me to a measly little diner?”

He shakes his head, upshifting when he pulls onto the main road. You fuck with the screen in the center of his dash, swiping through the different apps, pulling up Spotify. You ignore Unscripted’s logo as you scroll up, looking for his liked songs, shuffling them. 

“Risky,” he mumbles, brows raised when you look over at him. “All my liked songs? Do you know how many liked songs I have?”

Something rock starts pouring through the speakers, it’s soft, easy, the perfect song to fill the cabin of his car. “This one’s nice,” you shrug, settling back into your seat. When he pulls into a parking lot right after, you huff a laugh. “You weren’t joking when you said around the corner, huh? You’re very precise with your distance calculation.”

“I’m very precise with a lot of things,” he responds coolly, and you think it might be the third time today that he’s beat around the bush with intentionally vague language. You know just how precise he is with a very certain thing.

You don’t comment on it, you let the silence speak instead as he pulls into a parking spot, killing the engine. The diner is cute, older than the batting cage place, maybe. Checkered floors, booths, red stools lining the counter, everything about the space is warm and inviting. The hostess barely looks up from her phone as she tells you where to sit, pointing to a table two booths down from the entrance.

Your stomach growls the moment a menu lands in your hands. Feeling heat in your cheeks, you comment on it before Wooyoung has a chance to, “I literally have not eaten a singular thing today.”

“Don’t order the entire menu,” he eyes you over the top of his menu. “I’m not wealthy enough to satisfy the kind of hunger I just fucking heard.”

You can’t help your grin as you open your menu, landing on breakfast foods upon opening it, forever your favorite. It’s nostalgic for you, it reminds you of home, it’s always been a diner staple no matter what time of day it is. Lifting your eyes to look at the man across the cream-colored table, you wonder if he has a diner staple. If there’s anything on the menu that reminds him of home.

It’s kinda weird, you think. Sitting across from him in a diner, of all places, and not feeling the familiar Wooyoung-induced rage in your chest. You’ve never been around him for so long, other than the night you spent together in the bedroom of a frat house, this is different. A nice kind of different, though, like tonight exists only to make you reconsider everything you’ve ever thought about him. The shield, the hookups, the arrogance, you’ve never had a reason to think about Wooyoung beyond sex or wit, but sitting across from him reminds you that there’s a person inside him, too.

He can feel your gaze. Without looking up, he asks, “Do you want to take a picture?”

“Maybe,” you lower your menu, head tilting. “I’ll show it to the rest of your frat, let ‘em know you’re capable of interacting with a woman outside of a bedroom.”

He mimics you, lowering his menu, brows furrowed. It’s clear he remembers when you said the opposite of those words verbatim the night in your apartment. “I’ve always been capable of being friends with women.”

Your laugh is obviously sarcastic. “Sure.”

He almost argues back, but he’s cut off by the waitress who says absolutely nothing about the sheer amount of food you order. Wooyoung, on the other hand, as soon as she walks away he’s on your ass about it. “Do you think I’m made of money?”

“Definitely,” you nod, bringing your glass of water up to your lips. “Bands and a bitch-ass attitude.”

His laughter is obnoxious, dripping in amused disbelief as he retorts, “Bitch-ass attitude? Are you sure you’re not projecting?”

“My attitude has been fixed and cured,” you lower your water back to the table, brows high. 

Without missing a beat, he quips, “Yeah? And who fixed it?”

“Some rich asshole with a bitch-ass attitude,” you muse, and you can’t fight the smile that curves your lips. He smiles, too, and there’s a pause between you before you both snort your laughter. You feel it more, the absence of rage, the fact that there’s absolutely nothing forming beneath your skin, you feel light. When has being around Wooyoung ever felt fucking light?

“Can I ask you a question?” Your chest feels tight as the question forms on your tongue. He nods, brows lifted, tongue swiping along his upper row of teeth beneath his lips. “Why did you come get me?”

“I already told you.”

“You said it’s because I called,” you start, leaning forward, crossing your arms over the table. “But you were fucking someone and you didn’t even tell me you were fucking someone, you just came as soon as I called.”

