“When she asked him his favourite colour, the boy lied and said green, even though he wanted to say gold.
Gold, he should have said. Gold like the colour of the threads woven in the scarf she wore the first time he saw her on that train platform all those years ago.
Gold, like the colour of her curls when she ran down the corridors of their school, arms filled with parchment and books, and he could never stop staring.
Gold, like the relentless sun above her head when she stepped out into the snow with a smile on her lips, and gold like the sun shining ceaselessly across her face when she wasn’t looking his way.
Gold, like the sun, like the sun, like the sun— She is the sun.
And when the girl kissed the boy’s shoulder that one fateful night when everything changed and nothing hurt anymore, he thought, maybe, he just might forgive the world.”
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Tags: mutual masturbation, porn, closet sex, rough sex, first time together, desperate thrusting, overstimulation, hand over mouth, biting, semi-public sex, stifled moans, creampie, aftershocks, dazed clinging, emotionally intense
Word count: 4.1k
Summary: you’re just his best friend; his open-minded, dangerously close, overly flirty best friend. so when hyunjin tells you he can’t watch porn unless someone else is in the room… you roll your eyes and let him do it. but you don’t expect to stay. you don’t expect to watch. and you definitely don’t expect to end up with his hand around your mouth, legs shaking, his cock deep inside you in a locked closet at a house party four days later.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
You and Hyunjin had always been open with each other.
It was part of the reason your friendship worked — that weird, shameless kind of bond where nothing was off-limits. He could talk to you about anything. You could say things that would’ve made other people flinch, and he’d just laugh, head tipped back, telling you that your brain was his favorite place in the world.
There were no rules. Just you, and him, and the strange little rhythm you’d fallen into over the years. Late-night hangouts, casual sleepovers, the occasional too-long hug when one of you needed something unspoken. No lines ever crossed, but plenty blurred.
So when he asked you to come over that night — casual, chill, just to hang — you didn’t think twice.
You showed up in your usual post-shower state: oversized hoodie, bare legs, the kind of soft cotton underwear that felt like home. His place was warm, clean in a way that said he’d tried to impress you without saying it out loud.
He opened the door, hair messy, smile crooked. “You’re late.”
“You’re lucky I came at all.”
He stuck his tongue out. “You always come when I ask.”
You rolled your eyes, stepping in.
Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the quiet intimacy of the night. But somehow, two episodes into whatever trashy dating show you’d landed on, something shifted.
“Do you mind,” Hyunjin said, reaching lazily for his iPad, “if I put something else on?”
You shrugged. “Sure.”
You didn’t expect him to open his browser and pull up porn.
“Hyunjin—”
“Don’t freak out,” he said, like this was totally normal. “I’m not gonna jerk off. Just… I don’t know. I like having it on sometimes.”
You stared at him. “With me right here?”
“That’s the point.”
You blinked.
“I can’t enjoy it when I’m alone,” he said with a small shrug. “It’s not hot unless someone else is in the room. I’m not gonna do anything unless you want me to. I just… I don’t know. It feels less sad this way.”
You stared at him, mouth opening, then closing.
“Hyune,” you said slowly. “That’s not normal.”
He grinned, eyes bright with mischief. “You say that like I’m trying to be normal.”
Your instinct was to say no. To laugh it off. To tell him he was fucking insane and grab your shoes. But you didn’t.
Instead, you sighed, shaking your head, and muttered, “Fine. But you’re not allowed to make this weird.”
“I never make anything weird.”
“That’s the biggest lie you’ve ever told.”
He winked. “And yet… you’re still here.”
⸻
The video was loud. That was the first problem. The moans were high and breathy and clearly real — not the fake, over-the-top stuff that was easy to ignore.
The second problem was Hyunjin himself.
He didn’t just watch it. He felt it. Breathing in these slow, shallow hitches. Sinking back into the pillows like he was alone, even though you were right there.
You weren’t even watching the screen. You were watching him.
His mouth was slightly open. His chest rose and fell under the soft black tee he’d half-tucked into those stupid grey sweatpants — the ones you’d teased him about a thousand times for being too dangerous.
And then… he moved.
Just a shift of the hips at first. Then his hand — long fingers twitching — rested near his thigh. A rub. Absentminded at first. Then another. Slower. Firmer.
Your stomach dipped.
He groaned, soft and low. His head tilted back.
And that sound — fuck, that sound — sent a pulse straight between your legs.
You tried to ignore it. You tried so hard. But your body was already reacting before your brain could process what was happening. Your thighs pressed together. You adjusted your hoodie. You stopped breathing entirely when his eyes flicked toward you and then dropped — low, slow, hungry.
“You good?” he asked, voice hoarse.
You nodded too quickly. “Fine.”
He smiled — a little too knowingly — and exhaled. “Fuck, she sounds like you.”
You blinked. “What?”
“The girl. On the video.” His voice was dreamy, almost dazed. “She moans like you.”
You stared at him. “How would you even know that?”
He looked at you then, eyes dark and shining. “You think I’ve never heard you?”
Your skin went hot. “Hyunjin—”
“I wasn’t trying to. But you always leave your door cracked. And sometimes I’d just be passing by and then… you’d make this sound. Like you didn’t know how to stop yourself.”
You opened your mouth to say something — anything — but then he moaned again. This time because of you. He was hard now. Very visibly hard.
“God,” he whispered. “Why is this so much hotter with you here?”
You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.
Your body was buzzing. Your underwear damp. And every inch of space between you suddenly felt razor-thin, unbearable.
“Touch yourself,” he said, almost breathless.
You shook your head, barely.
He leaned in, voice low. “Please.”
You swallowed. “Why?”
“Because I need it,” he said, groaning again as he pressed into his palm. “And I don’t want to be the only one.”
His eyes flicked to your legs.
“You’re turned on.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” His voice was firmer now. “I can see it. The way your thighs are clenched. The way you’re breathing.”
You looked away. He reached out, gently brushing your knee.
“Look at me.”
You did.
“I swear,” he said, “I’ll stop if you tell me to. But if you want this even a little… just stay.”
You exhaled. Shaky. Unsure. Wet.
And you stayed. Neither of you said anything for a long moment.
The porn still played softly in the background, but it was just noise now — the tension in the room had turned so dense it pressed in on your skin like heat, like breath.
Hyunjin dragged his bottom lip between his teeth and exhaled slowly through his nose. His hand hadn’t left his lap.
You were still watching him.
And he was watching you watching him.
“Do you want me to stop?” he asked, voice hoarse.
Your chest tightened. “No.”
That was all he needed.
He shifted closer, just barely, and let out a sound — low, needy — as he rolled his hips against his palm. The motion was subtle, but it jolted through you like lightning. He rubbed again, slow, firm, a deliberate drag of pressure down the thick line in his sweatpants.
Your thighs clenched instinctively. You were soaked. You could feel it — the press of cotton against slick skin, the fluttering ache that had been growing steadily in your core from the moment he started moaning.
He looked drunk off it. His mouth was open, panting softly. His eyes flicked over your face, down your body, then back to your eyes.
“Touch yourself,” he said again, quieter this time. “I want to see what you look like when you’re needy.”
You let out a breath that trembled.
Your hand moved before your mind could stop it — sliding under the hem of your hoodie, then beneath the waistband of your underwear. Hyunjin’s eyes followed every inch.
“Oh my god” he whispered.
Your fingers dipped into yourself. Soaked.
Your breath hitched hard.
Hyunjin groaned — loud, ragged — and dropped his head back against the headboard, his hand now gripping the full length of his cock over his sweats. The bulge was thick and heavy, straining the fabric.
You moaned — quietly, shakily — and he snapped his eyes open.
“Say something,” he begged. “Tell me what you feel like.”
“I’m wet,” you whispered, eyes closing. “I’ve never been this wet just from watching someone.”
That made him gasp.
“God—fuck—” He shoved his sweatpants down just enough to free himself, and suddenly you couldn’t look away.
He was long, flushed red at the tip, already glistening with pre-cum.
You whimpered.
His eyes fluttered shut at the sound.
“You’re fucking beautiful,” he muttered. “You know that? Just—so fucking pretty when you touch yourself like that. Show me more.”
You moved your fingers again, slow and deliberate, spreading the slickness and brushing over your clit. Your hips arched subtly into the motion, breath stuttering.
Hyunjin watched like a man starved.
“I want to taste you,” he said suddenly, voice broken. “Fuck—I want my face between your legs so bad.”
Your whole body shuddered.
He jerked himself once, twice — not fast, but hard. Focused. Like he was trying to memorize the way it felt while staring at you.
You moaned again, louder this time. Embarrassed at how fast your body was unraveling.
“I’ve thought about this before,” he confessed, still stroking. “Not like this exactly. But… you. Under me. Wet and panting. Saying my name.”
You bit your lip, fingers moving faster now. “I didn’t think we’d ever—”
“Me neither,” he whispered. “But now I don’t even want to stop.”
The air was charged, burning.
You were close. So close it was making your knees tremble.
Hyunjin leaned in again, his free hand brushing against your thigh as if asking for permission.
You didn’t stop him.
His lips were inches from your ear when he whispered, “Let me help.”
You paused. Swallowed.
He watched you — tense, hopeful, ruined — until you nodded.
And then… the shift happened.
Hyunjin slipped his hand down, fingers brushing yours under the band of your underwear. You gasped, but didn’t pull away. He cupped you gently, middle finger sliding through the mess you’d made.
“Oh my fucking god,” he whispered. “You’re soaked.”
Your head dropped against his shoulder.
“You made me like this,” you breathed.
“Yeah?” he said, voice shaking. “You like watching me stroke my cock for you?”
You whimpered again. “Yes—fuck, yes.”
He slid his finger in, slow and deep, while still stroking himself with the other hand. You cried out, biting down on your hoodie sleeve as he moved inside you, curling slightly.
“Come for me,” he said, lips against your temple. “Please. I want to see you fall apart.”
It didn’t take long.
Your body clenched tight, the pressure building sharp and sudden until it broke — heat flooding you from the inside out, your voice catching as you gasped and ground against his hand.
Hyunjin let out a desperate groan and came right after you, hot and heavy against his stomach, chest rising in ragged breaths as his hips jerked through the last few strokes.
You both collapsed sideways into the pillows, breathing hard, sweaty, trembling.
For a moment, it was quiet.
Then—
“That was…” you began, voice wrecked.
“I know.” He laughed, still panting. “I know.”
You turned your head to look at him. His hair was a mess. His lips were red. His eyes were soft now — not teasing, not smug. Just open.
“That didn’t feel casual,” you whispered.
His gaze dropped to your mouth.
“No,” he said. “It didn’t.”
You didn’t know what would come next.
⸻
The worst part wasn’t what happened between you.
It was the silence after.
The way everything between you and Hyunjin felt louder because no one was talking about it.
You’d spent the last three nights pretending that orgasm hadn’t happened. That your fingers hadn’t tangled with his. That he hadn’t whispered I want to taste you while stroking himself, eyes on your mouth.
You didn’t talk about it. You couldn’t.
But the tension between you? You may as well have been shouting.
He sat closer now. Looked longer. He didn’t tease like he used to — not playfully, not harmlessly. Now every glance had heat. Every brush of skin felt intentional.
So when Jisung shouted across the living room, “Let’s play hide and seek — losers get a punishment dare,” you already knew something was going to go wrong.
Because you and Hyunjin couldn’t be trusted anymore.
⸻
You didn’t even plan to hide in the closet.
You were laughing, breathless, the count ticking down — Ten! Nine! Eight! — and you darted around a corner in the hallway looking for literally anywhere to disappear.
