🌙Moonbae B*tch🍐

The soft golden light of sunrise filtered through the sheer curtains of your bedroom, casting a warm glow over the chaos you'd created.

Clothes were scattered across the floor, skincare products lined up on your desk, and your open suitcase sat like a gaping mouth waiting to be fed.

It was barely 6:15 AM, and the house was already alive with the sounds of your mom calling out instructions from downstairs.

You stood in the middle of the mess, tossing another pair of denim shorts into the suitcase while Riki lounged on the edge of your bed like he had zero worries in the world.

He looked unfairly good for this early hour. ash blonde hair with sandy blonde undertones tousled just right, that signature silver streak catching the light. he wore an oversized Chrome Hearts hoodie, the cross necklace you loved dangling against his chest, baggy black cargos, and a couple of silver rings on his long fingers.

To everyone else, Nishimura Riki was the definition of a bad boy— nonchalant, cocky, always pushing boundaries. but here, in your house, he played the role of the perfect, polite boyfriend flawlessly.

Riki tilted his head, watching you with an amused smirk.

"Babe… you're actually packing right now?" he asked, voice low and teasing. "we're leaving in like two hours, dwarf. i packed everything a week ago."

You shot him a glare over your shoulder, grabbing a stack of bikinis. "and? not everyone is obsessed with being early like you, Riki. chill."

He let out a quiet laugh, leaning back on his elbows. "nah, i'm just responsible. you've been hyping this beach cabin trip for two months straight and you're still throwing random shit in a suitcase at the last minute. classic dwarf behavior."

"Call me dwarf one more time and i'm throwing this straight at your head" you warned, holding up a hairbrush.

Riki grinned, completely unfazed. "dwarf."

You threw the hairbrush. he dodged it effortlessly, laughing under his breath as it landed on the bed beside him.

"See? violent. this is why you need me around— to keep you in check" he said, picking up the brush and tossing it back to you lightly. "hurry up though, for real. your mom's gonna lose her mind if we're late."

Before you could reply, the door opened and Seonghyun —your 13-year-old brother— shuffled inside, still in his pajamas, hair a complete disaster, eyes barely open.

"Mom's already screaming downstairs" he groaned, immediately collapsing face-first onto your bed like it was his personal territory. "she said if you're not done in ten minutes she's dragging you out by your hair."

Riki reached over and ruffled Seonghyun's messy hair with a smirk. "told you, dwarf. even the kid knows you're slacking."

Seonghyun lifted his head, grinning as he looked between you two. 'Yeah. Riki-hyung finished packing forever ago. he showed me his suitcase yesterday. everything was folded and organized. yours looks like a bomb went off."

You crossed your arms, staring at the two boys now teaming up against you. "oh, so this is how it's gonna be? you two ganging up on me at six in the morning?"

Riki shrugged innocently, that cocky smirk still firmly in place. "we're just stating facts. you've had two months to prepare and you're doing this now? crazy work."

Seonghyun nodded enthusiastically, still sprawled across your bed. "mom's gonna yell at you so bad. she already told me to bring my suitcase down ten minutes ago. Riki-hyung helped me zip it."

You threw another shirt— this time at your brother. "traitor. go help Mom instead of lying on my bed like you pay rent here."

"But it's comfy" Seonghyun whined dramatically, hugging your pillow. "and Riki-hyung is right. you always do this. last time we went to grandma's you forgot your phone charger and cried the whole way there."

Riki laughed quietly, clearly enjoying himself way too much. "see? even your little brother remembers. you're such a silly girl sometimes, dwarf."

You pointed at him. "you're supposed to be on my side, idiot."

"Nah" he replied in a lazy tone "i'm on the side of truth. and the truth is you suck at packing."

Seonghyun snickered into the pillow. "burn."

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. "both of you can leave my room if you're just gonna bully me. especially you, Riki. Mr. 'i don't care about anything' but somehow super excited to be stuck in a beach cabin with my entire family for two weeks."

Riki raised an eyebrow, the teasing glint in his eyes sharpening. "what? can't a guy be excited to spend time with his girlfriend's family? your parents like me. i'm charming."

"Yeah, because you fake it so well" you muttered, stuffing more clothes into the suitcase. "out in the streets you're all bad boy this, tattoos that… but the second my dad walks in you turn into 'yes sir, no sir, would you like help with the bags sir?'"

Seonghyun sat up suddenly. "wait, is that true? Riki-hyung, are you fake?"

Riki shrugged, completely unbothered. "gotta make a good impression, kid. your sister's the real menace here."

"Menace?" you scoffed, zipping your suitcase with more force than necessary. "you literally got three new tattoos after your mom told you not to. you're the definition of shameless."

"And you love it" he shot back with a wink, voice low enough that Seonghyun didn’t catch the full tone.

Your brother groaned loudly. "ew, stop flirting. i'm literally right here."

The sound of your mom's voice echoed up the stairs again. "Seonghyun! come down and help with the coolers! and tell your sister if she's not ready in five minutes we're leaving without her!"

Seonghyun jumped up dramatically. "told you! good luck, sis. Riki-hyung, save me a seat in the car."

"Bet" Riki replied, doing a small fist bump with the younger boy as he left.

Once the door clicked shut, Riki stood up and walked over to you. he placed his hands on your waist from behind, chin resting on your shoulder for a moment as you tried to close the overfilled suitcase.

"You're really testing me already, dwarf" he murmured, amusement clear in his voice. "two weeks with your family around… and you're gonna keep being a brat the whole time, huh?"

You leaned back into him just slightly, smirking. "maybe. what are you gonna do about it?"

He pressed a quick, soft kiss to the side of your neck before pulling away, ever careful not to get too handsy with your family awake and moving around. "you'll see. now finish packing before your mom actually comes up here and drags both of us downstairs."

You finally managed to zip the suitcase. Riki, ever the gentleman when it mattered, lifted it effortlessly for you.

"Ready?" he asked, that signature nonchalant expression back on his face.

You nodded, grabbing your backpack. "let's go before i change my mind and stay home just to annoy you."

He chuckled, opening the door for you. "after you, dwarf."

As you both headed downstairs, the chaos of your family preparing for the trip filled the air— your dad loading the car, your mom organizing snacks, Seonghyun complaining about having to sit in the back seat again. Riki slipped seamlessly into his well-behaved boyfriend role, greeting your parents politely and offering to help carry more bags.

But every time he passed by you, that mischievous glint in his eyes promised that the real Riki— the teasing, relentless one —was waiting for the right moment.

The entire family was already loaded up and waiting in the driveway when you finally dragged your last bag outside. your dad was behind the wheel, checking the time on the dashboard for the third time.

Your mom was in the passenger seat organizing snacks and drinks. Seonghyun had already claimed the right back seat, and Riki was sitting behind your mom, long legs stretched out as much as possible.

You took your sweet time putting the final bag in the trunk.

"Babe, come on" Riki called out the open window, sounding amused. "we're all waiting on you, dwarf."

"I'm coming, i'm coming!" you replied, rolling your eyes as you finally climbed into the car, squeezing between Seonghyun and Riki in the back seat.

The second you closed the door, your dad sighed loudly and started reversing out of the driveway.

"Finally" he muttered, half-joking but clearly a little annoyed. "we were supposed to leave at 6:30. it's almost 7:15. one day you're going to make us miss a flight or something."

Seonghyun immediately jumped in. "yeah, dad's right. you always do this."

Riki leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees, that signature lazy smirk on his face. "for real. i told her upstairs she was gonna be late. she still took forever, sir."

Your jaw dropped as you looked between the three of them. "are you serious right now? all of you are seriously attacking me? i had to make sure i didn't forget anything!"

Your dad chuckled, eyes on the road. "sweetheart, you've had two months to pack. we all packed days ago."

"Exactly" Riki added smoothly, glancing at you with teasing eyes. "even i packed early, and i'm not even part of the family yet."

Seonghyun snickered. "Riki-hyung packed a week ago. he's more prepared than you."

You turned and smacked Riki's thigh lightly with the back of your hand. "you're supposed to be on my side, idiot! why are you agreeing with them?"

Riki laughed quietly, rubbing the spot you hit even though it didn't hurt. "i'm just being honest, dwarf. you can't get mad at me for telling the truth."

Another smack to his leg. "you're the worst boyfriend ever. i hate you.”

"No you don't" he replied cockily, dodging your next playful hit. "you love me. stop hitting me, baby."

Seonghyun was full-on laughing now, leaning forward to look at you. "she's so mad. look at her face! Riki-hyung, she's gonna explode."

"Mom, help me out here" you complained, smacking Riki's arm this time. "you're literally my boyfriend. act like it."

Riki grinned, completely unfazed. "nah, i'm switzerland. neutral. except you're clearly wrong in this situation, dwarf."

"Two against one!" Seonghyun cheered. "actually three against one if you count Dad."

Your dad laughed from the front seat. "i'm staying out of this. but yes, you were late, kiddo."

You groaned dramatically and crossed your arms, sinking deeper into the seat. "i can't believe this. my own family and my boyfriend turning on me. this vacation is cursed already."

The car fell into a comfortable rhythm as your dad merged onto the highway.

The beach was around 100 km away — roughly an hour and twenty minutes if traffic was decent. golden morning light streamed through the windows, and the distant sound of music played low from the radio.

After a few minutes of peaceful silence, Riki nudged your knee with his.

"You still mad, dwarf?" he asked, voice low and teasing.

"Yes" you huffed, turning your head away from him to look out the window.

He leaned closer, shoulder brushing yours. "c'mon, don't be like that. you know i'm just messing with you."

You ignored him.

Seonghyun, sensing an opportunity, joined in again. "she's giving you the silent treatment already, hyung. that's a new record."

Riki chuckled. "she'll crack in like five minutes. watch."

You whipped your head around. "i can hear you two, you know."

Both boys started laughing. Seonghyun reached over and poked your arm. "she's so easy to annoy."

"Stop it" you whined, swatting his hand away before turning to smack Riki's leg again. "and you— you're supposed to defend me! not team up with my little brother!"

Riki caught your wrist gently before you could hit him a third time, his long fingers wrapping around it. "quit hitting me, dwarf. i'm driving-safe here."

"You're not even driving!" you shot back.

"Still. respect your elders" he said with a straight face.

"You're only five months older than me, dumbass."

Seonghyun burst out laughing again. "she called you dumbass. Mom, did you hear that?"

Your mom turned slightly in her seat. "you three better behave back there. we still have over an hour left. i don't want to hear constant fighting the whole way."

Riki instantly switched modes. his posture straightened, voice turning polite and smooth. "sorry, Ms. mom, we're just playing around. we'll quiet down."

Your mom smiled, satisfied. "thank you, Riki. at least one of you has manners."

The second your mom turned back around, Riki looked at you with the most devilish little smirk, mouthing "told you" before leaning back casually.

You narrowed your eyes at him. "fake" you whispered.

He just winked.

For the next twenty minutes the car was relatively calm. your dad talked with your mom about directions and where to stop for coffee.

Seonghyun put his earbuds in and started playing games on his phone. you scrolled through your own phone until Riki's hand found its way to your thigh, resting there innocently under the cover of the blanket your mom had tossed back earlier.

He squeezed once — not enough for anyone to notice, but enough to make you glance at him.

"Still mad at me, babe?" he whispered, barely moving his lips.

"You're annoying" you whispered back.

"Yeah, but you like it."

You tried to hide your smile and failed. Riki noticed immediately and smirked, giving your thigh another light squeeze before pulling his hand back like the perfect gentleman.

The drive had taken a little over an hour and twenty minutes, but the moment your dad turned onto the quiet coastal road, the view opened up.

The beach cabin sat right near the shore, elevated slightly on wooden stilts with a wide deck overlooking the ocean. The smell of salt and sea air hit you instantly as soon as the car doors opened — thick, refreshing, and impossible to ignore.

"Wow…" you breathed out, stepping onto the wooden path leading to the front door.

"Not bad" Riki said casually, but you could see the spark in his eyes. He was excited, even if he tried to play it cool.

Your dad unlocked the front door and everyone started unloading the suitcases, leaving most of them piled near the entrance for now. the inside of the cabin was beautiful — light wooden walls, big windows letting in natural light, and that constant sound of waves in the background.

"Alright, let's check out the rooms first" your mom suggested, already taking charge.

There was one large master bedroom with its own bathroom — obviously for your parents — and two smaller but still cozy bedrooms down the hall.

Seonghyun immediately sprinted toward one of the smaller rooms and threw himself onto the bed with a loud bounce.

"This one's mine!" he yelled, spreading his arms and legs like a starfish. "it's so cool! look at the little window, i can see the ocean from here!"

Riki walked into the room after him, nodding slowly like some kind of interior design expert. he crossed his arms, tilting his head as he inspected the space.

"Yeah, this layout is nice" he said thoughtfully. "good natural light. smart use of space." he glanced at your dad, who was doing the exact same thing in the hallway. Riki copied the motion perfectly, mirroring your dad's posture and serious expression. "very well designed, sir. i like the wooden details.”

Your dad smiled, clearly pleased. "right? the pictures online didn't do it justice."

You had to bite your lip to stop yourself from laughing at how obviously Riki was trying to impress him.

Your mom, however, was already in full organization mode.

"Enough sightseeing for now" she called out. "let's get all the suitcases inside first. food goes in the kitchen, clothes in the rooms. Seonghyun, stop jumping on the bed and help carry things!"

"But Mommm" Seonghyun whined dramatically from his new bed. "can't we go to the beach first? we've been in the car forever!"

"No. unpack first, beach later" your mom said firmly. "now move."

Riki immediately switched back into perfect-boyfriend mode. "i'll start bringing the heavier bags in, Ms. Mom"

You both grabbed a couple of suitcases and headed toward the second smaller room — the one that would be yours and Riki's for the trip. the moment you stepped inside and closed the door halfway, Riki's entire demeanor changed.

He quickly glanced toward the hallway, checking if your parents were in sight. when he confirmed they weren't, he pushed you against the wall with a smooth motion, one hand on your waist, the other cupping the back of your neck as he kissed you hard.

His tongue slipped into your mouth instantly, deep and hungry, like he'd been waiting hours for this. both of his hands slid down to grab your ass roughly, squeezing hard as he pressed his body against yours.

You gasped into the kiss, pushing at his chest. "Riki— stop" you whispered frantically against his lips. "my parents are literally right outside."

He smirked against your mouth, squeezing your ass again, pulling you tighter against him.

"So?" he murmured, voice low and cocky. "they're busy. i've been stuck in a car with you for over an hour acting like a saint. i deserve this, babe."

You turned your head when he tried to kiss you again. "you're so stupid. what if my mom walks in?"

Riki chuckled quietly, clearly enjoying how panicked you were getting. he leaned in and bit your bottom lip teasingly before finally pulling back, hands still resting on your hips.

"Relax. you're acting like we're committing a crime." he stepped away casually, grabbing one of the suitcases like nothing had happened. but the smirk on his face was pure trouble.

You tried to fix your hair, heart still racing. "you're actually insane."

He glanced out the large window that faced the ocean, the waves sparkling under the morning sun. a dangerous little smile spread across his lips.

"Damn… what a nice view" he said, loud enough for you to hear but not too loud. then he turned to you with that signature teasing glint. "you'd look real pretty like that, you know? on all fours, ass up, looking out at the sea while i fuck you from behind. bet the view would be even better with you moaning my name."

Your eyes widened in horror. "Riki!" you hissed, rushing over to smack his arm. "shut the fuck up! what if someone hears you?"

He laughed, that low, shameless sound, clearly loving how worked up you were getting. "relax, dwarf. you're so easy to scare. your face right now is priceless."

"You're such an asshole" you whispered angrily, cheeks burning. "i'm actually going to kill you on this trip."

"Yeah?" He stepped closer again, towering over you "keep talking like that and i'll give you a reason to scream my name for real. see how quiet you can stay then."

You shoved his chest, trying to ignore the way your stomach flipped. "my brother is literally in the next room and my parents are unpacking. behave."

Riki raised his hands in mock surrender, but the smirk never left his face. "fine, fine. i'll behave… for now." he picked up another bag, heading toward the closet. "but two weeks is a long time, good luck keeping me in check."

From the hallway, your mom's voice called out again. "kids? how are you doing with the bags?"

Riki instantly straightened up, putting on his polite mask. "almost done, Ms. Mom, we're organizing everything."

You stared at him in disbelief. "fake ass" you muttered under your breath.

He winked at you over his shoulder. "only for them. for you? i'm keeping it real."

Seonghyun's voice echoed from his room. "Mom! can we go to the beach now? i'm dying here!"

The chaos of the family vacation had officially begun, and Riki was already testing every limit he could find — especially yours.

A little while later, after all the suitcases had been dragged into the rooms and the kitchen supplies were mostly put away, you and Riki were finally organizing the last of your clothes in the closet of your shared bedroom.

You folded a stack of shorts while Riki hung up his hoodies, moving with that effortless coolness he always had. from the kitchen, you could hear your mom's voice rising slightly.

"I told you to close the bread bag properly, honey. now it's going to get stale by tomorrow!" your mom complained.

Your dad sigh "it's just bread. we'll finish it before then."

"It's the principle! if you don't close it, the air gets in—"

Riki glanced toward the half-open door and let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. he stepped closer to you, voice low so only you could hear.

"Wow… she really sounds exactly like you when you're nagging me about shit" he teased, that signature smirk on his lips. "same tone and everything. you're literally mini-Mom, dwarf."

You whipped around and smacked his arm playfully. "shut up, Riki. i do not sound like that."

He rubbed his arm dramatically even though you barely hit him. "you kinda do though. 'Riki, you left your shoes in the middle of the room again!'" he said, imitating your voice. "sound familiar?"

You hit his arm again, harder this time. "i said shut up! you're so annoying."

Riki laughed under his breath, catching your wrist before you could smack him a third time. "you love hitting me. violent ass."

Before you could reply, Seonghyun appeared in the doorway, already changed into swim trunks and a tank top, bouncing with energy.

"Mom and Dad are fighting over bread" he announced, rolling his eyes. "this is so boring. can we please go to the beach now? i've been waiting forever!"

Riki immediately nodded, ruffling the younger boy's hair like the cool older brother he pretended to be. "i'm down, bro. beach sounds good. we've been stuck inside long enough."

Seonghyun's face lit up. he turned to you impatiently. "hurry up then! just grab anything and let's go! i wanna build sandcastles and go in the water."

You looked down at your clothes. "i still need to change—"

Riki cut you off with a lazy grin. "don't worry about it, shortie. i'll help her get dressed real quick."

Seonghyun made a disgusted face instantly. "eww! gross. i don't need to know that. i'm leaving!" he turned and practically ran down the hallway, yelling over his shoulder "hurry up or i'm going without you!"

The second Seonghyun disappeared, Riki closed the bedroom door halfway and turned to you with a completely different look in his eyes.

"Get changed, dwarf" he said, leaning against the wall, arms crossed as he watched you openly.

You rolled your eyes but went to your suitcase anyway.

You pulled out the bikini you had packed specifically to mess with him — a tiny black string bikini with delicate gold accents. the top was barely more than two small triangles that tied around your neck and back, while the bottoms were low-rise with thin strings on the sides that showed a lot of skin.

It was cheeky, borderline scandalous, and you knew it would drive him crazy.

You changed quickly behind the half-closed closet door, then stepped out.

Riki went completely still when he saw you. His eyes dragged slowly down your body, lingering on your chest, your waist, and the way the bottoms sat high on your hips, exposing the curve of your ass.

"Fuck…" he muttered under his breath, pushing off the wall. "you really wore that on purpose, didn't you?"

You gave him an innocent smile, doing a little spin. "what? it's just a bikini. we're at the beach."

He stepped closer, voice dropping. "that's not a bikini, that's a fucking weapon. your ass is barely covered, babe. i'm gonna have to fight myself the whole time we're out there."

"Good" you said sweetly, poking his chest. "maybe you'll finally lose that fake calm attitude."

Riki's jaw clenched, but he smirked. he reached out and tugged lightly on one of the strings at your hip. "you're such a brat. keep playing games and i'll drag you back in here and fuck the attitude out of you while your family's right outside."

You pushed his hand away, trying to hide how his words affected you. "you wish. now stop staring and let's go before Seonghyun comes back complaining."

He groaned quietly but grabbed two towels anyway. before you left the room, he leaned down close to your ear.

"Just know that if i act weird out there… it's your fault for wearing that tiny ass thing."

You smirked and walked out first, swaying your hips a little more than necessary.

The three of you headed down to the beach together. Seonghyun ran ahead excitedly, already kicking off his sandals the second his feet hit the sand.

The ocean was beautiful — clear turquoise water, gentle waves, and soft golden sand stretching out in both directions. not too many people around since it was still early in the day.

Seonghyun turned back to you both. "come on! let's go in the water!"

Riki adjusted his sunglasses, trying (and failing) to keep his eyes off you in that bikini. every time the breeze moved, the strings shifted slightly, and you could practically feel the tension radiating from him.

"You good, Riki?" you asked innocently, tilting your head.

He gave you a tight smile. "Yeah. i'm great."

Seonghyun looked between you two suspiciously. "you guys are being weird again."

Riki quickly recovered, throwing an arm around the younger boy's shoulders. "nah, we're good. race you to the water?"

Seonghyun's competitive side won immediately. "you're on!"

As the two boys sprinted toward the waves, you couldn't help but smile. Riki was playing the perfect role— cool, fun, responsible older boyfriend —but you knew the second he got you alone, that patience he was barely holding onto was going to snap.

And you were going to enjoy pushing him until it did.

The sun was high in the sky by the time you and Riki wandered further into the ocean. Seonghyun had found a group of kids his age and was already fully occupied — screaming, splashing, and building a massive sand fortress with them.

For the first time since arriving, you and Riki had a small moment of semi-privacy.

The water reached just above your waists, the gentle waves rocking your bodies softly. Riki moved behind you and wrapped his long arms around your waist, pulling your back flush against his chest. his skin was warm from the sun, wet and smooth against yours.

He pressed soft, slow kisses along your bare shoulder, then up the side of your neck, savoring the taste of salt on your skin.

"Fuck, baby…" he murmured lowly against your ear, voice husky. "you look insane in this bikini. literally got me rock hard under these shorts right now."

You let out a soft laugh, leaning your head back against his shoulder. "you're so dramatic."

"i'm serious" he whispered, kissing right below your ear. "been trying to hide it since you walked out wearing basically nothing. i miss you already… even though you're right here. you're too fucking pretty, baby. makes me wanna do bad things to you."

His hands stroked your waist under the water, thumbs brushing the strings of your bikini bottoms. he kept kissing your neck lazily, occasionally nipping at the skin just enough to make you shiver.

"You really wore this tiny thing just to mess with me, didn't you?" he continued, voice low and teasing. "such a little brat. you know exactly what you do to me."

You turned your head slightly, smiling. "maybe. is it working?"

"Too well" he groaned quietly, pressing his hips forward so you could feel how hard he was against your ass. "if your brother wasn't twenty meters away i'd already be inside you."

You turned around in his arms to face him, the water lapping between your bodies. Riki's eyes were dark despite the bright sunlight.

You cupped his face and kissed him slowly, deeply. it wasn't rushed or desperate — just hungry. your tongues moved together lazily, savoring each other while the waves pushed you closer.

His hands stayed on your waist, occasionally sliding down to squeeze your ass under the water.

After a long minute you pulled back, breathing a little heavier. "i'm starting to get hungry…"

Riki hummed, still brushing his nose against yours. "yeah, me too. your mom's probably got something ready by now. it's like… noon already."

You both reluctantly separated and waved Seonghyun over. he came running, dripping wet and grinning ear to ear.

"We're gonna go eat something" Riki told him. "stay close to the other kids and don't go too deep, okay? come back to the cabin in a bit when you're hungry."

"Yeah, yeah" Seonghyun said, already turning back to his new friends. "i'll come later!"

When you got back to the cabin, the sensation of dry sand sticking to your wet skin immediately made you grimace.

"Ugh, i hate this feeling" you complained, brushing sand off your arms. "i'm gonna shower real quick."

Riki raised an eyebrow. "already? we're probably getting back in the water after lunch. doesn't make sense to shower now."

You crossed your arms. "i don't care. i hate feeling sticky. i'm showering."

Your dad, who had just returned from checking on Seonghyun, simply shook his head with a small smile and headed back outside, choosing not to get involved.

Your mom, however, overheard from the kitchen and sighed. "you two, stop bickering so much. it's only the first day."

Riki instantly put on his polite mask, smiling sweetly at your mom. "we're not fighting, Ms. mom, it's just a small exchange of ideas. healthy communication, right?"

You rolled your eyes so hard it was almost painful. "fake" you muttered under your breath as you walked toward the bathroom.

Your mom chuckled. "Riki, you're not allowed to go in the bathroom with her. i'm watching you" she teased lightly.

Riki laughed innocently. "i just wanna make sure she's okay. i'll be quick."

The second you both entered the bathroom, the energy shifted completely.

You started pulling out a fresh towel and your shower products while Riki leaned against the sink, eyes locked on you.

"Do you need anything before i get in?" you asked, turning on the water to let it warm up.

"Nah" he said, voice dropping. he stepped closer, closing the door carefully so it barely made a sound. "but my dick hurts from watching you walk around in that bikini all morning, babe. for real."

Before you could respond, Riki had you pressed against the bathroom counter, kissing you deeply. his hands roamed down your body, tugging at the strings of your bikini bottoms.

"Riki… my parents are right outside" you whispered, even as you kissed him back.

"I know" he murmured against your lips, smirking. "that's why we're being quiet."

He pulled your bikini bottoms down just enough to expose you, he lowered his beach shorts, then pressed his hard cock right against your bare pussy.

He started grinding slowly, the fabric creating delicious friction as he pressed you against the counter.

"Fuck… you're already wet" he groaned softly, one hand covering your mouth gently.

You whimpered against his palm as he rolled his hips harder, the thick outline of his cock sliding between your folds, rubbing perfectly against your clit with every movement.

Riki leaned down, biting your neck softly while he kept grinding. "look at you… letting me fuck you like this..."

You moaned quietly into his hand, thighs trembling.

"Shhh" he whispered, eyes dark with lust. "gotta stay still, baby. can't have your mom hearing how well you take my cock into your little cunt..."

Riki watched your face intently, that cocky little smirk never leaving his lips even as his breathing grew heavier.

"Turn around" he ordered quietly, voice rough with need. "i wanna see that ass while i grind on you."

You hesitated for half a second, heart racing at the risk. your mom was literally cooking in the kitchen just down the hall, and your dad could come back inside any moment.

But the heat in Riki's eyes made you obey. you turned around, placing your hands on the bathroom counter and arching your back slightly, pushing your ass toward him.

"Fuck… that's it" he groaned under his breath.

He stepped right behind you, pressing his still-hard cock between your ass cheeks.

He started grinding again, slow and deliberate, the thick ridge of his cock sliding back and forth against your bare pussy. the fabric of his shorts was rough and warm from the sun, creating that filthy friction you both craved.

Riki's hands moved up your body, sliding under the tiny triangles of your bikini top. he cupped your breasts fully, squeezing them roughly as he continued rolling his hips against your ass.

"These tits look so good in this bikini" he murmured, voice low right next to your ear. "been wanting to play with them all morning, baby."

He kneaded your breasts greedily, thumbs brushing over your hardened nipples before pinching them lightly.

Every time he rolled his hips forward, his cock pressed harder between your thighs, the head nudging against your clit with each thrust. the wet sounds of fabric rubbing against your soaked pussy filled the small bathroom, dangerously loud in your ears.

You bit your lip hard, trying to stay quiet. "Riki… we can't be too loud" you whispered, voice shaky.

He chuckled darkly, giving your breasts another firm squeeze before tugging your nipples again. "then stop moaning like a slut, baby. you're the one who wore this tiny bikini all morning knowing it would make me like this."

He kept grinding harder, faster now, one hand staying on your chest while the other gripped your hip tightly, pulling you back against him with every roll of his hips.

The mirror in front of you showed everything — your flushed face, his tall frame behind you, the way his hand disappeared under your bikini top to play with your tits.

"Look at yourself" he whispered, biting your shoulder lightly. "look how fucking pretty you are letting me use you like this. ass out, letting me hump you right before lunch while your mom's cooking."

You whimpered, pushing back against him, desperate for more friction. Riki groaned quietly and pinched your nipple harder, rolling it between his fingers as he kept thrusting his cock between your thighs.

"God, you're so wet" he breathed, voice strained. "such a messy little brat. you love this, don't you? getting touched and humped while your family's right outside?"

He suddenly grabbed both of your breasts with both hands, squeezing them together as he grinded harder, almost desperately.

His hips snapped forward with more force, the wet rubbing sound becoming faster and filthier.

"Riki—" you gasped, trying to keep your voice down.

"Shhh" he warned, one hand quickly moving up to cover your mouth. "quiet, babe. you're gonna get us caught."

Even with his hand over your mouth, he didn't stop.

He kept humping you relentlessly, cock sliding between your soaked folds, the head catching perfectly against your clit every single time. his other hand stayed on your chest, playing with your tits, squeezing and tugging until your eyes fluttered.

"You're so fucking soft… so perfect" he muttered against your neck, leaving wet kisses along your skin. "i could cum just like this. rubbing my cock on this pretty pussy without even putting it in."

Your legs were trembling. the combination of his dirty words, the constant pressure on your clit, and his hands playing with your breasts was pushing you dangerously close to the edge.

Riki felt it. he smiled against your shoulder, grinding harder.

"You close already?" he teased, voice cocky even while breathing heavily. "gonna cum on my cock like this, baby? with all your clothes still on and your family waiting for lunch?"

Riki's hips kept snapping forward, grinding his hard cock against your soaked pussy.

"You're so close, aren't you?" he whispered hotly against your ear. "i can feel you dripping all over me, babe. cum for me. be a good little slut and cum just like this."

The filthy words combined with the constant pressure on your clit finally pushed you over the edge.

Your orgasm hit hard.

Your thighs shook violently as you came, moaning desperately into his palm. your eyes rolled back and your walls clenched around nothing while Riki kept grinding through it, prolonging every second of your pleasure.

He didn't stop moving until your body went limp against the counter, breathing heavily.

Only then did he slowly remove his hand from your mouth.

You stayed silent for a few seconds, catching your breath… until the brat in you woke up again.

You turned around and pushed his chest, glaring at him. "Get out."

Riki blinked, still clearly hard and breathing heavily. "What?"

"I said get out" you repeated, fixing your bikini top. "i told you i wanted to shower. you always do this — you push and push until you get what you want and now i'm all messy. leave."

He let out a low, amused laugh. "you're actually kicking me out after you just came all over my dick? wow. Cold."

"Yes. Out. Now" you said, pointing at the door, trying to hide your smirk.

Riki shook his head, that cocky little smile still on his face. "such a fucking brat. fine. enjoy your shower, dwarf."

He adjusted his shorts as best as he could and slipped out of the bathroom quietly, closing the door behind him.

Ten minutes later, after a proper shower and washing all the sand and salt off your body, you changed into something comfortable: loose gray pijama shorts and a simple black cropped tank top. your hair was still slightly damp as you walked into the kitchen.

The sight that greeted you made you pause.

Riki was shirtless, his toned torso and tattoos on full display, leaning casually against the kitchen counter while talking to your mom. he looked completely relaxed, like the perfect son-in-law.

"…and yeah, i've been practicing a lot more lately" Riki said, smiling politely. "the choreography is really challenging but i enjoy it. your daughter actually helps me a lot with memorizing the counts."

Your mom laughed warmly as she stirred something on the stove. "really? she's usually so impatient with people."

"Nah, she's actually really patient with me" Riki replied smoothly, the lie rolling off his tongue effortlessly. "she's a good teacher. i'm really lucky, Ms. Mom, you raised an amazing girl."

Your mom looked absolutely delighted. "oh, Riki… you're such a sweet boy. i keep telling her how lucky she is to have you."

You walked over and stood right next to him, crossing your arms.

"If you keep walking around without a shirt and with those wet shorts, i'm going to throw something at you" you said, half-joking but also slightly annoyed.

Your mom turned around immediately. "leave him alone, honey. it's hot outside and he just came back from the beach. let the boy be comfortable."

Riki grinned, looking at you with fake innocence. "exactly. let me be free, dwarf."

You rolled your eyes so hard it hurt. "you're impossible."

Your stomach growled loudly, reminding you how hungry you actually were.

"Mom, i'm starving" you complained, leaning against the counter. "what are you making? it smells really good."

As you spoke to your mom, Riki took advantage of the moment.

While your mom had her back turned to stir the food, he slowly dragged his hand up the back of your bare thigh, squeezing the soft flesh teasingly. his eyes stayed on your mom, pretending to listen, but the corner of his mouth twitched when he felt you tense up.

You shot him a warning glare.

He just bit his bottom lip for a second, eyes darkening as he gave your thigh one last possessive squeeze before pulling his hand away right before your mom turned around again.

"Pasta salad and some grilled fish" your mom answered cheerfully. "it'll be ready in ten minutes. go call your brother and father if they're back."

Riki nodded politely. "i can go get them if you want, Ms. Mom"

Your mom smiled brightly. "would you? you're such a helpful young man."

As soon as your mom turned back to the stove, Riki leaned down close to your ear, whispering so quietly only you could hear:

"Still wet from earlier, baby? or was that shower enough for you?"

You elbowed him hard in the ribs.

He just chuckled softly and walked out of the kitchen like the perfect gentleman, calling out for your dad and Seonghyun as if nothing had happened.

You stared at his back, equal parts annoyed and turned on.

This vacation was only just beginning, and Riki was clearly planning to make it very, very difficult for you to stay sane.

Riki headed out to the beach to fetch your dad and Seonghyun while you helped your mom set the table. the moment the boys were out of earshot, your mom turned to you with a knowing little smile.

"You know… Riki is such a good boy" she said, stirring the pasta salad one last time. "polite, helpful, handsome. i really like him for you. i hope you two last a long time."

You felt your cheeks heat up. "Mom…"

"I'm serious" she continued, lowering her voice a bit. "he looks at you like you hung the stars. and the way he talks to your father? perfect. just… be careful, okay? i'm not asking for grandchildren anytime soon, so if you two are already doing things, please be responsible."

"Mom!" you hissed, mortified. you covered your face with your hands. "can we not talk about this right now?"

Your mom laughed softly. "i'm just saying. you're both young and hormonal. just be smart."

You gave her short nods and mumbled responses. "yeah… okay… i know… can we please stop?"

Thankfully, the sound of the front door opening saved you. Seonghyun burst in first, absolutely covered head to toe in sand. it was in his hair, stuck to his arms, and trailing behind him on the wooden floor.

Your mom gasped. "Seonghyun! look at the floor! we just cleaned!"

You groaned. "seriously? you're leaving a sand trail everywhere!"

Seonghyun just grinned sheepishly. "sorry… but the sandcastles were awesome!"

Riki and your dad walked in behind him. for a brief second, both of them looked at each other with the exact same tired but fond expression — the universal look of men dealing with their loud, dramatic women.

It was weirdly wholesome from an outside perspective.

Seonghyun kicked off his sandals. "i'm gonna rinse off real quick and then i'm starving. also—" he turned to Riki with a proud grin, "—i talked to a really pretty girl at the beach. she said my sandcastle was cool."

Riki grinned and gave him a fist bump. "that's my boy. did you get her name?"

"Yeah! her name's Mina."

You reached over and smacked Riki's arm. "don't encourage him! he's thirteen."

Riki just made a silly face at you, completely used to your hits at this point. "relax, dwarf. let the kid live."

Seonghyun laughed and ran off to the bathroom.

Riki disappeared into your room for a few minutes and came back wearing dry black sweatpants and a loose white t-shirt.

His hair was messy and stiff from the sea salt, making him look even more effortlessly handsome in that messy, bad-boy way.

Soon, everyone was seated at the big wooden dining table. your dad had insisted on sitting next to you ("i barely see my daughter these days"), so you were on his right. Seonghyun sat next to Riki, and your mom took the head of the table.

After everyone bowed their heads and your dad said a short prayer, you all started eating.

Riki didn’t waste any time turning on the charm.

"Ms. Mom, this is actually insane" he said after the first bite, eyes wide with genuine appreciation. "the seasoning is perfect. i don't know how you do it every time."

Your mom beamed. "oh stop it, you flatterer."

"I'm serious" Riki continued, sounding like a 40-year-old man. "the balance of flavors… incredible. and this cabin? the natural light in here is really well thought out. great ventilation too. you chose the perfect spot, sir" he added, nodding respectfully at your dad.

Your dad chuckled. "glad you like it, son. the humidity can get bad near the coast, but this place handles it nicely."

"Exactly" Riki agreed, launching into a surprisingly detailed conversation about coastal architecture and weather patterns with your dad.

You watched him across the table — hair messy, talking politely with your parents, teasing Seonghyun every now and then with that easy smile — and felt a rush of heat.

He looked stupidly good. Domestic. like he belonged here with your family.

Under the table, you slowly lifted your bare foot and pressed it directly against the front of his sweatpants, right over his crotch.

Riki's words faltered mid-sentence.

"—and the… uh, the airflow is—" he cleared his throat, quickly recovering. "the airflow is probably excellent during the summer months."

He shot you a sharp look across the table, but you just smiled innocently and took another bite of pasta, pressing your foot harder against him. you could feel him starting to harden under your sole.

Riki kept talking like nothing was happening, though his ears turned slightly red.

He even managed to crack a joke with Seonghyun about building a bigger sandcastle tomorrow, all while your foot continued teasing him under the table.

Riki subtly reached under the table once, grabbing your ankle in warning for a second… but he didn't push your foot away. instead, his thumb stroked your skin once before letting go, like he was both annoyed and turned on.

You pressed down again, rubbing slowly.

He bit the inside of his cheek, jaw tightening, but kept that perfect polite smile on his face while talking to your mom about her cooking.

While Riki kept up his perfect-boyfriend act — chatting with your dad about the weather, complimenting your mom's cooking, and joking lightly with Seonghyun — your bare foot never stopped teasing him under the table.

You rubbed slowly, pressed down firmly, even curled your toes over the growing bulge in his sweatpants. every time he tried to shift away, you followed.

At one point, the stimulation became too much.

A tiny, breathy whimper escaped Riki's throat before he could stop it. he quickly tried to cover it with a cough, but it was too late.

Your mom turned immediately, concerned. "Riki, honey, are you okay? did you choke?"

Riki cleared his throat, ears bright red as he gave her a sheepish smile. "ah, sorry Ms. Mom, i'm fine. i was just really hungry and eating too fast. my bad."

Your mom chuckled. "slow down, sweetheart. there's plenty more."

You looked straight at him across the table with the most smug, victorious little smile. your eyes practically screamed: if you want to play risky games, i'll play with something much worse.

Riki narrowed his eyes at you, jaw clenched, but the corner of his mouth twitched like he was both furious and impressed.

When everyone finally finished eating, you slowly withdrew your foot and slipped it back into your slipper like nothing had happened.

Riki let out a long, controlled breath. his chest was rising and falling a little faster than normal, and you could see the clear frustration in his eyes.

"i'll clear the table" he offered smoothly, already standing up.

"i'll help" you said sweetly, standing right after him.

Your parents started talking about adult things— bills, work, and some neighbor drama back home —while Seonghyun jumped up excitedly.

"I'm gonna get my Nintendo! Mina said she has Tomodachi Life too. i'll be back later!" he sprinted to his room, sand still somehow falling from his hair.

Now it was just you and Riki in the kitchen.

He started washing the dishes while you dried them and put them away. for a few minutes you worked in silence, shoulders brushing every now and then. then Riki spoke, voice extremely low so only you could hear.

"You're actually insane" he muttered, scrubbing a plate harder than necessary. "you had your foot on my dick the entire lunch while i was talking to your dad. i almost came in my pants like a fucking loser."

You smiled innocently, stacking clean plates. "you started it in the bathroom earlier. i was just finishing what you began."

Riki glanced toward the living room to make sure your parents weren't listening, then leaned slightly closer.

"When that door closes tonight…" he whispered, voice dark and full of promise, "i'm not gonna be nice, love. i'm gonna bend you over that bed and fuck the attitude right out of you. gonna make you cry on my cock while you try so hard to stay quiet."

You felt heat rush through your body, but you refused to show it.

He continued, voice even lower, almost a growl. "gonna stuff that pretty mouth with my fingers when you get too loud. spank that ass red for teasing me all day. and when i finally cum… i'm filling you up until it's dripping down your thighs. you're not sleeping until i'm done ruining you."

Your hands trembled slightly as you dried a glass.

Riki smirked, noticing. "what's wrong, baby? you were so bold under the table. cat got your tongue now?"

You bumped his hip with yours. "you talk so much shit for someone who whimpered like a puppy ten minutes ago."

He let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "keep running that mouth. we'll see how loud you are tonight when i'm actually inside you.”

You handed him another plate, smiling sweetly. "we'll see if you can even last that long, big guy."

Riki turned his head to look at you, eyes burning with lust and challenge.

"Oh, i'm lasting" he murmured. "the only question is whether you can handle what i'm saving up for you."

The tension between you two was thick enough to cut with a knife. the sun was still bright outside, but night suddenly felt dangerously close.

And Riki looked like he was counting down every single hour until he could finally get you alone.

The afternoon sun bathed the beach in warm golden light as the day slowly drifted toward evening. after spending time in the water earlier, you and Riki decided to stay on the sand this time.

You set up a large striped umbrella and laid out a thick beach towel beneath it. your parents and Seonghyun were further down, enjoying the waves and laughing loudly.

Riki reclined against the towel, propped up on his elbows, wearing dark sunglasses that hid his sharp eyes. you sat between his legs, back resting comfortably against his chest, sipping on a cold energy drink while mindlessly scrolling through tiktok.

The sound of waves crashing, distant laughter, and seagulls filled the air. it was peaceful.

For approximately three minutes.

Riki's patience ran out quickly. he leaned forward, resting his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.

"What are you watching?" he asked, voice low and curious.

You didn't answer, too focused on a video.

He waited five seconds before reaching around you and snatching the phone straight from your hands.

"Riki!" you yelped, immediately trying to grab it back. "give it to me, you idiot!"

He held the phone high above his head, a lazy smirk spreading across his lips. "nah. you've been ignoring me for like ten minutes straight. what's so interesting on there?"

You stretched your arm desperately, but he was much taller.

Every time you reached higher, your face got closer to his. the tension was palpable — if either of you moved just a few centimeters more, your lips would meet.

"Riki, i swear to God, give me my phone back. i was watching tiktoks!" you whined, half-annoyed, half-laughing.

He tilted his head, clearly enjoying your struggle. "then pay the fee, dwarf. one kiss and i'll return it."

You glared at him. "you're so annoying."

"And you're so dramatic" he shot back, smirking. "c'mon. one little kiss. i've been good all day."

Instead of kissing him, you reached down and pinched the skin on his thigh hard.

"Ow— fuck!" Riki hissed, instinctively lowering his arm from the pain.

You snatched your phone back triumphantly and hugged it to your chest. "that's what you get."

Riki rubbed his thigh, pretending to be hurt. "you're actually violent. i'm telling your mom you abuse me daily. this is domestic terrorism."

You laughed and finally leaned in, giving him a soft, lingering kiss on the lips. he tried to deepen it, but you pulled away quickly, smiling smugly.

"Happy now?" you asked.

Riki licked his lips, eyes hidden behind his sunglasses. "barely. but i'll take what i can get… for now."

By 5 PM, the sun had softened into a beautiful amber glow. you and Riki told your family you were going to buy ice cream and some cold drinks. your parents nodded distractedly while Seonghyun was busy showing off his sandcastle to other kids.

The walk toward the small tourist market was calm and breezy.

The streets were lively — full of people enjoying their vacations. as you walked hand-in-hand with Riki, it was impossible not to notice how many girls turned their heads to stare at him.

Tall, handsome, tattoos peeking from under his shirt, effortless swagger… he was hard to miss.

You, on the other hand, were still in your loose pajama shorts and silly cartoon plastic slippers.

"I'm so embarrassed" you muttered, looking down at your feet. "everyone is staring and i look like i just rolled out of bed."

Riki glanced down at you and chuckled, squeezing your hand. "you look cute. stop overthinking it."

"Cute? i look homeless" you groaned.

He stopped walking for a second, turning to face you properly. "for real, you look hot. only a real baddie can walk around in cartoon slippers and pajama shorts like it's a fashion statement. you're serving looks, dwarf. own it."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't hide your smile. "you're such a smooth talker when you want something."

Inside the busy market, Riki kept your hand in his the entire time as you browsed the freezer section, picking out different flavors of ice cream and cold beverages.

The store was packed with tourists, and the air conditioning felt amazing against your sun-warmed skin.

While you waited in line at the checkout, you shifted uncomfortably.

"My legs hurt" you complained softly.

Riki raised an eyebrow, amused. "we literally walked just fifteen minutes, baby."