His brows furrow. “What answer are you looking for here, Virgin?”

“An honest one.” You don’t know what kind of answer beyond that. “Why’d you come get me?”

“Because you called me,” he repeats, voice tight like he doesn’t know how else to say it.

Your lips flatten. “That’s not a fucking answer.”

“That is the fucking answer,” he argues. You say his name like you’re threatening him. He sighs, deflating back into the booth. “What else was I supposed to do? It was storming, your car died, and you called me.”

Your lips scrunch to one side, “You could have said no.”

“Why the fuck would I say no to you?”

“Because we’re barely even friends!” you argue, exasperated. “I barely know anything about you, yet you came to get me as soon as I called.”

“You’re making it out to be more than it is,” he shakes his head, picking up his own water. There’s sarcasm lacing his tone as he continues, “Would you rather me say it would break my fragile heart to leave my friend’s girlfriend in a dead car during a storm? Is that the answer you’re looking for?”

“I’m not his girlfriend,” you just about growl. “That’s how you look at me? I’m suddenly reduced to being Yunho’s?”

His face morphs into utter, sheer fucking disbelief. “You’re the one who literally just said we’re barely friends!”

You can’t answer. You don’t even have a witty response. “Okay, fine. You’re right.”

“Then what the fuck are you mad about?”

You run your hands over your face, “I’m not mad, Wooyoung.”

“You asked me a question and now you’re getting pissed the fuck off at every single answer I give you. What do you want from me?” When you look up at him, you can’t answer. He huffs out a punched, hollow laugh. “Right, almost forgot, you don’t know what you want. Why does there have to be more? Why can’t you just leave it for what it is?”

“You’re a fucking hypocrite,” you sneer. “You don’t accept any answer I give you about anything and now you’re asking me to accept your bullshit answer.” 

His lips tighten in a line. Your grin might be actually fucking evil. 

“Answer,” you taunt, even nodding your chin toward him as you lean back in the booth. “You’re obsessed with explaining me to me, Jung Wooyoung. Explain yourself instead.”

“I–” his lips part, then close. Instead, he blurts, “Ask me something then. Something different than why I came to pick you up.”

You sit with it for a second, then you’re forced to sit with it longer as your food arrives. Seeing it in front of you, a display that could probably feed a family, even if you’re starving it feels absurd and you can’t help but fucking snort. Wooyoung has a grin on his cheeks, too, one he’s obviously trying to hide, looking up at you through his brows, acting like he’s focused on his own food. 

“You’re helping me finish all of this,” you announce, rearranging your plates.

“I don’t even think the two of us could finish all of it,” he’s shaking his head as he says it. “Just wasting my money for fun.”

You hum your amusement, reaching for the syrup, pouring the perfect amount over your plate. Picking up the knife, you cut into your stack of pancakes while asking, “Why didn’t you kiss me back?”

You lift your eyes to see him looking at you surprised, confused, his mouth full of food. “Hm?”

“I asked.” You drop the knife back onto the table as if your cheeks aren’t on fire. “Your turn."

He finishes chewing, swallowing before he answers just as plainly, “I did kiss you back.”

Like asking wasn’t humiliating enough. “Okay, then you stopped. You left. Why?” 

He fucks around with his food before answering, his tone even. “You didn’t want to kiss me.”

“Here we fucking go again,” you mutter under your breath, shaking your head. “How did I not want to kiss you if I kissed you? What sense does that make?”

“You were trying to prove me wrong, Virgin. You didn’t kiss me because you wanted to kiss me, you kissed me because I backed you into a corner,” he explains while not even looking at you. He keeps playing with his food, finishing his sentence by taking a bite.

Your ears are so fucking hot they hurt. “I thought– I assumed you would jump at the– why did you care what my intentions were? I kissed you.”

“You think I didn’t know you were using it– using me to win the argument?” his mouth is full as he asks. “I wasn’t gonna fuck you just so you could prove a point.”

“You fuck people you don’t even know,” you argue, even if you aren’t sure why you’re arguing.

