🕷️

He didn’t say another word after you told him to bring you upstairs, he grabbed your wrist and dragged you through the living room, up the stairs. He’s still pulling you, his fingers firm around your wrist, his grip intentional. You swear you don’t see a single face on your way up, as if everyone disappeared, or maybe it’s because your eyes are glued to his back, the twin dimples at the base of his spine with every step up. 

Heat pools with every step you take, your gut leaden with anticipation. He opens his door, tugging you inside, closing it and locking it with one quick motion, and there’s not even a second before he’s grabbing you by the hips. You brace your hands on his chest, looking up at him, and he keeps his face close enough to share breath, but he doesn’t close the distance.

He asks a question you finally know the answer to. “What do you want?”

“This,” you whisper without thinking about it. You don’t need to fucking think anymore. “You.”

His eyes drop to your lips. It feels slower than it happens, him connecting his lips with yours, soft, careful; like he doesn’t want to cross a line, even after all this time. Your hands slide up his chest, cupping his cheeks, and you surprise yourself by deepening it, parting your lips in a silent command to continue.

When you taste him, beer, vodka, a hint of vermouth, your stomach flips. “Wooyoung,” you whisper into his mouth, and he responds by kissing you harder, faster. His hands tighten in the belt loops of your shorts, pushing you backward, your hands finding his hair as you let him, crossing the room until the backs of your thighs hit something sharp. 

“Hold on,” he whispers in your mouth, and you attach your lips again instead of obeying. He bends you backward, the edge you’re up against cutting into your skin, you don’t care. He grins into you, but his order is clear, “Hold on to me.” 

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you quip, but you swing your arms around his neck anyway, gasping as he grabs you by your thighs, lifting you up on what you can only assume is his desk– you’re so fucking drunk on the taste of him you can’t bare to part from him and look.

You hear shit falling, you don’t care, he doesn’t so much as twitch toward it. Your body sways backward with the force of him, his hands sliding up to your waist, fingers tugging at the hem of your top. It’s a blink of an eye, getting your shirt over your head, your lips on his again. It’s messy, a clash of teeth and tongue, tugging at his roots while his hands pull you toward him by the waist, your spine bending.

“Yours, too,” you mutter as your hands find the hem of his tee, tugging it upward. He pulls it over his head by the collar, and it feels like slow motion, the reveal of his abdomen, his chest, the two lines diagonally sinking into his briefs. You curse under your breath, lifting your eyes to him again, and it’s like you’re in sync, the way you grab for each other like animals in fucking heat. 

You kick your boots off behind his back before crossing your legs behind him, pulling him toward you, his hips meeting yours, tipped off the edge of the desk. He grits out a rough noise, “Fuck.”

“Yeah,” you whimper at the feeling, his body pressed against yours, his hips digging into you like he’s acting without a brain. He reaches behind you, unclipping your bra with one hand, and you smirk into his mouth, “So easy.”

“Always,” he quips, throwing it to his floor, one hand grabbing your waist again, pulling your chest flush to his. You wish you could muster up an equally cocky rebuttal, but instead you moan into his open mouth, his lips that have already found yours. 

You stay there for what feels like forever. Bodies pressed together, your hands in his hair, his fingertips grazing your back, feeling each other like you don’t want to miss even the smallest detail. He’s smooth, as soft as he looked earlier, but so sculpted you can feel every ridge of his abdomen, his chest flexing against you. 

He grits out a harsh noise into your mouth, his nails sinking into your sides like he’s had enough. His fingers tug at the belt loops of your shorts as he mutters, “Want these off.” 

“Why are you telling me?” You’re no better, immediately untangling your legs from around his back, arms extending behind you, palms flattening against his desk. “Take them off.” 

His eyes are low, chest rising and falling rapidly, visibly reaching the point of losing restraint. You don’t think he’s ever been more attractive. Your brows raise just a little, and his fingers work the button of your shorts so fucking fast you barely have time to lift your hips to get them off. 

His hand finds the side of your neck to pull you toward him, his other hand slipping between your bodies, and you gasp a sharp sound into his mouth as his fingers press against you, over your panties. 

“Gonna make you cum on my fingers,” he tells you, two fingers rubbing tight circles over your clit, the dampness of lace clinging to you. “Then you’ll do it again on my cock.”

“Just twice?” you tease, hips twitching toward him. Your tongue pokes out, running along his teeth, “You can do better than that, no?” 

There’s a faint smile playing on his lips before he silences you with his teeth clamping over your bottom lip, fingers pulling your panties to the side. “I wouldn’t say that if I were you.”

“Why n–” you’re cut off by his fingers slipping inside, your slick that soaked your panties welcomes him in without resistance. You choke on a moan, back going rigid, knees twitching upward. 

“F-fuck,” you manage to get out, jaw pried open, eyes squeezed shut. His lips find your neck, your head tilts back as his fingers curve into you, finding the spongy spot inside like he can see through your skin. 

“So fucking wet,” he mumbles against your skin, his voice a vibration you can feel down to your core. 

His teeth graze as his fingers curl, pressing purposely against that same spot, making your moans raise in pitch. You cling onto his shoulders so you don’t collapse on his fucking desk as he picks up speed, sucking on your neck, teeth sinking into your skin, you can feel him smile as your moans grow louder. 

You try to say his name as your nails claw into his shoulders, you can’t manage anything more than a measly mumble of syllables as his fingers hook upward. He finds your lips again, kissing your non-responsive lips, the pleasure is overwhelming, too much to focus on anything else. 

“Look at me,” he says, and his voice is stern. Your eyes flutter open at the command, and one look at him, the way he’s looking at you, makes you kiss him back. Another clash of teeth and tongue, your spine bends, hips tilting into his fingers even if he can’t fuck into you any deeper. He tries anyway, curling into you with every thrust of his fingers, a perfect pace, perfect rhythm. 

You can feel heat spreading, and it barely dawns on you that he hasn’t touched your clit once. Your hips are warm, gut heavy, a slow bleed of pressure building steadily. His other hand stays tight wrapped around your jaw, thumb on your chin keeping your lips open, you’d kiss him if you could. He’s drawn your mind empty, enough pleasure to make your body stiff, you want to cum.

“Please,” you find yourself begging, your voice no more than a pitiful whimper. “Ple– Wooyo– please, please please.”

“Don’t beg,” he says into your open mouth. “Take what you fucking want.”

He doesn’t change his rhythm, his pressure, his pace. Your toes curl, socked heels lifting to try and find leverage against the edge of the desk, it’s too high. Somehow it’s worse, legs dangling, body stiff, the pleasure carves out something vital inside you until you have nothing else to give.

“Woo–” your voice is edged, panicked. He swallows it as he pushes you to the edge, you can’t kiss him back, so wound up with pleasure it takes every bit of focus to allow it to crash over you. It’s a different kind of orgasm, stronger, longer; it begins in your hips, spreading to every limb, every nerve ending, he holds you steady with his hand around your jaw as you convulse, what would be an embarrassing display of pleasure if you could form a single fucking thought. 

“Yes, yes,” he encourages, voice coated in awe. “Knew it, fuck, baby, let me see you cum.”

Your thighs are shaking, your body folds, knees lifting up into your clenching abdomen, you don’t know what sounds are leaving you, if any at all. He kisses your unmoving lips, fingers fucking you through the waves of pleasure, the orgasm that lasts so long you can’t remember when the fuck it started. 

You whimper as the rush dies down, body still twitching, thighs falling back down to the desk. You kiss him back when your body returns to you like it’s instinct, like you’ve already gone too long without his tongue in your mouth to go any longer without it. You trace the crescents your nails left in his shoulders, you can feel the raised, bumpy lines you left, you don’t remember dragging your nails across his skin, but you don’t care.

He doesn’t slip his fingers out, he leaves them hooked inside, massaging so slowly it’s nothing more than a lingering, steady pressure. Your body rides the aftershocks, he follows each twitch, kissing you until your body softens, melting into him again. 

“What–” you finally manage, voice ragged and wrecked. “How?”

“What do you–?”

“You didn’t even touch my clit,” you cut him off, pulling away to look at him, consciousness in your eyes again mixed with genuine confusion.

You cry something sharp as his fingers crook inside you, legs lifting off the desk. He smiles like it was intentional. “Never done that before?”

“I’ve tried,” you whimper, because he’s still fucking fingering you. Your head droops, eyelids fluttering, “S-shit– I’ve tried, but I never– fuck.”

Slower is worse, you’re already overstimulated, and even if it’s not enough to get pressure building again, it’s enough to render you boneless. He grins, lips pressed against your forehead, “I’m sure there’s more than that, too.” Your head picks up. “Plenty of things you had no idea you could do that you can.”

You don’t know how, for a split second there, you forgot who he is. This is the second time now that he’s proving his skill to you, showing you that he can play your body like a well-tuned instrument, that he can make you feel things you’ve never felt before. You want… you want to see him lose himself. 

You grab him by his hair, tugging him down to kiss you again by his roots. His fingers glide now, but instead of sinking into the pleasure you reach for them with one hand, pulling them out of you. You lift off the desk, still kissing him as you push him backward, willing strength into your shaky legs. He lets you, much to your surprise, even if nothing about tonight should be surprising anymore.

You want to see what he looks like consumed by pleasure, you want to hear what he sounds like when you’re the one giving it to him. Your nails claw down his abdomen as he meets the edge of his bed, you make quick work of his jeans, his belt, the button, the zipper. His fingers are in his mouth before his ass hits the mattress and you throb at the visual, wanting so badly to crawl on top on his lap and fuck yourself stupid, but you force yourself to stay focused.

You’re speaking as you sink down to your knees, “Wanna taste you.” He says your name softly, as if he means you don’t have to. Your fingers slip into the elastic of his briefs, “Please?”

He stares at you for a second, reading your expression before he mumbles, “Hearing you beg is almost as fucking foul as hearing you apologize.”

You smile, “So, yes?”

He nods, and your body ignites with thrill as you tug on his briefs, he lifts his hips to help you get them down. You don’t even read the fucking tattoo on his thigh as his length springs against his hips, curved, long, red and fucking eager, precum gathered at his tip, your mouth waters at the sight. There’s no part of Jung Wooyoung that isn’t jaw-droppingly beautiful.  

You lick your lips, realizing Wooyoung probably receives more head in a month than you’ve given in your entire life. Your cheeks heat up, but your determination outweighs your insecurity. You lift your gaze, “Tell me if I’m doing– if I’m making you feel good.”

“You will,” he nods, cock twitching against his hips. “Get out of your head.”

It’s not enough to get your body to relax, but it’s enough to lean forward, taking his length into one hand. His brows twitch together, lips parting ever so slightly. You watch him as you wrap your lips around his tip, ease barreling into you as he lowers himself onto his elbows, head tilting, face twisting up in pleasure. Your tongue slides against the underside of him as you take him deeper and his head tips backward, a low groan tumbling out in the shape of your name, your thighs clench together at the noise.

Salty, natural, him; you take him deeper, saliva sinking between your palm and his cock, you use your hand and your mouth to form a rhythm. “Fuck,” he grits out, voice rough, chest heaving. You can see his tattoo, unreadable words on his ribs, dark, dainty lettering against his flushed skin. His head lifts up like he wants to see your face, “Just like that.”

It sends electricity through your veins. You use your other hand to push your hair out of your face and he leans forward to gather it as you take him deeper with every bob of your head.

“So fucking good,” he keeps encouraging, you feel like you’re on fire. You swallow around him and his hips twitch, grip tightening on your hair. “Look so pretty like this, full of me. Keep using your hands.”

Your grip tightens, using two hands around his length, lips swirling around his tip as your pace quickens. His breath catches before he moans, and the sound is music to your fucking ears, arousal floods you so thoroughly you moan, too. He holds your hair with one hand, the other finding the mattress, clawing at the sheets like it’s all he can do to stop himself from fucking his hips into your face.

You pull your hands away, clawing at his thighs as you sink down until your nose touches the patch of hair at the base of him, swallowing. He moans again, higher in pitch, almost panicked; he tugs on your hair to pull you off of him, “Gonna fucking cum if you do that.”

You meet his eye for a split second, breathlessly muttering, “Then cum.”

Doing it all over again, his hips twitch up into your throat, making you gag. Your fingers claw into the skin of his thighs as he hisses an apology, “I’m so– Too m– fuck, gonna– I’m gonna cum.”

You don’t let up, your body so consumed with his pleasure, you need to see it through. Your eyes squeeze shut as you take him as deep as you can, moaning around him when his fingers tighten in your hair, stinging your scalp. It’s enough to push him over, and you barely taste it, you can feel him twitch, the warmth sliding down your throat. You can hear the bright, pitched moans as he empties himself inside your mouth, but he’s too deep for you to taste a drop. 

He curses roughly as you bob your head again, pulling you off his length by your hair. You’re already smiling by the time you see him, flushed, panting, lips glossy, eyes low and dark. There’s pride in his gaze, surprise, arousal, your grin spreads as soon as you see him. 

“Good?” you ask, voice as raw as your throat.

He doesn’t answer, he lets go of your hair, knees spreading to reach for your cheeks with his palms, attaching his lips to yours before he guides you upward. You crawl over him, into his lap, throwing your arms over his shoulders, getting lost in the taste of him all over again. It’s easy when his hands squeeze your ass, sliding up to your chest, thumbs brushing against your nipples, tongue licking into your mouth like he’s trying to taste himself.

“I wanna fuck,” you whisper into his mouth, taking his cheeks into your hands.

He huffs a small laugh. “Ever heard of a refractory period?”

“Didn’t think you needed one of those.” You’re smiling, running your hands through his hair. “I assume your dick is just eternally hard, I think.”

His brows raise, amusement dancing in his eyes. “I don’t think you thought that through.”

“I try not to think about your dick,” you shrug, taking your bottom lip between your teeth. You feed him a short peck, then whisper into his mouth, “If I think about it for too long, I want it.”

You’re kissing between words, smiling into each other’s mouths. “Then why are you just coming to get it now?”

“Loaded question.” Your panty-covered clit catches against his cock, he hisses out a sharp noise. “Your refractory period will be up before I get through half of it.”

He laughs at that, soft, genuine. Then his hands find your hips, “Let me eat you out then.”

“No,” you press your finger against his chest, smiling. “Fuck me.”

He uses his hands on your hips to flip you off of his lap in the blink of an eye. You yelp as your back hits the mattress, still processing the move as he pulls you to the edge of the bed, you almost miss his mumble of, “Too fucking bad.”

He tugs at your panties, marveling at how the lace sticks to your core before getting them down your thighs, throwing them to his floor. Your knees fall apart on instinct, arching when the cool air of his room hits your glistening folds. He stares with low-lidded eyes, and you swear if you look hard enough you can see the saliva forming behind his lips. 

“Get hard again,” you order him, reaching for authority you don’t have right now. 

He looks up at you through his brows, “One taste and I will be.”

Your grin is lazy, you don’t have a comeback, nor do you want one. He curls his arms under your thighs, bringing his tongue to your slick folds like a dog to a bowl of water. You reach for his hair automatically, a shallow moan falling off your tongue, and he responds with a groan so guttural you want to take back every beg for him to fuck you. 

His lips swirl around your clit, tongue flicking over it, and your face scrunches together as something pitched escapes, fingers tightening in his hair. You moan his name, head falling backward, heels digging into his back. His tongue is warm, heavy, but a weapon as it rolls over your clit steadily, building rhythm.

You moan his name again, with more urgency. You want him inside you. He ignores you, eyes closed, blissed out. Like he could do this for hours and not get bored, like he’ll refuse to let himself get tired. You want to sigh, but the sound is stolen from you as his teeth graze over your clit, your body goes rigid, eyes nearly popping out of your skull. 

He’s grinning, amused as he stands up. Your brows are furrowed as you bark out, “Did you just fucking bite me?”

“No,” he shrugs, reaching into his bedside table. “But I could if you liked it.”

“Not my fucking clit,” you argue, but you did kind of like it. “Well, at least not like, hard.”

His amusement is verbal as he grabs a condom, ripping the packet open with his teeth. You frown at the foil, an involuntary reaction. He doesn’t look at you as he says, “Don’t even fucking complain.”

“I wasn’t going to!” you defend yourself, voice pitched. Your legs are still spread, the rest of your body relaxed. “Is it so bad that I wanna feel you?”

“Is it so bad that I don’t want chlamydia again?” he asks, brows high as he rolls the latex over his hard length. 

Your jaw drops. “You think I have chlamydia?”

“Don’t start an argument,” he holds up a finger. “Not when I’m literally about to fuck you.”

“Fine,” you respond, short. He stares at you with a flat expression. You basically fucking twitch with anticipation, “Oh my god, fuck me. I’ve been waiting long enough.”

A tiny huffed laugh sneaks past his lips as his hands find your knees, pushing them toward your chest. Your breath gets caught in your chest as he holds your shins with one hand, lining himself up with the other. You want it so fucking bad, you want him so bad you’ll fucking cry for it, but nerves ebb their way up your spine, surprising you, unwelcome. 

“Wait,” you whisper, knees spreading under his grip. He glances upward, brows already raised, pausing immediately. Your tone comes out uneasy as you whisper, “Come here.”

Keeping you at the edge of the bed, he leans over you and lets you guide him to your lips. One pass of his tongue against yours and you’re whispering, “Okay.”

“You sure?” he mumbles into your mouth.

“Please,” you whimper, kissing him again. He doesn’t say anything else, blindly lining himself up, brushing his tip through your folds, swallowing your breathy noises as he slowly pushes inside. His lips find your neck as your body bends, his cock filling you up thoroughly, curving up against the spot his fingers were abusing earlier. 

Your nails find his back, knees up by your shoulders, your face is scrunched in pleasure as you feel him splitting you open. He moans into your throat, his cheek replacing where his lips had been, like he’s too overwhelmed with the feeling to focus on kissing you, either. 

“I get it,” you choke out, body tight with pleasure. He mumbles out a curious, questioning noise, like words are too far for even him right now. “Why everyone wants to fuck you. I get it.”

He huffs a laugh into the pocket of your shoulder, “Are you fucking serious right now?”

“Yes, I’m fucking–”

Your words are cut off as he rolls his hips, fucking into you sharply. Breath escapes in a wheeze, and he moans as you clench around him, pushing himself up onto his elbows that cage in your head. “Fuck,” he mutters roughly, glancing between your bodies. Then he looks up at you, finding your eyes that are only half-open, “Gonna get addicted to this.”

“To what?” you ask, absentmindedly. He doesn’t answer, rolling his hips, and as he starts moving you’re reminded of every single story you’ve ever been told about him. He’s perfect, you think; the shape of him, how he feels inside you, how he smells, his weight on top of you. It’s very fucking plausible that you might get addicted to this, to him, too. 

It’s a nasty, slow grind, his hips fucking into yours, but each thrust knocks more air out of your lungs, brings you another wave of growing, steady pleasure. Your hands find his face, his cheeks, hitting his teeth in a messy, shaky kiss. 

He presses his forehead to yours as he steals your hands from his cheeks, “Pussy so fucking tight, baby, gotta stop clenching around me.”

“Can’t,” you cry, shaking your head, your wrists victim to his grip. 

His brows are scrunched, jaw slacked. “Swallowing me,” he whispers, almost in awe, like your cries mean nothing to him. His hands cradle your cheeks as he moans out, “Fuuck, baby. So fuckin’ good.”

He’s close enough for your lips to graze, all you can do is make pitiful, strained noises into his mouth. You grab at one of his hands on your cheeks, sliding it down over your jaw, guiding him until his palm is resting over your throat. His brows raise a fraction, a smile tugging at his lips, and your returning grin is lazy like you can read his mind, and he can read yours.

His grip tightens as his hips pick up speed, adding pressure to both sides of your neck, he moans when your eyes roll backward. All you can feel is him, inside you, on you, wrapped around you, every single sense has been stolen by him, and you fucking love it. 

“Pussy so perfect,” you can barely hear his muttered words, your ears starting to ring. “Everything so fucking perfect, oh my god–”

Your pulse throbs against his grip, vision going blurry at the edges, the pressure in your belly builds. Warmth spreads quickly, fast enough to make you panic, fingernails sinking into his grip on your throat, he lets go as your nails make contact. You blink, sucking air into your lungs, blood flow returning to your veins. The pressure fades too quickly. 

You urge, “Do it again.” He kisses you. You add pressure over his hand, stubborn, whining, “Do it again.”

“Trust me,” he says, barely finishing the words before he’s kissing you again. Trusting him is easy, especially as his hips pick up, fucking into you impossibly harder, faster, angling his hips so his cock hits the same spot inside you over and over. The pressure starts building again.

You moan his name, the following sounds heighten in pitch as you twitch beneath him, grabbing at the sheets on either side of you. “So good,” you moan, forcing air down. “G’na fucking cum.”

He keeps his hips angled, bullying the same spot so aggressively your tear ducts burn. “Little more,” he mumbles, voice tight, eyes focused. Pleasure spreads, your cries turning into babbled words, incomprehensible bullshit you’re sure he can’t decipher, either. As your orgasm approaches, clawing its way up, his hand wraps around your throat again. 

You don’t know how he keeps fucking into you steadily, your body thrashing beneath him with the force of your orgasm. Your nerve endings sizzle with pleasure, the pressure blowing at a magnitude. Your vision whites out, ears ringing, but never once does his rhythm falter. Never once does he not hit that spot inside you perfectly. 

When your hearing returns, all you can hear is yourself. “...Again, again, please, again–”

You don’t know when he let go of your throat, you don’t know when your orgasm ended. He pushes up, pulling out to turn you over, on your stomach. He shoves a pillow under your hips, and you’re still fucking babbling as he crawls over you, shins bracketing your thighs, and slips inside you again. 

You claw at the sheets with one hand, reaching behind you with the other, “Wooyoung–”

“I know,” he says, soothing words, grabbing your outstretched hand. “I’m here, baby, you can take it.”

“Yes,” you whimper, nodding. “More.”

“Give you whatever you want,” he seems as far gone as you are, his chest pressing to your back, arm snaking under your body as he picks up his pace all over again. “Keep fuckin’ coming for me and I’ll give you whatever you want.”

You’re nodding as his palm holding yours lands at the base of your neck, splayed across your chest, your thighs pinned together tight enough that every thrust feels ten times deeper. The angle renders you silent, moans caught in your chest, only tiny squeaks escaping with every sharp snap of his hips. 

“Did I fuck you stupid?” You can hear the smile in his voice, a nasty smirk. “Did I fuck the words right out of your pretty lil’ head?”

You whimper, a pathetic noise. You can hear the rumble of his chest, the amusement tumbling off his tongue. He kisses the side of your head, “Just lay there and take it.”

“No,” you manage to get out, strained, raw. “Kiss me.”

He uses his arm wrapped around your front to lift you with him until you’re both sitting on your shins, you settled in the space between his thighs, his cock still buried inside you. You twist to catch his lips, and he lets go of your hand to squeeze at your chest, the other sliding down your front, between your thighs. 

You bounce automatically, moaning into his mouth, fucking yourself against him as two of his fingers circle your clit. He groans, hips twitching against you, but he lets you decide the rhythm, he lets you fuck yourself as you please. It’s a slow grind, his tongue tangling with yours, fingers rubbing at your clit like every movement is solely to get you off. 

Your jaw goes slack, lips unmoving as pleasure blooms. Your head dips, your hand coming up to your chest, fingers tangling with his. He keeps his mouth close to your ear, humming before he asks, “Gonna cum around my cock again?”

You nod, eyes rolling, squeezing his palm. “Uh-huh.”

He bucks his hips into you and you cry out, hips twitching, but his fingers follow, circling your clit. “Cum,” he whispers into your ear, tongue poking out to lightly lick the shell. You shiver, eyes screwing shut, crying out a broken sound, his name, you think. “Cum for me baby, let me feel– wanna feel you cum around my cock.”

His hips pick up when yours fail, following you as you lift onto your knees, fingers still working your clit steadily. One cry bleeds into a long noise of pleasure, a song of an orgasm, your hips convulse as it crashes over you, falling into him, but he fucks you through it until your cries turn to staggered whines. 

“So fucking good for me.” With one hand on your hip, he folds you. “Do whatever I fucking want you to.”

 Your elbows hit the mattress, knees falling apart, and the speed he fucks into you with is brutal. He’s chasing as you’re still coming down, his other hand splayed at the root of your spine, arching you into the perfect shape for him. 

“Wooyoung,” you moan, turning your head to the side, barely seeing him through your wall of hair. You can see his strong thighs flexing with every thrust, the tattoo you still can’t read.

“Pussy so fucking tight,” he says it like a curse, rough and under his breath. “Feels so fucking good, baby, you feel so fucking good.” You moan at the praise, as his fingers sink into the plush of your ass, fucking you against him. “Wanna cum inside, wanna fill you up.”

Your moans grow louder, toes curling. The noise that leaves him sounds like a laugh, maybe a broken groan. “Clenched around me,” he muses, low, ragged. “You want me to? Want me to fill you up?”

You nod, even if you’re sure he can’t see you. “Want it,” you moan. “Do it.”

He grinds out something harsh, a noise that sounds something like restraint. “Fuck, don’t fucking say that.”

“Please,” you moan, fucking back against him. “Wanna feel it inside me, wanna feel you.”

His hips twitch, pace staggering wildly like he’s approaching the edge fast. You clench around him again, wishing he’d take off the fucking condom and do it.

“Holy s-shit,” he grits through his teeth. “Do that again, baby, please.”

It takes everything in you to do it again, but it’s all he needed, a few more strokes and he’s stilling inside you, a choked-out broken moan tumbling off his tongue, followed by a heavy exhale. You can feel the warmth even if it doesn’t spread, it makes you shiver, moaning with him. 

“Fuck,” he says after a second, the word rough. His hands soothe your skin, gently running over your ass, the arch of your back before he asks gently, “You alive?”

You mumble something noncommittal, too deep in bliss to form words. You assume he smiles, because he forgoes a response, pulling out slowly, softly. You shiver, whining at the feeling, the loss. He shushes you, using his hands on your body to lower you down to the mattress, laying you down with a touch you didn’t expect. You don’t know what you expected. 

“I feel like jelly,” you mumble into the bed, ears still ringing, bones still vibrating. He laughs at that, and you hear the bed squeak, mattress dipping behind you. 

“Is that a good thing?” he asks, and you hear him tying off the condom, throwing it in the trash. You don’t even know where the trash is.

Your grin is lazy, fucked out, even if he can’t see it. “Yeah.”

The bed dips again, you can feel his body heat before his touch. He moves your hair out of the way, and you blink at the brightness of the room, at him, leaning over you. “Talk to me, tell me how you’re feeling.”

“Good,” you mumble out, turning over beneath him, wiggling yourself into the small amount of space he gives you beneath him. He’s glowing; tan skin flushed, eyes sparkling like he’s a fucking demon who needs sex to survive. Jennifer’s Body. Wooyoung’s Body. It’s a useless question, but you ask it anyway, “What about you?”

He shrugs, shoulders rising, hands planted on either side of your head. “I feel great, but I’m not the one who just got the life fucked out of me.”

You run your hands over your face, muffling your laugh, you push your hair away from your face and then scoop it from under your neck, laying it behind you. “You did the fucking, though. Should I ask about your bones? Your muscles? Your dick?” 

He laughs, head dipping down like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “Are you ever fucking serious?”

You smile, brightness returning to your eyes and Wooyoung swears it might be the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. He can’t stop himself from leaning down, catching your lips in his, kissing you with a softness he rarely uses. You’re everything he imagined you’d be. You’re more than that, he thinks, and he fucking meant it when he said he might be addicted. He might be fucked, actually. 

Your soft hands cradle his cheeks like he’s something delicate, your tongue slipping into his mouth like you’re addicted to him all the same. He wonders. He wants to ask. He doesn’t, because he’s terrified of the answer.

He breaks away to rest his forehead against yours, asking the question that’s been bugging him all night. “Are you ever gonna tell me what happened today?”

Your smile falters and he wants to cut his tongue out of his mouth. You sigh, hands falling to your chest, looking to the side for a moment before giving your gaze back to him. “We workshopped a story in class and people were picking it apart, asking me questions and stuff. It just…made me feel seen in a way I didn’t like.”

He watches you for a moment, just a second before his lips tighten to one side. “Do you feel better now?”

“Much,” you mumble, smiling again, pushing his hair away from his face. “Thanks for getting me out of my head, again. You’re weirdly good at it.”

He gives you a close-lipped smile, huffing feigned amusement through his nose before crawling off you. His skin crawls, he doesn’t want to be good at making you do anything other than cum. Or at least he tells himself that to keep his heart rate even. “A favor,” he says, his voice even as he lays back into his bed normally, head finding a pillow. “We’re good at the favor thing.”

“Ooh!” you sit up, eyes wide like you just remembered something. His brows twitch together as you crawl up his bed, laying beside him, your head finding another one of his pillows. “Wanna know what I was thinking about the other day?” He raises his brows, silently saying continue. “I was thinking about your car. What if they can’t fix my car and I have to buy an old, piece-of-shit car? What if it’s manual, and I don’t know how to drive a manual?”

His face morphs into disdain, he should bet money on the next words out of your mouth. “I don’t like where this is heading–”

You sit up on an elbow, pointing at him with your other arm, “You should teach me how to drive stick.”

“How the fuck is your car not fixed yet?” he asks, brows tied together in confusion. “Also, fuck no.”

“Come on,” you pout, brows upturned, pinched together. “Please?”

“You’re going to blow up my transmission by stalling eighty times,” he sighs, sinking lower into his bed, reaching for his duvet. “Don’t waste your breath.”

He pulls it over his body, closing his eyes, waiting for the rebuttal. It doesn’t come. When he opens one eye, you’re staring at him, pouting. He turns his head, closing his eye again. 

“Come on!” you whine, and he genuinely can’t believe he’s having this conversation right now. He can’t fucking believe you’re butt-ass naked, talking about his fucking car.

He turns his head, “If I say no enough times, will you stop?”

“No?” you say it like he’s stupid. His face flattens out. “Hi, are we meeting for the first time?”

He groans, folding his duvet over his chest. “I’ll take you out one time, and if you stall it more than three times, you’re done.”

“Yay,” you say, satisfied, laying down on your back, head on his fucking pillow. He looks at you from the corner of his eye, and to his surprise, you grab his duvet and pull it over your body, too. Your head turns toward him, but your eyes are focused somewhere at the foot of his bed as you ask, “Are you going to Jungwon’s tomorrow?”

“If everyone goes, I’ll go,” he shrugs, looking where you’re looking, like maybe there’s something fascinating at the foot of his bed. “Debatable whether or not everyone will be too hungover.”

“I think a whole floor of his home dedicated to sex is a little absurd,” you mumble, under your breath. The laughter starts in his chest before it shoots out of his mouth. You look at him, a little smile on your lips, “What?”

“It is absurd,” Wooyoung nods. “It’s kind of gross if you really think about it. How often do those rooms get cleaned?”

You’re smiling as you add, “How do they get all the stains off that couch?”

Wooyoung’s laughter just gets louder. “The couch is probably what gave me chlamydia.”

You snort, and Wooyoung turns his head to see you laughing into his duvet, shoulders shaking. He smiles at the sight. You lift your head, still giggling, “You think a fucking couch gave you chlamydia?”

“Okay, maybe not the couch, but the people on the couch–”

You shriek, “People?”

His finger slides out from the duvet to hold it up to you. “I’ve cleaned up my act since last year.”

“Oh, cleaned up your act?” you retort, brows raised. “This… you, that I know now, is the Wooyoung that’s cleaned up his act?”

He shrugs, “You complained about the condom, not me. Oh, and let me fucking add that you just basically begged me to take it off and cum inside you.”

You groan, bringing the blanket up to cover your face, voice muffled as you say, “That wasn’t me, that was someone else.”

“That was you,” Wooyoung says, an amused finality to his tone.

“That was me with you,” you argue, and as soon as the words fall off your tongue, your lips snap shut. He stares at you for a second, unblinking, letting the words sink in. You look away, “I don’t act like that with anyone else, you brought it out of me. It’s your fault.”

His insides feel so fucking strange. He hates it. He doesn’t know if he hates it. He looses a breath and pretends it’s relieving. “If it was anyone else they would’ve taken off the condom and busted inside you, so it’s a good thing.”

There’s a moment of silence between you, and Wooyoung isn’t completely sure if it’s comfortable. Maybe he just can't read the room. You break it by asking, “Can you tell me about the couch?”

What the fuck? His head turns, brows tied together, and you look sleepy. Eyes low, duvet tucked up under your nose, lips hidden beneath it. His voice is shallow as he asks, “Why do you want to know about the couch?”

You shrug, the blanket moves with you. “Sounds like a funny story.”

His brows stay tied together, but you don’t budge. So he takes a breath, redirects his gaze to the foot of his bed that has nothing fascinating about it, and begins the story. He did that shit all the time last year, the year before, if he got super fucked up and there was one person on that fucking couch he wanted… He finds himself leaving out details, even important ones, telling a version of one story out of many that made him look the best, the least like an animal. 

You already know damning things about him, though, and yet you still ended up in his bed. So why is he trying to make himself sound better?

At the start, you asked a question or two, and then Wooyoung assumed you got locked into the story and wanted to listen. He used his hands as he spoke, pointing out small details, getting side-tracked once or twice, doubling down on things he shouldn’t have been worried about at all. Then his ears catch your breath, even, soft, and when he turns his head to the side, you’re fast asleep. 

He stares at you for a minute, maybe longer. You’re asleep, in his bed. His bed. After having sex with him. 

He frowns at first, because you probably should’ve peed before falling asleep. Then he can’t believe he’s worried about a fucking UTI, because you’re asleep in his fucking bed after having sex with him. There’s a first time for everything, but never in a million years did Wooyoung think he’d experience this kind of first. 

His heart picks up speed in his chest, moisture growing on his palms. Carefully, he peels the duvet off his chest, slipping out of his bed with uneven breath, tiptoeing across his room, pulling a pair of boxers out of his top drawer. 

He slips out of his own fucking bedroom like a spy, keeping his eye on you the entire time just to ensure that you didn’t wake up. There’s still a party downstairs. He’s in boxers. He looks to the left and then to the right, running both hands through his hair, grateful that at least there isn’t anyone lingering in the hallway. He goes with his gut, beelining to Yunho’s room, and crosses his fucking fingers that the two of them are in Mingi’s room for the night. 

He lets out a breath of relief when Yunho’s room is empty. He crawls into the older man’s unmade bed and collapses, pulling his sheets, his blankets over his body. He stares at Yunho’s anime figures, somehow still visible in the dark, then the thought of them being visible creeps him out, so he forces himself to close his eyes. It isn’t long until exhaustion tugs him into a long, dreamless sleep. 

Six hours later, you’re still across the hallway. You remember where you are before you’ve even opened your eyes, and still half-asleep, it brings a sleepy grin to your cheeks. You stretch, arms reaching out on either side of you, just to feel nothing but cold sheets. 

Your eyes shoot open. His room is still dim, lighting coating the room in yellow, but there’s no warmth in his bed. He’s not in it. You look toward the bathroom, softly calling out, “Wooyoung?”

His blinds are still closed, your clothes still on the floor. His clothes are still on the floor. You’re still naked. You get up, crawling off the bed, walking on sore legs to the bathroom. “Wooyoung?” you ask again, softer this time as you walk inside the dark bathroom. Your bladder is agonizingly heavy, and as you empty it, you come to the sickening realization that he’s not here. He didn’t sleep here. 

Your brain runs through reasons why, but you can’t really come up with anything. He got sick. No, he has a bathroom, he’d be asleep on the floor. Someone else needed him for something. Sure, but why didn’t he come back?

You run your hands through your hair, groaning into your palms. Still on the toilet, you can’t bring yourself to stand up yet. Your head hurts, your stomach feels heavy, your legs are sore. You had arguably one of the worst days of your life yesterday, and Wooyoung was the one who made it better. Wooyoung was the one who made you forget about it, and turned your shitty day into such a fucking good night, and yet he left.

He left. 

You didn’t know Wooyoung before you moved in with him.

It wasn’t some childhood-friends-to-roommates situation. It was a Facebook listing, a desperate rent situation, and a quick video call where he grinned and said, “I’m clean, I cook, and I only walk around shirtless on laundry days, deal?”

Your boyfriend had just cheated on you and you were too broke to be picky.

You moved in two weeks later.

That was three years ago.

When you first moved in, things were simple. Polite nods in the hallway, careful division of chores, messages like “Can I use your oat milk?” and “Trash day’s Thursday.” You were strangers learning how to coexist. He was respectful, charming, funny in a careful kind of way.

But that changed. Slowly. Naturally.

There was the night he knocked on your door with two bowls of ramen after hearing you cry through the wall. The time he fell asleep on your shoulder during a movie, and you let him stay there. The mornings where he started making two cups of coffee without asking, and the way he never forgot which mug was your favorite.

Little things, at first. But they stacked up.

Now he knows your coffee order and your worst ex’s name. He doesn’t knock anymore when your door is open. And you don’t bother pretending to be annoyed when he drapes himself across the couch you’re already sitting on, like there’s not an entire empty seat next to you. You know his favorite hoodie and the playlist he only listens to when he’s feeling off.

You don’t even remember when it happened. When “roommate” became “friend,” and “friend” slowly became “best friend”.

He’s the first person you turn to when something happens, good or bad. You’ve become so used to him and his playful, flirtatious nature, that it’s just... normal now.

This morning, you wake up to the sound of a pan sizzling.

It’s not unusual. Wooyoung does most of the cooking in the apartment, partly because he’s better at it, mostly because he refuses to eat anything bland. You’ve learned not to interfere when he’s in his element, your only job is to show up and eat.

Still, it’s early, and he’s making a bit too much noise for someone who claims to love you “platonically.”

You shuffle out of your room, hair a mess, socks mismatched. The kitchen smells like garlic and eggs, and you see him standing at the stove, completely in his zone. Hoodie sleeves pushed up, spatula in hand, flipping something with a finesse that makes it obvious he knows he looks good doing it.

“You’re showing off,” you mutter, leaning against the doorframe.

He doesn’t look away from the pan. “You’re welcome.”

You make a beeline for your favorite mug, the one he always pretends to hate but still washes carefully every time you leave it in the sink.

“I figured you’d sleep in,” he says. “You stayed up late.”

“Yea, because someone wasn’t leaving my room.” you send him a glare.

“I like hanging out with you! and don’t tell me you didn’t enjoy the story about the geek and the popular girl from my old highschool. That story is cute as hell.” he points the spatula with you like it’s a weapon.

You smirk behind the mug. “Okay, that one was kinda good.”

He grins, plating scrambled eggs and what looks like roasted vegetables. He slides the plate toward your usual spot at the counter like he’s done it a hundred times, because he has.

“How was your date?” you ask, poking your fork into a roasted tomato.

Wooyoung groans. “Disaster.”

“That bad?”

“She asked if I was in love with her halfway through the appetizer.”

“Bold of her,” you say, chewing.

“And when I said no, she looked at me like I kicked her in the face. Then she told me I ‘give off commitment issues.’”

You grin. “You do give off commitment issues.”

He glares playfully. “Okay, rude. I’m extremely loyal.”

“To me.”

“Exactly. My loyalty quota is full. Sorry to the rest of the world.” he shoots you a wink, nothing dramatic, just one of those natural, easy gestures he does without thinking. You don’t blush. Not anymore.

You're used to it. In the beginning, back when you were still adjusting to living with someone who looks like that, who flirts with the air he breathes, who walks around shirtless and steals fries from your plate and calls you “babe” just to watch your reaction, it was different.

But now? Immunity.

Mostly.

It’s easy with him, always has been. Closeness that doesn’t need explanation. No boundaries, because you don’t need them. Not when you’ve seen each other through every version of a day.

He sits beside you at the counter instead of across, thigh brushing yours like it’s second nature.

Because it is.

***

“You know,” you say, pushing the cart down the cereal aisle, “you could just admit you have the taste buds of a hyperactive child.”

Wooyoung gasps, dramatically offended as he holds up a neon box of chocolate puffs. “This is not childish. This is elite. You wouldn’t understand the depth of this flavor profile.”

Grocery shopping with Wooyoung is basically a weekly ritual at this point. Not because you can’t go alone, but because he insists on it. Claims you’d forget half the list and come back with snacks and nothing else. Which, to be fair, is kind of true.

You’re halfway through the cereal aisle, walking behind the cart as Wooyoung wanders a few feet ahead, eyes locked on the shelf like he’s making a life-or-death decision between sugary clusters or chocolate swirls.

He’s in his element, mumbling ingredients under his breath, holding one box up to the light like he’s reading ancient scrolls. You smile to yourself, letting him do his thing as you slow down, scanning your phone for the rest of your shared grocery list.

And then, just your luck, you hear it.

“Oh my god, Y/N?”

You look up too slowly.

Hana.

You turn, putting on the most polite expression you can muster as she approaches, all bright eyes and perfect hair and the same aggressive enthusiasm she used to bring to Monday morning staff meetings.

“Hana,” you say, trying to sound surprised instead of resigned. “Wow. Hi.”

“I thought that was you! Oh my god, it’s been what, like, forever? You look so… Anyways, it’s so good to see you!” She eyes you, then glances down into your cart before you can respond. “Frozen dumplings, instant rice, oh my god I love those snacks, they’re so bad but soooo addictive, right? Wait-, this kimchi brand is the worst. You should try the one from Jihyun’s Market across town. It’s organic.”

You blink. “I... like this one.”

“Sure, sure. I mean, I just think it’s better to be picky with fermented stuff, you know? Especially when you’re eating it alone.”

You don’t answer right away. She doesn’t wait.

“Gosh, how are you? I remember how you were always the chill one at work. So responsible. So put together. Like, you were always the single one! We called you "The Independent Icon" behind your back. Not in a mean way!”

You hadn’t planned on staying single forever. But a few years ago, your boyfriend cheated on you while he was on vacation, called you from the airport like it was no big deal. After that, you decided you were done. No dating for a while, no more risks. It was easier to be alone than to be blindsided again. Eventually, people stopped asking. Then they started assuming.

Your stomach twists. You glance down the aisle. Wooyoung is still several feet away, crouched in front of a lower shelf now, examining cereal boxes like he’s an art critic. Totally out of earshot.

“Oh, I didn’t know people talked about that,” you say, trying to keep your tone neutral.

Hana waves a hand. “Only in admiration, really. I mean, you’ve never brought a guy to any of our dinners. I think Minji even thought you were secretly dating a girl for a while, totally cool if you are! No judgment! But I told her, no way. Y/N is just focused. Did I tell you I got married, by the way? I don’t think you ever met my husband. We got married last year, tiny ceremony, super last minute. Here-, he’s gonna kill me for showing this, but look how ridiculous he looks in this suit.”

She pulls out her phone, swipes once, then holds it up to you.

You freeze.

You know that face.

The sharp jawline. The dimple on his left cheek. The same stupid smile he had when he came back from that trip and told you, casually, like it was weather, that he’d slept with someone else. “It didn’t mean anything,” he said, “we were just having a rough patch, right?”

Your stomach drops.

“That’s him,” Hana says proudly. “Total goofball, but he’s the best. Honestly, I didn’t think I’d find someone like him. But don’t worry, you’ll find someone too some day!”

Hana is still talking but her words blur.

You could say nothing. You could just smile, nod, and escape with your overpriced kimchi and frozen dumplings. But you nod slowly, eyes darting to the end of the aisle again. Suddenly, you hear yourself say, voice too quick and too loud:

“Actually, I’m dating someone.”

Hana’s brows lift. “Wait, really?”

“Yeah.” You point down the aisle.

She turns.

Wooyoung, still crouched, is now reading the back of a cereal box, completely oblivious to your social spiral.

“Oh?” Hana’s eyes are practically sparkling now, thrilled by this newfound information. “Look at you! I know you had it in you!” she says, nudging your arm. “You have to bring him to dinner. We’re doing a little couples night this Friday. Just a few of us from work, old and new. Minji’s coming, and Jihyun, and my husband’s inviting one of his coworkers and their girlfriend. You two should come!”

You hesitate, already internally spiraling. “Oh, I don’t know-”

“Come on! It’ll be fun. I need someone there who doesn’t talk about babies every ten seconds. Please.”

She’s already taking your nod as confirmation before you’ve fully given it. “Perfect! I’ll text you the details, I still have your number. You better show up.”

Just as she’s about to walk away, Wooyoung returns, holding two cereal boxes and strolling up casually.

Hana’s face lights up again. “See you soon!” she says brightly to him, giving you both a final little wave before disappearing around the corner.

Wooyoung blinks after her, then looks at you, eyebrows raised. “...Why do I feel like I just missed something deeply important?”

You stare at him, trying to decide where to begin.

He holds up the cereal boxes, undeterred. “Okay. Fruity Loops or Cinnamon Sugar Swirls. One has slightly fewer chemicals. I won’t say which.”

You inhale slowly, exhale even slower. “So, remember when you left me alone for two minutes?”

“Tragically, yes.”

“Well… in those two minutes, I may have… sort of… told someone we’re dating.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Wooyoung blinks. “You what?”

You gesture weakly down the aisle. “That was Hana. Old coworker. She’s always been weirdly obsessed with the fact that I’m single. She was doing her usual thing, and I panicked, and I pointed at you, and now she thinks we’re together, and- surprise! We’re going to a couples dinner on Friday.”

Wooyoung looks at you. Then at the cereal. Then back at you.

And then he grins.

Like really grins.

“Oh my God,” he says, eyes wide with delight. “This is amazing.”

“Wooyoung.”

“We’re fake dating? We’re doing the thing? Like the romcoms?”

You press a hand to your face. “It gets worse.”

His grin somehow grows. “I’m listening.”

“She’s married to my ex.”

Wooyoung blinks. “The ex?”

You nod. “She showed me a wedding photo. It’s him. The one who cheated on me while he was on vacation. The reason I swore off dating for like, three years.”

Wooyoung’s jaw drops, then slowly morphs into something almost unhinged with glee.

“Oh my God,” he breathes. “This is so much better than I thought.”

“Why are you happy?”

“Because,” he says, absolutely glowing, “I get to sit across from the guy who cheated on my best friend and pretend to be the hot, attentive boyfriend who’s so in love with her he’d die for her. I’m going to be so annoying. I’m going to feed you food.”

“Wooyoung.”

“I’m going to wipe sauce off your mouth. I’m going to put my arm around your chair. I’m going to call you baby in front of him.”

You groan. “This is going to kill me.”

“This is going to heal you,” he says. “You know what, this counts for both of the cereals. Sweet childhood nostalgia and the one that turns milk radioactive pink.” He throws the cereals into the cart with dramatic flair. “This is the best grocery trip of my life.”

***

Friday morning

He’s already in the kitchen when you shuffle in, still half-asleep, arms wrapped around yourself. The smell of eggs and butter greets you first.

“Good morning, my beautiful fake girlfriend!” he beams.

You groan. “Please don’t start.”

“Too late,” he sings, doing a dramatic spin with the spatula. “Do you want toast with your lies or just plain guilt?”

You drop your head onto the counter with a sigh. “I’m not built for this level of energy before caffeine.”

He slides a mug your way, your mug, with your preferred coffee, made just right. “I knew you’d be a flight risk this morning.”

You mutter a thank-you and take a long sip. It helps. But not enough.

“I think I’m panicking,” you say into the mug.

He sets your breakfast in front of you and leans on the counter across from where you sit. “Hey. We’ve got this. All we have to do is show up, eat some overpriced cheese cubes, pretend we’re madly in love, make your ex suffer for being the biggest asshole known to man, and leave. Easy.”

“Madly in love,” you echo flatly.

“Yes, madly.” His smile grows. “Madly, stupidly in love. To the point where your ex is going to regret every single life choice he made after cheating on you. And enough to make Hana go, ‘oh wow, they’re so cute, maybe I am a terrible friend for shaming her for being single for the entire time I’ve known her.’”

You blink. “You really hate him, don’t you?”

“I’ve never even met him and I already hope he has the biggest receding hairline I’ve ever seen.”

You can’t help but laugh.

“And besides,” he adds, stealing a bite of your toast, “we got chemistry.”

You make a face.

“We do, though. We’re best friends. We’re comfortable. We finish each other’s-”

“Don’t.”

“-sentences.”

You hurl a piece of toast crust at him. He dodges it with a smirk.

But he’s right. You are comfortable. You already know what shirt he’s going to wear tonight and that he’s going to pretend he didn’t plan it. You know he’s going to be charming and make everyone laugh and completely forget he’s pretending.

And that’s the part that begins to make your stomach twist.

The day goes faster than you anticipated, and before you know it, you’re both getting ready for the dinner.

You’re halfway through checking your bag for the fourth time when he walks out of his room, and everything in you stills.

He’s adjusting the sleeves of his black button-down, casually rolling them up past his elbows. He tucks his phone into his back pocket, grabs a bottle of wine off the counter. He’s talking, saying something about the wine in his hands, but you don’t hear a word.

Because damn. He looks good.

His black hair is styled a little messier than usual, in that perfectly undone way that probably took way too much effort. He’s tucked his shirt into dark slacks that fit just right, and he’s wearing that silver chain he only brings out for “important” nights.

Like fake dates, apparently.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even look like he’s trying. He looks like this is just how he always looks. Like he doesn’t know that he’s the kind of guy women cross sidewalks for just to sneak a better glance.

And you should be used to that. You live with him. You see him fresh out of bed, half-asleep, shirtless and in the same ratty sweats every Sunday. But this is different.

You recover fast, mutter something closer to sounds than actual words and spin on your heel toward the bathroom.

You need a second. Maybe two.

You close the door behind you and lean against it, willing your heart to calm down. It's just Wooyoung. Your best friend. Your roommate. Your fake boyfriend for the night. Nothing to get flustered over.

You run a hand down your dress, fix your lipstick, try not to think about how the curve of his smile made your stomach flutter.

Then, without a sound, the door cracks open.

He leans casually against the doorframe, watching you through the reflection. “Hey.”

Your eyes meet in the mirror, and for a second, you forget what you’re doing, because his gaze isn’t neutral.

It drops. Lingers.

Slides down the line of your black dress, the way it hugs your hips, the bare skin of your shoulders. It’s not crude, not obvious, but you can feel it. Like a slow drag of heat over your body.

You blink. “You’re not allowed to just come in here.”

“I knocked.”

You glare.

He lifts his hands, innocent. “You just didn’t hear it. Selective hearing, maybe.”

You roll your eyes, but he doesn’t move. Just stay there, eyes trailing from your hair to your lips to the way you’re fidgeting with your rings.

“What’s up?” you ask, voice soft.

He tilts his head slightly, smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “Just thinking.”

“Dangerous.”

“Funny,” he deadpans. Then after a beat, “I was wondering how much of a boyfriend I’m allowed to be tonight.”

Your stomach tightens.

He says it lightly, but there’s something in his voice, something teasing, but slower. More deliberate.

You meet his gaze in the mirror again. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he says, stepping a little further into the room, “can I hold your hand? Whisper something in your ear if it gets boring? Pull you in when he’s watching?”

You swallow. He’s close now, not too close, but close enough that the air feels warmer.

“Or maybe,” he continues, eyes flicking to your lips just for a second, “kiss your cheek. You know. If it feels natural. Just enough to make him wonder.” There’s something electric in his voice now, light, amused, but edged with something darker. He smiles, wider this time, and it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Actually… can I make your ex jealous as fuck? Is that allowed?”

“What do you want to do?” you ask, your voice quieter than you mean it to be.

“I mean… if you give me even a little room to play…” He leans in, just slightly, not touching. “I swear I’ll ruin his whole fucking night.”

You’re still staring when he backs away, grin wide, eyes too pleased.

“No pressure," he says, putting both of his hands up, he smiles again, but this time it’s softer. “I’ll do whatever makes you feel comfortable.”

Your mouth is dry.

“Do whatever you want,” you manage. “Just… don’t be weird.”

He grins. “I make no promises”

You’re smiling, even as you turn away to grab your perfume, trying not to let him see how warm your cheeks are.

And as he walks out, he says it over his shoulder.

“You didn’t say no to the kiss.”

***

The knock sounds louder than you expect. You suddenly feel overdressed, underprepared, and painfully aware of the fact that your hand is linked with Wooyoung’s.