"And? they hurt now."

He teased you for a bit longer, calling you spoiled and dramatic, but when you stepped outside with the bags, he crouched down in front of you without another complaint.

"Hop on."

You climbed onto his back happily, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders. Riki hooked his hands under your thighs, lifting you with ease as he began the walk back to the cabin. the bags of snacks hung from his fingers.

"You're actually really heavy" he teased, though his voice showed no strain.

"Liar. you love carrying me."

"Yeah… maybe i do" he admitted quietly, adjusting his grip on your thighs. "even if you're a pain in the ass."

The sunset painted the sky in soft pinks and oranges as Riki carried you along the beach path.

You rested your cheek against his shoulder, breathing in his now familiar scent mixed with sea salt and sunscreen.

For a few peaceful minutes, everything felt perfect.

By the time you and Riki reached the cabin, the sky had turned a soft orange-pink. it was already 6:05 PM. the moment Riki stepped onto the wooden porch with you still on his back, the delicious smell of dinner cooking floated out through the open windows.

Your mom was in the kitchen, wearing an apron, humming while stirring something on the stove. your dad's voice could be heard singing off-key from the shower.

in the living room, Seonghyun was sitting on the floor with two other kids from the beach and a shy-looking girl— Mina —playing cards and laughing loudly.

Your mom turned when she heard the door and immediately smiled at the sight of Riki carrying you.

"Oh my goodness" she laughed. "look at this. did you buy ice cream or did you buy a whole wife?"

Riki grinned, adjusting his grip on your thighs. "she said her legs were tired, Ms. mom, i'm just being a responsible boyfriend."

He carefully lowered you to the floor, but not before pressing a soft, sweet kiss to your forehead right in front of your mom. then he replied with the same playful energy:

"What can i say? she's spoiled. But i don't mind carrying her everywhere."

You elbowed him lightly before turning to your mom. "it smells really good in here. what are you making?"

"Grilled chiken, some fried rice, and vegetables. nothing too heavy since we had a big lunch" she answered proudly. "it should be ready in about forty minutes."

Before you could say anything else, Seonghyun came running over the second he spotted Riki. he grabbed his arm and pulled him down to whisper something in his ear, looking extremely proud of himself.

"Riki-hyung… Mina kissed me on the cheek while we were playing truth or dare" he whispered excitedly.

Riki's eyes widened before he broke into a big smile. he gave Seonghyun a fist bump and ruffled his hair.

"That's my boy, see? i told you you're cool. did you blush or play it cool?"

"I played it cool… i think" Seonghyun said, though his cheeks were clearly pink just talking about it.

You couldn't help yourself. you crossed your arms and said loud enough for both of them to hear:

"If only she knew that you bathe once a week, Seonghyun."

Seonghyun gasped dramatically, looking genuinely offended. "hey! that's not true!"

Riki placed a hand on his chest, pretending to be deeply hurt. "wow. you're attacking both of us now? he's just a kid, dwarf. let him live. do you hate us? are we really that disgusting to you?"

Seonghyun nodded vigorously beside him. "yeah! we're clean!"

You rolled your eyes and smacked Riki's arm again.

Without warning, Riki bent down, grabbed you around the waist, and effortlessly threw you over his shoulder in an "air prison" your upper body hanging down his back.

"Riki!" you squealed, laughing and kicking your legs. "put me down, you idiot!"

"Nope. this is what you get for being violent all day" he said, chuckling as he walked around the living room with you over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "you hit me too much, dwarf. i'm starting to think you enjoy it."

You reached up and tugged his hair hard, pulling his head back.

"Ow— okay, okay!" he laughed.

To get revenge, Riki turned his head and bit the side of your waist— not too hard, but enough to leave a clear teeth mark on your skin, hidden under your shirt.

You yelped. "Ouch, Riki!"

He finally put you down, smirking like the devil he was. you glared at him and immediately turned toward the kitchen.

"Mom! your future son-in-law is biting me!"

Your mom looked over from the stove and just laughed warmly, a nostalgic sparkle in her eyes as she watched the two of you.

"Ah… young love" she said softly, shaking her head with a fond smile.

"You two remind me so much of your father and me when we were your age. always fighting, always playing… but couldn't stay away from each other for five minutes."

Riki wrapped an arm around your shoulders, pulling you against his side while smiling innocently at your mom.

"Don't worry, Ms. Mom, i can handle her. she's just a little violent sometimes."

You stepped on his foot.

He didn't even flinch — just looked down at you with a dangerous little smirk only you could see.

Your mom turned back to the stove, still smiling to herself, completely unaware of the tension simmering between you two.

The sun was setting fast.

The table was full and lively by 7 PM. Seonghyun had begged to invite Mina for dinner, and your parents happily agreed.

The young girl sat shyly beside him, while everyone else took their seats. for the first time that day, Riki was finally sitting right next to you. his thigh pressed lightly against yours under the table.

Your dad cleared his throat. "Alright, let's pray."

Everyone bowed their heads as your dad said a short but heartfelt prayer, thanking God for the vacation, the food, and the family time. Seonghyun even added a quick "and thank you for Mina too" at the end, making the girl blush.

The moment everyone said "amen" the clinking of utensils began.

Riki didn't even let you take two bites before he reached over with his chopsticks and stole a big piece of grilled chicken from your plate.

"Hey!" you hissed, immediately reaching up and tugging his ear. "calm down, you thief!"

Riki winced but smiled, turning his head toward your mom with the most dramatic, innocent eyes.

"Ms. Mom, look what your daughter does to me" he complained playfully. "she's so abusive."

Your dad jumped in immediately. "sweetheart, don't pull his ear like that. poor Riki is a guest."

Both you and your mom turned to look at your dad at the same time, wearing the exact same sharp, unimpressed expression.

The similarity in your temperaments was almost comical.

Your dad blinked, suddenly aware of the double glare. "...what? i'm just saying."

Your mom raised an eyebrow. "he stole her food."

You nodded. "exactly."

Your dad tried to salvage the moment with a classic dad joke. "well… at least he's not stealing her heart. that already happened years ago!"

Dead silence.

No one laughed.

Riki, ever the perfect boyfriend, immediately burst into laughter like it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "that's a good one, sir!"

Seonghyun followed his hyung's lead and started laughing too. Mina, seeing everyone else laugh, let out a shy giggle as well.

You raised your eyebrows, staring at your dad. "is there an inside joke in that joke that i didn't understand? because that was terrible."

Riki was still chuckling as he leaned over and kissed your cheek sweetly. "let your dad have his moment, dwarf."

You immediately smacked his thigh under the table. Riki just smiled wider, clearly happy and unfazed, like he lived for your little acts of violence.

The rest of dinner went smoothly.

Riki continued being the ideal guest — complimenting the food again, asking your dad about fishing spots nearby, and occasionally teasing Seonghyun and Mina in a harmless big-brother way.

He fit into your family so naturally it was almost scary.

After everyone finished eating, your mom and dad stood up first to clear the table.

You and Riki moved to the living room sofa. you immediately laid down, resting your head comfortably on Riki's lap. his fingers found your hair right away, gently playing with the strands.

Your mom called from the kitchen while washing dishes. "when i finish here, we should go buy some beach toys for tomorrow morning! shovels, buckets, maybe a ball…"

Seonghyun groaned from the floor where he was playing with his Nintendo. "but Mom… i want to keep playing with my friends. Mina already went back to her cabin."

Your dad's voice came from the hallway. "don't argue with your mother, Seonghyun. we're going."

Seonghyun sighed dramatically but nodded. "fine…"

Your mom peeked out from the kitchen, smiling. "what about you two? do you want to come with us to buy the toys?"

You opened your mouth to answer, but Riki beat you to it.

"No need to worry, Ms. Mom" he said smoothly, a playful grin on his face. "we'll stay and guard the cabin from nocturnal intruders… also known as crabs."

You immediately sat up a little. "crabs? really? that's the best excuse you could come up with?"

Your mom laughed warmly. "well, someone has to protect us from the dangerous crabs."

Your dad walked by, drying his hands. "just behave, you two. we won't be long."

Riki nodded respectfully. "we'll be good, sir."

As soon as your parents turned away, Riki's hand returned to your hair, stroking it slowly. his fingers were gentle, but the look in his eyes when they met yours was anything but.

There was heat behind them — dark, patient, and full of promise.

He leaned down slightly, brushing his lips against your forehead while continuing to caress your hair.

The front door closed behind your family a few minutes later, leaving the cabin quiet except for the distant sound of waves.

His fingers tightened just slightly in your hair, a silent warning of everything he had been holding back all day.

The cabin changed completely.

You felt Riki's intense gaze on you and knew exactly what was coming. before he could even say anything, you jumped up from the sofa with a mischievous grin.

"Catch me if you can, slowpoke" you taunted, sticking your tongue out at him before bolting toward your shared bedroom.

Riki let out a long, frustrated sigh, but the smirk on his face showed he was more than amused.

"Really? you're gonna run now?" he called after you, already standing up. "after teasing me all damn day?"

You laughed as you ran into the bedroom, kicking off your slippers and jumping onto the bed. you grabbed two pillows and hurled them at him the moment he appeared in the doorway.

Riki caught both effortlessly and tossed them back onto the bed. "cute. real mature, dwarf."

He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.

Then he slowly approached the bed like a predator. you tried to scramble away, but he grabbed your ankle and yanked you back, making you fall onto your back with a surprised squeak.

Riki climbed onto the bed carefully, hovering over you without fully trapping you, giving you one last chance to escape if you really wanted to.

You didn't.

Instead, you turned your head to look at him over your shoulder, wearing that signature bratty, wicked little smile.

Riki exhaled through his nose, eyes dark. he leaned down and kissed your cheek tenderly, then moved to your jaw, your neck, your collarbone.

"You make everything so fucking difficult for me" he murmured against your skin, slowly pushing your shirt up with both hands. "all day long… acting like a little angel in front of your family while driving me crazy."

His large hands slid under your shirt and cupped your bare breasts, massaging them firmly as he kissed and sucked on your neck.

You let out a soft breathy sound. "Riki… they could come back any minute. this is still risky—"

"I know" he whispered, pinching your nipples lightly. "that's why it's gonna be a quickie. just a fast one, baby. i need you so bad right now.”

You couldn't help but tease him even as he played with your chest. "look at you… so needy. all because i had my foot on your dick during lunch?"

Riki growled and bit down on the side of your neck, hard enough to make you gasp.

"That's your fault" he said against your skin, voice rough. "you kept rubbing me under the table like a little slut while i was talking to your dad. i've been hard for hours because of you."

With one smooth motion, he flipped you onto all fours, keeping you in position so you were facing the large window that overlooked the dark ocean. the moon reflected beautifully on the waves.

You let out a surprised moan at the sudden movement.

"Riki— hurry up" you whined, pushing your ass back against him.

He chuckled darkly, running his hands over your ass before slowly pulling your shorts and panties down just enough to expose you. he left them around your thighs, keeping you partially restricted.

"Fuck… look at you" he groaned, biting his lower lip as he stared. his fingers traced over your soaked pussy.

He freed his hard cock, already leaking, and pressed the thick head against your wet pussy, rubbing it back and forth slowly, teasing you.

You moaned louder, pushing back.

"Shhh" he warned, one hand covering your mouth gently. "quiet, baby. or i'll stop."

He continued rubbing his cock against your wet cunt, the head catching on your clit with every stroke. the friction was driving you insane.

"Please…" you whimpered.

Riki leaned over your back, lips brushing your ear.

"You want it?" he asked, voice low and cocky. "want me to fuck you like this while your family could catch us?"

"Yes— just do it already."

He finally pushed in deep in one smooth motion, burying himself completely inside you.

You moaned loudly into his hand. Riki groaned, gripping your hip tightly with his free hand as he started fucking you hard from behind.

"Fuck— so tight" he breathed, snapping his hips against your ass. "this is what you get for teasing me all day, baby. take it."

He kept one hand over your mouth to muffle your sounds while the other gripped your hip, pulling you back onto his cock with every rough thrust. the sound of skin slapping skin mixed with the distant waves outside the window.

Riki leaned down again, biting your shoulder as he pounded into you.

"You feel so fucking good… i've been thinking about this all day" he growled. "gonna fuck you fast and deep, okay? just how my needy little brat likes it."

He kept you firmly in position, hips snapping relentlessly, the angle making him hit deep every single time. His breathing was ragged, but he never stopped talking.

"Tell me how much you wanted this too" he demanded softly, moving his hand from your mouth to let you speak.

"I wanted it…" you moaned, pushing back against him. "harder, Riki—"

He smirked and obeyed, fucking you even rougher, the bed creaking under you both.

"Good girl."

Riki's hips snapped against your ass with a steady, rough rhythm, the wet sound of skin slapping skin echoing softly in the bedroom.

He kept you firmly on all fours, one hand gripping your hip while the other occasionally delivered sharp, stinging spanks to your ass.

"Fuck— Riki…" you moaned, pushing back against him. "right there… please—"

"Yeah? you want it right there, baby?" he growled, spanking you again. "little brat. teasing me all day and now you're begging for my cock like this."

He thrust deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every stroke. your eyes fluttered as you gripped the sheets tightly.

"I hate you…" you whimpered between moans, "but don't stop— ah— fuck, right there—"

Riki chuckled darkly and leaned over your back, biting your shoulder. "you don't hate me. you love getting fucked like a little whore while your family's out."

He kept pounding into you for what felt like forever but was only around five intense minutes — rough, deep, and desperate. the angle made everything feel overwhelming. you were getting louder, too lost in the pleasure.

Suddenly, you heard the front door of the cabin open.

"Shit— Riki, stop!" you gasped, grabbing his hand. "they're back—"

Riki only smiled, that dangerous, teasing smirk spreading across his face.

Instead of stopping, he pressed his large hand over your mouth again and pushed your upper body down into the mattress, forcing you into a prone bone position.

"Shhh" he whispered against your ear, still buried deep inside you. "not yet, baby."

He continued fucking you, but slower and deeper now, grinding against your ass to minimize the sound of skin slapping.

The new angle made his cock press even harder against your most sensitive spots with every roll of his hips. the friction was devastating.

Your eyes rolled back as you moaned desperately into his palm.

"Mmm—!" you cried, muffled.

"Quiet, babe" he breathed, still moving inside you. "you hear that? your mom's asking where we are."

From the hallway, your mom's voice carried clearly:

"Honey? Riki? where are you two?"

Your dad answered from somewhere near the living room. "they're probably in their room. Seonghyun, don't run off too far— stay close to the bonfire!"

Seonghyun's excited voice faded as he ran outside to play with the other kids.

Riki kept grinding into you slowly but intensely, his cock dragging against every sensitive inch inside you.

You were shaking, tears of overstimulation and frustration pricking your eyes as you tried so hard to stay silent.

He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. "you're clenching so hard around me… you like this, don't you? getting fucked while your parents are right outside?"

You nodded frantically, moaning into his hand.

Riki gave one last deep, slow thrust before letting out a frustrated groan. he reluctantly pulled out of you, breathing hard.

Neither of you had finished.

"Fuck…" he muttered, clearly annoyed.

He quickly pulled up his boxers and sweatpants, then helped you.

He gently slid your panties and shorts back up your legs, fixing them carefully even though his hands were still shaking with need.

"Come here" he said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed.

You crawled to him immediately, face flushed red and breathing uneven. you hid your face in his chest, one hand tracing lazy lines down his abdomen.

Riki wrapped his arms around you, holding you close as he tried to calm his breathing.

He reached under the pillow, pulled out his phone, and pretended to scroll through it.

A few seconds later, there was a soft knock on the door.

"Come in" Riki called, voice surprisingly steady.

Your mom opened the door with a smile, holding a couple of beach bags. she saw you cuddled up against Riki's chest and her expression softened.

"We got everything for tomorrow" she said cheerfully. "there's a water park with games and slides nearby. we thought it would be fun. are you two tired already?"

Riki smiled politely, one hand still gently stroking your back. "a little bit. but that sounds fun, Ms. Mom"

You kept your face buried in Riki's chest, cheeks burning bright red. you were sure your expression would give everything away if she saw you properly.

Your mom chuckled softly. "alright, rest up then. we'll leave around 9 tomorrow morning. goodnight, you two."

"Goodnight" Riki replied smoothly.

The moment the door closed, you let out a long, frustrated breath against his chest.

Riki sighed too, tilting his head back.

Donghyuck’s gaze drops from the sky to him, slow and assessing. Then his lips curve—not surprised, not impressed. Just… amused. He pushes off the wall and takes Mark’s hand, grip firm.

“I know,” Donghyuck says. His English is smooth, almost lazy. “Hard not to.”

Mark laughs softly. “Fair. Just wanted to say—welcome to the league. Must be a lot, adjusting to life here. New country, new pressure.” He shrugs. “But you’ll do great.”

Donghyuck tilts his head, studying him like this is a test question he already knows the answer to.

“I know,” he says again, this time with more bite. Confidence sharp enough to cut.

Something warm flickers in Mark’s chest. Not irritation. Not exactly admiration either. Something dangerously close to interest.

“Well,” Mark says, smiling despite himself, stepping back. “See you around.”

As he turns to leave, Donghyuck calls after him softly.

“Annyeong.”

Mark pauses. Glances back over his shoulder, grin crooked, a little sheepish.

“My Korean’s not great,” he admits. Then, careful but sincere, "Annyeong.”

Donghyuck’s smile this time is slower. Darker. Like he’s just found something worth chasing.

The alley feels colder as Mark walks away.

And somehow, he knows—this won’t be the last time they meet like this.

-----------------

The Boston locker room hums low with pre-game energy—skates clacking against concrete, tape tearing, muted laughter that comes and goes in waves. Donghyuck sits on the bench at the far end, elbows resting on his knees, eyes closed.

Korean music fills his ears, familiar and grounding. The kind his mother used to play while cooking. The kind that makes his chest ache if he thinks about it too long.

He exhales slowly.

First regular season game. First real test. A city that still doesn’t quite feel like his.

Boston vs. Montreal.

Mark Lee.

The thought sneaks in uninvited, and Donghyuck’s lips curve despite himself. That easy smile. That calm confidence that doesn’t need to prove anything. Not flashy—but terrifyingly precise.

Focus.

The music fades as he pulls out his earbuds. Donghyuck stands, rolls his shoulders, grabs his helmet.

He’s ready.

The arena is electric.

Boston is loud, hungry, desperate for a statement win—and from the first drop of the puck, the ice feels alive. Donghyuck moves like he belongs there, fast and fearless, feeding off the roar of the crowd.

And Mark—

Donghyuck watches him when he can. Notices the way he anticipates plays seconds before they happen, how his positioning is flawless even when his shots aren’t the hardest on the ice. He’s disciplined. Relentless. Every movement practiced to perfection.

So that’s why, Donghyuck thinks. That’s why everyone talks about him.

But tonight, Boston is sharper.

The passes connect. The lines click. Everything gels in a way that feels almost unfair. Goals pile up. Montreal fights, but the gap keeps widening until the scoreboard is impossible to ignore.

By the final horn, Boston has crushed them.

The crowd erupts.

Donghyuck exhales, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his temples. Adrenaline buzzes through him as they line up at center ice—helmets off, gloves tossed aside, faces flushed and exhausted.

No hard feelings. Just respect.

He reaches Mark.

Their hands clasp briefly—warm, solid, lingering half a second longer than necessary.

Donghyuck leans in just enough that only Mark can hear him.

“Nice try.”

Mark’s head snaps back toward him, eyes sharp, almost offended.

Donghyuck’s smile is unapologetic.

The cameras catch it. The moment. The tension.

By morning, it’s everywhere.

THE LEE LINE RIVALRY LEE VS. LEE: HOCKEY’S NEW FIRESTORM BATTLE OF THE LEES IGNITES THE SEASON

But Donghyuck already knows—

This isn’t just a rivalry.

This is the beginning of something much more dangerous.

------------------

The gym is quieter than the arena—no roar, no cameras, just the dull rhythm of machines and the squeak of sneakers against rubber floors. Donghyuck slips in still riding the high, hoodie pulled low, headphones gone now. He freezes for half a second when he spots Mark across the room, towel around his neck, forearms flexing as he finishes a set.

They look at each other.

A nod. Mutual. Respectful.

Then they go back to their own routines.

Donghyuck runs until his lungs burn, lifts until his arms shake, works the restless energy out of his body. When he finally sits, sweat-soaked and breathing hard, Mark is already there a few benches down, sprawled slightly, drinking water like he’s just survived something.

A beat passes.

Then Mark shifts, glancing over. “Good game today.”

Donghyuck lets out a quiet chuckle, leaning back. “It’s true what they say.” He tilts his head, eyes glinting. “You Canadians are so damn polite.”

Mark huffs a tired laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, I guess so.”

Silence settles—not awkward, just… easy.

“So,” Donghyuck continues, curious now, “you’re from Montreal? You speak French?”

Then he switches to Korean, his tone softer, slower—careful.

“You speak French?”

Mark blinks in surprise, then shakes his head, answering in Korean too, a little rough around the edges but sincere.

“No. I was born in Toronto, but my hometown is Vancouver. My French isn’t that good. I’m most comfortable with English.”

Donghyuck closes his eyes briefly, like the sound of it—English, familiar, grounding—does something good to him. He exhales.

“Where are you from?” Mark asks, switching back without thinking.

“I grew up on Jeju Island,” Donghyuck says, voice warming instantly. “Best place on earth.”

Mark hums, thoughtful, then says lightly, “I’ve never been. Maybe I’ll see you there someday.”

Before Donghyuck can respond, he reaches over, grabs Mark’s water bottle, and takes a long sip—unbothered, unapologetic.

Mark blinks. Then snorts, stealing it back. “Hey.”

Donghyuck just grins.

While Mark’s distracted, Donghyuck reaches for his phone, fingers quick and confident. He unlocks it easily—Mark hasn’t even set a password yet—and adds a new contact.

Lee Donghyuck.

He slides the phone back across the bench.

Mark looks down at it. Looks up at him. An eyebrow lifts. “Bold.”

Donghyuck shrugs, standing, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Rivals are more fun when you can text them.”

Then he walks out, leaving Mark sitting there longer than he planned—heart beating a little faster than it should after a loss.

----------------

Mark doesn’t sleep.

He stares at the ceiling of his hotel room in Boston, then the one back home in Montreal, replaying the gym over and over—Donghyuck’s voice, the casual way he took his bottle, the way he added his number like it was inevitable. The ball is in his court and Mark knows it. That thought alone makes his stomach twist.

He waits.

Three days. Then four.

By the time he finally caves, he’s already back in Montreal, thumb hovering over his phone like it might bite him.

hi it’s mark

Across the continent, Donghyuck’s phone lights up.

He smiles immediately.

hi mark.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

They text all day. And the next. And the next. About nothing and everything—music, travel, bad road trips, food they miss, the weird pressure of being watched all the time. Donghyuck texts in Korean, fingers flying, comforted by the language. Mark sticks to English, claiming his Korean spelling is “actually embarrassing, trust me.”

Donghyuck teases him mercilessly.

A week later, Washington D.C.

Another charity event. Another room full of donors and flashing cameras and carefully curated smiles.

Donghyuck spots Mark across the room and actually has to stop himself.

Suit and tie, hair styled just enough, glasses perched on his nose like he’s trying to pretend he doesn’t know how devastating he looks. Soft-spoken, polite—endearing in a way Donghyuck doesn’t know what to do with.

He bites his lip.

Mark catches him staring and lifts his chin in greeting. A nod.

Donghyuck nods back.

Later—inevitably—they end up on the rooftop. Cool air, city lights stretching endlessly below them. No cameras. No noise. Just the quiet hum of D.C. at night.

“Do you miss home?” Mark asks softly.

Donghyuck doesn’t even pretend to think about it. “Every second.”

Mark’s fingers curl around the railing. He hesitates. Then—carefully—“You’re… invited to my place in Montreal. Anytime. If you want.” A beat. “I’ll make you homemade Korean food.”

Donghyuck snorts. Actually snorts. “I watched your cooking segment on that variety show.”

Mark stills.

“…I’d rather not,” Donghyuck adds.

Mark freezes completely, then turns to him slowly, a lazy smile tugging at his mouth. “You watch my content?”

Donghyuck’s brain short-circuits.

Busted.

He scoffs, waving it off like it’s nothing. “You’re famous, Mark. Get over it.”

But his ears are red.

And Mark notices.

Mark smiles, slow and dawning, like something just clicked into place.

“Oh my god,” he says, half-laughing under his breath. “You like me.” He glances at Donghyuck, eyes warm. “I was kind of afraid you didn’t. But—yeah. I had it wrong.”

Donghyuck rolls his eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. “Why would I text you all the time if I hated you?” he asks flatly.

Mark shrugs, sheepish. “Just my anxiety, I guess.”

“Well, stop overthinking everything,” Donghyuck says, already stepping closer. He pats Mark’s shoulder casually—too casually. “You wanna eat Korean food together? Come to my hotel room later. Let’s order in.”

Then he turns and leaves like he hasn’t just flipped Mark’s entire night upside down.

Two hours later, they’re sitting cross-legged on the carpet of Donghyuck’s hotel room, takeout containers spread between them—kimchi jjigae still steaming, bulgogi glistening, rice warm and comforting, the sharp tang of kimchi and seaweed filling the air.

Donghyuck takes the first bite of soup and actually lets out a sound, eyes fluttering shut.

Mark’s ears burn instantly.

He looks away, tells himself it’s nothing—just exhaustion, just nerves—then focuses on his own food. But he keeps glancing back despite himself, finding an odd kind of satisfaction in watching Donghyuck eat like this, relaxed and happy and completely at home for once.

“What’s your favorite food?” Mark asks quietly.

Donghyuck doesn’t hesitate. He answers in Korean, voice softer than before.

“The kimchi jjigae my mom makes.”

He finishes the last of the soup with a contented sigh.

When they’re done, there’s a strange pause. Containers pushed aside. The city humming faintly through the window. Neither of them quite ready to leave.

Donghyuck breaks the silence first. “You wanna watch a movie or something?”

Mark nods immediately, relief and anticipation mixing in his chest. “Yeah. Sure.”

They shift closer on the bed, shoulder to shoulder—not touching, not yet—but close enough that the space between them feels louder than anything else in the room.

Ten minutes into the movie, Donghyuck sighs.

He pauses it.

“I can feel you worrying from here,” he says, turning slightly. “What is it?”

Mark shakes his head too fast. “What? No. I’m just—chilling.” He tugs at his collar, awkward.

Donghyuck snorts. “I’m not gonna attack you, Lee. Calm down.”

Mark laughs despite himself, shoulders loosening. “I know. I just…” He exhales. “I don’t really make friends in the league that easily. Other than my teammates. So this is kind of weird.”

Donghyuck nods, understanding settling in easily. “Yeah. I get that.”

Then, quieter but deliberate, “Well… don’t make too many more, okay? Leave some room.”

Mark doesn’t think before answering. “There’s always room for you.”

The words hang there.

They both look at each other—and Mark knows he’s staring. At Donghyuck’s mouth. The curve of it. The way his lips part just slightly when he’s thinking.

Donghyuck notices.

He also notices Mark’s lips. Soft. Pink. Nervously bitten like he’s been holding something back all night.

Neither of them speaks.

They lean in slowly, unconsciously, the space between them shrinking until it feels fragile, electric—

Click.

The movie resumes.

They both jolt apart like they’ve been burned.

“Oh—shit,” Donghyuck mutters, fumbling for the remote.

Mark’s already standing, heart racing. “I—I think I’m tired,” he blurts. “Long day.”

Donghyuck looks up at him, surprised but not upset. Just… searching.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Sure.”

Mark grabs his jacket, moving too fast, already halfway to the door. “Goodnight, Hyuck.”

“Goodnight, Mark.”

The door closes behind him.

And for the first time all night, Donghyuck sits back on the bed, staring at the paused screen—realizing that whatever this is between them?

It’s already started.

--------------

They don’t text.

Not once.

Donghyuck stares at his phone more than he wants to admit, convinced he misread everything—that rooftop, the food, the almost-kiss. Maybe Mark panicked because he didn’t feel the same. Maybe the friendship never existed at all.

Mark, meanwhile, spirals quietly. Replays the moment over and over. Wonders if he crossed a line, if he made Donghyuck uncomfortable, if silence is better than making it worse.

Two weeks pass like that.

Montreal.

Donghyuck sits in the visitors’ locker room, skates half-laced, phone heavy in his hand. He exhales and types before he can talk himself out of it.

good luck today

He sends it.

A few minutes later, it’s liked.

No reply.

His chest sinks.

The game is brutal—in the best way. Montreal plays sharper, faster, like they have something to prove. Mark is everywhere on the ice, disciplined and relentless, forcing Boston to fight for every inch.

It’s close. Too close.

Boston still takes it in the end.

They line up at center ice, hands clasping briefly, professionally. No whispers this time. No eye contact lingering too long.

Nothing.

Two hours later, Donghyuck’s phone buzzes while he’s still staring at the hotel ceiling.

Wanna come over?

He sits straight up.

Stares.

Then: yeah.

Mark opens the door himself.

He looks exhausted—hair undone, hoodie soft, eyes too honest. Donghyuck barely gets a chance to step inside before Mark’s already rubbing his face, exhaling hard.

They sit on opposite ends of the couch. Too much space. Too quiet.

“I’m sorry,” Mark says finally. “I panicked.”

Donghyuck’s shoulders loosen just a little. He smiles softly. “It’s okay.”

Mark shakes his head immediately. “No—it’s not. I mean, it is, but—” He runs a hand through his hair, words spilling out now. “I wanted to kiss you. I really did. And you’re—” he swallows, voice dropping, “you’re so pretty it actually hurts. And I couldn’t tell if it was just the moment, or the adrenaline, or bad timing, and I didn’t want to ruin—”

Donghyuck leans in and kisses him.

Just like that.

No warning. No hesitation.

Mark freezes—three full seconds where his brain short-circuits entirely—then his hands come up on instinct, cupping Donghyuck’s face like he’s afraid he might disappear. He kisses him back gently, carefully, like he’s been wanting to do this for weeks and still can’t quite believe it’s real.

When they pull back, their foreheads rest together.

The distance, the silence—

Gone.

Finally.

The kiss doesn’t stop this time.

If anything, it gets worse....in the best way.

Donghyuck shifts first, turning toward him fully, then slowly climbing into Mark’s lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His arms slide around Mark’s shoulders, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as he kisses him deeper, softer, then harder again.

Mark’s hands hesitate for half a second before settling on Donghyuck’s waist.

Then he relaxes.

Gets bolder.

He tilts his head, kisses back with intent, with want—and Donghyuck lets out a soft sound against his mouth that makes Mark’s chest tighten. He pulls Donghyuck closer instinctively, like he’s afraid of letting go.

Mark breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe.

Donghyuck chases his lips immediately, smiling when Mark laughs quietly against his mouth.

“You know this isn’t casual for me, right?” Mark says, voice low, almost shy now. “I really like you.”

Donghyuck rolls his eyes fondly, forehead pressing against Mark’s. “Yeah. I know.”

Then he grabs his face again and kisses him like it doesn’t need to be said twice.

Donghyuck shifts, hips moving without thinking, and Mark’s breath stutters. His hands tighten reflexively—

“Wait—wait,” Mark says quickly.

Donghyuck stills instantly, concern flashing across his face. “What? Too far?”

“No—no,” Mark rushes out, embarrassed, scratching the back of his neck. “It’s just… I don’t have, um. Anything. No lube or condoms.”

Donghyuck blinks.

Then he laughs, leaning forward to kiss him again—slow, reassuring. “Then we’ll wait.”

He rests his forehead against Mark’s, smiling softly. “We’re good at that, remember?”

Mark exhales, relieved, arms still wrapped around him like he’s not ready to let go just yet.

And for the first time since they met,

Neither of them feels rushed.

-----------------

Mark drives him back to the hotel in near silence, the kind that feels full instead of awkward. Donghyuck’s knee brushes his once, twice, like it’s accidental but neither of them moves away.

At the entrance, Donghyuck hesitates before opening the door.

“Text me when you get home,” he says.

Mark nods. “Always.”

They kiss one last time—slow, unhurried, like they’re trying to memorize it. Donghyuck pulls back first, smiling softly, then turns and walks inside.

Mark doesn’t leave right away.

He watches until Donghyuck disappears into the lobby, until the doors slide shut, until there’s nothing left to look at except the reflection of himself in the glass—grinning like an idiot.

They text constantly after that.

Good mornings. Bad jokes. Voice notes sent late at night when neither of them can sleep. Mark sends pictures of his dog, of the snow piling up outside his apartment. Donghyuck sends photos of coffee cups, hotel windows, sunsets from planes.

It feels stupid and giddy and new—like a crush they’re both pretending they don’t have, while absolutely having it.

But not everything is light.

Some nights, Donghyuck stares at his phone long after Mark’s last message. 

His father’s texts sit unread for hours, then minutes, then they pile up again. Demands disguised as guilt. Reminders of everything Donghyuck supposedly left behind.

Your mother is sick. You think hockey is more important than family? You forgot where you came from.

Donghyuck sends money anyway. Always does. Then sits with the ache that follows, the quiet voice that tells him he’s selfish, ungrateful, not enough.

That’s the day he calls Mark.

Mark answers immediately. “Hey, are you okay?”

There’s a pause. Donghyuck looks out at the city below his hotel window.

“Yeah,” he says. “I just… needed to hear your voice.”

Mark doesn’t push. Doesn’t ask questions Donghyuck isn’t ready to answer. He just talks about practice, about a dumb commercial shoot, about how he burned his dinner again and absolutely should not be trusted in a kitchen.

Donghyuck smiles, eyes closing.

They talk about their next game which is two months away. About how long that feels.

Then Donghyuck says it quietly, like he’s afraid of the answer. “Would you… wanna fly down and see me sometime? Before then.”

There’s no hesitation.

“Yeah,” Mark says easily. “Of course.”

Donghyuck exhales, something in his chest loosening for the first time all day.

For once, the distance doesn’t feel so heavy.

Because this time...

They’re choosing each other.

---------------

Mark tells himself it’s harmless.

Curiosity, that’s all.

He’s been putting it off on purpose, every instinct telling him that once he starts, he won’t stop, but tonight his apartment is too quiet, his phone too far away, his thoughts too loud. So he opens his laptop and types Donghyuck’s name into the search bar.

Enter.

It starts easy.

Interviews. Highlights. Analysis clips. Old pre-rookie footage where Donghyuck looks younger, sharper around the edges, grin too big for his face. Mark watches one, then another. Most of them don’t have English subtitles, but it doesn’t matter. His understanding has always been better than his speaking, he catches the jokes, the confidence, the way Donghyuck’s voice shifts when he’s nervous.

He smiles without realizing it.

God, he’s always been like this.

Mark scrolls. Clicks. Scrolls again.

He’s almost at the end of the wormhole when a thumbnail catches his eye.

An old photo.

Donghyuck, barely older than a kid, standing outside what looks like a café, fingers laced with someone else’s. A girl. Long hair, casual smile, her head tilted toward him like it belongs there.

Mark clicks before he can stop himself.

The article is old. Buried. From years ago. High school sweetheart, it says. Before the move. Before the league. Nothing scandalous. Nothing dramatic. Just history.

Still, his stomach flips hard.

Oh.

He hadn’t known.

The thought settles uncomfortably in his chest: I didn’t know he was into girls.

Which is stupid. Of course it’s stupid. Plenty of people date girls. Plenty of people date more than one gender. Plenty of people don’t fit neatly into the boxes Mark’s anxiety insists on building.

And yet,

Mark leans back in his chair, staring at the screen, feeling something tight and unfamiliar twist under his ribs.

He doesn’t think he was ever into girls. Not really. He’d tried to be normal about it, tried to ignore the quiet knowing that had always been there, tried to bury it under hockey and discipline and being the good kid everyone expected.

So why does this bother him?

It’s not jealousy, not exactly. It’s not distrust. Donghyuck hasn’t lied to him. They never labeled anything. Never promised anything.

But the idea that Donghyuck had loved someone else like that openly, easily, without fear makes something ache.

Mark closes the tab.

Sits there in the dark, laptop humming softly.

He tells himself it doesn’t change anything.

Still, when his phone lights up a moment later with a message from Donghyuck, something dumb, something sweet, Mark feels the weight of that unanswered question pressing quietly between them.

And for the first time since they kissed....

He wonders what parts of Donghyuck he doesn’t know yet.

-----------------

Mark lands in Boston with his heart in his throat.

He's in a suit, still doesn't know if it's the right move. Don't overthink it.

He even stops at a florist on the way, standing there awkwardly while the woman behind the counter helps him pick something simple. Thoughtful. Date-appropriate, he hopes.

When Donghyuck opens the door, he barely gets a chance to speak.

Hyuck takes one look at him—tie straight, hair neatly styled, flowers clutched a little too tightly—and bursts out laughing.

“Oh my god,” Donghyuck says, hand over his mouth. “You’re so cute.”

Mark groans. “Hey, don’t laugh. I’m trying to ask you out on a proper date. Hyuck, knock it off.” He pouts without meaning to.

Donghyuck’s laughter softens into something warm and fond.

Then he grabs Mark by the collar.

He pulls him down into a deep kiss, tugging him inside by the tie, the door shutting behind them with a quiet thud. Mark melts instantly, a low sound slipping out of him as his hands fumble for balance, shoes kicked off clumsily by the door.

Donghyuck breaks the kiss just long enough to breathe, forehead pressed to Mark’s.

He takes the flowers, suddenly shy. “Thank you.”

He disappears into the kitchen, muttering something about finding a vase. Mark sits on the couch, heart racing, smiling to himself like he can’t believe this is real.

Donghyuck comes back with water and Korean snacks, setting them down carefully. He takes Mark’s jacket without asking, smooths it once, and hangs it in the closet like it belongs there.

“So,” Donghyuck says, sitting beside him now, knee brushing his. “You wanna take me out on a date?”

Mark swallows, then smiles. “Well… I know we can’t really go out in public yet. But maybe we could have one here?”

Donghyuck considers it for half a second.

Then he nods. “Yeah. I like that idea.”

He leans in, resting his head briefly against Mark’s shoulder, easy, comfortable, like they’ve been doing this forever.

And for the first time, Mark doesn’t feel like he’s overthinking anything at all.

They sit at the dining table with takeout spread between them again, familiar now, comforting. Mark doesn’t complain. He never would. The food is good, the company better.

They eat in near silence at first. Not awkward. Just quiet.

But Mark’s mind won’t let it go.

“So,” he starts, poking at his rice a little too carefully. “First date question.” He glances up. “Can I ask about… exes? Or, I don’t know. Any lovers waiting for you when you get back home?”

Donghyuck doesn’t even pause. Keeps eating.

“Nope.”

Mark nods, tries to let it go. Fails.

“No one you’re still hung up on?” he asks, softer. “Or miss?”

“Nope,” Donghyuck repeats, same calm, same certainty.

Mark swallows. “I’m just asking because I saw this picture online. Of you and this really pretty girl. And I was just wondering if maybe—” He trails off, frustrated with himself. “I don’t know what I’m asking, really.”

Donghyuck sighs.

He sets his chopsticks down slowly and looks at Mark properly now.

“I’m gay, Mark,” he says, blunt but not cruel. “Gay. Into men only. Into you only.”

Mark’s breath catches.

“That girl?” Donghyuck continues, voice steady but edged with something old. “High school. When I was trying to repress who I was. I’d rather not talk about it because that was one of the hardest times in my life.”

He picks his chopsticks back up.

“Happy now?”

Mark doesn’t answer right away.

He just watches him for a second, chest tight, heart painfully full. He wants to say yes. Wants to say it does put my heart at ease. Wants to say I was scared for nothing.

But he also hears the hurt under Donghyuck’s words.

So instead, quietly, carefully, he says, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up something painful.”

Donghyuck shrugs, but his shoulders relax a little. “It’s fine.”

Mark reaches across the table, not touching yet, just close enough to be felt. “Thank you for telling me.”

Donghyuck looks at him then. Really looks.

And Mark realizes—relief isn’t the only thing in his chest.

It’s trust.

Donghyuck chews thoughtfully for a second, then glances up at him. “It’s only fair,” he says. “You asked about my past. What about yours?”

Mark exhales, fingers curling around his glass. “I’ve… never really been into anyone else,” he admits quietly. “It took me a long time to even admit to myself that I like guys.” He hesitates, then adds, almost sheepish, “No one knows. You’re the only one.”

Donghyuck’s brows lift, genuine surprise flashing across his face. “Really?”

Mark nods.

“Well,” Donghyuck says slowly, “you’re the only one who knows I’m gay too.” He shrugs, trying to make it casual. “I think my dad probably suspects it. He’s not stupid. But we’ve never talked about it.”

Mark swallows. “Yeah… I think my parents and my brother might think it too. We’ve just never said anything out loud.”

There’s a quiet understanding between them, heavy but not suffocating.

“It doesn’t really matter right now,” Donghyuck says after a moment. “I don’t plan on coming out anytime soon. Being a rookie in the NHL, being a foreigner—it’s just not in the cards for me.”

Mark nods, a little sadness settling in his chest. He gets it. Still, it hurts in a way he doesn’t fully know how to name.

Donghyuck notices.

“Hey,” he says gently, pushing his chair back and reaching out a hand. “Let’s not get too heavy. I’m just… really glad we get to have this moment. Together.”

Mark takes his hand without hesitation, thumb brushing lightly over Donghyuck’s knuckles.

“Me too,” he says, smiling—soft, real, a little vulnerable.

And for now, that feels like enough.

-------------

Mark sinks back onto the couch while Donghyuck disappears into the kitchen, returning a moment later with two mango Melonas, already unwrapped.

“For you,” Donghyuck says, handing one over.

Mark smiles. “You know the good stuff.”

“Obviously.”

They eat side by side, knees brushing. Somehow, predictably, Mark manages to drip a streak of melted mango onto his dress shirt.

“Oh my god,” Mark groans, staring down at it like it personally betrayed him. “Of course.”

He tugs at the collar, unbuttoning the top few buttons to assess the damage before realizing what he’s doing and freezing, ears turning pink.

Donghyuck notices.

He finishes the rest of his ice cream in one bite, eyes never leaving Mark.

Then he swings a leg over Mark’s lap and straddles him casually, like this is the most natural thing in the world. Mark goes completely still, breath deepening without his permission.

“Relax,” Donghyuck murmurs.

He reaches out and slowly unbuttons the rest of Mark’s shirt, fingers deliberate, unhurried. Mark’s hands hover uselessly at his sides, every nerve ending awake.

Donghyuck slips the shirt off one shoulder, then the other. “I’ll add it to my dry cleaning tomorrow,” he says lightly, ignoring that Mark Lee is now shirtless on his couch.

He starts to stand, but Mark’s hand shoots out, grabbing his wrist.

In one smooth motion, Mark pulls him back down into his lap.

Donghyuck lets out a surprised sound before melting into it, hands bracing against Mark’s shoulders.

Mark's lips crashed against Donghyuck's with a hunger that surprised them both, their tongues tangling fiercely on the worn cushions of Hyuck's couch. Mark's bare chest pressing hot against Donghyuck's clothed one, the heat of his skin seeping through the thin fabric.

Donghyuck's hands roamed up Mark's back, fingers digging into the firm muscles there as the kiss deepened, all teeth and desperate sucks.

Mark broke away just long enough to yank Donghyuck's shirt up and over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought. 

His mouth returned immediately, trailing open-mouthed kisses down the newly exposed column of Donghyuck's neck. He nipped at the sensitive skin, teeth grazing just hard enough to leave faint red marks, sucking greedily at the pulse point that fluttered wildly under his lips.

Donghyuck arched into it, a soft gasp escaping as Mark's hand slid up his side, thumb brushing over one nipple before scraping across it with his nail—sharp, deliberate pressure that sent a jolt straight to Donghyuck's core.

'Fuck, Mark,' Donghyuck gasped, his voice breathy and wrecked, body trembling under the assault. 

Mark, who was usually all hesitant touches and shy glances, had flipped a switch tonight. 

There was no pausing for permission, no second-guessing; he was primal, driven by raw want, his eyes dark and focused as he claimed every inch he could reach. 

It lit Donghyuck up from the inside, heat pooling low in his belly, his cock twitching in his pants at the sheer dominance pouring off the usually reserved guy.

Mark pulled back slightly, his breath ragged, and scooped Donghyuck up into his arms like he weighed nothing. Donghyuck wrapped his legs around Mark's waist instinctively, mouth latching onto the side of Mark's neck in retaliation. 

He sucked hard, tongue swirling over the spot, tasting salt and skin as Mark groaned low in his throat and started moving. Strong hands gripped Donghyuck's thighs, holding him steady as Mark carried him down the hall to the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them with a decisive thud.

They tumbled onto the bed in a heap of limbs, but somehow Donghyuck ended up straddling Mark's hips, his knees bracketing those narrow hips. "Check my drawer." Hyuck says. 