“I fuck people who want to fuck me,” he says with certainty. “That’s the difference.”

You don’t know why you’re still talking. “Maybe I wanted to fuck you.”

“You didn’t want to fuck me,” his voice lowers. “You wanted to win.”

Your jaw clenches, “Why do you care so fucking much?”

“I have my own rules, believe it or not,” he tightens his lips, raising his brows. “I don’t really take well to being a pawn anymore.”

“A pawn?” your head jerks forward with the question, offended. “I wasn’t using you.”

“You kissed me to make yourself feel better,” he shrugs, taking another bite. “That’s pretty much the textbook definition of pawn-ism, no?”

“I think this is the definition of dramatic,” you quip, brows tied together. “What do you mean by ‘anymore’? Were you once emotionally available enough to actually have a girlfriend?”

He huffs amusement through his nose, “Nah. When my parents split up, I was in the middle. I was sixteen– it’s a long story. It was ugly.”

 You see him stiffen after the revelation, his body going rigid, staring at his plate like he can’t believe the words left his mouth, like he can’t bring himself to look at you. Your stomach drops, you weren’t expecting an honest answer.

“Well,” you start, picking up your fork again. “I still think calling yourself a pawn because I kissed you is dramatic. What if I just wanted round two?”

“Everyone wants round two,” he looks up through his brows, and it’s relieving to see a glimmer of amusement. “You’re not special.”

“Sure,” you muse. “That’s why you stopped getting–and let me repeat it verbatim–the skin sucked off your dick to come pick me up.”

“You’re a pain in my fucking ass, Virgin,” he gripes, pointing at you with his fork. “Shut the fuck up and eat your breakfast.”

You’re giddy as you shove your fork into a pancake, a smile on your cheeks as you house it down. You swear it tastes better now, as do the rest of the four sides you ordered along with it. At one point Wooyoung poked into your food, his plate already cleared, and your bickering picked right back up where it left off because naturally, you knew the two of you could finish all the food, even if he doubted you. 

Mister Rich he is, Wooyoung slid his card over the counter at the front, making you impossibly more giddy that he did it without complaint. Your belly full, your limbs growing achier by the minute, by the time you get back in his car, you’re ready to go home. Not his home, though, you need your own bed, you need your shower, you need to wash the rain and the sweat and the Wooyoung off of you.

For the first time in three hours, you check your phone. You didn’t notice that you left it on the floor of his car, only finding it after it dawned on you that you haven’t seen it in hours. Before pulling up your stats or the orange app that beckons to you, you check your messages. 

There’s six from Yunho, and you can’t believe you haven’t thought about him once.

yunho: handy manny what is that yunho: ok i just googled it thats actually funny as hell yunho: im so sorry i fell asleep after class yunho: i just saw u called, are u ok? isnt ur shift over by now

Enough time had passed for his newer messages to have a time stamp written on the screen between them. 

yunho: ok now im worried yunho: i called u three times pls answer asap before i report u missing 

“Oh, fuck,” you mutter under your breath, fingers typing at lightning speed.

you: im so sorry my car died wooyoung picked me up you: im alive omg im sorry i didnt text u

“What’s wrong?” Wooyoung asks, eyes sliding over your screen. “Oh, Yunho?”

yunho: fuckkk im so sorry i didnt answer yunho: thank god he picked you up yunho: wyd? are u still with him?

“Fuck,” you grind out harshly, again. “He’s so fucking nice.” 

Wooyoung huffs a laugh. “Yeah, that’s like, his entire attraction.”

“You forgot the tall part, and the big dick part, and the angel sent from heaven part,” you add.

Wooyoung doesn’t respond, one hand turning the wheel, the other upshifting as he pulls out onto the main road.

you: yes we just got food you: im gonna go home tho if thats okay with u you: im so fucking exhausted

yunho: of course sunshine yunho: ill come get you in the morning and then we can go look at your car

you: thank you <3 yes pls you: see u in the morning 

You sigh, slapping your phone against your denim-covered thigh, sinking back into the passenger seat, looking straight through the windshield. Your head turns to the side, “Can you take me home? Like, to my place?”