You didn’t mean to hold hands.

It just sort of… happened. One second you were adjusting your sleeve, the next his fingers found yours, no hesitation, like they’d done it a thousand times. And now it’s too late to pull away without it being weird.

“Y/N! Oh my god, finally! Come in!” Hana screams as she opens the door. You’re barely stepping inside when she notices the man next to you, her eyes widening. “And this is…?”

“Wooyoung,” he says smoothly, offering the wine bottle with both charm and ease. “Nice to meet you.”

Hana takes it with a delighted hum, already ushering you both inside. You barely get a foot in before her voice lifts again. “Babe, come meet my old co-worker!”

And there he is.

Standing a few steps inside the hallway, one hand curled loosely around a drink. He turns at the sound and freezes. Just for a second, quick enough to pass for nothing, but not to you. You see it. His eyes widen slightly, and something flickers across his face. Confusion. Surprise. Like he wasn’t told. Like he wasn’t ready.

But you smile, smooth and pleasant. Step forward, extend your hand like you’ve never seen him before in your life.

“Hi,” you say. “Nice to meet you.”

You smile like it’s nothing. Like you don’t know him. Like he’s just another name you’ll forget by morning. There’s the barest pause before he sets the glass down and shakes your hand. “Yeah,” he says, guarded, eyes flicking to Wooyoung. “You too.”

Before you can say anything, Wooyoung steps forward smoothly, hand outstretched, “Hi,” he says, voice warm and a little too cheerful. “I’m Wooyoung. Her boyfriend.”

There’s a pause. One breath too long. Your ex shifts, not quite hiding the way his eyes flick to your still-joined hands.

“…Right,” he says finally, taking Wooyoung’s hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Hana, being the overly-excited host that she is, smiles at the situation. “Everyone’s in the kitchen. Come on, we’re just doing drinks and snacks before dinner.”

You glance toward the kitchen, grateful for the distraction, but not before you feel Wooyoung’s hand press gently against your lower back, guiding you forward.

As if to say: I’ve got you.

But also…

Watch me work.

The house is warm and golden-lit, filled with soft music and the quiet sounds of people mingling. Laughter drifts from the back, layered over the clink of glasses and the sizzle of something on the stove.

The kitchen is full, couples leaning against counters, clustered near the island, perched on stools. Everyone looks up when you enter, and Hana claps her hands once. “Everyone, this is Y/N and her boyfriend, Wooyoung.”

You swear the word echoes for a second. Boyfriend.

Wooyoung just nods with a relaxed smile, greeting the group like he’s done this a hundred times. He’s introduced to a few of the guys first, and within a minute he’s already laughing at something, fully immersed in conversation.

You hang back, trying not to fidget, trying to ignore how good he looks tonight, sleeves rolled, watch glinting, hair pushed back perfectly like he didn’t even try. And then, as if on cue, Hana pipes up from across the room, tossing the words over her shoulder like they’re harmless.

“I still can’t believe Y/N’s in a relationship now,” she says brightly, like it’s a funny little update. “I didn’t believe it at first, Y/N in a relationship? We all thought she was allergic to commitment!”

There’s a few laughs, light, not cruel. The kind of laugh that happens when people think they’re in on something. The moment the words leave Hana’s mouth, your ex looks up. His expression flickers with a hint of surprise.

You open your mouth, unsure what to say. But before you can speak, Wooyoung cuts in. He doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t even look particularly bothered. He just glances over at Hana with an easy, almost lazy kind of smile.

“If loving her is a commitment, then it’s the easiest type of commitment I’ve ever made.”

You blink.

Your ex doesn’t say anything. His lips press into a tight line, but his eyes narrow further, jaw clenching slightly as he watches Wooyoung.

But Wooyoung’s gaze never shifts away from you, his hand finding yours again, linking your fingers effortlessly. His smile is small, but there’s a touch of pride behind it. He’s enjoying this.

The women smile. A couple guys glance over like damn. And Hana? She laughs, charmed. “Wow, okay. You’re already winning points.”

You try to smile like your heart didn’t just skip an entire beat.

Hana insists on giving you and Wooyoung a quick tour before dinner. “It’s not huge,” she says, with a laugh that’s anything but modest. “We just really wanted something simple but tasteful. Natural light was a must. You know how it is.”

Wooyoung nods beside you like he deeply, deeply understands the weight of natural light, and you catch the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“And this-” Hana gestures grandly as she opens a set of double doors. “This is my favorite room. The light in here at golden hour? Unreal. We had the cushions custom made to match the ceiling beams. And the books are mostly for decoration, but it kind of gives the right mood, don’t you think?”

You nod along politely, half-listening, while Wooyoung leans down slightly, his voice warm and low against your ear.

“Do you think if I mention natural light three more times, we unlock a secret level of the tour?”

Your breath hitches with a soft laugh, and before you can stop yourself, you tilt your head slightly toward him, shoulder brushing his chest. His smile lingers like he’s proud of himself, but there’s something else behind it too, something quieter. The way your face lights up when you laugh, how you don’t pull away. It flickers in his chest and sits there, unexpected.

His hand lingers a little longer at the small of your back as you follow Hana to the next room.

The dinner table is lively, plates are passed around, and glasses are filled as casual conversation flows. Across the table, your ex is quiet. He hasn’t said much all night, just observed. His smile is polite, his presence steady, but you can feel his gaze on you every now and then, especially when Wooyoung leans in to refill your glass or casually touches your wrist while talking.

The group is in a comfortable rhythm, and just as you're about to take a bite of your food, one of the guests leans back in their chair with a curious smile.

“So how did you two meet each other?”

You freeze, your mind racing. And across from you, you swear you see your ex stiffen slightly, eyes narrowing just the tiniest bit.

Wooyoung notices immediately.

He smiles at you, that teasing, mischievous look in his eyes as he leans forward, taking the cue. He opens his mouth, and suddenly, his voice fills the room. Smooth, charming, and effortlessly natural.

"Oh, this one’s my favorite story," he says, his voice warm and playful, his eyes lighting up as if he's about to tell the most incredible tale.

He pauses for dramatic effect, glancing at you, making sure you’re paying attention. You give him a quick nod, still unsure of where he’s going with this.

“It was one of those nights you’re not even supposed to go out, you know? I almost canceled.” He lets out a soft laugh, glancing at you. “But then she walked in.”

Everyone leans in slightly, curious.

“She wasn’t supposed to be there either, actually. Our friend had to convince her. She was tired, had a long week,” He looks at you briefly, as if asking permission with his eyes, but his smile says he already knows you’ll let him go on.

“She came in late, a little out of breath, tucking her hair behind her ear, apologizing even though no one noticed. And I swear-” He leans back, that crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “-the second I saw her, I forgot what I was saying mid-sentence. Just totally lost it. My friend thought I was choking on my drink.”

Soft laughter bubbles around the table. Your cheeks warm.

“She sat right across from me, and I swear I didn’t hear a single thing anyone else said the whole night. I spent the night trying to make her laugh.”

It’s smooth, too smooth, but his tone is light, playful, like he’s just telling a fond memory, not spinning an elaborate lie. He continues, eyes sparkling.

“I asked for her number before we left, and she said no.”

A small gasp comes from someone at the table, and Wooyoung grins like he’s telling a bedtime story.

“She said I seemed like the kind of guy who flirts with everyone.” More laughter. Wooyoung presses a hand to his chest in mock offense. “Which-, okay, fair. But I wasn't flirting with her… or maybe I was, but I just wanted to keep talking to her. So I said, ‘If she doesn’t want to give it to me, fine, I’ll earn it.’ And I kept showing up whenever our friend invited people out. I'd always make sure to sit next to her. Always brought something small. Coffee, gum, dumb stuff, just to have an excuse to talk.”

He looks at you then. Really looks at you.

“And eventually… she let me walk her home.”

Someone lets out a little aww.

“I didn’t try anything,” he adds. “I just wanted to stretch out the moment as long as I could. I think we stood outside her door for half an hour just talking. I memorized the color of her front light. The chipped tile on her step. Her laugh.”

The table is completely silent.

“And the next time?” His smile curves wider. “She kissed me first. Which I will never let her forget.”

The table is enchanted.

For a moment after Wooyoung finishes, there’s a soft, stunned silence, like everyone’s holding their breath without realizing it. Then:

“Oh my God,” someone breathes.

The woman across from you nudges her partner. “You never chased me like that.”

“You didn’t run,” he deadpans.

“So you’re telling me you saw her once and just knew?” another friend adds, reaching for more wine.

“I told our mutual friend to introduce us, and he said ‘don’t bother.’” He stretches his arm along the back of your chair, fingers lightly brushing the bare skin of your shoulder. “So obviously I did the exact opposite.”

The table erupts with laughter. Real, full, warm.

“God, that sounds so like you,” Hana laughs, sending you a playful glance.

Laughter bubbles around the table, easy and entertained.

But not from everyone.

Across the table, your ex’s grip on his fork tightens, just for a moment. Not dramatic, not enough to draw attention from anyone else, but you see it. The twitch in his jaw. The way he shifts back in his chair like he needs space to breathe.

Wooyoung leans in slightly, hand still resting lightly behind your neck now, fingers brushing just enough to make it look natural. Intimate.

“And when she finally said yes,” he adds, voice lower now, more deliberate, “I knew I wasn’t gonna let her go.”

Your chest tightens.

The air feels heavier.

Meanwhile, you’re frozen in place, staring at your wine glass, heart racing as if you lived every second of that made-up story. You catch someone across the table watching you with a knowing smile, clearly convinced you're the luckiest girl alive.

And for a second, just one, you almost believe it too.

The rest of the dinner unfolds like a well-rehearsed play. Light laughter, wine refills, soft clinks of cutlery against porcelain. Conversation drifts easily between the couples, like they’ve all known each other forever, even if some only met tonight. And somehow, you and Wooyoung fall into it without trying.

After the dinner, the buzz of conversation in the living room fades as you step quietly down the hallway toward the bathroom. You need a second to breathe, just a minute alone after everything that’s happened tonight.

You close the bathroom door behind you and lean against it for a moment, letting out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. Wooyoung’s charming story about how you met still lingers in your mind, and the way everyone seemed so enchanted by him... it felt like something out of a movie. It had been easy to get swept up in it all, even though it was completely fabricated.

After a few moments, you open the bathroom door and nearly jump out of your skin.

Wooyoung is standing right there in the hallway, hands in his pockets like he’s just been casually waiting. His gaze flicks up to meet yours immediately, and a slow, knowing smile pulls at his lips.

He doesn’t say anything right away, just leans his shoulder against the doorframe, arms now crossed, like he’s settling in.

You swallow hard. “You scared me.”

“Did I?” His voice is low, soft. Like a secret passed between friends. “Sorry. You just disappeared.”

“I needed a second. Too many couples,” you say, attempting a light laugh that comes out a bit thin. “Too much… love.”

“So?” he murmurs beside you. “How am I doing?”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised.

“The fake boyfriend thing,” he adds with a sly grin. “Convincing enough for you?”

You shrug, but your smile gives you away. “I’ve seen worse performances.”

“Cold,” he mutters, holding a hand over his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Here I am, carrying the entire romance on my back.”

You laugh quietly, then shake your head, your voice dropping again. “Honestly, I think everyone at the table wants to date you now.”

“Jealous?” he says, all teeth and sparkle, but his voice is soft, teasing rather than cocky.

You roll your eyes, even as your stomach flips. “Please.”

Then he tilts his head, studying you. His tone shifts, still playful, but quieter. “You know, you’re still a little pink.”

You blink. “What?”

“Your cheeks,” he says, nodding toward them. “Blushing. Again.”

You cross your arms instinctively, heart picking up pace. “I’m not.”

“You are,” he whispers. He leans a little closer. “It’s kinda cute.”

Your breath catches.

“You’re insufferable,” you whisper, smiling despite yourself.

“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered.”

The moment hangs, just a little too long. You’re standing in the dim hallway, lights soft, voices muffled behind walls, and he’s looking at you like this is his favorite part of the night.

You clear your throat, trying to reset something in the air. “We should go back.”

“Yeah,” he says, straightening slowly. “Before someone thinks we’re sneaking off to make out.”

Wooyoung straightens just a little, the moment sliding away like water off skin. He gives you one last glance, a wink for good measure, then turns and walks toward the others. That leaves you standing in the hallway, heart racing, wondering why his lazy confidence always makes it hard to tell when he’s joking and when he isn’t.

You follow behind, still feeling the blush he called out.

You offer to help Hana out in the kitchen. Wooyoung is busy winning everybody’s hearts with his charm, so you aren’t concerned about him.

You rinse off a plate, hands moving on autopilot as you stack it neatly on the drying rack. Hana leans against the counter beside you, sipping the last of her wine, her smile still painted on from dinner. “Seriously though,” she says, nudging your hip with hers, “I wasn’t expecting you to show up with someone like that.”

You huff a laugh. “Like what?”

“Like… funny. Hot. Charismatic. The way he talks about you?” She raises a brow. “Unreal.”

You smile, tight-lipped. “Yeah. He’s something.”

“I mean…” She grins. “You glow around him. It’s wild. Like, he looks at you like he’s already picking out your wedding venue.”

You laugh, quiet, awkward. “He’s just… sweet.”

Hana raises her brows. “He’s obsessed. In a good way.” She tilts her head toward the hallway. “I’m gonna go grab the wine opener. Don’t let me forget it again. Be back in a sec.”

The back door clicks shut behind her, and silence settles again. It’s nice for a moment, just you, the clink of cutlery, the steam from the sink. You keep washing dishes, grateful for the moment alone.

But it doesn’t last.

You hear movement behind you. Slow. Hesitant.

You turn your head and freeze.

It’s him.

Your ex.

He stands just past the threshold, hands in his pockets, gaze locked on you. He steps in without saying anything at first. Just lingers a little too close to the kitchen island, his eyes scanning your face like he’s trying to figure out what he’s seeing.

“I didn’t think you’d come,” he says.

You dry your hands on a towel, steadying yourself. “Clearly.”

He takes a step in. Not too close, but enough to unsettle you.

His eyes flick around the room, then land back on you. “You look good.”

You sigh quietly, turning back to the sink. “Don’t do that.”

“I’m just saying.”

Another beat.

You hear him shift again, leaning slightly against the island behind you. You can feel his eyes on your back.

“That guy,” he says finally. “The one who came with you. Wooyoung.”

You don’t look at him. “What about him?”

He hesitates. Then, carefully: “Are you two… serious?”

You pause, then shrug. “That’s none of your business.”

He lets out a low breath. “So that’s a yes.”

You turn slowly, facing him now. “Why are you here, really?”

“In my own house?”

“No,” you say. “Why are you in this kitchen, right now?”

He stares at you. Silent.

“I fucked up,” he blurts, “Okay? I know I did. I’ve been thinking about it since-”

“Don’t,” you snap, but still keeping your voice down so the rest of the party won't hear. “You don’t get to come here, pretend we’re still something, and then act surprised that I moved on. You’re married.”

His mouth opens, then closes. He looks at you like you’ve just hit him.

“You moved on?” he repeats, like the words are bitter on his tongue. “With him?”

You step back. “You don’t know him.”

He scoffs. “I might not, but I can still see how insufferable he is.”

You stare at him, lips parted in disbelief. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you.”

He takes another step forward, eyes sharper now. “I just don’t get it. After everything-”

“No,” you say firmly, holding your hand up. “You don’t get anything. You lost the right to have an opinion the second you slept with someone else.”

There’s a beat of silence. Your heart pounds in your ears.

And then…

“Everything okay in here?” Wooyoung’s voice is cold. Threatening almost.

You don’t need to look. You feel it, the air shifting, the way the atmosphere bends around his presence. But you still turn your head. And it steadies you instantly.

He’s leaning in the doorway. One hand tucked into the pocket of his slacks, the other hanging loose at his side. His posture is relaxed. His expression? Somewhere between nonchalance and interest.

But his eyes?

They’re fixed on your ex.

And they could kill.

Your ex straightens, caught off guard. “Uh-, yeah. We were just-”

Wooyoung steps fully into the room like he’s walking through water, unconcerned by the tension that’s thick enough to drown in. He nods once, a polite gesture with razor edges, then glances at you.

His voice lowers. Smooth, velvety. Unmistakably his.

“You okay, baby?”

The pet name slips out effortlessly. Like it belongs there. Like you belong to him. Then he closes the space between you and him, his hand brushing the small of your back with casual ownership.

Your breath stutters. “I’m fine.”

His gaze lingers on your ex, sharp enough to make the air hum.

“Then I’ll ask one more time,” he murmurs, voice dipped in steel, eyes locked on your ex. “Is there a problem?”

Your ex lets out a quiet scoff, trying to play it cool. “No problem at all.”

Wooyoung breathes in once, slow.

“Then I’ll make this simple,” he says, softly now. Dangerous soft. “If you’ve got something to say, say it.” He tilts his head, the barest shift of muscle. His smile is slight, almost gentle, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “If not…” His jaw tightens just once. “Walk away before you make me repeat myself.”

Your ex doesn’t speak again. Doesn’t look at you. Just leaves.

And Wooyoung watches every step. Tracks him with the kind of gaze that doesn’t flinch. It says everything he hasn’t:

Try it again. I dare you.

When it’s just the two of you again, Wooyoung’s fingers trace your spine once, barely there. A silent check-in.

Then, slowly, his focus shifts. Back to you.

His voice drops. Low. Controlled.

“You okay?”

You nod once, but it’s tight. Too tight. And he sees it.

His brows pinch just slightly. “Did he say something?”

“No,” you whisper, and it’s true, mostly. “He was just… being him.”

Wooyoung exhales slowly through his nose, jaw clenching. Like he’s trying not to say something that would ruin the whole night. But then he looks at you, really looks at you, and something in him softens. Just a little.

His hand slides from your back to your waist, anchoring you close. He studies your face for a moment, like he’s not fully convinced, but then he exhales and gives a small nod back.

“I didn’t want to step in too early,” he says, voice soft now. “You looked like you had it under control. You did.”

There’s something warm in your chest at that, that he trusted you to hold your own.

You meet his eyes.

He’s not angry.

He’s present.

“I know you don’t need anyone to defend you,” he says, quieter now. “But I’m here. If you ever want me to.”

That part lingers. A gentle offering.

You smile faintly. “Thanks.”

He leans just a little closer, his voice dipping like he doesn’t want to be overheard, even by the walls, and something wicked flickers at the corner of his mouth. “Guess I’ll have to make it clearer you’re taken.”

Your heart skips a beat.

His hand gives your waist the faintest squeeze, not possessive, just sure. Then he straightens up, tone lighter, a glint in his eye as he teases, “You ready to go back out there, or should we hide out in here a little longer?”

You smile. “Let’s go.”

Wooyoung laces his fingers with yours as you step out of the kitchen. He doesn’t say much. Just keeps his hand on you, sometimes at your back, sometimes curled around your fingers, like he doesn’t trust the room not to try and touch you.

The energy around him simmers low. Controlled. Patient.

But it’s there.

You feel it in the way his gaze lingers a little too long when you make eye contact The way his thumb brushes your skin when you pass your ex. Like a fuse waiting for flame.

The evening moves on. Laughter. Drinks. Music humming low in the background. But that energy never leaves him.

Then, after another drink, his palm slides against your waist as he leans in, murmuring just low enough for only you to hear. “Come outside with me for a sec?”

You glance up, surprised by the quiet invitation, but nod. “Yeah. Okay."

He takes your hand and leads you through the back door, into the cool hush of the backyard. String lights sway gently above. A few scattered chairs dot the patio, mostly empty.

He pulls you just far enough into the yard that you’re framed under the golden light, a sight impossible to miss. Then he stops just enough to pull you in close, his hands resting firmly on your waist. His breath brushes your neck as he leans in, voice low and a little teasing.

“Do you trust me?”

You meet his gaze, smiling without hesitation, but a little confused. “Of course.”

But before you can say anything more, he leans in, no warning, no hesitation, and his mouth finds your neck.

Slow. Deliberate. Unapologetically possessive.

His grip on your waist tightens, firm and grounding, like he's anchoring himself to you, or maybe keeping you exactly where he wants you.

Your fingers twitch, aching to clutch at his shirt, his shoulders, anything. But he doesn’t stop. His mouth keeps moving, tongue flicking, lips parting as he sucks softly at the spot just above your collarbone, lazy, indulgent, filthy in how intimate it feels.

You gasp, hips tilting forward instinctively, heat already pooling low and heavy in your belly. He doesn’t miss it, he hums against your throat like he felt it happen.

Wooyoung pulls back just enough to murmur, voice thick and close to your ear, “You weren’t expecting that, huh?”

His tone is teasing, pleased, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Then he leans back in, grazing your neck again, his nose brushing over the same spot he just kissed.

“Fake boyfriend of the year, right?” he adds, a low smirk in his voice.

It pulls a laugh from you, too real, too soft, and he chuckles under his breath like he lives for the sound.

And then he looks up.

Over your shoulder.

Still smiling.

You don’t turn. You don’t even realize why his gaze has sharpened. But Wooyoung knows. He’s known from the moment he stepped outside.

“Oh, hey,” he says, just loud enough, like the thought only now occurred to him. “Didn’t see you there.”

You blink, startled, then turn.

And there he is.

Your ex is sitting in the far corner of the backyard, posture stiff, one hand loosely holding a glass of something amber that he’s no longer drinking. He’s been watching, long enough, clearly. His eyes flick from your face to where Wooyoung’s hand rests against your hip like it was made to be there. His mouth is drawn in a line so tight it might split.

He’d been watching.

Wooyoung's arm wraps a little tighter around your waist. Not possessive. Not aggressive. Just… secure. Like he has every right to hold you like this. Like he dares anyone to question it.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt,” Wooyoung says, cool and lazy.

Your ex stares, jaw tight.

Wooyoung doesn’t wait. His posture is casual, but there’s a glint in his eye that betrays him, too amused, too at-ease.

“Nice night, isn’t it?” he adds, like it’s nothing. “Stars out. Music inside. My girl tastes like sangria. Hard to complain.”

You stiffen slightly, but Wooyoung doesn’t flinch. He’s still smiling faintly, watching you with that unbothered, pretty-boy charm that somehow makes everything worse.

Your ex lifts his drink and mutters, “Some of us came out here to be alone.”

Wooyoung cocks his head. “Oh, totally fair. Should’ve said something.”

There’s a beat of silence, sharp enough to cut through. But he doesn’t move. He stays planted right there beside you, hand still snug on your waist like it belongs there.

Then he blinks, as if struck by a thought.

“Oh-, wait,” he says, voice still sweet. “You want us back inside?” He huffs a quiet laugh, almost apologetic. “Damn. That’s on me.”

Your ex sets his glass down with a soft clink on the stone railing. “You always this annoying?”

Wooyoung grins. “Only when I’m in a good mood.”

“Y/N! Wooyoung!”

Hana bursts out, loud and glowing, wine glass in one hand, joy practically spilling out of her. Her eyes land on you both and she lights up like the fourth of July.

“Oh my God, there you are!” she grins. “I was about to come get you, everyone keeps asking where the hot couple went!”

You see your ex stiffen. Wooyoung’s smile stretches.

“Hot couple,” he echoes, biting back a laugh.

Hana gasps dramatically. “Don’t act shy now! You two are disgusting. I love it.”

“I'm not mad about it. She’s got great taste,” Wooyoung teases with a little shrug, for a second glancing over at your ex. “Eventually.”

Your ex’s jaw tightens. He looks like he might speak.

But Wooyoung leans in one last time, whispering low into your ear, voice soft enough to make your skin spark:

"Success, baby"

He smirks before sliding his hand into yours, pulling you gently toward the house where Hana is waiting, oblivious to the tension left behind.

The night has mellowed. The lights are dim, the wine is flowing, and laughter has started to echo easier around the table. Someone’s passed around dessert, tiramisu in glass jars, and Wooyoung’s excused himself to the bathroom with that lazy, effortless vibe only he can pull off without trying. You’d felt his hand brush your shoulder as he left, and it still lingers there somehow, phantom-warm.

Hana’s had just enough wine to get bold. She sits across from you, grinning over the rim of her glass.

“Okay,” she says, loudly enough to cut across the overlapping chatter. “New question for the couples.”

The table quiets, interest piqued.

Her eyes land on you like a spotlight. “What’s your favorite physical thing about your partner?”

A few groans. Someone throws a napkin in her direction.

“Don’t roll your eyes,” she warns, laughing. “And no safe answers either. I don’t want to hear about how they ‘have a nice smile’ or ‘beautiful eyes’, everyone says that. I want the thing. The detail. The part of them that does it for you when you’re not even trying to look. The one that makes your brain short-circuit a little.”

You laugh, swallowing a little too quickly. The wine burns, and suddenly the air feels too warm.

“I’ll go last,” Hana says, clearly loving this. “Y/N, go.”

You freeze. “Me?”

“Yes, you.” Her smile is practically villainous. “He’s not even here. You can be honest.”

Everyone chuckles. The pressure thickens.

You hesitate, lips parting, unsure. Your eyes flick toward the hallway where Wooyoung disappeared. As if he might walk in just in time to save you.

But he doesn’t.

You clear your throat and say, maybe a little too honestly, “His hands.”

“Ooh,” someone says. “That’s a good one.”

You glance down at the table, fingers curling around your wine glass. “They’re just… nice,” you say, not looking up. “He moves them a lot when he talks. And they’re always doing something. Tapping, pulling at a sleeve, playing with his rings or-, whatever. Just always… moving.”

Your voice quiets as the room listens. You feel exposed, like you said something too intimate.

You don’t realize the room has fallen silent. Until it hits you that no one’s said anything back.

And then...

“I should leave more often if this is what I get to come back to.”

And Wooyoung is standing just behind you, leaning lazily against the doorway, arms crossed, one brow raised in interest.

Your breath halts.

There’s laughter again around the table, but your throat goes dry. Hana’s grinning at the perfect timing. “There he is,” she says, wiggling her brows. “Right on cue. We’re playing favorites.”

Wooyoung raises a brow. “Favorites?”

“Favorite physical thing about each other,” she explains, eyes sparkling. “And no cop-outs like smile or eyes. We’re talking the thing. The detail that ruins you. Your turn”

He chuckles under his breath, clearly amused. He doesn’t hesitate.

“Her neck.”

A beat of silence. His voice is smooth but deliberate, like the words were waiting in his mouth.

You feel your body go still.

Then he moves, slowly, stepping closer behind your chair, his hand brushing your shoulder as he comes to a stop. You’re suddenly very aware of how exposed your skin is where your top dips to your collarbone, of how warm the air feels even though he hasn’t touched you.

“She’s got this curve,” he says, quieter now, like he’s letting everyone else fade out. “Right here," His fingers trace the slope where your neck meets your shoulder, so lightly it barely counts as a touch. “Right where her hair rests.”

Then his tone shifts, warmer, quieter. Real.

“In the mornings,” he says, like he’s letting the rest of the room fall away, “when she’s still half-asleep and pulls her hair up without thinking. Stretching, yawning, no makeup, nothing, this part’s just exposed. The light hits it, and I swear to God-” He cuts himself off with a low exhale, shaking his head with a crooked smile. “It makes it really hard to be on time for anything.”

The silence that follows is a different kind of hush. Not teasing. Not performative.

It’s weighted. Personal.

Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t making any of that up. You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until he pulls back, barely.

“Plus,” he adds, a lazy grin playing on his lips, “it’s really unfair that you smell the way you do.”

“Okay, damn,” someone says from across the table, but you can’t even register who.

Wooyoung finally moves, slipping back into the seat beside you. But he doesn’t lean back, doesn’t settle into comfort like before. He sits just a little closer than he needs to. His thigh brushes yours. Warm. Steady. You don’t move.

The game rolls on, Hana gesturing to the couple across from you with a flourish, their answer met with giggles and teasing. But the background fades, soft, foggy, because you feel it. The weight of Wooyoung’s stare.

When you finally turn your head, you find him already watching you.

And everything in his face is different.

Gone is the cocky smile, the playful glint in his eye. He’s quiet now. Studying you, like he’s not sure where the line is anymore. Like maybe he doesn’t want to know.

And then, another gaze.

You catch it from the corner of your eye: your ex, sitting stiff at the far end of the table, his expression unreadable. He’s watching Wooyoung like a hawk, jaw tight, mouth set in a firm line.

Wooyoung senses it. You can feel the shift in him, the small breath he takes. The flicker of heat in his chest, like he might respond, say something, smirk just to provoke.

But he doesn’t.

Because it’s not about him anymore.

After a few more rounds of the game, you step into the hallway and let your back hit the wall with a quiet sigh. The noise from the living room still hums faintly behind you, laughter, the clink of glasses, someone shuffling a deck of cards. It’s warm in there, but your skin feels too tight. You just need a minute.

You close your eyes.

Footsteps approach, soft, familiar.

Wooyoung slips into the hallway like he’s done it a hundred times, like he always knows when you need the space. He falls in beside you, close but not crowding, his shoulder hovering just shy of yours as he leans against the wall.

“You always vanish when it gets too loud,” he says, his voice low.

You keep your eyes forward, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t vanish. I relocate.”

He hums. “Right. Into hallways. Or kitchen corners. Or that one time it was behind the couch.”

“That was one time.”

“It was still dramatic,” he teases, nudging your arm lightly. Your breath catches, just a little. It’s playful. It’s Wooyoung. But something about the way he talks makes your stomach flip.

“You look really pretty tonight.”

The words land like a spark, and your breath catches before you can help it. You blink up at him, startled.

“I-, what?”

He grins, slow and lopsided. “Just saying. I don’t think I told you earlier.”

You feel your face flush, warmth blooming across your cheeks, down your neck. You look away instantly, trying to mask it with a half-laugh.

“I’m honest,” he counters, still looking at you. You can feel it, the weight of his gaze, the way it lingers. “I mean, you always look good, but tonight…” His voice dips, softer now. “It’s kind of unfair.”

You glance away, suddenly hyperaware of how close he’s standing. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“Why not?” he asks, leaning just slightly toward you. “Is it that hard to believe? Do I need to be faking a relationship for you to believe it?”

You don’t answer. You’re not sure you can. Your heart’s already too loud in your ears.

He nudges your arm gently. “You know, for someone who lives with me, you’re really bad at accepting compliments.”

You try to play it off. “Maybe you just give too many.”

“Mm,” he muses. “Or maybe you’re just really easy to compliment.”

You let out a breathy sound somewhere between a scoff and a laugh, tucking your chin down in embarrassment. “Can you not?”

You finally glance at him, and he’s already watching you with that infuriatingly unreadable look, somewhere between playful and serious. Like he’s holding back.

He doesn’t say anything else for a second. He just looks at you.

And somehow, that says more than the rest.

You try not to smile. You fail.

Wooyoung pushes himself off the wall with a lazy stretch, then turns his body to face you, effectively placing his back toward the living room.

“Come back in when you’re ready,” he says softly, his voice carrying that usual teasing warmth. “You don’t have to rush. But I’ll be on my seat, being distractingly attractive… in case that helps.”

You almost laugh, but then your eyes drift past him.

Your stomach dips.

Your ex is standing just inside the living room, half-shadowed but unmistakably watching. His expression is unreadable, his eyes sharp and fixed directly on you.

“Wait,” you breathe, reaching out without thinking.

You grab Wooyoung’s shirt and pull him a little closer. He stumbles forward a step, surprised but not resisting. His brows furrow slightly in confusion as he looks down at you.

“Do you trust me?” you ask now, your voice quieter now. There’s a tremor in it, not fear, but urgency. Purpose.

Wooyoung’s expression shifts, softening. “Yes,” he says, instantly. “Of course.”

That’s all you need.

Your hands move quickly, one sliding up to the back of his neck, the other gripping the front of his shirt. You rise onto your toes and kiss him. Firm and deliberate. Lips meeting his in a way that leaves no room for questions. His mouth parts slightly in surprise, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in.

When you break the kiss just slightly, you don’t step back. You stay close, close enough that your lips graze his as you whisper, “He’s watchi-,”

You don’t get to finish. Wooyoung’s lips are on yours again before you even register, like they need to be. Like he doesn’t care about why you kissed him, or for who, but because he can’t stop now that you’ve let it happen.

This time it’s deeper. Hungrier.

You can’t help but deepen the kiss when he slides his tongue slightly into your mouth, and one of his hands slips down to your lower back, guiding you closer. The other lifts to your jaw, gentle but sure. l

You feel your back press lightly into the wall behind you as he moves with you, not rough, but insistent. The kind of kiss that drowns everything else out, conversation, footsteps, your ex’s presence across the room.

His lips part yours, his breath hot and heavy against your cheek between kisses. His grip tightens at your waist, grounding you. You respond instinctively, hands curling into his shirt, lips moving with his, matching every shift and tilt of his head.

It’s a performance. That’s how it started.

But it doesn’t feel like one anymore.

It feels like heat, like want, like a spark that caught fire the second you gave it permission. And he’s kissing you like he’s not planning to stop anytime soon.

And for just a second, you let yourself melt into it. Into him.

But then… it passes.

The air changes again.

You blink and glance over to the living room. Your ex is gone. Vanished back into the room. Wooyoung slows, then stops. His hands remain on you, his breath still a little uneven.

You pull back first, just enough to look at him.

His eyes are already on you. There’s something different there now, an emotion you haven’t seen from him before. Not just playfulness, not just comfort. Something heavier. Hungrier.

You force a small, awkward smile and drop your hands from his neck, stepping back just slightly. “Okay,” you say, clearing your throat. “I think that worked.”

Wooyoung doesn’t say anything for a second. He just studies you like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time. Then he nods, slow and unreadable, and finally, he smiles. But it’s not quite the same. Something about it is quieter. Almost reverent.

At the end of the night, shoes shuffle at the door. Coats rustle. The air is heavy with the kind of tired that follows too much wine and too much pretending.

“Get home safe, okay?” Hana says warmly, stepping toward you both as you’re about to leave. Her smile is soft, a little teasing. “You two are seriously adorable. Like… sickening. I love it.”

You laugh, a bit breathlessly, already halfway into your coat. But before you can say anything, Wooyoung’s arm snakes naturally around your waist, casual, confident. You feel his fingers press into your side, warm through the fabric.

“Thanks, Hana,” he says, flashing her a grin. “She keeps me in line.”

You roll your eyes and glance up at him, but the smile tugging at your lips is real, too real. “Barely,” you murmur, playing along.

His eyes flick to yours for a second. Just long enough to make your stomach twist.

Hana grins and gives you both a quick hug before stepping back into the house. “Bye, lovebirds.”

The door closes behind you.

The air outside bites cold against your skin.

And just like that, his arm drops from your waist. The performance ends.

Neither of you says a word as you walk to the curb. You don’t know if it’s the silence or the absence of his touch that makes the air feel heavier now, but it’s different.

The cab pulls up with a soft screech. He opens the door for you like always, waits for you to slide in, then follows without a word. The car is warm, too warm, and too quiet.

You're both staring straight ahead.

The streetlights flicker past, painting gold across his face. In the confined space, the silence between you buzzes, thick with something unspoken, something ignited hours ago that neither of you has dared to acknowledge.

The apartment door clicks shut behind you with a softness that feels far too loud in the quiet.

Coats are hung. Shoes are kicked off. The scent of his usual candle lingers in the air, citrus and something darker underneath. Normally comforting. Now it just makes your heart beat faster.

Wooyoung heads to the kitchen without a word. His shoulders are relaxed, but there’s something taut underneath it all. You hesitate in the hallway, watching him open the cabinet, sleeves pushed to his elbows, veins still prominent down his forearms from earlier, and you hate how you notice.

You drift into the kitchen slowly, lingering by the edge of the counter.

“So,” you offer, light and a little too bright, “that was fun, right? Peak acting performance. Someone give us Oscars.”

No answer. He fills the glass with water from the tap, moves with that same quiet ease, but doesn’t glance at you once.

You try again, a bit more playful. “Think we fooled them? I mean, your story about how we met really sold it. Ten out of ten commitment.”

He finally looks at you, just looks. And it’s a look that completely steals the breath from your chest. Calm, dark, unreadable. His eyes are locked on yours like he's waiting for you to crack first. And suddenly you're hyperaware of everything. How hot your cheeks feel, how your voice might've sounded too eager, how the silence seems to wrap around your body like a second skin.

You clear yours softly. “Anyway. Um. I’m gonna-, I think I’m just gonna head to bed.”

Still nothing from him.

You nod quickly. “Night.”

You turn, heart hammering now, and you’ve only made it a step or two down the hall when his voice floats to you, quiet, even.

“If you ever need a fake boyfriend again…”

You stop. Your fingers twitch at your side.

“…you know where to find me.”

You turn back toward him slowly. He’s still in the kitchen, leaning back against the counter, glass in hand, eyes unreadable, but fixed on you like he’s daring you to say something. To ask him what he means. To call him out.

You don’t.

You meet his gaze, and it’s only for a second, but something heavy passes between you, something weighty and unspoken that neither of you wants to name.

Then you nod.

Not a joking nod. Not one meant to brush things off. Just… quiet acknowledgement. You walk off with your heartbeat pounding in your ears, like your body knows something your mind hasn’t caught up with. You don’t look back, but you feel his eyes on you the whole way down the hall.

The door clicks softly shut behind you.

And for a long time, you just stand there in the silence of your room, pulse racing, breath held, trying to figure out what exactly that was.

You don’t even remember walking to your vanity. You’ve just been standing here, fingers curled loosely along the edge, eyes locked on your reflection like it might give you answers. But all it gives you is the echo of him. His words. His gaze. His lips on yours. The way your body reacted like it knew something you didn’t.

There’s a knock.

A soft one.

You straighten up fast, like you’re guilty of something. “Come in.”

The door creaks open behind you.

You meet his gaze through the mirror as he strolls in, easy and casual, like it’s the most natural thing in the world for him to be here, in your space, late at night.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching you.

You manage a breath. “Not tired?”

His shoulders lift in the faintest shrug. “Not really.”

Then silence again.

But it’s not awkward, it’s thick. Charged.

“I was thinking about something,” he finally says, his voice smooth, a little playful.

You glance at him in the mirror, trying not to let your pulse jump. “Yeah? About what?”

Wooyoung pushes off the frame, making his way toward you at an unhurried pace. “You’re better at this whole fake relationship thing than you give yourself credit for.”

You attempt a shrug. “Just playing along.”

A soft laugh leaves him. “Mm. Sure.”

He walks further into the room. Not quickly. Not even directly toward you. He slows as he passes by your bed, eyes roaming lazily over the space like he’s trying to memorize it. But you know that’s not what this is.

He’s letting the silence stretch.

He’s letting you squirm.

You glance at him through the mirror, just as he finally makes his way behind you.

You don’t move.

You can’t.

He stops right behind you, not touching, but close. You keep your eyes locked on the mirror, but it’s no use. He’s everywhere now. In your space. In your breath.

“And the things you said tonight,” he says, voice soft but pointed. “Those were part of the act too?”

You try to keep your tone even. “What things?”

He tilts his head. “The part where you said you like my hands. That you stare at them when I’m not looking.”

You freeze just slightly.

"I-, uhm... I dont-..." You glance down instinctively, suddenly very aware of your own hands fidgeting.

“Funny,” he says softly, “You think I haven’t noticed? When I’m cooking. When I’m fixing something around the apartment. You always get quiet.”

His hand lifts, fingertips brushing your hair gently off your shoulder. You shiver as he lowers his voice again.

“I meant what I said, by the way,” he says. “I do love your neck.”

You don’t answer, but he doesn’t need you to.

“In the mornings,” he murmurs. “When you’re in the kitchen, still half asleep, standing by the window. Your head tilts just a little. That soft little spot here,” he gestures near your collarbone, but still doesn’t touch. “barely covered.”

You’re not breathing properly now.

“And I try,” he continues, “I really try to keep it together, but you standing there like that…? That does something to me.”

You let out a slow, shaky breath, shoulders dropping ever so slightly.

His fingers trail lightly along the back of your neck, not quite touching skin yet, but enough to make you lean into it. He steps in fully now, his hands finding your waist, and you instinctively lean back into him.

And then, finally, his mouth brushes your neck. Gentle. Slow. A teasing press that turns into something deeper. You feel the smile against your skin as he kisses again, and again, lower this time, until your knees threaten to give.

You gasp, just a little, and he smiles against your throat.

“You know,” he starts, voice casual, “if this wasn’t fake…”

Your breath hitches.

“…I would’ve done a lot of things differently tonight.”

You swallow hard. “Like what?”

He trails one finger along your side, feather-light, just enough to make you squirm.

“If this wasn’t fake…” he begins, like it’s casual, like he’s not setting you on fire, “I wouldn’t have let you leave my side once tonight. I would’ve had my hand on you the whole dinner, your thigh, your back, the curve of your hip, just to remind you who you belong to.”

Your stomach tightens.

He brushes his fingers lightly along your sides, not quite ticklish, just maddeningly slow.

“I’d bring you home,” he continues, lips nearly brushing the shell of your ear, “take your hand, lead you to your room like I’ve been waiting to all night. And I wouldn’t rush it. No pretending, no performance. Just you. Me. And the dress I’ve been dying to take off you.”

He trails his knuckles lightly down your side, slow and reverent.

“I’d unzip it real slow…”

You hear the faintest shift of fabric.

“Let it slip off your shoulders while I kissed right here…” he presses a single, feather-light kiss to the side of your neck, “and here…” another just below your ear, “until you were shivering.”

Your eyes flutter closed, and he watches your reflection like he’s memorizing the moment.

“Do you want me to stop?” he whispers just below your ear.

You’re at a loss for words but you’re hungry for more. You shake your head as you swallow, but realise how dry your mouth is. His hands slide up your sides, warm, sure, with a smile on his face.

“If it hadn't been fake, I’d press you against this vanity,” he goes on, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Make you watch as I touched every inch of your skin.”

You can’t look away from the mirror, from the image of his hands exploring you, slow and confident, like he’s known this body forever.

“I’d hold your hips right here.” His hands grip you firmly, positioning your body with ease. “And I’d make sure the only thing you remembered from tonight was how I made you feel.”

"Yeah?" you manage to say, too invested in everything he's saying.

“If this wasn’t fake…” he murmurs, his hands still on you, tracing the curve of your body as if he owns it. “I’d make you see stars. I’d fuck you right here, make you forget you were ever pretending.”

You let out a light gasp, feeling your heart in your throat.

He presses against you, his hand finding its way to your neck, just enough to make you tilt your head back, exposing more of that sensitive skin. He breathes softly against it.

“You’d be mine. I’d make sure you knew it, every fucking inch of you.”

You’re a breath away from crumbling, your chest rising and falling in rapid succession as you realize how much you want him, how easily you’re giving into the fantasy.

His lips are still close to your ear, breath warm, voice impossibly soft.

“But then again…” he murmurs, the barest smile in his tone, “this is all fake… isn’t it?”

You stiffen.

He lets out a low chuckle, his nose skimming the line of your jaw as he continues, casually cruel in the way only he can be. “None of this would actually happen. I mean, why would it?”

"Why not?" you barely let out a whisper.

His fingers drag slowly down your sides, feather-light, torturously teasing. He’s pretending to think, pretending to be thoughtful, but he knows exactly what he’s doing. “You and me, coming home after a night like that, all dressed up, all tense and wired… and me just…” His hand glides over your hips. “Peeling you out of this dress and fucking you over your vanity?”

He hums, tilting his head. “Seems a little far-fetched, don’t you think?”

You inhale sharply, your body practically trembling from restraint.

He leans in again, lips just at your neck now. “You haven’t said much,” he whispers, his hand brushing lower, just enough to make you flinch. “Should I stop?” His fingers press gently into your thighs now, possessive even in their softness. “Because we’re faking it, right?” He lets out a slow, amused breath. “And I’d hate to make things confusing.”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry, your skin flushed everywhere.

“Unless you want me to keep going,” he murmurs, eyes locking with yours in the reflection, darker now, heavy with intent. “But you’d have to say it, sweetheart.”

His fingers trail between your legs, light as a threat.

You grip the edge of the vanity with white knuckles, heart pounding in your throat. “Wooyoung…”

His hand slides up, over your stomach, between your breasts, up to your throat, never squeezing, just there. Possessive. Protective. His lips trail along your shoulder, just above the strap of your dress, while the other hand finally finds the zipper.

“I’d take you like this,” he says lowly, kissing the back of your neck. “Make you look at yourself while I ruin you, slow… deep… mine.”

Your knees nearly give out.

He presses forward just a little more, breath ragged now against your skin. “But maybe we should stop.”

You whimper, actually whimper, and shake your head.

“No, please,” you whisper, your voice breaking apart like the last wall crumbling. "Don't stop."

His hands freeze for just a moment, then he smirks, low and satisfied.

“There she is.”

His smirk deepens, wicked, triumphant. He doesn’t say a word.

Then, with deliberate force, he turns you.

Your back meets the cool edge of the vanity. Before you can fully catch your breath, his veiny hand is already on your throat, firm but careful, guiding your head back just enough to look up at him.

You gasp from the way it makes your knees go weak, the way it makes your heart stutter in your chest.

His gaze drops to your lips. Then slowly, almost torturously, he leans in, breath brushing your mouth, letting you feel the heat of it before he claims you.

The kiss is devastating. Nothing sweet. Nothing soft.

His mouth crashes into yours like he’s starved for it, tongue, teeth, everything. He takes and takes, groaning low in his throat the moment you moan against him. That tiny, helpless sound makes his fingers tighten slightly on your neck, his other hand sliding possessively down your side to your hip.

“God, you sound so pretty when you do that,” he breathes between kisses, voice wrecked.

You melt under him, into him, letting him press you back against the vanity like he wants to fuse you to it. He breaks the kiss with a growl, breath hot against your lips, then suddenly, he spins you again.

You can’t speak. You can’t think. All you can do is feel his hands on your hips, feel the way his body aligns with yours so perfectly it’s almost cruel.

“Still pretending?” he asks, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Or can I finally touch you like I’ve wanted to all fucking night?”

You nod before he even finishes the sentence. "Yes-, yes please," you whimper, hips tilting back into his, head tipping to give him more of your neck.

He chuckles under his breath.

“Thought so.”

You don’t have a chance to respond before his hands are on you again, more urgent this time. His fingers find the zipper of your dress, and he pulls it down, letting you feel every inch of his focus on you.

The dress slides off your body, pooling at your feet, and he’s quick to step back just enough to take you in. His eyes rake over you like he’s starving. You stand there, vulnerable, under his gaze, and you can’t help the way your body reacts to him. The heat between your legs intensifies, the ache in your chest growing stronger.

“Fuck,” he breathes, eyes raking over you from behind. “You’re a goddamn dream.”

You gasp as he presses you into the vanity, your body trapped between the cool wood and the heat of him. His hands slide down to your thighs, pulling them apart slowly, giving him access, making sure you feel every moment of it. His voice drops to a velvet growl. “I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good, baby. Right here.” His lips press behind your ear again, “Tell me you want it,” he demands.

And you can’t hold back anymore. The tension in your body snaps, and you nod, your breath quickening. “I want it.”

He smirks, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Good girl.”

His hand presses firmly between your thighs, rubbing you through the soaked fabric with just enough pressure to make your legs weaken beneath you.

He chuckles against your skin when he feels you tremble. “Already this wet for me, baby?”

You nod helplessly, and his free hand slides up your back, tangling in your hair, pulling your head to the side to expose more of your neck.

His teeth graze your pulse point, and you moan again, louder this time. "Look in the mirror as I touch you."

Your breath stutters, lashes fluttering as your gaze locks on the reflection. “Fuck, Wooyoung…” you whisper, already unsteady, your thighs trembling under his stare alone.

Then, with no warning, he hooks a finger in the waistband of your panties and drags them down your thighs, letting them fall. Cool air brushes against your wetness, and your whole body jolts in response.

“Jesus-” you exhale, shivering.

His fingers slide through your slick folds, slow and deliberate, just enough pressure to make you twitch. You moan, sharp and helpless, eyes fluttering closed for a second until he tuts softly beside your ear.

“Eyes open, sweetheart. I said look.”

You obey, forcing your eyes to the mirror again, and the sight of you, glowing, needy, lips parted, legs trembling, draws a sound from deep in your throat.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, kissing just below your ear. “Let me take care of you.”

Then, he pushes in, just one finger at first, thick and deliberate. He doesn’t rush. He presses in knuckle by knuckle, watching your face in the mirror as your lips part and your back arches. The way your body welcomes him makes his cock twitch under the fabrics.

“There we go,” he whispers, dark and pleased. “So fucking tight.”

He gives you a moment to adjust, curling that single finger just right, then pulls back, almost all the way, before pushing in again, deeper this time. You whimper, soft and broken.

“Such a good girl for me,” he murmurs, dragging his lips along your jaw. “You let me in so easily.”

When he slides in a second finger, your knees nearly give out, but he catches you, pressing his chest to your back and flattening his palm over your belly.

You cry out, raw and desperate, body jerking in his arms.

“Right there,” you gasp. “Fuck, right there-, don’t stop, please don’t stop-”

His lips trace your jaw, voice molten.

“Good girl,” he whispers, moving his fingers just the way you need. “Let me hear you.”

And you do.

Loud, unfiltered, desperate for more.

Your hands grip the edge of the vanity. He watches in the mirror as your face twists in pleasure, breath shuddering every time he pumps into you. He doesn’t relent. His fingers are steady, coaxing, relentless, fucking you precisely, like he’s memorizing every reaction.

“Tell me how it feels,” he demands softly.

“So good,” you breathe. “It’s-, god, Wooyoung-”

“That’s right,” he cuts in, curling his fingers deeper. “Say my name like that.”

He shifts just slightly, just enough to hit the spot that sends stars bursting behind your eyes, and keeps that rhythm. Over and over.

“Come on,” he whispers against your ear, his breath hot and ragged. “I can feel it. You’re right there, aren’t you?”

You nod, desperately, eyes fluttering shut.

But he doesn’t let you. His free hand curls around your throat, not squeezing, just holding, guiding you back to the mirror.

“No. Look,” he growls, his voice low and possessive. “I want you to see how good I make you feel. How pretty you look falling apart just for me.”

You force your eyes open, lips parted, eye makeup already smudged, breath shaking, and what you see unravels you: his body pressed to yours, his hand moving between your legs like he owns you, his gaze fixed entirely on your reflection.

The sight of it, the feeling of him everywhere, inside and around you, tips you over the edge.

You cry out, helpless and raw, as your body clenches hard around his fingers. He doesn’t slow. He works you through it, murmuring praise against your ear.

“That’s it,” he groans. “That’s my good girl. So fucking beautiful when you come for me.”

Your hips jerk, grinding into his palm as your orgasm pulses through you, long and overwhelming. When the waves finally ease, your body limp and trembling, he slowly withdraws his fingers, slick and shining.

You shiver, eyes fluttering shut as he presses his hips against you, the thick hardness of him pressing against your thighs.

He suddenly guides you forward, one hand on your back, he presses you down firmly, bending you over.

“Stay just like that,” he commands, stepping back slightly to admire the view, your ass pushed out, your eyes wide in the mirror, lips already parted. “Fuck. Look at you.”

Then you feel it, his hands on your thighs, spreading them, dragging his fingers slowly along your skin. His shirt hangs open, wrinkled and useless now, clinging to one shoulder, exposing his toned chest, flushed and rising with every harsh breath. His palm presses to the center of your back, bending you over the vanity with a firm, unyielding push.

“Stay like that,” he murmurs, voice low and dark. “I want you spread out. Pretty. Obedient.”

You obey without thinking, chest against the cool surface. Then, with excruciating slowness, he undoes his belt. The sound alone makes your breath hitch. He keeps his eyes locked on yours in the mirror as he pushes his pants down just enough and frees himself, fingers wrapping around his cock like he’s been aching for this.

And when you see him… you go still.

He’s thick, long, flushed and heavy in his hand, already glistening at the tip.

Your gasp escapes before you can stop it.

“Oh?” he smirks, stroking himself lazily, intentionally, letting your eyes drink in every inch. “Surprised?”

You hear the sound of him spitting in his hand, stroking himself once, twice, and then that thick, hard length is sliding between your folds, teasing your entrance.

His hand slides into your hair, not rough, but controlling, guiding your eyes back to the mirror.