The closet door was cracked open.
You pushed in and—
“Shit—!”
A hand reached out to yank you the rest of the way in.
Hyunjin.
He shoved the door closed behind you both, muffling your gasp, then exhaled hard against your ear.
You were chest to chest. Pressed flush to him. The closet was barely the size of a broom closet — coats brushing your cheeks, the smell of old cedar, the wood beneath your bare feet cool from the tile.
“Seriously?” you whispered, half-giggling. “You’re here?”
“You ran into me,” he hissed. “Be quiet—”
Footsteps passed in the hallway. The sound of someone shouting: “Not in the bathroom!”
You both stilled.
And then you started laughing.
Quiet, breathy little giggles that made your shoulders shake. His hands were on your hips now, steadying you, his face so close you could feel his mouth twitch into a smile.
“Shhh,” he whispered, amused. “You’re gonna get us caught.”
“It’s your fault,” you whispered back.
“Yeah?” His breath ghosted your cheek. “Pretty sure it’s yours.”
Your back hit the wall as you shifted to give him room. But there was no room. Nowhere to go.
His thigh brushed up between yours. Your knee bent just slightly.
And that’s when you felt it.
The slow, unmistakable press of something hard against your hip.
You froze.
Hyunjin did, too.
“Hyunjin—?” you whispered.
He didn’t answer right away. His breath had turned shallow, his forehead dropping forward slightly to rest against the wall beside your head.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. “I can’t help it.”
His voice was low. Strained. Honest.
You swallowed.
It didn’t feel like a joke. It didn’t even feel like a dare. It just… was. Real. Present. Pressed right up against you.
The memory of that night came rushing back — the way he gasped when you moaned, the wet sound of your bodies moving in sync, the look in his eyes when he touched you like it meant something.
And now you were here.
Too close. Too warm. Your short dress had ridden up when he pulled you in, and your bare legs were brushing his sweatpants with every shaky inhale.
You should’ve moved away.
You didn’t.
Instead, you whispered, “This is dangerous.”
He nodded. Barely. “I know.”
Your hands were on his chest, fingers curled into the soft fabric of his shirt. His hands still sat heavy on your hips. Neither of you were breathing quite right.
And then—you shifted.
Just the smallest movement. An unconscious roll of your hips as you tried to balance.
And Hyunjin let out the quietest, shattered groan.
Your stomach dropped.
“Don’t do that,” he whispered.
“Do what?” But your voice was thinner now.
“That.”
You did it again. Just to be sure. The press of your core against him was slow, experimental — your thin underwear the only barrier between your body and the thick, hard line of his cock beneath his sweats.
He whined.
Low, soft, desperate.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder. You felt him tremble.
“You can’t grind on me like that,” he breathed.
“You were already hard.”
“And now you’re already wet.”
The words punched the breath out of your lungs.
You didn’t say anything — couldn’t — and instead let yourself roll against him again, slowly this time, hips rocking once more into his.
His mouth dropped open. You felt it brush your skin.
“Fuck, you’re killing me,” he groaned.
The coats swayed faintly beside you as he gently pressed you back into the wall, his hands tightening at your waist, thumbs brushing under the edge of your dress.
You gasped quietly as he rocked up into you, the friction too good, too familiar.
“I think about it every night,” he whispered, like it hurt. “The way you sound when you come. How soft you were. How hot your hand felt over mine.”
You were burning.
Your body responded before your mind did — rocking again, your arms slipping up around his neck to muffle a soft, stuttering moan into his shoulder.
He cursed under his breath.
Then he stilled. His hand cupped your jaw, tilting your face up to meet his.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
You didn’t.
Instead, you leaned in — your lips brushing his, breath against breath, heart in your throat.
And that’s when the closet door creaked.
“Anyone in here?” someone called.
You and Hyunjin froze.
Your mouth hovered over his.
Neither of you moved. Neither of you dared.
The door didn’t open.
Footsteps passed.
And the second you were alone again, Hyunjin exhaled.
You were still catching your breath when you heard it.
The soft click of the inside lock.
Hyunjin had turned the tiny latch on the closet door — sealing you both inside.
Your eyes darted to his, wide, breathless, heart kicking.
“What are you doing—?”
But he was already shifting you, gentle but firm.
Turning you in the dark, pressing your front to the wall of the closet, your palms flat against the wood paneling, your chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths.
His voice came at your ear, low and wrecked. “I can’t pretend anymore.”
His hands slid up your thighs — slow, reverent, shaking slightly — fingers brushing the hem of your dress, pushing it higher until it was bunched around your hips.
You gasped when you felt it — the warm weight of his cock, thick and flushed, freed from his sweats and nestled right in the crease of your thighs. Hot, hard skin against the damp cotton of your panties.
“Hyunjin—” You tried to say something. Anything.
But then he rocked forward.
And your mind blanked.
The first thrust wasn’t deep, wasn’t precise — just a desperate press of his cock between your thighs, dragging the thick head right along your clothed pussy.
You whimpered.
Your knees nearly buckled.
His breath left him in a shaky hiss. “Holy fuck—”
You didn’t realize you were moving until you were rocking back against him — instinctive, helpless — meeting every slow rut of his hips with the arch of your spine.
The friction was perfect.
Each thrust of his cock between your thighs rubbed right against your clit through the soaked fabric. It felt filthy. Overwhelming. Like a fever dream you didn’t dare wake up from.
And then his mouth was on your neck.
Hot, open, wet kisses down your jaw, your pulse, his tongue tasting your skin like he’d wanted to for years. His hands grabbed your hips, greedy now, pulling you tighter against him with every roll of his body.
You were panting, trembling, moaning softly into the wall with every pass of his cock between your slick thighs.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered, voice unraveling, “you feel so—shit—so soft.”
You turned your head, breath shallow, eyes finding his in the dark.
“Hyunjin,” you whispered.
His mouth crashed into yours before the word could fully leave you.
It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t careful.
It was desperate.
Tongue and teeth, lips parted, mouths gasping against each other like this kiss had been trapped between you for years. Like he was starving for it. Like you’d never survive it.
You grabbed at his hair. He groaned into your mouth.
His hand slid up your front, fingers curling under the fabric of your dress, and suddenly he was palming your breast — rough, hungry, his thumb brushing your nipple through the lace of your bra.
You arched into his hand.
He bit your lip.
You whined, trembling, your voice cracking. “I need you.”
He froze.
Your words hung in the air — too raw, too loud, too real.
Then he growled, deep in his chest.
And his hand moved.
Down your stomach. Past the waistband of your underwear. Two fingers slid through your soaked slit and came away dripping.
He hissed, whispering something under his breath you couldn’t catch.
Then he hooked his fingers under your thong — pulled it aside.
And you felt him.
The head of his cock, hot and heavy, slipping between your folds. Your knees nearly gave out.
“Are you sure?” he breathed. “Fuck—tell me.”
You didn’t hesitate.
“Yes. Please—”
He didn’t wait another second.
He gripped your hip, braced a hand on the wall beside your head, and with a single smooth thrust, sank into you.
You gasped — loud and broken.
He groaned like it hurt.
Like he’d been dreaming of this for too fucking long.
You could barely breathe.
He filled you so completely you felt split open. Every inch of him slid deep, hot and thick, your body clenching around him like it had been aching for this—like it knew him.
Hyunjin stayed still at first.
Forehead to your shoulder, panting, hand tight on your hip like he was trying to ground himself.
“Fuck,” he whispered. “You feel like heaven.”
You whined — a low, raw sound — hips rolling back into him, your fingers scraping the wall for anything to hold on to.
That was all it took.
His restraint snapped.
His hips drew back.
And then he started fucking you.
It wasn’t slow anymore.
It wasn’t careful.
It was frantic, overwhelming, wet — the obscene slap of skin-on-skin muffled only slightly by the coats around you, your slick dripping down the inside of your thighs with each thrust.
You tried to be quiet. You really did.
But every time his cock drove into you, you couldn’t stop the moans — breathy and soft at first, then high and frantic as his pace picked up.
And when a louder gasp escaped your mouth—
His hand clamped over it.
Large, warm, shaking fingers curled across your lips, muffling the helpless sounds spilling from you as he pounded into you from behind.
You whimpered into his palm.
His voice broke right beside your ear. “I’m sorry, baby—I need you quiet—can’t let them hear—”
You nodded. Barely.
But your body was shaking. Your walls fluttering around him. And Hyunjin knew you were close.
So he got mean.
Rougher.
He slammed into you harder, his cock dragging across all the right spots, your thighs trembling from the pressure of each thrust — and the filthiest part? You were soaked. The squelch of your cunt around him was wet and loud and pornographic, and it only made him fuck you harder.
You bit down.
Hard.
Right into the base of his palm as his hand stayed tight over your mouth.
He groaned, bucking into you like it drove him insane.
“Shit—fuck, just like that—”
He lost rhythm for a second, stuttering into you, hand slipping from your mouth to your throat, thumb under your jaw to tilt your head back, mouth against your skin again.
Then he bit down.
His teeth sank into the soft curve of your shoulder as he buried himself deep, his moans muffled into your skin.
You swore you blacked out for a second.
You couldn’t tell which way was up anymore — just the overwhelming drag of his cock, the heat in your belly, the white-noise roar in your ears as your orgasm crept higher, hotter, inevitable.
“Fuck—Hyunjin—I’m gonna—”
“I know,” he groaned. “I feel you, baby—fuck, you’re squeezing me so tight—”
You came with a cry into his wrist, your whole body spasming.
Everything snapped — the pressure, the tension, the weeks of unsaid things between you, all of it boiling over in that moment as you fell apart on his cock.
He barely held it together.
You felt him twitch inside you, pace faltering, his voice falling to ragged, desperate whimpers.
“Fuckfuckfuck—oh my god, I’m gonna—can I—inside—?”
You nodded, dazed. “Yes—yes, please—”
One more thrust. Deep. Hot.
And he came with a bitten-off moan into your neck, his body jerking hard as he spilled into you — thick, hot spurts of cum painting your insides, his cock buried deep as he rode out every last pulse, twitching and trembling.
You slumped forward, boneless.
His arms caught you. Held you there.
Both of you breathing like you’d run miles. Sweaty. Shaking. Still joined, still stuffed full.
The closet spun in silence.
And when his hand finally fell from your mouth, you whispered — voice shot, lips swollen —
“…We can’t ever just be friends again, can we?”
And Hyunjin, still inside you, kissed your shoulder like it was a promise.
“No,” he said. “We’re so fucked.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Authors note: HIIIIIIIIII!!!! Breakfast is served (or lunch or dinner lol) 😂 personally i think this is the filthiest hyunjin fic i have written… right? I cant even remember lol! So i got that closet idea from this edit… saw it and my brain short-circuited 😭🫠❤️ And now we are here!
Give this a lot of love! Also update; i have officially started writing my first original novel 🥹 ahhhhh
have you seen the trend where people prank their partners about seeing their bestfriend on tinder?
< Messages: Boyfriend SKZ
Recipient: Gender Neutral Reader
a/n: insomnia and boredom makes me creative. all for kicks and giggles. apologies if i misrepresented the group and the members, this is just a head canon how i think they would act with their significant others (you), i hope this fits your request well!!
warning (s): sassy kings// drama kings// profanities// pet names// barely suggestive in Chan’s// ALL fictional
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Tags: slow burn, best friends to lovers, rich chan, spoiled reader, sexual tension, sexy dance, sexting, domestic softness, jealousy, power imbalance, bratty reader, smut, unprotected sex, possessive chan, dom bff.
