Lily✨❤️

"Be careful, baby."

Riki's voice cuts through the haze in your mind, but your body is already betraying you.

The second you stumble inside the apartment and the door clicks shut behind you, you pitch forward dramatically and catch yourself on the wall, your fingers scrabbling against the painted surface like it's the only thing keeping you upright.

The cool plaster feels good against your heated palms, and you press your cheek against it for a moment, letting the chill soothe the flush that's spread across your face.

"Your floor is evil," you mumble, the words slurring together in a way that would be embarrassing if you had the capacity to feel embarrassment right now.

Your tongue feels thick and unwieldy in your mouth, and the sentence comes out more like "Yerr floorrrs eevul," but you don't care.

You're too damn busy trying to remember how knees work.

Riki snorts behind you, and you hear the metallic clink as he drops the keys into the small ceramic bowl by the door.

The sound is sharp and clear in the quiet of the apartment, a stark contrast to the thumping bass and layered conversations you'd been surrounded by all night. "The floor is not evil, darling. You're just incredibly drunk right now."

"'M not drunk, baby," you protest, pushing yourself off the wall with all the dignity you can muster, which is approximately none, because the moment you try to stand upright, the room tilts sideways and you have to grab the wall again.

"You're drunk."

"I've had two drinks," Riki says dryly. "You've had... what, six? Seven?"

"Three," you say, and then pause, frowning as you try to count on your fingers. The numbers keep swimming away from you. "Maybe four… or eight. I lost count after the shot that tasted like juice."

"That's because it was juice," Riki mutters, stepping closer. "Juice with three types of liquor in it."

You try peeling yourself off the wall, determined to prove him wrong, determined to show him that you are a fully functioning adult woman who can absolutely navigate a flat surface.

But when you attempt to kick off your heels, your balance deserts you completely.

Your ankle wobbles dangerously, the strap of your heel catching on your other foot, and you nearly face-plant onto the hardwood, a yelp escaping your lips as you pitch forward.

Strong hands catch you just in time, steadying you with practiced ease.

Riki's fingers wrap around your biceps, gripping firmly enough to keep you upright but gentle enough that it doesn't hurt.

He pulls you back against his chest, and you can feel the rumble of his laugh against your shoulder blades.

"I've got you," he says, his voice low and steady, a familiar anchor in the spinning room. "You can't do anything by yourself tonight, can you?"

"I can do plenty by myself," you mumble into his shirt, your words muffled by the fabric. "I'm very independent."

"Uh-huh." He doesn't sound convinced. "Can you walk?"

"Obviously, who the hell do you think I am?" You take one step and immediately stumble, your heel catching on the hem of your dress.

Riki catches you again, and this time, you can hear the exasperated smile in his voice.

"Sure, darling. Very, very independent."

He realizes you're essentially useless in this state, your limbs are heavy and uncooperative, your motor skills have abandoned you entirely, and your judgment is questionable at best.

So Riki, being the amazing man he is, shifts into full caretaker mode, his entire demeanor changing from amused boyfriend to responsible caretaker in the span of a heartbeat.

He's trying to be the good boyfriend who takes care of his incredibly intoxicated girlfriend, even though he's tired too, even though his own head is swimming slightly from the drinks, the dancing, and the late hour.

But he's more functional than you, and he knows it, so he steps up.

He guides you carefully toward the bed, his arm wrapped securely around your waist, supporting most of your weight as you shuffle across the room.

You're leaning into him heavily, your body pressing against his side like you're trying to merge into a single person, and he adjusts his grip to accommodate your clinginess.

"Sit here," he instructs gently, helping you settle on the edge of the mattress. "Just sit for a second. Don't move."

"I'm not moving," you say, even as you sway slightly, your body refusing to cooperate with your intentions. "I'm perfectly still."

Riki shoots you a look that says he doesn't believe you for a second, but he doesn't argue.

Instead, he crouches in front of you, his knees hitting the floor with a soft thud, and reaches for your heels.

You're fumbling with the buckles yourself, your fingers clumsy and uncoordinated, missing entirely as you try to undo the tiny clasps.

Your nails scrape uselessly against the metal, and you make a frustrated sound in the back of your throat.

"Let me," he says softly, batting your hands away gently.

His fingers make quick work of the buckles, sliding the straps free with a dexterity that seems almost unfair given how useless your own hands are right now.

You look down at him and start giggling uncontrollably.

From this angle, you can see everything: how messy his hair has become, strands falling across his forehead and sticking up at odd angles from hours of dancing under hot lights.

How his black shirt has come completely untucked from his jeans, the fabric rumpled and slightly damp with sweat.

He has that tired, slightly annoyed expression on his face, his brows drawn together and his lips pressed into a thin line.

He looks like he's been thoroughly wrecked by the night, but in the best possible way.

It’s like something you want to ruin even further.

He glances up at your laughter, his eyebrows drawing together even more. "What?"

You reach down and squish his cheeks between your palms, pushing his face together until his lips pout out like a fish. "You're cute when you're nagging."

Riki rolls his eyes, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitching like he's fighting back a smile despite himself. "Fantastic. Lift your foot."

You obediently lift one foot, then the other, watching as he deftly unbuckles your heels and slides them off.

The moment your feet are free from the torture devices you've been wearing all night, you let out a groan of relief that's probably too loud for the hour, your toes curling against the cool floor.

"Oh my god," you moan. "That feels amazing. Why do we wear heels? Who invented them? They should be arrested."

"They should," Riki agrees mildly, setting your heels aside. "You wore them voluntarily, though."

"Because they make my legs look good." You wiggle your bare feet, examining your toes. The nail polish is chipped, but you can't bring yourself to care. "Absolutely worth it."

Riki stands, rolling his shoulders, and you immediately reach for him, your hands clutching at his shirt like you're afraid he might disappear if you let go.

Your fingers curl into the fabric, pulling him closer, and he stumbles slightly, caught off guard by your sudden grip.

Unfortunately or fortunately, that clinginess is what starts changing the atmosphere.

"Hey," he says, his voice softening. "I'm not going anywhere. I just need to, you know, take my contacts out. My eyes are killing me."

You make a sound of protest, your fingers tightening on his shirt, but he gently pries your hands away and presses a quick kiss to your forehead. "One second, baby. I'll be right back."

He walks to the desk, probably intending to take out his contacts because his eyes are strained from hours of dancing and drinking and the smoky air of the club.

You watch him through half-lidded eyes as he opens a drawer, pulls out a glasses case, and carefully removes the frames inside.

He slides them onto his face with practiced ease, adjusting the arms behind his ears and pushing the bridge up his nose with one finger.

It's such a tiny action.

Such a mundane, everyday thing.

But the consequences are massive.

You're sitting there, feeling boneless and tipsy and incredibly warm, watching him turn around.

Messy hair. Post-club black shirt, untucked and rumpled.

Glasses now framing his face, making him look somehow even sharper, more intellectual, more devastatingly attractive.

The frames are simple and black, rectangular, but they draw attention to his eyes in a way that makes your breath catch.

He looks unfairly put together for someone who was just grinding against you on a dance floor an hour ago.

It looks like he belongs in a magazine spread, not a cramped apartment.

"Wait," you blurt out before you can stop yourself, the word escaping your lips with enough force to make Riki pause mid-step.

He stops, halfway back to the bed, his head tilting slightly. "What's wrong?"

"You look..." You trail off, your drunk brain struggling to find the right words.

There are so many of them, hot, gorgeous, beautiful, edible, devastating, but they're all jumbled up in your head, and you can't seem to grab any of them. "You look really hot."

Riki visibly stops in his tracks.

You say it with full drunk sincerity; there’s no teasing, no filter, no hint of exaggeration.

Just pure, unfiltered admiration, your eyes wide and your lips parted like you're seeing him for the first time.

You're staring at him like he's the most beautiful thing you've ever seen, and the intensity of it makes his breath hitch in his throat.

He adjusts the glasses awkwardly, his fingers brushing against the frames in a self-conscious gesture that you've never seen him make before. "You are so, so fucking drunk."

"I'm serious," you insist, leaning forward on the bed, your elbows braced on your knees as you peer up at him.

You keep staring, letting your eyes roam over his face, taking in every detail, the way the glasses make his eyes look darker, more intense, the way his hair falls across his forehead, the way his shirt clings to his shoulders and chest.

That prolonged stare makes him self-conscious and smug at the same time.

It's a dangerous combination, because Riki with an ego is already a lot to handle, but Riki with an ego who's also slightly flustered is absolutely lethal.

"Stop looking at me like that," he mutters, but there's no real conviction in his voice.

"Like what?" you ask, entirely innocent.

"Like… like you want to eat me."

You consider this for a moment, your head tilting to the side. "Seriously, who wouldn’t want to eat you out?"

Riki exhales sharply, his jaw tightening, and you watch the muscle flex with open appreciation.

He walks back over to check on you, probably planning to get you some water and help you sober up, to be the responsible one in this situation.

The second he's close enough, you catch his wrist, your fingers wrapping around his skin with surprising speed and accuracy.

He loses balance slightly and ends up standing between your knees, trapped by your grip and your position on the bed.

His thighs press against the mattress on either side of your legs, and you can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the remnants of his cologne mixed with sweat and something that's just him.

You look up at him through your lashes and literally just keep touching his face.

Your fingers trace along his jawline, feeling the slight stubble that's grown over the course of the night.

You run your fingers over the glasses frame, tracing the metal where it rests against his skin.

You push them higher on his nose, adjusting them like you have every right to be this intimate with him, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

"Smart boy," you murmur, amused with yourself, the words slipping out without any thought to how they might affect him. You're smiling, your lips curved in a lazy, satisfied grin, and you can see the exact moment the words land.

Riki exhales sharply, his breath catching in his throat, his eyes darkening behind the lenses.

Because this is getting to him.

This is really, really getting to him.

He puts his hands on your thighs, not with any sexual emphasis, just to steady both of you, to keep you from sliding off the bed.

His palms are warm and heavy through the thin fabric of your dress, and you're suddenly very aware of how close he is, of his fingers splayed across your skin as if he's claiming territory.

But now you're close.

Fuck.

Very close.

The heat of his body seeps into yours, and you can feel the tension radiating off him, the way his muscles are coiled tight like he's holding himself back.

You lean your forehead into his stomach and laugh softly, the sound muffled against his shirt. You can feel the hard plane of his abs beneath the fabric, the way his stomach tenses when your breath ghosts across his skin.

Then you pull back just enough to look at him, and there's that quiet. The club noise is gone, the music is just a memory, the world outside this room has ceased to exist.

It's just the two of you, breathing each other's air, existing in this small pocket of stillness.

You end up in his lap almost accidentally.

Riki tries to sit down beside you because he thinks: okay, calm down, give her water, let her sober up, be responsible.

But you follow him immediately, climbing half into his lap because you want warmth, you want contact, you want to be as close to him as physically possible.

You don't even think about it, it's instinct, pure and simple, your body moving toward his like he's gravity and you're helpless to resist.

It feels like the most natural thing in the world.

Your legs drape over his, your arms wrap around his shoulders, and your face tucks into the crook of his neck.

Very tipsy, clingy girlfriend behavior, but you're too far gone to care about dignity or propriety or anything except the way his skin feels against yours.

Riki's hands automatically settle at your waist to keep you from sliding off, his fingers pressing into your skin through the fabric of your dress.

He goes still, his entire body tense beneath you, and you can feel his heartbeat hammering against your chest.

This is different.

Now this is something else entirely.

You nuzzle into him, breathing in his scent, expensive cologne mixed with sweat and something distinctly Riki that makes your head swim, and mutter against his skin: "Comfy."

He laughs under his breath, but it sounds strained, like he's fighting a losing battle with his self-control. "Yeah?"

"Mhm." You pull back just enough to look at him, your faces inches apart, your breath mingling in the small space between you. Then you tap the glasses again, your finger grazing the lens. "I still can't get over these. You look so good, like… so, so fucking good. Why do you look so damn good, baby? It's absolutely unfair."

"You're complaining that I look good?"

"Yes," you say seriously. "It's a problem. For my heart."

Riki shakes his head, but there's a smile tugging at his lips. "You're outrageous."

"You like it a lot."

"I do," he admits, and his voice has gone soft in a way that makes your chest ache.

You reach to take his glasses off him playfully, your fingers curling around the frames with the intention of trying them on yourself. "Let me see. I want to try."

Riki catches your wrist, his grip firm but not painful, his fingers wrapping around your pulse point like he's checking your heartbeat.

You can feel the pad of his thumb pressing against the thin skin of your inner wrist, and it makes your breath stutter.

He looks at you for a long second, his dark eyes searching yours through the lenses, reading something in your expression that makes his jaw tighten.

Then, instead of stopping you, instead of pushing your hand away and telling you to be careful, he takes the glasses off himself.

And slides them onto your face.

Slowly.

His fingers brush against your temples as he positions the frames on your nose, and you can feel the deliberate care in the gesture, the way he's taking his time, making sure you feel every second of it.

The frames are too big for you, sliding down your nose slightly, and you blink up at him through the lenses, everything fuzzy and blurred and slightly distorted.

You start laughing because you probably look ridiculous, wearing his glasses with your messy club hair and your smudged makeup and your flushed cheeks.

"Riki—" you start, but he cuts you off.

"Keep them on."

His tone is low and certain.

Commanding, actually.

It’s a tone you've never heard from him before, or maybe you have but never with this intensity, never directed at you with such deliberate purpose.

You quiet immediately, because suddenly you're aware of everything, his hands still on your waist, his fingers pressing into your skin like he's leaving marks.

How closely he's watching you, his dark eyes tracking every micro-expression that crosses your face.

The glasses sitting on your nose, heavy with the weight of implication.

The way your heart is hammering against your ribs so hard you're sure he can hear it.

You feel seen in a way that makes you squirm, exposed and vulnerable, and incredibly, overwhelmingly turned on.

You try to steady yourself, to sit properly on his lap facing him, and your thighs bracket his hips as you settle more firmly against him.

Your dress rides up, the black satin sliding higher on your thighs, and you can feel the rough denim of his jeans against your bare skin.

Then, suddenly, you lean in and kiss him.

It's not a gentle kiss.

It's messy and desperate and fueled by alcohol and want, your lips crashing against his with enough force to make him groan into your mouth.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling him closer, and you're whispering praises between kisses, the words tumbling out of you without any filter.

"You're so cute," you breathe against his lips. "I love you. You're so handsome, Riki, you have no idea—" Another kiss, deeper this time, your tongue sliding against his. "So pretty. My pretty boy."

You can feel him getting harder beneath you, his body responding to your words and your touch and the way you're pressing against him.

You can feel the growing bulge in his jeans, the way his hips shift slightly like he's trying to find friction, and it makes you smile against his mouth.

"Someone's excited," you murmur, grinding down against him in a slow, deliberate circle.

Riki's breath catches, his hands tightening on your waist. "One day, you are genuinely going to finish me off."

"That is such a nice way to go," you say, and you start teasing him properly now, rolling your hips in slow, torturous motions that make him exhale shakily against your neck.

Your hands slide down his chest, feeling the hard planes of his muscles beneath his shirt, and you push the fabric up slightly so you can trace your fingers along the line of his stomach.

He's your pretty boy, your Riki, and you know exactly how to make him fall apart.

His hands slide under your black satin slip dress, his fingers tracing patterns against your thighs, and you shiver at the contact, your skin breaking out in goosebumps.

He traces higher, his fingertips brushing against the edge of your underwear, slick with your dripping juices that have already soaked through the thin fabric, and you gasp, the sound loud and uninhibited in the quiet room, your clit throbbing desperately under the pressure.

Riki goes still, his eyes snapping to your face, his cock twitching hard in his pants as he hears your raw hunger.

That gasp, that noise, was louder than anything you've ever made during sex — your voice cracking with pure, animal need, pussy clenching around nothing, begging to be filled.

You're usually so quiet, so restrained, so careful about the sounds you let escape, biting your lip to stifle the sloppy wet sounds of your arousal leaking out.

But now, with alcohol loosening your inhibitions and his fingers on your skin, smearing your creamy wetness higher up your thighs, you can't seem to hold anything back, your hips bucking involuntarily, grinding your soaked cunt against his hand like a bitch in heat.

"Did you just—" he starts, but you're already grinding down against him again, your drenched panties sliding over his bulge, coating his jeans with your sticky arousal, and this time you moan, the sound low and throaty and absolutely filthy, guttural and dripping with lust, your nipples hardening into stiff peaks under your dress as your core gushes more slick down your legs.

It's like something unlocks inside you, a floodgate of depravity opening wide, your body surrendering to the need to be fucked raw and hard.

All those sounds you've been holding back, all those reactions you've been suppressing, they all come pouring out, and you can't stop them, don't want to stop them.

"Riki," you whimper, your head falling back as his fingers trace along the edge of your underwear again, teasing you through the thin fabric. "Please."

"Please what, baby?” he asks, his voice rough, and you can hear the wonder in it, the disbelief that you're actually asking, actually begging.

"Damn it, touch me. Please. I need you so, so bad."

He doesn't need to be told twice.

In what universe did you have to tell him twice?

His fingers slip beneath the fabric, finding you already wet and ready, and when he slides one finger inside you, you cry out, the sound echoing off the walls of the small room.

"God," Riki breathes, his eyes wide behind the glasses that are still somehow perched on your nose. "You're so loud."

"I can't help it," you gasp, your hips bucking against his hand as he adds another finger, curling them inside you in just the right way. "You feel so good, baby. So good, so good, so good—"

He's fingering you now, his fingers moving in and out of you with a steady rhythm, and every thrust pulls another sound from your throat, moans and whimpers and broken fragments of his name.

You're clutching his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin through his shirt, and you're saying things you'd never say sober, filthy things that make his eyes darken with every word.

"More," you beg, your voice breaking on the word. "Riki, please, more—"

"You're being so good for me," he murmurs, and the praise goes straight to your core, making you clench around his fingers. "Such a good girl, taking my fingers so well. You sound so pretty, baby. I love hearing from you."

All hell broke loose.

Every word of praise he gives you makes you louder, makes you squirm more, makes you say things that he's never heard from you before.

He realizes that he's been starving for this, starving for vocal feedback, for audible proof that he's making you feel good, for sounds that he can catalog and replay in his mind later.

He's been living off crumbs for so damn long, a sharp inhale here, a slight tremor there, and now he's being served a feast, and he doesn't know how to control himself.

The switch happens so fast you barely have time to process it.

One second you're in control, riding his fingers, grinding against his hand, whispering praises and commands.

And the next, he's flipping you onto your back, his hands pinning your wrists to the mattress as he looms over you, his eyes dark and hungry behind the glasses.

"Baby—" you gasp, but he cuts you off with a kiss, hard and demanding, his tongue claiming your mouth with a ferocity that makes your head spin.

"I need to hear more," he growls against your lips, and the sound of his voice, rough, low, and absolutely wrecked, makes you whimper. "I need to hear everything. Every sound. Every moan. I need to know exactly how I'm making you feel."

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes roving over your face, taking in your flushed cheeks and your parted lips and the glasses still sitting crookedly on your nose.

He reaches up and adjusts them, straightening them with a tenderness that contradicts the intensity of his gaze.

"Keep these on," he says, tapping the frames. "I want you to see everything."

Then he's kissing down your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse point, and you're arching into him with a moan that's way too loud for shared apartment walls.

He sucks a mark into your skin, his tongue soothing the sting, and you can feel him smiling against your throat when you make a sound that's embarrassingly close to a sob.

"So responsive," he murmurs against your skin. "All this time, you've been holding out on me, baby. Keeping all these pretty sounds to yourself."

"I wasn't—ah—" You break off with a gasp as his hand slides between your bodies, his fingers finding you again, sliding inside you with ease. "I wasn't holding out. I just—couldn't—"

"Shh," he soothes, his fingers curling inside you, finding that spot that makes your vision blur. "I know. I know, baby. But now you don't have to be quiet. I want to hear from you. I want to hear everything."

And you give him everything.

He works you open with his fingers, one, then two, then three, stretching you with a care that contradicts the hunger in his eyes.

Every curl of his fingers pulls a new sound from you, whimpers and moans and gasps and his name, over and over, like it's the only word you know.

"You're so wet," he groans, his voice strained. "All for me, baby?"

"All for you," you manage, your voice breaking. "Only you—fuck, Riki, please, I need—"

"What do you need?" He pulls back to look at you, his eyes searching your face, and there's genuine concern there beneath the hunger. "Tell me what you need."

"You. I need you inside me, please."

He doesn't make you ask twice.

He sits back on his heels and quickly undoes his jeans, pushing them down just enough to free himself, and you watch with hazy fascination as he strokes himself once, twice, his eyes never leaving your face.

Then he's pulling your dress up around your waist and hooking your legs over his hips, positioning himself at your entrance.

"Look at me," he says, and you force your eyes to meet his through the fuzzy lenses. "I want to see your face when I fill you up."

He pushes in slowly, inch by inch, and the stretch is overwhelming, the fullness making your mouth fall open. You moan, loud and long and unashamed, and Riki's breath catches in his throat like he's been punched.

"Fuck," he breathes, his hips stilling once he's fully seated inside you. "You're so loud. You're so fucking loud, baby. I love it. I love it so much."

You can't respond, can't form words, because he's so deep inside you that you can feel him everywhere, can feel the press of his hips against yours, the way your body is stretching to accommodate him.

The glasses are fogging slightly from the heat of your combined breath, and you can barely see him through the haze, but you don't need to see him to feel him.

He starts moving, slow and deep, each thrust deliberate and measured, his massive cock stretching your tight cunt walls to their limit, the veiny shaft dragging through your sopping wet folds with obscene squelching sounds, and you're making sounds you didn't even know you were capable of — high, keening moans that fill the room, desperate whimpers that break in the middle as his balls slap heavily against your ass, full-throated cries that would be embarrassing if you had any shame left, your voice hoarse from screaming his name while you coat his cock.

But you don't.

The alcohol stripped that away hours ago, and now you're just a mess of sensation and noise, writhing beneath him as he fucks you with a tenderness that belies the filthiness of the sounds filling the room.

Each deep plunge forced obscene slick sounds from between your thighs, the sheets clung damply to your skin, soaked in sweat and release, while the room smelled unmistakably of sex. His grunts mixing with your wails as he bottoms out, each thrust burying him to the hilt.

"You feel so good," he groans, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath hot on your lips. "You sound so good, baby. I've wanted this for so long. Wanted to hear from you. Every night, every time we're together, I've been dying to know what you sound like when you're not holding back."

"I'm not—ah—I'm not holding back," you manage, your voice cracking on the words.

"No," he agrees, and he sounds almost reverent. "You're not. You're being so good for me. So loud. So perfect."

He shifts his angle slightly, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision go white, and you scream, the sound tearing from your throat without any warning.

Riki's hips stutter, his rhythm breaking for just a second, and you can see the way his eyes widen, the way his jaw drops, the way he looks absolutely wrecked by the sound you just made.

"Do that again," he demands, his voice rough. "Scream for me again."

"I can't—"

"You can." He thrusts harder, deeper, hitting the same spot, and you do scream again, your back arching off the mattress, your hands flying up to grip the sheets. "That's it. That's my good girl. Let me hear you."

He's going hard now, chasing your sounds like they're the only thing keeping him alive, and every thrust pulls another cry from your lips.

Then, without warning, he slows down, his hips moving in lazy, grinding circles that make you feel every inch of him. He leans down and kisses you, soft and slow and sweet, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers against your mouth. "So beautiful when you're loud. So beautiful when you're falling apart for me."

"Riki," you whimper, and his name sounds like a prayer on your lips.

"I love you," he says, and then he's speeding up again, his hips snapping against yours with enough force to make the bed shake, and you're screaming his name like it's the only thing that matters.

He flips you over without warning, pulling you onto his lap so you're straddling him, and you sink onto him with a moan that seems to go on forever. Your head falls back, your throat exposed, and Riki takes advantage, leaning up to suck a mark into the sensitive skin while you ride him.

"Look at you," he groans, his hands gripping your hips, guiding your movements. "Riding me so well. Making all those pretty sounds. You're so hot, baby. So fucking hot."

You're grinding down on him, chasing your pleasure, your greedy cunt swallowing his throbbing member whole, walls fluttering and milking him greedily.

The sounds between your bodies were obscene — wet slaps of skin, the bed groaning beneath each brutal thrust, your moans breaking helplessly into his as slick arousal ran down his thighs and gathered in a messy ring at the base of his cock.

"Faster," he commands, fingers digging into your hips hard enough to bruise, nails scraping red welts into your skin as he yanks you down harder. "Ride me faster, baby. Show me how much you want it—milk me until I spill every drop inside you."

You obey, bouncing on his lap with renewed urgency, your breasts jolting with every rise and fall, nipples dragging against the heat of his chest. The angle is different now, deeper and sharper, each drop onto him drags his cock against that sensitive spot inside you until your eyes roll back and a broken cry spills from your lips.

You're loud, unbearably loud, but it feels far too good to care, slick arousal smearing between your bodies as you grind down on him and beg for more with every desperate bounce.

"Riki, baby—Riki, I'm gonna—" You can feel the orgasm building, coiling tight in your stomach, and you're clenching around him, your thighs shaking with the effort of holding yourself upright.

"Not yet," he says, his voice firm. "Wait for me. Be a good girl and wait."

"I can't—"

"You can." He slows your hips, holding you still, and you whine, high and desperate. "Wait for me, baby. I want to come together. I want to feel you fall apart at the same time I do."

You're both breathing hard, sweating, trembling, and he's looking at you with such intensity that it makes your chest ache.

His hand comes up to cup your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone, and he pulls you down for a kiss that's slow, deep, and thorough.

"Now," he whispers against your lips. "Come for me now."

You do.

The orgasm hits you like a wave, crashing over you with enough force to make you scream, your entire body convulsing around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you.

You're loud, so fucking loud, screaming his name and words that don't make sense and sounds that aren't even words, and Riki follows right after, his hips jerking up against yours as he groans your name, his face buried in your neck, his fingers tangled in your hair.

You're both shaking, trembling, gasping for air, and the room is spinning, but in a good way now, in a way that feels like floating rather than falling.

The glasses are fogged completely, and you can't see anything, but you don't need to see to know that Riki is looking at you like you hung the moon.

He pulls the glasses off your face gently, setting them on the nightstand, and then he's kissing you again, soft and sweet and so tender it makes you want to cry.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly, his voice rough and wrecked. "Was that okay? Did I hurt you?"

You shake your head, unable to speak yet, too overwhelmed to form words.

It was more than okay.

It was everything, actually.

He must read the answer in your expression, because he smiles, small and soft and so full of love that it makes your chest ache. "Good. That's good."

For a long moment, you just lie there, tangled together, both of you breathing hard, your hearts racing in sync.

Riki is still inside you, his weight pressing you into the mattress in a way that feels grounding and safe.

He presses soft kisses to your face, your forehead, your cheeks, your nose, your lips, each one gentle and reverent, like he's worshiping you.

"You were so good," he murmurs against your skin. "So perfect for me, baby. You have no idea how much I loved hearing you like that."

You make a soft sound, somewhere between a hum and a whimper, and he shushes you gently, pressing another kiss to your temple.

"I know, I know. Overwhelming, right?" He strokes your hair back from your face, his fingers gentle and soothing. "Just breathe, darling. I've got you."

Slowly, carefully, he pulls out of you, and you whimper at the loss, your body already missing his warmth.

But he's right there, gathering you into his arms, pulling you against his chest as he settles back against the headboard with you tucked against him like you're something precious.

"Shh, it's okay," he soothes, rocking you slightly, his hand running up and down your spine in a calming rhythm. "I've got you. You're okay."

You curl into him, your face buried in his neck, breathing in his scent — sweat, cologne, sex, and something that's just Riki. You can feel his heart beating against your cheek, steady and reassuring, and it helps ground you, helps bring you back to reality after everything that just happened.

"Let me clean you up, okay?" he says softly. "Just let me take care of you."

He shifts you gently, laying you back against the pillows, and you make a small sound of protest, your hands reaching for him.

He catches your fingers and presses a kiss to your knuckles. "I'll be right back. One second, baby."

You watch him through half-lidded eyes as he moves around the room with quiet efficiency, his movements unhurried but purposeful.

He comes back with a warm washcloth and a bottle of water, and he sits beside you on the bed, his hip pressed against yours.

"This might be a little cold," he warns, and then he's cleaning you up with such gentleness it makes your chest ache.

He wipes away the evidence of what you just did, his touch careful and reverent, like you're something precious that might break if he's not careful. He takes his time, making sure you're clean and comfortable, and the whole time he's murmuring soft words of praise and comfort.

"You're so beautiful," he says, mostly to himself, as he works. "So perfect. I love you so much. You did so well for me, baby. So, so good."

When he's done, he tosses the washcloth aside and helps you sit up, holding the water bottle to your lips. "Drink. Slowly."

You gulp it down greedily, realizing only now how thirsty you are, how dehydrated you are from the alcohol and the exertion and the hours of dancing.

The water is cool and soothing, and you drain half the bottle before Riki gently pulls it away.

"Easy," he says softly. "Not too fast. You'll make yourself sick."

You nod, settling back against the pillows, and he sets the bottle on the nightstand before climbing back into bed with you. He pulls the covers up over both of you and gathers you into his arms, your back pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped securely around your waist.

"Are you okay, baby?" he asks again, his lips brushing against your ear, his breath warm and familiar.

You turn in his arms so you can face him, so you can see his face in the dim light filtering through the curtains.

His hair is an absolute mess, sticking up in every direction, and there are scratch marks down his neck from your nails, and he looks thoroughly debauched and so incredibly beautiful that it makes your heart hurt.

"Yeah," you say, your voice hoarse from all the sounds you made. "I'm good. That was... that was really good."

Riki smiles, and it's the soft, unguarded smile he only wears when it's just the two of you, when there's no one around to see how completely gone he is for you. "Agreed, it was amazing. You were amazing."

You reach up and touch his face, your fingers tracing his jawline, feeling the slight stubble beneath your fingertips. "I'm sorry… I’m sorry that I'm usually so quiet," you say softly, the words coming out serious despite your intoxicated state. "I didn't realize you needed... that, I didn't know you were paying that much attention."

He catches your hand and presses a kiss to your palm, his lips warm against your skin. "It's okay, baby. I know it's not your fault. I know that's just how you are, and I love everything about how you are. But tonight..." He pauses, searching for the right words. "Tonight was different. I loved hearing you, loved knowing what felt good, what you needed, what made you fall apart. It felt like I could finally hear you, really hear you, in a way I never had before.”

You smile sleepily, your eyes starting to drift closed. "I liked it too. Being loud. It felt… so damn freeing. I didn't have to hold anything back or anything."

Riki kisses your forehead, then your nose, then your lips again, each kiss soft and lingering. "We can do it more often," he says. If you want. No pressure, okay? I just... I want to hear you. I want to know everything you're feeling, want to make you feel so good you stop trying to stay quiet."

"I'd like that," you murmur, your voice fading as sleep starts to pull you under.

He reaches over and slides the glasses back onto your face, positioning them carefully on your nose. "You can keep these tonight," he says softly, a hint of amusement in his voice. "They look good on you."

You laugh quietly, the sound muffled against his chest. "I look ridiculous."

"You look beautiful," he corrects, his voice firm and certain, like it's the most obvious truth in the world. "You always look beautiful. But especially right now, wearing my glasses… right here in my bed with me, after making all those pretty sounds for me."

You swat at his chest weakly, too tired to put any real force behind it. "You're insufferable."

"And you're perfect," he counters, pulling you closer. "Now sleep. You're going to have a hell of a hangover tomorrow, and I'm going to need all my energy to take care of you."

"You'll take care of me?" you ask, even though you already know the answer.

"Always, baby." He presses one last kiss to your forehead, his arms tightening around you. "I've got you. I'll always have you."

As you drift off, wrapped in his arms, wearing his glasses, feeling more loved and safe and thoroughly satisfied than you've ever felt in your entire life, you think that maybe being loud isn't so bad after all.

Not if it makes him look at you like that.

Not if it makes him hold you like this.

Not if it lets you hear the way his voice breaks when he says your name, or the way “I love you” slips out like it was always meant to be yours.

Not if it’s with him.

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

For the first time in his life, Heeseung wants to stay.

No. He wants you to stay.

But he doesn’t dare say anything. He doesn’t even know if he deserves to open his mouth. It’s like a knot of uneasiness has lodged itself in his throat, preventing him from moving even an inch of his muscle.

Not that he can even move, honestly. His entire body is on fire, his scent gland is pulsing in pain. But nothing, nothing can compare to the hollowness in his chest.

Nothing comes close to the gravity of the situation, slowly settling in his mind.

Heeseung can’t breathe.

Across from him, you’re leaning on your cheerleader friend for support. Someone he vaguely recognises as Riki’s cousin—Rei, if he’s not mistaken. She has rushed out of the crowd when people had stopped dancing to watch a literal romance suicide happening in the backyard.

“Oh my Goddess—you’re bleeding—Riki! Call the ambulance!”

“Let’s just drive her to the hospital,” Jake, a beta who belongs to the frat house, emerges from behind Riki, looking more sober than the other guests. “It’s faster.”

Among the chaos, of people murmuring in surprise, of your friend and his friend fussing over your condition, you stand there silently. If you were pale before, you’re looking even more ghostly now that if someone were to cut your cheek, there’d be no blood coming out.

He watches you, eyes never leaving your face, begging, pleading through his gaze for you to meet his eyes. But you never do. 

You keep your head low and let Rei and Jake usher you away, steps wobbly and unsteady.

Heeseung can’t breathe.

It feels like he’s underwater and his lungs have turned to bricks.

“—seung! Breathe!”

Heeseung snaps out of his thoughts and realises that his knees have finally given up. He’s on the ground, the tiles bruising his knees as Jay crouches beside him, shaking his shoulders. He realises, as his chest burns and moves rapidly, that he’s been hyperventilating.

Heeseung can’t breathe.

“Oh God—” he chokes, clawing at his burning throat. Sweat dots on his forehead, his face turning red with each passing second. Beside him, Jay is shouting at someone over his head, but the sound is muffled to his ears.

All he can hear is the echo of your voice.

‘I ended it.’

The pain cracks through his chest. The tears are unstoppable now.

‘There’s nothing between us anymore.’

Heeseung thinks he might die.

A violent sob racks through his chest, both of his palms touching the ground. He can faintly sense Riki’s presence around him, the younger trying to lift him up with the help of Jay, but Heeseung’s body is dead weight.

His wolf refuses to move.

This is all your fault, his alpha growls in his mind. 

You defied fate and now we lost her. This is your fault, Lee Heeseung.

Heeseung covers his face, feeling the wetness on his cheeks. His body shakes with every sob, showing no signs of stopping. On either side of him, Jay and Riki have given up on trying to help him stand. The two watch as their friend cries his heart out.

Out of sorrow. Out of grief.

Out of regret.

“I’m sorry,”  Heeseung sobs to no one, the words dripping with remorse.

He looks up, chasing the ghost of you with his guilty eyes—but you’re long since gone. The weight of the abandoned bond now sits heavy on his chest, pulsing in pitiful longing.

“I’m really sorry.”

The space swallows his words, the emptiness a permanent reminder of his too-late apology.

Hospitals aren’t exactly a place you look forward to visiting. 

But right now, you are willing to take anything to escape the eyes. You silently curse yourself for pulling that scene in a place where privacy is a luxury, but at least now you have escaped from it. 

From Heeseung.

Most importantly, from the consequences of your actions.

You bring your finger to your nape and graze the scent gland gently. The pain it has borne for the last two weeks has finally stopped. It brings great relief to you, really—not having to feel the slow death of being an unwanted mate. But freedom has its cost.

You’ve never felt so empty.

You don’t know how your omega did it, but the bond is severed. Traces of Heeseung’s pheromones are nowhere to be found. Gone are the warm, spicy cinnamon and the cool, salty sea air that used to linger around your sweet scent faintly.

You no longer smell like him. You no longer feel the need to see him. You no longer feel the agonising pain shooting up your spine every time he kisses someone who isn’t you.

Yet you feel empty.

You expected more pain. You expected longing. But your body feels quiet. Your omega, previously hysterical and loud, is dead silent inside. A protest to the Goddess or she’s just genuinely exhausted, you don’t know. You can’t put it past her if it’s both.

You sigh, dropping your hand on your lap as you stare at the blood stain on the sleeves of your cardigan. You pay no mind to the nurses and patients passing by in front of you. Jake and Rei left not too long ago, after you managed to convince them that you’ll be okay and that Yujin is on her way.

As if on cue, your nose picks up the smell of green tea among the sterile and sharp odour of the hallway. Yujin.

“Y/N!” 

Your friend greets you with a slightly breathless voice, clearly running her way into the hospital. She bends down and immediately makes a show of inspecting you, turning your body left and right frantically. When her eyes drop on the dried blood staining your sleeves, she nearly shrieks.

“Who the fuck must I kill?!”

“Shh! Keep your voice down!” You hush her, sending apologetic looks to the nearby people who have become alert of Yujin’s death threat. “And no, you’re not killing anybody.”

“Please tell me what happened before I lose my mind,” Yujin pleads, the worry on her face softening her features. You halt. 

Before you know it, your eyes have turned glassy. The weight of everything—the constant pain, the relief, the broken bond—you finally feel the full force of it. As if the gate has been completely destroyed, it’s so easy to cry now.

You let yourself get pulled into a hug, clutching at the fabric of Yujin’s shirt desperately.

Your bitter scent washes over her, smelling of heartbreak and guilt. You think of Heeseung; of how devastated he looked when you broke the bond, like he had lost something precious—which should be a lie, shouldn’t it? He never acknowledged the bond. He never admitted to it.

Then you think of yourself; of the way you used to carry the pieces of your heart everywhere, begging for him to see the bond that used to tie the two of you together. The bond that you treasured, the bond that bloomed hope in your heart, making you believe in a future together with someone who was supposed to love you. 

Something inside you breaks again.

You had lost something precious.

“I—I ended the bond with him,” you choke, the words struggling to get out. “It’s over. Yujin, it’s over.”

You feel Yujin freeze for a moment before she tightens the hug, feeling her lips touch your hairline.

“But why does it still hurt?” Your chest heaves with a new wave of tears, voice completely broken. “Why does it hurt so fucking much? I ended it, and—and he hurt me,” you hiccup, trying to arrange the string of your sentence properly.

“But I still want to hug him,” you whisper wetly, feeling your wolf stir inside you. “I still want to hold him and tell him I’m sorry for doing this to him.”

Yujin remains quiet, rubbing a hand at your back in an attempt to comfort you. 

“It’s okay, Y/N. You did the right thing.”

She holds you and never lets go. She holds you the way that you wish you could’ve done to Heeseung; in the way that you wish he could’ve done to you.

That night, you let yourself surrender to the grief of something that you almost had. The grief of the tale of true mates that you used to hold close to your heart, longing for the wreckage of potential love that is damaged beyond repair.

You grieve for the love you could’ve shared, the life you could’ve had if only the world was on your side.

You grieve for Heeseung.

For the past of the warm embrace that he once gave you and for the pain he inflicted on you.

Heeseung never knew how hard it was to find you outside of the court and practice room until now.

He realises, with a regret that has become all-too-familiar now, that he knows almost nothing about you. Other than the fact that you can bake, that you’re friends with almost everyone on the cheerleader squad—he doesn’t know much about you.

And it kills him.

It takes him two days of losing sleep, of dragging his legs to classes, of forcing the pain in his chest down, before he finally catches a glimpse of you.

It’s completely accidental. He’s on his way to a group discussion, walking past the cafeteria when a breeze of air passes by him, carrying the soft scent of your pheromones.

Light, blooming daisies and sticky, sweet honey.

Heeseung halts in his steps, his alpha already whining in longing. 

Across the hall, at one of the tables, you sit with your friends. A pair of chopsticks presses against your lips as you listen to your friend animatedly talking about her clumsy professor—something that’s only possible for Heeseung to hear had it not been for his dominant trait.

Heeseung doesn’t know what to expect once he sees you.

A small part of him foolishly hopes that you’d look back to him just as quickly, the way you used to do whenever he steps into the same room as you before.

Another part of him wishes that when he senses your scent, the usual undertone of his own scent would still linger underneath.