“Eyes on the mirror,” he commands, hand fisting your hair just enough to lift your gaze. “You’re gonna watch what it looks like when your best friend finally fucks you.”

Then, with one slow, devastating thrust, he sinks into you.

Deep.

Possessive.

Claiming.

He groans behind you, head falling forward, one hand gripping your hip tight enough to bruise.

“God-, fuck, you’re big,” you gasp, hands scrambling to grip the edge of the vanity.

He pulls out halfway, then slams back in, hard enough to make the vanity rattle.

You gasp, fingers scrambling for the edge, and he laughs behind you, breathless.

“More,” you cry, pushing back into him, shaking. “Don’t stop-, fuck, please don’t stop.”

“You want more?” he hisses, grabbing a fistful of your hair and pulling your head up so you’re forced to look at yourself in the mirror. “Look at this mess. Look what I’m doing to you.”

He slams into you harder. Filthy. Relentless. His palm lands on your ass, then rubs over the sting like he owns every inch of your body.

Then he snaps, hips continually slamming into you with a rhythm that steals the breath from your lungs. Over and over again. The sound of skin against skin echoes, obscene and raw, as he pounds into you like he’s lost all restraint. He leans over you suddenly, chest pressing to your back. His breath fans hot across your skin as his lips find your shoulder.

He kisses it once. Then again, slower.

“You gonna come like this?” he demands, voice thick and breathless. “Bent over, ass red, stuffed full of me?”

“Yes-,”

But he doesn’t let you come.

Not yet.

Just when your body tenses, right on the edge, he pulls out halfway and stills.

You let out a sob, raw and desperate, collapsing onto your elbows against the vanity.

“No…” you whimper, voice trembling. “Why’d you stop?”

“Because I said so,” he growls behind you, breathing hard. “And if you’re mine now… you come when I let you.”

A sharp slap lands on your ass, the heat blooming instantly, making you cry out and he grins at the way your thighs twitch, how your body tries to grind back into him without thinking.

“Oh, you like that,” he mutters, dragging his palm over the curve of your ass, then gripping both cheeks hard, spreading you open as he groans. “Look at this view. Fucking perfect. So pretty and messy for me.”

His hand grabs your wrist, dragging you upright, spinning you to face him. His mouth crashes into yours in a messy, heated kiss, all teeth and tongue and breathless need. You barely have time to cling to him before he’s walking you backward toward the bed.

“You think I was gonna finish you over a vanity?” he growls against your lips. “Not a fucking chance.”

You fall back onto the mattress with a gasp, legs spread slightly, chest heaving, body already trembling from the way he’s used you, and he just stands there for a second, looking down at you like he’s never seen anything more perfect.

Then his eyes narrow.

“Spread your legs wider.”

You do, instantly.

His shirt is half off, a desperate tug of fabric, and as he pulls his pants fully down, he’s not wasting any time to let you get a full look at him. His cock stands heavy, dripping with need, leaking as he strokes himself with a low growl.

You open your mouth, but the words die as he moves closer, kneeling on the edge of the bed. His hand wraps around your ankle and drags you toward him, his grip firm, claiming. He leans over you, one hand planted beside your head, the other dragging slowly along your inner thigh.

“Tell me,” he demands, brushing his nose along your jaw. “Did it turn you on? Knowing he saw you with me? Knowing he saw how badly I wanted to rip that dress off you?”

“Yes,” you whisper, breath hitching.

Then he’s kissing you again, slower this time but just as possessive. His hand wraps behind your neck, holding you in place as he takes what he wants, savoring your reactions, feeding off every moan that escapes you.

“Look at this,” he mutters, gaze locked between your legs. “So swollen. So wet. All for me.”

His hand drags slowly down your stomach, the heat of his palm branding every inch of skin it touches. It’s not hurried, no, it’s maddeningly slow, his fingers grazing along the dip below your navel, making your muscles jump with anticipation.

Then his fingers reach your folds, gliding through your slickness, deliberately lazy. You twitch under his touch, hips tilting up instinctively.

And then-

He slaps your pussy. Open palm. Quick.

The sound cracks through the room, sharp and obscene. The sting hits you a second later, blooming heat across your center, and your whole body jolts, legs trembling.

“Fuck-!” you cry out, back arching off the bed. “Wooyoung-,”

He smirks down at you, all dark satisfaction. “Oh yeah,” he says, eyes heavy with lust. “You liked that.”

Before you can catch your breath, he does it again. A second slap, just as sharp. The impact makes your thighs jerk apart, a cry tearing from your throat.

He moans, actually moans at the sight of you coming undone. “God, you’re so fucking hot when you take it like that.”

Your body is pulsing, burning, begging.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, breath hot as he leans closer, dragging two fingers through your folds again. “Dripping. You get this wet from just my hand?”

He rubs your clit in tight, quick circles, pressure unforgiving but just right, sending sparks up your spine. The contrast of pain and pleasure makes your head spin.

Your hands grip the sheets hard enough to cramp. “Fuck, Wooyoung-, don’t stop-”

He chuckles low and hungry. “Didn’t plan on it.”

With one smooth motion, he shifts, settling between your thighs. His cock, thick, flushed, already leaking, presses against your entrance, the tip catching on your slick folds. He rubs himself through your arousal, slow and teasing, just enough to make your hips chase him.

You try to lift your hips, to take him in, but he pins you back down, eyes wild.

“No. I get to fuck you when I say so,” he growls, mouth crashing down onto yours, kissing you hard, deep, messy, like he’s starving. Like your mouth is the only thing that’s ever tasted good.

When he finally thrusts in, it’s a single, brutal stroke, burying himself to the hilt and knocking the air right out of your lungs.

“Fuck,-” you gasp, eyes rolling back.

He doesn’t give you a second to adjust before pulling back and slamming into you again, the force of it leaving you breathless.

He doesn’t stop. He grabs your wrists, pins them above your head, body caging you in like a predator. His mouth finds yours, kissing you like he’s drowning, messy and hot and desperate. Teeth, tongue, breathless moans between every clashing movement.

“Don’t you dare look away,” he growls against your lips. “Look at me while I fuck you.”

So you do.

His pupils are blown, his hair a mess, sweat on his brow, mouth parted. But it’s his eyes, the way he’s looking at you like you’re all he’s ever wanted, and that makes your heart slam against your ribs.

You’re gasping, crying out, and he swallows every sound, his kiss never softening, only growing more frenzied as his hips pound into you.

“You feel that?” he pants into your mouth. “That’s mine. This pussy’s mine.”

He lets go of your wrists just long enough to grab your thigh, throw your leg over his shoulder, driving deeper, angle harsher. His grip is punishing, like he needs to hold you down to keep from losing his mind.

“Shit-,” you sob, clinging to him now. “You’re so deep-, I can’t-,”

“You can,” he growls. “Oh, fuck, baby-, that’s it,” he smirks, sweat dripping down from his neck. “You feel so good-, so fucking tight, so wet, I could stay buried in this pussy forever.”

He drops his head to your neck, biting and sucking bruises into your skin, marking you as his hands move constantly, palming your breast, gripping your hip, dragging across your thigh, he can’t stop touching you.

“That’s it,” he pants. “Let me make you feel so fucking good.”

You clench around him and he nearly loses it, thrusts getting sloppier, harder, messier. He grabs your jaw, forces your eyes to his.

“Please-, Wooyoung, I’m close-”

“Yeah? Let me hear you. Come for me. Come on my cock, baby, let me feel you.”

And it hits you, fast and deep, your whole body tensing as pleasure crashes through you like a wave you couldn’t stop even if you tried.

Wooyoung watches it take you, and it wrecks him.

“God, baby,” he growls, suddenly losing all rhythm, all control. “You feel so-, fuck, I’m not gonna last-,”

You reach up, grabbing his face with both hands, forcing him to look at you just like he did to you. “Don’t stop. Give it to me.”

That does it.

With a strangled moan of your name, he buries himself in you with a final, desperate thrust. His whole body tenses as he gives in, letting himself fall apart.

You can’t help but look at his face as that wave of pleasure overtakes him. His mouth is parted, lips trembling with the sounds he can’t hold back, brows drawn together in a tight knot like he’s fighting to stay grounded. The muscles in his jaw twitch, veins standing out along his neck and arms, his whole body straining as he spills everything into you.

When he finally exhales, it’s a ragged, shaky breath, and his body slowly relaxes, chest rising and falling heavily as he tries to come back down. He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t say a word. He just lowers his weight over you gently, careful not to crush you, his face pressing into the crook of your neck.

You can still feel the warmth of him inside you, the lingering tension of release pulsing between your bodies.

Then he lifts his head, just barely, and looks down at you, really looks. His gaze roams over your flushed cheeks, kiss-bitten lips, the way you’re still dazed and boneless beneath him.

And then he grins. Slow, smug, wicked.

“God,” he says, voice low and pleased.

You blink up at him, heart stuttering. “What?”

He doesn’t answer right away, just lets his eyes drag over you like he’s memorizing everything. The mess he’s made of you. The way you still haven’t caught your breath.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says simply, but it lands heavy in your chest. “Like… stupid beautiful.”

Heat rushes to your face. You instinctively turn your head, trying to hide the way your lips curl, the way you can’t even look at him right now.

But that just makes him laugh, low and breathless.

“Oh no,” he murmurs, fingers catching your chin, turning your face back to his. “don’t get all shy on me now. Not after the things I just did to you.”

“Wooyoung-“ you try to protest, flustered, but it’s useless.

He shifts suddenly, his hand pinning your wrist to the bed as he leans in, eyes blazing. “Nope,” he growls playfully.

When his mouth crashes into yours, it’s not sweet or teasing, it’s intense. Deep and all-consuming, like he’s starving for you. His tongue claims yours, every movement deliberate, dominant.

When he finally pulls back, barely an inch, his lips are swollen and his voice is wrecked.

“I’m never gonna get enough of you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Never.”

***

You wake up slowly, the soft light of the morning creeping into the room, bathing everything in a warm glow. His arm is still draped over you, his breath steady and calm. You shift gently, trying not to wake him, but you can’t help but linger for a moment, watching his peaceful expression. He looks so content, so relaxed, last night still feels like a dream.

Carefully, you lift his arm from your waist and slip out of bed. As you stand, you glance back at him. His face is soft, his black hair a little messy, and the sight of him, even in his sleep, makes your heart flutter. You try to suppress the smile that tugs at your lips, but you can’t help it.

Quietly, you make your way to the kitchen. The cool air of the morning greets you as you open the cabinet and pull out his cereal box.

You’re perched on the kitchen counter, bare legs dangling, quietly munching on a bowl of Wooyoung’s ridiculous neon-colored cereal. The box sits beside you, obnoxiously bright. You’d teased him for years about how awful it looked, and secretly craved it every time.

You hear the soft shuffle of feet before you see him.

Wooyoung emerges from the hallway, shirtless, his hair a messy halo of waves, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looks like a dream and somehow worse for your heart in the morning light. A familiar ache stirs in your chest. This is your best friend. Your roommate. The same guy who left his laundry in the hallway and screamed at horror games.

The same guy who had his hands all over you last night and made you come like no one else.

“Morning, roomie,” he mutters, voice low and rough, smirking when his eyes catch yours. They linger. “Is that my cereal?”

You nod, trying not to choke on it now that your mouth’s gone dry. “It was calling to me.”

He walks right up to you, stepping between your legs like he’s done it a thousand times. Only now, there’s nothing innocent about the way he crowds your space.

You glance down, gripping the bowl a little tighter. Your voice comes out quieter than you meant. “You, uh… want some?”

He doesn’t answer.

Just takes the spoon from your hand, still warm from your touch, and scoops up a bite like it’s nothing. His other hand settles on your thigh, casual but firm. You forget how to breathe.

He hums like it’s gourmet. “God, I love this shit.”

You try to roll your eyes, but it’s weak. He’s too close. Too warm. Too real.

And then, without warning, he leans in close, mouth brushing your ear.

“Good morning, beautiful,”

Before you can say anything else, before your heart can fully flip in your chest, he kisses you.

It’s soft at first, like he’s testing the waters, but then it deepens, and the world around you fades. There’s no rush, no frantic need, just the slow, steady push and pull of lips, the quiet hum of connection between you two, something that’s always been there but is only now being acknowledged.

His lips linger just long enough to make your stomach twist in the best way before he pulls back, barely.

You stare at him, still a little dazed. He smirks.

“What?” he says, all fake innocence. “You gonna yell at me for stealing your cereal or for kissing you?”

You eye him, lips twitching. “Still weighing my options.”

He shrugs, hands still warm where they’re resting on your thighs. “Take your time. I’ve got all morning.”

“You’re literally the most impatient person I know,” you mutter.

“Mm,” he hums, brushing his thumb just under the hem of your shorts, right where it makes your breath catch. “Not when it comes to you. I like watching you squirm too much.”

You exhale a laugh, trying not to give him the satisfaction. He just grins wider, enjoying seeing you like this.

It’s completely unfair, the way he looks so relaxed. Like this, you and him and whatever happened last night, isn’t a big deal. Like waking up tangled together, touching each other like that, was just the natural next step.

And maybe… maybe it was.

“You know,” he adds after a beat, glancing at your bowl again, “I thought about that last night.”

“What, the cereal?” you ask, trying to level your voice.

He nods, all faux-innocent. “Had this whole internal debate. Go finish the box or save you some.”

You squint at him. “You didn’t even eat any.”

“Exactly.” He grins. “Fell asleep. Dreamt about it. Woke up, and there you were. Stealing the first bowl like some greedy little gremlin.”

You scoff. “Wow. Rude.”

“And hungry,” he adds, stealing your spoon without looking. He takes another bite, still watching you, chewing like he’s thinking about sin. “Might be craving something a little messier, though.”

You scoff, but your thighs tense around his hips, pulling him in closer. He feels it. Of course he does.

You think that’s the end of it, but then he tilts his head a little, voice dropping. “Also, you were real cute sneaking around out here like I couldn’t hear you. Hair all messy. Wearing nothing but your-”

“Stop,” you cut in, already feeling the heat crawl up your neck.

He just laughs, clearly enjoying this way too much. “I’m just saying. Round two almost happened right then and there.”

You shoot him a look. “I was literally getting cereal.”

He leans in, lips brushing your cheek again before he murmurs, “Yeah, and you still looked hot.”

You go quiet, too aware of his mouth near yours and the fact that he’s still standing between your knees like he belongs there.

You open your mouth, no idea what you’re even going to say, but he’s already leaning in.

And then he kisses you again, easy, unhurried, like it’s just what he does now. Like kissing you is second nature.

And god, maybe it is.

The rooftop is already humming when you step out of the elevator, heat clings to your skin, music spills into the open sky, and a blur of voices laughs like nothing in the world could touch them. You haven’t planned on coming tonight. You didn’t even come here to have fun. You came here to forget. To get out. To breathe without everything collapsing on top of you.

Back home, everything had started unraveling. Bills stacked on the counter, messages piling in that you didn’t want to read, expectations pressed into your skin so tightly they’d left bruises. People needed things from you. Constantly. Quietly. And if you slowed down for even a second, the whole system started to fail.

So you ran.

You packed a bag, booked a one-way plane ticket, and told everyone it was a “short break.” A getaway for the entire summer. You didn’t tell them that the idea of staying one more day in that life made your stomach twist into knots.

Now you’re here.

A few days into your stay in this town, visiting your cousin, living in a random Airbnb you just managed to afford. Here, no one knows what you’re running from. And for the summer, that’s exactly the point.

“Holy shit, you actually came.” your cousin’s voice snaps you back. She weaves through a group of people and pulls you into a loose, alcohol-warm hug. “I was starting to think you chickened out.”

You offer a weak smile. “You said there’d be tequila.”

“There’s also gin, cheap beer, and a guy puking off the fire escape. We have everything.” She shoves a cup into your hand and links your arms, dragging you into the heat.

You force a laugh and let her drag you toward her friends. The usual suspects. Half of them you met last weekend. The other half look like they belong in a music video, glossed lips, messed-up curls, tattoos they’d lie about the meaning of. Music thuds through the speakers. A girl danced barefoot on a bench with glitter in her hair and zero fear in her eyes.

You want to be her. You want to be anything but yourself for a while.

You’re halfway through your first drink when something, someone, catches your eye.

Not from the center of the party. From the edge. Leaning against the low wall like he belonged to another world. Half-lit by the string lights overhead. One boot hooked over the other. A cigarette hanging from his lips, the orange tip flaring each time he breathes.

His jacket is black, leather, worn in like a second skin. He wears it open over a faded black shirt that clings to his chest in the heat. His hands, veins, rings, knuckles, looked like they knew how to break things. Dark hair curled around his ears like he hadn’t bothered to style it. And his face? Unbothered.

He isn’t looking at anyone. Not watching. Not performing. Just existing.

Your cousin follows your gaze, and when her eyes land on him, then roll her eyes before her expression shifts into something like caution. “Yeah,” she says, low. “That’s Wooyoung.”

You blink. “Who?”

She gives you a look. “You haven’t heard about him?”

You shake your head, eyes drifting back to the guy in question.

Another friend chimes in, voice already tipsy: “He’s bad news.”

“He’s been here forever,” your cousin says. “Born reckless. Drives like a lunatic. Hooked up with half the people on this roof and ghosted the rest.”

“Wrecked his car last year racing out by the docks,” someone else adds, cracking open a beer. “Didn’t even flinch. Climbed out with blood on his hands and laughed.”

You glance at him again. He just tips the bottle to his lips, throat working, cigarette still balanced between his fingers like a forgotten afterthought. His jaw is sharp, and the curve of his mouth looks like it only knows how to smirk or sneer. And when his eyes scan the room, they land on you.

It’s not subtle.

He watches like he’s already bored of the outcome, like he knows exactly what happens when he looks at someone long enough. Like he’s already counted to three and you’re about to fall.

But you hold his stare. You don’t smile. Don’t flinch. Let him look. 

And then you look away.

Your cousin touches your arm. “Don’t even think about it.”

“I’m not.”

“You’re so thinking about it.”

You turn away, take another drink, and try to pretend you don't feel that pull. That spark. That quiet ache for something reckless.

But you do. And you’re not here to be safe.

A little later you drift away from the group. You feel him before you see him. You glance sideways and he’s already there, leaning a little too casually against the cooler, cigarette behind one ear, that reckless grin barely tugging at his mouth like he’s doing you a favor by showing up.

Wooyoung.

Even if you didn’t already hear whispers about him, the kind that circle like smoke, you’d know. You’d know by the way he moves like he owns the room without touching it. The kind of man who thinks he doesn’t need to ask.

“You look like you could use another,” he says, chin-tilting toward your near-empty cup. “Let me grab you one.”

You don’t answer at first. You just look at him. Not up or down, not obvious, but right in the eyes. He’s used to curiosity, flirtation, maybe even awe. You give him something else.

Nothing.

And then, a soft, almost polite: “No.”

His smile quirks. “You sure?”

“Very.”

He laughs under his breath, gaze dipping once, quick. “Tough crowd.”

You don’t smile. You don’t frown either. Just turn slightly toward the bar, like you’ve already dismissed him. “I’m not thirsty,” you add. Cool. Flat.

He shifts closer, not enough to crowd, just enough to be felt. “What about a ride, then? Later. I could show you around. You new here, right?”

You blink up at him, head tilting like you’re thinking. For half a second, you let him think you might say yes. And then…

“No again.” You take a sip from your cup, slow. Letting the silence linger between you as you let him try to read you. You smile then, just the corners of your lips, like a secret he doesn’t get to know. “Thanks, though,” you murmur, already turning away. You walk back into the crowd, eyes ahead, leaving behind the heat of him, the weight of his stare burning a hole into your back.

It’s late now. The rooftop has thinned, half the crowd gone, music lower, conversations quieter, messier. You’re near the edge again, drink long gone, and the sky bleeding into deep navy when you feel him behind you.

You don’t turn. You wait.

“You always say no that easy?” he says, and the way his voice grazes the shell of your ear makes your spine straighten just slightly.

You turn then, slow, like it costs you nothing. And there he is. His mouth is quirked like he’s in on some joke, but his eyes are sharp, focused entirely on you. He’s even prettier up close. Prettier in the way knives are, sharp and gleaming and made to draw blood.

“I’m heading out,” he adds, casual. Like this is nothing. Like you’re just another option. “Want a ride?”

You want to get in his car. Want to see how fast he drives when there’s no one telling him to slow down. You want to feel the engine roar under your feet, his voice slick in your ear, want to taste what danger actually feels like when it’s not a metaphor.

But you also want to see what he’ll do when he doesn’t get what he wants the first time. So you take a beat. Let the silence stretch. Your gaze drags down his body and back up again, slow enough to make sure he feels it. Then you look him dead in the eye.

“Maybe.”

You don’t wait for his reaction. You just turn, hips swaying, and make your way back to your friends. And you feel his eyes on your back the entire walk across the roof.

It’s late. The party’s over. The rooftop has emptied, music cut off mid-song, and everyone’s filtered into rides or rideshares or stumbled off into the night together.

“Text me when you get home, alright?” your cousin says, pulling you in for a quick hug before she disappears into the uber with the last of the stragglers.

“Yeah, yeah,” you mumble, waving her off as the door shuts behind her and they drive off.

And just like that, the noise is gone. The music. The bodies. Now it’s just you. Quiet. Cool night air on your bare legs. Streetlights blinking over cracked sidewalks. You check your phone, four minutes until your Uber. You lean back against the brick wall. 

And then you hear it.

That engine.

It purrs low, like a warning or a promise, and you look up just as the black sports car pulls up to the curb. Same matte finish. Same cocky presence. He’s behind the wheel, of course he is, one arm slung lazily over the door, dark hair ruffled, eyes hidden under his lashes like he’s still half-bored, half-waiting.

Your stomach twists. In a good way. You were hoping he’d try again.

But you don’t show it. You keep your expression smooth, brows lifted just slightly in mock surprise.

“Y’know,” he says, voice deep and seemingly unbothered. “for someone who says no so much, you sure know how to look like someone who would say yes.”

You smirk. “For someone who hears no so much, you sure keep trying.”

That gets a glint of something behind his eyes, not offense. Amusement. Maybe even respect.

You check your phone again. Two minutes.

He nods at it. “Uber?”

“Mhm.”

“Cancel it,” he says, like it’s obvious. “I’ll drive you.” He studies you, slowly. 

“You’ve had alcohol.” you say.

“I’ve had one beer, correct. I can still drive,” He leans back in his seat, one finger tapping on the steering wheel like he’s deciding how long to wait. “One of these times, you’re gonna say yes.”

You glance at the street. Then back at him. “Maybe.” You keep your voice light. But the way your heart skips when he licks his bottom lip like he’s already imagining what maybe might mean?

“So now what? You’re just gonna go home safe and sound to your own bed?”

You shrug, not quite meeting his eyes. “Safe’s not exactly what I’m after.”

He laughs softly, the sound like gravel sliding over glass. “Good. Because I’m not about safe.” He gestures to the passenger seat. “Get in. I’m taking you somewhere that doesn’t care about safe.”

You hesitate a moment, “You don’t even know my name.”

His smirk deepens, eyes glinting with something dangerous. “We’ll talk about that in the car.”

You glance back at your phone, then to the dark leather interior of the car where he waits, the door cracked open like an invitation. The night hums around you, the promise of escape, the thrill of the unknown.

And for the first time since you got here, you do the first reckless thing. You push yourself off the brick wall, reach out, fingertips grazing the door handle, and slide inside.

The door shuts behind you with a soft, final thud, and in that instant, everything feels different. The engine comes alive under his hand, a low purr that vibrates up through the floorboards and settles in your spine. He shifts into drive with a lazy flick of his wrist and pulls into the street like he owns it. The silence stretches, thick and full, like the pause between lightning and thunder.

One minute, it’s neon signs and sirens and people yelling from balconies. The next, it’s just open road, the dark curling around you like smoke. He didn’t say where you’re going, and you didn’t ask. Maybe that’s part of it. You came here to stop asking questions.

He drives like he was born with a steering wheel in his hands, fast, aggressive, but never reckless. You glance at him. One hand on the wheel, the other draped casually over the gearshift. Long fingers, silver rings. 

You stare longer than you mean to.

He notices. He doesn’t look at you, but you feel it, some part of him clocking your gaze. He smirks, like he likes being watched. “You’re quiet,” he says, finally.

You glance at him. “I don’t really know where we’re going.”

“That’s the point.”

The lights of the city are long gone now, swallowed behind the bend of a hill. When he pulls off the road, your stomach dips.

The tires crunch against gravel as he eases the car up a narrow path that looks like it was never meant to be driven. Your fingers twitch where they rest in your lap, but you don’t ask him to stop. You want to see where this leads.

Then the road opens up.

It’s not a lookout point. There’s no fence, no benches, no other cars. Just a slab of cracked asphalt at the edge of a cliff, a wide, feral view of the city lights flickering far below. Wind rushes against the windshield. The drop is sharp. Dangerous.

Exactly what you wanted. He kills the engine and the silence rushes in. You don’t move. Neither does he. Finally, he says, “Scared of heights?”

“No,” you breathe.

“Perfect” He’s already looking at you. That cocky, knowing tilt to his mouth again. Like he’s testing what scares you. Like he wants to find the exact line you’ll make him cross.

“So,” he says. “What do I call you when I make you regret getting in my car?”

You don’t flinch. You meet his stare, steady. “Y/N.”

He lets it settle, your name on his tongue. Rolls it once, like he’s tasting it. “Y/N,” he repeats. “Fitting.”

You tilt your head. “And you? I don’t like calling strangers ‘guy who doesn’t know when to quit.’”

That grin flashes, quick and crooked. “Wooyoung.”

You hum. “Mm. That one’s fitting too.”

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s heavy. Saturated. His eyes don’t leave you, dark, focused, hungry. You should look away, but your pulse is a drumbeat behind your ribs, and you want him to see it. You want him to know it’s because of him.

“You always stare at people like that?” you ask.

His voice is lower now, more deliberate. “Only when I want something from them.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And what is it you want from me?”

His tongue traces the edge of his bottom lip. “The obvious answer?”

You nod, slow. “Yeah.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I want you in my lap, messing up my hair, moaning my name like it’s the only thing you know.”

The words slam into you, blunt, confident, filthy. Your throat tightens around your breath, your legs press together without thinking.

He sees that too.

But you don’t back down. You raise your chin, hold his gaze like it’s a challenge. “You say that to all the girls you drive out here?”

Wooyoung leans in, just slightly, enough that his voice hits deeper, lower. “Nah. Most of them don’t make me work for it.”

There’s something raw in the way he says it, unapologetic, shameless. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing and doesn’t care if you do too. He doesn’t play pretend. He doesn’t flirt to charm. He flirts to ruin.

You don’t move. Don’t look away. The cliff below disappears into a blur, the city glows like it doesn’t even know you left. It’s just you and him, and the space between you that’s shrinking by the second. “I want to stop thinking,” you say, voice low, steady. “That’s why I got in your car.”

Wooyoung’s eyes darken slightly. The smirk fades, replaced with something quieter. Sharper.

You keep going. “I want to stop caring. Stop worrying about the next thing, the smart thing, the right thing. I just want to shut everything off for a while.”

He’s still, like he knows not to interrupt.

“And you…” you look at him then, all dark eyes and bad decisions, his hand loose on the steering wheel like he’s not even pretending to care about control. “You seem like the kind of guy who doesn’t ask for consequences. Or commitment.”

His tongue swipes the inside of his cheek, and he exhales a soft laugh. “That obvious?”

You shrug, but there’s a glint in your eye. “Kind of your whole thing, isn’t it?”

He leans in a little more, elbow on the door, body turned toward you now. “So you want to do something reckless?”

“I got in your car, didn’t I?”

That gets a reaction, a slow grin, one side of his mouth curling with pure, unfiltered interest. “I don’t make promises,” he says. “I don’t do rules, or tomorrow. But if you want tonight, no strings, no pretending, just the rush-”

“I do.”

Two words. Honest. Simple. And you don’t look away when you say them.

He leans closer, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “Then come here.”

You don’t hesitate this time. You crawl across the seat without a word, knees brushing the leather, breath catching when your thigh grazes his. When you settle in his lap, his hands find your hips instantly, grounding you, greedy. 

“You sure?” he murmurs, and it’s not hesitation, it’s courtesy, like giving you a final out he already knows you won’t take.

You slide your hands into his hair, fingers threading through the dark mess of it. “Don’t ask again.”

That’s all he needs.

He surges forward, and your mouths crash together like the tension had teeth. There’s nothing soft about it. His tongue finds yours without asking, and you meet him head-on, like you’ve wanted this since the second you saw him flick ash from his cigarette.

He tastes like trouble, smoke and whiskey and a little bit of adrenaline, and you can’t get enough. His hand slides up your back, under your shirt, dragging warm fingertips along your spine. You arch into it.

“Fuck,” he mutters against your mouth, like he didn’t expect you to kiss like this, to move like this. He bites your bottom lip, just enough to make you gasp, and then kisses you again, deeper this time, like he’s chasing something down in your throat.

“God, you feel good,” he groans, hips rolling up into yours, and you grind down in answer. The car creaks slightly under the weight of you both, the windows fogging, your breaths too loud in the silence of the hill.

This isn’t careful. It isn’t pretty. It’s fast and messy and hot. 

You kiss him like you’re starving, because in a way, you are. Not for romance or sweet nothings. For chaos. For heat. For the perfect, destructive distraction that he is. Wooyoung’s hands roam like he has every right. Under your shirt, up your thighs, gripping like he’s trying to leave fingerprints. The center console digs into your thigh, but you don’t care. 

“Take this off,” he mutters, tugging at your top.

You obey, quick and clumsy, flinging it to the passenger seat. His eyes rake over you, your bra, your breathless expression, your flushed skin. He drags his hands up your stomach slowly, deliberately.

“You’re unreal,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. Then he leans in, pressing a trail of kisses from your collarbone to the swell of your breast, tongue flicking out just enough to make your breath hitch. “You like being bad, don’t you?”

You laugh, barely. “I like not thinking.”

He grins, dark and cocky. “Good. ‘Cause thinking’s the first thing I’ll take from you.”

One hand unhooks your bra. The other grips your ass, pulling you harder against him. He dips his head, mouth latching onto your breast, sucking until you arch into him, fingers tangled in his hair. Your moan breaks out sharp, raw.

“Fuck,” you whisper, because this is already more than you expected, hotter, filthier, better. You reach down between you, fingers touching him over his jeans. He’s hard. Big. Thick. You wrap your hand around the shape of him, and he groans, deep in his chest.

“What do you want me to do to you?” he asks, placing wet kisses on your skin.

“I don’t care, just make me come.” you breathe against his jaw, licking just beneath his ear.

Wooyoung adjusts the seat back slightly, giving you space but not distance. The second time you roll your hips against him, it’s not slow. It’s shameless. You moan, not even trying to hide it.

One of his hands leaves your waist. It trails down your stomach, smooth and slow. He slips it under your skirt like he’s done it a thousand times, no hesitation, no asking, just confident fingers dragging over your heat until you gasp and grab tighter at his hair.

“God, look at you,” Wooyoung murmurs, breath hot against your ear. “Already falling apart.” He rolls the windows down halfway, lazy, casual. The breeze slips in, cool against your skin. You realize what he’s doing, letting the night hear you. Letting the whole city know who you’re moaning for.

Cocky bastard.

“You want to be loud for me?” he whispers against your jaw, fingers teasing your folds, slipping between them with perfect pressure. “Want to let them hear how good I make you feel?”

Your body tenses, eyes fluttering shut, breath caught on a moan as his fingers slip inside you, deep, slow, fucking up into you with confidence.

You grind down against his hand, head falling back. “Wooyoung…”

He growls. Literally growls.

“That’s it. Just like that.”

You’re sitting on his lap, backlit by the city, your skin bathed in moonlight and sin. Your shirt and bra are long gone, tossed somewhere into the passenger seat, your skirt barely hiding anything. You’re undone, flushed and panting, his fingers buried deep inside you, and he can’t look away.

He exhales sharply, like he just got hit. “Jesus,” he mutters, but it’s not a prayer, it’s a celebration. 

You grind against his hand shamelessly, your head tipping back as you let the sounds escape your throat. You don’t care if the city hears. You hope it does.

And neither does he. His free hand cradles your jaw, forces you to look at him, and you do. Eyes glassy, lips parted, your breath catching as his fingers curl just right again. You cry out, and he grins, proud, possessive. “That’s it.”

He leans forward to press his mouth against your chest, sucking a bruise into the soft curve beneath your breast, biting down just enough to make you twitch. “Louder,” he murmurs, tongue trailing hot and slow along your skin. “Let them hear how good I make you feel.”

The windows are down, the night air hitting your flushed skin, but you’re burning up. On fire from the inside out. And just when you think you’re going to tip over the edge…

“Come for me, pretty girl,” he whispers, eyes wild. “C’mon, I want to feel it.”

That’s all it takes.

You fall apart with a cry, nails dragging down his chest, hips grinding helplessly into his palm as he works you through it, as if he could drag it out longer just because he can. You ride his hand until you’re limp and breathless, your head falling forward onto his shoulder. Wooyoung keeps his hand there, holding you open, feeling you twitch around nothing as you come down.

You’re still panting, slumped against his chest, the city lights flickering behind you like a dream. You’ve never felt so raw. So wrecked.

So alive.

He finally slides his fingers out of you, slow, wet, deliberate, and lifts them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a smirk.

“Sweet,” he murmurs, voice wrecked. “Knew you’d taste like trouble.”

He leans back slightly to look at you, the glow of the city behind your head like a halo.

And fuck if you aren’t the most dangerous thing he’s ever seen.

***

You don’t even remember how you got home after that night. One minute you’re burning against him, the next you’re in your bed, shirt crumpled in your hands, the city’s glow bleeding through your curtains. He drove you back, fast, silent, like the night didn’t want to hear you talking. No promises. No phone numbers. Exactly what you wanted.

No strings. No ties.

Just that raw escape from everything that’s expected of you. 

A few days later your cousin’s car sputters its last breath three blocks from the apartment, and now you’re both standing in the office of a mechanic’s garage, listening to the buzz of fluorescent lights and the low rumble of hip-hop from the back.

“You guys take walk-ins?” your cousin asks the man at the front desk.

“Depends who’s free,” the guy says, barely glancing up before he clicks a button and mutters into the intercom. “Yo, someone’s gotta check this Corolla in bay two.”

You almost don’t register the sound of footsteps behind the garage door. Almost. It swings open, and he walks in like it’s any other day. Black t-shirt, grease-stained hands, that same smug posture, lazy, lethal confidence in every step.

Wooyoung.

Your stomach flips. Your pulse forgets what it’s doing.

He doesn’t freeze. He clocks you in a second, eyes dragging from your shoes to your lips, and smirks like he knew this would happen eventually.

The garage smells like oil and gasoline, thick and sharp. Your cousin pops the hood of her beaten-up car and starts explaining the issues to Wooyoung. He listens quietly, nodding, hands tucked in the pockets, eyes flickering toward you more than once. His dark hair is tousled, shadows playing across his face. He’s calm, collected, but there’s something electric beneath that cool exterior.

“Gotta head to their office, handle some paperwork,” your cousin says without looking back. “Be back as soon as I can!” She walks off, leaving you alone with Wooyoung.

The silence is thick. Wooyoung’s there, crouched by the open hood, cigarette resting behind his ear, muscles flexing as he works. He doesn’t look up immediately, but the moment he does, his eyes catch yours with a slow, knowing smirk.

A smirk curls at the corner of his lips. “Didn’t think I’d see you again. Thought you’d be too smart for that.”

You cross your arms, eyes locked on his. “I’m full of surprises.”

He smirks, that cocky tilt of his head making your stomach flip. “Is that supposed to be a warning or an invitation?”

You laugh, sharp and unbothered. “Maybe both. Depends if you can handle it.”

Wooyoung’s gaze sharpens, amused and intrigued. He steps closer, the air tightening between you. “I race. Late nights, no rules, just speed and risk. You ever been to one?”

You cock your head, curious but guarded. “Can’t say I have.”

“Race’s tonight,” he says flatly. “Old pier, Maple Street. Ten o’clock. Show up.”

You meet his gaze evenly, lips curling into a faint smile that doesn’t give anything away. “Maybe.” Without another word, you turn and walk toward the office, the sound of your footsteps sharp in the quiet garage. Behind you, you feel his eyes burning, like a spark waiting to ignite.

***

You didn’t plan on coming. You told yourself that more than once, heels clicking too confidently across the cracked asphalt now.

The lot is packed tonight, headlights cutting through smoke, the low thrum of engines and bass mixing with the scent of exhaust and beer. There’s laughter somewhere behind you. A fire pit burning on the outskirts. 

You’re not here for him. You’re here for the thrill. The mess. The chaos.

That’s what you tell yourself… right until you spot him.

He’s got the hood of his car up, hands deep in the engine under the yellow haze of the parking lot lights. Sweat glints at his temple. Leather jacket stretching as he moves. There’s something brutal and beautiful about him like this, focused, filthy, in his element.

You don’t stare long. Just a second. You tell yourself it’s curiosity, nothing more. Long enough to feel that old pull in your gut. Then you turn your head, pretend he’s nothing. Sip from your cup like you didn’t come here hoping he’d show.

The crowd buzzes around you, bass from someone’s speaker, the smell of gasoline and cheap weed and summer sweat. Your heels click softly when you shift your weight. The hem of your black skirt creeps higher when you cross your legs.

“You actually came.”

You glance over, deliberately slow. Wooyoung is standing next to you now, casual as ever, hands in his pockets, smirk lazy across his face.

“Didn’t realize you were the welcoming committee.” you tease.

He smiles, teeth sharp under the buzzing parking lot lights. He’s close now, not touching, but he never needs to be. His eyes drop, track the tiny black skirt hugging your hips, the heels that make your legs look miles long. You feel the way he looks at you, possessive, greedy, intrigued.

“You came here alone?” he asks, voice low, like a secret passed too close to your ear. 

You raise a brow, sip from the red cup in your hand. “Why? You worried?”

His gaze cuts to the guy who had been trying to talk to you before, then back to your mouth. His stare is slow, deliberate. Territorial in the kind of way he won’t admit out loud. “I should be.” Then, softer, almost too quiet beneath the bass and city noise, but it hits you square in the chest. “You shouldn’t come here looking like this.”

You smirk, weight shifting onto one hip as you tilt your head at him. “Scared you might get some competition?”

His eyes drag down your legs. Slowly. Taking their time. “Are you doing this on purpose?”

You blink up at him, lashes thick. Innocent, like you don’t know exactly what he means. “Doing what?”

He steps closer, just a breath between you now. His voice drops. “You wanna be looked at?” His eyes flick to the crowd, jaw tightening. “You want every guy here thinking they’ve got a chance?”

You hum, almost amused. “I’m just having fun.”

His tongue drags across his bottom lip as he fights the twitch in his smirk, that look of barely restrained hunger already flooding back in. “You’re trouble.” he says simply, shaking his head. “Fucking trouble.”

Then, without asking, he slides his jacket off and drapes it around your shoulders. Heavy. Warm. Smelling like oil and smoke and him.

“I’m not cold,” you murmur, eyes narrowing.

He shrugs. “Didn’t say it was for that.” He leaves without another word. Just a look, something unreadable, sharp-edged, and hot enough to sink into your spine. 

The buzz of the crowd floods back in as soon as he’s gone. Music from someone’s speaker thumping through the pavement, tires squealing nearby. Laughter. Catcalls. You move, slipping through clusters of people, past hoods popped open and boys hyping up their cars. You find a low ledge near the corner of a building and climbs up, tugging his jacket tighter around your body as you settle. It still smells like him. Smoke, grease and something reckless.

Then you see him.

He’s stepping toward his car, the same one he made you come in last week. There’s a light sheen of sweat on his neck, messy strands of hair falling over his forehead. His jaw’s tight, focused. The cocky confidence is still there, but cut with something else, something darker. Dangerous.

You let your eyes trail over him slowly, drinking it all in: the way his eyes scan the street, calculating. Alive. You feel it from here, the pull, the high. He was made for this.

And then, just before he gets in, he looks up. Straight at you.

It’s not casual. It’s not an accident. His eyes find you like a match to gasoline. You don’t look away. You let him see you. Legs longs, his jacket barely covering the sin of your skirt, lips parted from the liquor and heat of it all. You tilt your head, just a fraction, enough to let him know you like what you see.

He grins. Barely there, but it cuts through the dark. Then he’s gone, slipping into the driver’s seat, engine revving like a war cry.

The flag drops and the cars launch forward like bullets, engines roar like wild beasts unleashed, tires screeching against the cracked asphalt. You’re breathless, heart pounding so loud it drowns out the crowd. 

The car beside him tries to keep pace, but it’s like watching a child chase a shadow. He’s too good. Too confident. Too alive. He takes the first turn tight and fast, almost too fast, but he grips it, tires screaming in protest.

You bite your lip and smile, pulse ticking high. You weren’t looking for meaning.

But this? The danger, the speed, the burn in your veins?

This might be exactly what you needed.

Back on the straightaway, his car roars ahead, slicing through the night like a knife. The other driver strains, but Wooyoung’s already miles ahead. The city lights blur past, but he’s a sharp contrast, focused, untouchable. The finish line rushes toward him, and he crosses it first with a triumphant roar from the crowd.

The roar of engines dies down, and the crowd begins to thin after a while, their chatter fading into the night as anticipation for the next race lingers in the air. You step away from the edge of the track, your heels clicking softly against the pavement, heart still pounding from the rush. You find a spot behind a half-gutted van and lean back, letting the chaos fade. You breathe in the night and feel your pulse begin to settle.

Then a voice behind you cuts right through.

“Running off already?” he drawls.

You don’t jump. You don’t turn around too quickly. Just lift your gaze toward the sky for one long second, then shift to glance over your shoulder. 

He’s there. Lit up in the dim glow of a busted streetlamp, black t-shirt, eyes hot. His hair’s a little messy from the wind, jaw sharp with leftover adrenaline. Smug, as always.

“I figured you’d be busy,” you say, neutral.

“I am,” he shrugs. “But I saw you walk away.”

You face him fully now. “Congratulations, by the way.”

He steps closer, just a little. “You came to see me win?”

You tilt your head. “I came for the thrill.”

He laughs under his breath like he knows better. “And did you get it?”

You don't answer. Just let your gaze sweep over him, slow and deliberate. There’s a sheen of sweat on his neck, veins prominent from gripping the wheel. 

“I always knew you were trouble,” he murmurs, mouth twitching. “But that skirt? That walk? You just confirmed you’re doing it on purpose.”

You smirk. “You’re not the only one who likes a little attention.”

That makes his tongue press into his cheek, makes his eyes darken just a shade. Then he jerks his head toward the lot. “Come on.”

You raise a brow. “Where?”

“Away,” he says simply. “You’ve seen enough here, haven’t you?” He doesn’t wait for your answer, just starts walking toward his car like he knows you’ll come. And maybe that’s what makes you move, the confidence, the danger, the not-knowing.

Because you want to. The engine rumbles to life like it’s impatient, just like him. He doesn’t say a word when you glance at him, just flicks the headlights on, rolls down his window, and pulls out without looking back.

You don’t ask where he’s going. He doesn’t tell you. His hand is steady on the wheel. One arm draped over the top, wrist loose, like he’s done this a thousand times, like he owns every road. That’s when you see it. The rose inked on his forearm, just above the wrist. You never noticed it before. Sharp lines, bold petals, thorns curled close to the stem. Beautiful. Quietly dangerous.

Just like him.

After a while, you catch the scent of salt. The car slows, headlights cutting across uneven sand and gravel before dipping low, settling in front of a wide, open stretch of black water. The ocean looks infinite like this, still, deep, unbothered by the world they came from.

Wooyoung kills the engine.

The beach isn’t much, not the kind you'd take photos at, but it's empty. Silent. The kind of place people come to forget. Or to be alone, together.

“You always bring people out here?” you ask finally, your voice low, not because you're shy, but because anything louder might snap the moment in two.

His mouth twitches. “No.”

That’s all he gives you.

You unbuckle your seatbelt slowly and open the door. The air outside is colder than expected, and the wind off the ocean hits your bare legs like a slap, but you don’t flinch. You walk barefoot into the sand, heels dangling from one hand. His jacket hangs off your frame like a secret you shouldn’t be keeping.

You don’t look back. You don’t need to.

You hear him follow a few seconds later. The door shuts with a heavy thud, and his footsteps crunch behind you in the sand. And you feel it: his stare. Heavy. Hot. Carving into the back of your thighs like he’s still sitting behind the wheel, still imagining your legs slung over his seat.

“You gonna keep staring?” you ask, not turning around.

“I’m trying not to.”

You smile, slow. “You’re bad at that.”

He lets out a short laugh, the low kind that hums in your stomach. Then he steps closer, sand giving way under his boots.

“That skirt’s gonna be the death of me,” he mutters.

You finally turn your head, raise an eyebrow. “What does it do to you?”

He laughs under his breath, low and sharp. “You want the full list?”

You face him now. The hem of the jacket skims just above your thighs, the wind teasing it up every so often, just enough. And he's looking. His tongue swipes along his bottom lip, like he’s thinking too much. 

You blink up at him, heart in your throat but your expression smooth. “I’m starting to think you’ve got no self-control.”

“Oh, I don’t,” he says easily, taking another step forward. You don’t back away. “Not with you standing there like that. Jacket slipping off your shoulder. Those pretty little heels in your hand like you just got tired of playing nice.”

The air between you is thick now, too hot, too still, too quiet. Just the wind, the dark waves behind you, and the way he’s looking at you like every second without touching you is driving him fucking insane.

“You’re not making it easy,” he says low.

“I’m not trying to.” 

He exhales a sharp laugh, then grabs your jaw and kisses you. There’s no warning. No slow lead-in. His mouth crashes onto yours like he’s been starving, like he’s trying to taste everything he missed. You kiss him back just as hard, breath catching in your chest as your free hand fists in his t-shirt, pulling him closer. He groans against your lips, palms skimming down the sides of your thighs, up under the hem of your jacket.

Then he pulls back, just enough to speak, voice rough and low, eyes dark. “Get in the backseat.”

You blink, chest heaving. “What?”

His hand is still gripping your thigh, thumb stroking slow against the inside. “You heard me. Backseat. Now.”

It’s not a suggestion. It’s a command that lights something wicked inside you. Without a word you walk around to the passenger side, pulling the door open with your heart pounding. He’s already climbing into the back, shoving the front seat forward to make space. The dome light overhead flickers on and then dims as you slide in beside him.

The second the door shuts, he’s on you again.

The car fills with the sound of breathless gasps and the shuffle of clothes, the scent of him closing in as his hands roam with renewed urgency. He tugs you into his lap, your knees straddling his thighs, your skirt riding high as you grind down against the bulge already straining in his jeans.

“Fuck,” he hisses, fingers digging into your hips. “This-, this is what I should’ve done last time.”

You kiss him again, deeper this time, biting his lip just hard enough to make him curse again. His hands slide up your back, underneath the jacket, skin against skin now, and it’s not enough. Nothing is.

“Keep the jacket on,” he mutters between kisses. “Looks better on you anyway.”

You laugh softly, a sound that breaks into a moan as he grinds up into you, the friction delicious and overwhelming. You know this is going to get messy. Exactly the way you want it.

Because this time, he’s not stopping.

He curses under his breath, hands sliding up your thighs, gripping, pulling you down harder onto him as he bucks up. “You’re gonna drive me insane,” he murmurs, biting down on the edge of your jaw, hard enough to make you gasp. “Making those little noises, grinding like that-, fuck-”

Your hands are already at his belt, unfastening it with practiced ease, the clink of metal loud in the quiet car. His breath catches the moment your fingers brush over the hard line of him, still straining against his jeans.

“Shit,” he mutters, eyes dropping to where your hand moves. He leans back slightly, hands gripping your thighs as you shift just enough to pull him free, hot and heavy in your palm, thick and already leaking. He hisses when your thumb swipes over the tip.

“I’ve thought about this,” he says low, watching you from beneath heavy lashes. “You. In my car. Wearing my jacket. Getting me this fuckin’ hard without even trying.”

“You’re the one who didn’t fuck me last time,” you whisper, breathless, teasing.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah. And I’ve regretted it every damn day since.” Then he reaches down between you both, pulls your underwear to the side with one hand, rough, impatient, and notches the head of his cock against your entrance. You rise to your knees to angle yourself better, nails digging into his bare shoulders. He meets your gaze, voice low and hoarse. “You ready?”

You nod. “Don’t you dare hold back.”

And he doesn’t.

He pushes in slow but deep as you sit down, eyes locked on yours the entire time like he’s watching your reaction. You clutch at him as your body stretches around him, breath hitching when he’s finally buried all the way inside you.

“Fuck,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours. “Tight as hell. Fucking perfect.”

You roll your hips experimentally and both of you moan at the friction.

His hands grip your waist, guiding you, dragging you along his cock in slow, dirty motions. The car creaks beneath you, the windows fogging with condensation, but neither of you notice. You’re too wrapped up in the heat between your bodies, the wet sound of you sliding over him again and again, your soft gasps clashing with his filthy praise.

“Just like that,” he pants, teeth gritted. “Ride me, baby. Take what you need.”

Your hands slide into his hair as you start to move faster, bouncing slightly in his lap. The jacket slides open, but you leave it on, feeling his hands grab your ass, tugging you down harder each time you rise.

“You look so good like this,” he rasps. “So fucking filthy. You like fucking me in my backseat, huh?”

You moan, nodding against his neck.

He thrusts up harder suddenly, making you cry out, nails raking down his chest. He grabs your jaw again, kissing you hard, tongue dragging over yours as his hips slam up into you with rough, desperate rhythm.

Suddenly he grips your hips tight and flips you without warning, your back hitting the seat, knees bent over the edge. He’s between your legs in seconds, shirt rucked up around his waist, jeans barely pushed down his thighs. The jacket is still on you, wide open now, framing your body like he meant for it. His body cages yours completely.

“Keep your eyes open,” he says, voice thick. “I want you to see.”

You do. God, you do.

Because the sight of him like this, cock wet and thick, already pushing back into you, is obscene. His jaw clenched, chest rising and falling hard, lips parted with the filthiest groan when he sinks into you again. Your mouth falls open at the stretch, at the slick sound of it. You’re soaked for him, and he knows it.

“Look at that,” he grits out, glancing down between you as he drags out and slams back in, harder now. “You see how fucking good you take me?” He’s got a hand around your throat now, thumb dragging under your jaw as he stares down at you like he owns the moment. Sweat at his temples, veins in his neck, and that look in his eyes. Feral.

“You like seeing me fuck you? Like how deep I go? How filthy I get when I lose it over you?” he growls, watching every flicker of your expression. 

You try to hold eye contact, but your eyes flick down, greedy, hungry, obsessed. The way his cock slides in and out of you, the wet slap of it, the muscles in his stomach tightening with every thrust, it’s too much. Too perfect.

You nod fast, moaning, your nails digging into his arm. He’s relentless now, pace brutal, and all you can do is take it, back arching, toes curling, your voice high and breathless.

“Come for me,” he says low, rough. “Right now. Wanna feel it.”

And fuck, when he leans down and bites your neck, when his hand moves back to your thigh, spreading you wider so he can go even deeper, you fall. Hard. You break apart with a strangled moan, legs trembling around his waist, nails scraping down his back. He watches you fall apart, eyes locked on yours, hips never slowing.

“Goddamn,” he growls, voice tight. “You feel that? How you’re gripping me? Gonna make me-, fuck, gonna fill you up, baby. Just like this.”

You hold onto him as he groans, deep and raw, stuttering into you with one final thrust, spilling inside with a curse. You feel all of it. Every pulse. Every inch.

His palm slides up your thigh, and you feel every inch of him still inside you, thick, pulsing, stretching you open just right.

He doesn’t pull out. Doesn’t even move.

His head drops back, breath harsh, chest rising fast under that clingy black t-shirt. You watch the muscles shift beneath it, the way a single vein trails down his forearm, twitching slightly. He glances down between you, lips parting.

“Look at that,” he mutters, voice like gravel. “Still so fucking tight around me.” His hand slips under the jacket again, palm dragging up your skin. “You kept this on,” he says, almost to himself. “Fuck, you really wanted to kill me tonight, huh?”