Word count: 9.8k
Summary: You’ve lived with Chan long enough to forget that he’s your best friend and not your boyfriend. He spoils you. Buys you things you don’t need. Lets you walk around his house in little shorts and call it “comfort.” And you let him—because he never says no. Until the night you take it too far. A party. Too much champagne. A dance that should’ve never happened.A pair of hands that should’ve never touched. Now, there’s a line you both can’t unsee. And when the tension finally breaks, it’s not just about lust—it’s about five years of blurred boundaries, unspoken rules, and a love neither of you were supposed to feel.
This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
The sound of the blender was the first thing you heard when you padded into the kitchen, still half-asleep and wearing one of Chan’s oversized hoodies. Your feet dragged across the cool marble floor, a lazy yawn escaping as you rubbed your eyes and rounded the corner.
There he was barefoot, shirtless, and already fully awake like some kind of freak. Hair tousled, muscles flexing slightly as he screwed the lid onto a protein shaker. He looked up when he noticed you, and his entire expression softened.
“Mornin’, baby girl.”
You grunted in response, collapsing into one of the barstools like you’d been dramatically wronged by the concept of morning itself.
Chan chuckled, already reaching for a mug. “Coffee?”
“You’re my favorite person in the world,” you mumbled, cheek squished against the counter.
“I know,” he said with a grin, setting the coffee down in front of you with that same quiet care he always gave you. “Drink up. You’ve got a shoot today, yeah?”
“Mmm.” You barely nodded. “No energy.”
“You say that every morning. And then you post ten stories looking like a literal angel.”
“Because I am an angel. Just a tired one.”
He shook his head fondly, walking around the counter and tugging lightly at the hood you had up. “You could’ve worn your own clothes to bed, you know.”
“But yours smell better.”
That earned you a half-smirk and a soft pat on the head. “Fair.”
It had been four years since you moved in. What was supposed to be a temporary arrangement; a few weeks to get your life together after cutting ties with your parents, turned into an unshakable routine. A shared home. A rhythm. Chan never pushed, never questioned your decision to stay, not even after he offered to set you up in your own place. A luxury penthouse. Any neighborhood, any view. All you had to do was ask.
But why would you leave? You had everything here. Your safe place. Your comfort. Your best friend who treated you like you hung the moon.
Chan made sure you never lifted a finger unless you wanted to. New car? Done. Spa weekend? Booked. Your favorite snacks flown in from another country? He’d find a way. And when the world got too loud, too cruel, too exhausting—he was there, holding space for you, letting you just be.
You never had to earn his affection. It was freely given, infinite and warm. And never once did you see the sharp edges of his temper directed your way. He could be terrifying when provoked; intense, commanding, even explosive in his rare moments of fury, but with you, it was different. Always gentle. Always soft.
“You want me to drive you today?” he asked casually, taking a sip of his shake.
You blinked at him over your coffee mug. “Don’t you have meetings?”
“Pushed ‘em.”
“You didn’t have to—”
He raised an eyebrow.
You shut up.
Because of course he did. That was just Chan. No matter how much you insisted he didn’t need to baby you, he always would. And deep down, you didn’t really want him to stop.
“Thanks,” you said quietly.
He leaned down and kissed the top of your head. “Anytime baby girl.”
<><><>
The next morning, you danced around the kitchen like you always did on pure instinct, pulling open drawers, prepping ingredients, making enough breakfast for two without even asking. Chan tried to stop you every time. He could afford a chef. He had one on call. But you never listened. This was your thing.
“You know I can make my own eggs,” he said from behind you.
“No, you can’t,” you replied easily, tossing a glance over your shoulder. “You burn eggs. It’s a weird talent.”
“That happened once.”
“Mmhmm.”
He didn’t argue after that, just leaned against the counter and watched you move. You weren’t dressed yet, still in that hoodie he liked seeing on you more than he’d admit, hair messy, face bare. Comfortable. Real. This was what his mornings had become: you humming under your breath, feeding him like it was your mission in life, and making the house feel like a home instead of a museum of expensive things.
Chan didn’t need much. He didn’t ask for much. But you noticed everything. The way his shoulders tightened after late-night calls with his team. How his jaw clenched when he was overwhelmed. How even on his best days, he carried this quiet heaviness like something he couldn’t shake.
So you filled in the spaces.
You did his laundry, folding each item with absurd care. You stocked his favorite snacks, kept his vitamins in a tiny container by the sink, laid out his hoodies when you knew he’d had a long day and just wanted something soft. You never said you were doing it for him, but he wasn’t stupid. He saw it. Felt it. And maybe that was why he never asked you to leave.
Because you were his peace.
You set a plate down in front of him with a satisfied little sigh, then went back for your own. “Eat, you’ve got stuff to do.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He saluted you with his fork.
He had just taken his first bite when your phone lit up on the counter beside him. His eyes flicked toward it casually, and something about the name flashing across the screen made his brow twitch.
He didn’t say anything, but you noticed. Of course you did.
You reached for the phone and stared at the name.
Eli.
You hadn’t spoken to him in over a year. Not since you blocked his number and told him to stay the hell out of your life.
Your stomach turned.
You didn’t answer. Just locked the screen and tossed the phone aside like it didn’t matter.
Chan watched you closely, chewing slower. “You good?”
“Yeah.” You gave him a quick smile. “Just a ghost.”
His jaw tensed.
He didn’t push you. Not yet. But you could feel the shift in the air—like something had cracked just slightly. Like the bubble you and Chan had built so carefully around yourselves had caught a whisper of the outside world trying to crawl back in.
You didn’t mean to flinch when Chan spoke.
“You gonna block him again?”
It wasn’t the question itself—it was the way his voice sounded when he asked it. Flat. Too calm. Like the kind of calm that only came before a storm.
You kept your back to him, rinsing the last plate and placing it carefully in the drying rack. “Yeah. I mean, I already had him blocked. He must’ve used a new number.”
Silence.
Then, “Persistent.”
You dried your hands slowly, pretending the slight tremble wasn’t real. “He’s not important.”
“He used to be.”
That one hit harder than you expected. You turned to face him, brows pulling together slightly. “You mad at me?”
His expression didn’t shift much, but his jaw moved—tight, clenched.
“No,” he said almost instantly, voice lower. “Never at you.”
But there was something in his eyes.
You didn’t see it often, well atleast not directed at you. Not ever, actually. You’d seen Chan angry before. In business meetings, in defense of someone he loved, once even on the phone with a producer who had crossed the line. But never like this. Not standing in front of you. Not burning behind his stare like that.
You didn’t know what to do with it.
So you just nodded, like that made it all okay, and turned back to finish wiping the counter. Your hands moved on autopilot, scrubbing the same spot twice.
And then, quieter—deadly quiet—you heard him speak again behind you.
“Don’t answer him again.”
You didn’t respond. Didn’t need to. Of course you wouldn’t. Of course.
But Chan wasn’t done.
“Ever,” he said, voice dropping further. “Or I swear to God—”
He cut himself off.
You looked at him then, really looked. His fingers were white-knuckled around the counter’s edge. His breathing had slowed into something controlled. Too controlled.
And even then, even now, your first instinct wasn’t fear. It wasn’t confusion.
It was to calm him down.
Without a word, you stepped closer and reached for him. Your arms circled his waist like it was nothing—like you hadn’t just seen a glimpse of something primal behind his usually warm eyes. You laid your cheek against his chest, right over his heartbeat.
“I won’t,” you whispered. “I promise.”
He didn’t move at first. Didn’t even breathe.
Then you felt it—his shoulders sinking, that tension leaking out like someone had pulled the plug. His arms came around you, pulling you in, hands splaying wide across your back like he was scared you’d disappear if he didn’t hold on tight enough.
“I just—” His voice cracked slightly. “I can’t stand the thought of him near you again. Not after everything.”
“I know.” You pressed your lips to his chest, right where his heart thudded. “He won’t get near me. Not while I have you.”
That was the truth. You didn’t even think about it anymore—how natural it felt to belong here, in his arms, in his home. How much of your life revolved around this man, this space, this rhythm. You didn’t care about penthouses or privacy. You didn’t need freedom when you had this.
Because Chan was your home. And more than that—you were his.
“Don’t forget your water bottle,” you called out, tossing it across the living room.
Chan caught it one-handed like the athlete he always pretended he wasn’t, but the smug grin that followed gave him away. “You just wanna keep me hydrated so I live long enough to keep spoiling you.”
You gave him a look. “Duh.”
He laughed, slinging the strap of his gym bag over one shoulder. He’d been dragging his feet all morning—pretending he was gonna leave, then circling back to ask dumb things like “Do we have any more peanut butter?” or “Should I shave today or keep the scruff?”
Now he was hovering by the front door, sneakers half on, clearly stalling again.
“You gonna go, or do I have to call the trainer myself and tell him you’re scared of cardio?”
“Rude,” he muttered, but he didn’t move. Just eyed you for a moment.
You were back in the kitchen, wiping the counter down for the second time that morning. Another instinct. Another way to make sure his space felt good, clean, safe. You didn’t think about it—you just did it. You always had.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asked suddenly.
You looked up. He wasn’t asking like earlier. This time, his voice was softer. Less fury, more concern.
You rolled your eyes with a little smile. “Chan. I blocked him. It’s done.”
He nodded. “Still wanna know how he got a new number. Motherfucker’s like a roach.”
You laughed. “Maybe he’s a fan of yours and saw your name in my contacts. Thought you’d forgotten about him.”
Chan’s expression darkened just slightly.
“I didn’t forget. Told him what I’d do if he reached out again.” He didn’t say it like a threat. It was a statement. Calm. Dead serious.
You blinked. “Wait—you talked to him?”
Chan shrugged, casual as hell. “Last time he called you. I answered instead.”
Your eyes widened. “When was this?!”
“Few years ago,” he said, grabbing his keys off the hook. “Told him to disappear. Guess he forgot.”
You stood there, towel in hand, heart thumping for no good reason. Not scared. Not upset. Just… a little stunned.
“Chan.”
“Hm?”
“You didn’t tell me.”
“You were already going through enough.” He looked at you like it was the easiest decision in the world. “Didn’t want to stress you out.”
You tossed the towel at him. “You terrifying, overgrown guard dog.”
He dodged it and smirked. “Someone’s gotta scare the vermin away.”
You walked over and poked him in the chest. “You’re lucky I love you.”
“So lucky,” he drawled, catching your finger and tugging you just slightly closer.
There it was again—that quiet intensity. Not romantic. Not lustful. Just… full. You filled his world, and he didn’t know how to hide it anymore.
You leaned in and kissed his cheek, quick and easy like always. “Go train, old man.”
Chan huffed a laugh and finally turned to leave, but before he stepped out, he paused and said over his shoulder:
“If he texts again, you tell me. No matter what.”
“I will,” you promised.
Because you knew he meant it. And maybe that was why the idea of Eli crawling back didn’t scare you anymore.
Not when you had Chan.
<><><>
That evening started like any other movie night. You padded into the private cinema room wearing one of Chan’s oversized hoodies—soft, warm, and swallowed in the scent of him—because you always did. His cologne clung to the cotton, familiar and comforting, and it made you feel closer to him. Closer than you probably should have.
He was already sunk deep into one of the reclining chairs, phone in hand, a bowl of snacks resting lazily on his lap. He looked up and smiled when you walked in, like nothing made him happier than just seeing you. Like you were all he needed to end the day right.
You curled up beside him without a word, folding into the crook of his side like you belonged there. His arm lifted automatically, welcoming you into his warmth. It wasn’t weird. This was just what you two did.
