태산이는 고양이 🐱

jisung pauses, then lets out a low, disbelieving chuckle, “intervention for what exactly? being too good at life?”

“you’ve become a menace,” jaemin says, shaking his head like a disappointed dad, “do you even know how many people on campus have a picture of your dick?”

haechan shakes his head, “you’ve singlehandedly skyrocketed the sales of morning-after pills…they’re probably gonna name a discount code after you.”

jisung smirks, “JISUNG69 has a good ring to it,” he laughs, cocking his head proudly, leaning against the nearest bleacher but he was the only one who found it funny, “come on hyungs, i’m just doing what you guys taught me. don’t be mad if the student surpassed the masters.” it was true. fuckboy101, they called it. a dumb joke at first. it started freshman year, when jisung found out the girl he’d planned his future around had been cheating on him for months. he was wrecked. could barely eat, couldn’t sleep. so the older boys took it into their own hands: teach him how to stop feeling. step one - hook up. step two - don’t feel. step three - repeat until you forget who hurt you in the first place. but somewhere along the way, jisung mastered the syllabus and rewrote the course.

“dude,” mark groans, “you got cheated on. we were trying to help you survive, not turn into a full-time asshole.”

“freshman year was different,” jeno adds, voice soft, always the gentlest with him, “back then, you were hurting. you needed the distraction. but now… it’s like you’re addicted to the performance.”

“it’s not a performance,” jisung argues, crossing his arms, the smirk returning like armor, “i’m just living my best life.”

“you’re living in denial,” chenle cuts in bluntly, no hesitation, “every girl you sleep with is someone you ghost and every time you laugh it off, you just look more hollow. it’s not hot anymore. it’s pathetic.” that one lands. jisung stiffens, the smirk faltering for a split second. the air tightens. then he laughs. it’s not light. it’s sharp and cynical, a little too loud for the room.

“oh, i get it,” he says bitterly, his voice dipping into something dangerous, “just because you’re all in love now, you think it’s real? you think it’s forever?”there’s a beat of silence. jisung’s lips curl into something venomous, “your girls are probably out cheating on all of you right now.”

the words land like a punch – ugly, uninvited, and way too personal. everyone freezes. the silence that follow isn’t just tense, it’s disgusted. the image he plants in their heads is too graphic, too cruel. he knows it. that’s why he said it.

“jesus,” jaemin mutters, jaw clenching, like he’s holding himself back from standing, “dude, what the hell is wrong with you?”

“stop projecting,” chenle snaps, his voice sharp now, nothing soft or understanding about it anymore, “just because she broke you doesn’t mean the rest of us are doomed to get screwed over too.”

mark holds up a hand before it escalates further, “that’s not you talking,” he says slowly, voice steady, almost sad, feeling very responsible, “that’s your hurt talking. and it’s turning you into someone we don’t even recognize.”

renjun’s voice is softer when he speaks, but no less pointed, “take it from the only other single guy here, you’re pushing everyone away before they can even get close, it’s like you want to prove no one sticks around so badly, you make sure they don’t.”jisung says nothing. just clenches his jaw, fists tight at his sides. his smirk is gone. what’s left is something colder, blanker. a shield he’s worn for too long. he turns on his heel and walks out without another word, footsteps echoing across the court. the door slams behind him. the court falls into silence again, except this time — it's full of guilt.

renjun exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose, “god, i told you guys he was too far gone.”

“don’t say that,” haechan murmurs, still staring at the door, “he’s not. he’s just…lost.”

mark swallows, voice barely above a whisper, “and we’re the ones who handed him the map.”

the night air hits him. cold. damp. too real. jisung exhales sharply as he storms out of the gym, fists shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. the slamming door behind him does nothing to silence the voices ringing in his head: “you’re living in denial” “it’s pathetic” “you’re pushing everyone away before they can even try to stay.” he walks blindly, past the buildings, the trees, the vending machines that always ate his coins. the campus is dead quiet, except for the sound of his shoes hitting the pavement — it should feel peaceful. it doesn’t. it feels suffocating. like the silence is pressing on his chest. he stops beneath a flickering lamp post, kicking at a loose stone on the ground. it skitters away uselessly, just like everything else lately. he runs both hands through his hair, tugging hard at the roots. “fuck.” they were right. that’s what makes it worse. he knows he’s been falling. he’s known it for a while now – since the hookups stopped feeling exciting, since the girls started blurring together, since his own name stopped feeling like his. he doesn’t even know who he is anymore without the act. and the thing that scares him the most? he can’t remember the last time he was actually present. the last time he said something and meant it. the last time breathing felt like breathing and not just going through the motions. he used to be the kid who danced like his heart was on fire, who cried when he got the lead in his first showcase, who actually believed in things like forever and soulmates. who wrote love letters and had faith in fate — now he wakes up in strangers’ sheets and can’t remember what he dreamt. now he flirts like it’s a reflex and kisses like it means nothing. now he puts on different smiles and still feels the same emptiness every night. like something inside of him has died and no one noticed. not even him. but having them see it, say it, like they’re peeling open his chest and pointing at the hollow parts makes him want to scream. it makes him want to destroy something just so he can feel in control of the falling. because if he’s the one choosing it – this spiral, this recklessness, then maybe it’s not as pathetic as it feels. maybe it means he still has some kind of power left.

he sits on the low edge of a planter box, elbow on his knees, staring down at the concrete like it might give him answers. his jaw clenches so tightly it aches, “i’m not the one who’s lost,” he mutters to no one, voice hoarse, “they are.” but even he doesn’t believe it. he swallows hard. his throat burns. the back of his eyes sting. no tears fall. he doesn’t let them anymore. not since her. not since he realized that loving people only gives them the power to break you. not since he promised himself no one would ever get close enough to wreck him again. he laughs bitterly under his breath, wiping a hand over his face like he could scrub the shame off. they think he’s heartless, cruel, and toxic — they’re not wrong. but at least this version doesn’t get left behind. doesn’t beg. doesn’t hope. doesn’t play the fool. at least this version of him knows how to survive. even if it means never really living again.

🍒 DECEMBER 15 - THE ULTIMATE FUCKBOY.

your table was chaotic as usual. dongpyo was making a tiktok, sion was halfway through a rant about the new dance professor and sophia was trying to steal fries off everyone’s trays with zero remorse. and then there was karina, leaned back in her chair, sipping her iced coffee with a smug little smile on her lips. like she was the only one in the room who had the full picture. because she was —karina hadn’t meant to hear it. she was only there to pick up her water bottle from the locker room that she left behind after cheerleading practice. the gym had been mostly empty, lights dimmed for the night, except for one glaring row still on near the court. voices. she heard them before she even opened the locker room door. familiar. sharp. heated — you noticed that wicked glint in her eyes first. the one she only ever got when she was about to ruin someone’s life for sport. she waited until dongpyo finally finished his tiktok to announce it.

“i have your challenge,” she said, pointing at you with her straw, “it’s your turn.”

the whole table froze like a scene in a teen drama. sophia gasped, “wait, have we finally found the perfect challenge? she’s long overdue.”

“everyone else had one,” sion nodded, “mine was making that TA fall in love with me.”

“i convinced that film major to write a full short script about me, a tragic romantic lead,” dongpyo adds. they all turned to you now – smirking, expectant. you leaned back in your seat, “okay. hit me.”

karina’s smile widened, “make jisung fall in love with you.”

time stopped. then the table collectively reacted—“no,” sophia gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth.

“oh my god,” dongpyo whispered.

you blinked slowly, “park jisung?”

karina nodded, “the one and only.”

sion looked like he’d just watched someone propose public arson, “that’s insane. he doesn’t even believe in love.”

“that’s the point,” karina grinned, “he’s the final boss. the ultimate fuckboy. no feelings. no commitment. basically allergic to love.” she paused for dramatic effect, “and you have until new year’s eve, that gives you two weeks.”

“sixteen days,” sion corrected, pulling up his calendar, “sixteen days to pull of a miracle.”

dongpyo was already buzzing, “okay, but imagine if you do it. that’s legendary.”

karina raised her iced coffee like a toast, “get him to fall in love with you, actually say the word love and boom – you win. $125 from each of us.” you glanced around the table. that was a total of $500. on paper. easy money. and you were feeling a lot more confident because you knew something they didn’t. that night. two years ago.

FRESHMAN YEAR: DECEMBER 24

the dream boys had gone all out for their first ever christmas eve party. strobe lights bouncing off the keg. music pulsing hard enough to shake the floor. bodies everywhere, pressed into each other, grinding on the makeshift dance floors, laughing too loud. glitter stuck to sweaty necks and polyester santa skirts clung to thighs. someone was wearing a santa costume with way too much confidence. someone else was dressed up as a reindeer. it was all a mess and it smelled like regret. you were halfway through your second jungle juice, trying not to die in your red heels, when you saw him slouched against the wall, red cup in hand, hood up even though it was hot as hell inside. his eyes looked tired. not drunk-tired. sad-tired. like he hadn’t slept in days. not even trying to mask the kind of ache you learned to recognize. sadness hiding in flirtation. that’s what he was. someone trying too hard to pretend he was having fun. you hadn’t really talked before, but you recognized him from class — park jisung. dance major. first year. just like you. you’d danced together once during partner improv. he was light on his feet, good with rhythm, awkward when the music stopped. the first time you noticed him he was wearing oversized glasses that kept sliding down his nose. tonight, his hoodie was zipped halfway done, revealing a sliver of collarbone and the thin chain around his neck. his face had lost the softness from orientation week, jaw more defined, hair styled like he tried. he looked cooler. that fake kind of cool that didn’t quite match the awkward, lanky kid he still clearly was under the hoodie. he looked up, met your gaze, blinked like he was surprised you saw him. you stopped in front of him, tilting your head, “you look like you’re at the wrong party.”

he gave a short, humorless laugh, “i’m doing my homework.”

you raised a brow, “is that a metaphor or…?”

he shrugged, took a sip of his drink, “mark and haechan says i can’t graduate heartbreak until i finish fuckboy 101, apparently the final exam of the year is sleeping with someone hotter than your ex.”you didn’t even pretend to be shocked. you’d heard the story. his high school girlfriend. the one who wore a purity ring and promised they'd’ both wait for marriage. turns out she wasn’t waiting at all. not when there were upperclassmen willing to bend her over a desk three months into the school year. the video spread throughout the campus. she transferred schools. jisung had stayed behind, bruised but breathing. the dream boys took him under their wing immediately after. and you weren’t doing any better. you’d just gotten ghosted by someone who said “you didn’t care enough.” whatever that meant. so here you were, both cracked open in your own ways. both leaning against the wall at a frat party where poor decisions floated in jungle juice and strobe lights.

“how’s the course going?,” you asked.

he sighed, “stuck on the finals,” he tipped his beer, “cheers to losing your virginity after your girlfriend.”

“i’ve never done it either,” you said. calm. clear. “figured i’d wait then realized i didn’t actually care anymore.”

he blinked, “wait…you’re a virgin?”

you looked at him, nodded, “wanna pop each other’s cherries and call it a night?”

his jaw dropped slightly, “are you serious?”

you shrugged, meeting his eyes, “you want to pass your final exam. i want to stop waiting. neither of us wants romance. so?”

he stared at you like you just offered to solve climate change, “unless you’re still waiting for fate or whatever,” you added. he lets out a slow, disbelieving laugh, then held out his hand, “come on, cherry.”

you blinked, “what?”

he grinned like he just came up with the best nickname in the world, “if we’re popping each others cherries, the name fits, right?”

you groaned, “that’s the dumbest nickname i’ve ever–”

“too late,” he said, already leading you up the stairs, “it’s canon.” his room was surprisingly clean. the bed had actual sheets. straightened, even. the blue led lights running along his ceiling gave everything a hazy, aquarium-glow vibe. there was a single hoodie on the floor and an unopened can of monster on his desk, right beside his forgotten glasses. you hovered awkwardly near his dresser, heart pounding, skin already warm with nerves. the music from the party downstairs pulsed faintly through the door. jisung shut the door behind you with a soft click. his hand lingering on the doorknob like he was buying himself a few more seconds of courage. “so, uh…,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck, “should we like…set the mood?”

you blinked, “what?, you wanna light a candle and put on the weeknd?”

he laughed, a real one this time, “i don’t know! i’ve never done this before, it might sound better than dead silence and me panicking.”

you kicked off your shoes, “i guess music might help?,” you ask and he nods, immediately pulling out his phone, fumbling with the bluetooth. after a few taps, a sultry beat filled the room – the first song on a playlist that had clearly been curated.

i’m just a bachelor…looking for a partner…someone who knows how to ride…

you stared, “wait. is this—”

if you’re horny, let’s do it, ride it, my pony…

“don’t judge me,” he cuts in, cringing as he sits on the edge of his bed, “the boys made this for me, they said i’d need it once i finally…you know.”

“turn it off!” you said, already laughing. he scrambled to shut it off, almost dropping his phone in the process. you made your way to the edge of his bed, a full foot away from him, “do you have a condom?” he jumped up, pulled opened his nightstand drawer where he knew jaemin threw some in for him some time last month going on and on about how important it is to practice safe sex and how this frat house wasn’t ready to raise a child. he held it up, eyes widening a little bit at the words XL written on the packet, “uhhm, check,” he says, letting out an awkward cough as he made his way back next to you.

you raised an eyebrow, “do you know how to put it on?”

“...i watched a youtube video once. it was animated,” he stutters out.

“perfect. two virgins, one mission,” you try to joke around. there was a beat of silence. you looked at each other one more time. a mutual agreement. before finally leaning in — the first kiss was soft. hesitant. lips brushing more than pressing. a breath shared between nerves. the second was better. his hand cupping the back of your head, thumb brushing your cheek. his mouth was warm. you tilted your head, fingers tugging lightly at the fabric of his hoodie. you broke apart, cheeks flushed, a little breathless, “do we take our clothes off now? or is there a countdown?”

“i was just gonna start,” he said, tugging off his hoodie in one quick motion. his shirt rode up, flashing pale skin and the outline of his abs. you followed, pulling your shirt over your head. his eyes flicked to your chest then darted away, ears burning red. clothes peeled off with a mixture of clumsy hands and nervous giggles. there was no grace to it. at one point, he stubbed his toe against the bed frame and swore under his breath. you didn’t look at each other too long. too intimate. too real. better to laugh through it.

“left hook,” you muttered as he fumbled with your bra.

“i was getting there,” he grinned, flustered. but once you were down to nothing, the air shifted. you both froze, suddenly hyper-aware of everything – breath, skin, the heat rushing up your necks. he looked at you, all flushed skin and hesitation, and whispered, “you’re really pretty.”

you frowned, trying to hide the blush that was sneaking it’s way to your cheeks, “that’s dangerously close to romance.”

he smirked, “fine. you’ve got excellent tit symmetry.” you laughed then laid back. he hovered above you, knees braced on either side of your thighs, his hands sinking into the mattress beside your ribs. his skin is warm against yours. chest to chest, heartbeats out of sync. his breath feathered across your jaw, “is this okay?” he whispered.you nodded, “yeah.” he kissed you again — deeper this time, tongue sliding softly against yours before moving down. his lips trailed from your jaw to your neck, pausing with each inch like he was asking without asking. his nervous hands gently brushed over your breasts, eyes flicking up to meet yours for permission. you nodded again. and he lowered his mouth to your chest. warm. experimental. he was trying, earnestly. he took his time, sucking on your breasts, softly, reverently, a little too cautious, tongue flicking over skin clumsily before making his way down to your stomach, your thighs, fingers slipping between your legs with shy curiosity.

he looked up from between your legs, almost sheepish, “tell me if i’m doing it wrong.” you nodded. your chest rising and falling, excitement and nerves coursing through your veins. he slid a finger in slowly, your breath hitched. then his tongue followed through, tentative licks that turned sure when you gasped, “right there,” you moaned quietly, “that’s good,” he sucked carefully, learning your body like a choreography. he was a quick learner, adjusting to your sounds, every twitch of your hips, every short gasps but it was feeling dragged on and you just wanted to get this over with, “jisung, i’m gonna come.” he didn’t stop until you finished moaning, kissing your thigh, grinning up at you, “you’re better at that than i expected,” you say.

he laughs, “i would sure hope so, i had a couple lessons on how to eat a girl out.”

you laugh in disbelief, “get the condom.” he tore the packet open…the wrong way. the foil ripped straight down the middle, narrowly missing the actual condom, “shit,” he hissed.

“off to a strong start,” you teased.

“give me a break, i’m under pressure,” his voice trembled slightly as he pulled out the condom and stared at it like it was a high-level math equation. then he rolled it on with a shaky hand, trying to remember the way the boys told him how to put it on. he lined himself up, hoping to god he put the condom on correctly and his eyes searched for yours again.

“you ready?,” he asked, voice barely a whisper.

“yeah,” you said, breath shallow, “you?”

he nodded, then added, “if i like…die mid-thrust, tell the boys i was brave.” you laughed, “just do it.” finally, he pushed in and the stretch made you hiss instantly, body immediately locking up. he was big.

“shit–are you okay?,” he asked immediately, freezing, barely halfway in as he tried to push away the groan begging to escape his lips. his voice was all panic and guilt, “d-did i do something wrong? am i–did i hurt you?”

“no.” you rushed to say, swallowing hard, gripping his arms, eyes shutting in pain, “it’s just…,” you suck in a breath, “you-re–uh…bigger than i expected.” his eyes widened, “r-really? like…in a good way or a what the hell is that kind of way?” he was trying so hard to talk. to ignore the way he feels like he’s about to bust any second now. you let out a shaky laugh, trying to calm yourself down and adjust to him, “i don’t know, i have nothing else to compare it to.”

“i-i can pull out,” he offered, like the gentleman he was, “we can stop. i’ll go put on pony again as punishment.”

“no–no, it’s okay,” you smiled, your grip on him loosening just a little bit, cheeks hot, “just give me a second.” he nodded, holding as still as a statue. his forehead was damp, his eyes were locked on yours like he was afraid to blink and every second that he doesn’t move is starting to hurt. you were so tight. so warm. it felt way too good. a few seconds passed and you gave him a small nod, “okay, you can move. just…slow, please.”

he nodded, resuming his movement with a delicacy of someone handling glass. he let out a breathless moan as he slid in the rest of the way, “oh my god,” he whispered, “i-i can’t…t-this feels…insane.” you both laughed breathlessly, even as your legs trembled slightly and he was panting really hard, trying to stay in control of his own body. he started thrusting. “fuck—holy shit—you’re s-so tight,” the pace was uneven, but there was something sincere about it. something that made your chest ache in the best way. he was trying and you were both figuring it out. he let out another strangled moan, hips stuttering, “i-i don’t think i’m gonna last.”

“it’s okay,” you said softly. you clung to him, breath hitching from the stretch and the closeness and the ridiculousness of it all. it was chaos. sweat. and genuine effort that was sweeter than you expected. the sounds he made were helpless and desperate, his grips on your hips tightening like he was afraid he’d float away. he managed maybe a few more sharp thrusts before he stilled completely, letting out the softest whimper as he collapsed over you, completely spent, chest heaving. “oh my god—that was…i’m so sorry. that was so fast, it just felt really good,” he looked at you with wide, apologetic eyes, almost like a shocked hamster, before flopping back against his pillows, trying to catch his breath. you laughed, turning your head to face him “at least one of us enjoyed it.”

“don't look at me,” he groaned, covering his face with a pillow, ears bright red, “this is the worst performance of my life, i’m gonna get roasted in the group chat if they ever find out.” you smiled, sitting up and hooking your bra back on, there was a slight soreness around your legs but it wasn’t bad, “want me to tell them that you were so good you made me cum twice on your first try?” — he peeked at you from where he lay sprawled on the bed, arm flung over his face, a smirk tugged at his lips, “nah, they’ll know you’re lying for sure. i almost cried when they asked a girl to give me my first ever blowjob.” you burst out laughing, tugging your shirt over your head, “well, at least you didn’t cry this time.”

“thanks for letting me fail sex in peace,” he reached over blindly and handed you your skirt, “are you okay?”

“i’m okay, i didn’t really expect anything else but that,” you grinned, putting it on, “thanks for lasting at least thirty seconds.”

he laughed, “brutal,” he grabbed his boxers off the floor and slipped them on, “round two is gonna blow your mind.” you grinned, poking his cheek and he scrunched his nose up like a kid, “i’ll believe it when i feel it.”

but round two never came. no rain check. no late night texts. no next time. you never talked about it again. not once. not during warm-ups in the dance studio. not even when you both got casted in the same contemporary piece sophomore year and had to press your bodies together in sync for eight straight counts. it stayed unspoken. like the bloodstain you left behind on his sheet that you were both too polite to acknowledge out loud. a mark that something changed. proof of the night you spent together. the line you crossed clumsily and awkwardly — jisung moved on fast and loud. girls left his room still fixing their hair. not one ever stayed the night. rumors spread like wildfire – his stamina, his smirk, his fingers, his massive cock that apparently left girls limping down the hallway and giggling behind their hands. there was always a new name, a new story, sometimes two in the same night. he laughed about it. shrugged when the guys teased him. told bold stories in the cafeteria like he hadn’t once looked nervous just unhooking a bra. like he wasn’t the same boy who asked if you were okay with wide-eyed panic and the softest voice. and you had your share of forgettable one night stands too. you tried to prove to yourself that it didn’t mean anything. that it’s just part of the college life. but you figured it out early on, that wasn’t what you wanted. and none of it was ever…fun. no guy ever made you come. not once. they were either too rough, too rushed, too distracted by their own performance. so eventually, you stopped trying to prove anything. stopped searching for something that didn’t feel right. you had your hand. your vibrator. that was enough. more than enough, really. at least with yourself, there were no disappointments. still, despite everything, you and jisung never ignored each other. it wasn’t that kind of silence. you shared a major. shared mirror space during warm-ups. ran across the same floors in the same studios. sometimes you traded banter in the hallway, complained about calluses and hip bruises, about professors who made you redo the same combo until your knees gave out. he still called you cherry when no one was listening. the name slipped from his lips like muscle memory. you never asked him to stop. there was a rhythm to it — the teasing, the familiarity, the way you orbit each other without ever colliding again. a quiet pact. unspoken, but always there. like a secret tucked into the back pocket of jeans you never wear anymore but never quite throw away either. and he always gave you this look. like he remembered. not in a guilty way. not even in a longing way. just… recognition. like the memory lived behind his eyes, blurry at the edges but still intact. you remembered too. the awkwardness. the fumbling hands. the sting — a little humiliating. definitely clumsy. not something you’d brag about. but still, it was yours. no one else knew. not your friends. not his. just the two of you. and maybe that made it even more intimate than if it had been perfect. more intimate than if you’d kissed afterward. or cuddled. or talked about how it felt. it was a secret — flawed, forgotten on the surface, but buried deep in the soft, silent place where your memory keeps the things you never say out loud.

END OF FLASHBACK – BACK TO DECEMBER 15

“earth to y/n?,” your eyes flicked up. karina was waving her hand in front of your face, her iced coffee dangerously close to spilling on your tray, “did you just disassociate mid-conversation?”

“sorry,” you said smoothly, settling back in your seat, “i was just thinking.”

“are we doing this or not?,” dongpyo asked, already opening his notes app to track the money, “because i’ve got venmo open right now and i’m ready to start collecting.” sophia leaned forward like she was presenting the final act in a very glamorous heist movie, “park jisung. sixteen days. make him fall for you before the clock hits midnight on new year’s. he confesses, you win $500”

“and you know the rules…if you lose…” karina added sweetly, the kind of sweet that always came before something evil, “if you fall in love with him—,” she smiled like she could already taste your downfall, “you pay all of us.” the table fell quiet. you paused just long enough to make them wonder. let it hang. like maybe you’d say no. like maybe you were scared. but the truth was – you weren’t scared at all. they didn’t know that you’d once shared something with park jisung that no amount of rumors or girls could erase. you had history on your side. the nickname. the secret. the fact that you were each other's firsts and you know what they say about that. a man never forgets his first. so you leaned forward, let a sly smile curl across your lips, and with every ounce of confidence you could muster, you said, “duh. i’m not a rookie, he’ll be in love with me by new years.”

the table erupted into cheers, giggles and the clicking of phones – someone already making a group chat to track progress. but your smile didn’t falter once. you straightened your posture. took a sip of karina’s coffee without asking, just to piss her off.

🍒 DAY 1 OF THE BET - NO REFUNDS.

jisung was not breaking. he’d heard every single thing the boys said. the intervention that was more a roast. but they didn’t get it. he was fine. perfectly, wonderfully fine. so what if he hadn’t had a real relationship since freshman year? so what if his hookups felt like reruns now? if the only real satisfaction came from the way people talked about him afterward, not during? he could be in a relationship if he wanted one. he just didn’t want to waste his time. that’s all. feelings? commitment? vulnerability? all messy. all pointless. love was a slow death and he wasn’t interested in dying twice. still, he had a point to prove. a simple solution — he’d find someone to date. publicly. casually. just long enough to get the guys off his back. just long enough to remind them, and himself, that he was still in control. that he was still unfazed, untouchable. it was the perfect plan. easy. controlled. safe.

jisung swiped his keycard, pushed open the door to dance studio 7 and froze. like some sick cosmic joke — you were there. he wasn’t expecting anyone to be here. that was the whole point of booking this time. 11:00 p.m. to midnight. the last hour the studios stayed open. it was quiet, empty, forgotten, most students too tired to care or too sane to drag themselves across campus this late. but for him, it was sacred. the hum of the building settling into sleep, the hallway lights dimmed, the mirrors fogged with the day’s ghosts. this was when he could breathe. no image. no professors. no voices in his head except the rhythm and the beat pulsing through his headphones. and he needed it. especially after the ambush from the guys. he needed to dance it out. burn it out. put the stupid idea of relationships in a box and light it on fire. yet here you are, already warming up in the studio. in his time slot. your airpods were in, stretching lazily, arms overhead and spine arched in a way that was way too distracting, oblivious to the way time seemed to pause the second he saw you. you looked good. like you always do. not done-up or dressed to impress, just… comfortable. effortless. his hand dropped from the strap of his bag. the word left his mouth before he could stop it, “cherry?,” he said, like maybe you were a hallucination, “what are you doing here?” you looked up mid-shoulder roll, pulling one earbud out with a smirk like you’d been expecting him all along, “what, i’m not allowed to be here?”

“just surprised,” he stepped in slowly, tossing his hoodie onto the couch, trying not to stare, “no one sane ever comes at this hour.”

“you’re here,” you point out. “exactly,” he replies, a smirk on his face. you rolled your eyes but smiled, brushing past him to grab a hair tie from your bag. he didn’t move. didn’t even pretend not to watch as you twisted your hair up into a messy bun. he sat against the mirror wall, arms propped behind him, legs stretched out like he owned the place. you caught the way he was looking. didn’t comment. but didn’t look away either.

“so…” you started, voice light but deliberate, “got anyone special these days?” he narrowed his eyes, a smug smirk on his face, “are you flirting with me, cherry?” you gave a little shrug, walked closer, sat next to him and dropped your voice like it was a secret just between you, “would it be so bad if i was?” he blinked at you, caught off guard. for all the teasing and casual conversations over the years, it had never quite been this… direct.

“that depends,” he smirks, almost deviously, “are you asking for round two?”

you laugh, shoving his shoulder, “round two of what? another thirty seconds?,” you tease him playfully.

“wow,” jisung clutched his chest like you’d stabbed him, “that’s crazy. you’re gonna say that to a guy who gave you the gift of his sacred virginity?” you just laughed harder, reaching to grab your water bottle from your bag. “just saying, if you’re gonna break a girl’s hymen, the least you could do is make her cum.” — for the first time since that night you talk about it. and instead of being awkward or tense or heavy, it was just… funny. honest. he laughed too, shaking his head, “in my defense, i was nervous as hell.”

“you were shaking like a chihuahua, jisung,” you grinned over the rim of your water bottle, “took you five full minutes to unclasp my bra.”

“it was an emotional experience!,” he argued, pointing at you, “and you stared at me like i was solving a rubik’s cube with my elbows,” he says.

“honestly, i should’ve asked for my virginity back,” you tease.

he shakes his head no, “it was a limited edition, no refunds kind of situation,” you both burst out in giggles — bright and unfiltered, shoulders shaking, the ridiculousness making the awkward memory feel lighter, easier. he watched you, something fond and almost too-soft flickering behind his eyes. when the laughter died down, he leaned his head back, flashing you that cocky smirk he’d perfected over the years, “well,” he said, “you’ll be happy to know i’ve had plenty of practice since then.”

you narrowed your eyes, unimpressed, “have you now?”

“i have, thank you very much,” he says, “the reviews have been overwhelmingly positive.” you laugh, rolling your eyes. he turned his head toward you, hair messy, cheeks flushed from laughing, “you really picked the worst time to show up here.”

you glanced down at him, amused, “why’s that?”

“because i was planning on being emotionally unavailable in peace,” he smiles. you tap his thigh, “too bad. i came to haunt your peace and cause emotional instability. you’re welcome.” — and for some reason, it made him smile.

🍒 DAY 2 OF THE BET - ALL KINDS OF LOVE.

you barely made it through the studio doors when you felt the shift in the room. excitement. buzzing. competitive energy sparking off the floor like static. the room was packed, more chaotic than usual for a morning class. water bottles clinked against the hardwood, sneakers squeaked, someone was blasting music in a corner until it abruptly cut off. and at the front of it all stood dance professor, taeyong, arms folded, head slightly tilted, looking far too pleased with himself — “good morning, my lovely dancers,” he greeted with that signature, slightly chaotic smile, “i hope you’ve all been stretching, hydrating, getting good sleep, because today i give you…your final project.” a collective inhale swept through the room. a few people stiffened. professor taeyong clasped his hands together, “a partnered piece,” he announced with relish. groans rippled through the room, followed by an explosion of whispers and movement. people were already darting across the floor, practically throwing themselves into pairings before professor taeyong could even finish speaking, “and!” he added, voice rising above the chaos, “before you all partner up, this won’t be just any duet.” the room stilled, everyone waiting for his next instruction. “your piece,” he said slowly, “must be themed around something simple. something unavoidable. something we experience in a hundred different ways, every single day.” he paused for dramatic effect —“Iove.”

“i want all kinds of love,” professor taeyong continued, “romantic. platonic. unrequited. obsessive. euphoric. intimate. joyful. destructive. longing so sharp it aches. lust so thick it stifles. i want it all.” some students side-eye him, “don’t look at me like that,” he scolded cheerfully, “this is a performance program! if you can’t sell a story with your body, you shouldn’t be here. and there’s nothing more complex, more magnetic, more devastating…than love.” he let that sit for a moment, soaking into everyone’s skin, then he added, “you’ll be choreographing your own duet,” he continued, “no solos. no excuses.”

you blinked. a duo project? about love? this was the universe handing you your early christmas present. gift-wrapped. on a silver platter. with a red bow on top. you already knew who your partner was going to be. had to be. this wasn’t just convenient – it was strategy. leverage. the kind of setup your friends would later call suspiciously lucky. except…the moment you turned around, looking for his figure, your smirk faltered. there was a line. like, an actual line of girls already circling your $500 – all bright-eyed and bouncy, some fluffing their hair, some fake-stretching in his direction like they just happened to be near. you stared in disbelief as one of them twirled. just…twirled. for no reason. karina slid up beside you, sipping her iced coffee with both hands like it was tea, “you’d better move fast,” she said, nodding toward the growing crowd, “looks like your man’s running a love island season over there.”

you narrowed your eyes, “relax. i’m not worried.

she grinned, “you should be, i can already smell that sweet $125.” you rolled your eyes but your gaze flicked back to the group. jisung stood at the center of it, half listening as one girl twirled a lock of her hair and asked if he preferred contemporary or hip-hop. another was already trying to show him her spotify playlist. but jisung wasn’t really listening. you didn’t notice the way his eyes kept scanning around the room. tracking every figure until they landed on you — because while you were plotting how to use this project to win the bet, he had made a decision of his own. sometime after midnight, when he couldn’t stop thinking about how fun you were to be around. he needed to get the boys off his back. they wanted him to take someone seriously? fine. he’d fake one. or start one. whatever. you weren’t obsessed with him like the others. and he already knows you wouldn’t get weird. you didn’t fawn or fake giggle. you were blunt. sharp. fun. safe. he just had to convince you. he spotted you and you caught his eye too. he broke from the crowd without hesitation. the girls blinked in confusion as he brushed past them like they weren’t even there. he walked across, calm and sure, until he stopped in front of you, “hey, y/n?”

you looked up, a smirk already forming, “yeah?”

“wanna be partners?,” he asked simply. no dramatic build up. karina choked on her drink beside you. “you sure you haven’t promised your thirty seconds to someone else?,” you asked, nodding at the group now staring daggers in your direction. he rolled his eyes though a light smile was tugging at his lips at the inside joke, “you’re never letting that go, are you?”

“nope,” you grinned, playfully shaking your head.

“i promise i’ll give you my thirty seconds and all the time in the world,” he deadpanned, almost too smoothly

“hmm,” you pretend to consider, “fine. i’m okay with that.”

he shake his head, chuckling, “so…partners?,” offering his hand out for a handshake. you shook it, warm fingers brushing. just for a second. but it lingered. “same time as last night?,” you asked.

“tomorrow, same studio, don’t be late,” he warned, smirking now, “i charge by the minute.”

you snorted, “then it’s a good thing you don’t last more than one.” he laughed, that easy, low laugh that made your stomach twist annoyingly, and walked off without another word. you stared after him for just a second too long. then you turned to karina and stuck your tongue out, smug. her mouth was already hanging open, “wait,” she blinked, “last night?,” she hissed, grabbing your arm, “you were together last night?”

you shrugged, very casually, “we just happened to be at the studio at the same time.” karina looked at you suspiciously but she looked genuinely impressed, “you sly bitch,” she gasps, “you don’t waste a second, do you?” you gave a small, nonchalant shrug, though your smile was too proud to hide, “i’m just being efficient. you guys didn’t give me much time.”

she leaned in, eyes wide, “what’s your plan now?”

“simple,” you said, smirking, not missing a beat —“we rehearse. we flirt. he falls. i win.”

🍒 DAY 3 OF THE BET - HAVE YOU EVER BEEN IN LOVE?

the lights were low. just the mirrors lit softly by overhead fluorescents, making the whole room feel hushed, almost sacred. the kind of stillness that made every sound feel louder — every breath, every heartbeat, every shift in the air. the speaker sat idle in the corner, blinking silently like it was waiting for permission to speak. jisung sat across from you, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, legs mirroring yours. there was a gap between you, not far, maybe two feet. the silence wasn’t awkward. it felt different in here. because he was different in here. gone was the party-junkie persona, the cocky flirt who winked at girls in the hallways and laughed too loud during roll call. in the studio, with just the two of you, it didn’t seem like he bothered putting on the act. no charm, no smugness, just – jisung.

“so,” you said finally, stretching your legs out in front of you, “love.” he groaned immediately, dropping his head back with a dramatic sigh, “ugh. don’t say it like that.” you smiled softly, “we’re stuck with it. professor taeyong said all forms. that gives us options.”

“right,” he muttered, brushing his bangs out of his face, “options.” you tilted your head to one side, studying him, “have you ever been in love?”

he blinked, surprised you even asked, then he leaned back against his hands, eyes flicking up to the ceiling, like the answer was written up there, “yeah,” he said finally, “once. my ex.”

you nodded, “the one who cheated?” he nodded again, slower this time.

“yikes,” you winced, “that sucks.”

he shrugged, still looking upward, “it was a long time ago, i learned a lot, i guess, but i think…i never stopped feeling kind of dumb about it.” that quiet sat between you again until he broke it, voice gentler, “what about you?” he asked.

you shook your head, “nope. never.”

he didn’t tease. no smirk, no quip. just a thoughtful stare that felt too intimate for someone with a reputation like his, “never even thought you were?,” he asked, voice low.

you let out a small breath, “i think i wanted to be. a few times. but no. i was just bored. or lonely. or trying to convince myself i felt something because i wanted to feel something,” you take a pause, “and now…i don’t really care for it, it’s just…not my priority. besides i have my friends. they’re all the love i really need” you shrug, “just don’t let them hear that,” you smile, almost shy. he nodded slowly, watching you like he was seeing parts of you he’d never thought to look at before. he sat there, chewing his bottom lip for a moment, like he was carefully turning your words over in his head.

“so what now?” he asked, “if we’re both emotionally stunted, how do we do this whole ‘love-dance’ thing?”

you bit your lip, thinking, “well, professor taeyong said any kind of love.”

he nodded, “so…friendship?”

you laughed softly, “we’re barely friends.”

“yeah, but we have…history,” he said, with a careful smile. you didn’t deny it. “what about lust?” he asked next. the word wasn’t dirty the way he said it. it wasn’t heavy or loaded. it was merely just…a suggestion. you raised an eyebrow. he shrugged, mouth tugging into a crooked grin, “it’s familiar. easier to show onstage. i’ve got enough… material, let’s say.”

you fought a laugh, “yeah, i’ve heard.”

he cracked a smile but didn’t push the joke, “but seriously,” he said. “it’s just wanting. that’s it. and we’ve…done that, haven’t we?”

you smiled, nodding, “sure. let’s do lust.”

then he looked at you for a second longer, something unspoken flickering behind his eyes, “have you ever…slept with someone after me?”

you nodded, arms wrapping loosely around your knees, “of course, you weren’t the only one getting busy…but–,” you pause, not entirely sure if you want to open up to him about your failed sex life.

“but?” he asked, his voice a touch quieter. and something about the way he was looking at you – genuinely, earnestly – made you want to say it. you looked down, then back at him, “but… i’ve never really felt strong lust. not the kind people talk about. not the kind that takes over. drowns you…no one’s actually ever made me orgasm,” you added simply. like it was just another fact. like it didn’t need to be sensationalized.

he blinked “seriously?” you nodded, picking at a thread in your leggings, “i’ve faked it before. it’s not that hard. guys don’t really notice.”

his brows furrowed, not in judgment, more like guilt, “you faked it that night too, huh?”

you gave him a look, “obviously.”

he let out a breath, half-laughing, “damn. my ego’s never recovering”

“i mean,” you giggled, “you were sweet. nervous. a little shaky. but you weren’t that bad.”

he gave a low groan and covered his face with his hands “i was trying so hard,” he groaned, “you have no idea, i was ready to bust as soon as i saw your tits,” he confessed, earning another genuine laugh from you. you both smiled fondly at the memory. like it was a part of growing up. a little embarrassing. a little special. clumsy. human. and for a second, it felt like nothing had changed. two awkward kids. a quiet pact. a memory neither of you could shake. “we were so awkward,” he said.

“we still are,” you grinned. he didn’t try to touch you. didn’t slide closer. just kept sitting there, meeting you where you were. you hadn’t seen this side of him in so long — maybe ever. no armor, no performance. just jisung. honest. a little tired. a little bruised. but real. and weirdly, that felt like trust. you sat in the stillness a while longer. then stood, brushing your hands on your thighs, “come on, jisung. let’s figure out how to make lust look believable.”

he got up too, stretching his arms overhead, “cherry,” he said, teasing but gentle, “if anyone can sell it, it’s you.” but his voice held none of the usual flirt. none of the bite. just quiet admiration, and something maybe like respect — the music played low. something slow, a little sensual. you and jisung stood across from each other, bodies reflected in the mirrors lining the wall. his hoodie was gone, tossed onto the couch. you’d tied your hair up. this wasn’t your first time dancing with him. but this was the first time dancing like this. you stepped forward first, foot gliding into a slow drag as you raised your arms overhead. a quiet build in the music swelled beneath you and jisung moved in response — mirroring, but not copying. more like answering. like you were in a conversation neither of you had the words for yet.

“okay,” he murmured, half to himself, “show me what you think lust looks like,” he stepped closer, voice lower now, “make me believe it.” you took a breath, heart thudding. this was just a warm-up. just a way to familiarize yourself with each other. you reached out, fingers brushing against his collarbone. a ghost of a touch. his skin was warm, his breath steady, and he didn’t move away. instead, he stepped forward again, closing the gap. now you could feel it. the heat radiating off of him, the way your arms brushed his chest as you circled him slowly. you didn’t speak. just kept moving. letting the music guide your limbs. your palm found his shoulder. his hand hovered, then gently caught your waist. his fingers weren’t demanding. they were…tentative. careful.

“okay?,” he asked, voice just above a whisper. you nodded, “yeah.” then he twirls you, your back meeting his chest, your breath catching as his arm slid around your middle. you could feel the rise and fall of his chest behind you. the silence between you wasn’t empty anymore. it was dense. buzzing. “closer,” you said, surprising yourself. he obeyed, palm flattening against your stomach, pulling you in just slightly. enough that your hips brushed when you moved together. enough to feel the length of him against your back. you let your head tip back against his shoulder, hair brushing his neck — this wasn’t choreographed. not yet. this was just…trying. feeling. and it was too easy to fall into it. jisung’s voice was low near your ear, his breath sending goosebumps down your spine, “you’re really good at this.”

you smirked, not looking at him, “faking lust?”

“making it not feel fake,” he murmured. you turned in his arms slowly, hand resting against his chest. his skin was flushed from dancing. his hand trailed down your arm. yours drifted across his shoulder. every brush of skin felt heavier than it should. he dipped you, hand on your back to steady you, the contact firm now, more certain. his thumb pressed against your spine and your breath hitched. when you rose again, your faces were close. he blinked slowly, like he was pulling himself out of a trance, “we’re gonna look good on stage,” he whispers against your lips. “yeah,” you replied, taking a step back and out of his arms. you looked at him, pulse high in your throat. his gaze dropped to your lips for half a second, then back to your eyes. the music faded. the room felt colder without movement — without him that close. he cleared his throat, walking to his bag and reaching for his water bottle, rubbing the back of his neck like he needed a moment. you grabbed your phone, pretending to check something. neither of you said it out loud. but the tension had lingered. and you both felt it.

🍒 DAY 6 OF THE BET - UR FAULT BTW.

the door clicked shut behind you, sealing you both in the quiet that had become familiar all too quickly. this studio, this hour — another thing that belonged to the two of you now. it’s been three continuous days of night rehearsals with jisung. he was already stretching at the center of the room. the lights were dim, casting both your reflections in the mirror like ghosts. he caught your eye in the mirror and smirked, “alright, cherry,” he said, voice lazy, teasing, “let’s start.” you didn’t answer. you didn’t need to. you walked toward the speaker, hit play, and the slow, sultry beat began to fill the space. without hesitation, you let the music pull you under. a glide of your hip, a slow turn of your neck, your body moved with a rhythm that felt like second nature now. by the time you turned, jisung was already moving with you. he didn’t need a cue. he didn’t need a count-in. he just knew. falling into the dance like he’d been dancing with you for years. you met in the middle, your palms brushing as you passed, his breath warm when your faces crossed paths. then he caught your hand, strong and assured, and spun you cleanly into him. you landed chest to chest, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. his hand wrapped around your waist. it slid just slightly lower. you moved together in sync, every breath shared, every glance held just a little too long. the tension had been building for nights now, the kind that settled in the space between touches. accidental brushes that didn’t feel so accidental. stares that lingered long after the choreography stopped — tonight, it was boiling over. your hands curled into his shoulders and without thinking, without asking, you jumped. he caught you instinctively, hands sliding down to support your thighs as your legs wrapped around his waist. he stumbled slightly, the contact jarring, electric, and before you could register it, your back hit the mirror. his hips pressed between your legs, firm and there. the breath left both your lungs. his forehead dropped to yours. your hands found his jaw, holding him steady, and for a long second, neither of you moved. just heartbeats. just breathing. just his eyes dropping slowly, deliberately to your mouth.

you finally did both of you a favor — you kissed him. his lips responded immediately. it was nothing like your first. this was all heat and friction and days, maybe years, of tension exploding at once. his mouth moved fast, hungry, messy. he kissed you like he wanted to ruin you. you bit his bottom lip. he cursed under his breath, hands squeezing your thighs, pulling you tighter. your hips rolled into him. his answer was instinct. thrusting back. the friction made you moan. made him kiss you harder, swallowing the sound. he kissed down your jaw, then your neck, each brush of his lips messier, wetter than the last. one of his hands dragged higher and higher and in one swift motion he yanked your tank top down. your nipples hardening in the cool air and jisung wasted no time.

“fuck–,” you gasped as he latched onto your nipple, his strong arms holding you up higher as he sucked hard — lips hot, tongue flicking over the sensitive bud before sealing around it with a deep, lewd pull. the pressure sending heat shooting through your stomach. he groaned into your skin, shifting to the other breast with a noise that sounded too close to desperation. he tongued your nipple again and again, alternating slow licks with firm sucks that made your spine arch into him. “jisung–,” he hummed in approval, the vibration traveling straight to you.

“god, cherry, your tits are fucking perfect,” he praised, lips wet and breath hot against your chest, “didn’t even know what to do with these back then–” he licked, swirled, sucked, “but i do now.”your fingernails dug into his shoulders. he kissed lower, then back up, nipping lightly before pulling your nipple into his mouth again, sucking harder this time, drawing a loud moan from you. you were sure there were red marks all over your breasts in the shape of his lips. “jisung–fuck, please–,” you didn’t even know what you were begging for.

“look at you, cherry,” he murmured, “so fucking responsive. so sensitive right here,” he grinned against your nipple. you barely noticed him moving to the forgotten couch in the corner. but the moment you hit the cushions, he was on top of you, lips crashing onto yours. his hands didn’t hesitate now, they were confident, hot, everywhere, your tank bunched uselessly around your armpits. your chest was flushed, already marked red, your nipples glistening from his mouth. he looked down at you like he couldn’t believe you were real. then he leaned down again.

“can’t believe i used to be scared to touch you,” he murmured against your skin, giving both your breasts the same worship – nipping, sucking, licking, pressing his tongue flat over your nipples, then flicking them back and forth in tight circles that made your stomach curl you swore you were about to learn that you could cum just from it. he sucked each one until they were tender and puffy and every brush of his tongue made you gasp, “now i don’t think i’ll ever stop.” you were breathless, your legs wrapped around him, hands fisting his shirt, hips starting to rock against his and then—

knock. knock. knock.

you both froze. his mouth still latched on one of your nipple, a hand frozen beneath your waistband. “sorry to interrupt!,” a cheerful voice called from behind the door, “just the janitor! it’s five minutes past lock up and i gotta mop!” you stared at jisung. he blinked at you. and then you both burst out laughing. he collapsed half on top of you, chest shaking with laugher, forehead pressed to your sternum.

“of course this would happen,” he muttered, voice muffled by your boobs. you were still laughing and he watched the way your eyes crinkled. the way the light reflected stars off of your eyes. “i think we should add this to our choreography,” he mutters, still in between your breasts.

“you’re insane,” you say in between your laughter as you push him off of you, a little too hard. he landed on the floor with a loud thud, both of your eyes widening before you break into laughter again. you catch your reflection in the mirror – half exposed, hair wild, marked-up, flushed.

“jeez, park, i’m gonna need a scarf tomorrow,” you say, fingers ghosting over the marks that were starting to bloom all over your chest. he smirks, looking way too proud of himself, before slotting himself in between your legs. he gently, carefully, pulls your tank top back up, his fingers ghosting over your shoulders, your nipples still tingling, “it’s not my fault your tits look too fucking good,” he says before kissing you again, slower this time.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

it’s way past your bedtime. your room was quiet. too quiet. the kind that makes you overthink. rewind. replay. you lay back on your pillow, eyes closed, your t-shirt brushing over still-sensitive skin. your thighs pressed together without meaning to. your lips still tingled from his mouth. your neck still wore the ghost of his teeth. and then your phone buzzed.

jisung: *sent a video* (author’s note: 18+ ONLY)

you opened it without thinking. then immediately sat up. holy shit. he was in those damn grey joggers, hanging dangerously loose around his hips. no shirt. just a black hoodie unzipped and hanging open, the sleeves pulled halfway up his forearms. his abs were sharp under the soft light of his bedroom, and then—like he knew exactly what he was doing—he dragged the joggers down. his cock slapped up into frame, already hard. thick. heavy. veins prominent. you couldn’t see his face, but you didn’t need to. you knew the look he had on. that cocky, infuriating smirk that made your pulse skip.

jisung: can’t sleep. too hard. ur fault btw

you dropped your phone on your chest with a choked laughed, heat rushing down your spine. you were just telling him how you hadn’t experienced lust that makes you drown. and now you’re thinking you spoke way too fucking soon. you were supposed to be in control. you were supposed to be the one pulling strings, making him squirm—after all, this was just a bet. but now your thighs were pressed together, breath uneven, skin flushed and aching and you were the one spiraling. you stared at your ceiling, tried to think of anything not related to his cock, or his hands, or the way his tongue circled your nipple like it was fucking dessert. but your fingers were already twitching. and your memory was already playing tricks. maybe this was dangerous. maybe you were getting in too deep. but fuck it. you might as well have some fun while you’re at it. your phone buzzed again.

jisung: u there? did i kill u?

cherry: park. what the fuck?

jisung: u like it? u miss me?

cherry: go to sleep.

jisung: can’t. still thinking about ur tits. and ur hands in my hair. and the way u said my name. the way u arched into me.

jisung: help me my sweet cherry

jisung: please? 🥺🥺

your breath hitched. you bit your lip so hard it stung. your body was already moving before you could talk yourself out of it. you tugged your shirt off before you could second guess yourself. hit record. the camera was angled just right—only your chest in frame. you laid back, letting the light catch on the fresh marks he left behind. hickeys. faint bruises. the aftermath of his mouth. you squeezed them softly, your thumb flicking over your nipples, letting out a quiet moan just for him. then you hit send before you can trip yourself out.

cherry: *sent a video*

your heart was pounding, stomach doing somersaults. you threw your phone beside you like it burned and dragged the comforter over your legs, trying to calm down.

*11 minutes later*

jisung: fuck ur so hot

jisung: *sent an image*

you clicked. and groaned. he was on his bed now, hand still around his cock. his black hoodie was bunched up around his elbows. cum streaked up his abs and soaked into his sweatpants. his hips were still lifted slightly off the bed like he’d just finished. the angle was brutal. intimate. messy. you bit down a whimper as your hand slipped beneath your underwear. heat flooded your cheeks, your chest, down between your legs, your skin prickling with need. your fingers moved slowly at first, hesitant, shaky. but the ache pulsing through your core demanded more. and then the memory played vividly. his body, all heat and tension, pressing into yours like he couldn’t bear even a millimeter of space between you. his hips grinding just enough to tease, not enough to satisfy. the music playing in the background, the rasp of his breath, the soft groan he let out when your hand slid into his hair. the way his mouth moved around your sensitive nipples. your thighs had been slick then, just from the friction. from the way he moved against you. from the pressure building and building with nowhere to go. his fingers had curled into your waistband like he was trying to decide whether to ruin you right there or keep teasing you. you pressed your legs wider now, helpless against the memory, two fingers circling where you were already wet and throbbing. you let your other hand drift up to your breast, thumb brushing over your nipple, already so sensitive from earlier. every inch of you was burning — your phone buzzed again beside you.

jisung: don’t hate me if i can’t control myself around u tomorrow night

jisung: let me suck on ur tits again 😛

you let out a soft gasp, hips lifting into your own touch. the words slammed into you like another wave. this is a stupid bet. but now you were touching yourself at midnight with your heart racing and his voice in your head like a fucking ghost. you swallowed hard, catching your breath, hand sticky, thighs trembling — this was a game. just a stupid, reckless game. and you might as well play it properly.

cherry: only if u behave.

jisung: no promises, cherry.

your lips curled into a smile as you typed your final message, still breathless.

cherry: goodnight, dream of me ;)

jisung: already did

jisung: and tomorrow, it won’t be just a dream 😏

your thighs clenched at his words. you set your phone down slowly, pulse still racing as your back arched, head tipping against the pillow, fingers slipping faster, circling, stroking, dipping in just enough to keep you right on the edge. you let your other hand glide over your chest again, catching on your nipple, rolling it between your fingers the way he did, until your breath hitched, sharp and shaky. the image of him was seared into your brain now. jisung, shirtless in low light, his abs tensed, cum streaking his skin, the mess he made for you. you whimpered, legs trembling. your fingers curled and pressed just right, slick, practiced, desperate, and it hit you fast. hard. blinding. your body locked for a moment as the orgasm ripped through you. a low moan slipped from your lips as your thighs squeezed around your hand. his name echoing inside your skull — jisung. jisung. jisung.

🍒 DAY 7 OF THE BET - THE REMATCH.

you stepped into class wrapped in layers. a hoodie zipped up to your chin. another jacket thrown over it. a scarf around your neck even though it was barely cold enough to justify it. your cargo pants were the only part of your outfit not screaming i’m hiding something. karina blinked when she saw you. then frowned. then slowly cocked her head to the side like a cat who just caught a mouse faking it’s death, “why is your jacket zipped up that high?”

you waved her off, “no reason. i’m cold.”

“in the middle of a packed dance studio?,” she says, voice filled with judgment. you didn’t answer. you looked everywhere but her. which only made it worse. she narrowed her eyes, piecing the pieces together, “wait a damn minute–” you groaned but before you could say another lie, she grabbed your sleeve and yanked you into the corner where no one else was paying attention. then, without warning, she tugged your zipper halfway down, “karina–!”her eyes immediately went wide. your chest was littered with reddish-purple bruises, peeking over the edge of your bra, all the way up to your neck, it was almost like constellations in the sky, “oh my god.” you shoved her hands away, zipping up frantically. “you’re a fucking freak,” she whispered, eyes huge with delighted horror, “those are hickeys. so many hickeys.”

“keep your voice down!,” you hissed, tugging your scarf back up over your throat. karina just stared, speechless for once. then she looked you up and down again, like she was recalibrating. then she groaned, dragging a hand down her face, “fuck. am i gonna lose $125?”

you patted her shoulder, smug, “you shouldn’t have been so confident.” just then, the door swung open behind you and in walked jisung. nonchalant. hoodie slung over one shoulder. hair still a little damp like he’d just showered and didn’t bother drying it properly. that stupid smug walk like he wasn’t just sucking on your boobs and sending you a thirst trap less than twelve hours ago. he greeted a few people, bumped fists with someone from the back corner, smiled at a couple of girls and plopped down in his chair. you didn’t even mean to look at him. but you felt his eyes on you before you turned and sure enough — there it was. that cocky little smirk. his eyes dipped, just for a split second, to your fully zipped hoodie. then he gave you the most infuriatingly pleased expression you’ve ever seen. his tongue poking his cheek. you turned away immediately, face warm. “yup,” karina muttered beside you, “i’m gonna be broke by new year’s.”

⊹ ࣪ ˖

you barely had time to step in and close the door before you were spun around and pinned – not roughly, but with purpose. the mirror behind you cooled your back, a sharp contrast to the body suddenly flush against yours. jisung. one arm braced the wall behind your head, his other hand cupping the back of your skull so you wouldn’t hit the glass too hard. he kissed you hard, nothing tentative about it, like he’d been holding it in all day. “jisung–,” you gasped between breaths, but he was already unzipping your jacket and lowering his mouth to your neck. he hushed you, breath hot, “can’t risk the janitor walking in again.” the reminder sent heat straight down your spine. you felt his teeth graze just below your ear and your fingers tightened in the hem of his hoodie. his lips were relentless, moving down your jaw, your throat, marking up every spot of skin that he missed last night.

“you’re not even gonna pretend to rehearse?,” you murmured but your voice was shakier than you’d liked. “this is rehearsing,” he answered, smirking into your collarbone. you meant to say stop. you should’ve said stop. but your hands had already found their way under his shirt. his breath stuttered when your cool palms touched his skin. smooth, warm, muscles jumping slightly beneath your fingertips. he hasn’t felt this magnetic thrill in a long time. not since he learned how to sleep with girl after girl like it was putting on underwear. but there’s something about you. he can’t explain it. and maybe there doesn’t need to be an explanation for everything. you simply just pull him in again and again.

“i couldn’t focus all day,” he admitted, “kept thinking about…this.” his mouth ghosted over the same spots he marked last time, kissing each one. you tipped your head back, your fingers tugging at the hem of his shirt. he pulls it off quickly then unzipped your jacket all the way, letting it fall to the floor, leaving you in your black bra. he turned you around slowly, firmly, both hands gripping your waist as you settled in his arms, facing the mirror. the only thing that mattered now was the reflection in front of you — flushed skin, hungry eyes, and the man behind you who looked at you like he was about to ruin you, “i’m gonna make up for freshman year,” he said, voice low, mouth still pressing kisses to your neck. you blinked, already feeling dizzy, “are you now?”

“mmhm,” he reached behind your back and unhooked your bra with one hand, like muscle memory, then slid the straps off your shoulders and let it fall. the moment it hit the floor, his hands were on you, large, warm palms cupping your bare breasts, lifting them slightly like he was weighing them in his hands. you gasped, head rolling back against his shoulder. “look at you,” he murmured, but he wasn’t looking at your body. he was looking at your face in the mirror. watching your mouth fall open, your brows twitch, your body arch helplessly under his touch. then his fingers moved. he pinched your nipples slowly at first, deliberate and teasing, rolling them between his fingers, watching intently as your mouth parted and your thighs clenched. his thumbs swiped across the sensitive peaks, back and forth in tight circles until your breath hitched and your thighs squeezed together. “so pretty,” he smirked, tweaking them harder, dragging out a strangled whimper from your throat.

“—feels so good jisung,” you breathe, your hands flying to grip his hips. he kept playing with you like he had all the time in the world, alternating between gentle pressure and sharp, precise pinches that sent sparks straight to your core.

“you like that?” he murmured, tongue darting out to lick the shell of your ear, “these pretty tits… so fucking responsive.” you were panting, chest heaving, nipples aching under his relentless fingers. he twisted them again, and your knees buckled slightly. “gonna make sure you orgasm tonight,” his deep voice makes your thighs twitch but you refuse to give in that easily. you raise a brow, “aren’t you ambitious?”

he smirked against your neck, and before you could say anything else, he picks you up like you weighed absolutely nothing, and sits you on the couch. then he knelt on the floor, between your legs like he belonged there, fingers gripping the waistband of your cargo pants “these,” he muttered, dragging the fabric down your legs with one rough pull, your underwear along with it, “have been in my fucking way since you walked in.” he tosses them to the side, leaving you completely bare for him, the mirrors all around you making you feel a little self conscious. but before you could dwell on it, he ran his palms up your thigh, large hands covering half of your skin, slow and reverent, before spreading them apart with gentle pressure. the room felt suffocatingly hot, your skin flushed, your breath uneven. he paused, right there – his mouth hovering just shy of your center, teasing you with his breath. then he looked up at you, voice low, eyes locked on yours, “tell me how you like it,” he said, fingers gripping your thighs, “because i’m not stopping until i make you come.”

the words hit you harder than they should’ve. like a promise. like a challenge. like he doesn’t matter if it takes the janitor walking into this. you nod, trying to hold yourself together. jisung tilted his head, lips twitching in a smirk then his mouth found you slowly, carefully, like he meant it. like every second of contact mattered, tongue licking a slow stripe up your core before settling into a steady rhythm. no one has ever taken their time with you like this. your back hit the cushion with a whimpered sigh. “don’t fake anything with me,” he murmured, his breath hot against your skin, “i’ll know. i want it real.” you tried to bite back your moan, but it slipped out anyway, raw, needy, “i’m not–,” your voice cracked as his tongue continued to swirl around your clit, “i don’t…i couldn’t fake this if i tried.”

his mouth paused just long enough for his next words to hit hard. “then watch yourself. i want you to see what i’m doing to you. see how your body reacts when someone finally gives a damn about your pleasure.” — the mirrors. wide and unforgiving, reflecting the wrecked mess of you bare, flushed, legs spread apart with jisung kneeling between them. and then he slipped a finger inside you. your breath hitched sharply, your thighs twitching as he worked it in slowly, deeply, curling it just enough to make your back arch, “fuck—jisung—”

“you’re so tight,” he groaned, eyes flicking up to make sure you were still watching, “look at what i’m doing to you.” he curled his fingers again, just right, hitting a spot inside you that made your hips jerk and your mouth fall open in a whine. “do you like this?” he said again, voice deep. “yes—fuck—just like that,” you panted, head tipping back, then forward again as he added a second finger, pushing in deeper, “ohh, right there jisung—please don’t stop—please.” he didn’t. he didn’t speed up or slow down. he kept it right there, just the way you liked it, hitting that spot that kept your toes curling and your moans increasing with every second. then he added his mouth again, tongue flicking against your clit while his fingers continued to move in that same torturous rhythm – slow at first. then deeper. faster. repeat. until your thighs tremble around him, “you’re shaking,” he murmured, voice thick, “you’re close, aren’t you cherry?”

“yeah,” you breathe, staring helplessly into the mirror, “so fucking close. no one’s ever—jisung–fuck,” you can’t even form a proper sentence anymore. the tension in your stomach ready to break at any moment. your fingers knotted in his hair as continued to move his mouth and his fingers. driving you closer and closer until you couldn’t keep your voice down, couldn’t pretend you had any control left. “i–i cant–,” your whole body was shaking, voice breaking into pieces.

“yes you can,” he commands, “you’re gonna come for me. right now. while you watch.” your eyes flicked up again, and in the mirror you saw it all. the way your chest rose and fell in shallow gasps. the way his shoulders flexed as he moved against you. the way your head tilted back as he worked you open like you were the only thing that mattered. and just as you were about to shut your eyes, his free hand slid up, and two of his fingers pressed against your lips. “suck,” he grunts. you didn’t hesitate. you parted your lips, letting his fingers slide in, your mouth wrapping around them. he groaned at the sight — at you moaning around him. his pace never wavering.

he leaned in, body close enough to steal your breath, “now look at how fucking sexy you are when you come,” you willed your eyes to keep open until you couldn’t, helpless moans vibrating around his fingers as your release slammed into you —harder than anything before. your body arched, shaking as you came around his hand and tongue, thighs closing in around his head until he had to hold them open, gripping your thighs like he’d never let go, every muscle locking up as your cry filled the night air. he felt it all. the way you clenched. the way your body trembled like it couldn’t handle it. and he kept going through every wave until you were gasping, body limp, completely unraveled.

when he finally pulled back, his lips were wet, his fingers glistening with your slick, looking proud and satisfied. you were breathless, dazed, eyes half-lidded as you finally looked at him again. he kissed your knee, your thigh, then your lips, “taste that?,” he whispered against your mouth, his tongue dragging against yours, “that’s all you,” your body still felt like it was floating as he pushed you down against the couch, his frame hovering over yours, “and i’m not done.”

you were limp beneath him, thighs trembling, skin flushed, pulse pounding your ears, “i can’t wait anymore,” he rasped, voice wrecked, almost angry with restraint, “i’ve been hard since the moment you walked into the studio,” he rocked his hips forward, letting you feel the full weight of him pressing against your thigh. you reached down your bodies, pushing his sweats off, his large cock bouncing up like that night in freshman year, “i’m not that boy anymore,” he said suddenly like he’d read your mind, “i’m not gonna fuck this up.” you wrapped your hand around him and his breath caught instantly. he was so thick. so hard. so hot it pulsed in your palm, “i know you’re not,” you whispered, “so do it.”

he lined himself up, rubbing his tip through your slick folds, teasing, testing, and your hips arched up toward him, desperate, “wait,” he said, breath hitching, “do you have…?”

you shook your head, breathless, “are you clean?”

he nods his head, “yes, i’m clean.”

your thighs clenched tighter around his waist, “then fuck me already.”

he didn’t hesitate. but instead of pushing in right away, he paused and then his voice dropped, “turn over.”

your heart stuttered, “what?”