But you do nothing of those, completely oblivious to his presence, to his scent—like the mere his walking into the same space as you’re in doesn’t affect you anymore. And your scent is completely bare from any traces of his pheromones, the daisies and honey are completely and only you.

Right, Heeseung swallows thickly. Of course you can’t feel him.

The bond is no longer there.

You cut it a couple of days ago.

The wound is still fresh, pulsing in his scent gland like a reminder of his sin. His heart squeezes painfully, but Heeseung only presses his lips. Not a sound comes out of his mouth. Not even a breath.

He lets the pain course through his body, enduring it for as long as he can. He deserves this, he quietly thinks.

He deserves watching you from afar, feeling the one-sided bond punish every fibre of his being.

He deserves this; sensing your scent whenever you’re near, but no longer having the privilege to hold your eyes and share the same feeling only true mates understand.

Deserves the silence. Deserves you not looking up. Deserves being nothing to you.

There’s a gaping hole in his heart when he realises that nothing is tying him to you anymore. There’s no safety net of the Goddess of the Moon’s fated mates tale. There’s no longer the string that connects the two of you—no reason he can find to be anything to you.

A stronger, more desperate part of him forces him to take the leap. To just take over and charge. His feet shift forward slightly, the dominant alpha in him wanting to just grab you and tell you how sorry he is. He’d beg on his knees if he must, so long as you’d at least spare a glance his way, even if it meant you would look down on him forever.

But you look happier.

His eyes trace the curve of your lips as you laugh at something your friend says. The selfish part of him stubbornly stays to steal the moment, letting his undeserving ears hear your voice like a secret.

You look happier.

Heeseung takes a step back, angling his body to leave. He looks at you one last time, hoping to catch your gaze at least once. Just something—anything to soothe his anxious wolf, even when he doesn’t deserve it.

But you never look back. And something inside him cracks. 

He can feel it—the incoming suffocation building up in his chest, like a storm waiting to happen. Before his scent could turn bitter, Heeseung forces himself to leave, eyes frantically searching for exit.

Heeseung is slowly breaking apart, and he does nothing to stop it.

“You’re so—” Jay stops himself, then sighs loudly. “I’ve called you stupid way too many times that I’m actually starting to feel bad now. Why did you skip your group discussion? Jungwon won’t stop asking me for you.”

Heeseung doesn’t react. After catching sight of you at the cafeteria, he’s rushed back to his house, deliberately skipping the group discussion with an apology over a text. The hyperventilation—an occurrence that is frequent now—comes back, and Heeseung doesn’t intend for you to see him unravel like that.

Not out of pride or shame. God, no, there’s nothing left of him to care about those. Heeseung just doesn’t want you to feel bad seeing him like that. Because you shouldn’t feel bad for cutting off the bond.

After all, he did hurt you to the point of death.

Jay studies his friend, watching as Heeseung sits in his producer chair and stares blankly at the monitor. He was just about to go for a gym session with Riki, but decided to stay at home after Heeseung burst through the door, gasping for air with a red face. And it broke his heart.

Calling out Heeseung for his ignorance is one thing that he’s not sorry for, but seeing him in this condition? It kills him. He just wants everyone to stop hurting each other. But first of all, he knows he has to start with Heeseung.

“Hee,” he calls, but Heeseung barely moves. Jay presses his lips. “Hee—”

“I saw her.”

Jay pauses, holding back his tongue when he hears his voice. He waits patiently, giving Heeseung the space he needs. 

But Heeseung doesn’t say another word for a few extended seconds, just sitting there like he was talking to himself. If it weren’t for the small movement of his chest, Jay would’ve panicked and thought that he’d lost his friend. 

It is quiet until his voice, smaller and quieter, echoes inside the room again.

“She always looks prettier than the last time I see her.”

There’s a heavy silence between them. Jay takes the chance to look around the room. 

It’s Heeseung’s producer room, the room Jay let him take to do whatever he wanted with it. The lighting inside this room is moody, dim purple and blue LED lights alternating every minute. 

The glow washes over everything in slow pulses—across the mixing console, the twin monitors, the mess he never bothered to clean. Cables snake along the floor like they’ve settled there for good, curling around the legs of the desk. A track sits paused on the screen, its waveform frozen mid-breath, like it, too, is waiting for something to break.

Jay slowly exhales, his chest tightening as his gaze drifts from a closed notebook to the abandoned headphones hanging at the edge of the console. This room feels less alive—not like what he last remembers of it.

It used to pulse with passion. Whenever he walked in, Heeseung was always up to something. The bass would play like a behind the scene, his sweet voice would sometimes blend with the strum of his newly-bought acoustic. There’d be balls of crumpled papers rolling on the floor, rejected lyrics that he’d still pick up and look back before he went to sleep.

But now, the room is too clean. Ever since he carried Heeseung on his back from Jake’s frat house a few days ago, this producer room has been nothing more than a haunted house.

And at the center of it, is his dying friend.

“Hee,” Jay starts, breaking the silence. He gives his words a lot of thoughts, carefully curated to make it clear that he cares. “Heeseung, you must do something. Or you’ll die, and I won’t let you die.”

Jay grabs his shoulder and turns him around, the chair spinning to face him. Heeseung’s face is void of any colour, sunken eyes looking like faded embers. His lips are dry and chapped, his skin dull and grey. Inevitably, something sharp twists in his chest at seeing his best friend in this state.

“God,” Jay breathes out, trying to hide the tremble in his voice. He’s so fucking scared. “You’re dying, Heeseung, and I—”

Jay hangs his head low, closing his eyes as he tries his best to compose himself. Heeseung needs me, he whispers in his head, Heeseung needs me.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Jay takes a deep breath and lifts his gaze. Heeseung is looking away, blank face staring lifelessly at the wall like a portrait of emptiness and grief. His grip on his shoulder tightens.

“I talked to my parents,” Jay tries again, “there is a way to fix this. Two, actually.” 

The moment stretches without any reaction from Heeseung. Jay takes it as a sign to continue.

“We can save this if you…if you can win her back and make her omega want to patch the bond back up.”

The tiniest flicker of something crosses Heeseung’s eyes. His jaw twitches almost imperceptibly. 

“Or,”  Jay licks his lips, preparing himself. “You can cut the bond from your side, too,” he finishes. 

Heeseung turns his head to look at him, wide eyes watering with unshed tears.

“Cut it clean once and for all, Heeseung.”

His lips part, but nothing comes out. Despite his passive façade, Heeseung’s mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and regret.

Fix the bond and face you, which he doesn’t think he deserves.

Or cut it off and lose you for good.

For the first time in his life, Heeseung doesn’t know which option is worse.

The nightclub is still as noisy as he remembers it. Blinding lights that hurt his eyes, loud bass that pierces his ears. People are dancing with their company, seeking friction and heat between slicked bodies.

Heeseung used to be in the center of it all, basking in the attention of perfectly-manicured nails on his chest and the alluring scents enveloping him. A perfect distraction from a rejected demo. A relief for his frustration over a losing game.

The escape he always chose to run from facing negative emotions. 

But tonight, he stands motionless in a corner, lips pulled in a tight line. 

There’s an old pull coming from the crowd. After all, having people worship your body does feel addictive at one point—and Heeseung is no exception to that. He’s used to showcasing his dominance whether it was on the court or in a bedroom, a drug he kept feeding his alpha to the point of no return. He’s used to command and dominate, a trait that helps him as a captain and as a pleaser.

Like facing a withdrawal, his hands twitch by his sides, itching to inch forward.

You are feeling bad now, a voice whispers in his head. Go on. There are plenty of omegas that can make you feel better.

Heeseung forces his gaze down. No, he counters.

No more of that life.

Heeseung is dominant in every aspect of his existence—from biological traits down to his own personality and mindset. But when his mind drifts back to the thoughts of you, he finds himself crumbling in submission.

It hurts his pride. God, it hurts so much.

But the ache doesn’t compare to the look on your pale face when you break the bond you shared with him, like cutting an infected part of a root that’d destroy your field of daisies.

Nothing hurts more than being the reason you had to resort to such a critical decision, that might cost you your own life.

The urge finally quiets down after a few seconds of redirecting his thoughts to the more pressing matters at hand. Heeseung smooths down his clothes in an attempt to calm himself.

He’s wearing one of his baggy graphic T-shirts, black and bigger than his frame. A picture of The Strokes, stretched and scratched from use clings to the fabric. Beside him, Jay stands tall in his usual button-up, always looking out of place in the nightclub thanks to his distinguished gentleman image.

On the other side of him, is a cute menace.

“Okay!” Sunoo claps his hand, adjusting the collar of his yellow sweater. “This is a bad idea, but since you’re a masochist, let’s do what we’re here for!”

The sass in his speech doesn’t go unnoticed by both alphas. Jay lets out a big sigh, already massaging his temple, while Heeseung only gives him a side-eye, hardly offended by his words. 

He’s right, of course. Sunoo’s never wrong.

The brown-haired boy, feigning ignorance to the stares he’s receiving, continues. “Since you want to cut the bond clean—”

Jay interrupts sharply. “Try to cut it clean.”

“Right,” Sunoo gives a small smile. “Since we want to try cutting it off clean,” he makes a show of slicing the air with his hand, “let’s find you an omega and see if you can kiss her or him without throwing up.”

Heeseung lets the bass swallow his voice, already hating the idea inside his head. Which is ironic, because just a few days ago, he was adamant on trying to convince himself that he didn’t have a mate.

Oh, well. Just look at him now.

Jay seems to share the same sentiment as him. “This can either turn worse or better. Are you sure you’re doing this?” Jay looks back from Heeseung to Sunoo. “Can’t we find other ways?”

Sunoo taps his chin, looking serious for the first time that night. 

“I don’t think we can. The one breaking the bond should be his wolf,” he starts, pointing to Heeseung’s chest. “And since he’s been giving Heeseung a silent treatment, we have no idea where he stands now. This is the only way to trigger a reaction.”

Heeseung thinks he’s had enough of being talked about like a case study. “What do you mean? We don’t know where he stands now?”

Sunoo pats his shoulder, understanding his confusion. “Yeap. We don’t know whether your wolf is okay with cutting the bond with Y/N and finding another mate, or if he still wants Y/N and wants to fix the bond with her.”

Heeseung blinks, confused. “But she’s already cut—”

“It’s one-sided, Heeseungie hyung. Your wolf didn’t agree with the breakup,” Sunoo then lowers his voice, now talking softly when he notices the gloomy look on his face. “That’s why we either cut it or fix it,” the alpha fidgets with the sleeves of his sweater, already feeling emotional. 

“Or you could die, hyung. That’s the reality of true mates.”

He’s right. Heeseung knows, despite being a little devil that he is, Sunoo will never lie about something as serious as this. Especially when it involves life and death.

But Heeseung hasn’t been on good terms with his wolf. They’ve been clashing since the night that he met you, always debating whether you were his fated mate or not. And each time, it was Heeseung who never listened. It was Heeseung who refused to give in, in denial to the possibility of a mate and…love.

Even tonight.

“Let’s just cut it off,” he grunts, his voice grim and clipped. Sunoo and Jay whirl around and look at him like he’s just lost one eye.

“I just told you, we can’t just—”

“He’s not responding, and he never will,” Heeseung exhales through his nose, frustration spilling into his scent. “My wolf—”

“That’s because you never wanted to listen to him, Hee.” Jay finally speaks up, cutting the conversation short. Heeseung pauses, his voice dying in his throat.

From his left, Jay’s citrusy pheromones—bergamot and lime with a soft undertone of amber and metal—swirls into his senses with an air of authority. Heeseung recognises this. It’s the accent that Jay uses when he wants someone to relax and listen to him. 

The dark-haired alpha plays with his whiskey, watching the liquid swirl and the ice spin as he speaks. 

“Or to me. To us.”

He lets the words linger, as if begging Heeseung to finally understand. Jay meets his eyes, looking into him with desperation. There is a flicker of something there; something that makes the wall inside him rattle.

“Please. Just tonight. Please try for us. For you,” his voice is lower, shaky, “I don’t want to lose you, Hee. Please.”

“I just don’t want to hurt her anymore.” Heeseung hesitates. “What if I touch another omega and I hurt her again?”

“You won’t,” Sunoo convinces. He nudges Heeseung’s shoulder with his. “For now, she won’t feel anything because the tie is broken. It won’t be easy, but saving yourself means saving her too.”

A heavy silence falls upon them, filled with unspoken tension and pleading eyes. Jay and Sunoo share a look, each of them on the edges of their nerves waiting for Heeseung’s answer.

At last, Heeseung finally relents. A small sigh escapes his lips and he takes a step forward.

“Okay. Let’s give this a shot.”

It isn’t hard to find someone to kiss. It was never hard for Heeseung. He manages to mask his gloomy scent that could shoo people away from him and gets into his flirty mode. His smile, though a little strained on the edges, still looks pretty as ever.

Soon enough, he already has an omega in his arms, tucked away in a dimmed corner near the bar. Sunoo and Jay keep a safe distance from him, not too close to intrude but not too far out of his sight.

“You’re so tall,” the omega purrs, gliding her pretty nail up his arm. Heeseung barely responds. “Tall and so handsome.”

His heart is telling him how out-of-place the touch feels. The familiar feeling comes back. The same feeling he ignored for two weeks in fear of confronting his own destiny. The same feeling he buried for the sake of proving to no one but himself that he’d do fine without you; without the sacred bond that connected you both.

He wants to flee. He wants to push her away and scratch at the spot where she’s touched him. Where her skin meets his skin, Heeseung feels the strongest urge to recoil. The same nausea returns, clouded by her scent that doesn’t sit well in his nose. 

But his rational mind reminds him of the intention behind this.

“Yeah?” He tries, struggling to look her in the eyes. He tightens his grip on her waist and hesitates before pulling her slightly closer. “I’ll need to bend down to kiss you, then.”

The girl lets out an airy giggle. She circles her arms around his neck and pulls him down, peering at him through her lashes seductively. “Mhm, bent down enough?”

Heeseung freezes. It’s going to happen. Heeseung fights the urge to turn his face away, but Sunoo’s words serve as a reminder that stops him from doing so. 

Saving yourself means saving her, too.

Shakily, he exhales, closing the gap between their lips as slowly as he can. His heart is angry behind his ribs, his pulse rushing loudly in his ears. Heeseung braces himself until the pout of her lips brushes against his.

The kiss starts gently, mainly initiated by her. Heeseung tries to follow, tries to lead, but the feeling of her mouth on his feels so wrong. It doesn’t feel right. It’s like fitting a triangle puzzle with round pieces.

He opens his mouth, trying to deepen his kiss when something inside him stirs.

No. His wolf finally speaks. It’s no longer distant and muffled.

Like a wolf being reborn from the first death, this time, his voice is sharp and clear. 

Not her.

Heeseung closes his eyes, feeling a bile rising behind his throat. But instead of darkness, what he sees instead is an image of you. Your soft features, your silky hair, and your pretty, pretty eyes that he can only see in his memory. 

The eyes that used to look at him with sparkles of hope, waiting for him to notice the magnetic force of a bond that you shared with him. The same grateful eyes that looked at him under the moonlight, when the convenience store was empty except for the two of you.

His stomach turns sharply he might actually be sick.

Oh Goddess, what has he done to you? Why did he do you so wrong? Why did he think so highly of himself that he thought he was above love and fate?

A drop of tears slips down his cheek.

Before he knows it, Heeseung is already crying into the kiss. Hot, fresh tears seeps into the lock of their mouths, making the kiss taste like salt and grief; just like how his scent smells right now.

I want Y/N. His wolf echoes again, firmer than he’s ever been. We want Y/N.

At last, after weeks of battling himself, Heeseung finally listens to his wolf.

He breaks the kiss with a breath, pushing her gently by the shoulders and putting a distance between them. Head dipping low, Heeseung lets himself cry, watching the tears drop from the tip of his nose to the sticky floor. The omega is left confused, but she doesn’t say a word.

If anything, Heeseung looks so pitiful that she forgets about feeling upset.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“I’m sorry,” he hiccups, bringing his hands to his face. He doesn’t realise how hard he’s shaking until she places her hand on his shoulders. “I’m so sorry, I can’t do this—”

“Hey, it’s okay,” the girl convinces, pursing her lips into a straight line. “Do you wanna talk about it?”

Heeseung doesn’t answer. Drops of grief and regret keep pouring out like a broken faucet, staining his cheeks wet. The sound that leaves him isn’t even a sob; it’s something raw, broken, pulled straight out of his chest.

“My heart belongs to her.”

Heeseung feels his wolf paw at him, finally winning the prolonged war of love and pride. A war whose price may be greater than the sin he’s committed. 

His scent gland is pulsing even harder, as if reminding him of the bond still barely alive. 

With a shaky exhale, like he’s at last allowed himself to be free, Heeseung tries to let it out.

“I think…” his voice breaks, softer now, like he’s afraid of the truth even as he says it. 

“I think I finally accepted that my heart has always belonged to her.”

For the first time, Heeseung doesn’t try to deny it. His wolf purrs, almost crying from relief. 

“And she doesn’t want it anymore.”

It is very early in the morning. Rays of orange glow cracks through the horizon, bleeding light into the ground. Somewhere in the distance, the moon is slowly getting swallowed by the sky and soon enough, the sun is proudly ascending.

It’s a Saturday, which means, there’s no classes scheduled today. But Heeseung finds himself stepping foot on the campus ground. Faintly, from where he’s standing at the car park, he can hear whistles coming from the field. His wolf, who’s done giving him the silent treatment, nudges him to hurry. 

Right. He’s here, abandoning his usual sleep-in on the weekend to find you. It’s the only place he knows where you’d be and he might’ve just bribed Jake to tell him when his football friendly match is going to be.

Taking a deep breath, Heeseung finally moves his legs. His ribs rattle with how fast his heart is beating. He purposely chooses to come fifteen minutes before the match ends—he’s not exactly here to see Jake play (sorry dude). He doesn’t know what to do with himself if he has to wait around for hours just to talk to you. He might go crazy.

Well. That is, if you want to talk to him.

“Don’t discourage me now, you dog,” he mutters under his breath, berating his alpha. 

The field is not that far from where he parked his (Jay’s) car. A few paces more and he’s going to see the vast green-grassed space where a bunch of alphas are running around chasing a ball using their legs.

But to his surprise, the field and the bleachers are almost empty.

“Fuck,” Heeseung curses under his breath and checks his watch. He still has three minutes left before the game ends—if what Jake told him was true. Did they end it earlier than planned? He could’ve sworn he heard whistles just now!

You spent too much time on your pep talk, his wolf rolls his eyes.

Heeseung doesn’t waste time. He whirls around and forces his brain to think quicker. His legs move faster, turning corner after a corner in search of you. 

Where would the cheerleaders go after a game? To the locker room? No, that’s for the athletes. To the car park? That’s possible, but he didn’t cross paths with anyone on the way here. To the practice room? He rounds a corner. Okay, that actually—

A subtle wave of daisies and honey washes over him almost instantly. Heeseung immediately stops, his breath catching in his throat. 

Standing in front of the vending machine, just a few feet away from him, is you. You’re wearing your usual costume—sleeveless top that cuts right at your waist and pleated skirt that ends just above your mid-thigh. But today, the theme seems to be pink. You have your hair up in an updo, a blue ribbon—the official representative colour of the college—is tied neatly around the silky strands of your hair.

There’s only a glimpse of your side profile visible to him, but it’s enough to quiet the prideful alpha in him. He’s not even sure if he’s said it enough, but every time his eyes land on you, you just get prettier. 

For a second, Heeseung thinks he doesn’t mind dying at that moment.

You don’t look up to him instantly, or sensing his presence by his pheromones—another reminder of the broken bond that you used to share. Heeseung gulps down the hurt, clenching his sweaty palms into fists.

A clang of a can dropping in the vending machine booms through the hallway. You bend down to take it.

Call her name. His wolf urges. Idiot, just call her name!

Heeseung gathers his breath.

“Y/N?” Your name leaves his name like a sacred prayer, tender and delicate, like a whisper only the Goddess can hear. You freeze in your spot, finger brushing the can only a fraction.

The silence stretches for a few seconds. In waiting, Heeseung holds back his breath, afraid that another sound from him will scare you away.

But you only straighten up, abandoning your can of drink and turn to him. The edges of your eyes harden at the sight of him. 

You hold his gaze, lips unmoving before you finally say his name.

“Heeseung.”

It’s flat. It’s polite. It’s cold. It’s nothing like the night when you ran into his arms. It’s not warm like the way you called his name before falling asleep on his shoulders, back when your wolf trusted him with your life.

Back when the bond was still there. Back when his name was still written in the stars beside yours.

Heeseung thinks this is worse than death.

“Can I…” he pauses, already fearing your rejection mid-sentence. 

Saving yourself means saving her, too.

He pushes through.

“Can I talk to you?”

The words finally leave his lips, and Heeseung doesn’t move. It’s as if he was intruding; like he was poking your safe bubble and he wasn’t allowed to move without your permission. 

Your eyes assess him, like you’re deciding if he was a threat. Then, with a firm tone he never heard from you, you reply. “I have practice.”

“I won’t take long,” he rushes out, the words tripping over each other. “Please—just for a moment. Please.”

Please.

The one word you’d never expect coming from a dominant alpha like him. Someone who seems prideful in everything he does, who commands attention wherever he goes with his voice alone.

So he does have the courage to talk to you. He does know what he did was wrong on so many levels—and yet.

Yet it took you almost dying for him to learn. 

Yet it took you bleeding on the floor for him to realise.

For once, you really thought you could be the bigger person. You really believed that your heart, as soft as it always has been, would fold and melt the moment his honeyed-voice greets your senses again.

But you were wrong.

Your resentment still lingers, caging your chest in a protective embrace, not daring to lose its heartbeat for the second time.

“No.”

You take a step back, and this time, you make sure it is a line being drawn.

“I don’t want to talk to you.”  

Your verdict echoes like a gavel tapping against a sound block. It’s straightforward. It’s clear. But to Heeseung, it’s a punishment too small to what he did to you.

He tries his best to school his expression, swallowing the lump in his throat with force. He then nods, weakly, then a bit too fast.

His wolf cries, not willing for him to back down so easily. His human part, on the other hand, is split into two. 

Old Heeseung is ready to isolate and never reach out again. Same old habits that used to bring him comfort and distractions. 

This is why you don’t do commitments. Just forget about this.

Another Heeseung, a new side that feels awkward but is still slowly growing, is trying to rationalise your decision and understand your boundaries.

Give her time, Heeseung. The wound is still so fresh.

“Okay.” He finally breathes out, the heavy word weirdly sending relief to his system. “Okay. I understand.”

You don’t move for a moment, just staring at him blankly like he might change his mind, before you nod. You honestly don’t know what to expect, but this is a pleasant surprise. You don’t think you can handle a pushy alpha now—especially the same alpha who had pushed you too far.

You leave without another word, feeling his eyes boring into the back of your head as you round the corner. Once out of his sight, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding,, gripping the wall for support. 

Your heart pounds like a war drum, threatening to break out of your chest. Seeing his face after actively avoiding him seems to be harder than you’d thought. You didn’t know he’d come looking for you on the weekends like this.

The Heeseung you remember always leaves first.

You put a hand over your chest, trying to calm your frantic heart, and realise one thing with a sinking feeling.

Your quiet omega is still silent, lips sealed shut. Not even a word was heard from her since that tragic night.

You sigh. Heeseung’s got a really long way to go.

On the other side of the wall, Heeseung trails after your steps with his gaze—longing, hopeful, and sorrowful.

He’ll wait. He doesn’t know if he’s allowed yet, but he’ll wait.

Heeseung heaves out a long sigh, his throat feeling dry. The vending machine suddenly looks interesting to him. Rows of canned drinks lined up the interior but Heeseung already has his mind set on his go-to Zero Coke.

The can drops with a loud clang. Heeseung reaches down, ready to feel the coldness of the red-canned drink, only to pause when he sees green instead.

Grape juice.

Oh, right. You forgot your drink.

He takes both cans, but his attention on his Zero Coke is long gone. He inspects your drink instead, eyes lingering on the brand like it’s something precious, his fingers wet from condensation.

So you like grape juice.

Heeseung finally learns something about you today.

But waiting is easier said than done. 

Anxiety lives under his skin, prickling in his system like thorns in flesh. Every time he closes his eyes, the memory of you bleeding in the frat house haunts him back. He’d wake up gasping, lungs burning like he just survived a drowning.

Your silence has turned his longingness into a desperation so deep you practically could smell it on him. Heeseung can’t be with himself, not when he’s been spending every hour fighting every instinct to scream your name and throw up.

And that’s exactly how Heeseung finds himself lingering around the business building not long after the last time spoke to you.

He doesn’t know your schedule, he doesn’t know what classes you’re in, or the circle of friends you have other than the cheerleaders. He only knows where you live because he sent you home the night you fell asleep on his shoulders—but he doesn’t think going to your house is appropriate. It’s too private and he doesn’t want to stain your safe abode with his presence. 

Which is why he decided to wait at the campus, at the building he’s not familiar with.

Heeseung never hated himself more than he does now.

Fuck. How ignorant had he been towards the person who was supposed to be his mate?

Is it too late to learn about you now? Is it too late to knock on your door and hold his heart in his hand like a beggar right now?

So Heeseung spends hours waiting for you without even knowing if you’d come to campus today. He messaged Sunoo for help, but it has slipped from his mind just how busy a med student can be. Sunoo’s probably losing his mind over human anatomy again. The text remains delivered until the night falls.

Black sky takes over the horizon, only lending lights from the moon and the stars as a mercy. Heeseung’s feet are numb from walking around and standing for too long. He looks around the emptying hallways, not sure where exactly he is other than the fact that he’s at the business compound—a path where most students use to get to their classes.

He glances at his watch. It’s almost 8 pm. Most classes have already ended, and the last session would have ended half an hour ago. 

You’re probably not here anymore.

Heeseung bites back a groan, licking his dry lips as he turns around to leave. Meeting you at the court is not possible until a few weeks more for a friendly match with that eastern university team again. He can’t possibly wait until then—so he’ll come back tomorrow.

Heeseung knows that he’s a walking contradiction. He vows to respect your decision, to let things go with time. To step back when he’s asked to, to wait around until the tide dies.

However, wasn’t this the way he lost you?

For being too passive. For being too cowardly. For running away.

Heeseung really wants to give you time, but at the same time, he doesn’t know if your ‘no’ yesterday is still applicable today. He should at least try today, right? Or should he wait more?

Fuck. With self-hatred thicker than before, Heeseung curses himself for not knowing. For not understanding. He’s only well-versed about omegas when it comes to sex, but other than that, he doesn’t fucking know. His carelessness and ignorance are biting him hard in the ass right now.

Though, the desperation persists.

He just needs one thing: closure.

Not for himself, but rather for you.

You deserve to know only the truth.

But it’s getting late, and the thin layers he’s wearing aren’t doing a good job to protect him from the chill. Now, he hopes you’re already home, safe and tucked in warmly in your room.

He will try again tomorrow.

Just as he’s about to leave, as if the Moon Goddess finally hears his prayers, Heeseung catches the sound of your voice drifting down the hallway. 

You’re here.

God, you’re actually here.

Before he can overthink it, Heeseung is already on his feet, following the trail of daisies and honey using his sharp senses. And he sees you—just rounding the corner, talking to your classmates while heading towards the exit.

He can no longer hold back the instinct to call your name.

“Y/N.”

You freeze in your spot, recognising his voice in a heartbeat. You hate that you do.

He’s already on his way, closing the distance between the two of you with a look of desperation that seems foreign when he wears it. Beside you, your classmates are already whispering, equally surprised as you are.

“Is that Lee Heeseung?”

“Isn’t the music faculty so far from here?”

You pretend you don’t hear anything and frown instead.

“What are you doing here?”

“Can we talk?” Heeseung blurts out the moment he’s close enough. There’s still an elephant distance between you and him, but he doesn’t dare step closer. 

Can he even be near you? Is he allowed to? 

When there’s no answer from you, he tries again. “Please, can I please talk to you?”

“Just go home, Heeseung.” You mutter, already walking away. You send an apologetic look to your classmates and start to leave, but Heeseung is already hot on your tail.

“Y/N,” he croaks out, the tremble in his voice almost going unnoticed. “I just need ten minutes. No—give me five minutes, please.” 

No response from you. You don’t even know where you’re going anymore, taking a turn after a turn to lose him. 

How did he know where you were? Did he find out your schedule from someone else? What is he doing here? How long has he been waiting for you?

It doesn’t seem like he has another reason to be here. So did he wait around for you?

You bite your lip, not entirely prepared for the inevitable confrontation to happen so fast.

But you underestimate how desperate Heeseung is because he keeps following you like a lost puppy, long legs slowing down slightly so as to not crowd you from behind. Being this close to him allows your nose to pick up on his sense—eye-watering cinnamon spiking with anxiousness with an undertone of a brewing sea storm. 

Heeseung can’t stand the silence any longer.

“I was wrong.” Fuck. If you won’t even look at him, that’s fine. But he needs you to know how sorry he is. “I know what I did was terrible and I—”

“Terrible?” You finally come to a stop and whirl around, your scent brimming with anger. “Terrible? I almost died, Heeseung!”

Heeseung catches himself before he crashes into you. He stares at you, wide-eyed, as you crane your neck to look up at him. The unwanted memory comes flashing back—of blood and tears and regret he’d never move past. 

Your eyes glisten with angry tears, fists trembling by your sides.

“What you did was almost criminal.”

Heeseung flinches. He doesn’t expect the word to land so heavy in his chest, so sharply in his gut. His hand flexes by his side, urging him to cradle your soft, soft face in his hold and pour out every single apology he’s been carrying but he stops himself.

“I know, and I’m not asking you to forgive me,” Heeseung murmurs, suddenly unable to meet your eyes. “I just want you to allow me to fix the bond.”

You let out a laugh. A hollow, humourless laugh. The emptiness doesn’t even echo in the air.

“So now the bond is real to you?” You spit out, venom leaking into your voice. “Wasn’t it all just in my head, Heeseung? Wasn’t it all just my heat messing with me.”

Heeseung is hit with a pang of shame, not expecting you to throw his words back at him. He cowers and lets the full impact of his hurtful choice of words consume him to the bone.

You put a fist over your heaving chest, your tongue getting loose now that the inevitable has come. 

“I thought I was losing my mind,” your voice trembles slightly, treading along something dangerously close to a breakdown. “I thought something was wrong with me. I was sick for weeks and none of the doctors could cure me! And the whole time it was just…”

You swallow, blinking back tears furiously.

“The whole time it was just you choosing someone else over me.”

It’s like sand has filled up his mouth. Every answer tastes wrong and bitter on his tongue. He doesn’t even know what to say to that for how true it is.

How was he supposed to atone for a sin that nearly killed his mate?

“I know,” is the only thing he can whisper. Shame spreads across his chest like a disease. “I know. I—I did that. I’m sorry for not choosing you, Y/N.”

There it is. The truth, bare as it is, lies there like a final verdict. It feels almost tangible for how suffocating it is. It feels almost too cruel for how much it hurts you. It feels almost alive for how hard it is pulsing in your ears.

The dam finally breaks. “How long have you known that we—” your voice catches, silent tears gliding down your cheeks. “That we were fated mates?”

Guilt gnaws at his chest. “Two weeks before the tournament,” he quietly answers, already feeling small.

So since the beginning of your streak of pain. 

You feel sick to your stomach.

“How many of them?”

“What?”

“How many omegas did you fuck to convince yourself that I wasn’t your mate?”

Defensiveness flares up in his chest. “I didn’t fuck them. I couldn’t. I tried—”

“But you still stayed there, trying to prove to everyone in this world that that’s what you wanted and not me!” Your voice booms, no longer holding back on the pain.

Silence rings so loud afterwards, it stretches and stretches until the tension is left in a tight thread waiting to snap.

You stand there, shoulders shaking from sobbing quietly. Long, silky hair cascades around your face as you look down, biting back any sound. 

And every hitch of your voice rips his heart apart.

His wolf, wounded as he is, thrashes inside. Shivering daisies and acrid honey droops around him, eliciting another whine from his alpha. Heeseung braves another step forward, hesitation edging on his heels.

“I messed up. I hurt you all because I tried to prove to myself that I didn’t need you.”

His hands twitch, hovering mindlessly on his sides. 

Heeseung has promised himself that he’d only say the truth from now on. Harsh as it is, bitter as it is—it’s the only thing you deserve to hear. He couldn’t conjure any more lies to protect himself.

God. Even his lies are killing him now.

“I never slept with them. I couldn’t touch them without feeling like I was about to throw up,” he goes on, voice softening around the edges. “I couldn’t even walk into a room without hoping that it’d be you.”

You shake your head. “But you still did.”

He nods weakly. “That doesn’t erase the fact that I did. I  chose to run away because I couldn’t handle the fact that our fate is bigger than what I was willing to hold.”

Our fate.

Heeseung inhales shakily.

“I forced myself to enjoy the touch because I was so fucking busy proving the Goddess wrong.”

A sob escapes your lips.

Why does our fate have to be so tragic, Heeseung?

“I was dying, Heeseung,” you whisper wetly. “Your actions were killing me.”

Heeseung bites his tongue. “I know. I was wrong.”

A minute passes without any words. The hallway is only filled with the soft sobs and sniffles coming from your lips. Heeseung stands, wretched and torn. One leg is urging him to go to you and hold you. Another leg is forcing him to stay because he doesn’t think he deserves to touch you.

What he knows, for sure, is that this image of you crying in front of him will haunt him in his sleep.

After a moment, you finally speak, your voice hoarse.

“I don’t think we can ever come back from this.”

Heeseung’s throat closes up, a sudden stab lodging its pointy end into his chest. No, his wolf cries out. Please, no.

He lifts his hand, longing to touch you, but then decides to drop it. “Y/N. Please—”

“I don’t even know how we can fix this,” you sniffle, wiping your cheeks with the back of your hand. “My omega has been silent since the day she cut the bond.”

In response, his wolf whines, trying to get a reaction. But you feel nothing.

Not a stir. Not even a shift. Your omega is deadly unresponsive. If it’s not for your beating heart, you’d think that you’d been dead since that night.

“I don’t know if she still wants this or not. This—bond. You.”

“But do you?” Heeseung can hear his voice cracking, and he thinks his heart is facing the same fate too. He’s sure of it. 

“Do you still want this?”

You are silent for a moment and it’s the longest second Heeseung has ever gone through.

“I—I don’t know,” you quietly mutter. “You hurt me more than anyone ever did, Heeseung.”

Heeseung would have preferred you shout at him than this. He’d rather have the heat of your hatred than this.

This cold winter of your uncertainty. This soft, subtle turndown, like you’re already resigned to the fate of not having him in your life anymore.

Heeseung’s knees hit the ground with a thud before you can stop him. 

It’s not weak, or pathetic. It’s utter devotion, surrendering his heart stripped bare from pride and lies to you. It’s complete submission, one that his dominant side has always found it hard to do but done it so easily when it comes to you.

Heeseung doesn’t do worship, but you’re the only altar he will ever kneel to.

His head hangs low, burgundy hair falling over his eyes as his shoulders shake once.

“I know,” he mutters, sounding wrecked.

Heeseung has his hands fisted on his lap, as though it’s his only source of strength, shaking from the overwhelming desperation brimming in his scent.

“I was a coward.”

You gasp, not expecting such action. “Heeseung, get up—“

“Not until you hear me out,” he pleads.

He lifts his head. Heeseung’s wide, bambi eyes look up at you, veiled with a thick layer of tears. 

“I fought the bond because I was afraid. I was so fucking scared. I was always the one to leave first, to run and detach fast, but you, Y/N…”

His fingers twitch, fighting the urge to reach out.

“You made me want to stay.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m scared because giving in would mean finally belonging to someone.”

His eyes find yours again, looking soft and destroyed all over. Your heart traitorously skips a beat.

“But right now, I’d give up everything to belong to you.”

His vulnerability, raw and edged with hopelessness, tugs at your wounded heartstrings. You instinctively step back from the sheer weight of it.

“Y/N, please. If your omega never forgives me,” he chokes out, feeling the distance like a slap in the face. He bites back the instinct to take your hand, but he doesn’t dare touch you.

Not until you allow him to.

“If she never forgives me, I’ll spend the rest of my life earning forgiveness from you.”

A teardrop spills from his lash line, staining his cheeks wet. 

You give a helpless shake of your head, your resolve slowly crumbling. 

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“Then I’ll show you. I’ll show you that I mean this.”

His knees scrape against the floor as he inches closer. Tears stream down his face in relentless waves, the lower part of his lips trembling greatly.

“I’m not asking you to take me back. I just need permission from you,” he begs, almost sobbing into his speech.

“Please let me try. I want to become the man that deserves you, Y/N.”

Your lips part, a ghost of a shaky breath escaping your lips.

You’re not used to this kind of devotion. 

Not from those alphas who wanted you because they thought having the shy girl who barely talks to men was trophy-worthy. Not from those men who see you as nothing more than their kink fantasies. Not from those guys who thought you were boring and not exciting.

But tonight, as moonlight leaks through the glass of the windows and spills across the floor as if the Moon Goddess has decreed this to happen herself—Heeseung sits there, bruising knees digging into the marble tiles, and begs you to give him a chance.

You’re not used to this kind of devotion, yet you let a small part of your heart, a traitor that it is—flutters from the impact of his words.

You take another step backward, as if being physically away from him would help recover your resolve.

“I…” you can’t find your voice, not when he’s looking at you with regret spilling from his round eyes. Not when he’s gazing up at you like he was a sinner and you were his only saviour.

“I don’t understand, Heeseung,” is the only thing you can whisper, deciding to be truthful. “You were so—so hellbent on trying to deny the bond. You even went to Narin after I confronted you,” you lick your lips, gut twisting sharply at the mention of your captain. You still haven’t spoken to her until this day.

“Why now? Why…change your mind? I already made it easier for you—I cut the bond!” 

Heeseung flinches. The reality slaps him in the face again, presenting him with the consequences of his actions on the table. 

He knew it won’t be easy, but God—hearing the hurt in your voice pains him more than the ache in his knees.

Heeseung almost crawls forward.

“I’m a coward, Y/N,” he breathes out. “Losing you made me realise that I was never trying to escape the bond.”

His head dips lower, shaking it slowly to himself.

“I was trying to escape what the bond demanded of me.”

Heeseung lifts his gaze, raising his hands, gesturing to you like a priceless painting. There’s a sad smile on his face.

“Settling down, staying, being devoted only to you…those are the only things you deserve. Nothing less.”

His voice is somehow louder than the racing pulse in your ears. You know what’s coming, yet you’re still not prepared for the sting of the truth.

“I am everything less than that,” he finishes. He closes his eyes, not willing to see the look you might wear on your face.

There’s a long pause. The world is quiet outside, not even a sound of cars passing by can be heard. Heeseung doesn’t know how late it already is, or how long he’s been on his knees, but he doesn’t care. 

Hurting his knees is the kindest punishment you can ever give him.

You, on the other hand, are beyond devastated. Truly, you don’t think Heeseung could ever hurt you more than he already did. But his confession—fuck.

Heeseung wasn’t ready to step up and become the love that you deserve and it’s killing you that he chose to run instead of try.

It’s killing you that you weren’t an option until fate decided to twist everything around.

With resentment and resignation, you finally decide. 

“The bond is no longer there. You can just forget about this, Heeseung.”

Heeseung thinks being shot to death would hurt less than this.

You, however, are already shutting him out.

“If you need closure, just know that one day I will forgive you. It’s not now, not next week, and probably not in months.” Or years. “But I will.”

There’s a strange ache blooming in your chest. One that comes as a price of letting something precious go.

“I hope that’ll help ease your mind.”

God, the bond was precious to you. Heeseung was precious to you.

How did it come to this?

Across from you, Heeseung is crumbling down.

“No, please—” he chokes, scrambling for some air. He can’t breathe.

“Please, Y/N. Give me a chance to be forgiven.”

“You don’t have to try so hard, Heeseung. The bond is gone.”

“I don’t care about the bond!” He hits his chest with a fist, the pain becoming unbearable. “I hurt you, Y/N. With or without the bond, nothing can change the fact that I hurt you and I can’t live with myself knowing that I hurt someone innocent.”

Heeseung can feel the sting of his nails digging into his palm. Anytime now and he’ll be drawing blood from how hard he’s fisting it.

The tears are welling up in your eyes again but you hold your ground. 