But it felt different tonight.
You weren’t sure if it was the way his hand dropped to your bare thigh beneath the blanket, fingers drawing mindless shapes against your skin—or the way your own hand somehow found his chest, fingers brushing softly, tracing the shape of his collarbone like you had every right.
You didn’t mean to kiss him.
Not on the mouth, of course. That’d be crazy.
But you’d always been touchy with him, hadn’t you? Just little things. Kisses to his shoulder when he carried you to bed, to his jaw when he bought you something ridiculously expensive just because he felt like it. So why should tonight be different?
Your lips pressed gently to the curve of his bicep, then again, just higher. He tensed slightly beneath you, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t stop you.
Instead, his fingers slipped up under the hem of the hoodie, splaying across the small of your back—warm, possessive.
You didn’t even realize how close you’d gotten until you were practically on his lap. The movie blurred in the background, completely irrelevant.
You pressed another kiss to his shoulder. Then another, slow and deliberate. He turned his head toward you, breathing heavier now, eyes hooded.
“Baby,” he said softly.
You froze. “What?”
His hand tangled in your hair, gently tugging you back just enough to look in your eyes. His thumb brushed your cheek like he couldn’t help himself.
“You don’t even know what you do to me.”
Your heart skipped. But you smiled, trying to play it off. “I was just thanking you. You’re comfy.”
“I’m serious.” His gaze dropped to your lips. “You keep doing stuff like this and one day, I’m not gonna be able to stop myself.”
That hit you like a match to gasoline. You swallowed hard, suddenly hyperaware of how heavy the air had become between you.
But still… you didn’t pull away.
And he didn’t let you go.
<><><>
You were already in a good mood when he came home, but the shopping bags in his hand? That turned it into ecstasy.
“Wait—are those from Dior?” you gasped, nearly tripping over yourself as he placed them casually on the marble kitchen island like he’d just come back from buying groceries.
Chan didn’t even look fazed. “Got bored waiting for a meeting to end, so I stopped by the boutique. Thought you’d like some of this.”
“Some?” you echoed, your voice high-pitched as you tore into the first bag, a squeal leaving your lips when you found a silky black slip dress folded like a secret inside tissue paper. “Channie, are you kidding?”
“Do I ever kid?” he smirked, walking past you, casually undoing his watch and setting it beside the sink. “Try it on. The others too.”
There were others.
Gucci. Prada. Cartier.
And you? You were living. Floating. Glowing. Letting him spoil you was second nature by now, but nights like this reminded you—he didn’t just give you luxury. He wrapped you in it.
“You’re such a menace,” you muttered, eyes sparkling as you slipped behind him, wrapping your arms around his waist. “You’re gonna ruin me for everyone else.”
He glanced down at you with that lazy smile, the kind that curled slow and deep. “That’s the point, sweetheart.”
You wore the Dior slip dress that same night to the rooftop party Chan reluctantly agreed to attend with you. It fit like it had been painted on, soft and glossy, barely brushing your mid-thigh, your legs on full display in the matching Louboutin's he also got you.
“Baby,” he said when you walked out of your room, one brow raised, voice a little tight. “You’re not serious.”
You twirled for him with a smirk. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He stared. Stared like he was trying to burn it into memory. “Do not disappear from my sight tonight.”
<><><>
You were tipsy. Not sloppy—just glowy, warm in the chest, your limbs loose and fluid with every bass-thumping beat. The rooftop was packed, the skyline glittering behind you like a movie set, and your dress—courtesy of Chan’s impromptu Dior shopping spree—sparkled just as hard.
He’d barely looked at you when he handed it over earlier that night, like it wasn’t several thousand dollars of backless silk. “Wear it if you want,” he’d said casually, as if it were groceries.
You’d worn it.
Now you were dancing. And not just dancing—moving like you had something to prove. Letting your hips roll too slow. Letting a stranger rest his hands too low. Your smile too wide. Your laugh too sweet.
You felt Chan’s eyes on you before you even turned.
He was stalking through the crowd like something out of a damn K-drama, black button-down unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves shoved up, eyes locked on you. You barely had a second to giggle before his hand was wrapping tight around your wrist.
“Outside. Now.”
You squeaked. “Channie, I’m just—”
“I said now.”
Oh. He was pissed.
You let him pull you off the floor, across the rooftop to a shadowed corner near the stairs where the music was distant and no one could hear him grinding his teeth.
“Are you insane?” he snapped, dropping your wrist only to press both hands to his hips like he had to physically restrain himself from pacing. “You don’t let strangers touch you like that. What the hell were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I looked hot,” you said, crossing your arms—half-defensive, half-drunk. “And it was just a dance.”
He turned to you slowly, brows raised. “Just a dance? Do you see yourself right now?”
You did. You looked like luxury and trouble. And maybe you leaned into that just a little more.
“So what if I had a little fun?” you said sweetly, stepping into his space. “You dragged me out just to scold me like some angry boyfriend?”
“I’m not your boyfriend,” he ground out, jaw ticking.
“No. But you act like it.”
That shut him up.
He stared at you, unreadable. Furious, maybe. Or barely hanging on.
So naturally, you kept going.
You twirled around, your dress fluttering around your thighs, swaying again just a little too close, dragging your hands slowly up his chest—pure mischief. “You shouldn’t buy me pretty things if you don’t want people to stare, Channie.”
His hand caught your wrist again—tighter this time.
“You’re really pushing it tonight.”
“I know.” You smiled up at him. “You’ll still let me go home with you though, right?”
His nostrils flared. “You live with me.”
“Exactly.” You beamed. “Now can we go back to the party? Or are you gonna keep playing possessive best friend in the dark?”
You barely had time to blink before he spun you, gently but firmly pinning you to the railing behind you, just inches from his chest. He leaned in close, voice low and dangerous in your ear.
“You don’t want to see what real possessive looks like, baby.”
Your stomach dropped—heat rushing everywhere.
But he stepped back a second later like nothing happened, casually running a hand through his hair.
“Go ahead,” he said, shrugging like his entire body hadn’t just radiated barely-contained rage. “Go dance. But if another guy touches you—don’t expect me to be this nice.”
And then he walked off, leaving you pressed to the railing with your heart pounding, legs weak, and absolutely no idea what game you were playing anymore.
You caught up to him at the bar again—he’d tried to disappear into the crowd, tried to drown his irritation in another glass of whiskey, but you were too far gone and way too stubborn to let him off the hook that easy.
“Chan,” you whined, grabbing his arm and tugging like a bratty little siren, “you ruined my dance.”
“I saved your ass,” he muttered, not even looking at you.
“You owe me.”
He glanced over finally, eyes sharp but dark under the club lights. “Don’t push it.”
You smiled sweetly. Fake as hell. “Just one dance.”
“No.”
You dragged him anyway.
He let you.
Let you guide him right into the dim VIP corner—where the bass was deeper, the lights darker, and the crowd less concerned with what anyone else was doing.
The second the music shifted—low and filthy—you turned, pressed your back to his chest, and rolled your hips into him like you’d done it a thousand times.
Chan froze.
Dead silent.
You were smiling to yourself, just drunk enough to be shameless, just bratty enough to know you were pushing every single one of his buttons.
You grabbed his hands and placed them on your waist, forcing him to hold you as your ass moved in slow, hypnotic circles, rubbing right against him in time with the beat.
“Don’t you dare let go,” you teased over your shoulder.
“Fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath.
You dipped lower, grinding harder, and heard the way his breath hitched behind you.
He wasn’t dancing. Not really.
He was just… enduring.
And you were loving every second of it.
Your fingers slid up his forearm, dragging along the veins you knew always popped when he was tense. You leaned back into him, head brushing his shoulder as your hips kept moving, smooth and slow and deliberate.
“Thought you didn’t want weirdos touching me, Channie,” you said, faux-innocent, breathless from the rhythm. “So dance with me.”
“You call this dancing?” he growled into your ear.
You arched your back, hands in your hair now, dress hiking up just enough to flash more thigh than he’d probably ever seen on you.
“Mmm, yeah,” you moaned softly, throwing it back again—slow, deep, filthy.
He cursed under his breath.
His fingers flexed around your waist, digging in just a little tighter. You were dizzy with music, heat, and alcohol—but fully aware of the way he was breathing now. Shaky. Unsteady.
You had him.
He wasn’t just watching you anymore—he was feeling you.
Everything about the moment was screaming wrong—you were best friends, and this wasn’t how best friends danced—but still, he didn’t stop you.
Didn’t step away.
Didn’t tell you to quit.
He just held on tighter… and let you work.
When the bass dropped again. Darker now. Slower and even dirtier. You didn’t hesitate.
One arm reached back, fingers curling into the hair at the nape of his neck while your other hand guided his—down your stomach, over your hips, until both his palms were molded around you like you were made for him.
You leaned back into him, ass pressing right up where he’d been trying not to feel you—where the thin fabric of your dress was the only thing separating you from him—and you moved.
Dragged. Rolled. Grinded.
Like you didn’t care how many red lines you were crossing.
“Y/N—” he warned, voice raw, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “Behave.”
You didn’t.
You let his hands roam further, teasing his fingers up toward your waist—up your ribs—then dragging one dangerously close to the underside of your breast.
He flinched like you’d shocked him, like your skin was on fire.
And maybe it was.
You turned your head, brushing your lips across his jaw, not quite kissing, just lingering.
“You’re not stopping me,” you whispered.
He growled.
Actually growled.
His grip on your waist tightened, fingers sinking into your sides like he was trying to anchor himself to reality—like your body grinding against him, soft and sinful, wasn’t about to unravel every last thread of his control.
“You’ve had too much to drink,” he grit out.
“So stop me,” you whispered, shifting your hips again—slow and deliberate—dragging yourself up his thigh like a stripclub fantasy gone rogue.
One of your hands slid down to his again, guiding it back to your waist, but lower this time—so low his fingers brushed the curve of your ass and you swore you felt his whole body tense behind you.
You smirked.
Chan didn’t find it funny. He was seething.
His jaw clenched so hard you could feel it brush against your temple, and his voice when it came was low, strained, and barely human:
“Y/N, if you don’t stop…”
But he didn’t finish the sentence. Because he didn’t know what would happen if you didn’t. And neither did you.
You just kept moving.
The second your ass arched back again—grinding slow, sultry, shameless—Chan’s grip locked on your waist like a vice.
“Enough.”
You didn’t get the chance to blink before he spun you around, one hand wrapping around your wrist, the other coming to the small of your back, steering you through the crowd like he didn’t give a damn who saw.
You giggled.
He didn’t.
Not even close.
“Chan, where’re we goin’?” you asked, voice slurring just enough to make it sound like a song.
He didn’t answer. Not really.
“Home.”
One word. Clipped and dangerous. And fuck, he was walking like a man on the edge—shoulders squared, jaw clenched, muscles rippling with every step while you were practically tripping over your heels trying to keep up, your drunk giggles only making him grip you tighter.
Like your laughter was gasoline on a flame.
“You’re mad,” you teased, leaning your weight into him like deadweight.
“I’m furious.”
That made you giggle harder.
He didn’t stop until he’d yanked the passenger side door open and dropped you in the seat like you weighed nothing. Slammed the door. Rounded the car with the same heat in his steps. He slid into the driver’s side, slammed that door, and his knuckles went white around the steering wheel.
You turned to him with a cheeky smile, tugging on his sleeve.
“You’re not really mad.”
He didn’t even look at you.
“Put your seatbelt on.”