Mark's hands were everywhere—sliding up Donghyuck's back, then down to squeeze his ass—before he reached for the nightstand drawer. He grabbed the lube, popping the cap with one hand while the other kept Donghyuck pinned in place with a firm grip on his hip.

'Lie back a little,' Mark murmured, his voice rough but steady, guiding Donghyuck to shift so he could work. He slicked his fingers generously, eyes locking onto Donghyuck's as he pressed one tip against his entrance. 

Slow circles at first, teasing the rim before pushing in gently, watching every flicker of expression on Donghyuck's face. 'Does that feel good, baby? You like my finger stretching you open?'

The words hit like a spark, filthy and direct, making Donghyuck's head spin. He nodded frantically, biting his lip as Mark added a second finger, scissoring them carefully, curling just right to brush that spot inside him. 

Their gazes stayed connected, intense and unbreaking, Mark's free hand stroking Donghyuck's thigh in soothing passes even as his thrusts grew more purposeful.

'God, yes—Mark, please,' Donghyuck whined, his body clenching around the intrusion, hips rocking down greedily. He was ready, so ready, the stretch burning sweet and insistent. With a frustrated huff, he batted Mark's hand away, the fingers slipping free with a wet sound.

Donghyuck didn't waste time; he shoved his own pants down just enough, then tugged at Mark's until his cock sprang free—thick and hard, flushed dark with need.

Shifting up, Donghyuck positioned himself, gripping the base of Mark's cock to line it up. He sank down slowly, inch by inch, the head breaching him with a tight, slick slide that made his toes curl. 

Mark's hands flew to his waist, holding but not forcing, letting him set the pace as Donghyuck bottomed out, fully seated with a shaky exhale.

Mark dropped his head back into the pillow, a deep groan rumbling from his chest. 'Shit, you feel so good... so fucking tight around me.' His eyes squeezed shut for a moment, savoring the vice-like grip, the heat enveloping him completely.

Donghyuck leaned forward, hands braced on Mark's chest, whispering hot against his ear, 'You're so big... filling me up like this.' The words drew a smile from Mark, lazy and satisfied, his eyes still closed as he basked in it.

Emboldened, Donghyuck started to move, lifting up and sliding back down in a slow, deliberate rhythm. His thighs burned with the effort, but the drag of Mark's cock inside him was addictive, hitting deep with every roll of his hips. 

Mark's eyes snapped open, watching him intently, one hand sliding up to thumb at Donghyuck's nipple again.

'Pretty boy,' Mark rasped, voice laced with awe and hunger, 'riding my dick like you were made for it.'

Donghyuck's hips stuttered at the praise, a full-body shiver ripping through him. He hadn't expected this from Mark Lee—the shy one who blushed at compliments—turning into a total freak in bed, all dirty talk and commanding presence. 

It only spurred him on, his pace quickening as he chased the building friction.

But Mark wasn't content to just watch. In a fluid move, he bucked up once, hard, then flipped them over, pinning Donghyuck beneath him without pulling out. 

Now on top, Mark planted his hands on Donghyuck's hips, fingers digging in as he started driving in faster, deeper, the bed creaking under the force. Each thrust punched the air from Donghyuck's lungs, his legs wrapping around Mark's waist to pull him closer, nails raking down his back.

The pace built relentlessly, skin slapping against skin, the room filling with their shared gasps and moans. Sweat slicked their bodies, Mark's muscles flexing with every snap of his hips. Donghyuck's cock trapped between them rubbed against Mark's abs, leaking steadily, the pressure coiling tighter in his gut.

Mark dropped his head, capturing Donghyuck's mouth in a messy kiss, tongues sliding, as he angled his hips just right, grinding against that sweet spot on every inward stroke. Donghyuck clenched hard around him in response, the tight squeeze pulling a guttural moan from Mark's throat.

It was too much; the tension snapped all at once. 

Donghyuck came first, spilling hot between their stomachs with a cry muffled against Mark's lips, his walls fluttering wildly. Mark followed seconds later, burying himself deep and pulsing inside, cum flooding Donghyuck as he groaned long and low, their bodies locked together in the throes of mutual release.

--------------

Morning comes quietly.

Donghyuck wakes slow, heavy with warmth, the kind of sleep that feels earned. He blinks, lashes fluttering as he comes back to himself, back to his bed, his room, Mark’s steady breathing beneath his ear.

He’s draped over Mark’s chest, one leg tangled with his, Mark’s arm slung securely around his back like he never planned on letting go.

Donghyuck smiles.

He presses a soft kiss to Mark’s bare chest, right over his heart, then settles back in, eyes closing again as he cuddles closer. Mark sighs in his sleep, instinctively tightening his hold, pulling Donghyuck in like he belongs there.

They stay like that for a few minutes. Maybe longer.

Eventually, Donghyuck tries to move.

Mark’s grip tightens reflexively, brows knitting even in sleep, as if his body knows before his mind does.

“Mark…” Donghyuck whispers, barely there.

He moves slowly, carefully, easing himself out inch by inch until Mark’s arm loosens enough for him to slip free. Donghyuck replaces himself with a pillow, tucking it gently into Mark’s chest.

Mark exhales, shivering slightly in nothing but his boxers.

Donghyuck frowns softly, pulls the blanket up over him, and kisses the top of his head before padding out of the room.

In the bathroom, he brushes his teeth, splashes water on his face and pauses when he catches his reflection.

Hickeys. On his neck. On Mark’s, visible even from here when he glances back toward the bedroom.

He swallows, something warm blooming in his chest.

The kitchen feels domestic in a way that makes his heart ache. He pulls out a pan, starts pancakes, the smell filling the apartment. He sets the table neatly, then hesitates before grabbing the maple syrup from the cupboard.

He’s Canadian, Donghyuck thinks with a smile. Of course.

He places it front and center.

When he goes back to the bedroom, Mark is still asleep, mouth slightly open, hair a mess, peaceful in a way Donghyuck’s never seen him before.

He stands there for a moment, just watching.

Mark Lee, the golden boy. The one everyone loves. The one who’s always composed, always kind, always careful.

In his bed.

Like this.

Only Donghyuck gets to see him this soft. This unguarded. Only Donghyuck gets to have him like this.

The thought settles deep in his chest, possessive and tender all at once.

Donghyuck smiles, quiet and fond, and leans down to kiss Mark’s temple—already looking forward to when he wakes up.

------------

The last game of the season feels different.

They’ve seen each other in between—quiet hotel rooms, rushed mornings, slow nights where nothing happens except talking and existing together. Hot sometimes. Gentle other times. Never labeled. Never questioned. Just… theirs.

Tonight, Montreal is on fire.

Mark feels it from the first shift, his body moving before his thoughts, instincts sharp, confidence steady. He leads the charge like he was born for this, golden under the lights, smiling even as the pressure mounts.

When the final buzzer sounds, the arena erupts.

Montreal wins.

Mark skates off grinning, chest heaving, joy buzzing through him as teammates swarm him. Golden rookie. Franchise darling. Everything everyone said he’d be.

They line up to shake hands.

When Mark reaches Donghyuck, their hands clasp, firm and familiar.

“Good game,” Donghyuck murmurs under his breath.

Mark’s smile widens, soft just for him. “Good game.”

The after-party is loud and crowded and full of celebration, but somehow they still end up on the roof. Like they always do.

The city sprawls beneath them, summer air thick and warm. Mark leans against the railing, shoulder brushing Donghyuck’s.

“You should come to Montreal,” Mark says, casual but hopeful. “Stay with me for a bit.”

Donghyuck exhales slowly. “I can’t.”

Mark turns to him, surprised. “Why?”

“I’m going home,” Donghyuck says. “Korea. Season’s over, I miss my family. My old life. I need to be home.”

Mark blinks. “The whole summer?”

Donghyuck nods.

Something sinks in Mark’s chest. Not jealousy. Not anger. Just the quiet realization of how much of Donghyuck’s life exists beyond him—histories, responsibilities, pieces he hasn’t seen yet.

He’s only a part of it.

A small one.

Mark nods, biting his lip, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Okay. Then… I’ll see you next season.”

Donghyuck steps closer immediately, pulling him into a hug tight and grounding.

“I’ll text,” he says quietly. “A lot.”

Then, before Mark can respond, Donghyuck presses a quick kiss to his lips. Soft. Brief. A promise more than anything else.

Mark watches him walk back inside, heart heavy but full all at once.

Next season.

It’s far away.

But it’s something.

----------------

The first few weeks are… okay.

They text. Not constantly like before, but enough that Mark tells himself it’s normal. Time zones are brutal. Donghyuck’s busy. Family time. Rest.

Then it thins.

A message every few days. Sometimes just a reaction. Sometimes nothing for a week.

Mark never double-texts.

He pours it into his body instead—early mornings, late nights, rehab and conditioning and strength training until his muscles burn in a way that feels productive. He skates alone sometimes, imagining pressure that isn’t there yet. He tells himself this is good. Necessary. This is what summers are for.

Still, some nights he checks his phone a little too often.

On the other side of the world, Jeju is beautiful in a way that almost hurts.

The ocean is endless. The air is clean. The sunsets are the kind people fly across the world to see.

Donghyuck barely notices.

He spends his days helping his mother, driving her to appointments, cooking when she’s too tired, sitting beside her when she falls asleep mid-conversation. He loves her fiercely. Would do this forever if it meant she was okay.

His father makes sure it never feels like enough.

“You abandoned your family.”

“All that money and you still can’t fix anything.”

"Then stares at the ceiling at night, chest tight, phone face-down beside him.

He wants to text Mark more.

He really does.

But some days he doesn’t know how to explain this version of himself—the one who feels small and angry and exhausted, who doesn’t feel like the confident Boston rookie Mark fell for. He doesn’t want to bring this darkness into something that was warm.

So he sends less.

Short replies. Safe ones.

And every night, when the house finally goes quiet, Donghyuck lies in bed and lets his mind drift somewhere else.

To cold air and bright lights.

To the scrape of blades on ice.

To a Montreal player with kind eyes and a smile that makes his heart flip painfully in his chest.

Mark Lee.

He dreams of him without trying.

And when he wakes up, the ache is still there.

Donghyuck stares at his phone for a long time before he presses call.

It’s late. Too late. He knows it is, but he does it anyway because the house is quiet, because his chest feels too tight, because he’s tired of holding everything in by himself.

The line rings.

Once. Twice.

Then—“Hello?”

Mark’s voice is rough with sleep, low and warm, like it’s coming from underwater.

Donghyuck’s breath catches. “Fuck sorry. I didn’t think—” He glances at the time and winces. “It’s, um… sorry. Is it like four in the morning there?”

There’s a pause. Then Mark exhales softly, almost like a laugh. “Yeah. 4:30.”

“I’ll hang up,” Donghyuck says quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” Mark cuts in gently. “It’s okay. I—” He stops, then admits quietly, “I thought I was dreaming.”

Donghyuck swallows. “I just… needed to hear your voice.”

That does it. Whatever grogginess Mark had fades instantly.

“Hey,” he says, more awake now. “It’s okay. I’m here.”

They sit in that for a moment the distance, the relief, the familiarity rushing back in.

“So,” Donghyuck says, forcing lightness into his tone. “What have you been up to, Montreal boy?”

Mark smiles into the dark. He tells him about training, about skating early in the mornings, about how his body feels stronger, faster. About physio and routines and boring meals and trying to stay disciplined even when summer feels endless.

Donghyuck listens quietly, picturing it easily. He always does.

“And you?” Mark asks after a beat. Then hesitates. “You sound… not okay.”

Donghyuck opens his mouth automatically. “I’m fine.”

The lie sits heavy on his tongue.

There’s silence on the other end—not pressure, just patience. Mark doesn’t rush him. Doesn’t challenge it. He just waits.

Donghyuck closes his eyes.

“I’m—” He exhales shakily. “I’m not fine. I’m not.”

Mark doesn’t say I knew it. He doesn’t interrupt.

“It’s just… been really hard here,” Donghyuck continues, voice quieter now. “This summer. Korea. My family.” He stops himself before the words spill too far, too messy. Before he says things he’s not ready to unpack yet.

“I don’t want to dump everything on you,” he adds quickly. “I just… yeah. It’s been hard.”

Mark shifts on the other end of the line, sitting up now. “I’m really glad you called,” he says softly. “You don’t have to explain everything. But you don’t have to be alone either.”

Donghyuck presses his phone closer to his ear, eyes stinging just a little.

“Can we just… talk for a bit?” he asks. “About nothing. Or anything.”

“Yeah,” Mark says without hesitation. “As long as you want.”

And for the first time in weeks, Donghyuck lets himself breathe knowing that, even from halfway across the world, Mark is still there.

They talk a little longer, small things, safe things. Weather. Hockey clips Donghyuck watched at three in the morning. A stupid story Mark tells about almost sleeping through physio.

Then Donghyuck goes quiet.

And when he speaks again, it’s fast. Too fast. Korean spilling out of him like he’s been holding it in for months and the dam finally cracked.

It’s exactly like I knew it would be. Being home. My dad looks at me like I already failed before I even open my mouth. Every conversation turns into him grilling me—why I left, why I don’t visit enough, why I’m not doing more. Even though he pushed me towards Hockey.

Meanwhile I’m taking care of my mom, driving her to appointments, making sure she eats, making sure she takes her meds. I send money every month because I still care, because I can’t not care. But none of it is ever enough. No matter how hard I try, it’s never enough.

His voice trembles, words running into each other.

I feel empty, Mark. Like there’s something missing inside me now. I don’t have anyone here to talk to. No one I can really be myself with. And during hockey season, when I’m away, I get so homesick it physically hurts—but now I’m home and I feel even worse. Like I don’t belong anywhere.

He laughs once, broken and breathless.

The only good things I have right now are hockey… and you.

Tears slide down his face unchecked, dripping off his chin.

And I hate myself for it. I hate that I have to hide who I am from so many people. I hate that I have to be careful all the time. I just want freedom—just one thing in my life where I don’t have to pretend.

His voice drops, softer now, almost ashamed.

You have no idea how much happiness you’ve brought into my life. Just talking to you. Hearing you. But I’m scared. I’m scared I’ll drag you down with me, with all of this. So I never say what we are. I keep you at a distance. Because if I lose you… I don’t know what I’d do.

There’s a sharp inhale, like he’s realizing how much he’s just said.

“I— I have to go,” Donghyuck says suddenly, switching back to English, voice tight. “I’m sorry. I’ll talk to you later.”

Before Mark can say his name, the line goes dead.

Donghyuck drops the phone onto the bed and folds in on himself, sobs ripping out of his chest as he presses his face into the pillow, shoulders shaking, alone with everything he just let spill out.

Half a world away, Mark stares at his phone in the dark.

Donghyuck had been talking so fast—words blurring together, emotions bleeding through even when Mark couldn’t understand most of it. He’d caught fragments. Home. Dad. Not enough. Lonely.

But even without the language, Mark knows one thing with painful clarity.

Donghyuck is not okay.

And the thought of him crying alone on the other side of the world makes Mark’s chest ache in a way sleep will never touch.

-------------

The next day, Mark doesn’t text.

He records a voice note instead.

It’s five minutes long—way longer than he planned. He talks about stupid things. How he burned his toast. How the trainer roasted him for showing up with bedhead. How Montreal humidity should be illegal. He rambles about a drill he finally nailed, about a song that came on in the car that reminded him of winter.

Halfway through, his pronunciation gets careful. Slower.

“Uh…today I will practice hard,” he says, clearly thinking through every syllable, then laughs at himself. “Sorry. I’m still really bad. But I’m trying.”

He ends it awkwardly, like he doesn’t know how to sign off without making it heavy.

“Anyway. I hope you had a… decent day. Talk soon, yeah?”

Donghyuck listens to it that night, sitting on the edge of his childhood bed, phone pressed to his ear.

And for the first time in weeks, he smiles.

It’s small. Soft. But real.

He listens twice. Three times. Especially the part where Mark tries Korean and immediately gets flustered. It makes his chest warm in a way that hurts a little.

So he sends one back.

In English.

He talks about going to the market with his mom, about the ocean in Jeju and how it smells like salt and rain. He jokes about how he forgot how loud cicadas are. He doesn’t mention his father. He keeps it light. But his voice sounds steadier than it did the night before.

Mark listens to it in bed, phone resting on his chest, grinning like an idiot.

For the next few days, it becomes their thing.

Voice notes in the morning. Voice notes before sleep. Sometimes long, sometimes barely a minute. Laughing. Teasing. Mark butchering Korean, Donghyuck correcting him gently. Donghyuck slipping into Korean for a sentence and translating himself without being asked.

It feels… easy.

Like something solid forming without either of them naming it.

Then one afternoon, Mark’s stretching on the living room floor when the TV catches his eye.

Sports news.

A familiar name flashes across the screen.

*TRADE RUMOURS HEATING UP — MONTREAL INTERESTED IN DONGHYUCK LEE*

Mark freezes.

The reporter keeps talking—cap space, end-of-season moves, “sources say talks are ongoing”—but Mark barely hears it. His heart starts pounding, loud and fast, like he just stepped onto the ice.

Montreal.

His team.

Next season.

Mark sits up slowly, staring at the screen like it might disappear if he blinks.

Halfway across the world, Donghyuck’s voice note notification lights up his phone.

And suddenly, the distance between them doesn’t feel quite as certain as it did yesterday.

--------------

Donghyuck feels it the moment he steps onto the plane.

That familiar tightness in his chest. The guilt of leaving his mother. The relief of escaping his father. The strange ache of knowing he won’t see Jeju’s ocean for months.

Korea always pulls at him when he leaves.

But this time, there’s something else tangled up in it.

Hope.

He stares out the window as the plane lifts, fingers curled around his phone, Mark’s last voice note replaying quietly in his head. The way he’d laughed. The way he’d said “text me when you land, okay?” like it mattered.

Montreal can either save him or break him, he thinks.

And he needs—desperately—for it to save him.

--------------

Wanna read the rest? The full ver is 27k including angst, smut and fluff.

You'd been on the guest list before, your brand had collaborated with half the houses present tonight alone, but this year felt different. 

This year, you weren't just a designer in attendance. You were the fiancée of one of Prada's youngest ambassadors, and the whole world knew it.

You'd spent the entire morning preparing. Not because you needed the time, you could throw together a look in twenty minutes flat, a skill honed from years of running your own label, but because the outfit required precision. 

Every detail was deliberate, every accessory a statement, and if there was one thing you refused to do, it was to show up to a Prada event looking anything less than editorial.

The fuzzy grey high-neck winter jacket was your own design, a prototype from your upcoming fall-winter collection that you'd finished stitching at two in the morning the night before. 

The thick scarf wrapped around your neck was a mix of blue, white, grey, and brown plaid patterns, hand-woven by a small atelier that was run by the sister of your online friend in Scotland that you'd been supporting since your brand first turned a profit. 

The black mini-skirt was deceptively simple, a high-waisted silhouette that hugged your hips just right, the hem hitting mid-thigh. 

Your brown winter boots were lined with shearling, practical but polished, the kind of footwear that said you understood the assignment: fashion first, frostbite second.

But the highlight, the pièce de résistance, was the tights.

Black polka dot tights. 

Tiny white dots scattered across the sheer black fabric, close enough together to form a pattern but far enough apart that you could still see skin underneath. The dots caught the light differently depending on the angle, shifting from stark white to almost pearlescent when you crossed your legs. You'd spent an embarrassing amount of time deliberating over them, holding up pair after pair in front of your full-length mirror until Riki had finally wandered into your studio, chin resting on your shoulder, arms looping around your waist, and murmured, "The polka dots. Obviously."

You were also wearing a pair of black-framed glasses, rounded, slightly oversized, with thin metal arms, that Riki had gifted you on your six-month anniversary. He'd picked them up from a vintage shop in Harajuku during a tour stop, tucked them into his carry-on between his passport and a half-eaten pack of melon bread, and presented them to you in the back of a van with his manager yelling at him to hurry up. 

The frames suited you in a way that made his chest tight every time you put them on, which was precisely why he'd bought them. Your hair was curled at the ends, soft waves framing your face, and your bangs were clipped back with two small silver clips, half-moon shaped, another one of your designs. White fuzzy earmuffs sat over your ears, the kind that looked like they belonged on a snow bunny in a 1960s ski film.

When you finally emerged from the bedroom, Riki was leaning against the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone with a glass of water in his other hand. He glanced up, did a full double-take, and then just — stopped.

His phone slipped. Not all the way, not dramatically, but enough that he fumbled to catch it, his fingers closing around it a second too late, and it clattered against the marble countertop with a sound that made you wince.

"Riki—"

"Don't move."

"Huh?"

"I said don't move." He set his glass down carefully, deliberately, like he was afraid any sudden movement would shatter the image in front of him. His eyes dragged over you slowly, from the earmuffs perched on your head to the glasses sitting on the bridge of your nose, down the column of your neck wrapped in plaid, the grey jacket, the mini-skirt, the polka dot tights, the boots, and something in his expression shifted. His lips parted. His throat worked. He looked, for a moment, like a man who had just realised he was thoroughly, devastatingly out of his depth.

"You look," he started, and then stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "You look unreal."

"You already said that when I tried on the jacket last week."

"I meant it then and I mean it now." He pushed off the counter and crossed the kitchen in three long strides, his hands finding your waist like they were magnetised to the spot. He dipped his head, pressing his forehead to yours, and you could feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips. "The tights," he said, voice low. His fingers skimmed down your side, over your hip, settling at the bare strip of thigh between your skirt hem and the top of your boots. "The tights are going to be a problem."

"Ow, you don't like them?"

"I like them too much." He kissed you then, soft and slow, his thumb tracing circles on the outside of your thigh where the polka dots pressed against your skin. When he pulled back, his eyes were half-lidded and there was a faint smudge of your lip gloss on his bottom lip. "We're going to be late."

"You started it."

"I'm aware." He smiled, the smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed the slight overlap of his front teeth. "Come on, baby. Car's waiting."

Riki's outfit was, by his own admission, "an attempt at restraint." A black puffer jacket with a fur-trimmed hood that made him look like he'd stepped out of a streetwear lookbook, a white sweater peeking out from underneath the hem and collar, baggy denim jeans that sat low on his hips in that effortlessly cool way that only he could pull off, and his trusty pair of winter boots, the same ones he'd worn to three different fashion weeks and refused to replace because, in his words, "they're broken in perfectly." Around his neck was a striped blue scarf that you were eighty percent sure he'd stolen from your dad's closet last Christmas, but you didn't have the heart to call him out on it because he looked so damn cozy wearing it.

The estate was beautiful in the way that only places with old money could be, ivory walls and wrought-iron gates, gravel paths that crunched underfoot, and a sprawling garden that had been transformed for the event. 

Heaters stood at intervals along the walkways, glowing orange against the early evening dark, and sheer tents had been erected over the main areas, their fabric catching the golden light of the chandeliers suspended within. 

The air smelled like pine and expensive perfume, and everywhere you looked, someone was wearing something that cost more than a semester of tuition.

You and Riki entered together, his hand resting on the small of your back, and the cameras erupted. Flash after flash after flash, a wall of white light that made your glasses reflect like mirrors, and Riki's grip on you tightened, not out of possessiveness, but out of practice. He'd learned to guide you through crowds like this, his body angling to shield you from the worst of the surge, his hand a steady anchor against the chaos.

"Over here, Mr. Nishimura!"

"Miss! Miss, over here! The tights—who designed them?"

"Are those your own brand? Can you confirm—"

You smiled, tilted your chin, let the cameras capture the outfit from every angle. Riki did the same beside you, effortless, practiced, the product of years in an industry that demanded you be both accessible and untouchable. But just before you stepped past the photo wall and into the venue proper, he leaned down and pressed his lips to your temple, and the resulting shutter sound was deafening.

"You're killing me," he muttered against your hair.

"Behave."

"No."

The event was the kind of thing that looked effortless but required an exhausting amount of social choreography. You and Riki had been seated at different tables, his as Prada's ambassador, yours as the founder of your label, and while the tables were only about twenty feet apart, the distance felt insurmountable in a room where every conversation was a negotiation and every smile was a calculated move.

You handled your end with the ease of someone who'd been doing this since she was nineteen, when your grandmother's old sewing machine had been your only investment and your kitchen table had been your cutting room. 

You shook hands with buyers, charmed editors, laughed at jokes that weren't funny, and somehow managed to compliment someone's shoes without lying. 

Your grandmother had raised you to be warm, to hug people when you met them, to touch their arm when you laughed, to lean in close when they spoke so they knew you were listening. It was second nature to you, as automatic as breathing, and in the fashion industry, where everyone was accustomed to a certain degree of frostiness, your affection was disarming.

Which was how you found yourself in conversation with a man whose name you hadn't quite caught, something French, maybe, or Belgian, who had apparently designed the installation's centrepiece and was very keen to tell you about it.

"Your work is extraordinary," he was saying, his accent rounding out the consonants in a way that made everything sound like a compliment. "The way you construct silhouettes—it's architectural. Structural. I see a lot of myself in it."

"Oh, thank you!" You beamed at him, genuine and bright, because you appreciated any kind of comparison to architecture. Your grandmother had been a seamstress, yes, but she'd also been the daughter of a carpenter, and she'd always told you that building a garment was no different from building a house, you needed a strong frame, good materials, and a steady hand. "That means a lot coming from you. The centrepiece is incredible, by the way. The use of negative space—"

He stepped closer. You didn't notice. You were too busy gesturing at the installation, your hands painting shapes in the air the way they always did when you were excited about something. He reached up and adjusted the clip in your bangs, his fingers brushing against your hairline, and said, "This was falling. I fixed it."

"Oh! Thank you," you said, smiling. "These clips are tricky, they slip sometimes—"

"Your glasses too. May I?" And before you could respond, he was sliding them further up the bridge of your nose, his fingertips grazing your cheek, and you blinked at the proximity but didn't pull away because why would you? He was being helpful. He was being nice. That was a thing people did — they helped each other. Your grandmother had always said that kindness was free and should be given freely, and you'd lived your whole life by that philosophy.

Across the venue, Riki was in the middle of a conversation with a Prada executive about an upcoming campaign, and he was doing an admirable job of appearing engaged. 

He was nodding at the right moments, asking the right follow-up questions, even managing a convincing laugh when the executive made a joke about a rival house. But his attention was divided. It had been divided since the moment you'd separated, his eyes tracking you across the room like a compass needle finding north, and right now, that needle was spinning wildly.

He saw it all.

He saw the man lean in too close — close enough that his breath was probably visible in the cold air between your faces. He saw the hand that reached up to fix your clip, fingers lingering a beat too long against your hair. He saw the way the man adjusted your glasses, his touch drifting from the frame to your cheek like it belonged there. He saw the way you smiled up at the man, bright and completely, heartbreakingly oblivious, because you were you, and you assumed the best in everyone, and it had never once occurred to you that someone might be using the excuse of helpfulness to touch you in ways that made Riki's blood pressure spike.

His grip on his champagne flute tightened. The glass was sturdy, Prada didn't skimp on glassware, but he could feel the tension in his knuckles, the fine tremor of restraint running through his forearm.

"Nishimura?" The executive's voice cut through. "You had thoughts on the Milan venue?"

"Sorry, yeah." He dragged his gaze back to the conversation, forced his expression into something neutral. "The Milan venue is great. The lighting is the main thing—we need to make sure the—"

The man had his hand on your shoulder now. Your shoulder. He was leaning down to say something near your ear, his thumb rubbing small circles against the wool of your jacket, and you were nodding along, completely unaware of the way his eyes were tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, the dip of your collarbone visible above the high neck of your jacket.

Riki smiled through it. He smiled through the next conversation too, and the one after that, and the one after that. He smiled when a photographer asked for a solo shot, and he smiled when a stylist complimented his scarf, and he smiled when a fellow ambassador asked about the ring on your finger, visible now that you'd taken your gloves off to accept a drink, because what the hell could he say? That he wanted to cross the room, slide his arm around your waist, and tell every man within a ten-foot radius to back the fuck off? That he wanted to bite the spot where that stranger's thumb had touched your shoulder? That he was actively restraining himself from doing something that would end up on every gossip account by midnight?

He could practically see the tweets already. 

Oh my god.

PRADA’S NISHIMURA RIKI CAUSES SCENE AT PRADA EVENT—JEALOUS BOYFRIEND OR JUST BAD TEMPER? followed by a thread of clips taken from unflattering angles and captioned with takes so hot they could melt the ice on the garden paths. 

He could see the think pieces, the psychoanalysis, the stan Twitter wars between people who thought he was justified and people who thought he was toxic, and neither side would be right because neither side knew the truth — they didn't know that you were the most oblivious person on the planet, that you thought everyone was just being friendly, that if someone flirted with you using the subtlety of a sledgehammer you'd probably just think they had great posture.

So Riki stayed where he was. He smiled. He networked. He kept his grip on his champagne flute tight enough that the tendons in his hand stood out like cords, and he watched, and he waited, and every time the man touched your shoulder, three times, he counted them, three goddamn times, he filed the number away like a brand seared into his memory.

By the time the event wound down, Riki had shaken approximately forty hands, smiled through approximately sixty conversations, and consumed approximately four glasses of champagne on an empty stomach. 

He was tipsy, not sloppy, not sloppy enough for anyone to notice, but just enough that the edges of things had gone soft and warm and his tongue felt loose behind his teeth. The buzz was pleasant, distracting, a buffer between his brain and the image of that man's hand on your shoulder that he kept replaying like a scene he couldn't stop watching.

You found him near the exit, adjusting his scarf with one hand and his phone with the other, and you slipped your arm through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Ready to go, baby?"

"Yeah." His voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, let's go."

The car was waiting — a sleek black sedan with tinted windows, booked privately through the service Riki always used when he didn't want the company van's driver to overhear whatever half-coherent conversation would inevitably happen on the ride home. You climbed in first, pulling your earmuffs off and shaking out your hair, and Riki followed, immediately reaching for the partition button to close off the driver's compartment.

Then you were on him.

Not in a sexual way, not consciously, but in the way you always were when you'd been apart from him for more than an hour. You pressed yourself against his side, your cheek finding the curve of his shoulder, your fingers walking up the front of his puffer jacket to fiddle with the zipper pull. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, then another to the spot just below his ear, and you could feel the way his pulse jumped under your lips even though his posture remained carefully, deliberately relaxed.

"I missed you," you murmured against his skin. "The event was so, so long, baby. I kept looking over at you."

"Did you?" His arm came up around your shoulders, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against the curve of your arm. The gesture was affectionate, automatic, but there was something in the rhythm of it that felt… off. Like a metronome that was slightly out of time. "I was watching you too."

"Were you?" You smiled against his neck, your nose brushing the collar of his sweater. "Did you like how I handled the Barneys buyer? I think I got them to commit to the spring line—"

"You seemed pretty busy." The words were casual. Too casual. The kind of casual that was constructed, deliberate, a mask placed over something sharper. "With that guy."

"What guy?" You pulled back just enough to look at him, your brow furrowed. Your glasses had slipped down your nose again, and you pushed them up absently. "Oh—you mean the installation designer? He was super sweet, Ki! He helped me fix my clip, and he had really interesting things to say about textile architecture. Did you know he studied under—"

"He was flirting with you."

The car took a turn, and the glow of a streetlight swept across Riki's face, illuminating the hard set of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his eyes were fixed on the window instead of on you. You stared at him, blinking.

"He was what?"

"Flirting. With you." Each word was clipped, precise, like he was biting them in half before they could escape. "He touched your hair. Your face. Your shoulder—three times. He was leaning in so close I could practically see his dental work."

"Oh." You sat back slightly, processing this information the way you processed most social cues with a delay long enough to be endearing and a little bit tragic. "He was... flirting? With me? But he was just being nice. He fixed my glasses, Riki. Who fixes someone's glasses if they're not being nice?"

"Someone who wants an excuse to touch your face," Riki said flatly. "Someone who sees an opening and takes it because you're too sweet to notice that he's not being nice, he's being interested, and there's a difference, and you—"

He stopped himself. Exhaled through his nose. His jaw worked, the muscle there jumping, and you watched the tension ride through his frame like a current, shoulders rigid, fingers flexing against your arm, the tendons in his neck taut. He looked like he was physically holding something back, and the realisation hit you like cold water.

"Baby," you said softly, reaching up to touch his face. "Hey. Look at me."

He did. His eyes were dark in the low light of the car, the amber of the passing streetlamps catching in them intermittently, and there was something raw there, something unguarded that made your chest ache. You'd seen Riki walk for ten thousand people. You'd seen him navigate boardrooms and red carpets and interviews with the ease of someone who'd been trained to be likable since he was fourteen. 

But this — this was different. 

This was your Riki, the one who got sulky when you ate the last mochi, the one who practiced his confession in the mirror for three days before actually saying it, the one who was sitting in the back of a black sedan with champagne-warmth in his veins and jealousy sitting heavy and obvious in his chest.

"I'm sorry," you said, and you meant it. You were sorry — not for being friendly, because that was who you were and he'd never ask you to change, but for not noticing, for making him sit through that, for being the kind of person who could have a man practically draw her a map to his intentions and still think he was just being polite. "I didn't realize. I would've—I should have—"

"It's not your fault." He said it quietly, firmly, and his hand came up to cover yours on his cheek, pressing your palm against his skin like he needed the warmth. "I know that's just how you are. I know you don't see it. That's not—you're not the problem, okay? That bitch is the problem. I just—" He exhaled again, sharper this time, and his eyes fluttered shut. "It drove me insane. Standing there, watching him touch you like that, and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't just walk over there without it being a whole thing, and I knew if I said something it'd be everywhere, and—"

"Ki."

"—and he just kept touching you, and you were smiling at him, fuck, and I know you didn't mean anything by it, but you're mine, and—"

"Riki."

He stopped. Opened his eyes. Looked at you with that expression you'd only ever seen in the privacy of your shared spaces, hungry and soft and a little bit desperate, like he was standing at the edge of something and needed permission to fall.

"I'm yours," you said simply. "You know that."

"I know." His voice was rough. The champagne had loosened something in him, stripped away the careful composure, and what was left was raw and wanting. "I know. I just—need to remind myself."

The rest of the drive was quiet, but it wasn't the comfortable kind. 

It was the kind of quiet that hummed with tension, that filled the space between your bodies like static electricity, that made every point of contact, his hand on your thigh, your head on his shoulder, his thumb tracing absent patterns on the inside of your wrist, feel charged and significant. 

You pressed more kisses to his cheek, leaving faint traces of lipstick like signatures, and he let you, his eyes half-closed and his jaw still tight, and the offness you'd sensed earlier crystallised into something you could finally name.

He was jealous. He was jealous, and he was tipsy, and he was holding himself together with the kind of restraint that was fraying at the edges.

The house was warm when you walked in, you'd left the smart thermostat on before you left, and the heat had been cranking for the past four hours, turning the space into a cocoon against the winter chill outside. 

You kicked off your boots in the entryway, your feet finding the hardwood in just your tights, and you were reaching for the zipper of your jacket when Riki's hands found you.

Not your jacket. 

You. 

His arms wrapped around your waist from behind, his face pressing into the curve of your neck, and his entire body folded into yours like a building collapsing in slow motion. 

He was heavy, taller than you by nearly a head, broader across the shoulders, all long limbs and lean muscle, and when he let go, he let go, his weight sagging against your back until you staggered slightly under the pressure.

"Whoa, hey—"

"You're mine." The words were muffled against your neck, damp and warm, and his arms tightened around your waist like he was trying to press you into himself, eliminate any space between your bodies. "You're mine, and he was touching you, and I couldn't—I wanted to—"

"I know, baby. I know." You turned in his arms, your hands coming up to cradle his face, and he looked at you with eyes that were glassy and dark and so painfully honest that it made your heart crack open. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've noticed, I should've—"

"Don't apologize." He shook his head, his hair falling across his forehead in that way that always made you want to push it back. "Don't. It's not—it's not your fault. You're too good. You're too good and people take advantage of it and it makes me—"

He broke off, his throat working, and something shifted in his expression. 

The whine was still there, the babyish, I-need-complaint pout that he wore when he was feeling small and wanted to be coddled, but underneath it, something else was surfacing. 

Something harder. Hotter. The jealousy that had been simmering all evening was reaching its boiling point, and the warmth from the champagne was fanning the flames.

"Enough." His voice dropped. Not angry, never angry with you, but firm, decided, the kind of firm that brokered no argument. "I've been patient all night. I've been good. I've smiled and shaken hands and let that man put his hands on what's mine without saying a word, and I'm done being patient."

Your breath caught. "Riki—"

"I need to mark you." He said it like a confession, like something he'd been holding behind his teeth all evening and could finally release. "I need to mark you, doll. I need to see my marks on you so that the next time someone thinks they can touch you, they'll see them and know."

He kissed you then, not the soft, reverent kisses from the car but something deeper, harder, his teeth catching your bottom lip and tugging until you gasped into his mouth. 

His hands were everywhere: cupping your jaw, tangling in your hair, sliding down your back to grip your hips and pull you flush against him. You could feel the heat of him even through the layers of your jacket and his puffer, the hard line of his body pressing against yours, and the champagne on his tongue was sweet and sharp and made your head spin.

"Up," he muttered against your lips, and then his hands were under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck and held on as he carried you down the hallway to your bedroom.

He kicked the door open, not hard enough to damage it, but hard enough that it bounced off the wall, and laid you down on the bed with a care that contradicted the urgency of his movements. You sank into the duvet, your hair fanning out across the pillows, and he stood over you for a moment, chest heaving, eyes dragging down your body like he was committing every detail to memory.

"Keep the tights on," he said, and his voice was hoarse.

You blinked up at him. "What?"

"The tights." He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his hands finding your ankles and sliding up reverently over the smooth fabric dotted with tiny white polka dots. "Keep them on, baby. I have... plans."

His fingers traced the pattern, pressing gently into the sheer fabric, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath. The polka dots were like Braille under his fingertips, tiny raised dots that he read like a language only he knew. 

He pushed your mini-skirt up, baring the expanse of your thighs, and the sound he made, low, guttural, somewhere between a groan and a growl, sent a shiver racing down your spine.

"God, these tights." He pressed his lips to your knee, then to the soft skin above it, the fabric of the tights a whisper-thin barrier between his mouth and your skin. "Do you have any idea what you've done to me tonight? Walking around in these—looking like that—and then letting some other man put his hands on you—"

"I didn't know—"

"I know you didn't, doll. That's what makes it worse." He kissed the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed and hot, and your breath hitched. "You're so trusting. So sweet. You think everyone's just being nice, and meanwhile I'm standing across the room watching some guy memorize the shape of your body through these—" He bit down. Not hard enough to hurt, not yet, but hard enough that you felt the pressure of his teeth through the thin fabric, and you let out a startled, breathy sound that was half gasp and half moan.

"Riki—"

"He touched your shoulder three times." He bit down again, harder this time, and this time there was no mistaking it, he was leaving a mark, his teeth indenting the skin of your inner thigh through the polka dot tights, and the contrast was devastating: the delicate pattern of dots, the dark fabric, and the red bloom of a bruise rising underneath. "Three times. I counted. I counted every single time his hand made contact with your body, and each time I wanted to break his fingers."

"Baby—"

"Three." He bit down again, higher up on your thigh, and you arched off the bed with a cry that you muffled against the back of your hand. The pain was sharp and bright, but it faded almost immediately into something warm and throbbing, and when you looked down, you could see the mark already forming, a dark, mouth-shaped bruise against the polka dot fabric, the white dots like witnesses to the claim.

"Two." Another bite, on the other thigh now, and his tongue swept over the mark after, soothing and wet and obscenely hot through the tights. You were trembling, your fingers twisted in the duvet, your glasses askew on your face, and he hadn't even taken off a single piece of your clothing.

"One." The last bite was the hardest, placed high on your inner thigh where the skin was softest and the tights were stretched thin, and you felt the sting of it all the way down to your toes. He pulled back to admire his work, and the sound he made, low, satisfied, almost predatory, made heat pool in your stomach. Three marks. Three whole ass bites. One for each time that man had touched you, each one a brand that would darken over the next few days into deep, mottled purple.

"Perfect," he breathed. His fingers traced the marks, pressing lightly, watching the way your breath stuttered. "You look so pretty with my marks on you, angel. So pretty. And everyone's gonna know. Not that they'd see these—" He dragged his thumb over the bruise on your inner thigh, and you whimpered. "But I'll know. And you'll know. And every time you move your legs tomorrow, you're going to feel them and remember that you're mine."

"I'm yours," you whispered, and you meant it with every cell in your body.

He smiled at that, not the sharp, possessive smile from before, but something softer, something that cracked through the jealousy like sunlight through clouds. "Yeah," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hands were still pressing bruises into your thighs. "Yeah, you are."

He reached for the waistband of your tights then, hooking his fingers under the elastic and dragging them down your hips slowly, pressing open-mouthed kisses to every inch of newly exposed skin. The tights peeled off like a second skin, the polka dots sliding away from the bruises he'd left, and he tossed them somewhere over his shoulder without looking. 

Your underwear followed, a scrap of black lace that he pulled down with his teeth, and the visual of it, Riki on his knees, his eyes dark and fixed on your face, his mouth dragging lace down your thighs, was enough to make your breath come in shallow, desperate pants.

"Ki, please—"

"Please what?" He settled between your legs, his breath warm against your inner thighs, his lips ghosting over the marks he'd left. "Tell me what you want, doll. You have a mouth for a reason."

"Your mouth. Please—I need—"

"What do you mean by please?" He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you needed him, and his tongue darted out to taste the mark he'd left. 

The sensation was electric, warm and not nearly enough, and you squirmed beneath him, your hips lifting off the bed in silent pleading.

"I need your mouth on me. Please, Ki. Please, baby."

"Good girl." The words vibrated against your skin, and then his mouth was on you, and you stopped thinking entirely.

He was thorough. 

He was always thorough, Riki had never done anything half-heartedly in his life, and that included this, but tonight there was an edge to it, a hunger that bordered on desperation. His tongue was hot and precise, mapping every fold and curve with the focus of a cartographer charting new territory, and when he found the spot that made your back arch off the mattress, he stayed there, circling and pressing and sucking until you were making sounds you didn't recognise.

"Riki—oh god—Ki—"

He groaned against you, the vibration of it shooting through your body like a shockwave, and his hands gripped your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises alongside the bite marks. 

He was making noises too, low and guttural sounds that were half-moan and half-growl, the kind of sounds that came from a man who was losing himself in the taste of you, who couldn't stop even if he wanted to, who was drunk on champagne and jealousy and the sweetness of your body on his tongue.

"You taste so good," he murmured against you, his voice wrecked. "So fucking good, angel. My doll. Mine."

"Yours—ah—yours, baby, I'm—"

He didn't let you finish the sentence. His tongue flattened against you, broad and wet and relentless, and he licked into you with a determination that made your vision blur. Your glasses were completely fogged now, the lenses clouded with heat and moisture, and you reached up blindly to pull them off, tossing them somewhere on the nightstand, and the world went soft and dark at the edges. Not that you needed to see. You could feel every stroke of his tongue, every press of his lips, every sharp inhale he took between your legs like he was breathing you in.

The orgasm built slowly, a tightening coil in your lower belly that wound tighter with every stroke of his tongue. You could feel it approaching, cresting, your thighs shaking around his head, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer even though closer was physically impossible—

And then he stopped.

You made a sound of protest that was embarrassingly close to a sob, your hips chasing his mouth, but he pulled back just out of reach, his hands pressing your thighs down against the mattress. "Not yet," he said, and his voice was steady even though his lips were swollen and glistening and his chest was heaving. "You don't get to come yet."

"What—why—"

"Three." He said it simply, and the meaning crashed over you like cold water. Three. Three edges. Three denials. One for each time that man had touched your shoulder, one for each moment Riki had watched from across the room and done nothing. This was the reckoning.

"Riki, I can't—"

"You can." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, gentle and reassuring. "You can, and you will. Because I asked you to. Because you're mine, and you're going to take what I give you, and you're going to be good for me. Can you do that, doll?"

Your eyes were stinging. Your body was thrumming with unresolved tension, every nerve ending screaming for release, and he was asking you to hold on, to wait, to endure. But the way he was looking at you, soft and dark and so full of love that it made your chest ache, made it impossible to say no.

"Yes," you whispered. "Yes, I can be good for you."

"My good girl." He smiled, and then he was moving, shedding his puffer jacket and pulling his sweater over his head, revealing the lean lines of his torso, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, and the faint definition of his abs. He was beautiful. He was always beautiful, but like this, dishevelled and hungry and looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, he was absolutely devastating.

"Come here," you whispered, reaching for him, and he went.

He kissed you as he settled over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, sweet and strange. His hands worked at the remaining pieces of your outfit, the jacket, the scarf, the mini-skirt, until you were bare beneath him, your skin flushed and dotted with the marks he'd already left, and he pulled back to look at you again.