You try to speak, but he shifts his hips, slow and deep, and your mouth falls open in a quiet moan instead.

He grins. “That’s what I thought.”

He pulls out slow, deliberate, watching the mess he’s made of you. You try to close your legs, but he doesn’t let you. He taps your inner thigh, and you let him spread you open again, even if your body protests.

“Stay like that,” he murmurs. “Wanna look at what I did to you.”

And you do. You let him look. You let him take it all in, cocky eyes dropping to where you drip down onto the backseat, your thighs trembling, lips swollen from the way he kissed you.

You stay wrapped around each other in that charged silence, the world outside fading away until all that exists is the heat, the touch, and the undeniable pull between you. The night is yours, messy and unfiltered, and you wouldn’t want it any other way.

***

You’re wrapped in a towel, hair damp, steam still clinging to your skin from the shower. The night outside your Airbnb window is soft and still, the kind of quiet that only comes after a long, hot day. You’re not thinking about him, not actively, anyway. But your mind’s been drifting all week, every time your fingers brushed the edge of your mouth like they could still feel his kiss, like your thighs remembered how he fit between them.

You definitely weren’t expecting a knock at the door.

You freeze, blink toward the entrance. No one knows you here. Another knock, this one lazier, a little amused. You pad barefoot to the door, frowning, water still sliding down the back of your neck.

You open it, and there he is.

Wooyoung.

He leans against the doorframe like he was born to fill that space, in his black jacket, a black tee that hugs his chest, his hair messy like he’s been driving with the windows down. His eyes sweep over you, lazy and unhurried, from the damp strands stuck to your cheek to the towel knotted just above your breasts. His mouth curves, that signature smirk tugging at the corner. He lifts his eyes back to yours, full of something dark and warm and very sure of itself.

“Hey, trouble.”

Your heart stutters. “What-, How did you-”

He nods toward the hallway behind him. “Was driving around. Was in the area. Figured I’d stop by.”

“You remembered the address,” you say slowly, more to yourself than him. You hadn’t thought much of it when he drove you home, twice. Definitely didn’t expect him to turn up on your doorstep because of it.

He lifts a shoulder. “Wasn’t that hard.”

You tighten the towel slightly. “What made you think showing up unannounced was a good idea?”

Wooyoung shrugs, but there’s a glint in his eye. “Didn’t think. Just came.” His gaze skims over you again, slower this time. “Good timing, huh?”

Your chin tips up just slightly, a smirk tugging at your lips now, small, smug, impossible to hide. You’re tempted, and you hate how much you like the power shift. How good it feels to make him wait on your word. He steps forward, just enough for the toe of his boot to cross the threshold.

You glance down at it, then back up at him. “You gonna stand there or come in?”

He raises a brow like he wasn’t expecting you to say it out loud, but the smirk that follows says he was hoping. “Didn’t wanna be rude,” he says, stepping closer like it’s nothing.

You just step back, towel still clutched to your chest, heart pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with modesty. The door clicks shut behind him and you turn away, heading back toward the bedroom without waiting.

He follows. Of course he does.

You don’t say anything as you walk, still towel-wrapped and dripping faintly onto the hardwood. He’s behind you, quiet, but not subtle. You feel his eyes on your back, your legs, the curve of your spine. You don’t rush. Let him look. Let him want.

"Didn’t think you were the kind of girl to answer the door dressed like that,” he murmurs.

“Didn’t think you were the kind of guy to show up uninvited,” you toss back, stepping into the bedroom.

“No phone number. Kind of had to improvise,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. 

You glance at him over your shoulder. He’s leaning in the doorway now, arms crossed, that cocky gleam in his eyes like he knows he’s already gotten under your skin. “You make a habit of showing up at girls’ doors hoping they’re half-naked?”

He smiles. “No. Just yours.”

You don’t answer, just turn your back to him and let the towel fall. It slips off your skin in one clean motion, landing at your feet with a soft rustle. You don’t look back. You don’t have to. You know what this does to him. The silence that falls between you says more than any words could.

Without looking back, you slip on a pair of black thongs slowly, then grab a white tank top. You don’t rush. You feel his eyes burning into you the entire time. The top clings to your still-damp skin, nipples pressing clearly through the fabric. You could’ve dressed. You chose not to. You like watching him struggle to keep his cool. “So,” you say, voice dry, turning around. “What do you want, Wooyoung?”

He shrugs, smile slow and lazy. “Thought maybe you’d let me stick around.”

You toss the towel onto a chair and brush past him on your way to the kitchen. “And if I don’t?”

He follows you again, of course. Closer this time. “I’ll change your mind.”

You open the fridge, bend down just enough to give him a view, and pull out a bottle of water. When you stand again, he’s closer.

“No plans tonight?” he asks.

You twist the cap off. “Was thinking about heading out.”

“Date?”

You look at him over your shoulder, sipping slow, the cool water sliding down your throat. “Why? You jealous?”

He smirks, but there’s something tighter in his jaw now. “I’d be stupid not to be.”

You laugh under your breath and turn, leaning against the counter, letting the cold bottle rest against your bare hip. “Would it stop you from showing up uninvited?”

“Not even a little.”

You study him for a beat. He’s not pretending not to look, his eyes flick to your chest again, linger. You know he wants to touch you. He’s barely keeping it together.

And you love it.

“So where were you thinking of going?” he asks, resting his hands on the counter across from you.

“Some bar a few blocks from here. Thought I’d look around.”

“You gonna make me watch you flirt with someone else tonight?”

You smile lazily. “You gonna stop me?”

He doesn’t answer, just steps closer again, hands braced on either side of the counter behind you now, caging you in. His voice drops a little. “Don’t really like the idea of anyone else looking at you.”

You arch a brow. “Mm. So here you are.”

His gaze drags down your body, slowly, all the way to your thighs, down to the swell of your breasts under the thin white cotton, and then back up. He doesn’t answer right away. You expect a flirt, a tease, a deflection, but when he speaks, his voice is steadier. Honest.

“I thought about you.”

Your chest tightens, just for a moment. You recover quickly, he doesn’t need to know what that does to you. So you lift your bottle again, let it cool your lips.

“I don’t make a habit of showing up for people,” he adds. “Not unless I want to.”

You lower the water, studying him now. “And what is it you want, exactly?”

His gaze moves across your face. “I don’t know yet,” he admits. “But I’m not done finding out.”

You stay quiet. The silence stretches between you, long and warm. You could break it, make it light again, but you don’t. Instead, you smile. Slow, knowing, and utterly unreadable. Not yes. Not no. Just… this. He catches it, the challenge in that smile. And it’s enough.

You step away, leaving your water on the counter, turning toward the bedroom without another word. Your fingers slide over the fabric of your skirt as you pull it on, eyes catching your reflection in the mirror, dark, a little wild, definitely dangerous.

From the doorway, you hear him speak, voice low, almost reluctant. “You always this hard to read?”

You turn slowly, letting your hair fall over one shoulder. “I’m not looking for easy,” you say quietly. “Not tonight.”

He nods, eyes sharp and steady. “Good. Me neither.”

You pull out a delicate black crop top, barely there, high neck, open back. You pull the old white tank top over your head and slide on the new one. The cotton clings to your curves, your nipples visibly peeking through the fabric from where he stands. You don’t fix it. You don’t care. In fact, you tilt your head and catch his reflection in the mirror. He’s staring, jaw tight again, mouth parted just slightly like he’s fighting the urge to say something or maybe do something.

You lift your hair, twisting it up casually to check how the top sits. “Still planning to stay?”

He steps behind you, slow, then reaches up without a word, catching a strand that slipped and tucking it gently behind your ear. His knuckles graze your cheek. His eyes hold yours in the mirror, and they’re darker now. Serious. Like you’ve peeled something open in him he hadn’t planned on showing.

That does something to you. And you hate that it does. Because this wasn’t supposed to be anything. Just tension. Just heat. Just one night in the back of his car and nothing else. But now he’s in your room. Talking like he means it. Looking at you like he wants to memorize what you look like under this light.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

You smirk at your reflection. “Somewhere you can watch me walk away all night.” And when you glance at him again, his tongue swipes over his bottom lip like he’s trying to behave. But you know better.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he murmurs, “you think I’ll be able to keep my hands off you that long?”

You slide on your boots with a smirk. "Come on, then."

He’s still standing there when you straighten, grab your purse, and cross to the door. He follows like a shadow. And as you step out into the hallway, his fingers brush the small of your back, low and fleeting.

You say nothing. But you don’t stop him either.

The bar isn’t loud, but it hums, low light, red leather booths, the sharp clink of glass, the bass of something dark curling through the air. He holds the door open for you and lets you walk in first, doesn’t say anything, just watches the sway of your hips as you pass. He hasn’t stopped watching you.

You slide onto a stool without waiting for him, legs crossed, skirt riding high. He stands beside you for a second, watching, just watching, then pulls his stool in too close and sits.

You glance at him sideways. “No room anywhere else?”

He leans in without hesitation, breath brushing your jaw. “Didn’t come here to sit far away from you.”

You order and the bartender slides the drinks over and disappears. You take a sip without waiting. He doesn’t touch his glass yet. “You came dressed like this,” he murmurs, “and then invited me out?”

Your eyes flick to his. “I didn’t invite you.”

“You said come with you.”

“And you showed up uninvited to my apartment before that.”

He grins, teeth sharp, voice low. “And you let me in.”

You glance over, tongue touching the rim of your glass just because you feel like being a little cruel. “You like watching, huh?”

His jaw twitches. “I like knowing I’m the only one who gets to.”

You smile, slow and sharp. “That’s cute.”

He exhales a laugh, finally taking a sip of his drink. “It’s not cute. It’s dangerous.”

You hum. “That supposed to scare me?”

“No. It’s supposed to turn you on.”

There’s a pause. You don’t look at him, not right away. You set your glass down. Shift slightly so your bare thigh brushes his jeans. You feel the way he tenses. And then you glance up, slow. Your voice is silk when it comes out. “It does.”

He drags his gaze across your face like he’s memorizing every flicker of expression, then drops it again, to your chest, to your lips, to your thighs. His fingers flex around his glass. “You’re driving me fucking insane.”

You tilt your head. “Yeah?”

“I’m trying to be good.”

Your smile is wicked now. “Why?”

He looks at you, really looks at you, and for a second, something real flickers there. But then he leans in, close enough that your knees brush. “Because if I weren’t, I’d already have you in the back of the bar. Up against a wall. Hands on your hips. My mouth on your neck.” 

You laugh softly, but your heart’s racing. “And you think I’d let you?”

“No,” he says, eyes flicking down again. “I think you’d beg for it.”

The air between you crackles. But then you shift back, take another sip, re-cross your legs just to fuck with him. “Maybe I will. Maybe I won’t.”

He watches you with that burning, tethered hunger like he’s seconds from snapping it. But his voice stays calm when he says, “You’re not like anyone I’ve met.”

You rest your elbow on the bar, chin tilted. “You don’t know me.”

“Not yet,” he says. “But I’m gonna.”

There’s silence again. Not awkward, something heavier. Hungrier. He’s watching you like he could devour you whole. And you let him. You want him to. A couple people pass behind you, loud laughter and perfume in the air, but it doesn’t break the line between you.

“Drink,” you murmur, nudging his glass with your fingers.

He obeys. A beat. Then: “Let me take you home after this.”

You tilt your head. “You don’t want to watch me flirt with strangers first?”

His jaw ticks. “I’ll break his nose.”

You smile. And that’s the moment you know you’ve got him exactly where you want him. 

He leans in, his breath ghosting over your ear, voice low and raw. “I don’t want you anywhere but with me.” His fingers curl tighter around your hand, a silent promise and a warning all at once. You catch the fire in his eyes, fierce and unblinking.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you trace your thumb over the back of his hand, letting the electricity spark between you both. “Then take me. I’m all yours.”

Without another word, he signals for the check, hands never leaving you. Outside, the night air is cool against your skin, sharp and fresh. He opens the car door for you like he owns you already, then slides behind the wheel with a confidence that makes your heart race.

You drove for hours without direction, his hand resting heavy on your thigh, thumb tracing idle, possessive circles on bare skin. He made it clear between sharp glances and sharper words that he didn’t do the whole dating thing, didn’t play house, didn’t promise anything past the next time he could get his hands on you. And though it seemed dangerous to play like that, you couldn't stop chasing him. The hunger in it. The freedom.

You let him pull off into some dark, empty lot halfway across the city and fuck you in the backseat again, his mouth everywhere, hands rougher this time, more desperate, like he'd been holding back all night. Afterwards, the windows fogged and your pulse still high, he drove again, nowhere in particular, just fast, just far, before ending up at your place. And when he had you again, finally, inside your own bed, it was slower, but not softer. He still didn't ask to stay. He didn't need to.

***

It wasn’t supposed to be a regular thing.

You didn’t plan on seeing him again the night after the bar. Or the night after that. But then he kept showing up and you did the same. One ride becomes two. Then four. Then too many to count. Now, it’s routine, a rhythm carved out of adrenaline, midnight, and want.

At first, it was easy. Just fast rides and faster hands. Parking lots with the windows fogged, whispered laughs and skin flushed from the cold. But then came the in-betweens. Gas station pit stops at 2 a.m. where he’d buy you snacks you didn’t ask for. Lazy mornings when he didn’t leave right away. He takes you to races, slips an arm around your waist like it’s second nature.

You never called it anything. You never talked about it like it mattered. But he was always there. And you kept letting him in.

Your cousin still thinks you’ve been keeping to yourself. Staying quiet. Healing. If she asked, you wouldn’t lie, but you wouldn’t tell her everything either. Because whatever this is with him, it’s not simple. It’s not safe. It isn’t supposed to last.

You promised yourself when you came to this city for the summer that you wouldn’t overthink. Wouldn’t chase anyone’s expectations. Wouldn’t waste time second-guessing every move you made. You were here to feel, not fix. To want, not explain.

And Wooyoung made that easy.

He had a way of clearing your mind like smoke filling a room, thick, dizzying, inescapable. Dangerous in a way that didn’t scare you, but hooked you. Like he was your own walking addiction, all sharp smiles and reckless charm, and you were already too far gone to pretend you didn’t like the way he burned.

You visit him when he works at the garage, sweat on his neck, grease on his fingers, and you leaned against the wall until he pulls you in. Mouths hungry. Hands rough. You’ve fucked against that garage door more times than you can remember, the metal always cold against your spine.

It happens everywhere. Every time.

The front seat. Backseat. Hood of his car when the engine’s still warm. In the car in a random alley in town. Once, behind the mechanic shop, half-hidden, half-exposed, and he didn’t even care. 

You’ve been to more than a few races by now. Long enough to know the scent of smoke and rubber. But nothing compares to watching him out there.

You live for that split second before the race starts, the way his jaw tightens, eyes dark and locked in, fire flickering behind them. Every time he wins, and he always wins, you catch yourself biting your lip, adrenaline tangled with pride. Like it’s your victory too. Because in a way, it is.

You’re already wearing his jacket when you step out of the car, the oversized black thing swallowing your frame, sleeves pushed up, and unmistakably his. Everyone knows it. They’ve seen you in it more than they’ve seen him wear it lately, and that says something.

Everyone knows not to look too long. They’ve learned. The hard way.

The race lot is alive, headlights burning through dusk, bass thumping from open trunks, engines snarling like wolves waiting to be let loose. You settle on the trunk of Wooyoung’s car, skirt riding up your thighs, legs crossed slow. 

And you know the eyes are coming.

You feel them before you see them. Some from the usuals. Most from the new ones. Men who don’t know better yet. Or maybe they do, and they’re just stupid.

Wooyoung’s bent under the open hood, checking something in the engine with a cigarette tucked behind his ear. You’ve been at this long enough to recognize faces. Wooyoung’s team. The regulars. And the ones from the rival crew, all bravado and cheap insults, waiting to be flattened.

One of them’s eyeing you too hard.

Some rival team idiot, leaning on a car that doesn’t belong to him. He lingers a few feet away, lean build and smug expression, drinking out of a red solo cup like he owns the place. He doesn’t. And you don’t bother acknowledging him. Not until he walks past you and whistles. Loud. Sharp.

“Damn,” he says, looking you up and down, eyes shameless. “She’s got a better rear than your car.”

Your head turns slowly. You don’t flinch, don’t frown, just arch a brow, roll your eyes, and look away like he’s not even worth your breath. He’s grinning like he hasn’t just stepped into a minefield. His eyes drag over you like he’s entitled to it. 

But you also know better than to think Wooyoung didn’t hear it. You know what’s coming. You know Wooyoung hears these comments, and you know exactly how he’ll respond.

You feel it first. That shift in the air. That tension that hits just before lightning strikes.

Then you hear it.

His laugh.

It’s low. Dangerous. It cuts through the bass like a blade through silk. Everyone around you stiffens because it’s not the kind of laugh that invites company. It’s the kind that warns. A sound that simmers with violence, a fuse already lit.

Wooyoung tosses the rag he was using onto the ground without a word and walks, each step deliberate, calculated. He doesn’t look at you as he passes. His eyes are locked on the idiot who’s about to learn a very painful lesson.

“Say that again,” Wooyoung says calmly, still with a disturbing smile on his face.

The guy chuckles nervously, looking around for backup that isn’t there. “Relax, man. It was a joke.”

You see the guy start to crack, the tension in his shoulders, the way he suddenly can’t look Wooyoung in the eye.

“You look at her like that again, or say some shit like that again,” Wooyoung murmurs, low enough that only the two of them, “and I’ll break your fucking legs. You understand? I’ll drag you behind my car and leave you in pieces by the end of the lot.”

His hand claps down hard on the guy’s shoulder, making him flinch. “Say something. Please. Give me a reason.”

The guy doesn’t say shit. Just stumbles backward, muttering apologies, practically tripping over himself as he bolts into the shadows.

Wooyoung doesn’t move for a long second.

You’re still perched on the hood, legs swinging lazily, pretending your whole body isn’t thrumming from the spectacle Wooyoung just made. When he turns, his smirk’s already in place. That cocky tilt to his mouth, the slow prowl in his walk. Like he knows you’re watching him just as closely as everyone else is.

And he knows exactly what he just did to you.

“Jesus,” you say as he stops in front of you, “You gonna mark your territory next?”

He chuckles low, eyes raking over you, from the collar of his jacket hanging loose on your shoulders, to the bare stretch of skin above your knees. His fingers hook into your waistband like it’s instinct. You bite your bottom lip, slow and deliberate, letting your gaze drop to his mouth, then drag lazily back up to meet his eyes. You know exactly what you’re doing.

“Don’t tempt me.” His mouth crashes against yours before you can say another word.

It’s not gentle. It’s all heat and teeth, a kiss that claims. He kisses you like he’s mad you made him feel anything at all. Like he’s trying to erase the sight of someone else’s eyes on your skin with every rough slide of his tongue. He drags your hips toward the edge of the car, like he wants you spread out and helpless for him right there.

When he pulls back, his lips are red, swollen. His voice is a whisper against your jaw.

“You keep teasing me like that, baby, and I’ll fuck the attitude out of you, right here, right now.”

***

It’s been over a month now.

You didn’t mean for it to turn into anything. It just... happened. 

Most mornings start in your kitchen, you in his shirt, him barefoot and sleepy-eyed, making something that smells better than it has any right to. He’s a good cook, like, suspiciously good, and you tease him for it constantly. Ask if he’s hiding a wife and three kids somewhere. He just tosses you a berry or flicks water at your leg and tells you to shut up and eat.

Sometimes you don’t leave the Airbnb all day. He puts something on the TV you’re not really watching, and you end up sprawled across his lap, his hand tracing lazy circles on your bare thigh, not even trying to be sneaky about it. Other days, you follow him to the garage, sit on a crate while he works on his car. He gets grease on his cheek, his neck, the curve of his collarbone, and you wipe it off for him with a teasing smile while he watches you like he’d rather pull you onto the hood and forget whatever else he was doing.

But you haven’t told him. That you’re only here for the summer. That this, whatever it is, has a timer on it.

Maybe it’s selfish. Maybe it’s smart. But you’ve heard him talk. Heard his friends joke. Heard the girls he used to fuck and toss to the side mention that he doesn’t do relationships, doesn’t do feelings, doesn’t stay. You’ve heard it in his own voice too, casual, offhand comments when someone asks if you’re his girl and he shrugs it off or changes the subject, suddenly preoccupied with something else. It stings a little every time. Not dramatic, not devastating, but quiet, like a bruise you don’t want to press on. Like maybe he wants you, but not really wants you. Not all the way.

So you keep it to yourself.

And in the meantime, you ride with him everywhere. Sit in his seat, steal his fries, kiss him in the glow of red lights. You let him cook for you. You brush his hair back when he lets it grow too long. You laugh at his dumb jokes. He never says what this is. And neither do you.

But he always shows up. And you always open the door.

Tonight, you’re at yet another of his races. 

Engines rumble like thunder, headlights cutting through the night. You’re standing at your usual spot, perched on the edge of the crowd, his jacket zipped halfway up your chest, hair pulled back just enough to see everything. Your eyes never leave the sleek black car rolling up to the start line, Wooyoung’s.

He pulls in like he owns the asphalt, engine growling beneath him like it wants to be let loose. His gaze sweeps over you, slow, loaded, then he smirks, that cocky little thing he does right before he tears the world apart.

And still, all you can think about is the way he kissed you ten minutes ago. Hot, full, tongue first, like he couldn’t hold back. You still feel it, the heat of it, the taste of him, the way he murmured “Stay where I can see you” against your lips like a warning, or a promise.

The flag girl steps forward. He revs his engine once, twice, your heartbeat syncs with the rhythm. The light turns green, and he’s gone.

You don’t cheer. Just watch, transfixed. The way he takes turns, precise and wild, engine howling as he cuts through the competition like it’s nothing. It’s art. It’s war. It’s him. The matte black machine moves like it’s part of him, sleek, brutal, untouchable. Every time he shifts gears, it feels like the ground itself vibrates beneath your feet.

And then–

“COPS!”

The scream rips through the air, high and raw and terrifying. Then the first siren wails.

All hell breaks loose.

Blue and red lights explode across the lot like fireworks. More sirens. Shouts. People start running in every direction, drinks spilling, tires screeching, screams rising. A girl next to you shoves past you so hard you stumble back, heels slipping on the uneven concrete.

The panic is total. A stampede.

Someone crashes into your side. You spin, disoriented, trying to find an exit through the chaos, but bodies are slamming against each other, climbing over cars, scrambling for cover. You can’t see anything, not the streets, not where the cops are coming from, not even Wooyoung.

You try to run. Make it three steps before your foot catches on something, a curb, a bottle, someone’s leg, and you crash to the ground hard, knees scraping raw against pavement. Pain blooms sharp and hot as your palms catch you, barely.

Panic grabs you by the throat. You’re alone. You don’t know where he is. The cops are coming fast.

And then-

A hand wraps around your arm.

Strong. Unshakable. Familiar.

You look up and he’s there, Wooyoung, eyes wild with adrenaline, jaw tight, his voice low and cutting through the noise like a blade. “Come on.”

He doesn’t wait for a response. Just yanks you up with one swift pull and hauls you against his side. He’s already planned his route. His car is parked in the shadows between a dumpster and a dead-end wall. He doesn’t slow down. Throws open the passenger door and shoves you inside. You barely register the click of your seatbelt before he’s in the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut behind him.

“Hold on.”

The tires scream as he throws it into gear and peels out of the lot, weaving through fleeing cars and panicked people like the devil himself is on your heels, and maybe he is. You see flashes of uniforms in the rearview mirror. 

And then he’s driving. Not just fast, fucking insane.

He weaves through the mess like it’s nothing, dodging people, cars, even a barricade. You clutch the edge of the seat with both hands, heart slamming into your ribs. “Wooyoung-,” you start, breathless, but he cuts you off with a sharp, “Hold on.”

A sharp turn. Another. He ducks down a narrow alley and surges back onto the road. Blue lights flash behind you, distant, then farther, then gone.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn’t even slow.

You have no idea where you are, what neighborhood, what street, but he drives like he owns it. Like he knows every shortcut, every shadow, every alley that leads nowhere. He turns down a quieter street, dim, still, lined with apartment buildings. Finally, finally, he slows, pulls into a nearly empty lot, and kills the engine.

The air between you feels tight. You stare ahead, still locked in the adrenaline-fueled fog of escape, limbs buzzing, throat dry. Every part of you feels too tense to move. You’ve never been here before, in this area, and you don’t ask. Not yet.

Beside you, Wooyoung sits with both hands on the wheel, eyes fixed forward for a long moment like he’s trying to decide whether to say something or let the silence win. Finally, he turns his head toward you, his jaw tight but his voice softer than you expect. 

“You okay?”

You almost say yes. You almost lie. But then your gaze drops, and you notice the sting in your palms, the throb you’d tuned out in the panic. You glance down to find both your hands scraped raw, speckled with gravel and blood. Your knees too, now that you notice it, dark streaks running down your shins. You hadn’t felt it when you fell, too busy chasing your breath through a stampede of strangers and spinning lights. Now the pain is catching up.

Wooyoung sees it before you can say anything. His hand reaches out, catches yours before you can tuck them away. He turns your palms over in his, his thumbs brush carefully along the edges of your cuts, not pressing, just grounding. He doesn’t flinch at the blood. 

“Come on,” he says quietly, rising to his feet. He opens his door and steps out, coming around to yours, opening it before you can reach for the handle. You follow him, still half in a daze, leading you up two flights of concrete stairs and through a door you’ve never seen before.

The apartment is dim when he pushes it open, warm light spilling from a single lamp near the couch. It’s cleaner than you expected, simple, utilitarian, not dressed up, but lived-in.  You barely have time to look before he disappears down the hallway and comes back with a first aid kit and a damp towel. He doesn’t say a word. Just gestures to the couch, and when you sit, he kneels in front of you without hesitation.

He doesn’t speak at first. Just works in silence, jaw tight, eyes locked on your hand like it’s something breakable. The towel is warm and damp, his fingers careful as they blot the blood away from your palm. It stings, but you don’t flinch. Not from the pain, not from him. His touch is gentler than it has any right to be, considering how fast he’d just driven you through the night.

You want to say something, maybe make a joke to ease the weight in the room, but your throat is too tight.

“You should be more careful,” he finally says, voice low, rough-edged. It’s not scolding, not teasing. It’s something softer than either, quiet concern trying not to sound like it matters.

You glance at him, a bitter smile pulling at the edge of your mouth. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

That makes him pause. He looks up, eyes catching yours like he heard everything you didn’t say. “Didn’t say I was,” he murmurs, something unreadable flickering across his face. “But that doesn’t mean I want to watch you fall apart.”

Your mouth goes dry. The way he says it, it’s not romantic. Not sweet. It’s honest. Raw. And it disarms you more than anything else tonight.

He moves on to your knees next. His fingers graze bare skin and your breath catches, but he doesn’t look up. He just keeps working. Focused. Steady. Like you’re both pretending this is normal. And you don’t realize until he’s done, until the last bandage is pressed into place, that the silence between you has grown heavier. 

He runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to think straight, and then suddenly stands, stepping away from you like he needs distance just to breathe. His fingers twitch at his sides. And then his voice cuts through the room, low but cracked with something he can’t keep down. “I don’t fucking do shit like this,” he says, almost to himself. “I don’t come back for people. I don’t panic. I don’t care like that.”

You get to your feet slowly. Barefoot. Still a little dazed. The pain in your knees is sharp but distant, dulled by the weight of everything he’s saying.

He scoffs, but it sounds too raw to be cynical. “You-, fuck. You fell. You were bleeding. You were on the ground and I couldn’t find you. I didn’t even-” He swallows, shaking his head like the memory itself stings. “I swear to god I couldn’t breathe for a moment. I didn’t know if you were-”

He swallows hard. Shakes his head. “I didn’t know if I’d get to you in time.”

Your heart aches in your chest, a dull, spreading thing. He’s still talking, more to the air than to you, and it’s clear he hasn’t unpacked what any of this means.

“I didn’t even think. I just ran. Like some idiot in a movie. Like you mattered more than getting caught. More than the car. More than myself.”

You walk to him slowly. Not interrupting. Just moving until you’re close enough that he has to feel you there. “I’m okay,” you say gently.

He turns, finally meeting your eyes, and what you see in his face makes your breath catch. There’s fear there. Not the kind from flashing lights and sirens, something deeper. Something quieter. Like he’s afraid of what he just felt. Afraid of what you mean.

“I don’t know what this is,” he murmurs. “But seeing you fall like that? Seeing blood on your hands? I-, I didn’t even know it could fucking hurt like that.”

He’s not touching you. Doesn’t reach for you. Like he’s afraid even that might be too much.

So you reach instead. You lift your hand, still bandaged, and place it softly on his chest. Right over his heart. “It’s okay,” you say. “We’re both okay.”

He stares at you for a long moment, and the silence stretches, not awkward, just full. Full of what neither of you is brave enough to name. Then he leans in slowly, carefully. Like you’re something fragile he’s afraid to break. His lips brush yours, the barest touch, and then he pauses, giving you the chance to pull away.

You don’t. So he kisses you. Soft. Scared. Reverent.

A kiss so soft you aren’t sure if you ever felt him so careful before. He cups your face, doesn’t push or tries to make the kiss escalate into anything. Just a kiss full of words neither of you can say out loud.

You both start getting ready to bed shortly after. He digs through a drawer and pulls out a worn t-shirt, faded black, soft from too many washes, and holds it out to you. You peel off what’s left of your clothes without a word, not bothering to leave the room. You’ve done far more with him than change in front of each other. Modesty was gone the second you got in his car the night you met him.

The shirt falls low on your thighs. His eyes flicker over you for a second, but he doesn’t say anything. You watch as he reaches for his own shirt, pulls it over his head.

That’s when you see it.

Not the faint bruises or the surface scrapes he usually calls battle wounds, this is different. A scar, brutal and deliberate, slices across his back. It’s old, but deep. Twisted. Ugly in a way that doesn’t fade with time.

He catches your reflection in the mirror. Sees the way your eyes lock onto it. And he doesn’t flinch this time. "You gonna ask?" he says, voice low.

You don’t. You just walk closer, slow. Let your fingers ghost along the raised skin. He flinches, not because of the touch, but because of what it means.

“I’ve never seen that one before,” you say softly. You glance up. "You’ve told me every scar you’ve got came from racing.”

“That one didn’t.”

You wait. Let him decide if he wants to keep running.

“My mom had this boyfriend when I was younger. Real piece of shit. Loud. Drank too much. Always mad about something. One of those types that got mean when no one was looking.” He pauses. Breathes. “He didn’t like that I was in his house. Didn’t like that I was… me.”

Your breath hitches, but you don’t say anything yet. 

“One night, I told him to go fuck himself. Didn’t even yell it. Just said it. He didn’t like that either.” He runs a hand down his face. “He threw a bottle at me. Then pushed me through a glass door. Said it was an accident when he told my mom.”

You stare at him, horror rising slow and bitter in your throat.

“She believed him. Or she pretended to.” He lets out a breath, tired and rough around the edges. “The rest of the shit? Yeah. That came from racing. From working on cars. From fights I chose. But that one…” He finally drops his eyes from the mirror. “That one stayed.”

“How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

You don’t ask what happened after. You don’t need to.

He laughs once, dry and humorless. “Told people I got it from flipping my first bike. Sounds cooler than getting shredded by some drunk asshole trying to prove he was bigger than a kid.”

Your hand moves gently, fingertips brushing the scar that runs ragged and long over his back.

“I figured I’d lie about it forever,” he murmurs.

“Why didn’t you?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“Because you saw it. And I…” He swallows hard. “I feel like I can tell you.”

You don’t answer with words.

Instead, you press a kiss to his back, right above the scar, right where it starts. Then another, lower. Then your arms wrap slowly around his waist, your cheek resting between his shoulder blades. You feel him exhale when you hold him. Deep, shaky, like the air was trapped somewhere in him all this time and he’s only now letting it out.

Your fingers curl around his stomach. His hands come up, covering yours. Eventually, the silence shifts. “C’mon,” he murmurs, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. “Let’s sleep.”

You follow him without question, crawling onto the bed as he switches off the light. Darkness swallows the room, and you hear him move around the other side, the mattress dipping under his weight when he gets in.

There’s a beat of silence. Another.

Then his arm reaches out in the dark. It lands on your hip, hesitant at first, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to touch you like this, without hunger. Without heat. You roll onto your side and press your back against his chest.

That’s all it takes.

His arm curls tighter around you, and he tucks his face into your neck like he needs to hide there. Like your skin might silence all the chaos still crashing inside him. He exhales like he’s been holding that breath since the car.

Tentatively, he shifts closer, arm slipping around your waist. It’s unsure, gentle, like he's still figuring out how to hold someone when it’s not about claiming, when it’s about comfort. When it means something.

This is the first night you fall asleep together without bruises between your thighs or adrenaline in your blood. Just warmth. Just the weight of his body behind yours, heavy and grounding.

It feels like you finally stopped running.

***

You don’t talk about what this is. Not once.

Not in bed, not on long drives, not when he kisses you like he’s terrified to stop. Not even when you’re curled up in his passenger seat at 2AM and his thumb strokes the inside of your wrist like a secret.

There’s too much at risk. Too much truth that would ruin the thrill of not knowing.

Because he doesn’t do relationships. Doesn’t do promises. He’s said it before, with words, with the way he’s lived. And you? You came to this city to escape all of that. Rules, opinions, weight. You’re still only here for the summer, something he doesn’t know, and you haven’t figured out how to say.

So you don’t say it.

Instead, you live in your Airbnb like it’s permanent. Like you belong in his car, like his jacket is just something that naturally belongs on your back. You leave your lip balm in his glove box. Your extra phone charger in the center console. A bag of snacks in his trunk because you’re always hungry after races.

And he lets you. Doesn’t ask questions.

But Wooyoung? He’s changed.

People know now. At every race, every meet-up, every underground garage, it’s known: you’re his. Not in any official way. No one dares call you his girlfriend, not after the way he handled it last time someone tried.

It was offhand, just a throwaway comment from a guy near the starting line, half-laughing when he said, “Didn’t know you were bringing your girlfriend tonight.”

Wooyoung didn’t laugh. Didn’t even look your way. He just reached for his drink, shrugged once, and changed the subject like the thought didn’t even deserve space in his head. Like the idea of you being something more than what you already are was ridiculous.

You smiled, pretended you didn’t notice, but something in your chest went tight and stayed that way the rest of the night. It’s not like you expected him to correct the guy. Not like you expected him to say yeah, she’s mine in front of everyone. But still. The way he ducked the question entirely, like it was easier to pretend nothing existed at all, left you feeling just a little less wanted.

Even still, he makes it known. The jacket he tosses you without asking. The way he watches from across the crowd, eyes locked on you like a storm waiting to break. The way he always drives you home himself, even if it means leaving early.

He doesn’t call you his. But he acts like you are. And somehow, that contradiction is the part that’s starting to hurt. 

Because Wooyoung would rather die than have someone else think they have a chance with you.

Like the night at the food truck. You’re standing behind him, trying to decide if you want fries or a burger, when a guy from another team slides too close beside you. Tries to flirt. Tries to joke. Light, easy, harmless. But Wooyoung hears your polite laugh. The subtle shift of your body. He turns around and the look on his face silences everything around you. He doesn’t touch the guy. Doesn’t raise his voice.

Just says, “You always this brave, or is it a head injury thing?”

It’s calm. Dead calm. That terrifying kind of stillness that means danger’s already here. The guy stutters, laughs nervously, backs off fast. You’re quiet as Wooyoung orders for you both without asking what you want. He already knows.

Another time, you're out in public together, grabbing coffee, of all things. You're standing beside him in line, scrolling your phone, not paying attention when someone brushes too close behind you in the cramped café.

Wooyoung notices. And it's not subtle.

He shifts, steps between you and whoever the guy was, planting a hand flat on your lower back like a warning. His fingers are warm, rings cold, tattoo peeking from under his sleeve. His eyes cut across the room, jaw clenched tight. The guy moves. Fast. Like he can feel it too, that Wooyoung isn’t fucking playing anymore. He doesn’t talk much when it happens. Doesn’t shout, doesn’t cause scenes. 

Just steps in, makes it very clear without saying much at all: touch her and die.

Even in quieter moments, it’s there.

When you reach across the console to grab his hand, he laces your fingers together, tight, like he’s holding on for both of you. He walks you to your door every single time now. Doesn't leave until you’re inside, lights on. Waits for you to text him. If you forget, he calls. If you don’t answer, he shows up.

You once cut your finger in the kitchen, barely a scratch, but when you flinch and suck in a breath, he’s already there. Ripping a paper towel, pressing it gently to your skin.

“It’s fine,” you say.

He doesn’t answer. Just wraps it for you, checking it twice like you might bleed out. You see it in his eyes, it’s not about the cut. It’s the idea that you could be hurt when he wasn’t there. That he can’t protect you from everything.

Later, you find a box of bandages in his car. You didn’t put them there.

Even in bed, it’s different. Still intense. Still raw. Still him taking control, pushing you exactly where he wants you, but now there’s a tightness to it, like he needs to make sure you’re still here. He checks in more, holds you longer.

He kisses you when it’s over. Not just because it’s hot. But because he needs to. Needs to remind himself that you’re real and still wrapped up in his sheets and not leaving. Not yet. And he never says it, neither of you do, but it’s all there.

The way he glares at people who so much as look your way. The way he drives faster when you fall asleep in his car, like getting you somewhere safe is the most important thing in the world. The way his hand always finds your thigh when you’re beside him, not to tease, but to anchor himself.

Neither of you say it. Because if you say what it is, you might have to admit what it’s becoming.

And then you’d have to face the truth: That you were supposed to stay untethered. And he was never supposed to care this much.

***

You’ve been coming by the mechanic more often than you meant to.

It started casual, dropping off food, sitting on the hood of his car while he worked. Now it’s just… habit. Comfortable. Like muscle memory. No one bats an eye anymore when you stroll through the side door with a drink in hand and his name on your lips.

Today’s no different, at least, it shouldn’t be. You push open the rusted side gate, the sun hitting the back of your neck, and move past the usual row of busted-up cars. His car is here. You spot it immediately. You already know the license plate by heart.

It’s almost your last week in the city.

You haven’t told him yet.

You’ve meant to. You meant to today. You even practiced what to say on the way here, something light, something like a joke, even though there’s nothing funny about it. You just wanted to see how he’d react. Maybe you were hoping it’d tell you something.

Instead, you hear voices from the other side of the office wall. And suddenly, none of your plans matter.

You’re about to head toward the office when you hear voices, low and muffled through the cracked window. You pause without meaning to. It’s his coworker, the chatty one with a loud voice. You’ve seen him around. He’s always giving Wooyoung shit. He’s doing it now. He’s saying, “I don’t know, man. Feels risky. Letting someone get close like that.”

Wooyoung doesn’t answer right away.

The colleague keeps going, tone easy but serious. “I mean, it’s cool she hangs around, I like her. She’s not dramatic or clingy or anything. But you always said you don’t do the whole relationship thing.”

Another pause. A longer one.

Wooyoung’s voice finally comes, quiet, like he’s not really sure how much he wants to say. “Yeah. You’re right”

The colleague responds right away, voice teasing. “Come on. Don’t act like it’s not true. You’re not built for that shit, dude. You’d die if someone asked you to label anything.” He laughs again, louder this time. You hear a clink of a socket wrench hitting the metal table.

Wooyoung says something else too soft to catch.

The colleague snorts a little. “No, I remember what you said. You were all ‘yeah, she was cool, nice hookup, chill vibes, that’s it.’”

Wooyoung doesn’t laugh at that. Doesn’t argue either. He stays quiet.

And it’s that silence, that silence, that makes something tighten in your chest.

Because you know what this is. You knew walking into it. You knew from the first night when he didn’t ask your number and you didn’t offer. You both agreed, wordlessly, on what this wasn’t.

But lately… it’s felt like something more. Or maybe that was just you, reading too much into the way his hand would rest on your thigh even after everything was over. Or the way he always made sure you got home. Or how he never let anyone else so much as look at you sideways.

And still, when it mattered, when someone asked, he didn’t say anything. Not she’s not just a hookup. Not I like having her around. Not even yeah, it’s not like that.

Just silence.

You step back from the window before you can hear more. The drink in your hand is still cold. You bring it with you again and leave before anyone sees you. You don’t slam the gate. You don’t text him. You don’t say a word. You just vanish, like maybe you were never supposed to be there in the first place.

***

The sun is starting to set when your cousin calls. “You’re going home next week. You have to come to the party.”

You’re halfway through folding a pair of jeans, your suitcase open on the floor like it’s mocking you. Your Airbnb’s quiet mess, zippers half-pulled, makeup bags tossed to the side, a pair of heels you haven’t touched in weeks abandoned by the door.

“I don’t think I can,” you tell her, voice even. “Still a lot of packing left.”

There’s a pause on her end. “You okay?”

“Yeah. Just tired.”

She doesn’t press, which you’re grateful for. You hang up after promising to text if you change your mind. Your phone buzzes again a few minutes later.

wooyoung: party’s still on?

You hesitate before answering.

you: yeah. go without me though. i’ve got a headache. go have fun, i’ll see you tomorrow maybe :)

You add the smiley like punctuation. Like proof that you’re fine. Like it’ll make him believe it. He replies quickly.

wooyoung: should I be worried?

You stare at the screen for a second too long, then type back:

you: no, go have fun. don’t worry about me

You set your phone face-down on the bed.

Across town, Wooyoung’s been sitting at the bar too long. The drink in front of him has gone warm. Condensation slicks down the sides of the glass, untouched, just like every conversation around him. People come and go, throwing smiles, bumping his shoulder, asking if he’s alright.

He shrugs them off. Nods once. Plays it cool.

But he’s checked his phone maybe six times in the last twenty minutes. Still nothing. No double text. No “changed my mind” or “come get me” or even just a stupid emoji. He keeps glancing toward the front door anyway, hoping you’ll walk through like you always do, unbothered, lowkey, dressed like you didn’t mean to wreck his whole night.

But the door doesn’t open.

He exhales, tips his head back against the wall behind the bar. The music is relentless, some overproduced club track bleeding through every surface, but his thoughts are louder.  And then, from a few stools down, like fate’s cruel hand, he hears your name. Not shouted. Not screamed across the club. Just mentioned in passing, carried casually from the girl standing a few feet away, and it makes his spine straighten.

“Well, it’s almost her last week here.” a girl says casually, voice raised just enough over the beat.

He doesn’t move, but his eyes shift. Three girls. Mid-conversation. Loud over the music but not enough to draw attention. Then one of them, your cousin. He remembers her. The same girl you ditched once to meet up with him instead.

“She flies out next week,” she says with a little laugh. “She was very clear from the start, just here for the summer, nothing permanent.”

His stomach drops. Next week.

Another girl blinks. “Right. That’s wild. It went by fast.”

“She’s been here since June,” your cousin adds, shaking her head fondly. “Kind of kept to herself most of the time. Said she just needed a break from everything. A reset. She said she wanted it low-key, didn’t want a big sendoff or anything. Just… come, live a little, leave.”

Wooyoung stands up.

He doesn't hesitate, doesn’t weigh his options or think about whether it’ll blow your cover, he doesn't even fucking care. He walks straight toward them, shoving his way past a group of guys to get to her. Your cousin turns, laughing mid-sentence, and then her face twists into startled confusion when she sees him.

“Wooyoung?”

He doesn’t wait. “What did you just say?”

Her brows crease. “About what?”

“You said she’s leaving.”

She blinks. “Y/N? Yeah… she’s going back home next week. Saturday, I think.”

His voice drops. “Why?”

Now she’s really confused. Her head tilts, but there’s no edge to her, just honest confusion. “I mean… she’s going back home? She was just here for the summer.”

Wooyoung swallows hard. Temporary. Like he was temporary.

The cousin squints a little. “Why are you-,?” She doesn’t finish. Wooyoung is already turning away.

Something hot flickers behind his ribs, deeper than confusion, heavier than jealousy. A fire that starts in his chest and spreads fast, scorching through every moment you spent in his passenger seat with his hand on your thigh like you belonged to him. Every time you smiled like you had time. Like you weren’t planning to vanish.

You didn’t tell him.

And with every step, his hands curl tighter into fists. Not from rage, from betrayal. Not because you’re leaving, but because you never gave him the chance to ask you to stay.

***

You’re perched on the edge of the bed, absentmindedly spinning your phone between your fingers. Not texting. Not calling. Just… holding it. The silence stretches, filled only by the low hum of the fan and the distant sound of kids playing outside.

A half-finished iced coffee sweats on the nightstand. You haven’t touched it in an hour.

Your eyes drift toward the sneakers by the door, the laces knotted from the last time you ran through the city barefoot after a night out. That night ended in his car. His laugh still echoes in your ears sometimes.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

You freeze. Three sharp raps against the door, no hesitation, no time to think. You walk to the door slowly, heart climbing your throat, hands slightly shaking. You open the door.

And there he is.

Wooyoung. Standing on your doorstep like a storm you forgot to prepare for. His jaw is tight. Eyes darker than you’ve ever seen them, like they’ve been chewing on a fire he can’t put out. He’s still in the clothes from the club, shirt slightly rumpled. One look at him and the walls you’ve spent the last twenty-four hours building start to crack.

He doesn’t ask to come in. He doesn’t smile.

“What the hell were you gonna do?” he says, voice low, tight with something brittle. “Just leave?”

He knows.

You open your mouth, close it. The hallway feels too narrow. The room behind you too full of all the things you’re not saying. “I wanted to tell you,” you say, barely above a whisper.

His eyes narrow. “When, exactly? When you're already on a flight? After I'm wondering why you’re not picking up anymore, when I’m standing around like a fucking idiot waiting for you to show up like you always do?”

You flinch. “I didn’t think it mattered.”

His head jerks like you hit him. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

You inhale sharply. And it all rushes out.

“I didn’t think it mattered because you’ve been telling me for weeks, that whatever this is, it was never going to be real to you,” you say, voice shaking. “Every time someone mentioned the word relationship, you changed the subject. Joked it off. Acted like it was a disease you’d catch if you got too close.”

He flinches.

“You don’t know what that feels like,” you go on, eyes stinging now. “To be there with you. Around your people. At the shop. At those stupid races. Knowing everyone knows what this is, but still… I’m nothing. I’m not yours. I never will be.”

“That’s not-” he starts, but you cut him off.

“You wanted me,” you say. “You want me. But not really. Not in the way that matters. You wanted the thrill, the adrenaline, the sex, the way I look sitting on the hood of your car. But you didn’t want me. Not all of me. Not the kind of want that keeps someone.” You laugh, bitter and low. “Do you know how fucking awful that feels? Like the thought of being with me was the worst fucking thing in the world.”

His jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

“You made me feel like I was asking for too much by just… existing. Like being wanted, really wanted, was too much to ask from you.”

He steps forward, hands balled at his sides, struggling to breathe like the weight of your words are crushing his ribs.

His laugh is bitter. “You think you’re the only one hurt here? You were gonna leave without a word like I was nothing. Like I’m just a pit stop until you find something better.”

He stops, looks at you with eyes that are almost wild. “I’m not good at this, at talking, at feelings, at... anything like that. Hell, I never thought I needed to be. I told myself I’d never need anyone. I built these walls so fucking high, so no one could get close enough to tear me apart.”

His jaw clenches. “But then you show up, and it’s like everything I thought I knew gets smashed to shit. You weren’t supposed to be the one I gave a damn about. You weren’t supposed to be the one who made me wanna drop my guard. But you did.” He swears under his breath, fists clenched. “And now? Now I find out you’re leaving, just like that. No warning, no fight, no ‘hey, I’m scared, I wanna talk.’ Nothing. Just packing up and going like I was never even here.”

His voice cracks just a little, anger tangled with something rawer. “Do you know how it feels to be the idiot? The one who let himself hope, who let himself need someone, only to get punched in the gut when they bail?”

He laughs bitterly. “I don’t know if I’m pissed at you or myself more. Maybe both.” He takes a step closer, voice low but fierce. “But I do know this, If I’m here, if I let you in, it’s because you meant something. Because it meant something to me for the first damn time ever.”

You try to speak, but he cuts you off.

“Save it. I don’t wanna hear the excuses. I get it, you didn’t think it mattered. That’s exactly the problem.”

He takes a step back, a dead laugh escaping him, low and bitter. “Well, congratulations. You just showed me what it feels like to be on the other side. To be lied to. To be played.” He stares at you, eyes cold now, voice hard. “Hope it was worth it.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turns sharply and storms away.

***

For the whole week, the tears don’t stop. They come uninvited, sometimes silent, sometimes raw and shaking, but always leaving that hollow ache buried deep inside your chest. You find yourself crying in the quiet moments: sitting on the edge of the bed, in the shower with water running over your face, staring out the window when the world moves on without you.

Each morning, you wake swollen-eyed, sun pouring through the curtains, bright and uncaring, as if nothing has changed. But everything has shattered. You miss him so deeply it twists your stomach into knots, a sickness that won’t ease. The nights are the worst. 

You also couldn’t keep hiding it from your cousin anymore. Or, she figured it out on herself. “You’ve been off lately.” your cousin had said, eying you up and down.

You hesitated. “I’m just tired.”

She arched a brow. “Is this about him?”

You froze. “Who?”

“Wooyoung.” She didn’t say it mean, just like she’s trying to piece something together. “I don’t know what’s going on, but the way he looked when I mentioned you leaving… It was weird. Like he knows you more than you’ve told me.”

You couldn’t look her in the eyes. Seconds away from breaking into a full sob for the twelfth time that day. 

“Anyway,” she said quickly, waving it off. “Whatever it is, whatever it was, just let it go tonight, okay? Party like it’s the last night of your life.”

And you’ve continued to try and enjoy your last days here, but it’s impossible. Your head is a mess, thoughts crashing and spinning, none of them making sense. Should you text him goodbye? Call him? Pretend none of it happened? But what if silence is worse?

You pace the apartment, heart pounding in your chest, every breath thick with uncertainty. You don’t know what you want, or maybe you do, but you’re too scared to admit it.

Eventually, you drag yourself toward the door, ready to leave the place for a minute, to get some fresh air and maybe clarity. You open the door, but something steals your attention. A folded piece of paper taped carefully to the wood.

Curious, you pull the letter free and unfold it. Your breath catches the moment your eyes land on the handwriting, unmistakably his. The paper feels heavier than it is, like every word inside carries weight you weren’t prepared for.

***

It’s now late evening.

You haven’t moved from your spot in hours. Curled into the corner of the couch, knees hugged to your chest. Still haven’t touched the tea you made earlier. It’s cold now. Forgotten. Like everything else.

The letter sits on the table in front of you, creased, slightly crumpled at the corners from your fingers folding and unfolding it again and again. You know every line by heart, but your eyes keep scanning it, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something easier. Something less devastating.

You almost grab your keys three times. You almost text him. You almost call.

But it’s like there's a wall of glass between you and the right decision, and you just… stare through it. Paralyzed. Terrified that if you make a move, it’ll shatter wrong.

He bared his soul in that letter. And you haven’t done a damn thing. You hate yourself for how long you’ve been sitting here, frozen in uncertainty. One half of you screams to run to him. The other whispers all the reasons you shouldn’t, how complicated it is, how much you still don’t know, how you’re still leaving regardless because your life isn’t in this city. You can’t stay. 

But then your phone rings.

A harsh buzz against the silence. You jolt upright, heart lurching, eyes narrowing at the unknown number lighting up your screen. You hesitate only a second before answering.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause on the other end, filled with heavy breathing and the sound of wind. “Hey-, sorry, shit, I know this is random, but you’re the only person I thought might come. It’s about Wooyoung.”

Your heart stops. You sit up straighter. “What about him?”

“Something’s wrong,” the voice says. Young, male, familiar in a distant way. One of the crew, maybe. You’d met him once. “He left not long ago for a race. Not one of ours. This one’s… rough. Real shady crowd. No rules, no spotters. Just pure fucking chaos. We tried to stop him but-, he's gone. He’s fucking gone.”

The room spins. You grip the edge of the table to stay upright. “Gone where?” you whisper, voice sharp.