“Why? You afraid I’ll fall into your lap again?”
He finally looked at you—and that look?
Could’ve melted diamonds.
“You think this is funny?”
The laugh you gave him was light, teasing. “A little.”
Chan shifted, arm coming up to rest behind your seat, so he was fully turned toward you. His voice dropped—low, firm, the kind of tone he only used when you were being a real pain in the ass.
“You don’t get it, do you? You almost made me cross a line in there.”
You blinked, still a little tipsy, still smiling. “What line?”
His eyes burned into yours.
“The one where I stop being your best friend and start being the guy who ruins you.”
That wiped the smile right off your lips.
You sat back in the seat, heart kicking, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment settle over your skin like static.
Chan turned away, facing forward again.
“You’re gonna sleep it off. We’ll talk tomorrow. And you’re gonna listen, for once. Because you don’t get to keep pushing me like this and acting like it’s cute.”
Silence.
“Maybe I spoilt you too much,” he muttered, shifting into gear. “Cos clearly, you don’t like to fuckin’ listen.”
And just like that, he drove off—leaving the music, the crowd, and the heat of temptation burning behind you.
<><><>
Your head was pounding.
Throbbing, actually.
Like someone had taken a bass speaker and shoved it directly into your brain. You groaned as you rolled onto your back, blinking up at the ceiling in confusion.
…This wasn’t your bed.
Wait. Yes, it was.
But why were you in his shirt? And why did you have glitter on your thighs?
Oh no.
You sat up slowly, spotting the water and ibuprofen on your nightstand—placed there no doubt by one incredibly annoyed but still annoyingly sweet man. The man whose footsteps you now heard approaching from the hallway.
You flinched at the sound. He was stomping.
“Someone’s heavy-footed this morning,” you muttered.
Chan stepped into the doorway with a blank stare and a mug in his hand. The look on his face? That one he reserved for when you did something so wildly irritating he couldn’t even find the words yet.
“Oh, you’re awake.”
You offered him a sheepish smile. “…Did I do something?”
He just stared.
“Chan?”
He placed the mug on your nightstand with a bit too much force.
“You don’t remember?”
You blinked up at him with your most innocent expression. “I mean… I remember the party? The rooftop? I think I danced a little?”
“A little,” he repeated, deadpan. “You grinded on me. In the corner. Like it was a fucking stripclub. Like we weren’t best friends. Like I wasn’t five seconds from hauling you over my shoulder and taking you home.”
Your cheeks flushed hot. “Oh.”
“Oh?”
You cleared your throat, unable to stop the sheepish grin creeping in. “Did I look good though?”
Chan’s face did something strange. Like he short-circuited. “Are you—? What?”
“I mean,” you teased, poking at him now because why not, “was I sexy? Did I make your heart race? Or was it just embarrassing and sad?”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Just answer the question.”
Chan ran a hand over his face like he was praying for patience. “That’s not the point.”
“But did you like it?”
Silence. His stare burned holes into you.
You leaned back against the headboard with a slow smirk, hugging your knees to your chest. “You’re mad and flustered. That’s a good sign.”
Chan tilted his head, voice low.
“Do you really wanna know how it felt?”
You nodded way too fast. “I do.”
He leaned down, eyes locked on yours, one hand braced beside your head on the headboard.
“It felt like temptation.”
Your breath caught.
He didn’t blink. “It felt like you knew exactly what you were doing, and you wanted to see just how far you could push me. And it felt like if I hadn’t dragged you out of there, I’d be doing things to you we couldn’t take back.”
You stared up at him, mouth parting in surprise.
Then you whispered, “…Shit.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Shit.”
You blinked once. Twice.
“…Still kinda flattered though.”
Chan groaned and pulled away, heading for the door again.
“You’re not allowed to drink for at least a month. Minimum.”
“Chan, don’t be like that—”
“A month.” he repeated, disappearing down the hall.
You flopped back into your pillows, heart still racing. A grin slowly crept over your lips.
Damn. Maybe you did get carried away.
<><><>
You were in the zone. Like, completely tuned out, bopping your head to the music in your ears as you folded Chan’s fresh laundry on his bed. Your hips swayed with every beat; every little spin you gave the shirt in your hands before laying it down neatly beside the others.
Your little frilly shorts fluttered with every movement, riding higher each time you reached or twisted or bent. But you didn’t notice. You were too busy humming along to your playlist and tossing socks into a neat pile.
The door had been left cracked open.
And Chan had come home earlier than you realized.
He paused when he saw you from the hallway—his girl, his best friend, in his bedroom, dressed in that matching little cotton set that barely counted as clothing. The fabric on your shorts stretched and hugged the soft curve of your ass as you bent over to tuck the edges of his sheets into place, clearly trying to finish making the bed for him.
His lips parted slightly. A breath caught in his throat.
He was supposed to head to his studio.
But then you wiggled your hips to the beat—innocent, playful—and Chan’s thoughts scattered like smoke.
Something possessed him.
Next thing you knew, you felt a presence behind you.
A firm, warm grip closed around your ass, fingers spreading possessively over the curve.
You jumped, yanking a single AirPod out with a startled gasp, only to spin around and find Chan.
Standing behind you. Wide-eyed. Frozen.
“Oh—fuck,” he blurted, jerking his hand back like it burned him. “Shit, I didn’t mean to—fuck, I didn’t even think—”
You blinked up at him, heart thudding. But honestly? Not because you were mad.
Your lips curved, and you shrugged softly. “It’s okay. I didn’t mind.”
Chan’s whole brain short-circuited.
You didn’t… mind?
You weren’t mad?
That was all it took. His hand—that same hand—dropped right back down to where it had just been, like it had a mind of its own. It found your ass again, slow and deliberate this time, fingers pressing in like he needed to confirm how soft it felt.
You didn’t move. You just looked up at him, blinking innocently.
“Just finishing up,” you said, as if nothing at all was out of the ordinary. Like his hand wasn’t full of your ass.
Chan stared at you like he’d never seen you before. His throat worked around a swallow.
Then—fuck it—he leaned in and wrapped his arms around you in a hug. Except… his hands didn’t settle at your waist like they always did.
No. One hand stayed exactly where it had been—on your jiggly ass—while the other pressed into the small of your back, pulling you close.
“You’re gonna kill me one day,” he muttered into your hair.
You tilted your head. “What’d I do?”
“You exist in those shorts,” he gritted out. “That’s what you did.”
You smiled against his chest, your cheek warming against the familiar scent of his cologne.
“Guess I should wear them more often then.”
Chan exhaled shakily. You could feel the way his fingers twitched against your ass.
Yeah… this tension? This was no longer accidental.
“I mean…” you hummed into his chest, arms looping lazily around his torso, “you did kinda sneak up on me. Could’ve warned me first.”
“You were too cute to interrupt,” he mumbled. His voice was gravel-soft, barely there. “You were doin’ that little dance again.”
You pulled back just enough to raise your brows. “You were watching me?”
He looked guilty. Just for a second. Then shrugged, mouth twitching like he couldn’t decide if he should play it cool or apologize.
“You were in my room, playing house in my shorts, dancing to music like nobody was watching. What was I supposed to do?”
Your smirk deepened. “Not grab my ass?”
“I panicked.”
You burst into a soft laugh, resting your head back against his chest again. The moment felt too warm, too familiar, too… dangerously close to something else.
“I didn’t know you liked them this much,” you teased, wiggling your hips just a little. Just enough to make his hands twitch.
Chan exhaled sharply through his nose.
“I’ve been trying to be good,” he muttered, one hand dragging lightly up your spine.
You tilted your head back to look at him, eyes wide, soft with curiosity. “Good?”
“Respectful,” he clarified. “You’re my best friend.”
You blinked. “And best friends don’t touch ass?”
“They shouldn’t,” he bit out, and that was the first real crack in his voice. “But you’ve been pushing it lately, baby. You’ve been testing me.”
Your chest fluttered at the way he said baby. So casually, like it slipped out before he could stop it.
“Have I?”
Chan’s hand slid lower. Not enough to be scandalous, just enough to let you feel that he wasn’t kidding anymore. His palm was warm and heavy, anchoring you to him like he was suddenly realizing he didn’t want to let go.
“You’re not as innocent as you act,” he muttered.
You gave him your best doe-eyed look. “I never said I was.”
That was when he lost it a little.
One of his hands slid up to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and he leaned in like he was thinking about kissing you—but didn’t. His lips barely ghosted yours.
Not a kiss. Not quite.
“Stop looking at me like that,” he whispered. “You have no idea what you’re doing.”
You did. You absolutely did. But you didn’t say a word.
You just smiled.
“Laundry’s done,” you whispered, pulling back with one last squeeze around his waist. “You’re welcome.”
And then you walked out of his room like you didn’t just flip his entire world upside down in cotton shorts and a matching button-up.
<><><>
That night, you were wide awake.
The house was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning, the distant rustle of trees outside, and your pulse drumming hard against the pillow.
It’d been hours since you left Chan’s room. Hours since you’d walked out of there trying to act like your skin wasn’t still tingling where his hands had been. Like your heart hadn’t stuttered when his lips brushed yours without ever truly kissing you.
You should’ve let it go.
But the problem was, you couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Your fingers hovered over your phone. Then… tapped.
You: You up?
The read receipt appeared too fast.
Chan: Always. What’s wrong?
You stared at the screen for a second too long.Then:
You: Nothing. Just thinking about earlier.
Chan: Which part?
You smiled. Bit your bottom lip. That was bait, and he knew it.
You fed him a little more.
You: You touching me like that in your room.
Another instant reply.
Chan: I shouldn’t have. I got carried away.
You: I didn’t mind.
A pause. Longer this time. You imagined him lying in bed with that furrow between his brows, one hand behind his head, trying to figure out if you were just being bratty again—or if you meant it.
Chan: I could tell.
You laughed quietly to yourself, propping your phone against your knee, thumbs ready to wreck your whole friendship.
You: You’re really gonna act like you didn’t like it?
Chan: Is that what you want me to say? That I liked having my hand on my best friend’s ass?
You: I mean… you did keep it there for a long time.
Chan: You looked really good like that.
You sat up a little straighter, nerves flickering through your chest like sparks.
You: Like how?
Chan: Bent over my bed in those shorts. You know what you were doing.
You: I was folding your laundry.
Chan: While dancing. In those tiny ass shorts.
You: You liked that?
The dots blinked.
Stopped.
Started again.
Chan: Too much.
You took a shaky breath.
This felt reckless. You were under the same roof. Just down the hall. Separated by a hallway and years of pretending your friendship was innocent.
Your fingers moved again.
You: If I came to your room right now…
No reply.
Not yet. You could almost hear his breathing. Almost feel how still he was on the other side of the house.
Then finally:
Chan: Don’t. If you come in here like that, I won’t let you leave untouched.
You stared at the message. Bit your lip and tucked yourself a little deeper into your sheets, thighs brushing, breath catching.
Your fingers trembled when you typed again.
You: Untouched where?
You saw the typing bubble appear immediately.
Chan: Everywhere.
You: Be specific.
Chan: You want me to tell you how I’d touch you, best friend?
That sent a chill up your spine. Something about the way he called you that. Not sweet. Not teasing. Dangerous.
You: Yeah. I do.
Chan: I’d start with those legs you’re always stretching across my lap. I’d make you open them wider for me.
You: Keep going.
Chan: I’d touch you over those tiny little shorts you love wearing around me like you don’t know they drive me fucking crazy.
Your mouth went dry. Your hand slipped beneath the covers, not to touch—just to feel. To let your own heat rise in the quiet dark.