“Please, I beg you, and I beg you hard, Y/N.”

Heeseung clasps his hands, the pink of his nails turning white from how hard he’s doing it.

“I beg you—please let me try to fix this. Please let me earn your forgiveness. Please, Y/N.”

Your heart breaks at the determination in his voice. 

“It won’t be easy.”

“However long it takes,” he pushes, searching your eyes with his glistening ones, his voice raw with urgency.

“I won’t wait for you.”

His eyes burn with more hot tears. 

He’s lost you for good, hasn’t he?

“You don’t have to,” he quietly whispers. “I just need your permission to try.”

You swallow down the urge to scream. His promise sounds bigger than his whole existence, yet your heart foolishly roots for him.

“You can try. But I can’t promise you anything.”

You don’t wait for his reply. Quickly, as if your heels were on fire, you turn around and leave him. 

Alone, still kneeling. Traces of his regret are still wet on his cheeks. 

You hear him sniffle, but you don’t look back.

Heeseung sits alone in the darkness of his producer room.

The space resembles a shipwreck. If Jay didn’t see any crumpled papers the last time he was here, he’d be surprised to see the growing pile of them now. 

Heeseung has tried to write something. Or anything that could get this remorse out of his system. He wants to translate his grief into something that is at least listenable. Not whatever mess he is inside.

But nothing really comes out. 

The bullpoint of his pen ends up writing your name instead. In round letters, in cursive. In shaky hands, and in tears. 

Y/N.

I’m sorry, Y/N…please forgive me.

A word of your name turns into long written words of regret and silent confession. Letters that he will crumple and throw, then pick it up to read back and add more. 

There is a dull ache in his knees, turning purple from the time he spent on the floor for you. He lets the bruise pulse, making no attempts to ice it or stop it. It’s a reminder to him. 

A reminder of the ticket of mercy you barely granted him.

A reminder of the bond still hanging limply by his finger.

It’s not even a pain if he put it beside the suffering you went through because of him.

You’re a coward.

His wolf suddenly speaks, adding salt to the wound. 

Heeseung closes his eyes shut.

“Shut up,” he grumbles, not appreciating being reprimanded when he’s already a wreck. But his wolf, justifyingly so, seems to hold a grudge against him because he doesn’t stop.

I lost my mate because of you. You ran away from her.

“Yes, I did. I know that,” he grunts. He already resents himself for it, why is he wolf making it harder for him as if they weren’t two halves of one soul?

Knowing isn’t enough. Remember the night you made her bleed.

The memory, as if summoned, crawls its way back into his mind. As if he was brought back to that fateful night, Heeseung can feel his gut twisting sharply inside.

Remember the night she trembled and cut the bond because you went too far.

“Stop,” Heeseung whisper-shouts. 

It feels like the room is shrinking and the walls are closing in on him because the air can’t seem to reach his lungs. Heeseung cowers, covering his ears with both hands. The sting of hot tears starts to burn at the corners of his eyes.

Your face, pale and ghostly, haunts the edges of his thoughts. He still recalls how hard you shook from shock. He still recalls the tremble in your legs as you hold onto the door for dear life.

He really went too far.

And if proving his point, his wolf taunts more.

Remember the omegas you touched while she was dying when I kept telling you to stop.

The pen drops and clatters on the floor. Heeseung stands and sways, his vision blurry from unshed tears.

He remembers it.

The nights he spent trying to bury any attachment towards you and the bond. The nights he spent pleasing other omegas despite not enjoying it at all. The nights he spent ignoring the ache in his chest, the voice of his wolf—as if running away would ever be enough to excuse him from his fate.

While all the time, you had been suffering alone.

Nausea creeps up the back of his throat.

“No, please stop—”

His wolf snarls, pent-up anger and frustration finally spilling out.

She could be in someone else’s arms now. Someone gentler. Someone braver than you.

The nausea punches  through his chest.

Heeseung scrambles for the door, yanking it open and stumbles out of his producer room to the bathroom. He barely makes it before his stomach churns violently and doubles over.

He throws up his long-forgotten lunch because he missed his dinner, the bile unforgiving to the spasms in his gut.  Heeseung knees over the toilet until his stomach empties and grief starts to taste metallic on his tongue.

He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and slumps onto the floor. It’s a ringing silence in his ears before a sob escapes his lips.

Then another.

Before he knows it, it has turned into a full-on wailing. The tears are finally giving up, now streaming endlessly down his cheeks like tiny rivers. 

Heeseung lets himself remember the faces of the omegas he touched. A betrayal of the bond he’ll never forgive himself for.

Heeseung lets himself remember the person you are—someone who deserves protection and affection. Someone who can be literally with anyone; any deserving alpha who knows how to treat you right.

Anyone in this world. Anyone from his campus. Anyone from his team. Anyone from his house.

Heeseung is fast to turn around and vomits again. The image of Jay being the perfect alpha for you makes his chest caves and breaks.

Fuck. Fuck, no. Please—no.

He always made fun of Riki when the younger complained about their too-good alpha friend. He never really understood why Riki is still on edge whenever Jay is around his girlfriend, despite knowing that him agreeing to help with his girlfriend’s heat was purely out of kindness.

But now he knows. Now he fucking knows.

Jay is just too good to be true. Jay never touches omegas carelessly. Jay lowers his voice when he speaks to them. Jay likes taking care of people like they’re his own.

Jay also cares about you. He knows that. The punch he almost threw at Heeseung that night was proof enough.

And in a peak of complete crumbling from his desperation to be forgiven, from his humility to admit to his mistakes—a fast-growing insecurity is piling up in his chest.

Heeseung can’t breathe. 

He’s suffocating again.

A sudden thought flashes through his head. His frantic mind, desperate for some relief, entertains the thought without thinking further.

Just cut the bond too. End this suffering and cut the bond.

Heeseung raises his finger to his scent gland, still thudding violently from the rush of his emotions running in his veins. 

Could he really cut the bond?

Don’t you dare.

“But it’s too painful…” he cries.

She’s my mate! If you end it now, I will tear you apart myself. You will fucking die, Heeseung.

Heeseung folds in on himself, crouching lower on the floor. His whole body shakes from the force of his tears.

“Why her?” he whispers helplessly.

“Why someone so precious? Why her?”

His wolf doesn’t answer. Heeseung is left sobbing to himself, already resigned to his fate and the silence from his alpha.

Because he knows, only the Goddess of the Moon has the answer to that.

Only she knows why he was sent something holy when he’s too ruined to hold it.

You never would have expected to get hurt from the one thing you wanted the most.

Love.

The tale of true mates.

Maybe that’s the reason why most people dislike it. Maybe all this time, it wasn’t because of envy or ridicule. Maybe all this time, people had already realised how destructive it could be before you did.

Something intangible that can only be felt has the power to destroy you through someone else’s actions and decisions? It’s no wonder, really. 

You were just too blind and too delusional for even dreaming of it in the first place.

Life hasn’t been easy since the breaking of the bond. 

You went on autopilot for the first week, just trying to save yourself from a bad attendance record and getting kicked out of the cheerleader squad. The latter proved to be harder to overcome since the source of your pain and the current centre of your universe—Heeseung—was always there on the court, glancing at you at every chance he got.

It’s almost laughable, the way he’s trying to catch your gaze now when he used to avoid it so much.

You dated people a couple of times before, but the breakups were never this bad. They hurt, of course, but this bond seemed to amplify every emotion you felt for Heeseung and yourself. Again, one of the reasons you believe why most people started hating it.

The whole time, you only had yourself. Sometimes Yujin would come into your room to cuddle you and let you cry into her shoulders. She’d stay as long as a med student could—watching movies together, painting your nails, crying with you.

All the time when you thought you craved love, you sometimes forgot that love doesn’t always mean romantic relationships. Sometimes it comes in the form of Yujin waking up before her alarm to make you your favourite pancakes.

Sometimes love comes in the form of Rei, despite the two of you having only gotten closer recently, checking up on you every meal time to make sure you eat well.

Sometimes love comes through a phone call with your parents, asking about your day and showing you the small garden they’re growing in the backyard.

And slowly, eventually, you realise that love also means choosing yourself over the bond. 

Choosing yourself means stop clinging onto the bond. Choosing yourself means not waiting on Heeseung to get his acts right or for the right apology. Choosing yourself means you stop letting the bond and Heeseung dictate how you go about your life from now on.

Heeseung can try all he wants, and you might or might not see his efforts—but you won’t wait for him.

You’re done waiting.

Strangely, it doesn’t feel bitter. The thought of finally letting go of the bond sounds more freeing. Like the air is finally settling in your lungs after weeks of drowning.

You find your way back to the pieces of you since the bond broke. For the first time since you cut the thread, your world revolves around something other than pain.

Life comes back in fragments. In trying out pilates with Yujin and laughing when the instructor turns her back to you because Yujin just sucks at stretching.

In late-night convenience store runs with Rei to eat extra spicy noodles that’ll upset your stomach the next morning.

In falling back to your old study habits and excelling a difficult pop quiz.

In helping the squad choreograph for the upcoming routines—because alphas just run hot and can’t seem to stop challenging each other in sports.

You laugh freely now. You don’t have to spend the night worrying about a thread tugging at your ribs.

You don’t have to overthink about…Heeseung. Not anymore.

For a moment, he becomes a maybe. For a few days when you successfully avoid him, he becomes an ‘if only’. A background noise. A consequence.

A wound becoming scarred.

Nothing more.

Or so you tell yourself.

There’s been barely anything from Heeseung since he fell to his knees for you a few days ago. For a while, you think maybe you scared him too much—frightened him with the possibility that you may never come back, until he decided to let silence become his apology.

But apparently, you just don’t notice him trying.

Heeseung, you realise, moves in quiet devotion.

It starts with a can of your favourite grape juice sitting beside your tote bag every time you come back from the restroom. You assume it’s Rei being sweet as always—the omega has taken a great liking to you since the day you first spoke.

You don’t notice how consistent its appearance is with Heeseung’s promise.

You overlook the fact that it starts showing up the very next day after your painful conversation. 

“But how did he know?” you whisper to yourself, staring down the can like it’s a threat now. 

You turn it in your palm, feeling the coldness seep into your fingers. Then, faintly, you smell him.

His pheromones. Cinnamon and sea salt clings to the can like an afterthought. Like Heeseung didn’t mean to leave his traces but the scent lingers anyway.

It’s been quite a while since you smelled it. Ever since you cut the tie, you no longer can sense his pheromones from afar. It only happens when you’re in close proximity to him, which is very rare to happen now.

Now, as his scent drifts to your senses, you find yourself actually missing it. Missing the warmth and safety it used to offer. Missing the familiarity of it.

Your heart aches.

No matter how forward you’ve moved in your healing progress, there’ll always be a big why living in the back of your mind.

You really could’ve had it  all.

But you don’t let it get to you. In all honesty, it is a sweet gesture and a nice start, yes, but it’s not enough. Even your baby cousin knows that you’re crazy about grape juice. Heeseung didn’t exactly make a groundbreaking discovery with this one.

The thought still counts, though.

It slips from your mind faster than you’d like to admit. Apart from the upcoming great friendly match between your basketball team and their sworn rival the eastern university, you have a business case study pitching competition set in two weeks.

Meetings become more frequent, time spent at the library becomes longer. You wish they would pick another place to do the discussion because the library is literally an air conditioner reincarnate—always too cold for your body. 

The chill autumn air only worsens the cold. Winter is coming and you can’t help but keep adding more layers to your clothes each time you walk out of the apartment to visit the library.

Except today, there is someone already waiting by the library door. A face that you recognise with a single glance. Features that you memorise by heart, stopping you in your tracks before you reach the door.

Heeseung.

His body is adorned with a brown trench coat that reaches his calves, outlining his proportions and tall figure perfectly. He has one hand resting in one of the pockets, while another is holding a pink paper bag.

Burgundy hair curtains his forehead, a complement to his already-handsome features. But the look on his face is forlorn, distant eyes staring into space, looking lost in his own thoughts.

You try not to pay him any mind and start walking again.

As if he was wired to only sense your presence, Heeseung snaps out of his trance and whips his head to you. His eyes soften, lips parting slightly. You avert your eyes.

“Y/N.”

This time, you pretend you just notice him and give him a nod. “Heeseung,” you reply, already moving away to get inside. But Heeseung is fast to stop you.

“Wait! I–I have something for you.”

Heeseung holds out the paper bag to you, his own ears turning the same shade. You blink up at him before trying to peer inside, not yet accepting it.

“What is this?”

“Something to keep you warm,” he breathes out, like he can’t believe you’re actually talking to him. “It’s getting chiller. Please accept it.”

For a second, you just study his face. His round eyes look at you like he’s appreciating and memorising your face all at once. There is something about his expression that looks like he’s hopeful that you’d accept the paper bag, but at the same time, already expecting you to reject it.

After a few seconds of no signs of you accepting his gifts, Heeseung slowly lowers his extended arm. His face falls, but he quickly schools it into a neutral expression.

“It’s okay, Y/N. You don’t have to,” he licks his lips with a swipe of his tongue, already foreseeing the rejection.

“Why are you doing this?” you ask and instantly regret your tone. It’s unintentionally clipped, very unlike you. 

But Heeseung isn’t fazed. If anything, he looks shyer now.

“I don’t want you to catch a cold,” he mumbles, averting his eyes. The pink in his ears has turned bright red—from the cold or from his own shyness, you’re not sure.

One thing you know is that you’re not used to this side of the dominant alpha.

The side that he showed you once before he dipped. That night when he held a heat pack in your hand, insisting on keeping you warm. For a split second, you wonder if it was instinct or if he really meant it, already knowing the answer to it.

It was probably the former.

A gush of chill air passes by and you shiver. Right, you’re still standing outside of the library with two layers of sweater and are still trembling. 

Finally, you take the paper bag from him. Heeseung startles, not expecting the sudden gesture and definitely not expecting the graze of a touch of your finger brushing his. It makes him shudder, like your touch is bigger than the cold autumn air.

“Thank you,” you give him a tight-lipped smile, watching as his expression brightens up. Without waiting for his reply, you’re already heading to the door, ready to leave the alpha behind.

Before the door closes, you hear a whisper of his voice, carried by the bone-chilling air.

“Good luck with your competition, Y/N.”

You wonder how he knew about it, but the moment you sit at the table right in front of Jungwon—one of your teammates—you finally remember that they’re somehow friends. 

The alpha gives you a dimpled smile. “Hey, Y/N. You’re early.”

“You too.” You pause, weighing the words in your head. “Jungwon, do you know Heeseung?”

Jungwon doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he eyes the pink paper bag now placed on the table, then nods to himself.

“Yes. Please don’t get mad at me, though. I’m kind of rooting for him.” He peeks into the paper bag and whistles. “Wow, hyung really doesn’t play.”

You snatch the paper bag and put it on the chair beside you. You’ve peeked inside, and is it a surprise to say that you were surprised?

A bunch of heat packs. A pair of blue mittens. A pack of tissue. A minty inhaler. And the one that contributes the most weight—a can of grape juice, already unchilled. 

It’s that night all over again. The paracetamol that you downed because you did get a headache after a whole night of crying. The wet tissues that you used to wipe your tear-stained face. The heat pack that kept you warm the whole time you sat outside of the convenience store. 

Everything Heeseung picked out has always been too…thoughtful.

While waiting for the rest of your group members to arrive, with Jungwon already typing on his laptop and talking about something you’re too distracted to hear—you’re swamped with your own conflicting emotions again.

Heeseung has always had the capability to care for people. To care for you. He was gentle with you that night. And fuck, you still hate what he did to you—but even the day he called you delusional, he was very soft with the way he talked to you.

The cruelest part is that Heeseung was never incapable of tenderness.

He had simply been too afraid to offer it where it mattered most. 

He told you he wasn’t ready to step up to be the man that you deserved, but that sounds like a flimsy excuse now.

What was he so afraid of?

You really don’t want to make it easy for him, and you’re already ahead of the bond and the concept of love. You’ve already learned your lesson. You still remember the pain.

But, dear Goddess, sometimes you really wish that he was brave enough.

The rest of your group members arrive shortly after, each wearing thick layers like you do. As Jungwon begins the discussion that will continue on until late evening, you reach inside the paper bag and grab one of the heat packs.

Silently, you thank Heeseung in your head.

Just as you have expected, the discussion wraps up when night has already fallen. You stretch in your seat, taking your own sweet time as your group members tidy up.

Jungwon is the last one to leave, carrying his backpack on his wide shoulders. He looks at you finally standing up with a cheeky smile on his face.

“See you tomorrow for the consultation, Y/N. I would’ve offered to walk you home but I don’t wanna ruin the chance for a certain alpha.”

Your brows furrow, not really catching the meaning behind his teasing smile.

“What do you mean?”

“Just make sure to use the front door,” Jungwon is already walking away, giving you a dismissive wave of his hand. “Night!” 

You stare at his retreating figure and then something clicks in your mind. Like an instinct, your heart starts racing fast.

Did he mean Heeseung?

Your hands quickly gather your stuff and toss them into your tote bag. The paper bag from Heeseung hangs tightly in your grip as you near the entrance of the library.

True to your speculation, Heeseung is already waiting outside.  He has ditched his trench coat, now wearing his jersey that shows off his arms. The number ‘1’ and ‘HEESEUNG’ on the back of his jersey stares at you, unmistakingly him.

You quickly move past him as if you didn’t see him. Almost less than a second after, his footsteps are already echoing from behind you.

“Y/N, wait!”

Heeseung is barely panting in front of you, blocking your way home. You sport a blank expression despite the skips your heart is making.

“What are you doing here?”

“I,” Heeseung catches his breath, and you can’t help but notice the goosebumps in his skin. You almost frown. 

What the hell was he thinking, wearing that sleeveless jersey in this weather? The trench coat must be inside his duffle bag, because you don’t see it hanging in his arms.

But the thought remains in your mind. And will probably stay there forever.

You almost miss it when he continues.

“I want to walk you home. No.” Heeseung gathers his voice, now sounding softer, asking for permission.

 “Can I walk you home?”

Your answer is quick. “No.”

You can almost feel the pause in his breath. Heeseung blinks once, regaining his composure after a few seconds.

“...Okay,” he nods, eyes slightly distant like he’s not even sure if he means it. “Okay. But can you let me call you an Uber?”

You shake your head, standing your ground.

“My dorm is not far from here.”

“I’ll pay for it.”

“I want to walk.”

Silence passes by, along with the air that’s borderline freezing. You don’t know if alphas just naturally run hot, because you’re close to turning into ice despite the layers, but Heeseung doesn’t even flinch. 

He finally takes a step back, slightly dipping his head as he nods.

“Okay,” he says again, more like convincing himself. But then he meets your eyes, and the wistful glint of his gaze doesn't go unnoticed by you. Something tugs at your heart.

“At least let Jungwon know when you’re home. Please?” he pleads. “You don’t have to text me. I’ll just—hear from him.”

You purse your lips, giving the alpha a once-over before finally giving in.

“Fine. I will.”

The corner of his lips quirks up but Heeseung covers it quickly. He steps aside, clearing the path for you to go home. You don’t waste time and begin walking, feeling his eyes boring into your skull.

“Please be safe, Y/N.”

You never reply.

The next day, the alpha is not waiting by the door. Jungwon stands in his place instead, the paper bag now has been upgraded to a reusable lunch bag with flower motifs on it.

“Your alpha has a producer meeting today.”

You’re quick to deny.” He’s not my alpha.”

Jungwon ignores you like you’re a wall and opens the lunch bag for you to see.

“Two thermos there. One is chicken porridge, another is hot tea. Not sure if you’re a coffee-person or not, so Heeseung hyung wanted to be safe.” Jungwon speaks like he’s rehearsed it, and to be honest, he kind of did (Heeseung forced him, but you don’t have to know that).

You’re stunned. “What?”

“Don’t worry, it’s grape tea. I don’t know where he got it from, though,” Jungwon shrugs then continues his duty as Heeseung’s greatest accomplice. “More heat packs. I didn’t see you use the mittens yesterday so I told him maybe you didn’t like blue…? So he prepared the red pair for you.”

“Wait, Jungwon—”

“And lastly, a lunch bag with daisies prints, for his most precious daisy in this world.” Jungwon beams wide, dimples curving deep and shoves the lunch bag into your bag.

“How’s his performance?”

“You’re insufferable,” you scoff and snatch the lunch bag from his grasp. You quickly go inside, ignoring the warmth in your cheeks betraying your indifference.

Your mind, another traitor, is filled with the thoughts of Heeseung.

Is this him trying? 

You’re not sure how to feel about it, but your heart surely knows her shits—fluttering like you’re a virgin being courted.

Which, technically, in every way possible—you are.

You try to ignore it. During break, you remember to control your expression as you eat the porridge, aware of Jungwon’s hawking eyes gauging at your reaction.

Heeseung is sure smart to pick him as his wingman. That alpha is a persistent menace.

But no. You’re not going to fold easily. 

Your omega is still silent, and the damage has been too severe. For all you know, Heeseung might be just performing remorse. Only time can tell if he was really sincere and serious or not.

After all, consistency is a great telltale of devotion.

However, as if the world was suddenly eager to prove you wrong, Heeseung keeps showing up. 

He comes again at night, this time fully covered up and looking dashing in his white button up and loosened tie. You guess he just came back from the meeting, judging from the formality of the attire. But you can’t help but let your eyes linger longer on his face, suddenly too conscious of his height.

Okay, what the fuck. He’s always been handsome. There’s nothing surprising about it. 

“Can I walk you home?” 

You’re snapped out of your thoughts when his voice, low and soft, reaches your ears. You shake your head.

“No.” 

“I’ll keep my distance,” he says quickly. “You won’t even notice I’m there. Please?”

You keep your walls steady. “Why are you doing this?”

The question hangs in the air. Heeseung’s gaze softens, but there’s a cloud of doubt swirling behind his eyes now. For the first time, you see the alpha shivers in the cold.

“You gave me a chance,” he says, voice clear and crisp. Like it’s a conviction. Like it’s something he’s deliberately chosen.

“I want to try until you can forgive me. And I know it’ll never be enough. I know I’ll be too selfish to hope…” 

Heeseung swipes a tongue across his lips. He gives you a nervous glance, but seeing how attentive you look despite your indifference, Heeseung almost breaks down.

You’re still kind even in your resentment.

“But I still hope that one day you can accept me as your alpha.”

You hum, trying to sound unimpressed despite the loud thumping of your heart. The bitterness still leaks when you speak.

“You were my alpha.”

Heeseung shakes his head and gives you a humourless smile. 

“No, I wasn’t,” his voice is strained, like he’s holding a storm of emotions with his palm.

“The Goddess might’ve assigned me to be your alpha. But I failed my duties. You were just forced to deal with what fate had chosen for you.”

The moonlight shining on him highlights the tired lines at the edges of his eyes. For the past few weeks, you have no idea how Heeseung was doing. And you know no one can hold it over your head for not caring.

But something in him feels altered. Not gentler—Heeseung had always been gentle in ways he never admitted. 

He seems more humbled. Like the weight of pride is finally bowing his head down, his gaze always sanded down by grief. Every word now sounds chosen, as if he has learned the cost of speaking carelessly.

Heeseung holds your eyes, sincerity spilling over the edges.

“But now I want you to choose me. Not out of obligation, or because fate said so. I want to be chosen because you know I’m the right alpha for you.”

Isn’t it unfair?

You want the resentment to turn into fiery hatred, but your traitorous heart still melts at his devotion. How can you hate him when he makes you sound like you were the centre of his universe?

Still, you hold your ground.

“You know I won’t wait for you. What if I choose another deserving alpha?”

Heeseung’s face goes white. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down as he swallows, but he still nods.

“I will break,” he admits, the most honest he’s ever been. “But I’ll still pray that he shows you the love I failed to give when I had the chance.”

The sheer weight of his speech almost renders you breathless. Remorse, as if it’s been a lifelong companion, drips heavy in his voice. For a short moment, you can’t hold his gaze—it looks so intense and longing, you don’t know if you can hold this newfound devotion. It’s too deep and full of regret.

It’s after a minute of silence that you finally find your voice.

“You can walk me home from behind.”

You turn around first before he can see the change in your face. Your stupid human heart, as if awakening from the slumber from weeks ago when things were still all butterflies and stolen glances—seems to recognise the alpha now trailing after you ten paces away and fluttering around shamelessly..

The moon shines exceptionally bright tonight, as if the Goddess herself is watching her war-torn lovers patching up the bridge once broken by pride and fear.

“Are you still angry?”

Once you’re home and stripped and showered, you stare at the dark ceiling of your bedroom. The moonlight cracks through the small space you leave open, decorating your bed with stripes of pale blue.

You put a palm over your heart, trying to feel your wolf.

“Are you still mad at him?”

Silence. There’s no response from your omega. You wait for a few breaths before sighing.

“You’ve always been the hard headed one out of the two of us,” you comment, suddenly missing the other half of your soul that’s been so long quiet.

“But it’s good that you are,” you slowly whisper. 

“Because if you’re as soft as I am, then Heeseung would be forgiven already.”

This time, there’s no resistance as the memory of the burgundy-haired alpha comes back—not that he ever left, anyway.

“I’m still mad at him, too.”

You remember the time Heeseung actively avoided your gaze. You used to wonder why, but knowing the answer also didn’t help ease the pain. Knowing that he avoided you because of the bond never makes the pain feel less hurtful.

But the way he searches your eyes now, holding your gaze with a tenderness you’ve never seen before…it softens the pain.

Where he used to run from you, he’s now seeking you every chance he gets. After practice, after meetings, after classes. In sleeveless jersey, in suit and tie, in his usual baggy graphic T-shirts.

Heeseung used to be nowhere to be found, but he’s everywhere now.

The reality of his efforts to try patching up the bond suddenly feels too scary. Because if he’s changed for good, if he’s really putting his all to win back your heart—are you confident that you still can move past everything?

The sufferings you endured. The omegas he slept with. The sleepless spent chanting his name in pain. The night when everything fell apart.

Can you really let them go? 

“I don’t know,” you whisper to no one, a knot of uneasiness tightening in your chest.

“I don’t think I’m ready yet.”

Heeseung seems to find you easily nowadays.

At first, you doubt the people around you. Everyone is suddenly related to him in some ways somehow. There must be an insider that tells him your whereabouts.

Whether it’s Jungwon or Yujin, you don’t know. You hope it’s not Yujin, though. You know she despises what Heeseung did to you, but the beta is also quietly rooting for him. She hid it well, too.

But her cover was blown one night when you were having a movie night in your bed. She was so close and she was typing something on her phone. You accidentally looked, but honest to Goddess your heart almost dropped when you saw Heeseung’s name.

“Why are you texting with Heeseung?” You forced your face into the screen, deliberately ignoring the sudden seeds of jealousy in your chest. 

Yujin scrambled to sit up, but it was too late. You had already seen them all.

Lee Heeseung

did she arrive home safely?

You

Yeap!

Safely tucked in bed!

“Yujin, you traitor!”

“Ow! Ow!” Yujin ducked the pillow you threw at her, but she wasn’t fast enough to avoid your punches. “Girl, hear me out first!”

“Why are you helping him?” you heaved out, glaring daggers at her. Yujin rubbed her arms, jutting out an apologetic pout.

“I’m so sorry…he just wants to know if you get home safe, Y/N. I don’t see anything wrong or invasive about that.”

Your heart stuttered. Did he really do that? But you feigned an angry look.

“So you just agreed to be his accomplice? You’re no different from Jungwon.”

“I mean, I lowkey ship you guys. But he has to grovel first, and I hope he’s been doing it right.”

You rolled your eyes and settled back under the covers. “How long has it been?”

“Don’t get mad at me please.”

“Yujin.”

“He’s been asking me if you reach home safely for more than two weeks now.”

Your breath hitched. 

That’s…since before he started appearing at the library.

And today, as you see Heeseung lingering around the business compound, donning a thin brown cardigan that highlights his body snugly, you’re contemplating whether to assault Jungwon or Yujin through the phone after this.

But there’s no time to think, as Heeseung—curse his dominant trait, really—easily senses your scent and catches your eyes. He gives you a small smile and walks up to you. The grip you have on the strap of your tote bag has turned knuckle-white.

“Y/N.”

“Hey.”

“Have you eaten yet?”

You swallow, trying not to fold. “Yeah, just now. You?”

Heeseung nods.”I have too.” Then he extends a hand towards your tote bag.

“Let me hold your bag and walk you home.”

You hesitate for a moment before giving in.

Fuck, you curse the universe.

Why is he so consistent?

Heeseung knows he’s not being slick when he suddenly makes a detour to the convenience store under the pretense of feeling hungry.

But you follow him anyway, gullible enough to believe that he has more space for more food. Which, actually, you’re not completely wrong. Heeseung loves food. But he’s not exactly here to eat.

He’s here to steal more time to be with you.

The fluorescent lamp hums overhead, the convenience store smells like cooked noodles and microwaved pastries. Under this light, you look shorter than him, reaching not taller than his chin. 

Heeseung holds back the urge to reach out and caress your head. He can’t ruin things now that you finally let him walk you home side by side. That’s progress. A couple of weeks ago, you didn't even let him follow. 

He really can’t afford to ruin it.

Heeseung trails after you to aisle number two where rows of snacks and chips line up the shelves. There’s something almost domestic about watching you hum as you skim through the options.

It feels more intimate than kneeling at your feet ever did.

“What do you usually get?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

You hold up a bag of snacks, a small grin unknowingly splits across your face.

“This one,” you shake the plastic with eyes shining bright. Heeseung thinks he’s lost his breath. “These seaweed tempeh chips.”

Heeseung stares at you like you just handed him a sacred relic, eyes dripping with silent, genuine surprise.

“These are your favourite?”

You blink and tilt your head, not sure how to make sense of his stunned reaction. “Yeah…?”

A small smile breaks on his mouth. Heeseung looks down at the bag of chips, feeling his chest tightens just from that simple information.

She likes grape juice. She likes tempeh chips.

God, I’m learning about her.

His silent meltdown goes unnoticed by you. You walk further and stop by the drinks fridge, already reaching for your favourite grape juice.

This time, Heeseung couldn’t stop the chuckle that leaves his lips. “You really love drinking that, don’t you?”

“I sure do,” you glance up at him. “Since kindergarten, by the way. It’s just so good and cheap. What about you?”

Heeseung’s heart nearly stops.

“I’m sorry?”

“What’s your favourite drink, Heeseung?”

Heeseung forces himself to reply when you’re already looking at him suspiciously.

“Zero Coke.”

“Ah,” you nod, then reach up to where a line of Zero Coke is put on display. You pluck the second can in the line and hand it to him.

“Hygiene tips: always take the second or the third can,” you casually say and tap on the can. “Because everybody touches the first one.”

Then you turn around, drifting toward the candy aisle, blissfully unaware of his turmoil. 

Leaving Heeseung stunned, standing like a statue of racing heart and quiet breakdown as he holds the can close to his chest.

Later that night, after sending you home safely, Heeseung enters his shared apartment wordlessly. He can hear the F1 sportscaster from the living room—Jay must haven’t gone to bed yet.

“Hey, Hee,” his friend greets, sprawled on the couch with a can of beer in one hand. But his focus on the television stops once he notices Heeseung’s red-rimmed eyes.

“Fuck. Heeseung!” Jay rushes to him and holds him just before his knees finally give up. 

The anchor of sorrow and grief that has been weighing heavier since the convenience store run is finally pulling him down. Heeseung drops to the floor, already feeling the tears wetting his cheeks.

“Hee, what’s wrong?” Jay asks, trying to keep the worry in his voice. “Did something happen? Tell me!”

Heeseung shakes his head, curling up into Jay’s hold and sobs even harder.

“Jay-ah,” Heeseung chokes, unable to hold back his sobs.

“Her favourite chips are seaweed tempeh.”

Jay is rendered speechless by the unexpected revelation. 

“...What?”

“Seaweed tempeh,” he sobs, voice cracking. “Seaweed tempeh chips, grape juice, gummy bears. She bakes when she’s stressed. She hates mornings but wakes up early. She has hygiene tips for canned drinks.”

His voice splinters, like a branch breaking down from the tree.

Jay blinks. “You’re sobbing over…basic information?”

“That I should’ve known.”

Heeseung clutches Jay’s shirt, the sadness now palpable.

“Simple things about her that I never made any effort to know because I was so fucking busy being an asshole.”

In that moment, it finally clicks in Jay’s mind. It was never about snacks.

“I was her mate and I didn’t know.”

It’s about regret.

Jay’s expression softens instantly, understanding settling in his features.  He sits on the floor with him, letting Heeseung cry into his shoulders, shaking like a dead leaf. The distressed accent of his spicy and salty pheromones is drenching the air, but Jay fights the urge to scowl. Alphas don’t exactly respond well to another alpha’s distressed pheromones.

Beside him, Heeseung is still sobbing like a child experiencing a trip of his foot for the first time.

“Somebody else could’ve been in my place,” he cries softly. “She could’ve been asking another alpha, ‘What’s your favourite drink?’ and I almost made it not me.”

Heeseung cries for what it’s worth. For the regret and grief of the what-ifs that could’ve happened if only he didn’t mess up. For the gratitude that you’re finally letting him the access to the information only privy to those who are close enough with you.

For the unexpected relief when you asked him back.

“So you’re crying because she let you know her,” Jay concludes once Heeseung has calmed down enough to talk properly.

They’re still sitting on the floor. The F1 show that Jay was watching prior to his sudden breakdown is now playing like background noise.

Heeseung nods weakly. “Yeah.”

“What did it feel like?”

Heeseung gives him a wistful smile.

“Disbelief. Because I can’t believe it feels so easy to just…have this affection for someone over knowing what their favourite drinks are.”

Heeseung looks into the distance, lost in thoughts and memory.

“I never feel this way for anybody. It’s scary, because now I want to know more.”

He stares into the space in front of him, absentmindedly playing with the hem of his cardigan.

“I want to know how she likes her eggs. I want to know which detergent she likes to use. What side of the bed she sleeps on,” Heeseung whispers, voice trembling. “I want to know everything about her and it’s so scary, Jay.”

There’s a pause before he looks down, sounding more broken than he has been tonight.

“It’s so scary because I realised it wasn’t the bond that terrified me.”

Heeseung remembers how happy he felt when you still rub your nose every time you get shy. How excited he felt when you cover your mouth as you laugh—little things he used to know about you that still makes you you.

“It wasn’t.”

Knowing someone has never felt this easy and freeing.

“It was how badly I could love her.”

The confession doesn’t land hard. It settles slowly, like a missing puzzle finally finding its place. His wolf stirs inside, yipping happily at the declaration.

Jay takes a moment to process everything before he sighs. He reaches out a hand and pats Heeseung on his shoulder.

“There, there. You’re making progress, Hee. You’re starting to see her more than the bond you guys shared.”

As if summoned, his scent gland pulses sharply. Heeseung yelps, clutching his nape with a quick hand. His scent spikes dangerously, spicy cinnamon burning the atmosphere.

“Hee!”

“It hurts,” Heeseung chokes, the pain quickly spreading to other parts of his body. “Fuck, Jay—”

Drip.

Both alphas instantly freeze. 

On the carpet where they sit, is a drop of blood, staining the cream-coloured material with crimson red.

Jay slowly looks up, heart beating fast, chanting ‘No, no, no. Please, not you, Heeseung. Please,’ in his mind.

To his horror, the blood came from Heeseung’s nose.

Jay can feel his gut sinking to the floor.

“Hee,” he grabs his shoulders, eyes trained on the trail of blood dripping down his philtrum and his chin. “Hee, listen to me and answer me, okay? Please don’t panic.” 

Inside, Jay is already panicking.

Heeseung tries not to, but his body feels scalding hot. The pain comes in waves, not once stopping even if he were to rip his heart open.

“Heeseung, answer me. Did you tell Y/N about the two options or not?”

Jay’s voice is muffled to his ears, but through his hazy mind and blurry vision, Heeseung can still make out the words.

He shakes his head. “No.”

“Why?” Jay whispers, breathless and shaken.

“I didn’t want to pressure her into thinking she has to choose me to save me.”

Heeseung’s unfocused eyes find him, desperate and so pitiful that his heart clenches painfully. Jay drops his head on his best friend’s shoulders, fear consuming his being.

“You idiot,” Jay sobs, the dam breaking almost instantly. “She might’ve chosen you anyway.”

Heeseung feels lightheaded. Jay’s voice is like a distant dream—something he’s not sure if he hears or not. Dark spots start appearing on the edges of his vision, almost turning black no matter how hard he blinks.

“Jay-ah…”

The last thing Heeseung remembers before he loses consciousness is Jay screaming his name, voice cracking and hoarse.

okay dang tumblr said this post has reached its limits wtf im gna kms!!! anyway posting a part 3 real soon!!!

divider from: @cursed-carmine

His tired eyes lit up the instant they met yours, the weariness melting away into pure affection. He dropped his bag with a thud, kicked off his shoes, and swept you up into his strong arms in one fluid motion. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively as he clung to you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent like it was his lifeline.

"Ah ~ My baby’s here" he murmured against your skin, voice husky with relief and love. His hands gripped your thighs firmly, holding you close.

You threaded your fingers through his tousled hair, pressing a tender kiss to his temple. "How was work today? You really look beat."

He pulled back just enough to gaze at you, his affectionate smile deepening as he nuzzled your nose with his. "Long and brutal, but seeing you makes it all disappear. How was your day at college, sweetheart?"

He carried you a few steps into the hallway, your bodies pressed together while you chatted about the classes that bored you, a group project that frustrated you, but mostly how you'd counted the minutes until he walked through the door. He listened intently, peppering in soft hums of sympathy and pride, his thumbs stroking soothing circles on your hips.

"I've been waiting for you, so we could shower together." you whispered finally, your lips brushing his ear. Heeseung's eyes darkened with desire, but his touch stayed loving. He didn't answer with words. Instead, he captured your mouth in a deep, needy kiss, his lips warm and insistent, tasting of the coffee that had fueled his endless day.

Clothes shed between fervent kisses, your hoodie pooling on the floor, his shirt unbuttoned with your eager fingers, his belt clinking as it hit the ground, and his pants going next. By the time you reached the bathroom, both of you stood naked, skin flushed with anticipation. Heeseung twisted the shower knob, steam rising as the water heated perfectly, then guided you under the hot spray with him.

The moment the water cascaded over your bodies, his mouth claimed yours again, slower now, deeper. Tongues tangled lazily as rivulets streamed down your skin. His large hands explored reverently, cupping your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they hardened into tight peaks, then sliding lower to grip your ass and pull you tight against his hardening cock.

Heeseung broke the kiss, his lips lingering hot and swollen against yours for a long moment before he began trailing downward. Water cascaded over both of you, slicking his dark hair and making his skin gleam as he pressed open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your neck, sucking hard enough at your fluttering pulse point to leave a mark. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin, sending sharp sparks of pleasure straight to your core.

He moved lower with deliberate hunger, mouth latching onto the swell of your breasts. His tongue swirled around one stiff nipple, then the other, before he sucked them deep into his mouth, one after the other—firm, wet pulls that had you arching into him. A deep, needy groan vibrated from his chest as his hands gripped your hips tighter, pinning you to the tiled wall.

He kissed his way down your abdomen, tongue dipping teasingly into your navel, then lower, tracing the crease of your hip with filthy reverence. By the time he dropped to his knees on the wet tile, water streaming down his face and shoulders, your pussy was already dripping, slick arousal coating your folds and inner thighs, the shower doing nothing to wash away how soaked you were for him.

His dark eyes lifted to yours, burning with raw lust and utter devotion. Strong hands gripped the backs of your thighs, lifting one leg over his broad shoulder and spreading you obscenely open. “Lean against the wall for me, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice thick and rough. “I need to taste all of you.”

You pressed your back to the cool tiles, breath shaky as he leaned in like a man starved. He started with slow, worshipful kisses all over your soaked pussy, pressing his lips to your swollen outer folds, sucking them gently into his mouth one by one, then the other, lapping up every drop of your wetness with a hungry moan. He was completely devoted, eyes half-lidded in bliss as he savored you.

Heeseung parted your slick lips with his thumbs, exposing your dripping center completely. His tongue dragged a long, heavy stripe from your entrance up to your throbbing clit, then back down. Without warning, he stiffened his tongue and pushed it inside you, thrusting deep, fucking you with it in slow, deliberate strokes while his nose rubbed against your clit. The wet, obscene sounds of his tongue plunging into your pussy mixed with the shower’s spray and your broken moans.