“i want you to watch while i fuck you,” he growled. before you could even react, he grabbed your hip and flipped you over. your chest pressing to the couch, knees sinking into the cushions. you gasped, breath caught in your throat, as he reached down, grabbed your ass and spread you open. the mirrors around you caught everything — your surprised gaze, your parted lips, his hungry eyes. then he pushed in. slow, deep, stretching you inch by inch, and it was nothing like the first time. no awkward fumbling, no nervous apologies. just heat and pressure that made your back arch and a breathless moan claw out of your throat, “holy fuck,” you gasped, bracing yourself as your fingers dug into the cushions, “did you–jesus, jisung did you get bigger?” — that pulled a groan from deep in his chest, primal and low, a filthy sound that went straight to you, “you remember how i felt?,” he asked, voice strained, still sliding in, dragging out your torment, “because i haven’t stopped thinking about what you felt like since then.”

“y-yeah,” you gasped, clawing at his thigh, “but you didn’t feel like this—you didn’t feel this—big.” his hips stilled halfway inside, then he grabbed your hair in one hand and yanked your head up until your gaze met his in the mirror, his mouth crashing to your temple in a hot, open-mouthed kiss, “that’s because i didn’t know what i was doing back then,” then he slammed the rest of the way in with one rough thrust that tore a moan from you, so loud it didn’t even sound like you, “now i do.”

he filled you completely, stretching you in a way that made your knees tremble beneath you. you could barely breathe, “fuck,” you whispered, “i didn’t know you could get this deep.” he didn’t move right away. not yet. he just let you feel it – how thick he was, how every twitch made your walls clench around him. one hand gripping your hip hard, the other still tangled in your hair, keeping your gaze locked in the mirror. he lets out a soft laugh, “i’ve been dreaming about a rematch for two fucking years,” he said through gritted teeth. then he pulled out almost entirely, pushed you back down and slammed back in, sharp and brutal. you screamed. he was in so deep you swore you saw stars. your back arched off, body locking up as he started to move, his pace steady but deep, brutal, like he wanted to ruin you from the inside out, “holy—jisung—,” you panted, “you feel s-so full.” each thrust dragged a broken sound from your throat. your body trying to adjust and failing —because every time he pushed back in, it was like your body had to learn him all over again. “you’re so fucking tight,” he growled out, thrusts growing faster now, his fingers bruising into your hips, “do you feel that, cherry? you’re fucking gripping me,” you nodded, dazed, unable to speak. your arms shook with the effort of holding yourself up. every thrust knocked the air from your lungs, every snap of his hips pushed you further and further to the edge.

“gonna make you come again,” he panted, sweat dripping down his temple, “wanna feel you fall apart all over me.” his pace was relentless now. deep. dirty. loud. the sound of skin slapping and obscene sounds from the both of you echoing around the studio. your body couldn’t stop clenching around him, tight, warm, wet, and every thrust hit just right, “im not stopping,” he growled, “not until i make you forget every second of freshman year.”

“you already did,” you moaned. “jisung—fuck—i’m close again—,” his hand slipped between your thighs, fingers circling your clit in quick, perfect strokes, matching the way his cock pounded into you from behind. “come for me,” he said, voice frayed and guttural, “come while i’m inside you. let me feel it.” — and you did. it hit you like a lightning strike, your body tightening around him, toes curling, vision completely blurring, a scream tearing out of you as your orgasm tore through your entire body. you clenched around him hard, shaking, crying, falling apart with your forehead pressed against the couch. jisung’s groan was primal but he didn't stop. he kept thrusting, still fucking you through every wave, prolonging your high, making you sob his name over and over. “fuck—i’m gonna come,” he says, his thrusts getting messier and messier, “cherry–i’m–fuck–”

you reached back blindly, pushing at his abs, your voice raw, you wanted to taste him, wanted to feel him around your lips, “pull out.” he barely managed to obey, pulling out with a deep, shuddering moan, his cock flushed and twitching, soaked in both of you. before he could pump himself to finish, you spun around and wrapped your lips around him. his enitre body jolted, “oh—holy shit—,” his hand flew to your hair, eyes shutting in bliss as you sucked him deep, sloppy and perfect. your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach. you tasted yourself on him and moaned around his cock, sucking harder, faster. he didn’t last. not after everything. “i’m—fuck—i’m gonna—,” he came with a cry, hips twitching as he spilled on your tongue, hot and thick. you swallowed it all, not breaking eye contact, until he finally sagged into the couch, pulling you into his arms. then, softly, through the haze of sweat and warmth, he laughed, “holy fuck,” he murmured, dragging a hand down his face, ”that was…”

you glanced over at him, still breathless, “yeah.” he turned his head toward you slowly, eyes heavy and warm, a proud smirk on his lips, “i told you round two would blow your mind.” you smiled, still trying to catch your breath, as your giggles filled his ears like music, “you really really did,” you share a smile until– knock. knock. knock. you both froze. another knock. this time louder. then a very tired voice, “are you two finished? it’s past 15 minutes of lock up.” your eyes widened in horror, “oh my god—” you hissed, scrambling upright, limbs like jelly, “the janitor.” jisung blinked, then burst into a laugh, dragging his shirt on, still breathless, “i completely forgot he existed.”

you stood up, way too fast, and immediately stumbled. your legs gave out beneath you, rubbery and useless. “whoa—” jisung caught you, arms around your waist in an instant, steadying you, “careful.” you shot him a glare, cheeks burning. he just smirked, looking way too proud of himself.“can’t walk straight already?” he teased, voice low, “should’ve warned you i was gonna break you tonight.” you swatted his chest, face flushed, but didn’t bother denying it. you could still feel him. you yanked on your clothes with shaking fingers, jacket barely zipped, hair a mess, and followed jisung as he opened the door.

the janitor stood just outside, arms crossed, mop in hand, expression unimpressed. you kept your eyes glued to the floor as you passed him, “i’m so sorry,” you muttered, barely audible. he just sighed and waved a hand, “college kids,” he muttered, “i don’t get paid enough for this.” you wanted to die. but when jisung’s hand found yours briefly, squeezing it in the hallway and whispering, “worth it,” in your ear, you couldn’t help the smile that pulled at your lips. because yeah. it really, really was.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

outside, the air was sharp and cool against your flushed skin. the sky had that deep, velvety black that only came after midnight, and the campus was nearly silent, save for the hum of the occasional streetlamp. jisung walked beside you, hands tucked into his hoodie pockets, glancing at you every few steps like he wasn’t sure if he should say something or not. he waited until you crossed the street, until the night wrapped fully around you both like a secret, before he finally spoke again, “cherry,” he said, voice a little quieter now, “i hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but…”

you glanced over, raised a brow, “hmm?”

he hesitated, “i’m… not looking for a relationship.”there was a pause. a heavy one. he was bracing for it. your face to fall, your voice to rise. the same thing that always happened after every hookup. every girl. except, unlike all the other girls, jisung actually enjoyed your presence. this friendship that wasn’t quite a friendship. he thinks he’ll be a little sad if you get angry. still, he was waiting for it. he’d heard it in different ways: “you’re such a dick.” “so you just used me?” “was this a game to you?”

he’d memorized every version. but then — you laughed. not a bitter one. not mocking. just light, genuine, almost amused. “yeah,” you said, shaking your head, “i know.”

he blinked, “you—what?” you looked over at him, hands stuffed into your own pockets, your voice teasing, “i wasn’t expecting a relationship from the school’s number one fuckboy. you don’t have to worry.” — another pause. longer this time. you weren’t mad. you weren’t heartbroken. you weren’t even disappointed. you were just… honest. and maybe a little dangerous for it. jisung didn’t answer right away. he stared straight ahead, jaw tight, processing that. all the girls before had wanted something. even if they’d said they didn’t. they’d always tried to mean more. push past what he could give. but you? you weren’t asking for anything. and somehow, that made you feel more real than anyone else he’d ever touched. in his head, the decision was final – this girl. you. his cherry. you were perfect. if he had to date someone just to get the boys off his ass about being a “cold-hearted fuckboy,” he thought it’d be you. no drama. no bullshit. you get it. you get him. you always have.

“still walking me home?” you asked, breaking him out of his thoughts.

“it’s too late for any woman to walk alone,” he said easily, nodding, “i may be a dick, but i’m not that much of a dick.”

🍒 DAY 8 OF THE BET - BE MY GIRLFRIEND.

jisung hates liars. you can call him cruel, heartless, toxic but he draws the line at lying. he’d been lied to once, brutally, gut-wrenchingly, and it had been enough to last a lifetime. promises of forever. of waiting. of purity. all shattered when he saw his highschool sweetheart tangled up with someone else. since then, he didn’t lie. he omitted. he deflected. he joked. but he didn’t lie. — so when he decided you were the perfect girl to play his girlfriend, not for real love, not for real feelings, but to shut everyone up. he wasn’t going to lie to you about it. not even a little. last night had changed things. not in the way people meant. not hearts and roses and dumb love songs. last night something clicked. you got him. you weren’t clingy or emotional or accusatory. you didn’t read too much into his silence or expect to fix himself overnight. you laughed when other girls would’ve cried.

finally, during water break, when the others were too tired to care, he stood up, walked across the studio and grabbed your wrist. “i–jisung–what–,” you sputtered, nearly tripping over your bottle as he pulled you out of the room. karina’s wide-eyed stare was the last thing you caught before the door slammed shut behind you. he didn’t stop walking until you were outside, behind the building, tucked into the edge of campus where the lights didn’t quite reach. secluded. quiet. he dropped your wrist. then he looked at you, “i have a favor to ask,” he whispered, like it was some sort of secret.

you looked up, a little breathless, “sounds dangerous…what is it?” jisung rubbed his palms on his sweats, a little nervous, which annoyed him and then said, bluntly, “will you be my girlfriend?”

you stared at him, pretending to process it. letting the silence stretch, even though your answer was already cemented in your mind the second he said those words. he looked so serious. like this was some great moral weight. but he didn’t know about the whispered conversation with your friends. the bet. this wasn’t a decision. this was a win. you tilted your head, played innocent, let your eyes soften just enough, “i thought you weren’t looking for a relationship?”

“i’m not,” jisung said, like it should have been obvious, “not really. not like–,” he cut himself off, pacing once, realizing how ridiculous it sounded now that he’s asked, before facing you again, “i just need to sell it. make it look real. the guys think i’m spiraling. they had a literal intervention. i need them off my back.”

you feigned hesitation, “so what, you want to fake date me?”

“no,” he said immediately, voice firm, “no, that won’t work. chenle already did the whole fake dating thing with his girl. the guy’s will smell it from a mile away,” he exhaled, shoving his hands into his pockets, “i need it to be real.”

you blinked, “real?”

“as in–,” he looked away, swallowing, “we date exclusively. in public. you stay the night. i walk you to class. we kiss and have sex even when no one’s watching. we act like we’re in love.”

you bit the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling, “let me get this straight,” you said, voice light, “you want me to pretend to be your girlfriend, but like, not pretend at all?” he nodded. dead serious. you raised a brow, “and what’s in it for me?”

that cocky little grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, the one that made girls swoon and your friends groan, “i’m pretty sure i gave you the best orgasm of your life last night,” he said inching closer, “be my girlfriend, cherry. i’ll make sure you get more of those. as many as you want.”

and there it was – the perfect hook. you let yourself smile this time. sweet. dangerous. like a girl who had no idea what she was doing. but you did. you knew exactly what you were doing. “alright,” you said softly, “let’s do it.”

his eyes flickered – surprise first, then something like gratitude. you added, teasingly, “but i’m not calling you a stupid nickname.” he laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. a small, boyish gesture that made something twinge in your chest before you could shove it away. because he really had no idea. no idea that the girl agreeing to this deal had a scoreboard in her head and a ticking clock to match. it wasn’t love. not yet. but if you had anything to do with it, it would be.

by new years, park jisung would fall for you. and when he does – you win.

you and jisung stood just outside the classroom door, his hand wrapped around yours. neither of you said anything. you didn’t need to. the second he squeezed your hand slightly, you understood. sell it. so you stepped back in, fingers laced. and just like you expected, the room went dead quiet. karina froze mid-sip from her water bottle. sion nearly dropped his phone. even professor taeyong raised an eyebrow but said nothing, merely adjusting his clipboard with a knowing glance. jisung didn’t let go. all he did was turn towards you, making sure every eye was still watching. then, with that same casual boldness that had driven all the girls insane, he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your lips. not rushed. not forced. just solid. real. then he stepped back, a little smug, a little breathless and shot you a wink before strolling to the other side of the room like he didn’t just drop a bomb on the entire class. you turned, trying not to laugh at the dozen dropped jaws around you. karina mouthed what the fuck from across the mirrors. you just gave her a small, innocent shrug. like oops, i guess i really am that good.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

when jisung walked through the door, the dream house was too quiet. he knew something was off before he even saw them. all six of them were in the living room, spread out like they’d been waiting for hours. no music. no snacks — just mark, arms folded like a disappointed older brother. renjun, sitting with his legs crossed on the couch, like he was at some important business meeting. haechan standing, arms crossed, weight shifting like he was barely holding back. jeno on the armrest, unreadable. jamin leaning forward, elbows on his knees, eyes sharp. and chenle, uncharacteristically quiet, by the wall.

“...did someone die?.” jisung asked slowly. mark didn’t answer. just nodded toward the armchair, “sit.”

jisung gave a half-hearted chuckle, “what is this, another intervention?”

“don’t play dumb,” haechan said flatly, “word gets around fast.”

renjun tilted his head, “so…you have a girlfriend now? just like that?”

jisung didn’t flinch, “yeah. she’s my girlfriend.”

chenle’s eyebrows lifted, “if this whole thing is fake, i’ll have you know, i know the signs.”

jisung rolled his eyes, “we’re not fake dating…what? you think i’d recycle your trope?”

chenle opened his mouth to reply but haechan cut in sharply, “if you’re lying about this just to get us off your back–”

“i’m not.” jisung said. clear and final. mark leaned forward, voice level but stern, “we just had a serious conversation with you a week ago. you expect us to believe you’re suddenly healed and in love?”

“no,” jisung said, “i’m not in love. but i like her.”

jeno’s voice cut through, calm but laced with worry, “so why her? why now?”

jisung ran a hand through his hair. the easy answers were there. his usual lines. the charming grin. the shrug-it-off jokes. but he didn’t use them. instead, he met their gazes, one by one, and said, “she’s the only person who’s ever made me feel like i wasn’t completely faking it.” that quieted them for a beat. he kept on going, “she knows who i am. she doesn’t expect anything from me that i can’t give. she lets me breathe.”

there was a beat of quiet. jaemin broke it, “you sure you’re not using her to prove a point?” jisung’s jaw flexed. he knew this was coming. knew that the boys would see right through him. but still, it was annoying, “i’m not using her.”

renjun’s voice was quiet. the kind of quiet that made sure you listened, “you better not be. because if this turns out like every other fling, you’re not just hurting her. you’re setting yourself back again.”

“and you better not be lying to us, jisung,” haechan adds, a little tired, “because at this point? you’d only be lying to yourself.”

jisung inhaled through his nose, “i’m not lying.”

mark studied him, long and careful, “so…she’s gonna be with you at the christmas party tomorrow then?”

“of course,” jisung answered like it was obvious, “she’s my girlfriend. who else is she gonna be with?” — still, none of the boys nodded. none of them smiled. but none of them argued. the silence that followed wasn’t approval. it was conditional trust. the benefit of the doubt. and in the quiet of that moment, jisung realized something — he hadn’t lied. not once.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

the studio had gone quiet for the night. the music long stopped, mirrors fogged with the echo of movements that had faded into stillness. you were both flushed from rehearsal, sweat cooling on your skin, muscles pleasantly sore – but the energy between you was far from worn out. you were seated on the couch, twisting the cap back on your water bottle when jisung tugged at your wrist.

“come here,” he said, voice low but playful. you look at him suspiciously, “what?” he pulled again, stronger this time, until you gave in with a dramatic sigh and let him guide you into his lap, your legs sliding on either side of his hips. “jisung–,” you began, but he was already grinning up at you, smug and utterly relaxed with your weight on him.

“i just want you to sit here–” he said, hands sliding to your waist, fingers pressing lightly against your sides like he wasn’t even fully aware of how much he was touching you, “-easier to talk.”

“you’re touchy tonight,” you said, trying to keep your voice even. but your fingers were already curling into his hoodie.

“i’m your boyfriend,” he said with a shrug, like it was the most obvious thing in the world, “shouldn’t i be?” you leaned back slightly, bracing your hands on his shoulder, “oh right, the convenient boyfriend,” you smirk.

“exactly,” he smiled, but it was softer now, his thumbs rubbing gentle circles along your lower back, “and since i’m your boyfriend…you have to come to the dream christmas party with me tomorrow night.”

you raised a brow, “have to?”

“yup,” he said without hesitation, “it’s in the fine print.” you gave him a teasing roll of your eyes, “what else is in the fine print?”

he tilted his head, pretending to think, his fingers dipping just under the back of your shirt, “you show up, make me look good, we go upstairs, i make you feel even better…,” he leaned in, breath brushing your lips, “oh and you have to wear something short and sexy,.”

you laughed, unable to help it, “you just want to show me off.”

he smirked, “obviously. you’re hot.”

you leaned in, mouth close to his, “okay, i’ll show up in something short and sexy, what else?”

he tilted his head, eyes flicking between your lips and your eyes, “you stay glued to my side the whole night. no disappearing. you let me be handsy on the dancefloor.”

your breath caught, lips parted, “you’re really committing to this role.”

“i take my relationships very seriously,” he said, voice low, “especially the parts with kissing.” one of his hands rose slowly, sliding up your spine, under your shirt, across bare skin. the other came up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, like he needed to anchor you there.

then softer, like a secret, “cherry,” he murmured, “i’m not pretending when i touch you.” the words weren’t cocky. weren’t cheeky. they were honest. quiet, sudden, deep. you opened your mouth, to say what, you weren’t sure, but he kissed you before you could answer. it wasn’t rushed. it wasn’t even lust-heavy…yet. it was slow. real. a little dangerous. your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie as you kissed him back, letting yourself melt into the press of his lips, the way his hands held you like you were something breakable. then…his hands moved again. slipping under your shirt now, palming your waist, thumbs brushing just under your bra, like he knew exactly what he was doing. your hips shifted, instinctively, helplessly, grinding ever so slightly against his, enough to feel him hard beneath you, heat searing through thin layers of fabric. the tension cracked. his breath caught. his mouth moved faster now, hands gripping harder. he dragged you forward again, grinding you into him. the friction was dizzying. enough to hurt. enough to want more. a low groan vibrated in his throat, swallowed by the heat of your kiss. your fingers fisted in the front of his hoodie, needing something to hold onto as your thighs clenched around him. you weren’t sure if you wanted to push closer or push away, but it didn’t matter. he wasn’t letting you go.

“jisung,” you gasped, pulling back just enough to breathe, your lips swollen, dazed, “we can’t— we can’t keep doing this to the janitor.” he blinked. and then he lost it. full-body laughter exploded out of him, his head tipping back against the couch with a ridiculous grin stretching wide across his face, “god—” he wheezed, still clutching you, “he probably hates us.” you dissolved into laughter too, burying your face in his shoulder, half from embarrassment, half from how insanely turned on you still were, “i think we’re on a hit list,” you said between breaths.

“he’s got a support group,” jisung snorted. you smacked his chest, grinning, “shut up.” he grinned wider, pulling you back by your waist, and this time his mouth landed right beneath your jaw, hot, open, biting softly. you gasped again, “i’m serious.”

“so am i,” his voice was low again, teasing, “i think he cries in his car after.”

“jisung—” he looked up, smug, eyes dark, “yes, my girlfriend?” you hated how hot it was when he said it like that—cocky and warm and just a little too pleased with himself.

“you’re an idiot.”

he leaned in again, mouth brushing yours, “five more minutes,” he murmured, “and then we can be respectful citizens again.”

🍒 DAY 9 OF THE BET - REARRANGE YOUR GUTS.

the dream fraternity looked like the north pole had been possessed by sin. red and green LED lights pulsed through the hallways. plastic snow clung to the windows. bass-heavy remixes of christmas songs thumped through the walls. mistletoe dangled dangerously from the door frames. the whole house was filled with the unholy combination of spiked eggnog, peppermint vodka and a crowd of way too attractive twenty-somethings dressed like they were auditioning for a holiday-themed music video. slutty mrs. clauses. shirtless reindeers. fishnet-wrapped elves. you walked in with jisung. you were wearing red. the kind of red that didn’t whisper holiday cheer but warning: distraction ahead. tight, short, hugging every curve in that kind of way that made jaws slacken and jisung tighten his grip on your waist without even realizing it. he looks good too. black jeans, a white button up with the buttons barely buttoned, his smug smile in full effect. you were glued to the hip. easy smiles. quick touches. shots that went down too fast. it was easy to be his girlfriend when the lust between you pulsed like a second heartbeat. easy to be his girlfriend when his hands found your waist like they belonged there. and maybe, just maybe, you liked it a little too much.

sometime around your fifth shot. you and jisung were ambushed. cornered in the kitchen by the full dream lineup and their suspiciously pretty, incredibly judgmental girlfriends – jaemin with angel. jeno with bunny. mark with kitten. chenle with baby. haechan with princess. NCTU’s golden couples. and they were all looking at you like you were a new transfer student stepping into the middle of a high school cafeteria. jisung kept it cool. one arm slung around your waist, the other gripping a red solo cup like it was a stress ball.

“hey,” he said casually, “this is my girlfriend, y/n.” the word still sounded strange, even though you’d heard it before. he said it like it wasn’t borrowed. like it was true.

“you didn’t, like, hire her off craigslist?,” haechan asked, sipping his drink.

you rolled your eyes, “does craigslist even exist anymore, grandpa?”

princess laughed immediately before disguising it with a cough when haechan stared her down with a look, almost saying you’re supposed to be on my side.

“oh, she’s funny,” bunny whispered to jeno.

“and hot,” baby whispered louder.

“thank you,” you said sweetly.

kitten raised a brow, “so…how’d you two meet?”

jisung opened his mouth, but you beat him to it, “we’ve actually known each other since freshman year. dance majors. it’s a long story,” you say casually.

angel smirked, “who made the first move?”

“technically? me but he did the heavy lifting,” you replied, sipping from your cup.

baby smiled, excited for her next question, like she couldn’t believe it was her turn to ask this. “is he good in bed?”

jisung choked on his drink, blush immediately creeping up his ears. you grinned, “very. i could barely walk after.”

the girls leaned in like you were telling ghost stories. princess smirked, “big?”

“the pictures don’t do him justice…i wasn’t sure he was gonna fit,” you answer with a sly smile, still calmly sipping your drink. their jaw drops. meanwhile, the guys stayed quiet, all standing behind their girlfriends, arms draped protectively, watching your back-and-forth carefully. looking for cracks, inconsistencies. but you knew your story, and you delivered it well. no hesitation. no flinching. and you haven’t said a single lie. jisung physically recoiled, his body burning, “okay–wow–okay, do you guys have to do this?” there was something vulgar about you showing him off. something that made all the blood rush to his cock.

“yes,” the group said in unison.

“this is practically tradition now,” jaemin added, “fresh meat gets grilled.”

“what’s his nickname for you?,” chenle cuts in, smirking. if you didn’t have a nickname, jisung was fucked.

“cherry,” you say easily. not even thinking about it.

“awee, that’s so cute,” bunny sighs.

“i like her,” angel decided.

“yeah,” baby nodded, “she passes.”

“what do you like most about him?,” kitten asked, not convinced just yet. it was the hardest question of the night. not because you didn’t have an answer. but because it wasn’t about lust. or performance. or fun. it was real. your eyes found jisung, his gaze met yours, a question in his eyes. you smiled, soft, “he makes me laugh,” you said, voice steady but soft, and for the first time that night, your teasing tone faded into something honest. jisung, who had been nursing his drink beside you, blinked, just once. you didn’t look at him. you kept your eyes on kitten, who had asked the question, but you could feel the way he stilled beside you, “i don’t have to pretend around him,” you went on, “like, i’ve never felt the need to act cooler or tougher or sweeter just to keep his attention. he’s already seen the awkward, most humiliating parts of me and he doesn’t flinch.”

jisung shifted, a tiny lean toward you. like your words had reached somewhere he hadn’t meant to expose. you glanced at him for a split second. his face was unreadable, but his grip on his cup had loosened, “and,” you added, with a small smile, “even when he’s annoying or smug… he listens. he notices things. he remembers them. he just…gets me.”

for a second, there was a beat of silence. even the music from the living room felt far away. jisung just looked at you like he was trying to memorize the moment. and then princess let out a dramatic sigh, “okay, what the fuck, that was actually beautiful.” the other girls murmured in agreement, while the boys exchanged glances, a little stunned.

chenle clapped once, “it was convincing.”

haechan narrowed his eyes then adds, “still feels suspicious.”

then jeno grinned, “one last thing.” he pointed upward with his drink and like a synchronized sitcom cue, everyone’s heads tilted up — directly above you and jisung, taped to the cabinet, dropping slightly but still unmistakable there — was a sprig of glitter, plastic mistletoe. you turned your head to jisung. he was already looking at you. no nerves. no hesitation. his cup hit the counter behind you and then his hand was on your jaw, guiding you into a kiss like it was second nature. like it was already a habit. it wasn’t rushed. wasn’t dramatic. just firm, familiar and too easy to forget you weren’t alone. the girls let out a chorus of ooooohs, some random drunk in the back wolf-whistled and chenle rolled his eyes, “it’s the holiday. let them have their fake love story.”

finally, mark shrugged, “fine. you passed the test. for now.”

jaemin added, “but if you hurt him…”

you raised a brow, “he’ll deserve it.” that made them laugh. jisung didn’t say anything. but he looked at you for a second longer than necessary. there was something soft in his eyes now, something warmer than the flush of alcohol in his cheeks. and for the first time, the boys looked… quietly convinced. the group slowly began to disperse, satisfied with their interrogation. the golden couples peeling off one by one – jaemin and angel returning to the living room, bunny tugging jeno toward the drinks table, mark whispering something to kitten that made her roll her eyes before laughing softly, chenle and baby starting a beer pong game, and haechan and princess slipping away mid-banter, their bickering fading into the music. you and jisung stayed in the kitchen for another beat, sharing a knowing glance.

“do you think we passed?,” you asked, nudging him.

he raised an eyebrow, “you basically said i rearranged your guts in front of five of my hyungs and their girlfriends. we passed with flying colors.”

you laughed, bumping your shoulder against his, “they asked. i answered.” he smirked, grabbing your hand and tugging you back into the living room where people were dancing. arms in the air. offbeat footwork. someone doing the worm in a corner for absolutely no reason. and it was fun. you and jisung danced, easy and laughing, like no one was watching. like it didn’t matter. like your bodies knew the rhythm of each other already. he spun you once, exaggerated and dramatic, then dipped you too low, catching you just in time. you squealed, smacked his shoulder, and he grinned like he’d been waiting all night for that exact moment. and then you saw them. your friends – karina, sophia, sion and dongpyo. all standing near the wall, cups in hand, clearly people-watching. except they weren’t watching just anyone they were watching you. four pairs of widened eyes with expressions that are a mix of disbelief and celebration. you caught their eyes across the dance floor and coolly, confidently, held up two fingers, rubbing them against your thumb – the money signal. karina groaned on the spot, face-palming like she couldn’t believe you were really winning. sophia snorted into her drink. sion gave you the slow, proud nod of a man witnessing history. dongpyo let out a loud, echoing “YES!” that got drowned out by the bass drop but still made people look. only the four of them knew what it meant. the win was yours. soon.

you turned back to jisung, smile still tugging at the corner of your lips. he didn’t notice the exchange. and then, somewhere between songs, his hand slipped low on your waist. he leaned in close, his voice a quiet, honey-smooth murmur against your ear, “i’m pretty sure,” he said, “the fine print included going upstairs and making you feel even better.” your heart skipped a beat. and just like that, he was pulling you up the stairs. the party fades behind you, the pulse of bass and drunken voices muffled as jisung shuts the door to his room with a quiet click. his hand is still laced with yours, and your skin is buzzing — from alcohol, from adrenaline, from him. he guides you inside, gently sitting you down on the edge of his bed. his room doesn’t look much different from freshman year, the led lights are still blue, casting soft shadows across the room, making the moment feel suspended in its own little bubble.

jisung moves over to his speakers and grins, “got a christmas present for you.” before you can ask what, the unmistakable beat of pony starts to play, your eyes widen “oh my god,” you burst out laughing, “no fucking way.”

jisung looks over his shoulder, that shit-eating grin growing, he watches you laugh, “you remember this?”

“how could i forget?,” you try to contain your laughter, but then jisung starts performing. body rolls, thrusts – slow, deliberate, confident, every motion teasing. like he’s channeling his own magic mike show. his shirt hits the floor first, and you have to bite down on your lip as his fingers trail over his abs. then he grinds on floor, hips rolling with every beat, pants inching down gradually until the only thing between you and his dick is a thin pair of black boxers. and even that’s barely doing its job. his bulge is already obscene, thick and heavy, the shape of him outlined perfectly. you swear you can see the weight of it. your thighs instinctively press together.

“you’re drooling,” he teases, before parting your legs open and sliding up in between them, still body rolling. “oh, shut up,” you giggled, smacking his chest. but your hands stay there, fingers trailing down the lines of his abs, then lower, his cock straining against his briefs.

“you want me to keep going?” he murmurs, voice low and teasing.

you nod, breathless, “take them off.”

“say please.” you roll your eyes, then murmur it right against his mouth, “please.” he groans and strips the last layer off, and fuck. you’ve seen him hard before. you’ve felt him. but nothing compares to this — to the way he stands in front of you, completely, bare and unashamed, cock hard and heavy, curving up toward his stomach.

“tongue-tied already?” he teases. you reach for him without thinking, wrapping your fingers around the base of his length, “you’re so big, jisung.”

he hisses, hips twitching, “and you take every inch like a good girl, don’t you?,” he mutters, a finger under your chin. the words make you clench around nothing. he pulls you to your feet, undressing you slowly — like he’s unwrapping something precious. your dress slips off your shoulders. your panties slide down your legs. when you’re finally naked, he drags his eyes up your body and groans, “fucking perfect.”

you’re already soaking when he takes a seat at the edge of his bed, pulling you into his lap and guiding you to straddle him. he kisses you once, deep and messy, before pulling back, “condom?” you shake your head no, “just pull out again,” you breathe, pulling him closer, already grinding down against him.

he groans, “fuck, you’re gonna kill me.” with one hand wrapped around his cock, you line him up, and then you sink down. it’s not graceful. it never is with jisung. it’s filthy and slow and overwhelming. your walls stretch to take him, breath catching in your throat as he fills you up. he’s too big. he knows he’s too big. he lives for the way your body struggles to take all of him, “fuck, cherry,” he groans, head falling back, “you always forget how big i am until i’m inside you, huh?”

you whimper, jaw dropping, digging your nails into his shoulders, “too big—jisung, fuck.”

“take your time,” he breathes, voice barely holding together, “you got it.” — you feel the stretch, the pressure. when you finally sit all the way, you cling to him, forehead to forehead, panting. then his hand slides down your stomach, fingers spreading wide just beneath your ribs. this new angle was intense. “look,” he whispers, awe in his voice, “you see that?” you glance down. there’s a visible bulge pressing up in your belly. a shape. him. you moan, soft and wrecked, and jisung groans like he’s going to lose it, his eyes are locked on it, completely wrecked, “that’s me,” he says darkly, rubbing slow circles over the visible shape of his cock inside you, “so fucking deep. i’m inside your stomach, cherry.”

“holy shit,” you breathe, whimpering, “i feel everything,” you tighten around him just to feel his reaction and he hisses through his teeth, fingers digging into your ass, “you like that?,” he practically growls, “knowing how deep i am?”

“i love it,” you groan, rolling your hips.

“you were made for this,” he grunts, lifting his hips into you, “made for me.” your hands claw at his chest as you begin to move, slow at first, circling your hips as he groans beneath you. every thrust hits deep, dragging across every nerve, every sweet spot, until your thighs are shaking and you can’t stop the sounds spilling from your lips.

he grabs one breast, tongue lapping over your nipple, then sucks hard, while his fingers pinch the other. you cry out, body jerking, “jisung—fuck, slow down with the marks,” you gasp, “do you know how much concealer i’ve been using just to hide the other ones?”

“i don’t give a shit,” he murmurs, laughing into your skin, then switching to the other, sucking even harder, “they’ll see you’re mine.” — you start riding him in earnest, bouncing in his lap, your thighs burning, his cock stretching you perfectly over and over again. the room is filled with nothing but moans, wet sounds, skin on skin. he grabs your ass, thrusting up into you harder, “look at you. stuffed full. you love it, don’t you?” you nod, unable to speak, that heat in your stomach threatening to break with every thrust, “fuck—jisung, i’m close—,” you choke out.

“come for me, cherry” he pants, “i wanna feel it. feel you squeezing me.” he slams up into you at just the right angle. and it hits. your orgasm shatters, head tossed back, nails sinking into his shoulders, thighs shaking as your walls clamp down around him. your entire body jerks as the wave pulls you under, collapsing against his chest, breath gone. but jisung doesn’t stop. he’s still thrusting up into you, faster now, chasing his own high. his rhythm turns brutal, desperate, driving into you so deep and quick it knocks the air right out of your lungs. you scream, overstimulated and wrecked, the pleasure riding that fine line between too much and not enough. “jisung—” you gasp, voice hoarse, eyes watering, “too much—”

“i know, cherry,” he groans, voice thick with hunger, “but i need you. just a little more. let me feel you again.” you cling to him, moaning helplessly as his cock keeps dragging along that oversensitive spot inside you, again and again. it stings, sharp and raw, but your body starts to give way to it, the pain blurring into pleasure, nerve endings frayed and sparking as the burn starts to fade. then it coils again. that low, unbearable ache in your belly, winding up faster than before, tighter. you cry out, overwhelmed, mind blank as that second orgasm barrels toward you with no mercy, “jisung—fuck—again—i’m gonna—”

“do it,” he groans, rutting up harder. and you do. you break all over again, back arching hard, a sob ripping from your throat as your second orgasm tears through your already sensitive body. it slams into you like a crashing wave, stealing your voice, your breath, your everything. your pussy fluttering around him so tight and wet it forces a strangled sound from his throat.

“fuck, fuck—i’m coming—” he pulls out fast, just in time, pumping himself through it as hot release splashes over your stomach and chest. his head drops to your shoulder, breath hot and panting against your neck. you’re shaking in his lap, every inch of you trembling, ruined and flushed and boneless. the room is wrecked with slick, heat, and the aftershocks of everything you just gave each other. then jisung moves. soft hands. gentle touches. he grabs his shirt from the floor and gently wipes you clean, careful with your still-quivering skin. as he goes, he peppers kisses to your collarbone, your sternum, the tip of your chin—each one a quiet apology and a reverent thank-you.

“did i hurt you?” he murmurs, still breathless but gentle now, “talk to me.”

you manage a shaky laugh, curling into his neck, “no,” you whisper, “that was perfect…just… fuck.”he exhales slowly, like he’s letting go of something he hadn’t even realized he was holding, and pulls the both of you up to his pillows, tucking the covers around you. his arms wrap around your waist tightly as he pulls you flush to his chest, pressing a kiss to your temple, then another to your cheek, then your jaw. when he’s sure you’re safe, warm, and steady in his arms, he lets his body relax beneath yours. and when you finally found your voice, you murmur, “by the way… happy anniversary.”

he stills. then pulls back to look at you. “wait…no way.” you grin sleepily, a tiny smirk on your lips. his eyes widened. then he laughs, soft and amazed. “wow. can you believe we were those same awkward freshmen?”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut, “thank god we’re not. because you knowing what to do with your dick is the best thing that’s happened to my sex life.” he snorts, cheeks pink as he buries his face in your neck, “shut up.” then he pulls the blanket tighter around both of you, arm wrapped around your waist, breath steadying against your skin.

🍒 DAY 10 OF THE BET - A HOLY NIGHT.

you wake up tangled in warm sheets. jisung’s arm is still draped around your waist, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back, his face buried in the curve of your neck like he can’t stand to let you go even in sleep. you stretch, smiling to yourself as the memories of last night flood back — pony, his hand on your stomach, and the way he whispered mine with his lips against your throat. now, the ache lingers between your thighs, deep in your hips, your skin humming with the memory of him. he’s behind you, his breath warm against the back of your neck. you can feel his morning wood pressed against you, thick and hot, heavy against the curve of your ass through nothing but skin. you think about turning over. saying good morning. maybe teasing him. but then he shifts again, hips nudging forward instinctively. there’s a pause. a sleepy groan. and then— he’s inside you.

you gasp, eyes flying open, mouth parting on a broken sound as he buries himself in you with one slow, lazy thrust. thick, deep, stretching you open like he owns you, “jisung—” you whisper, voice already breathless. a low groan rumbles from his chest as he presses closer, his body molding to yours, keeping you in place with his arm still locked around your waist. “fuck… still so warm,” he murmurs against your shoulder, “still wet.”

“i’m sore,” you breathe, shivering as he pulls back and slides in again, just as deep, “so sore…”

“good,” he groans, “wanna keep you sore all day.”the words make your walls flutter around him, and he notices — of course he does, “yeah? you like that?” he whispers, nuzzling your neck, fucking you in slow, steady rolls of his hips, he brings one of your legs up, wrapping it around his hips for easier access, hitting you just right, “waking up with me inside you, still wrecked from the night before?”you can’t even answer. everything feels too good. you’re still heavy with sleep, and every nerve feels exposed. like the drowsy haze has stripped away all your defenses. his cock drags against your sensitive walls. and the stretch, the heat, the fullness—it’s overwhelming. “i can’t—fuck,” you choke out, fingers gripping the sheets as your hips rock back into him, “i’m already so close.”

“that’s it,” he breathes, curling tighter around you, his chest flush against your back, his hand sliding between your thighs to find your clit, “want you to soak my cock first thing in the morning.” he circles your clit slow, teasing, while his thrusts grow deeper, more purposeful, thick, gliding friction that has your whole body trembling, “please—jisung—oh my god—”

“let go,” he whispers, “let me have it.” you fall apart with a strangled cry, legs shaking under the covers, hips jerking against his as your orgasm rushes through you — sharp and fast and almost unbearable in your half-asleep state. he moans your name into your shoulder as your walls clamp down around him, pulsing and wet. and then he’s gone. unraveling with you, cursing under his breath as he thrusts once, twice more. he spills inside you with a groan so low it vibrates against your spine. you both go still — breathing heavy, bodies flushed, tangled under the sheets with his cock still inside you, keeping you full. your brows draw together slightly as you feel his warmth buried deep inside you.

“…fuck, jisung,” you blink, voice still wrecked and lazy, “did you just come inside me?”

he exhales a soft laugh, nosing at your jaw, sleepy and smug, “don’t worry, cherry. got a morning-after pill somewhere in the condom drawer.”

you snort, still breathless, and let out a soft laugh, “thank god,” you let your head fall back onto the pillow, chest still rising and falling, legs still weak, “because i am not ready to carry your kids.” there’s a pause. then he smirks, pressing another kiss to your skin, slower this time, more dangerous. “don’t tempt me.” you turn your head just enough to catch the gleam in his eyes, “was that a threat or a promise?”

he groans playfully, shifting his hips just enough to make you gasp again, “say one more thing and i will go for round two,” he counters, still nestled against you, his cock softening but still inside, like he can’t stand to leave your body just yet. you laugh, breathless and warm. you both lie there for a moment longer — hearts racing, skin sticky, limbs tangled beneath the weight of the duvet. his fingers trace lazy circles on your stomach, still holding you close.

he presses a kiss to the back of your shoulder. “merry christmas, cherry,” he murmurs, voice tender and low.

you smile, heart full, “merry christmas, jisung.” you finally turn in his arms, and he meets you halfway, pressing a soft, slow kiss to your lips – warm, gentle, sweet.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

twenty minutes later, the two of you are downstairs, you’re standing in the middle of a surprisingly clean kitchen, definitely not as wrecked as the living room. you’re dressed head to toe in him — jisung’s oversized pajama top swallowing your frame, his boxers peeking out beneath the hem, and his fuzzy gray socks slouching halfway down your calves. jisung pulls a mixing bowl from the cabinet as you roll up your sleeves, “alright, let’s get to work, baker park.”

“i’m warning you now,” he says, weirdly serious, “i burn toast.” he wasn’t lying. you regret everything about two minutes in. jisung is a disaster. he mistakes salt for pepper, almost washed the chocolate chips with water and soap, nearly cracks an entire egg shell into the batter, and at one point tries to microwave the butter with the foil still on. you catch it just in time.

“i said i burn toast!,” he defends, pouting as he stirs what might possibly be the lumpiest cookie dough on earth. you lean in, scraping the sides of the bowl for him, “you’re lucky you’re cute.”

“you think i’m cute?” he teases, eyes gleaming.

“shut up,” you nudge him, rolling your eyes.

he takes a pinch of the batter and tastes it, “mmm, tastes like… regret.” you dissolve into laughter before carefully placing the tray into the oven and then squealing when he lunges at you, batter-covered fingers raised like claws. “don’t you dare—,” you scream, grabbing the spatula to keep him an arms length away. “too late!,” he says, that mischievous smirk growing with every second. he chases you around the kitchen island, the two of you shrieking with laughter, “jisung, stop!” you gasp, cheeks aching from smiling too much. “never!” he says, matching your expression. you finally spin around and catch him mid-lunge, pressing a quick, sticky kiss to his mouth. it stuns him. for just a second. the next he’s grabbing you by the hips and lifting you onto the counter like it’s second nature, sliding between your knees. his lips find yours again — slower, deeper, heated. you kiss him back, fingers threading into his hair, the sweetness of chocolate still lingering on his tongue. one of his hands trails up your thigh, fingers sneaking beneath the hem of his shirt on your body. you break the kiss with a breathless laugh, batting his hand away, “jisung.”

“what?,” he groans, still chasing your lips.

“the guys might catch us.”

“i don’t care.”

“well, i do,” you grin, pressing your forehead to his, “we’re not about to get banned from the kitchen on christmas morning.” the oven beeps. you stick your tongue out at him, earning a small chuckle from him before slipping down to check the cookies. despite the chaos — the salt incident, the finger-licking sabotage, they actually smell… good. you pull one from the tray, still warm and golden at the edges, and break it in half. steam curls from the center. jisung watches you nervously. you take a bite. pause. he squints, “what? is it bad?”

you blink, “wait. no… jisung.”

he looks ready to panic, “what? oh god, what?”

“these are actually good.” you hold the half-cookie out to him and he bites into it skeptically.

his eyes widen, “oh my god. no way. we made good cookies.” you're both stunned for a second — and then burst into simultaneous laughter. jisung grabs you by the waist again, sitting you back up on the counter, calmer now. you eat your cookies in peace, his arms lazily around your waist.

thats when the door opens — mark and kitten shuffle in first, holding hands and wearing matching hoodies that definitely weren’t hers yesterday. his lips are still a little puffy, and her neck is suspiciously turtlenecked, despite the heater being on. jaemin and angel wander in next, blanket-wrapped and practically glowing. angel’s got that just-got-worshipped-for-an-hour hair, and jaemin’s jawline is kissed raw. he doesn’t even try to hide the hickeys. jeno and bunny follow, holding hands, both flushed, looking like they got exactly two hours of sleep and the rest was cardio. bunny’s lips are glossed but smudged, and jeno has a fresh bite mark right below his ear. then there’s chenle and baby, who enter gossiping about things that happened last night. chenle’s shirt is inside out. baby’s wearing his sweats. neither of them cares. haechan and princess saunter in last, arguing about who took up more blanket space while princess is literally still wearing haechan’s boxers and he’s trailing behind her like a lovesick puppy.

then there’s renjun, standing in the doorway, looking like he’s witnessing the aftermath of a hormone-fueled high school musical. his eyes scan the room, at all the half-dressed couples, the stolen looks, the flour-dusted PDA, and he sighs like he’s aged forty years overnight, “is this a kitchen or a post-orgy snack break?”

kitten hums, curled under mark’s arm, “well, it is christmas.”

mark grins, “it was a holy night.”

renjun stares, his jaw dropping, “you did not.”

“silent night,” chenle chimes in, “not so silent anymore.” he high fives mark and baby at the same time.

jeno, smug as ever, grabs a cookie, pulling bunny into his side. “we all woke up feeling very festive.”

bunny takes one look at you on the counter in jisung’s arms and smirks, “please tell me you got railed too. you look like it.”

jisung presses a kiss to your neck without missing a beat, “twice.”

the girls laugh. the guys cheer. renjun looks like he wants to stick a fork inside the toaster, “can we please not do foreplay in the kitchen where I make my eggs?,” he sighs.

“you make eggs like twice a month,” jisung retorts.

“still! this is sacred ground,” he huffs, “why does this house suddenly feel like one of those romcom movies where everyone’s in love but me?” he mutters bitterly.

kitten takes a bite of one of the cookies and pauses, “wait… these are actually kind of perfect?”

you and jisung share matching, smug grins. you giggle into his hoodie when he says, not even trying to be quiet, “i might have to keep you forever if you keep making cookies like this.” the room falls silent. your breath catches. you stiffen, but jisung doesn’t even notice — too busy playing his boyfriend role and looking at you like you hung the moon. your fingers curl instinctively around his shoulder, the corner of your mouth twitching up, stunned and warm all over.

then, haechan, without missing a beat, “yup. he’s down bad.”

renjun drops into one of the chairs, “i hate it here.”

haechan leans toward renjun with a smirk, “you’re just mad you didn’t get to wake up with someone in your shirt.”

renjun raises a brow, “you’re right. i woke up without being suffocated in someone’s armpit. can’t relate.” princess gasps in mock offense and haechan laughs, tugging her closer. meanwhile, you and jisung stay tangled together on the counter. he’s brushing crumbs from your mouth with his thumb. you press a lazy kiss to his finger. he hums contentedly. and unbeknownst to both of you — mark, jaemin, jeno, chenle, haechan and renjun all catch the way jisung looks at you. the way he doesn’t even try to be cool about it anymore. his hands are gentle on your waist. that proud little grin on his lips. the softness in his voice. the way he looks like he finally stopped running. and quietly, without a word, all six of them glance at each other. just brief eye contact. they don’t say it aloud. they don’t have to. but every single one of them is thinking the same thing – he’s going to be okay. after everything, the quiet sadness jisung was drowning in, the late-night walks alone, the way he’d crack a joke just to change the subject, the distance he never explained. it’s all fading. replaced with the boy they remember – soft. warm. grounded. whole. present. and it’s because of you.

renjun breaks the silence again before anyone could catch on, a tiny smile on his face, “oh god. now you all are doing the heart-eyes thing? is this a cult? are the cookies laced?”

“you okay, jun?” bunny teases. renjun narrows his eyes, “no. i’m surrounded by couples who all had sex last night, this kitchen smells like frosting and pheromones, and i’m emotionally third-wheeling six relationships.”

angel opens her arms up, “come here. you can join me and jaemin.” jaemin nods, reaching out to ruffle his hair, “we’ll make room.”

renjun immediately ducks away, “get your cooties off me.” the room dissolves into laughter. someone cranks up the christmas playlist until it’s too loud. and the kitchen — frosting-smeared, sugar-dusted, chaos-filled — becomes the softest, happiest, most chaotic love nest on earth.

🍒 DAY 11 OF THE BET - LITTLE FREAKS.

everyone had gone home for a bit over the holiday break. a quick return to normal families, traditional dinners, distant relatives asking too many questions. not you. not jisung. he didn’t want to deal with his family’s concerned eyes, not when they looked at him like he was one bad choice away from completely falling apart. you didn’t want to go home. not when all anyone would ask about was your nonexistent love life. your friends hadn’t left either, too lazy.

so you invited jisung along – bowling sounded harmless enough. you definitely didn’t expect him to stick to you like velcro. he was practically glued to your side, one arm always slung casually around your waist, sometimes on your thigh. his head rested on your shoulder while you picked out your bowling ball, fingers laced through yours even when you were just waiting for your turn — the moment jisung excused himself to the bathroom, your friends pounced.

“okay, what the hell is going on?” karina hissed, leaning so far across the table she nearly knocked over her drink, “since when did you guys get so close?”

“did you see how he looked at her?,” dongpo asked, incredulous, “like she hung the fucking stars.”

you leaned back in your seat, trying not to look startled, “you guys are being dramatic,” you said, reaching for your drink, “it’s just casual.”

“casual?” sophia echoed, “girl, he kissed your shoulder. twice. no one kisses shoulders casually.”sion was squinting at you like he was trying to see through your soul, “you’re holding hands. you’re sharing drinks. he calls you cherry…are we still pretending this is just for convenience? for the bet?”

you shrugged, a little too carefully, “look, relax. i’m acting. that’s the whole point.”

“you don’t look like you’re acting,” karina said softly. her words made something uncomfortable shift in your chest. “and you’re smiling differently,” dongpyo said, suspiciously, “like, he says something and your face does this… soft thing.”

“he’s the one practically clinging to me,” you said, defensive, “that’s not on me.”

“maybe,” sion said, “but where’s the part where you roll your eyes when guys get clingy? where’s the part where you run the second things get… warm?”

you paused, fingers tightening around your cup. you tried to deflect, “it’s just physical, okay? you all saw how touchy he was. jisung’s half the work already.”

“i mean, you’re not exactly pulling away,” sophia added, “we know you, remember? you don’t like cuddling. you hate labels. you once ghosted a guy for writing you a love poem and said it was cringe.”they weren’t wrong. you throat tightened. you hated how well they knew you.

“that was cringe,” you point out, forcing a laugh, “relax, guys. i don’t fall in love. i’m just really good at making people feel special…that $500 is still mine.” but as the words left your mouth, something about them felt off. wrong. heavy. for the first time, it didn’t feel like a flex. it felt like a lie. you felt that familiar pang in your stomach. the one you’d been ignoring since christmas eve. not the lust. not excitement — guilt. because he didn’t know. because you knew what that girl did to him in high school, and you were starting to wonder if you were any better.

they all exchanged looks, clearly not convinced. “hey,” sion’s voice softened, “if something’s going on, you can tell us.” you blinked back the sudden pressure behind your eyes, “there’s nothing to tell.”

before they could press more, jisung returned, tossing a grin your way, cocky and breathless, like he already knew what kind of trouble he was about to start and your heart stuttered. “guess what i found?” he whispered in your ear, showing you a strip of photo booth pictures some random couple left behind. his fingers brush against the small of your back, “come with me.” you followed after shooting your friends a sly smile even though your stomach was in knots. and when he took your hand, guiding you up from your seat, you knew your friends were still watching. still unsure. still wondering if they should intervene. he tugged you through the neon haze of the arcade and you pushed the thoughts away, slipping past claw machines until you reached the tiny booth in the corner. it looked ancient, barely wide enough to fit two people, curtain fraying.

it started off innocent. sitting side by side. posing. smiling. peace signs. duck lips. a kiss on the cheek. then the timer clicked again, and jisung was lifting you up to sit on his lap, a tiny squeal escaping from your lips, your skirt rising high around your hips, large hands wrapping around your waist, so close to the place you need him the most. this time the pictures are less innocent. both his hands cupping your breasts, pushing them up. an open mouthed kiss. your hand on his jaw. you can feel his bulge under you and it drives you crazy. “jisung–,” you sigh into his mouth, “need to feel you,” you say, your fingers fumbling for his zipper. he complies right away, pushing his pants down just enough to free himself. a flicker of nerves lit up in your chest, but the hunger in his eyes drowned it out. he was so hard, already pulsing beneath you and you didn’t want to waste another second. you sank onto him, ignoring the sting, your breath caught in your throat like a prayer.

jisung inserts another coin. the flash went off. the booth capturing the way your eyes fluttered shut for just a second, overwhelmed. his hands gripped your thighs, firm and grounding, and you rock your hips forward, chasing the drag of him inside you — slow, then deeper, until he filled you completely. another flash. this one caught your mouth open in a gasp, your hands braced on his knees. the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered, like he loved the way the camera was catching it all. it made you even wetter, “you’re crazy,” you whispered, dizzy with the way his cock throbbed inside you. the way you could barely stay quiet.

“and you’re beautiful,” he murmured. then without warning, he tugged your shirt up, knuckles grazing your ribs. higher and higher. until your chest was bare — completely exposed to the low flickering light and the cold lens of the booth’s camera.“jisung–,” you try to pull your shirt back down but he doesn’t let that happen.

“smile for me,” he said, voice dark and teasing. he cupped your breast with one hand, the other feeding the photobooth another coin without even glancing, “let them see how good i make you feel.” you were flushed, panting, completely full of him and when the next flash hit, he kept his eyes locked on the camera, shameless and smug, while you rolled your hips on him in slow, desperate circles. the strip would show everything without showing anything. your body bouncing in his lap, your mouth slack with pleasure, the curve of your bare chest, his grip on you possessive and adoring. a blurred rush of lust and power, of being wanted so fully you could feel it in your bones. and him – grinning through it all. smirking like the devil with his hands all over you like he knew exactly what he was doing. you rode him harder now, chasing that edge, your hands planted on his hips, his cock thick inside you and hitting every spot that made your vision blur.

another coin. another set. the next flash caught his mouth on your shoulder, your head thrown back, your lips parted in a silent moan, “fuck, look at you,” he groaned, watching your reflection in the smudged glass across from the lens, “so fucking pretty when you ride me.” you whimpered when he thrust up into you, just once, sharp and deep, and you clenched around him, the pressure building dangerously, “jisung i’m gonna–”

“i know,” he breathed, sweat slicking his brow, teeth grazing your neck, “i know, cherry. keep going. just like that. don’t stop.” you were both panting now. the booth was too hot, too small, both of you desperately trying to control your moans and the sounds of your bodies colliding. then his grip on your waist tightened. his voice dropped low, guttural, shaky, “gonna cum, cherry. fuck—inside. can i?” you could barely speak, just nodded, already there, already unraveling around him. the moment you clenched, he buried himself as deep as he could go and spilled into you with a rough, muffled groan against your shoulder. his fingers dug into your hips, holding you in place, making sure not a drop escaped. you collapsed against him, spent and shaking, your back pressed to his chest with the final flash — immortalizing the mess of tangled limbs, gasping mouths, ruined control. he stayed buried in you for a beat, still pulsing, hands lazily roaming your back as you both caught your breath.

you stepped out of the booth first, legs shaking just enough to make it obvious if anyone were watching. though luckily, the back corner of the arcade was mostly dead. jisung followed right after, breath still uneven, hair a mess, and shirt half-untucked. he reached into the machine slot just as it spat out the last strip of picture. there were five strips total, each holding four pictures. all in order. all in motion. the first was innocent enough, you smiling, still clothed. the second, your shirt halfway up, his mouth on your shoulder. the third – “oh my god,” you gasped, snatching the strip from his hand, “jisung!,” he peered over your shoulder, already grinning like a kid that just received the best christmas gift ever, “both of my boobs are out in this one!,” you whisper-yelled, eyes wide as you pointed to the fourth frame, where you were mid-ride, spine arched, chest bared, his hands full of you and that smug ass look still stamped across his face. he had no shame. none. “yeah, i’m keeping that one,” he said, plucking the strip from your hands before you could even think of tearing it in half. “no. give it–,” you reach out. “nope,” he folded it carefully, precisely, like it was some sacred artifact and tucked it into his wallet with a wink, “best christmas gift ever.” you gawked at him, rolling your eyes, “someone’s gonna see that,” you muttered, heart pounding as you glanced around, suddenly paranoid someone might come around the corner and spot the both of you disheveled and glowing. he leaned in, voice low against your ear, “no one else is gonna see it, cherry. that one’s just for me.”

you roll your eyes, taking a second to fix yourself up. while jisung didn’t even try. he looked smug and satisfied. you made your way back to your friends. karina spotted you first, “there you guys are…wait,” she narrowed her eyes, “where the hell did you two disappear to?”

“bathroom,” you said quickly.

“photo booth,” jisung answered at the same time.

shit. your group immediately went silent.

sophia squinted, a teasing smile on her lip, “so…was it a bathroom or a photo booth hookup?”

“neither,” you lied. horribly. “we just–he found a funny strip and we were laughing about it.”

“mhm,” sion arched a brow as he sipped from his soda, “that’s why you have a fresh new hickey on your neck.” your stomach dropped, your hand immediately going up to use your hair as a cover.

dongpyo’s jaw fell open, “oh my god, you little freaks—”

“shut up!” you hissed, sliding back into your seat. jisung sat beside you, calm as ever, tossing a fry in his mouth like he hadn’t just ruined you five minutes ago in a cramped booth, “you guys are real observant for people who are down by like, forty points,” he teases.

“don’t deflect,” sophia said, pointing a perfectly manicured nail between the two of you, “there’s tension. there’s… suspicious glows. there's possibly sex hair. did you guys—?”

“no,” you said.

“yes,” jisung said at the same time. you kicked him under the table. he choked on his fry, and you refused to look up as the entire group burst into chaos.

“oh my god!” karina shrieked, practically launching herself across the table, “in the photo booth?!”

“you’re disgusting,” sion said, which was rich coming from him. “are there pictures?” sophia asked, eyes wide with gleeful horror.

“no one’s ever seeing those,” you snapped, heat crawling up your neck again. you buried your face in your hands, groaning as the table erupted in overlapping questions, taunts, and fake retching noises. and even though you wanted the floor to swallow you whole, you couldn’t stop the tiny smile pulling at your lips. because under the table, jisung’s pinky was hooked with yours. and neither of you let go.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

it was nearly midnight when the group finally parted ways — the air still thick with leftover teasing and suspicious side-eyes. the bowling alley buzz had worn off, but jisung hadn’t let go of your hand the entire walk to the parking lot.

"everyone else is home for the break," he said casually, glancing at you as you reached his car, “dream house is empty.” you raised a brow, smirking, already know what he’s asking, “and?”

“and i don’t feel like being alone tonight,” his eyes flicked down to your lips, “come home with me.”you didn’t even hesitate. you just nodded and got in. the drive was peaceful, you and jisung talk about everything and anything. when you finally get to the dream house, it's unusually quie. the muffled hush is a stark contrast to the laughter and lights the place usually held, leaving the place feeling like your own little private world. you both kick off your shoes by the door. your legs a little sore from the photobooth. you flop onto the couch, burying your face in the cushions, “what are we watching?”

“home alone?,” jisung asks, pulling it up on netflix, “it’s a christmas classic.”

“sounds good,” you mumble into the couch and before you know it, he’s sat beside you. you’ve somehow ended up half on his lap, legs stretched out, your bottom half on his thighs, skirt riding high from the way you’re laying, ass slightly raised. you mean to adjust, you really do, but he doesn’t seem to mind and the position was too comfortable to move. your eyes stay fixed on the screen as the movie starts, jisung tracing soft patterns on your calves. it’s only when his hand lands on the curve of your ass, warm and slow, like it belongs there, that you freeze,“what are you doing?,” you ask, voice low, face still pressed into the pillows.

“nothing,” he says, a little too innocently. you don’t turn to look at him, but you can hear the smirk on his voice. you should stop him. but you don’t. you just let him touch you, let his fingers knead the softness through your skirt like it’s the most natural thing in the world. the movie plays on. you try to focus but you can feel jisung watching you. he leans back, one hand still massaging the curve of your ass, rougher this time. you feel him hardening beneath you, feel the subtle shift of his thigh under your center as your underwear clings wetly between your legs, “this skirt should be illegal,” he mutters to himself, his touch making your spine shiver. and with no warning he lands a slap, loud and red and shocking, on one of your cheeks. you jolt with a gasp, a sharp, high moan escapes before you can stop it, surprised and unfiltered. you whip your head around to look at him, your mouth slightly open, eyes wide. his eyes gleamed with mischief, “you like that?” you open your mouth to deny it. then freezes when his hand smooths over the same spot. soothing the sting. the heat and tension pooling low in your belly.

“maybe,” you whisper. he lands another one, this time on the other cheek. the moan that slips out of you is louder. your hips twitch slightly, fingers clutching the cushion tighter. he leans over you, voice dark and playful now, “didn’t know you were into that.” his fingers hook into the waistband of your skirt, tugging it down slowly, like he’s giving you time to stop him. but you don’t. you stay perfectly still, breath shaky, as he slides the fabric down your thighs, leaving you in your white cotton underwear – delicate, damp and undeniably revealing. you hear him exhale slowly. then his palm lands again and your hips roll into him, soft moans muffled into the couch. his hand caresses the heated skin between every strike, gentle in the places where he was just rough. and all the while, the movie still plays – a cheerful soundtrack to something far less innocent.

he lets out a soft groan, “you’re so wet,” he murmurs, in awe.

“i-i didn’t know i would like that,” you admit, your voice barely audible, “but i think i do,” you admit quietly but he hears every word. he chuckles, low and deep, the sound skimming down your spine.

“then let’s keep finding out what else you like,” he whispers, his palm connects again, firm and practiced now, alternating between spanking and soothing, his fingers sometimes dipping lower, testing, teasing. your whole body starts moving with it, moaning into every strike, grinding down helplessly into the ridge of his jeans. the pain shooting pleasure up your spine. “say it,” he whispers, leaning close, “say you like it.”

you pant, dizzy with heat and friction “i like it,” you choke out, “i— fuck, jisung — i love it.”

he kisses your lower back, slow and possessive, “good girl.” you feel wrecked already — and he’s barely touched you. still bent over his lap, your panties cling soaked between your legs, his hand lingering on your ass, fingers flexing like he can’t decide if he wants to soothe you or spank you again. your breathing is erratic, soft moans slipping out of you. “look at you,” he says again, voice deeper, rougher, “didn’t even have to take your panties off to get you dripping all over me.”