You: I knew they drove you crazy.
Chan: Of course you did. You’re a brat. You do it on purpose.
You: You like when I act like a brat.
Chan: I like shutting you up when you get too mouthy.
Your stomach flipped. God, this felt wrong. You were just supposed to be folding laundry and going to bed like normal.
Instead—
You: If I was in your bed right now, what would you do to me?
Another pause.
You waited. You could feel the shift. Could practically hear the internal war going on behind his silence. How much he was willing to say. How far he was willing to go.
Then:
Chan: I’d drag you under me. Pin your wrists. Tell you to stop squirming but know damn well you wouldn’t. I’d make you beg me to touch you properly.
You squeezed your eyes shut. Face flushed. Legs pressed tight under the blanket.
You weren’t sure who you were anymore. You weren’t just his best friend. Not right now. You were something else entirely.
You: Would you let me touch you too?
Chan: Not unless you asked real nice.
You: Please, Channie.
That one made him pause. You could feel it. Like the air had been sucked from the room.
Then:
Chan: You’re really playing with fire tonight, baby.
You: You’re the one who said you wanted to touch me.
Chan: And now I wanna do a lot more than that.
You: Yeah? Like what?
Chan: Like make you mine.
Your breath hitched. You blinked at that message for a long, long time. Because it didn’t feel like flirtation anymore. It didn’t feel like a joke.
You: But I’m already yours… aren’t I?
This time, there was no pause.
Chan: Fuck yes, you are.
Your heart was thudding. Your body humming. But your fingers moved with more confidence now. There was something intoxicating about knowing exactly how to push him.
Something dangerous.
You: I remembered the party.
The typing bubble popped up immediately.
Chan: What about it?
You: How you grabbed me like you wanted to throw me over your shoulder.
Chan: You were asking for it.
You: And then you let me grind on you like that? In public?
Chan: Correction. You made me stand there and take it.
You: Mm. I remember how hard you got through those dress pants.
You bit your lip. Your thighs squeezed again.
Then added: You were so thick and heavy against me, Channie. I still feel it.
A full minute passed. He didn’t respond. You almost thought you’d pushed him too far.
Then—
Chan: Keep talking like that and I’ll be in your room in under sixty seconds.
Your breath caught. You smiled to yourself, devilish.
You weren’t done yet.
You: You didn’t even stop me when I dragged your hands over my body. You wanted to feel me, didn’t you? Even when you told me to behave, you kept touching.
Chan: God, you’re lucky I didn’t bend you over the nearest couch right there.
Your mouth dropped open slightly. But you were thriving in this game now. Riding that high. And you hadn’t even touched yourself yet—just lying there soaked and giggly like you’d been corrupted through a screen.
You: You could’ve. I wouldn’t have stopped you.
Chan: Say that again.
You hesitated. Then: I wanted you to touch me at the party. I wanted you to pull me into that corner and make a mess out of me. Is that so bad?
Chan: Baby, if you knew what you were saying right now…
You: I do.
Chan: And I want you to say what you wanted. Out loud. To me.
Your fingers stalled. You swallowed.
Then typed: I wanted to feel your hard dick against me again. I wanted you to grip my hips and hold me still and tell me I was yours. I wanted your voice in my ear, telling me not to run.
Chan didn’t respond for two whole minutes.
You were about to text again when—
Chan: I’m coming up. Don’t move.
Your heart leapt into your throat. You barely had time to throw your phone down before you heard his heavy footsteps on the stairs.
Then—your bedroom door creaked open.
And there he was.
Hoodie sleeves shoved up, jaw tight, chest rising like he’d sprinted the last few steps. His eyes landed on you—bare-legged under your little blanket, looking like you’d been caught with your hand in the cookie jar.
But oh, this wasn’t about cookies.
He shut the door with his foot. Click.
“You’re seriously playing with fire, you know that?”
You blinked up at him, lips parted. “What, just texting my best friend?”
Chan’s laugh was dry—no humor. Only disbelief.
Then his hands were on his hips, like he needed to physically restrain himself from pouncing. His eyes travelled down your body, slow and possessive, before he stepped closer to the bed.
“You said some wild shit just now, baby.”
“I meant every word.”
He tilted his head, smirking. But his voice dropped a little darker. “You wanted to feel me? Hm?”
You nodded, biting your bottom lip.
“Say it again,” he said, close enough now to tug the blanket down from your waist.
“I wanted to feel you,” you whispered.
He leaned in. “Where, sweetheart?”
Your breath hitched. “Against me.”
“Where else?”
You swallowed. “Inside me.”
That was it. That was fucking it.
In a blink, he was crawling over the bed, pinning you back with one hand on your waist and the other sliding under your thigh to pull you open for him.
“Guess what, baby?” he muttered, lips brushing your jaw as you shivered beneath him.
“You’re about to.”
Your breath caught in your throat as Chan’s weight settled over you, his body a solid, grounding force that made the room feel smaller, hotter, like the air itself was pressing against your skin. His lips hovered just above yours, close enough to feel the heat of his breath but not quite touching. It was torture. It was deliberate.
“Chan,” you whispered, voice trembling with something you couldn’t name. Anticipation. Need. Fear of what this moment meant for the two of you.
His eyes locked onto yours, dark and unreadable, but there was a storm behind them. You could see it—the way his restraint was fraying, the way his fingers tightened just slightly on your thigh, like he was fighting himself as much as he was holding onto you.
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice low, gravelly, like he was giving you one last chance to back out. One last chance to keep things the way they’d always been.
But you didn’t want that. Not anymore. Not after the texts, the dancing, the way his hands felt like they belonged on your body.
You nodded, slow and deliberate, your eyes never leaving his. “I’m sure.”
That was all he needed.
His lips crashed into yours, and it was like the world tilted. It wasn’t soft or tentative—not like the almost-kiss in his room earlier. This was hungry, desperate, like he’d been starving for you and only just realized it. His hand slid from your thigh to your hip, fingers digging in as he pulled you closer, your body arching into his like it had a mind of its own.
You kissed him back just as fiercely, hands finding his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his hair. You tugged lightly, and he groaned into your mouth—a sound that sent heat pooling low in your stomach. His tongue brushed against yours, and you felt it everywhere, like a current running through your veins.
“Fuck,” he muttered against your lips, pulling back just enough to look at you. His pupils were blown wide, his chest heaving. “You’re gonna kill me.”
You smiled, breathless, and tugged him closer. “Good.”
He growled low in his throat, and then his hands were everywhere—sliding under your shirt, skimming the bare skin of your stomach, your ribs, stopping just short of where you wanted him most. He was teasing you, and you hated it as much as you loved it.
“Chan,” you whined, squirming beneath him, trying to guide his hand higher.
He smirked knowingly. “What, baby? Use your words.”
Your cheeks flushed, but you didn’t look away. “Touch me.”
“Where?” His voice was a low rumble, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your hipbone, maddeningly close but not quite enough.
“Everywhere,” you breathed, echoing his text from earlier.
That did it.
His hand slid up, cupping your breast through the thin fabric of your shirt, thumb brushing over the sensitive peak in a way that made you gasp. His other hand yanked your thigh higher, hooking it over his hip as he pressed himself closer, letting you feel every inch of him—hard, heavy, and so real it made your head spin.
“You wanted this,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw, your neck, nipping lightly at the sensitive skin just below your ear. “You wanted me to lose it, didn’t you?”
“Maybe,” you gasped, arching into his touch as his hand slipped under your shirt, warm and possessive against your bare skin.
He pulled back just enough to look at you, his expression a mix of awe and something darker—something that made your heart race even faster. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
Your breath hitched. “Then why didn’t you—”
“Because you’re you,” he interrupted, voice rough. “You’re my best friend. My safe place. I didn’t want to fuck this up.”
You reached up, cupping his face, thumb brushing over his cheekbone. “You’re not fucking anything up, Channie.”
His eyes softened, but only for a moment. Then he kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, like he was trying to pour every unspoken word into it. His hands roamed—over your sides, your thighs, tugging your shorts down just enough to feel the bare skin of your hips.
You tugged at his shirt, impatient, and he chuckled against your lips before pulling back to yank it over his head. The sight of him—bare-chested, muscles flexing, eyes dark with want—made your mouth go dry. You’d seen him shirtless a thousand times, but this was different. This was yours.
“Like what you see?” he teased, catching the way you were staring.
You didn’t even bother hiding it. “Always have.”
He froze for a second, like your words hit him harder than he expected. Then he was on you again, kissing you like he was trying to make up for lost time, his hands slipping under your shirt to tug it off completely. The cool air hit your skin, but his touch was fire, burning away any chill.
His lips trailed down your neck, over your collarbone, pausing to murmur, “You’re so fucking beautiful,” before continuing lower, kissing the curve of your chest.
You gasped when his mouth found your skin, warm and deliberate, his hands holding you in place as he took his time exploring you. Every touch, every kiss, felt like a confession—like he was saying all the things he’d held back for years.
“Chan,” you whispered, fingers threading through his hair as he kissed lower, his breath hot against your stomach.
He looked up at you, eyes dark but soft. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”
“Don’t you dare,” you said, voice shaking but certain.
He grinned—slow, wicked—and then his hands were on your shorts, tugging them down along with your underwear in one smooth motion. You were bare beneath him now, vulnerable in a way you’d never been before, but there was no fear. Only trust. Only him.
His hands slid up your thighs, parting them gently, and he leaned down to kiss you again, softer this time, like he was savoring it. “You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmured against your lips.
“Then die happy,” you shot back, and he laughed—a real, warm laugh that made your heart ache.
But then his touch turned serious again, his fingers brushing against you in a way that made your breath catch, your body arching toward him instinctively. He watched you, eyes locked on yours, gauging every reaction, every little sound you made.
“Channie,” you gasped, when his fingers pressed just right, slow and deliberate, like he was learning you.
“Shh,” he murmured, lips brushing your forehead. “I’ve got you.”
And he did. He always had.
His touch was patient, reverent, but there was an edge to it—like he was holding himself back, trying not to lose control completely. You could feel it in the way his fingers trembled slightly, the way his breath hitched when you moaned softly under him.
“More,” you whispered, tugging him closer, needing him closer.
He didn’t need to be told twice.
His fingers worked you with a rhythm that made your head spin, your hands clutching at his shoulders, his back, anything to ground yourself. But it was too much and not enough all at once, and you could feel the heat building, coiling tight in your core.
“Channie, please,” you gasped, not even sure what you were begging for anymore.
He leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Tell me what you want, baby.”
“You,” you managed, voice breaking. “I want you.”
That was all it took.
He pulled back just enough to kick off his sweatpants, and then he was back, settling between your thighs, his body warm and solid against yours. He kissed you again, deep and slow, and you felt him—hard, heavy, pressing against you in a way that made your entire body hum with anticipation.
“You’re sure?” he asked again, one last time, his voice strained, like it was taking everything in him to hold back.
You nodded, pulling him closer, your lips brushing his. “I’ve always been sure.”
He exhaled, like he’d been holding his breath for years, and then he was there—sliding into you, slow and careful, watching your face for any sign of discomfort. But there was none. Only heat, only fullness, only him.
You gasped softly, your hands finding his back, nails digging in just enough to make him hiss. He moved slowly at first, giving you time to adjust, but it wasn’t long before you were urging him faster, harder, your hips meeting his with every thrust.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his forehead dropping to yours, his breath ragged. “You feel so good.”
“So do you,” you whispered, and you meant it—every word, every touch, every moment.