"You're so beautiful," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. "So fucking beautiful, and you're mine. Say it again."

"I'm yours, Ki."

"Again."

"I'm yours. Only yours. Always yours."

He kissed you harder, his hands roaming your body with a reverence that bordered on worship. He traced the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, the dip of your collarbone, his touch feather-light and burning. "This body," he murmured against your jaw. "This body is mine. Every inch of it. Every curve. Every mark." 

His lips found your breast, his tongue circling your nipple, and you arched into the wet heat with a broken moan. "He can look all he wants. He can fix your glasses and adjust your clips and touch your shoulder until his fingers fall off. But at the end of the night, this—" He bit down gently on the swell of your breast, and you keened. "—this comes home to me."

"Yes—yes, baby, always—"

"Open your mouth for me, doll."

You did, without hesitation, without question, because you trusted him with every fibre of your being and because the look in his eyes right now, the raw and naked need, made it impossible to do anything but surrender. 

He shifted, his knees bracketing your shoulders, and you watched through half-lidded eyes as he freed himself from his jeans, the hard length of him bobbing heavily against his stomach.

He was big. 

You'd never gotten used to it — the first time you'd been together, you'd actually laughed, because what else were you supposed to do when confronted with something that looked like it belonged in a textbook? He'd been mortified until you'd explained, and then he'd been insufferably smug about it for approximately five weeks. Now, though, there was no laughter — only hunger, only want, only the desperate need to feel him in whatever way he'd give you.

"Tap my thigh if it's too much," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hand was shaking where it gripped the headboard. "Okay?"

"Okay."

He pressed the head of his cock against your lips, and you opened wider, your tongue darting out to taste the salt of him, and the sound he made, a sharp, bitten-off groan that he tried to swallow and failed, sent a pulse of heat straight to your core. 

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, and you felt the stretch of him, the weight, the girth, the way he filled your mouth until your jaw ached with the effort of accommodating him.

"Fuck," he breathed. His head fell back, the long line of his throat exposed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Fuck, doll, your mouth—"

You hummed around him, and his hips jerked forward, pushing himself deeper, and you fought your gag reflex bravely, your throat fluttering around the intrusion. He noticed, he always noticed, and his hand came down to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek in a gesture that was so tender it made your eyes water.

"You're doing so good," he said, and the praise washed over you like warm honey. "So good for me, angel. Taking me so well. My perfect girl."

He started to move then, shallow thrusts at first, letting you set the pace, but gradually deeper, faster, his hips rocking into your mouth with a rhythm that was steadily losing its restraint. 

The sounds he was making were obscene: low, rumbling moans that came from somewhere deep in his chest, punctuated by breathless curses and fragments of your name. He was vocal always, had been since the very beginning, the first time you'd been together he'd been so loud that his neighbour had pounded on the wall and he'd just laughed, breathless and unashamed, but tonight, with the champagne stripping away his inhibitions, he was practically singing.

"Ah—fuck, yes—just like that, doll—your mouth feels so—god—"

His hand fisted in your hair, not pulling, just holding, and his thrusts grew more erratic, his breathing more ragged, and you could feel him getting close, the way his muscles tensed, the way his moans pitched higher, the way his thighs trembled against your shoulders. 

But he pulled back before he could finish, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound that made you both groan, and he was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut like he was physically holding himself together.

"Not yet," he said, more to himself than to you. "Not like that. I need—I need to be inside you when I come. Need to feel you."

He moved down your body, settling between your legs again, and this time when he kissed you, it was slow and deep and tasted like the two of you mixed together. 

You could feel him hot and hard against your stomach, the slick of him smearing across your skin, and you reached down to wrap your hand around him, but he caught your wrist and pinned it above your head.

"Patience," he murmured against your lips, and you whimpered because patience was the absolute last thing you had right now.

"I've been patient," you protested, and your voice came out wrecked, raw and hoarse from his cock in your throat and the moans you couldn't stop making. "Please, Ki—I've been so good—"

"You have," he agreed, and his free hand was sliding down your body, over the curve of your hip, between your legs, and his fingers found you dripping and swollen and so achingly sensitive that even the lightest touch made you jerk. "You've been so good for me, baby. My perfect, perfect girl. You deserve a reward, don't you?"

"Yes—please—"

He entered you in one long, slow thrust, and the sound you both made was identical, a broken, desperate moan that harmonised in the quiet of the bedroom. 

He filled you completely, the stretch of him bordering on too much and then settling into something that made your eyes roll back in your head, and he held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in ragged pants.

"Feel that?" He rolled his hips, a slow grind that pressed against every sensitive spot inside you, and you sobbed. "That's mine. You're mine. Say it."

"I'm yours—fuck—I'm yours, Ki—"

He started to move then, really move, and the pace he set was punishing. Deep, hard thrusts that drove you up the mattress, each one punctuated by the slap of skin against skin and the wet sound of your bodies moving together. He was relentless, his hips snapping forward with a precision that spoke of barely contained control, and each thrust hit something inside you that made your vision go blank.

"This is mine," he gritted out, his hand sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise. "This body—this pussy—all of it. Mine. Not his. Not anyone else's. Mine."

"Yours—only yours—baby, please—"

"Please what?" He shifted the angle, hitching your leg up over his hip, and the new position let him sink even deeper, and you heard yourself make a sound that was barely human, high and thin and desperate. "Please let you come? Is that what you want, doll?"

"Yes—yes, please, I need—"

"You need to wait." He thrust into you hard, and you screamed, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth, his tongue sweeping past your lips in a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. "Three, remember? You've had one. You need two more."

"I can't—I can't take it—"

"You can. You will." He pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes dark and molten, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "You're so strong, doll. So perfect. So beautiful. You can take anything I give you, and you'll thank me for it. Won't you?"

"Yes—yes, I'll thank you—thank you, Ki—"

"Good girl."

He kept moving, and you kept climbing, and just as the coil in your belly was about to snap for the second time, he pulled out. Stopped out of nowhere. 

The emptiness was unbearable, your body clenching around nothing, your hips chasing the friction that had been so cruelly denied, and the sound you made was a full-bodied sob that echoed off the walls.

"I know," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hands were shaking. "I know, baby. I know it's hard. You're doing so well. Just one more."

"One more," you repeated, like a prayer. "One more. I can do one more."

"My good girl."

He pushed back in, and this time the thrusts were slower, not gentler, not by a long shot, but more deliberate, more controlled, each one a calculated assault on your senses. His hand found the spot between your legs, his thumb pressing in tight circles, and the sensation of him inside you and his fingers on you was too much. You were shaking, tears streaming down your temples into your hair, your hands fisted in the sheets so tightly that your knuckles were white.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said, and his voice was reverent, worshipful, like he was looking at something holy. "All teary and desperate and mine. Nobody else gets to see you like this. Nobody. Not the designers, not the buyers, not the men who think they can put their hands on you at events. This—" He thrust deep, grinding against you, and you keened. "—this shit is mine."

"Yours—only yours—Ki, please—"

"Please what?"

"Please let me come—I can't—I'm going to—I need—"

"Not yet." But his voice was strained, his own control fraying, and you could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his thrusts were becoming more erratic, the way his moans were pitching higher and more desperate. 

He was close too, you could feel it in the tension of his body, the way he was fighting his own release alongside yours, and the realization that he was denying himself as much as he was denying you made something hot and tight twist in your chest.

"Ki—"

"One more, doll. Give me one more. You can do it. I know you can."

He changed the angle again, deeper now, impossibly deep, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix with each thrust, and the pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain. You were beyond words now, beyond coherent thought, reduced to a creature of pure sensation, every nerve ending firing, every muscle trembling, your entire being focused on the point where his body met yours.

He pulled out again.

The third denial was the worst. Or the best. You couldn't tell anymore. You were sobbing openly, your body wracked with tremors, your thighs shaking around his hips, and when you reached for him, your hands were so weak that you could barely grip his shoulders. The orgasm that had been building for what felt like hours was hovering just out of reach, a wave that had crested but hadn't yet broken, and the frustration was so acute it was almost its own kind of pleasure.

"I can't—" you wept. "Ki, baby, please—I can't take another one—please, I need to come—I need—"

"I know," he said, and this time his voice broke on the words. "I know, doll. You've been so good. So perfect. So patient. You took all three so beautifully. My good girl. My perfect, perfect girl."

He thrust back in, and this time there was no stopping. No pulling out. No denial. Just the relentless, punishing rhythm of his hips and the pressure of his thumb on your clit and the sound of his voice in your ear, low and rough and so full of love that it made your chest hurt.

"Come for me," he said, and it was a command and a plea and a prayer all at once. "Come for me, doll. Let go. I've got you. I've always got you."

You came.

It hit you like a wall of light, blinding, all-consuming, every muscle in your body seizing at once as the orgasm that had been denied three times finally, finally crashed over you. 

You were aware of screaming his name, of your nails raking down his back, of your body arching off the bed so violently that he had to pin you down with his weight, and the pleasure was so intense that for a long, terrifying moment, you couldn't see or hear or think, you could only feel, every cell in your body exploding and reforming and exploding again.

He followed you over the edge a moment later, his hips stuttering, his breath catching, and then he was spilling into you with a groan that seemed to come from the very marrow of his bones. 

You felt the warmth of it, the pulse of him inside you, the way his body shuddered with each wave, the raw, animal sound of his release, and it triggered another smaller orgasm in you, your walls clenching around him in aftershocks that made you both gasp.

He didn't pull out. He couldn't. His body had given out the moment the orgasm hit, and he collapsed on top of you with his full weight, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps that you could feel against your sweat-damp skin. 

You held him, your arms wrapping around his back, your fingers tracing the scratch marks you'd left, thin red lines that would be visible tomorrow if he took his shirt off, and you pressed kisses to whatever part of him you could reach: his temple, his hairline, the shell of his ear.

"I love you," you whispered, and your voice was wrecked—raw and hoarse and barely audible. "I love you so much, Ki."

"I love you too." His voice was muffled against your neck, thick and slow and sleepy, the champagne and the orgasm hitting him all at once. "I love you more than anything. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"Good." He pressed a lazy kiss to your pulse point, and you felt him smile against your skin. "Mine."

"Yours."

The silence that followed was warm and comfortable, the kind of silence that could only exist between two people who had just dismantled each other completely and were now lying in the wreckage, too spent to move but too content to care. The heater hummed in the corner. The snow was falling outside the window, visible in the glow of the streetlight, and somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off and was ignored.

Eventually, Riki shifted, just enough to lift his head and look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and soft and so full of affection that it made your heart do something embarrassing in your chest. 

"Hey," he said.

"Hello to you too."

"Are you okay?"

"Mm." You stretched, wincing at the soreness that was already settling into your muscles, and you shifted your legs experimentally, and that was when you saw them.

The marks.

What the fuck.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down at your body, and the sight that greeted you made your breath catch. 

Your inner thighs were a patchwork of bruises, the bite marks from earlier, already darkening into deep purple and blue, overlapping and intersecting like some kind of abstract painting. 

Your hips were fingerprinted, ten small crescents where his hands had gripped you. 

Your breasts bore the faint impression of his teeth, and your collarbone — well. It looked like you'd been attacked by a very determined vampire.

"Oh my god," you breathed.

Riki followed your gaze, and the satisfied smile that spread across his face was entirely unapologetic. "Oh my god?" he repeated, his tone incredulous. "That's all you have to say?"

"Riki, there are—there are marks everywhere."

"That was kind of the point, doll."

"I know, but—" You shifted again, wincing as the bruises on your thighs pressed against the mattress, and then a thought struck you that was equal parts mortified and relieved. "Oh, thank god it's winter."

Riki raised an eyebrow. "Thank god it's winter?"

"So I don't have to head out in shorts twenty-four-seven," you explained, gesturing at the constellation of bruises decorating your thighs. "I mean, can you imagine? I'd walk into the office and my team would think I'd been attacked by a wild animal."

"A very handsome wild animal," Riki corrected, and you laughed.

"A very handsome wild animal who can't control his teeth," you amended.

"I control them just fine. I placed every single one of those marks with intent." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another to the mark on your collarbone, his lips warm and lingering. "And besides, baby, you won't need to worry about shorts. I just washed and prepared your maxi skirts, especially the denim one your mom reworked, so thank me later."

You stared at him. "You did what?"

"Washed your maxi skirts." He said it casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn't just confessed to doing your laundry — which he never did, not because he was unwilling but because you were particular about the way your garments were handled and he'd once shrunk a cashmere sweater and you'd made a face so tragic that he'd sworn off laundry duty entirely. "The denim one is hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I air-dried it like you showed me. And the grey wool one is in the closet, third hanger from the left."

"You, Nishimura Riki, washed my skirts. By hand. And air-dried them."

"Yes." He blinked at you, all innocent and earnest, like he wasn't lying there with love bites covering his throat and your lipstick still smudged on his jaw. "Is that... is that weird?"

"No." Your voice came out thick, and you realised with a start that you were getting emotional, over laundry, of all things, but it wasn't really about the laundry, was it? 

It was about the fact that this man, the same man who had marked you like a territorial wolf not fifteen minutes ago, had also spent time carefully hand-washing your skirts because he knew, somehow, that you'd need them. That he'd thought ahead. That he'd taken care of you in ways that were quiet and domestic and so fundamentally him that it made your eyes sting again. 

"It's not weird," you said again, softer this time, and you cupped his face in your hands and kissed him, slow and deep and full of a love so enormous that you couldn't possibly contain it. "It's the opposite of weird. It's the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me."

"Now who's being dramatic," he murmured against your lips, but he was smiling, and you could feel the way his chest expanded with the kind of quiet pride that he'd never admit to out loud.

"Thank you, Ki."

"You're welcome, baby." He shifted, pulling out of you with a wince that matched yours, and the absence of him left you feeling empty and cold and aching in ways that were both physical and emotional. 

He reached for the duvet, pulling it over both of you, and gathered you against his chest like you were something precious and breakable and infinitely worth protecting.

"Hey," you said, your voice muffled against his skin.

"Hm?"

"Next time someone flirts with me at an event and I don't notice, you have my full permission to come over and be insane about it."

He laughed, the kind that shook his whole body and made the bed creak. "You're going to regret saying that."

"Probably." You smiled against his chest, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. "But at least I'll have the maxi skirts to cover the evidence."

"The denim one especially," he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "Your mom did a great job on it. The hem is perfect."

"You’re so weird."

"You love it."

"Yeah." You pressed a kiss to the centre of his chest, right over his heart, and felt it beat steady and strong against your lips. "Yeah, I really do."

Outside, the snow kept falling, blanketing the city in white, and inside, under the warmth of the duvet and the weight of each other, you fell asleep to the sound of his breathing and the knowledge that tomorrow, when you pulled on that reworked denim maxi skirt, the marks on your thighs would press against the fabric like a secret — yours and his and nobody else's.

When Riki handed you your glasses from the nightstand the next morning, his fingers lingering on the frames just a moment too long, you thought about the way he'd looked at you when you'd put them on the night before, like you were the only person in the room, in the city, in the world, and you smiled, and you didn't bother wondering whether the man from the event would reach out, because it didn't matter. 

None of it mattered. 

The only hands that would ever touch you like that, the only hands that had the right, were the ones currently reaching for the coffee maker, still clumsy with sleep, still wearing the scratch marks on his back like a badge of honour.

"Hey, baby?" Riki called from the kitchen, his voice rough with morning and fondness.

"Yes?"

"The tights—are they hand-wash only? Because I may have like… thrown them on the floor last night, and I want to make sure I don't ruin them when I pick them up."

You laughed, bright and so full of love it hurt, and you padded barefoot into the kitchen, your bruises hidden under the oversized sweater you'd stolen from his closet, and you kissed him until the coffee went cold and the snow outside melted into slush and the whole world narrowed down to this: his mouth on yours, his hands on your waist, his heart beating against your palms.

"Hand-wash only," you murmured. "Cold water. Lay flat to dry."

"I'll add it to the list," he said, and he smiled, the one that was just for you, and you thought, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that you were the luckiest woman alive.

And the polka dot tights, when you finally retrieved them from the bedroom floor, were perfectly fine, ready for the next event, the next outfit, the next time Riki would look at you across a crowded room and know, with absolute certainty, that you were his.

Just as he was yours.

⭐ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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💿 ࿐ . . moonlight by kali uchis

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !

His free hand slid down your side, fingers playing with the hem of the loose hoodie you’d thrown on over tiny sleep shorts. He leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of your ear as the first heavy bass notes of the track started pulsing through the speakers.

“You’re really risking sneaking into the company building at 3AM just because I said so?” He chuckled darkly, the sound vibrating against your skin. “Such a good girl for me… or maybe just a greedy little slut who couldn’t wait to get fucked in my practice room.”

Niki pulled back just enough to look at you, dark eyes gleaming with mischief and hunger. He reached over and turned the music up a little more — loud enough to cover any sounds you might make, but not so loud that security would come investigating.

He licked his lips slowly, gaze dragging down your body.

“Alright, baby. Warm-up starts now.”

He stepped back and tugged you toward the center of the room, positioning you right in front of the mirror wall so you could see everything.

“Lesson one,” he said, voice dropping lower as he stood behind you, hands settling possessively on your hips. “Hips. Follow my lead.”

Niki’s hands stayed firm on your hips, his tall body pressed flush against your back as the heavy bass vibrated through the practice room floor. Both of you faced the mirror, the reflection showing exactly how small you looked wrapped in his frame.

“Official choreography first,” he said, voice low and teasing. “Then I’ll show you the better version.”

He started the count. You tried to focus as he guided you through the familiar body rolls, but it was impossible. Every time your hips moved backward, his hardening cock ground deliberately against your ass through his thin sweatpants. On the third roll, he pushed forward harder, letting you feel the full length of him.

“Deeper,” he murmured against your ear, breath hot. “Roll them like you’re trying to fuck me in front of the mirror. Yeah… just like that.”

His fingers slipped under the hem of your hoodie, palms sliding up your bare stomach. He corrected your posture with a firm grip, then suddenly delivered a sharp smack to your ass when your movement faltered.

“Focus, baby.”

Next came the hip isolations. Niki made you circle your hips in slow, filthy figure-eights while he mirrored the motion perfectly behind you. His thigh slid between your legs from behind, pressing up against your clothed pussy. Every rotation rubbed your clit against the hard muscle of his thigh, and the thin fabric of your sleep shorts did nothing to hide how wet you were getting.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered, voice husky. One hand came up to grip your jaw, forcing your gaze to stay on the mirror. “Look how desperate you already are just from dancing with me.”

You let out a shaky whimper. Niki smirked and turned the music slightly louder.

“Now the floor section.” He spun you around to face him, then guided you down until you were on your knees in front of him. The mirror behind you gave him the perfect view of your ass as you looked up. He stepped closer, his bulge right in front of your face.

“Hands on my thighs. Now grind.”

You obeyed, sliding your hands up his long legs while he taught you a new move — slow, sensual grinds rising from your knees back to standing, dragging your body against his the entire way. When you reached full height, he hooked one of your legs around his hip, pressing you close.

“Partner lift,” he whispered, voice dripping with lust. He hoisted you effortlessly, your legs wrapping around his waist as he held you up. Your back met the cool mirror wall while he rocked his hips forward, rubbing his clothed cock right against your soaked core.

“Fuck, you’re dripping through your shorts already,” he groaned. One hand slipped between you, pushing your shorts and panties aside. Two long fingers teased your entrance before sinking inside you without warning.

Niki kept you suspended like that, fucking you slowly with his fingers to the beat while making you watch in the mirror.

“New choreography, baby. Every time the bass drops, you’re gonna take my cock. But not yet…” He curled his fingers perfectly against that spot inside you, thumb circling your swollen clit. “First you have to earn it. Ride my thigh like a good little dancer.”

He lowered you until your pussy was pressed firmly against his muscular thigh. The grip on your hips was bruising as he guided you, forcing you to grind and roll against him in time with the music.

“That’s it… faster. Make a mess on me.”

Your moans started to echo louder than the music. Niki’s eyes were dark, locked on your reflection as you fell apart — sweat already glistening on your skin, shorts ruined, legs trembling.

He leaned in, biting your bottom lip before growling:

“Such a filthy fucking dancer for me… I think it’s time for the real choreography now.”

The words had barely left Niki’s mouth before the teasing choreography completely shattered.

In one swift motion, he spun you around and slammed your front against the cold mirror wall. Your cheek pressed to the glass as his tall body pinned you from behind, hips grinding hard against your ass. The bass was still thumping, but all you could hear was the sound of your own ragged breathing and Niki’s low, hungry growl in your ear.

“Fuck the lesson,” he rasped, yanking your sleep shorts and panties down in one rough tug until they pooled around your ankles. “I need to be inside you. Now.”

His lips crashed against yours when you turned your head, the kiss messy and desperate — all tongue and teeth. One of his large hands wrapped around your throat from behind, not squeezing too hard but firm enough to make your pulse race under his fingers. The other hand shoved between your legs, two fingers immediately plunging into your soaked pussy while his palm rubbed roughly against your clit.

“Look,” he demanded, forcing your gaze back to the mirror. “Look at how fucking slutty you look right now.”

The reflection was obscene. Your hoodie was pushed up to your chest, tits bouncing every time his fingers thrust into you. Your face was flushed, lips swollen, eyes glassy with lust. Niki’s dark eyes were locked on yours through the mirror, sweat dripping down his sharp jaw as he finger-fucked you harder, curling relentlessly against that spot that made your knees buckle.

“Such a good little dancer… getting this wet just from grinding on my thigh,” he groaned, adding a third finger and stretching you open. “My greedy slut. You’ve been thinking about my cock all night, haven’t you?”

You moaned loudly, the sound echoing through the empty practice room. Niki chuckled darkly and pressed his hard cock against your ass, still trapped in his sweatpants.

“Answer me.”

“Y-yes— fuck, Niki—”

He pulled his fingers out suddenly, making you whine at the loss. You heard the rustle of fabric as he shoved his sweatpants and boxers down just enough to free his throbbing cock. Without another word, he lined up and slammed into you in one deep, brutal thrust.

A broken cry tore from your throat.

“Fuck— so tight,” he hissed, forehead dropping to your shoulder for a second before he started moving. Hard. Deep. Punishing strokes that slammed you against the mirror with every thrust. The glass fogged up from your hot breath as he railed you, one hand still around your throat while the other gripped your hip hard enough to leave marks.

“Eyes on the mirror, baby,” he growled, biting down on your neck. “Watch how pretty you look getting fucked like this.”

You couldn’t look away even if you wanted to. The sight of Niki behind you — tall, sweaty, muscles flexing with every powerful snap of his hips — was hypnotic. His cock disappeared inside you over and over, wet sounds filling the room between the heavy beats of the music.

He reached around to slap your clit lightly, then rubbed fast circles over it while his thrusts grew even rougher.

“That’s my good girl… taking every inch like you were made for me.”

His pace turned feral, hips snapping relentlessly as he fucked you against the mirror like he was trying to break it. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge, your legs shaking violently.

Niki’s voice dropped to a filthy whisper right against your ear:

“Gonna fill this pretty pussy up… right here where anyone could walk in and see what a cock-drunk little slut you are for me.”

Niki didn’t give you a chance to recover.

He pulled out abruptly, making you whimper at the sudden emptiness. Before your legs could give out, he spun you around and dropped to the floor with you, laying you down on the cool practice room floor. The mirrored ceiling above reflected everything — your flushed, fucked-out expression and Niki’s tall, sweaty body hovering over you like a predator.

“On your back first, baby,” he ordered, voice rough with lust. He shoved your hoodie all the way up and yanked your shorts and panties completely off, tossing them aside. “I wanna see your face when you fall apart.”

He sat back against the mirror and pulled you on top of him, positioning you so your dripping pussy rested directly on his thick thigh. Both of his hands gripped your hips hard.

“Ride it. Just like we practiced.”

The music was still playing, bass heavy and filthy. You started grinding on his thigh, sliding your soaked folds along the hard muscle. Niki’s eyes were glued to the sight — your slick coating his skin with every desperate roll of your hips.

“Faster,” he growled, slapping your ass sharply. “Make a mess like the slut I know you are.”

You moaned loudly, bracing your hands on his shoulders as you rode his thigh frantically. The friction on your swollen clit was overwhelming after the rough fucking against the mirror. Niki leaned forward, sucking one of your nipples into his hot mouth while his other hand reached down to rub tight, fast circles on your clit.

“That’s it… fuck, look at you. Soaking my thigh like a desperate little whore.”

Your thighs started trembling violently. The pressure built impossibly fast until it snapped — you came hard with a broken cry, squirting all over his thigh and the floor beneath you. Niki groaned in satisfaction, eyes dark as he watched you shake and gush.

“Good fucking girl.”

He didn’t let you stop. He flipped you onto your back on the cool floor and climbed between your legs, slamming back inside your pulsing heat in one brutal thrust. The new angle made you scream, oversensitive walls clenching around his thick cock.

“Niki— fuck— too much—” you gasped, nails digging into his back.

“Too much?” He smirked, pounding into you even harder, hips snapping relentlessly. Sweat dripped from his hair onto your chest. “You can take it. You’re gonna take everything I give you.”

He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, folding you in half as he drove deeper. The wet, filthy sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. He reached down and rubbed your clit again, forcing another orgasm out of you while you thrashed beneath him.

“Again. Cum on my cock like a good little dancer.”

You came a second time, walls fluttering wildly around him. Niki cursed, burying himself to the hilt as he filled you with the first thick load of cum, groaning your name against your neck.

But he wasn’t done.

He pulled out, flipped you onto your stomach, and yanked your hips up. Prone bone — his favorite. He mounted you, chest pressed to your back, and fucked you even deeper, pushing his cum back inside with every thrust.

“Push it out for me, baby,” he whispered filthily in your ear.

You obeyed, clenching around him until his cum started leaking out around his cock. Niki pulled out just enough to scoop some up with his fingers and brought them to your mouth.

“Suck.”

You moaned around his fingers, tasting both of you as he slid back inside and kept fucking you through the overstimulation. Your legs were shaking uncontrollably, tears of pleasure slipping down your cheeks, but Niki just kissed your shoulder and kept going.

“One more, doll. Give me one more and I’ll fill you up again.”

You came again and so did he. Niki collapsed on top of you, both of you slick with sweat and breathing like you’d just finished the most intense dance practice of your lives. His cock was still buried deep inside you, twitching with the last weak spurts of his second creampie as your walls fluttered around him.

“Fuck… baby,” he panted against your neck, voice hoarse and raspy. He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along your shoulder and up your jaw, his usual cocky energy melting into something warmer.

He stayed there for a moment, just breathing with you, before slowly pulling out. A thick trail of his cum leaked from your abused pussy onto the practice room floor. Niki let out a low, satisfied groan at the sight.

“Look at that pretty mess,” he murmured, almost proudly. He scooped some of it up with two fingers and brought them to your lips. You obediently sucked them clean, tired eyes locked on his. He watched with dark, affectionate eyes.

“Good girl… always so perfect for me.”

Niki finally rolled off you and pulled you into his arms, cradling your exhausted body against his chest. The cool floor felt nice against your overheated skin. He reached for his discarded hoodie and gently wiped between your legs, cleaning you up as best as he could with the soft fabric.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, brushing damp strands of hair away from your face. His tone had completely softened now — the same gentle Niki that only you ever got to see. He kissed your forehead, then your swollen lips, slow and sweet.

“Mhm…” you hummed, voice wrecked. Your legs were still trembling slightly as you curled into him.

He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through his chest. “I think we ruined the floor. And probably my thigh. And the mirror…” He glanced up at the foggy, hand-printed mirror wall with a smug little smirk. “Worth it though.”

You smacked his chest weakly, and he laughed — that bright, boyish laugh that always made your heart flip.

Niki pulled you even closer, wrapping his long limbs around you like a blanket. His fingers traced lazy patterns on your back under the hoodie he’d draped over you.

“You know you’re never gonna be able to watch our official choreography the same way again, right?” he teased, lips brushing your ear. “Every time I do that body roll on stage… you’re gonna remember how I fucked you to the exact same beat.”

“Shut up,” you mumbled, embarrassed, hiding your face in his neck.

He grinned and kissed the top of your head. “Never. I’m already planning the next 3AM lesson.”

The music had finally stopped, leaving only the sound of your slowing breaths and the distant hum of the building. Niki held you tighter, pressing one last soft kiss to your temple.

“Stay with me a little longer before we sneak out,” he whispered. “I’m not ready to let you go yet.”

In a private booth of a nightclub, a group of long-legged, broad-shouldered alphas huddle around the table, drinks in hands. The air is layered with pheromones and adrenaline, occasionally flashing with neon lights and blurred with thin smoke. 

In the middle of the couch, Heeseung sits leisurely, manspreading with ease. On either side of him, Jay and Riki lean back in a similar posture, each of them engaged in the conversation bouncing between the team.

The team has just won a friendly match against their long-sworn rival, a university from the west, after a frustrating streak of loss for two consecutive tournaments. It wasn’t really a landslide win, considering their competitive skills, but a win is a win. A satisfied smirk curls around Heeseung’s bow-shaped lips, his alpha purring with pride.

Friendly or not, the whiskey surely tastes extra sweet tonight.

“Did you see K’s face just now?” Riki pipes up from his left, still buzzing with adrenaline. Being the last man to score and secure the win for them, it’s obviously hard for Riki to contain his enthusiasm. He’s beaming wide. “I did that. I wiped that smirk off his face, gentlemen!”

The rest of the team roars in reply, infected by Riki’s contagious excitement. Heeseung and Jay wear a fond smile on their lips, clearly delighted to see the younger alpha’s happiness. Glasses clink again as they toast to their win, and to their future wins, and to the sexy, beautiful cheerleading omegas that played a part in keeping their spirits up just now—to which Jay grimaces and Riki rolls his eyes at. Heeseung snorts.

He forgets that he’s friends with a prude and a loyal, claimed alpha.

“Speaking of omegas,” Heeseung tilts his head at Riki when the chatters break into small groups of conversations among the team, leaving him to talk to two of his closest friends. “It’s a surprise to see you here, Ki. Like seeing a four-leaf clover.”

Jay joins in, his signature lopsided grin on display. “I half-expected you to run home to your girlfriend. It’s hard to see you hang out with us at the club now, pup.”

Riki crosses his arms with a dramatic huff. His bottom lip juts out in a pout. In this light, when Riki shows this side of him, free from fake nonchalance and his cool persona, Heeseung sees him ten years younger than his actual age. Riki is so cute.

“I fully expected to run home to her too, hyung. But she forced me to come here. Said something like I should celebrate my win with y’all,” Riki sighs, messing with his newly-dyed hair and tipping his head back. “So here I am. Drinking with you idiots when I could’ve cuddled with my sweet, sweet omega at home.”

Jay feigns offence while Heeseung laughs. The both of them know too well of Riki’s devotion to his girlfriend. Maybe it’s the alpha-omega bond, or just the fact that they’ve known each other practically their whole lives, but Riki is never at ease whenever she’s not around. 

But tonight, the alpha seems more relaxed than usual. He’s not playing with his fingers or toying with the hem of his shirt like he always did when his girlfriend is absent. Heeseung wonders why the sudden change until he catches a glimpse of something at the back of Riki’s neck.

His brows furrow. His movement falters mid-air.

“Riki? Is that…” Heeseung squints his eyes, trying to see better while the tips of Riki’s ears slowly redden. From his right, Heeseung can hear a soft gasp from Jay.

“Holy shit. Is that your mating mark, Ki?”

It is. It is a mating mark, Heeseung realises, when a purple neon light flashes on Riki’s wounded skin. The alpha is rubbing his neck sheepishly now, heat sweeping across his cheeks. Despite his sudden shy demeanour, Heeseung can smell the pride in his sandalwood scent, and in that moment he finally notices the subtle layer of sweet vanilla—Riki’s girlfriend’s scent—in Riki’s pheromones.

“Yeah,” Riki confirms, still red like a tomato. “I mated with her last night.”

“Wow,” Jay breathes out in amazement, eyes sparkling in the dim light. “About time, man! You’re finally mated!”

Jay’s exclamation attracts attention and soon, the whole group is congratulating Riki on the milestone. The said alpha is red down to his neck now, clearly not expecting the sudden shift of focus on him but still relishing in the pride of having his mating mark, if the musky lilt to his pheromones is anything to go by. 

Heeseung remains a quiet observer, watching as Riki pulls down the collar of his shirt to proudly show the mark. Two other alphas join him as they speak fondly of their omegas, relishing in their identical mating mark on their napes. Beside him, Jay listens with an adoring smile. There’s a certain longing in his gaze when he stares at the mated alphas that doesn’t go unnoticed by Heeseung. 

Heeseung averts his eyes away, trying to forget that familiar look on Jay’s face. He almost scoffs at the image.

He knows that look like the back of his hand. 

Jay, too, yearns for a mate. Like Riki. Unlike Heeseung.

Mate. It’s the word that is so common in omegaverse but so foreign in Heeseung’s little world.

If Jay is a walking green flag that effortlessly attracts omegas with his gentleman charms, Heeseung is a running red flag that chases after willing omegas. If Jay stays away from wild sex life, Heeseung lives by it. If Jay dates to marry, Heeseung fucks to breathe. He’s everything Jay’s not that Riki was so bewildered when the two first met him.

Don’t get him wrong—he’s not the creepy kind of chaser. Rather, he likes to call himself the sexy one. It’s not hard for him to pull; just a few flirty comments here and a couple of filthy whispers there and the next hour he’ll have an omega to bring home and under him. 

He doesn’t know if he’s the only one wired this way, but where territorial instincts stream in his alpha blood, his sexual desires run even harder and faster. It’s like an itch that just won’t get away if he doesn’t scratch at it. He’s an attractive alpha with a high sex drive, he admits it, but is he really wrong to accept any omegas with his long, eager arms?

He thinks not.

Plus, they’re omegas. Heeseung tries not to objectify them, but gosh, the scent wafting from them is always so sweet and inviting. They’re curved softly, meant to hold and love the right, physical way that he’s known how to. He’s a weak man, and an even weaker alpha; Heeseung can’t resist a good fuck between two consenting adults and he always, always consents to being sucked off dry and scratched to bleed. 

Fuck, just thinking about it is already making him excited.

Heeseung’s eyes wander, tuning out the conversation about mate as he scans for any attractive omega. It’s starting to bore him—the talk about mate and having a mate and being mated—so he’s entertaining himself with the exposed skin and swaying hips of dancing omegas on the dance floor.

For someone like him that gets off on having sex with omegas and being drunk on their sweet pheromones, mating culture is a big no for him. The idea of being tied to only one omega makes him laugh; it sounds ridiculous to him. He’s an alpha capable of giving and his knot is not limited to only one hole, so why should he settle?

Only hopeless-romantic alphas believe in the belief of fated mates. And unfortunately, two of his friends do. Heeseung mentally rolls his eyes.

He decides that he’s had enough when the mated alphas start talking about having pups; another commitment that makes goosebumps rise in his skin. Wordlessly, he places his shot glass on the table, having sipped only half of it throughout the night. 

“Leaving already?” Jay asks, craning his neck when Heeseung stands. The latter only cocks his head to the dance floor with a knowing look. The corner of his mouth curves into a playful smirk when Jay makes a face.

“The usual.”

Jay shakes his head. “Whatever. Just don’t do it raw.”

“I’m always clean and safe, Jongseong.” Heeseung retorts, already taking his leave. “Call me when you’re leaving.”

Whatever Jay replies is muffled by the loud bass and Heeseung couldn’t care less to know what the alpha has said. Probably throwing him insults for using him as his personal chauffeur again. Heeseung only shrugs. Jay’s not his concern tonight. He has a bigger fish, or rather, a pretty wolf, to catch.

His eyes sweep across the space. From where he’s standing, his nose can pick up different scents of alphas and omegas. Even the faint scent of betas are visible, usually amplified by alcohol and adrenaline. He’s still deciding between two male omegas throwing asses back on the dance floor and a group of female omegas giggling at a table not far from him when a spiked scent stabs at his senses.

His nose instantly scrunches, frowning as he tries to detect that smell. An omega in distress. It’s faint, coming from the direction of the exit door, but he can’t see anyone crying or visibly uncomfortable in his line of sight.

Heeseung looks around, momentarily distracted from his initial mission. Nobody seems to notice the scent, however, and Heeseung blames his dominant traits for this. He sometimes forgets that he’s a dominant alpha. Unlike Jay and Riki, his senses are more sensitive and developed, which is a blessing when he’s looking for a hookup and a curse when he’s inside the locker room after a game when the air is drenched in his teammates’ pheromones. Heeseung shudders at the memories. He’s always the first to shower and leave the room because only Riki smells good when sweating.

His thoughts are brought back when the scent intensifies. Heeseung keeps sniffing and blindly follows the trail of wilting daisies and burnt honey, his shoulders braced and jaw tense. He doesn’t know why, but the scent has awakened his senses to a new degree. His alpha is on full alert now. 

He passes by dancing bodies and tables to get to the exit door but he’s stopped by a hand on his arm. Heeseung looks down.

A soft, seductive voice reaches his ears. “Heeseung-ssi?”

Heeseung blinks at the smiling omega. After a second of stunned silence, he finally recognises the logo on her varsity jacket and the makeup on her face. Realisation dawns upon him.

She’s part of his college’s cheerleader squad.

The omega is running a hand up and down his arm now, arching her back to flaunt the soft swell of her chest. Behind her, her fellow cheerleaders watch closely, hiding eager smiles behind their palms. Heeseung looks down at her hand, gulping despite himself. 

“Spare me a few minutes, will you, my precious, capable alpha?”

Her voice is so enticing, dripping with the kind of allure Heeseung’s so much familiar with. There is a strong wave of her sweet scent—bubblegum and cotton candy, Heeseung notes—coming from her in full force. She’s fluttering her lashes now, hoping he’ll get the message. 

Heeseung does; oh does he get the message so well. He knows what she’s hinting on and on any other nights he’ll succumb to the temptation without putting any efforts to think, melting into a puddle of juices at the slightest touch of seductive omegas. It’s a no-brainer decision for him, usually, because he’s always ready to fuck and he always brings a pack of condom with him for this sole reason.

But tonight his wolf is restless. And the reason is none other than the bitter scent still clinging to his nose.

Heeseung gives a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and removes her hand from his arm. The omega frowns, brows almost uniting at the center when the alpha takes a step back.

“Next time, yeah?”

Without waiting for her reply, Heeseung slips away from the crowd, ignoring the sour turn of her pheromones. He can feel their eyes boring into his back, but that’s not his concern now. Following the haunting scent and the sudden flaring instincts to get closer to the owner of it, Heeseung lets his legs bring him closer to the exit door. 

Heeseung hates to admit it, but right now, his wolf is thrashing at the bitter scent and his chest feels like caving in. He can feel the itch in his nails; his claws are threatening to sharpen. He frowns.

He’s never reacted this way to any omegas in distress. So why now? Why this particular scent?

When he reaches the door, Heeseung doesn’t waste a second to push it open and steps outside. As he does so, a weight suddenly crashes into his chest, pushing him slightly backwards from the force.

“Oof—” 

Heeseung reaches up to steady the figure by the arms. At this sudden proximity, the scent is thicker, the wilting daisies are more prominent it's making his heart constrict. Heeseung lets out a deep exhale and looks down to the person practically in his arms. 

A female omega. Clearly in distress, judging by the unshed tears and the tremble in her lips. A familiar varsity jacket drapes across her frame and Heeseung feels his breath stop when he recognises that face.

It’s you. One of the cheerleaders. Heeseung knows many cheerleaders, having been in bed with most of them; but even the most forgetful alpha will remember an omega like you.

A sweet face with a sweeter scent to match, but you are always detached from alphas and their advances. You’re the shy cheerleader his teammates always talk about. The untouchable one. The politely-smile-and-then-reject omega. Heeseung remembers you too well, being one of those rejected alphas himself.

He still remembers how disappointed his wolf was, whining and pouting when a pretty omega he had his eyes on rejected him. But Heeseung is a respectful alpha. He’ll take a no as a no. And you were also so kind when doing so that he moved on from it pretty fast and well.

That was one year ago.

Now you’re crying in his arms, for whatever reasons he doesn’t know and is determined to find out. He can feel your hold on his arms tighten, the spike in your scent when you recognise him, and the hitch in your breath that follows. The bitter scent is definitely coming from you.

“H-Heeseung?” Your voice is so small, like you’re not sure if you can call his name. It’s shaky and breathless. “Please help me.”

Behind you, Heeseung can see three shadows entering the alleyway. Even from the distance, his nose immediately picks up the pheromones of aroused alphas; thick and unpleasant. Your scent lingers amidst the stench, wavering in fear, so heavy he can practically taste it on his tongue. Heeseung instinctively pulls you closer.

“Are they bothering you?”

You nod frantically, the tears now spilling freely down your cheeks. When you speak, your voice is wet from tears and fear.

Nothing can ever prepare Heeseung for the words that are about to leave your mouth.

“P-Please…Please scent me.” You sob, clutching the sleeves of his T-shirt tighter. Heeseung’s breath stutters. “Please, Heeseung.”

Scent-mark. A low rumble sounds from his chest.

You’re asking him to mark you. To…claim you. It’s basically you asking him to bond with you, to shower you with his pheromones and make you smell like him. Smell like you’re his.

This is not what Heeseung’s looking forward to tonight. The fantasy of saving an omega in distress and scent-marking belongs to Jay, an alpha that was even willing to help an omega in heat out of the goodness of his heart. But not Heeseung. That’s never Heeseung. Heeseung doesn’t play the hero; he’s the one stealing the female lead from them.

Scent-marking is way…too intimate to share between two complete strangers with no interaction—that is, if you consider being rejected to having sex together as zero interaction.

Heeseung looks between you and the shadows closing in, then licks his lips. “I can’t,” he tries, and the broken look on your face damn near makes his heart take the same fate. Heeseung schools his expression, forcing himself to push you slightly away from him.

“I—This is not right. You don’t want this.”

He can’t take advantage of you. This is just your scared omega speaking. Outside of this situation, he’s damn sure you’d refuse any kind of bonds with him. Heeseung might be a sex addict, but he’s not an asshole.

But you pull him with you, shaking your head as you keep taking a glance at the approaching alphas. “I do! Please,” you choke, failing to keep your voice steady as you plead at the alpha in front of you. Heeseung forces restraint to his instincts. “Please just scent-mark me, Heeseung. I-I can’t—They will—” You heave a deep breath, your scent taking a sourer lilt at his refusal.

“They won’t back down unless it’s another alpha.”

Something sharp stabs at his chest, rendering him speechless and frozen for a moment. Heeseung stares at your trembling figure, at your shrinking body as if to make yourself disappear, and it suddenly hits him how disgusting the whole situation is.

They won’t back down unless it’s another alpha.

Alphas only take a no when it comes from another alpha.

Heeseung feels nauseous. His throat closes in and there’s a quiet ringing in his ears. In that heavy, stilled silence, everything is muffled to his senses. Only the echoes of your words ripple in his mind.

Unless it’s another alpha.

It’s a hard pill to swallow; one that Heeseung finds it bitter to believe—because it’s so, so easy to walk away from omegas than force yourself on them. It’s so, so easy to shoot your pride down than dwell on it and go feral over a rejection. It’s so, so easy to respect an omega, even for a fuckboy like him, so why is it hard for other alphas to do so?

And the result of this harsh world, of this fucked up power imbalance is sobbing in his arms, shaking and forcing herself to be okay with an unwanted bond just to save herself. Heeseung’s heart breaks for you, for the fate that follows a beautiful being like you just because of secondary genders and because the world says so.

“Please, I-I don’t—”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Heeseung whispers, rubbing a soothing circle on your arms. Your crying subsides a fraction. “I’ll scent you if that makes you feel better. Is that…okay?”

You blink at him tearily, streaks of salty tears tainting your unblemished cheeks. Even with a swollen face, you still look as pretty as he remembers.

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he nods, taking a hold of your wrist when he senses those alphas getting near. “Or we can just get inside and call the cops on them if you change your mind. You can find—”

“No,” you grip him tighter, your previously-calmed scent spiking again. “Cops are useless. T-They won’t—please, Heeseung. You know how they are.”

You know how unfair the system is.

Heeseung swallows hard before he nods, the burnt honey in your pheromones starting to get really thick and sticky. He rubs the inside of your wrists, slow and deliberate, before bringing the scent gland to his nose. It’s the most appropriate point to scent, less intimate than scenting at your neck, which he guesses the last thing you want from him right now.

The tip of his nose caresses the delicate skin tentatively, testing and tasting before he takes a deep inhale. Immediately, the scent of daisies and honey fill up his senses and Heeseung’s eyes flutter shut at the feeling. There is a rush of energy bursting through his veins, his senses tingling and his wolf purring at the sweet combination of your pheromones. Heeseung feels his wolf hum, almost singing and sighing, like his muscles are unknotting in a hot spring. 