“shut up,” you whisper, flushed and humiliated, but you don’t mean it and he knows. instead of shutting up, he hooks his fingers around the waistband of your underwear, “let me see you,” he murmurs, “yeah?” you nod, wordless, shivering under the weight of his voice. he pulls them down slowly, a deliberate, dragging tease, and you whimper at the sudden exposure, the cool air hitting wet skin. he drops them to the floor, then spreads your thighs wider on his lap, like he wants to take his time with the view, “fuck,” he exhales, “all this from me just spanking you?”

“i don’t know what’s wrong with me,” you say breathlessly, dazed.

“there’s nothing wrong with you,” jisung murmurs, one hand slipping down to trace through your folds, slick and slow, “you like a little pain with your pleasure and that’s so hot,” then his thumb circles your clit, featherlight, maddening. you gasp, hips jolting. and before you could process what’s happening jisung slaps your cunt. the pleasure spikes sharp in your belly, a moan punching out of you so loud it echoes off the living room walls. you collapse forward against the arm of the couch, gripping the cushions, “oh my god—”

“you want more?” he growls, his fingers slipping lower, dipping just barely inside you, “you want to fall apart on my lap?”

“please,” you choke out, grinding back against his hand, “please, jisung—,” he doesn’t make you beg again. two fingers slide inside you, curling instantly, dragging a broken cry from your lips. his palm cradles your hip while his other fingers find a rhythm — curling, spanking, soothing teasing, until you’re trembling above him, breathless and soaked and spiraling fast.

“listen to you,” he mutters against your back, “listen to how wet you are,” he says, the sound of your juices squelching around his fingers. he grinds his thigh up into your clit as his fingers thrust faster, “you’re so fucking close,” he says like he’s memorized your body, “let go, cherry.” — that’s all it takes. your climax crashes over you. loud, wet, shaking. your whole body locks up, cries muffled into the cushions as your hips stutter and grind into him helplessly. you hear him moan low and wrecked behind you, feel the way he holds you through it, possessive and steady, and the aftershocks leave you limp and boneless in his lap, utterly spent. for a long moment, the only sound in the room is the movie, something ridiculous in the background while you both breathe like you’ve just run a marathon, the aftermath of your orgasm still pulsing through your limbs.

you slowly push yourself up from the couch, breath uneven, heart racing. jisung’s hands are still on your body, loose now. you shift, deliberately, turning to face him. you straddle his lap, eyes dark, flushed and determined. he looks at you with a teasing grin, shirt rumpled, cock painfully hard under his jeans. you lean in close, nose brushing his, voice soft but firm, “is there anything you haven’t done,” you ask, “that you’ve always wanted to try?”

his eyes narrow slightly, like he’s caught off guard. then he smirks. “well… i’ve always wanted to try fucking someone’s tits.” the way he says it, low and rough, with a glint of challenge in his gaze, makes your thighs clench. you don’t answer him with words. you slide off his lap, dropping to your knees in front of him with slow, deliberate confidence. your eyes stay on his, unbreaking, even as your hands reach for his jeans. “cherry,” he breathes, his voice as tight, “wait— are you sure?”

“let me take care of you,” you say simply, your voice almost gentle but it holds no room for argument. you remove your shirt, unhooking your bra in one, swift motion. he groans as you free him from his jeans, cock heavy and flushed and pink, leaking at the tip. you lick your lips slowly, then push your tits together, sliding them around him without waiting for permission. he hisses the moment his length sinks into the soft warmth of your chest.

“fuck—” he chokes, head falling back against the couch. you move slowly at first, guiding your tits up and down his shaft, letting the tip pop out near your collarbone before sliding him back down between the swell, “is this what you pictured?” you ask, licking across the head when it peeks out again, “me, on my knees, tits wrapped around you?”

he moans loud and raw, hands flexing uselessly at his sides, “yes. fuck–this is better–,” you pick up the pace, pressing your breasts tighter around his cock, bouncing faster now — letting him watch as you spit into the valley between, adding more slickness, more heat. every time his head slips out, you lean in and lick it, teasing, dragging your tongue slowly and deliberately across the tip, watching him fall apart. he’s panting, hips jerking, eyes locked on your chest like he’s in a trance, “i’m not gonna last—fuck—.” he grunts, you keep going, pace unrelenting, tilting your head just right so your tongue can keep teasing the slit each time. his hand shoots out before he can think, fingers tangling in your hair. he bunches it up in a tight fist, yanking your head back slightly so you’re looking up at him, mouth wet, chest glistening with his juices, eyes dark and teasing.

“fuck,” he growls through clenched teeth, “you’re so fucking hot like this.” you hum around the head of him, letting your tongue swirl filthily as he starts thrusting up your tits now, using your body, your mouth, like he’s completely lost to the feeling. you don’t let up either. if anything, you squeeze your breasts tighter, spit dripping down your cleavage.“you wanna come, jisung?” you murmur, voice sultry and sweet and wicked all at once, “wanna come all over my chest like a good boy?”

his breath punches out of him, the words making him feel dizzy, “jesus—yes. yes, please, cherry—”

“do it,” you whisper, the words vibrating against his cock, your lips ghosting over the head. “come all over me. i want it.” — with a hoarse, desperate cry, jisung jerks forward. his cock pulses between your tits, spilling hot and thick across your chest, your throat, your lips. he doesn’t stop until he’s emptied every last drop, his body trembling, your name falling off his lips like it’s the only word he knows. he collapses back against the couch, panting and wrecked, eyes glazed and stunned. his hand loosens in your hair but doesn’t let go. he stares at you, completely undone, chest heaving, eyes wide. his moans are still echoing in the room, the mess he left on your chest still warm, when you look up at him — eyes dark, lips wet, chest rising and falling as you catch your breath. but you’re not done. not even close. still kneeling between his legs, you tilt your heat, “that was so hot,” you murmur, fingers wrapping around the base of his cock, still twitching, still sensitive, “but i think you can give me a little more.”

jisung flinches, overstimulated, breath catching, “c-cherry—wait, i just—fuck—,” but you’re already leaning forward again. you lick up the underside of his shaft, slow and languid, catching every trace of cum from earlier. you flatten your tongue along the head, swirling it deliberately, watching his face as his whole body jolts from the contact. his thighs twitch. you take him into your mouth, lips wrapping around the head, sucking gently. he lets out the loudest moan yet, head falling back, hand fisting in your hair tight, like he’ll fall without you, “oh my—fuck, cherry, stop, i’m too—i’m still sensitive—shit,” his hand flies to your hair again, gripping. needing something to stay grounded.

you hum around him, “too much?”

“yes—no—fuck, i don’t know—,” you smirk around his cock and take him deeper. he moans, hips jerking, his head falling back against the couch with a soft thud, “jesus christ—fuck, you’re insane,” he groans, “you’re gonna suck the soul out of me—”and you do. you keep your rhythm slow and dirty, tongue dragging along every sensitive inch, bobbing your head with perfect pressure, letting your spit make everything messier. his thighs are shaking now. hands gripping your hair like it’s the only thing keeping him tethered.

“cherry, cherry, fuck, i’m coming again—” he gasps, voice breaking, “i can’t—” you don’t stop. you tighten your mouth around him and moan, letting the vibrations pulse through his cock. and that’s it. he comes again, harder this time, full-body trembling, a choked, strangled cry punching out of him as his cock twitches on your tongue. his hand fists in your hair, knuckles white, trying not to fall apart completely while you milk every last drop from him, sucking slow and deep, prolonging it until he’s shaking. by the time you finally pull off, his cock slips free from your lips with a wet pop, and he slumps backward, completely undone. chest heaving. eyes glazed. sweat beading at his hairline. you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand and grin up at him, “still alive?”

he laughs, breathless and disbelieving, then leans forward, cupping your face with shaking hands, “i have no idea what the fuck you just did to me,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “but i need to fuck you. now.” his voice drops into your ear, “let’s finish this upstairs.” you nod, biting back a grin as he grabs your wrist and hauls you up, his grip tight, possessive, leading you up the stairs. you can barely keep up, your thighs still trembling, your chest sticky.

the second he kicks his bedroom door open, you’re pushed inside. he closes the door behind him, turns to face you — and it’s on. you crawl up his mattress on all fours, arching your back slowly, presenting yourself like a gift—bare, glistening, ready. he doesn’t speak. he just stares for a moment, already stripping behind you — shirt gone, pants kicked off, his cock standing already hard and heavy again. you can hear the change in his breathing, the way it stutters when he sees the curve of your ass, plump and ready for him. he kneels behind you, palms gripping your ass, spreading you open, “look at this pussy,” he says, like he’s talking to himself, “still dripping,” he mutters, breath shaking, “all this from sucking me off?”

“all this,” you whisper, hips grinding back against him, “from you.”

then — smack. his palm lands hard on your ass, and you jerk forward with a cry, fingers fisting the sheets. you barely recover before another slap lands, on the other cheek this time, sharp and loud, the sting blooming hot and electric, “you like that?” he growls, rubbing the fresh pink skin, “you want me to spank you while i fuck you?”

“y-yes,” you gasp, back arching deeper, “yes, please—” with no warning, he thrusts in, all at once, deep and fast and filthy, splitting you open around his cock. you scream into the sheets, mouth open and eyes wide, as he fills you completely, “fuck—jisung—fuck—,” he gives you no time to adjust. he sets a brutal rhythm from the start, hips snapping against your ass with loud, wet slaps, each thrust punching moans out of you. his hands grip your waist so tight you know there’ll be bruises later. you’re his tonight — and he’s making sure your body remembers it. another slap. harder now. making you clench around him, “you’re such a fucking mess,” he growls, “so wet—so tight—” your body starts to quake. the sound of his skin hitting yours, his breath in your ear, the sting of his hand. it’s too much, it’s perfect. “you love this, don’t you?” he pants, leaning forward, fingers finding your clit now, rubbing you in fast, punishing circles, “love getting your ass slapped while i wreck this tight little cunt?”

you nod, moaning louder, “yes—yes—please, don’t stop—”

“beg for it,” he snarls, still pounding into you, “beg me to fuck you harder.”

“please,” you sob, toes curling, “please, harder—faster—fuck, i’m so close—” he slaps your ass again, the sting making you shudder as his cock drives even deeper. “come on my cock, cherry. show me who you belong to.” you scream into his sheets, shattering, the orgasm tearing through you in sharp, uncontrollable waves. your entire body clamps down around him, back arching, moaning his name as your pussy spasms around his cock. you feel your slick dripping down your thighs. jisung loses it, “cherry—shit—gonna fucking come—” he growls, snapping his hips into you with brutal, desperate precision. his grip bruises your waist, dragging you back onto his cock as he pounds into you one last time, burying himself deep. he spills with a groan that sounds like it’s being ripped out of his chest—hot, thick ropes flooding your cunt, pulse after pulse, until you’re both shaking.

he stays there, cock twitching inside you, breathing hard against your back. you’re limp beneath him, utterly wrecked, moaning softly as the warmth spreads deep inside you, “jesus,” he breathes against your neck, voice ruined. when he finally pulls out, you both gasp at the wet, filthy sound. his cum leaks out immediately, spilling over and pooling beneath you. sticky, messy, obscene. jisung watches, and his eyes go dark, feral, “fuck,” he groans. “you’re dripping. look at that. my cum leaking out of you,” he spreads you open with two fingers, watching his release ooze out of you with a hungry, fucked-out expression. “shit, i didn’t even know i could come that hard,” he mutters, “your tight little pussy milked every drop out of me.”

you let out a weak laugh, your voice breathless and cracked. his gaze snaps to yours, smug and wild. you whimper when his thumb brushes over your slick folds again, teasing. “you’re still so wet,” he groans, almost to himself. “you like being full of me, huh?”

you nod, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy. “i love it,” you whisper. “i love how you fill me up. i can still feel you inside.”

jisung groans deep in his throat, like he might lose it all over again. “fuck, don’t say that. i’ll flip you over and fuck you stupid.”

you smirk, weakly. “what’s stopping you?”

he lets out a dark laugh, eyes still fixed between your legs. “your legs are shaking. you can barely breathe. you’ll pass out before i’m halfway through with you.” you scoff, voice hoarse. but he was right. your body was exhausted.

jisung shifts carefully, lying down beside you and tugging you gently into his chest. one of his arms slides under your head, the other wrapping tightly around your waist, like he needs to feel you breathe, and then, quietly, soft, worried, he asks, “are you okay?” you blink. “i didn’t hurt you, right?” he murmurs, “i know it got rough.”

you press your face into his neck, your hand resting on his chest. his heart is still racing beneath your palm, “no,” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut. “you didn’t hurt me.” he pulls back just enough to look at you, brows slightly furrowed, searching your face. “are you sure? i—your thighs are shaking more than usual, and i got carried away, and—”

you cut him off with a soft kiss, slow, lazy, reassuring. “i’m sure, jisung,” you say, voice gentler now, “you were perfect.” the room grows quiet again, warm and full. your bare legs tangle under the sheets now, his fingers lightly tracing shapes along your spine. then, with a sleepy smirk playing on your lips, you break the warm silence, “you have another morning-after pill, right?”

jisung chuckled, the sound low and warm, vibrating under your cheek, “of course i do,” he whispered, brushing your hair off your face. you grinned, tilting your chin up to look at him, “i should really think about getting on birth control.”

he glanced down at you, one brow raised, a slow smile tugging at his mouth, “i mean… you don’t have to.”

you blinked, “no?”

“i could just wear a condom,” he added with a shrug, “unless you’re like… allergic to latex or into the thrill of potential fatherhood.”

you smacked his chest lightly, “wow. so noble. bet the trojan company misses you.”

“they’re surviving without me…barely,” he smirks. you giggled, burying your face into his neck, and he kissed the top of your head like it was second nature now, like affection was a reflex around you. you both fell quiet again after that, just your breaths syncing and your skin cooling against each other. the air between you is warm, quiet, buzzing with the afterglow and something more.

“do you think aliens are real?” you murmur, your voice soft and a little sleepy.

jisung hums, a little more excited than you’d expect, “definitely. the universe is too big for just us.”

“would you let an alien abduct you?”

“depends. is she hot?”

you laugh into his chest, and he grins, his hand sliding up to cup the back of your head gently, “what about you?” he asks, “ghosts?”

you shudder, “ugh, yes. my grandma used to say if you wake up at 3:33 a.m., it means something’s watching you.”

he stiffens slightly, then checks the time, “cherry.”

“what?”

“it’s 3:31.”

you gasp, pushing off his chest, “shut up.” he bursts out laughing, pulling you right back into his arms, “you’re so easy to mess with.” you slap his shoulder, but your smile doesn’t fade. it’s easy like this — wrapped in warmth, inside jokes, and the quiet stillness that only exists in the middle of the night, when everything feels suspended in time. you tilt your head slightly, studying his face in the dark. the curve of his jaw. the lashes that brush his cheeks when he blinks slowly. the tiny smile that still plays at his lips.

then, softer now, realer, “you’re really good at playing the boyfriend role.” he doesn’t answer at first. just breathes. then chuckles lightly, “i know how to be a boyfriend, cherry. i was one before i was a fuckboy.”

your chest tightens, “she really messed you up, didn’t she?”

his eyes stay on the ceiling for a moment, silent. then he swallows, “yeah,” he says, voice low. honest, “more than i wanted to admit. i hate being lied to. hate it more than anything,” he sighed, pulling you closer and you feel your heart break in your chest. but he doesn’t stop there. he sighs, long and shaky, and you can feel the tension ripple through him, the way his fingers are still against your skin, “at first, being the fuckboy was fun — the girls, the freedom. it felt like control.” he shook his head slowly, voice dropping into something almost vulnerable, “but now… i don’t know what i’m doing. i feel lost. the boys were right…i’ve been spiraling.”

you stayed quiet, letting him speak, letting the weight of his words settle between you. he’s holding you like you're safe. like you're good. like you’re not exactly the kind of person who’s about to break him all over again. your head rests on his chest, and you can feel the steady rhythm of his heart under your cheek. he doesn’t know what he just said cracked something open. because he doesn’t know about the bet. he doesn’t know that somewhere deep in the shadows of all the laughter and stolen moments, your friends are counting down the days, watching, waiting for you to win. for you to break him. and maybe at first, it was a game. but now you’re here. wrapped in his sheets. pressed against his chest like you belong there. listening to him breathe like he’s letting you in, like he’s trusting you.

and all you can think is: i’m going to hurt him. you blink hard, your throat tightening, the guilt blooming hot behind your ribs. it’s been creeping in for days now, but tonight, after that look in his eyes, the softness in his voice, it’s unbearable. he thinks he can trust you. and here you are, hiding a knife behind your back with a smile on your lips. your arms tighten around him as if that could somehow undo everything. as if holding him closer could keep the truth at bay. but it can’t. because the truth is… you’re starting to hate yourself. you’re starting to hate the way he looks at you. hate the way he opens himself up more each night through every touch, every sigh, every soft-eyed glance that says he’s slipping and doesn’t know how deep yet. hate that the closer he gets, the worse it’s going to hurt when he realizes what you’ve done. he’s going to look at you the same way he talks about his ex. like betrayal tastes the same, no matter who’s stabbing you.

you close your eyes and burrow closer, trying to memorize the weight of his arms around you, the warmth of his breath on your forehead, the way his heartbeat feels against your cheek. because you know you don’t have much time left. and when this all crashes down, you won’t get this again. you won’t get him again. and it’s no one’s fault but yours. and as his vulnerability wraps around you, a tight knot forms deep inside your chest. and in a last attempt to make yourself feel better, you tell yourself: this isn’t real. he’s doing this to get the boys off his back. he doesn’t have feelings for me.

🍒 DAY 12 OF THE BET - THE BEST BOYFRIEND EVER.

you needed a drink. maybe two. maybe three. maybe four. so you ended up here — tucked into the corner of a quiet pojangmacha, orange tarp walls buzzing gently in the wind, the faint smell of grilled chicken and smoke thick in the air. there was an untouched plate of fried chicken in front of you and at least three empty green bottles beside it. you lost count after the second one. the guilt sat heavy in your chest. an ache no amount of soju could blur.

jisung was too nice. too soft. too good at playing the boyfriend role. too good at pretending it didn’t mean anything. and the worst part? you don’t know when you stopped pretending. yet you’re still lying to him. letting him open up to you. all for a stupid, reckless bet. $500. that’s what his heart was worth to your friends. that’s what you agreed to. god. what a joke. the world tilted slightly when you reached for the shot glass again, your fingers slow, clumsy. you missed it, knocked it over. soju spilled across the table and pooled at the edge of your untouched plate of chicken. you blinked at it, like it might explain something. like it might fix something. but all you felt was the sinking weight of it all. you thought maybe you’d cry. maybe scream. instead, you laughed. soft. bitter. a little broken.

the cashier had been watching from the back of the tent for a while now. he finally came over, wiping his hands on a towel, concern painted across every tired feature of her face, “miss?” he asked gently, “you don’t look well.” you opened your mouth to answer, but all that came out was a garbled, thick breath — not quite a word, not quite a sob. you swayed a little in your seat, eyes half-lidded, mouth dry. the man crouched beside your table, gaze softening, “i’m going to look through your phone and call someone okay?” he murmured, not really asking, just doing, because you clearly weren’t in any condition to, “let’s get you home in one piece.”

you look up at him, eyebrows furrowed. he’s pretty but jisung is prettier — “i have a boyfriend,” you manage to say, just wanting the random guy to leave you alone. he nods, a little confused, reaching across the table and picking up your phone. he looked through your emergency contact, only finding one name. then he pressed call and brought the phone to his ear, glancing at your hunched form, cheeks flushed red, knuckles gripping the edge of the table, eyes shut. the phone rang once. then again.

“hello?” jisung’s voice answered, cheerfully, slightly confused.

“is this jisung?” he asked, voice kind but firm.

jisung’s eyebrow furrows at the man’s voice, “yes. who’s this? why do you have my girlfriends phone?”

“i’m sorry to call so late. i’m kim jungwoo, i work at a pojangmacha. your girlfriend is very drunk. not speaking clearly. i don’t think she can get home by herself.”

there’s a beat of silence on the other end. then, “where is she?” his voice sharpens. alert now. “is she safe?”

“she’s safe. just not well. you should come get her.” the guy gives him the address and jisung is already out the door before the phone call even ended. he got there in under five minutes. the pojangmacha was just a couple streets away from the dream house, but he still jogged the last block — hoodie half-zipped, hair still tousled from where he’d been lying in bed. jungwoo waved him over before he could even ask, “she’s at the back,” he said softly, “didn’t eat much. drank more than she should’ve.” jisung thanked him quietly, slipping through the rows of low plastic tables until he saw you — slumped over the last one, your cheek pressed against your own arm, lips puffed out into the most exaggerated pout he’d ever seen. you looked small. you looked soft. you looked like something he didn’t know how to take care of yet still wanted to, more than anything.

“cherry,” he called out gently, crouching beside you, “why’d you drink so much, huh?”

instead of words, you gave him a quiet whine. your lower lip jutted out like a child scolded at recess, your cheeks all puffed up, eyes a little misty. you blinked at him slowly. blurred. bright. then you lifted your arms. “my boyfrienddd,” you mumbled, reaching for him like it was the only thing your brain remembered, “you’re hereee.”

jisung stared for a second. then exhaled a shaky laugh. “yeah,” he said, “i’m here.” you clung to him the second he was close enough, arms wrapping around his shoulders, your face buried in the crook of his neck. you smelled like soju and citrus shampoo. warm. familiar. dangerous.

“you’re sooo cute, sungie,” you whispered, “you’re always so cute,” you pinch his cheeks, “like a cute little hamster alien!.”

he cleared his throat, ignoring all the wandering eyes now looking at your direction. he holds you carefully and amused, “you’re drunk.”

“i knoww,” you said proudly. he smiled despite himself, ordering a glass of water for you. then you started talking. something about aliens again. ghosts. time travel. then, in a heartbreakingly small voice, you mumbled, “if i was abducted by aliens, would you still remember me?”

he huffed a laugh, “what kind of question is that?”

“say yesss,” you whine.

he adjusted you in his arms, “yes.”

you sighed happily, “you’re the best boyfriend ever.”

jisung froze for half a second. it wasn’t the first time you’d called him that, boyfriend. you both said it in front of people all the time. part of the deal. but tonight, in this moment, the way your voice lilted so gently, the way you held him like he was the only thing tethering you to the ground – it didn’t sound like a joke. his chest tightened. a slow, unfamiliar ache. a stutter in his pulse he hadn’t felt since her. his high school girlfriend. he shook the thought out of his head and slipped your arms around his neck again.

“c’mon,” he murmured, bending slightly, “let’s get you home.”

you giggled as he hoisted you onto his back, legs locking around his waist, “piggyback ride,” you whispered giddily, nuzzling against his shoulder, “you’re strong.”

“you’re just really light,” he teased, smiling softly. you didn’t answer. just rested your cheek on his back, humming under your breath while he walked the familiar path back to the dream house. jisung didn’t complain once. not when your weight started to sag heavier in his arms. your cheek resting against his shoulder, lips occasionally brushing the curve of it as you rambled on and on, all soft, slurred nonsense that had him smiling like an idiot under the glow of the streetlights — and for a boy who swore he didn’t do real feelings anymore, he was starting to think he might be in trouble.

“do you think,” you mumbled, “like… actually think… that somewhere out there, aliens are in love?”

jisung let out a small laugh, steadying you with one hand beneath your thigh, “aliens in love?”

“yeah,” you slurred sleepily, “like, maybe one of them fell in love with a human. and now they’re sad. because they can’t be together.”

“sounds tragic,” he said, humoring you.

“exactly,” you pout, emotional. you tugged weakly on his hoodie, bringing your mouth closer to his ear, “and do you think ghosts ever get lonely?”

“probably.”

“i’d haunt someone just to talk to them. not in a creepy way. just like… ‘hi, how was your day?’ y’know?”

he laughed again, soft and breathy, “you’d beat casper for the friendliest ghost.”

“you’d still like me right?,” you whispered, “even if i was see through? even if i wasn’t real?” and somehow, the question seems deeper than just you being a ghost.

he adjusted you higher on his back, “i’d never stop liking you, cherry,” he says softly. that shut you up for a second. then, more quietly, “you’re my favorite person, jisung.” he blinked. slowed slightly on the sidewalk. your voice was all cotton and warmth and honey, sticky-sweet and clumsy from alcohol, but it sounded real. too real. and he didn’t know what to do with that. so he just kept walking. then you gasped, like you just discovered a new alien species, “would you still like me if i was a worm?”

he huffed a small laugh, biting back a grin, “am i worm too?”

“no!…yes!…i don’t know,” you mumbled, nuzzling into his neck like a sleepy kitten, “you’re so warm. and soft. like a human pillow. but strong. like a big tree.”

“a tree?”

“a sexy tree,” you clarified. he lost it then, shaking with laughter as you clung tighter to him. “you’re so drunk.”

“mmhmm,” you hummed proudly, “but you came for me.”

he glanced down, smile softening, “of course i did.” the dream house came into view ahead, glowing faintly in the distance. your words were getting quieter now, fading into sleepy murmurs, but your hands stayed curled in the front of his hoodie like you didn’t want to let go. and jisung didn’t want to let go either. something about carrying you like this, warm and soft and pressed against his back, trusting him fully, stirred something in his chest he hadn’t felt in years. it was terrifying. it was dangerous. but it was also sweet. stupidly, stupidly sweet. and he let himself enjoy it just a little longer.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

his room was dim when jisung carried you in, lit only by the soft blue hue of lights. you stirred a little as he closed the door behind him with his foot, but you didn’t protest when he set you down gently on the edge of his bed. he crouched in front of you, carefully tugging your shoes off one by one, then reached for the makeup wipes he stole from jeno’s room. “gonna clean you up, okay?” he murmured. you didn’t answer, just blinked at him slowly, lips parted slightly, all glassy-eyed and pink-cheeked. he held your chin in his hand with a touch so light it could’ve been a whisper, wiping away the smudged mascara with slow, gentle swipes. you were beautiful like this. even drunk, even messy. you were beautiful and soft and his. or at least… pretending to be. he tried not to think about that part. when he was done, he pulled an old hoodie over your head, oversized and warm. then he helped you slip out of your jeans.

“c’mon,” he whispered, easing you down into bed, “let’s sleep.” you followed him, turning toward him, pressing your face to his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of the hoodie you were wearing. the silence wrapping around you both.

“…i’m sorry,” you murmured. he froze.

you said it again, “sorry,” and again, voice cracking now, “i’m so sorry.”

his arms tightened instinctively around you, confused and worried, “hey, hey, what are you sorry for?”

you looked up at him then — eyes glassy, a couple tears slipping silently down your cheeks, your lips trembling in a way that undoes him, “i’m just… sorry,” you whispered.

he reached up, thumb brushing your tears away, his touch impossibly gentle, “don’t be sorry,” he said softly, tucking your head under his chin, one hand cradling your back. “i’m your boyfriend. it’s my job to take care of you.” his voice dropped lower, “you don’t have to tell me what’s wrong. but just know that you can, okay?”

that broke you. you buried your face in his chest and cried — silent, aching sobs that shook your whole body, small fists curled into his hoodie like you didn’t know where else to hold on. he just held you. no questions. no pressure. only warmth and arms wrapped tightly around you, rubbing slow circles into your back until your breathing softened, until your tears slowed, until you finally drifted off, tear stained and clinging to him in the quiet dark. but jisung stayed awake. he laid there, holding you like you were something delicate, something rare, something his, and stared up at the ceiling as something heavy and terrifying took root in his chest. he hated seeing you cry, how broken your voice sounded, how helpless he felt when he couldn’t fix it. and fuck. he realized it then. right there, in the middle of the night, with your breath soft and even against his neck and your hands still curled into him like he was home — he didn’t want this to be convenient anymore. he didn’t want to pretend to be your boyfriend just to get the boys off his back. he wanted you. he wants to be the one you call when you’re hurting, the one who makes you laugh when you can't stop crying. he wants the tears, the rambling, the kisses, the chaos — all of it. he was giving you his heart. no conditions. no pretend. just you. only you. and as you slept, curled against him like you were already his, jisung closed his eyes and made a silent promise to himself. he was going to make sure you never had to cry alone again.

🍒 DAY 13 OF THE BET - LIAR.

the morning light filtered in gently through the blinds, casting pale stripes across the bed and the mess of tangled limbs and rumpled sheets. jisung woke first. and when he saw you there, curled into his side, one hand still fisted in the fabric of his hoodie, lashes fanned out across your cheek, lips slightly parted – something in his chest squeezed hard. he didn’t want to move. didn’t want to break the spell. so he just watched you for a while. let himself memorize the shape of your face in the light. the soft rise and fall of your breathing. the way your body instinctively gravitated cloer, like even unconscious, you knew where safety was. eventually, you stirred. your lashes fluttered. you blinked blearily up at him, “what time is it?”

“almost eleven,” he said softly, brushing a thumb under your eye, “how are you feeling?” you groaned, flopping back onto your side, “like someone stuffed a cactus into my skull…how embarrassing was i last night?”

he smirks, “not that bad…but,” he looks at you, “you did call me sungie.”

you groan into your hands, “goddd, eww, don’t tell me anything more.”

he laughed, leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead, “it was cute.”

you roll your eyes, “i smell like alcohol and chicken.”

he just laughed again, “come on, let’s shower. it’ll help.” the shower steamed up around you, fog curling on the mirror. hot water poured down your back and you leaned into jisung’s bare chest with a soft hum, eyes fluttering closed. his hands were already on your waist, thumbs stroking along your back as though he couldn’t stop touching you. you let out a breath, tilting your chin up. he smiled at you, slow, soft, pressing a kiss to your forehead, making your stomach twist. “you look like you’re about to fall asleep standing up,” he murmured in your ear.

“might,” you mumbled, “too cozy.” he laughed under his breath, reaching for the shampoo on the side and squirting a bit into his palm, “turn around,” he murmured, voice low and still a little raspy. you obeyed without question, and the next thing you felt were his fingers gently working through your hair. slow, thoughtful motions, like you were something fragile.

“mmm,” you hummed, eyes slipping shut, “you’re good at that.” he grins, “guess i’ll add shampoo technician to my resume.” you smiled as he rinsed you off carefully, tilting your head back under the stream so none of it ran into your eyes. his hands always steady. always careful.

“your turn,” you say, squeezing out a generous amount of shampoo into your palm, but the second you reached up, you realized your mistake. he was much taller. you are already on your tiptoes, arms barely reaching the crown of his head as you attempt to lather him up. he started laughing, bending his knees slightly to help, “you’re so short.”

“stop laughing,” you huffed, stretching, “it’s not my fault you’re a giraffe.” his jaw dropped, “okay, that’s not even a good insult.” you were both giggling now, your hands doing their best to rinse off his soapy hair, faces close enough to feel each other’s breath. then he pressed a kiss on the corner of your lips and the atmosphere shifted. still warm, still playful but heavier now. slower. the laughter faded, replaced by something quieter. your chest rose and fell in time with his. water trailed down your collarbone. his hands slid gently down to your hips. and then — he leaned in. it wasn’t a hungry kiss. it was soft, soaked in steam, lips brushing slowly over yours. your fingers threaded into his wet hair and you pulled him closer, pressing your bodies together. he guided you backwards until your back was pressed against the slick shower wall, one hand braced beside your head and the other wrapped tight around your waist, trying to keep you steady. you were already breathless from the kissing but as he tried to line himself up, you both realized something at the same time. this…wasn’t going to be as graceful as it looked in the movies.

he grunted, “okay–wait. hold on.”

“yeah,” you giggled, trying to find your footing, “this is actually really difficult…why are you so tall.”

“why are you so short,” he argues back, teasing. you burst out laughing, “wait…try it this way,” you said, shifting your leg up and resting it awkwardly on the side of the tub, your hands grabbing onto his shoulders for leverage, “i think this is how people do it.” he adjusted, positioning himself again, mouth brushing yours as he tried not to laugh, “you’re gonna get a leg cramp.”

“just go slow,” you say, he looks at you one more time before lining himself back in, but as soon as he entered you already knew it was the wrong angle, “oW!, okay nope. nope. that is not it.” he pulled away immediately, eyes wide before you both cracked up again, laughter echoing off the walls.

“okay, what about this way?,” you said, breathless, turning around and pressing your palms flat to the wall, glancing over your shoulder with raised brows, “lets try from behind. its gotta be easier.”

jisung blinked, “that looks so hot, like holy shit i could bust right now,” he says, earning another giggle from you. he moved, hands gripping your hips as he tried again, carefully, slowly, a moan tumbling out of your lips as he entered, stretching you just right – but between the water still running down your legs, the slippery floor, and the height difference… “fuck this,” he muttered. he stepped back with a groan, palms rubbing over his face as he blinked water out of his eyes, “this isn’t working, i’m gonna slip, you’re gonna crack your head open and that’s not exactly the fantasy i had in mind.”

you laughed again, turning around to face him with a pout, “so much for shower sex being hot and spontaneous.”

“it is hot,” he muttered, voice lower now, watching the way water slid on your skin, “you’re hot,” then his hand snaked around your waist, tugging you towards him, “but we're taking this to the counter before someone dies.” you squeaked as he lifted you, bridal-style, with ease. your wet bodies pressed together, slick skin on skin, carrying you to the bathroom counter and setting you down gently, lips finding yours again in another kiss. this one deeper. needier. no more giggling. just the low hum of his moan against your mouth and the way his tongue slid slow and sweet against yours. you opened your legs without a word, and he stepped in close, hand wrapping behind your knee and dragging it up over his hip. his other hand ran down your spine, settling at the base of your back, pulling you forward until your ass was right on the edge of the counter, forehead pressed to yours, both of you breathing like you’d run a mile, “okay?” he whispered, his voice barely audible over your own pulse. you nodded, breath catching, “yeah.” he kissed you again, slow and deliberate. his hands slid lower, tilting your hips forward, adjusting you to fit against him perfectly. you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, fingers tightening just slightly as you felt him press closer — the warm, heavy weight of him nestled against you now, not moving yet, just resting there like he was savoring the closeness. then, with a deep inhale and eyes locked on yours, he shifted, lining himself up. you could feel the tension build between you, your grip tightening around his shoulders as your thighs instinctively squeezed around his waist. his breath hitched, then he pressed forward. slow. careful. you exhaled sharply, eyes fluttering closed as the familiar stretch bloomed through you. intense, slow-burning, your body remembering everything at once. it still caught you off guard, even after everything. this time it wasn’t awkward. no slipping, no bad angles. the cold marble of the counter a sharp contrast to the heat blooming between your thighs. you sucked in a breath, nails digging into his shoulders, eyes fluttering shut as he bottomed out with a soft, broken sound that made your toes curl, your fingers clenching at his damp shoulders. he paused, his thumb stroking over your hip as he whispered, “breathe.”

“i am breathing,” you managed, voice shaky.

he kissed your jaw, “you feel—god, you always feel so good.” your walls clenched at the sound of his voice. his hands gripped your waist tighter, and when he moved again, deeper, more deliberate, your mouth fell open in a gasp, body instinctively leaning forward into his. he settled into a rhythm, hips snapping forward with practiced precision. each thrust dragged a moan out of your throat. every movement sent sparks through you. too much and not enough. he moved like he knew exactly where you needed him, how to angle you just right, what to say to keep you hovering right there in that delicate place between pleasure and something more terrifyingly tender.

“jisung—,” you gasped when his palm found your breast, warm and broad and teasingly light at first. he thumbed over your nipple slowly, already peaked for him, with just the right amount of pressure to make your back arch into him. your voice caught, eyes fluttering as he leaned down to suck one into his mouth, sending a full-body shiver racing through you. he rolled them between his fingers while fucking into you, making your whole body tighten from the overload. pleasure spiked hard and fast, your moans growing louder as the stimulation grew.

“look at me,” he panted, voice strained, “i wanna see your face.” your eyes blinked open, lashes damp, and met his. you could see everything there — the heat, the tension, the desperation like he wanted this to mean something even if neither of you said it aloud. your bodies slapped together, wet skin meeting wet skin, and the sounds echoing in the bathroom were filthy. his thumb dragged down to circle your clit, drawing tight little spirals, making your thighs tremble around his hips, “jisung—fuck—don’t stop.”

“i’m not,” he grunts, lips brushing your jaw, “not until you come all over me.” his hips sped up, thrusts growing rougher as he leaned in and bit gently at the curve of your neck. and with one more perfectly angled thrust and a sharp tug on your nipple, you broke — coming hard, thighs trembling around him as your head tipped back, mouth open on a silent moan. he didn’t stop fucking you through it, watching your face as you fell apart for him.

“fuck, cherry,” he grunted, pulling out quickly with a stutter in his hips. he wrapped his fist around himself, panting, jerking himself with quick, messy strokes until he groaned your name. you watched with hooded eyes as he spilled across your stomach in hot, thick ropes, his head dropping to your shoulder, whole body shaking from the force of it. his hand came up instinctively to rub slow, grounding circles over your thigh. you stayed like that for a moment, both of you catching your breath in the heavy silence that followed. your stomach sticky, your legs spread, your whole body buzzing. the air thick with steam and heat and something quieter beneath it all.

then, without a word, he reached for a towel, expression softening into something almost boyish. you sat there quietly on the counter, flushed and still glowing, watching him as he moved. careful. focused. no teasing now. just jisung, gentle and quiet. he dried you off first, murmuring soft apologies every time the fabric grazed too rough against your skin, even though it never did. his touch was tender, like you were made of glass. he knelt to gently wipe down your legs, then dabbed at the marks he’d left on your chest, his thumb brushing over them like he could smooth them away. when he finally finished with himself, he wrapped the towel low around his waist, grabbed a second one to twist through your damp hair, then leaned down and whispered, “c’mon, let’s go before you start shivering.” back in his room, he dressed you in another one of his oversized hoodie and a clean pair of boxers that you had to roll twice at the waist to keep from slipping, “you look cute.” you rolled your eyes, making your way back to his bed and fighting off the butterflies in your stomach, “you say that to all your near-death shower partners?”

he laughed, quickly got dressed then grabbed his phone and flopped down onto the bed beside you, “nope. just you,” he says smirking, then “what do you want for lunch?” he murmured.

you turned your face into his shoulder, “surprise me.” he chuckled, soft and low and ended up ordering you both sandwiches, hash browns, and iced coffee from the little corner shop he liked. when it arrived, he let you steal fries off his plate and take long sips from his drink like it was the most natural thing in the world. neither of you said much. but the silence wasn’t heavy. it was full — warm with the kind of comfort that doesn’t demand words. you didn’t go back to your dorm that day. you could’ve. you should’ve. your laundry was overdue. but the second jisung reached for your hand again, just casually, like he’d done it a thousand times, you knew you weren’t going anywhere. you smelled like him. the hoodie you wore was stretched and worn and perfect, and it fell over your bare thighs in a way that felt too domestic for someone who wasn’t technically your boyfriend. but you didn’t want technicality today. you just wanted him.

jisung played home alone 2 from the t.v. in his room. you were half tangled in his sheets already, sitting cross-legged with your cheek resting on his shoulder. when the movie started playing, he leaned back, arm stretching around you, and you curled into him without a word. this time, you actually watched the movie. there was something easy in the way you fit against him. he laughed at the dumb parts, mumbled the iconic lines under his breath, pointed at the scenes he liked best. you chimed in just enough, but mostly… you just listened. let his warmth surround you. let your hand rest against his chest and feel his heartbeat. it didn’t feel like a game. not anymore. you didn’t feel like a girl chasing a prize. you felt… like a girlfriend. and worse — like one who didn’t want to stop. at one point, he glanced down and caught you staring. his grin was lazy, eyes warm, “what?”

you shook your head quickly, “nothing.”

“liar,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss your nose, “you keep looking at me like that and i’m gonna think you’re in love with me.”

you shoved his shoulder playfully, hiding the way your breath caught, “you wish.”

“pretty sure you were just watching me, not the movie.”

“only because you were quoting every single line.”

“that’s just boyfriend excellence.” you rolled your eyes, but you didn’t move away. if anything, you curled in closer. and he didn’t stop touching you. he kept his hand on your thigh. pressed kisses to your temple. tilted your face up every now and then just to steal a kiss, like it was second nature. like he didn’t even have to think about it. and you let him. because you wanted him. not just his body, not just his jokes, not just the soft way he took care of you. you wanted all of him.

the movie faded to black. jisung got quiet, his head tilting back against the pillows, his arm loosening just slightly around your shoulders. his breathing slowed. even his teasing little comments died out, replaced by the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. you shifted just enough to look up at him. his mouth was parted slightly, lashes resting against his cheekbones. the arm curled around you was slack but warm — so warm, so familiar now. he was beautiful like this. the softness of him. the way he let you lay here. the way he let you stay. the way he let you in. and god. it hit you all at once. not in a fireworks kind of way. not like the sky split open or the music swelled or your life suddenly changed. it hit you softly. like a wave lapping against your ankles. like warmth pooling in your chest. like the feeling of finding something you didn’t know you’d been missing.

you were in love with park jisung. and the thought didn’t scare you like you thought it would. in fact, it felt… inevitable. of course it was him. of course it had always been him. you felt it in every part of you. in the way your shoulders dropped around him. in the way your smile came easier in his presence. in the way your fingers itched to stay tangled in his, even in sleep. you were in love with him. you didn’t know when it happened. maybe in the dance studio, maybe when he showed you off to all his friends, maybe the first time he kissed you just because. but it happened. it was done. you’d fallen. and now, that stupid, awful bet you made with your friends felt like poison in your mouth. you didn’t care about the $500 anymore. you didn’t even know where you’d get it in two days. you just knew you’d figure it out. you’ll tell your friends. end the bet. pay them somehow, even if it meant draining your savings or actually getting a job. he deserved the truth. he deserved more than this version of you, the one still lying by omission while wrapped in his sheets, his clothes, his arms.

he stirred slightly, brow twitching. you froze, not wanting to wake him, but he only sighed and nuzzled closer into your chest with a sleepy hum. like he knew you were there. like even in sleep, he trusted you. your heart squeezed. you love him. and tomorrow… you’d deal with everything else. but today, you just wanted to be his. even if you didn’t deserve to be. you pulled him closer. you let your hand caress his hair. and you tried not to cry.

🍒 DAY 14 OF THE BET - I WON.

the soft hush of winter light poured in through the blinds, casting golden shadows across the unmade bed. you were curled up right in the center of it—bare legs tangled in his sheets, his hoodie swallowing your frame, the warmth of the morning still lingering in your bones, your stomach still full from another late lunch and the shared kisses.

downstairs, the dream house was coming alive again. the boys were back from their short holiday break, voices overlapping as they carried boxes and strung lights, the distant sound of someone arguing over music choices echoing up through the floors. you could hear jisung somewhere in the chaos—laughing. teasing. he sounds happy. it made your chest twist. you glanced at your phone. hesitating for a second before your thumb pressed the facetime call – sion. the line connected fast, and his voice was already loud, “well, well, well. calling me from lover boy’s bed, i assume?”

you rolled your eyes. “shut up.”

“oh my god. you’re smiling,” he said, clearly amused. “don’t tell me. you’re losing.”

you let out a reluctant laugh, raising a playful brow, “actually, i won.”

sion grinned, “did you now?”

you groaned, rolling your eyes softly, “yup, i won the bet, pretty sure jisung’s fallen for me.”

the door creaked open. you didn’t hear it. jisung had come back upstairs, a stupid smile on his face because he was about to ask if you wanted to go with him to pick out last minute decorations and maybe make out in one of the aisles. something stupid and domestic. he only opened the door a crack. but that was enough. he stopped cold when he heard your voice—light, playful, full of laughter. his name in your mouth. and the words.

“jisung’s fallen for me.”

and worse—

“i won the bet.”

the grin on his face vanished. it felt like the air got punched out of his lungs. like someone had shoved ice down his spine. he stood frozen in the doorway, hand still on the knob, every muscle locking up as the words echoed in his skull, again and again. i won the bet. his chest rose and fell sharply. his fingers curled into the wood of the doorframe.

he didn’t hear your voice falter after that. he didn’t hear you add, “and i’m in love with him, sion.” because jisung had already backed away. quietly. like a ghost. the door clicked shut behind him as softly as it had opened. and everything inside him started to burn. jisung hated liars. he always had. he hated people who smiled to your face and twisted the knife when you turned your back. he hated the fakes, the users, the ones who played games with people’s hearts just because they could. it was something he promised he’d never fall for again. and now here he was—falling apart in the hallway, barely breathing. you had lied to him. the only person he thought understood him. the only person he thought was playing on his side. he couldn’t unhear it. couldn’t unsee your smile when you said it. the ease in your voice. the fact that you were still in his bed, wearing his hoodie, still tasting like him, and calling him a fucking bet like it was funny. he clenched his jaw and forced his legs to move, fury buzzing just beneath his skin. he walked downstairs like nothing had happened. like the world hadn’t just shifted under his feet.

“bro, where’s y/n?” chenle asked, halfway through unraveling a tangle of lights.

“she’s asleep,” he says.

“you good?” jaemin asked, voice low, watching him too carefully. jisung grabbed a box of streamers and plastered a smile onto his face. “yeah.” he said calmly. like he hadn’t just heard the girl he let in, really let in, tell someone he was just a pawn in her stupid game. like it hadn’t cracked something deep and unfixable inside him. the rest of the boys moved on. laughter returned. decorations went up. but jisung was somewhere else entirely. because upstairs, the girl he’d fallen for had been giggling when she said his name. laughing when she called him a bet.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

“wait…if you’re in love with him, then technically that means you lost,” sion corrects, grinning.

you shrug, smiling softly, “doesn’t feel like it.”

sion was quiet for a beat after your confession. he was focused now. no more teasing, at least for a moment, “damn, you really love him,” he said finally, earning an eye roll from you, “so when are you gonna tell him?” you let out a shaky breath and tucked your knees up to your chest, phone still pressed to your ear, the fabric of jisung’s hoodie brushing your cheek, “new year’s eve,” you said softly.

“new year’s?” sion repeated, “that’s in, like, two days.”

“i know,” you murmured, “i just… i want one more day. tomorrow, i’m gonna end it officially—with the others. i need to come clean to everyone first, before i tell him.”

sion let out a low whistle, “damn. karina’s never gonna live this down.” you laughed into your sleeve, muffling the sound, “stop. i know. she’s never gonna let me forget it.”

“and the 500 bucks,” he added smugly. you sighed harder this time, flopping onto your back and burying your face into jisung’s pillow, your voice muffled by the cotton, “i don’t even know where i’m gonna get five hundred dollars, oh my god.”

“girl, you better get a job or sell a kidney or something.”

“i hate you.”

he laughed, “alright, alright. i’ll shut up. but for real… i’m happy for you, i knew you weren’t so stone cold in there.” you smiled, a little shy, a little shaky, “gee, thanks you’re just glad you’re gettin $125.”

“maybe that too,” he smirks, “but you got this, okay? end it. then tell him. just be honest.”

you nodded, “yeah, bye, sion.”

“bye, mrs. park,” you hung up on him mid-laugh. you had no idea that just minutes ago, jisung had been standing on the other side of that door. that he’d heard the wrong part of your confession — at some point, the low hum of the house faded into the background. you didn’t even remember putting your phone down. when you stirred awake, the room was dim. the sun had disappeared, traded for dusk and shadows. the hum of the house was quieter now, distant. you blinked and reached for your phone.

1 new message from jisung 🐹

jisung 🐹: went out with the guys. didn’t wanna wake you. sleep well.

you sat there staring at the text for a few seconds too long, heart skipping. still sweet. still gentle. he didn’t say anything was wrong. and yet… something in your chest tugged uncomfortably.

cherry🍒 : you could’ve woken me :(

cherry🍒 : but it’s okay. i should go home anyway. see you on new year’s eve?

the reply came five minutes later.

jisung 🐹: yeah. see you then.

that was it. three little words. no teasing, no pet name. a period at the end. it was small, subtle. almost nothing. but you felt it. you brushed the feeling away, climbing out of his bed, pulling your coat over his hoodie without changing. you didn’t want to take it off. not yet. you padded quietly down the stairs, phone in hand, trying not to overthink the distance in his message. maybe he was tired. maybe he was drunk already. maybe you were spiraling. you slipped on your shoes. the door clicked softly behind you as you stepped outside. the cold air hit your face. you tugged jisung’s hoodie tighter around you, afraid of the what’s to come.

🍒 DAY 15 OF THE BET - A BET’S STILL A BET

they showed up fast. it only took one message in the group chat.

y/n: can you guys come over? i need to tell you something.

now your dorm room was filled with coffee, oversized hoodies, and the collective chaos of your favorite people. karina tossed her coat on your chair like she owned the place. dongpyo flopped onto your bed, sipping his iced coffee. sophia sat cross-legged next to him, munching on a croissant. sion made himself comfortable on your dorm floor. quiet. watching. already knowing. karina broke the silence, “okay, the fact that you’re pacing like this is scaring me. are you pregnant?”

“no,” you blurted, eyes wide.

“are you sure?,” dongpyo asked, “because with what happened at the bowling arena, i wouldn’t be surprised.”

“dongpyo!”

“sorry, continue.”

you took a deep breath, exhaling through your nose, “i admit defeat. i lost the bet.”

that landed like a pin dropping in a quiet room. karina’s jaw dropped. “you what?”

sophia blinked, “wait, lost the bet as in… you caught feelings?”

“real feelings!?” dongpyo gasped, “cold, dead-hearted, emotionally repressed you?”

you rolled your eyes, nodding slowly, “i didn’t mean to. i didn’t even realize it was happening until it… already had.”

karina stared at you, stunned, “holy shit.”

“but—” sophia’s voice cut in gently, “—do you think he likes you back?” that question hung in the air like smoke—light, lingering, impossible to ignore. everyone stilled. because suddenly, the energy shifted. the teasing faded. and all that was left was the one terrifying possibility no one had said out loud yet: what if he didn’t?

you swallowed hard. “i don’t know.”

karina looked at you carefully, “has he said anything?”

“he’s sweet,” you whispered, “he’s… been amazing, actually. and the other day, everything felt different. like it was real. but i don’t know if that was just me seeing what i wanted to see.”

sion frowned, “you don’t think he’s faking it, right?”

you shook your head, “i don’t. but i also don’t know what’s changed for him. or if anything changed.”they knew about your deal with him. the whole dating thing to get the dream boys off his back.

sophia leaned forward, voice softer now, “are you going to tell him?”

“tomorrow,” you said quietly, “i wanted to end the bet with you guys officially first.”

karina blinked, then smiled, slow and real. “wow.”

“wow!!,” dongpyo repeated, more dramatically, “our ice queen melted. i knew this day would come.”

“shut up,” you mumbled, heat crawling up your neck.

“no, but seriously,” karina said, grinning, “i’ve been waiting for someone to melt that frozen little heart of yours since freshman year,” she said, her smile growing wider, “you always pretended you didn’t want love, and now look at you…getting all soft in jisung’s hoodie.”

you looked down at yourself, realizing you were still wearing it. still holding on. they all started laughing. and it hit you, all at once, how deeply they knew you. sion leaned back, smiling, “i can’t believe it’s jisung, though. of all people. the ultimate fuckboy was the one to get to you.”

you let out a half-laugh, “trust me, no one’s more surprised than i am.”

“but hey,” karina said, grinning, “a bet’s still a bet.”

“unfortunately,” you groaned, “i know.”

“any idea where you’re getting $500?” sophia asked innocently.

dongpyo smirked, “you should sell feet pics! or start an onlyfans!” you shoved him off, laughing.

“karina’s already shopping,” sion said, pointing at her open phone screen. karina didn’t even deny it, “no rush, babe. but i am eyeing these new heels.” they were teasing again. the tension eased. laughter returned. but underneath it all, the fear stayed. you forced a smile. tomorrow, you’d tell jisung the truth. you could only pray he’d forgive you.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

your room was quiet. the glow of your bedside lamp was warm, steady, nothing like the way your stomach had been flipping for the past hour. tomorrow was it. the end of everything. you’d finally come clean. you’d finally tell him the truth.but tonight, you were staring at your phone like it might crack open and show you the future.

you typed:

cherry 🍒: you have a theme or dress code for the party?…or should i just wear something short and sexy like last time? 😌

you hit send, heart skipping. you were joking, but also... not. you waited. three minutes passed. then–

jisung 🐹: idk. up to you. you’ll look good either way.

you stared at the text. something about it didn’t sit right. it wasn’t cold, exactly. it wasn’t mean. but it was off. no teasing. just distant. you frowned. your thumbs hovered over the keyboard again. you wanted to say something light, playful, like you always did. but instead, your heart told you to just be honest. a little brave. a little soft.

cherry 🍒 : okay. well...i have something important i want to tell you tomorrow. just don’t run away, okay?

you stared at those last words before hitting send. you almost deleted them. you almost convinced yourself not to make it dramatic. but you didn’t. you left them there. because you knew the truth would be heavy, and you needed him to stay — you didn’t know that downstairs, across campus, in a frat house lit up with half-strung lights and glittery decorations, jisung was staring at your message like it was a death sentence.

“important,” you said. he knew what that meant. in his mind, you were finally going to tell him the truth. that he was a bet. that every kiss, every laugh, every soft sleepy morning had been a game to you. that you were going to end it and walk away with your little inside joke, your victory lap, your friends laughing behind his back. the image made his blood boil. because he had believed you. he had trusted you. he had let you in. and now you were about to break him. so his heart did what broken hearts do best — it started building armor. fast. if you were going to hurt him tomorrow, then he’d beat you to it. hed’ smile. he’d act fine. he’d play it cool. he’d say something cutting, show that he never cared. tomorrow, you’d finally come clean. but he was already bleeding. and in his head, you were still laughing. and if he was a game to you, then fine, you could be a game to him, too. his fingers moved fast on the screen.

jisung 🐹: alright. i won’t run. see you :)

🍒 DAY 16 OF THE BET - BECAUSE I LOVE YOU.

you step through the doors of the dream house like you’re stepping into a battlefield. the music pounds through your bones, but all you can hear is your own heartbeat thundering in your ears. your friends are close behind. karina squeezes your hand gently, sophia gives you a hopeful look that nearly breaks you, sion and dongpyo flash encouraging smiles. because tonight is the night you tell him everything — the bet. that you ended it. that you fell. fast. hard. that you’re in love with him. you swallow, the taste of fear thick in your throat as your eyes scan the sea of faces. jaemin’s laughing with angel in the kitchen. mark and kitten are tangled on the couch, soft and warm. haechan’s got princess in his lap, whispering something in her ear. chenle is spinning baby around like the world begins and ends with her. jeno has his hands all over bunny on the dance floor. renjun was trying to avoid all the girls coming his way. but jisung was nowhere to be seen. he’s not in the kitchen. not on the couch. not among the dancers grinding to the bass drop like the world isn’t ending.

so you go upstairs. you don’t knock. you don’t breathe. you push open his door — and the world shatters. he’s in bed. with someone else. she’s straddling him, lips on his neck, her nails trailing down his bare chest like she owns it, like you didn’t just fall asleep there two nights ago. his shirt’s on the floor. the blankets are kicked back. his hands are on her hips. like it means something. like you never meant anything. your heart collapses. you can’t move. can’t speak. can’t even think. you just stand there, blinking, trying to piece together a world that suddenly doesn’t make sense. and then something inside you snaps. the pain ignites. the betrayal burns through your ribs like wildfire.

“jisung, what the fuck?!” you scream, voice ragged.

the girl shrieks and fumbles for the blanket, yanking it over her chest, “who the fuck are you?”

you look straight at her, voice cracking like a storm tearing through the sky, “i’m his fucking girlfriend!”

she freezes. her face crumples in horror, eyes darting between the two of you, “you’re —? but… he said he was single—”

“i am.” jisung’s voice slices through the room, low and lethal. he doesn’t even look at her. his eyes are locked on you. and it hurts more than if he’d slapped you. you flinch. the girl curses under her breath, grabbing her clothes in silence. she throws you one last venomous glare before slamming the door behind her, leaving you alone in a room that suddenly feels like it’s on fire. the silence is deafening. you stare at him. he’s still breathing hard, chest rising and falling, hair messy, lips swollen. his expression isn’t guilty. it isn’t even apologetic. it’s bitter. cold. empty. you shut the door behind you quietly, the click of it loud as a gunshot in the room. you lean against it like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.

your voice is shaking, brittle, “do you wanna explain yourself?”

he scoffs. cold. “do you?”

your breath catches, “what?”

“don’t insult me,” he yanks his pants on, not bothering to hide the fury brewing behind his eyes. “i already know.”

you blink, “what…what are you talking about?”

he laughs, a horrible, broken sound that doesn’t reach his eyes. “i heard your phone call with sion.” you go still. he pulls a shirt over his head like the fabric is the only thing keeping him from exploding.

“was that supposed to be funny? a game? something to laugh about with your friends?” he spits, his voice rising. “a challenge? how many points do you get for breaking me, huh?”

“jisung, that’s not—”

“how much was i worth?” he snarls, “did you already get your prize? want me to smile for the fucking group chat too?”

you shake your head, stumbling a step forward like your legs barely work, “you don’t know anything—”

“you lied to me!” he roars. you flinch. he’s never raised his voice at you before, “i let myself believe in you. i let myself trust you. i thought you were the only one who understood me. and it was all a fucking joke to you, wasn’t it?”

“no—jisung, listen to me—”

“i don’t care,” he cuts you off sharply, “i was just using you too. remember?” he steps closer, each word slicing you in pieces, “—to shut everyone up. to have something pretty to look at. it was all an act. every kiss, every touch — all of it.”

“i called it off,” you whispered yet the words crack the air like lightning.

jisung stills. “…what?”

you take a shaky breath, eyes blurring. “that call you heard. that was me ending it. i told sion it was over. that it didn’t matter anymore because i—”

“don’t,” he cuts in, like the sound physically hurts him, “don’t say it.”

“because i love you.”

his face breaks. and it’s the most painful thing you’ve ever seen. like he’s trying to hold himself together with trembling hands. “…no.” he shakes his head, voice small. childlike. “that’s not what you said.”

“it is,” you whisper, “you just weren’t listening. you only heard what you wanted to hear.” he stares at you. you can see the war happening behind his eyes — the part of him that knows you’re telling the truth, and the part that’s too scared to believe it.

he shakes his head. “you’re just saying that now to win. to clean up the mess you made. why didn’t you tell me then?”

“i was scared,” you cry, “i didn’t know how to tell you that yes!, this did start as a bet,” you admit, voice shaking, “but i fell for you. i didn’t plan it. i didn’t want it. but it happened. and i came here tonight to tell you.”

“you don’t get to act like you’re the victim,” he spat, “you don’t get to cry like you’re the one that’s been betrayed.”

“i’m not the victim.” your voice trembles. “but you didn’t even ask. you didn’t talk to me. you just—assumed the worst. and you…” you swallow hard, “you fucked someone else.”

he closes his eyes. like your words are knives, “you think that wasn’t on purpose?”

your heart cracks all over again, split open in a way you didn't know it could, “you did it… to hurt me?”

“i did it because i hate you.”

and it’s the final blow. not yelled. not spat. just cold. sure. deadly. like he meant it. like he’ll never take it back. and in that moment, something inside you goes quiet. the world doesn’t shatter — not loudly, at least. it folds in on itself. like a balloon slowly deflating. like a slow ache building in your ribs until it numbs everything else. because there’s a unique kind of pain that comes from hearing “i hate you” from the person you love. it’s like being forgotten. like every moment you shared meant nothing. like you never mattered in the first place. like you were never real to them at all. your mascara is running. your voice is a ghost of itself. and something inside you finally gives out. you crumple under the weight of it all. “i’m sorry, jisung.” you say it like it could fix something. like it could hold him together when you can’t even hold yourself up.

“i’m sorry,” you choke again, and now your voice is shaking — shattered glass in your throat. “i didn’t mean to hurt you. i didn’t mean for any of this to happen.” the words are helpless. weak. but they’re all you have left. so you give them to him. one last thing for him to reject. and your tears fall freely now. silent. desperate. but he doesn’t stop you. he doesn’t move. he doesn’t say anything at all. he just watches you break in front of him. and that’s the worst part — not the silence, not the absence of forgiveness but the fact that he doesn’t reach for you. not even once. you take a breath that doesn’t quite make it to your lungs. your throat is closing. your hands are shaking. and you can’t be here anymore. you turn around slowly, like even your body is reluctant to let go. your hand trembles as it closes over the doorknob, one last connection to the room where everything once felt safe. but you don’t wait. you don’t wait for him to stop you. you don’t wait for him to say your name. you don’t wait for a single word. because some part of you already knows it won’t come. so you walk out. and the door clicks softly behind you. but it feels like a slam. like a goodbye neither of you will recover from. and you run.

“ten! nine! eight!”

your steps echo down the staircase like gunshots to your chest.

“seven! six! five!”

everyone’s cheering. champagne glasses in hand. confetti already falling.

“four! three!”

all of the couples pair off, clinging to their partners.

“two! one!”

you walk out the door as the entire house erupts in cheers, kisses and fireworks — renjun sees you. his heart drops. your face is streaked with tears. your lips trembling. and you don’t look back as the door closes behind you. he doesn’t hesitate. he climbs the stairs. he pauses outside jisung’s room. CRASH. the sound of something breaking, glass shattering against the wall. a guttural scream, muffled fists hitting the bedpost. renjun opens it slowly. the room is wrecked. sheets tangled, a lamp knocked over, drawers open, a hole punched through the closet door. and jisung? he’s on the floor. knees pulled up, head in his hands, body trembling from too much pain and too much rage. he looks up when he hears the door. his eyes are bloodshot, wet, face crumpled. and he whispers, voice small— so, so broken — “why do i always play the fool, hyung?”

renjun says nothing. he just walks forward and kneels beside him. and this time, jisung doesn’t hold it back. he lets the tears fall and he cries. ugly. loud. grieving.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

the floor is littered with objects. jisung sits with his back against the wall, knees drawn to his chest, knuckles red and raw from punching furniture. renjun stays beside him, steady and still, a quiet presence in the chaos. jisung’s shoulders tremble with every breath, but the sobs have dulled now, like his body is exhausted to keep breaking. then – a knock. and the door creaks open. “jisung?,” jaemin’s voice, light at first, teasing out of habit, “we didn’t see you downstairs, we wanted to say happy new—,” he stops. his eyes sweep over the room, the broken furniture, the mess of paper and clothes. then he lands on jisung, curled up on the floor like something hallowed him out form the inside. the reflection too familiar to the older boy. renjun meets his gaze and gives a small shake of his head. jaemin steps inside slowly, his usual grin nowhere to be found. “bro!,” another figure appears behind him. it’s chenle. laughing until he sees what they’re seeing, “yo what the fuck happened?”mark’s next. one by one, all the dream boys enter his room – a group known for their noise and confidence and shameless chaos. but now? now they’re silent. staring at their youngest member in pieces on the floor.