The world outside didn’t exist anymore. It was just you and him, the heat of his skin, the way his hands gripped your hips, the way he whispered your name like it was a prayer. You were his, and he was yours, and for the first time, that truth didn’t scare you.
It felt right.
The tension built, higher and higher, until you were trembling beneath him, your breaths coming in short, desperate gasps. He could feel it too—you could tell by the way his movements grew less controlled, more desperate, his lips finding yours again as he pushed you both closer to the edge.
“Chan,” you gasped, your voice breaking as the wave crashed over you, your body shuddering beneath him.
He groaned, low and deep, following you over the edge moments later, his body tensing, his arms tightening around you like he never wanted to let go.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. Just breathed. Just held each other, the world quiet except for the sound of your racing hearts.
Then he kissed your forehead, soft and lingering, and rolled to the side, pulling you with him so you were tucked against his chest.
“You okay?” he asked, voice soft now, almost shy.
You nodded, your cheek pressed against his skin. “More than okay.”
He chuckled, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Good. Because I’m not sure I can go back to pretending after that.”
You looked up at him, your heart swelling. “Then don’t.”
His eyes softened, and he leaned down to kiss you again—slow, sweet, like a promise. “I won’t.”
<><><>
The next morning was different.
Not awkward or weird. Just… new.
You woke up tangled in his sheets, his arm draped over your waist, his breath warm against the back of your neck. For a moment, you just lay there, letting the reality of it sink in. You weren’t just best friends anymore. You were something more, something unspoken but undeniable.
He stirred behind you, his lips brushing your shoulder. “Morning, baby girl.”
You smiled, rolling over to face him. His hair was a mess, his eyes still heavy with sleep, but he looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered.
“Morning Channie,” you whispered back, reaching up to trace his jaw.
He caught your hand, kissing your palm. “You’re not gonna start teasing me already, are you?”
You grinned. “Maybe.”
He groaned, pulling you closer, his lips finding yours in a lazy, sleepy kiss that made your toes curl. “You’re trouble.”
“You love it,” you shot back, snuggling into his chest.
He didn’t argue. Just held you tighter, like he was afraid you’d slip away if he let go.
You didn’t talk about what this meant—not yet. There’d be time for that later. Time to figure out how to navigate this new thing between you, how to balance being best friends with being… more.
But for now, you were content to just be. To lie there in his arms, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, knowing that whatever came next, you’d face it together.
Because you were completely his. And that was enough.
••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••
Authors note: Hiiiiiii! How’s it going guys? I have been soooo busy lately like i need my life backkkkk 😩😩😩 i’m so sorry that i have bot responded to my dms, but its all for a good cause. So tell me how did you like this fic? Its a little on the long side with an almost 10k wordcount but i was hoping that could make up for lost time… this one has been sitting in my drafts for months so i released it because i know i owe yall some content. Sooooo enjoy this while i get the next entry for NAUGHTY DORM CHRONICLES READYYYY ❤️🤭🤩
𝑖𝑛 𝑤ℎ𝑖𝑐ℎ. . . you seem to always need help fixing things around your apartment. luckily, your neighbour, hyunjin, has a knack for household repairs. your damn hot and witty handyman-of-a-neighbour who is always there for his doll in distress—even if all she needs is a good dicking down.
𝑃. hwang hyunjin x afab!reader
𝐺. smut, handyman!neighbour!hyunjin
𝑊𝐶. 10.4k
𝐶𝑊. [MDNI] explicit sexual content, softdom!hyunjin, nipple play, oral (f. rec.), pussydrunk!hyunjin, praise, manhandling, breeding kink, dirty talk, petnames (doll, sweetheart, baby), piv sex, unprotected sex (wrap it ! pls !!), creampie, hyunjin is just hot as hell honestly, and has such a dirty mouth gosh. consume responsibly. take care of yourself.
𝑅𝛮. written with afab reader in mind. reader has breasts and a vagina. all characters are consenting and over 18 yo.
۶ৎ 𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒 ࿐ that workdol episode clearly did a number on me.
THE SINK was your foe, and the plumbing in your building was a joke.
“This is what you called me for?” Hyunjin’s voice filtered through the phone, tinged with an amused disbelief that made it difficult to tell whether he was genuinely concerned or simply entertained by your latest crisis.
You balanced the phone against your shoulder, a damp dish towel in one hand and a half-soaked roll of paper towels in the other, glaring at the mess spreading across your kitchen floor. The sink had been making strange noises for weeks, a low gurgle that seemed harmless enough until it finally turned on you, sending water pooling across the counter with a mocking drip that no amount of frantic plunging could stop. The pipes—the stubborn, stubborn pipes—had defeated every attempt you’d made, leaving you knee-deep in irritation and suds.
“Unless you know a better way to keep my apartment from turning into an indoor pool, yes, this is what I called you for,” you said, trying and failing to keep the exasperation out of your voice. “It’s either you or I start charging admission at the door.”
A low chuckle resonated through the line, warm and infuriatingly self-satisfied. “You know, most people would just call maintenance. That’s literally what they’re paid for.”
“I did call maintenance,” you muttered, squeezing the damp towel until droplets slipped between your fingers. “They said someone could come by next Tuesday. Unless I plan on living off takeout for the next week, that’s not exactly helpful.”
“Ah,” Hyunjin replied, dragging the syllable out with a smugness that made your stomach tighten. “So I’m not just your first call… I’m your only option.”
“You’re the only option that doesn’t involve my entire kitchen rotting.”
He hummed, the sound low and thoughtful, as though he was weighing the gravity of the situation. “I just showered, doll. You trying to get me dirty again?”
Your mouth opened, but words failed to spill out from over your lips. You stood still, pushing at the way his causal tone made your cheeks heat and heart thump, trying to conjure a quip back, or yell at him, perchance.
“I’ll be there in ten minutes. Try not to cry without me.”
The line went dead before the curses you had lined up rolled off your tongue, leaving you alone with the gurgling of the faucet and the uncomfortable quickening of your heartbeat.
Hyunjin had a way of slipping beneath your skin without even trying, weaving himself into moments that should have been mundane and turning them into something you thought about long after they ended. You had lived next door to him for nearly a year, long enough to know he was the sort of neighbour who always seemed to appear when you least expected it—carrying groceries into the elevator at the exact moment you struggled with your own, lounging in his work clothes against the railing of the stairwell when you came home late, dress shirt rumpled and hair in a messy state no amount of intentional styling could replicate. He was helpful in an infuriatingly smug way that made it impossible to thank him without also wanting to throttle him.
And he was handsome, although “handsome” felt like too simple a word for someone who could make you lose track of what you were saying in the middle of a sentence just by pushing his unkempt fringe off his forehead. Hyunjin had a way of existing that demanded your attention; tall and loose-limbed, all lazy grace and deep contours dwindled by the warmth of his stupid grin.
You had told yourself, repeatedly, that this attraction was nothing but a harmless nuisance, an unfortunate side effect of close proximity and his vexing habit of showing up in your space like it belonged to him. You had convinced yourself the butterflies in your stomach were merely a byproduct of his teasing, the kind of thing anyone would feel when faced with a neighbour who always seemed to know how to get under your skin. Yet, every time you caught yourself watching him tighten a screw with those long fingers, or when his voice curled around your name in his low, unhurried drawl, you wondered how much longer you could keep up the act.
A sharp knock at your door jolted you from your thoughts.
When you opened it, Hyunjin leaned against the frame with an infuriating ease, his battered red toolbox hanging from one hand, the other tucked into the pocket of his jeans, a dark wash you had grown accustomed to because these jeans were his handyman jeans—he wore them whenever he came over to help you fix up your kitchen cabinets, or install new tiles on the floor of your bathroom, or screw in a lightbulb you truly could’ve done yourself. The denim was littered with wood dust and gorilla glue and dried paint, tiny rips clawing into the fabric across his knees.
His white t-shirt clung to his arms and chest, and it felt deeply unfair—did he have to be so well sculpted?—and his hair was still damp from his shower, the strands spiking slightly as they dried. A warm, woody scent drifted past you as he stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, leaving you momentarily caught between irritation and the embarrassing awareness of how your heart had quickened.
“Your knight in shining denim,” he announced, setting the toolbox on your counter with a dull clang before towering in front of the sink, his eyes sweeping over the small flood. “Wow. You weren’t kidding. You’ve really outdone yourself this time.”
“I told you it was bad,” you mumbled, crossing your arms.
“You undersold it,” he said, sleeves already shoved up, biceps already pulling the fabric taut as he examined the pipes. “This is a full-scale anarchy.”
You leaned against the counter, trying to bluff indifference even though your eyes travelled with a mind of their own, skimming over the line of his shoulders, the sharp angle of his jaw as he focused. “Do you actually know hwo to fix it, or are you just here to gloat while I drown?”
“Both,” he admitted without looking up, his mouth twitching at the corners. “But don’t worry, I’ve got this. You can trust me.”
The words were casual, tossed out without thought, but the way they landed with unexpected weight, pulling at something in your chest, had forced your gaze to the dripping faucet, to the water-stained towels scattered across the floor, to anything that wasn’t him.
“Tell me how it started,” he said, his words softened by the scrape of metal as he retrieved a wrench from the box, glancing up at you with a calm gaze that had the infuriating ability to both irritate and disarm you at the same time. “Did the water stop draining all at once, or has it been slow for a while?”
You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, shifting your weight against the counter, carefully positioning yourself far enough from the watery mess that you refused to step into it again, though you knew he would never let it touch you even if it spread.
“It was gurgling for days, but I thought it would work itself out. Tonight, though, I washed a pan and suddenly the whole thing just… rebelled.” Hyunjin snorted. You continued, “I tried the plunger, I tried pouring boiling water, I even tried vinegar and baking soda. Nothing worked.”
Hyunjin shook his head, his damp strands of hair falling forward until he brushed them back with his wrist, leaving a subtle streak of water against his temple that gleamed in the dim kitchen light. “You’re lucky it didn’t explode on you. Pipes don’t like being ignored, sweetheart.”
Your heart tripped at the word, though you masked it with a curt roll of your eyes. “You say that like I had any other choice.”
“You had one.” He turned back to the pipes, his voice rich with a smugness that fizzled beneath your skin. “Calling me before it turned into a flood.”
The wrench twisted in his grip, veins straining against the skin of his forearm, his long fingers gripping deftly as he loosened one of the joints. A thin stream of water spat out at him, splattering across his shirt and streaking down the column of his throat, catching the faint sheen of sweat already gathering along his skin. He didn’t flinch, only muttered something under his breath as he reached for a rag and wiped his hands, the damp cotton of his t-shirt sticking more closely to his chest with each movement.
That damn white t-shirt. He knew what he was doing wearing a white t-shirt to a job involving water.
You tried not to stare, but when you catch the way his chest looks under the wet ghost-like fabric, your eyes started dragging down the lines of his body, tracing the subtle dip of muscle beneath the shirt, the stretch of denim housing dampened splotches across his thighs where he balanced on his heels.
“Stop hovering,” he quipped tauntingly, breaking your trance. “You’re making me nervous.”
“You’re not nervous,” you replied too quickly, the flush creeping up your neck exposing you far more than your voice did.
A slow grin spread across his face, but his eyes stayed fixed on the pipes. “You’re right. I’m not.”
The water hissed as he twisted another piece free, the sound filling the silence between you, punctuated only by the occasional clink of metal against tile. You stood with your arms crossed, feigning indifference even as your stomach fluttered, his voice threading through the space with an easy confidence making you want to lean closer just to hear more.