It’s strange. It’s new. But Heeseung pushes the thoughts aside.

He runs his nose over your wrist over and over again, blanketing you in his pheromones and starting to feel you relax in his arms.

The tension in your shoulders visibly disappears as you let yourself melt into Heeseung. You sigh. Heeseung’s pheromones are just like him; warm spice of cinnamon carried by cool air of sea breeze. It symbolises his fierce persona on the court and his calm demeanour when he’s out of his jersey perfectly. You lean into him further, your squirming wolf unknowingly calms down when being washed by his pheromones.

If Heeseung notices the change in your demeanour, he doesn’t say anything about it, shoving the thought to the back of his mind. His singular focus is entirely on your pulse, nosing at your wrist and pumping out his calming pheromones. When he opens his eyes, they mirror the look in yours: dazed and slightly glassy. The air is now loaded with daisies and cinnamon, intertwining with each other in a perfect, balanced mix of scent. 

Heeseung tries to ignore the loud pounding of his heart, but it’s all he can hear. He tries to ignore the stars in your eyes, but it’s all he can see. He tries to ignore how perfectly balanced the mix of your scent is with his. His grip on your wrist tightens, breath caught in his throat. His wolf refuses to let you go, wanting to keep you here, tucked safely in his embrace for as long as he can.

And that thought is so foreign and scary. He really hopes that’s just his wolf and not him.

“Hey, little bunny.” A sick, twisted voice interrupts. 

Oh, right. 

Those fucking, disgusting alphas.

Heeseung is always slouching, making him appear shorter than he actually is. But in that moment, he’s standing so tall, dominating the space around him like the air is making room for him itself. 

He instinctively pulls you behind him, shielding you from the hungry eyes of the approaching alphas. His shoulders are braced like they’re ready for an impact and Heeseung has to force a snarl down his throat when his eyes land on the wolves.

When the shadows step under the light, it takes less than a second for Heeseung to see the jerseys clinging to their bodies before he realises who he’s looking at. 

They’re the players from the opposing team that his team just beat tonight. 

K, EJ, and Nicholas.

Heeseung grinds his jaw so hard he might pop a vessel.

“If it’s not the mighty Lee Heeseung,” K taunts, wearing a smug smirk like a badge at the sight in front of him. He cocks his head, trying to see you over Heeseung’s shoulders. You cower. “Mind sharing your pretty little cheerleader? She’s exactly my type, shy but slutty.”

Shame spreads across your skin and you screw your eyes shut. Shy and slutty, you bite your lips. You’re nothing but a kinky fantasy for alphas like them.

As if sensing your turmoil, Heeseung stands taller, his eyes narrowing thin.

“Get lost.” Heeseung tries to hold back, but the rage he feels seeps through anyway. “And cover your gland, for fuck’s sake. You stink.”

K’s eyebrows shoot up, his grin turning cheshire. “Come on, man. Are you gatekeeping your cheerleaders?” K tries to take a peek at you, but Heeseung moves and covers you with his whole body. His frown deepens. “You had fucked her already. Don’t be greedy, captain.”

His alpha minions laugh, and Heeseung is now seeing red. Something hot spreads in his chest, burning in his vein like wildfire at the insult. Was it a hit to his ego and his shameless sexual routine? Definitely, but Heeseung never takes it to heart. Rather, it’s the way you gasp and sob into his back, shaken by the disgusting assumption of your dignity and your virginity. The storm of the ocean spikes in the air, taking his pheromones to a dangerous peak, gathering a tide to a new height.

Heeseung doesn’t think he’s ever released pheromones this bad. But something about seeing the same pattern of omegas falling victim to empty-headed alphas makes his blood boil.

Behind him, you whimper, your omega reacting to the agitated alpha in front of you. But Heeseung is now relentless. He holds out an arm around your waist, protecting you from their sight in a tight, almost-possessive grip.

“Watch your fucking mouth. Don’t you get it?” Heeseung seethes, pupils thinning as the laughter dies down. “She doesn’t want you. In what fucking language must she say no for your stupid brain to understand? She’s—”

Mine. She’s mine, his wolf howls. My omega. 

Heeseung grits his teeth.

No, she’s not. Get a fucking grip, Lee Heeseung. You don’t have a mate.

“...not a toy.”

The sea-salt bite of his pheromones thickens in the alley. K scoffs, stepping forward in offense but is stopped by Nicholas. The latter has his arm shot out against K’s chest, preventing him from approaching the couple.

“No, K,” Nicholas murmurs, nose sniffing at the heavy pheromones in the air. Underneath the eye-watering spice of cinnamon and the raging storm of Heeseung’ sea breeze scent, there is a tangled sweetness of daisies and honey clinging to it. He visibly gulps. “They’re together. And Heeseung…”

Nicholas throws him a side eye, giving him a once-over briefly. He takes in the sharp glare directed his way, the downturned curl of his mouth, the tense shoulders ready to pounce. Nicholas shudders imperceptibly and shakes his head.

“…He’s a dominant alpha.”

His statement, though meant to deescalate the situation, only rages Heeseung on further. The alpha takes a menacing step forward, eyes narrowing thin at the trio. They falter back.

“Get this in your empty brains you freaks,” Heeseung grits, fuming beyond reason. Nicholas swears he sees something red flickering in his irises. 

“When someone says no, you back the fuck off. Dominant alpha or not. Omega or not.” He spits out the word, the venom in his voice nearly poisons the air. “Do you fucking get it?”

His raging pheromones are turning physical, pressing on each pair of lungs like lead on a mattress. Nicholas fights the urge to cover his nose and pulls his two friends backwards with him.

“We get it. Sorry, captain.”

“Not me,” Heeseung hisses. A low growl rumbles in warning. “Her.”

Nicholas licks his lips and nods. He bows down quickly, forcing the other alphas to bend despite it hurting his pride. K reluctantly follows, though his eyes return the glare Heeseung gives him in a similar intensity. 

“We’re sorry, omega. Shit, I don’t know your name, but—we’re sorry.”

In the next moment, the three alphas are already retreating. Nicholas aggressively whispers something among them while K visibly restrains himself from running back to Heeseung. He clearly doesn’t mind taking up a challenge with the dominant alpha and Heeseung finds himself not minding to dirty his hands too.

A beat of heavy silence falls upon you. You stay rooted in place, pulse racing in your ears. Heeseung is still facing away from you, ragged breathing slowing down. The air of dense pheromones is thinning out, leaving behind trails of spicy cinnamon and soft daisies.

You let out a breath and your knees buckle. 

Heeseung is by your side in a flash, the same, now-familiar arms caging you against his tall frame. You put your hands on his chest, trying to steady the wobble in your legs.

“Hey, hey. You’re okay now. They’re gone.”

They really are. You cry. They’re actually gone.

An ugly sob racks through your chest and soon, the wilting daisies are back, staining the air with crumpled petals and sad flowers. Heeseung tightens his hold. He doesn’t like seeing people cry, but his alpha apparently despises it the most when he sees you in this state.

His calming pheromones pour out in waves, hands carding through your hair gently. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You’re safe now.”

You’re safe with me.

Your crying slows down. For a few seconds, you let yourself savour the warmth of Heeseung’s  embrace. Closer, his pheromones, layered with a faint trail of his body wash, are stronger, filling up the almost-nonexistent space between the two of you. Strangely, the spice and the salt work wonders on calming you down.

Your wolf—previously anxious and distressed—is now quiet. 

Heeseung adjusts his hold on you, and in that moment do you only realise in horror how long you’ve been shamelessly hugging him. Like a reflex, you pull away from his embrace, cheeks now flaming red when his shirt is now stained with two big spots of your tears.

“I’m sorry!” Your palms instinctively rub at the stains, as if they can dry out the tears out of the fabric. “I’ll buy you a new shirt.”

Heeseung looks down, silently watching the small of your palms against his broad chest. There’s a strange flutter that follows, quiet and unfamiliar. He hopes that you can’t feel it through the fabric.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” Heeseung murmurs, eyes finding their ways back to your face. Red nose, swollen eyes, blotched cheeks. You really went through it, still sniffling as you still try to fix the stains on his shirt. A small part of him twists uncomfortably.

Heeseung catches your wrists, his thumbs moving almost instinctively against the soft skin.Your breath catches as you lift your gaze to look at him.

“Are you okay?” Heeseung asks, voice soft and gentle. You immediately nod, admittedly feeling better after being bathed in his calming pheromones.

“I’m okay. Just a bit thirsty.”

He searches your face, as if trying to detect any kind of discomfort or distress. But in the end, he ends up staring into your eyes, counting the lashes that guard your beautiful eyes.

It should end there. He really should just escort you back into the safety of your friend group and leave you be. Perhaps, he can go find the previous omega, seduce his way back and bring her home. The normal. The usual.

But something inside stirs in protest to that idea, and so instead he finds himself saying: “Let’s get you something to drink.”

The convenience store is bright under the dark sky, located just two blocks away from the nightclub. It’s already past one in the morning, but to the people of the night, it’s only the beginning of fun. From a distance, the queue line is only getting longer.

Beside you, Heeseung is walking on the edge of the pavement, looking out for cars despite the slow traffic. He’s been quiet since the alleyway, seemingly lost in thought. Occasionally, his hand will brush yours, a quiet graze that sends electricity in your system. You try not to react.

The convenience store is empty, save for a group of partygoers sobering up around the round table outside, leaving only a long bench beside the door empty. You stop when Heeseung does, his hand already tapping on the sensory handle.

“Wait here. I’ll buy you something to drink.”

You nod, obediently sitting down. Heeseung takes one last look at you before he enters the store, the harsh lights greeting his tired eyes. He grabs the coldest mineral water and stops in front of the necessities shelves.

Without thinking, his hand moves like it has a mind of its own, grabbing whatever his eyes land on—a heat pack, chocolate, a pack of wet tissues. It’s only when the cashier scans the items that he pauses, staring at the items with wide eyes.

Since when does he…do this?

“Anything to add, sir?”

Heeseung gulps, looks past the cashier’s head, and lands on the rows of pills behind him.

She cried too much, she might have a headache.

And so, as if on instinct, Heeseung adds paracetamol to his receipt.

Outside, the air is cooler, biting at exposed skin like a bug. Heeseung wordlessly sits beside you, placing the plastic bag on his lap. You curiously peek into the bag.

“That’s a lot. Are you hungry?”

Heeseung pauses, realisation dawns upon him. His instincts flare again. “No. Are you? Do you want ramyeon? Or packed rice? I can—”

“No! It’s fine, Heeseung,” you laugh softly, the sound like a melodious chime of a bell to his ears. “I had dinner.”

Heeseung visibly relaxes and nods. He hands you the bottle first, twisting the cap open before passing it over without a word. He watches you drink, takes the bottle from you, and gives you the heat pack next.

You blink at him. “It’s cold,” Heeseung shrugs, pulling your hand towards him and placing the heat pack on your palm. He closes your fingers over it. “This will warm you up a bit.”

For a second, you just stare at him. The warmth in your hand spreads from your fingers up to your chest, where your heart is thumping wildly at his gentle act.

You bring the heat pack to your neck, a gentle smile gracing your lips as you stare at him, cheeks blooming red. They put him in a trance, your eyes, as Heeseung finds himself unable to look away. His gaze then drops to your lips when they move, already clinging to every syllable without even knowing it.

“Thank you, Heeseung.”

The flutter comes back, now more frantic and aggressive than before, like a caged bird trying to escape. This time, Heeseung forces himself to look away, the plastic bag wrinkles under his tightening grip. 

“Don’t mention it.”

“I mean it, though.” You counter back, gazing at the passing cars as you feel a gust of chilling wind breezing through. You scoot closer to the heat beside you. “It was really scary. Thank you for helping me out.”

There’s a bitter tone, faint and subtle, to your scent, as if you’re recalling the ugly incident that just happened almost half an hour ago. Heeseung clenches his jaw. 

Before he can stop it, his pheromones spill out like soft waves, calming and comforting, cocooning you again like a safety blanket. His wolf hums in quiet satisfaction, watching the way your shoulders loosen, the tension melting off you bit by bit.

Heeseung doesn’t know when or how it happened, but there’s no gap between you now. But he doesn’t hate it like he thought he would. Here, you’re so close to him, your shoulder practically glued to his, seeking warmth from his body heat.

It’s a foreign feeling. A comfortable, foreign feeling.

You stay in that position, slowly getting drunk on his pheromones. Your eyes droop, fighting sleep, but the exhaustion from running away from scary alphas has finally caught up to you. Before you know it, your head dips against his shoulder, breath evening out as your fingers lose their grip on the heat pack. 

Heeseung swallows. He doesn’t dare move. From the proximity, he can smell your fruity hair wash, blending smoothly with your scent. 

It’s so unfair. Every inch of you smells really good, whether it’s your natural scent or the products that you use. It’s like every inch of your skin decides that you only deserve to smell the best, and Heeseung himself can’t help but agree too. It’s so unfair.

Heeseung finds his hands hover awkwardly in the air, hesitating for a second before settling carefully on your head. His fingers thread through your hair, slower this time.

“Don’t feel scared anymore,” he mumbles, gently caressing the dark strands of your hair. 

It’s me who should feel scared.

His fingers freeze in your hair. 

Scared. He is scared.

This is not him. If Riki or Jay were to walk in to see him in this state, they’d drag him to the nearest police station and demand they find the real Heeseung. The normal Heeseung. The usual Heeseung.

The Heeseung that doesn’t stay, or spend his time watching people breathe in their sleep. The Heeseung who’s out the door before the sheets even cool down. The Heeseung that dislikes small touches like these; like caressing the hair of the girl he just saved, because the only physical touch he brands himself with is sex.

Not this. Not whatever this is.

He wants to move, but his body doesn’t listen—he stays despite himself. His wolf, like it’s found something it’s been looking for all along, settles deeper instead, quiet and satisfied. You nuzzle closer into his body and Heeseung feels his chest tighten.

Something uneasy creeps up his spine.

This should feel suffocating. It should itch under his skin, make him want to pull away, shake you off, leave. 

But it doesn’t. It feels easy. Too easy, in fact.

And it scares the shit out of him.

When your senses return to you, the first thing that greets you is someone’s scent.

Warm, spicy cinnamon and calm, salty sea air.

The memory follows not long after; of angry frowns and disgusting smirks that make your skin crawl. Amidst it all, a familiar face flashes in your mind and you feel your heart stutter.

Heeseung.

The pulse in your wrist thuds violently, as if not letting you forget the owner of the pheromones now wrapped around you like a soft blanket. You faintly remember, in your subconscious, being carried to a car and your roommate, Yujin, hugging you in panic. Unconsciously, you pull your blanket closer to your chest.

Did Heeseung send you home? Did he really…scent-mark you to help you?

You bite your lips between your teeth. The clarity is palpable now that the haziness of pheromones and distress are no longer around. There’s no way an alpha—a dominant one, at that—is willing to scent-mark an omega he has no connections to. The implications are more than the action itself. Heeseung surely knows about that, right? 

It feels like a dream. It has to be a dream.

What a capable alpha, your wolf preens. Shut up, you hiss.

Then, as if the universe was insistent to prove you wrong, your eyes land on a plastic bag placed neatly on top of your vanity, a damning evidence of last night’s incident.

No way.

Your brain swirls with possibilities and your own made-up theories that it has started to throb faintly. Before you could lose your sanity, thread by unraveling thread, you rush to the bathroom to, hopefully, get rid of his scent, even when your omega begs you not to.

Unfortunately for the human-you, the cinnamon trails after you even post-showers. It clings to your clothes when you change and it doesn’t let you go even as you sit for breakfast prepared by your doting roommate. It’s strange, really. No one’s scent ever clung to you so stubbornly like this, like a chewing gum latching on shoe soles. You always cuddle with Yujin and even her green tea pheromones never stay with you after washing up.

“It’s a bit odd, yes,” Yujin munches through a mouthful of her own signature pancake. “But it’s not totally out-of-this-world. His scent will fade by this evening, I promise.”

You chew painfully slowly, eyes going wide at another possibility. “You don’t think that I conjured some kind of bond with him, right?”

It’s common knowledge that a thin, fragile bond can be easily formed when an alpha and an omega scent each other, mated or not. After all, context and intention are greatly considered, whether it’s meant for familiarity, protection, or possessiveness—each one will determine how long it’ll last.

You pull at the sleeves of your cardigan, a telltale sign of your anxiousness. The same wilting daisies accent of your scent from the night before comes back, signalling your impending distress. Yujin drops her fork and reaches a hand to yours.

“Hey, hey. Calm down for a sec, Y/N.”

“It’s just,” you swallow harshly, your traitorous mind replaying the scene from last night. Your heart thumps at the base of your throat. “I don’t know—fuck. I forced him to do this. And—and despite the circumstances, he still helped me and now…now I think…”

Your eyes turn glassy, reminded of the wolf residing deep inside you.

“I think my omega might like him.”

Yujin is silent for a moment, assessing the right words to say. It’s obvious to everyone on campus of the nature of Lee Heeseung. He’s not exactly the alpha you’d seek for companionship or commitment; he seems to be allergic to those things. 

And to get your wolf to like him…well, let’s say that you’re already set for thousand-words of angst and a life of yearning. Yujin isn’t exactly fond of the idea of dishing out what you already knew. You already seem restless enough with your own thoughts.

“Okay. That’s valid.” Yujin starts slowly, treading through every syllable like a mother to her kindergartener son. “He’s super attractive. It’s understandable. But you can, you know—unlike him.”

You perk up at that, though the doubt clouding your face is more prominent now. “How?”

“Find a better alpha,” Yujin shrugs, as if explaining the world’s simplest equation. “For the record, I do think Heeseung’s a good guy, just not in the romantic department. I don’t know why your wolf is picking a fuckboy out of all alphas, but taste is subjective.”

“It’s because he stepped up and protected me!” You deflect and pause, realising how defensive of him you have become. Yujin raises a brow and you sigh, defeated, slumping in your seat.

“Fuck. Now my omega hates you for badmouthing him.”

“Sucks to be you.”

“Just kill me.”

Yujin shoots you a small smile, pushing your now-cold plate closer to you. You reluctantly take a bite. “Why not someone else, though? You could ask literally any other alpha, like—” Yujin pauses and it takes her less than a second to pick a name. “Jay. Like Jay. He’s like, the safest option, the greenest flag. But why Heeseung? And don’t tell me it’s because he was the only one there—you could’ve just barged in and found someone else. It’s a freaking nightclub.”

You freeze, unmoving for a slow second. There is, of course, an answer to that. One that you admittedly avoid to admit, because admitting it will admit that there is something underneath that only you know, and you admit that it’s scary to admit that. Fuck this admission! Yujin wouldn’t make fun of you, right?

“I…” You trail off, second-guessing your decision. Should you really tell your roommate? Seeing the eager look on her face, with her sweet, cute dimples showing up, you decide that people with dimples should be banned from this world. Promptly, you’re reminded of your junior—an alpha with Jungwon or something as his name. The both of them possessed dimples that could make any alpha (or omega) drop down to their knees.

Alas, you force yourself to tell the truth.

“I smelled him for afar.” You watch carefully for Yujin’s reaction. “Like, from outside. While I was running from those scary alphas.”

Yujin contemplates. “Did you feel some kind of a pull towards him?”

You don’t even contemplate. “Yes.” 

“Holy shit,” Yujin laughs, her grin turning giddy. “This shit is actually real?!”

“What is?!” You frown, not liking being kept in the dark. A playful punch lands on Yujin’s shoulder, who’s now throwing her head back in laughter. Unconsciously, a pout is formed on your lips.

“What is it? Tell me!”

“It’s just, there’s this joke going around,” Yujin hiccups between every inhale, “that an omega will eventually crave for his knot. I can’t believe it’s happening to you!”

The lines in your forehead deepen. You regard your roommate with a look of contempt, thinking of the best spot to hide a body.

“That’s not true. I don’t crave his knot, or whatever it is.” You sigh, bringing a hand to pinch the bridge of your nose. “You know what? I’m just gonna pretend last night didn’t happen.”

Resigned and defeated, you rise and bring your plate to the sink. Your class doesn’t start until the next three hours, and then the evening is reserved for your new routine practice for the upcoming tournament. The ninety-two unread messages from the group chat are still left unopened; you haven’t had time to review the routine video yet.

You put on your apron and reach for the cabinet. When in distress or deep thoughts, other than nesting in your bedroom, you often opt to stress-bake instead. The scent of baked goods always puts you at ease, and it blends sweetly with your daisies and honey pheromones. Everyone who knows you knows to empty their stomach and be ready for a mass sweet-feeding whenever you’re in your stressed baker mode.

Behind you, Yujin’s laughter dies in her throat. Then, a question that stops you in your tracks comes.

“Hey, you don’t think it’s because you and Heeseung are fated mates, right?”

Fated mates. The words settle like a heavy blanket, pressing you down with its weight and keeping you warm altogether. 

It’s sacred. It’s ancient. It’s something that you never speak of lightly, afraid that a slip of a tongue would taint the purity of such a bond. Against all odds and critiques on the concept of fated mates, you’re part of the minority who believed in it, no matter how foolish or ridiculous it may sound.

You believe in fated mates. You believe in the name written in the stars, in the love that has been shaped and created just to cherish you. You believe in spending the rest of your life looking for a face that your heart would recognise in a heartbeat, feeling that inevitable pull like you’re each other’s missing half.

But after last night, do you think it’s because you and Heeseung are fated mates?

Heeseung, who’s always made it clear to everyone about his relationship with commitments?

Heeseung, who never shies away when the boys tease him about the girls he sleeps with?

You’re never one to judge someone’s sex life, but you might be a little too concerned about how they view a long-term, committed relationship. Because that’s what you’ve been looking for. 

An alpha who’s not afraid to love you loudly. An alpha whose instincts are to love and protect you. 

Sometimes, you really envy mated couples. You envy how loyal Riki is of his girlfriend, craving the same kind of devotion to be directed to you. You envy how proud Taesan is to show off his mating mark, like it’s a badge of honour and love that promises forever.

Eventually, your mind drifts to Heeseung. The captain of the basketball team. Someone who deceives people with how approachable he seems, but is actually the most detached.

Heeseung is a perfect and capable alpha. You’ve seen it.

He leads his team with the kind of leadership that becomes a glue, keeping the team together no matter what challenges they’re going through. You know that he’s from the music department, and there are a few songs with his name being credited as the producer, composer, lyricist—you name it. Heeseung is a dominant alpha and uses his authority well, and he knows how to fend for himself.

You admire him, you really do. 

But will he devote himself to you? Will he look only for you in a crowd of beautiful omegas, and beautiful omegas who have spent the night with him? Does he share the same sentiment as you when it comes to fated mates?

The churn in your stomach provides an answer clearer than any of your exams had ever done.

You let Yujin’s question fade in the background, letting yourself lose in your element—baking and baking and baking until it feels like you could feed a whole team of athletes. Which is what Yujin has suggested before she leaves for her lab session, after saving a big jar of cookies for herself.

Fated mates.

What a scary thought.

For the first time in his life, Heeseung is actively avoiding omegas.

It’s not any omegas, though. It’s only you. But since it’s you, it’s actually a pretty big deal to him. 

Heeseung doesn’t play favourites. He doesn’t believe in fated mates, remember? But last night left a lasting impact in the form of your scent still clinging to him this morning, even after showering.  Not to mention how excited his wolf has been when realising that it’s you. 

It’s you, for fuck’s sake! The one who rejected him one year ago, and, admittedly, one of the prettiest omegas on campus. You might as well be every alpha’s ideal type. Well, maybe not Riki, that man is proudly claimed and fiercely loyal to his mate. But it’s definitely the case for him and Jay. 

Knowing his best friend, Heeseung’s sure you’re just Jay’s type. And his. No. He didn’t say that. He doesn’t have a type, remember?

As if to make it worse, you also have a scent that might just be his favourite one yet. The same scent that is currently invading his senses, dampening other pheromones in the court despite being on opposite ends from you. The same scent that his wolf decides to pick up and single out the moment he steps foot in the campus, recognising you before his eyes can even see you first. The same scent that still lingers in his lungs, mingling with his cinnamon and sea breeze notes like dancing partners. 

Yeah, Heeseung is starting to think that he’s slowly going insane. 

“Dude, stop staring. You’re scaring them.”

Heeseung blinks, Jay’s voice successfully snapping him out of whatever omega-spell that you have casted on him. Yeap, he nods. It’s definitely that. You’re actually a witch. There’s no other explanation to this other than that.

A blob of freshly-dyed blonde hair pops up beside Jay. “Hyung showed up smelling like daisies and honey and suddenly he’s staring at the cheerleaders like they owe him money.” Riki teases, then grins when he realises something. “Wait, that kinda rhymes—”

“I’m not staring!” Heeseung almost shouts, belatedly realising that he, indeed, has been staring at the group of cheerleaders stretching across the court. Or, to be more precise, he’s been staring at you. He glares at Riki.

“Okay. So why do you smell like one of them then? What’s her name again, Jay hyung?”

Heeseung grumbles. “It’s no one—”

“Y/N.” 

“Yes, that one. The shy one.” 

Heeseung groans. He kicks Riki’s shins and makes a show of turning his back facing the cheerleaders. But for some reasons he refuses to admit, as if he has eyes on the back of his head, he still can point where you’re standing just from his senses alone.

These stupid, useless alpha senses.

At least Jay takes pity on him. “Your Heeseung hyung saved her from perverts last night. He scented her to calm her down because she was reacting pretty badly.”

Heeseung mentally thanks Jay and continues warming up. He opts to just watch his teammates dribble and stretch just like him. The faint hum of scent neutraliser—a new, advanced one, thanks to that incident with Riki’s girlfriend—rumbles slowly. Somewhere behind him, he can hear you laugh and taste the sweet spike in your scent on his tongue. Heeseung grits his teeth. 

What is wrong with his wolf? Please get your tail together.

Riki, on the other hand, is intrigued. “Really? Did it happen after I left? Who were those alphas?”

“Some idiots from that team we beat last night.”

Riki frowns, clearly displeased with the news he just heard. “Well, I’ll keep my eyes on them. How did Heeseung hyung find her?”

Jay shrugs and shoots him a look. Heeseung really hopes he can slap that annoying smirk off his face one day. “Dunno. Ask him. His alpha probably recognised her from miles away.”

Heeseung doesn’t like what that sentence implies. “Shut up. It’s just instinct. Normal alpha-omega reaction.”

“Keep lying to yourself. I can practically see your tail wagging when you smelled your pheromones on her just now.”

“I didn’t—” Heeseung closes his eyes, forcing himself to calm down despite the sudden flare of defensiveness exploding in his chest. He doesn’t know why he’s so reactive and not in his usual calm composure, but he’s pretty sure it has something to do with you. Jay and Riki snicker. 

“The only people that believe in fated mates are you two idiots. Do you know that?”

“Yeah, I know,” Riki snorts and looks at him, amused. “But that doesn’t necessarily mean I have a fated mate. That shit is rare. It’s like finding my size in Calvin Klein.”

Jay frowns. “I don’t see the correlation.”

“There is. My dick is just too big, hyung. There’s no size for me—”

“I don’t need to know that!” Jay slaps at Riki’s shoulders while the younger alpha only lets out a full-body laugh. “Save that information for your girlfriend, Riki. I didn’t raise you like this.”

“She already knows that.”

“Nishimura Riki!” 

Heeseung is back to zoning out, his energy is suddenly drained out of his soul. That’s usually the case when you have to deal with a Nishimura Riki and a Park Jongseong on a daily basis. His mind, choosing to move at the pace of a snail today, is replaying Riki’s words back like a broken loop.

The realisation hits him five seconds late. “Wait. Did you mean that you and your girlfriend are not…fated mates? I thought you were!”

Riki is trapping Jay in a headlock when he answers. “Nope. We only imprinted on each other from early on because we’re childhood friends.”

“So like…what’s the difference?” Heeseung pauses and hesitates for a moment. He glances at you and then thinks, fuck it. If curiosity didn’t kill the cat then it’ll definitely kill him. “Can you smell your girlfriend in a sea of people?”

Riki scrunches his nose, his hands busy play-fighting with Jay. Heeseung ignores them like it’s a daily occurrence to see them act this way. Which is probably not far from the truth. “Not really? If they’re too many people, like right now, with your stench and too many omega scents—it’s difficult to find her.” Jay tackles his side and Riki yelps. “B-But it’s getting better after the mating bite, though—Jay hyung! I just got my tattoo there!”

“So…you can’t like…” Heeseung licks his lips, his throat suddenly dry. He has a feeling that he’s not going to like the answer Riki’s going to give him once he finishes his sentence. Jay is now on the floor while Riki is pulling him by the legs and dragging him around like a used rug.

“You can’t single her out from her scent alone?”

There. He said it. His two idiotic friends will catch on it and grill him for the problem he partially caused. The other part is, no doubt, his wolf’s fault for deciding to like one single scent. You’re not at fault at all. Never. Wait, who said that?

Riki is breathless from the laughter and play-fight, but he still manages to listen and answer, thanks to his alpha senses. If he finds Heeseung’s questions strange, he only shares his suspicion through a knowing look with Jay.

“Sometimes. Like I said, it’s only when the crowd isn’t too big and when she’s in the same room as me.” Riki finally spares Heeseung a glance, tilting his head in a feigned curiosity. “Why are you asking, hyung? Did you smell Y/N from miles away or something?”

How the fuck did that idiot know?

Heeseung looks away from the teasing grin thrown his way. He really doesn’t like this. “No,” he grumbles. “I’m just afraid if I might be Jay’s fated mate because his pheromones are fucking everywhere.”

“Hey! What the fuck did I do to you?!” 

Riki bursts out laughing and high-fives Heeseung with a cheeky smile. On the floor, Jay is already huffing and sulking, mumbling something about ‘always catching strays’ and ‘citrusy pheromones aren’t smelly’. Heeseung sighs quietly when the topic takes a turn into a debate about who has the best smelling pheromones, which is an easy win for Riki, if Heeseung’s going to be honest. 

Don’t tell Jay though. Heeseung doesn’t want to lose his passenger princess privilege so soon.

Much to his relief, it’s already time for practice. Heeseung tries to ignore the prickle in his neck coming from your direction as you and your fellow cheerleaders leave the gym to go to your own practice room. He fights the urge to look back, to stride forward and ask you to stay—which is insane, by the way, what the fuck is wrong with him?

Before he slips into his captain mode, however, Jay approaches him with a more serious look on his face. “Calm your flat tits, Hee. It’s normal for her scent to linger; you kinda scented her aggressively to protect her last night.”

Heeseung weakly nods. Jay pats his shoulder. “A deep bond can’t be conjured just from scenting alone, unless you’re fated mates.”

This time, Heeseung doesn’t move, his tension visible in the rigid lines of his posture, the frantic movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallows.

“Yeah,” he croaks, his pulse louder than his own voice. “Hope not.”

Practice goes on for the next two hours. Heeseung eventually falls into routine, finding himself lost in adrenaline and competitiveness. The thoughts of you cease for a moment, replaced by his quick-thinking strategy and sharp reflexes. He keeps dribbling, scoring, and making passes, not even aware of the ticking clock or when the cheerleader squad comes back in to take a break.

The last whistle finally blows before the players dramatically fall in a heap of sweaty, breathless alphas. The practice was particularly grueling, which made his body ache and his shirt clung to his skin. The coach is on fire today, all because his wife has been giving him a silent treatment. Apparently, he forgot to buy diapers on his way home last night.

Source: Nishimura Nosy.

“I think I might die,” Jay huffs, claiming a bench all to himself. His chest rises and falls in a rapid motion. “But even as a ghost, I bet the coach would still unearth my grave to force me to practice.”

“I’ll be Ghost Number Two.” Heeseung deadpans, lying down on the bench next to Jay. The latter continues to talk about something else, which Heeseung would know and remember if he didn’t get distracted by daisies and honey.

Fuck. You’re in the court again.

The urge to corner you, to grab your wrist and ask if you were okay, crawls under his skin again—restless, unrelenting.

Heeseung isn’t stupid. He knows last night, ugly as it was, doesn’t just fade by morning. His alpha has been clawing at him since then, sharp and impatient, demanding he go to you.

But Heeseung doesn’t move.

For once, he’s a coward.

He shoves it down, buries it deep, treating his own wolf like a disease he refuses to catch.

Heeseung blinks at the ceiling in an active effort to not start looking for you and staring at you like a creep. This time, he wonders quietly why your scent smells stronger than before. Perhaps the adrenaline from your routine. But even so, you don’t only smell strong, but you also smell closer—

“Free cookies!”

Heeseung jolts in surprise and whips his head in the direction of that voice. Or, precisely, your voice. His heart, as if trying to shorten his life span, decides not to take a break from the session just now and continues beating even faster.

There, just a few paces away from him, is you, standing in the middle of the court with one of your cheerleader friends. In her hold, there’s a purple Tupperware, its lid nowhere to be found. You stand slightly behind your friend, shyly looking over her shoulders as she talks to his teammates.

“Oh my God, they brought us cookies?!” Jay is already standing up, stretching lazily like a cat. “C’mon, Hee. It’s free cookies.”

Heeseung’s quick to refuse, despite his wolf begging him to go. “Nah—”

But before he can spit out any excuses, Jay is already dragging him, his weeks spent in the gym working out with Riki are finally paying off. “Don’t be ridiculous. Take your portion and give it to me.”

Heeseung groans. He really should start joining their workout session. He can’t be manhandled by his two best friends easily like this.

Distracted, Heeseung fails to register the decreasing distance between you and him. It’s only when your scent spikes sweetly, which hits him in the face like a fucking tidal wave, does he catch your eyes and realises that, fuckfuckfuck she’s here ohmyGod—

“Hi, Jay. Hi, Heeseung.”

Wait hold on, why does his name sound even more beautiful coming from your voice?

He stands like a flag pole beside Jay, actively avoiding your eyes while being fully aware of that pretty pair staring at his face. The floor suddenly looks very interesting, with skid marks from their shoes and some sweat trails. Okay. Ew. That’s gross.

“Hey, pretty ladies.” Jay greets, flashing his attractive smile as he gestures at the container. “Heard there’s free cookies for the taking? Mind if we have some?” 

Smooth as ever, Jay doesn’t even realise how easily he has charmed your friend with his simple greeting. Poor omega is already blinking rapidly, almost bouncing on her toes as she practically shoves the Tupperware into Jay’s chest. 

“Yes! Yes, of course you can, Jay. There’s only little left! Take them all!”

Your eyes, fixated on Heeseung since he arrived, tries to search his face as you shyly interrupt, whispering into your friend’s ear. 

“Offer some to Heeseung too…”

Heeseung doesn’t know whether to curse or thank the Goddess for his advanced dominant-alpha senses, because overhearing those words…it makes his chest feel warm and tight at the same time.

But your friend doesn’t pay you any mind, urging Jay to take the Tupperware from her. Jay, ever the gentleman but still a little shameless shit when it comes to food, takes it from her eager hands. He takes one bite and immediately lights up.

“This is so good! I love that it’s not too sweet.”

Like a mirror reflecting light, you beam widely, returning Jay’s enthusiasm. Heeseung tries to ignore the ugly twist in his chest. “Really? That’s…good to hear.”

“She made these, by the way!” Your friend proudly announces, which makes red blooms across your cheeks, ducking your head down slightly. You’re so shy, so pretty, Heeseung can’t stop staring.

And so good at baking. Such a perfect omega, his wolf continues. Shut the fuck up, Heeseung hisses.

“You’re really good at this, Y/N,” Jay interrupts his internal war, his voice sounding wrong in his ears. “Care to share the recipe?”

Now, is Jay flirting with you? Since when does his voice sound like that?

Heeseung tries to inhale, attempting to calm his fucking irrational wolf down, but all he can smell is the sugary scent of yours, tangling delicately and blending seamlessly with his spicy cinnamon and salty sea breeze. Somewhere in his chest, his heartstrings soften, drunk in the perfect mix of your pheromones, a ghost of a mark from last night. 

Maybe that’s what possessed him to snatch the Tupperware from Jay.

Heeseung wastes no time and starts munching two cookies at once, ignoring the gasps from you and your friend and the bombastic side-eye from his fellow alpha friend. The flavour of buttery vanilla and sweet chocolate chips melt on his tongue and Heeseung almost purrs at the taste.

Outside, he makes an effort to look calm.

“These are good,” he comments coolly, trying to make it sound more like a statement than a compliment (he’s failing). This time, he dares himself to meet your eyes, and has to force down another purr when he sees the sparkles in your eyes. “Thank you, Y/N.”

There’s a strange satisfaction blooming in his chest when the blush in your cheeks deepen. You quickly look down to the floor, mumbling softly that could’ve been missed had it not been for his senses.

What kind of pull is this? Why is every sense of his attuned to you? Heeseung swears he can smell the subtle spike of your scent, the sound of your heartbeat and your soft breathing. It’s like his whole body has decided that it wants to worship you.

And Heeseung doesn’t worship. Fuck. This is terrifying.

“Thank you, Heeseung…”

There. Your voice again. Heeseung swallows. His grip on the Tupperware tightens. Seeing you under this light, flushed and softly smiling to the ground while sneaking glances at him—it undoes him in ways he never dared imagine. 

The question is already at the tip of his tongue without his realisation. ‘Are you okay? Does what happened last night still bother you?’ The urge to comfort and soothe, now growing like a rolling snowball, threatening to spill from his mouth.

And the scary part is: Heeseung isn’t sure if that desire comes from his wolf or himself.

However, he never gets the chance to, because Jay with his perfect, universe-timing is already pulling him backwards. “Thank you for the cookies! We’ll eat them well!”

Heeseung reluctantly nods, the grip he has on the Tupperware turning knuckle-white.

“What the fuck was that?” Jay whisper-yells when they’re out of earshot, walking back to their previous spot. “And those are not only for you. Give them back to me!”

Heeseung dodges his grabby hand. “Why the fuck are you eating more?” He asks, failing to mask the bitterness in his voice.

“Didn’t they give all ten of them to us?”

“You’ve had two.”

“And you’ve had five!”

“I don’t care. These are mine.”

“You are being ridiculous.”

That’s what it takes for Heeseung to freeze in his tracks. Seeing an opening, Jay quickly snatches the Tupperware from his grasp and runs back to his spot on the bench, not forgetting to flip off the burgundy-haired alpha as he does so.

Heeseung is losing his fucking mind.

Sighing, Heeseung closes his eyes, a faint trail of daisies and honey still clinging to his senses. Even across the room, among the murmur of the gossiping cheerleaders, it’s your voice, the only one clear and crisp to his ears. 

I’m being ridiculous.

This isn’t me.

Slowly, his human side starts taking over, all flowery images of you vanish within seconds.

Fuck, he curses. He wishes this scent-marking will be gone by tomorrow morning.

Three mornings later, much to his dismay, your scent still clings to him. On the bright side, it has been notably fading, now only the remnants of daisies and honey underneath cinnamon and sea air; like crunched petals along the shoreline, waiting to be washed away.

Against his own judgment, however, his wolf is fucking devastated.

He’s been whining like a kicked puppy ever since he walked to practice this morning and couldn’t smell his scent on you instantly. He still can spot you from two buildings away, which is still strange, but the lack of spice and salt in your scent is what does it. Heeseung has to fight the urge to march towards you and start scenting you.

His wolf has been restless. And, inevitably, it puts Heeseung in a terrible mood, too. He never knew his wolf was that desperate. 

Practice ends late that night. With the tournament just around the corner, everyone is being a little shit at managing their emotions and competitiveness on the court—the downside of having an all-alpha team that people rarely talk about. 

Heeseung is not excluded from the equation, though. He almost threw the ball to Taesan’s knot and made his omega pups-less and pregnancy-free when he accidentally made a bad pass. The court had smelled like tension and a barely held-together brotherhood when he left before a cheerleader came up to him to flirt and he wasted no time to drag her to an empty classroom.

Now, Heeseung finds himself making out with that omega, tongue licking up into her mouth while she breathlessly moans into his. It’s been five days since his last fuck, and while he usually can go on without sex for weeks (one month was his best record), he’s been at his wit’s end today. Add the confusion and silent wars he’s been having about you into the mix, and Heeseung is nothing more than a stressed body waiting to be relieved.

Weirdly enough, the frustration he hopes to get rid of stays as frustration. The old sparks he usually feels when having this intimate moment with an omega seems to disappear tonight. In the back of his mind, like a looming cloud carrying a storm, is a hazy image of teary eyes and red, trembling lips.

Something stirs uneasily in his chest.

His huge, veiny hands slip under her skirt and find purchase on her cunt, gathering the slick leaking from her arousal. Her scent spikes as she bucks up her hips and, to Heeseung’s own surprise, he recoils from the smell of it and breaks the kiss. The girl doesn’t stop her advances, switching to kiss down his long neck instead.

He subconsciously scrunches up his nose, his finger halting its movement for a second. 

“What perfume are you wearing?” He asks, voice hoarse from the makeout session. He tilts his head back, allowing access and finding stimulation, but the usual thrill is a bit dull tonight.

“My pheromones,” she manages between kisses, “you like it?”

It’s quite the opposite, to be honest. Heeseung finds himself hating it. It’s too sweet. Too sharp. It sits wrong in his nose, burns at the back of his throat, like inhaling smoke for the first time. His eyes water.

There’s something wrong. He’s not enjoying this. 

And to make things worse and more confusing, his chest hurts. It constricts, like his lungs decide to shrink into a ball of unexplained pain. Heeseung’s breath stutters, almost doubling over. His mind is a frantic buzz of noise, chanting something that he can’t seem to fully register yet.

Not my omega. Not daisies. Not honey.

Heeseung feels something twist in his gut.

The nameless omega—he forgot to ask for her name—doesn’t notice the shift yet, the way Heeseung is already a frozen statue of confusion and frustration in her embrace. She continues, trailing down hot, wet kisses along the prominent line of his collarbone and sucks the tender skin. 

“Ow!” Heeseung yelps, instinctively pushing her away. The spot stings like a pulsing heartbeat, void of any pleasure that it usually would give. He staggers backwards once.

The girl frowns, clearly not happy being pushed like that. “What’s wrong? Is everything alright?”

“I—” Heeseung hisses, his shirt sitting wrong on his skin, her scent smelling wrong in his nose. He shakes his head. “Shit. I’m sorry, I—I have somewhere to be.” 

The girl scoffs, disbelieving. “What?! Heeseung, you can’t just—”

But Heeseung can, and he already does. The alpha is out of the room in the next minute, deliberately the calls of his name and the strings of insults that come from behind him. He makes a run for it.

What the fuck did just happen? Heeseung is never one to refuse a good time with omega, but his wolf is quiet tonight. Too quiet, like it’s being silent on purpose in solidarity for something he’s yet to know—or yet to realise. 

The hazy image comes back to his mind, slowly becoming sharp and clear. Heeseung thinks his lungs have turned into bricks when he realises that he’s been imagining you. That his head has been loud with the thoughts of you, even when he’s with someone else.

Why? Why is this happening? Why you?

Heeseung makes a turn to where the locker room is, planning to grab his duffel and leave, when he bumps into Riki and Jay, freshly out of the shower.

“Heeseung hyung?” A shirtless Riki calls his name, then raises a brow when he sees his condition. “Was wondering where you were. But those lipstick stains told me enough.”

Heeseung wipes his neck harshly. Wordlessly, he yanks his locker open and checks himself out in a mirror. He turns his face left and right, yanking down his under eyes, then sighs. Riki and Jay exchange looks. The air is slowly thickening with the pheromones of a distressed alpha, coming from none other than Heeseung.

“You good, mate?” Jay decides to ask him. Heeseung doesn’t know. He doesn’t think he’s as good as he wants himself to be. The alpha lets out another sigh and slams the door closed.

“I think something is definitely wrong with me.”

“Is it practice?” Jay softens his voice, already switching on his therapist-friend mode. “Hee, today’s just that day. Everybody was losing their shits, it’s not just you.”

Heeseung leans his back on the locker and tilts his head upwards. “It’s not that. I mean it biologically. Ever since—” Heeseung pauses, suddenly unsure if saying out loud would make things right. But Riki and Jay have already caught onto it.

“Ever since what?”

Heeseung chooses to deflect. “Look, I was trying to make out with this one pretty omega just now. But no matter how much kissing we did, I just couldn’t enjoy it.” Heeseung points to his sweatpants. Riki and Jay curiously follow with their eyes. “She was practically sucking my tongue and I’m not even bricked up, man!”

Riki furrows his eyebrows. “Not even a spark?”

Heeseung shakes his head. “I couldn’t feel anything. At all. Only,” he swallows harshly. “I only felt disgusted. By her.”

Silence hangs in the room at his revelation. Riki’s expression morphs into something akin to genuine surprise, while Jay only stares at him with a gaping mouth before he starts typing on his phone.