“Fuck… you’re so wet for me,” he groaned against your folds, the vibration making your walls clench around his tongue. He pulled back just enough to suck your swollen inner lips into his mouth, tugging and licking them thoroughly before sealing his lips around your clit and sucking with perfect pressure.

Only then did he bring his fingers into play, two thick digits circling your fluttering entrance, coating themselves in your slick before sliding deep inside you. He curled them instantly, stroking that spongy spot while his tongue flicked rapidly over your clit. He devoured you with single-minded obsession, sucking, licking, and fingering you like your pleasure was his only purpose.

Your juices coated his chin and fingers, dripping down his wrist as he worked you harder. He added a third finger, stretching you open while his mouth pulsed around your clit, sucking in rhythm with every thrust. Your thighs trembled violently, one leg hooked over his shoulder as you ground against his face.

“Oh my god ~ Heeseung” you whimpered, fingers yanking desperately at his soaked hair. He moaned loudly into your pussy, the sound filthy and encouraging, refusing to let up even as your walls started fluttering wildly. He kept his tongue working your clit and his fingers pumping deep and fast, curling on every pull until the pressure snapped. “I’m… fuck! I’m gonna cum!”

Hee growled against your core and doubled down, sucking your clit hard while his fingers drove into you relentlessly. Your orgasm crashed over you like a wave, thighs clamping around his head as you gushed on his tongue and fingers. He didn’t stop lapping and sucking you through every pulsing wave, drinking down every drop of your release with devoted hunger until you were shaking, oversensitive, and barely able to stand.

Only then did he soften his mouth, pressing gentle, loving kisses to your twitching pussy as the aftershocks rolled through you. He looked up at you with glistening lips and dark, satisfied eyes, like he could stay on his knees worshipping you for hours.

When he finally stood, his cock was fully hard, flushed and heavy, water dripping down the thick length. You didn’t hesitate. You dropped to your knees on the slick tile, gazing up at him with pure hunger and adoration. Heeseung’s hand gently brushed wet strands of hair from your face, thumb stroking your cheek.

“You don’t have to, baby…” he murmured, voice already rough.

“I want to,” you breathed, eyes locked on his. “I need to taste you too, and I want to spoil you a little after a hard day.”

You wrapped both hands around the thick base, feeling the scorching heat and how it throbbed powerfully in your grip. Leaning in, you started with pure devotion, pressing slow, open-mouthed kisses all along the underside, tracing every bulging vein with your lips. You licked broad, wet stripes from base to tip, savoring the velvety-taut skin stretched tight over steel. His cock twitched and jumped under your tongue as you worshipped every inch.

Heeseung groaned deeply, one hand resting lightly in your soaked hair. You swirled your tongue around the fat, leaking head, lapping up the salty precum like it was nectar, then suckled gently on the sensitive tip. Moaning softly around him, you finally parted your lips and sank down, taking him into the wet heat of your mouth. Your tongue pressed flat and firm against the underside, tracing that thick vein as you bobbed, coating him in spit until saliva dripped messily down his shaft and over your fingers.

You sucked him with utter devotion, hollowing your cheeks, nursing his cock like you couldn’t get enough. Wet, filthy sounds filled the shower as you worked him deeper, relaxing your throat to take more with every pass. Your hands stroked what you couldn’t swallow, twisting slickly around the base while you moaned continuously around his girth, the vibrations traveling straight through him.

“Fuck… baby,” he hissed, head falling back under the spray, abs flexing hard. “Your mouth feels so fucking good.”

You pulled off briefly just to drag your tongue slowly up the entire length again, tracing every ridge and vein with reverent care, then dipped lower to suck one of his heavy balls into your mouth, humming happily as you lavished it with attention before moving back to his throbbing cock. You took him even deeper this time, nose brushing his pelvis as you swallowed around the head, throat tightening rhythmically. Spit ran down your chin, mixing with the shower water, making everything slick and messy.

Your moans grew louder, needier, as you lost yourself in pleasing him, sucking harder, faster, eyes watering with how full he made you, but never stopping. You loved every second: the way his cock pulsed hot and heavy on your tongue, the salty taste of him, the broken sounds he made above you.

Heeseung’s thighs trembled, his grip tightening gently in your hair. “Baby~ I’m so close… if you keep sucking me like that I’m gonna cum down your throat.” You moaned loudly around his cock in eager response, doubling your efforts. You sucked him with pure, devoted hunger and wet, sloppy, and relentless, until his hips stuttered and he let out a deep, guttural groan.

Thick, hot ropes of cum pulsed across your tongue and straight down your throat. You swallowed greedily around him, milking every last drop with your hand and mouth, humming happily as you savored the taste of him. You kept sucking gently through his orgasm, prolonging it until he was shuddering and oversensitive.

Only then did you pull off with a soft, wet pop, lips shiny and swollen, a thin string of spit and cum still connecting you to his twitching cock. Heeseung immediately pulled you up, crashing his mouth against yours in a fierce, messy kiss. He tasted himself on your tongue and groaned into it, arms wrapping tightly around your waist like he couldn’t bear even an inch of space between your bodies. The kiss was deep, hungry, and filled with raw need.

After several long moments, he turned you around. Your palms and cheek pressed against the warm, wet tiles as Heeseung molded his chest to your back. One strong arm snaked around your waist, holding you securely. His other hand guided his still-hard cock to your entrance, rubbing the head through your slick folds. He pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch stretching your walls with a deep, delicious burn. Both of you moaned loudly as he bottomed out, his hips flush against your ass.

“God, you’re so tight,” he whispered against your ear, voice trembling with restraint. “So fucking warm and perfect around me.”

He stayed buried deep for a moment, just holding you, breathing against your neck as the hot water poured over your joined bodies. Then he started moving in slow, deep, rolling thrusts that dragged his cock against every sensitive spot inside you.

It wasn’t frantic. It was intimate, almost reverent. Heeseung fucked you like he was pouring all the stress of his day into the connection between your bodies. His arm around your waist kept you pressed tight against him while his free hand slid down to rub slow circles over your clit.

Every thrust was deep and deliberate, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in to the hilt. The wet slap of skin on skin mixed with your soft moans and his low, gravelly groans.

“You feel so good, baby. You're taking me so well,” he murmured, lips brushing your shoulder. “My beautiful girl, I needed this so fucking bad.”

He angled his hips slightly, hitting that perfect spot inside you with every stroke. Your moans grew louder, echoing off the tiles. Heeseung’s pace stayed steady but gradually grew a little firmer, chasing both your pleasure and his own.

When your second orgasm hit, it was slower and deeper than the first, your walls fluttering and clenching rhythmically around his cock as pleasure flooded your body. Heeseung groaned at the feeling, thrusting through your release until his own climax overtook him. With a deep, broken moan of your name, he buried himself as deep as possible and came hard, pulsing inside you in thick, warm spurts. He kept rocking gently into you even as he came, drawing out every last second of pleasure.

For a long while afterward, neither of you moved. Heeseung stayed buried inside you, arms wrapped possessively around your waist, forehead resting against the back of your neck as the water slowly began to cool. He pressed soft, lingering kisses along your shoulder and the side of your throat.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice hoarse and sincere. “Coming home to you… this… it’s everything.” You smiled softly, still catching your breath, pressing back into his warm chest.

The soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the apartment, save for the gentle clinking of a metal spoon against a ceramic bowl. 

You hummed along to the silent melody, lost in the sweet, comforting world of late-night baking. 

Dressed in one of Heeseung’s oversized t-shirts that hung loosely over your frame, paired with a tiny pair of shorts peeking out from beneath, you felt perfectly at ease. 

The kitchen air was thick and warm, smelling deliciously of vanilla, sugar, and melting chocolate.

A tray of perfectly golden cupcakes sat cooling on a rack. At the same time, you meticulously piped swirls of creamy buttercream onto another batch, adding a scattering of rainbow sprinkles to each one. 

You were so engrossed, head tilted in concentration, that you didn't hear the soft shuffle of bare feet until a warm presence leaned against the counter beside you.

"Mmm, something smells good," a low, raspy voice rumbled, still thick with sleep.

You jumped, nearly smearing frosting across your cheeks. "Heeseung! That scared me!" 

You turned to see him, hair mussed, eyes still heavy-lidded, but a small smile playing on his lips. 

He was wearing only a pair of sweatpants, his chest bare, and you felt a familiar warmth bloom in your chest at the sight of him.

"I couldn't sleep," he mumbled, reaching out a finger and swiping a dollop of frosting from the bowl. He licked it slowly, his eyes closing in bliss. "This is amazing."

"Hey, hold up, that's for the cupcakes!" you playfully scolded, swatting his hand away. "Go back to bed, Hee. These aren't even close to ready yet."

He grunted, leaning his chin on your shoulder, his breath warm against your neck. "But I'm really, really hungry, baby. Can't I just have one?"

"No, you cannot," you giggled, trying to push him away gently. "They need to be fully decorated, and you're in my way, mister."

"Just one little bite? Please?" he pleaded, his voice a low purr as he nipped playfully at your earlobe.

"Hee!" You swivelled, pushing him back with a hand on his bare chest. "Stop that, you're going to make me mess up." You laughed, genuinely enjoying his sleepy antics. 

This was literally your life. 

These quiet, playful moments in the late hours were all part of your routine after having been living under the same roof as Heeseung. 

You turned back to your task, reaching for a bottle of chocolate syrup from the top shelf. 

As you stretched, your shirt rode up a little, and the hem of your shorts rose with it. You leaned forward, craning your neck to see the label, completely oblivious to the sudden, subtle shift in the atmosphere behind you.

Heeseung had been about to steal another taste of frosting, but his eyes had drifted. 

The soft, buttery curve of your lower back, the smooth line of your thigh, and then, a fleeting glimpse of delicate lace peeking out from beneath the fabric of your shorts. 

It was just a flash, a whisper of ivory against your skin, but it was enough.

More than enough, actually.

The playful glint in his eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, intense focus. He went completely still, his half-raised hand dropping slowly to his side. 

The sweet smell of vanilla and chocolate suddenly seemed to amplify, becoming almost intoxicating.

You finally retrieved the syrup, turning back with a cheerful hum. "Alright, now for the chocolate drizzle..." You trailed off, noticing him. 

Damn it.

He wasn't even looking at the cupcakes anymore. 

His gaze was fixed on you, heavy and unblinking, his earlier playful expression entirely gone.

"Heeseung?" you asked, a little confused. "What's wrong? Is there something on my face?" You touched your cheek self-consciously.

He didn't answer, just took a slow, deliberate step closer. His eyes, usually so warm and expressive, were now dark, almost predatory. 

The playful hunger he'd shown for the cupcakes was now directed solely at you, and it was a hunger that made your breath catch in your throat.

"Hee? Baby? Hello?" you tried again, a nervous flutter starting in your stomach. 

The air in the kitchen, once warm and comforting, now felt thick with an entirely different kind of heat.

He reached out, his fingers tracing the curve of your hip through the fabric of his shirt. His touch was light, yet possessive, sending a shiver through you. 

"You look really pretty right now," he murmured, his voice deeper, rougher than before. "So, so sweet."

He moved closer still, caging you against the cool marble of the counter. 

The half-decorated cupcakes, the bowls of frosting, and the sprinkles all seemed to blur into the background. 

His eyes devoured you, tracing the line of your collarbone, lingering on the soft swell of your chest beneath his shirt.

"Heeseung, what are you doing? I'm in the middle of baking," you protested weakly, your voice barely a whisper. 

You could feel the heat radiating off his body, the sudden, desperate intensity of his gaze. 

This wasn't the playful Heeseung from moments ago. 

Hell no.

This was something else entirely.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Forget the baking," he breathed, his hand sliding up your side, fingers brushing against the bare skin of your waist. "I want to taste you instead."

A beat.

Before you could even fully process his words, his mouth was on your neck, a soft groan rumbling in his chest as he kissed and sucked at the sensitive skin beneath your ear. 

His hands were everywhere, tracing the curves of your body, pulling you flush against him until you could feel the hard evidence of his desire pressing against your shorts.

"The fuck, Heeseung, wait," you tried, a weak protest, but your body was already betraying you, arching into his touch. 

The rich confectionery scent was suddenly mixed with his intoxicating musk, filling your senses.

He pulled back just enough to look into your eyes, his own dark and burning. "Please," he whispered, a raw, needy edge to his voice that made your knees tremble. "Just... please give me a taste."

He kissed you then, deeply and urgently, his tongue sweeping into your mouth, tasting of frosting and something uniquely, deliciously him. 

His hands found the hem of his shirt you were wearing, easily pushing it up and over your head, tossing it carelessly onto the floor amidst a scattering of rainbow sprinkles.

The cool air of the kitchen hit your bare skin, but you barely noticed, consumed by the fire he was igniting. 

He broke the kiss, his eyes dropping to your exposed chest, a low growl escaping his throat.

"Gosh, you're going to make a mess, I don’t want to clean up so much," you managed, a faint protest as his fingers brushed over the sensitive skin of your breast.

He chuckled, a dark and husky sound. 

"That’s good, baby. I love making a mess," his thumb grazed your nipple, making it harden instantly. 

"Especially when it's this fucking sweet."

He bent his head, his mouth closing over one peak, drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. His free hand slid down, pushing aside the thin fabric of your shorts, seeking the soft warmth between your thighs. 

The cool marble counter pressed against your back, a stark contrast to the burning heat his body was generating.

"Heeseung," you whimpered, your fingers tangling in his messy hair as he suckled greedily. 

The kitchen, once a sanctuary of domestic calm, had transformed into a playground of raw desire. Bowls clattered as his elbow nudged them, a half-finished cupcake toppled, its frosting smearing across the counter. A sticky trail of chocolate syrup lay forgotten beside a whisk.

He pulled away from your breast, his eyes still heavy-lidded, but now blazing with a possessive hunger that made your core clench. 

He reached for a bottle of whipped cream from the fridge, shaking it vigorously before spraying a decadent dollop onto your stomach.

"So good," he murmured, licking it clean with slow, deliberate strokes of his tongue, making you writhe against him. "So, so, so fucking good, baby."

His mouth moved lower, tasting, teasing, until you were practically melting against the counter. 

He was insatiable, devouring you with a desperate urgency that left no room for thought, only sensation. 

Your ragged breaths now drowned out the soft hum of the refrigerator, the soft moans escaping your lips, and the frantic rhythm of his touch.

He lifted you, settling you onto the counter amidst the forgotten baking supplies, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. 

The cool marble, the sticky frosting, the scattered sprinkles – it was all a deliciously messy backdrop to the heat building between you.

He peeled your shorts away only to be met with a teasing glimpse of lace, and his hands tightened on your thighs as though restraining himself was rapidly becoming impossible. 

“You wear this while making cupcakes and expect me to behave?” he rasped, voice thick with disbelief, fingers hooking into the delicate sides before tugging the lace down in one impatient motion, his stare turning darker as he left you completely exposed beneath him. 

Heeseung's dark eyes burned into your exposed pussy, splayed wide on the counter amid the chaos of scattered bowls — thick buttercream frosting oozing, chocolate ganache pooling, sugar dusting everything like filthy snow. 

The air hung thick with the thick, sugary aroma clashing against your sharp, heady scent of arousal. 

He licked his lips slowly, predatory. "Fuck, baby, your cunt's weeping for me already. So puffy, so slick, lips parted like they need my mouth buried in 'em. I'm gonna tongue-fuck this juicy thing until you're a shaking mess, begging to soak my face."

You shivered, thighs trembling as he draped your legs over his broad shoulders, knees hooked high to splay you obscenely. 

His strong hands gripped your inner thighs, thumbs digging in to hold you open without mercy. 

He snatched a spoon from the mess, scooping a dollop of frosting, but instead of your core, he smeared it thick across your sensitive inner thighs, cool cream trailing up toward your crease, inches from your heat, making your skin prickle and twitch. 

"Gonna paint these slutty thighs first, make 'em sticky for me to lick clean while I devour your dripping slit. Feel that chill? Your body's already begging for more."

"Heeseung, baby... please," you whined, hips rolling instinctively, clenching on nothing as the frosting melted warm against your flesh.

He smirked, dragging the spoon's edge along your thigh muscles, pressing firmly to massage the cream deeper into your skin, sending tingles racing toward your core. 

Then he grabbed the piping bag’s rounded, flexible form, brushing against your skin as he steadied it in his grip, making your muscles jump, blood rushing hotter to your system.

"Spread wider for me, you greedy girl. Let me mark these thighs red while your pussy throbs untouched. Look at it, all shiny and desperate." He held the piping bag steady as his other hand guided your thighs further apart , exposing every inch of your pulsing entrance.

His hot breath ghosted over your clit first, making it throb harder. 

Then his tongue struck — flat and broad, lapping from your hole upward in one long, greedy swipe, collecting your tangy slick. 

No utensils here, thankfully, it was just his wicked mouth claiming you. 

He groaned deep, the vibration humming straight through your core. "Shit, you taste like pure sin, gorgeous. Salty-sweet nectar. Gonna slurp every drop while these thighs quiver around my head."

You moaned loud, fingers twisting in his hair, yanking him closer. 

“Ugh, keep doing that, baby.”

He dove in ravenously, lips sealing around your cunt to suck hard, pulsing pulls that hollowed his cheeks. 

His tongue flicked the peak relentlessly, tip battering it side-to-side, then circling tight spirals. 

Below, he thrust his tongue into your entrance, spearing shallow but insistent, fucking your walls with wet, obscene thrusts. 

Slurping sounds filled the kitchen as he sucked your lips into his mouth, tugging them gently between sucks, releasing with filthy pops.

While his face stayed glued to your cunt, he reached for the spoon, dipping its bowl in chocolate ganache. 

He ran the curved underside of the spoon lightly over your ass cheeks, the cool metal gliding across your skin in slow, teasing passes, dipping into the crease but never breaching, just hovering at the rim, making your hips buck wildly into his devouring mouth. 

"Feel the spoon tickling your tight ass? Chocolate dripping down, begging to mix with your come. But this sloppy cunt? All mine to tongue. Clench on it, baby. Fuck, milk my tongue like the cock it wishes it was."

Your breaths came in gasps, body arching off the counter. "Ugh—fuck, yes… Baby—faster."

"That's my filthy girl," he rasped against your folds, pulling back a slick string of your arousal, connecting his lips to your pussy. 

He snatched the icing spatula next, its side gliding over your lower belly, pressing into your hip bones, then down to slap lightly against your clit, sending a sharp jolt through your core. 

The frosting from your thighs smeared onto his chin as he plunged back in, nose grinding your clit while his tongue lashed your entrance, plunging deep, curling to hit that spongy spot inside.

He hummed filthy praises into you. "Your pussy's gushing rivers, pretty. Coating my tongue, dripping down my throat. So fucking responsive, I love it. Twitching every time I flick this clit. You love being my little kitchen toy, don't you? Legs spread, thighs sticky, cunt feasted on like dessert." 

His free hand slapped your thigh with the spatula again, the sting amplifying every lick, every suck, as he alternated between vacuuming your folds and tongue-fucking your hole.

Pleasure built like a storm, coiling viciously in your gut. 

He grabbed the whisk now,its looped wires dragging slowly over your breasts, trailing down your sides, grazing your nipples through, tiny scratches raising goosebumps everywhere, indirect fire that made your pussy clamp harder on his invading tongue. 

"These wires on your tits, huh? Making your whole body buzz while I eat this perfect cunt. Push it out, grind on my face, gorgeous."

You thrashed, heels digging into his back. "Heeseung! Oh fuck, I'm gonna—"

"Not yet," he growled, pulling his mouth away just as you teetered on the edge, your pussy clenching desperately in the air, slick drooling down your ass. 

He used the spoon to smear more frosting along your inner thighs and ass, the cool sweetness contrasting his hot breath as he blew teasingly over your throbbing clit. "Gonna edge this needy slit until you're sobbing. Beg for my tongue back in your sloppy hole."

"Please! Damn it, just use me, Hee!" you cried, hips humping nothing.

Satisfied, he attacked again, fiercer. 

Tongue swirling your clit in furious circles, then flattening to lap your entire pussy in broad strokes, sucking your folds clean of any stray juice. 

He added fingers to spread you wider, his digits holding your lips apart for his tongue to plunder deeper, lapping your walls, humming vibrations that shattered you.

"Come for me now, my pretty girl," he demanded, voice muffled in your heat. "Flood my mouth with that hot liquid. Drown me in your come while I lap it all up."

The dam broke. 

Waves crashed through you, your cunt spasming violently, gushing slick in rhythmic pulses against his greedy tongue. 

He drank you down, swallowing every spurt, nose rubbing your oversensitive clit to drag out the ecstasy until tears pricked your eyes and your thighs quaked uncontrollably.

He eased off slowly, licking softly through the aftershocks, cleaning every drop. Rising finally, his chin glistened with your release mixed with thigh-smeared frosting and chocolate. 

"Best meal I've ever had." He pressed a tender kiss to your sticky inner thigh, nipping the skin lightly before licking away a chocolate streak.

⭐️ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

It made you feel broken. Or worse—boring. Like your body was wired wrong. Like you’d missed the most basic feminine skill everyone else seemed to be born with.

Girls talked about cumming like it was breathing. Like they could do it in five minutes flat with one hand and a good imagination. You’d hear them talk about shaking through the sheets, arching off the bed, seeing stars—and you’d smile and nod and laugh along, pretending like you got it, like you knew what it was like to get wrecked by your own hand.

You’d never even come close.

You tried toys. You bought a vibrator and nearly cried when it did nothing but make your arms go numb. You tried grinding on pillows until the friction made you raw. You tried porn. You even tried watching yourself once in the mirror like some kind of twisted self-help therapy. Nothing worked.

You’d touch and touch and chase and beg for it in your head—please, just this once, just let me finish, please—and still end up breathless, sticky, empty.

You’d cry sometimes. Just a little. From the frustration of it. From the absolute humiliation of being so fucking horny and not being able to do anything about it.

You hated that about yourself. Hated the way your body seemed to enjoy the build and not the release. Hated the way your clit would throb for attention and then get overwhelmed the second you gave her any. Hated the need. The noise. The mess with no reward.

But the worst part—the actual worst part—was how much you still wanted it. How much you still tried. Like a dog chasing its own tail. Like some needy little loser who couldn’t leave it alone.

You were eighteen, for fuck’s sake. You were supposed to know your body by now. You were supposed to be able to make yourself cum. You were supposed to own your pleasure.

Instead, you were stuck with a pussy that got wet at the idea of being touched and then shut down the second you did.

It made you feel fucking insane.

So you gave up. Mostly. You still touched yourself when you needed to—when it built up too much and made your thighs ache. But it wasn’t about cumming anymore. It was maintenance. A reset button. A pressure valve. You did it in the dark, quietly, quickly, just to shut your body up.

You didn’t even think about pleasure anymore.

You didn’t dare.

-

Evie—Heejoo, but you only ever called her that when you wanted to piss her off—was your best friend in the world. Ride-or-die since ninth grade, bonded over a shared hatred of your chem teacher and the fact that neither of you fit into your school’s carefully manicured social circles.

Where you were sharp and quick with your mouth, she was soft-spoken and wide-eyed, just sweet enough to disarm anyone who got too close. You balanced each other out. She calmed your storm. You stirred hers.

You were over at her house so often it barely felt like visiting anymore. You knew the code to their garage door. You had your own toothbrush in her bathroom. Her mom kept your favorite cereal in the pantry like clockwork. You even had a drawer in her room, mostly old hoodies and stolen pajama shorts that smelled like her perfume.

It wasn’t unusual for you to spend the weekend there, or three nights in a row, or an entire spring break. Her parents didn’t mind. They liked knowing where you both were—liked having an extra body in the house, even if they never said it out loud.

And then there was Heeseung.

Her older brother. Four years up. Barely a presence.

When you were younger, he was just the older guy who sulked in his room and stole her chargers. Sometimes he’d give you a ride when Evie asked, sometimes he’d walk past you in the kitchen and grunt a greeting, but that was about it. He was there, and then he wasn’t—off to college, off to god knows where, vanishing from your life as quickly as he’d drifted through it.

You had a tiny crush on him once, freshman year. The kind that sparked quick and stupid, fed by his lazy smirk and the way he wore his backwards cap while fixing his car in the driveway. It died fast—suffocated by time and distance and his complete disinterest in acknowledging your existence beyond a nod or a side-eye.

By the time he moved back home post-grad, you barely noticed. He was older now, busier, always in his room with the door closed, voice low behind it, like he was on constant phone calls or late-night games or… something.

You didn’t think about him much. He was just Evie’s brother. Part of the background. White noise.

Your focus was always Evie.

She was the one who held your hair when you puked. The one who lent you a dress before every shitty date. The one who knocked on the bathroom door when you were taking too long and said, “You better not be edge-cumming again, bitch,” like it was the most normal sentence in the world.

She talked about sex like it was just part of the air. Blunt. Effortless. She could make herself cum in three minutes flat. She said it with confidence, like breathing.

You hated how easily it came to her. You loved her anyway.

You always felt safe in her house. Safe in her bed, tangled up under a shared blanket, legs overlapping like twins born too far apart. Her room smelled like vanilla and lip gloss and safety. It felt like yours.

-

The house settled around you like it always did—quiet, gentle, familiar in a way that made your muscles loosen and your brain drift. Even the silence felt padded here. The hum of the fridge downstairs, the occasional pop of cooling pipes, the subtle click of the thermostat shifting—background noise you’d grown so used to, it almost felt like home.

Evie was out cold beside you, one arm thrown carelessly across your stomach, her breath hot against your ribs. She always slept fast after wine. She always slept on you, too—like her body never quite understood boundaries even after all these years. You didn’t mind. It was comforting, the weight of her. Like a grounding wire for the anxious, electric static building low in your belly.

Sleep wasn’t coming for you, though.

You’d been lying there in the dark for the better part of an hour, phone dimmed to nearly unreadable brightness, eyes burning from the glow. Nothing on your feed caught your attention. You’d scrolled past the same content three times already, thumb swiping out of pure muscle memory.

Something restless twisted beneath your skin, persistent and irritating. Not quite horniness, not quite insomnia—just that same pulsing tension that had been sitting heavy between your legs all night. Like your body was trying to tell you something without using words. You shifted under the blanket, trying not to disturb Evie, thighs pressing tighter together to relieve the dull ache. It only made it worse.

The urge to do something about it had been growing for hours.

You’d thought about sneaking off to the bathroom. You’d done it before—quiet, quick, businesslike. Just enough friction to take the edge off before falling asleep, still unsatisfied but too tired to care. The idea barely tempted you anymore. You already knew how it would end: the usual mess of spit-slick fingers, your clit swollen and sore, pussy wet and pulsing and still refusing to give you anything real.

Just the thought of trying again made you clench your jaw.

It was pathetic, the way your body teased you. Wet for no reason. Needy without payout. Over and over again, like clockwork. Like punishment.

You turned your phone off with a quiet sigh and let the screen go black.

For a moment, all you could hear was the creak of the floorboards expanding under the weight of a settling house. A branch tapping against the window. The subtle drag of Evie’s breathing. You stared at the ceiling, tired but tense, willing yourself to shut down the frustration building behind your ribs.

A man’s voice, deep and casual, barely audible through the cracked bedroom doors. Not enough to make out words. Not yet. Just the soft cadence of speech, rising and falling like a secret being shared too close to the edge of the world.

Heeseung’s door was open. Or cracked. Just enough to let a sliver of sound spill out. You hadn’t even realized he was home tonight.

Your body stilled, like it always did when you felt watched—except this time, you were the one doing the watching. Listening, technically. Just barely.

There was a pause, then a laugh. Not his. Another voice. Someone else. Male. Maybe one of his friends from school, the ones who came and went without warning. You couldn’t place the sound, and you didn’t care.

Your focus sharpened the second Heeseung spoke again.

“It’s not that hard. Girls make it harder than it is."

“If she’s not cumming, she’s not listening to her pussy.”

The sentence dropped like a stone in the middle of your chest.

Not whispered. Not dirty. Just… stated. Like a law. Like fact.

Your fingers flexed unconsciously against the blanket. Heat flushed your neck and settled low in your belly, familiar and unwelcome. You didn’t move. Couldn’t.

There was something about the way he said it. Not performative. Not like he was trying to sound cool. Just calm. Confident. Like the kind of guy who got women off without effort and never thought twice about why.

Every hair on your arm lifted. He didn’t stop there.

“And if she won’t listen…I’ll make her.”

No laughter followed that. No teasing. Just a quiet moment where it hung in the air, unchallenged.

You lay frozen in the dark, heart thudding, mouth slightly open. Your legs ached under the blanket, thighs tense and pressed together. You weren’t just turned on—you were caught. Cornered by something you weren’t supposed to hear and couldn’t let go of.

Something clicked. Not like a revelation, not some dramatic internal monologue, just… a shift. A tilt in the floor beneath your feet. A door opening in a room you didn’t realize you were trapped in.

You didn’t even know what you wanted in that moment.

But for the first time in your life, you wondered—really wondered—what your body would feel like under instructions that weren’t your own.

-

You tried not to think about it for the rest of the day. Swore you wouldn’t spiral.

You kept the overheard words tucked somewhere tight in your chest, smothered under fake laughter and half-listened stories while Evie walked you through her latest dating app disasters. You made it through brunch, through an entire Target run, through two face masks and one trashy Netflix documentary—and you almost convinced yourself you were over it.

But when the house quieted again that night—when Evie fell asleep curled up on the far side of the bed with her arm draped over a pillow instead of you—you gave in.

You waited a while. Just in case she wasn’t fully out. The kind of sleep that could crack open with the creak of floorboards.

And when her breathing evened out, soft and deep and oblivious, you slid out from under the blanket, grabbed your phone, and slipped into the hallway.

The bathroom door closed with a soft click behind you.

You didn’t turn the light on right away. Just stood there for a second in the dark, breathing.

The air was cooler here. The tiles cold against your feet. The smell of Evie’s shampoo still clung to the room—vanilla and something floral, sticky-sweet. You stared at your reflection in the mirror above the sink, barely visible in the silver sliver of hallway light. Your face looked flushed. Too open. Like something had already been peeled back.

You sat on the closed toilet lid, tugged your hoodie over your thighs, and pulled your phone into your lap.

No buildup. No browsing. You knew what you were looking for.

The video you always came back to. The closest thing you’d ever found to what worked. A deep voice. Slow instructions. Just audio—nothing to watch, nothing to focus on but sound.

It wasn’t him, but it didn’t have to be. Not yet.

Your underwear stuck to the heat between your thighs as you slid it down. Still wet from the tension that had been building since that morning. From the second you saw Heeseung in the kitchen and felt your legs press together automatically.

The wetness should’ve been a good sign.

But you already knew how this would go.

You played the video. Turned the volume down low. Closed your eyes.

Your fingers found your clit easily. Rubbed gentle circles, the way the voice said. You tried to breathe through it, tried to slow down, to listen.

There was too much pressure too soon. Your skin twitched with every touch. The angle was wrong. The rhythm never quite synced. Your body jerked between feeling almost there and feeling absolutely nothing.

You tried harder.

Tried picturing something—someone. His voice. His mouth. The way he looked at you this morning like you weren’t just Evie’s friend, like he saw something else.

That made your fingers move faster. Your hips twitch up from the seat, trying to find something—anything—that would tip you over.

But it never came.

Just heat. Just sweat. Just the same stinging tension in your thighs and the wave that built up, crested, and refused to break.

Your hand dropped. Your chest heaved with a breath that sounded too much like a sob.

You sat there for a full minute in silence, pussy swollen, twitching, soaking your hand—and still nothing. You hadn’t cum. Not even close.

Not even fucking close.

Your palm dragged across your inner thigh as you reached for toilet paper, the wet slick of your own arousal catching against your skin, obscene and bitter and useless. You wiped your hand clean, flushed, washed it under the tap in a daze.

Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror, flushed cheeks, wild eyes, bottom lip bitten raw.

This wasn’t working.

You couldn’t do this by yourself. Not anymore.

The shame didn’t even hit you until you opened the door, stepped back into the hall, and looked toward Heeseung’s room.

You didn’t remember walking from the bathroom to his door. Not really. Your body moved on instinct, fingers still damp with failure, breath shallow and uneven like you’d been running—not down a hallway, but in circles inside your own skin. Everything felt hot and wrong, like you were standing too close to something dangerous and still leaning closer.

The light from under his door was soft, pale blue. The kind of glow that came from a computer screen and sleepless hours. It made the hallway feel colder. Your skin felt clammy beneath your hoodie, thighs still tacky with your own arousal, pulse thudding hard behind your ears. You didn’t even try to calm yourself before raising your hand. There wasn’t enough time. There wasn’t enough anything left.

You knocked.

Soft, quick. Regretted it immediately.

Nothing.

The silence on the other side stretched just long enough to make you feel stupid. You should’ve gone back to Evie’s room. Should’ve locked the bathroom door and buried your face in your hands like you always did. Should’ve swallowed the shame and left it to rot where it always did: at the bottom of your throat.

Your hand was already dropping when the doorknob turned.

Heeseung opened the door halfway, leaning into the frame, and for a second you couldn’t speak. You weren’t expecting him to look like that—hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms, collar askew, hair a damp mess like he’d run his hands through it one too many times. His sweatshorts hung low on his hips, legs bare, skin flushed warm like he’d just come out of the shower… or just come. You had no way of knowing which. And it made your brain short-circuit either way.

He didn’t look surprised to see you. Just confused.

His eyes dragged down your body with a slow kind of calculation, and you swore you saw the moment they caught on the way your thighs were pressed together, your bare legs twitching under the hem of your hoodie. The way your breath hitched in your throat. The way your fingers—still wet, still trembling—curled tighter at your side.

He blinked once, brows pulling in slightly.

“You good?”

The question was simple, quiet. But it hit like an echo in a room with no furniture. You were not good. Not even close.

Your voice came out before you could soften it. Flat, direct. “Do you have a girlfriend?”

He blinked again. Caught off guard this time.

“…What?”

“I just need to know,” you said quickly, words tumbling over each other. “Before I say anything. It matters.”

He stared at you for a beat, mouth twitching like he wasn’t sure if he should be amused or suspicious.

“No. I don’t.”

You exhaled like someone had untied a knot inside your chest.

“Fuck.”

His eyes narrowed slightly. “What?”

“If you said yes,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor, “I would’ve had an excuse not to ask you.”

That made him pause.

He shifted his weight, crossed his arms over his chest, leaned into the doorframe like he was settling in. His voice was a little lower when he asked, “Ask me what?”

Your whole body burned. There was no easy way to say it. No casual phrasing. No safe distance between you and the truth anymore. You didn’t have the energy to dance around it.

“You said something last night,” you started, forcing yourself to look at him. “About girls who can’t finish. About how they’re not listening to their bodies.”

He watched you carefully. No expression, just the slow, measured study of a man waiting for the rest.

“I heard it,” you added. “By accident. But it’s been stuck in my head. And I thought—I don’t know, I thought maybe you were right.”

Still nothing. Just his gaze crawling over your face, down to your knees, like he was trying to see where this was going before letting himself speak.

You swallowed, the taste of failure still thick in your throat. “I tried again tonight. Bathroom. Just now. I’ve been trying for years, and it’s always the same. Nothing works. I can’t finish. I touch myself, and it just—goes nowhere.”

Your cheeks burned. You didn’t even know why you were telling him all this. You barely knew the guy. The last time you’d had a real conversation was probably three birthdays ago when he offered you a ride and you said no because he smelled like weed and fuckboy cologne.

But here you were. Standing in front of him like some half-dressed, sweat-slick confession, spilling everything.

And he still hadn’t said a word.

Your next breath shook as it left you.

“I don’t want you to touch me,” you said, quieter now. “I just want to ask… if you’d tell me what to do.”

That got something out of him. A small breath through his nose, not quite a laugh, not quite disbelief. His eyes dropped—lower this time—to your legs again, to the edge of your hoodie, to the bare skin flushed and prickling under the hallway air.

He nodded once toward you, chin tilting. “Your hand’s still wet.”

You froze.

His voice was low, unreadable. “You tried that hard, huh?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He stepped back.

Just a few inches. Just enough to open the door wider. The light from inside poured out around him, cool and soft and full of static.

He held your gaze.

 “Come in. Close the door behind you.”

The door shuts with a soft click behind you, and just like that, the house disappears. Evie’s room, the hallway, your entire carefully contained world—it all drops away. There’s only the low glow of his monitor casting pale blue light across the carpet and the quiet hum of something electric in the corner, like the room itself is holding its breath.

You hover near the door for a second, not sure what to do with your hands, your legs, your shame.

Heeseung’s already sitting, legs wide in his desk chair, turned toward you like he was waiting the whole night for this. He shifts, pushes himself up slightly, and drags the chair forward—lazily, unbothered—until it sits right in front of the bed. Close enough that if you spread your legs, he’d have a front-row seat.

Then he flips the chair around, straddling it backwards like some cocky delinquent in detention, arms crossed over the backrest, chin resting casually on top. His expression doesn’t change. He just watches you.

“Go ahead,” he says, voice calm and low, like this is just another Tuesday night. “Sit.”

You make your way to the bed, legs tense, breath shallow, and perch at the edge like it might bite. Your thighs clench on instinct, hoodie pulled low, trying to shield what you already know he’s seen. You’re still warm from the bathroom. Still soaked. Still aching.

His eyes drift down. Slow. Lazy. No shame.

You fidget.

Heeseung doesn’t move. “Don’t get shy on me now. You came in here asking for a masturbation lesson, not a bedtime story.”

Your lips twitch. You almost laugh. Almost.

He lifts his chin. “Tell me what you usually do.”

The question lands harder than it should. Not because it’s dirty, but because it’s so simple.

You blink. “Like… where I touch?”

“Yeah.”

You hesitate. “I usually just go straight to my clit.”

“Figures.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “And then what? Rub the fuck out of it ‘til it gets sore and wonder why it doesn’t work?”

Your mouth falls open in a small gasp. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs one shoulder, unbothered. “Don’t take it personal. That’s what most girls do. It’s not your fault you think the goal is speed over sense.”

You don’t respond, but your silence is answer enough.

He leans in a little, forearms resting on the chair back, gaze glued to your bare thighs. There’s no hunger in it—not yet. Just observation. Like he’s assessing you.

“If your pussy had a voice,” he says smoothly, “she’d be screaming at you to chill the fuck out.”

You’re quiet for a long second. Because the worst part is… he’s not wrong.

He watches you squirm, and something like amusement passes over his features. Not cruel, but smug.

“Take your time,” he says, gentler now. “You rush her, she locks up. Doesn’t matter how wet you are.”

“…She?” you murmur, lifting a brow.

Heeseung shrugs again, like it’s obvious. “Yeah. She.” His eyes flick to yours. “You don’t gotta name her or write poetry about her, but you should probably stop treating her like a vending machine.”

Your laugh breaks before you can stop it. Quick and sharp, nerves bleeding out of your throat. “You’re so annoying.”

“And yet, you’re still here,” he says with a smirk, eyes dark. “Go on. Show me how you start.”

Everything tightens. You feel the weight of his voice low in your belly.

You don’t move right away.

He raises a brow. “You said you didn’t want me to touch you. That’s cool. But I need to see what you’re doing wrong.”

Your breath hitches.

Your hand moves on instinct—slow, shaky—and dips beneath the hem of your hoodie, then under the band of your panties. You’re already wet. Embarrassingly wet. And when your fingers graze over your clit, you flinch. It’s too sensitive. Too much. Your hips jerk a little, and you pretend not to notice the way his eyes follow the motion.

You rub. Once. Twice. It’s not bad. It’s what you always do.

But still—nothing clicks.

Heeseung tilts his head. “You’re too stiff.”

“I’m nervous,” you admit quietly.

“Don’t be.” His voice drops half an octave. “You look hot.”

The way he says it—it doesn’t sound like a compliment. Just a fact. Like he’s telling you what time it is. Like your soaked fingers and clenched thighs are something he’s been picturing all night.

“You’re thinking too much,” he adds. “Trying to force it instead of feel it.”

Your hand stills.

He leans forward slightly, his voice quieter now, more intimate. “Try this. Press your hand flat. Just hold her. No rubbing. No tapping. Just… feel her.”