The guy on the other end swears again, fast and breathless. “We don’t know exactly. We lost his signal halfway through the city. He left alone,” The guy’s voice breaks, low and anxious. “He wasn’t listening to anyone. He-, he wasn’t himself, okay? He sounded... off. Like he didn’t give a fuck.”

Your stomach drops. Ice seeps into your spine.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” he continues, breath shaky. “But I thought-, if anyone could talk him down, or stop him-, fuck, I thought maybe it was you.”

You’re already on your feet. Your coat is halfway on. You grab your bag with one hand, shove your keys in your pocket with the other. “Where is it?”

“We don’t know exactly. But I’m sending you the last pin we had on his phone before it cut out. We got a few guys out looking for him, we can come pick you up.” 

You don’t even know what information you’re giving him. You just know you agreed to whatever it took to find him, end the call and bolt out the door, your blood pounding like war drums in your ears.

Somewhere unknown, Wooyoung steps out of his car. He doesn’t belong here.

He lights his second cigarette with the last flick of a dying lighter, cupping the flame with trembling hands. The smoke scratches down his throat, a pathetic distraction from the coil of chaos tightening in his chest. He leans against his car, the only clean machine in a sea of monsters, stripped down, souped-up beasts patched with rust, dents, and blood.

This isn’t his turf. This isn’t some friendly underground run on the edge of town. This is hell. The kind of place no one talks about. Where names don’t matter, and losing means more than wrecked metal. It’s the kind of place where engines scream louder than people, where egos shatter on the pavement, and no one gives a fuck who makes it home.

And he’s alone. No crew. No backup. No one knows where he is and that’s the whole point. Because if anyone saw him like this, they’d ask questions. They’d see the truth behind the glassy eyes, the clenched teeth. They’d see he’s already come apart.

But he’s here to forget his thoughts. To feel something. No matter what it is.

Someone laughs nearby, short, sharp. Like a knife sliding out of a sheath. Wooyoung doesn’t turn, not right away. But he can feel eyes on him. He’s too clean. Too obvious. A target painted in neon across his back.

Footsteps crunch on gravel. “Didn’t expect to see golden boy down here. You’re lost, sweetheart?” The voice is male, rough. The kind that’s been marinated in alcohol and old fights. “Or you finally decided you wanna die somewhere interesting?”

Wooyoung lifts his eyes slowly. A man steps into the dim wash of flickering floodlights, heavyset, sleeves torn off, scars up his arms like tally marks. A long one slices through his cheekbone and disappears into his beard. His fists are wrapped in old tape, stained with something dark.

He smirks at the sight of Wooyoung’s face. “I remember you. Pretty boy from the East Strip. You used to race clean, yeah? Thought you were better than this.”

“I’m not here to talk,” Wooyoung says flatly.

The man chuckles. “Yeah, I figured. Heard some talk. Heard your little pretty thing ain’t been around lately. That’s why you’re out here? Trying to forget her?.”  

Wooyoung’s entire body goes still.

Scar-Knuckles keeps going, oblivious or cruel, maybe both. “She was a real fine thing, too. Damn shame. Wouldn't mind taking her out for a ride.”

“You say one more fucking word about her,” Wooyoung growls, stepping forward.

Scar-Knuckles doesn’t back off. His grin just stretches wider. “Or what? You’ll throw a punch? You think anyone here cares if I beat your face into the asphalt? This place doesn’t give a fuck about you or your sob story.”

Behind him, engines scream, test runs or warnings. The smell of gas and rage fills the air. “No one here’s gonna come looking if you don’t walk away from this, you know that?” the man says. “You lose out here, you lose everything. Car. Money. Life. Depends on who’s watching. Or who you piss off.”

Wooyoung steps even closer, eyes locked with his. “That supposed to scare me?”

Scar-Knuckles stares at him for a long second. Then he laughs again, colder now. “No. I think you already decided nothing matters.” Scar-Knuckles gives a soft chuckle and steps back, letting the darkness swallow him. “Go ahead then. Race your heart out. Let’s see what’s left of you when this is over.”

The man walks off with a shrug, leaving behind the echo of truth.

Wooyoung breathes hard through his nose, blinking against the sting of smoke and his own exhaustion. He gets in the car, slams the door, and rests his forehead against the steering wheel for half a second. His hands are shaking. Not from fear, at least not fear for himself. He’s past that.

He exhales and turns the key. The engine snarls to life like it’s hungry for blood.

And if the road ahead wants to kill him? He’ll fucking let it.

You’ve been driving for hours. Your phone is clutched in your hand like a lifeline, screen cracked at the corner from how hard you’d thrown it earlier, after the fifth voicemail you left him, each one angrier, shakier than the last.

The streets blur outside the windshield. You’ve checked every place he used to go when he wanted to be alone. Back lots. Rooftops. The edge of the highway where you once caught him chain-smoking, staring at nothing. A crew member is driving now, one hand clenched tight around the wheel, the other scrolling through group chats and rumor threads on his phone.

You’ve never felt this level of rage and terror at the same time. You want to scream, to hit something, to shake Wooyoung until he realizes what the hell he’s doing. But more than anything, you just want him alive. Breathing. Standing in front of you so you can yell at him properly for pulling this shit.

“He’s never done this before,” The crew member mutters, jaw tight. “Not without backup. Not without at least one of us watching his back.”

That’s what scares you the most. You’ve been in enough of those street scenes to know, some places don’t play fair. Some places, if your car flips, no one stops. If you piss off the wrong people, they don’t argue. They retaliate.

“Come on,” you whisper under your breath, staring at the dark horizon like you can summon him out of it. “Come on, you idiot. Where the fuck are you?”

The crew member rattles off a list of names. Small-time crews, illegal races still rumored to be active tonight. You recognize only half of them. The further the names go, the worse it gets. Places known for sabotage. For fights breaking out mid-race. For bets that go beyond money. For people who don’t give a fuck if you crash and burn.

You turn to him, breath catching. “Let’s go to the worst one.”

He raises a brow. “You sure?”

“No.” Your throat tightens. “But I need to find him.” Even if it drains every last piece of you. Even if you fall apart the moment you lay eyes on him. Because right now, the alternative is worse.

Right now, the alternative is never seeing him again.

You don’t say much as the car swerves through another dark stretch of road. Every second feels like it’s scraping your nerves raw. Your knee bounces restlessly, your arms crossed so tightly over your chest they hurt. “Fuck,” you whisper, voice barely holding together. “I don’t know where else to look.”

But then he slams his foot on the brakes. “Wait-, what the fuck is that?”

You lurch forward as the car skids to a halt on the side of the road, dust clouding around you like smoke. Your eyes snap forward.

And you see it.

Off the edge of the road, maybe thirty feet down a barely-visible side trail eaten up by weeds and mud and fog, there’s a car. The shape of the car is unmistakable. Low, black, dented on the passenger side door from a scrape weeks ago. You’ve spent too many nights leaning against that car, riding in it, practically living in it. You know it like you know him. And it’s just sitting there, quiet. Still.

“That’s him,” you breathe. “That’s his car.”

He curses. “That road’s not even on the map.”

He reverses hard and jerks the wheel to take the turn, tires grinding against the gravel, kicking up dirt as you veer off the main path. The closer you get, the harder your pulse hammers, because the lights are still on but no one is moving. No music. No engine running. Just the car. Waiting. Alone.

The moment he slams the brakes, you’re out the door and running, feet crunching through weeds and dirt.

And then you see him.

Leaning back against the hood, one foot on the ground, cigarette half-burned between his fingers. His head is tilted back, eyes closed like he’s been there for hours, maybe longer. He looks like the ghost of himself, silhouetted in the mist and high beams. Still. Dangerous. Untouchable.

He looks down as you approach. Sees you. And doesn’t move. Like you’re a hallucination. Like he’s not sure you’re real.

The closer you get, the more your fury uncoils.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” you scream, slamming both hands into his chest with all your weight. “You came out here alone? You shut off your phone? You didn’t tell anyone where you were going?!”

He doesn’t move. Not at first. Just stares at you like you’re something he dreamed up in a fever. Like you couldn’t possibly be real. 

You don’t give him the chance to speak. 

“I’ve been looking for you all night,” you yell, hitting him again. “We all have! You could’ve gotten hurt-, or worse-, and no one would’ve even known where to start! You think you’re invincible, is that it?! You think nothing can fucking touch you?!”

Wooyoung just stands there, staring at you like you're a ghost. His cigarette is long forgotten, half-burned, dropped to the dirt near his boot. 

“You’re not!” you snap. “You’re not invincible, Wooyoung. You’re just a fucking idiot with a death wish!” you bite out, trembling all over. “You could’ve died, Wooyoung. You could’ve left me-,” You choke on the word, a sob rising in your throat before you can swallow it down. “-left me here, alone.”

He flinches. That word punches the air from his lungs. But you’re not done.

“I came here thinking maybe you were in a ditch somewhere. I came here thinking I might have to pull your body out of a wreck. I hate you so fucking much right now-” You press your hands to his chest again, less forcefully now. Your fingers tremble, curling into the fabric of his jacket like you’re holding yourself together.

“I love you, you idiot.”

The words come out before you can stop them. Raw. Unfiltered. Not a confession, not a whisper in the dark. A curse. A scream. A truth ripped from your chest.

“I fucking love you, and you didn’t even think-” You shake your head, voice cracking. “You didn’t think about what that would do to me.”

Wooyoung stares at you like the earth just shifted under his feet. And that’s when he finally moves. His hand lifts, hesitant, like he thinks he might scare you off if he touches you wrong, and rests against your wrist, where your fingers are curled into his jacket. His grip is gentle. So fucking gentle.

“You’re here,” he says, voice low, rough. Like he doesn’t believe it.

You’re both shaking now, but for very different reasons. Your hands rise, cup his jaw, your thumb brushing over the corner of his mouth where he’s biting the inside of his cheek, trying not to fall apart.

“I love you,” you say again, softer this time. “You absolute fucking idiot. Don’t you ever pull something like this again.”

His breath shudders out.

And then he moves. Grabs your waist. And then he kisses you, fast, hard, desperate. Like he’s never going to get the chance again. His hands slide down to your hips, fingers digging in like he's grounding himself. 

“I love you,” he whispers back into your mouth. “Fuck, I love you.” His mouth is on yours again before the last word leaves his lips, devouring the space between you. Your back hits the hood of his car with a thud. You don’t flinch. You arch into him.

“Tell me this is real,” he whispers, burying his face in your neck. “Tell me you’re not gonna disappear when I wake up.”

You cup his face and make him look at you. “I’m right here,” you say.

The way he kisses you after that feels like the end of the world. It’s not sweet. It’s not soft. It’s fire meeting fire. Chaos kissing recklessness. All your rage and fear and need slamming into him like a fist. You taste the danger on him. The gasoline. The smoke. The guilt. But underneath it, he's warm. He's alive.

And you’re still here.

He's breathing against your mouth now, kissing you back like he just realized he still has something to lose.

The door slams shut behind you, and he doesn’t waste a second.

His mouth is on yours in a heartbeat, hot, frantic, desperate. Like he needs you to forgive him through the kiss, like he’s trying to make you forget what he just put you through. You clutch at his jacket, pulling him closer, grounding yourself in the solid heat of him.

“I thought I lost you,” you breathe against his mouth, voice trembling with the aftershock. “You fucking idiot, I thought-,”

“I know.” His voice breaks. “I know, baby. I’m so fucking sorry.”

Your back hits the door with a soft thud, but he doesn’t press hard. Not now. He cages you in with his body, but it’s not about possession, it’s surrender. He kisses you slower now, deeper, like he’s tasting the words you screamed at him earlier. I love you.

“Fuck, I missed you,” he groans into your skin, the only thing he says, and even that sounds like a confession. His jacket’s half-off already, pushed down by your greedy fingers, and he shrugs it off without pulling away, never breaking contact. His hands are everywhere, your waist, your hips, your thighs. Like he can’t decide what to touch first, what to memorize.

When his lips dip lower again, dragging down your throat like he’s starved, you tilt your head back to give him more. He takes it like an offering.

“You’re gonna let me make this up to you,” he mutters between kisses, dropping to his knees with a thud that echoes in your spine. His hands grip your thighs, fingertips branding you through the fabric of your pants. “Right here. Right fucking now.”

And you let him, because you don’t want apologies.

You want him. Every reckless inch. Every frantic breath. Every desperate kiss he can’t stop giving you.

His mouth drops to your hipbone first. Not to tease, he’s past that. You feel the way he exhales against your thigh, shaky, reverent. Then his hands hook under the waistband of your pants. His fingertips press into your skin as he drags them down.

He presses his cheek against your thigh for a second, breathing you in. “God, I missed this. Missed you. I couldn’t fucking think straight.”

When your panties catch at your hips, his eyes flick up, and that look, wrecked, pleading, makes your breath catch in your throat. He doesn’t say a word. He just tugs the last layer down and off, letting it fall to the floor like it doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t. He guides your thigh to rest on his shoulder, giving him better access to you.

And then he leans in.

His tongue flicks out to taste you, one deliberate stroke that sends a sharp gasp ripping through your lungs. You grab at his hair, your hips twitching forward, but he holds you firm, anchoring you against the door with those strong hands on your hips.

His tongue finally finds your clit, and it’s slow. A slow, dragging stroke that has your spine arching away from the wood behind you. His lips close around it, warm and wet, and the sudden suction makes your legs tremble.

“Fuck, you taste so good-, so sweet, baby, fuck,” he pants between licks. He licks and sucks with maddening control, every stroke perfectly placed, like he knows your body better than you do.

And he does. Fuck, he does.

He tilts his head slightly, and the next pass of his tongue has you gasping, sharp and broken. Your hands tighten in his hair, tugging without meaning to. He dips his tongue lower, tasting you fully, deeply, a slow glide up through your folds before sucking your clit back into his mouth again.

You can’t breathe. You can’t think. “Shit-, fuck, right there-,” Your voice is cracked open, raw. 

Your entire body is on fire, heat coiling low in your belly, thighs shaking, breath coming out in ragged moans. He lets one hand drift between your legs now, two fingers slipping between your folds with ease. He strokes you slowly, coating them, until he finally sinks one inside.

The stretch makes you gasp. His mouth doesn’t stop. “Yeah, come on,” he growls, the vibrations of his voice shooting straight through your core. “Let me feel it. Come on my face, baby. Give it to me.” He curls his finger, searching for that spot he knows so well, and the moment he finds it, you fall apart.

Your knees buckle. Your head hits the door with a soft thud. Your cry is half-sob, half-moan, your whole body trembling as the orgasm rips through you. He holds you there through it, mouth never leaving your clit, finger still stroking inside you in perfect rhythm. 

You’re panting by the time he pulls back, mouth and chin soaked, his eyes black with lust and something darker, devotion, maybe. Something that looks too much like love. He rises slowly, and your gaze drops to the way his chest rises and falls, how his fingers flex at his sides like he’s still holding himself back.

You barely have time to catch your breath before he lifts you, hands locking around the backs of your thighs, arms straining with need. Your legs wrap around him instinctively, and your back slams softly against the door as he catches your weight. His mouth finds yours again, and this kiss is deep. 

He groans into your mouth when your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling hard. “I should be mad at you,” you pant between kisses. “I should fucking hate you for scaring me like that.”

“I’d let you,” he whispers against your lips, dragging them open with his tongue, tasting the words. “I’d let you do anything, baby. Just don’t leave me.”

He turns, carrying you down the hallway, kissing you like it’s killing him not to be inside you already. The walk is messy, his lips never leave yours, your hands gripping the collar of his shirt, his fingers pressing bruises into your thighs from how tightly he holds you. 

“Jesus, I missed this,” he groans. “Missed the way you feel. The way you sound. I’ve been going fucking insane without you.”

He nearly kicks the door open.

The second your back hits the bed, he follows, never letting go. His hands are everywhere, sliding up your ribs, pushing your shirt up, cupping your breasts through the fabric with a groan.

“So fucking perfect,” he murmurs, burying his face between them, sucking the curve of one, then the other. He strips himself, rips the shirt over his head and tosses it somewhere behind him, then goes for yours, his mouth glued to your skin the moment it’s off. 

Your fingers are shaking as they move to his jeans, tugging the button open, sliding the zipper down. You push the denim off his hips and he kicks it away, breath ragged. His cock springs free, flushed and heavy and leaking at the tip. You bite your lip at the sight, thighs squeezing together.

“I need to be inside you,” he rasps, crawling up your body like he owns it. “Need to feel you.”

You nearly cry from how empty you are, grabbing at him, wrapping your legs around his hips. “Then do it,” you whisper against his lips. “Don’t you fucking dare tease me right now.”

That earns a growl low in his throat. He fists his cock, lines it up, and presses in slow. The stretch steals the air from your lungs. It’s deep, too deep after going so long without it, and your head hits the pillow with a strangled moan. “Oh my God, you feel-, fuck-”

“Say it,” he pants, burying himself all the way. “Say who you belong to.”

“You,” you gasp, hands clawing at his back. “You, always-”

He starts to move and it’s chaos after that. The rhythm is rough, relentless, desperate. His hips snap into yours like he’s chasing every second he lost, every moment you spent not tangled up in him. His hands are on your jaw, your throat, your waist, gripping like he’s trying to memorize the feel of you all over again.

“Turn around for me,” he whispers suddenly. “Wanna see you ride me.”

You barely register the words before he pulls out, already reaching for you. He tugs you up by the hips and you straddle him without thinking, bracing your hands on his chest as he guides his cock back to your entrance.

“Take it slow,” he says, voice low, hands gripping your thighs. “Let me watch you.”

You do. You sink down onto him slowly, gasping at the stretch from this angle. His head falls back, lips parting, chest rising in heavy breaths as you take every inch of him. He doesn’t move, just lets you settle, eyes flicking down to where you’re joined.

“Shit,” he groans, hands sliding up your waist. “You-, fuck, you look so good like this.”

You start to roll your hips, finding that rhythm again, slow and grinding. His hands drift everywhere, your thighs, your waist, your back, your ass, pulling you down harder when you move just right. His voice is wrecked now, quiet curses and praises tumbling out between groans.

“Just like that, baby. Fuck, ride me-, ride me just like that.”

You grind down harder, hands splayed on his chest, riding that perfect drag of him, the way he hits so deep like this, the way his cock twitches inside you every time you moan his name.

“Feels so good,” you whisper, voice cracking. “You feel so fucking good-”

He sits up suddenly, mouth hot against your collarbone, arms wrapped tight around you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. One hand slips down to your ass, gripping hard, and he moves with you, deeper, harder, like he needs to carve himself into you.

Your breath shatters as you clutch his shoulders, shaking under the weight of it all. “I should’ve told you,” you choke out against his skin, voice breaking apart. “I should’ve said something, I didn’t know how-, fuck, I was so confused-”

He mouths at your throat, your jaw, your cheek, but you can’t stop now. You’re unravelling.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you cry, hands shaking as you hold onto him. “It wasn’t supposed to be this. I was only supposed to be here for the summer-, I thought I could leave-, I thought I could fuck you and feel nothing, but you-, God, you-”

His mouth finds yours before you can say anything more. Kisses you like he’s trying to memorize it. Like he already knows. His hand slips into your hair, keeping you close, and when he finally pulls back, his voice is rough but steady.

“I don’t care where you go,” he says, forehead pressed to yours. “I’ll love you anyway. No matter where you are. I’ll fucking love you from anywhere.” Then he thrusts up harder, making you cry out, and everything gets sharper. Faster. Wetter. Needier.

That’s when it breaks.

“I’m sorry,” you cry out, your voice cracking open around the words. “I’m so sorry-, I didn’t mean to-, I didn’t mean to fall like this, fuck-” You’re shaking in his arms, tears hot on your cheeks, your fingers digging into his back like you’re afraid he’ll vanish if you let go. “Didn’t think you’d want me like this. I didn’t think-”

“Too late,” he growls, voice almost breaking, and he holds you tighter, thrusts deeper, grounding you in him. Sweat beads on his forehead, his jaw clenched, neck straining, but his eyes are locked on yours like he’s memorizing this, memorizing you. “You’re mine,” he groans, voice wrecked as his hands grip your hips, keeping you moving, guiding you harder. “You always fucking were.”

Your clit brushes against the taut muscle of his abdomen with every thrust, sending sparks skittering down your spine. Your whole body starts to tighten, pulse quickening, breath catching.

“Fuck, I’m close,” you gasp, voice pitched high, wrecked. Your nails rake down his back. “Harder, fuck, right there-”

He wraps one arm around your back to hold you flush against him, grinding into you so deep it makes your thighs tremble. “I got you, baby,” he growls. “I got you. Come for me.” He grabs your face with one hand, pulling you down into a kiss that’s all tongue and teeth and raw emotion. 

You break the kiss, moaning as you ride him faster. “I love you,” you whisper, voice cracking. 

“I love you,” he breathes against your mouth, like it’s a vow. “God, I love you.”

That’s what does it.

You shatter around him with a cry, clutching his body like he’s the only thing anchoring you to the earth. His cock pulses deep inside you, stretching you wide, the thick drag of him enough to push you to the edge all over again.

“Shit, fuck, baby-,” he chokes, and then he’s spilling inside you with a broken sound, grinding into you as he pumps thick and hot, ropes of cum flooding your tight, soaked heat. His fingers dig into your hips, holding you there as his body jerks through every last twitch of release.

You’re both panting, still clinging to each other, your chest pressed to his, your face buried in the crook of his neck. His heart’s pounding so hard you can feel it against your own. His hands stay on your back, sliding up and down, stroking your skin. 

You’re still joined, still shaking, still wrapped around each other like you can’t believe it finally happened.

Because this wasn’t just sex.

This was the shift.

The one where everything changed, where love stopped being a dangerous thought and started being the truth, spoken between broken kisses and whispered confessions, claimed through every thrust, every gasp, every slow grind of your bodies trying to say what words can’t hold.

***

You were supposed to leave Saturday.

But then you saw the way he looked at you, like losing you would destroy him. Like he’d just found something worth crashing for. So you changed your ticket. Just three more days.

Three more days with him. Three more days of being completely, wildly, his. And he doesn’t waste a second of them.

He keeps you in his bed and barely lets you come up for air. He fucks you like he’s starving, like he’s never going to get enough of you, because he knows he won’t. You come apart under his mouth, his hands, his voice in your ear whispering mine while he pulls you over the edge again and again.

He moans your name like it’s holy. Tells you he loves you between kisses, between thrusts, in the shower while shampoo runs down your back. You say it back every time. You mean it more every time.

You wear his jacket everywhere. Like it’s a flag. Like it’s armor. His crew barely blinks anymore.

At the races, you’re glued to his side. He spins you into his space, your back pressed to his chest, one hand resting heavy across your lower stomach. His fingers tap against your waistband like a warning. You’re his center of gravity, his magnet, his anchor.

And he’s not subtle about it. He’s got one hand on you at all times, like someone might be stupid enough to try something. His eyes track every guy that lingers too long, like he’s daring them to make a move, just so he can remind them exactly who the fuck you belong to.

He doesn’t just show you off, he marks you with every touch. Pulls you in by the belt loops, kisses you hard in front of everyone, talks to you with that low voice that turns your insides molten. He’s not sweet with it, not shy. He’s proud. Like claiming you is the boldest, smartest thing he’s ever done.

And you? You kiss him at red lights. Whisper filthy things in his ear just to watch his jaw clench. You’ve never been more yourself. Never felt more wanted.

It’s messy. Loud. Bare. Real. The sex is addictive. The love is worse.

He holds you like he’s scared you’ll disappear every time you fall asleep. You run your fingers through his hair and pretend you’re not counting down the days in your head. He tells you you’ll be okay when you leave.

But you both know that’s a lie.

Your last night in the city feels like a fever dream. He keeps you in bed for hours, touching you like it’s the last time, because it is. He doesn’t hold back. Neither do you. You cry a little. He kisses it away. When you finally collapse together, bodies soaked in sweat and love, he holds you tighter than ever and doesn’t let go until morning.

And then it’s time.

The morning you leave, it rains.

Not enough to drown the city, just enough to make everything feel heavier. Dimmer. Like the world knows you’re about to break your own heart. His arm is heavy across your waist, one leg thrown over yours, his nose pressed to the curve of your neck like he’s trying to memorize your scent. You feel the steady thump of his heart against your back, strong and fast, like he never really fell asleep.

You don’t move. You can’t. Because if you do, it’ll be real.

You let yourself have one more minute. One more heartbeat of pretending this is just another morning, just another day where you’ll stay in his bed until noon, steal his shirt, kiss him slow and lazy like you’ve got forever.

But you don’t.

He stirs when you shift. His fingers curl tighter around your waist like he already knows. “No,” he rasps, voice wrecked with sleep and something heavier. “Don’t.”

“I have to,” you whisper, swallowing hard. Your throat burns. His hand slides up your side beneath the sheets, warm and possessive, tracing every inch he already knows by heart. He presses a kiss behind your ear and then another to your bare shoulder, lips lingering. You turn in his arms and he’s already looking at you. His eyes are swollen with sleep but open, searching your face like he’s trying to carve it into his memory. You reach up to trace his jaw, soft and slow, and the second your fingers graze his skin, he leans in.

The kiss is gentle. Painfully so. There’s no hunger in it, just grief. The kind that sits low in your stomach and makes your chest feel tight. And when he pushes the sheets down and moves between your thighs, it’s not fast, not frantic.

It’s reverent.

When he pushes into you, it’s quiet but not silent. There’s breathless gasps and whispered names. Little nothings and everything at once. He whispers I’ll miss you into your skin. You breathe don’t forget me into his mouth. He makes love to you in the grey morning light, slow and devastating. There’s no performance, no rush. Just his mouth on your neck, your shoulder, your chest. His hands gripping your hips like he can anchor you here a little longer. When you come, you clutch his back like you’re scared you won’t feel him again, and he kisses your tears without even teasing you for them.

When it’s over, he stays inside you as long as he can. Breathing heavy against your neck, arms wrapped around your back. You just lie there, tangled up in sheets and sweat and each other, listening to the minutes tick away.

“I should get up.” you say softly.

“No.”

You huff a laugh into his neck. “I’m gonna miss the flight.”

“Good.” He says it like a reflex. You lift your head and meet his eyes.

“You know I have to go.”

“I know.” He cups your jaw, thumb tracing the edge of your cheekbone. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

Eventually, you pull yourself from the warmth of his bed. Pull on yesterday’s clothes. Start shoving things back into your bag. It feels mechanical. Distant. Like you’re packing someone else’s life. He watches you the whole time. Silent, jaw clenched. Then he steps out of the room, just for a second, and comes back holding the leather jacket.

His jacket.

The one that’s been through hell and back with him. The one that smells like gasoline and wind and everything he is. He holds it out. Doesn’t speak.

You freeze. “You’re giving me this?”

He shrugs. Looks away, jaw tight. “What, you thought I’d let my girlfriend fly across the country without it?”

Girlfriend.

The word sucker punches you right in the chest. Not because it’s new, you’ve both known what you are, but because hearing him say it like it’s obvious, like it’s real, undoes you completely.

Your throat burns. “Say that again.”

He meets your eyes. “You’re my girlfriend.”

Your lip trembles. He notices. Steps forward and cups your face with both hands.

“You’re mine,” he says, softer now. “I don’t care where you go. You’re still mine.”

You drive to the airport in his car. Of course you do. There’s no way he’d let you leave the city in anything else.

His hand stays on your thigh the entire ride, thumb brushing slow circles into your skin. His knuckles are white on the wheel, jaw tight, eyes locked on the road like it’s the only thing keeping him from turning around and driving the opposite way.

He doesn’t say much.

You do.

You talk, not because the words matter, but because the silence feels like a countdown. You ramble about airport food, how you’ll probably get something stupid like a soggy sandwich. You joke about your job, how it’s going to eat you alive the second you clock back in. You even try to make him laugh by telling him how weird it’ll be to sleep without the sound of engines in your dreams.

His fingers tighten on your thigh once, and you know it’s coming before he even opens his mouth. “You could stay.”

Your heart stutters. You stare ahead. The traffic light turns green. “I can’t,” you say quietly.

“Don’t say ‘can’t,’” he mutters. “You can do anything.”

You reach for his hand on your thigh. Squeeze it hard. “You know I want to.”

He exhales, almost like a laugh. It’s not a happy one. “I know.”

You lean your head back against the seat, eyes fixed on the side of his face. “I have a life back there,” you say. “My job, my apartment, my family…”

“I know,” he says again. But this time his voice is softer. Distant. Like maybe he’s already watching you walk away.

The rain gets heavier. A full-on downpour now.

When he finally pulls up to the airport drop-off, everything looks washed out, the sky, the pavement, the shape of people dragging suitcases beneath umbrellas. It all feels unreal. In a few more minutes, you’ll be nothing but a silhouette walking away through security. And he’ll be just a boy behind the glass, watching everything he wants disappear.

Your hand slips from his, and even that feels like too much, like a wound tearing open. You reach for your bag in the backseat and open the door before the storm of emotion inside you can make your legs freeze.

The rain hasn’t let up, but neither has he.

Wooyoung is out of the car in an instant, rounding the front before you can even lift your suitcase. He takes it from your hand like always, like muscle memory, like second nature.

He doesn’t speak much as you both walk through the terminal, but his hand doesn’t leave the small of your back. He keeps you tucked close, his fingers spread possessively across your side like he’s still trying to convince the universe that you’re his.

Every time you glance up at him, his expression is unreadable. Stoic. But you know him now. You know what it means when his jaw locks like that, when his throat moves like he’s swallowing something back. You know what it means when he won’t look directly at you too long, because if he does, he might not be able to look away.

Check-in. Baggage drop. Security line.

The minutes disappear too fast.

He stares at you like he’s trying to etch you into memory. Like he can’t decide which part of you to commit to first, the curve of your mouth, the crease between your brows, the tears welling in your lashes that you’re trying so hard to blink away.

He exhales hard through his nose. He steps forward, crowds into your space, and cups your face with both hands like he’s trying to hold you in place, to stop time, to stop you.

“Can’t believe I’m letting my girlfriend get on a fucking plane without me.”

Your stomach turns over. You choke on a laugh that’s more sob than smile. “I’ll come back.”

“You better,” he says, voice breaking on the edge of it. “If you don’t, I’ll come find you.”

You close your eyes. Press your forehead to his. You can feel his breath. His pulse. The heat of him, even through the thunderstorm building in your chest.

“I’m serious,” he whispers. “I’ll show up in your city. At your job. At your apartment. I don’t give a shit. You’re not getting rid of me.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Good.”

He kisses you then, hard. With teeth and tongue and something frantic behind it, like he’s trying to brand himself into your mouth. Like it might make this less unbearable. When he finally pulls back, he’s breathing like he just ran a race. He swipes your tears away with rough fingers. Lingers on your cheek like he can’t make himself let go.

You press your face to his neck and breathe him in one last time. “I’ll come back,” you promise again.

“Fuck,” he breathes, holding you tighter. “You better.”

You pick up your bag. Step into line. He stays until the very end. Right up to the point where the TSA agent tells you to move forward. Right up until the barrier he physically can’t cross. And even then he doesn’t leave. 

He’s still standing there. Still watching you like you’re everything he never expected to need.

And now can’t imagine being without.

***

Weeks have passed since you left the city. Since you left him.

You’re back in your hometown now. The familiar streets, the same cracked sidewalks, the same tired coffee shops. Everything feels smaller somehow, quieter, but your heart is loud.

You wear his jacket like armor. It’s thick, heavy with his scent, leather and a hint of something uniquely Wooyoung. You wrap it tighter around you on the cold days, pretending it’s his arms instead of just fabric.

You crave the feel of his hands on you, not the polite, careful touches, but the ones that claim, that drag you into chaos and leave you raw. You hear it in his voice when he talks, rough and low, hinting at nights he’s spent thinking about you the way you think about him, 

You talk constantly. Texts that never stop. Calls that stretch deep into the night until you’re both too wrecked to speak. You fall asleep with the phone on your chest, wake up to good morning messages that should not be that obscene.

He tells you about the races, the wins, the near-misses. Brags about how he fucked up some cocky kid on the asphalt, then drops his voice just enough to say, “But I was thinking about you the whole time. Thinking about your thighs around my head while I floored it. Sick, right?”

You love when he says shit like that.

He laughs, dark and low.

Most nights end the same way. FaceTime calls that start off innocent, just him in bed with the covers low, tattoos out, chain resting on his bare chest. And he’s shameless. Hair messy. Smirking like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. Because he does.

“You touching yourself already?” he’ll ask like it’s nothing.

And then his hand is on his cock and yours is between your thighs, and there’s nothing sweet about it. He tells you where to put your fingers. How deep. How fast. Groans when you whimper, begs you to be louder, to let him hear how ruined you are. Sometimes he talks you through it, filthy, detailed, claiming you with every word.

“Wish I was there to spit in your mouth,” he growls, hips jerking under the camera. “Want to fuck you open and make you beg for it. You’d take it, wouldn’t you? All of me.”

You whimper his name like it’s a prayer.

“Louder.”

And you do. Because he owns you even from hundreds of miles away.

He groans your name like it hurts. Tells you how good you look falling apart for him. How no one’s ever going to touch you like he does. And then he says the things that make your toes curl and your heart twist.

“My girl,” he mutters, low and breathless as he strokes himself. “You hear me? You’re my fucking girl.” He always smiles then, dangerous and soft all at once.

And when it’s over, when you’re both wrecked, sweaty, boneless in separate beds, he stays on the line. Tells you about the engine he’s rebuilding. The fight he almost got into at the garage. How nothing feels the same without you there.

And then, after it all, the silent goodnights come heavy with promise. The way he says, “Soon,” like it’s the only word you both need to hear. Because it is.

Today starts like any other shitty weekday.

The sun’s setting slow and syrupy, casting everything in burnt gold. Your feet ache from standing too long, your shoulders are sore from stress. Work was a mess. Your phone’s dead. You forgot to eat lunch. You just want to collapse.

You step off the bus with a sigh, your breath fogs in the air. You pull his leather jacket tighter around yourself, the weight of the worn leather and the scent still faint but unmistakably his.

Then, out of nowhere, something shoves its way into your thoughts, a flash of black, sleek and familiar, parked right across from your building. Your heart stops. You freeze mid-step. The shape, the shine, the way the fading light glints off the leather interior, there’s no mistaking it. His car. His goddamn car. Here. Outside your apartment.

Your heart stutters. You stop dead on the sidewalk, stare at it, like if you blink it might vanish.

No fucking way.

Your steps quicken, your pulse louder than your footsteps. You glance around, heart in your throat. There’s no sign of him. Your fingers twitch, itching to reach out, to touch something real. You drag your palm over the hood, still warm from the engine, the heat pulsing faint against your skin. It’s so tangible, so utterly him.

You swallow hard and turn toward your building, your steps quickening. You race up the stairs, every echo of your shoes against the concrete sounding impossibly loud in the silent hallway. Your keys shake in your hand. You don’t even remember making it to your floor, you're too frantic, breath shallow, thoughts spinning.

You reach your floor and immediately stop. There. At the end of the hallway, by your door, leaning against the wall like he owns the space. His silhouette is sharp against the dim light, casual but magnetic. One foot crossed over the other, his head tilted down just enough for the loose strands of hair to fall over his eyes.

You can’t move. You can’t even think. Then, slowly, he lifts his gaze. His eyes find yours. And that smirk, that fucking smirk, spreads across his lips. It’s cocky and knowing, the kind of smirk that says he’s been here all along, waiting for you to notice, waiting for this exact second.

His voice, low and rich and dripping with everything he’s been holding back and all the fire he’s ready to unleash.

“Hey, trouble.”

And just like that, everything shifts. Time slows, your world narrows to the space between you two. The city, the distance, the ache, none of it matters anymore.

Because it was always going to be him.And you were always going to be his.

TAGLIST: I only have one main taglist, so if you wish to be added/removed, then let me know! xx

“Five… ten… twenty… I know I asked the question, but the fact that you all had answers? You thought about it, and actually came up with a number. What if you met your soulmate, but their body count is six? Eleven? Twenty-one? Would you kick them to the curb? Would you say ‘Sorry, I don’t date whores’? Because that’s basically what you’re saying by even having a limit. You’re saying if someone crosses your personal threshold, then they aren’t worth considering a future with. It’s not because they’re liars or cheaters or shitty human beings, it’s because they’ve had more sex than you prefer before they even met you. Isn’t that baffling?

“At one point, I think I might have had that mentality, too, when I was younger and not as experienced. If it's a preference for you, fine, have your preferences, but if it’s because it skeeves you out or something that the person you want has once wanted other people, if it changes how you see them, it’s different. That number didn’t change the person, the only thing that number changed is how you view the person.

“I’ve met people with low body counts who are piece-of-shit cheaters, dirty fucking liars. Like, under ten, maybe even under five low. But I’ve met people with high body counts who have never cheated on anyone, who are painfully honest and are even picky about who they have sex with because their morals are strong. I’ve met people who save sex for relationships and stay in the relationship even if the sex is borderline awful. Isn’t it interesting that body count has nothing to fucking do with who you are as a person? 

“Body count doesn’t tell me who you are. It doesn’t tell me if you’re kind, if you’re generous, if you’re caring. It doesn’t tell me if you’re rude, selfish, or emotionally unavailable. All it tells me is that you’ve had sex. That’s it. And for us, at our age, somewhere in our twenties, god– who fucking cares? We all have sex! I’ve spent months telling everyone in great detail what I do, I’ve given tips on how to please your partner, I’ve been giving you all a goddamn manual to fuck. You want advice from someone who’s experienced, but if you actually meet someone who is experienced, suddenly they’re a whore. That just doesn’t sit right with me.

“I think this is my question: if I reached through the phone and handed you two people, both are your perfect type. Everything you could ever want in a partner. You share the same values, you want the same future, you feel the same about almost everything. The only difference is that one has a body count of five, and the other has a body count of fifty. Would the person with the higher body count really be of less value to you? Would they be less attractive to you, just because of that number? Think about it.

“Also, date whoever the fuck you want, have your preferences. Seriously. But a body count isn’t the fucking same as the Myers-Briggs, it doesn’t tell you anything about a person. It doesn’t tell you who’s kind, who will treat you well, who will see you when you can’t see yourself. The only thing a body count can tell you is that the person has had sex. That’s it.

“Sorry the think piece was a rant today, but that’s been bugging me. I needed to get it off my chest. Join me next week where hopefully I’ll have a few stories to tell, all of ‘em personal, all of ‘em about making my own body count higher. And they’ll be unscripted, as always.”

You pull your headphones out of your ears as your professor strides into the lecture hall. You need to get out of the habit of listening to your own episodes after you post them, because you can hear the frustration in your voice, the anger lining each syllable, the episode feels personal. And even if it is, even if the topic of body count and the concept of double standards has been bugging you since that evening you spent with Wooyoung, you don’t need another fucking megathread on r/Unscripted about Mister Piss-Me-Off. 

You’ve never been more grateful for a privacy screen on your phone as you pull up your own subreddit. There’s talk, of course, but not much. No one’s put two and two together. You hate that there’s an air of anxiety around the word yet.

You swipe out of Reddit, open up your messages instead.

yunho: are u in class yunho: wanting and needing coffee rn. and to see ur face

You smile at your screen. 

you: unforch i am in class you: i might leave tho idk im restless today i can’t focus

A bubble pops up with three dots immediately.

yunho: stop playing on ur phone then  yunho: pay attention and i’ll bring you coffee to ur building after

Your lips scrunch, disappointed. Fucker. 

you: fine </3 you: boo tomato tomato you: tell san to make it extra yummy today

yunho: im not texting u anymore yunho: pay attention

Your top lip lifts at your screen, but you listen, locking your phone and bringing your attention back up to your professor. He’s writing on the wide, thick whiteboard, and even if you’re trying your hardest to pay attention, your ears perk up to the conversation happening behind you.

“Did you listen?” A guy. You can’t remember his name.

“The body count one? The one she posted this morning?”

Your spine goes rigid, eyes widening. You bring your gaze back to the table in front of you. 

“It’s stupid, obviously someone got on her ass about her own body count.”

“So? I liked it, she’s right. Who cares about body count?” You’ve always liked that girl. She gave you a pen when you forgot your own, once. 

“Everyone cares about body count. It’s like, instilled in us as humans.”

“It’s instilled in you as a man.”

You can’t help the way your lips curve, staring at your desk. 

The professor clears his throat, and the two behind you go quiet. You look up through your brows, body on fire. He’s probably somewhere in his forties, dressed in business-casual, like a proper professor. He tilts his head, the movement youthful, “Don’t stop on my account, please, keep going. We can use it for today.”

You can feel the color drain from your face. He doesn’t mean what you think he means, does he?

The two behind you don’t make a sound. The professor points to the board, “We’re talking about source credibility. Who here has listened to the podcast that’s all over campus? Someone remind me what it’s called, Unwritten?” 

“Unscripted,” a girl from the front row corrects as her hand shoots upward. You look around the room, the stacked rows of seats, about seventy-five percent of the hands go up. Yours stay glued to the table in front of you. 

He pushes away from the board, looking up at the audience of students, “I hear the host is anonymous… Does that make her more credible, or less?”

The same girl from the front answers, “Less. She loses credibility with anonymity.”

The girl from behind you counters, “More. If no one knows who she is, then she can’t gain anything from the podcast. It’s popular, she could monetize it easily.”

A guy from the left side of the room adds, “She’s obviously experienced, I feel like she’s pretty obviously credible.”

Someone in the row before him turns around, “You think sleeping around makes her credible?”

You need to get the fuck out of here. You need to leave. 

The professor cuts in, “That’s a good question. Does having a lot of sexual experience make you a more credible source on sex?”

The girl from behind you answers, “Of course, why would you take sex advice from someone who doesn’t have sex?”

The girl from the front makes a noise like she doesn’t agree. “Doing it a lot doesn’t mean you’re good at it, though.”

The professor crosses his arms, his voice booming throughout the room, “Interesting. Now let me ask: if her identity was revealed tomorrow, how many of you would change your opinion on her? If she was someone you didn’t expect.”

Bile forms in your throat, your fingers gripping onto your pen like you’re pulling a trigger. You refuse to look, to see if any hands are raised. 

A smile curves his lips, “But did anything change? Her arguments, her advice, the facts?” You can feel the silence in the room. You could touch it. “So what changed, then? Other than putting a face to the name?” 

The girl in the front answers again, “It would decide her credibility. But if she revealed herself, she’d be judged ruthlessly as a woman. If she were to expose her own identity, people would be able to look into her life, see who she is, who she’s slept with. They would be able to find out real facts, instead of taking her advice at face value.”

“So, the discussion would become qualification,” the professor continues. “How many of you have imagined what she looks like?” 

Your throat constricts around nothing as you glance around the room, the hands raised in the air feel like they were all pointing at you. You might actually fucking cry. Unscripted being spoken about with your friends is one thing, but in class of all places?

He pauses between each question, “Did you imagine someone conventionally attractive? Someone older than you? Someone who looks like they’d have a lot of experience? Confident? Bold?” Then he smiles at the class, at the silence that’s covered the room like a blanket. “You all have invented a source, one you trust, in your imagination. That’s what an audience does when information is missing, they fill in the blanks.” 

You tune the rest out. You don’t even mean to, you don’t think your ears work anymore. He writes on the board, he speaks, the class answers questions, you feel like a ghost, counting down the minutes until the class is over. You don’t think your phone screen locked once with how many times you tapped it to show the time. 

Unscripted is getting too big. It’s reaching farther than you ever expected it to, farther than you ever fucking wanted it to. When you started posting, it was to give women an outlet, a safe space to exist where sex wasn’t a taboo topic to speak about. That women can love sex just as much as men do, and it’s normal. It’s natural. You can’t help feeling like it’s turned into something else entirely.

Something your friends can debate, something the campus can gossip about, something to be fucking lectured in your goddamn class. No one is just listening to enjoy it anymore, they’re analyzing it, they’re picking it apart piece by piece, they want to know who you are. They want to know you. 

You don’t want to be known.

You had your shit packed up before he finished the last few closing words and rushed out of the class like a bat out of hell. You feel exposed, like the bigger Unscripted gets, the smaller you are. They’ve imagined what your fucking face looks like. For the first time since you started Unscripted, there’s regret sitting heavy in your gut, and it beckons you to move to action. You should delete it all. Every post, everything, you should remove your online presence entirely.

“There’s my sunshine girl.” Yunho is standing right outside of the double doors, two coffees in his hands, a gray hoodie swallowing his upper half, bright blue shorts reaching mid-thigh. 

You don’t know when the last breath you took was. But seeing him, a grin on his cheeks, holding a coffee out for you, the air tastes sweeter. Fresher. Like you’re breathing relief into your lungs. You don’t take it from his hand yet, you walk into him, pressing your forehead into his cotton-covered chest. You breathe in his smell, laundry detergent, a little weed-y. 

“What’s wrong?” His elbows wrap around you, he presses his lips to the top of your head. “Bad class?”

You nod, forehead still pressed to his chest. “I knew I should have skipped.”

He huffs amusement. “The drama. Do you have any more classes today?”

You shake your head in his chest, probably fucking up your hair. “I want to go home and sleep.”

“Take a nap before the girls come over,” he leans back enough to make you lift your head to see him. “You guys are pregaming at your place, right?”

He slides your coffee in between your bodies, and you catch the straw between your lips, taking a sip. You moan at the taste, “Fuck, I’m making sure Jen fucks San extra good for this.” You grin for the first time all afternoon, taking the cup from his hand, “Thank you, and yeah, the girls are coming over.” Your lips scrunch as you stare at the coffee swirling in the plastic cup. “I don’t even feel like partying tonight.”

“You don’t have to,” he immediately reassures you. “There’s literally another one tomorrow, and that party will arguably be better than ours.”

You snort, “You have no faith in your own frat, Yunho. I always have more fun at your house.”

He shrugs. “I’d leave my own party for Jungwon’s. You don’t have to spare my feelings when I know the truth.”

You roll your eyes, “Come on. Let’s get away from this stupid fucking building.”

“Yes ma’am,” Yunho answers, amusement playing in his tone as he follows you away from your now demonic lecture hall. 

You're halfway home before the thoughts creep up again. Yunho always gives you space, lets you work shit out on your own before you present them to him. But you can’t explain this to him, you can’t tell him any of it, but his comfort is what you need right now. 

You turn your head to look up at him, “Do you want to nap with me?”

His brows furrow, “I have a party to set up, sunshine. I gotta go with Wooyoung to the liquor store.” 

“Make him go alone,” you pout. “There’s like, twenty more of you, he can find someone else to go with him. Make Mingi go.” 

“I’d tell Joong to go before I’d tell Mingi,” he laughs a little. “Joong is stronger, believe it or not.” 

Your lips curve, “Really? He’s so tiny.” 

“Don’t let him hear you say that,” Yunho muses. “Mingi’s just tall. He’s not strong, he’s a softie in every sense of the word. You know him, you’ve been around him.” 

You shake your head. “I judged a book by its cover. I’m fucked up.” 

Yunho wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you into his side. “I’ll nap with you if you promise to wake up with enough time for me to go back home.” 

“Deal,” you nod into his hoodie. “Pleasure doing business with you.” 

“Guys.” Your nose crinkles at the sound, like it might have come from the astral realm, certainly not from someone inside your bedroom. “Guys! Wake up.” 

Air gets trapped in your nose as a yawn pulls your body into movement, arms stretching over your head.

“Jesus fuck, did you even set an alarm?” 

Your eyes peel open to Yunjin standing over the other side of your bed, hands on her hips. You blink once, twice. “What?”

“Sannie just called me freaking the fuck out over Yunho not being home,” she’s whisper-yelling, because Yunho beside you hasn’t stirred the slightest bit. 

You look at him, hair fucked up, shirtless, softly snoring. You smile, “He’s so cute.” 

“He won’t be after San fucks him up for not being home,” she’s speaking in her normal volume now. “Wake him up.” 

“Fine, fine,” you say through another yawn, lifting yourself up on your elbows. After she leaves your room that’s as dark as night, you flip over, peppering kisses up Yunho’s chest, his neck, you feel him stirring as you place the last one on his cheek. 

He groans, turning on his back, rubbing at his face. His voice is groggy as he asks, “What time is it?” 

You feel around the bedsheets for your phone. You don’t find it. “I don’t know, but Jen just came in here saying San is blowing her shit up about you not being home.” 

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath. “How long have we been asleep?” 

“No idea,” you answer without a shred of care in your tone. You wish you could go back to sleep. “Let’s skip. You can stay here and we can go back to sleep.” 

Eyes half open, he reaches for you, pulling you into his chest. You let him, pressing your cheek against his bare skin, and the two of you lay there silently for a minute or an hour, you don’t care. 

“How do you feel?” he mumbles, voice still coated in sleep. 

You hum against his chest, “Like I don’t wanna get up.” 

One of his hands slides under your shirt, fingertips dancing up your back. “I don’t really want to, either.” 

“See?” You peel your face off his chest, looking at him. “We should just stay here.”

He smiles, leaning forward to press a quick peck to your lips. “I would if I could.” You immediately pout. He huffs a laugh, “If we lay here any longer it’ll just be harder to get up.” 

You crawl on top of him fully, your thighs landing on either side of his hips, your upper half perched on his chest. “Please?” 

He groans, palms finding your thighs like magnets, thumbs rubbing at your bare skin. “I have to go,” he squeezes your thighs. “I know what you’re doing.” 

You play coy, “I’m not doing anything.” 

He shakes his head before lightly smacking one of your thighs once, “Up.” You pout further, unmoving. “If I have to say it twice then I’m not fucking you later, either.”

You suck in a breath as you crawl off of him, a streak of need shooting up your spine. “That was mean,” you whine, on your back now, watching as he crawls off the bed. 

He laughs to himself, “You’re just easy.” 

“Not easy,” you correct. “I listen like you taught me to, there’s a difference.” 

He pulls his hoodie over his head, then leans onto the bed to press a kiss to your lips before saying, “I’ll see you later, you can listen to me then.”

“Fine,” you mutter. 

He huffs a laugh under his breath, “You’re pushing it, brat.” 

You grin, turning on your side, palm holding your head up. “How far can I push before you give in?”

He shakes his head, but there’s a grin on his lips. “You’re ridiculous. I’ll see you later.” 

“Bye,” you say, watching as he leaves through your door. When you hear the front door close, you frown. You don’t want to be alone with your thoughts. 

Luckily, you don’t have to be. Yunjin storms into your room right after, turning the lights on before she’s talking at a volume too loud for your just woken state, “I don’t get it.” 

You blink at her, staring at her hands on her hips, her tight jaw. She doesn’t give you a chance to ask. “You said you’re not exclusive, but why are you sleeping together at seven at night on a Monday?” 

Your brows furrow. “What’s wrong with that?” 

“Nothing,” Yunjin shrugs. “Nothing’s wrong, per se–”

You interject, already dumbfounded, “Per se?” 

“Girl,” she huffs, walking forward until she’s sitting on the edge of your bed. “You ended exclusivity before there was even something real between you and now you’re spending more time together than you were before. Isn’t this like, the opposite of how it’s supposed to go?” 

“Huh?” Your neck cranes forward. “We’re not dating, Jen. We’re both on the same page, it’s not like we’re eloping.”

She pops a brow. “With your track record I wouldn’t be so sure.” 

You smack your teeth, laying back down. “I had a shitty day, Jen. I’m not in the mood to figure this shit out, I just wanted to take a nap.” 

“With him,” she adds. 

You sit up on your elbows again, shooting her a flat stare. “Yes, with him. He’s comforting.” 

“Comforting,” she echoes in a breath. She lays down on her side, elbow propped up beneath her as she asks, “What happened? Why was your day shitty?” 

“My class discussed Unscripted,” you mumble, mindlessly kicking at the sheets around your feet. 

She sits up. “What? Your class?” 

You sigh, then groan, laying flat on your back to run your hands over your face, turning on your side. Your voice comes out muffled as you groan out, “They imagined what I fucking look like, Jen.” 

“What the fuck?” Her voice is pitched, shocked, a little disbelieving. “Wait, start from the beginning.” 

You lay there, knees tucked up on your side as you tell her everything. How your professor made your podcast into a lecture, the questions he asked, how many fucking people in your class not only listen, but engage. They listen hard enough to debate. 

