rin .☘︎ ݁˖

pairing: park wonbin x jung sungchan they said it was just one night. three years later, wonbin flies to miami because sungchan once said, “if we’re ever there at the same time again…” and just like that, it happens again. wonbin knocks. sungchan answers. cw. long-distance ex-fling, slow burn, angsty, emotional gays in denial , yearning post-intimacy , sexual content ( implied ) , paparazzi ( yes syongnen walk of shame ! ) song rec. 305. by Jordan Adetunji , just keep watching by Tate Mcrae , loose my mind by Don Toliver.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

three years ago. it was just one night.

room 305. miami. two top-billed names on the same award show lineup, both half-drunk and too good-looking for their own good. it started with a dare, ended with wonbin pressed up against the hotel window with sungchan’s hand on his jaw, whispering things no one else ever heard him say. ever.

wonbin still remembers it. the sheets. the taste. one night. that was the deal.

they agreed it was nothing. just one night. just one fucking night. a secret between two men who didn’t do feelings and couldn’t afford headlines.

but before sungchan left, pulling on his shirt with messy hair and that look in his eyes, he said it.

“if we ever end up in miami at the same time again…” he didn’t finish the sentence.

he didn’t have to.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

three years later, wonbin sees the post.

some paparazzi shot, low-res and too zoomed in—but it’s him. sungchan. at a rooftop bar in south beach, in sunglasses and loose linen, laughing like he forgot how it felt to keep things quiet.

wonbin hated that photo. he stared at it for an hour and a half. wonbin doesn’t think. he books the flight that night.

he’s been with other people. he’s kissed fans backstage and left parties with strangers. but no one ever touched him the way sungchan did. no one ever made him want to stay.

and now sungchan’s in miami again.

so he lands at 2 a.m. the miami air tastes the same. warm , heavy , laced with salt and something sweeter—like someone else’s perfume caught in your throat.

wonbin steps through the glass doors into the hotel lobby, his sunglasses sliding off like habit, like maybe the $2,000 a night air conditioning can calm the heat in his chest. it doesn’t.

the marble floors gleam under soft, golden lighting. the chandelier overhead is obnoxiously delicate—like if you breathed too hard, it might fall.

he doesn’t look up. he knows this place.

same scent—sandalwood and cash.

same concierge with the polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

same elevator tucked behind those glossy black panels, the kind you can’t tell are mirrored until it’s too late.

and the same memory.

a towel hitting the herringbone floor. sungchan turning around, shirtless, smirking like he didn’t just ruin him in twelve hours flat. he knew exactly what he was doing.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

the lobby is too quiet. not the kind of quiet that feels peaceful. the kind that costs money. soft jazz hums through hidden speakers. the air smells like something expensive—sandalwood, vetiver, and want. need even.

wonbin moves like he belongs here. like he hasn’t rehearsed this a hundred times in his head. his hoodie’s designer, but lived-in. sunglasses pushed up into his hair. a takeaway coffee in one hand he hasn’t touched. his other hand? stuffed in his pocket, clenched.

he doesn’t ask for a key. doesn’t go to the desk. just heads for the elevator.

the doors open with a sigh, cool and gold-lined. his reflection stares back from every wall—ten different angles of someone pretending not to be nervous. floor thirty. penthouse level. of course.

he presses the button and leans back against the rail, heart thudding like bass under skin.

it’s probably stupid.

sungchan might not even be in. might slam the door in his face. might’ve just said that line three years ago—“if we ever end up in miami again…” because it sounded cool at the time.

but wonbin’s here anyway. because he remembers how sungchan said it without looking at him. like it was dangerous. like he meant it.

the elevator dings. the hallway: silent, carpeted, dimly lit. the kind of expensive that says privacy, please in 18 languages.

he walks slow. lets himself breathe.

room 305.

still the same number. he knocks once. then again, a little harder. and just when he thinks he should turn around and lea— the door opens.

sungchan doesn’t look shocked. just annoyed. just amused. just hot. hair messy. shirt half-on. jaw tight like he’d just rolled out of bed or just finished ruining someone else. “no way,” he says, voice rough from sleep or something worse.

his eyes drag over him like it’s been three minutes, not three years. wonbin leans on the doorframe, cocky on the outside, cracking underneath. “you said if we were ever in miami again.”

sungchan raises one eyebrow, leans against the doorframe like he owns the city. “and you remembered that?”

wonbin shrugs. “i haven’t forgotten anything from that night.”

they stare at each other for one second too long. then sungchan opens the door wide. “well,” he says. “don’t just stand there.”

and just like that,

it happens again.

his mouth tastes the same—mint and something bitter, like guilt burned slow. but the way he kisses? it’s worse now. slower. rougher. like he’s been waiting. like he’s mad about it.

sungchan pushes him back against the door first, hands already under his hoodie, tugging him in like he can’t remember what space is supposed to feel like.

wonbin bites his lip, gasps into his mouth, forgets why he thought this would be casual.

they stumble toward the bed. not like lovers. like rivals. neither of them willing to say who missed the other more, so they show it with teeth and hands instead.

clothes hit the floor in pieces—hoodie, shirt, belt buckle undone with fingers that shake too much to be cocky. wonbin lets sungchan pull him onto the bed, palms flat against his chest like he’s trying to memorize the shape of him again.

the sheets are silk. cool. expensive. but the way they move? nothing about it is smooth.

sungchan’s breath catches when wonbin arches beneath him. wonbin curses under his breath when sungchan kisses down his throat like he’s owed this.

like he’s been replaying it in his head for three fucking years.