“is he hurt?,” jeno asks. renjun shakes his head, “not physically.” the others hover for a second like they don’t know what to say next. like they’re seeing the version of jisung all those years ago — stripped of his charm, his confidence, his walls. just a boy. broken open.

“someone wanna tell us what the hell happened?” haechan murmurs. renjun looks down at jisung, who hasn’t moved since his last whispered question. he doesn't answer. no one speaks. and then jisung finally talks, quiet, eyes unfocused, like the memory of the night is still sinking in for him too, “she came here to tell me she loved me.” his voice is hoarse. like it’s painful to say the words aloud. “she told me she called off the bet,” his voice is rasp, splintered and dry. his eyes are somewhere else. like he was trying to remember what just happened in the past hour.

theres a beat of silence, stunned and sick. then jaemin stiffens, “wait. bet?,” he asks slowly, “what bet?” jisungs’s head drops, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes like he can block the memory out, “i was a game. to her and her friends. make me fall and she wins.”

no one breathes. haechan’s tone is sharp, “tell me you’re joking, jisung.” he looks up at his hyung, eyes glassy and lips quivering, “i wish i was.”

mark’s face twists, “you’re telling me that everything between you was fake?”

“she said it wasn’t, not in the end,” jisung says hoarsely, “she said she meant it. that she…that she loves me.”

“that doesn’t make it okay,” jeno snaps, exhaling hard, dragging a hand through his hair, “she played you.”

“she tried to undo it,” jaemin says, quieter.

“guess she was just a good actress,” chenle spits.

“enough,” renjun cuts in, sharper now, “this isn’t helping.” the room goes quiet again – not because the anger is gone but because they can finally see what renjun’s seen since the moment he walked in. jisung is wrecked. no defiance. no excuses. just a boy in a pile of his own ruin.

“she was going to tell me tonight,” jisung whispers, “but i didn’t let her. i was so angry — i just wanted to hurt her back so i—,” he cuts off swallowing the next words, “—i slept with someone else and i made sure she saw it.”

“jesus christ,” chenle mutters. you’re not there, but your ghost clings to every breath in the room. the boys are all picturing it – the way you must’ve looked walking in on him with someone else, the way you ran out during the countdown. jisung lets out a bitter laugh, suddenly remember something else – something older, deeper. a lie that began everything, “i never even told you guys why we started dating.”

they all glance up, “what do you mean?,” mark asks.

“i told you we just clicked,” jisung says, “but that’s not what happened,” he exhales, broken and bitter, “i made her my girlfriend because i wanted you all to get off my back. i wanted you guys to stop thinking i was a fuck-up.”

haechan’s brows pinch, “jisung…”

“it wasn’t real at first. i didn’t even know i liked her. but then she made me laugh. she understood me,” he says, voice cracking again, “and i let myself believe that maybe this time, it could be different…turns out i do just fuck things up.” the room is quiet again. except this time, it’s not out of anger. it’s grief. for the version of jisung they’d been waiting for — the one who started to soften, started to try. none of them sure if he’ll ever let that part of him come back. renjun breaks the silence, with that same intuitive calm that’s held jisung together this whole time, “you said she loved you.” jisung nods once, eyes shut.

“then maybe it was real for her too, too”

“but i didn’t believe her,” jisung says, “i didn’t even give her the chance to explain.” he’s crying now. no one says anything. no one dares to. because they know the hurt between you and jisung wasn’t just betrayal. it was love that turned to ruin. trust shattered by fear. hope undone by pride. and even if you both meant it in the end…jisung may never believe it again. not after this.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

you’re on the floor of your dorm room. still in your dress. curled up in the center of the room like you collapsed there the second you walked in. mascara streaks your cheeks. your chest rises and falls in uneven gasps, your whole body trembling from the cold, from the hurt, from the truth. you barely remember how you got home. your heels are gone. somewhere on the sidewalk. the night is a blur of pounding music and muffled voices that dissolved into static. but none of it matters now. the door slams open. footsteps freeze. “babe?” karina’s voice cracks as she sees you.

“oh my god,” sophia whispers. dongpyo and sion peeking in to see you broken on the floor. they rush toward you. you try to speak, but all that escapes is a sob — broken, raw, pulled straight from somewhere deep inside. it silences the whole room. karina drops to her knees, instantly beside you, gathering you in her arms like she’s trying to shield you from whatever shattered you, “what happened?” she breathes, “what did he do to you?”

you shake your head, “it’s my fault.”

sophia sits on the other side of you, brushing your hair back, gentle and careful. “what do you mean? you were going to tell him. you were going to finally say it.”

you nod, choking on your own words. “i—i did. i tried,” you sob. “i went to his room and—and he was…” you can’t even finish. but they all understand.

“h-he was with someone else,” your voice breaks again, hands pressed to your chest like you’re trying to keep your ribs from collapsing, “and i can’t even blame him. i lied to him. i hurt him. i started this whole thing as a fucking bet.” you cover your face, tears leaking through your fingers. “h-he heard my phone call with sion, he thought i was laughing at him. thought i was bragging.”

“wait,” sion says, slowly. “but that call was you ending it. you told me you fell in love with him.”

“he didn’t hear that part,” you whisper, “i’m so stupid,” you cry, “i let myself fall in love with someone i was supposed to be pretending with and then i went and ruined it. i deserve this. i deserve everything—his hate, the way he looked at me like i was nothing—”

“stop,” karina cuts in sharply. “no, you don’t.” dongpyo snaps, “that is not love.”

“you were exclusive,” sophia says softly. “even if it started out fake. it became real. you didn’t just imagine that.”

“but i broke his trust.”

“and he broke yours,” sion says. calm. brutal. “he slept with someone else while still being your boyfriend. doesn’t matter if it was real-real or convenient-real. you were still together. that is not okay.”

you shake your head violently, “you didn’t see his face. you didn’t hear his voice. i destroyed him. he said he hated me—,” you whimper, karina pullina you tighter, “—it hurts so much.”

sion sits back on the floor beside you, his expression dark, “if I had known what he was going to do—”

“no,” you interrupt, voice hoarse. “—it’s all my fault.”

dongpyo snorts, furious. “he didn’t mean to fuck someone else? okay.” karina glances at him as to say shut up this is not helping.

“i think… i think i would’ve forgiven him,” you admit, “if we had just talked about it.” that silences them. because they believe you. because they know you. and even in your guilt, even in your self-blame, it’s clear — your love for him is real. and it’s killing you. the room is quiet except for your sobs. and four people who love you. helpless to fix it, but willing to sit with you in the wreckage anyway. just like the boys did for him.

🍒 JANUARY 5 - HAPPY NEW YEAR.

a mandatory student council assembly. dress code: casual. attendance: required. the kind of event that’s pointless on a normal day. but today, it feels like a battlefield. the auditorium buzzes with idle chatter as students filter in. the dream boys stick out like always, shining, confident, loud. but even they’re quieter than usual. muted. careful. because at the center of them sits jisung. silent. head down. he’s wearing a black hoodie. his hair’s a mess. his eyes are dull. his legs bounce restlessly under the chair, like he can’t sit still with everything still weighing on him. mark and jeno flank him on either side like bodyguards. the rest — jaemin, renjun, chenle, haechan — are watching the entrance. waiting. and then…you walk in. karina’s got her arm looped through yours. sophia is clutching your water bottle like she’ll throw it at someone if needed. sion and dongpyo trail behind, both tense, both ready. karina locks eyes with mark. her stare is icy, unreadable. sophia doesn’t even blink when she sees haechan glaring. dongpyo is death staring chenle for no reason. and sion zero in on jisung. not threatening — just watching like they’re counting how many pieces of him still exist. but none of it matters. because neither side can undo what happened. neither group can fix the way you’re both breaking.

the second jisung looks up and sees you — he stops breathing. because you’re a shell of the girl he remembers. you still look beautiful. but not in the way you used to shine. you’re wearing makeup like armor. you’re walking upright only because your friends are holding you there. your eyes are sunken. red. tired. he doesn’t even try to look away. he just watches you walk across the auditorium. watches you pretend not to notice him. watches your hands tremble when you sit down. watches how sophia squeezes your shoulder. how karina leans in to whisper something only meant for you.

renjun mutters under his breath. “this is bad.”

“she looks like she hasn’t slept in a week,” mark says.

jeno exhales, shaking his head, “neither has he.”

the tension is palpable. students all around begin to pick up on it — eyes darting between you and jisung. whispers spread like wildfire: “are they not together anymore?” “didn’t they spend new year’s together?” “i heard he cheated.” “i heard it was a bet.” “wait, she cried in the hallway, didn’t she—?”

the room feels suffocating. and in the middle of it all, jisung expected to feel hatred. or anger. maybe even numbness. but all he feels… is pain.

the house lights dim slightly as the dean of student affairs, dr. kun, steps up to the podium with a strained smile and a click of the mic, “good afternoon, students, happy new year to everyone! thank you all for being here today. we’ll be starting with our mandatory annual seminar on substance awareness and drug prevention.” a half-hearted shuffle echoes through the crowd as they slouched deeper into their seats. you sit stiffly in your row, hands clenched in your lap. the dean starts talking. something about resources on campus, peer mentorship programs, the dangers of prescription misuse. but his voice is far away. muffled. like your ears are filled with static. it’s not the topic. it’s not the noise. it’s the silence inside you. too loud. too painful. you’re not even hearing what he’s saying. all you can hear is your own heartbeat pounding in your ears, your own breathing growing shallow. you dig your nails into your palms, eyes fixed on the floor, trying to stay grounded. but your throat aches. your vision blurs. your stomach twists – you can’t do this. not here. not with him in the same room. you try to blink the tears back. try to force air into your lungs. but your body has already decided. it’s already unraveling, already flashing the painful memories of that night. you lean into karina and whisper, “i need to go.” she doesn’t hesitate. just nods, squeezes your hand once, and lets you go. sophia shifts to the side. sion and dongpyo don’t say a word. they don’t stop you. they know you’ve hit your limit. you move as quietly as you can, slipping past knees and backpacks, your shoulders hunched like you’re trying to disappear. the auditorium is dim, but not enough to hide the shine of tears in your eyes. you push open the side exit, and the heavy door swings shut behind you with a soft click. you’re gone. but not unnoticed. because five rows back, jisung saw everything. he wasn’t listening to the dean either. he hasn’t listened to anything since you walked in. he noticed the way you haven’t made eye contact with anyone. he noticed how you barely moved — like even breathing hurt. and he notices how you left. quietly. quickly. broken. and it hurts him to know you’re crying alone because of him. his eyes are fixed on the door even long after it closes. he can’t see your face anymore. but he doesn’t need to. because it’s already burned into him. renjun glances at him, then toward the door. “go,” he says under his breath. but he doesn’t move. he just sits there, jaw clenched, hands balled into fists, every inch of him holding onto his pride. his brain screaming she lied to you over and over again.

🍒 JANUARY 6 - LOVERBOY 101.

the studio is already buzzing with chatter when you walk in. music from someone’s speaker plays faintly. a few students laugh, stretching lazily, still in post-holiday haze. you take your spot quietly near the back wall and sit down to stretch. you don’t say much. your eyes are fixed on the floor. karina watches you like a hawk from her spot nearby, concern written all over her face. and then the door opens. jisung steps in, hoodie half-zipped, jaw tight. his eyes sweep the room — not looking for you, but already knowing where you are. his gaze lands on you for half a second. karina sits straighter. professor taeyong’s voice cuts through the noise, “alright everyone, welcome back! hope you had a restful break. reminder, your final duet performances are next week, i’m giving you class time to rehearse. use the space wisely.”

the moment the words leave his mouth, jisung starts walking toward you. and karina is immediately on her feet. she intercepts him halfway, standing between you and him like a shield. “seriously?” she says, arms crossed. “you really think you get to just walk up to her like nothing happened?”

he stops short. his expression hardens. “it’s for the project.”

“i don’t care if it’s for the olympics,” she snaps. “back off.”

“karina,” you say softly, not looking at either of them. “it’s fine.” she glances down at you. you give her a small nod — too tired to fight. too broken to run. just ready to survive this. karina’s jaw tightens. but she finally steps aside.

“touch her too hard and i’ll break your fingers,” she mutters as she passes jisung. he doesn’t respond. you look up and meet his eyes for the first time since that night. there’s no heat in his gaze. no spark. just…ache.

“let’s just get this over with,” he says flatly. “we don’t want to fail.” you nod once. you both move to the corner. same routine. same steps. but everything feels foreign now. when the music starts, your bodies fall into the motions, the muscle memory still intact. you hit each beat, each turn, each line. but there’s no connection. no softness. every time his hand brushes yours, you feel like you might cry. every time his fingers settle on your waist, your chest aches so hard it’s hard to breathe. and he feels it. god, he feels it. because you used to melt into his touch. you used to smile when your steps aligned. you used to laugh when you fumbled the spin. now you barely even look at him. now it’s just silence and space and a gaping hole where your warmth used to be.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

his room is dim now, the sun long since dipped beneath the horizon, leaving the sky a dull gray. the only light comes from the faint glow of jisung’s laptop, music playing faintly, something low, slow and heartbreak shaped. he’s been like this since he got back from class. been like this for the past week. blank. gutted. another full day of pretending not to care. his jaw’s been clenched for hours. his chest aches like it’s been hollowed out. all day, your silence echoed louder than anything. you didn’t even look at him during the second run-through. and when you finally left the studio without saying goodbye, he felt like something inside him had cracked permanently. a soft knock breaks the silence. he doesn’t answer. the door opens anyway. jaemin steps in, tossing a gatorade onto his stomach before sitting backward on his desk chair, arms folded on the top of it and just…stares at him.

“you gonna stay like this forever?” jisung doesn’t answer. jaemin glances around the room — clothes in piles, water bottles everywhere, the whole place feeling like it’s been slowly closing in on itself.

“you gonna talk to me, or should i just sit here and give you a live ted talk on how you’re actively ruining your life?” jisung finally speaks, voice low. “i’m not ruining anything. it’s already ruined.”

jaemin raises a brow, “because of one mistake?”

“because i’m tired, hyung,” jisung says, sharper now, “every time i let someone in, i get fucking burned.” jaemin’s expression softens, but he doesn’t interrupt. “you think this is about a bet?” jisung goes on, sitting up now, “it’s not just the bet. it’s not just that she lied. it’s that she knew how messed up i was. she knew what happened with my ex. and she still did it. she still made me believe she cared.”

jaemin studies him carefully, “so…what?, you’d rather stay angry? keep holding onto that pride until it eats you alive?”

“i’d rather not fall for a lie again.”

jaemin leans forward, “jisung, let me teach you something.” the younger boy rolls his eyes, “what is this? fuckboy 101, version 2.0?”

jaemin shakes his head, grinning, “more like… loverboy 101.” jisung scoffs but jaemin continues anyway, “i get it. believe me, i get it. remember when i found out angel was lying to me?…it felt like the ground disappeared. i hated her. i hated myself for trusting her. but now,” jaemin smiles faintly, “now she’s the love of my life.”

jisung scoffs bitterly, “yeah you two are fucking perfect. congrats.”

jaemin shakes his head, “we’re not perfect. we choose to love each other anyway.” he continues, quieter now, “you think i didn’t feel what you’re feeling right now? the rage? the betrayal? the ache in your throat that doesn’t go away, no matter how long you sit in silence?…you’re not the only one who’s been lied to, jisung,” jaemin leans forwards, “—sometimes people mess up. but it doesn’t mean the love isn’t real. it doesn’t mean it can’t become something true.” he continues, “—love isn’t just about the perfect moments, it’s not just the kissing or the teasing or the stupid conversations that happen at 3 a.m.”

jisung frowns but listens. “it’s also the part after. when everything’s shattered. when you’re bleeding and bitter and still you reach for each other,” jaemin’s voice is steady now, words slow and deliberate, “because love doesn’t survive without forgiveness. trust me. i almost lost mine due to my pride.”

jisung swallows hard. “i can’t go back there, hyung. i can’t be that guy again. the one who loves too loudly just to be left behind.”

“you’re not that guy,” jaemin says. “you’re someone who’s been hurt, yeah. but you’re also someone she chose to come clean to. someone she was ready to fight for.”

“she walked away too.”

“because you broke her too,” jaemin says, voice calm but firm. “you cheated, jisung. you told her you hated her. you let her leave.” another beat of silence. “you think being cold makes you stronger. but all it’s done is make you lonely.”

jisung lowers his head, “she looked at me today like i was a stranger. i don’t think she’ll ever forgive me,” he finally says, his restraints loosening slowly.

“if you love her, then tell her…at least try,” jaemin says. then he gets up, heads toward the door, then stops and glances back, “i thought angel would never forgive me either,” he says, “now she has half of my wardrobe and eats my food without asking.”

jisung lets out a soft, miserable laugh. jaemin smiles. “don’t let love walk away just because you let your pride win.” then he leaves. and jisung sits in the quiet. still hurting. still scared. but now, maybe, with something shifting. enought to admit to himself that he has become every version of something he hated. enough to admit to himself that he doesn’t hate you. he hates what it means to love you. because that means risking it all again. and he’s not sure he knows how to survive another fall.

🍒 JANUARY 7 - I KNOW IT’S OVER.

the soft glow of the studio lights spills onto the hardwood floors, reflecting off the mirrors that once captured your happiest moments together. the room is quiet, save for the low hum of music looping from your speaker the same track you’ve been dancing to for nights now, its melody looping endlessly, like a lifeline. a lullaby for the broken. a desperate attempt to drown out the echo in your chest where his voice used to live. you spin. a turn you’ve done a hundred times now. your body moves on muscle memory but your mind is somewhere else. until it slams back into place. because there he is. jisung. you freeze. and the air between you shifts. he looks like a memory — hoodie loose around his frame, face pale, eyes shadowed like he hasn’t slept in days. his fingers twitch at his sides, like he’s not sure whether to stay or run. you turn to face him fully, heart caught in your throat. he takes one slow step inside, the door clicking shut behind him. neither of you say anything for a beat. then he swallows, voice hoarse, “what are you doing here?”

you hug your arms tighter around yourself, like that might hold all the pieces in, “i’ve been coming here every night,” you confess, voice soft.

his brow furrows, “why?”

you take a breath, shaky, “because this is the only place that still feels like us.”

his face softens. like something inside him shatters a little — you never walked away.

you can’t meet his eyes anymore, “...why are you here?”

he doesn’t answer right away. when he does, it’s a whisper, barely above the music, “i couldn’t sleep,” he says, “i thought maybe if i came here, i’d…remember how to breathe again.”

the silence stretches again, but now its not empty. now it’s heavy with everything unsaid. then you look up at him again, voice smaller this time, “do you…still hate me?” he freezes. you see it happen — the way the question knocks the wind out of him. he looks at you, eyes wide, aching.

“no.” he says quickly. sharply, “no, i don’t hate you.”

you take a careful step forward, “but you said it like you meant it.”

his voice is low. wrecked. “i was angry,” he says, “and scared. and i didn’t know how else to make the pain stop.” your voice trembes, trying not to fall apart, “what do you feel now?”

he doesn’t speak. for a long moment, it’s just the sound of the music and your hearts breaking in tandem. “terrified,” he whispers, “i’m terrified that if i say it, it’ll break me again,” he murmurs, “that i won’t survive it.”

you step towards him, cautiously, voice trembling, heart pounding, “say what?”

he looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second he’s not angry and grieving. he’s just a boy in love, broken open in the worst way. his next words slice the air clean in half.

“i love you.”

three words. simple. quiet. devastating. honest. you feel them all the way down to your bones.

“i love you,” he repeats louder this time, surer, “and i don’t know how to stop. even when it hurt. even when i hated the way you make me feel so much, i still couldn’t stop.” he’s breathing hard now. eyes glassy. “—you made me feel like i mattered. like i wasn’t just a fuck-up hiding behind jokes and half truths. you looked at me like i was worth something. you made me laugh when i didn’t know how to anymore. you brought the air back into my lungs,” he says, voice cracking, “and when i thought it was all a game, when i thought i was just a bet — it broke everything in me.”

“i lashed out, i know i said awful things and i did worse,” he chokes, “i wanted you to hurt like i was hurting. i wanted to forget you. but i couldn’t. and loving you…is the only real thing i’ve ever felt and it scared the shit out of me.”

you’re crying now, tears streaking silently down your cheeks, “i should’ve told you sooner,” you say, barely above a whisper, “i should’ve told you everything. i shouldn’t have played the game at all.”

he steps forward, gently, “it doesn’t matter anymore.”

you shake your head, “it matters to me. because i love you. i never stopped loving you. even when i hated myself for how i hurt you. even when you looked at me like i was nothing.”

“you were never nothing,” he says, voice thick with pain. he closes the distance, hand lifting to cup your cheek. his thumb brushes away a tear with the softness of someone touching something sacred. he’s trembling. you’re trembling. and still, you lean into his palm like it’s home. and something in him finally gives. he pulls you into his arms like he’s been holding every inch of this in since the day he let you walk away. it’s not just a hug. it’s unraveling. a surrender. you crumble against him, clutching his hoodie like if you let go, he might disappear. your face presses to his chest, where you can feel his heartbeat racing. you both hold on like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

“i’m sorry for lying to you,” you whisper, “for not being braver.”

“i’m sorry for hurting you,” he says, voice muffled in your hair.

“i’ve already forgiven you.”

he pulls back just enough to see your face. to read your eyes. and then he kisses you. soft, like a secret. slow, like an apology. then deeper, desperate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of forgiveness on your lips. trying to taste every version of the future he thought he lost. the music is still playing low and quiet. the studio pulsing with something living. the broken trust. the missed chances. the words that came too late and the love, raw and imperfect, but real. and in that studio, under the quiet hum of lights and the weight of everything you’ve been through, you begin again.

⊹ ࣪ ˖

the door creaks softly as you step inside jisung’s room, the quiet click of it closing behind you a stark contrast to the noise still floating up faintly from downstairs. in here, the world has stilled. you decided to start over, so you let yourself forget that the last time you stood in this room, your heart was breaking. you focus instead on the soft scent of his laundry detergent, something warm and cottony. his desk is cluttered, lights low, his bed is a mess of blankets and pillows, like he hasn’t bothered pretending things are normal. you don’t say anything. you just collapse together onto the mattress. limbs tangling beneath the covers, bodies fitting together like they remember each other even if your hearts are still catching up. his fingers find yours, tracing light shapes on the inside of your wrist. you’re curled into his side, face half-buried in the worn fabric of his hoodie, where it smells most like him.

then — he speaks, voice barely louder than a whisper, “i know it’s over… but can i ask what the prize was?”

you blink. a pause. the question catching you off guard. “seriously?”

he shrugs a little, eyes still fixed on the ceiling, a wry smile tugging at his lips. “just curious.”

you hesitate. your fingers curl a little tighter into the fabric of his hoodie, “…five hundred dollars,” you say finally, voice a little sheepish, a little ashamed.

he turns his head to look at you, eyes a little wide, “oh.”

“yeah,” you mumble, eyes flicking up to meet his, “dongpyo said i should start an onlyfans.”

his entire body stiffens, “fuck, no.”

you burst into giggles, the sound muffled by his chest, “relax. of course not. but i do need to get a job.” he chuckles, one of those soft, genuine ones that makes his eyes crinkle slightly and your stomach flutter, “we’ll throw a party and charge entrance, you’ll be fine” he says without hesitation, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

you blink up at him, “seriously? you can do that?”

he brushes some hair away from your face, smile still there, “we do it sometimes. how do you think we can afford these parties anyway?”

you look at him with wide eyes, “wait, but i’ve never paid to get in.”

“hot girls get in for free,” he says simply, like it’s a rule of physics.

you narrow your eyes, “so are sion and dongpyo also hot girls?”

he laughs, “they’re your friends. of course they don’t have to pay.”

“but we’ve been going to your parties since freshman year.”

“yeah,” he says, turning to you with a crooked grin, “and you took my virginity freshman year, you think i’m gonna charge you and your friends for cheap vodka and stale doritos?” he teases. you snort, “wow. so romantic.”

“i try.” your laughter fades slowly into something quieter, the kind of silence that feels full, not empty. the kind where your fingers find his again. where your breaths fall into rhythm. where your heart finally stops racing. his hand drifts to your waist, thumb tracing soft illness.

and then, in that quiet, his voice returns. gentler this time. “promise there won’t be any more lies between us?”

you lift your head just slightly to meet his gaze. his eyes are serious now. you nod immediately. “i promise.” and you mean it. but then, your expression shifts. your smile fades. your gaze slips away. your fingers, which had been tracing the hem of his sleeve, still. something pulls in your chest — like a weight you’ve been ignoring until now. he notices it instantly, “what is it?” he asks softly, “is there something else?”

you hesitate. then you look up at him, wide-eyed and fragile. your voice trembles when you speak, “don’t freak out.”

he sits up slightly, brows furrowing, “you can’t start with ‘don’t freak out’ and expect me not to freak out.”

you sit up too, grabbing his hand quickly, squeezing, “just promise me you won’t.”

“okay,” he says slowly, searching your face, his heart thumping in his chest, “i promise. what is it?”

you take a breath. then another, “i haven’t…” you pause, “i haven’t gotten my period.”

for a second, it’s like the walls have sucked all the air out of the room. his eyes widen, “wait—what?!”

you wince, “i said don’t freak out.”

“I’M NOT FREAKING OUT!,” he squeaks, voice cracking halfway through the sentence, “i’m just–processing…processing very quickly and very loudly.”

you cover your face with your hands, “oh my god.”

he scrambles upright, starts pacing his room like it’s suddenly caught fire, “okay, okay, this is fine. totally fine. you’re not even sure right? like, maybe it’s just late?”

you nod, “it’s probably nothing. it’s probably stress. i mean, everything’s been so—”

“how late?” he interrupts.

you hesitate, “…a week.”

he stops pacing. blinks. breath caught. “okay, okay, its okay,” he nods, eyes wild, “we don’t know anything yet. you’re right. it’s probably nothing.”

you nod. he nods. he sits back down. you’re both nodding at each other like you’re trying to physically keep your panic from exploding. and then he blurts, “should i google it?”

you burst out laughing, “what exactly are you going to google, jisung?”

“i don’t know!,” he says, flustered, “symptoms! timelines! how to breathe properly without fainting?” you giggle as he falls dramatically back onto his bed, placing a hand over his heart like he’s surviving a mild heart attack.

“but…you’re not mad?,” you ask quietly, the humor fading just a little.

he turns his head toward you, gaze instantly soft. “no. why would i be mad?” his voice is gentle again. he laces his hands through yours, “i’m just… nervous.”

you exhale in relief, plopping back down to his side, and cuddling back into him, “it’s probably just stress,” you mumble, your voice muffled against his hoodie.

“probably,” he agrees, “but either way–,” he looks at you, voice soft, “we’ll figure it out together. okay?”

you nod, heart full, leaning into him as he wraps his arms around you again. and just like that — nervous laughs, quiet reassurances, slow kisses between heartbeats — you're right back where you belong. together. no lies. no games. just this.

🍒 JANUARY 8 - BREATHING.

the five pregnancy tests are dramatically lined up across jisung’s bathroom counter like sacred relics. you’re on his bed, knees bouncing. he’s pacing the room in socks and a hoodie over his boxers, clutching the receipt like it’s a legal document.

“i just wanna say,” he begins, dramatically holding up a hand, “this is all your fault.”

you scoff, “my fault?”

“yes,” he says, whirling around, “you’re the one who had the audacity to say don’t freak out and then immediately hit me with i haven’t gotten my period. that’s literally a war crime.”

“oh, please, you’re the one with the weak pull-out game,” you smirk and he looks genuinely offended.

“you told me not to wear a condom!,” he shouts, pointing at the bathroom, “now there’s five pregnancy tests in there! i nearly wiped out the entire pharmacy shelf, the cashier looked at me like i was crazy.”

you snort, “i told you to buy one! it’s not my fault you bought five!”

“i panicked!,” he defends, “what was i supposed to do?! trust one stick?!,” he cries. you dissolve into giggles and he collapses next to you on the bed like a man defeated by science. “i cannot believe this is my life,” he mutters into a pillow, “one minute i’m chilling the next im sweating in aisle five of a drugstore, googling can stress delay a period or am i a dad…and now i have trust issues with my own penis!”

you shake your head, laughing so hard you nearly fall off the bed, “you are so dramatic.” and then your phone timer buzzes. you both freeze. slowly, like you’re approaching a sleeping bear, you walk in the bathroom together and hover above the counter. jisung’s muttering under his breath, “please, jesus, buddha, aliens, anyone.”

you check the first stick – negative. second – negative. all five — negative.

a beat passes. then you both scream. “LET’S GO!!,” he yells, sprinting around the room like he’s just scored the winning goal in a championship, “I KNEW IT. I KNEW IT. MY PULL OUT GAME IS STRONGER THAN THE HOLY TRINITY.”

you’re crying with laughter now, wheezing as you double over, “YOU WERE SWEATING THROUGH YOUR SHIRT FIVE MINUTES AGO!.”

“you had me questioning myself, cherry!,” he says, pointing dramatically, “but deep in my soul, i knew. i knew. i am a legend.”

“you bought a pack of tests and baby diapers,” you point out.

“i was just being prepared!”

“you were mentally naming the baby, weren’t you?”

he pauses. guilty silence. “...maybe.” you laugh again and he catches you in his arms, spinning you around dramatically before tumbling with you back onto the bed. you’re both grinning so hard your cheeks hurt.

“seriously though,” he says, nudging his nose against yours, “i’m glad we’re okay.”

“me too,” you whisper, brushing your thumb across his cheek, “that was the worst ten minutes of my life.”

“right?,” he whispers back, then kisses you once, soft and sweet. then he leans in, voice dropping into a mischievous whisper against your mouth, “i think we should celebrate…by having really hot sex right now.”

you snort, “you’re unbelievable.” he grins, eyes glinting with mischief, “unbelievably sexy,” he corrects, rolling over to cage you beneath him. his hoodie brushes against your bare legs as he leans down, pressing another kiss to your lips, he feels you smile. then the kiss deepens, slow and unrushed as you melt into him, hands tugging his hoodie off. you can feel his heart pounding under your palm, and when you roll your hips against him gently, his breath catches against your lips. jisung groans, low and quiet, his hands sliding up your waist, thumbs brushing over the soft curves of your ribs, “i missed this,” he whispers, voice hoarse, “missed you.”

“i’m right here,” you murmur back, brushing your nose against his, “i never went anywhere.” he kisses you again, hungrier now, but still slow, still careful. like he wants to savor this. like he’s memorizing the way you taste after a week of wondering if he’d ever get to touch you again. you reach down tugging his boxers off, he helps you push it down and then they’re gone, tossed somewhere near the foot of the bed.

“you’re sure?,” he whispers, voice low and careful, lips brushing yours.

you nod, eyes steady, “i want you.” his hands slide down to the hem of your (his) hoodie, lifting the fabric slowly. you sit up just enough to let him pull it over your head, then he tosses it somewhere to the floor. jisung’s gaze rakes over you like he can’t believe you’re real, “god,” he whispers, reverent and ridiculous, “i missed these babies.”

you let out a breathless laugh, “you’re so dumb.”

“i’m dead serious, cherry” he says, voice suddenly deeper as his hands cup your breasts fully, thumbs circling your nipples, “i’ve been thinking about them. i mourned them. they were gone too long.” you gasp softly when he rolls his thumbs again, this time slower, more precised. your back arches into his touch, eyes fluttering shut as your breath sutters. jisung groans, “jesus–you’re perfect,” he leans in, kissing across the top of your chest before taking one nipple into his mouth. the marks he left before have faded now and he was going to make sure he leaves new ones. he sucks slow and gentle at first, flicking his tongue just enough to make your hips jerk forwards. you feel his length against your panties, a sweet moan slipping past your lips. he continues to work his mouth over you – switching sides, showing each one way too much favoritism.“still okay?” he murmurs, lips brushing sensitive skin.

you nod quickly, breathless, “more than okay.” he chuckles low in his throat, dragging his tongue back over one peak, then blowing on it just to make you shiver, “i love how sensitive you are here.” you can only moan in response as he keeps going until your thighs are trembling around his waist and your fingers are digging into his shoulders. “i missed the sounds you make when i do this,” you whimper when he sucks harder, your nails digging into his back. your body rolls against him instinctively, grinding down, desperate now. needing him. he slides your panties down and kisses you again, slow and deep. then he reaches down to guide himself through your folds, slow teasing strokes that make your thighs twitch and your breath hitch. you shiver, so ready it almost hurts, your hips chasing his. but just as you brace yourself for him to finally push in, just as your body arches, lips parted, aching — he stills.

your eyes fly open and meet his. he’s not moving. not even breathing.

you blink. “what are you—” and then it hits you. you burst out laughing, body shaking with giggles, “oh my god. you’re scared.”

“i’m scarred,” he corrects, “you think i went through a full-blown midlife crisis in aisle five just to play with fire again?”

you’re breathless with laughter now, cheeks flushed, forehead resting against his. “jisung.”

he frowns, but it’s playful, “i made eye contact with a toddler in the baby aisle,” he goes on, eyes wide, traumatized, “she waved at me. i almost passed out.” you’re giggling helplessly now, arms wrapping around his neck to pull him down into a kiss. “okay, okay, you have condoms right?” he immediately perks up, almost forgetting that those existed. he reaches over his nightstand drawer, grabbing one and ripping the wrapper with practiced urgency, sliding it on like an expert. once he’s covered, he settles back between your thighs, bracing himself on his forearms, forehead pressed to yours.

“okay,” he murmurs. “now i can properly blow your mind without the threat of parenthood looming over us.” you laugh into his mouth, and then you’re gasping again as he finally sinks into you. your fingers clutch at his shoulders, his back, anything you can reach, as he moves inside you with slow, deep thrusts. his eyes are locked on yours, lips parted, breathing heavy as he watches every expression flicker across your face. “fuck,” you whimper, head falling back against the pillow. “you’re too big.”

“you say that every time,” he groans, forehead resting against yours, “and every time, you take it so fucking well.” the pressure is overwhelming — too much, too deep, so good — and your body clings to him, shuddering around him with every slow roll of his hips. his arms cage you in, and with every thrust, he fills you so completely it feels like there’s no space left to breathe, to think, to do anything except feel him.

he’s watching the way your face contorts under him, “i can feel how tight you are. god, you’re squeezing me like you need me.” you do. you really, really do. every slow, deep stroke has your legs shaking, your moans growing higher and breathier as he presses in deeper, grinding against that sweet, dangerous spot that makes your vision go white. and then he’s thrusting harder, every drag of his cock hitting just right, making you sob his name like a prayer. you wrap your arms around him, clinging to him like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

“fuck, you feel so good,” he growls, voice strained. “so tight, cherry. god, you’re mine. you’re mine.”

when you finally fall apart, it crashes over you hard and fast. your body trembling under him, nails clawing down his back, breath catching in your throat as you cry out his name again and again. he groans softly at the feeling, hips stuttering into you as your body clenches around him, following seconds after, burying his face in your neck, hips stuttering as he groans into your skin, cumming so hard he swore he filled up the entire rubber. he stays there for a moment — still inside you, still catching his breath — before lifting his head to kiss you. not deep, not hungry, just soft. gentle. a kiss made of everything you’ve both held onto through the worst of it. everything that was broken. everything you chose to rebuild. his thumb brushes gently along your jaw. your fingers tangle in his hair.

“i love you,” he whispers. no doubt. no hesitation.

“i love you, too,” you say it back, with your whole heart.

he gives you one last kiss before pulling out, disposing the condom and wrapping the blanket around you both. outside the window, the sky is still soft with the afternoon sun. somewhere in the kitchen downstairs, someone drops a pan. but here, there’s just you. him. and this fragile, beautiful beginning you both nearly ruined — but didn’t.

and for a girl who used to roll her eyes at the mention of love, who used to armor herself in sarcasm and pretend indifference, who used to flinch at tenderness like it was a trick, who used to scoff at fairy tales because they always ended too perfectly, too impossibly — now, it sounded like music. it sounded like a rhythm you want to move with. a song you want to memorize, note by note. a melody stitched between laughter and forgiveness and second chances. a dance you want to dance forever. love, in each others arms, felt like breathing for the first time in years, exhaling the ache you’d both had been carrying alone for far too long, discovering that maybe you weren’t too broken or too hard to love — just waiting for someone who saw you.

𓏲 the end.

—

18+ only | watch at your own risk | contains mature content

bonus: loverboy links (don’t judge me for how many videos are on there. there was supposed to be more too but i hate the stupid 100 link limit)

—

an: holy shit you guys 6/7 is done! while i was writing this i realized i wrote way more than i was supposed to because i don’t want it to end yet 😭 (i paid for that by having to deal with tumblrs block characters limit. so annoying. i hope the long paragraphs didn’t bother your reading too much!) anyways this couple has been the cutest for me to write but also the saddest cause every time i wrote a happy scene all i could think of is the upcoming angst 🥲 i hope you loved cherry and jisung! they’re definitely the most touchy and very very young love couple we’ve had. looking forward for your reviews!

likes, reblogs and comments are not required but is very appreciated ⏦ﾟ♡︎

“Ugh!” You groaned, slamming your head down onto the library table and sliding your textbook aside in the process. “This is agony, I’m tired of studying.”

Jungwon shifted his attention slightly, observing you through his peripheral without completely removing his focus from his own textbook. He and you were paired together for a research project, one that you honestly did not care for. You were never a fan of school to begin with, but you did try. Honestly, you were lucky to be paired with Jungwon, because he was one of the top students in the class. He was quiet, not saying much other than a correct answer or two during lectures, but he always smiled when people greeted him before class started, offering a soft hello before going back to studying, or occasionally, if he had worked far enough ahead on assignments, playing on his switch. 

“I really wonder how you do it, Jungwon,” you sighed beside him, glancing up at him as your cheek rested against the mahogany surface, “I wish I could focus like you.”

“Some of us just aren’t good at studying,” he said simply, flipping to the next page.

You blinked at him, slightly taken aback by his straightforwardness, but he didn’t mean anything insulting by it, just stating a fact– and he was right, you weren’t good at studying at all. 

You sat up and slouched in your chair. “I guess,” you shrugged.

He slowly lowered the book from his face, placing it onto the table in front of him before glancing sideways at you. “I can help you, if you want,” he offered. “I think studying is hard because most people don’t know how, it’s not a matter of actually being bad at it.”

Your gaze flickered from the curve of his brow, to his nose, then finally his lips. He was a really handsome guy, truly, he just needed to break out of his shell a little more. 

“How so?” You asked, leaning forward on your elbows as you kept your eyes on him. The corners of your mouth tugged just a bit as you noticed his Adam’s apple move in his throat, a tint of red creeping up to his cheeks. Cute, you thought, amused by his apparent shyness. You supposed a woman being so close to him and maintaining eye contact is what did it. 

“Well,” he gulped, eyes darting anywhere they could think of besides you, “we could test run a few methods and see if any of them stick.” You didn’t realize you were biting your lip now, but he did, a nearly inaudible shaky breath escaping from his throat. “You could come to my dorm room after classes tomorrow, if you’re okay with that,” he offered, “my roommate is out of town visiting family, so it should be pretty quiet and allow you to focus.”

If it was anyone other than Jungwon, you’d assume they had ulterior motives inviting you to their dorm like that, especially with the fact he was alone for a time, but he just gave off such an innocent energy that you didn’t find any harm in it. “Sure,” you smiled with a nod, “should I just text you when I’m done or?”

“What time do you get out?”

“Around four or so.”

“You can just come to the dorm, then, I’ll already be there since my only class ends at noon,” he explained. “Text me when you’re out front and I can buzz you up.”

You popped on a layer of lipgloss as you approached Jungwon’s dorm building, feet crunching the leaves below you. October was your favourite month of the year– perfect weather and cozy outfits. 

You had to admit you dressed up a little bit more than you had intended. Nothing crazy, just an off shoulder sweater, short pencil skirt, and black knee-highs with a bow embellishment on the cuffs. You weren’t really sure why, it’s not like it was a date or anything. Jungwon was literally just giving you a lesson on how to not be shit at studying.

But, after your last meeting, you felt something shift within yourself. It was subtle, but you found yourself becoming attracted to him. There was something so mysterious about him, as if beyond his gentle, still persona stood a shocking revelation. You were curious by this invisible pull towards him and wanted to find out what was hidden beneath Yang Jungwon, the 2nd highest scorer in your Biology 101 class.

You: im out front!

Wonie: letting you in now. floor 2, room 18.

The door buzzed a moment later. You pushed it open, entering into the building and finding your way towards the stairs. You did have the option to take the elevator, but riding it up one floor when you were fully capable of walking a singular flight of steps seemed ridiculous in your mind. 

You felt a growing tightness in your chest as you came upon Jungwon’s room, but nothing too overwhelming. You’re just here to study, you sighed to yourself, get it together. You took a deep breath before rapping on the door.

It opened a second later, your breath hitching in your throat as soon as you saw him– he was wearing a fitted black t-shirt, the outline of his abs teasing through the material, with a pair of grey sweatpants that sat just low enough on his hips to allow his boxer band to peek out from them. He caught your eyes lingering on his lower body, smirking to himself without you noticing.

“Hey,” he greeted, stepping aside to allow space for you to enter the room, “come in.”

You nodded, muttering a friendly “thank you” as you shuffled inside. You looked around the room, just observing the decor.

“Feel free to sit wherever– bed, desk, even the floor,” he said, shutting the door once you had made it completely inside, “you can leave your shoes in the entryway.”

You nodded, removing them shortly after before taking a seat at the empty chair at his desk. Your hands sat intertwined in your lap, eyes shifting across the photos that lined the shelf directly in front of you. You smiled softly at the childhood picture that looked to be with his mom.

“Okay,” Jungwon announced, now standing behind you, “so I printed out a few exercises and a questionnaire, figured we could start there.”

You chuckled. “You’re taking this very seriously, Wonie.”

He froze at the nickname, an unreadable expression flickering in his eyes for a moment. You had never called him that outloud yet, despite it being the name you had saved for his contact in your phone.

“Maybe,” he cleared his throat, “I just don’t think you deserve to fail.” You didn’t say anything, just nodding as he placed the small stack of papers in front of you. You could nearly feel his chin on the top of your head as he leaned forward over you to do so. “I’ll have you answer the questions first, then we can go over them together and based on what you wrote, we’ll walk through the exercises accordingly.”

“Heard, professor,” you teased, saluting him.

He swallowed hard, cock twitching in his pants as you continued assigning him nicknames. He silently cursed at himself, praying you wouldn’t notice. You didn’t, at least not yet.

He let you be, allowing you time to go through the questions without being disturbed. You could hear the faint tapping of his laptop keyboard as he sat against his headboard a few feet away from you, working on what seemed to be a term paper for another class of his. He managed to become engrossed enough in his assignment to lose his boner, which he was grateful for. 

“Done,” you whistled, leaning back into the chair as you stretched your arms above you. You threw your head back with a sigh of relief.

Jungwon peered up from his computer, leaning over and reaching his hand out to have you hand the papers to him, “let’s see.” You placed them into his palm. He was quiet as he looked over your responses, which made you nervous. You knew it was just the way he was, but the insecure part of you couldn’t help but feel like he was judging you. “Cool,” he smiled a few minutes later, “I can think of a few things to try.”

You were pacing along the wooden floor, tapping your chin with the back of your pen as you repeated key words and definitions. Surprisingly, it was working– you were retaining the information better than you expected. The other three exercises Jungwon had you try were a bust, leaving you feeling defeated, but you gave the fourth option a chance and you were glad you did. By moving your body with repetition, you were able to mimic hands-on experience with words and definitions. You just discovered what worked for your brain after years of struggling.

“The sagittal plane divides the body into right and left parts,” you stated, feet shuffling closer to Jungwon. Even though you were getting the hang of things, you still groaned. “Jesus, why do we have to do a project on this, anyway?” 

Jungwon chuckled, pausing his notetaking to look at you for a moment. “Believe me, I don’t really want to be doing it, either. It’s boring.”

You snorted. “I’m even more impressed that you’re a top student, then. How do you keep your interest?”

He shrugged, eyes focusing back on the notebook, pen scratching the paper, “I don’t, I just want to keep my grades up. That’s my motivation.”

You nodded, lips slightly parting as you understood. It made sense, though you don’t think you could ever find yourself being a person who could maintain focus on a subject that you didn’t care about just for the simple fact that you wanted to keep your grades up. You needed good intellectual stimulation. 

“You never fail to amaze me, Wonie,” you exclaimed, “it’s cute.”

Jungwon froze, pen sliding out from between his fingers and into his lap as his heart pattered against his chest. Calling him Wonie and cute in the same sentence had him short circuiting. “What?”

You cocked your head at him, confused by his tone. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No,” he gulped, “I just– what did you call me?”

“Uh, I called you Wonie,” you responded, “that’s your name in my phone.” 

His heart fluttered at your admission. “Right, but I mean– I meant after that.”

“Ooooh,” you drew out, “I said it was cute, your personality.”

“Ah,” is all he could manage to say.

You blinked at him a few times, still feeling lost as to what that was all about, then quickly went back to continuing your study session. There was a noticeable tension brewing, one you couldn't quite put a finger on.

Jungwon could, though. He couldn’t stop staring at your exposed thighs, eyes trailing up from them to your waist, then your bare shoulders. Every time you treaded across his floor, his cock would twitch along with your movements. The way your legs parted had him imagining his head between them, accessing your cunt with his tongue. The way your shoulders swayed convinced him he needed them in his mouth, biting down and leaving possessive marks all over them and your spine as he ruined you from the back. 

He didn’t intend to feel this way, his motives were completely pure when he invited you over– he felt bad about your situation and, as an acquaintance, didn’t want to see you fail the class, especially if he had the means of helping you improve so you could avoid potentially flunking out of college. But, the more he observed you, the more he got to know you, the more he had to admit to himself that he could no longer view you as just a classmate.

He wanted to take you on dates. He wanted to hold your hand. He wanted to be there for you whenever you laughed and cried.

He wanted your cunt in his mouth. He wanted his cock dripping on your tongue. He wanted to fill your pretty little pussy up with his cum.

He always thought you were pretty, ever since he first saw you in class, but didn’t think much of it– he saw a lot of pretty women on the daily. But when you were paired up for the project, he felt himself becoming a bit nervous about the arrangement. And now, you were in his room, just shy of being bare in front of him as you continued to study. He never thought someone explaining anatomical terms would sound so sexy, but there you were, doing just that, completely oblivious to how it was affecting him. 

“Say it again,” Jungwon said, hand flying over his mouth the second he realized he didn’t just say it in his head.

You stopped walking and turned to him. “Say what again?”

“N-Nevermind,” he muttered, hand anxiously scratching the back of his head, “I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”

“Well, now I’m curious,” you giggled, approaching him on the bed. His heart was about to explode. You sat a few inches away from him at the foot of the mattress. 

“It’s nothing, really,” he assured, “it was stupid.”

“I bet it wasn’t,” you smiled sweetly. He wanted to kiss you right then. “But, understood,” you nodded, standing up to your feet again a moment later, “I won’t press you to tell me.”

He grabbed your wrist involuntarily, pulling you back down onto the mattress. You yelped, surprised by the action, eyes slightly wide as you looked at him.

“S-Sorry,” he said sympathetically, “I didn’t mean to pull you down that hard.”

I liked it, you thought, not daring to say it aloud. “It’s fine.”

You two just stared at each other, unable to move. Your skin was hot, crawling with anticipation as you began to drop your gaze to his lips. You stayed there for a while, both of you clearly noticing there was something unspoken between you. You could hear Jungwon breathing, quiet and short breaths escaping him as his eyes failed to stay still, flickering across every inch of your body. Your skirt was riding so far up your legs that your panties were nearly sticking out. You could see the bulge in his pants.

Time stopped. Neither of you said a word or dared to move.

But the atmosphere was clear on what this was, heavy and laced with desire that was only seconds away from fragmenting. 

“Jungwon,” you called him, low and quiet, “do you also… feel what I’m feeling right now?” You risked asking the burning question as you searched his face for an answer. 

He swallowed, hard, fingers twiddling the duvet curled beneath him. “Y-Yeah,” he stuttered, voice cracking slightly.

“Then,” you exhaled, “what should we do? What do you want me to do to you?”

He inhaled sharply and squeezed his eyes shut to think. Then, in an instant, had you pinned beneath him, trapping your arms above your head with his hands as his knees rested between your thighs. He groaned, seeing the lace of your panties exposed to him, your skirt now sitting at your hips. He hoped you would let him see what was underneath. 

“Y/n,” he bit his lip, eyeing you from head to toe. You couldn't breathe. “Never say I’m cute again.”

His change in tone shocked you, arousal pooling at your core as a darkness fell over him. You were putty in his hands now. “I–I won’t,” you whined as you felt his hand begin to creep up your thigh, “fuck.”

He leaned over and kissed you, slow, hot, and wet, as his fingers toyed with the lace of your panties. Your body jerked upwards in response, causing his fingers to slip underneath them sooner than he planned. He moaned against your lips, your warm folds covering him with your slick. 

“Wow,” he muttered against your lips, “have you been this wet the whole time?” Admittedly, it had been a slow burn, ever since your initial nervousness when you first arrived. Only when he manhandled you did you start gushing. “I need to taste you, baby, holy fuck.”

He dropped his head to your cunt, pulling your panties off of you impatiently on the way. He tossed them somewhere onto the floor. His nose bumped your clit as his tongue entered your hole, hums of ecstacy vibrating through your veins, eyes rolling. He gripped your thighs, hard, to keep you still, fingertips pressing deep enough into your skin to leave bruises. That’s what he wanted, some physical reminder to claim you. 

You mewled, thighs fighting to close around his head, but he forced them to stay open, giving him even more access to your sex. Your back arched, toes curling, as he placed his tongue on your clit, circling and nibbling lightly, while entering two fingers into you. He curled upwards into your gummy walls, chuckling against you as you choked out a groan, knowing he had found your sweet spot immediately. 

“W-Wonie!” You cried hands gripping at his strands as you rode his mouth and fingers, “you’re gonna make me come–”

You couldn't finish the sentence, the coil in your stomach snapping as you released onto his hands and mouth, squirting all over the duvet below you. He lapped all of you up, starting from your cunt before moving to the cum dripping down your thighs, and finishing with sucking on his fingers. You bit your lip, watching as he moaned loudly with each action.

This, perhaps, must have been the side to him you wanted to discover. The cute, innocent boy you thought you knew hid something much darker and enticing. “You’re not as shy as I thought you were,” you said, catching your breath after your orgasm. 

He chuckled, darkly, undressing himself completely before crawling over your still trembling body. You gulped, eyes landing on his cock. His size both terrified and excited you. “Oh, baby,” he cooed, planting kisses on your cheeks before reaching your neck, “you don’t know the first thing about me.” 

He bit your neck, collarbone, then shoulder, and you gasped, hands finding his biceps as your head pushed back further into the pillows. “Then teach me,” you pressed, though your voice was weak and nearly in a whisper. 

Something broke in him, and within the next second, he had you flipped over, chest and face shoved into the bed while he slid your skirt down your legs and off of your body. He rolled your sweater up to hang around your neck like a scarf, not even bothering to take it off of you completely. Your exposed tits, having not worn a bra, pushed into the plush mattress below you. Jungwon slapped your ass, your body recoiling from the sting. You moaned, hands grabbing the duvet as your knuckles turned white. You were already drooling. 

“I hope you know what you just asked for.”

He slid into you, only offering you a second to adjust before pulling back and slamming into you deeper. You choked, spit coating the sheets as you reveled in his cock filling you up. He gripped your hips, hard, pulling you along his shaft so ardently that you swore you could feel him in your stomach. The room was filled with sounds of skin slapping and your filthy cries as he kept his pace fast and relentless. He moved one hand to grip your hair to force you upwards, moving it to cup your mouth once you were steady on your knees. 

“Spit in my hands,” he commanded, pulling his palm away from your mouth just enough to allow you to do so. He groaned when you did, smearing it all over your lips, cheeks, chin, and finally nipples. He slapped both of them, then pinched, and you whimpered. “Such a dirty girl f’me, aren’t you?”

“Y-Yes, Wonie,” you stuttered, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers wrapped around your neck. He squeezed gently at first, “anything for you,” then harder.

He forced you back onto his cock, pistoning into your walls so precisely that it seemed almost calculated, hitting your sweet spots perfectly over and over again.

“Anything, huh?” He smirked, fingers reaching up to your chin to turn it just enough to look at him. Your body was trembling, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, as he peered deeply in your eyes. You folded immediately. “Then you’ll swallow all of my cum for me, won’t you, baby?” He taunted, teeth gritting as his wicked smile stayed plastered on his face. “You’re gonna let me fucking ruin your pretty little cunt then fill up your mouth, isn’t that right, sweetheart?”

You nodded profusely, breaths heavy, mouth hanging wide open as if you were already waiting for him to stuff it. “Yes,” your voice cracked, chest hitting the mattress as he let you go with a gentle, yet belligerent shove. “I want to drink your cum, Wonie.”

He grabbed your waist and flipped you onto your back, lips hovering over your ear a second later as he crawled above you. “You’re such a perfect fucking girl for me, you know that?” He licked one clean strip down your neck, tongue running across the few hickeys he left earlier. “You take me so well.”

With that, he kissed you hard again, slipping his cock back into you as he began pounding you hard, his long, thick length filling up every crevice as his tongue brushed against the back of your throat. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” You whined into his mouth, legs squeezing around his waist. You were thrashing on the mattress, unable to stay still as he had nearly pushed you over the edge for the second time. “Shit– Won– I’m gonna– oh my god!”

Jungwon let out an elongated moan as he felt you squirt all over his cock, your loud cries as you rode out your high competing in volume. 

His thrusts were becoming sloppy, sweat pooling at his forehead as he was nearly about to burst. His stomach tensed as he twitched inside of you, pulling out just in time. “Open your fucking mouth,” he hissed, bringing his cock up to your lips. You barely had time to open them before he shoved himself between them, releasing his hot seed down your throat. “Thatta girl.” You gripped his thighs to help him keep steady, feeling him shake beneath your touch. “Holy shit,” he grunted, bucking his tip into your mouth gently as you sucked all of him dry. He looked down at you, nearly coming again just from the look in your eyes alone as you hollowed around his cock, “you look the prettiest when you're swallowing my cum.”

You rolled your eyes at his dirty words, releasing him slowly with a pop once you drank all of him. He exhaled loudly, dropping his body next to yours before pulling you against his chest. You draped your leg over his hips and curled into him further. 

“That wasn’t too much, was it?” He asked, worry evident in his voice. “I didn’t hurt you, right?” All signs of dominant Jungwon were gone as he defaulted back to his usual, gentle self.

You giggled, resting your chin on his chest to look up at him. “Not at all,” you assured him, “and if that’s what I’ll get for calling you cute, I’m adding it to my permanent Jungwon vocabulary list.”

a/n: happy late birthday to wonnie!! this idea has been plaguing my mind for months and i’ve finally brought it to life heh. be warned, idk jack shit about karate so i googled majority of this stuff and did i use it correctly? who tf knows yall here for the porn not for the accuracy of filler foreplay 😶also TYSM FOR 4k followers like wtf acc. as always, likes, comments and reblogs are always appreciated. enjoy!!

࿊

you've been at this dojo longer than most people remember.

the floorboards know your steps. the mirrors have seen you grow from sloppy punches to clean, confident strikes. you move like you belong here —loud laugh, loose shoulders, mouth running even while you stretch.

you're a senior member, which means two things: 1. people listen when you talk 2. you never stop talking

you correct stances without asking. tap a hip with your foot. shove a shoulder back into place. "you're leaning," you tell people, casual, like it's a favor. "don't do that." no one has ever taken it to heart, they take it as constructive criticism, because they know you care.

sparring is a game to you, one you're used to winning.

so when jungwon joins, you clock him immediately and then dismiss him just as fast.

he's quiet. too quiet.

he bows properly, thanks the instructor and never rushes into drills. the kind of guy people assume is harmless because he doesn't take up space. but he does, his lean figure and fluffy black hair immediately took up space in the place you called home.

you watch him during warm-ups, arms crossed, chewing on the inside of your cheek. "he's holding back," you mutter to no one in particular. you could see it, the way the muscles in his jaw tensed and how his stance faltered right after he did a move perfectly.

no trash talk. no ego. no fire on the surface. the boy seemed to clean, it annoys you.

you end up paired with him by accident the first time, or maybe by instinct.

his footwork is careful but stiff, like he's thinking through every step instead of letting it happen. you circle him once, then reach out and nudge his ankle with your toes.

"nope," you say. "wider. you're gonna fall over like that."

he startles slightly, then adjusts immediately. "like this?" he asks, voice quiet, earnest.

you grin, watching his doe eyes focus on you. "better. still bad, but better."

you tease him relentlessly after that. call him out when he pulls punches, flick his forehead when he hesitates and laugh when he apologizes for hitting too hard (he never does).

"you learn faster with me," you tell him one day, already dragging him to your side before he can answer. "trust me."

he does and that's the thing—jungwon listens.

not just politely, not just to be nice, he absorbs everything you say. which by default, made him the perfect pupil.

you tell him to shift his weight? he does. you joke that he's too gentle? next drill, he hits harder. you offhandedly mention staying late to practice? suddenly he's always lingering.

people still underestimate him. you don't, not really.

but you still think you're ahead.

he starts liking you somewhere along the way. the confidence you carried, the way your eyes lit up when you practiced and how you treated others at the dojo as your own—including him.

he watches you more than the instructor—tracks the way you move, the way you talk with your hands, the way you never seem afraid to get hit. he notices your habits: how you always retie your wraps twice, how you bounce on your heels when you're bored, how you smile like you're daring the world to try you.

you grew up rough and it shows. two brothers will do that—jay and sunghoon's voices live in the back of your head every time you square your shoulders, every time you refuse to back down.

jungwon sees it and he admires it.

he trains harder than anyone else—but only when you're there. when you're not, he's steady. controlled. restrained. when you are, something sharpens.

he never challenges you. never talks back. never tries to prove anything.

he just gets better.

you don't notice at first, because to you, he's still the quiet one. the one you're teaching. the one standing just half a step behind you—close enough to learn, never close enough to threaten.

for now.

you get paired together on purpose, it was now known that you two worked together. the two of you were a duo that no one had expected, quiet and shy jungwon paired with confident and outgoing you. it clashed, but worked well together on the mats. you directed and corrected, and he followed.

the instructor doesn't even look up from the clipboard when they say it, like it's obvious. "you and jungwon. partner drills."

you glance sideways, already smirking.  "told you," you say under your breath. "best seat in the house." snickering softly before locking eyes with the boy who you had grown so accustomed to over the last few months.

jungwon ducks his head, the faintest smile pulling at his mouth. "i'll try not to slow you down," he murmurs, half joking half serious. jungwon was good, you could admit that. after all, you had take him under your wing and taught him—but he wasn't as good as you. at least that's what you believed.

"good," you shoot back easily, a large grin on your face. "because i don't wait."

you never do and you never will.

the drill is controlled grappling—transitions, balance, learning how to feel where the other person's center is. it's close-range work. unavoidable contact.

you demonstrate first, stepping into his space without hesitation. "okay," you say, hands already on him, adjusting his stance like you've done a hundred times. "feet here. don't lock your knees. relax."

your fingers press into his sides as you guide him. he stiffens—not pulling away, just... registering it. he mentally scolds himself for letting your innocent touches get him so riled up.

"breathe," you tell him, tapping his ribs when you notice his breathe going rigid. "you're thinking too hard."

he exhales slowly and nods, his voice coming out slightly croaked. "right."

you move again, showing him how to shift weight, how to turn with an opponent instead of against them. you grab his wrist, spin under his arm, come up close enough that your shoulder brushes his chest.

normal like a routine. except this time, when it's his turn.

"okay," he says quietly, stepping closer. he feels his body begin to lock up at the mere thought of touching you so freely even though he's had his hands on you hundreds of times at this point. "can i—"

"yeah," you say, already waving him on. "go."

his hands hover for a split second, then they land on your waist, not rough, not hesitant—just firm enough to be sure.

your breath catches—just once. it's stupid, it's nothing. you've been grabbed harder, faster, worse. you grew up wrestling with jay and sunghoon, for god's sake. the crazy fucks barely let you breathe and here you are losing your breathe over some middle school touches.

still, your confidence stutters. jungwon's hands fit like they're supposed to be there, molding themselves perfectly against the curve of your waist.

his thumbs press instinctively into the curve of your hips as he adjusts you, eyes focused, expression calm—but you see his throat bob as he swallows.

"is this okay?" he asks, voice low.

"yeah," you say quickly, too quickly. "it's fine. you're doing it right." you force a grin, roll your shoulders like you're shaking it off. "don't go soft on me now."

his grip tightens just a fraction. he wasn't soft at all, and it was getting harder for him to ignore it. "i wasn't planning to."

you reset again and again.

every time, his hands find you faster. like his body's learned the shape of yours before his mind has time to overthink it.

you tease him to hide the way your skin feels too warm and how your cheeks are beginning to redden. "you're improving," you say. "almost scary."

he huffs a quiet laugh. "you say that like it's a bad thing."

"it is," you reply simply, confidence oozing out of you. "for everyone else." your eyes meet for half a second longer than necessary.

neither of you looks away first.

by the end of the drill, you're both flushed— sweat-darkened hair, steady breathing, something unspoken sitting heavy between you.

the instructor calls for water break.

you step back, stretching your arms overhead, deliberately casual. "see?" you say lightly. "told you you'd learn faster with me."

jungwon watches you do it—the stretch, the confidence sliding back into place, the way you pretend nothing rattled you. he watched the sliver of exposed skin that the white robe failed to hide intently, the muscles on your waist stretching as you bring your arms back down.

he nods. "yeah," he says, quiet and unfocused. "i know." and for the first time, the way he looks at you isn't just admiration, it's awareness. like he's realized something, like he's holding it carefully.

you don't notice the way his hands curl slowly into fists at his sides or how he takes one extra breath before stepping away from you, almost as if it pained him to do so.

but you feel it anyway because every time he let go of you, the absence was loud.

the drills get upgraded the next week. the instructor claps their hands together, sharp. "we're moving into control transitions. full contact. partners stay the same."

you don't miss the way jungwon straightens immediately.

you roll your shoulders, confident like always. "guess you're stuck with me," you say, flashing him a grin as you repeat the same dialogue that you've been saying since the very first time the two of you got partnered together months ago. "try to keep up."

he meets your eyes. "i will." something about the way he says it makes your smile hesitate—just for a beat—before you turn away.

this drill is closer. heavier.

it's about leverage, about learning how to move someone without brute force. about knowing exactly where to place your hands to shift balance, steal momentum.

you demonstrate first, of course.