You hesitate, then obey.

The flat of your hand settles between your legs, heat blooming up your arm from the contact. Your whole body clenches around it.

“Feel that?”

You nod. Barely.

“That’s what she likes,” he murmurs. “You’ve been poking at her like she’s a fucking keyboard. No wonder she’s not putting out.”

You let out a breathy laugh—half scandalized, half aroused. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re soaking through your panties,” he says, deadpan.

Your breath catches. Heeseung doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t look away.

He sits there like he’s got all the time in the world. Like he’s doing you a favor. Like he’s enjoying this. You’re not even sure he’s hard yet—but he will be. You can feel it building. Between you. In you.

He lets the moment hang.

Then: “Now—slow circles. Don’t speed up unless she tells you to.”

“She doesn’t talk,” you whisper, teasing without confidence.

His gaze is heavy. Steady.

“She does,” he says, voice like heat sliding under your skin. “You just haven’t been listening.”

The room feels hotter now.

Not just the air—your skin, your mouth, your thighs. Sweat clings to the backs of your knees, damp beneath the bunched-up hoodie, and your panties are so wet they’re practically glued to one thigh. Your hips keep twitching without your permission, rolling up slightly with every pass of your fingers. It’s not graceful. It’s not some porn fantasy. It’s messy and uneven and real, and Heeseung is watching every second of it like it’s the only thing worth watching.

You keep thinking you should feel embarrassed. Ashamed. You’re spread open on his bed, hand stuffed between your legs, whining softly every time you stroke a little too hard and have to ease back again—but you’re too far gone now to stop. Your cheeks are flushed, lashes wet, lips parted, and you can’t look away from him.

He hasn’t blinked once.

Heeseung is still straddling the backward chair, elbows resting on the top, chin on one hand like this is casual. Normal. Like you’re just some half-naked girl jerking off in front of him for practice and he’s your substitute teacher for the night.

The only thing that’s changed is his posture.

His knees are spread wider than before. His forearms are tense. One hand grips the edge of the chair a little tighter every time your body jerks, and you don’t miss the way his jaw flexes every time your breath stutters or your voice cracks.

You’re doing this to him.

But not enough.

Not enough to make it stop hurting. Not enough to make the ache go away. Not enough to finish.

You’re trying. God, you’re trying.

Your fingers rub in slow circles, not too fast now. You’re listening. You are. But your body keeps tensing at the edge, like it’s scared to fall off the cliff it’s been building for years. Your hand’s cramping. Your clit throbs. Your stomach clenches like you’re close—and then it dips, again and again.

It’s good. So good.

But it’s not enough.

You choke on a frustrated sound, somewhere between a sob and a moan, and your free hand fists the blanket beneath you like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

Heeseung speaks, finally, voice low and steady. “Still rushing her.”

“I’m not,” you whisper.

“You are. I can see it.”

You shake your head, breath stuttering. “I’m not trying to—I swear, I’m—” You gasp. “It’s just—it’s not—”

You stop. Words catch in your throat. Your hips are rocking now, involuntarily, chasing a sensation that keeps pulling away the second you get close. Your fingers are wet, your pussy’s pulsing, and it still feels like you’re just rubbing up against a wall.

“It’s not enough,” you breathe out, broken. “I—I can’t—fuck—she’s not listening.”

Heeseung leans forward slightly, something sharp flashing in his eyes.

“Oh, she’s listening,” he says. “You’re just not talking to her the right way.”

You whimper. “Then tell me what to say.”

That makes his mouth twitch—just barely. Like he’s been waiting for that.

“Tell me what she’s feeling first.”

“I—” Your voice cracks. “She’s tight. Warm. I feel her—pulsing. Like she wants something but—she’s not opening.”

He tilts his head slightly, gaze dark. “She wants to be filled.”

You nod.

“No,” he says. “Say it.”

Your chest heaves. Your hand hasn’t stopped moving, rubbing slow, desperate circles around your clit. “She wants to be filled.”

“Say it like you mean it.”

“She wants to be fucking filled,” you whine. “She’s throbbing—she’s soaking—fuck, I can feel her squeezing nothing.”

Heeseung exhales slowly, eyes flicking down between your legs again.

“There you go,” he murmurs. “Now she’s talking.”

Your fingers glide lower, catching more slick and sliding back up. Everything’s soaked. You’re dripping down onto the sheets, and your thighs are trembling from the strain of keeping your hips lifted just right.

“She needs more,” you pant. “She’s clenching—she’s starving—”

Heeseung’s hand flexes around the edge of the chair again. His voice drops, almost to a growl. “So feed her.”

You moan—high and breathy—and press harder, circling your clit faster now, the way your body wants. Your lips are wet, your fingers slipping, but it doesn’t matter. Everything is slick and hot and alive.

“You’re soaked,” he mutters, eyes burning into you. “Look at your fucking fingers.”

You do. It’s obscene. Your hand shines in the light, your fingers coated in slick. You barely recognize your own body like this. Ruined. Responsive.

“She’s begging,” he says softly. “And you’re finally listening.”

You whine, eyes squeezing shut. Your free hand presses against your lower belly, trying to hold the heat in. Your pussy twitches at the pressure.

“She’s so fucking greedy,” you gasp. “She won’t stop pulling—I can’t—I can’t keep up—”

“You don’t have to,” he says. “She knows what she’s doing. Let her take it.”

You don’t even realize how loud you’ve gotten until you hear yourself moan again—shameless, cracked open, shaking from the inside out.

Your legs spread wider. You’re not trying to hide anymore. Not from him. Not from yourself.

You’re right there.

You’re going to break.

He’s just watching. Like it’s his favorite thing he’s ever seen.

You’re right on the edge, and this time it’s not teasing.

It’s sharp. Fast. Inevitable.

Your legs are trembling now, hips jerking with every motion, and your fingers are soaked—slipping against your clit, coating your inner thighs, dripping down the crease of your ass like your body’s trying to fuck itself open. Every stroke sends another wave of tension through you, and there’s no holding it anymore. Your body is begging. Your pussy’s leaking, twitching, clenching around nothing—and Heeseung watches like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You don’t even realize you’re moaning until you hear it echo back at you in the small room. High-pitched. Desperate. Wet.

The sound of your pussy is louder now too. Sticky and obscene, each rub slicker than the last. You can hear it every time you roll your hips into your palm.

Heeseung doesn’t say a word for a second too long.

You lift your head, eyes glazed over, panting.

His eyes are darker now. Half-lidded. Focused on your pussy like he’s reading it better than your face.

He shifts in his chair. Spreads his knees wider. His hand dips into the front of his sweatshorts, slow and casual, like he can’t ignore it anymore. You catch a glimpse of his fingers wrapping around himself—and your breath catches so hard your vision blurs.

He’s so hard.

His voice comes out deeper. Filthy. Measured like it’s the only thing anchoring him in the room.

“Look at that messy little cunt.”

Your body jerks at the word. You’ve never heard it said like that. Never felt it hit like that.

Heeseung strokes himself once, slow and firm under the fabric.

“She’s drooling all over your fingers. So fucking hungry. Bet she’s never been this loud for you before.”

“She hasn’t,” you breathe. “She never—she never—”

“You’ve been starving her,” he says, still jerking himself lazily. “Touching her like she’s a problem instead of a fucking meal.”

Your hand speeds up, and he sees it. Hears the slap of slick. You’re humping into your fingers now, sloppy and desperate and so close you could scream.

Heeseung leans forward, one elbow braced against the back of the chair.

“You wanna cum, baby?”

You nod frantically, but it’s not enough.

“Use your words.”

Your voice comes out cracked. “Yes. Please—I wanna cum—I need it—”

“Need what?” he pushes.

“I need her to fucking break,” you sob. “She’s clenching—she’s begging—she needs to cum, she needs it—”

“Then let her,” he growls. “Don’t fucking hold it. Let her make a mess.”

You whimper, fingers frantic, back arching off the bed.

And that’s when he says it—low and hot and foul.

“Let her fuck your fingers, slut.”

You snap.

Your body locks up, then shatters. You cum so hard your legs shake, hips jerking forward, thighs squeezing around your own hand as your pussy gushes over your fingers in sticky, messy waves. The moan that rips from your throat is broken, cracked, half-wet from tears.

It doesn’t hit you right away.

At first, there’s just white. Blinding. A full-body seizure of pleasure as your cunt clenches around nothing, soaking your own fingers, mouth open in a moan that doesn’t even sound like you.

It crashes over you fast. Wet. Messy.

You cum harder than you ever have in your life—harder than you thought was even possible—and your body just keeps going, hips jerking, slick dripping past your knuckles, your voice cracking on every gasp.

Heeseung is still there.

You know he is. You can feel his eyes on you, feel his breath in the space between your bodies, but you can’t look at him. Not right now. Not like this.

And then it fades.

That warm, bright static in your brain flickers out. Your thighs twitch. Your hand finally drops, fingers soaked, wrist aching, clit too sensitive to touch again.

What’s left is the sound of your breathing. The slick, wet mess beneath your hips. The embarrassment flooding in all at once like a second wave.

Reality slams back into you hard.

You’re laid out across his bed—sweaty, flushed, thighs spread wide and soaked all the way down to the crease of your ass. Your pussy’s still twitching, swollen and glistening, your panties bunched at one knee, hoodie halfway pushed up your stomach.

Your fingers shine in the low light. Still wet. Still shaking.

You sit up fast, panic sweeping over your skin like ice water. “Shit—fuck.”

Your hand fumbles to pull your hoodie down, yanking it over your thighs, shoving your panties back into place even though they’re absolutely soaked through. The fabric clings wetly to your pussy and only makes the mess feel worse.

Heeseung hasn’t moved.

Still in the chair. Still one hand inside his shorts. He looks completely unbothered. Calm. Like you didn’t just cum your entire soul out in front of him.

You can’t meet his eyes.

He watches you fuss with the hem of your hoodie, your hands still trembling slightly as you try to make yourself look decent.

“Didn’t say stop,” he says mildly.

You glare at him, cheeks burning. “I came. Pretty sure that’s the goal, right?”

He shrugs one shoulder. “Just surprised you’re acting all shy now. That pussy was practically talking thirty seconds ago.”

“Jesus—” you squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in your hands.

Heeseung grins. Not mean. Not mocking. Just amused.

“You do realize how loud you were, right?” he adds. “I thought the bed was gonna snap in half.”

“Please stop talking,” you groan, voice muffled.

“You were crying,” he says like it’s a compliment, hand still lazily palming himself under his shorts. “That shit was beautiful.”

You peek at him through your fingers. He’s still hard. Still watching you with that same steady calm, like this is fine. Like this is normal.

He doesn’t even seem fazed.

That somehow makes the ache between your legs flare again. Weak, overstimulated, but greedy.

You clear your throat. “I didn’t realize I—um. That I could… do that.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Cum?”

You shoot him a look.

Heeseung laughs, finally letting go of himself. “You’ve been fighting her for years. All I did was give you directions.”

You tuck your knees up into your chest, arms wrapped around them. You feel like you just stripped naked in front of someone who stayed fully clothed—and now he’s just lounging there like you didn’t just show him the most private part of yourself.

You sit in that awkward silence for a few seconds longer.

Heeseung stretches, chair creaking slightly. “So,” he says, tone casual. “Lesson two tomorrow?”

You blink.

“…There’s a second lesson?”

He smiles slow, eyes dropping to your thighs again. “You think she’s done learning?”

Your pussy twitches beneath your soaked panties.

-

Your legs are still weak from the first night when you leave.

Just a few days back home. Just a quick visit. You didn’t think it would matter—but the second you cross the county line, your pussy starts aching like she knows she’s been abandoned. Like she misses his voice already.

You think about texting him before you even unpack your overnight bag.

 It starts that fast—barely through the front door, barely through dinner with your parents, barely through pretending to care about someone’s new side hustle or whatever cousin just had a baby, and already your mind is slipping. 

Already you’re restless. Already your body feels too awake. You can still feel the slick sticking to the inside of your thighs from last night, from the way he sat in that chair like he was doing you a favor while you touched yourself for the first time like it meant something. It hasn’t gone away. The ache stayed with you. 

That trembling throb between your legs that didn’t fade after one orgasm—or two—or three. And now, here you are. Sitting in your childhood bedroom like you didn’t just learn how to listen to your pussy in someone else’s bed with someone else’s voice in your ear.

You last all of twelve hours. Maybe thirteen if you count sleep, but that’s cheating. You keep checking your phone like a freak. Not even for a message—just to see his name.

 You scroll through the notifications like maybe he’ll magically show up. You open his contact. Stare at the little circle icon. You type a text. Delete it. 

Type again. Delete. Pace the room. Pull your hair up. Let it fall. Lie on the bed. Toss the blanket off. Roll onto your stomach, then your back, then sit up again because your body’s too hot and your thoughts won’t stop dragging back to the sound of his voice saying “Good girl. She’s listening now.”

You try to distract yourself. Put music on. Stare at the ceiling. Scroll through reels. But the tension is building and it’s not casual. It’s deep. It’s mean. 

Like your pussy’s crawling up your spine and whispering call him over and over again. And finally, like a fucking addict, you give in.

You don’t try to be subtle. Your fingers tremble as you type the message—“Can I call you?”—and hit send before you can regret it. Your breath catches in your throat. Heart pounding. Shame twisting in your gut like you’ve already crossed a line and he hasn’t even replied. But then your phone buzzes. Two texts in a row. You click without thinking.

No. I’ll call you.

Speaker on. Hands ready. Nothing else.

You don’t even get a second to prepare. The call comes in instantly, and you fumble to answer it, press speaker, toss the phone onto your pillow and sit back, legs shaking under your blanket. You’re wearing nothing but a big t-shirt—no bra, no panties. Like your body already knew what was coming.

His voice is in your ear the second the line connects.

Low. Thick. Wrecked.

“You waited all day just to fuck yourself to my voice, didn’t you?”

The sound alone makes your thighs clamp together. You can’t answer. You don’t know what to say. You feel called out, ruined, exposed, and he hasn’t even seen you.

“You’re pathetic,” he breathes, and it’s not cruel—it’s reverent. Like he’s turned on by the depth of your desperation. “You left for less than twenty-four hours and she’s already starving.”

Your breath comes out shaky. “She hasn’t shut up.”

“I bet. That little pussy’s been crying for attention, hasn’t she? Soaking your panties, throbbing for no reason. Did you even try to touch her?”

Your hand slides down your stomach. Shame floods your chest. “I tried last night.”

“And?”

Your fingers drift over your mound, soft and slow.

“…Didn’t work.”

“Of course it didn’t.” He doesn’t miss a beat. “Because she’s not trained to your fingers. She’s trained to my voice.”

You nearly choke.

“Take the blanket off.”

You do.

“T-shirt stays. I want you messy under it. Like a filthy little secret.”

You obey, chest rising. The air hits your bare skin and your nipples pebble instantly under the thin cotton. You slide your hand under the hem and find yourself dripping already—your folds slippery and warm, your clit throbbing at the first brush.

“Fuck. You’re already wet.”

You don’t answer.

“Don’t ignore me. Say it.”

You whimper. “I’m wet.”

“Where?”

Your hand slides lower. “Everywhere.”

“Let me hear it.”

You drag your fingers through your folds, then lift them to the mic.

Squish. Slick. Wet.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes. “She’s fucking leaking for me.”

“She won’t stop,” you pant. “She’s been clenching—she’s needy. I can’t—I can’t even think straight.”

“She doesn’t need you to think. She needs you to listen.”

You nod like he can see you.

“You touching your clit yet?”

“No,” you whisper. “Just teasing.”

“Don’t tease her. Feed her.”

You obey. Your fingers find your clit and press slow, warm circles into the swollen skin. Your hips twitch immediately. Your body jolts with relief. Like it’s been waiting for this.

“Fuck. That’s it. Let her roll her hips. Let her grind on your fingers.”

You do.

And you moan. Loud. Wet. Pathetic.

“You sound like you’re crying.”

“I might be,” you choke out. “I’m—I’ve been on edge all day. She’s screaming—”

“Then shut her up.”

Your fingers move faster. Your breath turns ragged. The slick is everywhere now—coating your palm, sliding down your ass, soaking the sheets beneath you. You can hear it—slap, slap, slap—and you know he can too.

“God, listen to her,” he says. “She’s fucking talking again. Slapping wet, loud as hell, crying to be filled.”

Your thighs start to shake.

“Don’t you dare stop.”

“Heeseung—fuck, I’m close—”

“She wants to cum. So let her.”

You cum hard, back arching, legs tensed, voice cracking open around a sob as your pussy convulses around nothing—just your fingers, just your shame, just his voice dragging it out of you with nothing but command.

“Again,” he growls. “Don’t you dare take your hand off her. You begged for this. You waited all fucking day for it.”

You keep going. Because you can’t stop. Because this is his now.

-

You don’t get a break.

Heeseung doesn’t let you.

After that first call—the one where you came so hard you swore you saw stars—you thought maybe the tension would ease up. Maybe you’d get to breathe. But you don’t. Because the second you wake up the next morning, there’s already a text waiting for you.

Morning. She hungry?

Your pussy clenches on reflex.

You bite your lip, cheeks flushing under the covers.

Yes.

His reply is instant.

Good. edge yourself until you’re shaking. No cumming. No cheating. You’ll send me a pic of your fingers when you’re done.

That’s it. No teasing. No sweet talk. Just commands. Direct. Cruel. And of course—you obey.

You finger yourself that morning with shaking hands, grinding into your palm in the silence of your old bedroom with one hand over your mouth to muffle your cries. You stop just short of release three times. Your panties are soaked. The sheets beneath you are ruined.

You send the photo.

Two slick fingers, gleaming. One droplet hanging from your wrist like a taunt.

He doesn’t reply until hours later.

Beautiful. Don’t clean her up. Let her stick to your skin. I want her to haunt you all day.

That’s how it starts.

Sometimes it’s a call. Sometimes it’s just a photo prompt. Sometimes it’s voice notes—low, slow, whispered filth that you replay in the bathroom on full volume with your thighs clenched so tight you can barely breathe.

Another day: make a mess on your favorite pair of panties. Send proof. Don’t wash them. Fold them and put them in your drawer like a secret. Like she remembers.

When you can’t call—family dinners, company in the house, a wedding event—he doesn’t complain. He just adapts.

He sends you three voice notes in a row, each one filthier than the last.

“Are you wearing panties right now?”

“She’s wet just from this, isn’t she?”

“Put your phone between your legs. Let my voice buzz against her while you grind.”

You do. In the middle of the day. On the edge of your childhood bed. With the door locked and your hand clamped over your mouth to muffle the sound of you cumming on command.

Every time you text him, he knows what you need before you say it.

On your knees. Two fingers. Say my name when you finish. That’s all.

You cum like a trained animal.

By the end of the fourth day, you’re overstimulated and aching. Your cunt stays warm. Your clit stays swollen. You can’t think straight without hearing his voice. You can’t fall asleep without a pillow between your legs and your phone under your ear, replaying the way he said your name like it tasted good.

He doesn’t let you get comfortable.

I want her ruined by the time you get back. Wet stains on your thighs. Bruised from your own fingers. No excuses. You belong to me now, yeah?

-

You’re at the dinner table when the text comes in.

There’s a bowl of pasta in front of you. Your uncle’s talking about traffic. Your mom’s pouring more wine. And your phone buzzes in your lap—one tiny, harmless vibration you almost ignore until you see the name on your lockscreen.

Heeseung.

Your chest tightens immediately. A hot ripple runs down your spine. You unlock it under the table, heart already picking up speed, thighs pressed tight together like that’s gonna help anything.

You expect a voice note. Maybe an instruction. Instead, it’s just a single message.

Don’t open this here. I’m serious.

You excuse yourself. Bathroom. You try to walk casually, but your legs feel unstable, like your body knows what’s coming and is bracing for it. You shut the door. Lock it. Sit down on the closed toilet seat. And then you open the message.

It’s not a photo. Not a voice note. Just a block of text.

And it destroys you.

I want you dripping. Right now. I want your thighs sticky. I want your pussy hot and twitching and swollen like she’s just been edged for an hour and she’s still not allowed to cum. I want her pulsing around nothing. Squeezing air. Leaking like she misses my cock even though she’s never had it. That’s how good I want her trained. That she misses me even though I’ve never fucked her. I want you to slide your hand into your panties and feel her spit for me. Feel how filthy she’s gotten just from reading my words. Not even hearing my voice. Just letters on a screen and she’s frothing like a brainless little thing. I want her throbbing. Sore. Pink. Aching. I want you to pull your panties to the side and look at what I’ve done to you. How she opens for nothing. How she clenches for nothing. How she cries, fucking cries, when she doesn’t get touched. I want her messy. Slutty. Wet enough to embarrass you. Wet enough you can’t clean it up with one tissue. Wet enough that if someone walked into that bathroom right now, they’d smell her. No fingers. Not yet. Just pressure. Palm down. Let her hump. Let her grind. Let her get yourself dirty. She knows what to do. She doesn’t need permission anymore. You’re gonna leak down your leg just reading this, aren’t you? She’s already twitching. Already soaking. She knows what she is now. A thing that exists to be used. To be made wet. To be trained.

You stare at your screen. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

And you feel it—that slow, steady drip.

You slide your hand down between your legs and whimper when your fingers meet your panties—soaked through. Hot and sticky, your folds puffy and swollen, everything throbbing with need.

You spread your legs wider. There’s no stopping it. You have to.

You push your panties aside, just like he said, and when you look down, your cunt is shining. Slick lips parted, clit swollen and begging, a string of wet clinging between your folds when you breathe too hard.

You cup her with your whole palm and rock once.

You grind again. Harder. The heel of your hand pressing directly on your clit. Your hips move faster, panting now, forehead pressed against your bent knee as your pussy humps your own hand like she’s starved.

You’re fucking yourself with no fingers. Just pressure. Just filth. Just his words rotting your brain and your pussy loving it.

You don’t stop until your legs lock, jaw clenched tight to muffle the moan that rips through your throat. Your pussy convulses, grinding down hard, cumming in waves against your own palm until you’re crying silently, thighs soaked, panties a mess, body twitching from the force of it.

When it’s over, you’re wrecked. You sit there in silence. Breathing heavy. Panties still pulled to the side, hand drenched, cunt gaping and twitching like she’s still looking for him.

You snap a photo.

Not of your face. Just your hand. Soaked. Ruined. Slick covering your wrist, dripping down your knuckles.

You send it. No caption. A minute later, his reply lights up your screen.

That’s how she’s supposed to look. Every day until you get home.

-

You don’t even knock.

You could, but what’s the point? He told you to come over as soon as you got back. No texts. No warning. Just a short message yesterday night:

You better show up dripping.

And you are.

The shorts you wore are damp at the crotch, your hoodie clinging to the sweat on your lower back. Every shift of your thighs against the car seat on the drive over made you squirm. By the time you’re standing in front of his door, your cunt is throbbing. Empty. Trained. Starving.

He opens it like he already knew you were there.

Barefoot. Hoodie. Nothing underneath.

He stares at you for a second, quiet. His eyes drop to your legs, to the way you’re fidgeting, clenching, trying not to press your thighs together. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t speak.

Just opens the door wider and lets you in.

You step past him. Silent. Heat prickling under your skin. His presence is loud, even without words. You can feel the pressure building already—your pussy knows. She’s aware. Aware of the air, of the scent of him, of how close he is now after five days of only hearing him through a speaker.

He closes the door behind you. And waits.

You turn to him, hands still curled into your sleeves. “I did everything.”

He lifts a brow. “Yeah?”

You nod. Swallow hard. “Every day.”

Heeseung steps forward slowly. Stops in front of you. His eyes flick down, over your body, like he’s looking for confirmation.

“You leaking?”

Your breath catches. “Yes.”

“Prove it.”

Your heart slams against your ribs. But you don’t hesitate.

Your fingers hook into the waistband of your shorts and tug them down in one smooth motion. They hit the floor and you step out of them, bare underneath, thighs sticky and glistening. Your hoodie barely covers your hips now. One inch higher and he’d see everything.

He doesn’t touch you.

“Show me,” he says, voice low.

Your breath hitches again—but you drop to your knees. Not because he asked. Because your body knows what to do now.

You kneel between his feet on the hardwood floor, hands moving to part your thighs so he can see. You pull the hoodie up to your waist and slide two fingers between your folds—dripping. It spreads so easily. Glossy. Viscous. Your pussy folds open for your own touch like it’s nothing new. Like she’s been practicing all week.

You keep your eyes on him the whole time.

And when your fingers come back up, soaked and glistening, you hold them out. Heeseung watches you in silence.

Then leans forward, slow and deliberate. He takes your fingers into his mouth and sucks—deep, slow, tongue curling around them like it’s a reward.

Your hips jerk slightly. Your cunt clenches hard. He pulls off with a wet pop and stares down at you.

“She tastes trained.”

You nod.

“She beg yet?”

You exhale. “She never shut up.”

He clicks his tongue. “Yeah?”

Then he grabs your jaw. Fingers firm but not rough, tilting your face up to his.

“You want her filled?”

You nod again. “Please.”

“Not yet,” he says. “She’s not ready.”

“I’m ready—she’s so ready, I’ve been—”

“I don’t care what you think. You’re not here to make decisions. You’re here to do what I say.” He lets go of your face. “You wanna get fed? Earn it. Lay down. Show me how she begs.”

You scramble onto the bed.

Flat on your back. Legs spread. Cunt on display. Dripping.

You’re already on your back, knees drawn up, thighs spread and trembling, cunt pulsing with heat that’s been building all week. You don’t try to hide it. You can’t. Your pussy’s wet. Loud. Lips glossy and parted, folds flushed and twitching like she knows the moment has finally come. She’s been teased. Trained. Denied. You’ve been filling her with fingers and pressure and your own voice, but never this. Never him. And now he’s standing at the edge of the bed, staring down at you like he’s finally ready to eat.

But he doesn’t touch you first.

He picks your shorts up off the floor, turns them inside out—and finds your soaked panties tangled in the legs. He peels them out slowly, sticky with your slick, the thin fabric darkened and clinging to itself. You watch, breath caught, legs still open, burning with shame as he brings them up to his face.

And sniffs.

Deep.

He inhales like it’s a fucking ritual. Eyes half-lidded. Thumb pressing into the crotch to smear the wetness around before dragging it across his lip. His tongue flicks out—tastes it.

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “She’s been marinating in this.”

Your body jolts. Your hands fist the sheets.

“She’s loud, too.” His voice drops lower. “I haven’t even touched her and she’s already talking. Look at her. Fucking twitching. Dripping. Spreading herself open like she knows who she belongs to.”

“Heeseung—” You whimper.

“Shut up.”

He tosses your panties to the side and climbs onto the bed, slow and smooth, eyes never leaving your cunt. He settles between your legs and just kneels there for a moment. Breathing her in. Hands on your thighs. Pushing them wider. Spreading you so open you can feel the air hit your slick.

You’re soaked. You know it. You can feel it, the slick sliding down into the dip of your ass, the way your folds part with every breath, your clit poking out, hot and swollen.

He just stares.

“You fucking trained her like this,” he mutters, almost to himself. “You really did it. Came like a good little slut every night just to keep her hungry.”

“She’s starving,” you whisper, voice shaking.

“I can see that.”

His thumbs press into the crease of your thighs, holding you open. His face lowers. Inches away. His breath hits your folds and your hips twitch violently.

He doesn’t lick you.

Not yet.

He just hovers. His nose skims your inner thigh. Then up. Right up the slick slit, dragging his breath across your folds until your body shudders. He breathes her in again—this time slower. Longer. Right at the source.

“God,” he mutters. “She fucking smells like obedience.”

You sob.

And then he spits.

Right on your pussy.

Hot. Heavy. Messy.

It splashes over your clit, drips between your folds, mixes with your slick and makes everything worse.

Your hips roll. You can’t stop it.

“Don’t you fucking move,” he growls. “She’s getting attention. She better stay still.”

And finally—finally—his tongue drags up your slit. A long, slow lick from hole to clit that ends with his mouth wrapped around it, sucking hard.

Your hands fly to his hair. Your spine arches off the bed.

But he pins you with one forearm across your stomach and doesn’t stop.

He eats you like a man starved. Like you’ve been feeding her for him. Keeping her ready. Keeping her needy. His mouth is everywhere—tongue licking up everything you’ve been saving, spit and slick and mess pooling under your ass while he moans into you.

“That’s it,” he groans against your clit. “Let me taste five fucking days of begging.”

You cry out, thighs clenching.

But he slaps your pussy with his hand—sharp, wet, punishing.

“Open.”

You go limp. You can’t fight it. You don’t want to.

He eats you like it’s personal. Tongue flat. Licking. Circling. Spitting again. Your clit’s too swollen, too sensitive, but he doesn’t care. He mumbles into you—filth you can barely understand because he’s too focused on devouring.

“She’s so fucking loud. She won’t shut up. You hear that?”

You do.

Your pussy makes noise with every lick—squelching, wet, obscene.

“I didn’t even fuck her yet,” he growls. “And she’s already creaming.”

You try to cum. You try.

But he pulls back just as your thighs start to shake, just as your stomach seizes.

“Nope. She’s not getting fed all the way until I’ve felt her on my cock.”

You nod frantically, fingers gripping the sheets, desperate.

Heeseung leans back, licking his lips, chin soaked, eyes wild.

“She’s ready,” he says. “She’s starving.”

He’s already got two fingers hooked inside you when he tells you to open your mouth.

Not to kiss him. Not to speak. Just to take it.

He shoves his fingers past your lips—soaked in your own slick, the same fingers he’s been curling deep inside your cunt, dragging against that spot that makes your eyes roll back. You gag around them, moaning as the taste floods your tongue—salty, sour, yours. He pushes them down onto your tongue, presses hard until your spit leaks out around them and drips down your chin.

“Swallow it,” he mutters, eyes locked on your face. “That’s what obedience tastes like.”

You do. Of course you do.

Because you’d do anything he says.

And he knows it.

He wipes the slick from your lips with his thumb, drags it down your throat, then shifts forward—kneeling between your trembling thighs, lining himself up with your soaked entrance like he’s been waiting years for this moment.

You stare down at his cock, thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, and your whole body tenses. You’re already open, already dripping, already fucked dumb—but none of it’s going to prepare you for this.

“Look at her,” he mutters under his breath, dragging the head of his cock through your folds, smearing pre-cum across your clit. “She’s fucking begging.”

“She wants it,” you pant, voice shaking. “Please—”

He doesn’t give you time to finish.

He presses in—slow, deep, cruel.

The stretch hits you all at once. Your back arches. Your breath leaves you in a choked gasp, and your pussy clenches hardaround him, sucking him in inch by inch like she never wants to let him go.

“Ohhh, fuck,” he groans. “She’s trained alright.”

You moan. Loud. Desperate. Writhing beneath him as he bottoms out, his hips flush against your ass, his cock buried all the way to the base.

She’s full.

Finally fucking full.

Your cunt grips him tight, fluttering around his cock like she’s been starving for it—and she has. Every inch of him hits something you didn’t know existed. Your body shakes under the pressure. You’re soaked. Stuffed. Used. And you want more.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she is.”

“She’s yours,” you gasp. “She’s a hole—your hole—she’s been waiting for this—”

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in.

You scream.

“You’re goddamn right she’s mine,” he snarls. “You trained her just to take my cock.”

You nod frantically, crying now, pleasure too thick in your throat to hold back.

He starts to fuck you in earnest—hard, relentless, loud. Skin slapping skin. His cock slick from your wetness, dragging through every twitch and squeeze, pressing deep, deeper, forcing your body to stay open for him. You feel it in your stomach. Your spine. Your fucking brain.

Every thrust knocks your thoughts loose. And you want to thank him. You want to feel him. You want to taste him.

So you lift your head—try to kiss him.

You lean up, lips parting, mouth open and begging.

He pulls back.

His hand grabs your throat, presses you flat into the mattress. You gasp, eyes wide, blinking up at him in confusion. He smiles. Cruel. Mocking.

“No,” he says coldly. “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”

Your breath shatters.

“Kisses are for good girls,” he spits. “You’re just a trained little hole.”

Your pussy clenches around him so violently he groans.

“That’s all you are now, isn’t it?” he sneers. “A stupid little cunt that opens on command. You get used, not kissed.”

Tears spill over your cheeks.

And you cum. Just like that.

From the words. From the shame. From the humiliation.

Your pussy spasms around his cock, soaking both of you as you scream into his hand still wrapped around your throat. Your hips jerk. Your vision goes white. But he doesn’t stop.

He fucks you through it, hips pounding, cock punching into your oversensitive cunt like he’s trying to reprogram you from the inside out.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let her milk me. Let her show me how much she needed this.”

You’re sobbing. Gasping. Too wrecked to speak.

“Fucking knew it,” he groans. “You were never gonna be satisfied until you got split open.”

He leans down, mouth right by your ear.

“But don’t ever reach for a kiss again. Sluts like you don’t get kissed.”

You’re already limp when he flips you.

Your body gives out so easily—shoulders pressed into the mattress, arms numb, legs trembling, hips cocked up on instinct the second he yanks you onto your stomach. His hands drag you by the waist like a ragdoll. Like something boneless, brainless, ruined. Your face is buried in the pillow. Your cheek sticks to the fabric. You’re crying, still, but there’s no shame left. Just the raw ache of your cunt pulsing around nothing—because he pulled out.

You whine, pathetic and wordless, hips rolling back into the air, leaking down your thighs.

“Still hungry?” he mutters behind you.

You nod into the pillow.

“Say it.”

“She’s empty,” you whimper. “She’s twitching—she wants you back in—she’s not done—she’s never done—”

You gasp when the head of his cock slides back in. Just the tip.

He doesn’t give you the rest.

You wiggle. Cry. Press your ass back against him and moan when your folds stretch again, split open all over his length.

“You trained her to take it,” he says. “Now you’re gonna train her to keep it.”

He presses forward.

His cock buries to the hilt in one brutal thrust, and your whole body spasms. Your hands claw at the sheets. Your cunt clenches so violently it forces a sob out of your chest, high-pitched and broken. You’re still sensitive. Still throbbing from the last orgasm. But he doesn’t care.

He starts fucking you again like he owns you.

The slap of skin echoes in the room, wet and obscene, his cock pounding into your raw pussy like she’s just a hole to conquer. You don’t even try to move anymore. Your body takes it. Open, obedient, used.

“You like that?” he pants. “You like being my little fucktoy?”

“Yeah, you do. You’re trained now. A good little cocksleeve who comes when she’s told. Cries when she’s full. Cums from being humiliated.”

“I do,” you choke out. “I’m yours—I’m your toy—just your fucktoy—use me—use her—”

“That’s it,” he growls. “That’s what she wanted, isn’t it? Not kindness. Not kisses. Just cock. Just someone to shove it in and remind her she’s nothing but a messy, wet little pussy.”

He thrusts harder. You scream into the sheets.

“She’s so loud,” he snarls. “So fucking wet. She’s gushing. Every time I pull out she cries.”

You don’t even recognize your own voice when you cum again.

It’s raw. Ugly. Loud.

You scream—clawing at the sheets, nails ripping fabric, your body wracked with spasms as you squirt all over his cock, wet exploding out of you in waves, soaking the bed, your stomach, your thighs. You can’t stop it. You don’t want to.

He fucks you through it—harder.

“Let her break,” he growls. “Let her fucking split.”

And when your body finally collapses, hips falling, spine trembling, Heeseung doesn’t even slow down.

He grabs your hips, hauls you up, and drives in deep one more time—and stays there. His cock pulses inside you. Thick. Hot. Flooding you.

You feel it. You feel his cum shoot deep, thick ropes filling your already ruined pussy until your belly aches with it.

He stays inside. Keeps you cockwarmed, plugged full, hands rubbing down your spine like this is the aftercare.

Not words. Not love. Just being kept full. Like you should be.

You barely breathe. Your eyes are glassy. Your mouth’s open. You feel him lean over you. Feel the slow drag of his lips against your ear.

“You’re not starved anymore,” he whispers. “She’s fed now. Finally.”

You nod. Barely. Weak. Fucked out. His cock twitches.

“She’s still twitching,” he murmurs. “She wants to sleep like this.”

-

You wake up to the burn in your thighs.

The stretch. The ache. That slick-dried, too-sensitive sting between your legs from being filled for hours without a break. Your skin’s flushed. Clammy. You shift slightly under the covers, still half-asleep, and you feel it—him.

Still there. Still inside you.

You blink. Breathe. Try to make sense of your body—but the pressure between your legs is still warm. Your cunt clenches instinctively, and his cock twitches in response.

A slow, deep ache spreads in your gut.

His arm is draped over your waist. His chest is pressed against your back. He’s asleep—soft breaths on your shoulder, jaw resting against the side of your head. And his cock is still buried to the base in your pussy. Warm. Heavy. Plugging you full like it belongs there.

But something else creeps in too.

You lie there for a moment. Silent. Still. Pussy fluttering, heartbeat slowing, and that awful little ache growing in your chest. The one that started the second he pulled away last night. The one that settled into your ribs when you reached for him and he said “You don’t deserve to be kissed.”

You swallow. You whisper it before you even think about it.

“Are you really not gonna kiss me?”

It’s soft. Not needy. Just… there.

His breath shifts against your skin. His arm tightens slightly around your waist.

You almost regret asking.

Until he exhales through his nose and mutters, voice rough and low and real, “I’m still fucking inside you, you brat. You think I’m gonna spend the whole night cockwarming my favorite pussy and not kiss her in the morning?”

You twist under him, face flushed, and turn your head over your shoulder—and his mouth is already there.

No hesitation. He kisses you hard.

Mouth slanting over yours, tongue sliding in with no patience, lips full and hot and filthy with morning breath and spit. You moan into it, deep and broken, cunt clenching around his cock again like she’s reacting to the kiss like it’s touch.

His hand grips your jaw, thumb dragging over your cheek as he devours your mouth. He licks into you like he means it—like you’ve earned it—like he’s been wanting to do it since before he ever called you a slut.

You’re whimpering into his mouth when it happens.

Your lips slide against his, sticky with spit, your breath still uneven from how long you spent crying into the pillow, your cunt still fluttering weakly around his cock. He hasn’t pulled out. He’s still inside you. Still twitching, half-hard again already, thick and warm, stretching your still-leaking pussy while your body curls back into him, needy and clingy and soft in a way you didn’t get to be last night.

His hand cups your jaw now. Gentle. Finally. His thumb drags along your lower lip, slow and possessive, like he’s re-learning your mouth after denying it. His tongue pushes into you with unhurried filth, and your hips shift just barely, like your cunt’s trying to pull more of him in. Like she doesn’t even know how to be empty anymore.

And then you hear it.

“Heeseung?”

It’s distant. Not loud. Sleepy. But your blood freezes.

“Hey—have you seen Y/N?”

Evie. She’s awake. The breath dies in your throat.

Your eyes fly open. Heeseung’s hand freezes on your jaw. Your whole body locks. His cock is still deep inside you, softening now, but still heavy. Still leaking. You can feel him dripping down your inner thighs as your brain flips inside out with panic.

“Shit,” you mouth, barely audible.

Heeseung exhales through his nose, calm, but his arm is already tightening around your waist like he’s trying to figure out his next move in real time.

“Y/N?” she calls again. “Where’d you go?”

You scramble out of the bed like you’ve been shot. Legs wobbly. Pussy sore. You trip over the blanket as you reach for your discarded clothes, yanking your hoodie on over your head, trying not to scream as your shorts catch on your ankle. You’re still soaked, your panties still twisted around your thigh from where he shoved them earlier, and you can feel his cum still inside you, wet and hot and fucking obvious.

Heeseung’s already sitting up, dragging his hoodie on, running a hand through his hair to make it look like he just woke up.

You’re panicking. “Do I go back to her room? What do I do—what if she’s in the hallway—?”

Heeseung stands up, grabs your shoulders, kisses your forehead once—quick, mocking, cocky—like this is funny to him.

“Bathroom. Now.”

You sprint for it. Just as he opens his door.

His voice is casual. Sleep-rough.

“Yo.”

“You seen Y/N? I woke up and she wasn’t in bed. Her stuff’s still there though.”

Heeseung stretches in the doorway, voice smooth as fucking silk.

“Nah, haven’t seen her. She probably went to the bathroom.”

“She didn’t text me.”

“She probably didn’t want to wake you.”