“You don’t wanna see your tall, big dicked angel sent from heaven?” Wooyoung teases.

Your eyes thin out. “I’m tired, I’ll see him in the morning. He’s gonna fix my car.”

“Of course he is.” It sounds like a jab, but there’s no irritation in his tone, nothing malicious. It’s the truth, because of course Yunho’s first objective would be to fix your car as soon as he found out you’re safe and sound. 

Picking up your phone, ready to open Spotify, you catch the sight of Unscripted’s logo still on the wide screen on his dash. Your lips scrunch to one side, debating before you ask him, “Why do you listen to Unscripted?”

“I don’t,” he answers quickly, irritation returning tenfold to his tone.

You pop a brow. “You know I can see it on the screen, right?”

He takes his hand off the gearstick just to swipe it off the screen. It shows what’s playing now instead, the same rock song as before. “Look at that, it’s gone now. Magic.” 

He’s so fucking stupid that you laugh. Instinctively, you quote, “Yer a wizard, Harry.”

He looks at you wide-eyed for a second before erupting into laughter, body folding forward, into his steering wheel. “Shut the actual fuck up.”

You laugh with him, mainly because his laugh is funny, your quote was so innate you weren’t even trying to be funny. Looking at him, his wide grin, seeming so unshielded, so free… a door is opened that you’ve deliberately kept closed since that first night with Yunho. 

The laughter dies down, and you let the feeling die with it. “Okay, but seriously,” you press again. “Why do you hate Unscripted?”

He pulls up to a red light, downshifting until the car comes to a full stop. He looks at you expressionless as he says, “I think she’s full of shit.”

Your top lip lifts. Monotonous, you rebut, “Really?”

“She is,” he shrugs like it’s obvious. “She says all that personal shit, but won’t say who she is. Seems like there’s a reason for it.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want the entire campus to know her personal business,” you argue.

Upshifting, pressing on the gas, he fires back, “Maybe she doesn’t want the entire campus to know it’s not real.” Your stomach feels heavy, and it’s not the food. Before you can get the chance to respond, he’s already continuing, “I can respect the need for privacy because she’s a woman, but I don’t think she’s hiding from all the douchebags on campus that would harass her. I don’t know.”

Your brows furrow, “Then who else?”

“The people who know her,” he responds simply. “The people who would know it’s not true.”

Your head shakes, brows tied together, stomach souring with every word he speaks. “But it is true. She’s gone to your parties, she was there with us–”

“Some of the shit she talks about I can believe,” he waves a hand between you. “It’s the way she talks about it. I just don’t believe the persona or whatever the fuck.”

You hate that you ask, “What persona?”

“I have sex, I have a lot of sex–”

“Wow, ground breaking journalism happening–”

“Listen. Who she is aside, I have a lot of sex, but I get a lot of shit for it. I caught chlamydia over a year ago and I’m still berated for it almost every fucking day. She has a lot of sex and she’s praised for it. She avoids consequence because she’s anonymous, and it just feels really fucking fake to me.”

Your lips scrunch. “That’s actually fair. Double-standard.”

“It’s usually the opposite,” he leans back in the driver’s seat, downshifting as he turns onto your street. “It’s never a man who gets shit for fucking, but for some reason, I do.”

“Maybe it’s because that’s all anyone knows about you,” you say quieter, almost like you aren’t sure if you really want to say it. “I once told you that you curated your own reputation.”

He makes a face, one that says yeah, I know. “My reputation is what it is, Virgin. Nothing I can do about it now.”

“That’s not true,” you argue, brows scrunching. “You proved today that you can have a friendship with a woman. That’s a step in the right direction, no?”

Pulling up in front of your house, he throws the gear into park and shoots you a blank stare. “What’s the use of a step in the right direction if I’m never going to take another step?”

“Why can’t you?”

His head tilts, debating. “I can, I just won’t.”

You turn in the seat, facing him. “Because…?”

“I don’t want to be responsible for how someone else feels,” he says simply, only his head turned toward you. Then his lips curve, “I don’t want to end up in a sex-less marriage like the one you were about to get yourself into, Virgin.”