“This is dead serious. You can’t have sex without your dick. That's like a banana cake without bananas.”

Heeseung and Riki grimace. “Please don’t ever compare my dick to a banana again.”

“Or a banana cake.” Riki slaps his shoulder. “That’s my favourite, hyung. Don’t be gross.”

Jay waves a dismissive hand, eyes still glued on his phone. “Right, right. Anyway, I texted Sunoo.”

Heeseung’s eyes go wide like saucer plates at the name and groans. “Sunoo?! Jay, you know he’s still mad at me.”

“I know, but he’s the only one who probably knows the answer to this.” Jay smacks his lips when he reads a new text from Sunoo. “He’s staying back for a lab session. Let’s go to the medicine building.”

And that’s how Heeseung finds himself cramped into a tiny booth of a ramyeon stall, located by the road near the faculty of medicine. A pouty Sunoo is sitting across from him, shooting him his foxy side-eyes as he whines at Jay.

“Jay hyung, why did you bring this traitor with you?” Sunoo pulls at the sleeves of Jay’s hoodie, sulking away from Heeseung. It’s only the three of them since Riki had gone home with his girlfriend just now. “I thought the three of us would include you, me, and Riki.”

Jay sighs exasperatedly. “I had to, Sunoo. That traitor is having a critical dick malfunction and he needs your help.”

The waitress arrives with three bowls of steaming ramyeon. Jay and Sunoo pause their not-so-quiet argument and help her place the bowls on their table. She clears her throat awkwardly, and takes a quick glance at Heeseung before leaving. Heeseung groans internally.

Great. Now words about him and his dick problem will spread around the campus.

“Is STD finally catching up with you?” 

Heeseung should know that it was never that easy to get Sunoo off his back. That boy is a professional pouty sulk-er, he’ll never let Heeseung go easily. Not after harassing him with his sass, at least. Heeseung holds back a sigh, already resigned and defeated.

With a grim voice, he apologises to the brown-haired alpha. For the fifth time. 

“Sunoo, I am so sorry. I know it was my fault, but for the record, I didn’t know you were serious about pretending to be an omega. Why would you even do that, anyway?”

“Because I like the attention!” Sunoo is fast to defend himself, his pout only deepening. “And because alphas will only spoil me if I was their pretty little soft omega—which I am not! And you exposing my secondary gender to that alpha just ruined my chance to be with him. Who would even call their friend, ‘my cutie little fake omega’, anyway?!”

“I was drunk!”

“A drunk traitor is still a traitor!”

Heeseung turns to Jay, sending him signals to help him out. But his best friend deliberately ignores him, too engrossed in his own bowl, pretending to be a wall. Heeseung rolls his eyes and looks back at Sunoo.

It might not be that easy to console the sulky boy, but Heeseung is labelled a sweet talker for a reason.

“You’re already a pretty alpha, Sunoo. Prettier than any omega I know. Anyone would drop everything for you even if they knew you weren’t an omega.”

Like a switch being flipped, the frown on Sunoo’s melts away, replaced by a beam so wide it shows off his perfect teeth.

“Aw, Heeseungie hyung. You’re now forgiven. Now tell me about this dick problem of yours.”

Jay and Heeseung look at each other and relax into their chairs in relief. Heeseung sends him a look of, ‘That was easy,’ to which Jay raises his eyebrow, ‘Why hadn’t you done it sooner?’

Now, with Sunoo not threatening to kill the burgundy-haired alpha anymore, Heeseung can finally enjoy a few bites of his untouched ramyeon. It’s already a bit cold and soggy, but the broth makes up for it. He retells the story to Sunoo between bites, watching the ever expressive boy react to it with various expressions.

“It’s not uncommon, though. But since it’s you, it must have felt very concerning.” Sunoo hums in thought, tapping his full lips with the thinnest tips of his chopsticks. “Well, Heeseungie hyung, did you imprint on any omegas?”

Heeseung hesitates for a moment before he shakes his head, feeling Jay’s eyes on him.

“No.”

“Hm, okay. Even if it’s due to imprints, it has to come from both sides,” Sunoo rubs his chin, now looking every bit a live action of Detective Conan, minus the glasses. “Did you conjure a bond with anyone? Maybe accidentally?”

Heeseung’s lips part. “I…would’ve known, right?”

“Right.” Sunoo nods firmly, then tilts his head. “Did you scent one of your hookups, then?”

“An almost-hookup,” Jay cuts in, clearly enjoying this interrogation. Heeseung shoots him a look. Jay is always out to rat him out and he’s actually so close to disowning him.

He grunts. “Just…someone.”

Sunoo smiles in amusement. “So you did scent someone. Was it someone you like?”

“Define like.”

“Like them enough to want to kiss them. Like them enough to want to fuck them. Like them enough to even want to scent them to begin with.” Sunoo shrugs. “Pick one.”

Heeseung closes his eyes. Does he like you? Wanting to kiss and fuck someone don’t equal to liking them. Because if that was true, then there’s no other explanation to Heeseung ‘liking’ every omega he has fucked other than him having an insanely big heart—which he doesn’t. He liked the sex and their company; that was all there was to it.

Which leaves him option number three. 

Heeseung’s never the guy to sit with his feelings—at least not the romantic kind. You’re an unfamiliar territory; something that he deliberately avoids his entire life, simply because he never sees settling down with a mate as a desirable goal or accomplishment. And, perfectly hidden under his fuckboy persona is also a thin layer of fear.

Fear of getting hurt by the thing that’s supposed to be love.

But does he like you?

Maybe he does. He’s always liked the way you laugh; you always cover your mouth with one hand when you do, like your smile is only visible in the privacy of those who really know you. He’s always noticed the way you touch the tip of your nose when people’s eyes are on you. He’s always thought the natural blush that you have when you’re shy is adorable.

In that one single minute, Heeseung realises that he’s been paying attention to you more than he thought he did.

Fuck. He does like you.

But does liking have to lead to being mated?

That responsibility is way taller and heavier than him and Heeseung is beyond freaked out.

“Earth to Heeseungie hyung?”

“Why does it even matter? What does it even have to do with me not getting a boner during a makeout session?” Heeseung demands, frustration bleeding into his voice. Is Sunoo punishing him for being the reason he fumbled that tall, hot alpha two weeks ago? Will Sunoo truly ever forgive him? He already apologised five times!

Sunoo, seeing enough of his hyung’s suffering, finally relents. “Geez, relax. I wasn’t playing with you. I asked because most of the time this happens,” he gestures at Heeseung and his crotch. Heeseung instinctively closes his long legs. “It’s because the wolf has already liked one omega. An omega they recognise as their mate. It’s the only explanation why you felt disgusted just now.”

Mate. That cursed word again. Beside Sunoo, Jay is whistling.

“Sorry. You mean my wolf, my alpha, likes one omega and decides I shouldn’t fuck around anymore?”

Sunoo nods. “Basically, yeah. But it usually isn’t that easy, hyung. A bond has to have been conjured between your wolf and their wolf by any kind of markings.”

“Like?”

“Like biting. Or scenting.”

Scenting. Heeseung didn’t just do scenting with you, he was scent-marking you.

“But that’s impossible,” Jay interrupts, confusion etching onto his handsome features. His leaning forward now, his empty bowl pushed to the center of the table, which reminds Heeseung of his own bowl. The alpha quickly finishes his noodles. “Scenting between unmated alpha and unmated omega will only conjure a temporary, fragile bond. It should’ve been gone by now—the scenting happened five days ago.”

“Are you sure about that? Because I can detect some floral scent in Heeseungie hyung’s pheromones.”

Heeseung almost chokes on his noodles. “You do?”

Sunoo leans forward, squinting his eyes at him like he’s some kind of lab specimen. “Yeah. It’s faint, but it’s there. Sweet. Floral. Clingy.” He tilts his head again. “It’s weird.”

Across from him, Heeseung is frozen. His grip on the chopsticks tightens. He swallows harshly.

“That’s not supposed to happen…right?”

“Exactly,” Sunoo points at him. “That’s why I’m saying it’s weird.”

Jay leans back, arms crossed. “But if it’s still there after five days—”

“It doesn’t automatically mean fated mates,” Sunoo cuts in quickly, tone sharper this time. He shoots Jay a look before turning back to Heeseung. “Don’t jump to that conclusion. That’s, like, extremely rare. And also very dramatic.”

Heeseung exhales, shoulders dropping just a little.

Right. Dramatic. His alpha begs to differ.

“It could just be a stronger-than-usual temporary bond,” Sunoo continues, more thoughtful now. “Maybe your alpha overdid it when you scented them. Or the omega was in a heightened emotional state, so the bond lasted longer.”

Jay hums, not entirely convinced.

“But the whole not getting turned on thing?” He gestures vaguely. “That still doesn’t explain it fully.”

Sunoo taps his chin again. “Mhm. That part’s interesting.” He levels Heeseung with a curious look. “Who is this girl, anyway? You seem pretty fucked over her.”

Heeseung groans, dragging a hand down his face. “Can you not say it like that? Like I’m some kind of a broken alpha?”

“You kinda are right now,” Sunoo says bluntly.

“Sunoo.”

“I’m serious!” He leans forward again, eyes lighting up. “Your body is rejecting other omegas. That’s not normal for you. Like, at all.”

Heeseung slumps deeper into his seat. As if it’s not already obvious enough, Sunoo just had to spell it out loud.

“I noticed,” he mutters, defeated.

Sunoo softens slightly at that, sighing as he rests his chin on his palm. “Okay. Look. Don’t panic yet.”

“I’m not panicking.”

“You’re literally here because your dick stopped working.”

“…Okay, I’m a little panicked.”

Sunoo waves his chopsticks dismissively. “It’s probably not fated mates. If it were, you’d be way worse right now.”

Heeseung stills. “Worse?”

“Yeah,” Sunoo shrugs. “You’d be obsessing. Unable to stay away. Your senses would go crazy. You’d feel everything they feel, more or less.”

Jay slowly turns to look at Heeseung. Heeseung immediately avoids his gaze. That fucker is always eager to catch his ‘Gotcha!’ moment, it irritates him to the core.

“That doesn’t sound like me,” he says a bit too quickly, the lie tasting acidic on his tongue.

Sunoo mustn't know about the knot of uneasiness in his chest. Sunoo mustn’t know about the face that comes to his mind when he’s kissing someone else. None of his friends mustn’t know that he’s obsessing right now, itching to flee and find you in the middle of the night.

“Exactly,” Sunoo nods, unaware of his friend’s turmoil. “So relax. I’ll look into it more, yeah? Might be some weird hormonal response or delayed imprint reaction.”

Heeseung lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “Yeah, okay.”

“Or you can do a try-and-error,” Sunoo suggests, reaching over to pat Heeseung’s shoulder. “Just do what you always do—try hooking up with different omegas. Maybe the one you made out with tonight was just a bad compatibility for you.”

Heeseung perks up at that. Sunoo and Jay, not noticing the shift in the air, are already moving forward with a different topic, completely oblivious to the newly-lit determination now burning up his body.

Just do what you always do.

Right. Heeseung has a high body count for a reason. He decides, with a final resolution, that he should solve this his own way.

If Heeseung spends every night for the next two weeks trying to bed different omegas, Sunoo and Jay don’t have to know.

If Heeseung fails each time, unable to enjoy every kiss and friction, Sunoo and Jay don't have to know.

If the pain in his chest worsens every time he leaves the barely-warm beds, Sunoo and Jay don’t have to know.

If Heeseung avoids looking at you, avoids bumping into you, avoids speaking to you—he hopes you don’t know about it.

A quiet voice from his wolf whispers something that he refuses to acknowledge: He hopes you’ll forgive him for being unfaithful.

You’ve been sick for two weeks. 

At first it was subtle, like a faint throb in your heart that makes you stop whatever you’re doing. The first time it happened, you were in the middle of a group discussion for an elective subject. 

A quiet alpha, or a wolf hybrid named Sunghoon, to be exact, had noticed the way you winced from the pain. He didn’t say anything, but you guessed he told an omega about what he saw because right before you exited the library, one of the girls had passed you a free menstrual pad.

He thought you were experiencing period cramps. You wished it was just period cramps.

Then, it gradually grew to something worse. A sudden stabbing pain in your chest. A twist in your gut, like you were expecting something bad to happen. Sometimes it was random palpitations, where your heart was skipping huge beats, as if you were about to go down on a roller coaster.

Each time it happened, you only placed your palm over your heart, hoping it’d go away. You never understood why, but those pains only came at night, preventing you from getting any good sleep and rest. And each time you tried to close your eyes, there was only one face flashing behind your eyelids.

Heeseung.

Yujin had dragged you to the clinic, but the doctor came to a conclusion that you were just having pre-heat symptoms—which couldn’t be further from the truth, because you just had your cycle one month ago. You’re not supposed to go on your quarterly-cycle of torture for another two months.

“Oh my Goddess, you’re burning up.” Yujin’s palm is cold against your forehead. Her face is pulled into a tight expression. “Let’s just skip today’s classes, okay? I’ll stay with you.”

You weakly nod, barely registering Yujin’s movement around the room. Your body feels like a furnace, the heat simmering in your veins almost rivaling a volcano’s lava. You discard the blanket to get some sort of relief, only to shiver in the cold when the air touches your skin.

After a few minutes of exiting and entering your room, Yujin finally sits by your bed. She helps you with a glass of water and a dosage of paracetamol, careful to wipe any loose drops like a concerned mother. It doesn’t get better, but at least your throat doesn’t feel like it’s being scrubbed with sandpaper anymore.

“How’re you feeling now?”

“Dying, but a bit less dramatic.”

“Good. Wouldn’t want to give Suho from True Beauty a run for his money, would we?”

You chuckle softly, though it sounds more like a seal with a sore throat.

“But seriously, though. It’s been two weeks.” Yujin purses her lips, the worriness still marring her beautiful face. “I’m so worried, Y/N. What’s happening to you?”

You don’t answer right away. “It’s my omega.”

Yujin’s eyebrow jumps. “What about her?”

You also wonder the same thing. Swallowing, you finally let your friend in on the torturous days you have been going through. “One night, after our practice ran quite late two weeks ago, she went a bit hysteric. I couldn’t stop vomiting.” You recalled, eyes distant in memory. “She kept yelling something about a traitor, about rejection. I don’t know, really. But that’s how it started.”

“Two weeks ago, at night, you say?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Yujin is quiet for a few extended minutes, caressing her thumb over your knuckles. The motion puts you at ease, and slowly, you feel the pills begin working their chemicals.

“Did you, perhaps, hear about anything that happened that night?” You shake your head, unsure if your cheerleader squad had mentioned anything. Yujin hums. “Because I think I did.”

“What?”

“So I’m friends with this one omega named Sunoo from my faculty. A pretty boy and a petty gossiper.” Yujin starts, now treading her words slowly as if walking on eggshells. “He knows everyone on this campus. Especially the hot stuff, you know—student body, athletes, cheerleaders.” Yujin eyes you but not unkindly. “He knows you too. Just the basic stuff.”

“Like?”

“Your name, your major, your Instagram account.”

You let out a breath, a bit unsure where this is heading, but listen anyway. “Okay.”

“And because of his impeccable knowledge of gossip, I heard from him about a cheerleader breaking down in the group chat after a certain alpha left her mid-making out, all slicked and horny while he didn’t even pop a borner.”

You hold onto her every word, but for some reason, a dread has settled deep in your bones, like your body is already anticipating some bad news. Your heart, previously beating fast, is now sprinting like it might escape your rib now.

“And that alpha was Heeseung.”

It hits before you can even think.

A sharp, twisting pain lances through your chest, knocking the air out of your lungs like you’ve been struck. Your fingers curl into the sheets, clutching at nothing.

Your omega whines—hurt, betrayed. And suddenly, you understand why. The cries about betrayal. His face haunts you every night, like a painful reminder of the destiny you're subjected to.

You try to swallow once, then twice, before you find your voice back.

“Heeseung?” You try. His name now tastes bitter on your tongue.

Yujin, ever the empathetic, senses it, and tightens her hold on your hand. “Yeah,” she nods. She lets a moment of quiet pass, fidgeting and swallowing like you. Like the news has more stories that she’s yet to tell; an extended part to a nightmare that’s been keeping you up at night. You brace yourself.

“And two nights ago I saw him at Jake’s frat party with a girl. Doing sexy stuff. The usual.” Yujin can’t look at your face, choosing to stare at your intertwined hands instead. “The frat boys told me that he’s been at it almost every night. For two weeks.”

Is it possible to hurt someone this much in a span of five minutes? Getting shot multiple times would’ve hurt less than this.

There’s a heavy silence, then there’s your small, quiet voice, laced with unfiltered hurt.

“What does this have to do with me?”

“I’m saying, Y/N, that you might be facing bond rejection symptoms right now.” Yujin licks her lips. “I’m saying that you and Heeseung just might be fated mates. That night he scented you? You guys conjured a half-bond. And him fucking around with other omegas like this hurts your wolf because she knows—only this kind of bond can do that.”

Is having a fated mate supposed to hurt like this? Like your chest is caving in, collapsing under the torment of unwanted love. Can you even call it love? Whatever it is that you and Heeseung unknowingly have been sharing—Is it even love?

It’s not. It’s just…fate.

You shake your head. There’s hot pain behind your eyes, a sign of an impending doom. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s okay. It’s a lot to take in.”

A drop of tears rolls down your face and in the next blink, everything is already blurry. “I—I think I already knew it.” Your voice is wet from despair, the pain almost feels tangible.  “He never meets my eyes anymore and—and every time I see him, I feel like I might die.”

A warm pair of arms pulls you close, and instantly the scent of green tea fills up your senses. Your roommate holds you tight, letting you rest your head in the crook of her neck as you sob into her chest. 

Your wolf, the contradict that she is, hopes that it was Heeseung embracing you. Still hoping it was the alpha comforting you, soothing you with his voice and that calming pheromones of his. Still foolishly longing for him despite everything.

You feel pathetic.

Your crying subsides after a while, still curling up against Yujin like a hurt puppy. You’re already losing track of time, if it’s still proper to have breakfast or if it’s already time for lunch. It is Yujin who finally speaks first.

“Do you hate it?”

You let the question linger in the air, turning it over in your thoughts like what you’ve been doing the past hour since you woke up. “I don’t hate the bond. Nor him.”

You pause, gnawing at your lower lip. Then you exhale.

“I just hate that I was never given a chance to do this properly.”

Yujin pulls away and makes you face her. She wipes your tears using her sleeves, murmuring sweet words as you feel your chest slightly loosening at her kind gesture. “You might still have it. Go and talk to him, Y/N. If he’s avoiding you like this, he might’ve felt something too, right?”

“If he’s avoiding me like this, he might just not want anything to do with me.” A humourless chuckle escapes your lips. “And to think that I thought I had a chance.”

“Wait, I never asked you this. Do you like Heeseung? Both of you; your wolf and you.”

You don’t answer right away. The question sits between the two of you, heavy and fragile; like a mark refusing to be looked over. 

Do you like Heeseung?

Your wolf stirs immediately. Yes, I like him.

The answer is quick. Certain. Definite. 

But you purse your lips, forcing yourself to think harder, deeper. Forcing yourself to think about you, not her. You can only come to one conclusion.

“I don’t know,” you whisper, honest. It sounds weak even to your ears. Beside you, Yujin keeps rubbing small, grounding circles over your hand.

“I already know my omega likes him,” you admit softly. “She decided that the moment he stayed and took care of me that night.”

Oh, how pathetic is it to fall for someone for doing something as mundane as staying and taking care of you?

It’s laughable. But it makes your chest ache even more, like your heart was an empty can and fate was crushing it with its tight grip.

“But me…” you continue, voice quieter now, “I don’t even know him like that.”

You shake your head, frustration flickering through your expression.

“I don’t know what he’s like when he’s not surrounded by people, or when he’s not—” you gesture vaguely, like you can scoop up every rumour tied to his name. “That version of him everyone talks about.”

You stare at your hands. “But I wanted to.”

Yujin follows, voice soft. “Wanted to?”

“I wanted to get to know him,” you continue, voice trembling. “When I first found out how my wolf feels for him, I thought it could be like how I’ve always imagined having a fated mate would be: slowly falling in love with them. With him.”

A wistful smile graces your beautiful features, soft and vulnerable. “I wanted to know which game he remembers the most. I wanted to know if the number on his jersey means anything. Silly things like that. Not this.”

Your hand moves to your chest unconsciously, rubbing the surface softly.

“Not like this. Not when it hurts every time I—” you cut yourself off, breath shaking. “Not when it hurts every time I look at him.”

You still remember, after one grueling routine, when the pain was still kind enough to let you come to practice. The players had just finished their practice too, slicked with sweat and looking exhausted as ever. Among the tired alphas, your eyes locked onto Heeseung’s.

You had the instincts to go to him and pass him the cold mineral you’d unknowingly saved for him. But the look in his eyes—it was unreadable. Cold. An abyss that was enough to make you stay rooted in your place.

Then, without even a graze of a smile, he looked away, taking a bottle from Riki’s hand.

It had hurt more than you’d like to admit.

“I think…” you try again, more carefully this time. “If things were different, I would’ve liked him.”

Your throat tightens. This time, you’re reminded of that night before everything turned cruel like this. The warmth of his embrace that lingered. The spice of his scent that clung. The safety of his company that comforted you. 

Was any of it real?

“And if things were the same…I think I would've still liked him anyway.”

That’s the truth. A quiet, terrifying truth that settles deep in your chest like an unshakeable ground. The kind of truth that makes even your most grounding friend sit still in your bed.

“And that’s what makes it worse,” you whisper.

Because now it’s not just your omega.

It’s you, too.

The one-week intervarsity basketball tournament has finally begun. Around seven universities have sent their representatives, leading to a flood of humans in different-coloured jerseys wandering around on your campus, its official host. 

You’re excused from the whole week’s classes, seeing your cheerleaders and bunches of alphas more than you have ever seen your classmates since the tournament started. It was exciting at first, to participate in such a prestigious tournament that is always the talk of town. But the tight schedules between games is becoming more taxing and demanding.

It doesn’t help that the bond rejection symptoms have only gotten worse, hindering you from giving your best potential at each routine. Which, of course, catches the attention of your captain, and she’s not very amused with it.

“Y/N. If you’re not telling me what is wrong with you, then don’t make me find excuses to put you on the bleachers.” Narin once whispered to you on the third day of the tournament. You merely nodded, trying hard not to scrunch your noise at the sour smell of bubblegum and burnt cotton candy. She eyed you up and down, before she scoffed.

“Don’t get too butt-hurt that Heeseung’s fucking other cheerleaders,” she grunted. You froze. “At least you got your round that night. He fucking rejected me.”

What? The confusion must be clear on your face, because then Narin rolled her eyes, fixing the blue ribbon in her hair before she turned to face you.

“You smelled like him for weeks, Y/N. Don’t think people didn’t know that you two fucked after they won against that eastern university that night.” And then she left, leaving a dumbfounded you in the hallway, standing still like a lifeless statue.

Realisation starts settling in. Did people think you and Heeseung—fuck. You should’ve known.

No wonder many eyes were on you during those days when you still smelled like Heeseung.  You thought it was just because Heeseung was one of the most sought after alphas on campus. Not this. Not whatever allegation this is.

Still, the bomb Narin had dropped wasn’t enough to stop yourself from pushing yourself past your limits. You don’t even know what your limits are anymore. They seem to keep expanding with every new pain that blooms in your chest. 

You’re still a bit sluggish, but at least Narin is off your back. Whatever bitterness she harbours for you, though not forgotten, is at least tamed on the last day of the tournament.

You knew she wouldn’t understand, but you couldn’t help it if the pain worsens. You wish, for once, that Heeseung would take it slow with the cheerleaders from the opposing teams. Because the pain has become unbearable; cracks turning into holes of emptiness in your heart, faint pulsing turning into straight-up invisible stabbing in your gut. You’re actually surprised that you’re not already bleeding from how real it has felt.

However, deep down, there’s a small, barely-there gratitude for Heeseung for not doing it in front of you. At least you can spare yourself from whatever possible torment this fate has destined for you to face if you had to watch Heeseung fucking another omega in the empty locker room.

But you guess it’s time you finally, actually reach your limit, and your body can’t seem to be more dramatic to choose the last game as its last straw. As Heeseung hoops in the last score for the team, sealing their title as the champion, the audience erupts into the loudest cheer you’ve ever heard. You quickly get to your feet to perform the celebratory routine, but the world is spinning and your head is light when you stand up. You stagger backwards.

“Oh my Goddess, are you alright?” One of your cheerleader friends catches you in her arms, shaking you out of your pained daze. 

“I…” you cough, your voice only scratching at your throat. “I just need to. Sit. Yeah. I need to sit down and talk to Heeseung.”

“Heeseung?” The girl, who you finally recognise as Rei, looks over at the center of the court, where almost the whole school is hooting and hollering in joy. “Wait—let me sit you down first. You’re pale as hell, damn.”

You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when you’re finally seated. Rei has passed you a bottle of mineral water and fans you with her pink hand-fan. She stays by your side, looking after you as the rest of the world celebrates the first champion of your university team. You’re painfully grateful to her for it.

“Hey. Can I call one of your friends? Or maybe, do you have an alpha I can contact?” Rei starts when you’re not speaking, too focused on not focusing on the pain to remember to talk. “You asked for Heeseung just now. Is he your alpha?”

Is he?

You wish you knew the answer to that too.

Instead, you shake your head. “He’s not my alpha. I just…need to have a few words with him.”

Rei purses her lips, clearly not pleased with your priority at the moment but obliges anyway. “Alright. Let me text my cousin real quick.” She says, already rummaging inside her bag for her phone.

Her statement intrigues you. “Cousin?”

“Nishimura Riki. And he’s not replying. Gimme a sec.” You watch as Rei presses the call button on her phone and puts the device over her ear. You follow her line of sight as she turns to look at the court again. The crowd hasn’t calmed down from the high of the win yet.

“Hello, adopted fuck. I need you to read my text ASAP—Nobody’s stealing your girlfriend, Riki! You can go back to kissing her face after you read my text—Okay, okay! My friend, Y/N, needs to talk to Heeseung. President-level urgent.” Rei pauses, taking a quick look at you before she continues. “Yes. It seems very important. Just get his ass here fast. Yeah—Congrats, by the way. I’m not buying you that Chrome Hearts chain. Bye.”

Rei sighs as she pockets her phone. “Heeseung will be here in five minutes. You good? Do you still need anything? I feel like I should call someone else. You’re friends with Ahn Yujin, aren’t you?” She rambles on. For someone who barely speaks to you, Rei sure is a caring omega.

You give her a small smile.”I’m alright, Rei. I’ll rest after seeing him.”

Rei hums, checking her phone when it vibrates. “Aight, if you say so. I’ll be around here until they move to celebrate at Jake’s frat tonight.” She gathers her stuff and stands up, brushing her pleated skirt with practiced elegance that you know is instilled in every cheerleader’s demeanour.

“You take care of yourself. And I better not see you at the party.”

“Thank you, Rei.” You wave at her and watch as the lines of her frame get smaller, disappearing into the crowd. 

Now alone, the weight of reality is finally hitting you square in the chest. You curse, pulling your hair when you realise your stupid, impulsive decision, made in the whim of desperation to get the pain go away.

“This is stupid,” you whisper. Without thinking further, you grab your bag and stand to leave. But before you can flee the scene, a heavy presence with the familiar scent of spicy cinnamon and salty sea breeze drifts into your senses.

“Y/N?”

The sound of your name leaving his lips has locked you in place. The haunting familiarity of his voice, one that follows you into your restless sleeps and every waking hour, engulfs you almost like the night he held you in his arms.

Except this time, there’s a piercing pain in your heart that comes with his presence. A dull, throbbing ache that’s been a constant company to you, manifested into the shape of the man that your wolf yearns for.

Lee Heeseung.

“Y/N?” He repeats, but you don’t dare to face him just yet. “Riki said you wanted to, uh, talk to me.”

Licking your dry lips, you turn to Heeseung, and the sight has almost rendered you breathless.

Heeseung’s still wearing his jersey, standing tall to his height like he’s dominating the air around him. His burgundy hair looks softer under the light, some small strands sticking to his forehead from sweat. His shoulders are squared up, still lined with pride and the high from winning the tournament. He looks at you calmly, but the edges of his eyes are somewhat gentler; if the lights weren’t tricking your eyes.

You gulp, already losing the battle before it has even started. Why does he have to look so handsome?

You force yourself to say something. “Yeah. I did. I mean, I do. It’s important. I think.”

Heeseung is patient. If your nervousness is something unusual to him, he doesn’t comment on it. After all, you’re indeed known as a shy girl among the cheerleaders.

“I’m…I’m going straight to the point and be honest with you.” Is this really happening? You’re scared that if you were to speak more, your heart might leap out of your mouth from how hard it is pumping behind your ribs. You hold your bag tighter, trying to ground yourself.

“I’m listening,” he hums.

The words are simple. His voice is calm. Too calm, like he’s unaffected, like he doesn’t have a clue about what you’re about to say. It almost makes you falter.

For a second, you just stare at him. At the same face your mind has been haunted for weeks, at the same eyes you’ve been avoiding because they make everything feel too real.

Except everything is actually real. You’re just not ready to admit it yet.

Your fingers curl tighter around your bag.

“Did you…feel anything?” you ask, voice smaller than you intended. “That night.”

Heeseung’s brows pull together, confused. “What do you mean?”

Your throat burns. Stop. Turn around. Leave. 

“When you helped me,” you stubbornly continue, ignoring the self-preservation act your wolf’s pulling. “When you scented me. Did you feel something? Anything?”

There’s a shift in the air. It’s subtle, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. Heeseung’s shoulders stiffen. His jaw tightens a fraction. A flash of something that leaves your heart hopeful crosses his face, but it leaves as soon as it comes.

“I was just helping you,” he finally says, almost too quickly. “You were in a bad state.”

The ache in your chest pulses, turning alive with each passing second.

“I know that,” you nod, almost too fast, the throbbing in your head comes back. The headache is well-guaranteed after this, you’re sure of it. “I know. I’m not saying you did anything wrong. I just—I just need to know if you felt it too.”

“Felt what?”

You stare at him. God, he’s really making you say it. Is he truly clueless or is he playing with you? Whatever he is trying to do, he’s succeeding at making you feel smaller and…desperate.

“The pull,” you whisper after a while, “the connection.”

Silent stretches between the two of you. Heeseung returns your gaze, but his black eyes reveal nothing about his thoughts. 

You try again. “You felt it too…right?”

There it is. For a fleeting second, you think you see it. That flicker in his eyes. The subtle hesitation. The twitch in his jaw. It almost makes you feel hopeful.

Heeseung exhales through his nose, running a hand through his hair.

“Y/N,” he starts slower this time, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “There’s no such thing as that.”

If your heart was made of lead, you’re sure it’d clang to the floor so loud for how fast it drops.

“What?”

“Fated mates. Bond. Whatever you’re thinking.” He shakes his head, like he’s making a show of how ridiculous you sound. “That’s not real.”

The cracks finally shatter, allowing a big, gaping hole filled with utter anguish to take place in where your heart used to reside. Your mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens. 

“But—” you try, voice undeniably trembling now. “Then, what is this?”

Your hand presses weakly against your chest.

“Why does it hurt like this? Why does,” your voice cracks, your omega thrashing wildly inside you, “why does it hurt so much?”

For a split second, panic flashes across his face. There’s a change in his scent. A sharp, biting spice that’s stinging your nose and thick, briny salt that leaves your throat itchy. 

Because he knows. He knows this isn’t normal. He knows how he almost went psychosis the moment it happened to him three weeks ago. 

But Heeseung’s always been good at leaving—it’s the one thing that’s been keeping his heart in a safe chest without any chances of getting hurt. It’s almost cruel that he never really cares if leaving right after sex would hurt any of the omegas, but he’s never felt bad enough to stop.

And you feel like someone who will make him stay.

So he does what he knows best.

“It’s in your head,” he says, firmer now. “Probably just your heat cycle messing with you. Or stress.”

The moment those words leave his mouth, your chest feels hollow. Your omega, previously hysterical and angry, is now awfully quiet and wounded.

Right. It’s just stress, he said.

You wish it was just stress.

“Oh,” is the only word you can utter. Heeseung nods, as if convincing himself too, and takes a step back.

But for you, it feels too much like a line being drawn.

“Maybe you should get some rest. You look kind of pale,” he suggests, though his voice is slowly getting small the longer he watches the changes in your expression. You’re not looking at him now, just staring at your feet with trembling fists.

The wilting flowers are back in his senses, filling up his nose and beating at his heart like a bat. Heeseung bites his lips, swallowing down the guilt. 

“I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

The sight of his retreating back…why is it so blurry?

“You are so fucking stupid, Heeseung.”

Heeseung’s always wondered how his best friend’s citrusy pheromones are going to smell like when he’s mad. Because Jay never gets mad at him. His friend has so much patience that every playful banter always stays as just a playful banter.

But tonight, Heeseung finally senses it. Jay smells bitter, like overripe lemon left too long in hot water. There’s a sharp, metallic tang to it too, representing the control that he’s trying so hard to keep in check. In response to the alpha’s irritated scent, Heeseung’s dominant wolf is itching to draw his claws out, sensing it as a threat.

They’re standing at the backyard of the frat house, where the pool is glowing blue and the night sky is blinking stars. It’s quieter here, with less people hanging around. Many guests have preferred to dance inside, still in celebration mode post-winning.

“What the fuck were you thinking, trying to get into someone else’s pants right after her—her confession?” Jay scoffs in disbelief. He has his back facing Heeseung, the tense muscle of his shoulders visible through the outline of his Polo shirt. 

Heeseung, on the other hand, looks more disheveled. The collar of his shirt is misplaced, and there are faint lipstick marks staining his neck and the corner of his mouth. Jay had heard from Riki about what happened between Heeseung and you and the alpha was determined to drag Heeseung out of the bedroom, not before muttering a small apology to the omega he was with. It was all shouts and aggressive whispers between the two alphas until Riki managed to shoo them out.

Which brings them to this moment, where Jay is a ticking bomb and Heeseung is trying his best to calm down.  Jay didn’t exactly know who she was, just that he’d seen her face among the cheerleaders. While Heeseung, well, he’s too worked up to explain.

“Confession? What made you think—”

“You guys are fated mates, Heeseung. Can’t you fucking see it?” Jay whips his head around. “This pull you’re feeling is because you guys are fated mates. There’s no other explanation to it.”

Heeseung clenches his jaw. “Those things don’t exist, Jongseong. Not to me.”

“Oh, come on. Then explain your sex problem.” Jay hisses, his eyes turning sharper. “You think I don’t know that you still can’t get your dick wet with other omegas?”

The burgundy-haired alpha doesn’t blink. “It’s none of your business.”

“It is when she could’ve died!” Jay snaps, his scent flaring with his nose. Heeseung grits his teeth, feeling challenged. 

Then, softer, like vulnerability leaking through his anger, Jay continues: “You could’ve died, Heeseung.”

Heeseung stills. “What?”

Jay lets out a harsh laugh, running a hand through his hair. “You think so little of this matter, don’t you?” His voice drops, tight and furious. “A half-bond between fated mates when left too long can cause death. And with the speed you’re going with all these nameless omegas, I bet it’ll be her turn to die first.”

Heeseung scoffs, but it’s weaker now. There’s a new fear settling in his chest. “You’re being dramatic.”

“No,” Jay cuts in sharply. “You’re being stupid. I saw her just now. She’s pale as fuck.”

Heeseung’s quiet for a moment, staring into his friend’s eyes with almost the same amount of resentment. “It has nothing to do with me.”

Like a punishment to his lie, something twists sharply in his chest. But Heeseung is quick to mask his pain under a calm facade, gritting his teeth so hard he might break his jaw. Jay scoffs and rolls his eyes.

“Oh, so you’re doing this again.” Jay steps closer, not backing away. “You’re running away again, like the coward that you are. You’ll just run and run, deflect and disappear. Typical Heeseung.”

Jay knows he’ll hit a spot if he says it, but he couldn’t care less. He watches as the expression on Heeseung hardens, giving away the emotions he kept locked in his chest.

“Don’t.”

But Jay doesn’t stop. Of course he doesn’t.

“You think I don’t see it?” Jay presses, voice rising. “Every time something starts to mean something, you bolt. New omega, new bed, new distraction—anything to avoid actually feeling something real.”

“That’s not—”

“That’s exactly what this is!” Jay gestures wildly, frustration spilling over. “You found your mate, and instead of dealing with it, you’re out there fucking anything that moves just to prove you’re still in control.”

Silence slams between them, heavy and ugly. Both alphas are holding back from spiraling, neck straining from self-control and simmering anger.

Heeseung’s laugh this time is cold. “Mate?” he repeats, like the word tastes disgusting. “You really believe in that shit?”

Jay stares at him, disbelief flickering across his face. “I believe in what’s right in front of me.”

“There’s nothing in front of you,” Heeseung shoots back. “She’s just an omega I helped. That’s it.”

“Then why her?” Jay fires immediately. “Why can you find her in a crowd? Why does your scent stick to her for days—for weeks? Why can’t you even touch another omega without looking like you’re about to throw up?”

Heeseung falters, his words failing him as Jay hits him with those facts. His shaky stance doesn’t go unnoticed by the alpha, though. He’s quick to seize the chance.

Jay inhales sharply. “You know I’m right, Heeseung. You and Y/N share a bond.”

“So what?!” Heeseung snaps, frustration finally cracking through. “So what if there’s a bond? You want me to just—what? Drop everything? Play house? Act like I’m suddenly someone I’m not?”

Heeseung meets Jay’s fiery gaze head-on and shoves his friend harshly. “Stay out of it, Jay. I swear to fucking God.”

“And what? Watch you let her die because you couldn’t care less to acknowledge the bond?” Jay lets out a hollow laugh, pushing Heeseung back just as hard. “And then I watch you die?”

“Shut the fuck up. You know nothing about this.”

Their scents clash; sharp citrus and aggressive spice filling up the space like a warning siren. It almost turns physical, Riki almost bursts through the door when he sees their chests almost touching. But it is Jay who stops first.

Not because he wants to. But because he’s thinking of you.

“My parents are fated mates, Heeseung.” Jay starts, quieter, his voice losing its harsh edges. “Doesn’t mean you don’t believe in it, it isn’t real to other people.”

Heeseung remains quiet, his chest still moving rapidly.

Jay’s eyes turn glassy. He retreats one more step away from Heeseung. “If you don’t want her, reject the bond properly,” he says, breathing hard. “You’re letting someone know that you don’t want her as your mate. At least have the decency to be kind about it.”

Jay unclenches his fists.

“Don’t drag her through this half-assed bullshit where you keep hurting her just because you can’t make a decision.”

Heeseung freezes. Out of all words being shouted tonight, it is this quiet resignation from Jay that hits his heart the hardest.

Am I being cruel? Heeseung lowers his gaze. Am I a coward?

Heeseung doesn’t wait too long for an answer.

“Stop being a coward, Heeseung. I beg you.”

The words hang between them, like unwanted vines curling around a trunk of a tree. Heeseung’s gaze stays rooted to the ground, trying to find his voice.

But he doesn’t get the chance to.

“...Heeseung?”

Your voice, soft as it is, cuts through the air like a blade. Both alphas turn to where you’re standing by the door. The faint light spilling from the moon only highlights how pale your face is, void of any warmth and colour.

You stand there, one hand gripping the doorframe like it’s the only thing keeping you upright, your other pressed weakly against your chest. Your eyes, God, your eyes. They’re glassy, unfocused, yet locked onto him like you’ve found something you’ve been searching for your entire life.

Beside him, Heeseung can sense the way Jay’s body tenses the way his does.

“Heeseung…” you call for him again and move to get closer.

But then you flinch. Your entire body recoils, your nose scrunches. 

There, lingering around Heeseung like an unwanted mark, is a scent you know too well. Fruity bubblegum and cloying cotton candy; a scent that flashes pink in your head, turning into a female rage that hits too close to home. Your gaze catches the shape of someone’s mouth staining his golden skin, and something inside you breaks.

Narin.

Heeseung smells like Narin.

Your hand instinctively goes to cover your nose, eyes slowly going wide. The room goes silent, holding its breath as Heeseung feels it. 

The fleeting second where something inside you shatters.

Heeseung steps forward. “Y/N—”

But you retreat faster, away from him like he’s a disease that could kill you. 

“No,” your voice cracks, shaking your head as if trying to physically deny what your body is already registering. “No, no, no…”

Your breath comes out in shallow bursts, your fingers clawing at your shirt. 

It hurts. It hurts so bad. 

It’s like every system in your body is collapsing, failing to cope with the ultimate rejection that comes in the scent of another woman. Your fist hits your chest, forcing the air to flow in because it suddenly feels almost impossible to breathe.

Heeseung feels it now—really, really feels it. The bond is thrashing, frantic, like it’s holding onto something that’s slipping through its grasp. The pained scent of withering daisies starts filling up the air, suffocating both alphas instantly. Jay shifts uncomfortably, looking back and forth from Heeseung to you in alert.

“Hey, hey—Y/N,” Heeseung tries again, softer this time, reaching out instinctively. “Look at me. Y/N—”

“Don’t!” Your voice spikes, sharp with fear. Heeseung freezes, his throat closing up when he sees something you’re yet to realise.

That’s when you feel it—something warm trickling down your nose. You instinctively wipe it and stare at the red liquid smearing your fingers.

Blood. Then another drop falls on your palm. Before you can react properly, it already spills down your chin, past your fingers, dripping onto the floor, tainting the white tiles like a crime scene.

“Fuck.” Jay curses under his breath, his wolf perking up in alarm.

Beside him, Heeseung is beyond agitated. “Y/N!”

He doesn’t think. Heeseung lunges forward, longing to be close to you at that moment. But you’re already shaking your head rapidly, tears spilling uncontrollably now.

“Stop!” you gasp, pale lips trembling like dying petals. “I can’t do this—I can’t—”

Inside you, your omega is screaming in pain. In betrayal. In self-preservation. Her voice, raw and jagged, torn by pain, echoes in your head. 

An instinct, primal and desperate, takes over your being.

Cut it off.

Cut it off before it kills you.

You clutch at your chest, lungs burning up like a wildfire. Tears spill out freely, drenching your face in anguish and agony.

Cut it off!

And finally, you let go.

Across from you, just a few paces away, Heeseung feels it like a force, stopping him in his tracks.

It doesn’t come gradually, or slowly. It rips through his body. A violent, invisible force tearing straight through his chest like something sacred being forcibly severed. His breath is knocked out of him.

“Fuck!” Somewhere behind him, Jay is also spiraling, realising what’s going down.

But Heeseung doesn’t know. He staggers, his knees almost giving up as excruciating pain spreads from the scent gland in his neck down to his chest. Something inside him—something he never fully acknowledges—finally snaps. He almost screams.

A thick veil of tears wells up instantly, blurring his vision faster than he could process it.

“Y/N,” his voice breaks, the cracks showing up like poison in daggers. Across from him, you’re already sobbing.

It’s loud and raw, a wailing that stops even the loud music from inside. Your scent, bitter and beyond distressed, is now flooding the space like a broken dam. Your body folds in on itself as if trying to contain something that’s already shattered beyond repair.

Inside of you, your omega goes silent completely.

And it terrifies him. A lot. 

Heeseung clutches his neck, where his scent gland is pulsing violently, throbbing in an indescribable pain that feels like it could kill him. And when his eyes find yours, he realises with dread that the pull is no longer there. 

He can’t feel you. His wolf can’t feel your wolf.

The constant, aching thread that’s been tying him to you; it’s gone.

You cut the bond from your side.

The half-bond, already fragile with doubt and cowardice, is hanging by its loose thread. If it was a red string like many people had said, Heeseung’s sure it’d waver pathetically by his finger, trembling like a thread losing its kite.

“What…What did you do?” he whispers, voice hollow and shaky.

Heeseung takes a step forward again, ignoring Jay’s warning voice from behind him. His focus becomes singular on you, not minding the many pairs of eyes watching from the other side of the door.

This time, his step is slower and careful, like approaching something fragile. Something that is already broken.

Someone wounded.

You don’t move toward him. You don’t even spare him a look. You just cry, quietly, as now it feels empty where the bond used to be. You can’t feel him. 

You can only feel pain.

“Y/N…”

“...I want to leave.”

You wipe your nose, the blood still fresh and wet. You lean on the door for support, still trying to hold yourself up despite the urge to just collapse. Heeseung has to force restraint on himself, holding himself back from running to you. He searches your face, trying to catch your eyes, terrified beyond reason.

The silence is deafening.

At last, you lift your gaze, misty eyes meeting misty eyes.

“I ended it.” Your voice, used to be soft and warm, is now cold. Heeseung feels his lungs stop functioning.

“There’s nothing between us anymore.”

And that’s when it hits him brutally.

Heeseung didn’t just push you away.