You’re crouched in the bathroom, hands over your mouth, hoodie soaked at the hem, thighs still trembling. You glance down and see a smear of his cum on your leg, glistening in the morning light like a neon sign of guilt.

“Whatever. Tell her I’m making pancakes.”

“Will do.”

Door shuts. Heeseung turns, leans into the bathroom, finds you crouched by the sink.

“You owe me.”

You punch his chest.

He grabs your wrist. Kisses it.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers, voice low. “You’ll pay me back tonight."

-

It’s early.

Evie’s downstairs making coffee. You can hear the clinking of mugs, the stupid hum of whatever playlist she plays when she’s in a good mood.

You’re in Heeseung’s lap. Hoodie on. No underwear. His back’s against the headboard, his cock deep inside you, and you’re grinding slowly—hips circling, cunt fluttering, hands pressed to his chest to keep yourself upright.

You’re not allowed to bounce. Not allowed to moan.

Just slow, controlled rolls—like you’re milking him without giving yourself away.

“You sound like you want her to know,” he whispers against your throat.

You shake your head. Breathe through your nose. Keep moving.

“Then be quiet, baby. Or I’ll hold your mouth and your hips still, and you won’t cum at all.”

You almost cry. He grabs your ass. Tilts your hips just right.

“If she walks in, you better keep her name off your lips while I fill you up.”

You do. Barely.

You cum with your hand clamped over your mouth, twitching around his cock like you were made for it—and Heeseung cums seconds later, low and quiet, mouth on your collarbone.

Downstairs?

Evie sings along to the chorus.

-

It’s disgusting.

There’s no other word for it.

You’re on all fours, face buried in Heeseung’s mattress, drooling, moaning, thighs trembling with every wet squelch of his fingers plunging into you from behind. His mouth is glued to your cunt, spit running down his chin, tongue working your clit in slow, sloppy laps while one hand spreads you open—and the other, lower, slick with your cum, is rubbing tight circles around your asshole.

You’re whining his name. Filthy. Wordless. Brain-melted.

“Fuck, she’s drooling for it,” he mutters into your pussy. “She wants both. She’s ready. One in her ass, two in her cunt—you wanna be stretched like a proper little hole, huh?”

Your face is soaked. Your body’s trembling. Your pussy flutters around his fingers, slick squelching with every slow drag in and out. Your rim clenches, raw and wet from the friction. You try to answer, but all that comes out is a pathetic sob.

“Say it,” he growls. “Say what she wants.”

“I want it,” you gasp, voice cracking. “I want you to open my ass—wanna be full, wanna cum like a fucktoy—please—please—”

And then—

“Y/N?”

You hear your name like it’s being spoken through a tunnel.

You freeze.

Every muscle in your body locks.

Heeseung doesn’t move.

You can feel his tongue hovering right at your clit. His finger is still circling your asshole.

And then you both look up.

In the doorway. Mouth open. Eyes wide. Chest heaving.

Evie.

Her face doesn’t go red. It goes white. Like her blood just dropped to her feet.

She stares at your body—at your back arched, knees wide, your ass open, Heeseung’s hand buried between your cheeks, your best friend’s brother with his mouth on you and your spit in his beard.

And then she gags. Audibly. Violently.

Her whole body jolts forward like she’s about to puke right there in the hallway.

“Oh my—fucking—god—” she chokes. “What the—what the FUCK—”

She turns. Presses her palm to the wall. Leans into it. Her other hand clamps over her mouth and you see her shoulders jerk. Once. Twice. A horrible, broken sound crawls out of her throat.

“No—no—no—no, no, no—”

She’s panicking.

Can’t breathe. Her body is shaking so hard you think she might collapse.

“Evie—” you start, voice already wet. “Evie, please—please just listen—”

“DON’T.”

The scream hits like a slap.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t—don’t even say my fucking name—”

You’re sobbing now. Reaching for the blanket. Falling off the bed. Barely able to pull your hoodie down over your sticky, twitching body.

Heeseung moves. Not fast enough. Still shirtless. Still hard. His fingers still glistening.

“Heejoo—”

“DON’T. CALL ME THAT.” Her voice is shrill, raw, wrecked. “You’re my fucking brother.”

She looks at you. Like she doesn’t even know you.

And then her expression cracks completely.

Her face contorts—pain, betrayal, disgust, hatred—all in one devastating collapse.

“You were inside her,” she whispers, and her voice breaks. “You had your—your—you were licking her while you were fingering her ass—”

“You’re both fucking insane.”

You crawl toward her. Not thinking. Just begging. Your knees burn. Your hands shake.

“Evie—please—please just let me explain—”

She flinches.

Flinches.

Like your voice touched her skin. Then she goes still. Her breathing slows. Her hands drop to her sides.

She looks empty.

“Don’t come near me.”

Her voice is flat now. Robotic.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t even fucking breathe in my direction.”

You can’t speak. Can’t move. She steps back.

Looks at Heeseung. Then at you.

“You’re both dead to me.”

-

​​You don’t remember the walk home.

You don’t remember grabbing your phone, or leaving the house, or what the weather was like. You don’t remember how long you cried, or how many people stared, or how fucking long it took for the heat between your legs to fade into something cold and ugly. You just remember sitting on your bedroom floor—hoodie still wet between your thighs, your underwear balled up in your pocket—and trying to breathe without choking on it.

Because it doesn’t stop. The image. Her face.

Evie, hand over her mouth. Evie, gagging. Evie, stepping back like you were something dirty.

She meant it. Every word.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t fucking breathe in my direction.”

She meant it.

You try to text her that night. You don’t even know what to say. There are three different messages in your drafts: one with just her name. One that says “I’m sorry.” One that says nothing at all.

They don’t send. You’ve been blocked.

He doesn’t text either. You don’t even know if he can.

The silence is so big it feels like a second death. You lie in bed every night with your phone face-up on your pillow, waiting for it to light up with anything. A call. A voice note. Just a name.

It never comes.

But you still feel him. In your body. In your bones.

Every time you try to sleep, your body curls like it’s expecting to be filled.

Some nights you wake up sweating—panting, pussy twitching—because you dreamed of his voice again.

You still miss him. Even after all of it. Even after how it ended.

Even after Evie’s face broke in half at the sight of you—wet, spread open, her brother’s finger sliding into your ass while you begged for more.

You still miss him. And that’s the part that makes you sick.

-

It’s been nearly two weeks since you watched Evie recoil in that doorway, hand clamped over her mouth like she was actually going to vomit.

You can’t erase the memory of her face—how disgust bled into betrayal, how her gaze slid right past you like you didn’t exist, then landed on Heeseung as if he were some twisted stranger in her own home. You tried to bury the image, tried to make it small and unimportant, but it lives in your chest now, swelling every time you breathe.

You haven’t talked to either of them since. Not one word to her, not a single text to him.

It’s as if the world paused on that moment: her voice ripping through the room, your body half-naked, his spit drying on your thighs, your stomach churning with guilt.

Now the doorbell rings, and somehow you already know who’s on the other side.

You open it slowly, hesitation weighing on every movement of your hand.

Heeseung stands there in a wrinkled hoodie, dark circles stamped beneath his eyes. He looks thinner—like the shape of him has caved in from the inside out. His hair is unstyled, his shoulders hunched, and the way he stares at you feels desperate.

Neither of you speak for a few seconds, the silence pressing into your lungs.

Then you break it, because you can’t handle him looking at you like that. “Why are you here?” Your voice comes out flat, echoing the numbness you’ve been living in.

Heeseung swallows, gaze skittering between your face and the ground.

“I had to see you.”

The words feel like they’re meant to fix something, but all they do is twist the knife. You give a hollow laugh, but there’s no humor in it.

“You already saw enough.”

He exhales shakily, bringing a hand up to scrub at the back of his neck.

“I’m not asking you to forgive me,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “I know that’s not—there’s nothing I can—” He trails off, struggling, guilt carved into every line of his face. When he finally speaks again, his voice strains.

“You think we haven’t replayed it a hundred fucking times?” he asks. “The door. The blanket. You moaning. Me—God—we were still fucking with each other right there, even when she—”

“Stop.” Your voice cracks. “Don’t say it.”

“We saw her face,” his voice keeps going, low and fast and pained. “We saw it, and we still didn’t stop, like fucking animals. I see it every time I close my eyes. I hear her say my name like I was never hers, like you were never her friend.”

You speak,

“I can’t look at you without hearing her gag.”

The confession slashes the air, and his lips part like you’ve slapped him.

“I can’t hear your name without remembering what it felt like to be in her house, in her family, doing… that, while she thought I was asleep down the hall.”

For a moment, neither of you breathe. Then he forces himself to speak, voice cracking.

“I know. I fucking know, and I hate that we didn’t let go even when we heard her. I hate that she looked at us like we were monsters. I hate that part of me still wanted to stay inside you, and part of you still wanted me there, when we should’ve both stopped.”

You close your eyes, replaying Evie’s strangled gasp in your head, recalling the numb disbelief that followed when she told you not to speak, not to look, not to fucking breathe in her direction.

“I can’t talk to you,” you whisper, voice trembling despite your best efforts. “I can’t even hear your name without feeling sick.”

He swallows and nods, like he’s been waiting for those exact words. “I’m sorry,” he says, and he sounds like he’s about to shatter. “I won’t—if you never want to see me again, I understand.” He drags in a breath that rattles in his chest. “I just needed to know you were… alive.”

For a moment, you want to ask him if he’s okay too, if he’s been eating or sleeping, if he wakes up sweating like you do. But you lock it down, because you can’t afford to care right now.

“Well,” you say, and your voice is colder than you intend, “now you’ve seen me. Congratulations.”

A faint tremor passes through him, and he nods once. There’s nothing else. No lecture, no pleading. He just steps back, shoulders slumped, and turns away.

-

It happens in the grocery store, of all places. You’re pushing a half-empty cart down the cereal aisle, trying not to think about how much quieter life has been since you lost your best friend and the boy you broke her heart with. You’re scanning the shelves for something to distract you when you catch sight of a familiar figure at the other end of the row. 

Your heart lurches, your fingers tightening on the cart handle as your stomach flips. 

Because there, frowning at the boxes of cereal, is Evie—or Heejoo, or however she wants to be called now. You don’t have time to decide whether you should turn and run or force a hollow smile. She glances up, and your eyes meet. Neither of you moves.

 The aisle feels too narrow. Her cart sits between you, an invisible barrier.

She looks different—her hair is shorter or maybe just pulled back in a careless ponytail, dark smudges under her eyes, shoulders tense. She seems hollowed out in the same way you feel. 

Some part of you wants to say hey or I miss you or please talk to me, but the words dissolve in your throat. She’s the one who steps forward first, letting her cart roll behind her. Her heels click on the tile, echoing your every heartbeat.

“Having fun?” she asks, and it doesn’t sound like a question so much as a thinly-veiled jab.

You grip the handle of your cart, mouth suddenly too dry to speak.

“Evie—”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps, eyes flicking away like the name itself stings. “You don’t get to pretend we’re okay. You don’t get to act like we’re still friends.”

Her arms fold across her chest, nostrils flaring with each breath, and you feel your own pulse jump in your neck. “I—I’m sorry,” you manage, voice trembling. It’s not enough, you know that.

She scoffs, a breathy, humorless sound. “That’s it? You’re sorry? You think that magically fixes everything?” She gestures sharply, and you notice how tightly she’s clenching her fists. “You screwed around with my brother like it was nothing, and I walked in on—” Her voice breaks, face twisting as she fights off the memory. “I was just the idiot friend who never saw it coming, right?”

Shame flares in your cheeks. You hold your ground, though it hurts to meet her eyes. “I know I betrayed you,” you say. “We—God, I don’t even have the words for how messed up it was. We both knew better. We both let it happen.”

Her hand lifts to cut you off, shaking with the effort. “You think it’s just that you hurt me?” Her voice wobbles between anger and heartbreak. “You hurt him too, you realize that? He was my brother, you were my best friend, and you both blew yourselves up in front of me. Like you had no idea what it would cost.”

Your stomach knots in a way you haven’t felt before. She’s right. It wasn’t just her—it wasn’t just you. It was all three of you, tangling and twisting until it snapped. “I know,” you say more quietly. “And we’re all paying for it. He’s… he’s not okay. I’m not okay. And you’re definitely not okay. There’s no part of this that isn’t broken.”

She lets out a short, bitter laugh. “Do you think that helps? Hearing you say it’s broken doesn’t change the fact that I can’t even look at either of you without wanting to scream.”

You bow your head, voice almost inaudible. “I wish I could take it back.”

She swallows, and for a fraction of a second, the hostility in her eyes flickers with pain. “Well, you can’t.” Her grip tightens on the cart handle until her knuckles whiten, and she exhales shakily. 

“I want my brother back, you know. I want my friend back. But I don’t get either of those things, because you two decided to… to destroy what we had.”

Your throat closes up, tears pricking at your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

She stares for another few seconds, jaw clenched as she holds herself together. Then she moves around you, snatching her cart by the handle, the wheels squeaking in protest. 

“Enjoy the produce,” she mutters under her breath, voice dripping with bitterness as she passes.

-

It doesn’t happen overnight.

 There’s no single conversation that wipes the slate clean, no perfect gesture that makes Evie’s betrayal vanish, no magic wand that repairs the gaping wound in your chest. 

But over time—slow, grudging, step by hesitant step—you all begin to realize that staying in this darkness is killing you. Staying strangers, orbiting the same guilt without looking one another in the eye, is worse than facing the truth. And that truth is messy, fragile, and riddled with scars.

It begins with Evie texting you, late at night, a week after the grocery store encounter. 

Just three words: We need to talk.

You stare at the screen for a solid minute, heart pounding like it’s trying to break out of your chest. 

Your hands shake as you reply, Yeah, okay. 

That’s all. No apology, no second-guessing, just acceptance. You wait for her to say when or where, but she doesn’t text back until the next afternoon, telling you to meet her at the park near her house. 

And then she clarifies: Just you.

You show up after sunset, nerves jangling in every limb, expecting hostility, or silence, or both. 

Instead, you find Evie sitting on a faded wooden bench under a flickering streetlight. She looks smaller than you remember, knees drawn up under her chin, arms hugging herself for warmth. As you approach, you open your mouth to say something—anything—but she holds up a hand, shaking her head.

“Don’t,” she says, voice tight. “Not yet.”

You stand there, awkward and guilty, waiting for her permission to speak.

She lowers her hand and sighs, staring at a patch of dead grass near her feet. “I asked you here because… this is killing me,” she mutters. “Being this angry all the time. Hating you. Hating him. I can’t keep up with it. It’s turning me into someone I don’t recognize.”

Her words break something inside your chest, and your throat goes thick. You sit down on the far edge of the bench, leaving a wide space between you, unsure if you’re allowed to be any closer. “I… I know,” you manage, voice unsteady. “I feel it too. It’s like I’m rotting on the inside.”

She nods once, gaze flicking to you before sliding away again. “I’m not saying I forgive you,” she warns, and you nod, heart pounding. “I’m just saying I don’t want this to be my life anymore. This—rage. It’s not me.”

She exhales, shoulders curling inward. “And I loved you. You were my best friend. And he… he’s my brother, and I loved him too. So how did we all end up here?”

Silence lingers. You fight back tears that threaten to spill. 

“We messed up,” you whisper, voice cracking. “We both did. Me and him. We used your house, your trust, your everything for our own messed-up… needs, and it was stupid and selfish and we ended up shattering everything.” You swallow a lump in your throat. “I know none of that fixes it. But I swear to you, we never wanted to hurt you.”

Evie laughs bitterly, a hollow sound. “Well, you did. And I can’t pretend you didn’t.” 

Her gaze shifts to the distance, to the halo of light under the streetlamp. “But I don’t know if I can keep hating you. Or him.” 

She hesitates, words coming out slow. “I saw him last week. He looked—God, I hardly recognized him. Like a ghost of himself.”

You nod, biting back the urge to defend him or to ask a dozen questions. “He’s… not doing great,” you say simply, remembering his hollow cheeks, the way his voice cracked when he said he couldn’t sleep.

She wraps her arms tighter around herself, rocking slightly. “Neither are we,” she points out. “None of us are okay. And I guess that’s what I’m realizing. That we’re all stuck in the same crater, staring at the same wreckage. Maybe we shouldn’t be trying to fix it on our own.”

Your eyes burn with unshed tears. “What do you want to do?” you ask, feeling the weight of her words press into your chest.

She’s quiet for a long moment. Then she looks directly at you, tears shimmering at the edges of her eyes. “I want us to talk,” she says. “All three of us. In one place. I want us to put it all on the table, no hiding, no running out. Because if there’s any chance of moving forward—together or apart—we have to face it."

“I’ll text him,” she says, voice ragged. “Don’t expect miracles. But I can’t do this alone.”

A teardrop escapes your lashes and slips down your cheek. “Neither can I,” you whisper. “Thank you.”

She doesn’t respond, just stands up and motions for you to follow. 

-

Evie’s living room is dimly lit, and the air feels thicker than it should—as if everything you’ve said to each other in the last hour is still hovering in the space between. Outside, it’s already dark, the muffled hum of passing cars bleeding in through the windows. You’re all drained—physically, emotionally—yet no one moves to leave. Not yet. It’s not finished.

Evie is perched on the armchair, knees drawn close to her chest. You’re on one end of the couch, Heeseung on the other, and there’s still a gulf of guilt and confusion separating you. But you can feel the conversation building toward something bigger than apologies or confessions of regret.

Evie tugs at the sleeves of her sweater. She glances between you and her brother, mouth pinched tight, but her voice is gentler than before.

“I’m not pretending this is easy,” she begins, clearing her throat. “We’ve all hurt each other. I just want to know what you… what you both actually feel.” Her gaze settles on you, question clear in her eyes. “Do you two even care about each other beyond… beyond whatever it was you were doing?”

You swallow, your mouth dry. This is the moment you’ve been pushing down for weeks, refusing to think about. The reason you woke up gasping sometimes, alone in your bed, missing a warmth you never should have craved in the first place. You take a shaky breath, feeling your pulse hammer in your temples.

“I—” you begin, then stop. Your voice wavers, but you force yourself to speak. “I’m in love with him.”

It comes out bare, unpolished, stripped of excuses. You feel the words echo in your chest, leaving you vulnerable. Across the room, Evie’s eyes widen for half a second, and you can see her guard tighten, just a bit.

Heeseung exhales sharply, his head snapping up. You can’t bring yourself to meet his gaze. Instead, you focus on the floor, heart pounding.

“I know,” you continue, voice trembling, “that he might not feel the same way. I know we started this all wrong, that I messed up your trust, that I hurt you”—you glance at Evie—“and maybe I don’t deserve a happy ending. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t love him just because I’m ashamed of how we got here.”

Evie inhales like she’s bracing for another blow, her arms tightening around her knees.

“You’re saying you love him, even if he doesn’t love you back?” she asks, carefully, like she’s afraid of the answer.

You let out a breath that feels like it’s been caged in your ribs for months.

“Yes. It’s not… it’s not his responsibility. If it’s one-sided, that’s on me.” You glance fleetingly at Heeseung, face flushing. “I don’t expect anything from him, or from you. I just—” Your voice cracks. “I needed to say it out loud.”

Silence envelops the room, charged with tension. Heeseung is staring at you, eyes wide and glossy, like you’ve knocked the air from his lungs. Evie shifts, chewing on the inside of her lip.

Heeseung finally speaks, voice rough.

“You… love me?”

You manage a small, trembling nod. “I do,” you say, meeting his gaze at last. “And if you don’t love me back, that’s okay. I know how messed up this is. I’m ready to… to accept that.”

He looks startled, as if no part of him expected you to be okay with that possibility. His hands flex on his knees, knuckles blanching. Then he breathes out, shoulders sagging.

“God,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievably stupid.”

You flinch, heart jolting—though there’s no real malice in his tone, only a shaky awe and raw disbelief that seems to be tying him in knots. He forces himself to meet Evie’s eyes for a flicker of a second, as if silently asking for permission to go on.

“Don’t call her that,” Evie snaps, voice quivering at the edges. She fixes him with a sharp glare, arms folded tight across her chest. “I don’t care how you meant it—she’s not stupid, and you don’t get to insult her in front of me.”

“Shut the fuck up Evie, one second,” He turns to you, “Because you think I’m not in love with you? That I’d leave you hanging with all this guilt?”

Your heart stutters, the floor tilting under you. “Heeseung…”

“I’m in love with you too,” he says, and the words hang in the air with tangible weight. “I can’t believe you’d be ready to walk away, believing it was one-sided. That you’d… accept it. God, do you have any idea how much it hurts to see you in so much pain, thinking I don’t feel the same?”

A soft sound escapes your throat—some blend of relief and shock—and tears gather at the edges of your vision. Across the room, Evie exhales shakily, her eyes fluttering closed for a moment. You can see the swirl of emotions crossing her features: anger, hurt, jealousy, and underneath it all, a lingering care for you both.

Heeseung scrubs a hand over his face, then looks to Evie, voice trembling.

“I love her. I know I messed up. We messed up. We never should’ve lied. But I can’t take back how I feel.”

Evie drags in a deep breath. She pushes herself up from the armchair, pacing a short line across the living room. Her head is down, hands in her hair. When she finally looks at you both, there’s pain in her eyes, but not the same raw fury as before.

“Jesus,” she mutters. “You two…” She chews the inside of her cheek. “I hate what you did. I hate how you did it. But if you love each other—really love each other—I can’t tell you not to.”

 Her shoulders slump. “I want to be angry forever, but… seeing you like this, I—” She presses her lips together, tears brimming, then sets her jaw. “I guess I just want us to find a way to exist without destroying each other.”

A thick silence fills the space. Your chest feels ready to burst from conflicting emotions—gratitude, guilt, longing, terror. You look at Evie and see the ghost of the best friend you once knew, who might be willing to stand beside you again one day, even if it won’t ever be the same.

You open your mouth.

“I know it won’t be easy,” you say softly. “I don’t expect you to forgive everything in one night. But maybe… maybe we can start moving forward?”

Evie dashes a tear off her cheek and gives a tiny nod.

“Yeah,” she whispers. “Maybe.”

Heeseung watches her, watches you, then rises from the couch. He hesitates, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to touch you. You stand up, heart pounding, and drift closer. Neither of you quite meets in the middle, leaving a careful gap where all your remorse hangs. But it’s less than before.

Evie clears her throat, hugging herself.

“I can’t stay down here with you two being… whatever you are. I need time, okay?”

You nod quickly.

“Of course.”

Heeseung nods as well, voice soft.

“Anything you need.”

She steps back, wiping her eyes, and there’s a hint of a weary smile ghosting across her face, like she’s relieved but not sure how to show it.

“You two can talk, or… or go, or do whatever. I just…” Her breath catches. “I’m gonna go upstairs. That’s all I can handle right now.”

You don’t stop her.

Then you turn to him, tears slipping down your cheeks, a tremulous hope fluttering in your chest. He lifts a hand—tentative, like he’s scared to break you—and cups your cheek, thumb brushing your damp skin.

He exhales shakily.

“I love you,” he murmurs, the words raw with emotion. “I’m sorry for everything.”

You nod, voice catching in your throat as you rest your hand over his.

“I’m sorry too,” you whisper. “But I love you, and maybe… that’s something we can start with.”

His eyes close in something like relief, and he presses a soft, uncertain kiss to your temple. It isn’t a triumphant moment, not the kind of romantic victory you might’ve once imagined. It’s tender, laced with guilt and fear. But it’s also real—genuine and fragile, the only piece of warmth you’ve had in a long time.

-

Things shift slowly, almost imperceptibly at first. You and Heeseung start keeping your distance whenever Evie’s around—no subtle hand-holding, no lingering touches, certainly no sneaking off to lock yourselves behind the nearest door. 

It’s not that you’re ashamed of each other; it’s that you can’t stand the thought of rubbing your relationship in her face. You both know you’re lucky she’s even letting you in the same room without storming out.

So you dial it back. You let your bodies stop running the show. 

It’s harder than you expect—he still sets your nerves on fire by simply looking at you—but you remind yourself that Evie’s feelings matter, that you owe her more than just half-hearted consideration. You give her space, which means giving yourselves space too. 

No sex. No heavy make-out sessions. No pressed-up-against-a-wall confessions. Just… time and gentle contact.

Heeseung seems as restless as you. 

Sometimes, when it’s late and you’re on a phone call—whispering so Evie won’t hear through the walls—he sounds downright desperate. 

You can hear his breath catch when you say you miss him, can practically feel the tension radiating through the receiver. 

Yet both of you agree: this is how it has to be for now. If you want Evie to believe that what you have is more than just an addiction to each other’s bodies, you need to show her you can exist outside a bed.

So you go on dates. Real dates. Movie theaters, yes, but also bookstore trips, late-night drives to nowhere, strolling through a local fair when it rolls into town. 

You hold hands only if you’re well away from Evie’s neighborhood—fearful that any small sign of affection might break the thin thread of tolerance she’s extended. 

The first time you walk along the riverside in the evening, sipping cheap coffee from a convenience store, it hits you that you’ve never really done this part before: the tentative, day-to-day romance of building a real relationship. It’s both comforting and nerve-wracking. 

You can feel the charge sparking under your skin every time he smiles at you, like you’re seconds away from losing your careful resolve. 

But you don’t. Neither of you wants to risk undoing the fragile progress with Evie.

And that progress is slow, but present. 

She doesn’t cringe as much when you and Heeseung enter a room together. 

She no longer flinches if you happen to stand on the same side of the kitchen.

 Maybe sometimes she rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t snap. You see the tension in her shoulders when you’re all in the same space, though—like she’s bracing for some new betrayal. 

You can’t blame her. You still offer to leave the moment you sense her discomfort rising. Surprisingly, she’s started telling you to stay.

But the real sign that things might be healing comes one weekend night when Evie texts you, out of the blue:

Girls’ night?

She doesn’t dress it up with a cute emoji or an explanation; it’s bare bones, almost clinical. And you stare at your phone with your heart hammering, wondering if this is a test, or maybe a begrudging olive branch. 

You answer with a shaky yes, and spend the next few hours trying not to read too much into it. You tell Heeseung you’ll be hanging out with Evie, and he just smiles—wide and genuine, telling you to have fun, to text him if you need anything.

Evie’s room hasn’t changed much since the night you snuck out of it to see Heeseung. The layout is the same, the posters the same, the bedspread the same. It all feels loaded with history. 

She sits cross-legged on her bed, handing you a soda—no alcohol tonight, no false bravado. You sense she wants you both stone-cold sober for whatever might be said. 

There’s an awkward pause, and then she gestures for you to sit, too.

For a while, conversation comes in bursts: updates about random classmates, stories from her day at work, small talk about the show you both used to binge-watch together. It’s stiff, but not hostile. 

She picks at her blanket, and you notice how she won’t hold your gaze for too long. Yet each minute that passes without snapping or bitterness feels like a victory.

Eventually, she slides a bag of nail polish across the bed toward you. “You, um… you still like doing this, right? It’s been a while,” she mumbles, glancing at your nails. 

It’s such a small gesture, but it makes your throat tighten. You nod, and she exhales something that might be relief. 

For a solid hour, the two of you paint and chatter, as if practicing how to be friends again. Her shoulders are less rigid. You’re careful not to misstep. Neither of you mentions Heeseung.

At least not directly. But you feel his presence in the air, the unspoken pivot point around which your every interaction revolves. It’s only when Evie finally fixes you with a long, assessing look, half-concern and half-uncertainty, that the moment arrives.

“Are you two, like… okay?” she asks. Her voice is laced with discomfort, but there’s no hatred in it. “You said no more sneaking around. But are you—happy?”

You swallow hard, carefully blowing on your newly painted nails. “We’re… doing our best,” you say. “Trying to be good for each other. Not just physically.”

She nods, lips twisting like she’s turning over your words in her mind. “I guess… that’s what I wanted to know,” she admits softly. “It still weirds me out sometimes, but I’d rather it matter to you than be some… fling.”

A wave of gratitude surges in your chest, making it hard to speak. You nod. “It matters,” you whisper. “I swear.”

She blinks a few times, then sets her nail polish aside. The tension in her shoulders relaxes just enough that her spine curves against the headboard, more comfortable than you’ve seen her in weeks. “Good,” she murmurs, tone stilted but earnest. “Don’t… don’t make me regret trying to rebuild this, okay?”

Your own shoulders slump in relief. “I won’t,” you promise. Your voice shakes with the weight of it. “And if I ever do, you can—and should—kick my ass.”

That draws a small, genuine laugh from her—a sound you haven’t heard in what feels like ages. She nods, letting the humor fill the space that was once suffocating with tension. “Deal,” she says.

You stay up later than expected—talking about nonsense, painting your nails in mismatched colors, occasionally lapsing into awkward silences. 

But each time, one of you breaks it before the air can go stale. By the time midnight rolls around, you’ve settled into a strange new normal: not quite what you were before the betrayal, but not strangers anymore. Something between you is mending, fragile but real.

When you leave, she walks you to the front door. It’s still weird, stepping out into the hallway where so much damage happened. 

But Evie’s behind you, not in front, and you can’t help feeling that the dynamic has changed in a way that actually might last. You glance back at her, and though she still looks tired, she doesn’t look hostile or betrayed. Maybe just… cautious. It’s enough.

“Night,” she says, one hand resting on the doorknob.

“Night,” you reply, voice quiet. “Thanks, again.”

She nods and closes the door gently behind you—no slamming, no huffing. Just a simple, private goodbye.

 As you slip into the night, you realize you’re smiling, mind already whirring with what you’ll tell Heeseung when you see him next. You catch yourself wondering if you’ll meet up for another date soon. Or if you’ll just call him on the way home, excitedly spilling the details of your slow but tangible progress with Evie.

-

The new place is barely furnished. A couch that’s still covered in plastic. A mattress on the floor. Takeout containers littering the kitchen counter. The floorboards creak with every step. The windows are wide open, and there are no curtains yet. It’s not home—not really—but it’s his. 

And most importantly, it’s finally, blessedly, fucking private.

When he opens the door and lets you in, he doesn’t kiss you right away. He just watches you step inside like you’re something he’s trying to memorize. His hands stay in the pocket of his hoodie. His jaw’s tight. His eyes flicker to the bag in your hand, then to your shoes, then up your legs so slowly it makes you feel exposed even though you’re still fully dressed.

You don’t say anything at first. You set the wine down on the counter. You take in the space—empty and echoing—but your skin’s already buzzing. You hear the door close behind you with a soft click, and something shifts.

He clears his throat.

“I haven’t kissed you yet,” he says, voice low. “Not really.”

You turn to look at him. “No.”

There’s a beat.

“Can I?”

You nod.

And that’s it. That’s all it takes.

His hands are on your face before you can blink, warm and rough and needing. The kiss starts soft, but only for a breath. Then it turns—hungry, desperate, filthy. Your back hits the counter with a thud, his tongue already in your mouth, his body pressing into yours like he’s trying to crawl inside you through your lips.

You moan into him, and he groans, deep in his throat, like the sound broke whatever shred of self-control he was hanging onto.

“You have no idea,” he pants, mouth hot against your jaw, “how long I’ve wanted to ruin you in peace.”

Your shirt’s pulled up before you can answer, his mouth already sucking marks down your neck. His hands are everywhere—gripping your tits through your bra, unbuttoning your jeans, fingers slipping into your waistband like he owns the place. Like he owns you.

You gasp as his hand slides between your legs, cupping you through your underwear, his breath catching when he feels the heat there.

“Already wet?” he mutters, voice ragged. “Fucking knew it.”

He yanks your jeans down to your ankles, then sinks to his knees on the kitchen tile without another word. His hands push your legs apart, pulling one up to rest over his shoulder. And when his mouth presses to the soaked fabric of your panties, you cry out—sharp, helpless, needy.

“You wore these knowing I’d take them off with my teeth, didn’t you?” he growls, dragging the fabric aside with his nose, his tongue already lapping through your folds like he’s been waiting for this for months.

You can barely breathe. One hand flies to the counter for balance, the other fists in his hair. He licks you with obscene, wet sounds, groaning into your pussy like the taste is sending him over the edge. You grind against his face shamelessly, whining when he flattens his tongue and drags it up through your slit, over and over again.

“Fuck, Heeseung—please—”

He pulls back just enough to spit directly on your clit. “What do you need, baby?” he pants, thumb spreading it around with tight, deliberate pressure. “You want me to make you cum with my mouth like a good little whore? Is that it?”

You nod frantically, hips rocking against his hand.

“I missed this pussy,” he mutters, diving back in. “Missed how fucking loud she is.”

And she is. Your pussy’s wet, sloppy, noisy, every flick of his tongue echoing off the bare walls. You cum hard, legs shaking around his shoulders, crying out his name as your vision blurs.

But he’s not done.

He stands, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, then grabs you by the waist and turns you around, bending you over the counter.

“No more pretending,” he growls in your ear. “No more quiet. You’re gonna scream for me this time.”

He pulls your panties down and spreads you open, groaning like a man unhinged.

“God, you’re dripping. You fucking missed this too, didn’t you?”

You try to answer, but he’s already stroking his cock against your folds, rubbing the head through the mess between your legs, smearing it everywhere.

“Say it,” he demands.

“Yes—yes, I missed it—fuck, Heeseung, I missed your cock—”

He sinks into you in one sharp, brutal thrust, and you wail.

No condom. No pause. Just the stretch of him filling you up in one smooth, devastating stroke.

“Oh my God,” he groans. “You’re fucking swallowing me.”

You’re moaning, writhing, drooling onto the counter. He doesn’t start slow. He doesn’t give you time. He fucks you—relentless, pounding, like he’s been waiting to do this since the moment you first touched him.

Your ass slaps against his thighs with every thrust. Your pussy is loud, the kind of wet, messy squelch that would embarrass you if you could think.

He slaps your ass hard, making you jolt forward. “Listen to her,” he growls. “She’s been crying for me.”

You don’t stop him. You beg for more.

He grabs your arms and pulls you back onto him, using your own body to fuck you harder.

“Keep taking it,” he snarls. “Be my good little cumrag, just like you used to be.”

You scream. You scream for him.

You cum again, sobbing into the crook of your arm, your entire body trembling.

He pulls out and flips you around, lifts you up onto the counter again, and kisses you like he’s devouring you from the inside out. Your legs are trembling so hard you can barely hold them up, but he spreads them open and spits straight onto your cunt, rubbing it in with two fingers, moaning when you jolt at the sensitivity.

“Wanna fuck you on the floor next,” he mutters against your lips. “Wanna fuck you on the mattress, on the couch, against every wall. Wanna ruin this apartment with the sound of your pussy screaming for me.”

You grab his face, breath ragged. “Then do it.”

He throws you over his shoulder and carries you to the mattress on the floor, where he fucks you in every position he’s ever imagined. He keeps you cockdrunk and leaking. When your voice gives out, he fucks you in silence. When your legs stop working, he props them up and keeps going. And when he finally cums—inside you, deep, claiming—he doesn’t pull out.

He just collapses on top of you, both of you drenched in sweat and slick and the aftermath of something feral.

You can’t move.

You don’t want to.

You just lie there, shaking, full, used, satisfied in a way that makes you dizzy.

Heeseung kisses your shoulder and whispers against your skin.

“I’m never being patient again.”

-

You’re staring at your own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and the girl staring back looks like she’s about to either throw up or ascend to another dimension. Maybe both. In that order.

The letter is clutched so tightly in your hand that the pale lavender envelope is starting to crease, and you force yourself to loosen your grip before you ruin the one thing you’ve spent three weeks perfecting. Three weeks. That’s twenty-one days of drafting, crossing out, rewriting, Googling “how to write a love letter without sounding like a desperate loser,” and then rewriting again. You’ve used up an entire pack of stationery. You’ve watched so many calligraphy tutorials that the YouTube algorithm thinks you’re training to become a medieval scribe. All for this one moment. This one letter. This one massive, terrifying, possibly life-ruining leap of faith.

You are a hopeless romantic. Hopeless being the operative word.

It’s not that you don’t believe in love. You do. Desperately, overwhelmingly, with every fiber of your first-year STEM student soul. You believe in meet-cutes and slow burns and the exact moment when two people look at each other and the entire world goes soft around the edges. You’ve read about it a hundred times. You’ve watched it play out on every screen you own. You’ve composed entire daydreams about it during particularly boring chemistry lectures. Love is your favorite subject, the one you’ve studied with more dedication than calculus or physics combined. There’s just one tiny, inconvenient, absolutely infuriating problem.

You’re terrified of it.

Not the idea of it. The idea is lovely. The idea is safe. The idea lives in your head where everything unfolds exactly the way you want it to, where you always say the right thing, where you never trip over your own feet or laugh too loud at the wrong moment or stand frozen in a doorway like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. But real love? The kind that requires vulnerability and eye contact and actually speaking words out loud with your mouth? That kind of love makes your palms sweat and your heart race in a decidedly unromantic, fight-or-flight kind of way. You are, and this is the most embarrassing part, a coward. A romantic coward. You dream of grand gestures but can barely manage a coherent sentence when an attractive person so much as glances in your direction.

Which brings you back to the letter.

The letter is your loophole. Your workaround. Your way of confessing your feelings without actually having to say them, because writing them down felt manageable in a way that speaking never has. You can be eloquent on paper. On paper, you can say things like “the first time I saw your smile, it felt like someone had turned on all the lights in a room I didn’t even realize was dark” without immediately wanting to crawl into the nearest hole and live out the rest of your days an hermit. On paper, you’re brave. On paper, you’re the kind of person who goes after what she wants.

In reality, you’ve been hiding in this bathroom for fifteen minutes, and your hands are shaking so badly that a passing person would think you are having an epileptic seizure.

“Okay,” you whisper to your reflection. “Okay. You can do this. You are a woman on a mission. You are a warrior. You are-”

A toilet flushes in one of the stalls behind you, and you nearly launch yourself through the ceiling.

A girl you vaguely recognize from your introductory programming class emerges, gives you an odd look as she washes her hands, and leaves without saying anything. You wait until the door swings shut, then press your forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and contemplate every life choice that has led you to this moment.

His name is Jungwon.

Yang Jungwon. Second year. Undeclared major but leaning toward something in the humanities, which you know because you may have done a bit of light, respectful, completely non-creepy research. He has a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and a laugh that sounds like sunshine if sunshine could make noise, and he holds doors open for people even when they’re still like ten feet away, which creates that awkward situation where the person has to speed-walk to not seem rude, but he never seems to mind. You first noticed him at the campus library during midterms when he quietly slid a pack of gummy bears across the table toward you at 2 AM, muttering something about glucose being good for brain function, and then went back to his book like he hadn’t just fundamentally altered the trajectory of your entire emotional existence.

That was four months ago. You’ve been pining ever since. Pining, yearning, longing, you’ve run through the entire lexicon of unrequited affection, and you’re exhausted. Today, you’ve decided, is the day it ends. One way or another.

You push yourself off the mirror, square your shoulders, and march out of the bathroom with the determination of someone going to war. The envelope is slightly damp from your grip, but it’s still intact, and the words inside are still true, and somewhere on this campus, Yang Jungwon is about to receive the most heartfelt confession letter ever written by a first-year student who has consumed an unhealthy amount of romance media.

Now you just have to find him.

—————

The hallway is bustling with students, the usual midday chaos of people rushing to classes or huddling in groups to complain about assignments. You scan the crowd, looking for a familiar face that might point you in the right direction, and your eyes land on a guy leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone with the dead-eyed expression of someone who has just finished a three-hour lab.

“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out about an octave higher than normal. You clear your throat. “Sorry, um, do you know where I can find Yang Jungwon? Second year?”

The guy looks up, blinks slowly, deciding whether or not to acknowledge your presence, and then shrugs. “PC room, I think. Saw him heading there like twenty minutes ago.”

The PC room. Of course. It’s in the engineering and informatics building, a place you’ve rarely ever been to. But you know where it is, roughly, and you thank the guy with what you hope is a normal smile and not the rictus grin of someone rushing toward emotional catastrophe.

The walk across campus takes approximately seven minutes, and you spend every single one of them rehearsing what you’re going to say. You’ve already written the letter, so technically you don’t have to say anything, you can just hand it over and flee but you want to say something. Something cool. Something memorable.

“Hey, Jungwon, this is for you.” Simple. Direct. Good.

“I wrote you something. No pressure, just read it when you have time.” Casual. Low-stakes. Excellent.