"watch," you tell him, grabbing his sleeve, stepping in hard. "you don't fight the force. you redirect it."

you hook his arm, twist, shove his shoulder— clean, practiced. he stumbles but catches himself with ease.

"again," you say. this time, he doesn't stumble. this time, when you grab him, he moves with you.

his counter is smooth and instinctive. his hand slides to your side, fingers spreading with more confidence than before. he turns you just enough that your back brushes his chest. you could feel how his hands swallowed your frame whole, your heart stuttering in your chest.

your breath goes shallow. "jungwon," you warn lightly, feeling his chest rise and fall heavily against your back. "focus."

"i am," he replies. his voice is calm but his grip isn't.

when it's his turn to lead, the difference is obvious. his hands don't hover anymore.

they land—firm, sure, like he's memorized exactly where they need to go. one at your waist, the other steadying your shoulder. he adjusts your stance without asking, pulling you closer instead of pushing you away.

you feel it. how well you fit, how easily he controls the distance.

your confidence flickers. "since when are you this bold?" you joke, trying to sound unbothered. key word, trying.

his thumbs press in slightly, grounding. "since you told me to stop holding back."

your eyes lock and for a moment, neither of you moves. then he guides you through the transition, clean and controlled, and you hate how right it feels.

the room fades. it's just you and him now—breath, heat, hands.

each repetition, his touch gets surer. less instructional and more instinctive.

you mess up a step, just once. he catches you immediately, arms tightening to keep you from losing balance. your hands brace against his chest without thinking.

too close, way too close.

"you okay?" he asks quietly, his dark doe eyes peering down at you with concern and a hint of something you couldn't recognize.

you nod, pulling back too fast. "yeah. yeah. just— slipped." you laugh it off, loud, exaggerated. "guess you're rubbing off on me."

but your heart's beating too fast and you’re afraid he's watching you like he knows exactly why.

near the end of class, the instructor pairs everyone off for light resistance drills.

"controlled," they warn. "this is not sparring."

you and jungwon face each other. you bounce on your toes, confidence back in place—or at least pretending. "don't get any ideas," you say. "this isn't a real match."

"i know," he replies, a small smile on his dimpled face but the look in his eyes says he's thinking about it anyway.

you move first. fast. sharp.

and for the first time—he anticipates you. his hands catch your wrists mid-motion, grip firm but careful. he steps in, body close, using your own momentum to shift you off-center.

you recover quickly but not fast enough to hide the surprise, his jaw tightens like he noticed too.

"again," he says softly.

you go again and again. each time, it's harder. each time, he meets you with more confidence. like something's clicked into place—not aggression, not ego, just certainty.

by the time the instructor calls it, your arms ache and your mind feels... off.

you hate it.

you also can't stop thinking about the way his hands felt—steady, grounding, right. you mentally scold yourself for letting some innocent touching rile you up so much.

as you grab your water bottle, you catch him looking at you, not shy, not apologetic but focused. like he's still feeling the shape of you under his palms.

you tilt your head, forcing a smirk. "what?" you say. "never seen someone almost lose before?"

his lips twitch up, "i didn't think this would be this hard to forget."

your breath stutters. you look up at him, confused. before you can respond, the instructor's voice cuts through the room. "sparring brackets next week. be ready."

your stomach flips when you hear the parings. you and jungwon had been paired together.

jungwon looks at you then—really looks at you. and this time, you don't feel like you're ahead anymore.

you feel like you're being caught up to.

࿊

the locker room smells like disinfectant and sweat and something metallic you can never quite place.

you're halfway through wrapping your hands when mina drops onto the bench beside you, ponytail damp, eyes bright with something that immediately puts you on edge.

"so," she says, dragging the word out. "are you ready?"

you don't look up, all of a sudden hyper fixated on the tiled floor beneath you. "for what?"

she snorts. "don't play dumb. you're sparring jungwon today." your fingers pause for half a second before you tug the wrap tighter. "yeah. and?"

mina tilts her head, studying you. "nothing. just—" she hesitates, then leans closer. "i watched him spar yesterday."

you keep your tone light. "oh my god, don't tell me he finally learned how to hit." you try to humour yourself, you really do.

"i'm serious," she says, voice pitched higher. "it wasn't like before."

you finally glance at her, eyebrows raised with a mocking look planted on your face. "define 'before.'"

"before, he was controlled," mina explains. "quiet. precise. yesterday? he was still calm, but—" she makes a vague motion with her hands. "he demolished jake. like, clean. didn't rush. didn't hesitate. just... ended it."

your stomach does a weird little flip and you scoff immediately. "okay, first of all, that guy sucks. second of all, jungwon's always been technical. that's literally his thing."

"yeah," mina says slowly. "but this was different. it was like he knew exactly what was going to happen before it did."

you tie off your wrap harder than necessary. "he's still newer than me." you had been here for years, joining when your brothers had first started which had given you a few years of experience. surely someone who's only been training for a few months couldn't beat you. right?

"sure," she agrees. then, casually, "but he doesn't fight like it."

that gets under your skin. you stand, roll your shoulders, force a grin. "relax. i've been doing this for years. he's not suddenly going to—what? magically surpass me?"

mina raises an eyebrow, already knowing how her best friend was feeling. "i didn't say that."

you grab your bottle with a little more force that necessary. "no, but you were thinking it."

࿊

out on the floor, the energy feels different and you feel nauseous. you've never felt so nervous before a spar, but this time around you feel as if you were going to throw your guts up onto the mats.

people glance at you as you pass—some curious, some expectant. you tell yourself it's nothing. you're used to attention, you're used to being the benchmark.

still, your chest feels tight.

you stretch longer than usual. shake out your hands. bounce on your toes.

you're fine, you tell yourself. you always are.

then you see him. jungwon's already there, adjusting his wraps, posture relaxed. he looks... settled. not nervous. not eager.

when his eyes meet yours, something unreadable passes through them—recognition, maybe. anticipation.

he nods once. quiet. respectful. it shouldn't make your pulse spike but it does.

as you circle the mat, memories keep intruding uninvited.

his hands on your waist during drills. the way he'd steady you without asking. how close he'd stand, like distance was optional.

you'd laughed it off, teased him. told yourself it was nothing. it's still nothing, you insist now. but then mina's words echo back.

he demolished that guy.

you swallow.

jungwon steps closer before the match is called. not invading your space—just close enough that you can hear him over the room.

"are you okay?" he asks quietly, his large eyes looking down at you with concern.

you blink up at him. "why wouldn't i be?" he studies you for a second too long. "you seem... tense."

you scoff, forcing a grin. "wow. thanks, coach." his lips twitch. "i didn't mean it like that."

"sure," you say, rolling your neck. "don't overthink it. this is just sparring."

he nods."i know." but his gaze doesn't leave you. and that's when it hits you—not fear, not exactly.

awareness.

jungwon isn't wondering if this will be different, he already knows it will be.

the instructor calls your names and your stomach drops. as you step onto the mat, you tell yourself the same thing over and over:

you've been doing this longer. you're stronger. you're not losing to the quiet one you taught how to stand.

jungwon faces you, calm, hands loose at his sides. ready. for the first time since he walked into this dojo—your confidence doesn't feel unshakable.

it feels like it's being tested. and somewhere deep down, beneath the nerves and denial, there's a thought you don't want to examine too closely: what if he's been preparing for this longer than you think?

the mat feels different under your feet. it's the same surface you've stood on a thousand times, the same faint give beneath your soles, but your body is hyperaware of it now—every shift of weight, every breath.

"ready?" the instructor asks.

you nod immediately. "yeah." across from you, jungwon inclines his head. "ready."

no bravado, no nerves, just calm. that should've been your first warning.

the signal is given and you move first, fast, sharp, familiar. a testing strike, meant to feel him out, remind him who's in control.

jungwon doesn't flinch. he steps back just enough to let it pass, eyes locked on you, tracking instead of reacting.

you circle, bounce lightly on your toes, confidence snapping back into place. "come on," you say lightly. "don't freeze up now."

he doesn't answer, instead, he moves and it's clean. precise. closer than you expect.

his timing is different—not rushed, not hesitant. he meets you in the space between movements, where you're used to being safe.

you adjust, counter and push harder. he adapts faster. the first real crack comes when he anticipates you.

you go for a familiar sequence—one you've used a hundred times, one that's won you matches before.

jungwon reads it like a sentence he's memorized, because he has. you two have been partners for months now, jungwon recognizes your pattern easily. he's watched your matches, studied you harder than any textbook—he knows you and your moves like second nature.

his hand catches your wrist mid-motion, grip firm. he pivots, pulls you off-center just enough that you have to scramble to recover.

your heart stutters. okay, you think. fine. lucky read. you wrench free, reset, grin sharp. "nice."

his eyes don't leave you. "thank you." polite, composed and it unsettles you more than trash talk ever could.

you push harder. speed. pressure. aggression. this is your comfort zone—loud, relentless, unapologetic. you crowd his space, force him to respond, try to overwhelm him the way you always have.

jungwon absorbs it. not by overpowering you but by redirecting. every time you press, he turns it aside. every time you rush, he waits you out.

your breathing gets louder, his stays steady. then it happens, a misstep, tiny. barely there.

he takes it. his hands close around you—one at your wrist, the other at your side and suddenly you're moving where he wants you to go.

the mat rushes up and you hit it hard enough to knock the breath from your lungs.

the room goes quiet. jungwon releases you immediately, stepping back, offering a hand like instinct.

you stare at the ceiling for a second too long.

what the hell just happened?

you get up fast, too fast. ignoring jungwon's outstretched hand.

embarrassment flares hot, sharp. "again," you say, voice tight. "that was—again."

the instructor hesitates but nods. "keep it controlled."

jungwon watches you carefully, nothing but concern in his tone and for some reason this sets you off more than any smugness he could've thrown at you. "are you sure?"

that does it. "yes," you snap. "i'm sure."

so this time, you play dirtier.

you crowd him, grab harder, use your weight, your strength, everything you grew up learning from jay and sunghoon—elbows, pressure, refusal to give ground.

for a moment, it works. you force him back. drive him down and end up above him, knee braced, hands pinning his wrists.

triumph surges through you—sharp, desperate. there it is. there you are.

your breath is uneven, his isn't.

you realize it too late, jungwon could get out. you feel it—the way his body is coiled, ready, restrained by choice rather than circumstance. your stomach drops and he shifts.

not violently. not roughly. but just enough.

the world tilts and suddenly you're the one pinned, his weight settled, controlled, undeniable. his grip is firm but careful, eyes steady, focused on your face.

close, way too close.

your mind blanks. oh.

the instructor calls it, it takes you a second to register the words. "point to jungwon. match over."

over.

you blink. once. twice. jungwon releases you immediately, stepping back like the contact burned him.

"are you okay?" he asks, genuine concern threading his voice. you nod automatically. "yeah. i'm—yeah."

but you're not because it's not just that you lost. it's how you lost. clean, controlled and inevitable. you sit up slowly, the noise of the room rushing back in—murmurs, movement, the scrape of feet —but it all feels distant.

jungwon stands there, breathing steady, gaze flickering with something you can't quite name. regret? guilt?

it twists something in your chest. you laugh weakly, shaking your head. "wow," you mutter. "guess i really taught you too well."

he frowns at your words. "it wasn't like that." but it feels like that. it feels like you handed him the pieces and never noticed him putting them together into something sharper than you expected.

something stronger. betrayal isn't the right word —he didn't cheat, didn't lie—but it sits in your chest anyway, heavy and confusing.

like realizing the ground you trusted shifted without telling you. as you step off the mat, you don't look at him again.

because if you do, you're not sure whether you'll feel anger—or something dangerously close to awe.

jungwon catches up to you before you even make it to the lockers.

"hey," he says softly, like he's worried loudness might make things worse. "wait."

you slow just enough to turn, forcing a smile onto your face like it belongs there. "what's up, champ?"

the word tastes wrong. he flinches—not visibly, but you see it in the way his shoulders tense. "i just wanted to—talk. about the match."

you laugh but it comes out too bright, too easy, like you're trying to convince the room instead of him. "talk about what? you won. congrats."

you clap his shoulder as you pass him, casual, friendly, rehearsed. "guess taking you under my wing actually worked, huh?"

it's meant to sound generous but it sounds like a dismissal. jungwon turns to face you again, brow knitting. "it wasn't like that," he says quickly. "i didn't—i wasn't trying to—"

he wasn't quite sure why he felt so guilty about beating you, after all, it was a match that was won fairly. but seeing you lose even if it was him beating you, didn't sit well with him. the victory feeling more burdening than proof that he was good at the sport.

you're already walking away. "relax," you toss over your shoulder. "this was kind of the point. teacher gets surpassed. classic."

inside, something twists painfully. because yes—it makes sense, you trained him, you corrected him, you stayed late with him.

of course he learned. of course he got better. but knowing that doesn't make the loss hurt any less. it doesn't stop the ache sitting heavy in your chest —sharp with pride, dull with something closer to grief.

you don't look back and jungwon watches you go.

from where he stands, it feels like the room just... emptied. he knows your laugh. knows when it's real and that one wasn't.

he opens his mouth like he might call after you, explain himself somehow—that he never meant to make you feel small, that he only ever wanted to be good because of you.

but you're already gone and for the first time since he joined the dojo, jungwon feels like he's misstepped without knowing how.

the days after are worse. you stop pairing with him entirely.

when the instructor assigns partners, you switch. when you end up too close, you step away. when he looks at you, you don't look back.

you laugh with everyone else. you joke, you correct stances, you're still loud, still confident.

just... not with him and jungwon notices everything. the way you angle your body away. the way your eyes slide past him like he's not there. the absence where something warm and familiar used to sit.

it gnaws at him so he tries again.

"hey," he says one evening as you're packing up. "did i do something wrong?"

you don't even pause. "nope."

he follows, careful not to crowd you. "then why won't you talk to me?" you sigh like he's inconveniencing you. "jungwon, you're reading into it. we're fine."

but you don't sound fine and you don't look at him when you say it. "we don't joke anymore," he says quietly. "you don't correct me. you don't—"

"because you don't need it," you snap before you can stop yourself.

silence drops between you. you inhale sharply, scrub a hand through your hair. "look," you say, forcing calm back into your voice. "you're good. clearly. you don't need me hovering anymore."

hovering. the word lands wrong. jungwon's chest tightens. "i never thought you were hovering."

you finally meet his eyes—just for a second—and something raw flashes there before you shut it down.

"well," you say lightly, "that's how it was." you shoulder your bag and walk out. again.

by the end of the week, everyone feels it. mina watches you from across the mat, frowning. "did you two get into a fight or something?"

you scoff. "no."

"because you used to be attached at the hip," she says. "now it's like—"

"like what?"

"like you broke up," she finishes hesitantly.

you laugh in disbelief, sharp. "we were never anything." across the room, jungwon pretends not to hear—but the words stick anyway.

never anything.

he still looks for you, out of habit. still tracks your movements. still adjusts his stance the way you taught him.

but now it feels wrong like training with a missing limb. you notice it too, even if you pretend you don't.

how the space beside you stays empty. how your jokes land quieter. how winning drills feels less satisfying without someone watching the way he used to.

you tell yourself it's better this way, that distance hurts less than admitting how much it bothered you to lose. how much it bothered you that it was him who had beat you.

but late at night, when the dojo's quiet and your body aches from overtraining, the thought creeps in anyway: you didn't just lose a match. you lost the version of the two of you that existed before he realized his own strength.

and somewhere else, jungwon lies awake replaying the match over and over—not the victory, not the pin—but the moment you laughed and walked away.

࿊

you try to keep it light. that's the plan, at least.

you keep showing up early, keep correcting people's stances, keep laughing too loud at jokes that aren't that funny. on the surface, nothing about you has changed.

except jungwon is suddenly everywhere. not loud about it, never demanding, just... there.

he lines up next to you during warm-ups like it's habit. offers to hold pads when you don't ask. walks beside you when drills rotate.

the first time, you pretend not to notice. the second time, you flash him a smile. "wow," you say cheerfully. "you're really attached lately, huh?"

he blinks, almost hurt. "i just thought—we usually—"

"relax," you cut in lightly. "i'm joking." you always are. except the joke lands a little too close to the bone.

jungwon nods, lips parting like he might say something else—then he stops himself. he steps half a pace back, giving you space you didn't ask for but somehow resent anyway.

okay, you think. good. but it doesn't last.

during partner rotations, the instructor pairs you with someone else. jungwon still drifts over.

"your guard's dropping," he murmurs, instinctive. you smile brightly without looking at him. "oh? thanks. guess i forgot how to fight after one loss."

the words are playful and your tone is sweet but the jab is sharp enough that only he feels it.

he stills. "that's not what i meant," he says carefully.

"i know," you reply, grin unwavering. "you never mean anything bad."

jungwon swallows. you're mad, he realizes and you don't want to admit it. that scares him more than if you'd yelled.

he keeps trying anyway, because that's who he is. because losing you quietly feels worse than risking you loudly.

he brings you water after drills. waits for you at the lockers. asks questions he already knows the answers to, just to hear you talk.

and every time, you let him and that's the cruelest part. you never shut him out completely. you just... twist the knife a little deeper each time.

"you're doing great lately," he says one afternoon, genuine. "everyone's noticing."

you laugh bitterly. "yeah? guess all those hours of me correcting you paid off."

he hesitates. "...they did."

you tilt your head, eyes bright but unwelcoming. "you're welcome."

࿊

your mood shifts slowly, like a storm rolling in unnoticed. the unbothered act starts to crack.

your smiles stay in place. your tone stays upbeat. but the words underneath get meaner. slicker. tailored just for him.

"careful," you say once, still grinning, when he mirrors your footwork perfectly. "don't wanna make it too obvious who you copied."

another time: "wow, you're really confident lately. winning one match really went to your head, huh?"

he flinches—barely. "i don't think that," he says softly.

"mm," you hum. "sure."

jungwon hears what no one else does, the accusation. the bitterness. the hurt disguised as humor. and every time, he chooses silence. because pushing back feels like it might shatter what little you're still giving him.

inside, he's unraveling.

you're till smiling at me, he thinks. you're still talking to me. so why does it feel like i'm hurting you every time i breathe?

he replays everything—the match, the pin, the way your laugh sounded wrong afterward.

if i apologize again, will you pull away more? if i stop trying, will you disappear completely?

so he stays and takes the jabs, lets you bruise him in ways no one else can see.

you notice it, of course.

the way his shoulders slump just a little. how he answers shorter now. how his eyes search your face like he's bracing for impact every time you open your mouth.

it makes something ugly twist in your chest. good, you think bitterly. now you know how it feels.

except you don't feel better. you feel worse because under the bratty comments and the pretty smiles, there's a truth you won't let yourself say out loud: you're angry because he matters. you're cruel because you don't know how to be honest without breaking.

and jungwon—jungwon keeps letting you hurt him because losing you would hurt more.

everyone else sees two people drifting apart. only the two of you know how loud the tension really is and it's building toward something neither of you can keep dodging forever.

࿊

the dojo is supposed to be empty.

the lights are dimmed to their nighttime setting, half the room swallowed in shadow. the only sounds are your breath and the dull thud of your strikes hitting the bag.

over and over. harder than necessary.

your knuckles sting and you welcome it with open arms.

you don't hear the door at first.

jungwon does. he freezes just inside the entrance, gym bag still slung over his shoulder, eyes immediately finding you in the mirror. your reflection is sharp, furious—jaw clenched, movements aggressive, nothing like the playful version you wear during class.

so this is where you go, he thinks. he watches for a moment too long. the way you reset your stance angrily. the way you mutter under your breath. the way you hit like you're punishing something.

or someone.

finally, you notice the reflection behind you. you turn and your smile is gone. "...you stalking me now?" you ask flatly.

jungwon stiffens. "i— no. i stayed back. i noticed you don't leave with the others anymore."

"congrats," you say, grabbing your towel, wiping sweat from your neck. "very observant."

he steps further in, careful, like one wrong move might send you bolting. "i wanted to talk. properly. without—everything else."

you laugh, short and humorless. "wow. brave. cornering me alone at night."

his ears redden. "that's not—"

"relax," you interrupt, a lazy grin on your face now. "you're not scary."

the words are casual but the insult underneath isn't. jungwon swallows, choosing to ignore that last statement. "you've been avoiding me."

"have i?" you tilt your head, eyes sharp. "or did you just stop being my responsibility?"

that lands. he exhales slowly, steadying himself. "i never wanted you to feel like that."

"oh?" you step closer, just a little. "because it really felt like you were waiting for your chance to prove you didn't need me."

that's when something flickers across his face— hurt, maybe, mixed with something firmer. "i needed you," he says quietly. "i still do."

you scoff before rolling your eyes, clearly not believing what he had to say. "sure you do. you just don't show it on the mat anymore."

his gaze drops briefly—to your hands, your stance —then lifts again, intent. "because you won't look at me."

"because you beat me," you snap. the words hang there, raw and exposed. you don't bother softening them this time.

jungwon takes a step closer. "that was never—"

"don't," you cut in. "don't explain it away. don't apologize. you won. clean. congrats."

you clap slowly, exaggerated. "guess i'm a great teacher."

his jaw tightens. "that's not fair."

you grin—sharp, bratty, unapologetic. "nothing about this has been fair since you decided to stop holding back."

silence stretches. the air feels thick now—charged, heavy with things you haven't said. you're standing too close, close enough that you can see the way his chest rises a little faster than before.

he notices too and his voice drops. "you told me to stop."

"yeah," you say. "i didn't mean on me."

his eyes darken at that. "you think i wanted to hurt you?" he asks.

you step even closer, invading his space deliberately now. "i think you liked it."

that does it. jungwon's breath stutters—just once —before he schools his expression back into calm. his hands curl slowly at his sides like he's physically stopping himself from reacting.

you smirked, you knew what he was. the quiet and controlled ones were always the nastiest.

"you don't mean that," he says carefully. you tilt your head, eyes flicking briefly to his hands. "don't i?"

for a split second, neither of you moves. you can feel the heat of him. the tension coiled tight between you, pulling instead of pushing.

you're the one who breaks it—shoving past him to grab your bottle.

"you done with your little heart-to-heart?" you ask lightly. "or you gonna critique my form too?"

he turns, following you. "you're overtraining."

you laugh. "wow. now you're coaching me?"

"i'm worried about you."

"that's rich," you snap, spinning back around. "you didn't seem too worried when you pinned me."

the room goes dead quiet. jungwon's voice is low. "you know i didn't enjoy that."

your smile is slow. dangerous. "your body language said otherwise." his eyes flick to your mouth, then away. he looks... shaken.

"you're being cruel," he says, not accusing. just stating.

"yeah?" you step into him again, chin tipped up. "then stop standing so close."

he doesn't move. doesn't touch you. doesn't step back. just stays.

"i won't," he says quietly. "not if it means losing you."

something twists hard in your chest. for a second —just a second—your bravado wavers. then you scoff, rolling your eyes. "don't be dramatic."

but your voice isn't as steady as you want it to be. jungwon watches you like he's memorizing the moment—the anger, the closeness, the truth bleeding through the cracks.

whatever this is between you, it's not done. it's just finally alone and you don't back down.

that's the thing about you—when you feel cornered, you bare your teeth.

jungwon is standing too close, presence heavy, blocking the only clear path out. his voice is low, controlled, but you can feel it trembling right under the surface.

and instead of easing up—you smile. slow. sweet. poisonous.

"god," you say lightly, tilting your head like you're genuinely curious, "is this where you get it out? on the mat?"

his brows knit in confusion. "get what out."

you shrug. "whatever it is you're compensating for."

the silence that follows is brutal.

"don't," jungwon says. one word. tight. dangerously calm.

you laugh under your breath. "what? i'm just saying—maybe throwing people around is easier than disappointing them somewhere it actually matters."

that one lands, hard. his jaw locks. his breathing changes—deeper now, sharper, like he's reining something in with both hands.

"you don't get to talk about me like that," he says quietly. you step into it instead of away, chin lifting in challenge. "why? scared i'm right?"

his eyes darken but he doesn't walk away, doesn't touch you.

he looms.

you feel him everywhere—heat, shadow, gravity. your back hits the mirror with a soft sound you hate how loud it feels.

"you're being deliberately cruel," he says, voice low enough that it vibrates in your chest. "and you know exactly why."

you scoff. "oh please. suddenly you're fragile?"

"no," he snaps. "i'm angry."

good. that's what you wanted.

"wow," you say, clapping mockingly. "took you long enough. i was starting to think you only knew how to be quiet and obedient."

his hand twitches at his side. you notice, you file it away and you poke again.

"what?" you press. "does it bother you that i don't look at you like some prodigy anymore? that you're just—" you gesture vaguely, cruelly, "another guy who needed one win to feel big?"

his restraint finally cracks—not loud, not explosive, but sharp. "you're acting like a child," he bites out. "a sore, bitter child who can't stand not being the best for once."

your smile widens when you realize you had finally gotten under his skin. "and you're acting like one win suddenly rewrote the hierarchy."

"there is no hierarchy," he snaps. "this isn't about dominance or ego or—"

"don't lie to me," you interrupt, eyes blazing. "you felt it. you liked having me under you. liked knowing you could."

that one shakes him. you see it—the flicker of something feral he immediately clamps down on.

"that's not what that was," he says, dangerously quiet.

"then why are you still standing here like you're trying to prove something?" you shoot back. "why do you look like you're two seconds from snapping?"

his voice drops even further. "because you keep pushing me and i don't want to hurt you."

you laugh, breathless and sharp. "oh please. you already did." that lands deeper than you expect— even you feel it.

but you don't stop. "you won," you continue, venomous. "congrats. gold star. doesn't change the fact that you only had the nerve to stop holding back once you knew you could beat me."

"that's not true," he growls.

"isn't it?" you shoot back. "or were you always just waiting for the right moment to show me up?"

his eyes bore into yours. "i admired you."

the word hits hard. you sneer to cover the way it rattles you. "admiration looks a lot like obsession from where i'm standing."

his chest rises sharply. "you're twisting everything," he says. "because you don't want to admit this mattered to you."

"of course it mattered," you snap. "i took you under my wing. i trusted you."

"and i didn't betray you," he fires back. "i did exactly what you taught me to do."

"then why does it feel like you took something from me?" you demand.

the room is electric now—anger crackling, tension thick enough to choke on. you're both breathing hard. neither of you backing down.

jungwon leans in just enough that his voice is only for you. "because you don't know how to exist when you're not in control," he says. "and instead of admitting that, you're trying to tear me down."

you glare up at him, heart pounding. "maybe if you stopped hovering around me like a kicked puppy—"

"i stayed," he cuts in. "because i care."

"then stop acting like i owe you softness," you spit. "you didn't earn it."

his restraint is hanging by a thread now—you can feel it vibrating in the air between you.

"keep talking," he says quietly. "see where that gets you."

your pulse spikes and neither of you moves and for a split second, it's impossible to tell whether this is about anger—or something much more dangerous simmering just underneath it.

you've had enough. the air in the dojo feels too tight, too hot, like it's pressing in on your lungs. your pride is frayed, nerves buzzing, anger sitting ugly in your chest.

"i'm done," you say flatly, turning away. "move."

you step toward the exit. jungwon shifts, not fully in front of you—just enough.

you stop. slowly, you look up at him, disbelief curling into irritation. "seriously?"

he doesn't answer. just watches you, jaw tight, eyes dark and unreadable. you try again, sidestepping. again, he blocks you. that's when something in you snaps.

"what the fuck is your problem?" you bark. "get out of my way."

"not like this," he says calmly. you laugh, sharp and humorless. "oh my god, you really don't know when to stop, do you?"

you shove at his chest—not hard, but defiant, insulting in its confidence. muscle meets muscle and for half a second, you expect him to give.

he doesn't. instead, you sneer, words spilling before you can stop them. "what, is this how you make yourself feel capable? since you probably can't manage it anywhere else?"

his eyes flash. "don't," he warns.

you lean in, voice dripping poison. "or what? you'll pin me again and pretend that makes you impressive? real substitute for being disappointing in bed, jung—"

you push him again, harder and then—everything flips.

one second you're standing. the next, the world tilts violently and your back slams into the mat, breath ripping out of you in a sharp gasp.

jungwon moves fast—terrifyingly so.

your wrists are trapped above your head, his grip iron-strong, knees planted on either side of your thighs, weight settled in like he belongs there.

you freeze. your chest heaves. the mat is cold beneath you and  he's warm above you.

for the first time tonight—you're silent.

jungwon's breathing is heavy now, controlled but strained, shoulders tense like he's holding himself back with sheer will. his face is inches from yours, eyes burning with something far more dangerous than anger.

"say it again," he says quietly, his breath fanning against your cheek.

your pulse is roaring in your ears. you swallow, defiance flickering even as your body betrays you, heart pounding against your ribs. "get off me."

his grip tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how pointless resistance would be.

"you don't get to talk about me like that," he growls. "not after everything you've been doing."

"what," you snap breathlessly, "hovering? watching me? acting like i owe you something?"

his jaw clenches. "you keep provoking me," he says. "you keep trying to hurt me because you can't stand that i beat you."

you scoff, even pinned, even shaking. "congrats. you won. does this help? does it finally make you feel competent?"

his eyes flick down to your mouth—just for a split second—then back to your eyes.

and that's when you know, you've crossed a line.

"you have no idea," he says lowly, "how hard i've been holding back."

the air between you feels charged, electric. your breath stutters, chest brushing his with every inhale. you can feel how solid he is, how immovable, how completely at his mercy you are right now.

yet he still hasn't touched you beyond what's necessary. still restrained. still choosing control.

"get off," you whisper, but it lacks bite now.

he doesn't move. "this," he says, voice steady but dangerous, "is exactly why i didn't want to fight you again."

your heart is racing—anger tangled with something else you don't want to name.

"because you're afraid you'll lose?" you taunt weakly.

his gaze hardens and he lets out a small laugh. "because i knew i'd get a taste of having you under me." your gaze hardens. "because i knew if you pushed me like this," he murmurs, "you wouldn't be able to handle what happens next."

silence. thick. heavy.

he finally releases one of your wrists—not to let you go, but to brace himself on the mat beside your head, boxing you in completely.

"say it again," he breathes, voice rough, eyes burning down into yours.

"what, that you're just trying to prove something because you're probably shit in—"

his hand clamps over your mouth. not hard, but final. the sound you make is muffled, swallowed by his palm. his other hand still pins your wrist, his body a solid, unyielding weight keeping you trapped against the cold mat.

"you don't get to talk," he says, low and deliberate. "not anymore. you had your chance. you used it to be cruel. now you get to learn." he was nice, patient, understanding and polite. you didn't want him that way, so he'll change his approach.

you thrash, hips bucking, legs kicking uselessly. your free hand claws at his arm, but it's like trying to move stone. he doesn't even flinch. just watches you struggle, his breath coming in controlled bursts, a dark, possessive satisfaction settling into his features.

"struggle all you want," he murmurs, leaning down until his lips brush your ear. "i like it. i've liked it for a long time."

you freeze, eyes widening. you fucking knew it.

he smiles then—a small, dangerous thing. "all those times i corrected your stance. my hands on your hips. you thought i was just being a good student?" he nuzzles your jaw, his nose tracing the line to your throat. "i was memorizing you. every flinch. every breath. how you felt under my hands."

his mouth finds your neck and he bites.

not a love bite. a sharp, claiming clamp of teeth that makes you gasp against his palm, back arching off the mat. pain sparks, hot and immediate, followed by a treacherous bloom of heat low in your belly. he holds it for a long second, then soothes the mark with his tongue, a low hum vibrating against your skin.

"you have no idea," he whispers, pulling back just enough to look at you. "how often i thought about this. about having you under me. really under me."

he shifts, his weight settling more deliberately between your thighs. the friction is minimal, but it's enough. you feel him—hard, undeniable, pressing against the seam of your gi pants. a shocked, wet pulse answers from between your legs, and you hate yourself for it.

he sees it. of course he does. his eyes darken further. "you feel that?" he grinds down, once, slowly, making you feel every inch. "your body knows what your mouth won't admit."

he releases your wrist. before you can even think to strike, he's grabbing the loose end of your own white karate belt, yanking it free from its knot with a sharp pull. you scramble, trying to twist away, to get a knee up, to do anything—but he's faster. always faster now. he captures both your wrists in one large hand, pins them above your head against the mat, and wraps the belt around them in a few efficient, brutal loops. the fabric is stiff, unyielding. he ties it tight, a secure knot that leaves your arms stretched, vulnerable.

"there," he says, sitting back on his heels to admire his work. you're laid out before him, bound, chest heaving. "better."

"jungwon, you fucking—"

"ah," he tsks, placing a finger over your lips. "language. you've said enough."

his hands go to the ties of your gi jacket. he opens it slowly, almost ceremoniously, pushing the fabric apart to reveal your sports bra beneath. his gaze is heavy, appreciative. "all that fire," he murmurs, palming one breast through the material, his thumb rubbing over your nipple until it pebbles painfully. "hiding all this softness."

he leans down and bites you again—this time over the fabric, right on the peak of your breast. you cry out, the sound a mix of pain and shock. he sucks hard, leaving a wet, aching spot, then moves to the other, giving it the same treatment. your hips jerk helplessly. you're wet. so wet you can feel it soaking through your pants.

he pulls your sports bra as far down as he could, watching your tits squeeze almost uncomfortably against the right fabric. he greedily takes in your exposed nipple into his mouth, sucking softly as he looks at your face.

you attempt to snarl at him, your hips rocking in attempts of shifting away but all you ended up doing was grinding against jungwon's dick harder.  he lets out soft moans as he switches from one tit to the other, tongue tracing what it could.

"disgusting," you pant, trying to sound contemptuous. "you're a fucking animal."

he chuckles, a low, dark sound. "you made me this way. you kept pushing. you wanted to see the monster? here it is."

he grudgingly parts way with your chest, leaving soft kisses down the middle before landing a sharp bite between the junction of your neck and shoulder. a mark that would be impossible to hide. you cry out in pain, your thighs attempting to clench together to alleviate the pressure that was beginning to pulse between your legs.

his hand slides down your stomach, over the waistband of your pants. he dips his fingers inside, not touching you where you ache, just tracing the line of your hip bone. "let's see if your mouth is as filthy everywhere else."

he shifts, moving between your legs to make sure that you were unable to shut him out. he undoes your pants, pulling them and your underwear down your thighs in one rough motion. the cool air hits your damp skin, and you squeeze your eyes shut, humiliation burning your cheeks.

"look at me," he commands.

you don't.

a sharp, stinging slap lands on your inner thigh. you gasp, eyes flying open.

"i said look at me." you glare up at him, tears of frustration pricking your eyes.

he smiles, satisfied. his fingers finally touch you, sliding through your slickness with an appreciative hum. "so wet for me. for the man you think is disappointing." he pushes one finger inside you, slowly, his eyes locked on yours. "does this feel disappointing?"

you bite your lip, refusing to answer, refusing to give him the moan that wants to crawl up your throat. he curls his finger, finding a spot that makes your toes curl. you jerk against your bindings.

"no?" he adds a second finger, stretching you, his thumb circling your clit with precise, maddening pressure. "you're clenching so tight. like you're trying to keep me in." you twitch in his hold, still attempting to wriggle out of his hold only for him to place his palm on your lower stomach—holding you in place.

he watches you, a lazy smirk present on his face as your face morphs into one of pure pleasure. you attempt to shoot him a nasty look only for him to hook his fingers deeper into you, low whines escaping your parted lips.

he sets a rhythm, deep and relentless, his thumb working you over. pleasure builds, coiling tight and desperate low in your gut. you can't help the ragged breaths, the tiny shifts of your hips trying to meet his hand. you're close. so close. the tension is winding to a breaking point.

he leans over you, his fingers still moving before he tilts his head down to press his lips against yours. you moan in surprise, giving him an opportunity to slip his tongue into your mouth. the kiss is messy, almost as if he was trying to push as much of his spit into your mouth as he could. you feel your stomach clench and your eyes roll back, you were so close.

then he stops.

his fingers go still, buried inside you. his thumb lifts away and he pulls back from your mouth.

you make a broken, needy sound.

"no," he says softly, withdrawing his fingers completely. he brings them to his mouth, sucks them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. "not yet. you don't get to come until you understand."

he moves up your body, straddling your chest. his own pants are open now, his cock freed—thick, flushed, and dripping. he grips your jaw, his fingers digging into your cheeks, and angles your face up. "open."

you press your lips together, turning your head in disobedience and disbelief. although you always had a lingering feeling that jungwon was more than what meets the eye, his dick wasn't something you thought would meet your eye.

he yanks your hair, hard, forcing you to look forward. "open, or i'll make it worse."

defeated, trembling, you let your mouth fall open.

he doesn't hesitate. he feeds his cock past your lips, not slowly, but not brutally either. it's a controlled, relentless invasion. he bottoms out in your throat, and you gag, tears springing to your eyes. he holds there for a moment, letting you struggle, letting you feel the stretch.

"that's it," he groans, his head falling back. "fuck, your mouth. always running. now it's finally good for something."

he starts to fuck your mouth in earnest, his grip on your hair keeping you in place, his other hand still holding your jaw. you can't move, can only take it, the sounds wet and obscene in the quiet dojo. he sets a punishing pace, his hips driving forward, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat over and over. saliva drips down your chin. your eyes water and your legs shake against the matt.

"you feel so good," he rasps, looking down at you. "swallowing me like you were made for it. is this what you wanted? to be used?" he could feel himself grow harder as he watches your messy face, absolutely fucked out.

he reads the shame in your eyes, and it spurs him on. his movements become more erratic, his breath catching. "gonna cum all over that pretty, arrogant face," he grunts. "mark you with it."

with a low, guttural groan, he pulls out. hot stripes of cum paint your cheeks, your closed eyelids, your lips. it's warm, sticky, reeking of salt and him. he strokes himself through the last pulses, some of it landing on your chin.

he sits back, breathing heavily, looking at his work. you're a mess—bound, marked, covered in him. "so fucking pretty."

you lay in utter shock, unable to open your eyes in fear of his cum getting into them. you hear him chuckle before he's almost lovingly helping you clean the mess up off your face.

when you're finally able to open your eyes your greeted with the sight of a flushed jungwon staring down at you in pure awe. he swipe against your face before pushing his cum soaked fingers into your mouth, making you gag.

he snickers before he wipes the head of his cock on your cheek, then shuffles back down your body. he pushes your legs apart, his hands rough on your thighs. he bites the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, hard enough to leave a bruise, sucking another dark mark into your flesh. you whimper out in what you could only say was a combination of pleasure and humiliation.

then he's positioning himself at your entrance. you feel him against you, hot and heavy. "w-wait jun—" he pushes the head in, stretching you, and you're so wet he slides in with one smooth, deep thrust.

you both cry out, your legs flailing before jungwon grabs them and pushes them so they meet your chest.

he stills, buried to the hilt, his forehead dropping to yours. "fuck," he breathes, the word shuddering out of him. "you're so tight. so perfect."

he starts to move, and it's nothing like the frantic pace from before. this is controlled, precise, every thrust measured and deep, aimed to drag over that spot inside you that makes you see stars. one hand braces beside your head; the other wraps around your throat.

not squeezing. just holding. a promise.

"you like this," he whispers, his thrusts steady, devastating. "you like being pinned down and fucked by the quiet one you underestimated. admit it."

you shake your head, even as your hips lift to meet him.

his hand tightens slightly on your throat, cutting off just a little air. your eyes widen. pleasure spikes, sharper, more dangerous. "admit it," he repeats, his voice a dark caress.

"i..." you choke out.

"say you're sorry," he demands, his pace never faltering. "for the way you've been. for the things you said. say it, and i'll let you cum."

the orgasm is right there, hovering, denied. you're strung so tight you feel like you'll shatter. you need it. you hate how much you need it.

"i'm..." you try again, pride warring with desperation. he leans down, bites your shoulder, thrusts harder, deeper. "say it."

the dam breaks. "i'm sorry!" you sob, the words ripped from you. "i'm sorry, jungwon, please—"

"good girl," he purrs, and his hand leaves your throat to circle your clit, his thrusts turning punishingly fast. you could feel his cock stretch out your walls with each thrust, the sting satisfying. you could feel your stomach tighten and your body twitch with each movement.

that's all it takes. your orgasm crashes through you, violent and all-consuming. you scream, your body convulsing around him, milking his cock as he fucks you through it. he follows moments later, his own release hitting with a choked groan, his hips stuttering as he pumps his cum deep inside you.

he collapses on top of you for a moment, both of you breathing raggedly. then he pushes himself up, looking down at the mess he's made of you.

slowly, almost thoughtfully, he unties your wrists. your arms fall, aching, to your sides. he doesn't move off you. instead, he slides down your body, pushes your thighs apart again, and lowers his head between your legs.

you flinch at his sudden movements. "what are you—"

his tongue laps at your sensitive flesh, cleaning his own cum from inside of you. the act is so intimate, so filthy, it steals your breath. he eats you out with slow, thorough strokes, his tongue pushing inside you to gather every drop. you shudder, overstimulated, a weak moan escaping you.

when he's done, he kisses your inner thigh, then moves back up to loom over you.

"lesson's over," he says quietly, his eyes dark and unreadable.

the dojo is quiet. not the comfortable kind of quiet you're used to after everyone leaves—not the soft hum of lights and distant traffic.

this is different. thick. heavy. almost aware.

you're still on the mat. your gi is half-tied, hair a mess, skin marked in places you'll have to hide tomorrow. your wrists ache faintly where the belt had been. your body feels loose in that dangerous way after adrenaline—warm and boneless and too aware all at once.

jungwon is still hovering above you, but not the same way he was seconds ago.

his breathing is slower now, controlled.

he's looking at you like he doesn't quite recognize what he just did or maybe what you both just did.

for a moment, neither of you speak.

you stare up at the ceiling, fluorescent lights blurring slightly. your chest rises and falls, but your mind is louder than your heartbeat.

what the hell just happened? you pushed him. you wanted him to snap. you practically dared him to.

but this? this wasn't just anger. it wasn't just a fight.

it had been building for months—in every correction of your stance, every lingering hand at your waist, every look he thought you didn't notice.

you swallow. do you regret it? you try to search yourself for the answer.

you regret the loss. you regret the pride you had to swallow. you regret the things you said. but what just happened? your thighs tense involuntarily at the memory. no.

that's what scares you.

jungwon shifts slightly, finally rolling off you so he's lying beside you instead of over you. he doesn't touch you now. there's space between your bodies—inches that feel like miles in comparison to how close you two were just minutes before.

his voice, when it comes, is quiet. "are you okay?" it's so absurdly gentle it almost makes you laugh.

you turn your head to look at him. his hair is damp at the temples, lips swollen, jaw tight, but his eyes—his eyes are different.

not triumphant. not smug. but searching. you let out a slow breath. "you're asking me that now?"

he flinches, barely, but you see it.

"i needed you to stop," he says. not defensive. not angry. just honest. "you weren't going to."

you look away again. he's right, you weren't. you would've kept going, kept poking, kept cutting at him until one of you bled in a way that wasn't fixable.

"was that about the match?" you ask finally, voice softer than you intend.

he doesn't answer right away, you can feel him thinking. "no," he says after a beat. "not just that."

silence stretches. you hate how exposed you feel —not physically, emotionally. like something between you has been ripped open and there's no stuffing it back inside.

"you've been acting like i betrayed you," he continues quietly. "like i did something wrong by getting better."

you swallow again because that's exactly how it felt. like you'd handed him pieces of yourself— your training, your tips, your time—and he'd used them to knock you down.

irrational but real.

"you were supposed to be mine," you admit before you can stop yourself. his head turns sharply toward you. "what?"

"my project. my student." you let out a shaky exhale. "not... this." not the one looming over you. not the one making you unravel.

jungwon is silent for a long moment. then, softer, "i was never just your student." your chest tightens and you glance at him again, and this time his gaze doesn't waver.

"every time you corrected me," he says, voice low but steady, "every time you grabbed my hands and moved them where you wanted them... you think i didn't feel that?"

heat crawls up your neck. "i thought you were being confident," he continues. "i liked it. i like it. but you don't get to act like i crossed a line alone."

that lands because he didn't force this into existence. you built it too, every smirk, every challenge. every time you leaned in too close just to see if he'd react.

"do you regret it?" you ask before you can stop yourself.

this one matters, he doesn't answer immediately. you watch his throat bob as he swallows. "...no," he says finally.

honest and unflinching. your stomach flips.

"do you?" he asks. you stare back up at the ceiling. the dojo feels different now, like it knows, like the mats remember. this place used to be yours—your territory, your stage, where you were loud and untouchable and always winning.

now? now it feels shared. balanced. dangerous.

"...i don't know," you admit. it's the most truthful thing you've said all night.

jungwon shifts closer—not touching, but close enough that you feel his warmth again.

"i don't want to fight you," he says quietly. "not like that."

you huff softly. "you were the one who—"

"because you kept trying to hurt me," he cuts in, still calm. "with words. like you wanted me to hate you."

you don't have a comeback for that because maybe you did. maybe it was easier to make him the villain than admit you were shaken by how much you wanted him.

the silence stretches again, but it's different now. less sharp and more fragile.

"this changes things," you say finally.

"yeah."

"people are going to notice."

"they already have."

you glance at him in confusion. "you stopped looking at me. stopped paring up with. pretended i wasn’t there," he says simply. "that was worse."

your chest tightens unexpectedly. you hadn't realized that part, you'd thought distancing yourself would protect you.

instead, it hurt him and maybe you too. he finally sits up slowly, offering you a hand—not to dominate, not to pin, just to help you up.

the same gesture he offered after the first match. this time, you hesitate. then you take it, his grip is warm, steady, familiar.

when you stand, there's a new awareness between you. not just attraction, not just rivalry. but understanding. dangerous, mutual understanding.

"we can't pretend this didn't happen," you say as you fix your robes and slip your pants back on.

"i'm not going to," he replies. his gaze drops briefly to the marks on your skin—not possessive now. thoughtful.

almost reverent. "but we decide what it means," he adds.

that's the part that lingers because this wasn't just anger. it wasn't just sex, it was months of tension snapping all at once.

and now? now you have to walk back into this dojo tomorrow and act like you didn't both cross a line that can't be uncrossed.

you meet his eyes one last time before turning toward the locker room. for the first time since he beat you, you don't feel betrayed.

you feel challenged. equal.

and that might be even more dangerous.

praise kink, degradation kink, oral sex, jealousy kink, crying during sex, possessiveness, emotional manipulation, power imbalance, aftercare, slutty behavior, dirty talk, intense emotional sex, soft dom undertones, toxic tenderness (let me know if i missed any)

You don't know why you're still here, the music's too loud, the laughter too sharp and the room too small for how much it feels like it's pressing against you, closing you in. You're not even sure how you ended up here, or why you let Yunjin drag you out when you knew damn well it was going to be one of those nights. She's busy talking to someone else now, lost in the chaos, and you're left to wander, like always.

You clutch your cup tighter, not because you want more to drink but because it's the only thing grounding you. It's plastic, cheap, and it's all that's standing between you and the clamor of this stupid, stupid party. The people around you are so loud, so unapologetically themselves. Everyone's happy, laughing, drinking, talking with their friends, and you? You're just another face in the crowd, a blur, standing on the edge of it all.

There's a group of girls dancing by the window, the kind of girls who laugh too loud, talk too much, their bright colors making it clear they've got more attention than you ever will. You want to look away, but your eyes keep dragging back, following them as if your brain can't help but analyze the way their bodies move, the way they shine so effortlessly. And then, you wonder how they'd look if you were in the center of their circle, taking the place of one of them, laughing, dancing, without a care in the world. You can almost see it, but the picture feels blurry, like it's just out of reach.

Somewhere across the room, you spot a couple making out by the fridge, their hands wandering, the slapping sound of wet lips and muffled giggles piercing through the noise. The guy's hands wander lower, and she pulls him in closer, her body shifting beneath him. It's normal, you think, but the weird feeling in your stomach twists deeper. You've always felt like an outsider in these situations. These people, they know what they're doing, know how to have fun, know how to look and act in the moment. You never really fit in like that.

You glance around again. There's a guy on the couch talking too loudly, probably trying to impress someone with some half-baked story, and another girl, looking over at him like she's interested but not enough to give him her full attention. You catch bits of conversations, fragments, half-formed words and laughing sentences that don't make sense to you. People throwing their heads back and laughing like it's the easiest thing in the world. And you're standing there, holding your cup like it's a shield, too afraid to walk into any of it, too scared to be a part of it.

You sigh, letting your gaze wander to the corner by the stairs, where a few of the guys are hanging out. They're laughing, but their laughter sounds different from the others. Louder, sharper. There was something about observing everyone else that made you feel detached, almost like an outsider. Heeseung, of course, was the life of the party, laughing loudly with friends, always the center of attention. His presence demanded it, naturally. And then there was Sunghoon, looking as composed as ever, standing off to the side with his arms crossed, watching the room with his usual detached gaze.

But what caught your attention most in that moment was Jake. The chaos of the party seemed to swirl around him like he was at the eye of the storm. You caught a glimpse of him near the drinks table, his usual smirk on his face as he chatted with a girl who was all doe-eyed and giggling, the kind of girl who looked like she'd fall for anything he said. He didn't seem bothered by the attention, though.

In fact, he seemed...pleased.

You watched, your heart picking up pace, as he gently guided the girl toward Sunghoon. Jake's hand rested at the small of her back, his smile playful and effortlessly charming as he introduced the girl to Sunghoon. The moment wasn't anything special on the surface, but the way Jake's hand lingered, the way Sunghoon tilted his head slightly, his expression unreadable... it sent an unexpected ripple of discomfort through you.

It wasn't just the way Jake stood so confidently, so familiar with the girl, but the way Sunghoon's lips curved upwards—slightly, ever so slightly—into something that resembled a smile. It was the first time you'd seen him genuinely show any hint of warmth toward someone in this room, especially a stranger.

Sunghoon took the girl's hand delicately, raising it to his lips in a soft, almost theatrical gesture, kissing her knuckles with a quiet grace that didn't match the chaos of the party. His gaze flickered briefly to the girl, and then back to Jake. You couldn't hear the words they exchanged, but the scene itself was enough to make your stomach tighten, an odd mix of curiosity and something heavier—something that felt like jealousy, though you quickly pushed that feeling aside.

The girl blushed, her smile sweet as she laughed at something Sunghoon said. You couldn't help but notice how easy it was for her to slip into this world, how effortlessly she fit into the social dynamic that you were still trying to make sense of.

And then your eyes caught Sunghoon's gaze—just for a moment. His eyes met yours across the room, cold and distant, before he blinked and shifted his attention back to the girl in front of him. But it wasn't the usual indifference you were used to; there was something there, something flickering beneath his cool exterior that made your heart skip a beat. But then it was gone, and he was back to his composed self, nodding politely at whatever the girl was saying.

You shook your head, blinking away the strange feeling of being left behind. You had no reason to be affected by any of this, right? You were just... observing. That was all..

You shift your weight, trying to ignore the way your heart beats a little too fast. You wonder what he's thinking, or if he's thinking anything at all. He never really pays attention to you. At least, that's how it feels. Sunghoon's the kind of person who sees everything but says nothing. He can be in a room full of people and somehow make you feel like you're invisible. Like it doesn't matter if you're there, or not. But you know better. Deep down, you know he notices. He has to. Why else would you feel like your pulse quickens every time he's near?

You turn your eyes away from the corner and try to focus on something, anything else, but your mind keeps drifting back to them. To him. To the way the whole room feels different when he's around. You wonder if they all see it — the way he stands apart from everyone else, like he's above it all. And you wonder if they notice that you're always the one looking at him, the one too afraid to be noticed, but always noticing him. Your breath hitches slightly as you feel the weight of your own thoughts.

There's a sudden burst of laughter nearby, and someone bumps into you, startling you out of your thoughts. You almost spill your drink, but you catch it just in time. Your hands tremble slightly, and you hate yourself for it, because who the hell gets nervous in a crowded room full of drunk people?

The night is too long. It's too much. It's too overwhelming.

And just when you think you've had enough, just when you're about to leave and find a quiet place to breathe, someone grabs your wrist gently but firmly.

"Hey, are you okay?"

It's Yunjin. Again. Her eyes are softer now, concerned.

You blink up at her, not even realizing you'd been holding your breath. She's got that knowing look on her face, like she can see right through you.

You nod, not trusting yourself to speak. You're not okay, but what's the point in admitting it?

Yunjin doesn't buy it. "You're not fooling anyone. Loosen up. Let go. It's just a party."

You swallow, then force a smile. "Yeah, just a party."

She gives you one last look before pulling you toward the kitchen, ready to distract you with something, anything to get you out of your head. You follow her, only half-present in the moment, lost in thoughts of someone who probably doesn't even know you exist.

The music is a dull hum in the background as Heeseung finds you and Yunjin. He looks a little too smug, like he's up to something. You feel a sinking feeling in your stomach as his eyes flash between you and Yunjin, and you know exactly what's coming.

"You two," Heeseung grins, "let's go say hi to the boys. They're over by the back corner."

You immediately freeze. No. No way. You'd rather do just about anything else than walk up to that corner of the room. It's always them, always Jake and Sunghoon, always that strange tension that makes everything feel ten times harder than it needs to be.

Yunjin, surprisingly, seems to read the atmosphere instantly. "Heeseung, no. We're good. Let's just—"

But before she can finish, Heeseung's already dragging her along, and of course, that means you have no choice but to follow. You want to protest, but the words catch in your throat. You could leave, but that would make you look like a coward. So, you trudge after them, barely registering the shifting in the crowd as Heeseung pulls you both toward the back.

As you approach, you see them. Sunghoon, leaning against the wall like he owns the place, his eyes cold but somehow piercing. He's not looking at you, and the familiar ache in your chest stirs again. And then there's Jake, that infuriating, charming, always-too-confident smile on his face. He's leaning toward Sunghoon, whispering something in his ear, and for a brief moment, Sunghoon's lips curl up into a rare smile—an actual, genuine one. Your heart lurches in your chest, an unfamiliar feeling tightening your throat.

It's the kind of smile you rarely get to see from him. It's like a secret just for Jake, a look of camaraderie you'll never be a part of. It almost feels like you've just been slapped. Why does it bother you so much?

And then, before you can even process the feeling, Heeseung's already talking to them about something you can't hear over the thrum of your heartbeat

Jake, not missing a beat, looks over at you with that mischievous glint in his eyes, smiling like he just found his favorite toy unattended. His lips curve into that damn teasing smirk that makes your stomach churn.

"Well, well, well," Jake begins, leaning in a little too close, voice dripping with something far too cocky, "look who finally showed up, Sunghoon's biggest fan" His eyes scan you up and down, like he's not even trying to hide how much he's enjoying seeing you squirm.

You swallow, trying to keep your expression neutral, but you know your face is probably betraying you. The red creeping up your neck is only the start of it and like clockwork the memory of that damn day starts playing in your head, that damn art show.

The school art show wasn't your idea of fun, not by a long shot. It was all cliché stuff—overpriced paintings no one understood, weird sculptures that looked like junk, and way too many people pretending to care about the "emerging artists." You hated those events, but Yunjin had dragged you there because Heeseung had convinced her it'd be "fun", at the time you had even wondered if this was what your life would amount to, Yunjin dragging you everywhere Heeseung drags her too, You wanted to be anywhere else that night but there you were, standing in the middle of a sea of pretentious art students, holding a plastic cup of wine that tasted like it was from a box, trying to look like you belonged.

You were trying to blend into the background, holding your drink like a shield. You hated how awkward you always felt around people you didn't know, how out of place you were in spaces like that. But that wasn't the part that had bothered you. No, what hit you hardest was when you saw him.

Sunghoon.

He was standing across the room by a few abstract paintings, his expression as unreadable as ever, hands shoved into the pockets of his blazer, looking as out of place as you felt. You could never fully decipher what was going on in his head, but it didn't stop you from trying. He was stunning, impossibly cool, like he belonged in a different world, not the sweaty, underfunded art gallery that smelled like paint fumes.

You didn't know how long you'd been staring at him until you felt the weight of someone standing beside you. When you glanced over, it was Jake, his usual smirk plastered across his face. He didn't even need to say anything, not really. You could tell by the look in his eyes that he already knew.

"Interesting, huh?" Jake's voice was low, teasing, like he was reading you like a book and you were too obvious for him to care.

Your heart skipped, heat creeping into your cheeks, but you just shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Not really. I'm just looking around."

But Jake wasn't buying it. His gaze flicked over to Sunghoon, then back to you, sharp and calculating. He raised an eyebrow. "Right," he said, his tone dripping with mock amusement. "You sure you're not looking at him?"

Your stomach dropped. The way he said it was casual, too casual, like he was testing the waters, but you felt your pulse quicken. No. This couldn't be happening. You could feel the blood rush to your face, betraying you. The truth was, you were looking at him. It was hard not to. Sunghoon had a way of standing in a room and making everyone else feel irrelevant. But of course, you couldn't admit that to his demon of a best friend, not now, not ever.

You turned away quickly, pretending to focus on some abstract art that was meant to be a painting of a tree but looked more like a tangle of colorful spaghetti. "I wasn't—"

Jake didn't let you finish. He stepped closer, his voice a little too loud, cutting through the low hum of the party. "You know, you're really obvious sometimes."

You froze. The words burned, like they were meant to sting.

"I mean, you're always so quiet around him, so careful not to look at him too much, like you're afraid he'll notice." He paused, his eyes narrowing. "But I noticed. I always notice."

You swallowed hard, your heart racing in your chest. You hadn't realized it was that obvious. Had you really been that transparent? You'd tried so hard to hide it, but it felt like every single moment around him was a magnet that pulled your attention back to Sunghoon, even when you didn't want it to.

"I don't know what you're talking about," you muttered, trying to backpedal, but Jake was already laughing, low and knowing. He was enjoying this. He was enjoying the fact that you couldn't hide from him, not anymore.

"No need to deny it," he'd said, leaning in a little too close, his smirk practically leaking into his words. "It's cute. How you've got it so bad for him. But you're not the only one who notices, you know? And don't even bother you're way too plain for...well, anyone." He nodded in Sunghoon's direction, and your heart froze at the thought of him knowing too.

Before you could even form a response, Jake was already walking off, leaving you standing there, your thoughts spiraling. The rest of the art show blurred into the background as you watched Sunghoon from the corner of your eye. He was talking to a group of people, his expression still cold, his gaze distant. He wasn't even looking at you. Of course he wasn't. You were just another face in the crowd to him.

But for that brief, horrible moment, you felt completely exposed, like your deepest, stupidest secret was laid bare for everyone to see.

Jake had seen it all and made you feel bad for it like you were so wrong for even thinking about Sunghoon. All the thoughts and memories were quickly pushed out by Jake's laughter, his reaction to your stunned expression.

Before you can muster any response, Jake's voice lowers, and he asks, his tone far too casual, "So, did you touch yourself to the thought of him this morning? I mean, come on, it's not like you've been hiding it."

Your stomach drops. The world feels like it slows down as your cheeks burn with the harsh sting of embarrassment. You're about to say something, anything, but Yunjin immediately jumps in.

"Jake, stop," she snaps, her hand on his shoulder, trying to push him away but her voice doesn't hold the sharpness it needs. It sounds more like a half-hearted attempt at deflecting, not like someone who's genuinely defending you.

You can't even look at her, the humiliation swarms you, sinking in deeper as Jake's laugh fills the space between you all. It's mocking but there's something else in it too, something darker and of course, Sunghoon is just standing there, arms crossed, his expression still unreadable. He meets your eyes for a split second and for that brief moment, your chest feels tight, like the air's been sucked out of your lungs.

His gaze is cold, but there's something there. Is it judgment? Disinterest? You can't tell. Before you can make sense of it, he looks away, turning his attention back to the group, like the brief moment never happened. And that feeling—the one you've been trying to avoid all night—surges again. You want to disappear. You want to vanish into the floor, to leave this all behind. To not have to stand here, in front of them, where every word feels like a betrayal of yourself.

"Wow, she's really shy," Jake continues, noticing the red creeping up your neck, "don't worry, I won't tell anyone. Your little secret's safe with me." He says crossing his heart clearly to continue in his mockery of you.

Yunjin steps in front of you, her posture protective, though you can tell she's just as uncomfortable with the way Jake's been pushing. "Jake, seriously. Just, cut it out."

But Jake doesn't listen, of course he doesn't. He's too caught up in the fun of teasing, in watching you squirm under his words. He steps closer to you, leaning in, the space between you shrinking with every breath.

"Tell me, did you think about it when you were alone? How badly you want him, hmm? I bet you've been thinking about it for a while now." His words are so casual, but the intensity behind them has your heart racing, your hands shaking at your sides.

You don't know how to answer. You don't know how to respond without making it worse. The silence stretches too long. You feel the weight of everyone's gaze, even if most of it is on you, the heat of the room pressing in, suffocating you.

And Sunghoon—he just keeps ignoring you. Like he always does. Even now, when Jake is throwing all of this in your face, Sunghoon just looks away. He doesn't speak, doesn't even acknowledge the tension between you all. You're invisible to him, and that hurts more than anything else.

The world suddenly feels smaller. You want to crawl into a hole, to escape from the fire that Jake's started with his words but for some reason you can't. Not yet.

Yunjin doesn't know what to say anymore. The air is thick with the weight of unspoken things, the tension hanging between all of you, and nothing will be the same after this.

You didn't even realize your body had moved you to walk way until you hear Yunjin calling after you but you ignore her, you don't care, you need to leave, her voice fading with every step you take. You don't care about that look of pity Heeseung probably gave you slipped out of their presence, or that anyone else in that damn party even notices your absence. All you can focus on is the frantic pounding of your heart, the feeling of humiliation that's gnawing at your insides, like it's eating you from the inside out.

The cold night air hits your skin like an ice-cold slap, sharp enough to snap you back into some kind of reality, but not enough to stop the sting in your chest. You press your arms tighter around yourself, the thin fabric of your jacket doing little to protect you. The tears you don't want to cry keep falling, though they're dry now, the cold air sucking them away before they can even make it down your face.

You hate Jake.

You hate him so much.

How dare he? How fucking dare he see through you like that, so easily, like you were some pathetic little thing for him to toy with? Like you weren't even a person, just some... joke for him to laugh at, to humiliate. He knew exactly what he was doing when he cornered you like that, when he asked you about Sunghoon like it was the most casual thing in the world. He had to have known how you'd react, how fucking embarrassed you'd be. He had to have known.

And yet, he didn't stop. He didn't care.

Your thoughts spiral, each one more self-loathing than the last, each one making your chest tighten until it's hard to breathe. You should've known this was coming, right? You should've known it would end like this—Jake, smirking, tearing you apart with a couple of words, and Sunghoon... Sunghoon—who just... looked at you. Like you were nothing. Like you were invisible.