He’s lost you.

sorry for the cliffhanger! part 2 coming soon 🔜

perm taglist: @kristynaaah @seungiesdoll

he chuckles low, returning his focus to the screen, but one hand slips away from the mouse to rest on your hip. you take the invitation, rocking your hips forward, the friction sending sparks through you. your pussy aches already, wetness soaking through your panties. you kiss his jaw, nipping at the skin, and he tilts his head slightly to give you better access. “you're distracting me,” he says, less like a complaint, more like encouragement.

you reach down and guide his free hand between your legs. his fingers brush against the damp fabric of your shorts, and he pauses for a split second, his character on screen taking a hit. “fuck,” he mutters, but it's about the game, not you. you unzip your shorts and shimmy them down along with your panties, exposing your slick folds to the cool air. niki's fingers find your entrance immediately, teasing the wetness there as you hover over his lap.

you lift yourself slightly, positioning so that when he pushes two fingers inside you, you can sink down onto them. he does it effortlessly, his digits curling just right as you lower your body. the stretch feels perfect, his skin warm against your inner walls. you gasp, gripping his shoulders through the hoodie, and start to move. up and down, riding his fingers slowly at first, the wet sounds of your pussy echoing softly in the room.

“you're so wet,” he whispers during a lull in the game, his eyes flicking to yours. you nod, biting your lip, your breasts heaving under your thin tank top. you pull the straps down, freeing your tits, and niki's gaze lingers before snapping back to the screen. his fingers thrust deeper, scissoring inside you, hitting that spot that makes you go crazy. you moan loudly, risking his friends hearing though the headset.

his thumb finds your clit, rubbing circles that make your thighs tremble. you ride him faster now, your ass slapping lightly against his thigh with each movement. his hoodie bunches up under your grip, the fabric soft against your skin as you lean forward, pressing your chest to his. niki adds a third finger, stretching you further, and you cry out, your walls clenching around him. “shit, niki - right there,” you beg, your voice breaking. he obliges, pumping his hand in rhythm with your movements, his thumb pressing harder on your swollen clit.

before you even have a chance to figure out what is going on, liquid comes squirting out onto his fingers. your orgasm rips through you violently, your pussy convulsing around his hand as a gush of clear fluid squirts out. 

the bottom of his hoodie and his lap between you are completely soaked, the hot release soaking his fingers and wrist, the scent of your arousal filling the air. “look what you did,” he teases, glancing down at the drenched hoodie, the fabric heavy and clinging from your release.

you smile lazily, still catching your breath, and kiss him deeply. his tongue slides into your mouth, tasting of mint. “worth it,” you murmur against his lips. he withdraws his fingers slowly, slick with your squirt, bringing them to his mouth and sucking them clean, his eyes locked on yours. the sight makes your core twitch again, already hungry for more.

For someone who was handed a summer internship at your father's company on a silver platter, you don't act as grateful as you should be.

That’s because you aren’t— and with each passing day, you find it more and more difficult to even pretend like you are as the office hums its same old, familiar tune; a dull, monotonous symphony of keyboard clicking, phones ringing, and men arguing over numbers and deadlines and everything else you couldn’t give two shits about.

"It will give you real-world experience." Was your father's first proclamation.

Yeah, right. Three weeks in, and the only 'experience' you've gained is learning to optimize the speed at which you swap tabs from online shopping to whatever financial model you're supposed to be working on when your ‘boss’ walks by.

"Other people dream of working here!" Came the next.

It's technically true for anyone else— the role is competitive. People claw their way into divisions like these, just to sit in rooms and argue over numbers tied to companies they don't even care for. You, however, are not anyone else. Getting this job was as simple as a conversation over dinner, followed by a forwarded email. And why exactly would you be dreaming of something so easy to obtain?

"If you don't do it, I'll deactivate your credit card."

Now, that was the only statement that made you quiver, and some whining and back and forth later, you realized you wouldn't have it your way— not this time.

Which is how you ended up here.

In theory, it's easy enough. All you had to do was show up. Sit at a desk. Try. In practice? It's painfully, mind-numbingly, soul-crushingly boring. God, how you wish you could be doing literally anything else other than staring at your desktop screen, eyes straining from the blue light as rows of numbers blur together—valuations, projections and companies reduced to columns.

You switch to another tab, deciding you're done pretending to work for now, and scroll through your Instagram feed, seeing your friends' posts about their vacations abroad, shopping sprees, and summer adventures, soaking in the rays of the afternoon sun. It only solidifies for you what you already know: You don't care about this job. You just don't care at all. So much that it hurts.

It's why you had decided early on you wouldn't even pretend to care. You come in late and leave early. You do your work hastily— finished, but half-assed. You do enough to where nobody can comfortably call you out on it, but never enough to actually waste any of your precious energy on trying, because really, who's going to stop you? It's not like you need this job. It's not like anyone's going to fire the CEO's spoiled little princess of a daughter.

Nobody says it outright, but you felt it the first day you'd set foot in the building, designer stilettos clicking with every step. The air shifted. People smiled at you too quickly, their tone of voice too polite. It was all too easy, all too uninteresting, the way nobody dared to push back. And the ones that vaguely try to are met with a sharp glare— not because you're actually trying to threaten them, but because it was amusing to see how easily they doubled back, scrambling over their words in fear.

Call it cruel. Whatever. It's one of the few things that brought you joy in the midst of suffocating beneath fluorescent lighting and beige walls.

You lean back in your chair, a sigh falling from your lips as your eyes meet the ceiling. Only an hour left of the workday, and yet it felt like an eternity remained. You're not sure how you plan on making it through the rest of the summer.

Your gaze drifts a little to the side, where you catch sight of your boss in his office, the door wide open, eyes glued to his computer screen.

Mr. Park is the kind of boss who doesn't seem to have a flaw— at least in the corporate sense. Always composed. Always focused. Always just... there. Like he came with the office. Like he belongs to it more than anyone else does— like he's been built into the spreadsheets and decisions that run the place. Of course, he's the fucking Chief Investment Officer. He can probably reduce an entire company to numbers in his sleep.

He's also, apparently, the kind of boss who doesn't seem to know when to let anything go, given how it's three weeks into your internship and he continues to gently bring up the topic of your "lack of enthusiasm". He fills your inbox with "friendly reminders" to show to work on time, addressed to the whole team as if everyone didn't already know it was about you, he walks by your desk more than you wished he would, leaning over your shoulder and offering useless "pointers" that he should know by now you didn't plan on using, always careful with his words.

You suppress a snort at the thought of someone like him— with a title like his, and all the authority that came with it— having to tiptoe around you, too afraid to call you out on your bullshit. Your eyes drag down the features on his face, lingering maybe just a moment too long to watch as his glasses drift down the bridge of his nose, until his hand moves to adjust them. At least he's easy on the eyes, you think, snapping back to reality when his eyes tear away from his screen, looking directly back into yours.

Your back goes straight, and the backrest of your desk chair snaps back, hitting you in the back of the head. Looking back, you see his eyes had already returned to his screen, and you frown. You'd almost prefer it if he were to laugh at you. At least then, you'd believe he's human and not a lab-made corporate slave. Boring.

Your hand twitches at your side, feeling your phone buzz. Beneath the desk, you open it, smiling at your boyfriend's name atop the message notification.

Jay: hey baby hows work? You: awful You: i literally hate it here You: i might actually jump out the window Jay: dramatic as always You: are you making fun of my suffering? Jay: relax. just teasing baby You: what you up to right now? Jay: waiting for jake to finish in the shower Jay: and thinking about you Jay: you? You: thinking about you too

You sigh as you click send. Your boyfriend, unlike you, got to go on vacation with his best friend. And while they get to lounge on beaches and eat at expensive restaurants, you're stuck here, trapped in this boorish hellhole surrounded by tired, boring, old people. It's not fair.

Jay: yeah? Jay: ill be back soon Jay: flight home sunday Jay: come over monday? Jay: wanna see you

You grin, picturing the suggestive smile on his face. You do a quick look around you, before replying.

You: sure you wont be too tired? You: i dont wanna keep you up... Jay: you can keep me up anytime Jay: you know i dont mind

Face growing hot, you bite your lip, too immersed in the thought of all the things you'd do when you finally get your hands on your boyfriend again to hear the footsteps behind you. You're mid-way through typing your reply when suddenly your phone is snatched from your hands.

Your expression quickly going cold, you snap your head around, meeting eyes with none other than Mr. Park.

"What the fuck?" You scoff, loud enough that you hear a few conversations die, and the sound of keyboard typing slows down. You look around, feeling your coworkers' eyes on you and, lowering your voice, you return your attention to your boss. "What do you think you're doing?"

"No texting during work hours," his tone is matter-of-fact, like he’s explaining a foreign concept to you. His eyes flick to your desktop screen, where your Instagram is open. "None of that either."

You feel your face burn, closing the tab immediately.

"It was literally just for a second, Mr. Park," you roll your eyes. But seeing him look at you like that, stern like your father, you realize having an attitude won't get you what you want. With a sigh, you wipe your expression clean, looking up at him with the best sorry-eyed look you could manage. You hold out the palm of your hand, "Give it back to me. Please? I need to respond. My boyfriend—"

"Your boyfriend can wait. And so can you."

The sound of two more message pings is heard, and his eyes drop to the screen. The corners of his mouth twitch into the faintest hint of a smile before he swiftly tucks the device into his pocket. Meanwhile, your stomach twists with a mix of humiliation, annoyance, and disbelief at his sheer audacity to find any of this amusing. Since when did Mr. Park, of all people, find anything amusing, anyway?

"You can get it from my office later. In the meantime, how about you finally get to that acquisition brief you've been avoiding?"

An hour of angry typing later— summarizing some company into neat little bulletin points just so that Mr. Park can skim it and decide whether any of it is worth moving forward with at all— you're sending him the document, marching towards his office as the rest of the floor filters into the elevator. You don’t bother knocking; the same way he hadn’t bothered to warn you before snatching your personal property from your hands.

He doesn't even flinch as the door bursts open, heels clicking with each stride. He doesn't look up until you stand just before his desk.

"It's done," you gesture with your hand, open-palmed. "Now give it back."

"Impatient, are we?"

He moves slowly, without urgency, adjusting his glasses as he clicks around. After what feels like an eternity of watching him read, he finally tears his eyes away from the screen.

"I'm impressed."

"Are you, now?" You reply dryly.

He hums in approval, as if you care to hear it.

"This is the first time since onboarding that you've properly followed through on a given task— and not only did you follow through, you did a good job," he continues, scrolling down the page. "Well-written, well-researched, not a single typo... could use a little bit of refining, but—"

"Okay?" You shift uncomfortably, restlessly tapping your foot. "...Phone?"

His eyes drag from the screen, back to yours, looking at you with an expression you can't quite read, but all you know is that it's far removed from the veil of politeness he carried himself with day-to-day.

He nods to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

"Sit with me. Won't you?"

Reluctantly, you lower yourself to the leather cushion, smoothing the length of your skirt. You stare at him like it's a competition you refuse to lose, though you're starting to suspect it's entirely one-sided, seeing how he eases.

That's the kind of boss Mr. Park is, isn't he? Stern, but gentle. So well-mannered. So god damn clean-cut, calm, collected and controlled.

You suppose that must be why your father speaks so highly of him— why he assigned you to his team, under his supervision. You would've walked all over someone too soft and caused a whole lot of problems for someone too harsh. Mr. Park is harder to pin down, striking a balance somewhere in the middle, firm enough to make you hesitate before pushing your luck, but never enough to actually stop you from doing it.

"What do you want?"

"I want to discuss your work ethic. Or, lack thereof." His hands clasp together on the table, posture upright. "Frankly, your laziness is a liability to my team, and I would've fired you a long time ago if I could."

You blink, slightly taken aback. So he does have the balls to call you out directly, rather than beating around the bush. You’re the one feeling impressed, now.

"Me? Lazy?" You feign innocence, jaw dropping as if he hadn’t literally caught you red-handed scrolling Instagram and borderline about to sext your boyfriend. "Mr. Park. I swear to you, I am trying my absolute best. If that's not enough for you... Well, what can I do? I can't help being young and inexperienced. I'm still learning."

He inhales deeply, eyes scanning your face once again. A small, polite smile breaks as his tone softens— acutely controlled, steady.

You already know how this will go. It's the same thing every time. He calls you in. Calls you out politely. You deflect, avoid the consequences, and he sends you off when he gives up trying.

Except, he doesn’t this time.

"I think it is more than reasonable to expect a grown adult like yourself to show up to work on time. Don't you agree?"

You glare for a few moments, waiting for him to cower in fear as everyone else in this building does. But he doesn't falter. He doesn't bend to your will as he should. He only stares back, just waiting. Patiently. Calmly. Without intention to intimidate. Without the intention of grovelling in submission.

Decidedly done with pretending, you slump back in his chair, like you're at home, lounging in your living room and not currently sitting in your boss's office, being scolded.

"I can't control traffic, Mr. Park," you roll your eyes.

"Neither can I. Nor can anyone else in this office. And yet, you're the only one who's walking in ten... sometimes twenty minutes late?"

You don't even bother to respond, pretending like you hadn't heard a single word he said. You look down at your manicured nails, briefly wondering if you remembered to book your regular appointment. Maybe you could ask Jay what colour to get next time—

"Hey," his voice drops, leaning across the desk. Your eyes lock with his as he snaps his fingers. "Look at me when I'm speaking to you."

You look from his fingers, then back to him, a blatant scowl on your lips. Your hands curl into fists, tension coiling in your chest as your irritation slowly morphs into something overwhelmingly worse, given how he just snapped his fingers at you like some kind of dog.

You don't wish to question why the sudden change in his tone seems to command your attention. All you know is that you're sick and tired of sitting in his suffocatingly sterile, drab-looking office while you could be literally anywhere else.

"Mr. Park." You drag out his name. You're beyond annoyed now, and you don't care one bit that you're practically whining like an overgrown toddler, "Does it even matter if I'm, like, a little bit late?"

"...A little bit?" He repeats, almost in disbelief, as he glares at you. His hands tighten together, "I am trying to be gracious here. I really am. I don't think I am asking for much—"

"I show up, and I get my work done." his jaw tightens as you interrupt, eyes landing on your index finger, pressing firmly against the desk as if to make some kind of valid point. "I don't get what the big deal is. So just give me back the phone, and let it go."

With that, he stands, hands slamming down against the desk. There's a fire in his eyes, one you'd never noticed before, and suddenly your eyes drift to his hands. You note how large and strong they look, sprawled out against the wood, and shamefully, it makes you wonder what his arms must look like, hidden beneath the layers of his perfectly tailored suit, which hug his broad frame and— fuck, seriously? Is this what a few weeks without your boyfriend does to you?

"Your work is sloppy, lazy and barely meets the deadlines. Please use your common sense." He nearly growls, "You are not a child. I shouldn't have to scold you like one just for you to do your job."

"Well, sorry it doesn't meet your standards," you scoff carelessly, dismissively, "And sorry that I'm not an old, miserable, workaholic asshole like you."

Your hand slams back down on the desk, mirroring his rage. And just like that, his empty, ceramic coffee mug at the edge of the desk topples over and shatters into pieces. You wince at the sound, and in the dead silence, you both stand, staring at one another. Unmoving.

"Clean it up."

"...Me?"

"Yes, you. That's what people do when they cause problems," he circles the desk, until he's standing right in front of you, looking down. "They fix it themselves. Or did your daddy never teach you that?"

Sometime later, you return from the closet holding a broom and dustpan in a shaky, rage-fuelled grasp, huffing and puffing because it's just so stupid. Him, bossing you around like he has the right. Like your dad doesn't own him. But you think the stupidest part is the part of you that feels inexplicably inclined to listen.

You try to crouch down to keep the dustpan steady as you sweep up the broken ceramic pieces, but you quickly realize your tall heels and tight pencil skirt won't allow you to do that. He watches your every move, seeing how you huff as you slip off your ridiculously expensive footwear, seeing how you don't dare to look at him as you lower yourself to your knees.

"Look at you," he speaks, slow and cruel, making sure you hear every word loud and clear, "Bet you've never cleaned up your own mess before, have you?"

His footsteps approach, his shoes coming into view. You look up, meeting his gaze. And holy shit. There is no good reason for the strange, sudden flare of something hot and unwelcome you feel at the sight of your boss looking down at you like that— like you're a speck of dust, tainting his otherwise spotless existence. 

"Useless fucking intern."

His words don't make you want to slap him, as you should. They make you feel something traitorous. They make you think of things you quickly shove deep, deep down, hoping to god they never resurface and see the light of day ever again, and you're too struck by the shock of your own body's reaction to even process what he'd just called you.

"Apologize."

"Why?" You carefully challenge, your glare sharpening, "I didn't do it on purpose—"

"Apologize."

You click your tongue, a defiant huff escaping you as your eyes return to the ground.

"I'm sorry, m'kay?"

"Look at me," he repeats, crouching down. His thumb and index finger hold your phone, dangling it in view, and you try to reach for it, but he pulls away. "Speak up, and say it nicely."

You crane your neck, sweaty hands curling into the fabric of your skirt despite the overly air-conditioned room. His glasses are gone now, giving you a better look at his hardened expression. He's not disappointed. Not just frustrated. He's completely, utterly floored by the audacity of you.

You find yourself staring a little too long, captivated by just how gorgeous he looks when he's no longer hiding behind a veil of professionalism. You just can't stop looking at the twitching of his strong brows, the fury behind those beautiful brown eyes, the way that sharp jawline of his clenches, and that frown on his pretty lips— stop.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Park."

You surprise even yourself with how easily the words seem to escape you— how there is no defiance or strain to be heard at all as they fall from your lips all too pathetically.

It haunts you long after you've left the building.

[Monday]

Friday night, you tossed and turned, trying to erase the image of your boss from your mind.

Saturday, you went out with your friends, hoping that drinking until you passed out would somehow reset your brain back to its normal functions.

Sunday morning brunch, you silently suffered through your hangover as you sat across from your father, not a hair out of place as you sat pretty on the rooftop terrace, pretending like the late morning sun wasn't worsening the terrible throb in your head. But your headache was long gone the moment your father's words gave you something far worse to worry about.

"I spoke to Park yesterday," he said.

Your stomach dropped, knowing the conversation could have only gone one way. If what you’d assumed was true—if he told your father about all the half-hearted reports, all the times you’d shown up late, about your attitude, about how you text during the workday—all the things a father trying to maintain a perfect image and groom you to take over his empire wouldn’t want to hear—then it would be over for you and your precious credit card. You could kiss your shopping sprees and fancy restaurants goodbye.

Instantly, you debated the possibility of biting back. You could tell your dad that Mr. Park had verbally berated you, humiliated you— but contrary to popular belief, your father isn't as doting as people would assume. He might get you a good job, but he would never fire one of his best employees just because you decided to whine about it.

"Whatever it is he said, I swear, daddy, it's—"

"I was very shocked," he continued, "To hear that you've been nothing but wonderful."

Wonderful. Of all the things he could've said about you, he chose to lie.

Needless to say, you arrive Monday morning— late, as usual— expecting something, though you’re not sure what, only to find everything completely normal. As if Friday never happened.

There are no hushed whispers among coworkers. No requests from Mr. Park. Nor does he avoid your gaze when he enters the office, shooting you a typical, polite smile. You find yourself watching him throughout the day, trying to catch a glimpse of the man you’d encountered Friday evening, but he wears his mask well.

He does, however, summon you to his office again at the end of the workday. Because, of course, he would on the day your boyfriend is finally back.

"This better be quick," you snap almost immediately. Impatiently.

"I believe I owe you an apology," he starts, back to his usual polite smile. "I lost my temper, and I spoke to you in an insulting and highly unprofessional manner."

You stare, flatly, looking him up and down. Too fake. Too eager to please.

"You know, my dad told me all the nice things you had to say about me, Mr. Park," you hum, almost bored, "Guess I'm just a bit confused as to why you would do that for me, since I'm just a useless fucking intern."

"I think we both know how much weight your words carry around here, young lady."

"Oh?" You raise your brow, the gears turn in your head. “You think I'm gonna get you fired?"

"...I wouldn't put it past you." He manages, which earns a laugh from you.

"Yeah. I wouldn't put it past me either," you look him up and down, allowing him to believe that you somehow hold that kind of power. "You can unclench your butthole, Mr. Park. I'm a bitch, but I'm not evil."

He sighs, appearing more unimpressed than relieved.

Realistically, the most your father would do, if he even bothered to listen, would be to move you to another department, which would be just another pain in the ass. But you're not about to tell him that.

"You are unbelievably difficult."

"Yeah, I get that a lot," you deadpan. "Can I go now?"

"Not yet," he gestures to the chair, "Sit."

You frown, opening your mouth to protest, but he quickly continues.

"You didn't think I was done with trying to correct your behaviour around here, did you?" He says, "I promise, it won't be long."

Foolishly, you believe him.

Dramatically, you plop yourself down.

"Is it because I was late again?"

"I just want to talk."

"About?"

"I was thinking, after our conversation on Friday. You are the only employee I haven’t interviewed. I know your face. I know your last name and the power it holds. I know your father and the things he says about you. But I don't know you," he starts, "So tell me about yourself."

"Seriously?" You snort.

"Yes, seriously."

You sigh. Deeply, deeply annoyed.

"What do you wanna know?"

"Anything," he shrugs, relaxing back into his chair. He watches you pensively. "What do you like to do? Any hobbies?”

"I dunno. Shopping. Going out with my friends or my boyfriend..." You're not sure why you hesitate to mention that last part. You shrug. "I don't do much, I guess."

"What do you do when you go out? Anything fun?"

"What do you think college students do when we go out, Mr. Park?" You grin.

He returns your teasing with an easy smile.

"Fair enough. You like to party. Then—"

"Did you like to party when you were my age, Mr. Park?"

"I believe I'm the one asking the questions."

"Come on. Now I'm curious," you look him up and down, picturing a twenty-something-year-old version of your boss.

Briefly, you wonder if he’s the kind of person who grew into his looks, or if he’s always looked that good. Hell, you could only begin to imagine what kind of heartthrob he must’ve been if he’s always looked like this— probably could’ve fucked a different girl every night. Probably still could, if he wanted to. Is this what college fuckboys grow into? Boring, business men who bask in their own self-importance?

"Bet you got a lot of attention from the ladies, huh?"

You don't really think about what you're saying until it slips out, and you feel a flush rise to your cheeks at the fact that you'd just indirectly called him attractive.

Thankfully, he changes the topic, seemingly unfazed by your comment entirely. The same way he redirects the conversation in meetings when they get too side-tracked. Professional, as always. You decide to let yourself believe that he didn't hear it.

"According to your application, you're a Business major."

"Mhm."

"And if my memory serves me right, your grades are excellent."

"Guess so."

"You like studying business?"

"Sometimes."

"So you do have aspirations." He says, and you flash him a glare. "What, did you expect me to assume that you do? I have to practically breathe down your neck to get you to do your job properly."

"My 'aspirations' can wait. I have time."

"Young people always think they have time. But one day, you'll wake up and realize you're thirty-something, and—"

"You're only in your thirties, Mr. Park?" You dramatically gasp, "Sorry. Just. You're so boring and serious, I thought you were way older. Like, forties, at least."

Your teasing falls flat, as does your attempt to derail the conversation.

"What I'm trying to say," he says firmly, swiftly easing his tone of voice, "is that you're not wrong for wanting to live your life. However, you have been handed an opportunity that most people your age can only dream of, and it would be unwise to continue acting like it's the worst thing that's ever happened to you."

You roll your eyes.

"Do tell me— What are your aspirations?"

"I don't know."

"You must have some idea."

You don't respond, and he studies you for a moment, dissatisfied.

"You spend a lot of time researching luxury brands on your work computer. Not just shopping— reading. Articles, reports, brand strategy, market positioning."

"You sure spend a lot of time watching what I do."

"I only watch to confirm that you are not doing your work, as always," he says flatly, "Those companies you're reading about— they're businesses. Structured, valued, acquired. The same way anything else is. If you're looking to work in that industry, then the things you're learning here can be valuable."

"I'm not," you say a little too defensively, scrambling for your words, "It's just brands and clothes. Who cares?"

"You care, clearly."

"I don't."

"I have a hard time believing that," he comments, then persists, "Where do you see yourself in ten years?"

"Will you even be alive in ten—"

"Yes, I get it. I'm old. Very funny. Though if you're planning on becoming a comedian, I'd advise expanding your portfolio of jokes." He deadpans, "I'm asking you a simple question. What do you want?"

"Does it even matter what I want?" You scoff, muttering, "Everyone knows my future is here.”

He leans back in his chair, "You plan to take over your father's position one day?"

"That would be real fun, wouldn't it?" You avoid the question with a grin, "Me, bossing you around."

"You realize the sooner you give me proper answers, the sooner you can leave."

You huff, and after a dramatic roll of your eyes, you look down at your lap.

"You know how these things work. Needing to continue the family business, or whatever." You gesture aimlessly, shifting uncomfortably. "It's stupid. Honestly. I don't give a single crap about this company, and I'm obviously not even good enough for it either, so I don't know why he insists that..."

You trail off, shaking your head at the amount of information you just volunteered.

"You think you're not good enough?" Mr. Park furrows his brows.

"My work is shit. You said it yourself."

"That brief you gave me last Friday wasn't shit."

"That's one time."

He pauses. Suddenly, he’s leaning forward.

"You want to know what I think?"

"No."

"I think you'd rather be dismissed as lazy than to actually try and risk falling short of perfection."

The silence weighs on you.

"You must feel there's a lot of pressure to succeed, whether that be through on your own path, or following the one that's set out for you, don't you?"

"You pry around in all your employees' personal lives like this?"

"As your boss, it's my job to make sure that you do your job," he states. "Confronting you last time didn't work, and I can't exactly fire you. So I'm trying a different approach— to understand you."

You shift uncomfortably in your seat, irked by his gentle tone and how his eyes seem to look right through you. You'd rather he raise his voice. You'd almost prefer he insult you like the last time. Useless is easy. Spoiled is easy. This... is invasive, getting under your skin in ways his anger hadn't.

"I'm not going to tell you what to do with your life. But maybe I can convince you to take advantage of the opportunity you've been given. I'm not just saying that as your boss. I'm saying it as a mentor— and as someone who was once just as stubborn as you are." he smiles, "I don't want to see you wasting your potential."

Your mouth twitches.

"Yeah? Well, I don't want you to keep wasting my time," you cross your arms defensively, "You said this wouldn't take long, Mr. Park."

"How can I support you? How can I help you succeed at this job?" He presses further, "Is it more guidance? More positive reinforcement?"

"I don't want support. I don't want to succeed. I want to leave."

"You can leave when I say you can."

"Technically," you correct, "I can leave whenever I want."

That’s when you notice it—the look in his eye, barely containing that temper he seemed so intent on hiding beneath his clean-cut appearance and deceptively steady composure, as if you hadn't already come to know that side of him only yesterday.

Voice strained, he continues.

"I'm offering understanding and support. I'm letting you know that, despite our conversation last week, I don't expect you to be perfect; I just expect effort. Can you please try to meet me halfway?"

You suppose you could make this easier for both of you and just say whatever he wants to hear. But you don't want to give him that satisfaction. Not after he made you sit there, making assumptions about your inner thoughts, acting as if he knew you. Not after whatever the hell happened on Friday, which had left you hot and frustrated in ways that made you resent him even more than you previously did.

Seeing the telltale signs of his anger, through the clenching of his fist, and the narrowing of his gaze into something sharp, a flicker of excitement stirs within you. What better payback would there be than to make your ever-so-perfect superior snap again?

"What is this, Mr. Park?" You mock, "Performance coaching? Amateur therapy?"

"Don't talk back to me, young lady."

"Oh, Mr. Park," you laugh, hardly suppressing your smile. "I think you're well aware that I can talk to you however I like."

Your fingernails tap against the desk, and you allow yourself a moment to capture the image of his deeply frustrated, beautiful face in your mind.

"And you know what?" You continue, leaning forward, "There's absolutely nothing you can do about it."

There's a silence, a calm before the storm.

"That mouth of yours... do you even hear yourself when you speak?" He growls. A beat passes, and he leans in too. "Or is that dumb little head of yours so empty that you don't even realize how fucking irritating you sound?"

Oh.

Your nails dig into the desk. His voice, low and unrestrained, ignites something deep within you.

"Speak to me however you like. Be as blatantly disrespectful and bitchy as you please. It won't make you any less pathetic. It will never change the fact that you're just a useless, whiny, spoiled, little girl who's never had to try a day in her life."

One leg crosses over the other, feeling how his insults seem to burn in ways they definitely shouldn't. What you should be doing is searching for the words to talk back like you'd intended. Instead, your mouth presses firmly shut, trying not to think about the heat that rises between your legs, and how it throbs without justification. Making him surrender to his anger was supposed to feel satisfying, not the opposite— Not this.

"What's this? Now you don't have anything to say?"

"No,” you quip, rather weakly.

You curse yourself for that being all you can manage. If you were in the right state of mind— if his voice weren't so low and effortlessly commanding— if his face weren't so damn attractive when he's pissed the fuck off— maybe then you could bite back. But right now, there was something deeply wrong with you, and you needed to get the fuck out of there and deal with it immediately.

"So be it." He mutters, "Get the fuck out of my office."

Your legs carry you out, feeling unsteady in your heels as if you didn't know how to walk in them, all thanks to the distracting, near-unbearable arousal which seems to linger. Your phone rings in the elevator, Jay's profile picture on your screen.

"Hey, baby. Just wondering if you're on your way? Been waiting a while," he says, "Everything okay?"

"No," you swallow, fingers curling around your handbag. "Everything is not okay."

"He is such an asshole, Jay," you groan.

He only hums in response, as his lips roam your neck.

You had arrived at his place only minutes ago, and you were already beneath him, sprawled out on his couch, eyes fluttering, and lips parted as he took his time worshipping you.

It's uncharacteristic of him. Jay isn't usually the type of boyfriend to be placing his hands on you the moment you walk through the door— he'd usually offer a drink, sit with you, talk to you like there's all the time in the world, before deciding to make his move. A real gentleman, unlike the flings you’d wasted time with before him. But you both knew how desperate you were to get your hands on one another, so all the talking vacation photos and complaining about Jake could wait.

The summer evening sun seeps through the windows of his downtown condo, his tanned skin illuminated by a warm, golden glow, and while you should feel relieved to finally be back here— in his living room, in his arms, with his playlist humming low in the background as he shows you just how much he's missed you— you instead find yourself tangled up and knotted in your frustrations from the past few days.

"You know what he said to me?" You continue, brows furrowed.

"What'd he say, hm?" He mutters against your skin.

"He called me lazy."

He chuckles when you let out a whimper, kissing a particularly sensitive part of your neck, and a shiver runs through you at the feeling of his breath.

You're more reactive than usual, given your... frustrations. And your boyfriend seems to be loving it, given how he's choosing to tease you instead of just taking you right there, like you need him to.

"Well..." You can feel his smirk on you, "Are you?"

"Hey," you pout, fingers gently threading through his hair. "Whose side are you on?"

You tug just enough to look at him. He wears the same playful, easygoing smile he always does. The one you've grown comfortable and familiar with.

"Yours. Always. My girl is always right," he says, leaning down to ghost your lips, before capturing them with his.

You smile into the kiss, a gasp escaping you when you feel his tongue slip into your mouth, and his hands roam the curve of your waist, down to your ass.

"So worked up," he comments, "Must've been exhausting, sitting there and looking pretty all day, hm?"

You feel his hands work away at your blouse, button by button, until his lips are at your exposed chest, peppering kisses down the valley of your breasts.

"You have no idea," you breathe, trying to focus on how good he's making you feel, trying to focus on him, but— "He said I'm wasting my potential."

"That's such a corporate thing to say," he snorts.

You should be snorting too. You normally would, brushing it off like it's nothing. So it's strange, really, that you feel your chest heave in frustration, dissatisfied with... well, you're not exactly sure.

"So you think he's wrong?"

You hear him sigh, and he props himself up, blinking down at you. His smile is kind, partially amused, partially only tolerating your antics with far more patience than anyone would expect from a man who hasn't seen his girlfriend in weeks. A moment passes, watching, waiting— deciding, finally.

"I didn't say that," he says gently, a hand moving to your cheek. His thumb moves in slow circles, and his tired, jet-lagged eyes scan your expression, trying to read you.

"What do you think, then?"

"I think..." he begins, carefully, "...that I'm a bit confused. Do you want me to take your side or not?"

"That's not an answer, Jay."

"Then I think you need to relax," he replies, his voice a little lower now, and you feel a hand dragging up the length of your thigh. "It's just some summer thing. You're taking it too seriously."

"I'm not, trust me."

"Then don't think about it."

He kisses you again, and you squeal when he pushes past your skirt. He thumbs the top of your sheer-black stockings, which hug the plush of your upper thigh, before moving to the heat between your legs.

"Shit," he breathes, palming you, feeling just how absolutely soaked you are through one layer of fabric, "Missed me that much?"

A pang of guilt runs through you, knowing part of your arousal is due to something else entirely. But you remind yourself that it's only because you missed your boyfriend, and your mind was only wandering because you were bored.

"Don't worry about anything else, sweet girl, m'kay?" He whispers, "Let me take care of you."

You pull him closer by the collar of his shirt, kissing him harder, and his response is immediate. His hands, familiar, practiced, safe and... easy. Against your will, your mind wanders to echoes of a voice that doesn't soften when you push back— of words that shoot to kill when provoked.

[Tuesday]

"You weren't lying when you said the morning traffic is a bitch," Jay says, fingers drumming against the steering wheel. He peeks his head out the window briefly, noting the long line of cars that won't budge.

Meanwhile, you hit your knee against the dashboard as you squirm around in the passenger seat, trying to peel your stockings from your legs. His head whips around at the sudden thud.

"You okay?"

"I can't wear these. I think you ripped them last night," you hiss, as you finally slip them off.

You inspect the torn nylon in your hands, then discard the fabric over your shoulder, landing somewhere in the backseat.

"Did I?" He teases, as if he doesn't fully remember how he had you sit on his face while wearing them, needy hands digging into the flimsy fabric as he'd held your thighs steady. "My bad, baby."

You scoff, knowing damn well he doesn't feel bad about it. You're not exactly mad about it either, though you are a little self-conscious as you check yourself in the sun-visor mirror, your hair neat enough but not exactly as flawless as you usually wore it, your makeup light and hastily applied.

You look down at your skirt, wondering if anyone would notice it's the same one as yesterday, or the faint wrinkles that remained as a result of last night's activities. You kept some clothes at Jay's, but nothing exactly up to the dress code of your current job, so outfit repetition it would have to be— save for an acceptable blouse you'd swapped out with yesterday's, the other long forgotten on his bedroom floor.

"I look like shit—"

"You look perfect."

"Fuck, I'm going to be so late!"

"Aren't you always?" He laughs.

"By, like, ten minutes. Not an hour," you groan, rummaging in your makeup bag. You fumble for your usual lipstick, looking in the mirror to apply. "Mr. Park is going to flip."

You don't want to admit that part of the reason you're stressed, though, is not because you fear him. Rather, you’ve become increasingly worried by the way your body seems to react to his temper.

"Just tell your dad to deal with it."

"You tell him. He listens to you more than me," you swipe the corners of your mouth, making sure your application is as neat as it can be for being applied in the car.

"I just know how to talk to him, that's all."

"Smooth talker."

"You mean charismatic," he winks, and you roll your eyes. He turns his attention away. "If it makes you feel better, I'm gonna be in deep shit, too. First day back, and I'm already late."

You watch how his eyes fixate ahead of him as the vehicle inches forward, one hand on the wheel, while the other reaches for your knee, mindlessly.

He looks like a wealthy man’s son in his tailored suit and neatly combed back hair. It's the reason you two just made sense— why your fathers got along, and why your mothers asked "so when's the wedding?" as if you were even close to the age where you should be settling down.

But, well, if not Jay, then who? He’s handsome, privileged, and laughs off your attitude with an easy smile. He walks through life like he’s weightless, talks like he’s worriless, and shakes hands with powerful men as naturally as he breathes air— and you suppose that's because it is. It’s what he was born to do.

He’d probably do a better job running your father’s company than you ever would, wouldn’t he? A part of you always assumed that’s why your parents love him so much. A union with Jay would mean the family fortune would be in good, responsible hands, unlike yours. You can’t really blame them for thinking that.

Jay drops you off with a quick kiss, both of you smiling into it as you say your goodbyes. And when you step into the elevator, tugging at your skirt and smoothing your hair, you can’t help but wish you could float through life as easily as your boyfriend seems to.

You're expecting the worst as you step out of the elevator, though you keep your chin held high despite the nerves coursing through your veins.

Sinking into your chair, your hands dig into your knees, and you prepare yourself for that look from him, only for you to take a quick, cautious glance behind you and find… nothing.

Mr. Park doesn't look up. He doesn't toss a glare or call you over to his office like you'd expect him to, given that you just walked in almost an hour late. He hadn't even left a passive-aggressive comment in your inbox, or a reminder to start your tasks or anything.

Okay, you think. So it's like that?

You turn your head back around, head craning just a bit more. And though you're certainly not about to complain about it, had he really given up just like that? One interrogation, and he decided your "wasted potential" was better off wasted? That would just be too... easy. Too simple.

No, you frown. Mr. Park isn't like that. He's a pest, an ever-present pain in the ass. You tear your eyes away with certainty this time. He's probably just scared like last time, right? Or worried you'll run off and badmouth him to father dearest?

You click through a few tabs for the next hour, pretending to work, pretending not to be so goddamn bothered, and pretending not to think about why that is. When, suddenly, you're watching others stand from their desk, filing into the conference room down the hall.

"Hey," you tug at your right-hand coworker's sleeve. Mr. Yang, you think, though you never bothered to learn his name, seeing how he never bothered to look you in the eye. "What's happening?"

"Ah, we have a meeting, remember?" He gulps, managing a polite smile, "An email was sent out last week—"

Rolling your eyes, you let go of his sleeve, and he mutters something before scrambling away. Then, you gather your things, trailing in with the rest of them only moments later.

You’re only half-listening, your eyes practically glazing over as Mr. Park speaks. He hadn't even bothered to acknowledge you today, so you might as well do the same to him, right? Though unlike everyone else in the room who listens like their life depends on it, you don't find it so difficult to ignore his dull droning. In fact, it's a little bit too easy to drown out the sound of him as your eyes drag over his tall, broad frame.

Suddenly, your name is called. Your eyes snap to him, as the room's eyes snap to you.

"Since you worked on the brief," he says, "Walk us through it."

Your stomach drops, and before you can think to glare, you're blinking, stunned.

"...What?"

You try to read him, to look for some kind of cruel intent behind his steady gaze. Instead, you find he almost appears wholly uninterested. That, you think, is far more infuriating than the former.

There's an uncomfortable pause in the room. The sound of pens scribbling and laptops being typed comes to a slow halt.

"You wrote it," his voice is steady. "So explain it."

You swallow dryly, unmoving, until it fully processes in your mind that he is being serious.

Managing a slow nod, you ask for a moment as you search for the file on your laptop, and after some fumbling, you finally pull it up. But as you nervously glance over the document, you’re reminded that you barely remember what you wrote, or what half of it even means, given that you completed it in a blind fury, with the sole purpose of getting Mr. Park off your ass.

"Well, it's basically..." you start, eyes flickering from the screen, back to him, pretending like you aren't trying to read off the document, "about the company's... growth projections."

"Which projections?" His response is immediate.

From the corner of your eye, you notice a few nameless faces exchange glances. Embarrassment tries to fight its way onto your face, and you counter it with your best fake, corporate smile.

"...The revenue ones."

"What about them?"

"They're... increasing?”

There's another pause, and you hear something that sounds like a chuckle disguised as a cough a few seats down.

Mr. Park allows the moment to linger, and to anyone else in the room, it might appear like he's giving you the chance to explain further, but you know what his true intentions are. You see it in the look in his eyes— that small, barely noticeable hint of satisfaction you'd come to know all too well. The same one he looked down at you with when he'd made you apologize to him on your knees. The same one he had when he'd rendered you speechless and flustered, and quite honestly, still threatens to.

"...Increasing?" he echoes, perfectly timed. He tilts his head, like it's a genuine question. "Increasing based on what?"

You don't even bother to open your mouth to say anything this time. Trying to explain yourself further would only dig you a deeper hole, and he’s already made his point. So instead, you sit there, jaw clenched, unmoving.

He clears his throat, adjusting his glasses.

"That's enough," he states, redirecting his attention away from you. "We'll revisit it later. Moving on..."

The rest of the meeting is anything but boring. It's torturous, sitting there with your face hot, as you look around the room, finding eyes that turn to look away as soon as you catch them.

And the worst part? He doesn't even call you in to speak after the meeting. That bastard.

Pacing across the tiled floor of the restroom, you simmer. You'd gone to try and cool yourself down, running your hands under cold water, taking deep breaths.

It's fine. It's just one meeting, and it's not like it matters. It's not like you care about being viewed as competent when you don't even have to be. But did he have to go as far as publicly humiliating you?

For a man who presents himself as pragmatic, he sure has a lot of nerve calling you out in a meeting to talk about something he knows you don't know shit about. Acting so unbothered. So professional. So bored. Seeing him sit there, pretending like he isn't savouring the sight of your misery is... fuck.

You sigh, a heat starting to pool between your thighs again, and you are not about to stand there and try to unpack why the hell you keep getting hot from the way he treats you, because frankly, the only thing you can do is just accept it at this point.

You're about to push past the door to the restroom when, just outside the door, you hear your name uttered. Leaning on it until you peer just a crack, you catch sight of two male coworkers— again, names of which you didn't bother to learn— who work a few desks down from yours.

They linger by the fountain, one of them holding their plastic water bottle up to the pathetic stream of water that leaks from the old machine.

"...don't even know why he bothers to give her real work when she's clearly a nepo hire."

"Right? Might as well just pay her to stand around."

The other male laughs in response, a sly smirk rising as he nudges the other.

"I mean... I wouldn't blame him for it."

The two snicker, and you narrow your eyes.

"Oh, please. Mr. Park?" the other scoffs, raising a brow, "The guy is practically married to his balance sheets. Probably gets off on them."

"Maybe he's got his eye on some new assets."

The other snorts, clamping a hand over his mouth before erupting into laughter, provoking the other to do the same. Meanwhile, your stomach twists in disgust.

Deciding you've heard enough, you push past the door, and one resists the urge to laugh even harder, while the other tries to shush him. You don’t bother to spare them a second glance, your eyes set on one thing only.

In deliberate strides, your feet carry you to his office, shutting the door behind you as you slam your hands on his desk.

"Is there a reason you decided to do that?"

He doesn't look up right away. He types for a few more seconds before looking to you. Calm. Measured. With a goddamn smile on his face.

"Do what?" he asks, "Ask you to explain the brief that you wrote?"

"You put me on the spot and made me look stupid on purpose," you seethe. "If you heard what others are saying—"

"Are you saying you feel embarrassed?" He raises his brows, acting shocked, before letting his expression fall flat. "Then, maybe you should've come prepared."

"I told you I don't care about this job." Your hands curl into fists.

"And I don't care that you feel humiliated by the consequence of your own actions. Did you really expect me to coddle you?"

"You are such an ass." You growl, "Is that why you give me real work? So you can torture me?"

"I'm helping you," He sighs, shaking his head, "And I know you don't understand that yet, but you'll thank me one day."

You scoff at him in disbelief.

"I'll thank you? Are you serious right now?"

"I am."

He says simply. Nothing more.

A beat passes, and you stare— You stare until you snap.

"Bet you'd love for me to thank you, wouldn't you? So fucking full of yourself. 'Oh, thank you, Mr. Park!' Is that what you want to hear? 'Thank you so much—'"

"Stop that."

"'Thank you so much for calling me a spoiled little bitch—'"

"I said stop." He repeats, sharper this time, like a warning.

"'Thank you sooo much for humiliating me—'"

With that, he stands to full height, glaring down at you. You try to straighten yourself out, lifting your chin, determined not to give him the satisfaction of intimidating you.

"If you don't have anything else to say, then get out of my office."

You stare a moment longer, deciding if you want to push your luck. Ultimately, you decide against it. You were done with him today, and you'd have plenty of other opportunities to make him pissed.

"Fine."

The door shuts with a rather loud thud, and you don't see how Mr. Park brings his hand to drag down his face, breathing in deeply as he suppresses the thought of what you just did from his mind. Though it does not work, and the image of his attractive, much younger intern thanking him for the humiliation lingers, unsettling and persistent, following him long after he’s left the office and returned home.

[Wednesday]

Subject: Brief Revision

From: Park Sunghoon

Hello, Please revise your most recent submission as it is not up to the expected standard of quality. Thanks, Park Sunghoon Chief Investment Officer

Re: Brief Revision

To: Park Sunghoon

make me

You only just hit the 'send' button when you hear a ping from your cellphone. Looking down at the notifications, you grin.