You feel sick all over again. 

“That’s fucking terrifying,” she says when you finish, her face scrunched up in horror. “I’m so fucking sorry.” 

“I want to delete it all,” you whisper, chest feeling tight. Then your lip quivers before you can get the rest out, “I want to wipe Unscripted off the internet. Gone forever. I’m done.”

“No,” she leans closer, crawling up on the bed until she’s laying right beside you. “Don’t say that.” 

Your voice cracks, eyes filling with watery heat as you say, “I mean it, Jen. I don’t like this.” 

“I know,” her voice is softer now, comforting. “But Unscripted is a part of you, babe. Through everything, even when I couldn’t be there for you, she was.” She reaches over, moving a piece of hair out of your face, frowning as she watches your tears fall. “You love Unscripted.” 

You sniffle, lips quivering, nose twitching as you try to hold back your tears, your fear that wraps around you like a fucking straight jacket. You can’t. 

She lets you get it out for a minute or two, a light hand on your arm, thumb swiping across your skin. When you’re sniffling snot and you can feel how swollen your eyes have gotten, she speaks again. “I know how scared you are, but Unscripted is your voice. She’s you. And you’re not the only person she’s important to, I think Sannie would be destroyed if you stopped posting.” 

A laugh breaks through, just one, but it’s heavy and coated in your crying voice. You wipe your eyes, “He would be destroyed.” 

She's smiling at the sight of you smiling. “See? I know it’s scary, but people really fucking love you, even if they don’t know it’s you.”

You shake your head, sniffling. “I don’t know, Jen. The bigger it gets, the easier it will be to put the pieces together. I think I should cut it off before it gets to that point.” 

“Do it next week,” she offers. “Or in a few days, or whenever this feeling passes. Delete it when your head is clear, not when you’re scared or crying or upset.” 

You nod, looking at her, lips still quivering. You manage to mutter a small, broken, “Thank you.” 

“I’ve got your back,” she smiles. “I love you, I love Unscripted, I love every version of you that exists. I want you to love her, too.” 

“I’ll try,” you force out, managing a smile. “I really don’t want to go tonight.” 

Her lips tighten in a frown. “Unfortunately, now you kinda have to go.” She smiles again before saying, “I won’t let you sit in here and cry all night.” 

You pout, “But it’s been so long since I’ve laid in here and cried.” 

“Progress,” she nods, assured. “Let’s keep up the good work, girl.” You groan, rolling away from her, and she laughs before stretching her body over yours, searching for your face. “Come on, you deserve a night away from thinking about all this shit.” 

“We party every other day,” you groan out. “I need a break or I’m gonna gain the fucking freshman fifteen again.” 

“You work at a gym,” she argues, tone final. “You’re coming, end of story. No more arguing.” 

She pushes off your body to lift herself up, and all you can do is mutter a pained sound. You’re sure she’s in your doorway when she yells, “Get up!” 

You sigh, laying flat on your back, you sprawl your arms out on either side of you, searching for your phone again. You find it under you, hot as hell like you’ve been laying on it this entire time. You have two missed calls from San, texts from San, texts from Mingi, texts from Wooyoung. You don’t even open them, sighing as you throw your phone next to you again. A second goes by of you staring at your ceiling before you inevitably pick your phone up again.

mister rich: is yunho there mister rich: answer mister rich: tell him he owes me

You gnaw on your bottom lip, fingers hovering over your keyboard.

you: my bad you: hes on his way back now

The three dots pop up sooner than you thought they would. 

mister rich: next time can u wait to fuck him after he goes to the liquor store w me

you: we weren’t even fucking  you: we were sleeping

mister rich: thats even worse mister rich: u two gross me out

You smile at your screen while typing back.

you: be jealous ho you: i can smell the envy from here

mister rich: ur smelling the sweat lingering in ur sheets from that fatass nap

you: LMFAO you: ok that was funny you: fuck u

mister rich: r u coming tn

You gnaw on your bottom lip again, bending your knees up, ankles crossing.

you: yeah im coming

mister rich: make sure u shower so u dont stink up my house

You scoff, turning on your side. 

you: make sure You shower you: u probably still smell like whatever girl u fucked today

mister rich: i smell like a garden full of blooming flowers mister rich: and body wash i bought from lush

you: so manly

You hear Yunjin yell from her bedroom, so with a complaining noise, you force yourself out of bed. But you don’t close your phone, and you don’t leave it in your bedroom, either. Wooyoung keeps texting you, and then continues texting you while you get ready. You did your hair, your makeup, even when the girls start walking in your house to pregame, he’s in your phone sending witty messages every few minutes. 

Sitting with the heels of your feet propped up on the edge of your chair, you send him one last message before going out to the kitchen with the rest of the girls. 

you: ok fuck off now you: the girls are here 

mister rich: is jihyo there mister rich: did u decide if ur spending the night with her or yunho yet

you: ur so irritating you: yunho tho

mister rich: u sure?? mister rich: hes talking crazy to mingi rn

you: maybe ill end the night with both of them then you: only time will tell

mister rich: omfg ur turning into me. u really are my twin

You thumbs-down the message.

you: pray i dont see u tn deadass

Hopping off your chair, you’re only half-dressed as you walk out into the kitchen grinning, greeting Jihyo, Sana and Momo, the first three to arrive. Jihyo’s hair is slicked back, an open-front top on her upper half, baggy jeans on her lower. You kiss her on the cheek, giving her a hug, complimenting her as soon as you see her. Whether she’s in a dress or something casual, she always looks fucking incredible, it doesn’t matter what clothes she has on. Perks of being literally perfect.

Sana looks like a princess dressed in pink, Momo looks like she chose the smallest articles of clothing in her closet, both look to die for. Delectable. You’re glad they’re all here not only so you can stare at them in awe, but also so they can help choose an outfit for you. 

You make yourself a drink before becoming their personal Barbie doll. Four olives just because you can, you sip on your martini from the chair in your vanity while all four of your friends go through your closet like it’s a shopping mall. Music bleeds in from the kitchen, the same pregame playlist Yunjin always connects to your speaker, it serves to bring your mood up the rest of the way.

By the time the other girls barrel in, you’re dressed, a little tipsy, and you can’t seem to wipe the smile off your face.

Wooyoung sits on the counter in the kitchen. People started showing up a while ago, but he isn’t the one to approach with greetings. He sips on his beer, watching from the corner, listening as his brothers make their loud-mouthed greetings, instead. Well, it’s really only Yeosang who’s still greeting everyone, and mainly because he’s been drunk for the past two hours. 

Hongjoong, Seonghwa and Jongho were somewhere else, maybe on the back porch, smoking. San, Yunho and Mingi stand in different parts of the kitchen, yelling to each other over the packed counter, their voices bouncing off the bottles of liquor. Something about having enough beer, having enough weed, and Wooyoung almost makes his third jab toward Yunho about not coming with him to the liquor store. He had to get Mingi to come with him, and Mingi can only carry one case of beer at a time.

He decides to let Yunho off the hook, he doesn’t really feel like bothering the older man anymore. He doesn’t feel like doing anything except sitting, watching, sipping his beer. And checking his phone.

He pulls it from his pocket, tapping the screen. Approaching ten-thirty, his lock screen is empty, just like it was five minutes ago. He shoves it back in his pocket.

“Why do you keep checking your phone?” San asks, brows furrowed, leaning on the counter on the opposite side of the kitchen. He talks across the room like there’s no one else inside it, like other than the four of them, the kitchen is empty. “Who’s coming here that you’re so impatient to see?”

“Your mom,” Wooyoung quips before bringing his beer back up to his lips. 

Mingi snorts before anyone else can react, “How old are you?”

Like he had it locked and loaded, he responds, “Old enough to fuck his mom.” 

“It’d be funny if it wasn’t possible,” San grimaces from the other side of the kitchen. “With you, anything is fucking possible.”

“Not anything,” Yunho interjects. “There are plenty of people on campus he hasn’t fucked yet, there are entire genders he hasn’t tapped.”

Wooyoung’s bottom lip folds over with a shrug like Yunho has a point. Mingi gasps at the lack of rebuttal, “Did you just come out? Should we celebrate? Should we invite RuPaul?”

“I just mean he’s not wrong,” Wooyoung says before sipping his beer again. 

Mingi gapes at him while Yunho laughs, and San doesn’t pay it any mind because he knows Yunho’s not wrong. He probably knows Wooyoung is at the least curious about the idea, too. 

“When’s she getting here?” Mingi asks, leaning over Yunho’s shoulder as the blonde pulls out his phone. Wooyoung’s head turns, eyes narrowing like he might see past Yunho’s privacy screen. 

“She’s here,” Yunho answers, and Wooyoung fixes his gaze out toward the living room. Plenty of people he knows, plenty of people he recognizes, plenty of people he’s been inside of, but none that make him want to hop off the countertop. 

He grabs his phone out of his pocket again like maybe this time there might be a message waiting for him. There isn’t.

By now, usually he at least has his eyes set on someone. Usually there’s a woman who’s made eyes at him, flirted with him, already tried to get him upstairs. Sometimes he is already upstairs by now. Tonight, the faces blur together, or maybe that’s because he won’t even get off the counter to window shop. 

San lays his elbow on Wooyoung’s knee, he didn’t even notice his best friend crossing the room. Voice whiney, he moans, “I don’t feel like mingling. I want to drink with Jen and then have sloppy, drunk sex and pass out.”

Wooyoung snorts, “Magical Monday night for you.”

San pops a brow. “Not you? Usually I can’t find you by now.”

It shouldn’t surprise him anymore how well San knows him, but it always does anyway. Wooyoung sighs, “Waiting for her to come to me.”

“Or him, apparently,” San muses, then realizes he’s leaning half his body on Wooyoung’s legs. He raises his brows at Wooyoung like he might be interested.

He can’t help but laugh, pushing him off. “Go find your girlfriend to have sloppy, drunk sex.”

“She’s not my girlfriend," San answers, but he doesn’t sound happy about it. He lowers his voice just enough for Wooyoung to still hear him over the music, “Do you think she’d want to be my girlfriend?” 

“Of course,” Wooyoung reassures him. “You’re obsessed with each other.”

San grins ear-to-ear. “I’m obsessed with her.”

“Trust me,” Wooyoung lays a hand on his shoulder. “She’s just as obsessed with you.”

They sit in content silence other than the blaring bass for a moment before San ruins it completely. “Since when are you two texting?”

Wooyoung whips his head to look at San, surprise and disbelief written across his features. “How’d you know I was texting her?”

“Because I know you,” San answers simply. “I’ve never seen you actually care about someone who isn’t one of us. It’s weird, I can recognize it from a mile away.”

Wooyoung’s nose crinkles. Softly, he mutters, “I don’t care.”

San stands in front of Wooyoung, staring at the younger man like he’s actually fucking stupid. Then his face softens as he leans his elbow back into Wooyoung’s thigh again, “Jen told me she had a rough day today.”

“Why?” Wooyoung asks. “What happened?” San smirks. Wooyoung grimaces, “You’re an asshole.”

San shrugs, “Okay, I had to prove my point, but Jen did actually say that. Apparently, she didn’t even tell Jen what happened, all she said was something happened in class.” 

You never complain about school, about academics. Actually, Wooyoung doesn’t know if he’s ever heard you talk about school other than the fact that you’re studying journalism. 

“Is she still coming?” Wooyoung asks, even if he knows it’s a stupid question because you told him you’re coming. Maybe Yunjin gave San an update. 

San nods, “Yeah, Jen said she had to basically peel her off her bed, I don’t know what happened.” 

His gaze flickers back to the front door as he sips his beer. It couldn’t be that bad if you’re still coming, right? 

Yunho comes back into the kitchen, he doesn’t look at Wooyoung or San before opening the fridge, pulling out a beer. San grabs his attention, “Are they here?” 

Yunho nods while he sips from his can. “Up front talking to another group of girls, I don't know who.”

“Does your girl seem to be feeling better?” San asks. 

Yunho shakes his head, then shrugs. “She’s acting fine.” He stretches his neck from side to side like he’s trying to figure it out. “She seems off, I don’t know. She doesn’t wanna talk about it.” 

Damn. Yunho doesn’t even know? 

“She was texting me earlier and she seemed fine,” Wooyoung adds before he can stop himself. He’s aware that he shouldn’t be adding anything to this conversation, it’s not his place to pry. San’s elbow digs into his knee a little harder as if to say I knew I was right. 

Yunho sighs, “I don’t know. Maybe you can get it out of her.” 

Wooyoung huffs his amusement with a shake of his head. “She tells me what she chooses to tell me.”

Mingi calls his name from the outskirts of the crowd, and like a dog whose ears just flipped upward, Yunho turns and immediately walks toward him. 

San turns his head slowly, brows raised. “So you were texting her.” 

“Fuck off,” Wooyoung quips. “No shit I was texting her.”

San laughs before pushing off Wooyoung’s leg. “I’m gonna go find Jen.”

“Good, go,” Wooyoung points at the crowd. “I’ll be after you soon enough.”

Wooyoung chugs down the rest of his beer, hoping it’ll take the edge off of the conversation he just had. You were texting him for like, an hour, and not once did Wooyoung think something was wrong. Is it hard to tell over text? Is it easy to tell over text, and he’s just fucking dense? Wooyoung has never had to decipher a woman’s wellbeing over text before. 

Oh my fucking god, he thinks. He doesn’t have to. He doesn’t even want to. Maybe he kind of wants to. 

He wonders if you would tell him. If you didn’t tell Yunho, then it’s bad. If you didn’t tell Yunjin, then it’s really fucking bad. If Yunho thinks Wooyoung might be important enough for you to tell… he wonders if he is. But wouldn’t you have said something over text? Or is this another one of those times where you bottle it up inside you and refuse to speak? He can still see you looking out the window of his car, your fingernails plucking at your jeans, your body so stiff and fucking uncomfortable. He can still hear the sound of you apologizing to him,  which he hates, because he genuinely never wants to hear it again.

So weird. He hates it. He hates that he hates it.

He pushes off the counter, throwing his empty can in the big ass recycling bin the frat brings inside for parties. He grabs another from the fridge before facing the crowd in front of him.

Maybe he’ll make sure you’re okay. Make sure you don’t have that pathetic look on your face.

Then he’ll go shopping.

Your smile is nowhere to be seen when you inevitably cross the threshold into Yunho’s frat. Your anxiety persists even under the blanket of alcohol; the martini and the extra shot you took weren’t enough to clear your mind, to give you a clean slate before coming here. You don’t want to be here. 

The music is loud, the air is thick and humid, there’s too many people– you wonder if every single one of them listened to you talk about body count this morning. You wonder if they agree, if they disagree, if they’ve imagined what your face looks like. You pull your sleeves over your palms, walking at the back of your group, hoping that maybe if the girls are distracted enough, you could sneak out from right behind them.

“You’re here!”

Of course not. Does he have a tracker on you or something?

You plaster a smile on your lips as Yunho approaches from your left, and the usual relief that washes over you when you see him doesn’t come. He kisses you, and you wish it lingered for a second longer, just to see if it might help. 

“Do you want a drink?” he asks, sliding his fingers through the belt loops of your shorts. 

“I’ll get there,” you smile, letting him tug you toward him. Referring to the girls in front of you currently talking up another group of girls, you answer, “We’ll all go.”

“Hey, what’s up?” he asks, brows furrowing, head tilting. “Still upset about class?”

“Yeah,” you say softly, lips flat. You redirect your gaze to your boots. “I’ll be fine, though. I’ll get drunk or something.”

“Be careful,” he says, but there’s no warning in his tone. He slips his fingers out from your belt loops as he muses, “I don’t wanna have to hold your hair while you’re over the toilet later.” When all you give him is a weak smile in response, he adds, “I’d do it, though. If you needed me to.”

“I know,” you nod, standing up on your tippy toes. “I’ll find you in a little.”

He presses another kiss to your lips, then he’s back off in the direction he came in. Fuck, you fucking hate this. You hate acting like this, but you can’t force yourself to pretend any better, to make it any more believable. You feel like you’re nearing a fucking breaking point, and maybe a house party isn’t the smartest place to be. 

At least Yunjin was right about something. You’ve already cried, what the fuck else is there to do? Lay in your bed, thinking, weeping? You miss your bed. You think the tears would return just fine if you let them. 

You turn to Yunjin again, sneaking up behind her, tugging on her purse strap. “Jen, I think I should go.”

She whips around, pausing mid-conversation. “What? Fuck no, you just got here. Let’s go get a drink.”

You stop her before she has a chance to move. “I don’t think drinking right now is smart.”

“Who cares about smart?” She props her hands on her hips. “Is ‘smart’ laying in bed, crying? No. You’ll feel better eventually.”

You grind your teeth together, frustrated. You should have just fucking snuck out, but no, you had to fucking tell her. She doesn’t let you dwell on it, she grabs your hand and pulls you through the crowd like she has one, singular mission.

She guides you steadily, weaving between bodies until you catch the neutral, bright lighting of the kitchen. “My girls!” San shouts from the kitchen, still too far away for you to see him. Yunjin squeals, and your lips curve automatically, involuntarily. You’ve never seen her like someone so much that she squeals just hearing their voice.

When you finally see him, he’s standing with Yeosang who looks fucked up already, his blonde hair unkempt, splotches of liquor on his gray tee. San seems like he’s keeping him upright with his arm tightly bound around Yeosang’s bicep. You greet them before asking, “Is he good?”

“‘m so good,” Yeosang slurs, leaning his head into San’s shoulder. “Are you good?”

You laugh a little, unsure of the appropriate reaction to have right now. “I’m okay.”

“He’s done for,” Yunjin muses quietly, her hand covering her mouth in amused disbelief. “Yeosang, I fear it’s time for bed, babe.”

“He just got started,” San reassures you and Yunjin, holding Yeosang a little tighter. The sleeves of his black tee squeeze his bicep with his hold on Yeosang– you literally can’t help but notice. “He’s not ready yet. Right, Yeo? You’re not ready yet, are you?”

“Fuuuck no,” Yeosang pulls away with a lazy grin. “Jongho promised games.”

“He promised Nascar,” San says quieter to the two of you. “The relay flip-cup game.”. 

“We’ll play,” San nods, reassuring him. “Actually, go find him, we’ll play now.” When Yeosang scurries off, he turns to you and Yunjin, “Let’s get you drinks. That just bought us at least thirty minutes, Jongho is upstairs fucking.”

You’re shaking your head as you turn to the countertop filled with bottles. You reach for vodka immediately, and San makes a noise like he just remembered something. “We bought vermouth! Oh my god, I almost forgot, he bought vermouth.”

Your jaw drops. “For me?”

“Who else drinks martinis at twenty fucking one years old?” San asks, ripping open the fridge, reaching inside it. “This has been in the fridge for at least an hour. There’s another one in there, too.”

He hands you a chilled rocks glass in the shape of a v, keeping the jar of olives to himself. You blink at him, fingers burning against the chill of the glass. You can’t believe it. “You put a fucking glass in the fridge for me?”

 San rolls his eyes. “Don’t act like I just gave you a million dollars.”

Your jaw is pried open, you can’t stop blinking in disbelief. “Who?” you ask, moving with him toward the unopened bottle of vermouth. He cracks it as you ask again, “Who got it?”

He looks at you with a flat stare. “Who do you think? Gimme the glass.”

You hand it to him, and you watch as he poorly mixes your martini. Not enough olive juice, too much vermouth. You don’t care, especially not when he drops four fucking olives in the glass and hands it to you. Who do you think? You almost can’t believe it.

“Thank you,” you mumble, immediately plucking an olive out to pop it into your mouth. “This is so nice.”

You turn to Yunjin and she’s wiggling her eyebrows over the top of her shades. She mouths the words, “He loves you.”

“Go fuck yourself,” you fire back at full volume with a mouth full of salty olive. You turn on your heel, eyes on the crowd, focusing on individual faces until you catch one you recognize.

Bronzy skin, a head of wavy, shoulder-length black hair. You lift up on your tippy toes to see him better. He sees you, too, from where he stands on the edge of the mass of bodies in the living room, a small smile playing on his lips. You lift up your drink, stomach bubbling with gratitude, you hope he can see it on your face. As he lifts his beer in response, your smile grows. 

You turn back to Yunjin who’s guiding San through making her drink. You wish you’d done that, but at least the martini tastes better knowing someone who cares about you made it for you. You might go as far as to say someone who cares about you bought the ingredients, too. 

“Look who’s smiling,” Yunjin coos from beside San, leaning her head onto his shoulder. “I told you a drink would fix everything.”

“It didn’t fix anything,” you argue, “but it helped. When can we get Jongho down here to start playing that game?”

San looks up through his brows mid-pour. “You wanna play?”

You shrug, “I think so.” 

“Here, babydoll,” San hands her the bottle, the glass, wiping his watery palms on his jeans. “I’ll go get Jongho.” He stops after two steps, turning back around, “Fuck, I’m scared. If he beats the shit out of me, it’s on your hands.”

You huff a laugh, “I think you could take him.”

San looks at you like you’re fucking stupid before he says, “No the fuck I can’t.”

You glance at Yunjin who shrugs, then you snort. San is fucking huge, you called him Biceps for, like, the first week of knowing him for a reason. If Jongho could take him, you don’t want to know how fucking strong Jongho is. 

You turn around again, and you tell yourself you aren’t looking for him, but on him is where your gaze lands. Wooyoung’s outfit is like Yunho’s, but in shades of black instead of white and gray. Charcoal denim on his legs, his ankles are crossed, leaving a sliver of golden skin exposed below his black tee. His arms are crossed, too, you can see the edge of his tattoo from where you stand, the inky thorns, the veins surrounding them. He’s doused in silver, a contrast to his skin, it stands out, you don’t doubt that it’s intentional.

Your feet move before you can think about it. It doesn’t take you long to cross the room, and your mind is blank the entire time, like he’s plucked the thoughts from your head just by looking at you. He’s good at that, you think. 

“Hi,” you greet him, standing an arm’s length away. “Thanks for buying me… stuff.”

Wooyoung’s lips tug upward, “Stuff?”

“Martini stuff.” You hold up your drink, lips bent in a tight smile. “I had a really fucked up day and it’s helping. A little.”

He uncurls his legs, standing a little straighter, a little taller. You tilt your head to keep his eye. He laughs a little as he says, “Just a little? Y’know, you’re really good at insulting me, but you’re kinda shitty at saying thank you.”

“No I’m not,” you argue, top lip lifted. You thanked him after the night he brought you to the batting cages well enough. “This is just…” You look at your shoes. “Unexpected.”

“More the reason to thank me properly,” he grins. “I’m nice to my friends, and we’re friends now.”

“I’m learning that,” your brows pop at the sentiment. You give him a one over before teasing, “I’m not smelling a flower garden, by the way.”

“No?” he asks, then straight up brings his armpit up to his nose. Your eyes widen, grin spreading. “Smells floral to me.”

You crinkle your nose, but your amusement is clear. “You’re gross.”

“Sniff.” He holds his arm out, brows raised. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

“Fuck no,” you muster through a laugh, taking a step back. “What the fuck? Do I look like someone who would sniff a fucking armpit in the middle of a party?”

Wooyoung shrugs. “Who knows what you’re into these days.”

“Not armpits,” you shudder. “I’m sure there’s plenty of women in here who would stick their face in there, though. Why is the man who’s never alone, alone?”

“It’s early,” he says simply. “I’ve got time to choose.”

“Shopping,” you muse. Verbally inhaling, you mutter, “Choose wisely, I guess.”

“What’s up with you?” he tilts his chin as he asks, brows knitted together with curiosity. “You’re being too quiet.”

“Too quiet?”

“Yes, it’s weird.” He’s looking at you like he can see through you. “Why was your day fucked up?”

You should have expected the question. You sigh, shaking your head, “Don’t ask.”

“I already did,” he counters.

You take a swig of your drink. “Then don’t expect an answer.”

He takes a beat to stare at you with his brows furrowed, like he can’t figure out the issue. You let him look, because at least with this, you know he can’t. His eyes narrow, “You’re no fun tonight.”

“Then stop talking to me,” you answer simply.

“I didn’t start the conversation,” he argues.

You smile. “But you can walk away.”

“Fair enough,” his bottom lip bends over, like it’s checkmate. He stares at you for another second, like he’s really fucking trying to figure out what’s in your head. He takes a gulp of his beer before saying, “Come take a shot with me, Virgin.”

He starts walking before you have a chance to protest. You stay on his heel, talking at him from behind, “You? Taking shots? At a party?”

He turns his head halfway, brows furrowed like you’re not making sense. “What are you talking about?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen it,” you shrug, walking back into the kitchen. “But I don’t think we’ve ever hung out at a party before.”

“All of our interactions at parties are in bedrooms,” he points out, his tone full of amusement. There’s a grin playing on his lips, it’s subtle, but it’s there.

You smack your teeth, complaining, “Don’t say it like that.”

“It’s true,” he says through a tiny laugh, grabbing shot glasses, one of the bottles of vodka. He pours until the glasses are unnecessarily full, muttering a tiny, “Oops.”

“Oops, my ass,” you scowl. “Are you trying to get me fucked up?”

“Depends on the meaning of that question,” he muses, sliding a glass toward you. 

You pick it up, and the liquid sways against the edge of the glass. Focused on the glass, you don’t look at him as you ask, “How did you think I meant it?”

“Take another one after this and I’ll tell you,” he says simply, looking at you with his lips tight.

You clink your glass with his, and shoot the liquor back. You hiss, and to your satisfaction, so does he. His lips peel back from his teeth, neck straining, you smile through the burn in your own throat. “Jung Wooyoung can’t take shots, noted.”

“Yes I can,” he argues. “You just watched me take one.”

You grab the bottle of vodka, “Then take another one.”

He mimics your voice as he asks, “Are you trying to get me fucked up?”

You laugh out loud at that, spilling a little vodka onto the counter. You curse under your breath, then slide him a glass. “One more.”

He pushes out a heavy breath, then picks up the glass, clinking it with yours. It burns a little less the second time, it’s smoother, or maybe you’re just feeling it now. His face morphs into something unattractive, and again, you fucking laugh. 

“Okay. Tell me,” you cross your arms, leaning your hip into the counter.

He licks the front of his teeth under his top lip, “Tell me why your day was shitty first.”

“My class earlier was fucked up, and–” you cut yourself off, realizing how easy the words slipped out. “You fucking bitch, that was on purpose!”

He smiles, “Yes, I’m trying to get you fucked up, and that’s the reason why.”

“Conniving. Maybe we shouldn’t be friends after all,” you shake your head, but there’s still humor laced in your tone.

He shrugs, “Were we ever really friends in the first place?”

Your stomach flips before your thoughts are cut clean off. “Are you guys taking shots?” you hear from your left, Mingi. He’s in shorts, a hoodie, the hood hiding his head of black hair. Sunglasses hide his eyes, too, like he doesn’t want to be seen or something. Your brows furrow, but you don’t ask.

“Yeah,” you answer simply. “Want one?”

“Take one with me,” he smiles like he might be drunk already. “You too, Woo.”

“Three?” you mutter under your breath. You should find Yunho and warn him.

“Is it shot o’clock?” San yells, Yunjin and Jongho flanking him. You don’t have to find Yunho, because he follows their tail. 

Yunho wiggles his way through, sliding an arm around your waist, kissing the side of your head. “How you feeling, sunshine?”

At least it’s easier to smile now. “Like I want another shot,” you answer simply, leaning into him.

His eyes graze over the counter, taking in the mess of bottles. “How many have you had?”

“Just two,” you shrug, eyes drifting to your other side, at Wooyoung. His gaze is stuck on your waist, Yunho's arm around you. You wiggle your fingers in his line of sight, “Are you alive? Or did two shots kill you already?”

“You both took shots?” Yunho asks. “Sweet, I think we’re gonna play Nascar after this.”

“Play,” you tell Wooyoung, who still hasn’t answered you yet.

He finally meets your eye, silently nodding before he says, “Yeah. I mean, sure, yeah, I’ll play.”

Everyone lines up around the counter, passing the bottle of vodka down the line. You cough after your third shot, the burn fiery, worse than the last two. You look at Wooyoung, who looks the opposite of you this time. He laughs at your expression, your face bent up in suffering.

You smack him on the arm with the outside of your hand, laughing with him. “Shut up, bitch, that fucking hurt.”

“Good.” He’s still laughing, too. “I hope it makes you suck at the game.”

“What if we’re on the same team?” you argue. “Then you have an ass player on your team.”

He shrugs, grinning, “Better you than me.”

You shake your head, turning to Yunho who wears a simple smile, like he just watched and enjoyed the exchange between you and Wooyoung. He bends down to say quietly, “You’re smiling.”

“Out of pity,” you respond. “Wooyoung’s not that funny.”

“Yes he is,” Yunho disagrees. “I’m glad that he–”

“Are we fucking playing or what?” 

You all whip around as one to Yeosang yelling from across the kitchen, his grin wide, his eyes glossy. Oh, he’s fucked up. There’s somehow more liquor on his shirt now, his lips are wet, his hair is a mess… Everyone shouts their agreement as you turn to Yunho, voice quiet as you ask, “Is he okay to play?”

Yunho shrugs. “He’s fine, just fucked up.”

You chew on your bottom lip. “Are you sure?”

“He won’t need his stomach pumped, if that’s what you’re asking,” Yunho grins. “That’s just Yeosang.”

Your lips scrunch. How does someone that drunk even comprehend the logistics of a game? Especially the hand-eye coordination it takes to flip a cup?

“Let’s go,” San announces. “That way Jongho can get back to his boy-toy.”

Jongho’s eyes widen, cheeks going pink. He follows San through the hallway, yelling, “He’s not my boy-toy!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” you hear from the hallway. “Your boyfriend.”

“He’s not that either!”

You turn to Wooyoung, then to Yunho, brows raised, amused. “Jongho likes guys?”

“Have you not noticed?” Yunho asks, a sly grin playing on his lips. He starts for the hallway as he says, “All of us do.”

You look at Wooyoung who seems to be considering it. He holds up a finger, “I don’t know yet.”

You grin, “Bi-curious?”

“I’m a whore,” he shrugs, like that explains it. And it does, you guess, but the way he says it makes you laugh out loud.

He’s drunk, you think. His cheeks are pink, his grin is lazy, his entire body language feels… soft. Easy. For some reason, you’re finding comfort in it, in him. Not the kind of comfort that tells you everything will be okay, but a steady reminder that everything’s okay right now. You hope he stays downstairs for a while.

There’s a table set up in the hallway toward the bathroom, two lines of red solo cups on either side. The music feels muted in the hallway, like the bass couldn’t turn the corner to meet you in here, but it tries to get through the wall, a hummed vibration bleeding through. 

“Teams,” San announces. “Jen’s on my team. I want Jongho, too.”

Wooyoung scoffs from behind you, following you to the table, “I’m not your first choice? Or your fucking second?”

“I want to win,” San argues, filling up his red solo cup with a shots’ worth of beer.

You laugh under your breath, head tucked as you line up beside Yunho, Mingi on his other side.

“The fuck are you laughing at?” Wooyoung says quieter, moving in close to you.

Your smile is still there as you answer, “He basically just said you fucking suck.”

“Here, sunshine.” Yunho passes you an already opened beer. “Fill up your cup, don’t put too much in, though.”

You thank him, then fill up your cup while Wooyoung keeps going, “I don’t suck, I used to be fucking great at this game. He’s just saying that because I haven’t played in a while.”

You hand him the beer, then plant your hands on your hips. “Why haven’t you played?”

“Too busy fuckin’,” he shrugs, pouring the beer into his cup then sliding the into the middle of the table.

“Do we all know how to play?” San asks the table. Everyone nods, and you nod too, figuring it’s just flip cup. Relay has to mean you go down the line, right?

Yeosang interrupts, “Wait, are these our teams?”

“It’s four and four,” Jongho points to the table with an open-faced palm. “Are you complaining?”

“You’re on my team, so no,” Yeosang beams. Jongho’s lips perk up at the corners.

Your team is you, Yunho, Mingi and Wooyoung. That has to be good, right? At least you’re not first or last. You find Yunjin’s eye across the table, or at least you think you do, she still has her sunglasses on. She smiles and it’s lazy, bent with liquor, as if she’s so light she doesn’t care what she’s doing. You smile back. 

“Mingi starts,” Wooyoung whispers in your ear. “As you go down the line, you flip the cup like a regular game of flip cup.” You don’t question how he knows that you’ve never played before. “At the end, whichever team wins gets to steal someone. Then someone on the losing team has to drink more to keep the amount of cups even.”

You lean in a little closer, whispering back, “What if the winning team steals two people?”

“Then two people have to drink three times,” he explains. 

“Oh,” your brows furrow as you put it together. “What if the winning team loses?”

“Then they steal someone back,” he answers simply. “So this game could go on all night if everyone is super good and speedy.”

You snort, looking up at him. “Speedy?”

“Speedy,” he shrugs. “You know, quick.”

You bark out a laugh, “I know what speedy means, it’s just funny that you said it.”

“Shut up,” he barks back, pointing to the head of the table. “Focus on flipping.”

You watch as Mingi and San bounce their cups off each other, and they hit the table once before knocking back the beer. San is faster than Mingi, but Yunho is quicker than Yunjin. Your heartbeat picks up as you lift your cup, but you don’t feel the pressure as you place the cup at the edge of the table. You knock it upward with the tip of your finger, and it flips once in the air before landing perfectly. 

You gasp, turning to Yunho, “Did you see that?”

“I saw it,” Yunho’s smiling, his cheeks pink, too. “Good job, baby.”

You turn to Wooyoung, and just as you look, his cup falls to the side. Your mouth is moving before you can think about it, “Flip it, bitch.”

“I’m fucking trying!” he yells back, bringing the cup to the edge of the table again. His fingertips flick the cup upward, and it flips once in the air, but bounces as it lands, tipping on its side. 

“Lighter,” you tell him. He doesn’t answer, bent over, your eyes sneak down his back, where the base of his spine is exposed. There’s dips in the back of his hips, dimples on his back. Abruptly, he stands up straight, his shirt covering his back again. 

He’s smirking as he gloats, “I flipped it.”

You blink back into focus before quipping, “After three tries.”

The other team is cheering, and you realize quickly that they won. You didn’t even look over to see if Wooyoung was in time or not, too focused on him flipping the cup, too focused on his silky, smooth skin.

“We’re stealing Yunho,” Jongho decides for the team. 

Yunjin pouts, whispering something to San. He nods, “We’ll pick her next round, I promise.”

Yunho slips to the other side without complaint. Mingi turns to you, “Who’s drinking three times?”

You and Wooyoung look at each other for a beat before you turn back to Mingi. In unison, you and Wooyoung say, “You.”

“You’re quicker than me,” Mingi pouts. “You drink more.”

You look back at Wooyoung, and his lips are tightly pinned in a line like Mingi has a point. You turn your head to glance at Yunho, “You’re sick and twisted for leaving me.”

He doesn’t miss a beat, “Then come over here with me.”

Your cheeks feel hot as Wooyoung fills up the glasses for you. You stare at them, shaking your head. At least it’s only a shot-amount of beer. 

You’re oddly good at this game. Mingi struggles, but you flip all three cups effortlessly. Wooyoung struggles a little less this round, flipping his cup on the second try instead of the third. You nod like you’re impressed, “Progress, Mister Rich.”

He wiggles his brows. “I told you I used to be nasty.”

“You’re still nasty,” you quip. “Just not at Nascar.”

Yunjin calls your name, “Come over here, we’re stealing you.”

You round the table with a pep in your step, sliding in between Yunjin and Yunho. You watch as Mingi and Wooyoung turn their backs to you, their arms hooked over one another, whispering, strategizing. You turn to Yunjin, “No shot they’ll win, right?”

“They both have to drink three times since there’s six of us, I think,” Yunjin slurs, leaning her body into you. “That’s what Sannie said. No shot.”

You nod, and when you look back at the table, Yunho is filling up your cup. You smile at him, “Thanks.”

“Duh,” he says with a silly smile, bumping his hip into you. “What are you doing tonight?”

Your brows lift, mouth opening, then it closes. You shrug. Shrug. He laughs at you, “I know I said I’ll be with you later, but it’s cool if that’s not the plan anymore.”

You have no other plan. You basically murmur, “Really?”

“Trust me.” He juts his chin toward Mingi. “It’s fine.”

“Are we fucking playing or not?” Jongho looks down the line, Yeosang’s smiling face popping up right behind him. “Let’s go.”

You turn, facing Wooyoung who’s finishing off the last cup. He looks to Mingi, completely assured, “We got this.”

You smile again as Mingi agrees, brows furrowed, focused. So cute.

San and Mingi start for a third time, and Mingi fumbles at the start, the first cup. Yunjin fumbles after San. By the third cup, you and Mingi are neck-and-neck. You fumble.

“Fuck,” you mutter, trying again. You flip it on the second try, and then step away from the table out of instinct, like you might fuck something up if you stay too close.

You watch Wooyoung, how his Adam’s apple bobs while he chugs. His focused face, his nimble fingers, you watch until accomplishment steals his entire face. His arms go above his head in a cheer, and you can’t process that they won, not when his shirt lifts halfway up his stomach, exposing his sculpted abdomen. Abs, several of them– what the fuck? Two sharp lines diagonally lead into the waistband of his low hanging jeans, curving muscle making it impossible to pull your eyes away. 

When his shirt falls back down, he says your name. Your actual name. You pick your head up, cheeks on fire, terrified that he caught you. Instead, he says, “We’re stealing you back.”

You swallow, looking at Yunho, giving him a half-smile. He returns it with a broad grin as you round the table again, newfound nerves biting at your heels with each step. It’s not like you forgot he’s sexy, and you know he works out, you’ve seen almost all of the upper half of his torso already. Now you have enough to piece it all together in your mind. 

“I told you I’m nasty,” Wooyoung is already smirking by the time you take your place between them.

“Yet you still brought me back,” you say effortlessly. You miss your martini. “Clearly, you need me.”

“You’re good at this game,” Mingi says from beside you, accompanied by a cute pout. “You’re the obvious choice.”

“Hey,” Yunho scoffs from the other side of the table. “Not me?”

Mingi’s lips spread in a wide grin, “She’s got you beat, babe.”

Your tongue pokes out when you look at Yunho, proud of yourself, taunting him just a little. He shakes his head, amused. The third round is quick, like the blink of an eye. All three of you fucking fumble, and your confidence plummets. You defend yourself immediately, “It’s not my fault, I’m drunk.”

Wooyoung chokes on a laugh, “So are we!”

“Who do you want?” Mingi asks across the table. 

Jongho’s lips are scrunched as he looks between the three of you. “No one, really,” he says honestly. Your lips flatten. But then he says your name, and your smile returns. You refuse to pay attention to the I guess he added onto the end.

“I think it’s fucked that you haven’t chosen me once,” Wooyoung complains from across the table, hand shooting out towards San. 

San’s returning laugh is coated in disbelief, “It’s not even up to me! Jongho is choosing.”

“I thought we had something special,” Wooyoung shakes his head, looking away dramatically. This might be the most inebriated you’ve ever seen him. “Whatever, I guess,” he continues, waving a hand behind him.

San doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m so sorry, baby. Next time we win, I’ll choose you.”

Wooyoung turns halfway, “You mean it?”

“Of course I do,” San places a hand over his heart. You watch them flirt, bicker, whatever it is in complete disbelief, in amusement, entertained like you’re watching a show. You saw a glimpse into this part of Wooyoung the night everyone came over to your apartment, but he wasn’t nearly as unguarded, as free as he is right now. You don’t want it to ever end.

You look up to Yunho, “Is this regular?”

“I still think they hooked up our freshman year and just won’t tell anyone,” Yunho answers in a whisper. “It comes out when they’re both drunk, especially Wooyoung.”

You laugh, almost in awe, bringing your hands up to your cheeks. “I love tonight.”

“Good,” Yunho leans in to press an obnoxious kiss to your cheek. You push him off, giggling, wiping at your wet cheek like it was gross. Then you kiss him when he starts pouting. 

The rest of the game goes by smoothly, your team wins again, San successfully steals Wooyoung, leaving a pouting Mingi by himself. Yeosang laughs so hard at Mingi’s helpless expression that you have to wait for him to take a pee break before he comes back to play the last round. When he comes back, the game finishes in one quick round, Yeosang didn’t even get to drink before the round was over. He drank anyway. 

Everyone breaks off, Jongho leaves to find his boy-whatever, Yeosang decides it’s bedtime. Yunjin and San leave to go upstairs, and you’re left with Wooyoung, Yunho and Mingi. Yunho finishes stacking the empty cups, leaving them underneath the table before he glances at the three of you who probably look like you’re standing around, waiting for him.

He laughs a little. “What?” You, Mingi and Wooyoung shrug at once. Yunho snorts, “You look like children.” He glances at Wooyoung beside you, then at you, then at Mingi, all separately like he’s making a choice. Finally, he says, “Min, wanna go smoke?”

Mingi nods, and Yunho winks at you before Mingi follows him down and out of the hallway. You chew on your bottom lip, gaze sneaking over to Wooyoung who’s watching them leave, too. You cut through the silence, “I left my martini in the kitchen.”

“Make a new one,” he says immediately. “There’s a lot of people here, no one was watching it. I bought two glasses, I think.”

Your smile returns as you walk ahead of him toward the kitchen. “Of course you did, Mister Rich.”

“Well, what happens when you finish the first?” he asks from behind you. “You have to wait for another drink while the glass chills? That’s stupid.”

“Or I could just use ice,” you offer, voice light as you spot your martini sitting lonely on the counter.

He follows you, weaving through the same people to get to the counter, “Who the fuck likes ice in their martini?”

“Not me,” you answer with a little laugh. You pour out the remaining liquid in your glass, then treat the kitchen like it’s empty as you make yourself another.

“Exactly,” he leans up against the counter, watching you. “No one likes ice in a martini. Two glasses.” You side-eye him as he holds up two fingers, a smile playing on your lips. He drops his hand, asking, “What?”

You shrug, still smiling, “Nothing. Get another beer.”

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “If I drink any more, I can’t fuck.”

You choke on a laugh while dropping three olives into your glass, “You won’t be able to get it up?”

“I don’t like having super drunk sex,” he shrugs, body swaying against the counter. He’s definitely drunk, but definitely not crossing the threshold into hammered. You think you’re both on the same wavelength. He looks at you, “What’s the point if you don’t remember? Or if you’re so fucked up you can’t focus on the sex? I hate that feeling.”

“I forget you have morals sometimes,” you say mindlessly, then slap your lips closed, realizing how it came out. You face him, “That’s not what I meant. I mean, like, you have a lot of rules about fucking people, even though you’re the only person I know who fucks so many different people.”

His grin is lazy, mindless. “I know what you mean.” He sighs, “Sex is only fun when it’s good sex. There’s ways to make it good, and there’s ways to make it bad.”

“It makes sense,” you lean up against the counter next to him, sipping your martini. 

He turns his head to you, “What makes sense?”

“Why everyone wants to fuck you,” you say simply. “You don’t just fuck to fuck. Even if you don’t really care about the person you’re sleeping with, you care about how you’re making them feel.”

His brows furrow, lips bending, “I care about the person, I just don’t care about what happens after we have sex. My care ends when I tie up the condom.”

Your nose crinkles. “Gross.”

“Condoms?” He pops a brow. “Yunho doesn’t use one?”

“I meant the visual of tying a condom is gross,” you shiver. “But no, he doesn’t.”

“Did he get tested before you fucked him?” Wooyoung asks, intrigued now. “Did you?”

You shrug, “No, I don’t know. I didn’t ask him, but I know we’re both clean.”

“You’re playing with fire,” Wooyoung looks away again, taking a deep breath. “Take it from me.” He takes another sip of his beer before asking, “Are you on the pill, at least?”

Your cheeks burn as you mumble, “Yeah. I never got off it after I broke up with Yeonjun.”

“At least you don’t have to worry about–”

“Don’t even say it,” you wave a hand. “Don’t speak that into the universe.” 

He lifts his beer, “My bad.” 

“Has that ever happened to you?” you ask instead. “A scare?” 

“Of course,” he answers like it’s obvious. “The very first time I had sex, a scare came after. Granted neither of us knew shit about shit, but that fear has been in me from the start.” You raise your brows. He shrugs. “It still took me getting chlamydia to realize condoms are helpful.”

Your grin spreads, a laugh tumbling past your lips. “Who are you fucking, then?”

“Huh?”

“If you can’t get too drunk because then you can’t fuck, then who are you fucking?” you explain, crossing your arms. You look around you, there’s at least three women in the kitchen alone that he has either fucked before, or would fuck. He looks, too.

His lips flatten as he makes a noncommittal sound. “Whoever asks me, probably.” You stare at him for two seconds before he notices. “What?”

“Whoever asks you?” you repeat, like you can’t believe it. “That’s it? You don’t have a type?”

His head tilts, “I’m sorry, is this our first time meeting? Should I introduce myself?”

“Asshole,” you mutter. “You have to have some form of a type, there’s no way you fuck whoever asks you.”

“I don’t have a type!” he insists. “If someone wants to fuck me, and I want to fuck them, then I do. Simple as that.”

You shake your head, looking away. He pushes off the counter, deadpanning, “You’re the one who said you understand me a little better now.”

“And I do,” you argue. “But that doesn’t mean I would just fuck whoever wants to fuck me, there has to be something there. Attraction, a little chemistry, at least.”

“See, I don’t have that issue,” he shrugs. “I have chemistry with everyone, and everyone thinks I’m sexy.”

“But do you think everyone’s sexy?” you counter.

“Good question.” His head tilts again. “I think only sexy people try to fuck me most of the time, to be honest.”

You choke on a laugh. “So you’ve never turned anyone down?”

He holds up a finger toward you. “I never said that.”

And you realize then that he has turned people down, you being one of them. Your smile drops as you turn away from him, bringing your martini back up to your lips. You can feel the energy being sucked out of the air, like you’re stealing it all, forcing it inside your body and transforming it into something dark before letting it out again. 

“Hello?” he says after a beat. “What’d I say?”

“Nothing,” you lie. “You’re fine. Go find someone to fuck.”

He says your name again. You whip your head to face him, “Why do you keep calling me that?”

“Your name?” he asks, brows tied together. “It’s your fucking name.”

“Okay,” you look away again. He makes a disbelieving noise, a laugh, maybe, but he doesn’t move. You watch the people in the kitchen, people laughing, smiling, with no idea that you’ve just ruined your entire night, your entire fucking day for a second time. 

“That’s not why I said no to you,” he says, softer now, all the bite missing from his tone. “I said no to you because of Yunho–”

“Do you know how mortifying it is?” You cut him off with the question. You refuse to look at him as you keep talking, “It’s embarrassing, knowing that the guy who has fucked literally everybody rejected me. Twice.” 

“I told you–”

“I don’t care,” you say plainly, finally looking at him. He looks confused for the most part, but there’s a sliver of guilt in his eyes, and you want there to be. “I don’t care what your reason is, I told you what I wanted, and you said no.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he answers just as plainly. “You can’t be mad at me for that. The very next fucking day I walked into the Penny to see you making out with Jihyo, don’t you think that was confusing for me?”

“Why do you care?” you press him, pushing off the counter. “You probably took someone home from the fucking Penny. Are you seriously pissed that I didn’t come running to you after I talked to Yunho?”

“Kinda, yeah,” he shrugs, like he’s actually saying no shit. “Why didn’t you?”

“Because it wasn’t about you!” you finally break, exasperated. “I didn’t go non-exclusive just to fuck you, Wooyoung, even though I’m sure your big fucking ego was thinking exactly that.”

“But you still wanted me,” he puts emphasis on the word, taking a step toward you. “And ever since that night, you’ve been acting like you don’t. Which one is it?”

“W-what?” you take a step back, keeping the distance. “You said earlier that we’re friends, Wooyoung.”

“When the fuck have we ever been friends?” he asks, stepping forward again. You can smell him now, and fuck him for being right, because he did spray something floral today. “The day we met, you asked me if I would’ve fucked you. If I would have done what your shitty ex didn’t.”

You laugh. “Did you take that as me coming onto you? Are you serious?”

“You know that’s not the point,” he argues, firmer now. Your back hits the counter. “I didn’t take anyone home from the Penny that night.”

Your voice lowers as you ask, “Why not?”

“Because I wanted you,” he says shamelessly. You think your heart stills in your chest. “Yunho told me you weren’t exclusive while I saw you making out with Jihyo. I left because I wanted you.”

Your stomach does a flip. You don’t know what the fuck to say, all you can do is stare at him. It shouldn’t be surprising, he wants everyone, he wants sex all the fucking time. But you can feel it spreading, the heat, stemming from your gut to every limb, every nerve ending. He wanted you. 

You swear it’s the alcohol that gives you the confidence to ask, “Do you still?”

His eyes, so dark, drop to your mouth. “Yes,” he basically whispers, right before his gaze meets yours again. It’s honest, the look in his eyes. There’s no smirk, there’s no witty response, there’s no fucking challenge. He means it.

Your thighs clench together, your knees feel weak, your heart is banging on your fucking breastplate. You want him. You’ve wanted him for too fucking long now, you want more than his face between your legs, you want more than a kiss in his car. You want him. 

“Let’s go,” you offer, almost coy. “Bring me upstairs, then.”

𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐫: 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐬 𝐚 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐨𝐟 𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧 𝐦𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝐢𝐧 𝐚𝐧𝐲 𝐰𝐚𝐲.

𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐊.

there is something oddly calming about the gentle hum of fridges and the sound of the led bar on the verge of its life at the local gas station convenience store. especially on a quiet night like this, where jung wooyoung can sit in his staff room, or a corner more like, and roll his blunts in peace.

a cigarette rests between his slightly chapped lips, the soft smoke filling up the space that is separated from the store with a beaded curtain, half the beads missing. every now and then, his sharp eyes glance through it, hoping not to catch a figure lingering amongst the shelves.

his finger pads are rough against the smooth paper, yet skilled and quick. he takes pride in this ability. each blunt is the same shape, as if they were made in a factory. the satisfied smile is cut short when a bang startles him, sending ash from the cigarette onto his jeans.

"fuck." he breathes out, placing the cigarette on a makeshift ashtray, made from a can of soda by his little niece as he brushes the ash off his clothes.

he doesn't announce himself as he slips through the beads, the clicking sound crashing with the calming hum. annoyance is only slightly wiped from his face upon setting his eyes on you. and your cherry coke that sits on the counter.

your eyes find his when he slips behind the counter. wooyoung swears he has never seen such sparkly eyes. it might've been the purple neon sign above his head, but he chose to believe it was natural. a smile spreads on your pink lips, and you greet him. "hello."

wooyoung only hums, grabbing the can of coke and scanning it, all while biting his lower lip and taking your figure in.

"so..." you trail, awkwardly swinging on your toes back and forth. "how's... business?"

wooyoung chuckles, setting the swollen lip free. "well, now that you ask, i don't remember the last time someone bought a cherry coca cola."

"oh, is that why there were only two cans in the fridge?"

"yes."

you nod with a hum, then pull a bill from the back pocket of your jeans.

"two fifty." he slides the can towards you, hand lingering on the cold item until you reach for it. you try to grab it, yet his grip intensifies, making you look at him with confusion. "you're too pretty to be here."

"thank you–"

"that wasn't a compliment." he shuts you down, eyeing your pink tank top and shimmery bracelets.

"oh." your smile falters, insecurity crawling up your spine. "what does that mean?"

"it means," he leans over the counter, close enough to catch the sickeningly sweet perfume clinging to your skin, then continues, "that you look like an easy target."

your heart stutters behind your ribcage. you swallow thickly before speaking. "is this a dangerous neighbourhood?"

"it isn't the safest one. but what does it matter? you should be on your way and get out of here. it's late."

"okay." you place the money on the counter. wooyoung finally lets go of the can, and you immediately grab it, as if he'll take it away from you. "have a nice night."

the young man doesn't reply. he watches you slowly exit the shop, cracking the can open on the way out. when he sees you enter a car, he feels at peace. you weren't alone. you were safe. he retreats to his corner, cigarette back between his lips, fingers already working through his stash like nothing happened.

𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑𝐆𝐘.

the first day of the senior year was something jung wooyoung dreaded. summer was going well. he got used to working, earning, and having free time. now, aside from being in the building almost every day and working, he also needs to make time for studying.