You didn't even have the strength to stay at that party. You couldn't even pretend to enjoy yourself. You were suffocating, choking on your own insecurities. Every breath felt heavier than the last, every step you took colder than the one before.

"God, I hate him..." The words slip out before you even realize you're speaking them, your voice shaking. You're not sure if you're talking about Jake or Sunghoon anymore, but in this moment, it feels like the same thing. Like both of them were the reason you were this miserable.

Your pace quickens, though you don't know why. Maybe it's the restlessness, the panic bubbling up in your chest that makes your heart race faster, like you can't get away from the thoughts, from the feelings fast enough. You can feel your chest tightening, your breath coming in shallow gasps. You can almost feel the anxiety creeping in, wrapping around you like chains.

You want to scream, but it gets stuck in your throat. You don't know how much longer you can keep it together, keep pretending like none of this is killing you inside.

The city lights flicker in the distance as you push through the cold, the emptiness of the streets echoing the emptiness in your chest. It feels like you're walking on autopilot, each step taking you further from the party, further from the night that just destroyed everything. It's not until you reach the alley by your apartment building that you stop, your back pressed against the cold brick wall, fighting to get control of yourself.

Breathe. Just breathe.

But even the simple task of breathing feels like too much. Your head is spinning, the world around you feels far away, like you're trapped inside your own head and can't escape.

You press a hand to your forehead, trying to steady yourself, but the dizziness doesn't go away. Everything's too loud. Your thoughts are too loud. Your own heartbeat is too loud.

You can't stop thinking about what Jake said, what he made you feel. And Sunghoon... he didn't even notice. Did he notice? Probably not. He never notices you. You weren't worth noticing.

Tears prick at your eyes again, and you curse under your breath, wiping them away furiously, but they keep coming. How could you be this weak? How could you let them both—Jake and Sunghoon—tear you apart so easily?

It feels like everything is unraveling, like you're losing control of the only thing you had left: yourself. And you want to scream, to punch something, to hit Jake and Sunghoon for making you feel this small.

But instead, you just stand there, on the sidewalk. feeling completely hollow inside, letting the cold air do what it does best—drown out the tears you couldn't stop.

*

Two weeks, that's how much time had passed since the night of the party, two weeks of you keeping your distance from both Jake and Sunghoon, not that you were ever willingly in their presence anyway—it was easy. You'd stayed firm, avoided every chance to interact with them, despite Yunjin's insistence that you needed to stop being so stubborn. You weren't about to let yourself be subjected to Jake's taunts and Sunghoon's indifference. So, you avoided them. Kept your head down, and kept to yourself.

Whenever Yunjin tried dragging you to Heeseung's apartment or anywhere you knew they would be, you'd fake an excuse, stand your ground, and avoid them like the plague. It had been too humiliating, too hurtful to let them into your space again. Jake's teasing, his knowing smirk when he'd drop hints about Sunghoon, about your obvious feelings—everything about it made your skin crawl. Sunghoon's lack of acknowledgment had only made it worse. You weren't sure what was worse: the way Jake tormented you or the way Sunghoon simply didn't care.

But today was different. Yunjin had made a big deal about a girls' day out. Just you and her, no boys allowed. You weren't sure how she convinced you to go, but you'd relented. You needed a break from everything—the pressure of avoiding people, the stress that kept mounting every time you had to walk past Jake, every time Sunghoon was just there.

So, you got dressed.

A simple dress—nothing too flashy, but it was enough to make you feel good about yourself, for the first time in weeks. The fabric clung just enough to your figure, and you paired it with simple sandals that didn't make you feel like you had to put on some act. It was just you, trying to feel a little more like yourself.

But then, of course, life had other plans.

You met Yunjin at Heeseung's apartment, ready to head out. She'd already slipped into a playful, teasing mood, chatting excitedly about the day ahead. But as you stepped through the door, you froze.

Jake and Sunghoon were sitting in the living room, you think about bolting, making a run for it. Why are they here anyway? Don't they have some super expensive off campus apartment?

You tried to avoid eye contact, hoping they wouldn't notice you, but of course, Jake's eyes were already on you, studying you in that way that made your skin prickle.

"Y/N," Jake drawls, voice warm like honey—if honey were made of gasoline and meant to burn. "You're looking... fuckable today."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"What the actual—"

He's already pushing off the couch, making his way toward you like a predator who's just noticed his prey flinching. You take a step back instinctively, fingers gripping your phone like it could protect you.

Jake hums as he circles you. "You got a date? Some sweet campus boy finally grow the balls to ask you out?"

"I'm here for Yunjin," you bite out. "She's just grabbing something." You add, you yourself wondering why you're explaining it to him.

His eyes drag over your figure slowly. "Blue suits you."

You fold your arms over your chest. "Whatever game you're playing—"

But then his hand moves. Quick. Thoughtless.

He flips the hem of your dress up just enough to see the skin of your upper thighs and lets out a low whistle. "Damn, sweetheart. Who's the lucky guy today? Or lemme guess..."

He leans in, breath ghosting your ear, "You wore this for Sunghoon?" Your entire body stiffens and you glance past Jake's shoulder—expecting, maybe, for Sunghoon to roll his eyes, or finally say something to make Jake shut the hell up but he doesn't look at you.

He stays exactly where he is, face blank, eyes still trained on his phone like you don't even exist.

It stings more than it should.

You turn on your heel and head toward the door, heart thudding somewhere between your ribs and your throat

"Jake—" Yunjin started, her voice sharp, defensive, but it wasn't convincing. She didn't sound angry enough. Didn't sound protective enough. "Heeseung! Tell Jake to leave Y/N alone! For fucks sake". She says to her boyfriend but he just looks around like he doesn't want to get involved.

You wanted to disappear. Wanted the floor to swallow you whole.

You looked at Sunghoon again, hoping for a flicker of recognition, maybe even a hint of something. But no. His gaze was trained on something else entirely, indifferent to the scene Jake was creating. He didn't look up at you. Didn't acknowledge you at all.

And then, as if to prove that he'd never been part of this conversation, Sunghoon looked away towards the hallway.

You bit your lip to stop the tears from welling up, your throat tightening. The humiliation was unbearable. You didn't even care about Jake anymore, or what he said. What hurt was the fact that Sunghoon didn't even spare you a second glance.

"Jesus, Yunjin, relax," Jake continued, his voice light but dripping with mockery. "She's just dressed up. Can't blame me for noticing. Not like she's got anyone else to impress."

You wanted to scream. Wanted to say so many things, tell him to fuck off, tell him you weren't anyone's joke but you couldn't. You were stuck in that moment, frozen, watching as he mocked you.

You finally managed to move again, head low, pretending you were above it all, pretending it didn't hurt, but it did.

As you turned to leave, Jake's voice rang out again, as if he hadn't had enough of toying with you. "See you later, baby girl," he called after you, too casually, too easily. You're almost out. One hand's on the handle, back turned because you don't want to give Jake the satisfaction of seeing your face, or how flushed you feel.

But you pause against your better judgment and look back and see Sunghoon lean in to whisper something into Jake's ear his voice is low, soft. You barely hear it, just a whisper, meant only for Jake.

You don't catch the words—but you do catch Jake's reaction. He jerks his head toward Sunghoon, brows lifted in disbelief. "Are you fucking serious?" Jake mutters, like it's something vile. You don't wait to hear more, you're already out the door, the fabric of your dress still settling around your thighs, and your chest feels tight again. Not because of Jake but because you don't know what Sunghoon said.

And it's driving you crazy.

Yunjin is still babbling behind you, but you barely heard her.

You pressed your hand to your chest, feeling your heart thudding too fast. The burning in your throat was almost unbearable. You didn't even want to go out anymore. You didn't want to do anything. You were sick of feeling this way. Sick of the way Jake had gotten under your skin, sick of the way Sunghoon could make you feel like nothing without even trying.

The day blurred into night, the girls' day with Yunjin more of an exhausting performance than any kind of relief.

You laughed when she laughed, smiled when she took pictures, nodded along when she gushed about Heeseung and the shoes she wanted to buy next. You pretended. Pretended you weren't thinking about the way Jake flipped your dress like you were nothing but an object. Pretended your mind wasn't stuck on the mortifying second you caught Sunghoon not even looking at you.

You had tried.

And for a few moments, it almost worked until you were back alone in your dorm room, peeling the dress off like it was a brand you couldn't scrub off fast enough. The blue fabric lay crumpled at the foot of your bed, a mocking reminder of everything you wanted to forget.

You sat on the floor in front of your bed, knees pulled up to your chest, the textbook you were supposed to be reading long abandoned beside you. The words wouldn't sink in. Your brain was too loud, too crowded with shame. You couldn't stop replaying it, Jake's smirk, Yunjin's half-assed defense that reminded of when you were younger and her mum would make her play with you, Sunghoon's nothingness.

Your phone buzzed beside you. You didn't even think before reaching for it, needing any kind of distraction. It was a message from Jake's private instagram.

smjyn: you should let me fuck you in that blue dress, baby girl.

You stared at the screen, the bile rising in your throat so fast it nearly choked you. For a moment, you couldn't even breathe, then you were typing before you could stop yourself, your fingers moving too fast, too angry.

you: kill yourself.

You hit send, your heart hammering painfully against your ribs, the aftershock making your hands tremble. Jake didn't reply. You wished that was the end of it, you wished the night would just swallow you whole, let you sink into the silence, into the smallness you couldn't seem to shake off lately.

You tried to study. Opened the textbook again, blinked at the words until your eyes blurred. Your phone buzzed, you didn't want to look, every part of you screamed not to. But you did anyway and this time, it wasn't Jake.

It was from Sunghoon.

The username from the account you had endlessly stalked, made your stomach drop, made your fingers clench tighter around your phone. You had never texted before. He had never even looked at you like you existed, the message was short, almost careless.

parksgh: don't let jake get to you. he's just fucking around

You read it once, then again, and again. Your heart was lunging up into your throat, thudding painfully against your ribs. You hated how fast you moved to open it, hated how warm your cheeks got even though you knew better. You didn't know what to say back, you didn't even know if you should say anything back and it didn't even matter because by the time you thought about it long enough, he had already gone silent again.

Like the message itself had been a fluke. A mistake. A momentary lapse in his indifference. You set your phone down face-down on the carpet, your chest rising and falling too fast, your hands refusing to steady. You couldn't even remember what you were supposed to be studying anymore. All you could think about was the way his username looked lit up on your phone screen and how stupid you were for letting it mean something.

Your chest was tight, the weight of everything catching up with you all at once. It wasn't just the text; it was his name on your screen. You didn't know how to feel about it. He barely acknowledged you when you were in the same room, so why was he even texting you now?

You tried to resist but you couldn't help but type back.

you: okay, thank you

It felt like an awkward response, but you didn't know what else to say. It didn't even make sense that you were talking to him, you barely knew him and yet here you were, replying to his message like this was normal. You waited, breath held, for a reply, not sure what you were expecting but certainly not what came next.

parksgh: wyd

Your heart skipped a beat. What? He was asking what you were doing. Wyd?

You hadn't spoken before, he hadn't even looked at you in that way. So why was he reaching out now, like you were old friends? You sat frozen, staring at the words, your mind swirling in confusion.

The little bubble popped up again, a response almost immediately.

parksgh: you good?

Your brain stuttered as you tried to process it. This couldn't be real. Sunghoon—the guy who never said anything to you, the one who had barely looked at you, was texting you and not just some generic message, he was asking about you. You didn't know what to say, so you just typed something simple, something that wouldn't give anything away.

you: yeah, just tired

You waited, heart racing, unsure of what was going on. His responses kept coming. Short, blunt, and entirely unbothered.

parksgh: sounds like it, you been studying?

Another message came through as you were reading that one, making your head spin.

parksgh: you should get some sleep, it's kinda late no?

You didn't even know how to reply. He wasn't a friend, wasn't someone you were close with. Why was he being so... normal with you? But then, his next message made everything stop. A simple question, one that you couldn't even begin to understand.

parksgh: do you actually touch yourself while you think of me?

You froze. The air left your lungs. You couldn't breathe. The panic crept up your throat, your heart pounding violently as though it wanted to escape your chest. The words felt like a slap, hard and painful, as if your body was rejecting the sheer audacity of them. Your thoughts crashed together, the weight of what he was implying sinking in. You felt dizzy, like you were spiraling into something you couldn't control.

You couldn't—you couldn't—tell him the truth. That you had done what Jake had accused you of that night, that he was the star of all your wet dreams so instead you denied.  You scrambled to type your response, fingers shaking with the intensity of the emotions clawing at you.

you: no, no i don't. of course not.

You hit send almost too quickly, hoping the denial would settle your racing heart, but the seconds felt like hours as you waited for him to respond. Your hands were trembling, your breath shallow, as you tried to keep the panic at bay.

And then, after what felt like an eternity, there was nothing. You stared at your phone screen, willing the next message to come, but the minutes passed in silence. Your mind raced with confusion, frustration, and a strange, bitter emptiness. You tossed your phone aside, hoping the night would be over soon so you could just sleep and forget about everything, forget about him.

But of course, right when you were about to close your eyes, your phone buzzed. The message was simple, curt, and devastating.

parksgh: liar

You stared at the screen, your pulse still thundering in your ears. The word was a punch to your gut, sharp and cutting, like it was meant to tear something inside of you. You couldn't understand it, couldn't understand him but all you knew in that moment was that you were utterly, completely, lost.

You dropped your phone onto the floor like it burned.

You sat there for a minute, staring at your lap, feeling your face get hot, your chest get tight. It didn't make sense. None of it made sense.

Sunghoon had never said more than a casual hey when you'd bumped into him before. That was it, a polite, distant nod in a crowded hallway, a meaningless word tossed over his shoulder when Heeseung introduced you to the group once, barely even looking at you.

Now, he was accusing you of touching yourself while thinking about him? And calling you a liar when you denied it?

You scrubbed your hands over your face, willing the burning behind your eyes to go away. What the hell was happening?

You weren't close. You weren't even friends. You were just Yunjin's cousin, the quiet tagalong at parties you didn't want to be at, the awkward extra body in rooms you didn't belong in. Not the kind of girl Sunghoon would think twice about as Jake had said to you before. Definitely not the kind of girl Sunghoon would text.

But he had.

You leaned back against the frame of your bed, feeling the cold seeping through the concrete, feeling the ugly knot of confusion and shame twisting in your stomach.

You hated this. You hated the way your heart had raced when you saw his name light up your screen. You hated the way you couldn't even deny it properly, because somewhere, deep down, you had thought about him. Exactly the way Jake always teased but enough that the accusation had knocked the breath out of you and you hated, just hated how badly you wanted another message from him.

You pressed your palm against your chest like you could force your heart to slow down, it didn't help. Nothing helped, you genuinely felt sick.

You weren't the kind of girl this happened to. You didn't even know how to flirt, let alone handle whatever the hell this was. You were good, you were quiet, you kept your head down, you knew your place.

Still, you were sitting here, trembling like some desperate little thing just because Sunghoon, with his pretty face and cold eyes, decided to say a few reckless words to you. You didn't know what he wanted, didn't know if he was serious, if he was playing some fucked-up joke, if he even cared what his words would do to you.

Maybe he was bored, maybe he didn't even think twice about it.

Maybe you were just a stupid, convenient distraction for him. The thought made your throat close up, made the sting behind your eyes sharpen. You climbed up into your bed turning your head into the pillow, biting down on your lip hard, willing yourself not to cry over something so stupid, over a boy who probably didn't even remember texting you.

You squeezed your eyes shut and tried to breathe.

You didn't ask for this. You didn't want this.

You just wanted to go back, before the art show, before the party, before the texts, before your heart learned how it felt to be pulled in two different directions at once.

You just wanted to be invisible again.

You knew should've gone the long way around the finance building, you should've kept your head down, kept walking, kept pretending like the weight of that unanswered text didn't cling to you like a second skin.

Instead you stood there, muttering under your breath about your asshole finance professor, flicking through your notes like you could understand what was in it despite being the one who wrote them all down, your hands curled tight around the notebook, trying to fight the rising frustration buzzing under your skin. The sky was cloudy, the wind sharp against your legs where your skirt ended.

You didn't even notice him at first, not until you glanced up and there he was. Across the street, leaning against the stone wall like he was born there, staring at you.

Blank face, hands in his pockets. Eyes so sharp they cut through the heavy air between you.

You froze, every instinct in your body screamed to run but it was already too late. Sunghoon pushed off the wall, crossed the street without looking, closed the space between you in a few long strides like he had every right to.

You couldn't breathe, couldn't move and hated how your pulse quickened anyway.

He stopped too close. Close enough that you could smell the clean laundry scent of his hoodie. Close enough that you had to tilt your chin up to meet his eyes.

He didn't say anything at first. Just stared down at you like he was trying to figure out what you were made of.

And then, flat voice, barely louder than the wind:

"Why'd you ignore my last text?"

You blinked at him, like he was insane. Like you were insane for being the only one who thought this wasn't normal. You shifted your weight, glanced away, noticing how his body blocked your only exit, of course it did.

You hated how small you felt and you really hated the way his words hung between you, sticky and hot, like you owed him something.

You hated him.

"I didn't know you cared," you said finally, your voice sharper than you meant it to be. You crossed your arms, armor thin and cracking. "Since when do you even talk to me?"

He cocked his head to side, his eyes never leaving your face like he genuinely couldn't understand why you seemed mad. "Oh" He said lowly, "I thought you wanted my attention."

The breath you were holding punched out of your chest, making you take a step back but he followed, slow and lazy, like he had all the time in the world to watch you unravel.

You didn't know what you hated more—how smug he looked or how badly you wanted to grab him by the front of that stupid hoodie and shake him until he made sense.

"I don't," you said, even though it sounded like a lie.

He tilted his head in the other direction, watching you, like you were something pathetic he'd found crumpled on the sidewalk, like you weren't even real.

You swallowed hard, the bitterness burning your throat.

He said nothing, just stood there, letting the silence stretch so taut between you it could slice you open. before you could snap, before you could say something you'd regret, he reached past you, flicked the ends of your sleeves with two fingers like he couldn't help himself.

And maybe you would've stood there forever, frozen in place, if Jake hadn't come strolling around the corner at the absolute worst moment, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, a smug smirk pulling at his mouth like he knew exactly what he was walking in on. He slings an arm around Sunghoon's shoulder like he's crashing a party—his usual stupid grin painted across his face, and an energy so casual it only makes things feel worse.

"Aw, am I interrupting?" he coos, eyes flicking between the two of you. "You look like you're about to cry, baby girl".

Your cheeks flame instantly. "Shut up, Jake."

He just laughs—God, you hate him—and leans in a little too close, voice low but far from discreet.

"Would she let me watch you fuck her, Hoon?" he said, all fake innocence, all ugly laughter, eyes trained on you but directing the question to Sunghoon as if you weren't there and you felt your entire body seize up, blood rushing to your face, stomach flipping painfully like you were about to be sick.

You opened your mouth to say something—anything—but Jake was already bumping Sunghoon's shoulder, brushing past like this was normal, like this was just what they did.

You didn't even notice the way Sunghoon's mouth twitched, the way something dark and unspoken passed between them, because your brain refused to process it, refused to even consider it.

All you could think about was getting away, getting anywhere that wasn't here, before you embarrassed yourself even more.

You didn't see the way Sunghoon's eyes stayed on you long after you turned and fled.

You didn't know yet what they were really like.

* You should've stayed home, when the smell of opened beer cans hits your nose you realize you should've stayed home, stayed small, stayed out of the fucking way like you'd been doing for the last month, shrinking yourself into something harmless, something invisible, something that Jake and Sunghoon couldn't touch even if they wanted to.

But you didn't, against your better judgement let Yunjin drag you out, wide-eyed and whining about how you were turning boring, how Heeseung promised it would be chill and Jake and Sunghoon would be on their best behavior, how they swore they wouldn't even look at you and you believed it, like an idiot.

Now you're standing here in the middle of some shitty house party, abandoned, holding a lukewarm plastic cup like it's a fucking shield, feeling stupid, feeling trapped. The music is too loud, the floor is sticky under your shoes, someone's laughing way too hard behind you and it feels like the sound is aimed directly at your back.

You look around like maybe you'll see Yunjin and Heeseung, maybe you'll see a way out but they're already gone, already swallowed up by the night, already tearing at each other in some dark corner and you're left with nothing but your own pathetic loneliness.

You hate this, you hate how obvious you must look, you hate how you're gripping your cup so hard it's starting to crumple in your hand and you hate that you thought, even for a second, that you'd be safe here. You really try to suppress it but a part of you starts to build resentment towards your cousin.

You're just about to turn and leave, cut your losses and slip out the door like a coward, when you feel it. That horrible prickle at the back of your neck, the sensation of being watched, heavy and suffocating and familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist.

You already know who it might before you even turn around, only two options come to your mind and you can't even decide which one is worse but of course it's him.It's always him.

Sunghoon stands across the room, half in shadow, arms folded across his chest, head tilted like he's studying you again, not smiling, not frowning, just watching.

You freeze, panic blooming low in your stomach but look away quickly, pretending you didn't see him, pretending you don't care. You take a shaky sip from your cup, trying to check your phone like you have somewhere better to be.

You lie to yourself with every breath you take but it doesn't matter because he's already moving toward you.

Your heartbeat stutters painfully in your chest as he crosses the room, cutting through the crowd like he doesn't even see anyone else, like you're the only thing that matters.

You turn your body slightly, angling away from him, hoping he'll take the hint.

He doesn't.

He stops just in front of you, so close you can smell the clean, sharp scent of his cologne, can feel the heat radiating off his skin.

"Are you avoiding me?," Sunghoon asks voice indifferent like this is just some passing question he doesn't seem to want the answer to.

You swallow hard, throat dry and say nothing, even if you could speak, you don't know what to say. You don't know why he's even talking to you, why he's pretending you exist after ignoring you so effortlessly for so long.

"You look pretty." You blink. "What?" His voice is low, steady and as usual unemotional.

"Your dress is pretty and you look pretty in it, Y/N" He says so matter of factly and it almost sounds like he's telling you the sky is blue and it makes you scoff, turning your body away like maybe that'll help you breathe again. "Please don't start. I'm not doing this tonight." "Doing what?" he asks.

"You know what, Sunghoon. Why don't you and your guard dog just leave me alone?", you grit and instantly you swear you can see his mouth twitch like he's about to smile

He doesn't deny it, doesn't even argue, he takes one slow step forward. "Guard dog? You don't seem so mouthy when he's in front of you though" he almost taunts, clearly referring to how you lock up whenever Jake is close. The comment hits you so hard, you don't even notice you're against the wall now. His hand barely grazing your waist, his voice brushing your ear.

"Do you wanna kiss me?" Your breath hitches because there's no teasing tone in his voice not like the way Jake would say it just to fluster you and make your cheeks flush. He's genuinely asking if you want to kiss him. 

Sunghoon says it like he's asking a favor, like he's letting you decide.

"I—no. I mean—" you stammer, heart climbing into your throat. "I don't know what you're doing, but—"His lips brush your jaw and you immediately go quiet, your mind shifting between how this is the closest you've ever been to him and how this is also the longest conversation you've ever had.

You gasp—his hand is suddenly pressing flat against your stomach, holding you in place. "Sunghoon—"

"You don't sound like you want me to stop." You shake your head, eyes wide. "This isn't fair." "I didn't say it was."

His mouth trails lower, his breath is warm and while you're melting he's still expressionless, calm, like nothing about this affects him and maybe that's what finally breaks you.

So when he whispers, "Let me take you home," you're nodding because your body listens faster than your brain can protest.

Sunghoon unlocks his car without looking at you and gets in without waiting. You just followed him, numbly, helplessly, into his car, stomach churning and heart hammering so hard you thought you might be sick.

He drove like he kissed—silent, steady, like none of this meant anything. You sat there in the passenger seat, hands clenched in your lap, trying not to look at him, trying not to think about the way your body was still burning where he touched you, trying not to wonder why he hadn't even smiled once.

He drives in silence, not looking at you once, not when he's merging onto the freeway, not when you're stopped at a red light, not when you pull up to the underground parking lot of his building. He just turns off the engine and gets out.

You sit there for a second, paralyzed, watching his frame walk towards the elevator. Then you force yourself to move, force yourself to follow him inside, force yourself to pretend that this is fine, that you can survive this, that you won't fall apart the second he touches you again.

You don't even know why you do it, you don't know what you're hoping for or what you're trying to prove.

Maybe you just want to feel wanted or to hurt and maybe right now to you, it's the same thing.

The door shuts behind you with a soft click. You half-expect him to push you against it, mouth hungry, hands impatient but instead, Sunghoon walks ahead, tossing his keys on the counter like this is routine, like you've done this a hundred times before.

You stand uselessly at the door, all stiff, unsure, heart climbing your ribs like it's trying to get away from you. He finally turns around, his eyes meet yours for the first time since the party but you can't help but look away, attempting to look around to observe the space

Sunghoon's apartment is exactly how you'd pictured it, it's big, cold and kind of empty. Everything is clean, clean to the point of sterile, all dark hardwood floors and concrete walls, black leather couch, black coffee table, flat screen bolted onto the wall.

No clutter, safe for the pile of PS5 games next to the console and a camera that's charging in the corner. Even the lights are dim, recessed into the ceiling, casting everything in sharp, ugly shadows.

There are no photos or trophies or notes on the fridge. Just space, silence and a daunting kind of emptiness. He doesn't say anything when you walk in or ask if you're okay, he just tugs you by the wrist down a short hallway into what you assume is his bedroom, like you're an obligation he's trying to get out of the way.

The room matches the rest of the apartment—gray walls, dark bedding, no signs of life. A single queen-sized bed in the center, neatly made with black sheets, a dresser, a nightstand and nothing else.

You hover awkwardly by the door, arms wrapped tight around yourself, not knowing what else to do. You want to ask him what you're doing here, or if this means anything to him at all, you want to ask him if you mean anything.

You don't, you don't say a word. He crosses the room in three long strides and crowds you against the wall again, just like he did at the party, pressing his body into yours, slotting his thigh between your legs.

You gasp, hands scrabbling at his chest. He kisses you, rougher this time, hungrier, but still there's that same frustrating emptiness radiating off him, like he's only half there.

It stings and you know it shouldn't but it does. You kiss him back anyway, desperate and clumsy, letting him push you toward the bed. You fall back against the mattress, bouncing once, heart pounding so loud you're sure he can hear it.

He shrugs out of his jacket and tosses it aside, then hooks his hands under your thighs and yanks you down to the edge of the bed, manhandling you like you weigh nothing.

You squeak in surprise, trying to suppress the fluttering in your stomach as presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. The touch sends a shudder through you, he doesn't seem to notice or if he does, he doesn't care, he just pushes your dress up higher, baring your thighs, your panties, the flushed vulnerability of you.

You try to press your legs together instinctively, but he's already settling between them, mouth dragging hot and slow along the sensitive skin. Your head drops back against the bed with a helpless whine. It's overwhelming, the weight of him, the heat of him, the way he's so calm while you're falling apart.

He kisses the crease of your thigh, breathes against the damp cotton of your underwear, licks a slow stripe over the center and you jerk, thighs trembling but he doesn't stop, he doesn't even flinch. It's almost clinical, the way he touches you , it's efficient, methodical but his mouth. God, his mouth.

His mouth might be the only part of him that's honest, it is frantic, almost desperate even. Devouring, like he's starving for you, like he's trying to say everything he's never said aloud, everything he can't bring himself to voice.

You fist his sheets, chest heaving, feeling tears sting at your eyes. It feels too good,  too much, like you're dying but also floating. You barely register it when he hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties and tugs them down, baring you completely. You barely register it when he slides a finger through your folds, testing your wetness, humming low in his throat like he's pleased.

You only really come back to yourself when you feel the tip of his finger pressing against your entrance, when your whole body locks up in terror, when you squeeze your eyes shut like you're bracing for impact.

Sunghoon halts. You can feel it, the sudden tension in his body, the way his head lifts, the way he goes still between your legs. You crack your eyes open to find him staring up at you and his brows are drawn together, just slightly. You realize you're shaking and quite clearly crying. "Have you..." he starts, voice rougher than before, almost uncertain before he clears his throat. "Have you done this before?"

You shake your head, violently, squeezing your eyes shut again, humiliated beyond belief. You're so sure this is it, he's going to kick you out, he's going to laugh in your face and tell you he doesn't fuck virgins. So you brace for it and wait for the disgust, the mockery but it doesn't come. Instead, you feel his lips against your knee, soft and featherlight, like an apology he doesn't know how to give.

"Don't cry," he murmurs. Your breath shudders out of you and when your open your eyes, Sunghoon is still kneeling between your legs, still staring at you with that same unreadable expression, but there's something different now, something softer, something almost vulnerable.

He brushes his thumb over your thigh, gentle and you can't even hide your surprise that he doesn't move to get off you or tell you to leave.

He stays, like maybe, just maybe, you're not completely disposable after all. He's there looking at you in a way that has you trembling, gasping for air and blinking tears from your eyes, when he leans in closer, breath ghosting over the slick, swollen heat of you, his mouth brushing your inner thigh as he speaks. "So," he says, low and almost lazy. "What did you do when you touched yourself thinking about me?"

You choke on your own spit and you feel your whole body lock up again, shame burning hotter than your skin. "I— I didn't," you lie, immediately, stupidly. He huffs a laugh against your thigh, the first real sound he's made all night but it's not cruel, not that it's kind either. It's just amused. "Oh?" he murmurs, lips still trailing your inner thighs, "Then why are you shaking like that?"

You squeeze your eyes shut again, trying to disappear but he doesn't let you. He presses a kiss to the very edge of your hipbone, then another, closer and another.

"Tell me," he says, voice slipping lower, rougher. "Tell me what you did." You can't breathe, like the air has been completely stolen from your lungs. You can't lie either, not when he's looking at you like that, like he already knows and he's just waiting for you to admit it.

"I— I just—" you stammer, your voice breaking. "I just rubbed—" you curl in on yourself, mortified, "I rubbed my clit a little, that's all, I swear." You force the words out like a confession, like a sin and Sunghoon? He smiles. For the first time since you've known him, for the first time ever, he smiles at you. It's small, almost imperceptible but it's there and it knocks the air out of your lungs.

Like he's pleased, almost like he's proud of you. "Good girl," he says, and your heart almost explodes. You're still trying to process that, still trying to make sense of the sudden weightlessness in your chest, when he dips his head again, mouth closing over your clit without warning. You cry out, hips bucking up off the bed but he doesn't even flinch, he just pins you down, hands bruising against your thighs, licking you like he's been starving for it, like you're the only thing he's ever wanted and you sob, writhing, overwhelmed.

It's too much but it's not enough, you don't even know anymore.

He doesn't give you a second to breathe, to think, to ask him why he's doing this, what you are to him, why it feels like you're being torn apart and stitched back together all at once.

He just keeps going.

Keeps sucking your clit into his mouth, keeps teasing your entrance with the tip of his finger.

When he finally pulls his mouth off you, you're keening, fists twisting in the sheets, tears spilling freely down your cheeks. He lifts his head to look at you, face flushed, mouth slick, and mutters, almost to himself that you barely hear him over the roaring in your ears. "Need to get you ready."

You sob again when you feel him nudge a finger at your entrance. "Please," you whimper, not even sure what you're begging for. "Please slow down, I—" He cuts you off by tapping your thigh, light but firm. "Tap my shoulder if you want me to stop," he says, flat and emotionless, like he's just reminding you of the rules he never even told you in the first place.

Then he pushes inside, you gasp, a very raw, broken sound, as your walls clench instinctively around him. He groans low in his throat, but otherwise shows no reaction, like it's nothing, like you're nothing. You clutch at the sheets, tears burning your eyes again, but you don't tap out. You don't stop him, you can't because it's not like you want to anyway.

He works his finger in and out of you slowly, methodically, never looking up, never checking your face. You try to catch your breath, to calm down, to not cry harder but fail.

And Sunghoon doesn't stop, he just keeps going—steady and unflinching, like you're a problem he's determined to solve, like your pain and or pleasure isn't even real to him, like you're something he already owns but somehow, somehow, it still feels like the best thing anyone's ever given you.

He's relentless, barely even gives you a second to breathe, to think, to feel anything but the stretch of him working you open, one finger at first, slow and steady, ignoring every soft sob that falls from your lips.

You feel like you're drowning. The bed is too big, the room too cold, the walls are grey, the sheets are dark, the only light coming from the dim bedside lamp casting long shadows across the plain white walls, like he doesn't feel anything and maybe he doesn't and you're the idiot for expecting him to.

You dig your fingers into the sheets tighter, squeezing your eyes shut, trying not to sob out loud again. Trying not to embarrass yourself even more. Then you feel it, the slow, deliberate curl of his finger inside you.

You hiccup, chest spasming with another silent cry. Sunghoon clicks his tongue, sharp and soft at the same time. "Stop crying," he mutters, not looking up from between your thighs, it's almost bored, almost annoyed but there's something under it too, something you can't name.

You sniffle pitifully, nodding even though he's not looking at you, even though you don't think you could stop even if you tried. Then he shifts again, sliding his mouth back over your clit, and the heat of it makes you jolt. You mewl helplessly, high and broken, when he sucks harshly at the sensitive bud.

"Gonna add another," he mutters against you, voice low and unaffected, like he's just narrating, like you're not trembling beneath him. You barely have time to brace yourself before he's pushing a second finger inside. The burn is sharp, almost unbearable, and your whole body arches off the bed involuntarily, you're  gasping, panting, trying to wriggle away from the overwhelming sensation, but he just presses your hips down, holding you in place like it's nothing.

You whimper, the sound muffled against your fist when you shove it into your mouth to stop yourself from making more noise. You don't even realize you're babbling until you hear your own voice cracking through the air, "Sunghoon, Sunghoon—"

You're not even thinking, you're just saying his name like a prayer, like it might save you. For a second, he stills, before softly, curiously, he murmurs, "Yeah?" and it's he thinks you're trying to talk to him, like he doesn't even realize it's just moaning.

Your whole face burns hotter, your body trembling harder, you shake your head frantically, tears dripping onto the pillow.

You don't know what you're saying anymore, you don't know anything at all, except for him, his mouth, his fingers, the way he's filling you, the way he's making your body light up in ways you've never known it could.

He curls his fingers again, deeper this time, deliberate and suddenly you see stars behind your eyelids. You cry out, bucking your hips up against his mouth, sobbing out another desperate, broken whimper of his name.

And he gets it then, you can feel it in the way his mouth curves into a smirk against you, the way he presses in deeper, harder, finding that spot again, hitting it relentlessly until you're gasping, twitching, clenching around his fingers so hard it hurts. Your whole body's on fire and you're so close you can't even think. He's still so calm, so detached, like he's just...studying you, watching you fall apart with that same unreadable look on his face.

You don't even realize you're crying again until he lifts his head, looking up at you with a frown. "You're so sensitive," he says, almost wonderingly. "You gonna cum already?" You shake your head, sobbing harder, even as your hips grind desperately against his fingers. He huffs a soft laugh under his breath, not mocking, just...satisfied.

And then when he's lowering his mouth again, sucking harshly on your clit while his fingers fuck into you deep and slow. You don't stand a chance, you come undone with a wrecked cry, shattering under him, your whole body locking up and then convulsing, thighs trembling uncontrollably.

He doesn't stop or even slow down. He works you through it, fingers deep, mouth unrelenting, until you're gasping, shaking, tears flooding down your cheeks from the overstimulation and only then—only then, does he finally pull back.

You feel so empty when he does, you almost sob again, he sits back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand — looking completely unaffected while you lay there ruined, shaking, broken on his bed.

You cover your face with your hands, humiliated, you don't even know what you're crying about anymore. The pain? The pleasure? The way it all feels so impossibly hollow when he's looking at you like that?like he's still a thousand miles away even when he's inside you.

"Don't cry," he says again, voice almost too soft to be real but he doesn't reach for you, doesn't comfort you or say anything else.

He just sits there, watching and waiting like he doesn't know what to do with you now that he's broken you but then you feel him lift off the bed and you hear the faint sound of the door opening and closing.

You're alone now and you don't know how long you lay there, body trembling, cheeks sticky with tears drying into itchy trails down your skin. Minutes pass, maybe even hours cause it feels endless.

The room is too quiet without him, so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat, your own ragged breathing. The ache between your legs hasn't faded. It throbs there, humiliating and hot, like a bruise you can't stop pressing on. You stare up at the ceiling. You wonder if this is it, if he's just going to leave you like this. Used up, humiliated and forgotten.

You try to move, but everything feels too heavy, you feel stupid for thinking it might've meant something different when he touched you and you feel even stupider for still wanting more.

The door opens again, making whole body tenses on instinct. You don't sit up because in reality you can't. You listen to the soft footfalls across the room then the mattress dips beside you.

You flinch, you can't help it then something presses into your arm, you blink and look. It's a water bottle, unopened and cold. You glance up at him, confused, uncertain but he's not looking at you. He's staring blankly at the floor, legs spread casually, one arm draped over his bent knee.

You fumble to unscrew the cap, hands still shaking, and take a small sip, the water almost choking you. The silence is suffocating. You don't know why you're surprised when he breaks it first. When he turns his head just slightly, eyes flickering to you, dark, unreadable and says, almost absent-mindedly,

"You want more?"

Your breath catches and you stare at him, wide-eyed, like you must've heard wrong but then you see his mouth twitch. The tiniest hint of a curios smile, genuine like he really doesn't know the answer.

Your heart stutters painfully as you set the water down on the nightstand with clumsy fingers.

Your throat is dry even though you just drank and you nod.

Barely, a small, scared movement.

He watches you steadily for a moment then he tips his head slightly, like he's trying to get a better look at you. "You sure?" his voice is lower now, rougher but still that same detached calm but something else too, threading underneath.

Something you want so desperately to be real and it makes you nod again, a little firmer this time because don't trust your voice to come out right.

He stares at you a second before moving slowly.

He stands up, shrugging his t-shirt off in one smooth motion, leaving him in shirtless with just his jeans. Your heart hammers against your ribs, panic and anticipation fighting for space in your chest. You watch as he unzips his jeans, pushing them down his hips with a casualness that almost makes you dizzy.

He's already half-hard, think and heavy between his thighs. You realize, distantly, that you're gawking so you quickly jerk your gaze away, cheeks burning.

You hear a soft, breathless chuckle from above you not mean and then he's crawling back onto the bed, over you, caging you in with his body.

You feel so small beneath him like prey. He's looking at you differently now, not in the normal cold and empty way, he's looking at you with hunger now and it makes you shiver.

"You sure?" he asks again, voice barely a murmur this time, lips brushing your temple.

You nod frantically, squeezing your eyes shut. "Say it," he says, tone still maddeningly calm. "Need to hear you." Your voice is a whisper, a plea, a confession. "I want you," you breathe. "I want more."

Something in him finally cracks. You feel it in the way his whole body shifts closer, the way his mouth finds yours in a kiss that's nothing like before. His tongue slides against yours, filthy and slow, and you whimper into his mouth without meaning to.

He kisses you like he wants to consume you as if he needs to and when he pulls back, just barely, his forehead resting against yours, he's panting. For the first time tonight, he doesn't look unreadable, wrecked and hungry. He shifts, reaching between your bodies to guide himself to your entrance — the swollen, aching place between your legs still slick from his mouth.

He rubs the head of his cock against you, slow, deliberate, pulling another pathetic whine from your throat. You feel him smile against your cheek. "You're so wet," he murmurs, nudging your thighs wider with his knees, not even asking, just taking. You feel the blunt head of him pressing against you and it's too much, it's not enough, you can't tell which.

He leans down, mouth brushing your ear. "Tap my shoulder if you want me to stop," he reminds you, voice rougher now. You nod frantically again because you don't want him to stop, you just want everything he's willing to give. Even if it's nothing real or even if it feels you emptier than before.

He doesn't say anything when he pushes in. Doesn't shush you, doesn't kiss you, doesn't tell you it's okay. He kind of just watches, like he's waiting for something, like you're some sort of test he's trying to pass. The stretch is unbearable, sharp and hot and you're scrabbling at his shoulders before he's even halfway in, breathing fast and panicked against his neck.

You hear yourself whispering, wait wait wait wait but he's already slowing, already stopping, his hands bracketing your hips steady and firm like he expected this because he knew you'd break apart underneath him. You feel him breathe against your temple, slow and even. He's still hard, still not fully inside you but he's giving you the space to catch up even if he looks utterly unbothered doing it. "Relax," he says after a beat. "You're making it worse."

You nod frantically against him, squeezing your eyes shut, willing your body to loosen, willing the burn to subside. It takes a minute, maybe longer and he waits like he has all the time in the world.

Not stroking your hair or murmuring sweet things like you imagined the person you'd lose your virginity to would do, none of that. He's just existing above you, warm and solid, until finally you whimper, nodding again, giving him permission to move.

He pushes in slower this time but you still cry out, it's too much, too much, you feel so impossibly full but he hushes you, a soft sound, almost absent-minded, like he's trying to focus. You claw at his shoulders, needing something to hold onto, needing something real while your body stretches and aches around him. You hear him swear under his breath when he bottoms out, low and strained, like he's barely keeping himself together.

He stays there, buried deep, not moving. You don't realize you're crying again until he shifts just enough to catch your face in his hand, tilting your chin up to look at him. "Still with me?" he mutters, thumb brushing your wet cheek almost carelessly. You nod, trembling, wrecked and he gives a low breath of a laugh, amused but not mean. "Good girl," he says, more to himself than to you and it makes your heart seize painfully in your chest.

Good girl.

You cling to it like a lifeline.

He moves then.

Slow at first, dragging out almost all the way before pressing back in and it's overwhelming, the feeling of him inside you, the stretch and slide and pressure so much you can't breathe properly. You can hear the slick, embarrassing sounds your bodies make, can hear the broken little noises spilling from your own mouth. You bury your face in his shoulder, too humiliated to meet his eyes. He fucks you in slow, grinding thrusts, deep and steady, like he's trying to memorize the way you feel wrapped around him.

You're babbling something, you don't even know what, little pleading sounds that don't form real words. You hear him murmur something against your hair, so soft you almost miss it. "Fuck," he mutters. "You're so fucking tight." You whimper at the words, at the ragged sound of his voice, at the way he sounds affected for once, not calm, not detached, but wrecked. He groans low in his throat when you clench around him by accident, and his hips stutter for the first time.

"You're not doing it on purpose, right?" he mutters, almost teasing. "You're just that desperate, huh?" You shake your head frantically, sobbing against his skin, too overwhelmed to even think straight. You hear him laugh again, a breathless, disbelieving sound and then his mouth finds your shoulder, your neck, teeth scraping lightly. Your nails dig into his back, desperate, and he lets you, he lets you cling to him, lets you leave marks on his skin.

At some point, you don't know when, he finds a rhythm that brushes something devastatingly good inside you. Your whole body jerks when he hits it and you cry out, high and sharp.

He stiffens, then slowly, he pulls back and thrusts into that same spot again. Harder and deeper. You keen, the sound raw and broken, he does it again and again. Until you're sobbing into his neck, clinging to him like he's the only thing keeping you alive, you can't seem to stop moaning his name. You don't even realize you're doing it until you feel him smirk against your throat.

"Yeah?" he says, almost amused. "Is that what you like?" You nod frantically, tears leaking out the corners of your eyes. "You're so fucking sensitive," he murmurs, almost admiring. "Didn't even know girls like you existed." You want to ask what he means. You want to ask what kind of girl he thinks you are but you can't speak, you can barely think only feel. It feels too much, too good, too raw. He keeps fucking into that spot, relentless, steady, unforgiving, until you're arching beneath him, your whole body trembling, your voice breaking on desperate cries. You cum with a strangled sob, clenching around him so tight he curses, low and vicious. You shake and shudder, tears spilling hot and fast, still clutching at him like you'll fall apart without him but doesn't stop moving or give you a second to catch your breath. He keeps fucking you through it, slow but deep, grinding against that sensitive place inside you until you're gasping and whimpering and scratching at his back without meaning to.

You can't take it, your whole body feels too raw, too overwhelmed and overstimulated. You tap frantically at his shoulder, voice breaking. "S-Stop— please—"

He stills immediately, breathing hard above you. You feel him pull out slowly, carefully, and you collapse back against the sheets, boneless and trembling. There's a pause and you barely register him looking down at you, at the spots of blood smeared between your thighs, at the stains on his sheets.

He sighs.

"You bled on my bed," he mutters, like it's mildly annoying and it makes you flinch, humiliated, curling in on yourself but then before you can sink too deep into the shame, you feel him brush a hand over your knee. Gentle, almost absent-minded that it makes you blink up at him through tear-blurred eyes. He looks exhausted, disheveled and a little dazed. His thumb traces circles into your skin, not looking at you.

"You did good," he says quietly, almost endearingly. Then, louder, more to himself than to you — he mutters, "First time... fuck."

He leans back on his palms where he's sat at the edge of the bed, dragging a hand through his hair, looking genuinely thrown off for the first time. You don't know what to say, you didn't even know if you should say anything at all so you just lie there, aching and ruined, staring up at the ceiling like maybe you'll wake up and this will all have been some fever dream.

But you don't wake up, because this is real and he's real. Your whole body feels heavy, used up, raw and your thighs are sticky, the sheets beneath you damp and crumpled. The room smells like sweat and sex and something softer, something sweeter—him, you think. Sunghoon moves around the room in that quiet, efficient way he does everything, tugging the blanket up over you, finding the bottle of water from earlier and cracking it open but he doesn't look at you while he works. You think, distantly, stupidly, that he looks more real like this, less like the untouchable version of him you built in your head and more like a boy with messy hair, bitten lips and fingerprints pressed into his hips.

He comes back to the bed, crouches at the edge, and presses the bottle into your hand. You almost drop it cause your fingers are too shaky but he catches it, wrapping his hand around yours until you can hold it steady. "Drink," he says simply. You sip, obedient, trying to focus on how it tastes metallic now that it's lukewarm. You don't realize he's still touching you until you feel his thumb stroking over the inside of your wrist, absent and repetitive, in a way that seems like he doesn't even know he's doing it. He watches you drink, then takes the bottle from you when you're done and tosses it onto the floor with a soft thunk.

There's a weird, heavy silence between you, not uncomfortable, just thick with something you don't have the words for. He shifts back onto the bed, sitting with one knee drawn up, shirt sticking to his chest. He clears his throat once, like he's thinking through what he wants to say. "You want me to drive you home?" he asks eventually, making you blink up at him, throat dry even thought you just had water. You're not sure what you expected him to say, something colder, maybe. Something meaner but his voice is weirdly careful, almost... tentative.

He scratches the back of his neck. "I live with Jake," he mutters, like it's some necessary disclaimer. You realize, a beat too late that it's not about him hiding you. Something in you convinces yourself that this is his own weird way protecting you. From Jake and from the teasing you know would come if Jake figured this out.

It's almost enough to make you cry again but you bite it back, swallowing around the lump in your throat. You're about to shake your head to tell him no, it's fine, you'll call a cab, you don't want to be his problem anymore but then you realize he's now holding you. Somewhere in the middle of everything, somewhere between the water and the words, he'd pulled you against him, tucked you into his side and you didn't even notice.

His arm is around your shoulders, warm and steady. His hand is rubbing slow circles into your bare thigh, not sexual just steady and it knocks the air right out of your lungs. You blink up at him, wide-eyed and wrecked, he catches your stare and raises an eyebrow, that unreadable almost-smirk twitching at his mouth.

"What?" he says, voice rough and low. You shake your head, bury your face into his chest instead, trying to hide the way you're falling apart all over again. Trying to hide how much this, the tiny stupid casual tenderness of it is undoing you faster than anything else tonight.

He keeps holding you, stroking your back now and it's all the gentleness you wanted in the start, It feels so good, you don't realize you've fallen asleep, maybe it was somewhere between his hand tracing slow lines up and down your thigh or when you curled deeper into his chest, hiding from the world outside the four walls of his room.

You don't know but you wake up to the feeling of him shifting, gathering you against him, moving you like you're something breakable. You blink up at him, dazed and disoriented. "C'mon," he murmurs, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "I'm driving you back." The way he says it so definitively has you thinking there was never a version of this story where he didn't

You don't remember getting dressed cause he helps you, pulling your dress down over your hips, smoothing it out like it matters if it's wrinkled now. He doesn't touch you wrong or linger where he shouldn't, he just gets you ready, like you're something he needs to take care of.

The drive back is nothing like the drive to his apartment.

The first time, it had been silent, heavy even, your heart slamming itself against your ribs with every mile closer you got to something inevitable. Now it's quieter, somehow, still tense and thick but not scary. Not when he keeps glancing over at you, real glances this time, not just bored flickers, like he's making sure you're still breathing.

"You okay?" he asks when the stoplight stretches a little too long. His hand settles on your thigh without even thinking, warm, steady, thumb stroking small arcs into your skin. You nod without thinking, too cause you don't trust your voice and his jaw tightens like he doesn't believe you but he doesn't press, he just squeezes your thigh gently, keeping it there, like he needs the contact to stay grounded.

The city blurs by outside the window, neon smears, headlights, the occasional drunken laughter of a group stumbling home from the bars. You stare out at it and try not to think about the fact that his hand hasn't moved and that he's still touching you like it's second nature now.

When he pulls up in front of your building, he cuts the engine without a word and climbs out. Your brain can barely register that you didn't give him an address but yet here you are. You fumble with the door handle and your seatbelt, still half-dazed, but he's already there, opening it for you, offering a hand you don't take because you're too stunned to move. You look up at him and can't help but sense there's something different about him now, something softer around the edges, something raw. "Text me," he says, low and serious, an order. "And..." he hesitates, jaw clenching, like the next part hurts to say. "Don't cry again."

It's almost desperate, almost as if it does something to him, seeing you fall apart. You open your mouth to say something but nothing comes out. You're standing there on the sidewalk, small and ruined and still half in love with a boy who doesn't even know how much damage he's doing. He watches you for a second longer, waiting, like he's giving you the chance to say no, tell him to fuck off and end whatever this is before it starts but you don't.

You just nod, biting your lip so hard it stings. Without another word, he's backing away, climbing into his car, pulling off into the night with the windows down and the music low and his hand still flexing like he misses the feel of you under his palm.

You don't text him or even think about texting him, you genuinely try not to. You bury your phone under your pillow, your backpack, sometimes even your bed, as if that'll keep the temptation away. As if you're not sitting there, curled up in bed with the covers pulled up over your head, thinking about his hand on your thigh during the drive back. Thinking about the way he opened the door for you like it mattered. Thinking about the way he said don't cry again like it physically hurt him to see it.

It doesn't help, none of it does so much so that you spiral, slow, inevitable all into something heavy and gray and miserable. Yunjin notices immediately, of course she does, she keeps knocking on your door, calling you, threatening to break in if you don't answer her. She even gets Heeseung to come at one point, she probably told him something frantic enough that you have to lie through your teeth and tell them you're just sick or tired or busy.

Anything but the truth.

You don't leave your dorm except for class and even then, you barely make it out the door, trudging across campus like a ghost.

Until, three days later, you drag yourself out to a small cafe off campus, needing a change of scenery, somewhere quiet to pretend you're still a person. You've been there for maybe an hour, laptop open, notes spread ever, highlighter caps scattered across the table then you feel it.

A presence, a shadow falling over your table that makes you look up and there Sunghoon stands, different hoodie, same unreadable face but there's something in his eyes, something sharper, something frustrated, something almost desperate when he says "I told you to text me." You blink at him, heart slamming into your ribs so hard you swear you hear it. He stares down at you for a second longer, shoving his hands into his pockets like he's physically stopping himself from reaching for you.

Then, deadpan, he says "Don't you wanna have sex again?" You just stare at him, absolutely dumbfounded, mouth opening and closing but no words forming. The cafe noise blurs around you and you shove your chair back roughly and stand up, your heart hammering, your hands shaking, your voice raw when you snap at him "I'm tired of being confused."

He blinks, actually looks caught off-guard but you're not finished. "What do you even want, Sunghoon?" You're almost yelling not caring if people are looking cause now you just need to know. You need to stop being this wreck, this ruin, this stupid girl still hoping for softness from someone who only ever gives you pain.

Sunghoon doesn't answer right away, he just looks at you, unmoving like he's thinking or deciding something. And then, so soft you almost don't hear it, he says "You." Your breath catches as your whole body goes rigid. For half a second, half a heartbeat, you believe him, you believe he means it Until he tilts his head slightly, voice dropping, eyes darkening as he adds "In my bed again." It just feels like you've been punched hard and straight through the chest. Your hands tremble at your sides as you stare at him—at this boy you thought you hated, thought you craved, thought you needed and you realize; You don't know him at all.

You're about to walk away, already trying to gather up your things into your bag, you're thinking about how you'll shove past him, out the door, back into the rain-slicked street but then Sunghoon leans in. So close you can feel the heat of him bleeding into you. His voice lowers like something rougher and raspier, like it's been clawing its way out of his throat. "I meant it," he says. "You."

You halt, you hate him, you hate him so much but he's still leaning in, dipping his head down slightly like he's confessing something dark, something private, like he's handing you a piece of him, bloody and raw. "You don't get it," he says, almost whispering now. "Nobody's ever been like that. In my bed." Your heart cracks, the worst part is you believe him, you believe he's telling the truth but there's still that sharp, selfish edge to it, that gleam in his eyes like he's not just confessing, he's coaxing, begging even.

"Let me have you like that again," he says, and his mouth is so close to yours it almost feels like a kiss. It's almost sweet, if not for the way he says it—half desperate, half manipulative, like he thinks those are the words you want to hear and he knows you'll fall for it. Maybe you already have because your body is betraying you, shivering, leaning closer, your fingers curling into fists at your sides so you don't grab him by the hoodie and kiss him first.

You want to hurt him back but all you can do is whisper, broken "You don't even know what you're asking for." Sunghoon just looks at you, silent and still, a flash of something almost like regret in his eyes but it's gone too fast for you to catch it properly. His fingers twitch in his hoodie pocket, like he wants to reach for you and doesn't know if he's allowed.

He hesitates, for the first time, he hesitates, before he speaks again "Let me learn" and it guts you because you're stupid enough to want to believe it. You're stupid enough to want him even when you know better. If you weren't so stupid you would have noted the amount of chances you had to turn away and tell him no but you don't, not when he's helping you pack up your things or guiding you to his car, not when he's pulling you in for desperate kisses at stoplights, you don't say no because the part of you that wants him is bigger and anything else and because you're stupid.

The memory of how you got here is a haze, you remember him frantically pulling off your sweater as soon as you walked in through the door, unlike the first time you were in his apartment and he waited to take you into his room, it's all so frantic, the heat of his mouth on your neck, the way his hands tug at your skirt frustratingly before he's grunting against your mouth like he's telling you to do it and you do, You remember him picking you up off the ground making your legs instinctively wrap around him as he holds you up effortlessly, taking you to his room again and placing you on the bed more gently.

You can't help but notice how his room looks a bit different in the daylight but your thoughts about it are thrown out the window when you feel him pull your panties down your legs and stare at where you're wet for him. His mouth is just devouring as devouring as it was the first time, it's so skillful, it has you arching instantly, grabbing at his hair and bucking your hips up to meet his mouth.

You don't hear the door open or even sense someone is in the room until his voice cuts through the dim air like a blade.

"Well, well. Look at you."

Your eyes fly open to meet Jake's, he's leaning against the wall, jaw clenched, arms crossed, eyes dark but he's not mad. No, he's smiling, slowly and cruelly like watching the punchline of a joke he told hours ago finally land. "Guess I was right about you."

Your hand flies to Sunghoon's shoulder, tapping at him panicked, breathless. "Hoon—Sunghoon—stop. He's here—" But Sunghoon doesn't even glance back. He just coos, soft and low. "It's okay," he murmurs, almost fondly. "Ignore him." Ignore him? Ignore Jake standing there, wolf-eyed and grinning, hands shoved into his pockets like he's about to stay a while.

You try to pull away again, one last desperate wriggle of your hips but Sunghoon is relentless. His mouth finds your clit again, his hands pressing your thighs wide, pinning you open like a butterfly.

Pinned, shivering, exposed and Jake fucking laughs under his breath. "Desperate little thing," he says, almost sweetly. "You like this, huh? Like having an audience?" Your throat closes up and your heart punches against your ribs.

You squeeze your eyes shut humiliated, so humiliated but Sunghoon's tongue doesn't falter, his fingers don't slip. He's focused like you're the only thing in the world, like Jake's presence is meaningless. Maybe it is. Maybe all that matters is the way Sunghoon is pulling these pathetic little sounds out of you, wet, broken and soft.

Jake comes closer because you feel his heat at your side, hear the way he crouches down, mouth grazing your ear when he speaks  "Go on, pretty baby," he whispers. "Cum for him." You sob, you can't help it and Sunghoon's tongue just flattens harder, swirling, ruthless.

Jake hums approvingly.

"Yeah, that's it. Cum like a good girl for your beloved Sunghoon." Your whole body snaps tight and you fall apart like he ordered it, helpless, degraded and soaked. You cum hard, gasping, clutching at the sheets, your hips jerking up into Sunghoon's mouth like you're chasing it, like you need it to survive. It's pathetic; it's degrading and it's the best thing you've ever felt. Sunghoon doesn't even slow down through it, just keeps licking, gentle now, coaxing the last little spasms out of you until you're shaking, whimpering, completely broken open.

Jake just watches, smirking.

You don't even realize you're shaking until you try to sit up, your hands are trembling and the sheets are damp under your thighs, your whole body still pulsing from the devastating orgasm Sunghoon wrung out of you like it was nothing.

You don't even have time to gather yourself or to cry or scream or run, before Sunghoon is shifting, sitting back on his heels between your spread thighs. "Let Jake take your top off," he says, all flat and dispassionate like he's asking you to hand him your notebook in class.

Your mouth falls open and you blink at him—once, twice—because surely you didn't hear that right."No," you croak, voice ragged with confusion, shame and heartbreak. "What the fuck—" You glance between them, voice rising. "You guys are fucking weird." You yank at the sheets, trying to cover yourself but Sunghoon doesn't even flinch. Jake that's still smirking devilishly just shifts closer to the bed, looming over you and Sunghoon? God, Sunghoon just tilts his head, looking at you. That same unreadable stare, dark and heavy and burning but this time there's something different there. Something that reaches out and claws at you even as you recoil. Not affection or cruelty, just want, so intense it's borderline unbearable.

Jake's gaze is different, lighter, crueler, like he's seeing you as something to be played with but Sunghoon—Sunghoon is hungry. You feel it crackling in the air, feel it vibrating against your skin and God, you hate yourself, because your body is betraying you again — your head nodding before you even realize it, weak, desperate, aching.

Jake grins, sharp and wolfish—the second you do. "Good girl," he breathes, wasting no time, before you can regret it, his fingers slip under the hem of your flimsy top, tugging it over your head, baring you completely, safe for your bra that he immediately discards and his mouth is on you immediately, hot and slick and brutal.

Sucking at the soft flesh of your tit, biting down just enough to make you whimper. You gasp, your hands flying up to grip his shoulders, not pushing him away or pulling him close either, just clutching him, trying to hold yourself together. It's too much, their hands, their mouths, the heavy stare of Sunghoon's black eyes like he's drinking you in.

You can't catch your breath and Sunghoon's patience wears thinner by the second. You can feel it in the way his hands slide up your thighs, the way he spreads you open again without a word, the way his cock twitches against his thigh as he watches Jake mark you up.

He's done waiting, he wraps his hand around the base of his cock, not even bothering to slow down, not even pretending to give you time to adjust. "Move," he mutters to Jake, a single word, sharp-edged. Jake laughs against your skin but he obeys, pulling back just enough for Sunghoon to settle between your thighs. You barely have time to whimper before Sunghoon is there, pressing the blunt head of his cock against your entrance, not cruel but not careful either, sliding in with slow, brutal finality.

You gasp high and broken—your nails digging into the sheets. Jake's mouth finds your ear, murmuring filth. Sunghoon just fucks into you like you're a thing he's owed, stretching you open on his cock and you clench on him, your hips jerking with every punishing thrust, tears slipping from the corners of your eyes and soaking the sheets beneath you. Your head is spinning, your chest heaving, every nerve ending raw and oversensitized.

You think if he fucks you any harder, you'll just shatter apart and you almost want him to. You almost want him to break you completely so you'll stop feeling this ache, this desperate, hollow yearning for something he refuses to give you. Your eyes screw shut, your fingers scrabbling uselessly at the sheets and it's all just white noise.

Until one particularly brutal thrust has your whole body jerking and your eyes fly open on instinct and that's when you see it. Through the blurry haze of your tears, your vision sharpening in short, frantic bursts. You see Sunghoon not just fucking you but kissing Jake, in fact it's not just kissing, it's devouring. Sunghoon's mouth is slanted hard over Jake's, his tongue forcing its way between his lips, messy and aggressive. Jake is grinning into the kiss like he's won, one hand tangled in the back of Sunghoon's hair, the other lazily tweaking his own nipple through his t-shirt, like he's savoring the way Sunghoon is practically fucking his mouth too.

You whimper without meaning to, your body clenching helplessly around Sunghoon's cock at the sight because it's so much, too much even. Sunghoon driving into you, Sunghoon moaning into Jake's mouth, Jake playing with himself, Jake smirking like he knows exactly what this is doing to you and somewhere deep down, even through the pleasure flooding your body, even through the slick obscene noises filling the room, you know now what you hadn't let yourself believe before. That this thing between Jake and Sunghoon—whatever it is—It's more.

They're not just friends, they can't be, not with the way Sunghoon is gripping Jake's jaw, the way he's pulling those filthy little noises out of him like he knows exactly how. Your stomach twists, sick and overwhelmingly turned on. You're so close again, you can feel it, your whole body trembling on the precipice of another orgasm, Sunghoon's thrusts getting sloppier, deeper, his low grunts spilling out of him like he can't even hold them back anymore.

"Jake," Sunghoon suddenly groans all wrecked and desperate "I'm—" Before you can even understand what's happening, Jake is moving, quick and decisive. He shoves Sunghoon back by the hips, pulling his cock out of you with a wet, messy noise that has you gasping at the sudden emptiness. Your legs twitch, your pussy instinctively clenching down around nothing and then you watch, horrified as Jake drops to his knees in front of Sunghoon like it's normal, like it's natural and wraps his lips around Sunghoon's flushed, dripping cock without hesitation.

Sunghoon moans, really moans. Loud, guttural, shameless, the kind of sound he never gave you, the kind of sound you ached to pull out of him. Jake hums smugly around him, looking right at you, his eyes sharp and gleaming with amusement.

Like he's mocking you, almost daring you to say something. To admit how much you wish it were you making Sunghoon fall apart like that. Your breath hitches in your throat, your hands fisting in the ruined sheets, every inch of you burning with humiliation and confusion and sick, aching need.