Jay: miss you Jay: cant stop thinking about you You: yeah? You: what are you thinking about?

You're biting your lip, watching the three dots on your screen as you wait for your boyfriend's response, thankful for some kind of distraction— anything to take your mind off of yesterday. But of course, your moment of peace doesn't last long. It never does in this damn office.

Jay: you have no idea Jay: im so hard right now Jay: wanna fuck you so bad

You don't feel your boss's presence until he's right behind you, and you freeze when you realize he's right there, leaning down next to you. You nearly jump out of your seat, clutching your phone to your chest. And the expression on his face is... pure horror and disgust. In a less humiliating circumstance, you would find it amusing. But right now, you are in no place to be laughing.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I wanted to see what my intern does on her phone instead of working," he cringes, "Now I honestly wish I hadn't."

"Consequence of your own actions, Mr. Park," you quote him, "Does this mean you'll leave me alone, now?"

"Quite the contrary. If you don't want me looking over your shoulder, reading about... that, then get to work," he folds his arms, and you scowl in annoyance, "You are the one who asked me to 'make you' do your work."

"Pervert," you mouth, so that neither Mr. Yang nor your surrounding coworkers can hear.

He takes a glance around before leaning down right at your ear, breath tickling your skin.

"Says the one sexting at the office," he whispers, and you fight the shiver that threatens to run up your spine as he continues. "Really, do you have any shame?"

He lingers, waiting, and you open the document, reading it over. He waits a few minutes, watching you make a few edits here and there, and after a bit, he leaves.

As soon as he's gone, you delete the edits you've made out of spite, and for the next hour, you waste your time pretending to work, and send back the document with the only thing changed being the font from Times New Roman to Comic Sans.

Re: Brief Revision

To: Park Sunghoon

[attachment fuckoff.docx]

Re: Brief Revision

From: Park Sunghoon

Hello, Please revise again, as it is still not up to company standards. Thanks, Park Sunghoon Chief Investment Officer

You waste another hour, this time instead making it wordier, longer, and impossible to parse through. The document is now double the length of the original, riddled with unnecessary paragraphs, and you know he'll still waste his time reading because that's the kind of annoying little asshole he is. And once you're satisfied, you hit 'send' again.

Re: Brief Revision

From: Park Sunghoon

Hello, Yet again, I am asking you to revise. Please be reminded that you will need to speak about it at next week’s meeting. Thanks, Park Sunghoon Chief Investment Officer

With a sigh, you glance back, seeing him hard at work as usual. And decidedly done with wasting his time, seeing as you aren't getting the kind of amusement out of it you'd hoped for, you open up a new document.

You do it right this time. Not with the intention of putting your whole heart into it, but admittedly, you grow more immersed in writing it than you should. You don't even hear your phone when it pings, and as you near the end of the workday, you don't realize when people slowly start packing up, leaving the building. When you finally click 'send', that's when you notice you've stayed overtime.

There's another ping on your phone, and you curse under your breath, scrambling to pick it up.

Jay: baby? Jay: guess work is busy today :( Jay: ill pick you up later Sent 1:27 PM Jay: see you soon beautiful Sent 4:48 PM Jay: almost done? Sent now

You gather your things, texting out your reply as you make your way to leave. But, unfortunately, so does Mr. Park. You exchange a stiff glance as you wait for the elevator, which takes its sweet time like always.

"Better."

"Hm?" You raise your brow.

"The brief is better."

The elevator dings, and he gestures for you to step inside first, like he's some kind of gentleman. You'd roll your eyes at him for it if you weren't busy narrowing them in response to his choice of words.

"What do you mean, 'better'?" You ask.

"It means it's better," he repeats, stepping inside after you, "but you can still do better."

He presses the main floor button, and you watch in annoyance. You grip your handbag tight, wondering why 'better' feels worse than 'sloppy' or 'lazy' ever did. Whatever, you think.

"It's good enough."

"It is."

"Then why are you complaining?" You snap.

"I'm not." He replies simply. The elevator doors open to the main floor, and he gestures for you again. Just when you think he’s done, he continues, "I'm just saying you're capable of more."

"Well, I don't want to do more."

You step out, and you fully intend on walking far, far away from the conversation so that you no longer have to simmer in irritation.

"Alright. Sure."

Your steps halt, and for a moment, you watch him as he walks past you. With a frown, you take a few hurried steps forward, intending to catch up with his long-legged strides.

"What the hell do you mean by—"

You lose your balance, as one does when they try to jog in stilettos, and you feel yourself starting to fall face-forward. Then, he catches you by the arm. Blinking up at him a few times, you feel your pulse racing. You try to convince yourself it's from the panic of nearly tripping and nothing more.

"Careful," he utters as he steadies you.

His hand doesn't linger longer than it needs to. His distance is professional, his tone polite. There is absolutely nothing about the moment that should be making your heart race the way that it does.

You notice he moves a bit slower with his next step, allowing you the time to catch up.

"I meant that, for someone who claims they don't care about this job," he begins, pushing the door open and holding it for you, "You seem quite bothered by my feedback."

"You are what bothers me," you quip rather defensively, walking through the door.

"Believe me, the feeling is mutual."

A few cars away, your name is called, and you both turn. Jay is there, waving to you from where he leans against his car.

A faint smile spreads across Mr. Park's face. It's different from the one he wears around the office, more amused than it is polite, though you vaguely wonder if there is something else to it you can't quite place. He doesn't seem to be trying to hide it, regardless, as it lingers on his lips.

"Better not keep him waiting, hm?" He teases, and you feel a flush rush to your cheeks.

He begins to walk away, half-glancing back over his shoulder.

"Enjoy your evening."

[Thursday]

You're ready this time. On time. A coffee cup, half finished, as you type away.

You decided sometime last night— as Jay snored at your side, and you lay awake in frustration after having to fake an orgasm for the first time in years— that 'better' wasn't enough.

You do real research this time, instead of glazing over lines from Wikipedia and paraphrasing them. You organize it all, formatted to the expected standard format, in neat little sections, revise it until you can’t find a single flaw, over and over. You do everything you can until finally, you send it, checking your phone for the time. Barely past noon, and you were already finished.

You lean back in your chair with a satisfied smile and turn to the side to see Mr. Yang looking straight at you.

"What?"

"Oh. Nothing, just," he shakes his head, "I've never seen you that focused before."

His eyes go wide at the realization of what he'd just said, and he begins to scramble. He smiles, a look that screams 'please don't get me fired'.

"I mean, don't get me wrong! I'm not saying you're not focused or anything, or..."

His words fade to white noise in your mind as you spare a glance towards Mr. Park's office, smiling at the thought of when you'd be called in— you wonder what he might be thinking. If he's reading it right now. If he's shocked or maybe even proud.

Except he never calls you in. You refresh your inbox the rest of your shift, thinking he might've at least said something. Anything. He doesn't even stop by your desk or return your glances from across the office, and you decide to finally do what you always seem to do anyway, which is barge straight in.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

He doesn't look up, immersed in something else as he types faster than you think any human should be capable of typing. He’s probably busy. You sometimes forget that he actually has work he has to do, unlike you. But still, you find yourself frowning, shifting your weight where you stand, a good distance away from his desk.

"My work."

"What about it?" He responds quick.

So he did read it, you think, which does nothing to soothe your growing discomfort as you process his lukewarm reaction.

"...Your thoughts?"

He stops typing for a moment, sparing you a glance. Just one single glance, and a small smile.

"It's good."

He immediately returns to working, and you stand there. You just stand there.

"That's all you have to say?"

"Your work is good. You did a good job. What else can I say?"

"I did a good job," you repeat, trying not to seethe.

That's when he stops typing. And somewhat amused, he looks at you.

"What, are you expecting a gold star?" He teases, shaking his head. It's not meant to be cruel. You've seen how he speaks when he's trying to be. And yet, it cuts deeper than his cruelty ever has. "You finally did what I expect from everyone here, and what I already knew you were capable of doing. So good job for proving me right."

Your jaw tightens, and his eyes seem to drop, noticing how your hands tremble.

"Alright. Don't be like that," he starts, his tone softer this time. It does not make you feel any better. "I am pleased to see that you're finally making a real effort."

You exhale sharply through your nose as you watch him get up, circling the desk. And soon, a hand is at your back, gently guiding you to the door.

"But you know what would please me even more? Consistency."

You wince when he pats your back, like that's supposed to be supportive.

"So why don't you get back to it and—"

"You think I care about pleasing you?" You manage, swallowing the lump at the back of your throat, pretending like your heart isn't sinking in your chest because the hours of work you spent perfecting that stupid brief only earned you a good job and a pat on the back. Your hands curl into fists, and you're not sure why. You've gotten a bad grade or two before— disappointed a teacher here and there, felt the shame of failure. But this, right now? You'd never felt so pathetic. “ ‘cause I don't. I just did it so you don't embarrass me in front of everyone again. That's all."

He observes you, seeing how you avert his gaze, how you shift your weight from one leg to the other. You begin to blink, your eyes glossy.

"Maybe I should rephrase myself," He goes on carefully, "You're taking it the wrong way."

"Like I said. I don't care. So don't—" you inhale, "So whatever. Fuck you."

He lets out a deep, heavy sigh.

"Let's not take it there," he warns, sternly, "Good isn't an insult—“

"Then what part of it isn't good enough? What could've possibly fallen short of your standards, Mr. Park?"

Annoyed, but still patient, he observes. Finally, he moves towards the desk, and you watch with your fists still clenched at your sides.

"You want feedback. Is that it?” He asks, pulling out his desk chair, “You could've simply asked."

You watch as he beckons you.

"Come. Sit."

You do. And he hovers behind you, right hand on the mouse, his left on the desk, caging you in. You’re hyper aware of how close he is, with how his cologne invades your senses, and how you can hear him muttering low to himself as he pulls up the document you’d sent. You lay your palms flat against your lap.

"This, right here? It's too much. Same thing here. Here. And here. You're overcompensating,” he cuts straight to the point.

"Thought you wanted me to try harder?" You mutter.

"And I think it's sweet that you're trying, missy, but the goal is not to impress me." A low chuckle escapes him, going straight through you. "The goal is to be as clear and concise as possible."

Your jaw tightens, unsure if it’s in response to his annoyingly condescending criticism, or because you’re trying to fight the dirty thoughts of him that you just can’t quite push away, no matter how hard you’ve tried to over the past week. He continues, clicking to another section.

"This, here? Correct, but completely disorganized—"

"Still correct."

"Still disorganized," he affirms. You take a few deep breaths, and he's humming to himself as he highlights all the problem areas on his screen, "You have a tendency to be messy, don't you? Messy, messy, messy..."

You close your eyes as he trails off, acutely aware of how his voice, low and just inches from your ear, is driving you insane. He scrolls down and stops at the final section.

"Ah, and this rambling nonsense. This is the worst part." Your hands curl into fists at your lap, pretending like you don't feel his eyes shift to you, directly, "What was the point of this?"

"I don't know."

"You wrote it. You must know."

"Like...” you fumble, reeling in your thoughts as you continue, “to give my opinion, I guess? Or... something."

He allows you to scramble over your words for longer than necessary, and you wonder at this point if he just enjoys watching you suffer. Then, you wonder why you enjoy the thought of him enjoying watching you suffer. You take in a deep breath, reminding yourself to calm the fuck down.

"My job is to make the opinions. Yours is to give the information."

You wince when you watch him click 'delete' on the entire last section, and something inside you snaps. You spent hours on that. For him to just— You inhale, slow, controlled, desperate not to show that any of this bothers you at all, because why should it?

"Like I said. It's good." He says.

"Is it now?" You scoff.

He stares. Unmoving. You try to get up, but a hand on your shoulder keeps you planted in the chair, without much force at all. His gravitational pull is enough to keep you there, regardless, you suppose. He spins you around to face him.

"You asked for honesty. That's what I gave you." He replies, "You don't get to be sensitive about my response."

"Never said I was."

"You look like you want to kill me."

You have to fight the urge not to let your eyes drop from his, down to his pretty, full, frowning lips. God, how you wish killing was the only thing you wanted to do to him right now.

"I always look like that, Mr. Park," you scoff, "Hard not to."

"You know, I'm really getting tired of this."

"What's this?"

"Your attitude." He sighs, shaking his head. Exhausted from this. From you. From every exchange turning into something difficult. "Do you always have to throw a hissy fit when things don't go your way? I have real responsibilities here that I need to tend to. I can't spend every hour of the work day lecturing you."

"Says the one who turns everything I do into a lecture," You retort. "Seriously. Sometimes it's like you're finding an excuse to talk down to me, or something."

For some reason, this makes him freeze, like he'd only just noticed how close he was to you. You supposed you hadn't fully realized it either. He's close enough that you can see the moles on his face, the texture on his clear skin, and each individual one of his pretty lashes as he looks at you through them.

His tone is pissed, but his expression is... something else entirely. Wide-eyed, jaw clenched tight. His hand twitches, where it rests on your shoulder.

"You think I like talking down to you?"

"Don't you? Why else would you be doing it so much?" You tease, telling yourself it's just to get under his skin. But, you feel yourself start to grin just a little, your voice a little slow, the hint of something that shouldn't be there beneath the surface. "You do this with all your interns? Get all up in their face and insult them and call them names?"

He doesn’t pull away, but he doesn't appear amused either. He’s still. Uneasy.

"Just the ones who don't know their place.”

You wait for him to tell you to get out. To call you a stupid, immature intern or something along those lines, as he can never quite help himself from reminding you. To your surprise, he doesn't.

"Oh?" You tilt your head, and your grin spreads wider. Your hands curl in your lap, heart pounding in your chest as you continue, unthinking, "You're gonna put me in my place, Mr. Park?"

"Don't tempt me to,” his response is quicker this time, and you catch a glimmer of something dangerous in that calculated gaze of his.

"I'd like to see you try."

His mouth twitches, like he’s suppressing a smile as he looks you up and down. Then he laughs, hand tightening at your shoulder ever so slightly as he leans to your ear.

"You don't know what you're asking for, Miss—"

Suddenly, there's a knock at the door, and the two of you jump apart as if you'd just been shocked. Immediately, you stand up from your seat, and Mr. Park turns around to face the window, a hand running through his hair, neither one of you daring to comment.

"I should go."

"Yes,” he clears his throat, “Keep up the good work."

"I won't,” you return with a weak laugh, wincing as you leave.

There, at the door, you find Mr. Yang, eyes nervously glancing past you to try and meet Mr. Park’s, hands gripping the file folder in his hands like they’ll fly away. He offers you a polite nod, before trying to brush by you.

"Mr. Park, I wanted to ask about tomorrow—“

"If you have a question, you can send it to my inbox,” he snaps back, looking over his shoulder, “Leave. both of you.”

"But—"

Thankfully, you're shooing Mr. Yang out of the way, shutting the door behind both of you, reading the room for once in your life.

Finally alone, Mr. Park sinks into his chair, looking down at himself, half-hard in his pants. He brings a hand to his face, groaning to himself.

Surely, it's just the result of it being a long ass time since the last time he'd gotten any kind of action— not since he'd signed his divorce papers two years ago, parting ways with a flame that had long since burned out and refused to reignite.

No. Even he's not sure he can convince himself that's the real reason. Truthfully, the only thing he can blame is the one thing that he doesn't want to admit to himself; that despite all the sighs of frustration and headaches you've caused him, you're not exactly the worst distraction to have at his desk. Pretty, quick-witted at times, short-tempered and, well... very entertaining.

Truth be told, he'd encountered many interns over the years whose work ethics were similar if not worse. You're just more annoying and worse at hiding your phone beneath your desk. And, more intriguingly, you’re the first employee he’s never had to pretend to tolerate.

It was refreshing, to say the least, to be able to say exactly how he feels to your face instead of letting the resentment fester and build, with no way to let it out, like it seems to with everyone else. And yet, no matter how many times he loses his temper, or lets his mask slip, you only return with the same whiny, bitchy little attitude you always do— like you’re begging to be put in your place.

He wants to bury himself at his own train of thought, guilty for even thinking any of it in the first place. He’s your superior. He’s supposed to be guiding you, and he’s put in a great deal of effort to establish some kind of trust with you. Today it finally paid off, seeing as you came to him in search of his approval— and yet here he was getting turned on by it like some kind of creep.

Annoyed and deciding there is no point in dwelling on the thought any longer, he looks to his screen, quickly closing the document.

Fine. You’re attractive. He can admit that to himself. It’s not a crime to think it. But he’s not in college anymore, and though the thought of having his way with you may crawl its way to the forefront of his mind on occasion, it would always remain a thought and nothing more.

[Friday]

You stare at him all morning. Obviously.

How could you not, when the way you jumped apart from one another lingers heavily on your mind? You can still feel his casual touch on your shoulder, his voice at your ear, the scent of him. It’s all-consuming.

Shamefully, a part of your mind wants to search for an excuse to bother him again. You could act out. Go back to avoiding your work and texting instead, hoping he'd come by and talk down to you in that low, stern voice of his. The thought was all too tempting, though it had no business being— you know, given you have a whole ass caring, kind and tender boyfriend.

You mentally scold yourself. There is something extremely wrong with you for even entertaining the thought of ruining your Friday night plans with Jay, just so you can get held behind and berated in your boss's office, isn't there?

"He seems stressed, doesn't he?" Mr. Yang— or rather, Jungwon, as you'd recently learned— comments. "He always gets like this before client presentations. We always say it's the only time he seems human."

You try not to seem too surprised by the fact that there is a presentation today, praying there is enough time to review the client's portfolio.

Everyone begins to file towards the conference room later, and you clutch your laptop in your hands, repeating information in your head as you follow suit, but a firm grasp at your arm halts your steps.

"You won't be expected to speak. In fact, it's better you don't," He mutters, "Understood?"

You nod. Because what else can you even manage to say when he’s speaking like that to you?

You think you finally understand just why he's so tense when you sit down in the room, eyes landing on the various faces around the room. A Senior Executive, whose name escapes you, but whom you've shaken hands with more than once over the years, given his working relationship with your father. Senior Clients and their teams, ready to ask probing, technical questions.

Mr. Park leads like he always does—clean, controlled, efficient, with enough friendliness in his demeanour to appease the obscenely wealthy men he is trying to close a deal with. Every slide transitions exactly when it should, every point lands, and you follow instead of drifting like you used to.

You suppose you could say it's just because you're ogling him, but even in the midst of that, you find yourself nodding along to the presentation, comparing it with the overview document open on your laptop as he speaks.

"We're taking a conservative position going into the next quarter," he says, clicking forward. "Stability over aggressive expansion."

There's a pause as he clicks to the next slide, but your brows furrow at his words.

What he’s saying is not at all what you’re reading… and normally, you would chalk it up to your own ignorance but a direct contradiction of his own words cannot be a misinterpretation.

"Didn't we model a more aggressive expansion for Q3?" You mutter beneath your breath, only intended for yourself.

It’s barely audible, but the room, still and tense, picks up on it. Jungwon, sitting at your side, nudges you, shooting a worried glance.

A few eyes turn— not many, but Mr. Park’s do. His lock onto you, something flickering behind them. He doesn’t seem to realize how dangerous that look is, does he? He has no idea how a single glare has you crossing your legs in the middle of a conference room full of people.

"That was one of several scenarios," he replies evenly.

You nod, instinctively, and look back at your screen like you should. Just as you should keep your mouth shut. And you really were planning to behave today, you swear it, but...

"But it showed stronger returns," you add, just a little bit louder than before— Just enough to appear unintentional to everyone else again, but not enough to convince him. This time, Jungwon looks like he’s about to die on your behalf.

You relish the way he freezes, reeling himself back in to keep himself from glaring at you. That's all you really intended— to shake him, just a little, like you always do. So, it surprises you when a few heads begin to lift.

"I also thought the aggressive model was still under consideration," one of the senior analysts hesitates before nodding to you, then looking back to Mr. Park, "Was it scrapped?"

"Surely, it must be incorporated into the final recommendation?" another adds.

The room starts to buzz, a few murmurs are exchanged, papers shifting as a few flip back through their notes, and you sit there, frozen, because you weren't actually expecting anyone to take anything you say seriously.

"Because if the returns are—"

"The aggressive model was one of several evaluated scenarios," Mr. Park states finally, smoothing out the sharpness of his tone with an easy smile. He continues as the room settles, "The final recommendation reflects the conservative projection. Now, moving forward..."

The room follows, and you keep your mouth firmly shut the rest of the time. Because you know you've done more than enough.

When it ends, chairs scrape softly against the floor. Conversations resume—low, professional, and you gather your things slowly, not daring to look at him. You overhear it as the Senior Executive you'd recognized from before moves to shake hands with him.

"That was a bit messy, Park. I'd expect tighter control from someone in your position," He says, and though you don't turn, you can feel his eyes drift towards you, "And you might want to be more deliberate with how your team contributes in these settings."

"Of course, Mr. Lee."

Subject: Revision

From: Park Sunghoon

Revise and reformat the attached document. I expect a clean version tonight. Thanks, Park Sunghoon Chief Investment Officer

You were in the midst of getting ready to leave for the evening, packing up your belongings and fantasizing about all the ways Jay would hopefully relieve the ache between your legs tonight, when suddenly that bullshit appears in your inbox.

If he wanted to talk to you about what happened earlier, he could've called you into his office earlier. But no. He chose to assign you a meaningless task at the last minute.

You stare at it, and before you know it, you’re storming down the hall, pushing past his door to find him packing up his own things. He’s slipping his laptop into his work bag, completely unsurprised as you come right up to the desk.

"I know I fucked up, but is that really necessary?" You begin, fuming, "I didn't even mean to cause a scene. I was just reading the notes you provided."

He sets his work bag down, looking to you. His expression is rigid.

"You disrupted the flow of a client presentation," he says, voice tight now, controlled but slipping, "and introduced confusion where there shouldn't have been any."

"I clarified—"

"You contradicted me,” he cuts you off, practically hissing as he continues, “That wasn't your place, intern."

"You contradicted yourself and giving me bullshit to do on a Friday night as punishment won't change that," You retort too quickly, knowing you are right this time, "I have plans!"

"I don't care," he scoffs, voice slowly rising, "the same way you don't seem to care about undermining my authority, so far as having the audacity to do so in front of everyone."

"I asked a harmless question!"

"Harmless?" he laughs, "you humiliated me—"

"Oh, did I?" You snap, "how does it feel?"

He pauses for a moment, and you watch him circle the desk, standing right in front of you, a respectable distance away but… still.

"You think this is some sort of game?"

"I just think you're being unfair,” you swallow.

Now that really seems to make him want to laugh, a cruel smile tugging at his lips. He approaches you, slow and steady, until you’re backed against the desk, hands curling around the edge of it.

"The only thing that's unfair is how you seem to think you can do whatever you like, say whatever you want, and get away with it, like a spoiled, selfish little brat." You gape at his words, trying to find the words to retort, but pathetically, a heat pools in your lower stomach like it always does when he has you cornered like this. "So go on. Do your job. And while you're at it, better let that boyfriend of yours know that you're busy."

Your face burns, and your hands curl tighter around the desk. How dare he piss you off like this, then expect you to get your work done, all hot and bothered?

"With how much you like to call me in here and berate me,” you begin, venom dripping with every last word, “I'm starting to think you like it when I act like a brat."

His hand lands on the desk behind you, and he glares, inches away from you.

"I dare you to say that again."

"You like it when I—"

He grabs your chin, firm in his grasp as he forces you to look at him in those wild, untamed eyes of his.

"How many times do I have to remind you to look at me when you speak?" He says. "Go on."

You stare, and you breathe. Unmoving, hesitant.

"You like it when I act like a brat. When I give you an excuse to tell me off. Makes you feel real important, doesn't it? Like you're the big bad boss, with all this control."

He smiles, cruelly.

"Aren’t you the one who likes it when I'm in control?”

His eyes drop to your quivering lips, then the way you squeeze your thighs together.

"You know how I know? Because you just don't seem to listen when I'm nice. But when I'm mean, when I don't give you exactly what you want, suddenly... you're kicking down my office door, begging for my attention,” his lips are inches from yours now, and you can feel him breathing. “You don't realize how obvious you are, do you? You fall in line so easily."

He finishes, and you wait. Your whole body buzzes with anticipation, Jay being the furthest thing from your mind. But, looking at him, you watch as his hardened expression softens— pained, almost. He doesn't lean away just yet, hand still firmly planted into the desk, until he releases a regretful sigh.

"Get to work. I mean it this time."

You furrow your brows, watching him start to turn his head away, but he’s one big idiot if he thinks for a single second he can just corner you like that, expose that he can read your deepest desires like an open book, and walk away right after, like it never happened— like he isn’t clearly flushed in the face and pitching a tent in his pants right now— like he doesn’t want this as much as you do. As if you’d ever let him get away with that.

In one swift movement, your hand wraps around his tie, and you tug his lips to yours. And as relieved as you are to finally be tasting him, to have your mouth on his, you don't let yourself relax into it just yet— not when you have something to prove. You trace your tongue along his lower lip, gently coaxing his mouth open, and he fucking groans when you do, kissing you back with equal desperation, but much more restraint.

You’re heaving when he pulls away, like you’d forgotten how to breathe, and he stares down at you. Conflicted. Guilty. Annoyed. Speechless.

"Oh no, Mr. Park... did I just misbehave?" You flash him a not-so-innocent smile, fingers curling around his tie, "Guess you'll have to punish me for that, right?"

You're barely able to catch the flicker of annoyance in his expression before he’s grinning wickedly, one hand at your waist while the other moves to your face. His lips are on yours in an instant, swallowing your squeal of surprise, and every other stupidly pathetic sound you seem to make against your will. Every part of you is burning hot, sensitive to the touch, and he seems to enjoy the way you squirm at the simple feeling of his thumb rubbing circles into your waist. Your mouth parts as it slips beneath your blouse, just grazing the bare skin beneath it.

"Is this what you wanted?" He asks, teasingly, “Just wanted me to touch you? Is that why you’re always bothering me?”

You nod fervently, feeling his hand dip between your thighs. You swear your brain begins to short-circuit as he drags his hand painfully slow across your skin, torturing you right up until the moment he’s found your clothed cunt, soaked in your arousal. As if that wasn't evidence enough of how badly you were craving him, you helplessly move your hips against his hand, where he palms you.

"So fucking desperate,” he’s still grinning as he pulls away from your lips, just so he can watch you try to suppress your pretty sounds as he slips past the fabric just to tease you, letting your slick coat his fingers, sliding up and down your folds.

“Oh, now you want to shut up?” He teases.

The hand on your face cups your chin, his thumb sliding to your mouth to keep it parted, just so he can hear exactly what he’s doing to you as he sinks two fingers inside you. His dick twitches in his pants as you moan, breathless and needy, just begging to be filled.

"So fucking pathetic."

You clench around him at his words, fingers curling into you and hitting you right where you desperately needed them to for so long. You gasp when he offers another slow, torturous thrust, before fucking his fingers into you.

Your lashes flutter shut, trying to form a cohesive thought.

"Says you,” you say, eyeing his painfully hard and large erection in his pants. But your eyes fall shut again when his fingers angle into you just right.

"Says me," he echoes, satisfied as your words catch in your throat, "me, who's barely touched you, yet you clench around me like you're about to fucking cum."

Uselessly, you try shaking your head, but then he's fucking his fingers into you like his life depends on it, and you're crying out, grasping onto him. You can feel that familiar feeling start to unravel in you all too soon, too worked up to fight him, too fucking attracted to him to resist it, either. He's so tall, and broad, and freakishly handsome that it almost scares you. You wish you had the strength to peel those layers of clothes right off of him, to see all of him for yourself, and worship every inch of him.

"Who knew that all I had to do to get you to stop being a bitch, was to treat you like one?" He says cruelly, before slowing the pace of his fingers conveniently when you've almost reached your high. "But acting like a bitch doesn't get you what you want."

You whine pathetically when his fingers pull away from you, but he ignores your desperate pleas.

"Mr. Park..."

"I'm guessing you were never taught any manners. Looks like I will have to teach you."

He moves to sit on his chair, and you watch, eyeing the obscene bulge in his pants, only tearing your eyes away when he gestures for you to follow. You follow suit, assuming he means for you to climb into his lap, but before you can mount him, he's grabbing you, folding you over his lap.

With your skirt pushed up, revealing your ass and those little panties which barely cover anything, he's stroking your bare skin. Feeling, groping, never touching you where you need him to most. You can feel just how hard he is now, pressed against you, and it fucking kills you that his grip on your hips won't allow you to grind down against him.

"You wanna be punished?" His voice is soft, but there is nothing kind or good-intentioned about it. You nod, letting out a weak yes. "I'll show you punishment."

There's a pause in the air, heavy breathing as he traces the edges of your underwear, watching it snap back against your skin when he lets go.

"But I'm not gonna be generous, like your daddy." his hand cracks down on your ass, and you yelp, squirming as his large, strong hands keep you in place. "And I'm not gonna be sweet like your little boyfriend who clearly doesn't know how to fuck you right."

He spanks you again, this time with a little more force, and your back arches, crying out. Your pussy clenches around nothing.

"I'm gonna do things my way. And fucking hopefully, when I'm done, my dumb little intern will learn to treat her superior with respect. Got that?"

"Yes, Mr. P—"

You nod, crying out when his hand makes impact with your ass again, and your hips try to rock against nothing.

"Eager to please, are you?" He chuckles, hand rubbing up and down, while the other threads through your hair, lifting your head just enough to whisper in your ear. He pinches your clit, smiling at your little noises. "You're a lot cuter when you're playing nice."

Releasing his grasp on you, he allows you to crawl into his lap. Your lips meet his instantly, your mouth hot and desperate as you grind your hips into his lap. You swear, you're seeing stars at the feeling of his cock against you, and all you want to do is release it from its confines, when suddenly, you're being lowered to the floor.

You blink up at him, on your knees, as his hand meets your chin.

"Touch yourself."

"...huh?"

"Don't make me ask again," he states, stroking your cheek, "You remember what I said about fixing your own problems, don't you? So play with yourself while you tell me how sorry you are for earlier. Then, maybe I'll think about fucking you."

It's humiliating, to say the least, as you peel your panties down and spread your legs for him. But that's exactly why he asked you to do it, didn't he? His eyes are on you, carefully observing as your hand moves down, rubbing yourself in slow circles.

You can't even remember the last time you'd done this on your own, with your hand. Even before Jay, you'd become accustomed to your trusty vibrator to get the job done quickly, dismissively, like it was some chore you were too bothered to take care of. Your face burns as you roll your hips into your hand, while the other works at the buttons of your blouse, enough to palm your chest through your bra.

"M'sorry."

"For?" He questions, "There are a lot of things you need to apologize for, my pretty little intern."

Your eyes drag down to where his hand palms himself through his pants, a whimper catching in your throat as you look back up, "Sorry for embarrassing you today."

"And?"

"For being a brat," you sigh, your finger poking at the entrance of your cunt. He watches it sink in, adoring how frustrated you are with that simply not being enough. His hand moves over his crotch, palming himself absent-mindedly. "For having an attitude. For showing up late. For n-not doing my job right... for— ah"

Honestly, he loses his train of thought watching you slip another finger into yourself, watching your eyes flutter, and your teeth sinking into your lower lip as you ride your hand pitifully. It doesn't take long for him to get his cock out, stroking himself as he watches you pinch and roll your nipples between your fingers, your wetness seeping past your fingers and staining the carpet under his desk. You mutter incoherent apologies between whines and gasps until you look to him, licking your lips as you eye his erection.

"Mr. Park," you're whining as your movements become more erratic, "Please... s'not enough, need more..."

Hand still at his cock, he moves forward to place the tip of his cock at his mouth.

"You forgot one last thing," he says as he sinks into your mouth. He doesn't care about how you gag around his length, sliding in until he reaches the back of your throat. "To apologize for starting this. But I don't think you feel sorry about that part, do you?"

He laughs, watching you shake your head, trying to reply with your mouth full. He pulls back for a moment, allowing you a moment to breathe, adoring how you cough and pant, eyes slightly tear-stained.

“Well?”

“M’not sorry,” you finally say, careful not to smile too widely, but it’s hard to hide your look of satisfaction when you’re exactly where you want to be, “Not sorry at all.”

"Dirty girl,” he breathes, “You'll just have to make it up to me."

He sinks back into your throat as you touch yourself, just adoring the way you moan around him every time he tugs your scalp, and how you drool all over him. Enthusiastic and eager to please, he thinks he's obsessed with how you look up at him all wide-eyed, saliva and precum escaping the corners of your mouth from how he's stuffing it full.

He finds himself approaching his orgasm quicker than he would expect at his grown age, having thought he'd left that hormonal, insatiable version of himself he was in his twenties behind. He doesn't mind, though. He's sure you don't either, given how he's working your poor little throat to death.

"Gonna cum, and you're gonna swallow. And you're gonna fucking thank me for it afterwards."

You try to whine in approval, weakly, and he groans, burying himself to the hilt as he spills down your throat, and when he pulls back, he grabs your mouth, humming in approval at the sight cum in your mouth, on your tongue, opened wide for him. You make a show of swallowing it, moaning like it's the best thing you've ever tasted, smiling up at him after like you're searching for a hint of pride in his expression. And fuck, is he proud of you.

"Fuck," he breathes, "You're such a fucking slut."

You barely have time to process what's happening before he's sprawling you over the desk, pens and whatever the fuck else falling to the floor as your back collides with the hard surface. He's hovering above you, tie above your face as two of his fingers sink into your cunt, and god, you're just thankful to finally have something more than the shallow thrust of your own fingers inside of you.

His long, thick fingers curl right into that spot inside of you, and your eyes roll back, not taking much to build you up again. Soon, he's lowering himself, and when you feel his mouth on your clit, you're thrashing around.

"Now, remember what I said?" He coos, "Let me hear it. Say it nicely for me."

"Thank you— ah!" You cry out, fingers curling into his hair.

He's grimacing to himself as your legs fall over his shoulders, pulling his face closer. Hands threading through his hair, tugging harshly, you begin to fall apart. And after being on the edge for so long, you lose yourself around his fingers, his tongue lapping up every last drop.

A string of thank yous leaves your mouth, trailing off into whimpers, but his mouth doesn't leave between your legs until you're practically kicking and shoving his face away, overly stimulated. Still trying to wrap your head around whatever the fuck he just did to you, he's above you now.

As you come down, he hovers above you, and as he gazes over you, taking in how absolutely gorgeous you look spread out on his desk, more than ready to fuck the ever living shit out of you... He then sighs, a hand dragging down his face at the sheer realization of what he's done, and just what he's about to do.

He's supposed to be your mentor, a role model. That's the dynamic he had tried to establish with you, anyway, when he realized how much guidance you lacked and how severely insecure you are behind all the designer handbags, diamonds, and whatnot.

In a moment of weakness, he leans down, kissing you, hands moving to cup your face. He swallows your whines, lost in the kiss when—

"Mr. Park," you whine, dragging out his name in that annoying, breathy tone you always did. Now, he thinks he'll never hear it the same. "You gonna fuck me, or what?"

With a heavy, frustrated sigh, he pulls away from your lips— and of course, you're there, smiling up at him. Because you're exactly where you want to be, getting exactly what you want from him.

He flips you around, bent over the desk, and bottoms you out, quite literally knocking the wind out of you at the sheer force and size of him inside you. He's fucking huge, stretching you open, fucking you so deep you swear you feel him in your guts.

Your nails curl around the edge of the desk, bracing yourself as you take him, back arching, and a cry rips from your throat as his hand smacks your ass. You clench around him in response.

"Greedy whore. So fucking impatient," he groans. "Gonna fuck that attitude right out of you. Fill your tight little cunt."

You're gushing around him when he slaps your ass again, kneading the flesh, gasping with every deep thrust of him. There's not a thought behind your eyes as he takes his frustration out on you, head completely empty, your pussy completely full.

He can't say that his head is all that clear, either, though. Completely gone at the sight of you, a pretty, young thing wrapped tight around his cock like you'd never been fucked properly before. You probably hadn't, he's sure. Guys your age probably make it to three pumps before finishing from the sight of you all spread out alone— hell, he knows he would've if he were still the dumbass he was back then.

God, wasn't it just incredible to see you all wide-eyed and precious, knowing he'd just fundamentally changed the trajectory of your sex life forever. You'd never be able to go back to whatever bullshit you did with that trust-fund boyfriend of yours. Selfishly, he grins at the thought, and he's pulled out of them when he hears your cries get louder.

"I'm close, I'm—"

He grabs a fistful of your hair, dragging you enough so he can see your face.

"Yeah? You think you deserve it?" He slows down, letting his cock drag deliciously and torturously along your fluttering walls. "Think you deserve to cum around my cock?"

You whine, pleas falling from your lips, begging. Grinning to himself, he pulls out, just to flip you around again, because he doesn't want to miss a single second of seeing your dumbstruck, fucked-out face as you finish on his cock.

He throws your legs over his shoulders and places his cock between your legs, dragging the tip over your needy, soaked cunt. It would be a real sweet revenge to jerk himself, coating your poor, desperate cunt in his release, watching it twitch and throb as you beg for completion, wouldn't it?

He shouldn't give you what you want. But...

"You always have it your way," He scoffs, half at himself as he presses into you again, hand braced around your neck. "Spoiled little brat."

Your eyes roll back, and he fucks you through your high, the desk shaking with every thrust, your cries spilling from your pretty lips. He finishes sometime after, spilling deep into your cunt as you flutter around him.

He watches you breathe, his head clearing, the reality of what had just happened and what he'd just done weighing on him. He's already planning how he's going to clean up this mess, when he's going to buy you plan B, how the fuck he's going to go back to work next week and even function properly when—

"Holy shit, Mr. Park," you let out a breathy laugh, "You're such a freak. Where the fuck did you learn any of that?"

He blinks down at you, a second passing before a wolfish grin spreads across his face.

"Let's just say I got around in my younger years.”

[...]

"...GENE Group is currently positioned as a mid-market fashion brand," you begin, voice steady, "but over the past two quarters, there's been a measurable shift toward premium positioning."

You look around the conference room, noting how a few heads lift as you stand before the presentation slides behind you. But there's only one pair of eyes that carries any real weight, and not just because he's evaluating you.

"Retail partnerships have been reduced by thirty percent. The average unit price is up twelve. And their latest collection was distributed exclusively through flagship locations and direct online channels. They're not scaling anymore," you state, hand tightening around the clicker before moving to the next slide. "They're narrowing."

"Speculation."

Your mouth twitches, narrowing your eyes in his direction, careful not to let it linger for too long.

"The data supports a directional shift—"

"It supports a possibility," Mr. Park cuts in, sharper this time, in a tone that he knows you fall apart for. "You're assigning intent."

All eyes are on you now, and you nod once, taking in a slow, steady breath as you cool down your thoughts.

"Then I'll rephrase," you say, smooth, controlled. "The company's recent decisions suggest a move toward premium positioning, supported by reduced distribution and higher price anchoring."

"Better."

Your face is hot now, as is the rest of you, but you ignore it. You click to the next slide. Focus.

"If this transition is intentional, short-term performance will continue to decline," you continue, clearing your throat. "Which explains the current undervaluation—“

"But long-term, a successful repositioning increases brand equity and margin." Someone at the table leans forward, talking down to you like you're some kind of dumbass— which is something you tolerate from one man and one man only.

You scan the room, eyes finding the person in question, recognizing him as one of the sleazeballs who joked about you sleeping with the boss outside the bathroom a few weeks ago. And, well, you are fucking your boss now, you suppose, but at least you're getting laid. You doubt he can say the same.

"This creates a timing opportunity," you reply with a steady smile, "The market is pricing GENE as a declining mid-tier brand. But if the repositioning holds, it becomes a premium asset at a discount. This is where we enter—"

"This section," Mr. Park gestures, "is unnecessary."

You swallow, eyes returning to him.

"It contextualizes the valuation gap—"

"It buries your argument."

"Finish this faster" is what he's really trying to say, seeing how he glares at you like he's trying to look through your clothes. You resist the urge to roll your eyes, instead nodding.

"Then I'll summarize. In short," you click to the final slide, pulse racing as you continue, "we're not investing in what the company is today. We're investing in what it's trying to become—before the market fully recognizes it. And if they fail, the downside is already priced in."

"So based on current data," you finish, "GENE is a moderate-risk, high-upside opportunity contingent on execution."

You hear a few mutters of approval around the room, smiling to yourself both in relief and anticipation as you wait for him to speak. A second passes as he types a few notes into his laptop.

"Next time, lead with that. There's no need to make people wait for your point. It's a waste of everyone's time," Mr. Park sighs.

He's already closing his laptop shut and tucking it under his arm. And with a polite hand grazing your shoulder, he brushes past you.

"Meet me in my office after."

You have to bite down on your lip to suppress a grin.

"Yes, Mr. Park."

"Everyone is dismissed," he calls out as he exits.

The room gets up, and you collect your things, quietly buzzing with excitement. A few coworkers offer a nod of approval in passing, and some offer a word of encouragement, and you nod wordlessly, thoughtlessly, because all you can really think about is getting into his office before you go insane.

"Hey, don't look so down. You did a great job."

"Hm?" You look up, and Jungwon is there, offering a kind, pitiful smile.

"I've never seen him that harsh... but he's probably just upset over what happened at the client presentation a few weeks ago," He says. You bite your tongue, pretending to hide a frown. "I'm sure he'll warm up again soon. Especially if you keep working hard."

"Yeah." You smile, "I'm sure he will."

You're propped up on his desk, your legs wrapped around his waist as his lips press against yours, groaning into you.

His hands are all over you, at your hips, then at the collar of your blouse, slowly working at the buttons so that he can move his lips down your chest instead, marking you up where your clothes will at least be able to cover you. Though you're gasping when you feel his hand start to climb up your skirt already, before the work day is even over.

"You dragged out that presentation on purpose, didn't you?" He scoffs into your neck, "Made me sit there, thinking about spreading you out on that conference table."

"Sunghoon..." You breathe.

"Not at work," He says sternly.

"Mr. Park," You then continue, whimpering as his lips worship your skin, "Don't you think you were too harsh earlier?"

"Was I? Thought I was just giving feedback, the way you like to hear it," he replies, his fingers now brushing over your arousal. You shiver from the touch, "Think we both know you don't get this wet for praise."

"But was it..." you blink, collecting your thoughts for a moment, breathing hitching, "Was it good?"

He pauses, pulling away just enough to look at you. Taking in your unsure expression, he then cups your face, pressing a kiss to your forehead.

"You didn't need to drag it out, but apart from that, it was great," He smiles sweetly, hesitantly as he quirks a brow, "You want me to be nice today?"

"Not at all," you shake your head, grinning to yourself, "Just wanted to make sure you're still giving honest feedback.”

"I told you I would. No special treatment... apart from this," He kisses down your face, and you giggle, beaming as he drops his face between your legs, "So let me reward my slutty intern properly, hm?"

You're nodding enthusiastically, but before he can get his face between your thighs, his phone is ringing. You whine as he pulls away, pouting as he tosses you a stern look, and without checking, he answers, a hand still stroking your knee.

"Yes?"

You recognize the voice immediately, fighting back a loud snort.

"...of course. She's been improving."

Your dad’s voice drones on the other end, and you’re just about dead seeing Sunghoon reply in that professional tone of his. Desperately trying not to laugh, you clasp a hand over your mouth, ignoring his glares until his expression then shifts.

"Oh?"

He raises a brow at you, and you tilt your head in confusion, hand mindlessly reaching out to play with the end of his tie. His hand continues to slide up and down your thigh.

"I see. That's... unfortunate."

Though for some supposedly ‘unfortunate’ news, he sure is beginning to smile widely, and you can't help but wonder what the hell your dad could've possibly told him. A few more yesses and hums later, he's hanging up the phone. And he looks at you, brow still quirked.

"Your father seems upset," he says, almost casually, amused as he watches your face drop.

"What?" You scramble, “Over what? Does he know about—?”

"He’s upset about you breaking up with that guy."

Ah. Right. Jay.

You tore off the band-aid pretty soon after you slept with Sunghoon, telling him you’d fallen out of love. Though if you're both being honest, you were never in love with him to begin with, and neither was he. He didn't understand. Didn't see it coming. But you figured leaving him confused would be better than continuing to pretend like your heart was in it at all.

Your father was the one who was taking it the hardest, though. Kept calling you and pleading with you to give Jay another chance. Hell, it seems he even took it upon himself to even try calling your boss. It’s moments like these where you want to tell him to just adopt Jay if he loves him so damn much.

"Is he?" You act surprised, "How tragic."

"You really broke up with him?" Sunghoon asks, definitely not disappointed, but a little unsure about how to react, given the complicated nature of your relationship with one another.

"Yeah," you shrug, "Got bored of him, I guess."

With that, he’s grinning.

"Is that what you're calling it?"