“Hi, I’ve been emotionally compromised by your existence for several months, please accept this paper rectangle of feelings.” Okay, maybe not that one.

The engineering building looms in front of you before you’re ready. You push through the main doors and immediately feel out of place. The students here move with a different energy, less frantic, more focused, the kind of people who probably know what a server is and have opinions about programming languages you’ve never heard of.

You follow the signs toward the PC room, your footsteps echoing in the corridor, and with every step, your heart climbs higher up your throat. This is it. This is the moment. You’re going to walk in there, find Jungwon, hand him the letter, and then whatever happens happens. At least you’ll have tried. At least you’ll have been brave, even if it’s only for thirty seconds.

The door to the PC room is slightly ajar, and you can hear voices inside, multiple voices, which gives you pause. You assumed he’d be alone. Or with maybe one other person.

You hesitate. Your hand hovers over the door handle. Every instinct is screaming at you to turn around, go back to your dorm, and spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been. And maybe you would, if not for the small, stubborn voice in the back of your mind that says: You’ve already come this far. Don’t you want to know? Don’t you want to be the kind of person who actually does the thing instead of just dreaming about it?

Yes. Yes, you do.

You squeeze your eyes shut, take a breath so deep it makes you lightheaded, and push the door open with more force than strictly necessary. It slams against the wall with a bang that makes approximately twelve heads swivel in your direction, and for one horrifying moment, you are the center of attention in a room full of strangers.

But you don’t see any of them. You only see the figure sitting at the computer closest to the door, his back half-turned to you, hair falling over his forehead, the exact silhouette you’ve been looking for. Or at least, the exact silhouette you think you’ve been looking for.

You don’t stop to confirm. You don’t let yourself think. You just march forward, thrust the letter out in front of you like a shield, and launch into the speech you’ve been rehearsing for three weeks.

“This is for you. I’m sorry if this is weird or sudden but I’ve liked you for a really long time and I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. You don’t have to respond right away. You don’t have to respond ever, actually. I just wanted you to know that someone out there thinks you’re wonderful and I wrote it all down because I’m better at writing than talking and honestly I might pass out if I keep standing here so please just take this and I’ll go-”

You finally look up.

And the face staring back at you is absolutely, categorically, one hundred percent not Jungwon.

The boy in front of you is taller than Jungwon. Broader shoulders. Sharper jawline. Different eyes, darker, deeper, currently widened in a mixture of surprise and something you can’t quite read. His lips are parted slightly, as if he was about to say something before you launched into your emotional word-vomit, and he’s holding a half-eaten protein bar that’s now frozen halfway to his mouth.

The room has gone completely, utterly silent.

You can feel the stares of every single person boring into the back of your head. Someone coughs. Someone else whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “did she just-” before being shushed by their neighbor.

And then the boy, the very handsome, very wrong boy, sets down his protein bar, takes the letter gently from your trembling hand, and says in a voice that’s low and smooth and completely unfamiliar: “Wow. Okay. What’s your name?”

This is the worst moment of your entire life. You are going to die right here, in this PC room, surrounded by computer monitors and half-empty energy drink cans and a dozen witnesses who will spread this story to every corner of the university within the next three hours. Your obituary will read: here lies Y/N, the loser who can’t even recognize her ultimate crush.

“Y/N,” you croak, because your mouth is apparently still functioning even though every other part of you has shut down. “L/N Y/N. First year. STEM.”

You don’t know why you said STEM. He didn’t ask for your department. You’re offering information nobody requested. This is a disaster.

But the boy, he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t decipher, his head tilted slightly to the side like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. He’s wearing a dark hoodie with the informatics department logo on it, and there’s a pair of expensive-looking headphones draped around his neck, and his hair is slightly mussed in a way that suggests he’s been running his fingers through it while concentrating. He’s absurdly good-looking, the kind of good-looking that makes you simultaneously want to stare and look away, and you’re only now noticing the way several girls in the room have been watching him since you entered, not just because of your blunder, but because they’ve been watching him.

“I’m Heeseung,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”

Lee Heeseung. The name registers somewhere in the back of your panic-addled brain. It’s familiar in the way that campus gossip is familiar, attached to words like hot and player and don’t get your hopes up because he’ll charm you and then move on. You’ve heard girls in your dorm talking about him in hushed, giggling tones, trading stories about brief encounters and misinterpreted invitations. And you, in your infinite wisdom, have just handed a love letter meant for someone else directly into his notorious hands.

You have to fix this. You have to tell him it was a mistake. You have to-

“I’m flattered,” Heeseung says, and his smile widens slightly, not quite a smirk but definitely approaching smirk territory. “Really. This is... I mean, no one’s ever confessed to me with an actual letter before. It’s kind of old school.” He turns the envelope over in his hands, examining it with what seems like genuine curiosity. “The handwriting is really pretty. Did you do the calligraphy yourself?”

“Yes,” you say, because you are physically incapable of lying when put on the spot, and also because your brain has apparently decided that the best course of action is to just answer whatever questions he asks like this is a normal conversation and not the emotional equivalent of a tornado.

“Impressive.” He looks at you, really looks at you, and something shifts in his expression. The teasing edge softens just a fraction. “A confession is a lot, though. I mean, I’m honored, but we don’t even know each other.”

This is your opening. This is the moment where you say “actually, that’s because this letter wasn’t meant for you, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, I’m so sorry, please forget this ever happened.” The words are right there, lined up on your tongue, ready to go.

But the room is still watching. A dozen pairs of eyes. The whispers have stopped, but the staring hasn’t, and you can feel every single gaze like a physical weight pressing down on you. If you correct him now, in front of everyone, you’ll have to explain. You’ll have to admit that you walked into a crowded room and confessed to the wrong person like an absolute buffoon. You’ll become a campus legend for all the wrong reasons: the girl who was too stupid to even identify her own crush. The story will follow you for the rest of your university career. You’ll never live it down.

But if you just... let him believe it... if you just nod and agree and leave as quickly as possible... you can fix this later. Privately. Without an audience. You can find him tomorrow, or send him a message, or do literally anything other than humiliate yourself further in front of all these people.

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“I know,” you hear yourself say. “It’s a lot. I know.”

Heeseung nods thoughtfully, like you’ve said something profound. “But I’m not against it. Starting slow, I mean. If you want.”

What.

“What,” you say, but it comes out more like a statement than a question.

“I’m okay with starting slow,” he repeats, and now the smile is definitely back, a little crooked, a little curious. “You’re cute. And clearly brave. I like that. So if you want to, I don’t know, get coffee sometime and see where this goes... I’m open to it.”

Someone in the room lets out a low whistle. Someone else says “Heeseung, are you serious right now?” in a tone of utter disbelief. But Heeseung doesn’t look away from you. He’s waiting for your answer, his gaze steady and warm, and you are standing in the epicenter of a complete and total catastrophe with absolutely no idea how to get out.

Say no. Say it was a mistake. Say the truth.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Okay?! Okay?!

“Okay,” he echoes, and the smile breaks fully across his face, transforming him from handsome to devastating. “Good. I’ll find you. Y/N, first year, STEM, right?”

You nod mutely.

“Cool.” He tucks your letter carefully into the pocket of his hoodie, like it’s something precious, like he’s planning to read it later, and the gesture makes your stomach twist with guilt so intense you think you might actually be sick. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

You don’t remember leaving the room. You don’t remember the walk back across campus or the elevator ride to your floor or the moment you collapsed face-first onto your dorm bed. All you know is that one moment you were standing in the PC room, and the next you are here, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single agonizing second on an endless loop.

You confessed to the wrong person.

You confessed to the wrong person.

And for some reason that you absolutely cannot comprehend, he said yes.

Across campus, in a PC room that has finally returned to its normal hum of activity, Lee Heeseung pulls a slightly crumpled lavender envelope out of his hoodie pocket and stares at it for a long moment.

“Dude,” says his friend Jay from the next computer over, not bothering to hide his grin. “What just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Heeseung says honestly. And he doesn’t. He’s used to attention, he knows how to handle it, how to smile and nod and gently redirect without hurting anyone’s feelings. It’s a skill he’s developed over the years, the only way he knows to deal with the unfortunate side effect of his people-pleasing tendencies. He’s nice to someone, he helps them with an assignment, he holds a door open or offers a pen, and suddenly they’re looking at him with stars in their eyes, and he doesn’t know how to tell them that he was just trying to be polite without sounding like an arrogant jerk. So he lets them down easy, or he avoids the situation entirely, and his reputation grows in ways that don’t reflect the truth at all.

But this, this is new. A letter. An actual, physical, handwritten letter, with swooping calligraphy and a lavender envelope and a girl who looked so terrified that he thought she might actually pass out right there on the linoleum floor.

She looked at him like he was a natural disaster. Like she was watching a building collapse in slow motion and couldn’t do anything to stop it.

And then she said okay anyway.

“She’s interesting,” Heeseung murmurs, more to himself than to Jay, and carefully opens the envelope.

“Interesting how?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy reading, his eyes moving slowly across the carefully penned words, the ink slightly smudged in places where the writer’s hand might have trembled. It’s beautiful. It’s earnest. It’s the kind of letter that someone writes when they mean every single word, when they’ve poured their entire heart onto the page without holding anything back.

He’s never received anything like it before.

And he wants to know more about the girl who wrote it, the girl who burst into his afternoon like a hurricane of nerves and feelings.

“Jay,” he says, still staring at the letter, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I think something interesting just walked into my life.”

He doesn’t notice the way his friend shakes his head and mutters something about “here we go again.”

He’s too busy wondering when he’ll see Y/N next.

—————

The following forty-eight hours of your life can be accurately described as a masterclass in strategic avoidance and tactical regret.

You skip two classes. Not on purpose, exactly, you just can’t bring yourself to leave your dorm room when every shadow in the hallway might be Lee Heeseung coming to collect on that coffee date you apparently agreed to in a moment of temporary insanity. You survive on instant noodles and the protein bars your friend left on her desk with a sticky note that said “FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY,” which this absolutely qualifies as. You watch three entire seasons of Bridgerton without retaining a single moment because your brain is too busy replaying the PC room incident on a continuous, merciless loop.

“I’m Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”

“I’m okay with starting slow.”

“You’re cute.”

You bury your face in your pillow and scream, but it comes out muffled and pathetic, like a small animal giving up on life.

By day three, you’ve developed a system. You only leave your room during off-peak hours, skittering through campus, your head on a constant swivel. You’ve memorized the locations of every vending machine in buildings Heeseung is unlikely to frequent. You’ve started taking the long way to your remaining classes, cutting through the art department and the greenhouse and once, memorably, a service corridor that smelled strongly of bleach and soap. You’ve become a ghost. A phantom. A creature of the shadows who survives on granola bars and instant noddles.

But the problem with running away from your problems is that your problems don’t actually go anywhere. They just wait. And think about you. And eventually, when you least expect it, they catch up.

It happens on a Thursday.

You’re crouched behind a potted plant near the science building, scanning the courtyard for any sign of tall, attractive informatics students, when your phone buzzes with a text from your best friend, Yunjin.

Yunjin: heard you’ve been living like a sewer rat. want me to bring you real food?

You: can’t. i’m in the middle of a crisis

Yunjin: You’re executing what we talked about yet?

You: it’s in process

Yunjin: at the end of the day, you will have to tell him

You stare at the message for a long moment. It’s such a simple solution. So elegant. So reasonable. And yet, every time you imagine yourself walking up to Heeseung and saying “actually, I meant to give that letter to someone else,” your entire body physically recoils like you’ve touched a hot stove. The humiliation would be astronomical. The look on his face, surprise, then confusion, then that horrible moment of realization that he was never supposed to be the recipient would haunt you for the rest of your natural life. And you’d still have to explain the Jungwon part. And Jungwon would find out. And then you’d be the weird girl who couldn’t even confess to the right person, and Heeseung would be the guy who got accidentally confessed to, and everyone would laugh about it for weeks, and-

Your phone buzzes again.

Yunjin: i can hear you overthinking from across campus. just rip off the bandaid. what’s the worst that could happen

You type back a single message: he could tell everyone and i’d have to transfer schools and change my name and become a farmer in New Zeland

Yunjin: dramatic. but valid. good luck with your plant hiding

You shove your phone back into your pocket and peek around the potted plant again. The courtyard is clear. This is your window. You take a deep breath, steel your nerves, and scuttle out from behind the foliage.

The plan for today is simple: find Heeseung, explain the misunderstanding, and disappear forever. You’ve spent the entire morning psyching yourself up for this. You’ve practiced the speech in the mirror seventeen times. You’ve even written a script on your phone that you can refer to in case of emergency. It’s thorough, it’s clear, it leaves absolutely no room for misinterpretation, and it ends with a sincere apology and a polite request that you both pretend this never happened. It’s perfect. It’s foolproof. All you have to do is locate the target.

Easier said than done. You’ve been looking for him since yesterday, not to talk to, but to observe from a safe distance so you could plan your approach and the universe, in its infinite comedic wisdom, has made him completely unfindable. It’s like he vanished off the face of the earth the moment you actually wanted to see him. Three days ago, you couldn’t walk three feet without catching a glimpse of him, but now? Now he’s a ghost. A myth. A concept rather than a physical entity.

You’re going to have to ask for help.

This is, objectively, a terrible idea. Asking for help means talking to people, and talking to people about Heeseung means potentially revealing that you’re looking for him, which means potentially revealing why you’re looking for him, which means the whole campus could know about the letter situation by lunchtime. But you’re running out of options, and you’re running out of granola bars, and you can’t live behind potted plants forever.

You find your informant near the engineering building, a girl with neon green headphones and a laptop covered in stickers, sitting on a bench and typing furiously at something that looks like code. She seems approachable. She seems like she won’t ask too many questions. You approach with what you hope is casual confidence and not the desperate energy of someone who has been living on protein bars.

“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out surprisingly normal. Points for you. “Do you know where I can find Lee Heeseung? Third year, informatics?”

The girl looks up, her eyes flicking over you with mild curiosity. She doesn’t ask why you’re looking for him, which makes you want to hug her. “Heeseung? Yeah, I think I saw him heading to the quad about ten minutes ago. Something about meeting up with some people before his next class.”

The quad. Of course. The most open, public, exposed location on the entire campus. The place where literally everyone congregates. The absolute last place you want to have a conversation about accidental love confessions.

“Great,” you say, and your voice is definitely an octave higher now. “Great. Thank you. Thanks. So much.”

The girl gives you a weird look, shrugs, and goes back to her coding.

You’re already moving, your feet carrying you toward the quad before your brain can catch up and talk you out of it. This is fine. This is progress. You’ll find him, you’ll pull him aside, you’ll give him the speech, and then you’ll be free. You’ll be a normal person again. You’ll be able to walk through campus without checking every corner for a tall informatics student who thinks you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date.

The quad is bustling when you arrive, clusters of students sprawled across the grass and gathered around the stone benches near the fountain. The afternoon sun is bright and warm, the kind of weather that makes everyone want to be outside, which is lovely and picturesque and deeply inconvenient for your purposes. You squint against the glare, scanning the crowd for a familiar dark-haired figure.

No Heeseung.

You circle the perimeter, weaving between groups of friends and dodging a frisbee that comes sailing dangerously close to your head. You check near the fountain, near the big oak tree, near the cluster of food trucks that’s set up along the east edge. Still no Heeseung. Your informant said ten minutes ago, he should be here. Unless he already left. Unless you missed him. Unless this is a sign from the universe that you should give up and commit to the farmer life plan after all.

You’re so focused on your search that you don’t notice someone approaching until a shadow falls across your path, and a voice, warm, familiar, the exact voice you’ve been daydreaming about for four months, says:

“Y/N? Hey, it is you!”

You look up.

Yang Jungwon is standing right in front of you, smiling like the sun just came out from behind a cloud, and every single coherent thought in your brain immediately evaporates.

He’s wearing a soft-looking cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his dark hair is slightly windswept, and there’s a tiny mole near his chin that you’ve never noticed before but is now seared into your memory forever. He’s holding a book, something with a cracked spine and a title in a language you don’t recognize and he’s looking at you with genuine, undiluted pleasure, like running into you is the best thing that’s happened to him all day.

“It’s me,” you say, because you are a conversational genius. “I mean. Yes. Hi. Hello.”

Smooth. Flawless execution. Ten out of ten.

Jungwon doesn’t seem to notice your complete lack of verbal grace. His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in exactly the way you’ve catalogued in your mental Jungwon database. “I thought I recognized you. You’re in my philosophy elective, right? Front row, near the window?”

He knows where you sit. He knows where you sit. This is both the best and worst information you’ve ever received, because on one hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, but on the other hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, and now you have to be a normal human being and not the disaster you currently are.

“Front row near the window,” you confirm, nodding a little too vigorously. “That’s me. I like the natural light. For... note-taking purposes.”

“Makes sense.” He shifts his weight, tucking the book under his arm. “You take really detailed notes, by the way. I sat behind you once, and I was honestly impressed. Your color-coding system is no joke.”

Jungwon has looked at your notes. Jungwon has been impressed by your notes. Your brain is short-circuiting at approximately the speed of light, and you have to physically resist the urge to fist-pump in the middle of the quad.

“Thank you,” you manage. “I have a lot of highlighters. Maybe too many. Is there such a thing as too many highlighters? I don’t think so, but I’ve been told my stationery collection is concerning.”

Oh no. Why are you talking about stationery? You need to say something charming. Something witty. Something that will make him see you as more than the girl with the aggressive color-coding system.

“I don’t think it’s concerning,” Jungwon says, and there’s a teasing lilt to his voice that makes your knees go weak. “Passionate, maybe. Dedicated. I respect it.”

“Passionate and dedicated,” you repeat faintly. “That’s... yeah. That’s my brand.”

He laughs, and it’s exactly like you remember, bright and warm, the kind of laugh that makes you want to do whatever you just did again and again just to hear it on repeat. “I like it. Passion is underrated.” He tilts his head, studying you with an expression you can’t quite read. “So what brings you to the quad? You usually eat lunch in the science building courtyard, don’t you?”

Your heart stutters. He knows where you eat lunch. He’s observed your habits. This is either a sign of mutual interest or you’ve accidentally become the subject of a sociological case study, and at this point you’re willing to accept either outcome.

“I’m, um, looking for someone,” you say, and the confession letter debacle comes crashing back into your consciousness like a wrecking ball through a glass window. Right. You’re supposed to be finding Heeseung. You’re supposed to be fixing the misunderstanding. That’s why you’re here. Not to bask in the radiant warmth of Jungwon’s attention like a lizard on a sunny rock.

“Anyone I know?” Jungwon asks, and there’s something in his tone, curiosity, maybe.

“Probably not,” you say quickly. “Just a... just a person. A random person. Not important.”

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but before he can press further, a new voice cuts through the afternoon air like a knife through butter.

“There you are.”

You freeze. Your blood turns to ice. Every cell in your body screams in unison: run.

Lee Heeseung is walking toward you across the quad, his headphones hanging around his neck and his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket. He looks exactly as devastatingly attractive as he did three days ago, which is deeply unfair. His expression is a mixture of curiosity and amusement, and when his eyes meet yours, that slight smile, the one that’s not quite a smirk but definitely is a smirk’s second cousin, curves across his lips.

“I heard you’ve been looking for me,” he says, coming to a stop beside Jungwon like this is the most natural gathering in the world. “You know, if you wanted to see me, you could have just messaged. I would have given you my number at the PC room.”

Jungwon looks between you and Heeseung with visible confusion, his earlier smile fading into something more guarded. “Wait. You two know each other?”

This is it. This is the moment the universe has been building toward. Every terrible decision, every act of cowardice, every misguided attempt to avoid embarrassment, it’s all led here, to this exact spot on the quad, with the wrong guy standing next to the right guy and your entire romantic future hanging in the balance.

“I wouldn’t say know,” you begin, but Heeseung is already talking over you, apparently immune to the desperate telepathic signals you’re trying to beam directly into his brain.

“She confessed to me two days ago,” Heeseung says, and his tone is so casual, so conversational, like he’s discussing the weather or what he had for lunch. “Walked right into the PC room, handed me a letter, told me she’d liked me for a long time. It was very romantic. Very old-school. I was impressed.”

Silence. Jungwon stares at Heeseung. Then at you. Then back at Heeseung.

“She... confessed to you,” Jungwon repeats slowly, and his voice has gone flat in a way that makes your heart splinter into approximately seven thousand pieces.

“Full confession,” Heeseung confirms, still smiling. “I’m thinking we’ll start with coffee. Keep it simple, you know? She’s shy. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

This is a nightmare. This is a waking, breathing, actively-unfolding nightmare, and you are trapped in it like a fly in amber, unable to move or speak or do anything except watch as every possible future with Jungwon crumbles to dust before your eyes.

Because here’s the thing you realize in that horrible, crystal-clear moment: you can’t correct Heeseung now. Not in front of Jungwon. Not when Jungwon has just been told, in no uncertain terms, that you confessed to someone else. If you explain the truth, that the letter was actually meant for Jungwon, that the whole thing was a catastrophic mistake, then what? Jungwon would know you’d been planning to confess to him, but he’d also know that you somehow managed to mess it up so spectacularly that you confessed to his friend instead. You’d look incompetent at best and completely unhinged at worst. And Heeseung would be humiliated, and Jungwon would be awkward, and you’d be the epicenter of a social catastrophe so immense that all three of you would have to avoid each other for the rest of your academic careers.

You are trapped. Completely, utterly, irreversibly trapped.

“Interesting,” Jungwon says, and the word is so neutral that it cuts deeper than any insult ever could. “I didn’t realize you two ran in the same circles.”

“We don’t,” you croak. “We really, really don’t.”

“We’re just getting started,” Heeseung says cheerfully, and he has the audacity to wink at you. Like this is some kind of adorable inside joke instead of the emotional apocalypse it actually is.

You have to get out of here. You have to escape before the sob building in your chest forces its way out and makes everything infinitely worse. You can feel it pressing against your ribs, hot and insistent, and if you don’t leave right now, you’re going to burst into tears in the middle of the quad in front of both of them, and then the disaster will be complete.

“I have to go,” you blurt out, and you’re already backing away, your feet moving before your brain can issue any kind of warning. “I have… a thing. A class. A lab. A lab class. It’s very important. I can’t miss it. I have to go.”

Heeseung’s brow furrows slightly. “Wait, I thought you wanted to talk to-”

“Nope! No talking! We’re good! Everything’s fine! Bye!”

You spin around and power-walk toward the nearest exit, which happens to be in the direction of the fountain, which you only realize when your foot catches on the low stone ledge and you go sprawling forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.

Your knee hits the ground. Your dignity hits the ground approximately three feet to the left. Several people turn to look.

“Y/N!” That’s Jungwon’s voice, concerned and moving closer, and you absolutely cannot handle that right now.

“I’m fine!” you shriek, scrambling to your feet with adrenaline-fueled desperation. “Totally fine! Happens all the time! I’m very clumsy! It’s part of my charm!”

You don’t look back. You can’t look back. If you look back, you’ll see Jungwon’s worried expression and Heeseung’s confused one, and you’ll have to confront the full magnitude of what just happened, and your fragile emotional state simply cannot withstand that kind of pressure. So you run. Not jog, not power-walk…run. Across the quad, past the food trucks, through a gap between two buildings, and out onto the main campus pathway like the hounds of hell are snapping at your heels.

You don’t stop until you reach the arts building, and you don’t start breathing normally until you’ve locked yourself in a practice room on the third floor, surrounded by soundproof walls and a piano that’s seen better days. You slide down against the door, pull your knees up to your chest, and let out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a wail.

Everything is ruined. Everything. You had one chance, one single, solitary chance to fix the misunderstanding and salvage your dignity and maybe, just maybe, preserve the possibility of something with Jungwon somewhere down the line. And instead, you let your hopeless romantic heart get distracted by a five-minute conversation about philosophy notes and highlighters, and now you’re the girl who confessed to Lee Heeseung, and Jungwon thinks you’re interested in someone else, and there is no conceivable way to untangle this mess without making everything exponentially worse.

You’re going to have to transfer schools. You’re going to have to move to another country. You’re going to have to fake your own death and start a new identity as a goat farmer in New Zeland.

The door handle jiggles behind you. “Occupied!” you yell, your voice cracking.

“Y/N? Is that you?”

Your best friend Yunjin’s voice filters through the door, muffled but unmistakable, and the sound of it is enough to crack the dam you’ve been desperately trying to hold together. You scramble to your feet, fumble with the lock, and yank the door open to reveal Yunjin standing in the hallway with a cup of bubble tea in each hand and an expression of profound concern on her face.

“I saw you running,” she says, her eyes scanning your disheveled appearance. “Like, truly running. I’ve never seen you run before. You once told me running was for people who don’t appreciate the journey.”

“Yunjin,” you crumble, and your voice is so pitiful that she immediately sets down both drinks and pulls you into a hug.

“Okay,” she says, steering you back into the practice room and closing the door behind her. “Okay. Sit down. Tell me everything. What happened? Did you talk to Heeseung? Did you fix it?”

You laugh, but it comes out wrong, high and wobbly, on the edge of hysteria. “Fix it? Fix it? Yunjin, I made it so much worse. I made it so much worse that I think I actually created new dimensions of worse. Scientists are going to have to invent new words to describe how badly I messed this up.”

“That’s... improbable,” Yunjin says carefully. “But I’m listening.”

She settles onto the piano bench, and you collapse onto the floor in front of her, crossing your legs and burying your face in your hands. The story spills out of you in a torrent, the quad, the search for Heeseung, the unexpected appearance of Jungwon, the conversation that made your heart soar, and then the moment Heeseung appeared like a harbinger of doom and casually announced your confession to the one person you never wanted to know about it.

“And then I fell,” you finish miserably. “In front of both of them. And I ran away. And now Jungwon thinks I like Heeseung, and Heeseung thinks I like Heeseung, and I can’t correct either of them without making everything even weirder, and my life is a romantic comedy written by a petty incel.”

Yunjin is quiet for a moment. Then she lets out a long, slow breath. “Okay. That’s... that’s a lot.”

“I know.”

“And you’re telling me you couldn’t just say, hey Heeseung, sorry for the mix-up, the letter wasn’t for you, my bad?”

You look up at her, your eyes rimmed with red. “In front of Jungwon? After Heeseung already told him I confessed? What would Jungwon think of me?”

Yunjin considers this. “That you’re a disaster, probably.”

“Exactly!”

“But a lovable disaster,” she adds. “Disasters can be endearing.”

“Yunjin, please focus.”

She holds up her hands in surrender, but there’s a glint in her eye that you recognize, the one that means she’s about to drop some wisdom on you whether you’re ready for it or not. Yunjin has been your best friend since orientation week, when you both accidentally joined the wrong club meeting and ended up spending two hours in a competitive gardening seminar before realizing your mistake. She’s practical where you’re dreamy, decisive where you’re hesitant, and she’s talked you down from approximately four hundred anxiety spirals since the semester started. If anyone can find a way out of this mess, it’s her.

“Okay,” she says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “Let me present you with an alternative perspective.”

“I’m listening.”

“Lee Heeseung,” she says, ticking off points on her fingers, “has a reputation. A big one. Everyone knows it. He’s the guy who’s super nice to everyone, especially girls, and then they fall for him and he gets all surprised when they expect something more, and then things fizzle out because he wasn’t looking for anything serious.” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “Sound familiar?”

You blink. “I mean... I’ve heard things. But he didn’t seem like-”

“That’s his whole thing,” Yunjin interrupts. “He doesn’t seem like it. That’s why it works. He likes when everyone is after him. But nice doesn’t equal interested, so girls get the wrong idea and then they get hurt. It’s a cycle.” She pops a tapioca pearl into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “My point is, you don’t need to do anything. You don’t need to fix this. You just need to wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For him to get bored.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Think about it. You’re not actually interested in him, right? You’re not going to fall all over yourself trying to get his attention. You’re not going to be waiting outside his classes or accidentally showing up wherever he hangs out. You’re not going to be like every other girl who’s chased after him.”

You frown. “So... what, I just... do nothing?”

“No, you do the opposite of chasing.” Yunjin grins, and it’s slightly wicked. “You make yourself as uninteresting to him as possible. You’re awkward, you’re weird, you’re clearly not trying to impress him. You don’t dress up when you know you might see him. You talk about boring things. You mention, I don’t know, your extensive collection of vintage stamps or whatever nerdy hobby you can think of. You make yourself boring.”

“I don’t have a stamp collection.”

“Then make one up! The point is, Heeseung is used to girls who want him. If you clearly don’t want him, his interest is going to fizzle out faster than a cheap sparkler. He’ll move on to the next girl who bats her eyelashes at him, and you’ll be free. No confrontation necessary.”

You turn this over in your mind. It’s... not the worst idea you’ve ever heard. In fact, compared to your current strategy of blind panic and tactical fleeing, it’s practically genius. If you can’t correct the misunderstanding without making everything worse, maybe you can just... let it die on its own. Let Heeseung’s fabled short attention span work in your favor. Become so aggressively unappealing that he loses interest within a week and never thinks about you again.

And once he’s out of the picture, once enough time has passed, maybe you can try again with Jungwon. Properly. With better aim.

“You’re a genius,” you tell Yunjin, the hope creeping back into your voice. “An absolute genius. I could kiss you.”

“Please don’t, you’re covered in grass stains.” She nudges one of the bubble teas toward you with her foot. “Drink your tea. Hydrate. And then we’re going to brainstorm all the ways you can make yourself seem as unappealing as possible to a hot third-year informatics student.”

You grab the drink and take a long sip, the sweetness settling something in your chest. For the first time in three days, you feel something other than panic. You feel strategic. You feel determined. Lee Heeseung might think you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date, but he hasn’t met the version of you that’s about to emerge, a version so bland, so uninteresting, so aggressively mediocre that he’ll run in the opposite direction before the week is out.

“Okay,” you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Okay. Let’s do this. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested starts now.”

Yunjin raises her bubble tea in a toast. “To being boring.”

You clink your cup against hers. “To being boring.”

Somewhere across campus Heeseung is still standing in the quad with a confused expression on his face and a lavender envelope in his pocket, wondering why the girl who supposedly has a crush on him just sprinted away like she was being chased by bears.

He’s not used to this. He’s not used to any of this.

And that, he realizes with a small, bemused shake of his head, is exactly what makes it so interesting.

—————

Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested lasted exactly four days before it encountered its first major obstacle.

That obstacle is approximately six feet tall, has flowing hair that falls perfectly across his forehead, and is currently walking directly toward your table in the cafeteria with a tray in his hands and a smile on his face that suggests he has absolutely no idea he's supposed to be losing interest in you.

You spot him approximately 2.3 seconds too late. By the time your brain registers the approaching danger, you are already mid-bite into a sad cafeteria sandwich, your mouth full of bread and lettuce and the dawning realization that you are trapped. There is no escape route. Your table is in the corner, surrounded on three sides by walls and on the fourth side by Heeseung's rapidly approaching form. You are a cornered animal. A very stupid, very panicked cornered animal with mayonnaise on her chin.

"Y/N!" Heeseung says your name like it's his favorite word, bright and warm and entirely too enthusiastic for someone who's supposed to be a notorious womanizer with a short attention span. "I was hoping I'd run into you. Mind if I sit?"

Mind if he sits? Of course you mind. You mind immensely. You mind with every fiber of your being. Sitting with Heeseung is the exact opposite of what Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is supposed to accomplish. Sitting with Heeseung means talking to Heeseung, and talking to Heeseung means opportunities to accidentally charm him, and charming him is categorically Not The Goal.

But Heeseung is already pulling out the chair across from you, and his smile is so genuine, and there's a tiny bit of what looks like grease on his cheekbone that suggests he's just come from some kind of engineering lab, and you are weak. You are so, so weak.

"Go ahead," you hear yourself say, and then immediately want to punch yourself in the face.

Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested, Day Four, 12:34 PM: catastrophic failure already in progress.

Heeseung settles into the chair with an easy grace, setting his tray down and immediately stealing one of your fries like you're old friends who share food on a regular basis. You watch the fry disappear into his mouth and feel a small part of your soul leave your body.

"So," he says, leaning back and studying you with those dark, unreadable eyes. "You ran away from me pretty fast the other day. Should I be worried? Do I have something on my face?"

He doesn't. He absolutely doesn't. He has the kind of face that belongs on a billboard, all sharp angles and soft edges and that one little mole on his forehead that you are definitely not noticing because noticing things about Heeseung's face is counterproductive to the mission.

"No," you say quickly. "No, you're fine. Your face is fine. I mean, you don't have anything on your face. I just remembered I had somewhere to be. Very suddenly. It was urgent."

"An urgent… lab class?" Heeseung's lips twitch. "That's what you said, right? An urgent lab class on a Thursday afternoon?"

Your face heats. "Yes. Exactly. Lab class. Very urgent. Science doesn't wait."

"Mmm." He pops another one of your fries into his mouth. "Well, the good news is, you don't look like you're in a hurry right now. So we can actually talk. You know, like normal people who are supposedly getting to know each other?"

Right. Getting to know each other. Because you confessed to him. Because he thinks you like him. Because you're living in an elaborate lie of your own making.

This is your chance, though. This is the perfect opportunity to implement Phase One of the Make Him Uninterested plan: Be Weird and Off-Putting. You just have to be the most boring, strange, unappealing version of yourself that you can possibly imagine. How hard can it be?

Pretty hard, as it turns out, because your brain chooses this exact moment to go completely blank.

"So," Heeseung says, apparently unbothered by your silence, "tell me about yourself. What do you like to do for fun? Besides writing beautiful love letters and then running away from the recipient?"

You choke on your own saliva. Just… straight up choke on nothing, like a cartoon character. "I don't…that wasn't…I do normal things. Normal fun things. Like… watching paint dry. And counting ceiling tiles. Very relaxing. You should try it."

Heeseung's expression flickers, confusion, amusement, something in between. "Counting ceiling tiles?"

"There are forty-seven in this cafeteria," you say, doubling down with the desperate energy of someone who has already committed to the bit. "Forty-eight if you count the one that's partially covered by that vent over there. But some people don't count partial tiles. It's a philosophical debate, really."

"Fascinating," Heeseung says, and the worst part is that he sounds like he actually means it. "What else?"

What else? What else can you say that will make you sound completely unappealing? You cast around for inspiration, your eyes landing on your sandwich. Okay. Fine. If words can't do the job, maybe actions can.

You pick up your sandwich with both hands and take the weirdest bite you can physically manage, mouth open slightly too wide, chewing with exaggerated jaw movements, making an unfortunate amount of noise in the process. You feel like a cow. You look like a cow. You are embodying the spirit of a cow, and surely, surely, this is enough to make any self-respecting hot informatics student run for the hills.

Heeseung watches you chew. His expression doesn't change.

"Good sandwich?" he asks mildly.

"Mmf," you say, still chewing, still being a cow. "Very good. I love-"

And then the lettuce hits the back of your throat.

You don't know how it happens. One moment you're chewing normally, well, abnormally, but in a controlled way and the next moment a piece of lettuce stages a rebellion and lodges itself directly in your windpipe. Your eyes go wide. Your hand flies to your throat. You make a sound that is somewhere between a wheeze and a honk.

"Y/N?" Heeseung's amused expression shifts to concern. "Are you okay?"

You are not okay. You are choking. You are choking on lettuce in front of Lee Heeseung in the middle of the cafeteria, and this is how you're going to die.

Heeseung is on his feet now, moving around the table with surprising speed. "Hey, hey, can you breathe? Do you need me to-"

You shake your head frantically, still making dying cow noises, and grab your water bottle with shaking hands. The first gulp does nothing. The second gulp, by some miracle, dislodges the lettuce just enough for you to cough it up into a napkin with all the grace and dignity of a cat hacking up a hairball.

Silence.

The entire cafeteria, you're convinced, is staring at you. In reality, probably only a few nearby tables have noticed, but it feels apocalyptic. You sit there, red-faced and teary-eyed, clutching a napkin full of your own near-death experience, and want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

Heeseung kneels beside your chair, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he isn't sure if touching you would be welcome. "Hey. You're okay. You're okay, right? Do you need me to get you anything? More water? A doctor? A new sandwich without lettuce?"

His voice is gentle. Genuinely gentle. Not the smooth, charming tone you expect from someone with his reputation, but something softer, something that sounds almost like real concern.

"I'm fine," you croak, your voice ravaged. "I'm fine. That happens. All the time. I'm very bad at eating. It's one of my traits."

"One of your traits," Heeseung repeats, and the corner of his mouth twitches despite his obvious worry. "Being bad at eating?"

"It's a lifestyle choice."

He laughs. Not a polite chuckle or a mocking snicker, but a real laugh, surprised and bright and completely unguarded. He sits back down in his chair, shaking his head, and looks at you with something that is definitely not boredom or disinterest.

"You're really something else, you know that?"

You don't know how to respond to that, so you don't. You just sit there, still clutching your napkin of shame, and wonder how Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has somehow resulted in him laughing at your jokes and looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's encountered all week.

"So," Heeseung says, propping his chin on his hand, "I've been wondering. What made you decide to confess to me? Was there a specific moment? Something I did?"

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

This is the worst possible question he could ask. You can't tell him the truth…I didn't mean to confess to you, I meant to confess to your friend, you just happened to be sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time, please don't hate me…but you also can't just… not answer. He's looking at you expectantly, his dark eyes curious and open, and you have approximately three seconds to come up with a convincing lie before the silence becomes too awkward to recover from.

"Your… kindness," you say, grasping at straws. "You're very… kind. To everyone. I noticed."

Heeseung tilts his head. "My kindness?"

"Very kind," you repeat, nodding vigorously. "So kind. The kindest. I saw you… hold a door open for someone once. It was… inspiring."

"I held a door open."

"A door. Yes. It was a very heavy door. And you held it. For a long time. Multiple people went through. It was very impressive."

Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and you stare back, your face burning, your soul evacuating your body. This is it. This is the moment he realizes you are completely unhinged and decides to never speak to you again. This is the victory of Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested.

"That's…" Heeseung starts, and then pauses. "That's the first time anyone's ever confessed to me because I held a door open. Usually I get compliments about my face. Or my voice. One girl told me I had a nose made to be sat on, which I still don't fully understand."

"Your node is… fine," you say weakly. "I didn't notice your nose. Or your face at all. Just the door. The door was the important part."

"A door," Heeseung says, and that smile is spreading across his face again, the one that makes him look less like a notorious player and more like someone who has just found a particularly entertaining puzzle. "You wrote me a three-page love letter because I held a door open."

"The calligraphy alone took a week," you say, and immediately regret it.

Heeseung laughs again, and this time it's softer, almost wondering. "You're not what I expected," he says. "At all."

"Is that… good or bad?"

"I haven't decided yet." But he's still smiling, and his eyes are still fixed on you with that curious intensity, and you're starting to get the sinking feeling that everything you do, no matter how strange or off-putting you try to be, is having the exact opposite effect of what you intend.

You need a new strategy. Something foolproof. Something so aggressively unappealing that even the most determined people-pleaser can't pretend to be interested.

And then, like a gift from the gods of social awkwardness, the topic of video games comes up.

Heeseung mentions something about blowing off steam after a tough assignment by playing a few rounds of something, and the question slips out before you can stop it: "Wait, do you play League of Legends?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes. You?"

And that's it. That's the moment the dam breaks.

You don't mean to start geeking out. It just happens. One moment you're thinking be boring, be uninteresting, be bland, and the next moment you're fifteen minutes deep into an impassioned monologue about the current meta, the problems with the jungle role, and why Riot Games needs to nerf a specific champion into the ground before she single-handedly destroys the competitive scene.

"-and don't even get me started on the new items, because the balance team clearly doesn't play their own game, which is fine, whatever, it's not like I have strong opinions about it except I absolutely do, and I wrote an entire essay about it on the subreddit that got like two thousand upvotes, so clearly I'm not the only one who thinks the armor penetration scaling is completely broken-"

You stop.

You stop because you have just realized, with dawning horror, that you have been talking for an incredibly long time without letting Heeseung get a single word in. You have been gesticulating. You have been making sound effects. At one point, you're pretty sure you drew a diagram on a napkin to illustrate the optimal jungle pathing route.

This is it. This is definitely, absolutely it. There is no way a hot third-year informatics student wants to listen to a first-year STEM girl rant about video game balance for fifteen straight minutes. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has just achieved its first genuine success.