Sunghoon stands there, looking disheveled and flushed, his skin slick with sweat, the faintest smirk pulling at the corner of his swollen mouth. Jake wipes his lips with the back of his hand but instead of stepping away, instead of giving you a moment to think, he's reaching for you.

His hand tangles in your hair firm and he's dragging you forward, toward him. You don't even resist, too stunned, too broken open already, too ruined by the heavy tension that wraps around the room like a noose and then he's kissing you, messy and wet, so incredibly obscene. You whimper into his mouth when you taste it—Sunghoon's lingering arousal still coating Jake's tongue, thick and salty and wrong. You should pull away, shove him off and spit it out you don't because Jake is holding you there, mouth slanted over yours, his free hand cradling the back of your head so you can't escape the way the taste spreads and soaks into your own tongue and somewhere in the blurred confusion of it all, you realize you're kissing back and obeying when he pulls away and looks at you with those sharp eyes, telling you to swallow.

Your knees buckle, but Jake catches you easily, turning you towards Sunghoon. "You were such a good girl for me," he says under his breath, incongruous with the essence of him still coating your lips. "You'd be even better if you let Jake fuck you too." You glance up at him through a blink, stunned, teetering on the edge of sanity, knowing exactly what you should say.

No. No. No.

But it's like there's a part of your brain wired exclusively for him, for the soft cadence of his voice, the weight of his hand on the curve of your waist, the promise of his approval, so nod weak and trembling, before your mind even finishes forming the thought.

Jake grins, triumphant and he's moving immediately, not wasting a second, grabbing your hips and turning you around like you're just something to be positioned, something to be used. "You're going to let me fuck you? After all that mouthing off? Telling me to kill myself?" he taunts, "What was it she called me again, Hoon? Your guard dog?" he adds, running his hand down your back and pressing down so you're perfectly arched for him.

You can see Sunghoon sitting back against the headboard now, watching you with lazy, half-lidded eyes. Jake's hands are rough as he spreads you open, humming low under his breath when he sees just how wet you still are. It's shameful, the way your body betrays you, throbbing and slick and eager.

"Fuck," Jake mutters, almost to himself, "Sunghoon really did break you in, huh?" You hear Sunghoon laugh, smug but you don't dare lift your head to look at him. You're too busy squeezing your eyes shut, fists curling tight in the sheets, bracing yourself for whatever's about to come.

And when it does come, when Jake finally pushes into you, it's so different, he's not as patient. He's rougher, filling you quick and deep, grunting under his breath when your body clenches down instinctively. "Still so tight," he breathes, reverent, like he can't fucking believe it. You whimper, your arms shaking, your body arching more without your permission, as he starts to move. Long, deep thrusts that make your back curve, your mouth fall open in helpless little gasps and all the while Sunghoon is watching.

In a silent possessive way, you can feel like a brand burning into your skin. You know you're not supposed to want this, you're not supposed to like the way Jake is fucking you, hard and fast and unrelenting while Sunghoon watches like you're putting on a show just for him.

Your body doesn't care, it's already chasing the next brutal, devastating high and Jake aids it, fucking you with sharp, brutal thrusts that knock little gasps and whines from your throat without mercy. Each snap of his hips punches forward into that spot inside you that feels too raw, the overstimulation crackling up your spine like electricity.

It's nothing like how Sunghoon fucked you. Where Sunghoon was calculated, almost teasing in the way he stretched you open, Jake feels like punishment, like he's trying to split you in half just because he can. His pace didn't slow once, not even when Sunghoon shifted closer, not even when the softest brush of lips pressed against your temple like a secret only you were supposed to feel. If anything, it got worse. Harder, deeper, like he was trying to fuck the kiss right off your skin.

And it was so stupid, it was so stupid, because your body betrayed you instantly, muscles clenching down around him so tight you felt it too, the way your walls tried to drag him deeper, how your toes curled and your back bowed like you were desperate for more.

Jake's laugh was low and rough against your ear, all teeth and mean amusement as he tightened his fingers around your waist. "She's fucking clenching. Just 'cause you kissed her," he taunted, and you wanted to say no, wanted to deny it, wanted to pretend you had any dignity left but it was impossible when Sunghoon's mouth was finding the corner of your lips now, slow and tender and unbearably sweet. "You're so pretty"

"Pathetic little thing," Jake cooed, voice dipped in false pity, "Sunghoon calls you pretty and you're already squeezing my cock like it's the first nice thing anyone's ever said to you." You whimpered, pressing your forehead to the mattress, trying to hide from them both, from the unbearable heat prickling under your skin. You could feel Sunghoon smiling against your cheek, soft and secretive, and when you cracked your eyes open, you caught it, that tiny, almost imperceptible look he passed to Jake. The faintest tilt of his mouth. Permission. Encouragement.

"Don't listen to him," Sunghoon murmured anyway, voice as soft as his kisses, pretending like he wasn't the one feeding the fire. His hand stroked lazily down your spine, light enough to make you shiver. "You're pretty. That's all that matters."

Pretty.

You could have cried.

You almost did.

Jake's laugh rumbled against your back as he thrust up into you again, hard enough to have you gasping, scrabbling uselessly at the sheets. "Such a good girl," Jake crooned mockingly, dragging the words out, slow and sticky like syrup. "All pretty and dumb for us."

Sunghoon just kept petting you, like you were something small and helpless. His fingers tracing your spine like he was counting your vertebrae, his mouth ghosting over your skin, and then he was murmuring almost absently, like he was thinking out loud, "So pretty like this. So pretty I almost feel bad."

You didn't even know who he was talking to—you, Jake, himself—it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the way Jake's cock bullied into you without a hint of mercy, and the way Sunghoon looked at you like you were something sacred he was offering up to be ruined.

"Are you gonna fucking cum or what," Sunghoon muttered next, his voice a little rough around the edges, impatient, a glimpse of the colder boy underneath all the tenderness, "You never take this long with the other girls."

Jake barked a short laugh, snapped his hips forward once, hard enough to make you cry out. "Sorry," he said, not sounding sorry at all, "she's just a little too fucking sweet." You didn't know if he meant the way you tasted, the way you sounded, the way you looked sprawled out for them like you'd forgotten how to say no. Maybe all of it. Maybe none of it.

You couldn't think straight anymore.

You couldn't do anything but clench and sob and ache for them, feel Jake's cock dragging in and out of you, feel Sunghoon's kisses ghosting over your skin, hear their low voices murmuring above you like a prayer and a curse all at once.

You heard it, heard it even through the messy sounds of Jake using you, even through the haze of your own breathless little cries and for a second everything inside you pulled tight.

Other girls.

He said it like it meant nothing. Like it was just some passing detail, a shrug of the shoulders, a fact you should already know but you didn't and in the haze of it all you almost didn't realize Sunghoon wasn't yours, maybe he was Jake's but one thing is sure though; you weren't the first girl they'd done this with.

Your throat worked uselessly, a desperate little sound clawing up before you could stop it and you hated it, hated that they would hear it, hated that it gave you away. "S-Sunghoon"

He turned to you, still petting you absentmindedly but you could feel the slight hesitation in his touch, the way his fingers paused just a little too long at the dip of your spine, as if considering whether he'd gone too far but he didn't apologize, he didn't even look sorry. He just leaned in closer, brushing his lips over your shoulder, whispering sweet nothings into your burning skin like he could stitch up the bleeding hurt with pretty words.

"You're better than them," he murmured, so quiet you almost thought you imagined it. "So much better, baby." You despised how easily you melted for him. Jake thrust particularly deep and you choked on a sob, "Oh my God! J-Jake!", hips jerking helplessly back against him, desperate for any kind of grounding. Your mind was a mess, a riot of shame and pleasure and need and you didn't know how much longer you could hold yourself together, you tongue was already dropping out of your mouth, making you drool.

Above you, Sunghoon just smiled, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was pleased you were breaking because to him it was probably the whole point.

Jake groaned low in his chest when he finished, the sound rattling deep in his throat, but you barely heard it. You were already gone, gone somewhere far inside yourself, where you didn't have to feel the way Sunghoon was murmuring at Jake to "go ahead, finish inside," like it was just another order to be given. Where you didn't have to feel Jake's lazy satisfaction as he spilled inside you, one hand gripping your hip like he owned you, like he had some right to leave pieces of himself inside your body.

It hit you all at once, the whiplash of it, how went from being a virgin a week ago to this, spread out, used, letting boys who barely even liked you do whatever they wanted with you. The shame was so thick it tasted metallic in your mouth. You scrambled, struggling to move, your limbs trembling and slow. Jake was still inside you and you hated it, hated the hot sticky reminder of everything you'd let happen, hated him for still being there like he had every right.

You shoved at him, weak and clumsy but desperate enough that Jake gave a startled grunt and stumbled back, finally slipping free. You barely registered it. You were already trying to crawl off the bed, blind and panicked, desperate to get away before they could see the tears slipping hot and furious down your cheeks but before you could even swing your leg over the edge, Sunghoon's hand closed around your wrist.

Firm that it makes you halt, chest heaving, refusing to look at him, refusing to let him see how broken you were. You tugged weakly against his grip, but it was useless. He didn't say anything at first, just held you there, thumb brushing thoughtlessly against the inside of your wrist, as if soothing you. As if he thought he could soothe this.

You yanked at your wrist, the pathetic sound of your struggle filling the heavy room, Sunghoon didn't even flinch and his grip stayed firm, like he barely noticed how hard you were trying. He just stared at you, something strange and unreadable flickering in his dark eyes, his gazed held confusion, as though he couldn't understand why you were crying.

His gaze dragged over your face, the wetness on your cheeks, the trembling of your mouth, the way you could barely breathe around the panic squeezing your ribs and then he asked it, so casually you almost thought you imagined it.

"Why do you cry all the time?" Asking as if your tears were an inconvenience but it makes something inside you snap. You tore your wrist out of his grip with a violent jerk, your whole body swaying from the force of it, and you backed away so fast you stumbled over yourself. You didn't even care that you were still naked, still aching, still leaking down your thighs.

"I can't believe I did this," you choked out, voice cracking, the words coming in one ugly, messy rush. "You're both fucking weird. I can't believe I let you— I can't believe I—" but before you could finish, Jake's voice cut through the air, lazy and amused, like none of this meant anything to him. "You wanted it," he said, shrugging like it was obvious. "And from the way you were moaning for us? Pretty sure you enjoyed it too."

The shame burned hotter than ever, climbing your throat like bile. You wrapped your arms around yourself, wishing you could disappear into the floor, wishing you had never met them, wishing you could scrub the memory of all of it off your skin. They weren't even trying to comfort you or apologize, they were just standing there, like you were the crazy one for thinking any of this was supposed to mean something more.

You flinched when Sunghoon moved toward you, every part of you braced to be mocked again, humiliated further but instead of laughing at you, instead of pushing you back onto the bed and telling you to take it like before, his hand came up, slow, almost unsure, and wiped the tears off your cheeks with the pad of his thumb. The touch was awkward but gentle in a way that made your throat close up. He didn't know what he was doing, you could feel it in how clumsy he was, as if affection wasn't something he gave often, like he was terrified of getting it wrong.

Before you could form more thoughts, he was leaning in, mouth brushing yours so softly it barely even counted as a kiss, just a warm press, a quiet apology he didn't know how to speak. You made a sound, something broken and desperate in the back of your throat, and he caught it with his mouth, kissing you a little harder. "Don't cry again," he mumbled against your lips.

You squeezed your eyes shut, hating him for making it worse, feeling sorry for yourself for leaning into him without even thinking.

Jake stood a few feet away, still shirtless, still burning from the inside out, arms crossed, watching the whole thing with something close to murder flashing in his eyes. He wasn't smiling anymore, the lazy, taunting smirk was gone, replace with something aimed at Sunghoon like he had just witnessed a betrayal, as though Sunghoon wasn't supposed to kiss you like that, wasn't supposed to wipe your tears or whisper anything that sounded even remotely like he cared.

Jake's jaw clenched, his fingers dug into his biceps, nails biting through the thin fabric of his shirt. It made your stomach twist, that look on his face, the look of boiling anger and ugly jealousy.

Because Sunghoon had never, not once, touched another girl like that and now he was wiping tears off your face like you were some delicate fucking thing worth saving.

Jake's hands curled into fists and stomach twisted. The anger was old, nothing new because it had been sitting in him for a long time—months, maybe.

It started at the party.

The girl, he couldn't even remember her name now but he remembered how she was giggling, clutching his arm, pressing her tits against him like she didn't know he wasn't the one she needed to impress. Jake led her through the crowd anyway, up the stairs, through the half-cracked door where Sunghoon stood against the wall sipping something dark from a cup.

"She's cute, right?" Jake said, grinning, jostling her forward a little. Sunghoon barely even looked at her before he tilted his head, caught her wrist in his hand, brought it up to his mouth and kissed it, all while his eyes were on Jake, while his smile was directed at Jake.

It was mechanical, hollow even and Jake saw it even if no one else did. Sunghoon didn't even want her, he didn't want any of them, not really anyway. He just let Jake bring girls around because it was easier to use them than admit there was nothing either of them actually wanted. It was an arrangement, an easy and disposable arrangement.

Until you, Jake had felt it the day he saw you in Heeseung's apartment, you came over, looking so nervous you could barely meet his eyes. It was supposed to be a joke, flipping up your dress while you were trying to leave. Just to see if you'd cry, just to see if Sunghoon would even bother looking.

He did.

Jake caught it—the way Sunghoon's gaze went dark, sharp, almost hungry. He was the one who leaned over, under his breath, and whispered into Jake's ear. "I want her."

You.

Jake could still feel it, the way those words made something twist in his gut, made his palms itch to hit something. Sunghoon had never said that before. Not once, not even when Jake handpicked the prettiest, most desperate girls at every party but you, standing there like some little doll about to bolt for the door. You, who they hadn't even touched yet, you were the one Sunghoon wanted.

Jake ignored it, or he really tried to. He tried to brush it off, the same way he brushed off the weird sick feeling that climbed up his throat every time you looked shyly at Sunghoon instead of him.

But then the night came. The night Sunghoon was meant to fuck you, Jake was there in his room—had the door cracked open, waiting for Sunghoon to come to him.

It should've been routine, it always was, especially with the shy or naive girls and you were certainly naive, almost borderline oblivious in Jake's opinion. Sunghoon was meant to get you ready and Jake would join later if he felt like it, they'd use you up and that would be that. Instead, Sunghoon slipped out of the room, tight-jawed, tense and cornered Jake by the kitchen sink when he came to get you the water bottle. "She's a virgin," Sunghoon said low, eyes dark and unreadable. "We're not doing this tonight." Jake had laughed because it sounded like he was joking. "What, you scared or something?"

Sunghoon just stared at him. Something ugly, something furious flickering just beneath his skin. "I'm serious," he muttered, voice rough. "I'm not ruining it like this." Like this? Like it mattered?

Jake stood there, watching Sunghoon grab a bottle of water, stall for time, anything to calm down before he went back to you. It burned something inside Jake that he didn't even know he had, not jealousy, not really, it was something worse. Jake wanted to break something. Wanted to break him.

Sunghoon is still holding your waist, like you were his to protect, his fingers pressing deep enough to bruise, yet there's a softness to his grip. He's staring at you like he doesn't understand what's wrong, his eyes searching yours like he can make sense of everything. But he can't. He won't. His breath brushes against your ear as he whispers, "Stay."

It's quiet. Almost too quiet.

Your chest tightens, the words hanging in the air like a weight you can't shake off. You feel the tears welling again, the ache in your throat, the rawness of everything you've just experienced. This wasn't supposed to be you. You weren't supposed to be here.

But you're still here. Still in Sunghoon's room. Still caught between the chaos of two boys who have never looked at you like you were anything other than a game. The thought nearly breaks you, but you keep your head tilted away from Sunghoon's searching gaze, eyes trained on the floor.

That's when Jake's voice cuts through the silence.

"She's not yours, Sunghoon," he sneers, his voice thick with mockery. "She's a free use toy now, remember?"

The words hit harder than anything physical. Sunghoon's face tightens, a flicker of anger flashing across his features for the first time. This is the first time, in all the years of living with Jake, that Sunghoon's ever asked a girl to stay in his room. He never needed to. The others, they always left when the night was over, like it was just part of the script. But with you... he's different. He wants you here. Wants you more than he's willing to admit.

And Jake knows that. He knows it, and he sees the change in Sunghoon, the shift that makes everything spiral out of control.

Sunghoon tenses, his grip on your waist tightening, but it's not to keep you close anymore. It's like a warning, a subtle shift, like he's trying to hold onto something that's slipping through his fingers.

"You don't know shit about her, Jake," Sunghoon spits, voice low, dangerous. But there's a tightness in his chest, the kind that tells you this isn't just about you anymore. This is personal.

Jake laughs, the sound cruel and mocking. "I know enough. You're just fucking delusional, man. She's never gonna be anything but a toy, something to fuck when you need it."

And that's when everything breaks. That's when the jealousy and the anger in Jake's eyes finally win out. He's seething, and there's something darker in him now, something that twists his features into a snarl.

"You think she's different?" Jake's voice rises, thick with bitter disbelief. "You think she's special? She's just a body, Sunghoon. You're no different from me."

Sunghoon doesn't even think. His fist is already flying toward Jake's face before the words are fully out of his mouth.

The sickening crack of Sunghoon's punch echoes through the room. Jake stumbles back, a flash of shock before he's charging again, but this time, Sunghoon's ready. They clash together, their bodies colliding with a force that shakes the room, like they're trying to tear each other apart with their bare hands. You watch, heart pounding in your chest, unable to move.

Jake doesn't care. His gaze is locked on Sunghoon, furious and burning, but there's something else there. Something ugly. It's like he's mad at the whole world. Mad that Sunghoon is breaking the rules, mad that he's treating you differently, and mad that he can't have you like he thought he would.

"You fucking hypocrite," Jake spits, shoving Sunghoon hard enough that he almost knocks you over with him. "You think you're better than me? You fucked her first. You let me fuck her too. Don't act like you're some fucking savior now."

Sunghoon's fist lands again, and this time, the sound of the punch is more brutal, sharper. The room stills for a moment. Everything quiets.

And then Jake stares up at him, blood dripping from him his split lip, his expression twisting into something almost unrecognizable.

"You're not special either, Sunghoon. She'll never choose you."

And that's when the weight of it hits you. Both of them are broken. Both of them have pushed you to this point. But the one you can't seem to tear your eyes away from, the one who's been different with you, is Sunghoon. It's always been him, hasn't it? Even though everything's a mess, even though your mind tells you to run, your body aches for the one who's holding you in place.

But this fight, this ugly confrontation, it feels like the breaking point. Both of them, tearing each other down, just to try and prove something to you. And you don't know how much longer you can stand it.

Jake slammed the apartment door so hard the hallway lights flickered. His chest heaved like he'd run a marathon, every breath sharp and unsteady, and his jaw ached from how tightly he was clenching it. Sunghoon's words were still ringing in his ears. His fists still burned from the impact.

And you? You were still in that room, still with Sunghoon. The echo of it made something cave inside him and he wasn't sure if it was the punch or the shame that hit hardest. It hadn't always been like this.

Two months ago, that was when Heeseung brought you around for the first time. Introduced you casually at a birthday party as his girlfriend's cousin. Jake barely remembered whose birthday it was because the moment he saw you, you eclipsed everything. Not because you were trying to. No, you didn't even speak much that night. Just nodded politely, murmured a hello. It was your eyes that did it—too soft, too open, too easy to read. He saw the way you looked at the floor more than at anyone else, how your hands fidgeted with the strap of your bag.

You didn't belong in their world of sharp words and sharper games and maybe that's exactly why he wanted you. He told himself it wasn't serious, just a passing thing. You were pretty, sure. Innocent too but surely not his type. Except he caught himself watching you, noticing you, even wondering about you but then you had to go and ruin it—by looking at Sunghoon.

He hadn't even looked at you that night, he barely nodded in acknowledgment, said something offhanded to Heeseung about you being "quiet." Sunghoon didn't see you at all but you saw him and Jake saw you.

Staring.

It was in the little glances, the way you perked up just slightly when Sunghoon's voice cut into the room. The way you didn't blink when he walked past, as though you could memorize his silhouette if you tried hard enough. Jake had watched you the whole time, watched you light up for someone who never even looked your way and it made something petty and jealous unravel in him.

He approached you that night of the art show just to tell you, you were too plain for Sunghoon, he said like a warning but it came out more like a challenge. He saw your lips part, saw the brief hurt in your eyes before you turned away.

That was the beginning.

It became a game, or that's what he told himself. Teasing you at parties, mocking the way you watched Sunghoon like he hung the fucking moon. A part of him thought that if he made you feel small enough, you'd stop looking at Sunghoon like that, maybe you'd look at him instead, maybe he could rewrite the script if he could just make you flinch enough to forget what you wanted.

Then one night, after too many drinks, Sunghoon admitted it. "She's cute." Just those two words, offhanded, they barely even meant anything but Jake saw it. The way Sunghoon had been looking at you lately—less like he didn't notice and more like he didn't know what to do with the noticing.

It hit Jake like ice water before Sunghoon even whispered it in his ear that day at Heeseung's apartment, Sunghoon wanted you and you had always wanted him, so where did that leave Jake? He didn't even know who he was jealous of anymore. You, for getting Sunghoon's attention? Sunghoon, for having yours? Or himself—for turning something tender into something so vile?

Maybe that's why he let it happen tonight. Why he hadn't walked away the moment he saw you under Sunghoon like that. Why he'd joined in, touched you like he had any right, kissed you just to claim a piece of something that was never his but none of it made the ache go away, in fact it only made it worse.

"She's not yours, Sunghoon. She's a free use toy now, remember?"

He'd said it because he was furious, he needed to get under Sunghoon's skin because to him it was easier than admitting the truth; he still wanted you and not just your body and not just tonight but when Sunghoon looked at you like that—held your waist, whispered soft things into your skin, kissed your tears away—it gutted Jake.

Sunghoon had never asked a girl to stay, not even once, not even the girls that had way more experience than you and now he was asking you.

Jake punched the wall as he reached the bottom of the apartment stairwell, breathless. His hand split open against the drywall. Still, the pain didn't come close to what was boiling in his chest because the truth was, he never stopped wanting you and now he might've lost you forever along with his best friend.

Back in the apartment, the room still smelled like sweat and anger and something unspoken, thick in the air, clinging to your skin like shame. Sunghoon's touch was gentle this time, he didn't say much as he led you toward the bathroom, one hand lingering low on your back, the other steadying your wrist where his fingers had left slight red marks earlier. You were too quiet to fight him on it, too tired to explain the weight sitting in your chest like wet cloth.

The warm water hit your skin and it felt too good, too soft, like maybe you didn't deserve it. Sunghoon didn't rush. He moved like he'd done this before, washing over you with careful fingers, rubbing suds into your arms, your thighs, behind your ears like he was memorizing the shape of you with every glide. He kissed your shoulder once. Then your temple. Then your mouth. Quick, gentle intervals like he was testing if you'd still let him.

You did.

He didn't speak until he was drying you off, voice low, half-rasped. "Lift your arms." You obeyed. Not because you were weak but because for once, it felt safe to surrender. He slipped a soft shirt over your head, long enough to brush your thighs. It smelled like detergent and cologne and him. You could get drunk off the scent alone. Your legs wobbled as you stepped into clean pair of his shorts and he caught you without a word. He tucked you in like he hadn't just broken you down hours ago. Covered you up to your chin, smoothed the damp strands from your face, lingered a little longer than he meant to. His gaze was unreadable—something suspended between guilt and awe.

"I'll be back," he murmured, like he was worried you'd vanish if he didn't say it aloud.

The sound of the shower running again was the only thing that lulled you close to sleep. You didn't hear him come back in. You just felt the bed dip and the warmth of his body sliding in behind yours, arms looping slow around your waist, chest pressing to your back like he needed to feel you breathing to believe this was real.

He nuzzled against your hair. "Come here," he whispered and he pulled you into him like you belonged there, like he hadn't just chosen you in front of Jake, like maybe he always had.

*•*•*

Jake hadn't been back to the apartment in three days. He'd spent them mostly on Heeseung's couch, pretending to watch TV, pretending he wasn't thinking about you every second he blinked. He didn't say much and Heeseung didn't ask, that was the thing about old friendships—they left space where words couldn't go.

When he came back, the apartment felt the same but emptier, he told himself he wasn't looking for signs of you but the disappointment in his chest when he didn't find any told the truth.

You're gone.

He heard the door to Sunghoon's room click open not long after. He didn't have to turn around to know it was him. They stood in the kitchen like strangers. Jake's knuckles itched with memory, so did his ribs but his voice didn't shake when he finally spoke.

"She left."

Sunghoon didn't deny it. "She needed space."

Jake almost scoffed. "From you too?" Sunghoon looked at him, and there was something devastating in the softness of it. "From the both of us."

A beat passed. Then another.

"You know why you're this angry?" Sunghoon said, his tone level. "It's not because I touched her. It's not even because she let me. It's because you wanted to be the one."

Jake's fists curled before he could stop them.

"I didn't—"

"Yes, you did," Sunghoon cut in, unshaken. "You were just too scared to be anything other than cruel."

Jake's mouth opened, but nothing came out. He couldn't argue—not really. Not when Sunghoon looked at him like he already knew, not when he didn't even have to say it. There was a shift, almost invisible. A flash of something in Jake's eyes, something like grief or longing. It passed too quickly for anyone else to notice but Sunghoon saw it and maybe that's why, as he turned away, he said, "She's at her place."

Jake swallowed. "Why are you telling me?"

Sunghoon didn't answer.

But he didn't need to.

*•*•*

The stairs felt longer than usual or maybe Jake was just nervous regardless of the five days it took him to gather the courage to show up here. His legs didn't feel steady, not when he reached the third floor. Not when he raised a hand to knock on your door. His heart wasn't racing—it was free-falling.

He almost turned around but then the door opened and you were laughing.

It wasn't a sound he'd heard ever, it was soft, light, the kind of thing that came from somewhere safe. You were mid-laugh, leaning slightly into the doorframe, probably reacting to something Yunjin said behind you. Her voice floated out from the living room. Jake barely registered it.

Because then you saw him and everything about you changed. Your smile dropped like glass slipping from a ledge. You didn't say anything but your face said enough, the laughter hadn't just faded, it had recoiled almost like you were scared, like seeing him reopened something you'd tried to bury.

Jake felt it in his chest, low and sudden and still, he didn't speak because how could he? He had no right to be hurt, not after what he did, not after everything he'd been. Still, he stood there, holding his breath, waiting to be let in.

"Can I talk to you?"

Jake's voice was soft even careful like he wasn't sure if he deserved the words he was speaking. Yunjin was at your side in a heartbeat, sliding into the doorway with one brow raised, a hand coming instinctively to your elbow. "She doesn't owe you anything," she said, her tone sharp but calm. "So if you're here to play whatever game you were playing before—"

"It's okay," you said, cutting in quietly. Yunjin looked at you, frown deepening. "You sure?" You nodded. "Just give me a minute."

There was something in Jake's eyes, something raw and unguarded and even if your brain was screaming to slam the door, your heart—traitorous and trembling—wanted to know what he had to say.

You stepped out, closing the door gently behind you, and followed him into the empty hallway.

Jake didn't speak right away.

You could see it—the way his throat worked, how his eyes flicked to the floor and then back to you, like he was sorting through a thousand things he could say and none of them felt right.

Then, finally, "I'm sorry."

It was plain, simples and unpolished, it had you blinking. "What?"

"I'm sorry," he said again, firmer this time. "For everything. For how I treated you. For flipping your skirt up in front of everyone. For saying shit that made you feel—less than." His breath caught slightly. "I'm even sorry for fucking you like that. And calling you—"

You cut in before he could finish. "A free use toy?"

He flinched. "Yeah. That."

Your arms crossed over your chest, suddenly cold. "Are you only saying this because you and Sunghoon want to fuck me again?"

Jake's eyes widened. "No. No. God, no. That's not—I'm not—" His words tumbled, frantic. "I'm not here because of that. I'm here because I have to tell you. I have to tell you that I liked you first."

Silence blanketed the hall.

Jake took a breath and stepped closer, gaze never leaving yours. "That day Heeseung introduced you, when he said you were his girlfriend's cousin, Sunghoon didn't even look at you. But I did. I couldn't stop looking at you. You were so—" He stopped himself, jaw tightening. "And then you were looking at him. Always. Like he was everything." His voice cracked on that last word.

You didn't move.

He ran a hand through his hair, voice lower now. "I didn't know how to handle it. I just— I hated that you never looked at me the way you looked at him. And it made me cruel. I know that. I know I was an asshole. But I swear to god I was only ever like that because I didn't know how else to deal with it."

You stared at him, stunned into silence, noticing how his eyes were glassy like he was begging himself not to cry and maybe for the first time, you saw him. Not as the boy who teased you mercilessly, not as the one who touched you like you were nothing but as the one who was unraveling in front of you—afraid, desperate, honest. He huffed out a breath before continuing, "I know you think I'm just awful and that Sunghoon doesn't have feelings but he does and—" "I—I promise I'll be better and he will too, just come over please." "There's so much we want to tell you" he sighed the last part like he was using the last of his energy to say it.

That was the last thing he said before he left you standing there and you don't remember agreeing, not really. It's all a blur—Jake's quiet voice on the stairwell, the look in his eyes like he was begging without asking, the way he said please, the way he mentioned Sunghoon like the words had weight in his throat.

Maybe that's why you're here, maybe it's closure, maybe it's not.

The apartment is quiet when you knock but the second the door opens, you feel a pair arms around you. "You didn't cry again, did you?" Sunghoon's voice murmurs into your hair, soft and close.

You shake your head. No, you didn't, not this time. His scent is familiar, clean soap and something warm underneath. He lingers a second too long before he steps aside and that's when you see him—Jake, standing by the kitchen counter like he's unsure whether to stay or disappear. His expression flickers when your eyes meet, but he doesn't say anything. He just watches, you used to think his stare meant mockery but now it's something else. It's waiting, even hoping.

The silence stretches and you feel like you should say something. Sunghoon glances between you two like he's used to translating tension. "We talked," he says, mostly to you. "Jake wanted to say sorry. Properly this time." You nod because right now it's all you can do.

"Can I...?" Jake's voice trails off. He gestures awkwardly toward the couch, like he's asking for permission just to sit near you. He's never been this quiet before, never this cautious.

He settles beside you with careful space between your knees. The silence isn't comfortable, but it's not hostile either, just dense with everything unspoken.

Jake speaks first, the words low and halting. "I didn't mean for it to happen like that. Any of it. I was—" He stops, jaw tightening. "I guess I didn't know who I was mad at. You. Him. Myself." Sunghoon stays leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the exchange unfold like it's something he can't touch just yet. Jake  glances at you. "You don't have to forgive me. I just... I didn't want it to end like that."

The part of you that once trembled under his cruelty now twitches at his vulnerability, you're not sure when that shifted. Somewhere between the teasing, the way he flung ugly words like armor, and the raw admission in his stare now—something changed.

Maybe you did want him, not like before, not in spite of the way he hurt you but because somewhere beneath the mess, something inside him looked like it had been reaching for you all along.

"You're not as mean as you think you are," you say quietly. Jake huffs a breath that sounds like he might cry if he lets it finish and it has you reaching for him rubbing his cheek with your thumb and you're not entirely surprised that he's leaning into your palm.

You don't know who moves first, only that the space closes and his lips are on yours now, frantic and almost clumsy, his hands find your waist and trail up to your back before he's pulling at your hair so your neck is exposed to him. He pulls away and his forehead presses against yours, Sunghoon is behind you again, kneeling on the couch and sliding a hand along your back like he's grounding you in the moment.

"You sure you want this?" Sunghoon murmurs. You nod, barely but he sees it. Jake sees it. The air shifts and you all somehow manage to make it to Sunghoon's bedroom. Their hands are everywhere, their lips too, kissing, biting, marking, Jake's hands are tugging at your clothes like they personally offended him, Sunghoon is kissing you like today is his last day on earth. He pulls off you placing kisses to your cheeks before speaking, "Come on, let Jake show you how sorry he is" he says as back away, you look to Jake and he seems to want it more than you realize. "Okay".

That was all it took for him to pull down the denim of your shorts along with your panties, staring at you between you legs like he was looking at art, "So pretty, so wet for us" he mumbles, placing kisses to your inner thighs. "Don't tease her, Jake. Do as she says", Sunghoon's voice rings through the room and it makes Jake look up at you like he's waiting for your command, the look has your breath stuttering before you say, quietly but firmly, "Eat my pussy".

Jake must have been on voice command because he immediately starts eating you out. You whimper, back arching as he leans in, licking up your folds with a deep moan like he's lost his mind.

"Fuck—Jake—"

His tongue is everywhere—sloppy, relentless, devouring you like you're dessert and he's starving and you're grinding against his face before you can help it, hand in his hair, breathy moans spilling from your lips like a prayer. Your thighs were already trembling but Jake wasn't slowing down, you looked up from his to see Sunghoon smiling down at you and it makes you moan out more, "Oh my god!"

If anything, Jake is more determined now—tongue working your clit with maddening precision, fingers spreading you open so he could taste you deeper, wetter, messier, like he's trying to pull those sounds from you. You tried to push him away—not because you wanted to stop, but because it was too much, too good but Jake just growled low and gripped your hips tighter, dragging you back to his mouth like he'd die without it.

And then, slowly, finally, he pulled back—lips and chin glistening. Your breath hitched at the sight, he looked wrecked. Hair a mess. Eyes dark and blown wide with hunger. "She didn't ask you to stop, did she?" You look up at Sunghoon as he spoke, just now noticing that he's taken his cock out, it's hard, red and leaking as he palms himself while looking right at you.

Jake look at you and then back at Sunghoon and Sunghoon comes up behind him where he is, "Go on baby, tell him what to do. Use him" he says to you but you can't really speak so instead you grab Jake's hair and pull him back where you're aching for them both.

Behind him, Sunghoon watches, calm and in control, one hand fisted in Jake's hair as if to keep him there. The warm flick of his tongue makes you jolt, your hand gripping the sheets. Jake moans into you, desperate, like he's trying to earn your forgiveness with every swirl of his tongue. You almost don't notice Sunghoon has pulled Jake's up on his knees and now has Jake's shorts and boxers down to his knees where they meet the sheets. Sunghoon looks down at Jake where his back is involuntarily arched with lust filled eyes and the sight of him spitting a dollop of saliva right onto Jake's hole has you gasping, "Sunghoon" you gasp out and he looks at you with a smirk, you look down at Jake and notice his eyes rolling back, you can't tell if it's because of how you taste or because of Sunghoon's index and middle fingers that are now pushed into him.

Jake is still trying his best, his tongue is fucking your hole so good you're trembling but then suddenly he's crying out and you see that Sunghoon has pushed his whole length into him at once and it makes Jake choke on a gasp against your pussy.

"You're losing rhythm," Sunghoon murmurs, dragging his hips back before pausing. His voice is low. "Don't you want to show her how sorry you are?"

Jake whimpers, nodding frantically, "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" his lips returning to you with renewed effort—tongue trembling, breath shaking. You arch, overwhelmed at the way he's trying so hard for you. For both of you.

And it's working.

Your thighs close around his head, your moans tangling with Jake's soft cries as Sunghoon keeps rocking into him. The way Jake's mouth moves on you—messy, reverent, aching—pulls you closer and closer until you're gasping his name, your fingers tangled in his hair as you finally finish against his tongue.

Jake groans, muffled by your release, clinging to your thighs like they're the only thing keeping him grounded but then he starts moving again—this time, back against Sunghoon. "Fuck," Sunghoon hisses, voice strained as Jake starts to push back harder. "So desperate to be fucked now, huh?"

You slide forward, cupping Jake's flushed face, and he looks up at you with wide, watery eyes. Your thumb brushes away a tear rolling down his cheek. "Pretty boy," you murmur, kissing his cheek, then the other. "You're so pretty like this." The moment your voice breaks through him, his eyes widen, lips parting in a shaky moan, just like Sunghoon once did to you—Jake clenches down hard around him, the shock drawing a ragged groan from Sunghoon. Sunghoon chuckles breathlessly, eyes flashing. "Oh, now that's familiar. You remember that, sweetheart?" he says to you.

You do remember and now it's Jake—whimpering, trembling, taking it. You trail your hand down Jake's trembling stomach and wrap your fingers around his cock, already dripping. He jerks in your hand, keening, hips stuttering as you start stroking him in time with Sunghoon's thrusts.

"Oh, fuck," Jake cries. "Please—please—"

"Look at you," you coo. "Falling apart just like me." "All that anger, you're just a fucking brat huh?" you ask and he shakes his head furiously. "I—I'm not!", you keep stroking him, speeding up your movements.

Sunghoon growls behind Jake, watching your hand work him while Jake chokes on a sob and fucks himself harder on Sunghoon's cock. "K—Kiss" he whimpers, "Aww, you want a kiss baby?" Sunghoon coos but Jake can only respond with incoherent babbles now. You lean down and kiss him but that means you neglect his aching cock, when he pulls away just to moan out, you go back to stroking him.

Jake lets out a wrecked, high-pitched moan, body trembling as you reach between you and wrap your hand around his cock again . He nearly collapses.

"Please—please, I'm gonna—"

You stroke him slowly, watching the way his body bucks into your fist and back onto Sunghoon's cock in perfect rhythm. He's whining, shameless and loud, hips jerking. Every time you squeeze, he moans louder.

Sunghoon grits his teeth. "Good fucking girl," he growls to you, fucking Jake harder. "He's gonna cum just like this—such a fucking mess."

Jake's the first to break. He sobs your name as he spills all over your hand, body curling in on itself. The clenching sends Sunghoon over the edge with a groan, and he pulls Jake close, hips stuttering as he finishes inside him.

And then, silence. Just heaving breaths, sweaty skin, bodies tangled together on the sheets.

Jake collapses against your chest, still gasping, and you stroke his hair without thinking. Sunghoon lays beside him, one arm thrown lazily over his waist.

For a moment, it's quiet.

Then Jake speaks,  "You think Heeseung would be mad we fucked his girlfriend's little cousin?"

You blink. "I'm older than Yunjin."

They both whip their heads toward you.

the bed feels too big the moment your warmth is gone. jay stirs slowly at first, the sunlight brushing against his eyelids, the faint weight of the blanket still clinging to his side where you were supposed to be. he doesn't open his eyes right away—not because he's tired, but because something in him already knows. when he does, the empty space beside him confirms it. you're gone. no note, no message, no sound from the hallway. just the faint scent of you lingering on his pillow, a whisper of your presence still folded into the sheets like a promise he thought you might stay long enough to keep. he pushes himself up slowly, muscles tense, chest tight, eyes flickering to the empty corner where you stood last night in that lace. where he first kissed you. where something changed.

he swallows down the knot in his throat as he reaches for his phone on the nightstand, screen already lighting up with notifications. thousands of them. likes, comments, reposts, subscriptions pouring in like a flood. the video is viral—trending faster than anything he’s ever uploaded, his name attached to a level of attention he didn’t even plan for. but none of it feels right. not without you here. he taps into the earnings, sees the numbers spike, thumbs hovering over the payout settings for a second too long before he finally splits it and sends your share directly to your contact. the confirmation ping echoes hollow in the room, too loud against the quiet you left behind. and then he opens a message thread with your name at the top and types—

why’d you leave without saying anything?

but before he can hit send, his thumb lingers. he watches the text for a moment… and deletes it.

he sinks back into the bed for a second, phone resting on his chest now, but it doesn’t feel like comfort. it feels like static. like all the tension he’d carried leading up to last night has only unraveled into more questions. he’d told himself not to get attached. he’d told himself it was just a collab—just a girl. but the second he saw you, something cracked in him. something deep. and now that you’re not here, it aches. not in a way he can shake off. not in a way that goes away with the camera light. he closes his eyes again, the sheets still warm, the air still holding your perfume, and he wonders if you’ll ever come back.

he picks up his phone again and reopens the thread with your name. it’s empty. no response. no message. nothing but your contact name and a blank screen, like you were never here at all. and yet… the feeling of your mouth still lingers on his skin. your voice echoes in the back of his mind like a melody he can’t unhear. he wants to ask you something. anything. but every question sounds like too much—or not enough. so he doesn’t type this time. he just stares.

the numbers keep ticking up, but it doesn’t mean anything now. he sees the comments flooding in—about your moans, your movements, the way you took everything like you were made for it. praise stacked on praise, attention that anyone else would revel in. but jay doesn’t even crack a smile. because none of them saw the moment after the camera turned off. none of them saw the way you trembled in his arms. the way you melted when he washed you off. none of them saw the soft way you curled into him under the covers like you belonged there. like you wanted to stay.

he pulls himself from the bed eventually, sluggish movements betraying the tightness in his chest. he gets dressed in silence, doesn’t bother fixing the sheets, doesn’t open the blinds. the place feels dim, even with the sun out. lifeless, even though he’s never lived here with anyone else. the success of the video buzzes around him, growing louder by the second, but all he hears is the absence of your breathing. the way you slipped out while he slept. like you were afraid of what it meant if you didn’t. like if you stayed, you’d have to admit something neither of you were ready to say. and maybe you’re right. maybe it is just content. maybe he was stupid to think it could be more. but fuck, does he wish you’d stayed.

he paces once through the living room, then sits back on the couch, phone in hand, still staring at the message thread that won’t light up. still wondering if you’ll text first. still hoping that maybe—just maybe—you’re thinking about it too. he taps open your profile again, thumb brushing the edge of your last video, eyes scanning the comments like one of them might hold a clue. but it’s just noise. it’s always noise. and it means nothing if it’s not coming from you.

he’s done this so many times—invited someone over, gone through the checklist, lit the camera, said the lines, hit the angles, cleaned up after. rinse. repeat. content made. money earned. another collab in the books. but this one isn’t settling right. not in his chest. not in his bones. not in the part of him that’s still waiting to hear your voice on the other end of his phone. and it’s fucking with him more than he wants to admit.

he tells himself it’s just the afterglow. that the shoot went well, better than most, and that’s why it’s still sitting in his gut like something unfinished. but deep down, he knows it’s more than that. he’s had good scenes. he’s had better reactions, better angles, louder moans. he’s worked with people who were more open, more enthusiastic, more willing to take it further. and yet, none of them felt like you. none of them lingered in the air like the way you smelled when you pressed into his chest. none of them looked at him after like you did—like you weren’t acting, like the lines between camera and person had blurred too far to separate. and that’s what’s messing him up. that’s what’s got him replaying every second like it means something.

he doesn’t want to be the guy who catches feelings from a collab. he’s always been careful. always stayed detached enough to keep it easy. clean. business. but this? this isn’t clean. it’s messy. it’s tangled in the way you gasped when he poured wax down your stomach. in the way your voice cracked when you begged him to keep going. in the way you whispered thank you under your breath before you collapsed into him. and fuck, he hasn’t stopped hearing it. hasn’t stopped seeing it. like his memory has decided to loop the night for him whether he asked it to or not.

he paces through the kitchen, opens the fridge, then closes it again. he isn’t hungry. he just needed something to do. something to distract himself from the voice in his head asking why it matters so much that you’re gone. he’s not supposed to care. he’s not supposed to notice. he’s supposed to move on to the next booking, the next message, the next set of pretty eyes who’ll let him do the same thing and call it work. but he doesn’t want to. not yet. not when he still remembers the sound of your breathing slowing beneath the water. the weight of your head on his chest. the way you didn’t flinch when he told you you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever touched.

he swipes through his texts again. pauses on your contact. wonders what he’d even say if he reached out. he wants to ask you if you slept well. if you made it home safe. if you meant any of it. but those aren’t the kinds of questions you ask someone you filmed a scene with. not unless you’re willing to admit it wasn’t just a scene. not unless you’re ready to confront what the hell that night actually was. and jay’s not ready. not really. because if he is—then it means something has to change. and he doesn’t know what to do with that yet.

he thinks of heeseung for a moment—of the way he showed up at his place a few days ago, dragging his body through the door like he’d just lost a fight. he remembers the tension in his shoulders, the way his voice cracked when he said she left. he didn’t say much else. didn’t offer a name. just that she walked out like it meant nothing. jay had laughed at the time. teased him about catching feelings over a girl he barely knew. but now—now it doesn’t seem so funny. now he’s the one sitting on the edge of the bed, staring at the impression in the sheets and wondering what the fuck just happened.

you were supposed to be a good collab. a name to tag. a body to light. a voice to frame. you weren’t supposed to be the thing that left his bed feeling colder than the rest. you weren’t supposed to make him hesitate. to make him wonder if he did something wrong. to make him think about what it meant when you stayed the night and didn’t say goodbye. and now? now he doesn’t know if he wants you to text him back—or if he’s terrified you actually will. because whatever this is? it’s already not content anymore.

—

you sit on the floor of your bedroom, back pressed against the frame of your bed, phone facedown beside you, like it might say too much if you even glance at it again. your knees are tucked to your chest, arms wrapped loosely around them, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands like they’re supposed to keep you from unraveling. outside your window, the afternoon light filters in soft and sleepy, and inside your chest, everything feels like it’s shifting without permission.

nari knocks once before slipping into your room without waiting, a mug in her hands and a gentle concern on her face like she can already read the weight behind your eyes. she doesn’t ask right away, doesn’t speak—just settles beside you on the floor, her thigh pressed against yours and the faint smell of vanilla rising from her sweater. you’re grateful for the silence, for the way she always knows how to sit in it with you without making it worse. but after a minute, your voice cracks the space between you, low and tired. “do you ever think maybe i’m doing too much?” she blinks, looking over. “like… all this. the videos. the messages. meeting people i barely know. does that sound crazy to you?” her expression softens like she’s heard this before, but never from you.

you press your forehead to your knees, the cotton of your hoodie warm against your skin, trying to stop the thoughts from spiraling too fast. “i didn’t expect it to feel like this,” you say quietly. “like i’m giving away pieces of myself without realizing it until it’s already done.” the words sit heavy in your mouth, shaped by guilt, by confusion, by something softer you don’t want to admit out loud. “and now it’s like… it’s not just filming anymore. it’s not just content. it’s—” you hesitate, searching for the word. “intimate.” you finish. “it feels intimate. and i don’t know if it’s supposed to.” you lift your eyes then, finally looking at her. “is that normal?”

nari’s quiet for a moment, like she’s letting the weight of your words settle before she touches them. she reaches out gently, wrapping her fingers around your wrist, grounding you the way she always does—with her presence, not her judgment. “of course it’s normal,” she says softly. “you’re doing something incredibly intimate. just because it’s filmed doesn’t mean it’s not real.” she squeezes your wrist once, then again. “your body knows the difference between performance and connection, even if your brain hasn’t caught up yet.” you blink, swallowing against the ache in your throat. “so i’m not… broken?” you ask. “no,” she replies without hesitation. “you’re just human.”

you nod slowly, the lump in your throat not gone, but easier to carry now. you lean your head against her shoulder, grateful for the way she always finds the words when yours feel too tangled. “sometimes i feel like i’m living two lives,” you whisper. “there’s me here—taking orders, paying bills, scraping by. and then there’s this other version of me online, in front of a camera, being seen by people who don’t even know what my favorite color is.” nari lets out a soft hum, her hand stroking your arm. “both versions are real,” she says. “they’re just trying to figure out how to live in the same skin.” and somehow, that makes all the difference.

—

you’ve been calling out names for the past hour and a half without looking up. your fingers move automatically now—punching buttons on the screen, wiping syrup from your palms, sealing plastic lids with a snap that feels too sharp in your ears. you’re on your third refill of watered-down iced coffee and it doesn’t taste like anything anymore. someone asks if their drink is dairy-free three separate times. the espresso machine screeches again. the printer spits out another rush of orders before you’ve even caught up with the last. your wrist hurts. your lower back throbs. your voice is running dry, barely audible over the constant hum of people waiting.

you pull a sticker from the printer, slap it on the side of a cold cup, and slide it down the counter like clockwork. “grande pink drink with light ice,” you call out, monotone. a woman steps forward, grabs it without saying thanks. you almost smile anyway, out of habit. almost. but then you spot her—just past the edge of the milk bar, standing there like she always does when she’s trying to look casual. arms crossed, tablet in hand, eyes sweeping the floor.

you brace yourself before she even opens her mouth, the kind of instinctive reaction your body has learned after months of being under her watch—where every interaction feels like walking a tightrope, balancing politeness with exhaustion. you lift your head just slightly, posture stiffening as you wipe your damp palms against your apron, your fingers sticky from caramel syrup and trembling with the kind of restraint that’s worn thin over time. your eyes don’t leave her, not because you’re trying to be bold, but because if you look away now, you’re not sure you’ll be able to hold onto the small flicker of resolve burning in your chest. she makes her way toward you with a familiar gait—unhurried, calculated, the kind of slow approach that makes you feel like you’re already in trouble before she even speaks. her lips are pursed, her eyes narrowed just enough to register dissatisfaction without being overtly rude, and her arms are crossed like she’s been standing there long enough to decide she doesn’t like what she sees.

“y/n,” she says, and your name sounds like a warning, softened only by that professional sweetness she always laces into her tone when she’s about to tell you you’re doing something wrong. “can you try to pick it up a little?” she adds, glancing at the growing line of impatient customers, then back to you with eyebrows raised. “we’re already behind.” it’s not harsh—not really—but it lands like a slap anyway, the implication behind her words echoing louder than the phrasing itself. you’ve heard her say versions of this before, always when you’re running on empty, always when you’re giving more than you have left, and still it’s never quite enough. you don’t answer right away. the words hang in the air between you, familiar and irritating and heavy with the weight of everything you’ve been too afraid to say. you look down slowly, your gaze drifting to your apron, the fabric wrinkled and damp around the edges, to the sticker still clinging to your hand, printed with a name you don’t care to read. and then it settles—like a hush in your chest—because this moment isn’t just something you’ve thought about. it’s something you’ve practiced.

you move with a strange calmness, not mechanical, not rushed, but deliberate—like every motion you make has finally caught up with a choice you already made in silence weeks ago. your hands lift to the knot at the back of your waist and untie your apron slowly, carefully, as though the small gesture deserves reverence. you fold it once, then again, smoothing out the fabric like it means something, and place it gently on the counter beside the headset, which you remove from your head with the same quiet finality. there’s a pause after that. a stillness. and then you raise your eyes, finally meeting hers without blinking, your expression neutral but unreadable. “i’m done,” you say, and though your voice isn’t loud or sharp, it cuts through the clatter of cups and background noise like a clean tear through cloth. it doesn’t sound angry. it doesn’t even sound sad. it sounds like release.

she furrows her brows slightly, tilting her head like she’s unsure if she heard you correctly. “done with what?” she asks, and you can tell by her face that she’s genuinely confused, because in her mind, this isn’t something you’re allowed to say. you let out a quiet breath, not a sigh exactly, but something closer to an exhale that’s been stuck in your chest for too long. “this,” you clarify, voice still even but firmer now, like you’re finally standing on solid ground. “the job. i’m quitting.” the words settle around you like a weight lifted, like a lock clicking open from the inside out, and you can feel the adrenaline moving through your blood in slow, hot waves, but it doesn’t make you dizzy this time. it makes you steady.

she doesn’t respond at first. just blinks at you like you’ve spoken in a language she’s never heard before—like the idea of you leaving hasn’t even existed as a possibility in her world. you can see the gears turning behind her eyes, the slight twitch of her mouth as she tries to figure out if this is some kind of joke or a moment of heat you’ll immediately take back. and maybe if it were a month ago, you would’ve. maybe you’d apologize, force a smile, tie your apron back on and pretend like none of this ever happened. but not this time. you don’t smile. you don’t soften it. you just stand there, and watch her try to make sense of it.

“wait… you’re—quitting?” she says finally, her voice hitching just enough to betray how caught off guard she really is. her eyes scan your face, searching for something—uncertainty, maybe, or regret—but all she finds is quiet resolve. “are you sure? you didn’t give notice, we’re—i mean, we’re short-staffed as it is. i could give you a couple extra days off if you need them or—”

you shake your head before she can finish, not harshly, but with enough certainty to stop the sentence in its tracks. it doesn’t matter that she’s trying now. it’s too late. she had all the chances in the world to notice how burnt out you were. how invisible you felt. how little of yourself you had left to give.

you reach behind your neck, unfastening the rest of your apron, and fold it carefully in half before stepping forward and holding it out to her. your hand doesn’t shake. it doesn’t hesitate. she stares at it for a beat too long before accepting it, almost robotically, like her body moves before her brain catches up. she looks down at the crumpled fabric in her hands like it’s proof that this is real, that you’re not going to change your mind. that for the first time, you’re the one walking away.

you don’t say goodbye. you don’t thank her for the opportunity or apologize for the timing or offer to cover one last shift to make things easier. you just turn, moving toward the back wall where you keep your tote bag and jacket tucked into the metal cubby that still has your name on it in faded label tape. you sling the bag over your shoulder, check that your phone and keys are inside, and walk through the same door you’ve walked through a hundred times before—only this time, it feels different. like a closing. like a small, quiet revolution.

the second the cold air hits your face, you feel it—the weight loosening in your chest, the ache in your shoulders dissolving, the burn behind your eyes softening into relief. the street is loud, but it doesn’t matter. you move through it like you’re somewhere else entirely. your legs carry you forward before your mind fully catches up, past the familiar shops and corners you’ve passed on too many tired mornings, your steps steady and purposeful now, like your body knows where you’re going even if your thoughts haven’t settled.

you slip your hand into your tote bag without stopping, fingers brushing past your wallet and charger until they close around the smooth edge of your phone. it’s warm from all the buzzing, and the screen lights up before you even look down. three tip notifications. two new subscribers. and one message thread that catches your eye before anything else—bold and unread, his username in lowercase: @jakeoncam.

you swipe it open with your thumb, slowing your pace just enough to read as you cross the intersection near your block.

jakeoncam: gonna pick you up 8, okay?

there’s a second message right beneath it.

jakeoncam: don’t stress about anything, i don’t bite ;)

your heart lifts in a way you didn’t expect, something warm unfurling in your chest like the sun cutting through heavy clouds. you stop at the edge of your building’s steps and glance at the time—6:17 p.m.—enough time to shower, change, and pretend for a little longer that your life isn’t balancing between two separate versions of yourself. the girl who just quit her job, and the one who’s about to step into a stranger’s car and play pretend until it starts to feel real.

you take the stairs two at a time, heart knocking steadily against your ribs—not from nerves, not exactly, but from something closer to momentum. like you’re already halfway into the next chapter without realizing it. your keys jingle softly in your hand as you reach your floor, the chipped silver door familiar beneath your fingertips as you unlock it with a quiet click. inside, your apartment smells faintly like coconut body wash and citrus cleaner, the leftover scent of a space you’ve slowly begun to make your own.

you shut the door behind you, dropping your bag onto the couch with a thud that echoes louder than expected in the small space. you exhale and head straight to the bathroom, stripping off your clothes along the way, leaving behind a trail that marks the difference between that life and this one.

you let the water run hot, hotter than usual, steam curling around your body as you step inside and tilt your head back under the spray. for a minute, you don’t move. you just breathe. let the heat soak into your skin and chase off the last remnants of espresso and sweat and everything you don’t need anymore. when you step out, it’s like shedding the day entirely. like something new has settled onto your shoulders in its place—light, intoxicating, electric with possibility.

you wrap yourself in your softest towel and move to your mirror, brushing your fingers over your face like you’re studying yourself again. not the barista. not the customer service smile. you. the girl he’s coming to pick up at eight.

your closet door creaks as you open it wider, the low sound slicing through the quiet hum of your apartment. it’s not overflowing, but it holds enough—enough lace, enough silk, enough textures you’ve worn in front of the camera when the goal was to entice, to impress, to make people pay attention. but tonight feels different. not performative, not transactional, not like you need to be touched-up and teased-out until you’re a fantasy. it’s something quieter than that. more intimate. your fingers move past the usual suspects: black mesh, red strappy lingerie, dresses with seams that cling to your skin like second thoughts. you pause instead on a white tank top, one you haven’t worn in months. it’s light and clingy and slightly sheer, the kind of thing that rides up when you move too much, that dips just low enough at the neckline to suggest something without screaming it. it looks like comfort. it looks like home.

you pull it gently from its hanger, the cotton brushing over your fingertips like a secret, and fold it over your arm as you turn toward the dresser. you dig out a pair of soft pink shorts, high-waisted with a satin sheen that catches the low light of your bedroom, the hem fluttering around your thighs like a whisper. it’s not a look that demands attention. it’s not bold. it’s not curated to trend. 

you dress slowly, smoothing the top down over your stomach, adjusting the waistband of the shorts so they sit just right on your hips. you stand in front of the mirror for a while, eyes trailing over your reflection, taking in the softness of it all—the undone hair, the flushed cheeks, the lip gloss still dewy from your last touch-up. you pin a piece of hair behind your ear, then let it fall again. you want to look like you didn’t try. but god, you did.

you spritz perfume onto the inside of your wrists and press them together, then dab a little behind your knees, between your thighs, where the scent will warm with every movement. you run gloss over your lips again, just enough to make them glisten, and watch the way they catch the light. you slip your favorite dainty necklace around your neck, the chain fine and silver and cool against your skin, and check the time again before turning to look out the window. the city is beginning to dim into dusk, buildings casting longer shadows, streetlights flickering on in slow succession. cars pass. people walk by in pairs, in groups, in rushes of laughter and low conversation. and then—one car pulls up and stops.

you lean a little closer to the glass, one hand bracing the windowsill. the car is dark, sleek, familiar in a way that tightens something low in your stomach. the headlights shut off. a figure steps out. even from here, you know it’s him. jake stands by the passenger door, phone in hand, thumb tapping a message. you don’t need to check your phone to know it’s already coming through. you grab it anyway. the screen lights up with a message bubble that makes your chest warm.

jakeoncam: i’m outside :)

your hand wraps tighter around your keys as you step out into the evening air, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality that feels louder than it should. the breeze ghosts along your skin, brushing over your bare legs and the loose fabric of your shorts, the scent of something sweet and warm—your perfume, your lotion, maybe even the faint trace of coconut from your earlier shower—carried on the wind like a secret. the street is quiet in that golden moment between daylight and dusk, and there he is—still leaned casually against the passenger side of the sleek black car, his head bowed slightly as he looks down at his phone, unaware that you’re standing there watching him see you for the first time.

you take a few slow steps forward, your sandals brushing lightly against the sidewalk, and as your shadow crosses into his space, he looks up.

his reaction is instant—but not loud. not exaggerated. his whole posture shifts, his back straightening, his shoulders squaring subtly like something invisible has moved through him. his eyes meet yours and hold—longer than they should, longer than is comfortable if you weren’t already both half-aware that this moment was coming. you see it then: the way his lips part, just slightly. the way his fingers curl a little tighter around the phone in his hand. there’s no smirk. no wink. no casual quip to break the silence. he just… looks at you.

you blink, suddenly hyper-aware of how warm your face is. you open your mouth to say something, anything, but before a word can form, he’s already moving—pushing himself off the car, sliding his phone into his pocket as he walks around the front to the passenger side. he reaches the door before you do, fingers curling around the handle, and without saying a word, he opens it.

“thanks,” you murmur, voice soft with surprise, and he just tilts his head toward the open door, gesturing for you to get in like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

you lower yourself into the passenger seat carefully, your hands smoothing your shorts instinctively as you settle in—and the moment your body hits the leather, you still. the interior is pristine. quiet. the kind of silence that comes from money. you’ve never sat in a car this nice before, not even close, and the contrast hits you like a slow, rising warmth that starts in your chest and spreads down your arms. everything feels padded, soft and controlled, like the air inside is being filtered just for you. you let your eyes scan the dashboard, the matte finish of the screen, the glow of the console, the smoothness of the stitching along the seats. even the seatbelt feels expensive.

you glance over at him, eyes wide with a hint of disbelief. “okay,” you breathe out, half-laughing, “this is… wow.”

that’s when he grins, finally letting out the quietest chuckle as he closes the door behind you and walks around to the driver’s side. “what?” he says as he slides into the seat, glancing sideways at you with a look that’s all warmth and mischief. “you thought i was picking you up in, like, a busted toyota or something?”

you raise a brow, biting back a smile as your fingers trace the seam of the seat. “i mean… i wasn’t expecting to feel like i was about to be driven to a premiere.”

he hums low in his throat as he fastens his seatbelt, then starts the car with a smooth twist of his wrist. the engine doesn’t even roar—it purrs, soft and deep and controlled, like everything about this man who, up until now, you’ve only seen in curated fragments. there’s something surreal about it—this new dimension of him unfolding in front of you. and for a second, you forget that you’re not just here for a ride. you’re here for a shoot. a job. a collaboration.

you glance at him again as he pulls out into the street, the fading light casting a soft halo around his profile. “so…” you begin, voice careful but curious, “what exactly are we filming tonight?”

he glances at you, smile tugging at the corner of his lips but not fully forming. “you’ll see,” he says, tone playful but not unkind. “it’s not like the others. i wanted something different.”

you pause. you know you should ask for more details—boundaries, logistics, angles—but something in the way he says it makes you hesitate. not out of fear. out of intrigue.

the ride to his place is quiet—not awkward, not strained, just comfortably subdued. the kind of silence that feels filled with unspoken questions and maybe a few things neither of you are ready to say out loud yet. the city moves around you in soft streaks of gold and neon, traffic lights blinking red across the windshield, people walking in clusters on the sidewalks, laughter trailing behind as you pass. the interior of the car is warm, dimly lit, and smells faintly like leather and his cologne—woodsy and clean, with something deeper underneath that clings to your senses in a way you’ll probably remember later when you’re alone in your bed. you glance over at him a few times, just quick glances when he’s focused on the road, hands loose on the wheel, forearms firm and relaxed. his profile is calm. eyes forward. expression unreadable, but not cold. thoughtful, maybe. like he’s holding something close to his chest and waiting for the right moment to let it go.

when he finally turns onto a quieter street, the buildings thin out and grow taller. the sidewalks are cleaner. the air changes. the kind of neighborhood you don’t just happen to end up in—you have to get here. you try not to show your surprise, but your fingers tighten slightly on your bag in your lap, eyes scanning the rows of apartments that look more like personal museums than homes. he doesn’t say anything about it—doesn’t try to show off or explain—and somehow, that only makes it more surreal. there’s no keypad when he pulls into the underground garage, just a smooth lift of a hand as the security arm rises and he glides in like he’s done it a thousand times before.

you step out of the car into soft, echoing quiet. the garage is spotless, even the cement seems polished. your footsteps sound sharper here, more deliberate, like they carry weight they didn’t have outside. he walks beside you, close but not touching, and when you reach the elevator, he holds the door without needing to be asked. you step inside, and he presses the button for the top floor. no hesitation. no checking a key fob. just… top floor.

the silence stretches again, but this time, it feels heavier. not uncomfortable—just thick with anticipation. you feel it in the air between you, in the hum of the elevator and the soft scent of his hoodie lingering beside you. he doesn’t speak until the doors open, and even then, it’s barely above a murmur.