“say it,” sungchan growls at one point. wonbin laughs, breathless, eyes half-lidded. “say what?”

“that you missed me.”

wonbin doesn’t say it.

he just kisses him harder.

the bed creaks. the headboard slams the wall once. the window fogs. they don’t pace themselves. they just try to feel more than the other. harder. faster. deeper. like if they fuck good enough, maybe the memory won’t haunt them this time.

but it’s not just sex. it hasn’t been since night one in 305. not when sungchan clutches the back of wonbin’s neck like he’ll float away. not when wonbin whispers his name so soft it sounds like regret. not when their foreheads press together mid-thrust, gasping, desperate, silent.

moans pressed into skin. fingers clawing like they want to leave proof. hands gripping hips like maybe holding tighter will undo all the time they lost.

they don’t speak. not the words that matter.

just panting, swearing, broken little sounds between half-kisses and even worse eye contact. no one says “i missed you.” no one says “i never stopped thinking about you.”

but they both feel it. too much. too late. again.

what wonbin and sungchan had should’ve just been sex. nothing more, nothing less. but they know better than to leave it at just that, not after what just unfolded.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

the light in the room is gone when wonbin opens his eyes.

not because it’s morning. because it’s already night again.

the curtains are still cracked just enough to show the city glowing in pinks and golds, miami heat humming through the glass.

he blinks. slow. warm. sore in that way that makes him press his face into the pillow and groan softly.

the bed’s still a mess. the sheets still smell like sex and sungchan. he’s still here too. sungchan’s lying on his back now, arm flung over his face, mouth parted like sleep caught him off-guard.

chain still on. hair a little damp from whatever their bodies turned into last night. he looks expensive and wrecked, like he belongs on a magazine cover titled “don’t call it a mistake if you’d do it again.”

wonbin stretches. groans again. checks his phone.

7: freaking 48 p.m.

“fuck,” he mutters.

sungchan stirs, eyes slitting open. “what time is it?”

“we slept through an entire day,” wonbin says, sitting up, dragging a hand through his hair.

“jesus.” sungchan yawns. smirks. “guess we were tired.”

wonbin tosses a pillow at him. “guess someone has stamina issues.”

they both laugh, low and sleepy, and it feels a little too easy.

they dress slower this time. no rush. no real words. just glances that linger too long, fingers brushing near the sink, the kind of silence that only happens when two people really, really don’t want to say how they feel.

wonbin throws on the hoodie again. sungchan’s in all black—tee tucked into designer jeans, jacket thrown over one shoulder.

they don’t try to match.

they just do.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

the hotel lobby is quiet when they pass through—soft lighting, murmured greetings from staff who definitely know.

they walk shoulder to shoulder, not touching.

not talking.

outside, the night air hits warm.

and then—

flash. flash. flash. not one. not two. not discreet. paparazzi.

someone must’ve tipped them off. someone always does.

wonbin puts his gentle monster on like it’s part of the outfit.

sungchan just exhales, calm. bored. like they’ve done this before. like they aren’t still a little raw from earlier.

a camera catches the moment just before they slide into the car. wonbin glances at sungchan. not smiling. just looking. like he’s trying to figure out if this is the start of something or just another rerun. and then wonbin murmurs, just low enough:

“guess there’s no hiding in miami.”

sungchan doesn’t even look at him—just smirks, slow and dangerous, like he planned the whole thing.

“who said i was trying to?”

“jesus,” wonbin mutters, breath catching. “you’re such a freak.”

sungchan grins leaning dangerous towards his neck, lips brushing the spot that makes wonbin twitch.

“you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

wonbin exhales a laugh—low, breathless, already fucked.

“no. just… dangerously on brand.”

hours later — twitter is on fire

“ why does wonbin look like he just got railed by someone rich? ”

“ why do they look fucked and also better than me? ”

“ they’re fags and i love that for them. ”

“ they walked out like ‘ don’t ask questions. ’ i am asking. was it good? who cried first? ”

no one confirms anything.

no one denies it either.

sungchan posts an instagram story that night:

a blurry photo of wonbin in the hotel hallway.

caption: miami, baby. 🤍

ten minutes later, wonbin likes it.

⋆⭒˚.⋆

[ 🪼 ] um hi gng i blacked out and wrote this in one sitting after hearing “ if we’re ever in miami again ” and realizing that’s literally the most evil sentence someone as delicious as jinsu could say to you post-rendezvous 😭 syongnen crawled out of the walls of my mind like “ write about us or perish you lil filth ” so i did. this one’s for the gays, and the ones who’ve ever stared at a blurry paparazzi pic and gone “ they definitely just had sex and are pretending it meant nothing. ” (you’re valid. you’re correct.) thanks for reading this emotionally stunted, overslept ex situationship drama. pls like, reblog, and drop ur favorite tweet about them in the comments i wanna suffer w u

305 forever. no they are not friends.

love always,

rin .☘︎ ݁˖