"tonight at nate's?"

and parties.

"come on," the younger man nudges wooyoung with his elbow, seeing his eyes roll. "it'll be fun."

wooyoung huffs, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and dusting the ash on the ground. "i fucking hate that guy."

"well, sadly for you, nate jacobs is the only one who can throw one hell of a party. besides, girl hunting isn't a solo activity. i need you there."

the black haired man shoots his friend a disapproving look. "girl hunting? james."

"it's just an expression." james defends himself, poorly.

"no, it's not."

"fine. i take it back." the blonde haired man rolls his eyes, much like wooyoung earlier. they both stand up, making their way inside the building and to their lockers. "if i spend another year without a relationship, i'm going to become a nightmare."

jung wooyoung swears he had a witty reply as he tosses his jacket in the locker. the words perish once his brown eyes land on a figure in the hallway. the shine of lips too familiar to ignore, and the scent as the person passes by too sweet to forget.

you.

"woo?" james calls, closing his locker with a loud clank. "i need a verbal confirmation that you are coming tonight."

"sure." he replies, eyes still glued to the way your blouse hugs your body. "just text me when."

once james disappears to his class, wooyoung finds himself lingering in the hallway. have you always gone to east highland? why is he just now noticing you? no, why are you everywhere for him to notice you? a big question mark follows him into the english classroom, the look on his face puzzled when he smells that scent again. surely enough, there you are. in the corner of the room, the last seat near the window. his seat.

there are plenty other ones in the classroom. however, wooyoung has always sat there, and everyone knows it. he chose it strategically. it is ideally hidden from the professor, he has fresh air from the window, and he has his privacy. most importantly, he is sitting far away from cassie howard. he doesn't want to bother you by asking you to move, but if he has to hear that insufferable laugh and see her turn around every few minutes, he will explode on the spot.

"that's my seat."

he doesn't intend on sounding mean. it comes out like that anyway, causing you to look up from your books with those sparkly eyes. when you recognize the man from last night, you can't help the smile that spreads on your lips. the first familiar person, finally. "hi."

wooyoung raises his eyebrow. did you not hear him? "i sit here."

"oh," you finally acknowledge his words. you don't make a fuss out of it. you simply gather your belongings and sit at the desk next to him. something he could've done instead of moving you, yet you don't point it out. once you make yourself comfortable, you notice that he is still standing, eyes locked on you. you look around before speaking. "uh... can i sit here?"

he ignores you, finally throwing his bag near the desk as he plops down on the chair. he's puzzled by your easy-going nature. were you a people pleaser? you looked like one. shame, you'll have to toughen up soon or you'll be eaten alive.

the classroom fills up quickly, and by the time the professor arrives, wooyoung has stolen many glances at you. it irks him that cassie is sitting so that whenever he looks at you, her blonde hair is in the background. halfway into the class, he has noticed a few things about you already.

first, you like to use colorful pens. you have at least ten different shades in your fuzzy, stupid looking pencil case. it irritates him for no good reason- who carries a pencil case to high school? second, you like cherry cola. the dark red can sits at the corner of the table, the edge of it shimmering with remains of your gloss. third, you are overly friendly for your own good.

each time someone locks eyes with you, you smile. they smile as well, but not in a good way. they're mocking you. wooyoung doesn't know whether you choose not to see it or you truly do not see it. he doesn't feel that sorry for you. as he said, you're making yourself an easy target.

by the end of the class, the dark haired man doesn't have a single note written in his notebook. you, however, are happily underlining words and sentences while the rest of the class is glancing at the fateful clock on the wall. once it marks the end of the first period, and the professor leaves for the five minute break, the class erupts in chatter and chaos.

wooyoung wastes no time in pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the back pocket of his washed out jeans and sitting on the window. he lights it up, the nicotine slowly filling his lungs as he inhales deeply. a tap on his shoulder interrupts the little ritual, and he can't help the annoyed look on his face as he turns his head to the side, only to be met with your face mere inches away from his.

he blows the smoke into you, accidentally. your words catch in your throat, stopped by the unexpected smoke you've inhaled and a coughing fit.

"shit," wooyoung moves the cigarette from one hand to the other, away from you. "sorry. didn't expect you there."

"no, it's fine." your voice is raspy, and there are tears in the corners of your eyes. fuck, are you going to cry? he can't handle that this early in the morning. "i have a nicotine allergy."

"that's a thing?" he asks. you nod, clearing your throat in the process. "ah."

he isn't the talkative type, you notice. perhaps he is a listener. or he just doesn't care about either of those things.

"what happens now? will you end up at the nurse's office?" he teases, though he is genuinely curious.

"my reaction depends on the brand, i've noticed. in most cases i start feeling nauseous and my throat becomes red and swollen, and my eyes tear up. not fatal, but not the nicest feeling."

the man glances at the box of cigarettes on his desk. he makes a mental note as he bites his lip, then, with a sigh, presses the lit end against the outside wall. "right. i didn't know that."

jung wooyoung would never waste a cigarette. yet he finds himself tossing an almost unused one outside, barely getting one drag out of it. why? because the girl in pink couldn't handle it.

"you wanted to say something? you know, before you almost died on the spot."

"ah." you nod. "i have a lot to say, actually. for starters, i didn't catch your name."

"you talk a lot." he crosses his arms across his chest, then sits on his chair. "calum."

"ouch." you scrunch your nose as you follow him to his desk, making yourself comfortable by leaning on it. "calum? fitting."

"is it?" wooyoung is amused. "how so?"

"every calum i've ever met is dark haired and tattooed." you explain as you admire the rose and skull tattoo on the side of his neck. "it's very nice, by the way. looks pretty on you."

pretty? it's not pretty. it's cool. it's anything but pretty. never in his life did wooyoung think that he'll blush in front of a girl like this. all because she called him pretty. well, the tattoo. not him. still, he finds himself looking through the window again, avoiding your intense gaze.

"okay. go away now." he bites the inside of his cheek. "bother someone else."

"sorry," you push yourself off his desk, "didn't realize i was bothering you."

you don't seem offended, nor sad. you sit back at your desk, colorful pens back in hand and attention on notes until the professor comes back for the second english period. wooyoung doesn't understand your behaviour. do you not feel bad emotions? or do you simply shield yourself from them by wearing good ones as mask?

he sighs, and finally, his pen starts gliding on the blank paper that sits in front of him.

𝐍𝐎 𝐃𝐈𝐅𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐍𝐓.

cassie howard is a leech. lexi howard is the sweetest person you can meet.

what wooyoung doesn't understand is, why james likes cassie over lexi. cassie can't form a single sentence without using words such as like, totally, and literally. maybe wooyoung is too judgemental. why doesn't he get up and dance with lexi then, if she is so much better? why is he even thinking about the howard sisters?

his eyes finally leave james and cassie as they dance, or dry hump, in the tight space of the living room, and roam around the house to find a different entertainment. he sits on the couch, legs on the coffee table and arms crossed over his chest. he leans against the cushions, until a couple plops down next to him in a heated makeout session. he sighs, wondering why he even came.

outside is equally, if not even more, chaotic. drinking games in the pool. very safe. the dark haired man tsks to himself, watching as the guys hold the girls on their shoulders as they play fight while tipsy. he hopes nobody drowns tonight. as he reaches the kitchen in search of a drink, he is glad to find it half empty. he helps himself in the fridge, grabbing an unopened bottle of sparkling water. he closes the door, and twitches in surprise.

"fuck," he breathes out. "you are just... everywhere, aren't you?"

you stand near the fridge, earlier being shielded by the opened door of it. "sorry, just wanted to grab a sparkling water for myself."

wooyoung stands still, dark eyes quickly scanning your figure as he thinks. you wear a skirt, and a simple tank top. not revealing, he notices. before you can speak again, he hands you the bottle. you take the other end of it, slow and unsure. "take it. i'll grab another one."

"oh. thanks." you smile. "i won't forget this."

he scoffs, preparing to say something witty in return. but you disappear into the crowd, leaving him alone next to the fridge. he doesn't grab another bottle. not because he doesn't want to, or because he forgot. he doesn't grab one because it was the last, and he gave it away. why? he isn't sure. he just wanted to get rid of you. yeah, that sounds good in his head. doesn't matter if it's true or not.

wooyoung can't leave before james wishes. he is his ride home. he doesn't owe it to the blonde haired man. not really. wooyoung would do anything for his friends anyway. truth is, ever since he has started working at the gas station, wooyoung doesn't have time to hang out. the least he can do is go to a few parties and drive him around. it's not like he has anything else to do.

which is why he finds himself on the first floor of the jacobs' house, blunt in hand and lighter in the other. the first room is occupied, and so is the second. as the last resort, he reaches the bathroom. it is empty, and in no time, wooyoung lays down in the empty bathtub, pulls the curtain shut, and lights the blunt.

the first inhale is like the first breath back to life. he can't help the hum that escapes his lips. the drags are slow, he savours every single one. by the time he reaches half of it, his senses are dulled. yet not dulled enough to not hear someone entering the bathroom. it's not the first time it would happen; someone doing their business and moving on. except this time, his ears perk up.

"here, really?" your voice echoes in the bathroom, even though you speak quietly. "it's... filthy."

"yeah well, you're a filthy girl." a male voice chuckles, and wooyoung's brows furrow. "come on, bend over."

"seriously?"

"you complaining now?"

you scoff. "just don't take forever."

oh.

what a shame. you were no different than the rest. secretly, he wanted you to be. he hears shuffling, kissing, then clothes being unzipped and unbuttoned. he returns to his own activity, brain feeling fuzzy. not fuzzy enough, because the sounds you emit keep distracting him. you keep ruining everything without even trying. the one thing that brought him peace has lost its power, and wooyoung has had enough.

he presses the lit end on the tiles that cover the wall, then stands up, not bothering to sneak out. the pulling of the curtain doesn't stop the man that has you bent over the sink and into the mirror. he glances at you through the reflection, briefly making eye-contact, before exiting the bathroom. you see him. he knows you do. you don't react, instead closing your eyes and giving all the attention to the man. he doesn't see who it is beyond the ginger hair. he doesn't want to. disappointment pools in his chest. he shouldn't have done it. perhaps he would have made himself believe it wasn't you. sadly, the image is now stuck in his brain, and his footsteps become faster as his thoughts start racing.

james is going home, whether he wants it or not.

𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐋𝐄.

there are many students who work and go to school at the same time. wooyoung isn't special. however, wooyoung is one of the rare ones, if not the only one, who manages a shop as if it's his own. the true owner is old and sick, and only comes in once a month. wooyoung is the one who takes care of the other two employees, inventory, salary, and whatnot.

he currently sits behind the counter, brown eyes bloodshot from exhaustion fixed on the computer screen as he orders the items that have sold out. there are two books on the counter: one of the inventory, and one of history class. he multitasks between checking the items on the screen and memorizing the years of important events needed for the upcoming exam. and it goes well, until the mouse pointer hovers above the cherry coca cola on the site. he doesn't write any amount in the box. usually, he'd put two or three. if none keeps you away from him, so be it.

the sound of the door opening doesn't distract him. it is the scent that does, making him look away from the screen and towards the fridges. you stand there, eyes skimming over the different soda cans. you linger by the cherry cola section, biting your lip in the process. wooyoung mimics you subconsciously, biting his own. you wear a dress today. he hasn't seen you at school, you didn't have any classes together. frankly, he was a tad bit bored. he wanted to see what else you had to offer that could annoy him.

he averts his gaze as you turn around and make your way to the counter. however, he does catch a glimpse of a few bruises on your neck. the memories of last night flood his mind, and wooyoung gets reminded just what you are. a disappointment.

"hello, calum."

right. he hasn't told you his real name. "mhm."

"just these two, please." you place two cans of sprite on the counter, right between his books. "studying?"

he sighs, minimizing the ordering site and switching to the register one. he scans the items, and finally looks at you properly as he reads the price out loud. "five."

"i never told you my name." you blabber, holding a five dollar bill for him to take. "i'm y/n."

he stays silent, looking at the crumpled bill in your hand. an awkward chuckle leaves you, and you try your best to straighten it, thinking it is the reason wooyoung won't take it. yet even when you do it, his gaze almost pierces you from intensity.

"uh... with tax?" you wonder.

"you can just put it down." he nods towards the counter.

"oh." your brows furrow as you follow his instructions, though the ends of your lips are still curved in a smile. "i don't have a contagious rash, calum."

"i do not care." he grabs the bill, placing it in the register and shutting it forcefully. "bye."

"aren't you a ray of sunshine today." you touch his nerve.

the man opens his mouth, ready to degrade you as you make your way towards the door, before he notices the bruises littering your arms and legs. he may be out of line, but something just won't leave him be at peace. "you like it rough?"

you stop in your tracks, body frozen. "what?"

"you heard me." he crosses his arms over his chest, something he does whenever he thinks deeply. "look at me when i'm talking to you."

"jeez louise." you chuckle nervously as you turn around. "it's like hearing my dad. look at me when i'm talking to you."

"does your dad know men fuck you in bathrooms of other people's houses?"

you don't seem surprised by his vulgar choice of words. not offended, neither. you seem scared. you tremble under his gaze as he circles the counter, approaching you slowly until you have to lean your head back slightly to look at him. "uh..."

"answer me."

"i-" you stutter, the cold cans in your hands the only thing cooling you from late summer heat and wooyoung's fire gaze. "he doesn't."

"you proudly showing off all these... sex injuries?" he lifts your arm, touching you for the first time. his fingertips tingle like soft electricity as he examines your bruises. these don't look like sex injuries. they look like proper injuries. at this moment, he wishes you'd confirm they're what he accused you off. for your sake, and for his sanity.

you don't reply at first, audibly gulping. then, you smile, too soft for the words that come out your lips. "what can i say? i do like it rough."

wooyoung's hand lingers on your arm, eyes searching yours for any hidden signal you might be sending him. when he finds none, he lets go, letting you resume your path to the exit.

"y/n?" your name is bittersweet on his tongue.

"yes?" you turn your head to the side as you touch the door handle.

"those aren't sex injuries." wooyoung's voice is laced with worry.

"i know." you lock eyes with him one more time, then finally step out.

he abandons both studying and ordering, leaving it for another day. his mind is too loud for either. yet, he re-enters the order site, just to type in generous number next to the cherry coca cola. as he does so, he can't help but wonder: how long until you start crying for help?

DEFINE LOVE.

group projects are useless. in a group of five, one or two people end up doing all the work, and one always makes up excuses and doesn't contribute. the rest? they do such a shabby job that doing nothing would've been more helpful.

as the media studies professor assigns the groups, wooyoung lays with his arms on the desk and his head on them. if he doesn't see mr herbert, mr herbert won't see wooyoung either, right? wrong.

"y/n, james, cassie, lexi, and wooyoung."

gods.

"since y/n isn't here today, please notify her of this project that must be done by the end of the month. your theme is: toxic love. i want you to show me the works. camera work, editing, acting, costumes, makeup, all of it."

fitting, wooyoung thinks as he looks over at your seat. to say he isn't worried about you would be a lie. he hopes you slept in, or caught a little cold. when you come back tomorrow, he hopes you don't have a new bruise on your skin. he doesn't analyze the sheet mr herbert gives him, eyes stuck on your empty chair. so much worry for a girl that doesn't even know his real name.

days have passed, and you don't share many classes. it was easy to keep away from you. what wooyoung doesn't understand is that, despite being friendly and kind, you do not have a single companion. you always roam the hallways alone, barely making it to your locker without getting pushed and shoved by people who won't look where they are going. the only person you interact with is him, by waving at him or simply smiling.

and your boyfriend. you may not be a gossip girl, but wooyoung can be if he wants to.

"who is she, anyway? she just dropped out of the open sky." wooyoung nods towards you one day as he replaces his math books with english.

james follows his gaze, and soon enough, lands on you pressed against the lockers, with a tall man towering over you. "ah, y/n? she just moved here at the end of summer. as soon as she moved with her parents, logan got his hands on her. he doesn't let her talk to anyone, that idiot."

"logan?" wooyoung raises an eyebrow at his blonde friend. "as in, nate jacobs' best friend, logan? that ginger cunt?"

"yep." james nods, then slams his locker shut. "real shame. she seems nice."

it is a real shame. shame that whenever nate jacobs is mentioned, wooyoung gets bad news. now, you're a part of it. but of course it is logan. how could he not recognize that stupid ginger head? his jaw tightens as logan raises his voice at you, and while wooyoung cannot comprehend what he is saying, the startled look on your face is enough for him to react. he slams his own locker shut, storming towards you as fire pools in his chest.

by the time he makes it, logan is kissing you. that bipolar fuck. to anyone else, this would look like a normal new couple activity. making out in the hallways, nothing new. to wooyoung, it is anything but normal. he sees the grip of his hand on your waist. he sees your hands on his chest, wanting to push but not being able to. before he turns around to leave, he sees a single stray tear escape your eye.

he doesn't see you again, not until saturday when the group meets up at james' house for the project. today is just planning, with no cameras or props. he parks his motorcycle just as a car pulls up, the headlights hurting his eyes. you exit the car, wearing a cardigan and jeans. and of course the cardigan is pink. there is a plate in your hands as well.

"brownies. made them all by myself." you respond before he gets a chance to ask. the smell of chocolate makes wooyoung smile. he can't remember the last time he ate a homemade brownie. "i hope you like them, wooyoung."

his name rolls of your lips like a bitter cherry. the man stops in his tracks, right in front of the door as he was about to ring. "ah."

"i don't know the reason behind your little... ruse, but what i do want to know is how far did you think you'll make it as calum?" again, your reaction is way to timid. was wooyoung used to explosive women? why does this surprise him?

"it was funny when i told you at first. and then... i don't know. it was too late to admit on my own." he answers truthfully. brown eyes land on your cardigan again, scanning it. "a cardigan? it's still warm."

"not for everyone. you brought in a jacket the first day of school." you push past him, finally pressing the bell.

he doesn't believe you. however, he cannot convince you to be honest, nor can he take the cardigan off you to prove a point. all he can is stand aside and look at you, calculating his next move.

a pair of arms envelop him and wake him up, and instinctively, he wishes to free himself. when he sees the long brown hair, he decides against, and instead wraps his arms around the girl. "hi, howard."

"so uptight, jung." the girl rolls her eyes as she steps away, smiling at him. the red lipstick is present, so subtle, yet so her. wooyoung can't help but smile as she does. it is contagious. "come on in."

wooyoung steps in first, brushing past lexi and entering the living room where james and cassie are talking on the couch, barely an inch of space in between them. the table is filled with bottles of alcohol and snacks instead of studying material. he hears lexi welcoming you, and in the corner of his eyes, hugging you, which seems to take you by surprise. you stay frozen in place, not knowing how to balance holding the plate and returning the unexpected hug. lexi takes the plate and disappears with it in the kitchen, leaving you alone.

usually, he would already plop on the armchair he has claimed for himself in james' house. right now, he is waiting for you to enter, monitoring your movements. for somebody that liked to talk a lot around him, you seem quiet and lost. for some reason, he wants you to know he is here if you need anything. if you show any sign of discomfort, he'll react. weeks have passed since school started, and you are yet to have a friend. perhaps not having any and only being met with mockery and fake kindness has made you alert, and is now ruining your chance to relax and meet someone. someone like lexi. not cassie. definitely not cassie.

the urge to protect you grows bigger with each day that passes. you annoy him, yet in classes without you, he feels empty. he wonders what you do, whether you try to make friends, and whether those people are nice to you. glares and warnings from him only help when he is nearby. you're delicate, a blooming rose in a field of thorns. and a rose under a bell called logan scavo. although still weak and repressed, the desire to break that bell grows bigger whenever he sees a new bruise on you.

"hello." you greet, pulling the sleeves of the cardigan over your hands.

"hello?" cassie smiles, that pity smile of hers. "who are you again?"

"y/n," you respond, not at all surprised by her behaviour. you're used to it in class, anyway. "we have several classes together."

"oh, do we?" she turns to james, seeking validation, then to wooyoung. "haven't noticed you, like, ever. have you noticed her, wooyoung?"

"of course i have." he shuts her down, then looks at you. "take a seat. armchair's comfy."

he motions towards the armchair, surprising others. nobody sits there if wooyoung is in the room. however, it seems that since he met you, he cares a little less about those seats he once gatekept. as you sit down, he follows by sitting on the floor next to the coffee table. before you can open your mouth, wooyoung sees that you are getting ready to get up, and interrupts you.

"i am pretty comfortable here." he says.

you send him a grateful smile, then sit back and look around. he sees admiration in your eyes. you aren't wrong. james has a big house, and might be the richest student in the area. some of the most memorable parties were held in this place. wooyoung would know. he attended every single one of them. and stayed cleaning afterwards, while james was either passed out drunk or passed out in bed with someone. cleaning while high was something very pleasant for wooyoung, even if it doesn't sound like it.

"you like the house?" james asks, seeing the look on your face.

"yeah, it's very nice." you nod, eyes examining the lavish chandelier.

"you live in that shed looking house at the end of the street, right? how do all three of you fit in there?"

"oh, it's just..." you fidget uncomfortably, placing your palms under your legs so that you sit on them, before continuing, "until we find something better. my parents decided last minute to move here, so that's the best they could do."

"don't feel bad." wooyoung is grateful to james for a second, although a spark of suspicion stays present. then, james meets his eyes as he puts a beer bottle to his lips, then continues after a sip. "wooyoung here lives in a trailer. nothing to be ashamed of."

wooyoung's jaw clenches. he didn't mind being called a stoner. a weirdo. a jackass. whatever. he would do anyone a favour, if deserved. he doesn't get into anybody's business. however, when it comes to his financial state? that's where he doesn't like to be touched.

"his sister and her daughter were crammed up in there with him up until recently."

nor does he like when his sister is mentioned. "james."

"right, sorry." james nods. he offers you a bottle, which you politely decline by shaking your head. "suit yourself. anyways, wooyoung doesn't like talking about his sissy. she died a few months ago."

and lastly, wooyoung doesn't like to be pitied. he can feel you staring, yet his eyes remain on the young man that sits on the couch to his opposite. he sips on his drink as if he had just told his own story, not someone else's without consent. "you done?"

"where's your niece, anyway? arin, was it?"

wooyoung stands up abruptly, causing you to flinch. a pang of guilt hits his heart. he didn't mean to scare you. james is crossing a line, and wooyoung cannot afford it to cross it himself. it won't end well. that's why he decides to retreat to the top floor, down the hallway, then out on the big balcony. it takes him less than a second to find a blunt in his pocket and light it up, all while leaning against the fence with his head hanging over it.

he doesn't know how long passes. long enough to go home, he hopes. the sound of doors opening and closing grounds him for a moment, mind not yet fuzzy enough to let go. your scent envelops him, and god, he hates that he feels comfort. he wishes to tell you to leave, but if you do, he fears it'll be worse.

"hey." you call, standing beside him and leaning on the fence. "it sucks down there without you."

the dark haired man smirks. "it sucks up here without you."

"ha-ha." you fake a laugh, rolling your eyes. you take a good look at him, and he feels it. your eyes taking in his form, lingering on the tattoo. "wooyoung?"

"yes, cherry?"

"uh," you stutter upon hearing the new nickname, blush creeping up your cheeks. he sees it out of the corner of his eye. "i wanted to say... if i'm bothering you, i'll go back. just say the words. it just didn't feel right to leave you alone."

"that's alright." he takes another drag of the blunt, then slowly blows it in the air, away from you. "you're not bothering me. yet."

a comfortable silence takes place, and you both stop and look at the east highland that is dimly lit in this evening. now and then, wooyoung takes a drag of the blunt, and the two of you watch the ash fall from the balcony until it gets swallowed by darkness in the air. you're staring at him again, you can't help it. wooyoung likes it, and he also can't help it. still, one thing won't leave his mind.

"why are you with scum like scavo?" he breaks the silence first.

"he's not that bad."

"don't defend him." wooyoung's tone is annoyed and angry. "he is awful, and you know it."

you sigh, turning around so that you lean against the balcony fence with your back. he turns his head towards you, finally making eye contact since you got up here. his eyes soften upon gazing into yours, and the blunt is loose in his grip.

"why?"

you smile. your hand reaches towards his face, brushing a raven stray strand from his forehead so that it doesn't fall in his eyes. everything you do has him falling further down the void, even if you're just standing and doing nothing. a tear escapes your eye, yet you keep smiling. "i can't leave him."

"but, why?" his voice is a whisper, afraid that he'll break you if he keeps asking.

"he blackmails me. i have no other choice." one by one, tears roll down your cheeks, yet not a single sob leaves your mouth. you smile through it all. "besides, he's just violent when i give him reason to be. otherwise, he really loves me."

"that is not love. you're smarter than that. besides, what could he possibly blackmail you with?"

you avoid his gaze, instead choosing to throw your head back so that you can look at the glimmering stars above. "i can't tell you."

"if you think i would judge you, you think very low of me. i'll be offended."

a long sigh leaves your glossy lips. it buys you some time to gather the courage to say the next words. "he has my nudes. my videos. if i leave, he'll show them to everyone. there."

wooyoung remains silent. not because he is disappointed, or disgusted. it is because he refuses to believe that someone would use your trust and loyalty like that. you trusted somebody with something that is so sacred to him, and that person treats it like blackmail material. "what the fuck."

"i- i shouldn't have said anything." regret sets in you, he sees it. "as if the bathroom thing wasn't enough, now this. i just keep lowering myself in your eyes. that's the last thing i wanted."

you try to leave, the sleeves of your cardigan soaking in the tears of your cheeks as you rub your face. he grabs you by your elbow, and you wince. slowly and carefully, wooyoung guides you toward the bench, sitting you down and crouching in front of you. he tests the waters, thumbs rubbing your wrists as he holds your hands in hopes of calming you down. when you show no signs of discomfort, he gently rolls up your sleeves, revealing injured arms.

"oh, cherry."

you sob, the sound shattering wooyoung's heart. he heard this one one too many times, until they stopped a few months ago and the trailer went silent. this time, when he looks into your eyes as he rubs soothing circles into your barely healed wounds, he makes himself a promise that this time it'll be different. this time, he won't bury the person. he will save her.

"if you expect me to act as if i didn't see this," he says, brows drawn together as he watches you fight for air. "i won't."

"i don't ask to be saved." you manage to squeeze the words out in between the sobs. "i am fine."

"you're not fine-"

"i said i'm fine." your tone shifts, causing wooyoung to halt his moves and freeze in front of you. as if he wasn't confused enough, you make it worse by standing up and yanking your arms away from him, then standing up. "i'm going back. forget this ever happened."

you close the door as you go back inside, already doing your part of forgetting. yet how is wooyoung supposed to, when all he can see when he closes his eyes is your skin littered with bruises of logan's death touch?

wooyoung doesn't immediately follow. he stays behind, thinking long and hard. the blunt burns out in his hand. another unused item he cherishes perishing because of you. he discards it on the ground, littering on james' balcony. how do you expect him not to meddle, when only months ago, his sister was in the same position?

eventually, he comes back. he went to clear his head, yet he came back in a worse state. the weed did nothing, only gave him stinging eyes and a feeling of emptiness. upon coming down, he makes his way to the kitchen, refusing to face you.

"hey, you." lexi pokes his forehead before he can collide with her figure, thoughts visibly elsewhere. "want a brownie?"

"sure."

lexi unwraps the plate you've brought, and even if the scent of brownies was present before you entered the house, now it was more intense. so intense that wooyoung almost drooled, but managed to hold it until lexi held a piece for him to take. without hesitation, he takes a bite out of her hand, savouring the intense chocolate flavour and fudgy texture.

"god." he groans, chewing slowly.

"right?" lexi nods, feeding him the remaining piece and putting the smudged finger in her mouth. "she has golden hands. can you believe these are homemade?"

"i can, actually. you can't find these in a store."

you don't sit on the armchair anymore. you sit on the couch, beside cassie. she is talking to you, while looking at wooyoung. he wants to interfere. whatever she is saying, it can't be good. but he refrains from meddling, giving his attention back to lexi.

you don't speak the rest of the night. you laugh at a joke, nod your head as drunk stories are exchanged. wooyoung keeps to himself, choosing to examine your body language instead. much like him, you were probably expecting to work on the project. when midnight comes, and not even an outline is made, you seek for a way out. he sees you fidgeting with your phone, the sleeves of your cardigan, and looking out the window. you've probably called logan to pick you up.

midnight turns into one in the morning, and you are still stuck between cassie and james. you've even accepted a bottle of beer, slowly sipping it. wooyoung is still sat on the floor, to your opposite. you do your best to avoid his gaze. seeing your flushed cheeks, he realizes alcohol isn't your friend. thus, he offers to save you once again.

"it's getting late, guys."

"we are just getting started," cassie giggles. "and we haven't started the project yet!"

"yeah, i don't think we're doing that tonight." the dark haired man stands up, running his fingers through his hair to tame it. "i'm leaving. anyone else?"

your eyes meet his. it is a silent plea for help, and this time, he's glad you're asking.

"cherry? need a ride home?"

the room stills, laughter dies out. you don't notice, too busy getting yourself off the couch. wooyoung pays them no mind, instead offering you his hand so that you don't trip over the coffee table and their legs. you accept it, carefully making your way out.

you say your goodbyes, too tipsy to realize that wooyoung's nickname, his offer to drive you home, and him holding your hand are a big deal to those who know him longer than you. before any of them can put together a sentence, wooyoung picks up his leather jacket, and leads you outside to the motorcycle, slamming the door shut behind him.

"you okay?" he asks.

"i forgot my plate." you complain.

the man smiles, the hazy look on your face too cute to leave him indifferent. he abandons your hand, retrieving the helmet that hangs off the vehicle. you tilt your head back as he approaches you again, eyes wide with curiosity.

"may i touch you?" he asks.

"huh?" you're confused, until your eyes fall on the helmet. "oh. yeah."

even with your consent, wooyoung moves carefully. he pushes the hair out of your face, the tips of his fingers tingly as they touch you. your face is flushed, and he can't tell whether it's from alcohol or this interaction. he feels guilty for hoping it's the latter.

once he finally secures the helmet, he helps you sit on his treasured motorcycle. a vintage harley davidson, left to him by his grandfather. he never lets anyone sit on it. any time he has to play chauffer, he uses his sister's car. you, however, he doesn't mind. it's foolish, really, these rules and habits he set up that he keeps breaking for you.

"comfortable?" he asks as he sits in front of you. you reply by wrapping your arms around his waist, and leaning your head against his back. he stills, breath hitching. "i'll... take that as a yes."

"mhm." you hum, eyes fluttering shut as he starts the engine. "what about your helmet, though?"

"worried about me?" wooyoung can't help but tease. "i only have the one, but i don't need it."

"i don't want your death on my conscience. i have enough on it already." you chuckle.

it was meant to be a joke, but wooyoung doesn't laugh. he wonders what troubles follow you every day, and whether they can be resolved. whether he can resolve them. his eyes drop to your arms, where the pink cardigan sleeves hide the little secret you've shown him.

"are we going?"

"yeah," wooyoung blinks, eyes now fixed on the road as he slowly backs away from james' house. "where should i drop you off?"

"logan's."

the young man clenches his jaw. there is no way you are going to his house in this state. "i can't do that."

"just... drop me off one block away, and i'll walk. he can't see me with you, anyway. he'd kill us both."

wooyoung stops the engine, head turning to the side to look at you. "what?"

"should i just walk? is it trouble?" you unwrap your arms and start undoing your helmet, and wooyoung suddenly feels cold around his waist.

"no," he stops you, putting the helmet back in place. "i- can't i just drop you off at your parents house?"

"i promised logan to sleep over tonight. he is expecting me."

wooyoung's hands are tied. you are running back into the lion's den, and all he can do is help you get there faster. his heart pounds against his ribs, and thoughts run loose in his brain. it all calms when your hands wrap around his waist again, beneath the leather jacket and against his white cotton t-shirt. subconsciously or not, you rub soothing circles with your thumbs on his torso, and it makes him calmer.

"i'll be fine, woo." you lean your chin on his shoulder, the side of the helmet pressed against his neck and cheek. "i pinky promise."

when he turns to look at you again, he can't help but smile upon seeing your squished cheeks in the helmet and eyes looking up at his. when he looks at your arms around him, he sees your pinky finger waiting for his, and he rolls his eyes before interlocking it with yours. "stupid girl."

"you like me." you giggle, leaning your head against his back once again as he starts the engine.

he pretends not to hear you.

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐒.

before school, wooyoung stops by the shop. he reviews all the inventory that has arrived, and signs the papers so the driver can leave. lydia, the middle-aged woman who works the morning shifts, immediately gets to work sorting out all the items they've received. wooyoung lingers by the counter, picking through the rack of cigarette packs.

"wooyoung?" the woman calls, knife in hand as she stares at the open box.

"yes, lydia?" the young man briefly glances her way, before returning to his hunt.

"this is a lot more cherry cola than you usually order."

"yes."

"okay." the redhead doesn't question it, instead already stacking them in the fridge. wooyoung knows best. it's why he is leading this store. "might try one myself these days."

"suit yourself."

"what are you rummaging for, boy?" the sounds wooyoung keeps making irritates her, causing her to halt her task in order to approach the counter and see what the young man is up to. "your brand is right there."

finally, wooyoung reaches for a pack. not his usual one, lydia notices. the raven haired man scans the item, then throws the cash in the register before shutting it and finally properly looking at the woman. "found it."

"you don't smoke that." she raises an eyebrow. "those are almost bland sticks in comparison to what you usually smoke."

"i hear those are not good for your health." he jokes, unwrapping the clear foil from the pack and tossing it in the trash can by the counter. "so i'm trying something new. healthier."

"right." she doesn't buy it. not one bit. yet she lets it go, for now. she follows as he approaches the fridge, grabbing a can of the freshly stacked sodas and shoving it in his bag. "what do you think you're doing?"

"i'll pay for it tonight," he yells, already out the door.

in english class, he is glad to see he has arrived before you. he sets the can on your desk, and sits at his own.

little by little, the desks are occupied, and the pointer on the clock is dangerously reaching the number nine. you are still not here. everyone else is, with lexi and james greeting him as soon as they enter through the door. the clock strikes nine, and the teacher arrives. you? not here.

you promised you'd be fine. pinky promised, even.

the can of cola occupies your desk, untouched. a taunting reminder that you aren't here because something might've happened to you. or someone. as he falls deep into his thoughts, he begins to see a pattern. every time you don't show up at school, the day after you appear with new bruises. the more he thinks, the more restless he grows. brown eyes glance at the clock, awaiting the end of the class. he isn't one to ditch, or create trouble. no, he is an average student. today, that will have to change.

wooyoung stands up, shoving his belongings into his bag, and making his way outside the classroom, despite the teacher's warnings. but not before grabbing the now warm can of coke from your desk, leaving a wet circle behind where it sat.

he slows the bike before he reaches the curb, lets the engine idle while his feet skim the pavement. the street is dim, washed in the kind of yellow light that makes everything look unreal. his hands stay tight around the grips. the helmet presses in around his head, familiar and suffocating.

he doesn't know why he came here.

the thought comes late, inconvenient. he should have asked it sooner. now the engine is still running, heat bleeding up through his legs, and turning around would feel like admitting something he's not ready to name. he kills the engine.

the silence feels immediate, heavy. the street doesn't sound the way it did while he was moving. every noise stands out now. a car passing somewhere too far away, voices drifting from inside the house, laughter sharp and careless.

logan is outside, leaning against the brick wall. phone in his hand. jacket unzipped. relaxed in a way that makes wooyoung's jaw tighten.

nothing about him looks like a villain. that bothers wooyoung more than it should. he swings off the bike and lets it rest on the stand. doesn't take the helmet off. the visor stays down, tinting the world darker. safer. he walks closer, steps measured, controlled. he doesn't announce himself.

"hey." he calls.

logan looks up, annoyed first, then squints like he's trying to place him. "yeah?"

wooyoung doesn't answer. he hadn't planned words. they scatter the moment logan opens his mouth again.

"you lost or something, jung?"

the pressure behind wooyoung's ribs builds. he thinks about the bathroom mirror. about how easy it was to decide what he was seeing. about how much worse it feels now that he knows he was wrong.

"maybe," he says, and hates how small it sounds.

logan laughs. short, dismissive. "then keep it moving, man. i don't need no weed from you."

it's not cruel. it's not threatening. it's casual. careless. mocking in a way wooyoung is used by people like him. he acts as if no weight sits on his chest. that's what cracks something. wooyoung steps forward and shoves him. it's abrupt, ungraceful. logan stumbles back a step, hits the wall with his shoulder.

"what the fuck—"

wooyoung doesn't let him finish. he closes the distance too fast, helmet knocking into logan's jaw when he leans in. the impact sends a dull ache through his skull. it grounds him. logan swings back, wild and off-balance. his fist glances off wooyoung's shoulder. someone swears. shoes scrape against concrete. it's messy and loud and nothing like the fights wooyoung imagines later, when he's trying to justify this to himself.

they trade hits that don't mean much. elbows, knuckles, breath knocked out and replaced with adrenaline. it's over almost as quickly as it starts. logan slips on the uneven pavement and goes down hard, air leaving his lungs in a sharp sound. wooyoung freezes.

for a second, all he can hear is his own breathing, too loud inside the helmet. his hands shake. this wasn't supposed to be anything. it was supposed to stop something. instead it's only made it worse. logan groans, rolls onto his side, swearing under his breath. alive. furious. breathing.

that's enough.

wooyoung steps back. the helmet feels unbearable now. too tight, too hot, too loud with his thoughts. he pulls it off and drops it without thinking. it hits the pavement with a hollow sound, rolling once before coming to rest on its side. he doesn't pick it up.

he turns away instead, heart still racing, hands empty and useless at his sides. the bike starts easily, obedient. the engine roars too loud in the quiet street. he leaves without looking back, driving himself home.

home, to the trailer, where he slams the door shut and lays face down on his bed. everything burns and hurts, but nothing is worse than the dull pain he feels inside his chest. he didn't even get to see you. the not-knowing settles heavier than the bruises. all he can do is wait, and that is something he is somewhat good at.

exhaustion takes over his body, and soon enough, wooyoung falls asleep while thinking of you. which is odd, because it is the first time he has ever thought about a girl, especially one he knows only a short time.

𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐄.

next day, wooyoung is the one to skip school. he stays hidden in his trailer, eating ravioli out of a can with a plastic spoon as he sits on the floor. his breathing is slow and steady, each breath sending a sharp pain to his side. he thought he'd sleep through the pain. he was wrong.

even though injured, he still comes to the shop. he has skipped his shift the day before, right after the fight, but he had something to do then. sleep. right now, he is dying of boredom. thus, he finds himself in the staff corner, hunched over the untouched joints. it's been a while since he smoked properly, without having to cut it short because of you.

"wooyoung, i have to go now." lydia peeks through the beaded curtain. "if you need anything, call me."

"sure thing." he nods. "thanks for staying yesterday."

she waves her hand, as if saying not to mention it. "you need to take care of your face, boy. it's scaring the customers away."

"they'll manage." he rolls his eyes.

when lydia leaves, wooyoung is left alone in the store. the fridges hum their melody, as does the broken light at the end of the place. he leans back on the chair, focusing on his breathing as to make it hurt less. he does well, until he hears the doors opening and closing. shit, maybe he shouldn't have come in today. he can barely stand up without wincing.

the person stands by the counter, which means they need something quick and will be gone sooner than they came in. cigarettes, he presumes. or condoms.

or a single cherry coca cola.

"hi."

the man keeps his head low, brown eyes fixed on the hand that hugs the can of soda. you sound cheerful. he doesn't want to ruin it. "just this?"

a sigh escapes your lips. "are we still doing this? playing push and pull?"

you don't understand. he doesn't want you to see him like this. beat up, weak, ugly. he could barely face himself in the mirror, and he doesn't want to think about your reaction. he scans the can, biting the inside of his cheek. "two fifty."

for a moment, you stay still. he can feel your eyes on him. it feels as if you're choosing your words, preparing to tell him something. you opt for actions instead, placing a pink paper bag on the counter. "for you."

without once turning his head towards you, he takes the bag, not sure what to expect inside. of course the bag is pink. he wouldn't expect anything else from you. his hands finally pull the item out, revealing it in its fully glory under the purple neon sign that hangs on the wall above his head.

it's his helmet. not in its original shape, but not in the shape he left it in, either. the scratches are covered up by stickers, each one more sparkly than the other. a soft smile lands on his lips as he examines the flowers and hearts decorating the black item. although the cut on his bottom lip hurts like hell, he can't stop smiling. this is so... you.

finally, he looks at you. as expected, your face changes from hopeful and excited to mortified. and that's what he was afraid of. "listen—"

"wooyoung." you rush around the counter, placing your hands on his cheeks and not giving him an option of looking away. "i- i mean i knew, i just... wasn't aware it'd hurt this much to see you like this."

your eyes become glossy and red, and lord, if you drop a tear for him, he will tear this town apart. he places his hands over yours, skin burning where you touch him, and rubs soothing circles on the backs of your hands. "it's worse than it looks."

he won't tell you that it burns like hell. that his cheekbones ache as you hold his face. no, he's guilty for enjoying it. he doesn't know if anyone has ever held him like this, or looked at him with eyes like yours. you look like you care. the worst part? wooyoung finds himself doubting whether it's sincere or not.

which is what has sabotaged him the whole time. wooyoung has never had a serious relationship. a fling? yes. and that's all there was. not because nobody wanted him, but because rejection meant safety. it was easier to be alone than to get hurt. now? he is putting his walls down without even realizing, and alarms are finally starting to blare in his brain.

"i know you hate being pitied." your voice is soft, muting the alarms for a moment. "but please, let me take care of you. you have dried blood on your face, and it is hurting me seeing you like that."

it is funny how you seem to already know him better than a close friend like james. you don't wait for a response, instead pushing past him in search of a first aid kit. he sits on the counter, legs dangling in the air as he watches you rummage for the box. the concentrated look on your face is cute, and he finds himself feeling disappointed when you finally locate it. he wanted to stare at you a bit more.

you set the box on the counter next to him, standing between his legs on a safe distance. his body and mind are in a trance, eyes following your hands as you prepare everything you need. your hands are gentle, and slow. he thought it'd hurt, but instead, it is almost ticklish. you clean his face, wiping off the dried blood, before moving on to putting ointment on the cuts. you clean the one on his eyebrow next to his piercing, then the one on his cheek, and finally, the one on his bottom lip. he winces, not from pain, but from sensitivity.

"sorry." you whisper, eyes still fixed on his lips. "did that hurt?"

"no, i just... i have sensitive lips."

"that's cute." you smile. "if you didn't bite them all the time and pluck at them... maybe try lip balm."

there is something about you seeing everything through pink glasses. it is comforting. wooyoung never thought he'd be called pretty or cute, and like it, on top of that. yet, here he sits, smiling like a fool despite the cut, because you called him cute.

"if it's any comfort, logan looks way worse."

"you know all the right things to say." he scoffs. "i hate that."

the two of you fall in a comfortable silence. his face is pretty much clean and treated, but you still find ways to linger and care. he sees it in your eyes every time you reach for something out of the box. he lets you. until a heaviness sits on his chest, and he remembers the reason behind his face.

"y/n." he calls, voice serious. you don't respond. you know where he is going with this, and you hope that if you don't respond, he won't continue. "you made a promise."

"yeah, well." the gulp on your side is audible, that if the situation weren't as serious as it was, it'd be funny. "i suck at keeping them."

your breath hitches as his hand touches your chin, gently lifting your head up so that he can take a look at your neck. the concealer you've put on does a poor job at masking the fresh bruises that cover you. it ignites fire within him, and his mind creates unwanted images of logan's hands on you on its own. his hand drops. not abruptly, not like he's burned. just enough distance to breathe again. his jaw tightens, then loosens. he looks anywhere but at your neck.

"you're out of concealer," he says, like it's a neutral observation. like it doesn't mean anything at all.

you huff out a quiet laugh. "yeah. noticed."

he reaches for the first aid kit before he can think better of it, fingers sifting through gauze and cotton pads. it gives him something to do. something that doesn't involve the way his chest feels too tight for his ribs. he stands on his feet again, freeing the counter.

"sit," he mutters, nodding toward where he sat.

you hesitate, just a second, then do as he asks. your legs brush his knee when you hop up, and he has to look away again. he wets a cotton pad, tests it against his own wrist like he's the one being treated.

"this might be cold," he says.

"i can handle cold."

he believes you. that's the problem. he works carefully, slower than he needs to, cleaning around the bruises without touching them directly. his hands are steady now. too steady. he focuses on details: the faint freckle near your collarbone, the way your breath stutters when the cotton gets too close, the way your lips glimmer under the neon sign.

"you don't have to," you say quietly. not pulling away. not pushing him either.

"i know," he answers, just as quiet. then, after a beat, "stay still."

it's not an order. it's a plea disguised as one. the store hums around you. the fridge, the light, the faint buzz of the sign outside. time stretches thin, fragile. he finishes and steps back, giving you space again, hands dropping to his sides.

"that'll fade," he says. "not fast. but it will."

"you're really bad at pretending you don't care," you say, not unkindly.

his mouth twitches despite himself. "so are you."

that earns him a smile. small. real.

"so..." he trails, shifting his attention to the cash register. "what else do you do besides being annoying?"

you laugh, the sound dear to his heart. "i like to draw."

"really? what do you draw?"

it doesn't take much to take the lid off you. you blabber about sketches, types of things you draw, where you do it. he doesn't need to ask. he is glad. it feels nice to know that you are comfortable enough to share this piece of you with him on your own. you carry a sketchbook around, cleverly hiding it and sneakily doodling in between classes. with how much he pays attention to you, it is odd how he hasn't noticed. he voices it out loud.

"i keep it away from you specifically." you cheeks warm up.

"from me?" he questions, turning his attention to you. "why?"

"i can't say. i'd rather die."

wooyoung nods. the last thing he wants to do is push you and make you shut down. you could use a friend. and frankly, so could he. one that doesn't bring out the worst in him. "alright, then. keep your secrets."

"nerd." you recognize the reference. "who would've thought that bad boy wooyoung knew that movie?"

"bad boy?" he repeats, an amused grin on his face. "is that how you see me?"

"black hair, leather jacket, eyebrow piercing, tattoos, smoking, parties, famous among girls... you pretty much give that impression, yeah."

he laughs, genuinely. he never thought of himself like that. he was always in james' shadow, just how he liked it. away from the spotlight, but known enough to make people stay away from him. and girls approach him whenever they needed him. it doesn't make him a womanizer if they are the ones seeking him, right?

"cute." he says without thinking.

"what is?" you're curious, legs dangling in the air as they hang from the counter.

"you've been checking me out. that's cute. well, embarrassing for you."

the words are stuck in your throat, and you struggle to form a sentence while he soaks in your expression. "what? no- i mean, it's impossible not to. not like that! it's just... you're everywhere."

"that's alright. i forgive you and let it go." he generously says. your relief is short lived, because the smirk on his face is bad news. "if you show me your little sketchbook."

"no."

"just one little drawing?" he places his hands on the counter, trapping you. he tilts his head, eyes searching for yours while you frantically look at anything but him. "one page."

"wooyoung." you warn.

"come on, cherry." the nickname is sweet and inviting. "why not? are the drawings... smutty?"

finally, you lock eyes with him. mortified. "no!"

he laughs, biting his tongue teasingly in the process. "then, what's the issue?"

he doesn't realize how close he is standing to you, until you move in further and your nose almost touches his. "you'll make fun of me."

he wouldn't. maybe. he wants to say it, but your scent is putting him off track. all he can think of is how pretty you look under neon lights. it casts a soft purple blush on your face. your eyes glimmer like the first time he saw you. the lip gloss is present, a little smeared in the corner. without thinking, his hand touches your face, thumb rubbing the excess gloss off. your breath hitches at the touch, yet you don't move. you let him. wooyoung is lost in the way your skin feels under his fingertips, how you blush under his touch, and how your legs don't sway anymore. you stay perfectly still as he admires your features. there is an odd sensation is his body. he doesn't recognize it, used to only lustful feelings when willingly interacting with a girl. now? he is utterly captivated by you.

another customer pushes the door open then, bell chiming overhead, breaking the moment clean in half. he steps away from you, and you hop down from the counter, smoothing your clothes like nothing just happened. wooyoung greets the customer, the look on his face back to neutral. still, when he looks at you, his expression softens. before you leave, you hesitate, fingers brushing the edge of the counter.

"thank you," you say. not for the bandages. not really.

he watches you exit the shop, leaving behind traces of your scent that clings to his body. wooyoung exhales slowly, like he's been holding his breath since yesterday. fingertips touch the stickers that decorate the helmet, and the fluttering feeling in his chest is foreign. it scares him that he doesn't know what it means.

𝐀 𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐅𝐓.

wooyoung has already made peace with the fact that the project will never be done. they will all get bad grades, because he refuses to do all the work with lexi again and have the rest take credit. not this year. tonight was supposed to be the project night, not a party at nate's night. maybe he can ask the professor for a different due date, since he has been missing from school due to his... injuries. it didn't hurt at all. he just used it so that he can focus on the missed studies and the shop. and getting away from you and whatever odd feelings appear when you are around.

still, as james' chaperone, he finds himself pushing through the crowd of warmed up people in his signature leather jacket and washed out jeans. james had made a comment about it still being warm for a jacket, yet wooyoung doesn't bother to explain that he isn't cold anyway. he just uses it as a makeshift shield from people approaching him.

that shield doesn't work for lexi, because she approaches him and hugs him without a warning. "hey, stupid."

"hi, ugly." wooyoung pats her head.

"gosh." she pulls away, sighing. "i wish i could just sneak off in one of the rooms and do the project."

"howard, don't be silly." the young man rolls his eyes, pushing past her and going to the kitchen. he feels her follow behind. "go out there and drink. you'll feel better."

"and what will you do?" she crosses her arms, looking at him with a raised eyebrow as he rummages through cupboards. he doesn't answer. instead, he opens up a box of chocolate covered sticks, and shoves one into his mouth. "you'll... eat?"

"yep." he says with a full mouth. "then, i'll get high."

he doesn't miss the look on her face as he passes by her and goes to the living room. lexi hates that habit of his, that much he knows. she makes sure to voice her opinion on it every time she sees a blunt or hears him talk about it.

"woo-"

"i don't wanna hear it."

it doesn't take long for wooyoung to get annoyed. he hates being told what to do. he doesn't tell lexi to... whatever is wrong with her. he can't even find anything bad about her. and that annoys him even more.

the living room is somewhat empty, with everybody outside by the pool. again. he won't complain, because he can have the couch all to himself. he props his legs up on the coffee table, ready to get cozy and enjoy his snacks in peace, when someone pushes his legs off it.

"what-"

"oh, great! you're here too." james exclaims, plopping onto the couch next to his friend. "you can play with us."

"play?" wooyoung raises his eyebrow, looking at the people gathering around the table.

"spin the bottle." james is excited. "with truths and dares."

"what the fuck." the dark haired man breathes out, mumbling to himself. "eleven year olds."

"it doesn't get more simple and more chaotic. that's the beauty of it." james finishes off his beer, then places the empty bottle on the table and gives it a test spin. "is everyone here? where are y/n and logan? he said they'd be here."

wooyoung's chest tightens. his stomach flutters. a lump appears in his throat, and his eyes carefully skim the small crowd, as if scared of your appearance. more than that, he is scared of your appearance by his side. he doesn't know how much control he has left in him.

"we're-" logan pushes through the crowd, hand firm around your elbow. his eyes land on wooyoung, fire igniting behind his blue irises. "-here. what the fuck is he doing here?"

your eyes follow logan's pointed finger, and also land on wooyoung. there is an uneasy look on your face, and hesitation. as if you wish to greet him, but you can't. the grip on your elbow is stopping you.

"wooyoung is my best friend, and where i go, he goes." james shuts him down. "now, will you play or get the fuck out of here?"

the redhead thinks, biting his lip and squinting his eyes at wooyoung. the other man doesn't show anything but boredom, biting the sweet sticks in his hand. finally, logan sits on the ground, pulling you with him. "fine."

"good." james nods, then looks at you. "hi, y/n, darling. how are you?"

"i'm good, james." you smile, happy that someone other than logan is talking to you. "how are you?"