You scoff through a smile, “Asshole.” Unclipping your seatbelt, you bend one knee up into the seat as you say, “I think you might have a fucked up view on relationships, Mister Rich.” 

His brows raise, lips tightening. No shit. “If you’re happy, your partner is happy. If you’re sad, then you’re bringing down your partner, too. Everything you do, you have to be conscious of the other person. If they give something up for you, if they move for you, if the relationship fails and it’s not your fault, it’s your fault anyway because you’re the only person to blame.”

Your brows raise at the rant. “Can I ask?”

He’s quick to answer, “No.”

“Can I at least point something out?” your head tilts, smile playing on your lips. He sighs, and to you, that’s a yes. “You just spent, like, four hours out of your Wednesday night to make someone you’re barely even friends with feel better.”

“That’s different,” he argues.

“Yeah?” you ask, smile growing. “How about all the times I asked you for advice, and you gave it? Or when you came to my apartment because clearly something was so wrong that I left the Penny?”

His face stays flat. “What are you getting at, Virgin?”

“Nothing,” you shrug, voice light, high-pitched like the word is a song. “Just noticing and realizing things.”

“Oh,” he laughs the word, finally turning to face you. “You figured me out, huh?”

His car is too small for him to be this close to you. You can still smell him, the storm, you can taste every single word, every emotion that’s passed between you tonight. Grasping onto nonchalance as hard as you fucking can, you shrug, “It’s not as hard as it seems.”

His eyes drop, but they’re back on yours before you can register it. “You think so?”

Your heartbeat picks up, you can feel it knocking on your breastplate, begging you to pay attention to it. You can’t look away from him, you’re stuck as your chest fills, as your breath turns shallow. Your eyes drop to his pretty, full lips, lips you’ve kissed before, lips you want to kiss again. 

You don’t think you’ve ever been more honest with Jung Wooyoung than when you tell him, “I want to kiss you.”

He says your name like it’s a warning, like you’re nearing dangerous territory. You let him see it, the want in your face, your eyes. He watches, letting you see the debate in his. 

His voice is almost airy as he says, “You wanted to kiss me last time, too.”

“Last time, I wanted to be right,” you whisper. “I want you, Wooyoung.”

He clenches and unclenches his jaw like he’s fighting his own instincts. He turns, sinking back into his seat, muttering a rough “Fuck” under his breath. He runs his palms over his face, sorting his fingers through his hair, and he doesn’t look back at you as he says, “Yunho’s my friend, and he likes you.”

Your body blooms with warmth, but it’s embarrassment instead of the heat you wish was washing through you. You feel still as you uncurl your body, reaching for your purse, your keys, your water bottle. “Right,” you mutter, almost automatically, as if your brain has shut off entirely.

He speaks as you reach for the door handle. “What are you doing?”

You look back, confused. “Leaving?”

“Why are you leaving?” he sits up a little, face twisted with enough emotion you can’t pinpoint it.

“Hello?” You look around as if you’re missing something. Embarrassment twists into frustration, “I just finally fucking told you what I wanted and you rejected me.”

“Because you’re dating my friend–”

“I’m not dating him!” you nearly explode.

“You’re exclusively together,” Wooyoung says matter-of-factly. “Don’t get out of the car thinking that I don’t want you, because I fucking want you. I can’t do that to Yunho.”

“Goodnight, Wooyoung, thank you for tonight,” you say in one big shoved together breath, and climb out of his stupidly fucking low car. He’s in the middle of calling your name when you slam it behind you, forcing yourself to turn on your heel and walk up to your apartment.

Your brain feels like static with every step. You can’t piece together words, thoughts, you can’t function all the way up to your door, opening it just for all the lights to be on. Food is spread across the coffee table, the TV is on, Yunjin’s laptop is open on the couch, her phone right beside it. 

Her face is grave. You glance at the TV, the Unscripted logo, your own fucking voice pouring out from the speakers. Your body feels like ice. This is it. 

She doesn’t even let you close the door behind you before she’s asking, “Is it you?”