“you good?” he asks, glancing at you sideways, voice low.

you nod, meeting his gaze. “yeah. just... taking it all in.”

he smiles—just a flicker of it. “it’s just a place. you don’t have to be impressed.”

but you are. even if you don’t say it.

he leads you down a short hall, his steps quiet, his key sliding into the door with a smooth click. when he opens it, the first thing you notice is how clean it is. not sterile, not showroom-perfect—just lived-in in a way that’s neat but warm. dark floors, soft lighting, high ceilings. shelves lined with records and books and a few indoor plants that are actually thriving. the air smells like cinnamon and clean laundry, with the faintest trace of something familiar—like skin, maybe. like home.

you step in slowly, letting your eyes adjust to the lighting, and turn toward him as he closes the door behind you. “this is where you film?”

he nods once, toeing off his shoes. “sometimes. depends on the vibe.” he looks at you for a beat, then gestures with a tilt of his head. “come on. i’ll show you.”

you follow him down the hallway, past a small kitchen with marble counters and warm light under the cabinets, toward a room at the end. he opens the door without warning, revealing a softly lit bedroom that looks nothing like the usual shoot setup you expected. there’s no ring light. no backdrops. just a large bed with charcoal-gray sheets, a few candles burning on the dresser, and a single camera mounted low on a tripod at the corner of the room—facing the bed, but unobtrusive. intimate. natural. like it’s just… part of the space.

“you still haven’t told me what we’re doing,” you say, turning to him, suddenly more aware of how quiet the room feels with just the two of you standing in it.

he leans against the doorway like it’s the only thing keeping him upright, arms folded but not in that distant, unreadable way—more like he’s bracing himself. holding in more than he’s letting on. “i booked the boyfriend package,” he says, voice low, careful, like the words might fall apart if he says them too fast. “that’s… what i want us to film.”

you blink, unsure if you heard him right. “you did?”

he nods slowly, the motion subtle. “yeah. my subscribers have been asking for it—something different from me. softer. more connected. they’ve seen enough of the casual stuff. the rough cuts, the quick edits. they want something that feels real.” he glances around the room once, like he’s buying himself time. “i didn’t want to fake that kind of connection. not with someone i barely know, not with someone who wouldn’t get it.”

you’re about to ask what that means when his eyes meet yours again—steadier this time, heavier with something that makes your breath pause. “i wanted to do it with you.”

and there it is.

a flicker of something unspoken passes between you, and you feel it settle in your chest before your brain can even catch up. the weight of that choice. not random. not professional. you. you, whose face he’s just now seeing for the first time. whose voice he’s only heard in clips until now. whose presence is suddenly a lot more tangible than any frame or thumbnail ever allowed.

you watch it hit him in real time.

he shifts, uncrossing his arms like the posture suddenly feels too tight, too vulnerable. his eyes flick away for a second, jaw tightening. “i mean—fuck,” he mutters under his breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “sorry. that probably sounded—i didn’t mean it like…” he stops himself, tongue pressing into his cheek like he wants to rewind and erase the heat that’s creeping up the back of his neck. “i’m not trying to be weird. i just—now that i know what you look like… in person…”

his voice trails off, shoulders stiffening slightly. “i guess it’s different. seeing you. like this. i didn’t expect it to hit like that.”

he laughs, but it’s quiet and nervous and almost self-conscious, his eyes flicking back up to you with a kind of desperate softness, like he’s not sure if he just messed this up or made it something bigger than it should be. “you’re just… not what i expected.”

you tilt your head, heart beating a little faster. “and what were you expecting?”

he exhales, half a laugh, half a sigh. “someone less you.”

you don’t know what that means—but you feel it. in your spine. in your chest. in the strange, steady silence that follows, filled with too much of him and not enough distance. not anymore.

you don’t answer right away. not because you don’t know what to say—but because you do. it’s just heavy, sitting at the back of your tongue, waiting to be said in a way that won’t crack the atmosphere hanging between you. you’re still looking at him—at the shift in his body, the faint flush climbing up his throat, the way his fingers keep brushing the hem of his hoodie like he’s trying to anchor himself in something steady. he doesn’t usually fumble, you can tell. he’s smooth on camera, deliberate with his words, in control of how he presents himself. but now, with your full face in front of him, no blur, no mask, no screen between you—he’s unraveling just a little. and not because he’s flustered by the shoot. because it’s you.

you let the silence linger another beat before you exhale through your nose, soft and almost amused. “okay,” you say finally, voice low. “i’ll do it.”

he looks up like he wasn’t expecting you to say yes so easily, like part of him had already braced for rejection. his brows lift slightly, eyes searching your face for hesitation, but you give him none.

he sits beside you slowly, the edge of the bed dipping with his weight, and though he doesn’t reach for you, the space between your bodies hums with something new. not tension exactly—more like a current of anticipation. like something’s beginning, and neither of you is sure when it crossed over from conversation to countdown. the candlelight flickers against the walls, soft and golden, casting slow-moving shadows over the bedspread between you. you fold your hands in your lap and glance down at them briefly before speaking, steady now, certain about what you need.

“no choking. no slapping. no name-calling. i don’t want anything that feels like domination or degradation—not for this one.” your voice is even, but there’s a quiet firmness behind it. you’re not apologizing. just stating fact.

he nods immediately. “got it. nothing rough. all soft. affectionate.”

“if there’s undressing,” you add, “i want it slow. not all at once. like it’s not the goal.”

“of course.” he doesn’t hesitate. “everything gradual. natural. not performative.”

you pause again. “kissing?”

his eyes meet yours, and for a second you feel the air thicken between you. he speaks carefully. “i want to, if you’re okay with it.”

you nod. “i am. but keep it intentional. not like you’re trying to eat me alive.”

he lets out a quiet laugh, not mocking, just relaxed—like you’ve given him permission to settle back into himself. “no worries. all soft. like you’re already mine.”

the words settle heavy in your chest—not because of what they mean, but because of how easily he says them. like he’s done rehearsing. like he’s already begun.

you glance at the camera, still dark and idle. “how long are we recording for?”

“as long as it feels right,” he answers. “i’ll edit it down later. i just want to let it breathe.”

you nod again, your pulse soft but steady, and then—finally—he rises.

he walks over to the camera with slow, measured steps, adjusts the angle slightly, and presses the record button. a tiny red light blinks to life on the corner, small and steady. not intrusive. just watching. he doesn’t say action. doesn’t count you down. just turns and comes back to the bed like he’s stepping into something sacred.

you shift further up, your back resting against the headboard, legs bent slightly beneath you. he climbs onto the bed carefully, slowly, not closing the distance all at once. instead, he settles beside you again—this time angled inward, his body turned toward yours. you can feel the change immediately. he’s closer now. not touching. not yet. but he’s watching you like every movement matters. like this is the moment it starts.

“you good?” he asks again, quieter this time.

you meet his gaze, and the way the shadows play against his cheekbones makes him look softer. realer. “yeah,” you breathe. “i’m good.”

he exhales once, then lets his hand drift—slowly—onto the blanket between you, fingers just barely brushing the fabric closer to your thigh. “then come here,” he says, almost a whisper.

and something in the way he says it—gentle, coaxing, utterly calm—makes it feel like more than acting.

makes it feel like the scene has already begun.

the mattress shifts under his weight, the springs sighing softly as he settles beside you again, closer this time—close enough that the warmth from his body reaches your skin in slow waves, even though he still isn’t touching you. not really. just his presence is enough to tilt the air, to quiet everything else that was buzzing in your mind up until now. you glance down once more, instinctively smoothing the hem of your shorts over your thigh, as if remembering all over again what you’re wearing.

“I brought stuff,” you murmur, the words coming out half-breath, half-thought. your eyes lift to meet his, unsure why it even feels necessary to explain. “like… clothes. for filming. something cute. for the vibe.”

he watches you for a moment, and then—without missing a beat—he shakes his head, slow and steady.

“you don’t need it,” he says, voice low, final in the way it lands. not dismissive—sure. “you already look perfect.”

you blink, a little caught off guard—not because it’s the kind of thing you haven’t heard before, but because he doesn’t say it like it’s a line. doesn’t smirk. doesn’t follow it up with something cheeky to downplay it. he just says it like he means it. like he already believed it when you opened your door and stepped into his car. like this version of you—soft tank top, flushed cheeks, lips glossed just enough—is exactly what he wanted to capture all along.

you don’t answer. not out loud. but your body does—shoulders softening slightly, breath easing as you lean just an inch closer. not even a full lean. just enough to close a little of the space he’s left for you to decide.

his hand moves between you again, this time slower, more intentional. he doesn’t reach for you outright—he lets his fingers hover near your thigh, not quite brushing your skin. it’s like he’s waiting for a sign. like he wants you to close the gap.

you do.

just a small shift. just enough for your leg to graze his hand, to let your shoulder brush the sleeve of his hoodie. the contact is brief, featherlight, but it opens something. makes room for more.

his fingers curl slightly, brushing against the side of your leg before sliding up, the backs of his knuckles trailing softly along your outer thigh. it’s nothing. barely even a touch. but the way it’s delivered—slow, reverent, like he’s learning the curve of your body one inch at a time—makes your breath catch.

his hand moves again, this time rising gently to your arm. he doesn’t rush. he just skims up the length of it with the lightest drag of his fingertips, tracing from elbow to shoulder like he’s memorizing it. your skin prickles under the contact, every nerve waking up in a quiet, aching bloom.

and then—without a word—he reaches higher.

his hand lifts, brushing a few strands of hair back from your cheek, thumb grazing the edge of your jaw in the softest arc. it’s not meant to lead anywhere. it’s not hungry. it’s just a touch. one that says you’re here now, and i see you, and stay close.

you exhale without meaning to, and it’s not shaky—but it’s something. something just a little uneven.

his eyes flick to yours, steady and unreadable. “still okay?”

you nod once. “mmhmm.” you sound breathier than you meant to. more open. less on.

he smiles again, soft and small, and doesn’t say anything else. he doesn’t need to. the scene is already happening, and neither of you is acting anymore.

his hands come up slowly, fingers tracing up the curve of your arms in featherlight motions, like he’s memorizing the shape of you by feel alone. his touch is reverent, unhurried, gliding over your skin with a gentleness that makes your breath catch in your throat before you can stop it. the pads of his thumbs circle near your shoulders, and then you feel them—his fingers curling just beneath the thin strap of your white tank top. he doesn’t pull. not yet. he just pauses there, holding the fabric lightly, his eyes lifting to meet yours as if asking a question without speaking it aloud. the room feels still, quiet in a way that sharpens every small sound—your breathing, the soft creak of the mattress, the low hum of the candle flickering nearby. you hold his gaze for a moment longer, your heart beating a little harder beneath your ribs, and then you nod—small, certain. you see something flicker in his eyes at that, something deep and quiet, like he’s grateful. and then he moves closer, his lips parting just slightly as he exhales the softest, breathless sound against your skin.

“so soft…” he whispers, barely audible, but you feel it more than you hear it—low and warm, brushing over your shoulder as he leans in. your body sinks into the bed slowly, your back hitting the sheets as you ease down beneath him, his legs still planted on either side of you, caging you in without weight. the air feels thicker now, warmer, every inch of you awake under the way he looks at you, like you’re something he’s dreamed about more than once. his mouth hovers just above your skin, not touching yet, just close enough that the heat of his breath dances across your collarbone and sends a ripple of goosebumps down your arms. when he finally kisses you, it’s not on the lips—it’s at your bicep, a soft press of warmth against muscle, followed by another, then another, trailing up in slow succession. his fingers drag the straps of your top down gently, easing the fabric off your shoulders with care, never rushing. his lips follow the path his hands create, gliding over new skin with quiet reverence, curved in a soft smile when he reaches the hollow of your collarbone. he kisses you there, too—like it’s instinct. like it’s his favorite place to land.

his lips linger at your collarbone for a moment longer, the press of them so delicate it almost doesn’t register as real—just the ghost of contact, followed by the brush of his breath and the way his nose nudges gently against your skin. he doesn’t rush the next movement, doesn’t reach for your chest or drag the fabric further down; instead, his hands settle at your waist, thumbs resting lightly just above your hips as he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes trace your face slowly, like he’s scanning for any sign that you’ve drifted too far into your head, that this is too much, that maybe you’ve stopped feeling safe—but you haven’t. you’re still here, still warm beneath him, still open to whatever comes next. he sees that. and something in his face shifts again—less performer, more person. like the act is beginning to blur into truth, like this version of him is something he’s been saving. one of his hands lifts again, fingers brushing up your arm until they find your jaw, and he tilts your chin gently toward him, his thumb grazing the corner of your mouth as he breathes, “you look so good like this. i don’t think you even know.”

you feel your pulse stutter under your skin, not from the touch itself, but from the way he says it—low, slow, like it wasn’t meant to be heard by anyone but you. his voice is soft, but it carries something heavier underneath. affection, maybe. or longing dressed up like make-believe. his other hand shifts slightly at your side, fingers spreading across your ribs through the thin fabric of your tank top, holding you like you’re something delicate. you don’t speak. you don’t need to. the weight of the moment hangs between you, thick and warm, and you let yourself fall deeper into it, let yourself be the person he’s talking to. the person he sees like this—laid out beneath him, lips slightly parted, eyes soft with want. “i’d keep you like this forever if i could,” he murmurs next, his lips close enough to brush yours but not committing, not yet. “just wrapped up in me like this. warm, safe, mine.”

and even though you know it’s a scene—even though you know it’s being filmed—your body can’t tell the difference anymore.

his words melt into the air between you, lingering like steam, and for a second, all you can hear is the rhythm of your breath—his and yours syncing in that quiet space where time slows down. you feel the weight of his body shift just slightly as he leans closer, finally closing the gap between you, his mouth brushing over yours in a kiss that’s so gentle, it feels more like a question than a claim. there’s no hunger behind it, no pressure—just the warmth of his lips moving against yours like he’s trying to memorize the shape of them. he pulls back for a second, his nose nudging softly against yours, and when your mouth chases after his without thinking, he smiles. not smug. not cocky. just soft. like he didn’t expect you to want him back this much. his hand slides from your jaw to your neck, his thumb tracing the edge of your collarbone while his other hand flattens over your waist, slipping just beneath the hem of your tank with a careful slowness that makes your stomach flutter.

his palm is warm where it meets your skin, and he moves like he’s done this in a dream before—fingers spreading along your side, drifting upward inch by inch, not grabbing or groping, just feeling. the way he touches you is deliberate, every motion paced like it’s being recorded in his memory before it ever hits the camera. he kisses you again, deeper this time, and your lips part instinctively, inviting more—more of him, more of this softness that feels like it might wreck you if it lingers too long. his tongue brushes against yours, slow and unhurried, coaxing rather than taking, and it’s not filthy. it’s not performative. it’s just full. you make a sound in the back of your throat without meaning to, and his hand under your shirt rises a little higher in response, fingertips grazing the underside of your breast but never settling there—just circling, teasing, drawing heat into every nerve that lies beneath. when he pulls back from your mouth again, he’s breathing heavier, lips parted, eyes locked on yours like he’s never seen anything more important. “you’re doing so good, baby,” he whispers, and this time, the endearment doesn’t sound like a line. it sounds like a truth.

his eyes don’t leave yours, not even for a second, and you feel it—the way he reads you, waits for that small flicker of permission that lives in the way your breath hitches and your body leans in. his hand moves from beneath your shirt to your shoulder, sliding the thin strap of your tank down again, this time slower, like he’s savoring the drag of fabric over skin. he bends his head as he does it, pressing a kiss to your bare shoulder with a softness that makes your spine curve into the mattress. the other strap follows, peeled gently off your arm until both hang useless at your sides, the top of your tank now barely clinging to your chest. and then—his hand comes up, fingers brushing the hem where the fabric meets your sternum, and he waits. doesn’t tug. doesn’t ask. just looks at you like he needs to know you still want this. and you do. you nod, just once, and that’s all it takes.

his hand moves again, curling around the center of your top, and as he begins to lift it—inch by slow, teasing inch—he leans down and kisses you.

it’s not rushed. not greedy. it’s full and warm, his mouth slotting perfectly against yours like he’s been waiting for this exact moment to let himself want you openly. the kiss deepens as he drags the fabric upward, his hands careful not to pull too fast, not to break the rhythm between your mouths. your lips part for him automatically, breath catching as his tongue sweeps gently into your mouth again, slower this time, like he’s tasting something he doesn’t want to forget. your arms lift for him, letting the tank slide over your head, and he pulls back just long enough to ease it off—tossing it somewhere near the foot of the bed before settling back over you with a softness that makes your chest ache. your skin is bare now, your chest rising with every breath as the cool air kisses you first, followed closely by the warmth of him—his mouth returning to yours, his hand finding your waist, his whole body hovering just close enough to let you feel the weight of him without pressing it all at once.

his lips break away from yours only to find the corner of your mouth, then your cheek, then the dip just below your jaw, each kiss delivered like a secret—unrushed, purposeful, devastating in how tender they feel.

his lips don’t rush the journey downward—they move with intention, mapping the space from your jaw to your throat with soft, open-mouthed kisses that make your breath catch and your spine curve subtly beneath him. each press of his mouth is slower than the last, like he’s letting the weight of what he’s doing sink into both of you at the same time. his hand stays planted at your waist, steady and warm, thumb stroking absent-minded circles into your skin as if to keep you grounded while the rest of you slips further into this. he murmurs something low against your neck—inaudible, but not meaningless—and then drags his lips down to your collarbone again, this time kissing across it like he’s painting a line only he knows the shape of. your fingers tighten slightly in the sheets, breath coming slower now, deeper, as your chest rises into the heat of his mouth. he doesn’t comment on it. he just smiles against your skin, lips curving softly as he kisses the center of your sternum next, right where your heartbeat is loudest. his hand slides up again, fingertips brushing the underside of your breast now, more deliberate this time—still not grabbing, still not taking—just feeling, coaxing warmth into your skin in the way only a lover would.

he pulls back a little then, enough to look at you fully, eyes moving over your chest like he’s seeing something he shouldn’t be allowed to, like you’re something rare and delicate spread out beneath him. “you’re beautiful,” he says, voice just above a whisper, and the words sound so real, so unscripted, that you can’t even convince yourself they’re part of the act. before you can respond, his mouth is on you again—lower this time, his lips trailing down the curve of your breast with careful, reverent movements that make your fingers twitch where they rest beside you. he doesn’t go straight for your nipple—he circles around it first, lips warm and breath steady, building tension so slow it starts to ache. when he finally closes his mouth around it, it’s soft—gentle suction paired with the slow flick of his tongue, his hand sliding up to cradle the other breast with matching tenderness. you let out a breathy sound, something close to a whimper, and his grip tightens slightly, grounding you, his mouth never leaving you for even a second. everything about the way he touches you feels designed to make you feel cherished, not consumed—like he wants to undo you gently, not destroy you.

he doesn’t stop kissing you, not even when his mouth moves lower—down the slope of your ribs, the soft rise and fall of your belly, his breath warm and steady as it fans across newly bared skin. his hand follows his mouth in perfect rhythm, trailing down your side with fingers spread wide like he needs to feel all of you at once, like his touch alone isn’t enough to satisfy the way he’s looking at you. your skin hums under him, heat pooling low in your stomach as his lips press gently into the curve just above your navel, and you swear he smiles when you inhale sharply at the contact. he doesn’t rush it—doesn’t tug at your waistband or rip fabric away—he just lets his hand drift lower, fingertips grazing the seam of your shorts, dragging lightly back and forth like he’s asking without saying anything. you lift your hips just slightly in response, offering more than permission—offering yourself, and he takes it with both patience and hunger layered beneath the softness. his fingers hook into the waistband slowly, dragging the fabric down your thighs inch by inch, watching the way your body shifts beneath him, watching every breath you take like it means something to him personally. the shorts fall away easily, forgotten at the edge of the bed, and you’re left bare for him in a way that feels deeper than skin. his hand skims your hip now, palm warm and steady, thumb stroking the dip beside your pelvis like he’s easing you into the next wave of touch.

he kisses your hip next—just once, then again—before leaning back slightly to take you in fully, eyes roving slowly down your body with the kind of attention that makes your skin feel too tight around your bones. “fuck…” he breathes, not loud, not directed at you—just a thought escaping his mouth, like he can’t hold it in anymore. he leans over you again, his chest brushing lightly against yours, and kisses you on the mouth with a heat that feels new—less testing, more claiming. your hands rise instinctively, fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as his tongue brushes yours again, slower now, but deeper, like he’s trying to drag you under with him. one of his hands slips between your thighs, warm and careful, fingertips barely grazing your inner thigh as his lips keep moving against yours, like he wants to distract your mouth while his hand learns the rest of you. he doesn’t go straight to where you want him—he just teases, traces, presses the lightest touches into the soft skin between your legs, making you arch into him without even realizing. when his fingers finally reach the center of you, just barely brushing over your panties, you gasp softly into his mouth—and that’s when he groans, quiet and wrecked, like feeling your heat through the fabric alone has undone something in him.

“jake…” you breathe out, the sound slipping past your lips in a low, desperate moan as your hips roll forward slowly, instinctively chasing more of the friction his hand is barely offering. your thighs tense around his wrist, your body arching into his touch like it’s the only thing tethering you to the bed. you can’t help it—the way your body moves on its own, needy and aching, every nerve lit up with the hope of something deeper. but he doesn’t give in, not fully. he just lets out a soft groan, deep in his throat, the kind that vibrates low and hot against your skin as he leans closer. you feel the weight of his breath first, then the press of his lips right against your ear, and the sound alone makes your lashes flutter. “want me to touch you, baby?” he asks, voice no louder than a whisper, his words coated in something tender but wrecked, like he’s already half-drunk off you. his nose grazes your temple, lips hovering at your skin as your body stiffens just slightly, everything inside you tightening at once.

you nod before he even finishes the sentence, your head moving quickly, breath shallow, because you don’t trust yourself to speak without falling apart. and it’s enough for him—more than enough. his hand shifts just a little lower, fingers pressing in with purpose now, the soft pad of his middle finger rubbing slow circles over your clit through the fabric of your panties, so featherlight it nearly breaks you. your mouth falls open in a shaky exhale, the sound high and sweet as your thighs tremble around his hand. your body jolts with every tiny movement of his fingers, his rhythm steady, controlled, like he’s been waiting to do this right—not fast, not messy, just right. “fuck,” he breathes, barely moving his lips as he watches the side of your face. “you’re so fucking perfect, baby.” his voice is warm and reverent, the words dragging low across your skin as he studies you like you’re the only thing he wants to see—eyes fixed on every shift in your expression, every sound you give him, every way your body begs without words.

his fingers slow for just a moment, pressing the softest kiss beneath your ear as he exhales deeply, like he’s trying to anchor himself in this—in you. your body is already trembling, breath unsteady and chest rising in shallow waves, and you feel the fabric of your panties cling tighter to your center with every brush of his fingers. he shifts slightly beside you, gaze focused, hand moving lower with care, and then—finally—he slips his fingers beneath the fabric, pushing it gently to the side. your breath catches completely, your thighs parting on instinct, and the first real touch of his bare fingers against you makes your hips jerk forward with a soft, stuttering moan. the heat of his hand, the glide of his fingertips through your wetness—it’s enough to steal the sound right from your throat. “fuck, baby,” he whispers, his voice thick and low, like your body just confirmed something he’s been imagining for a long time. his fingers move again, one sliding slowly up and down your slit, careful and deliberate, testing the way you twitch under his touch before circling your clit with just the right amount of pressure. he doesn’t say anything else right away—he just watches, listens, feels you open under him like you were made for this pace.

your hands grip the sheets beside you, nails curling into the fabric as you try to breathe through the way he touches you—gentle but certain, like he knows exactly what you need before you can even form the words. he keeps his eyes on your face the whole time, studying the way your mouth falls open, the way your brows knit together, the way you tilt your hips up into his hand with a silent plea for more. and he gives it to you—just a little, just enough to make your legs shake as his fingers slide lower again, one slipping inside with slow, perfect ease. you gasp, your walls fluttering tight around the intrusion, and he groans softly under his breath like he felt it in his own body. “look at you,” he murmurs, kissing your temple between words, “so pretty like this… taking me so well.” his thumb drags gently over your clit as his finger curls, coaxing you open with every stroke, patient and relentless in his tenderness. it’s not about the rhythm yet—it’s about the connection, the way his body molds around yours like it was always supposed to be this close. and the longer he touches you, the more you forget about the camera, the scene, the setup—because all that’s left is this.

you’re already coming apart under him and he hasn’t even given you everything yet. just one finger inside you, slow and curling, paired with the soft drag of his thumb over your clit—it’s too much and not enough all at once. your hips lift into his hand with every pass, chasing it, clinging to it, aching for more friction, more fullness, more him. his eyes are still locked on you, but they’re darker now, his lashes low over heavy pupils, and you can tell he’s feeling everything—every squeeze of your walls around him, every gasp you try and fail to hold in. “that’s it,” he murmurs, voice low and close, right against your skin, as if he’s trying to speak directly into your bloodstream. “don’t hold it in, baby. i want all of it.” his lips find your cheek, then your jaw, then your mouth—kissing you like you’re the only thing that’s ever tasted right, like he needs to kiss you through this. and you let him, parting your lips to take him deeper, the wet slide of his tongue making your legs shake even harder than his hand does.

when he pulls back, his mouth stays close, his breath mixing with yours in the space between, and he shifts slightly, hand dragging lower for a second. he presses his palm flat against your mound, his knuckles grazing your slit, and then—so slowly it makes you whimper—he eases a second finger inside you. the stretch makes your thighs twitch, your body sucking him in like it’s what you were made for, and he groans low in his throat, the sound barely contained. “fuck,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear, “you feel so good, baby. you’re making it so hard to take it slow.” but he does. he does, even though his breath is shaky now and his jaw’s gone tight from holding back. his fingers start to move in a deeper rhythm—slow thrusts paired with purposeful curls, each one hitting the spot that makes your toes curl and your throat go tight with the need to cry out. his thumb doesn’t stop working your clit, rubbing small, maddening circles with just enough pressure to keep you teetering on the edge without falling. and every time your body jumps or clenches, every time a sound slips from your lips, he reacts—his mouth finds your neck, his hand presses deeper, his voice sinks lower.

“you’re taking me so well,” he says again, like it’s the only thing in his head now. “look at you—fuck, look at you. soaking my hand, grinding up on me like that.” and you are. you didn’t even notice when your hips started moving, chasing the rhythm, fucking yourself on his fingers while his body stays perfectly still. your legs spread wider without thought, one arm flung back above your head, the other clutching at his sleeve, desperate to anchor yourself to something. “it’s okay,” he murmurs, seeing the way your chest rises too fast, the way your thighs start to tremble. “i got you, baby. i got you. don’t fight it.” he leans back in and kisses you again, messier now, wetter, tongues sliding slow as his fingers start to speed up just enough to drag a new kind of sound from your throat. not soft anymore. not polite. it comes from somewhere deep—like the part of you he just found and refuses to let go of.

his free hand comes up to your waist, gripping it tighter now, holding you in place while your body bucks beneath him, and his kisses grow more urgent with each roll of your hips. he’s not asking anymore. he’s guiding. controlling. but not with force—with focus. like his only job in the world is to make sure you fall apart exactly the way you’re meant to. and still, he doesn’t stop talking. “you’re doing so good,” he whispers against your lips, his voice breathless but steady. “my good girl. letting me touch you like this. letting me ruin you this slow.”

you try to respond, but your voice breaks apart before it even forms. all you can do is gasp his name again, shaky and thin, your whole body vibrating as his fingers fuck deeper into you, curling up perfectly on every thrust. the pressure builds fast now—hot and dizzying and thick, your stomach clenching with every drag of his thumb, every filthy praise he breathes against your skin. “that’s it,” he says again, more frantic now, like he’s losing control, too. “you gonna come for me, baby? come on—let me feel it.”

and you do. god, you do.

you come with a cry, your mouth pressed to his shoulder as your legs shake and your whole body clenches around his fingers, pulsing with a rhythm that makes you forget everything but him. his name spills from your lips in pieces, high and broken, and he doesn’t stop—not right away.

he doesn’t say anything right away. just breathes. just watches. his fingers slide slowly from your body, coated in your slick, and you shiver at the sudden emptiness he leaves behind, your muscles still twitching with aftershocks. his hand rests gently on your thigh now, not pushing, just grounding you, and then he starts to move—shifting lower on the bed, his mouth trailing along your stomach in slow, open-mouthed kisses that make your breath catch all over again. you don’t know how he still feels calm after what he just pulled from you, but he does—like your orgasm was just the beginning, like he’s not satisfied until you’re too ruined to remember your own name. you watch through hazy eyes as he settles between your thighs, broad shoulders spreading you open wider with nothing more than his presence. the way he looks at your body should be illegal—his eyes low-lidded and dark, a soft smirk tugging at his lips like he already knows how wrecked you’re going to be. “you’re already shaking,” he murmurs, his voice quiet and full of heat, “and i haven’t even tasted you yet.”

he kisses your inner thigh first, not close to where you need him, just a slow press of his mouth to the softest skin he can find. you twitch under him, thighs flexing, but he hums low in his throat and holds you in place with a gentle grip, his thumb stroking idly as he switches sides. his lips drag across your skin, lazy and hot, tongue flicking out here and there to tease—not yet, not yet, his body seems to say. your fingers twist into the sheets, breath coming faster now, your entire body arching with every near-touch that doesn’t land where it’s supposed to. he’s taking his time, worshipping the space around your cunt like it’s sacred, like he’s saving the best part for last. “so pretty,” he says, more to himself than to you, his breath brushing over your folds without touching, and it makes your hips jump. his hands press down on your thighs again, firm but patient, and he smiles up at you like he’s the only one who knows how badly you need this. “you gonna let me make a mess out of you, baby?”

and then—finally—he leans in and licks one long, slow stripe through your folds.

you moan sharp and sudden, your whole body curling forward before you drop back into the sheets, your legs trembling around his shoulders. his tongue is soft but purposeful, warm and wet and steady as he takes his time tasting you, moaning softly against your cunt like it’s the best thing he’s ever had in his mouth. he doesn’t go for your clit right away—instead he teases it, tongue swirling slowly around it, flicking up just to feel your hips buck and your fingers twitch. his hands slide under your thighs to hold you open, pulling you closer to his mouth like he wants to bury himself in you completely. and he does—he groans again, a deep, wrecked sound that vibrates straight through your core, and then his lips wrap around your clit and suck gently, just once, and your vision goes white around the edges. you cry out his name, high and breathless, your thighs trying to close around his head, but he holds you wide and keeps going. every flick of his tongue is slow, calculated, like he’s testing you, learning exactly what drives you over the edge and then dialing it in.

“so fucking sweet,” he murmurs between licks, voice muffled and wrecked against your skin, “could stay down here all night.”

and god—you want him to.

his tongue moves like he knows what your body wants before you do, slow and fluid and fucking confident, dragging through your folds with a rhythm that makes your thighs shake around his head. every time you try to lift your hips, to grind closer, to chase the pressure building too fast behind your ribs, his hands hold you down—thumbs digging gently into your hips as his mouth presses deeper into your cunt. your fingers tangle in the sheets, pulling, grasping for something solid while your other hand drifts down, finding his hair. it’s soft between your fingers, slightly damp with sweat, and when you tug—just a little—he groans into you, the sound low and filthy and hungry. his tongue circles your clit again and again, steady now, stroking over it with slow, wet flicks that make your mouth fall open. the moan that leaves you isn’t small. it’s not shy. it spills from your throat like it was dragged out of you—“jake…”—half gasp, half prayer. and the second he hears it, the second his name hits the air in your voice like that, he moans right back into your cunt like it’s the only answer that matters.

you don’t even realize you’re saying it again, softer now, drawn out between whimpers—jake, jake, jake—like it’s the only word left in your vocabulary. he eats it up with the same hunger he’s pouring into you, his mouth messier now, wetter, his tongue stroking faster, flicking tighter, sucking your clit between his lips just long enough to make your toes curl. his hands stay strong on your thighs, holding them open as your legs tremble, as your hips start to roll despite you, chasing that edge all over again. he keeps murmuring praise between every kiss, every stroke—“that’s it, baby,” “so fucking good,” “you taste unreal,”—his voice wrecked and reverent and barely keeping it together. when you start to fall apart, when the pressure coils hard and sharp in your belly, your voice goes higher, moaning for him shamelessly now, breathless and open and wrecked. “oh my god—jake, please,” you gasp, your fingers tightening in his hair, your hips twitching in his grip. he growls at that, the sound raw and desperate, and then his mouth is on your clit again, tongue flattening over it and fucking staying there, licking in fast, perfect circles while your thighs shake and your moans turn frantic.

“come for me, baby,” he pants, his lips brushing against your soaked skin. “let me hear it—wanna hear how you sound when you fall apart for me.”

you break on the next stroke.

your whole body locks up, pleasure slicing through your spine like lightning, and your mouth falls open in a long, broken moan of his name—“jake—fuck, oh my god, jake—”—as your back arches off the bed and your hands clutch at anything you can reach. your thighs tremble around his head, your walls clench hard, and you come with a cry that sounds like it’s been waiting inside you for days. he doesn’t stop. not for a second. he keeps licking you through it, slower now, softer, coaxing every last twitch from your body until you're shaking and breathless and barely able to form words.

and still—he presses one last kiss to your clit, gentle, almost sweet.

“good girl,” he breathes, his voice thick and wrecked. “you’re perfect.”

he doesn’t rush. even now, with your legs spread wide and your body soft and trembling beneath him, he moves slow—like every second he doesn’t slide inside you is one more second he gets to feel your skin pressed under his palms, your chest rising with every breath he pulls from you. he’s fully naked, warm and flushed and heavy above you, but the weight of him hasn’t settled yet. not fully. not where you need it. his cock rests against your inner thigh, thick and hot, dragging lightly against your skin as he leans back in to kiss you again. it’s messier now—your lips parting on instinct, tongue sliding against his, all wet mouth and shaky breath while his hands roam up and down your sides like he still can’t get enough. and he can’t. you feel it in the way his hips roll forward once, lazy and deliberate, grinding his cock up against your pussy, sliding through your slick folds without breaching. it makes you gasp into his mouth, your body jolting up to meet him, but he pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips.

“not yet,” he breathes, voice warm and wrecked. “wanna feel you like this first.”

his hips roll again, slower this time, and the head of his cock drags perfectly over your clit—so slow it makes your toes curl. you whine softly, your hands slipping down to his waist, fingers digging into his skin as your hips twitch up, chasing the pressure. he lets out a soft laugh, barely there, and does it again, grinding into you just right so that your pussy clenches around nothing, needy and aching. “so wet for me,” he mutters, eyes flicking down between your bodies. “i could come from this alone… just sliding through your slick like that.” and he does it again, and again, letting the weight of him press into your core, the thick heat of his cock gliding against your folds like he’s teasing both of you to the edge. your breath starts to break—soft moans, high whimpers, every little sound begging him without saying it outright. he presses his forehead to yours, eyes fluttering shut, and keeps grinding, soft and deep and slow. “feels so fucking good, baby,” he whispers, “can you feel how bad i want you?”

you nod quickly, voice gone, mouth open, just gasping as he drags his cock back and forth through your folds—so close, so maddeningly close, like he’s letting your body know what’s coming without giving in yet. he angles his hips slightly, the head catching just barely at your entrance, and you arch up with a breathless moan. “jake—please,” you whimper, finally saying it, finally breaking. “i can’t take it, i need you inside.”

he groans at that—deep and wrecked and relieved, like he’s been holding back just for this moment. “i got you,” he breathes, dropping a kiss to your temple, your cheek, your mouth. “i’ll give it to you, baby. nice and slow.”

but still, he doesn’t push in yet.

he kisses down your throat instead, mouth dragging over your collarbone, hands sliding under your back to lift you up into him. you feel the weight of him grind down again, cock pressing into your clit in slow, soaking circles, and it makes you cry out—your whole body arching, thighs shaking, breathless and so fucking full of want you could scream.

and just when you think you’ll break—

he lifts his head, looks you in the eye, and whispers:

“tell me you want all of it.”

you’re already nodding before the words fully leave his mouth, breath stuttering in your throat as you stare up at him—eyes wide, lips parted, body shaking. “i want it,” you gasp, voice thin and desperate and completely raw. “i want all of it, jake. please.” your thighs tremble around his hips, every inch of your skin buzzing with heat, slick and open and so ready, and he groans at the sound of your voice, the way your hips roll up against him like you can’t take one more second of being empty. he leans down and kisses you—hard this time, full of tongue and breath and heat—while one hand slips beneath your thigh and the other wraps around the base of his cock, guiding it down through your folds again. you feel the thick head catch at your entrance, and you suck in a breath, your hands clutching at his arms as your body braces. “you sure?” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “because once i’m in you… i’m not stopping.”

you can’t even speak—just whimper a soft, broken “yes,” and that’s all he needs.

he pushes in just barely, the head stretching you open slow, and you cry out, hands flying to his shoulders as your walls pulse and flutter around the thick pressure. he holds himself there, not moving yet, just groaning through gritted teeth as your pussy clenches down on the first inch like it doesn’t want to let him go. “fuck, baby,” he hisses, voice shaking now, “you’re so tight… you’re gonna ruin me.” his lips find yours again, messier now, more urgent, like kissing you is the only thing keeping him from thrusting in all at once. he moves his hips the tiniest bit, rocking forward and back, just shallow enough to make you feel every ridge, every thick vein dragging through your entrance while he holds back the rest. your body arches under him, legs wrapping tighter, hips lifting like you’re begging to be filled completely. “more,” you whisper, voice wrecked and pleading. “please, jake, more.”

he moans into your mouth like you just punched the air out of his lungs, and he gives it to you.

slow, deep, dragging—he pushes in another inch, then another, thick and hot and so much, and your body shakes from the stretch, your breath catching on a broken moan as you feel yourself wrap around him. he’s breathing hard now, forehead pressed to yours, his arms trembling as he fights to stay slow, to feel every second. “you feel like heaven,” he whispers, voice wrecked, “like you were made for me.” your nails drag down his back, your legs spread wider, and when he finally bottoms out—hips flush against yours, cock buried fully inside—you both just breathe. heavy and slow. your walls clench around him hard and he groans deep in his chest, mouth dropping to your neck like he needs to hide there just to survive it. “so fucking good,” he mutters, pressing kisses along your throat. “so tight, baby. you’re perfect.”

and all you can do is moan—soft, desperate, full of him—because you’ve never felt this full. this warm. this wanted.

he doesn’t move at first. not right away. just stays there inside you, thick and throbbing, letting your body get used to the way he stretches you open in a way that feels impossibly full. your walls pulse around him, tight and slick, clenching with every heartbeat as he breathes heavy against your skin, forehead pressed to yours like he’s anchoring himself to the feel of you. your hands find his back again, sliding up his shoulders and into his hair, and the second your fingers tangle at the base of his neck, he groans—soft and guttural—like it gives him permission to fall apart. he kisses you again, deep and messy, tongue sweeping slow against yours while his hips finally begin to roll back, just an inch, just enough to make you gasp from the sudden, aching drag of his cock inside you. he thrusts forward again—slow, thick, deliberate—and you whimper into his mouth, your body jolting from the depth. “that’s it,” he murmurs, his lips brushing yours, “just like that, baby… fuck, you feel so good.”

he keeps it slow at first—each thrust steady and deep, hips rolling into you like he’s trying to grind the shape of himself into your body. every time he pulls out, it’s only halfway, just enough to make you feel the absence before he’s pushing back in again, thick and perfect, hitting deep in a way that makes your whole body tremble. your moans come easier now, breathless and raw, spilling from your lips every time his hips meet yours with a soft smack that sounds so filthy in the quiet room. he buries his face in your neck, kissing and panting between your moans, and you can hear how wrecked he is—his voice cracking, his breath shaky, his restraint unraveling with every stroke. “you were made for this,” he gasps, his hand slipping down to grip your thigh, spreading you wider as he fucks deeper. “made to take me… fuck, baby, i can feel you squeezing me.” your head falls back into the pillows, your mouth open, your hands gripping at his back like you don’t know what else to hold onto. and still—he moves slow. still—he keeps it deep. still—he fucks you like he’s worshipping something sacred.

“say my name,” he breathes against your ear, hips dragging through you again. “wanna hear you say it while i’m inside you.”

“jake,” you whisper, breath broken and needy, barely catching the syllables between moans as your hips roll up to meet his. the way you say it—high, sweet, desperate—makes him groan low and deep in his chest, his body pressing tighter against yours like he’s trying to crawl inside you completely. “again,” he murmurs, voice cracked and shaking, “say it again for me.” you do—again, and again, each repetition softer and more ruined than the last until his name is all you can breathe, all you can cling to. his pace doesn’t change—he keeps it slow, keeps it deep, dragging every thrust out like it’s meant to leave an echo inside you. your legs fall open wider, thighs shaking with every roll of his hips, and he slips one hand under your knee, lifting it gently so he can fuck into you at a new angle, thicker, closer, impossibly deep. you cry out at the shift, your fingers digging into his shoulder blades, and his mouth finds yours again, swallowing your moans as he fills you to the hilt. “that’s my girl,” he breathes, forehead pressed to yours, “taking it so good for me. so fucking perfect.”

he’s starting to lose it—you can feel it in the way his rhythm falters for half a second, his hips jerking just slightly harder before he reins it back in. his abs are tight, his arms trembling where they hold you, but he doesn’t let go of the pace. he keeps it slow, because he wants to feel it. wants to memorize the drag of your walls around him, the way your body shakes every time he bottoms out, the way you moan his name like he’s the only thing in the world that matters. he brings his hand to your jaw, holding you still, making you look at him, and when your eyes lock, his hips roll again—slow and deep and perfect, and you both groan like it hurts to be this close. “don’t wanna come yet,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “wanna stay like this. wanna feel you forever.” your heart stutters at that—not just from the words, but the way he says them, like it’s not even about the scene anymore. like he means it. like he’d stay inside you forever if you let him

he holds the rhythm. slow, deep, devastating. every thrust rolls into you with a weight that feels heavier than just his body—it feels like intent, like worship, like every drag of his cock is him telling you i don’t want to forget this. your body rocks with every movement, thighs trembling around his hips, chest pressed flush against his as he kisses you again and again, tongues slow, mouths warm, breath shared like it’s sacred. his hand stays on your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, keeping your eyes locked on his, like he can’t stand to look away while he’s inside you like this. “you feel so good,” he whispers, his voice broken, reverent. “fuck, baby, you don’t even know—i could stay buried in you all fucking night.” his thrusts stay measured, smooth, dragging against your walls with that thick, perfect pressure that makes you moan with every stroke, makes you arch into him like your body can’t decide if it needs to get closer or fall apart entirely.

you moan for him again—his name, soft and ruined—and he groans deep in his throat, jaw tightening as his hips roll forward with a little more weight, a little more urgency. he still doesn’t speed up. he’s holding it back. barely. his brows are furrowed now, sweat beading at his hairline, his body straining with the effort to keep fucking you slow when every part of him wants to sink into you harder. “you’re so fucking warm,” he breathes, almost delirious. “so wet… so tight around me, baby, i don’t—” he cuts himself off with a kiss, mouth crashing into yours as his hands grip your hips tighter, grounding himself before he loses it completely. he pulls back after a moment, panting, forehead pressed to yours. “you feel this?” he mutters, giving you a particularly deep grind that makes your toes curl. “you feel how perfect we fit?”

and you do.

you feel everything. the weight of him, the stretch, the heat, the unbearable pleasure building from how slow and thick he’s giving it to you. and it’s too much. it’s not enough.

“jake,” you moan, breath shaky, hands clutching at his shoulders. “please…”

his eyes snap to yours, wide, hungry. “what is it, baby? tell me.”

you breathe hard, your chest rising against his, voice thin as you whisper, “please… fuck me harder.”

his breath catches. his whole body stills. and then—he smiles.

“you sure?” he asks, but his voice is already different—deeper, darker, more undone.

you nod, biting your lip. “please. i need it.”

he lets out a breath like he’s been holding it the entire time, and his hands slide down your hips, gripping hard, dragging you further down the bed until your legs fall wide open again. he shifts his weight, plants his knees, and pulls his hips back slow—so slow—until just the thick head of his cock stays tucked inside you. and then he drives back in.

hard.

your mouth falls open in a cry, your fingers clawing at his back as he fucks into you with a force that knocks the air from your lungs. it’s not rough—not like pain—but it’s urgent. desperate. full of everything he’s been holding back. his hips snap forward again, and again, and your body rocks with each thrust, wet sounds filling the room now, loud and raw and obscene. your pussy clenches hard around him, every drag of his cock making your nerves light up, and you cry out his name over and over, babbling now, incoherent. “jake, fuck, fuck—yes, please, don’t stop—”

“that’s it,” he growls, his voice wrecked. “take it. take all of it, baby. this is what you wanted, right?” he fucks into you deeper, harder, the mattress groaning beneath you, your legs spread wide as he slams into you again and again, hips meeting yours with thick, filthy sounds that echo through the room. “you begged for this. and now you’ve got it.” he leans over you again, one hand braced beside your head, the other gripping your thigh, and he starts fucking down into you like he means it—deep and hard and fast, his name still falling from your lips like prayer.

your back arches, your body shaking, the pressure building again—faster this time, sharper, unbearable.

he feels it. he knows.

“you gonna come for me again?” he gasps, his voice all praise and breath and heat. “you gonna let me feel you break on my cock, baby?”

“yes—” you cry, voice catching. “i’m so close, jake, i—fuck, i’m gonna—”

“do it,” he groans. “come on. let go. let me feel it.”

and when you do—it hits hard. it slams through you like heat and lightning, your whole body seizing up around him as you come hard, crying out his name like it’s the only word you’ve ever known. your thighs shake, your stomach clenches, and your pussy pulses around his cock so tight it makes him choke on a moan and drop his head to your shoulder.

he doesn’t stop moving. doesn’t stop praising you. just fucks you through it, slower now, kissing your jaw, your cheek, your mouth.

“that’s it,” he whispers. “my good girl. so perfect for me.”

he doesn’t pull out. doesn’t even move. just stays there, buried inside you, thick and pulsing, while your body shakes around him in the aftershocks of your orgasm. you’re still gasping, your limbs loose, slick and soaked beneath him, and he’s breathing so hard it sounds like it hurts to hold back. his hand comes up to your face again, brushing your hair out of your eyes, thumb dragging down your cheekbone with the kind of tenderness that makes you ache. “fuck,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “you feel so good… i don’t wanna stop.” his forehead presses to yours, soft and warm, and he kisses you—slow, open-mouthed, like it’s not enough to just be inside you, like he needs every part of you at once. you can feel him twitching inside you, so close to the edge, but he doesn’t chase it. not yet. he grinds into you slowly, hips rolling instead of thrusting, drawing out every last ounce of pleasure from your overworked body. “can’t believe how good you feel,” he murmurs, almost to himself, “how good you sound. how good you fucking take me.”

his voice cracks a little, and his rhythm falters.

he’s close. you can feel it in the way his abs tighten, the way his hands tremble where they’re gripping your hips, the way his cock throbs inside you with every slow grind. he tries to hold on—god, he tries—but the way you moan for him, the way your body still clenches around him even after you’ve come, it’s breaking his restraint in pieces. “shit,” he gasps, pulling back just slightly, the drag of his cock making your body jump. “i’m not gonna last, baby. i need—fuck, i need to—” and then he stops. pulls out fast, thick length slipping from your soaked pussy with a slick sound that makes your thighs twitch. “turn over,” he says, voice deep and trembling. “now.”

you don’t even think. you flip over onto your stomach, dazed and dizzy and breathless, and barely have time to gasp before you feel him again—his hands on your ass, spreading you open just slightly, his cock heavy and hot as it presses between your cheeks. and then he groans—loud, broken—and you feel it, all of it, hot and thick as he comes across your lower back in long, pulsing waves. it hits your skin in slow, sticky ropes, and the sound he makes—the sound—is something you’ll never forget. he moans your name as he spills over you, hips jerking, breath catching, body finally giving in after holding it back for so long. “fuck, baby, fuck—look what you do to me,” he groans, hips stuttering, hands still gripping your thighs like he doesn’t want to let go. you tremble beneath him, face turned to the side, lips parted, chest rising in shallow pants as you feel the heat of him drip down your spine.

and then—you feel him move.

he leans over you, kissing your shoulder, your neck, the shell of your ear. “don’t think i’m done with you yet,” he whispers, voice low and ragged. “you’re not getting away that easy.”

before you can respond, his hands slide down your sides again, guiding your hips up just enough to tilt your ass higher into the air. you feel his cock again, still hard, still slick, pressing against your entrance—and he slides back in with one slow, deep thrust. you both moan at the same time, loud and breathless, your hands fisting the sheets as he sinks into you from behind. he’s deeper now, the angle sharper, the stretch more intense, and you feel it everywhere—your spine, your belly, your throat. his hands grip your waist tight, thumbs pressing into your back, and he doesn’t wait this time. he fucks. slow but firm, hips snapping into you with rhythm and purpose, the sound of skin on skin filling the room again. you’re already close again, already gasping, and so is he. every sound you make pushes him deeper, every cry of his name makes him move faster, and still—he whispers, “you feel like heaven,” like he’s praying, like he’s thanking you for letting him stay inside you again.

he doesn’t ease up—can’t. not with the way your body feels around him now, wet and open, slick with his cum still dripping from your back, every squeeze of your walls dragging a groan from his throat that sounds more animal than human. he’s locked in, one hand tight on your hip, the other dragging up your spine to press gently between your shoulder blades, guiding your chest back down to the sheets as he fucks you deeper. each thrust is thick and full and sharp, his hips smacking against your ass, his cock dragging perfectly through the mess between your thighs. “god, baby,” he moans, completely gone now, “you’re gonna make me come again—can’t even fucking think.” your moans rise with his, broken and high, your arms trembling where they’re braced beneath you, your voice too wrecked to form anything more than his name. jake, jake, jake, like it’s the only word your mouth remembers.

he leans forward, his chest brushing your back, his lips pressing hot and desperate at the curve of your shoulder. “you close again?” he whispers, voice hoarse and breathless. “feels like you’re gonna break for me again—fuck, i can feel it.” his cock grinds deep inside you, slow and dragging for just a second, and your whole body jerks, your legs trembling. “please,” you gasp, voice caught between sob and moan, “don’t stop—don’t stop—” and he doesn’t. he grabs your hips tighter, pulls you back into him harder, and fucks you through it—relentless and focused, every stroke hitting just right, every sound echoing in the air like it’s only meant for the two of you. his breathing turns ragged again, sharp exhales mixing with soft curses and your name repeated like a chant, and your body starts to fall apart beneath him, spine curving, thighs twitching, breath breaking with every roll of his hips.

the pressure builds fast—hot and high and impossible, curling tight in your stomach, crashing through your nerves until it bursts. you come with a cry, hands fisting the sheets, your body locking down around him like it’s trying to pull him even deeper. your moans get higher, needier, your cunt fluttering wildly around his cock as he fucks you through it, shaking and soaking, so wet now that every thrust is slick and loud and perfect. “that’s it,” he growls, so close, barely holding on. “come for me, baby—fuck—so tight—so good—mine—”

and he comes again, groaning loud and raw, hips slamming into you one last time as he spills deep inside. you feel it hit, hot and thick, flooding your cunt in slow pulses, dripping out around his cock as he grinds in and stays there, breathing hard, whole body shaking. he doesn’t move. doesn’t say anything right away. just stays inside you, buried, panting over your back, lips pressing kisses to your shoulder while his cum leaks out of you onto the sheets below.

neither of you says anything right away. you can feel his heart pounding against your back, fast and unsteady, matching the rhythm of your own as the last of the tremors roll through your body. the room is quiet except for your breathing—heavy and soft, shared in the space between your bodies. you’re limp beneath him, your cheek turned to the side, face buried into the sheets, completely undone, and he doesn’t rush to move. doesn’t rush to pull out. he just leans down and kisses your spine, one kiss at a time, slow and sweet and almost grateful. “you did so good,” he whispers, lips dragging along your shoulder. “so fucking good for me, baby.”

he pulls out gently, slow enough that you whimper at the loss, and his hands are on you right away—rubbing soft circles into your hips, grounding you. you feel him shift off the bed for a moment, his absence barely a few seconds before he’s back again, kneeling beside you with something warm in his hands. “gonna clean you up, okay?” he murmurs, and you nod, weak and breathless, your body still buzzing from everything he gave you. the cloth is warm and damp, and he’s so gentle with it—wiping between your thighs, along your back, between your legs—his touch careful, reverent, like you’re something fragile. he kisses every part he touches, murmuring soft praise under his breath—“still shaking,” “so pretty like this,” “wish you could see yourself right now.”

when he’s done, he tosses the cloth aside and slides back into bed, pulling the covers over both of you before wrapping an arm around your waist and tugging you close. your body fits against his like you were molded to rest there, your back to his chest, his legs tangled with yours. his hand strokes along your stomach, up to your ribs, then back down again, lazy and comforting. “was that okay?” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “not too much?” you shake your head, letting your fingers wrap around his at your waist, holding him there. “perfect,” you murmur, voice hoarse and quiet. “you were perfect.”

he kisses your temple. “so were you.”

and he stays like that—pressed to your back, arms around you, his breath slow and even—until the heat fades from your skin and your body finally lets itself rest. but even then, he doesn’t let go.

he just holds you.

—-

the knock at the door came like a whisper against the quiet, just loud enough to be heard but soft enough to feel hesitant—like whoever was behind it wasn’t entirely sure they wanted to be let in. heeseung lifted his head, glancing up from the dim silence of the living room, his phone idle beside him on the cushion, screen black, unread messages tucked away and ignored. he didn’t answer at first. he just stared toward the door for a beat too long, then finally pushed himself up with a sigh that felt older than it should’ve. he walked slowly, deliberately, and when he opened the door, the hallway light spilled in and outlined sunghoon in its glow—hood up, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, eyes shadowed beneath the brim. he didn’t look angry. didn’t look anything. just stood there with a stillness that said more than his face ever could.

heeseung stepped aside without a word. sunghoon brushed past him and into the apartment like it wasn’t the first time—but it wasn’t casual. it wasn’t routine. the room felt colder the second he entered.

jay was already there. hunched low in the corner of the couch, elbows planted on his knees, fingers raking over his scalp like he was trying to scrub thoughts out of his own skull. his head lifted only slightly when sunghoon walked in, eyes dull, expression unreadable. he nodded in acknowledgment but didn’t speak.

the silence was thick—uncomfortably so. it stretched like something alive, something waiting to snap. sunghoon didn’t sit. he hovered at the edge of the couch, eyes darting from jay to heeseung, and finally broke it.

“what’s going on?”

the question was soft. flat. but it cut straight through the weight in the room.

jay exhaled, deep and ragged, and let his hands fall between his knees, fingers laced, knuckles pale from the tightness of his grip. he stared at the carpet for a second too long before sitting up, shoulders tense, like what he was about to say had been pressing against his ribs for days. “i got caught up in something,” he said, voice low, like he wasn’t sure if he was confessing or just trying to hear it said out loud. “someone.”

he didn’t look at either of them when he said it. just kept his eyes trained downward, like the words were heavier that way.

“you say that like it’s new,” sunghoon replied, his tone unreadable.

jay let out a short breath—half a scoff, half a sigh. “it’s not. i just didn’t think it would… i don’t know. i didn’t think it would matter.”

heeseung shifted slightly against the door, arms crossed now, gaze sharper, quieter. he wasn’t speaking, but he was listening in a way that made the room feel smaller.

jay leaned back against the couch, one hand over his mouth for a second before he finally said it. “i worked with her.”

the air shifted. slightly. just enough.

“thought it’d be just one collab. she was shy. real quiet. but then… she came over. we talked. she opened up a little.” his voice cracked faintly at the edge. “it felt different.”

“different how?” heeseung asked, still calm, but tighter now—his voice like a thread pulled taut between two fingers.

jay shrugged, jaw working silently before he answered. “like i didn’t want it to be just once.”

no one spoke for a moment. the quiet settled like a fog.

“we had dinner. we filmed. she stayed over,” jay continued, softer now. “but we didn’t—i mean, we could’ve, but we didn’t. she fell asleep next to me. i woke up and she was gone.”

heeseung’s eyes didn’t move from him. his posture hadn’t changed, but something in the stillness of his face felt heavier.

sunghoon didn’t look surprised. just tired.

jay raked a hand through his hair again and let it fall with a frustrated sigh. “i don’t know what the fuck i’m doing. i just… can’t stop thinking about her.”

and then it slipped.

“y/n’s not like anyone else,” jay muttered, not even realizing what he’d said until the room went dead still.

heeseung blinked.

“what?” he asked, too calm. too quiet.

jay blinked back, slow, the words hanging in the air.

“what name did you just say?” heeseung asked again, but there was something different in his voice now—sharp, coiled, the kind of calm that cracked open just before it exploded.

jay’s mouth parted. then closed. then opened again. “i—I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

heeseung pushed off the wall. straightened his back. the air around him shifted, like gravity had thickened.

“what name,” he said, his voice cold now, “did you just say?”

jay swallowed. “y/n.”

“there’s no fucking way…” heeseung mutters, his voice low and tight, like it’s being dragged from somewhere deep in his chest. his eyes don’t leave jay’s, narrowed and dark, his brows drawn so tightly together that the lines across his forehead seem carved in place. you can see the way his chest rises, too slow, too strained, like every second is squeezing around his ribs, making it harder to breathe. he’s still, but the tension in his body is loud—the kind that makes the room feel smaller, like it’s closing in on itself.

“what is it?” jay asks, his voice sharp, suspicious, but there’s a flicker of hesitation behind it. his gaze darts across heeseung’s face, searching for something unspoken, but the way heeseung is staring—straight through him—tells him everything. he already knows. and when heeseung doesn’t answer right away, jay’s jaw tenses. “you fucking know her?” he snaps, rising from the couch, his movements quick and uneven. “you know who she is?”

heeseung finally stands, slow and deliberate, like he’s been holding this in too long. “i knew her before you,” he says, his voice flat but heavy. “she’s the one who’s been fucking with my head. she’s the one who’s had me up at night wondering why the hell i can’t stop thinking about her.” his words hang thick in the air, and jay just stares at him, pacing now, hands flexing at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

the silence that follows makes the walls feel like they’re closing in. the atmosphere shifts—denser, more volatile—and sunghoon feels it settle in his chest like smoke. he glances between the two of them, their body language sharp and unreadable, like wires pulled too tight. “who the hell are you two talking about?” he asks, breaking the silence, but the question lands flat—ignored, unanswered—because heeseung’s voice cuts back in before either of them can acknowledge him.

“cut it off,” heeseung says suddenly, voice low and cold. “don’t talk to her again.”

jay stops moving.

he turns slowly, his brows furrowing deep, disbelief flashing across his face as he steps toward heeseung. “who the fuck do you think you are?” he says, and there’s no humor in it. “you don’t get to make that call. i’m not cutting shit off.”

they stare at each other, heat rising between them in silence, and for a second jay doesn’t even know how to feel—jealous? betrayed? inferior? he doesn’t know what hurts more, the fact that heeseung knew first or that heeseung felt it first. that he’s not the only one obsessed with you. not the only one caught in whatever spell you’ve put over them.

sunghoon finally realizes—this isn’t just about a collab. this isn’t casual. this isn’t temporary. they’re not just pissed because they crossed wires. they’re fighting over a woman. and not just any woman. someone who’s turned both of them into something possessive, reckless, different. his brows furrow slightly, mouth parting, but no words come. curiosity simmers quietly in his chest, rising higher with every second. they’ve never fought over a girl before. never even talked like this over someone they’ve filmed with. but something about you has them both breaking rules they never thought they’d cross.

and now he’s wondering—what is it about her?

sunghoon stays quiet for a beat longer, his eyes flicking between the two men standing across from each other like they’re one word away from something irreversible. heeseung’s jaw is clenched, his fists tight at his sides, like he’s holding himself back from saying more. jay, on the other hand, looks seconds from exploding—like the wrong breath would set him off. and in the middle of it all, sunghoon feels something else creep in through the cracks of the tension: curiosity. it had started small, a flicker when he heard the name. when he realized they weren’t talking about just anyone. when he watched heeseung stand like that, sharp and focused, and jay snap like something had been stolen from him. it wasn’t just jealousy. it wasn’t pride. it was obsession.

so he speaks.

“what’s her username?”

jay looks over sharply, brows furrowed. “what?”

“the girl,” sunghoon says, voice low but steady. “you’re both clearly ready to fight over her. i just wanna know what she looks like.”

heeseung scoffs quietly, shaking his head as he starts to pace, like the idea of pulling another person into this makes his skin itch. “don’t,” he mutters. “you don’t wanna get involved.”

sunghoon shrugs, but his tone stays even. “maybe i do.”

jay watches him for a moment, his mouth a tight line, fingers twitching at his sides like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or warn him. “you’re not curious,” he says, almost accusing. 

“but what if i am?,” sunghoon replies, tilting his head slightly. “you two ever been like this over someone before?” he waits a beat, lets the silence answer him. “exactly. so if this is how you act… i just wanna see who she is.”

heeseung stops pacing. his shoulders are tense, his eyes dark as they lock onto sunghoon’s. “it’s not about how she looks.”

“then what is it?” sunghoon asks, and his voice is quiet, but it’s not soft. “because you’re both standing here ready to lose your shit over someone who none of us even knew existed a few weeks ago.”

jay doesn’t answer. not at first. he sits down instead, jaw still tight, staring at the floor like the answer is there if he just thinks hard enough.

“she’s different,” he finally says, voice low. “the way she talks. the way she films. the way she looks at you like she already knows what you’re gonna ask for, and gives it to you before you say it.”

heeseung nods slowly, almost without realizing. “she gets under your skin,” he murmurs. “and you don’t even notice until you’re in too deep.”

sunghoon watches them both—his friends, his brothers, suddenly strangers with wounds he didn’t know they had. and instead of pulling away, something in him leans closer.

“i want in,” he says, soft but certain.

heeseung turns to him, eyes narrowing. “don’t.”

“why not?”

“because you’ll end up just like us,” jay mutters. “and none of us know what the fuck we’re doing.”

but sunghoon just smiles, slow and calculated. “maybe i want to find out.”

natty's notesᝰ.ᐟ i'm backkkk ! was too excited to upload this to you all so if there's mistakes, so sorry i did not proofread it >.<