"i'm good too. now, would you do me the honors of spinning the bottle first?" he holds out the green bottle for you to take, and you happily do so.

but not before glancing at logan, and it seems that only wooyoung sees the nod from him before you spin the bottle. you were asking for a permission to do something so simple. he cannot imagine doing that to anyone. having so much control over his partner, overlook them and harm them, all while they do nothing but love him. you don't belong with him. you know that. for reasons unknown to wooyoung, beyond the one you told him, you protect him and stay in this wilting cage.

"cassie asks james." you say, clapping your hands once.

wooyoung dissociates. the sweets turn sour in his mouth, eyes noticing everything he doesn't want to. logan's hand on your thigh, an occasional squeeze or pinch to your side when you get too excited, a whisper in the ear that makes your smile fade. he is corrupting you, little by little, using your kindness for his benefit.

when your eyes lock with his, he freezes. he feels his hands go cold, and his heart beat loud. the moment is slow, and the crowd goes silent in his ears. you smile, so tiny, and so subtle, it manages to get past logan. he wishes to smile back. he truly does. instead, his brows furrow, and he bites the inside of his cheek. you don't expect that, and before he can do anything else, you look away. he can't fake happiness or excitement. not while you sit in front of him and he can't help you.

"wooyoung?"

the moment speeds up again, james nudging him awake. "huh?"

"kat is asking you truth or dare."

he looks over at the girl, as she awaits his answer. "dare me to leave. please."

"sure." kat nods, clasping her palms and leaning on the table. "i dare you to leave."

wooyoung squints his eyes. that was too easy. "what's the catch?"

"leave with lexi to the bathroom and come back after ten minutes."

there is a sly smirk on kat's lips. an uncomfortable one on lexi's. he wants to tell her that they don't have to. it's a game. there won't be consequences. but lexi stands before he can speak, waiting for him by the door. wooyoung sighs, jaw tightening. so be it.

as soon as they both enter, they hear a lock turning outside, and just then the weight of awkwardness settles in both of them. lexi sits on the edge of the bathtub, gaze fixed on the tiled floor. she breaks the silence first. "you got a stopwatch?"

wooyoung leans against the door, arms crossed over his chest as he looks at lexi. "we don't need one."

the girl nods, eyes wandering anywhere but on him. "so... this is awkward."

"only if you make it." wooyoung shrugs. "i could use the silence."

"right. sorry."

something about her tone doesn't let wooyoung enjoy the silence he was promised. he walks over to her, crouching beneath her so that she has no choice but to look at him. her eyes are red, and a few tears have already escaped her them. wooyoung places his hands on her knees. "what's wrong, ugly?"

"i just..." her voice is hoarse. "i feel out of place."

wooyoung hums, thumb absentmindedly pressing into her knee. "yeah. makes sense."

lexi blinks. "that's it?"

"what, you want a speech?" he tilts his head. "everyone out there is pretending they belong. you're just bad at pretending."

a weak huff leaves her nose. not quite a laugh. "you don't seem to care."

"i do," he says easily. "just not about fitting in."

she studies his face like she's trying to figure out how that's possible. "must be nice."

"it's lonely," he corrects. "what triggered this?"

she hesitates for a while. a moment passes, and wooyoung doesn't rush her. "i see all these people making out, touching and fucking like it's nothing. i haven't even had my first kiss yet."

"that's it?" he repeats her earlier words.

she shoots him a glare, a silent warning. "don't."

"lexi, there are no set rules in time about these things. they're not better than you for already having it, nor are you better than them for not yet having it. it goes both ways. when you're ready, it'll happen." he pushes himself off the ground, sitting on the edge of the tub next to her.

"i am ready." she protests. "but it seems that everybody sees right through me. at first i didn't want it to be with just anyone. now, i am growing desperate."

"it's nothing special, trust me." wooyoung sighs. "you'll see."

"easy for you to say..."

silence engulfs the bright bathroom again. there is nothing comforting about this situation, and if they don't exit soon, lexi could have a whole meltdown here. it will just make it worse for her case. he glances at his phone screen, and realizes they have five more minutes. he can repair some damage.

"i get it." he nods. "you want it to be with someone who cares. and someone you care about."

"yeah."

"you care about me too, right?"

she whips her head around, so fast that her neck cracks in a satisfying way. "what?"

"do you?"

lexi stumbles on her own words, struggling to form a sentence. "yeah, of course. i've known you forever."

"good."

the young man places his hands on her cheeks, wiping the tears away with his thumb as his eyes search her face. when she doesn't pull away, wooyoung takes it as a signal to lean in. it is natural to him, kissing girls. he has done it many times, much like lexi said. this is nothing more but an offer and comfort for a friend.

he stops mere inches away, allowing her one more moment of backing off. she doesn't, instead leaning in herself and pressing her lips against his. he can smell the lipstick off her, the signature red she always wears. the kiss is sweet, soft, and full of emotions. none of them are romantic. not to wooyoung, at least. and they shouldn't be to lexi, either.

wooyoung is the first to pull away, hands still on her face. her eyes stay shut, tears still streaming down her cheeks. "lexi?"

"i don't know if i feel better or worse." she admits.

"why would you feel worse?"

"because i know i'll dream of this. and i'll never have it again. not in a way that i want, anyway."

oh.

fuck.

"i-" he is taken aback by the sudden confession. "i didn't know."

"a moment of weakness." the girl smiles through her tears. "you shouldn't have ever known."

he feels somewhat bad. not for the reasons one might think, such as kissing his friend who secretly harbored feelings for him. no. it's imagining someone else there instead. someone he barely knows. and replaying it as they exit, an arm around the friend for comfort and eyes fixed on you.

𝐍𝐄𝐑𝐕𝐄.

logan scavo is not the most loyal man you'll meet. you know that. he has brought countless girls over, slept with them with you in the next room, made out with them at parties. then why do you feel so bad for feeling jealous when wooyoung and lexi exit the bathroom? she looks flushed, and wooyoung seems closer to her than usual. they don't speak of it. they sit back down, as if nothing happened. you try to catch his gaze, but he cleverly dodges it.

you tell yourself it's nothing. you've gotten good at that. good at shrinking feelings until they fit somewhere harmless, somewhere logan won't notice. jealousy is ugly. you don't get to have it. not when you've stayed. not when you've forgiven worse.

logan leans back, arm draping behind you like a claim more than a comfort. his fingers don't touch you, not really. they hover. they always hover when he's distracted. you let it happen. you always do.

lexi laughs at something james says. it's a little too loud, a little too breathless. she keeps glancing at wooyoung like she's afraid he'll disappear if she doesn't keep track of him. he doesn't look at her. he doesn't look at you either. his attention is fixed on the bottle, on his hands, on anything but faces. it shouldn't bother you.

it does.

you replay the image without meaning to: the way she walked out first, cheeks flushed, eyes shiny. the way wooyoung followed, protective and touchy. you've seen him detached, sarcastic, bored. you've never seen him careful. at least not with anyone other than you. your stomach tightens at the thought. you know the feeling. you refuse to name it.

"you okay?" logan murmurs, low enough that only you can hear it.

you nod instantly. too fast. "yeah."

he studies you for a second, eyes narrowing, like he's checking for something he doesn't actually want to find. then he shrugs, attention drifting away again. satisfied. you hate how relieved you feel when he stops looking. the bottle spins again. someone groans. someone laughs. the party swells and recedes like a tide you're stuck standing in. you glance at wooyoung despite yourself.

he's already looking at you.

it lasts barely a second. long enough to register. not long enough to mean anything. his jaw tightens before his eyes flick away, as if he's been caught doing something he promised himself he wouldn't do again. your chest aches.

you don't know why that look feels different from all the others you've shared before. maybe it's because this time, he looks... guilty. not cold. not annoyed. guilty. as if something happened that you weren't allowed to see. as if something was taken from you without your consent.

you press your nails into your palm until the sting grounds you. logan's hand finally lands on your thigh, fingers squeezing once. a silent reminder. you soften immediately, leaning into him, offering him a smile you've practiced to perfection.

"truth or dare?" maddy asks.

"truth," logan says for you, before you can speak.

"if you could be with anyone else in this room, who would you choose?" you should've known maddy would ask something like that. stirring drama, it's her power.

"ask something else." logan is unamused, taking a sip of his beer.

maddy isn't scared of logan. she isn't scared of anyone. thus, she smiles at logan, so innocently, and bites her lip. "why? jealous she'll say someone you don't like? or ashamed because someone else could do a better job?"

"it's an inappropriate question. i am her boyfriend."

"you don't act like it."

"excuse me?"

"you heard me, jackass."

insults are exchanged, and with each one thrown, they are getting more into each other's faces. maddy is pointing her nail into his chest, and he is gripping the coffee table so hard it turns his knuckles white. the bottle isn't the only thing on it now, with the two of them leaning against it as the moment gets more heated. you stay still, knowing better than to interrupt him. there is still space in between them, where your gaze escapes and lands on the figure that is already looking at you. wooyoung doesn't seem fazed by the situation unfolding in front of him. his eyes show the emotion you hate, much like him. pity. you don't need it. not from him, not from anyone.

"guys." james interrupts, getting tired of the chaos and not wanting anything to happen in nate's house. he'd be responsible for suggesting the game, and for getting maddy in trouble. "come on."

"yeah, maddy. back off."

"i will." she smiles again, making logan's blood boil. "as soon as she answers the question."

slowly, the whole group shifts their attention to you. maddy with an encouraging look, logan with a warning one. your eyes betray you, landing on wooyoung's frame in between them.

his brows furrow, not angrily. confused. as if he didn't expect it. as if wondering why you are looking at him while everyone else is waiting for an answer. but this is your answer. a silent one, to yourself. if you weren't with logan, you'd be with jung wooyoung.

it is the first time you admit such a thing to yourself. having feelings for somebody. not feeling loved in your relationship. thinking that you'll find better in someone else. the only thing left to find out is whether wooyoung truly is what you want him to be. what he presents himself to be.

so far, he didn't polish himself. didn't make himself look perfect in your, or anyone's eyes. he shows himself as he is; rough around the edges, doesn't switch personalities depending on the setting, has only one personality. unlike logan, who acts like five people in one body. you don't want that.

you want someone who sees you the way wooyoung saw your bruises. you want someone careful like wooyoung who asks before touching you. you want someone tender like wooyoung who has treated your wounds. you want comfort, and security. something you only feel when you are in that shop or sitting at the desk next to him.

as you realize all these things right in this moment, the people around you start murmuring. they follow your gaze, soon landing on wooyoung. including logan. fuck.

before you can defend yourself, or logan can react, maddy scans the situation. and realizes just what she has done. she smiles at you, then winks, the rhinestones of her makeup blinking under the lights as she does so. "nice one, sweetie. we got him."

huh?

"you're so easy to piss off, scavo." she rolls her eyes, pushing him away from herself with her hand. "she wouldn't leave you for anyone. or anything. relax."

but you would. if you had the chance. if you weren't in deep shit since the day you moved here. you'd leave, and never look back. nobody here knows exactly what is keeping logan and you together. not even wooyoung. he knows a fragment of it. one that you let slip that night on james' balcony when you followed wooyoung to comfort him. you cannot allow yourself to set your eyes upon him anymore tonight. not when logan doesn't find this prank funny.

deep inside, you wonder whether wooyoung believes it to be a prank. what does it matter, when cassie's words ring back in your ears from the night of the project. when she caught you staring at lexi feeding wooyoung your brownies, and uttered the words. they are in love, they just don't know it yet.

you should've stepped away. that was the plan. but wooyoung somehow always lured you back in, whether he meant it or not. and you didn't resist. now, as you remind yourself of how they looked as they exited the bathroom, you feel a hollow pain in your chest. you feel selfish.

selfish for feeling jealous at the thought of wooyoung treating her like he treats you. does he tease her as well? does he care for her? how much time do they spend behind closed doors? what do they do?

"go on, spin the bottle!" james hits you with a straw, giggling as you wake up from your train of thoughts.

you do as told, spinning the bottle once again with logan's approval. the group has been fidgeting around since maddy has asked you a question, and people are now sitting in a different order. such order that makes the bottle land on cassie and wooyoung.

"youngie!" she exclaims. you can feel him roll his eyes. "truth or dare, babe?"

"ask me again." he mutters.

she sighs, but repeats the question, omitting the nickname this time. wooyoung chooses truth this time, probably not wishing to end up in the bathroom with someone again. unless that is lexi, you suppose. then, cassie asks what has been on everyone's minds. "what happened in there with my sister?"

the room is loud with cheering and wooing. you stay still, eyes fixed on the bottle, scared to look at him. he delays answering, waiting for the room to quiet down. the lump in your throat grows with anticipation and dread. "we kissed."

and erupts.

"oh my god!" the blonde girl cheers, jumping on her sister with a hug. "is it official? are you two together?"

the air is hard to breathe. the room is small, suffocating. it doesn't help that some of them have lit cigarettes, and even if the windows and doors are open, the smell still travels to your throat. you feel like dying on the spot. you can't take it anymore.

"logan." you turn to him, hands on his shoulders. "can i go lay down upstairs until we leave?"

to your surprise, he nods. in his head, it's better if you were up there alone than here surrounded by these people and their questions. as you stand up, you hear james asking where you are going. you expect logan to answer, make up something about you being tired.

"she's not-"

"she has a nicotine allergy. she's running from the smoke." wooyoung interrupts. "you should all know that by now, right?"

you hear it. loud and clear. everyone does. he says it as an accusation, a disappointed one. they shamefully look at you as you climb up the stairs, hiding their cigarettes under the table. they don't understand how seen he makes you feel. does he?

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃.

had you stayed just a few seconds more in that room, you would've known that the kiss with lexi meant nothing to wooyoung. that they weren't official. that they were only friends, and would never be anything more. wooyoung thought of lexi romantically before. he didn't act on it, because he thought he didn't deserve her. then, you came. you made him feel like he is worth something, like he deserves someone. you did it by being cutely annoying, constantly being in his space, and urging him to show more of his soft side than he usually would. you are the first person to uncover the first layer of him, and you didn't even have to try. all you had to do is look at him and smile with that stupid smile of yours, dangle your bracelets and drink your little cola.

now, wooyoung sits in the trailer. alone with his thoughts. all of them leading back to you. and it drives him crazy. he cannot fall for a girl who is taken. doesn't matter that the man who has her is the way he is. that is a story for itself, and wooyoung is yet to end that one. not to have you for himself, but to free you. to give you free will to decide for yourself what you want and deserve. not have it shoved down your throat.

"you changed your cigarette brand." james had noticed last night, looking at the box that peeked from wooyoung's jeans. he didn't say anything more, but the smirk on his lips was enough. "i won't tell."

driving james back to his house wasn't as peaceful as he had hoped. the man blabbered, tipsy, not fully drunk. it was the state where he said everything out loud, and truthfully. it was the state wooyoung hated, because james often made good points.

"is it possible that you only feel pity for her?" he had asked, leaning with his head against the window and drawing imaginary shapes on it with his finger.

"why would you say that?" wooyoung asked, knowing damn well why.

"because..." james trailed, looking over at his friend with worried eyes and hesitation. as if the words he would utter next will hurt him. "she seems to be walking the same path as your sister."

"she isn't." he said, convincing himself more than james. "i'll make sure of it."

"woo." james turned his body fully towards wooyoung, placing a hand on his shoulder. "it is not your fault for what happened to her. and it won't be your fault if anything happens to cherry."

"don't call her that."

"you need to step away. you'll only hurt yourself. you barely made it out last time."

the car came to an abrupt stop, causing james to fly forwards. wooyoung's breathing was shallow, and his mind ran with memories of his sister. her name was not uttered once since her passing, too many bad memories laced to it.

"because i failed last time i should step aside and watch?"

"look-"

"no!" he hit the wheel with his fists. once, twice. until his hands ached, and his senses dulled. he turned towards james, eyes bloodshot red and glossy. his voice? a mere whisper. "seulki died thinking i didn't care about her."

"that's not true..."

"it is true. you know it. i watched him abuse her every single day, from the day they met to the day he left. even the day when he came to try and take arin away from her, i stood aside and watched as he beat her to death. i did nothing. i thought i couldn't do anything. arin cried. she watched her mother die. and i stood aside like a fucking coward."

"but you did do something." james reminded him. a knife to the heart.

"too late!" the dark haired man yelled, hitting the wheel once again. "what i did didn't bring her back from the dead. if anything, i sent him after her into the afterworld."

silence enveloped the car. the road was empty, streets quiet. his heart pounded against his ribs, threatening to jump out and explode with pain. this was the first time wooyoung talked about that day with anyone other than police. he got away with self-defense, and was blessed enough to not end up behind bars. shame, he thought. he deserved to be there.

"i can't stand aside and watch that happen again." his voice dropped an octave. "cherry... she isn't strong enough. she pretends she is, and that can only get her so far."

"so... it is pity that you feel for her." james concluded. "not love. right?"

"can you love someone you just met?" he thought out loud. "not love, necessarily. just... like?"

james doesn't answer. he wouldn't know. he doesn't fall in love.

if what he feels truly is pity, where does that leave lexi? what if his urge to protect you is clouding his chance at something easier? something safer? did the kiss truly mean nothing? even if he imagined you instead of her?

𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓.

more than nate's parties, wooyoung hates dances.

not everything needs a dance. fall formal is inching near, and so far, wooyoung has failed a project which was supposed to be easy, has messed up two orders at the store, and has run out of blunts.

he refused to do the project with lexi alone. when james and cassie had revolted, and asked why you weren't being held accountable, all wooyoung did was block their numbers and exit the groupchat they had created to attack wooyoung and lexi. that little fiasco left him with your number in his phone. of course, he saved you under your fitting nickname.

he doesn't want to go to the dance. he was going to make something up, like a shift at the store. or an illness. but lexi was faster than his thoughts, and found herself sitting on his desk at the end of the class with her legs dangling off it. "will you go to the dance with me?"

"i am very flattered, howard. but no." he says, eyes on your frame as you zip up your fuzzy pencil case and close your books.

since that night at nate's, you've been ignoring him. well, not really ignoring. you were just... dismissive.

"how did you do on the test?" "not bad."

"the cherry colas have arrived this morning." "oh, that's great."

"sorry about the project." "it's not your fault."

it didn't push him away. now he knows what it's like. when he did that to you, all you did was unintentionally push further, until he succumbed to your odd ways of making friends. now, he is doing the same.

"why not?" lexi pouts. "i don't want to go alone this year. we always go together, just for the pictures."

"i..." he trails, not really having a good excuse. usually, he would avoid those due to big crowds and all the professors in one place, each of them pitying wooyoung for what happened. this year, he doesn't wish to go because of you. that is, if you go with logan. "i invited someone else already."

he didn't. he never invited anyone ever. lexi always came up to him, and annoyed him until he said yes. this year? he might start acting like a man and invite someone himself.

"oh. okay."

no protests. nothing. she accepts it, hopping off the desk and making her way to her desk. he does feel bad. however, it is too late now. he doesn't know what the plan is yet. he rarely does this acting first and thinking later thing. that didn't start until you came into his life. where did you come from, and why here?

he lays awake at night, having just finished a video call with his niece. she is staying with his father, her grandfather, who has been nothing but loving and supportive to wooyoung since he moved away. he has offered many times that to come pick him up, have them all live together. wooyoung doesn't think he deserves it. he doesn't find himself deserving of his father's love. knowing arin is there is enough. he is happy in his trailer. somewhat.

thoughts run loose again, and he finds himself searching your name on social media. on facebook, there are pictures of you as a little girl. on instagram, the same girl, now all grown up. he has to do some digging, because your username doesn't use your real name. one thing that hasn't changed is your love for pink and accessories. on each photo of you there is a stack of bracelets, a necklace, an anklet. as he scrolls through your feed, carefully examining every post, he notices how easily you find beauty and happiness in ordinary things. flowers, bees, clouds, books, makeup, nails. now that he thinks of it, your nails are always nicely trimmed and a pale pink colour.

then, he receives a notification. a message request.

by you.

cosmiclove_99: stalking my profile much, wooyoung?

realization sinks in, and wooyoung's eyes inevitably land on the red heart he has marked under a picture of your eyes and glittery eyeshadow. fuck.

jungwooyoung: busted.

cosmiclove_99: :)

jungwooyoung: you're welcome to stalk mine?

cosmiclove_99: what makes you think i didn't already?

the man smiles to himself. he doesn't have many photos, just a few. him and baby arin the day she was born, a childhood photo of him and james, and one that james took of him on his motorcycle. it represented him, and it was enough.

cosmiclove_99: haven't had the chance to say it, but your motorcycle looks very cool. very you.

jungwooyoung: that is the best compliment i could ever get.

cosmiclove_99: :) it's pretty late. can't sleep?

jungwooyoung: not really. you?

cosmiclove_99: me neither. my parents are fighting over something silly again, i'm waiting for it to die out.

you weren't at logan's. that's a relief. wooyoung bites his lip, thinking before his fingers start typing.

jungwooyoung: do you want to talk about it?

cosmiclove_99: like on voice call?

he didn't mean it like that. but now that you've offered, he doesn't think it a bad idea to hear your voice after you drifted apart recently.

jungwooyoung: if it will help. i am known to put people to sleep with talking.

cosmiclove_99: hah! doubt it. i'll give it a shot anyway :)

wooyoung is the one who presses the call button, and after only one ring, you pick up.

"hey." you simply greet, voice soft. he ignores the fluttering feeling in his chest upon hearing your voice.

"hey." he says it back, as casual as he can. "is everything okay?"

"it will be. they do this once a week. i am used to it."

in the background, he hears their voices. muffled yelling, thuds, and crashes. god, you couldn't catch a break. what have you done to be surrounded by utter fools who do not care for you?

"so... it's pretty quiet where you are. i'm jealous."

he hums, looking around the dark trailer.

"is it lonely?" you hit the spot.

he hesitates for a while. he still graces you with a truthful answer. "it is."

there's a pause. you weren't expecting him to say it so plainly.

"i didn't think you'd admit that," you say.

"i don't, usually."

another crash sounds from your side. smaller this time. farther away.

"i guess we're both good at pretending," you murmur.

he doesn't argue. "guess so."

the line stays open. neither of you rushes to hang up. hearing your soft breathing on the other side is somewhat calming. then, you break the silence. "what are you doing?"

"laying down. debating whether or not it is smart to have a can of ravioli right now."

"can of ravioli?" you chuckle. "gross."

he smiles too. he knows you don't mean it in a mocking way. "what's wrong with ravioli?"

"in a can?" you laugh. "everything."

wooyoung doesn't know how long you talk about canned ravioli. perhaps more than he ever thought he would, but it makes him happy knowing that he is taking your mind off the chaos that surrounds you. you don't mention your parents, not really. and he doesn't push. if, and when you're ready, you'll do it yourself.

"is there a reason you liked that specific picture on my profile?"

"you're never going to let me live that down, hm?" he is tossing and turning in the bed, a big smile plastered on his lips. he remembers the picture he accidentally liked. the closeup of your eyes, the focus on your glittery eyeshadow.

"if you tell me why, i might."

"i guess..." he trails, turning over on his side and staring out the window into the starry sky. "whenever i see you, your bruises get all the attention. i never noticed how pretty your eyes are."

silence. wooyoung's insides twist. fuck, why did he have to say the truth?

"and, well, the makeup looked... nice." he tries to backtrack. when he receives no response, he sighs. "too far. sorry."

"thank you." you whisper. "that's the first genuine compliment i've gotten since i moved here."

"oh." his brows furrow. logan is doing a terrible job of being a boyfriend. "logan never...?"

"no, he never compliments me. well, aside from calling me sexy when he wants to do it." you casually reply. it irks him that it is so normal, only being nice to your partner when you want them sexually. you seem to sense his discomfort, and quickly chuckle into the phone. "it's okay, wooyoung. i don't need compliments."

sure you do. you'd bloom beautifully with them. he knows he is starting to, whenever you call him cute. "you can't possibly think like that."

you sigh on the other side, and wooyoung takes it as a cue to stop. he has gone too far anyway. instead of calling you to take your mind off your troubles, he is just reminding you of them. comfortable silence envelops the trailer, and all he can hear is your soft breathing and an occasional murmur from your parents. it seems that the fight is dying out.

"anyways, you said you liked the makeup on the picture?"

"yeah," he turns in the bed again, this time laying on his stomach. "it's pretty."

"can i put it on you?"

put makeup? on him? why? "uh..."

"it'll be fun. i promise. you can pick your own colours." you sound excited, and how could wooyoung break your heart by refusing?

"i- yeah, sure."

you squeak into his ear, and he moves the phone away for a moment while you celebrate. all with a big smile on his face. "yes! you'll love it! you have a pretty face for that."

again with the compliments. why are you fine with not receiving any, yet you generously give them away just like that? even if they're not true? wooyoung is not pretty. he doesn't think of himself as particularly handsome, either. conventionally attractive, maybe. enough to make heads turn, but not chase worthy. and that's enough.

"i'm serious," you add, like you can hear the doubt forming. "you've got good eyes. good bone structure. you'd be a great canvas."

he snorts quietly. "that's a first."

"won't be the last," you say easily.

he goes still at that. not because it's flirtatious. it isn't. but because you say it like it's a fact. like you're not trying to convince him of anything.

"what colours would you even use?" he asks.

you don't hesitate. "warm ones. maybe gold. something subtle."

"subtle," he repeats, amused. "you?"

"hey," you protest. "i can be subtle."

"sure you can, fuzzy pencil case." he smiles, eyes drifting shut. he pictures it despite himself; your hands steady, focused, gentle in a way the world hasn't been with you lately. the anticipation is foreign, never really looking forward to meeting with people. his eyes fall on the decorated helmet that rests on the kitchen counter, stickers shining under the moonlight that peeks through the unwashed windows. "alright. when shall this appointment take place?"

"friday? i'll come over to the gas station after school? it will be like a rehearsal before the dance."

right. the dance. he had rejected lexi, in hopes of asking you to go. now, that doesn't sound so good. asking someone's girlfriend to go to a formal dance. what a fool.

"wooyoung?" his name is a sweet whisper in his ear from your lips. he hums. "are you going to the dance?"

"no." he replies. and he means it.

"oh. that's a shame. i was looking forward to seeing you all dressed up."

the thought of you thinking about him like that makes him wonder how you will look. he isn't going, which means he won't see you. maybe you'll put a picture on instagram, and he can gawk at it. you'll wear pink, surely.

"what are you wearing to the dance?"

"logan picked a dress for me. i don't know yet."

right. he forgot logan's possessiveness goes that deep. he can only hope that he loves you enough to get you something you'll be comfortable in.

the trailer settles around him again. outside, the night stays still. on your end, the house finally goes quiet. words are stuck in his throat. he tries his hardest to swallow them, to not ruin the moment. but his heart aches, and he speaks.

"cherry."

"hm?"

"are you okay?"

there is a beat of silence, a breath of hesitation. then, you speak. "no."

wooyoung's heart erupts. there is a shudder in your breathing, and a quiet sniffle. were you crying? wooyoung doesn't know how to handle that. even worse, it is you who is crying. it devastates him that on top of all your worries, he has become one. he doesn't know when he became this overstepping. his fingers grip the phone, and he turns to his side. he wants to say many things at once. you should leave logan. you shouldn't go to the dance with him. you deserve better.

"i will be." you calm him, voice hoarse. "i'm stronger than i look."

"i believe you."

"thank you."

a yawn betrays you. he has done his job, it seems. shame. he was really enjoying hearing your voice. that doesn't happen often.

"sleepy?"

"mhm."

"then..." he turns on his back again, eyes stuck on the ceiling of the trailer. he doesn't want to hang up. he has to. you need to rest, and he needs to stop being selfish. "...goodnight, cherry."

he hears you chuckle sleepily, then shuffling. you must be getting comfortable under the covers. "goodnight, youngie."

the nickname makes his heart flutter against his ribs. it sounds so natural coming from your lips, and makes it harder for him to keep his distance like james advised him. how can he, when you find a way to wiggle back into his life whether he wants it or not?

before he hangs up, a few words still manage to slip through. "you're my only friend in the world, wooyoung."

the words don't settle. they hit.

something in his chest tightens. not pleasantly. painfully. like being trusted with something he has no right to hold. wooyoung presses the heel of his palm against his sternum, as if it might quiet whatever just lurched awake inside him.

only friend. dangerous words. he thinks of his sister. of promises he couldn't keep. of what happens when people depend on him. what happens when he doesn't act when needed.

"cherry..." his voice comes out rougher than he intends.

a soft hum answers him. you're already halfway to sleep. he swallows everything else. the warnings. the distance he should put between you.

"...i'm here," he says instead.

a tiny breath of relief leaves you, like you were waiting for that.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐇𝐘.

you avoid him again. not on purpose, he knows it. you don't share classes anymore, and the few you once did, mostly first periods, he has managed to sleep over and only arrived on the third period.

still, you find him.

in hallways, between crowds, with logan never far from your side. a small wave meant only for him. a quick smile. your tongue poking out before you disappear into the sea of bodies. once, you pass close enough to pinch his side, and he nearly jumps out of his skin, earning a strange look from james. it is ridiculous, how much those scraps mean. they make the days easier.

a hallway feels less like a battlefield when you grin at him from across it. the shop feels quieter, steadier, when he knows you might wander in later with your stupid cola and louder-than-necessary bracelets. the classroom is a storm that quiets down whenever you toss a colourful pen his way. to make your notes less depressing, you once said. he sees you secretly sketch in the corners of your notebooks. he doesn't peek. if it's a wish of yours to keep it private, he will respect it.

wooyoung is getting used to it. he knows the headline of today's chapter will be glittery. he knows he won't light a cigarette in between a double period. he pretends not to expect you. he always does. and in a world that keeps taking things from him, these fleeting seconds feel dangerously close to something being given back. he lets you sit on the window next to him, blabbering your soul out about a new hobby you might pick up.

it is sad how much logan's presence changes you. quiets you, pushes your true personality down and crushes it with his thumb of cruelty. wooyoung sees the way your smile falters when you see logan waiting for you in front of the classroom. wooyoung becomes invisible to you, and god, when you walk past him like you don't know him, it makes him want to rip his hair out. there is nothing wrong with having friends, and he cannot figure out why logan can't understand that. maybe because wooyoung isn't that subtle, and logan can see right through him and see his feelings. feelings for his girl. he is mistaken, though. right?

wooyoung breathes out, running his fingers through his raven hair as he stands in front of the mirror. it is friday, and you are supposed to come over for a makeup date. there is a phone in his hand, and lydia's contact number on the screen as the last caller.

"some police officers are asking about you." she had said. "you need to come over."

with a heavy heart, and even heavier fingers, he enters the conversation with you.

jungwooyoung: i'm sorry, i can't do tonight.

cosmiclove_99: aw, really? :(

jungwooyoung: we'll reschedule. i promise.

cosmiclove_99: sent a photo

his heart races as he opens it. it is a photo of your pinky finger, with a text on it saying pinky promise? wooyoung wastes no time, opening his camera and taking a picture of his own finger, with the title pinky promise written on it. he goes as far as to paint the text pink, smiling to himself like a fool. you are impossible to resist. it is as if you've put a pair of pink glasses on him as well.

cosmiclove_99: alright then. all is forgiven :) also, is it too much to say i'll miss you at the dance?

jungwooyoung: it's not too much.

as he makes his way to the shop, he thinks about how much he could really use those pink glasses now. he knows why the officers are here. someone has snitched again, reported the weed to them. nothing new. lydia already knows to hide it, and has a story to cover him. however, there is nothing to find these days, since wooyoung barely smokes.

deep in his heart, he awaits your call for help. he wants to be sober if it happens. he can't risk being in a hazy state if you need him, and thus, he has nothing on him at the moment. sure, there is always a stash that has buyers, but it is safely buried under his trailer. so far, there was no trouble.

until he sees a bag covered in soil on the counter, the officers standing by it and talking to lydia. his stomach twists. fuck. he forgot about that.

when did they have time to dig under the trailer? who told them? worse than that, how did he not notice? it's a generous amount as well, and he knows that this time he is looking at an enormous fine, or even prison time. he doesn't have that much money. all that is left is being behind bars, and that would mean no more seeing you. he can't let that happen.

he swallows hard, every heartbeat hammering in his ears. the officers glance up, spotting him, and one of them nods curtly. lydia looks flustered, twisting her fingers nervously, and for a split second wooyoung feels the walls closing in.

"wooyoung, step over here," one officer calls, voice flat but firm.

he takes a careful step forward, mind racing. his thoughts scatter, but they always come back to you: your pinky promise earlier, your shimmery eyes, your melodic laugh. he can't risk losing even the chance to hear it again.

"i... i didn't—" he starts, but the words catch in his throat. claiming ignorance might help, but they might also make him look guilty. he needs a story, something believable. he draws a slow breath, squaring his shoulders, and forces himself to speak evenly. "i only just got here. what's going on?"

one officer gestures toward the bag. "you tell us."

the smell hangs thick in the air. fresh. earthy. undeniable. wooyoung keeps his expression blank, like the answer truly means nothing to him. inside, his pulse roars. "this isn't mine."

lydia shifts beside the counter. too fast. too tense. he feels it more than he sees it. the officers sigh, then one of them leads lydia outside, leaving wooyoung alone with the older man.

"son." he leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. wooyoung feels small under his gaze, and looks down on the floor. "must we do this once a month? every time you step on someone's bad side? do you not make enough in the shop to do this on the side?"

the young man fidgets with his fingers, plucking the skin around his nails as he listens to the well memorized conversation. he shakes his head at the question, then waits for the officer to keep talking.

"i can't keep letting you go like this. people will start to question it."

"then why do you?" he finally looks him in the eyes. his heart swells, the tired eyes reminding him of his father's. "turn me in."

"i won't do that. you know it."

wooyoung lets out a hollow laugh. "you should."

the officer watches him for a long moment, something heavy settling behind his eyes. "your father asked me to keep an eye on you."

the words land like a punch to the chest. of course he did. wooyoung's jaw tightens. "he's not here."

"no," the man agrees quietly. "so someone has to be."

silence stretches between them. the shop hums with the low buzz of the refrigerator, fluorescent lights flickering like a dying pulse.

"you think this is mercy?" wooyoung mutters. "a favour you're doing me?"

"i think this is a chance," the officer replies. "and you keep wasting it."

wooyoung's hands curl into fists at his sides. chances. promises. pink letters painted across his screen only hours ago. he swallows.

"one day," the officer continues, softer now, "i won't be able to help you. you understand that?"

wooyoung nods. he does. frighteningly well. "what am i supposed to do? live in the trailer for the rest of my life?"

"you could accept your father's invite and go live with—"

"no." wooyoung doesn't wish to hear it. ever. even if he were at the verge of his life, he wouldn't do that. he doesn't deserve it.

"your father has never blamed you for what happened to seulki. why are you then punishing yourself for it?" the man steps closer, placing his hands on wooyoung's shoulders. the young man's eyes burn, and his vision blurs. "he's already lost one child. you're keeping him away from his other one."

the words settle somewhere deep and poisonous. wooyoung's throat tightens. his hands, still curled into fists, slowly loosen like he's forgotten why he was holding on in the first place.

"that's not..." his voice breaks. he clears it, staring past the officer at the stained tiles. "that's not how it works."

but the thought has already taken root. his father alone. waiting. grieving twice. the raven haired man's chest aches like something inside it is trying to cave in. he laughs under his breath, but there is no humour in it.

"you don't know anything."

the officer doesn't argue. and somehow that hurts more. "i won't beg you to tell me. but, if you ever do decide you are ready for a conversation, you know where to find me."

he doesn't take the bag with him. he never does. he trusts wooyoung to either hide it, or get rid of it. as his hand touches the door handle, wooyoung's words escape his lips. "i'll go when i feel worthy."

and he means it. as the officer finally exits the shop, wooyoung's eyes fall on the fridge. the cherry colas are looking back at him, the silver on the can shining under the led lights. he has unfinished business here anyway.

𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐒 𝐀 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍.

wooyoung stays late at the shop that day, talking to lydia. the day after, saturday, he sleeps almost the entire day. the bag taunts him, sitting on the kitchen counter and awaiting its fate. the fate that was supposed to be rue, yet she bailed, as she recently does since meeting jules. wooyoung doesn't like that girl. she is ruining his business.

when he wakes up, it is dark outside. there are sleeping lines all over his torso and face, and he feels very groggy. still, he reaches out for his phone, typing in your name into the instagram search bar in hopes of seeing your outfit for today's dance. there is nothing. did logan buy you something you didn't like? something you weren't comfortable in? there were no messages, either. not that he was expecting anything. why is he disappointed then? fuck it.

he tears the bag apart, fingers already doing what they know best; rolling blunts. there is one soon placed between his chapped lips, and as soon as he rolls the last one, he plops down on the still warm bed. with each second that passes, wooyoung wonders whether he should've come to the dance anyway. for you. he wonders if you are having fun. if logan is keeping you seated, or letting you dance. if you were wearing makeup, and if yes, how much. if you were wearing anything pink and cute, or something provocative against your wish.

lastly, he wonders if you think of him like he thinks of you. do you see him like he sees you? through the careless charade, behind the so-called bad boy persona. his stomach gets fuzzy with each inhale of the blunt, and wooyoung knows it isn't the weed. it's thoughts of you.

once he finishes it, he drifts away again.

the second time he wakes up, it is still night. he checks seulki's watch that rests on the table since the day she took it off to make lunch and never put it on again. it is close to midnight. shit. what is he supposed to do all night, now that he slept all day? easy. smoke again. this time somewhere else.

the door creaks as he opens it, and he barely steps outside, before his heart skips a beat. his leg stays in the air, not touching the steps yet. they are occupied. "what the hell are you doing in front of my-"

the person looks up. tear-streaked, shaking. "woo."

"cherry." he breathes out, dropping the blunt on the floor. he helps you up from the stairs, placing his hands on your bare arms and guiding you on your feet. your eyes are red and swollen. he is scared to ask. "what... what are you doing here?"

"i didn't know where else to go."

wooyoung freezes. the words settle between them, fragile and enormous. you didn't know where else to go. his hands are still on your arms; your skin is cold, trembling faintly, and he only notices when the shake transfers into his own fingers. logan did put you in a provocative dress. short, red, and tight. that bastard.

"what happened?" he asks quietly.

you shake your head before he finishes, shoulders folding inward.

"can i just... stay here for a bit?"

for a moment he forgets how to breathe. inside the trailer behind him is the stale smell of smoke, the torn bag on the counter, the mess of a life he never thought anyone would step into. you stand before it like a question. he swallows, then speaks, voice hoarse. "yeah. yeah, of course."

he crushes the fallen blunt under his shoe and opens the door wider. the hinges groan. you hesitate at the threshold, glitter still clinging stubbornly to your tear-streaked eyelids, bare arms raised slightly against the cold. something tight and protective coils in his chest.

"come in," he says softer.

the trailer feels smaller once you step inside, suddenly aware of itself. peeling wallpaper, cluttered sink, the open bag on the counter. your eyes land on it. wooyoung moves quickly, twisting the plastic shut and shoving it into a cabinet. the motion is clumsy, guilty. you don't comment. you just stand there, looking lost in unfamiliar gravity. he clears his throat.

"you want water? or tea. i think i have tea."

you nod, more for something to hold than from thirst. you sit on the ground, back pressed against the bed where he just laid.

while he fills the kettle his hands shake badly. he wants to give you space, yet he doesn't want to seem like he doesn't care. he picks through his words carefully, all while quietly searching for an appropriate cup and picking a chamomile flavoured teabag. "how... did you find me?"

"i searched for your bike. that's how i knew which trailer is yours." you explain quietly. your voice is raspy, as if talking alone is hurting you. "i... i called. multiple times. sorry for blowing your phone up."

wooyoung stills. his eyes drop on the discarded phone on the counter, the button on the side showing that it has been on silent. a single tap on the screen wakes it up, revealing multiple missed calls and messages from you.

"i'm bored" "i wish you were here" "this dress is so fugly" "logan is talking to the dj i don't know what's going on" "oh god."

there is a twenty minute interval between those messages and a new one.

"i need you, can i come over?"

just what has happened that made you ditch the dance and come seek him in this dark area of the town? behind him, your voice breaks the quiet. "it's over."

he stills, the cup clinking against the counter as he sets it down. slowly, he turns towards you, eyes falling on your messed up hair and smeared makeup as your gaze is fixed on the ground in front of you.

"talking to the dj? he gave him the usb with all my pictures and videos on it. everyone saw." you elaborate, a fresh set of tears escaping your eyes. you sniffle, yet you smile. "i am glad that you weren't there, after all. you didn't see it. i'm free. i think."

he promised himself he would be sober when you called for help. now, when you finally did, he is in the worst state he has been in since meeting you. he feels selfish for being happy that you look for comfort in him. he finds satisfaction in your sadness, and it makes him feel evil.

he pours the tea in the cup, then lets the teabag soak in it as he approaches you, setting the cup on the table beside the bed. he lowers himself to the ground, crouching in front of you. deja vu, he thinks. he remembers crouching in front of a crying girl recently. only this time, his heart aches, and his blood boils as he watches your attempts at wiping your soaked face off. it isn't gentle at all, you start to irritate your skin so bad that wooyoung has to grab your wrists and pull them away from your face.

"hey." he calls, grounding you. "you're hurting yourself."

"i feel dirty." you admit. "i- i want to wipe it all off me. the makeup, the dress, the humiliation."

"do you wish to change? take a shower?" he offers. you hesitate at first, biting your bottom lip as you think. "you can pick out anything you'd like from my humble wardrobe."

that pulls a smile out of you, and you nod. "i trust your judgement."

as wooyoung picks clean clothes for you to wear, you sip on the tea, waiting for his call. he sees you looking at the bag. he wonders whether you'll judge him. you know he smokes, yet you've never made any comment about it, besides telling him about your nicotine allergy. weed? you never cared. he's glad you don't judge him when it comes to it.

he sees you shiver, and speeds up his process of setting the clothes up by the cramped shower, along with a towel. he rummages through a box hidden away in the corner, pulling out micellar water and makeup wipes and leaving them on the sink, but not before checking the date of expiry. seulki rarely wore makeup, yet always had these things laying around. finally, he lets the water run for a while, until steam starts seeping through.

"shower's ready." he calls. you stand, placing the cup on the table and carefully make your way to where wooyoung is guiding you. "the lock is tricky. you'll have to push the handle up."

you nod, and quietly slip inside, brushing against him in the tight space. the bathroom door clicks shut and the lock slides into place with a soft, final sound. wooyoung stands there a moment longer than necessary, staring at the wood like it might suddenly open again. then he drags a hand down his face and turns away, forcing himself to breathe.

the pipes groan when the water starts running. the sound fills the trailer immediately. loud in the small space, steady, relentless. grounding. he focuses on it, on the rhythm of it hitting tiles, because his mind keeps trying to wander where it shouldn't. steam begins slipping beneath the door, thin at first, then thicker. the air grows warm, heavy. he busies himself.

the cup you drank from is still warm when he picks it up. a faint mark of your lipstick stains the rim. he washes it carefully, more carefully than he ever washes anything, thumb tracing the ceramic before setting it to dry. his hands don't stop moving after that. he folds the blanket at the end of the bed. wipes the already clean counter. adjusts the crooked picture frame nailed beside the window. pointless things. anything that keeps him from thinking about you alone in his shower, washing off a night he wishes he could erase for you.

the bag on the counter feels suddenly heavier than it did before you arrived. shame prickles at the back of his neck. he imagines you stepping out into the smell of smoke, into the mess of his life, and something tight twists in his chest. he opens the window a crack despite the cold. lets the night air push in, sharp and clean. he doesn't want this part of him clinging to you. you came for comfort, and he'll give it to you.

the trailer breathes. from behind the door comes the faint sound of movement. the shift of the curtain, the quiet thud of a bottle being set down, the rush of water changing rhythm. small sounds, yet each one pulls at his attention like gravity. he sits on the edge of the bed, listening. his hands remember the feel of your wrists: cold, trembling, fragile. he hadn't meant to grab you that suddenly. he rubs his palms against his jeans, restless.

time stretches strangely. the world outside the trailer fades until there is only the hum of pipes, the whisper of steam, the quiet knowledge that you are here, within reach, trusting him with something fragile. it terrifies him.

he gets up and places a glass of water beside the folded clothes. hesitates, then adds an extra towel within easy reach of the door. silent offerings. the shower eventually quiets. the sudden absence of sound feels louder than the water ever was. wooyoung's shoulders straighten instinctively. he looks toward the bathroom before catching himself, gaze dropping to the floor instead. his pulse kicks, uneven and sharp.

the lock clicks. he looks, despite himself, and can't look away. it is as if you have peeled a layer of yourself. you stand clothed, yet bare before him. no glitter, no gloss, wet hair, and flushed cheeks. his t-shirt falls to your thighs, hiding the shorts which he has outgrown.

"i look silly, i know."

"no, you don't." and he means it. you look safe in his clothes. "you look... pretty."

"thank you, wooyoung." you smile, sweetly like only you know. it doesn't reach your eyes, though. you stand still, fidgeting with the hem of the t-shirt as you wait further instructions from him. you are in his space, after all. when he doesn't speak, you do again. "can i... maybe... sleep over tonight?"

"of course." the words leave him before he can weigh them, before he can question whether letting you stay is wise for either of you. something loosens in his chest the moment he sees your shoulders drop at his answer. relief. he clears his throat, suddenly aware of the smallness of the trailer, of the single bed, of the warmth still clinging to your damp hair. he forces his voice into something steadier. "you can take the bed."

your eyes scan the bed, then him. as if calculating. wooyoung knows what you'll ask. where will he sleep? it doesn't matter. he'll stay awake if he needs to. the only thing that matters is you resting tonight, because lord knows when was the last time you had a proper sleep.

"i slept all day. i couldn't sleep right now even if i wanted to. don't worry about me." he explains. he nods towards the bed, encouraging you to get in. "it's comfier that it looks."

slowly, you sit on it, bouncing slightly. you feel the sheets under your palms, rubbing the mattress as if exploring the new space. he watches you carefully. you fluff the pillow, then lift the covers up, and finally slip beneath. just as you get comfy laying down, you sit up abruptly. "i'm going to soak your pillow."

"oh. right." he looks at your damp hair. "i don't have a hair dryer though. i usually just let mine air dry."

you hum understandingly. "then... i'll keep you company for a little while it dries."

you move towards the side, freeing up space on the bed. when wooyoung doesn't move, you pat the spot, silently inviting him. whether or not it's a good idea, the young man listens. he sits on his bed, and instantly, his senses sharpen. the smell of his shampoo clings to your skin, and the way you are submerged in his clothes and his sheets do not help the fuzzy feeling in his stomach at all. neither does the smile you offer him when you catch him looking.

"hi." you grin.

wooyoung looks away, scoffing while hiding his burning red face from you. "stupid."

there is a beat of silence. a train of thoughts. a grounding heartbeat, reminding wooyoung just why you are here. he looks your way again, only to find you already looking at him. not with a smile this time. you're thinking, biting your bottom lip in the process. "can i ask you something?"

"ask away."

"what are you and lexi?"

wooyoung doesn’t answer right away. his jaw tightens slightly.

“nothing,” he says. you don’t look convinced. he sighs. “she panicked. in the bathroom. said she’d never been kissed. i just… did it. so she’d stop spiraling.”

you blink. “just like that?”

“yeah.”

“that’s kind of intimate.”

he shrugs, but it’s not casual. “it wasn’t.”

“you can’t decide that for her.”

that hits. you are right. he thought he was doing her a favour. now, he knows it was cruel.

“i didn’t mean it like that,” he mutters. “it wasn’t romantic.”

“but you kissed her.”

he finally looks at you. he can't quite decipher the emotion in your eyes. it isn't positive, that much he can see. “yeah.”

you stare at your hands now, avoiding his gaze. “cassie made it sound like it was… something.”

“cassie makes everything sound like something.”

you bite your lip. “did you want to?”

that one makes him frown. “want to what?”

“kiss her.”

he exhales slowly. thinks about it. actually thinks.

“i didn’t not want to,” he says, and immediately sees your expression shift. “not like that,” he adds quickly. “i just didn’t care. it didn’t feel like anything.”

“okay.”

it’s not okay. he can tell. but you’re retreating. folding in on yourself.

“why does it matter?” he asks, softer now.

“because..." you stop yourself, taking a deep breath instead of continuing. "it doesn't matter. curiosity, i guess."

"right." he studies you. the way you’re not looking at him. wooyoung shifts slightly, but keeps distance. “lexi and i aren’t anything. i’m not seeing her. i’m not trying to.”

you glance at him. “are you trying to see anyone?”

he huffs lightly. “i’m barely trying to see tomorrow.”

not romantic. not reassuring. just honest.

“okay,” you murmur again. but this time it sounds steadier.

a beat passes. there is something else on your mind. something bigger than this, he senses. "what's on your mind?"

"there is... more to the story than just nudes." you say it. "if you want to know, of course. i'm ready to tell you."

"speak, cherry." his voice is a mere whisper. "i'll listen. you know i always do."

and you do speak. you tell him about your life before moving here. how peaceful it was. how you waited for summer, and met logan. how your parents liked logan, so much that he managed to convince them to move here. how they started drinking when your father's brother took your house, and you later found out you had to move anyway, with or without logan. how logan gave your parents the money to move, in exchange for you. how easily they gave you up, all for a shed in a different town and a bottle of liquor always full in the cabinet.

wooyoung listens, not interrupting you once. he fidgets with the sheets, and every time your voice shakes and you stop to take a deep breath, he bites his cheek a little harder. every time you mention getting punished for doing something against logan's will, his blood boils. and when he finds out you didn't even send him the nudes yourself, that he took them of you and used them against you, making you do things you didn't want. from things as simple as going to the store and buying him a beer, to having sex with him. his jaw clenches, so hard his teeth squeak under the pressure. he sees red. he wants to make a trip to the scavo house again. nothing would stop him. not james, not police, not anyone. except you, and the sob that escapes you, making wooyoung look at you.

"he was my first boyfriend. i thought," you hiccup, pulling your knees to your body as if to shield yourself, then continue, "i thought that's how it is. how it's supposed to be. meeting you has only made me more confused."

wooyoung swallows, then speaks, voice low as to not scare you off. "how so?"

"you were a friend. yet... i felt more comfort and care from you than i did from my own boyfriend. it opened my eyes, i guess. and at some point, i hated you for it. it was easier when i didn't know any better."

easier before him. his chest tightens at that. part of him aches at the thought of ever hurting you, even by accident. another part, the uglier one, burns with quiet satisfaction that he changed something for you. that you saw something different with him. he pushes that thought away for now.

"you shouldn't have had to learn like that," he says finally. his voice is rough, quieter than before. "none of that was normal, cherry. none of it was love."

"then what is?" you ask softly, fingers still twisting the hem of his shirt.

the question hits him like a blow. wooyoung has no language for love. not the gentle kind. not the kind you deserve. all he knows is protection, instinct, the need to keep you safe even if it ruins him. his hand moves before he thinks. slow, careful, he reaches over and rests it beside yours on the sheets. not touching, just close enough that you could choose the distance.

"this," he says. you look at him, eyebrow raised. "being able to say no, and knowing the other person listens. feeling safe. not scared all the time." his throat tightens. "being able to breathe."

silence falls again. the trailer hums softly around the two of you, the window rattling with a passing car somewhere in the distance. you don't pull away. instead, your fingers shift slightly, brushing against his. the contact is barely there. it feels louder than anything at the moment.

wooyoung freezes, afraid even breathing too hard might break the moment. your hand is smaller than his, warm now from the shower, no longer trembling like before. slowly, giving you time to move, he turns his palm upward. you accept the silent invite, lacing your soft fingers through his rough ones.

something inside him settles. something restless finally going still. you lean your head against his shoulder without asking. he goes rigid for a second, then carefully relaxes, letting you rest there. he can feel the faint weight of you, the dampness of your hair against his shirt, the quiet rhythm of your breathing beginning to slow.

"woo?" you murmur.

"cherry."

"is it too much to say that i've never felt more home?"

"no," wooyoung responds honestly, and rests his head on top of yours. "it's not too much."

"okay." you reply, a yawn following soon after.