You brace yourself for the polite excuse, the awkward glance at his phone, the slow backing away.

Instead, Heeseung leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and says: "Okay, but hear me out, what if the armor penetration scaling isn't the problem, and it's actually the base damage values that need to be adjusted? Because if you look at the win rate data across different elos, the issue isn't consistent at all levels of play."

You blink.

"I main ADC," he adds, as if this is a perfectly normal confession. "So trust me, I feel your pain about the jungle situation. Do you know how many times I've been left to solo dragon because my jungler was AFK farming? Too many. Too many times."

"You… main ADC?"

"Vayne and Kai'Sa mostly. Sometimes Jhin if I'm feeling dramatic."

You have no response to this. Your brain has short-circuited somewhere around the phrase "win rate data across different elos," and it's still rebooting.

"Your essay on the subreddit," Heeseung continues, pulling out his phone. "What was the title? I want to read it. I love seeing well-reasoned arguments about game balance, and honestly, most of what gets posted is just people complaining without any actual data to back it up."

"It was… it was called The Current State of Armor Penetration: A Statistical Analysis and Why I'm Losing My Mind," you say faintly.

Heeseung types something into his phone, scrolls for a moment, and then his face lights up. "Found it. Two thousand three hundred upvotes and fourteen awards? That's impressive. Wait, you made graphs? You made graphs?"

"I was very passionate about the subject."

"Passionate," Heeseung repeats, looking up from his phone with an expression you can't quite read. "Yeah. I'm starting to get that about you."

He tucks his phone away and smiles at you, and it isn't the smooth, practiced smile you expect from the campus womanizer. It's something smaller. Something realer. Something that makes your stomach do a weird, traitorous flip that you immediately try to suppress.

"You know," he says, tilting his head as he studies you, "you remind me of a mouse."

Your brain screeches to a halt. "A… mouse?"

"Yeah. A little field mouse. The way your nose scrunches up when you're thinking, and how you get all twitchy and skittish when you're nervous. It's cute. It's really cute."

Cute. He calls you cute. He compares you to a rodent and somehow makes it sound like a compliment, and worst of all, worst of all, you can feel a traitorous blush spreading across your cheeks like wildfire.

"I'm not…I don't…mice are not cute. Mice are pests. They carry diseases. I'm basically a health hazard."

Heeseung laughs, and it's the same genuine laugh from before, and he's looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's seen in years. "A health hazard. Right. Well, consider me warned."

He stands up, gathering his tray, and for one beautiful, hopeful moment, you think the ordeal is over. But then he pauses, looking down at you with that unreadable expression, and says the words that haunt you for the rest of the day:

"I was interested before, but now?" He shakes his head, still smiling. "Now I'm really interested. See you around, little mouse."

And then he walks away, leaving you alone at your corner table with a half-eaten sandwich, a napkin full of regurgitated lettuce, and the sinking realization that Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is not only failing, it's backfiring spectacularly.

You try to be weird, and he calls you cute.

You try to be boring, and he engages with your niche gaming opinions.

You try to choke to death in front of him, and he kneels beside your chair with genuine concern in his eyes.

You bang your forehead against the cafeteria table once, twice, three times, not caring who sees. This is a disaster. This is an unmitigated, unprecedented, absolutely catastrophic disaster. Hana's plan was supposed to work. Heeseung was supposed to get bored. He was supposed to move on. He was not supposed to look at you like you're a puzzle he wants to solve, or call you a mouse in a tone of voice that makes your heart do gymnastics, or read your League of Legends essay and compliment your graphs.

You need to regroup. You need to call an emergency meeting with Yunjin. You need to figure out a new strategy before this situation spirals even further out of control.

But first, you need to go to the library and return the books that are due today before you accrue another fine, because no matter how catastrophic your love life becomes, the university library shows no mercy.

—————

The library is your sanctuary. It always has been, a quiet, climate-controlled haven where the smell of old paper and the soft hum of fluorescent lights can soothe even the most tensed of nerves. After the cafeteria incident, you need sanctuary more than ever. You slip through the main doors with your stack of books clutched to your chest, inhaling the familiar scent of knowledge and dust, and feel some of the tension begin to ease from your shoulders.

Everything is fine. Everything is going to be fine. You return your books, you find Yunjin, you regroup, and you figure out a way to-

"Y/N?"

The voice comes from somewhere to your left, and you know that voice. You know it the way a flower knows the sun, the way a compass knows north, the way a hopeless romantic knows the exact cadence of her crush's greeting.

Jungwon is sitting at a table near the history section, surrounded by a fortress of textbooks and loose papers. He's wearing glasses…glasses…and his hair is slightly mussed from what you assume is hours of intense studying, and he's looking at you with that smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your entire nervous system short-circuit.

"Hey," he says, waving you over. "What are you doing here?"

Existing in the same space as you, you think. Breathing the same air. Trying not to spontaneously combust.

"Returning books," you say, holding up your stack as evidence. "I have some overdue ones. The library fines are no joke."

"Tell me about it. I had to pay fifteen thousand won last semester because I forgot about a book I'd checked out for a research paper." Jungwon winces at the memory. "My wallet still hasn't recovered."

"That's brutal."

"The library giveth, and the library taketh away."

You laugh, and it comes out surprisingly normal, not too loud, not too high-pitched, just a regular human laugh from a regular human person who is definitely not having an internal meltdown about how good Jungwon looks in glasses.

"Hey," Jungwon says, glancing at the empty chair across from him, "if you're not in a hurry, do you want to study together? I've been here for three hours and my brain is starting to melt. It would be nice to have some company."

Your heart stops.

Yang Jungwon, the Yang Jungwon, the owner of the smile and the laugh and the gummy bears at 2 AM is asking you to study with him. This is the kind of moment you've daydreamed about for months. This is a meet-cute in progress. This is the universe throwing you a lifeline after the cafeteria disaster, a chance to actually spend time with the boy you've been pining over since midterms.

"Yes," you say, before your brain can remind you of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. "Yes, I'd…I'd love to. Let me just return these first."

You practically skip to the returns desk, your heart doing a full backflip in your chest. By the time you make it back to Jungwon's table, your philosophy textbook and notebook spread out in front of you, you've convinced yourself that this is exactly what you need. Some time with Jungwon. Some time to remember why you wrote that letter in the first place. Some time to reconnect with the feelings that got buried under the chaos of the Heeseung situation.

The only problem is that you can't focus on studying at all.

You try. You really, genuinely try. You open your textbook to the assigned chapter. You uncap your highlighter. You fix your eyes on the page and attempt to absorb information about ethical frameworks and moral philosophy. But your eyes keep drifting up, against your will, over the top of your book, to the boy sitting across from you.

Jungwon is studying. Actually studying, not fake studying, not pretending to study while secretly watching you the way you're watching him. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his pen moving steadily across his notebook as he takes notes. Every so often, he pauses, taps the end of his pen against his chin, and then resumes writing with renewed focus. The late afternoon light slants through the window behind him, catching the highlights in his dark hair and making him look like he's stepped out of a painting.

He is beautiful. He's so beautiful that it makes your chest ache, a soft, sweet ache that you've been carrying around since the moment you first saw him in this very library. You watch the way his fingers curl around his pen, the way he bites his lower lip when he's thinking, the way his glasses slide down his nose and he pushes them back up with an absent gesture.

"I can feel you looking at me," Jungwon says, not glancing up from his notebook.

Your entire body jolts like you've been electrocuted. "I wasn't…I was just…there's a clock behind you. I was checking the time."

Jungwon looks up then, and there's a knowing glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a slow, somersaulting flip. "The clock is to your right, Y/N. Not behind me."

You look to your right. Sure enough, there's the clock, hanging on the wall in plain view, which you would have noticed if you'd spent even one second actually looking for it instead of gazing at Jungwon's face like a Renaissance painter studying their muse.

"I'm… directionally challenged," you say weakly.

"Uh-huh." Jungwon sets down his pen, and the smile playing at the corners of his mouth is soft and teasing and absolutely devastating. "Come here for a second."

"What?"

"Just come here. Lean forward a little."

Your body obeys before your brain can intervene. You lean across the table, your heart hammering so loudly you're certain the entire library can hear it. Jungwon leans forward too, closing the distance between you, and you catch a faint whiff of something clean and subtle, laundry detergent, maybe, or the kind of fragrance that just smells like him.

His hand reaches out, and before you can process what's happening, his index finger gently pokes your cheek.

"Boop," he says.

You make a sound. You don't know what the sound is supposed to be. Maybe a laugh, maybe a question, maybe a plea for mercy. What comes out is something closer to a squeak, a small, strangled, completely undignified squeak that would be embarrassing if you had any brain cells left to feel embarrassment.

Jungwon's smile widens, and his finger lingers on your cheek for just a moment longer than necessary. "You had an eyelash," he says. "Right there. But also, you just looked really cute staring at me like that. I couldn't resist."

Cute. He calls you cute. That's twice in one day that a devastatingly attractive boy has called you cute, and your hopeless romantic heart doesn't know whether to celebrate or go into cardiac arrest.

"I wasn't staring," you whisper, but it comes out completely unconvincing.

"You were absolutely staring." Jungwon withdraws his hand, but his smile stays, warm and fond and knowing. "It's okay. I don't mind. It's kind of nice, actually. Being looked at like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something worth looking at."

The words settle into your chest like a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples through your entire body. He thinks it's nice. He thinks you're nice or at least your staring is nice and he pokes your cheek and calls you cute and now he's going back to his studying like he hasn't just fundamentally altered your brain chemistry.

You try to return to your textbook. The words swim in front of your eyes, meaningless and blurry. You highlight a sentence at random, realize you have no idea what it says, and highlight it again for good measure. The page is now approximately forty percent highlighter ink.

"You're going to run out of highlighter at that rate," Jungwon observes, not looking up.

"I have backups," you say. "I always have backups."

"Of course you do."

The studying session continues for another hour, and you absorb approximately zero information about ethical frameworks. What you do absorb is a comprehensive catalogue of Jungwon's study habits: the way he organizes his notes with color-coded tabs, the way he mutters to himself when he's working through a difficult concept, the way he absentmindedly drums his fingers against the table when he's thinking. Every detail is another entry in your mental Jungwon database, another thread in the tapestry of your affection.

By the time you pack up your things and say goodbye, "See you in philosophy," Jungwon says, and you respond with something that might be words or might be a series of enthusiastic nods, you are floating. You are literally, physically floating, your feet barely touching the ground as you drift out of the library and across campus toward your dorm.

Jungwon pokes your cheek. Jungwon calls you cute. Jungwon says he likes being looked at by you.

You are winning. Despite the Heeseung disaster, despite the cafeteria catastrophe, despite everything, you are winning.

By the time you reach your dorm room, you are a mess of giddy energy with nowhere to go. You close the door behind you, throw your backpack onto your desk chair, and then proceed to wriggle across your bed like an ecstatic worm, kicking your feet and muffling your squeals into your pillow.

"He called me cute," you whisper to your empty room, your voice muffled by fabric. "He poked my cheek. He did the boop thing. The boop thing, you guys. Who does the boop thing? Adorable people, that's who. Perfect people. People with beautiful smiles and kind eyes and-"

You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. The ceiling has forty-three tiles in your room. You counted them on your first night in the dorm. But right now, all you can see is Jungwon's face, the way he looked at you across the library table, the way his finger felt against your cheek, the way his voice went soft when he said like I'm something worth looking at.

You are going to marry him. You are going to marry Yang Jungwon and have a beautiful wedding with string lights and wildflowers and a three-tier cake, and you will tell the story of how you stared at him in the library and he poked your cheek and-

You stop wriggling.

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

You can't marry Jungwon. You can't even confess to Jungwon, because Jungwon thinks you confessed to Heeseung. Jungwon thinks you're interested in someone else. Jungwon was sweet and friendly and maybe a little bit flirty, but that's just his personality. He's nice to everyone. He gives you gummy bears at 2 AM; he probably gives gummy bears to everyone who looks tired. You aren't special. You are just… there.

The giddiness begins to drain out of you, replaced by the familiar weight of reality. You are still trapped in the Heeseung situation. You are still the girl who confessed to the wrong person. And no matter how many times Jungwon pokes your cheek, that fundamental fact isn't going to change.

With a heavy sigh, you drag yourself through your evening routine: shower, skincare, the episode of the baking show you're halfway through and finally crawl into bed around midnight, your emotions a tangled knot of hope and despair.

Sleep comes slowly, a gradual descent into darkness, and then-

—————

You are in the PC room again.

But this time it's different. The lights are dimmer, the computers all dark, the chairs empty. It's just you, and the door is swinging shut behind you, and there's someone waiting at the computer closest to the door.

Heeseung.

He's sitting in the chair, facing away from you, his headphones around his neck and his shoulders relaxed. When he hears your footsteps, he turns, and his expression isn't surprised or amused or curious. It's something else entirely. Something darker. Something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You're here," he says, and his voice is lower than you've ever heard it, a rumble that vibrates through your bones. "I've been waiting for you, little mouse."

"I'm not-" you start, but he's already standing, already moving toward you, and you can't seem to make your feet work. You're rooted to the spot, watching him approach with a mixture of fear and something else, something you don't want to name.

He stops inches away from you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that you can see the individual strands of his hair and the curve of his lips and the way his eyes, God, his eyes are fixed on your mouth.

"You know what I've been thinking about?" he murmurs, and one of his hands comes up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple. "I've been thinking about that letter. The way you said you only had eyes for me. The way you said you couldn't stop thinking about me."

"That wasn't-" you try, but your voice comes out as barely a whisper, and Heeseung's thumb is tracing along your jawline now, feather-light and devastating.

"I can't stop thinking about you either," he says, and his face is getting closer, closer, and you can feel his breath against your lips. "Do you want to know what I think about?"

Your heart is hammering. Your skin is on fire. You can't move, can't speak, can't do anything except stare up at him with wide eyes as his other hand settles on your waist, warm and solid and pulling you closer.

"I think about this," he whispers, and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is…it's…

It's intense. It's consuming. It's the kind of kiss that erases every rational thought from your brain and replaces it with pure, unfiltered sensation. His lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a confidence that makes your knees weak. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you make a sound against his mouth, something small and breathless and completely involuntary.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his voice is rough. "You’re what I’ve been looking for my whole life, Y/N. You’re my miracle."

And then his lips are on your neck, trailing fire down to your collarbone, and your head falls back, and his name escapes your mouth in a way you've never said it before-

He kneels before you, his movements fluid and deliberate. His eyes never leave yours as he unzips his jeans, freeing his already hard cock. It stands proud and thick, the tip glistening with pre-cum. He takes your foot in his warm hand, bringing it to his shaft.

"Look what you do to me," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. He wraps your foot around his length, his thumb pressing against your arch as he begins to move your foot up and down his cock. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, a low groan escaping his lips.

The sensation of his hot skin against your sole sends shivers through your body. You watch, mesmerized, as he uses your foot to pleasure himself, his hips thrusting in rhythm with the movements of your foot. His other hand moves to your ankle, his grip firm but gentle, his fingers stroking your sensitive skin.

His eyes open, locking with yours again, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "You're so beautiful," he breathes, his movements becoming faster, more urgent. "You’re perfect the way you are."

His breathing grows ragged, his muscles tensing. With a guttural moan, he comes, his hot release spilling over your foot and his hand. He leans forward, his tongue darting out to taste his own cum from your skin, his movements slow and sensual. He licks your foot clean, his tongue tracing patterns on your arch, between your toes, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

Then he shifts, positioning himself between your legs. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "I need to taste you," he says, his voice rough with need.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He tosses them aside, then leans in, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh.

His tongue flicks out, teasing your clit, and you gasp, your hands flying to his hair. He chuckles, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through you. "Patience, little mouse," he murmurs against your skin.

His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles, building your pleasure gradually. He alternates between broad, flat strokes and quick, precise flicks of his tongue against your clit. His fingers join in, one, then two, sliding inside you, curling to hit that spot that makes you cry.

Your hips buck against his face, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Heeseung," you moan, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He responds with increased enthusiasm, his tongue working faster, his fingers pumping in and out of you. The pressure builds inside you, a coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter until it snaps.

You come with a cry, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure wash over you. But Heeseung doesn't stop. He continues his assault on your senses, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony to bring you to the edge again.

And then you are squirting, your release flooding his mouth and chin as he drinks you in, his movements never faltering. He looks up at you, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he laps up every drop.

When he finally pulls away, his face glistening with your juices, he crawls up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and the intimacy of it sends another wave of desire through you.

"Tell me you’re only thinking of me," he whispers against your lips, his hands roaming your body. "and not Jungwon."

You wake up.

You wake up in your dorm room, in your bed, at 7:43 AM on a Tuesday morning, with your heart pounding and your skin flushed, your panties soaked and your sheets twisted around your legs like they've been through a battle.

For a long moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.

Did you just… did you just dream about… did Lee Heeseung, the guy you're supposed to be making uninterested in you, the guy you've been trying to avoid and ignore and repel, just star in what can only be described as an extremely obscene dream? The virgin you are just cringed at the memory.

You press your hands to your burning cheeks and let out a sound that is somewhere between a groan and a scream.

"No," you whisper to the empty room. "No, no, no. This isn't, this can't…I don't even like him. I like Jungwon. Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon for four months. I wrote a letter to Jungwon. I have a color-coded mental database of Jungwon's habits. I want to marry Jungwon and have a three-tier wedding cake with wildflowers!"

But your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, keeps replaying fragments of the dream, the way Heeseung's eyes go dark, the way his voice rumbles against your ear, the way his hand feels on your waist, the way his tongue is warm and-

You grab your pillow and press it over your face, screaming into it with all the force your lungs can muster.

This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. You are a Jungwon girl. You've always been a Jungwon girl. You don't think about Heeseung like that. You don't think about Heeseung like anything. Heeseung is an obstacle. Heeseung is a problem to be solved. Heeseung is the guy you're actively trying to repel, not the guy who shows up in your subconscious and does things that make you blush in the privacy of your own bed.

"I'm a psychopath," you say to your pillow. "I'm a complete and utter psychopath. Who dreams about this with a guy they're supposed to be making uninterested? A psychopath, that's who. A deranged lunatic. A person with a broken brain."

Your pillow, predictably, does not respond.

You drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face and avoiding your own reflection in the mirror. You don't want to look at yourself. You don't want to see the evidence of the dream still lingering in your flushed cheeks…and between your legs.

This is a problem. This is a Major Problem with capital letters and possibly a warning siren. You can't afford to be having dreams about Lee Heeseung. You can't afford to be thinking about Lee Heeseung at all. Your entire strategy, Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested depends on you being able to keep a clear head and a steady heart, and neither of those things is going to be possible if your subconscious keeps ambushing you with extremely vivid, extremely inappropriate content.

You need to talk to Yunjin. Immediately. Before your brain can conjure up any more unauthorized imagery.

But as you grab your phone and type out a frantic message, EMERGENCY MEETING REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY CODE RED REPEAT CODE RED, you can't quite shake the lingering sensation from the dream.

The way Heeseung's thumb traces along your jawline.

The way he calls you little mouse in that low, rumbling voice.

The way he says you were perfect the way you were like he means it, like it's true, like he's been into you his whole life and hasn't even known it.

You shake your head violently, flinging droplets of water across the bathroom mirror.

"Nope," you say out loud. "Nope, nope, nope. We're not doing this. We're not thinking about this. We're going to go to class and eat lunch and avoid all tall informatics students, and we're going to get our brain back on the Jungwon track where it belongs."

But even as you say it, even as you try to mean it, a small, treacherous part of you wonders if maybe, just maybe, the Jungwon track isn't the only track worth following anymore.

You shove that thought into a mental box, lock it, and throw away the key.

You have a plan. You have a strategy. You are going to make Heeseung uninterested, and you are going to figure out a way to untangle the misunderstanding, and you are going to end up with Jungwon like you were always supposed to.

The dream is just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. It can't mean anything.

You refuse to let it mean anything.

(But when you catch yourself glancing toward the informatics building on your way to class, you walk a little faster, and you definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent do not wonder what Lee Heeseung is doing right now.)

—————

The dream haunts you for three days.

Not in a supernatural, ghost-in-the-corner kind of way. More in an I-can't-make-eye-contact-with-my-own-reflection kind of way. Every time you close your eyes, fragments of it flicker behind your eyelids like a movie you hadn't asked to watch. The dark PC room. The way Heeseung's voice drops to a rumble. The phantom sensation of his tongue on your clit, his hand on your ankle, his look-

You physically convulse every time the memory resurfaces, which is approximately every forty-five minutes. Your philosophy notes become a graveyard of distracted doodles, half of which look suspiciously like the curve of someone's jaw. You have to throw away an entire page because you accidentally write "little mouse" in the margin instead of "moral relativism."

Yunjin is no help whatsoever.

"So you had a wet dream about the hot guy who you’re supposedly getting bored of," she says over bubble tea the day after the incident, her expression thoroughly unimpressed. "This is a problem because…?"

"Because I don't like him, Yunjin! I like Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon since midterms! Jungwon is the goal! Jungwon is the three-tier wedding cake!"

"And Heeseung is…?"

"A temporary obstacle! A misunderstanding with legs! A very tall, very inconvenient plot twist!"

Yunjin sucks on her tapioca pearls with the air of a therapist who has heard it all before and is no longer surprised by anything. "You know what they say about protesting too much."

"I am not protesting too much. I am protesting exactly the right amount. I am protesting a perfectly calibrated quantity."

"Sure." She pats your hand with condescending sympathy. "Whatever helps you sleep at night. Oh wait-"

You throw a tapioca pearl at her face. It sticks to her cheek for a solid three seconds before falling off, and the look of absolute betrayal on her face is the only bright spot in your otherwise nightmare-plagued week.

But now it's Thursday. Thursday, 2:15 PM. You're stationed in the science building's main hallway, crouched behind a bulletin board that is absolutely not wide enough to hide your entire body, waiting for the coast to clear so you can sprint to your next class without encountering any tall informatics students.

Your system has evolved since the early days of the crisis. You now have a color-coded schedule of Heeseung's known movements, courtesy of some light reconnaissance work that Yunjin calls "stalking" and you call "strategic intelligence gathering." You know his class schedule. You know his preferred study spots. You know that he tends to grab coffee from the campus café at exactly 3 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which means the science building hallway should, theoretically, be a Heeseung-free zone at 2:15.

Theoretically.

You're just about to make your move, a quick dash to the stairwell, then up two flights, then a straight shot to classroom 307, when you hear it.

"Hey, is Y/N L/N in there?"

Your blood freezes. Your muscles lock. Your soul briefly departs your body and then slams back into it with force.

That's Heeseung's voice. That's unmistakably, undeniably, catastrophically Lee Heeseung's voice, and it's coming from approximately ten feet to your left, where the door to your department's main office stands open.

You press yourself harder against the bulletin board, praying for invisibility, praying for a sudden power outage, praying for the ground to open up and swallow you into its merciful embrace. None of these things happen. Instead, you hear the department secretary respond with cheerful obliviousness.

"Y/N L/N? First year, STEM? I think I saw her in the hallway just a minute ago. Let me check, oh, there she is! Y/N! You have a visitor!"

The secretary is pointing directly at your bulletin board. Your bulletin board that is not hiding you at all. Your bulletin board that is, in fact, leaving approximately seventy percent of your body completely visible to anyone who happens to look in that direction.

Heeseung turns.

Your eyes meet.

Time stops.

There are moments in life that feel like they stretch into eternity, moments so profoundly awkward, so cosmically embarrassing, that the universe itself seems to pause and take notice. This is one of those moments. You are frozen in a half-crouch behind a bulletin board, your backpack dangling from one shoulder, your hair escaping from the ponytail you threw it into this morning, your expression one of pure, unfiltered terror. Heeseung is standing in the doorway of the department office, looking unfairly attractive in a simple black hoodie and jeans, his eyebrows rising slowly toward his hairline.

A small crowd of students has paused in the hallway to watch. You can feel their eyes on you like a physical weight. Someone whispers something to their friend. Someone else pulls out their phone.

You are going to die. You are going to perish right here in the science building hallway, and your ghost will be doomed to haunt this bulletin board for all eternity.

"Y/N?" Heeseung's voice is a mixture of confusion and amusement. He takes a step toward you, and you instinctively take a step back, which results in you bumping directly into the bulletin board and causing several flyers to flutter dramatically to the ground. "Were you… hiding behind that?"

"No," you say, too quickly. "No, I was…I dropped something. A contact lens. I was looking for my contact lens."

"You don't wear contacts."

"I might! You don't know my life!"

"Your glasses are literally on your face right now."

You reach up and touch your glasses, which are indeed sitting on your nose, clearly visible, doing their job of correcting your vision. You have no response to this. There is no response to this. You have been caught in a lie so transparent it's essentially a window.

Heeseung's lips twitch. "You know, most people who have a crush on me don't run away and hide behind furniture. This is very confusing for my ego."

The crowd is still watching. Why is the crowd still watching? Don't they have classes to go to? Midterms to study for? Lives to live that don't involve spectating your public humiliation?

"I wasn't hiding from you specifically," you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to operate independently from your brain. "I was hiding from… the sun. It's very bright in here. I'm photosensitive."

"You're a STEM student hiding from the sun in a basement hallway with no windows," Heeseung says slowly. "That's… a new one."

"It's a medical condition. It's very serious. My doctor says I need to avoid direct fluorescent lighting."

"The fluorescent lighting is what's getting you."

"Absolutely. It's my greatest enemy. Well, second greatest. After-" You stop yourself before you can say after incredibly hot informatics students who keep appearing in my life like a recurring nightmare.

Heeseung waits. When you don't finish the sentence, that smile, the one that's definitely a smirk's second cousin, maybe even its first cousin at this point, spreads across his face.

"Well," he says, "now that I've found you and dragged you out of the shadows, literally, I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee. With me. Right now."

Every single person in the hallway is looking at you. The secretary is looking at you from the office doorway, her expression one of grandmotherly delight at what she clearly perceives as a romantic overture. The students who stopped to watch are exchanging glances and whispers. One girl gives you an encouraging thumbs up.

You are trapped. You are cornered. You are a mouse being offered coffee by a very tall, very persistent cat.

And just like every other time Heeseung has put you on the spot, you open your mouth and the wrong words come out.

"I love coffee," you say. "Coffee is my favorite liquid. After water. And possibly juice. But it's definitely in the top three."

"Is that a yes?"

"…Yes."

elle's thoughts :: this was so fun to write! and hot, omg. this is a second unrelated part to my jake fic, "quick release." maybe i'll turn this into a series where every member gets their own wedding-related smut oneshot. lmk your thoughts, and pls enjoy!

When Park Sunghoon looked at you from across the reception hall, you knew everything was perfect.

You and Sunghoon had been married for exactly 3 hours. The ceremony had started at 5 p.m. on the dot, and by 5:30, you and Sunghoon belonged to each other in every way possible. The only thing left to solidify your union was the part you were perhaps the most excited about: consummation.

Every time Sunghoon’s eyes found yours during the last few hours, you could see the undercurrent of desire there. To an onlooker, he probably appeared as any groom smitten with their bride. However, you knew from his hard gaze that you wouldn't be able to walk tomorrow.

“Y/n?” a voice came. You snapped your gaze away from your husband, instead looking at your photographer, who was now standing in front of you. “The sun is about to set, so if you'd like to get any golden hour photos, this is the time.”

“Oh, of course. Let me find Sunghoon so we can do that.”

She nodded and bowed before stepping away, promising to meet you by the entrance of the reception hall in three minutes.

You and Sunghoon had spared no expense on your wedding, and it was evident as the setting sun illuminated the lavish space through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Intricate white florals decorated every centimetre of the hall, accompanied by tiered chandeliers and glittering lights strung from wall to wall. You sighed happily as you grabbed the skirt of your form-fitting gown and lifted it, allowing you to step forward.

As you made your way to where Sunghoon was talking to some distant you didn't know, a variety of guests congratulated you on your union as well as marveled at how beautiful the decor was. You flashed them all a gracious smile, a chorus of thank yous leaving your parted lips.

“Sunghoon, my love,” you said once you reached your husband. A large smile broke across his face at your presence, and he pulled you in for a kiss.

“My beautiful bride,” he murmured against your lips. "Do I get to enjoy the pleasure of your presence?"

You tried to conceal the fact that you had turned a brilliant shade of scarlet red from your guests by using Sunghoon’s shoulder to hide you. “Our photographer said we need to head outside for our final couple’s portraits.”

He nodded, grabbing your hand in his before leading you through the crowded hall toward the large glass doors that led outside. Once you two found your way there, you greeted your photographer with a smile and allowed her to lead you out into the warm May evening.

“I went looking for photo locations earlier,” she said, directing you and Sunghoon down a tree-lined path. “At the end of this path is a pond, and you can see the orchards and hills in the background. How does that sound?”

“It sounds lovely,” you told her, your hand still tightly grasped in Sunghoon’s. And as you rounded the corner to finally catch a glimpse of the spot, you saw just how lovely it truly was.

No words could have done the view justice. You gasped softly as you took in the orchards and the lush green hills that rose above them, reaching upwards and brushing the orange sky. The cool water of the pond caught and reflected the light of the setting sun, and you immediately knew that these photos would perfectly capture the beauty of your wedding and the love you and Sunghoon shared.

“I’d like you guys to stand here,” the photographer said. You and Sunghoon followed her direction, going through a variety of poses in a few different locations along the pond. You noticed that, the whole time you took photos, Sunghoon barely looked away from you. He repeatedly took in the way your gown hugged your body, and you could see in his eyes that he was already mentally undressing you. You had no idea how either of you were going to survive the next few hours before you reached your hotel.

After roughly twenty minutes, your photographer decided that she was satisfied with the photos she had captured. “These look amazing! Now, I would hate to keep you both from your reception for any longer, so let's head back.”

“You look absolutely stunning,” Sunghoon murmured against your ear as you began walking back up the path. His warm hand was pressed to the small of your back. “I can't keep my eyes off of you.”

“I noticed,” you said quietly. “I spent a lot of money to look this good.”

“You could've worn a trash bag tonight, and you still would've looked incredible.” Sunghoon’s voice dropped slightly as he lowered his hand so that it was barely grazing your ass. “You're the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen—no matter the makeup, hair, or outfit. But I will say that this dress fits you very well, Mrs. Park.”

“Does it?” you hummed, noting the lusty haze that had settled across his eyes. You were passing the bridal suite, a small cottage in which you had gotten ready earlier that day. “I figured you might like it.”

“I fucking love it,” Sunghoon said, his voice gravelly. “I don't know how I'm going to keep my hands off of you until tonight.”

Then, he paused, and you stopped walking too, gazing up at him. You knew from the look in his eyes that an idea had crossed his mind. A slow, mischievous grin spread across Sunghoon’s face.

“What?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Is there anyone in the bridal suite?” he asked. He glanced ahead to make sure that your photographer had returned to the reception hall.

“Sunghoon, we can't!” you hissed under your breath. “Everyone will know we're gone.”

“We’ll be quick,” he said, pressing a hungry kiss to your lips. “Promise.”

You quickly glanced over your shoulder to see if anyone was watching from the reception hall. Luckily, it seemed as if everyone was occupied by the delicious food and alcohol.

“Fine,” you said, looking around one last time. Sunghoon immediately smiled as he pulled you off the path and towards the bridal suite. Luckily, it was unlocked, and he pulled you inside and barely shut the door before kissing you with a fervor you had never experienced in your years with Sunghoon.

“You know a marriage isn't official until it's been consummated, right?” Sunghoon asked in between kisses. “I just really want to make sure our marriage starts off on the right foot.”

“I’m sure you do.”

The bridal suite wasn't particularly large, but you didn't need it to be for what you were about to do. On the far wall, a row of vanities stretched from side to side, covered in a variety of makeup, hair products, and other miscellaneous things your bridal party had needed to get ready.

“You look so fucking hot,” Sunghoon groaned against your lips. His hand traced down the open back of your gown until he found your ass yet again, and he squeezed it roughly in his hands. You moaned at the touch, which only seemed to encourage him to continue. “God, I love this dress. I love you.”

As Sunghoon’s tongue made its way into your mouth, you grasped his firm biceps with your manicured fingers. You loved the way the white of your nails contrasted against the black of his perfectly tailored suit.

“I need to be inside you so bad,” Sunghoon stuttered, his mouth roaming down to your jaw and neck. “I need your pussy so bad, Mrs. Park.”

“It's all yours,” you told Sunghoon, tilting your head back in pleasure to expose more of your skin to him. “It belongs to you. All of me.”

These words seemed to activate something primal in Sunghoon. He roughly connected your lips again before backing you towards the vanities, and he used one hand to shove all of the makeup and various hair products onto the floor. The clatter of the items hitting the ground was loud, but not as loud as your desperate moans as Sunghoon lifted you up and placed you on the vanity.

Without breaking the kiss, Sunghoon gathered the skirt of your dress in his hands before pushing it up your legs. The silky fabric gathered around your waist, and Sunghoon let out a growl as he took in the lacy white thong you were wearing. You had been saving it to be a surprise for your wedding night, but it was evident now that neither of you could wait that long.

“Hoon, please,” you begged as he moved his fingers along the damp lace. “I need your mouth on me.”

“Greedy, are we?” Sunghoon laughed lowly. “You need my mouth on your pussy, baby?”

“Yes, please,” you breathed.

“Only because you asked so nicely.”

Before you knew it, Sunghoon was between your legs. He used his finger to pull your panties to the side to allow him access to your glistening folds, and the first contact of his mouth with your wetness had your back arching as you cried out his name.

“Hoonie, oh fuck,” you gasped, rolling your hips against his mouth as he flicked his tongue rapidly against your clit. He grasped your thigh in one hand as the other continued to keep your soaked panties out of the way, and you couldn't help but stare down at your husband through half-lidded eyes. He fit so perfectly between your legs, his elegant suit and effortlessly styled hair turning you on more than you cared to admit. You couldn't believe that it was the middle of your wedding, and your husband was eating you out like his life depended on it. Just the thought that all the guests were here for you, yet nobody knew what you two were doing, was incredibly hot.

“Hoonie, baby—mmph, fuck—please.” You were beginning to unravel, the movement of his tongue coupled with the suction of his lips becoming more and more intense until you could hardly stand it. Your legs began to quiver as your orgasm rose within you, and you let out a cry as you found your release against his tongue. Sunghoon continued working you as you rode out your high, and when he knew that you were well and truly wrecked, he pulled away and stood.

You watched as Sunghoon’s hands immediately began to undo his belt and zipper, and you inhaled sharply when he pulled his pants down just enough to allow his hardened cock to spring free.

“You want me inside you, Mrs. Park?” Sunghoon asked, lazily pumping his hand up and down along his shaft.

“More than anything.”

Sunghoon roughly grabbed your hips and pulled you toward the edge of the vanity. “Should I put my cock in your pussy?”

“Hoon, please.”

Sunghoon held out his hand. “Spit.”

You did as he commanded, and he groaned at the wetness on his hand. He then wrapped his moistened fingers around his cock, rubbing slowly and smirking at the desperation on your face.

“My beautiful wife needs my cock,” he murmured, pressing his tip against your entrance. “She needs me to fill her up so badly.”

You could barely speak. Your entire body cried out desperately for Sunghoon, and he knew just how much you wanted him—needed him. He loved when you got this way, as it was so rare for you to lose control.

Sunghoon watched your face carefully as he slowly pushed himself inside you, and you swore viciously at how it felt for him to fill your aching core. You were so turned on that you had begun to feel a sharp sensation inside you, and Sunghoon’s cock splitting through your walls was the only thing that brought you relief.

“So fucking big,” you sighed as Sunghoon bottomed out, buried to the hilt inside you. “I fucking love your dick, Hoonie."

“Do you?” he asked, slowly beginning to thrust into you. “I’m not going to keep fucking you unless you tell me how much you love this cock.”

“I love it more than anything,” you whined, squeezing your eyes shut and throwing your head back. “Your cock fills me up, I never want you to stop. Please fuck me forever and ever—please baby.”

As you continued to ramble on, a string of senseless words leaving your lips, Sunghoon continued burying himself as deep inside you as he could. Every word you said was music to his ears, and he never wanted you to stop. It was if every word was giving him the energy he needed to keep thrusting into you harder than ever before.

After a moment, Sunghoon quickened the pace of his hips snapping into you as he tightly grasped your chin in one hand. His other hand held your hip in place, his fingers digging into the soft flesh there. “How much do you love me, Mrs. Park?”

“I love you more than anything,” you whimpered, trying to use your hands to brace yourself against the ruthless pace Sunghoon had set. “I love you so fucking much, Hoon. I-I love being y-your wife.”

The word "wife" leaving your lips seemed to turn him on even more, and his eyebrows furrowed as he continued fucking you with a level of intensity that made you feel as if you were about to burst. However, at that moment, you both heard voices.

“Shit,” Sunghoon whispered, but to your surprise, he did not stop thrusting into you. He simply covered your mouth and continued.

“They didn't come back from the pond after their photos,” you heard a female voice say—most likely your photographer. “Last time I saw them, they were still down there.”

“Let's check there first, then,” another voice came, this time male.

Sunghoon glanced over his shoulder, still burying himself inside you, as he watched them walk away through the window. He continued to stifle your moans with his hand, and you did everything you could not to make the loud noises you desperately wanted to.

“Hoonie, fuck,” you breathed when he finally femoved his hand from your swollen lips. “Please, it's so good.”

“You want me to cum inside you, Mrs. Park?” Sunghoon growled. You nodded, dizzy, as you stared down at the spot where his length repeatedly disappeared inside you.

“Please cum in me, Hoon,” you said. "I need your cum, baby."

As Sunghoon’s hips continued rolling into yours, he grasped your chin in his hand again, lifting it. “I want you to look at me when I fill you with my cum, baby.”

You nodded, and you watched with baited breath as Sunghoon began to unravel. His eyes rolled back as you felt his cock begin to pulse within you, and he shuddered, a series of low grunts leaving him as he emptied his load deep within you.

After a few seconds, both of you panting, Sunghoon looked over his shoulder again. “They'll be back soon.”

“Yeah, we should get back out there,” you told him, beginning to shift your dress back down. However, Sunghoon stopped you.

“Not yet.”

“What? But you know they're going to check in here next!”

Instead of responding, Sunghoon began to rub your clit again, his pace frantic. He kept glancing between you and the window, making sure they couldn't see what he was doing.

“Sunghoon,” you gasped between moans. “They're c-coming back. Baby, p-please.”

Sunghoon only increased the speed of his fingers as they rubbed against your most sensitive spot. From the way your breathing changed, he could tell that you were about to cum again, so he clasped his hand across your mouth once more to stifle the sounds you could no longer control.

As the small group of people turned onto the path, you came against Sunghoon’s fingers with a cry that you were glad he covered. You had never had an orgasm as intense as the one you were experiencing, and you glared at Sunghoon for forcing you to recover from it so quickly. You only had seconds until the group reached the cottage.

Once your orgasm had subsided, you jumped off the vanity, tried to put your panties back in place, and shoved your dress back down. Sunghoon sucked his fingers, still covered in your slick, as he adjusted his suit.

“Hello?” a voice called out, and you heard the doorknob turn. “Y/n? Sunghoon?”

“Hi,” Sunghoon said with that effortless smile of his. “Sorry, we were on our way back from the pond when the wind messed up Y/n’s hair, so we came in here to find some pins.”

You smiled sheepishly, and you desperately hoped they didn't notice the pile of beauty products strewn across the floor from your moment of passion.

“Ah, I understand that, my dear,” one of Sunghoon’s aunts said. She glanced at the floor, and you noticed that a look of recognition had flashed across her face, but she said nothing. Instead, she gave you an understanding smile and said, “There's some pins over here. Let me help you.”

As the elderly woman focused on fixing your hair, you glanced at your husband, who was effortlessly conversing with your search party as if hadn't been buried inside you three minutes ago.

Once your hair was fixed and the search party had exited the cottage, Sunghoon laced his fingers with yours and pressed a brief yet deep kiss to your lips.

“You're crazy, you know that?” you murmured.

Sunghoon laughed, lowering his lips to your ear. “If you think that was crazy, just wait until tonight. This was just a hint of what’s to come.”

You felt a familiar heat in your core again at these words, and you couldn't wait until you were finally alone with your husband later that evening. Then, the real fun would begin.

©️ heesroses 2026