“Honestly,” Hyunjin continued, “you’re lucky I like you. Anyone else, I’d have told them to call a plumber and left them to figure it out. But you–” He finally looked up, his canines cutting sharp against the dim light. “You get VIP treatment.”
Your throat went dry, though you managed to roll your eyes, clinging to the veneer of irritation that had always been your armor with him. “VIP? Do you mean free labor?”
“Free for now,” he corrected, tightening one final joint before leaning back to test the faucet. The water sputtered, then flowed smoothly sans restraint, the pool in the sink beginning to drain away in a whirl. He wiped his hands on the rag and pushed himself to his feet, his height crowding the space between you as he leaned close enough for you to catch the scent of his woody cologne on his skin again, mingling with the freshness of his shower and, now, the spray of pipe water. “But I’m starting to reconsider my rates.”
You exhaled, both relieved and annoyed, watching the sink clear itself as though he had worked some sort of miracle. “So you’re done? That’s it?”
“That’s it.” He tilted his head, water still dripping from the ends of his hair, sliding down the side of his neck in thin rivulets. “Good as new. No more indoor swimming pool.”
You hesitated, then said, “Well… I suppose I should compensate you somehow.”
A smirk found solace on his lips, entirely too knowing. He took a step closer, dropping his voice just enough to make your pulse stumble.
“You could always offer me a shower.” He let the pause hang and added, “Preferably one I don’t have to take alone. I did get all dirty fixing your sink, after all."
Your lips parted, words failing to stitch along the tip of your tongue as heat surged through your chest, your body discarding the veil you typically hid behind. You tried your very best to hold his gaze, to avoid peeking at the sag of his damp clothes across his chest and torso.
Hyunjin reached for his toolbox, his smirk loitering on his lips like he had said nothing at all out of the ordinary. “Call me if you need anything else,” he said, his tone smoothing back into something deceptively neutral as his lips curved. “And try not to wait until it’s an emergency next time.”
You could get him as wet as you wanted him, thought Hyunjin. And although a shower with you sounded like the epitome of all his wettest dreams (literally!), he really just wanted to take you out to dinner.
Hyunjin thinks he’ll ask you the next time he’s over to help you, his pretty doll.
THE BOOKSHELF was so desperately needed, it was almost incredulous that you hadn’t bought a new one already.
The old one leaned in the corner of your bedroom like a tired old man, its frame straining under the weight of years of collecting, every shelf sagging, buckling under the burden of your affection for the written word. Books were piled not only vertically, but in sideways towers that grew dangerously tall, forming stacks on your bedside table and even finding refuge on the floor. There were just too many, some that had been well-cherished, others you hadn't even gotten a chance to indulge in yet.
You had laughed the first time you found yourself stepping over novels on the way to bed, but last weekend, when one had tipped over and startled you awake with a sharp thud against the hardwood, you had sworn it was finally time.
The new bookshelf arrived that morning in a flat pack box, heavy with wooden panels and plastic-wrapped screws and a thick manual with all the information you needed to get it set up. You could have assembled it yourself, but the thought of untangling the fat manual with its poorly written instructions, tiny print and all, made you groan.
And, truthfully, when you had Hyunjin—a neighbor who had become both your rescuer and tormentor, a man whose hands could fix just about anything—why would you deny yourself the pleasure of watching him work?
He knocked at your door just after six, right on the heels of his workday. You opened it to find him in a pressed white shirt, the sleeves pushed up hastily to his elbows, his tie tugged loose as if he had only just pulled it free on the walk over. The slacks he wore hung perfectly, his hair a little mussed from his hand raking through it, strands falling his forehead before he brushed them away absentmindedly.
There was something wildly attractive about the juxtaposition of him in work attire holding a toolbox, his frame filling your doorway and lips surrendering as the home to a lazy smirk.
“You didn’t even change?” you questioned, stepping back to let him in, though the words came out lighter than you intended, possibly thanks to the sudden upbringing of your pulse.
“You sounded desperate,” he replied, his mouth curving into a knowing grin that made you want to roll your eyes and melt all at once. “Besides, you think I can’t build a bookshelf in slacks?”
“I think you shouldn’t risk ruining them.”
“If I thought I’d ruin them, I would have come in those raggedy jeans you love so much,” he said with a wink, walking over to your bedroom and setting the toolbox down with a thud against the wall. “Tonight, though, you get the deluxe service. Tie and everything.”
You exhaled slowly, half-annoyed by his cockiness and half enlivened by the way the undone buttons of his shirt revealed just enough skin to tempt the imagination. He was unfair in that way, managing to look immaculate while doing something as unglamorous as kneeling on your bedroom floor, sorting wooden panels into organized piles.
The two of you began unpacking the box together. You crouched beside him, pulling out pieces of hardware, the brush of your hand against his every time you handed him a screw or a dowel bolt sending little ripples through your chest. Hyunjin worked calmly, his long fingers moving with practice, his veins flexing subtly under his skin whenever he twisted the screwdriver. He concentrated in bursts, brows pinching together whenever his tools called for focus, then broke the silence with a comment that made you laugh.
“You know,” he said, aligning two boards and tightening a joint, his words laid-back and devoid of any uncertainty in his efforts, “you could have done this yourself if you wanted to. It’s practically foolproof.”
You gave him a pointed look, steadying a side panel he’d asked you to hold. “I could have. But then I’d miss out on your charming company.”
His head tipped to the side, a slow grin spreading across his face, and although he didn’t directly look at you, you caught the glimmer of satisfaction in his eyes. “So you admit it—you just like having me around.”
“I admit nothing,” you countered, ignoring how your heartbeat said otherwise, racing at the proximity of him. He had leaned close to reach for a screw, his chest brushing your shoulder, the fabric of his shirt warm against your skin, his scent wrapping itself around you, still woody, but mixing with his natural musk. He lingered, not inappropriately, but long enough for the moment to feel longer than necessary—not that you were complaining—and your hands wavered on the board you were supposed to be holding still.
Hyunjin smirked, speaking low but teasingly, “Careful. If this collapses on us, I’m blaming your distraction.”
You huffed, shifting your grip along the panel.
The two of you had established a good workflow—him tightening, you holding, passing tools back and forth. Once, you fumbled a screw, and he caught it mid-air, flashing you a grin that made you scoff. Another time, he reached around you to adjust a joint, his arm caging you in without warning, body brushing behind yours and radiating a palpable heat you felt all over your back and arms. His breath ghosted over your temple when he spoke. “That’s it—hold it still. You’re good at this.”
“I’m literally just standing here,” you muttered, but your voice was thin, affected by how his closeness coiled inside you.
“That’s all it takes sometimes,” he said, and whether he meant building or something else entirely, you didn’t dare ask.
By the time the final screw slid into place, the bookshelf stood tall and flawless, a sturdy replacement for the leaning disaster it succeeded. You stood with your hands on your hips, surveying it proudly, Hyunjin’s presence at your side stealing more of your attention than the new piece of furniture did.
“Perfect,” you said, exhaling with satisfaction.
“No shit,” he chortled, brushing his palms off on his slacks. “It was built by a professional.”
“You are not a professional.”
“Not by trade,” he agreed, turning toward you with his deviled smile.
You rolled your eyes, trying to swat away the butterflies fluttering in your stomach. “You’ve earned a drink.”
“I won’t argue.”
You led him to the kitchen, where he leaned casually against the counter, peeking at the crevice of the sink he’d fixed just days ago. His tie hung loosely, the unbuttoned collar framing his throat, and you found your eyes drifting there before you forced them away. He touched the faucet lightly, testing it. “Still running smooth? No disasters to report?”
“None.” You pulled open the fridge, sighing at the empty shelf where your favourite bottle of wine usually waited. “Although I did run out of wine.”
He gasped, his voice theatrical. “A tragedy. How do you survive without it?”
“Barely,” you admitted, holding up a bottle of peach juice instead. “This is all I’ve got. I’ve been too tired from work to stop at the store.”
His gaze washed over you as you poured, something soft creeping into his expression beneath the usual teasing glint. He didn’t make any comical remarks about your back-up choice of drink, but rather watched you fill both the glasses in silence.
“You’ve been working too hard.”
You shrugged, handing him a glass. “It’s nothing. Everyone’s tired.”
“You’re not everyone.” His words were quiet, but they landed firmly. For a moment, he didn’t look away, didn’t cloak the care in witty remarks or smirks. Then, as if sensing the air had grown too heavy, he tipped his glass toward you, his lips quirking again. “That’s why I come running, even when all you need me to do is change a lightbulb.” You blush at this and giggle, reminiscing upon the memory. “What’s next? The batteries in your remote?”
You laughed. “Don’t jinx it.”
“Don’t worry,” he mused, setting his empty glass down in the sink he fixed just days ago. “If it does, you’ll call me. I’ll come, just for you.”
Hyunjin did want to come for you.
Or, cum, more specifically. Perhaps he would, after he finally grew the balls to ask you out to dinner, since there were clearly none between his legs given his lack of proactivity.
YOU were surprised to find Hyunjin outside your apartment door in his tattered handyman jeans, holding his trusty red toolbox in his right hand, a brown bag scrunched around the neck of a bottle in his left. His hair was disheveled, strands spiking out in random, and he wore a black t-shirt that stretched over his shoulders and chest. You hadn’t called him, yet there he was, leaning against—
“The doorframe?”
He nodded, shifting the weight of the toolbox against his thigh, his eyes running down the line of your satin dress with such intent focus, you felt your breath lodge in your throat. “Yeah, I noticed it when I came over to put up your bookshelf,” he began casually. His gaze dragged up again, loitering across the neckline of your dress, “I didn’t know you’d be going out, though.”
The words carried a neutrality, but you knew him well enough to hear the subtle edge thumbing beneath them. The thought of you dressed up for someone else unsettled him.
“It’s nothing,” you said quickly, brushing your hands over the fabric, smoothing it out along your hips. “Just a work dinner. A little celebration with my team.”
Hyunjin’s shoulders drew down very subtly, his fingers flexing around the handle of his toolbox. “A work dinner,” he repeated, solidifying it in his mind. He gave a few slow nods before his chin tipped toward the brown bag in his other hand, a playful spark resurfacing in his eyes.
“What’s in there?” you asked, nodding at it.
“Your favourite,” he replied simply, lifting the bag just enough for the neck of the bottle to peek out. “I picked it up on my way home from work yesterday. I figured you’d eventually run out of excuses not to let me drink it with you, peach juice could only redeem me so much.” He smirked crookedly, his mischievous glimmering eyes crinkling into a squint.
The thought of him walking past the shop, remembering the name of the exact wine you’d offhandedly mentioned, and buying it without knowing when he’d even give it to you, sent your stomach tumbling. “You remembered?”
His smirk softened. “Of course I did.”
The corners of your mouth tugged upward, a warmth blossoming in your chest that you thought best to ignore. “You really didn’t have to.”
“Maybe not,” he said with a shrug, “but I wanted to.”
The honesty in his tone was disarming, and before you could let it mess with your mind, you stepped aside, gesturing him in. “Come on. You’re already here.”
He hesitated just enough to look at your dress again, his mouth pressing into a line that tried to be light but did nil to hide his interest. “I don’t want you to be late, though. If this takes too long–”
“It won’t,” you interrupted, a lilt in your voice. “Besides, I’d rather spend my time with you than my crew at work.”
His eyebrows rose, lips parting as if to confirm whether you meant it, but a determined glint overcame the look in his eyes, as though he’d taken your words as a challenge. “In that case,” he said, stepping inside with exaggerated seriousness, “this doorframe is about to receive the most meticulous repair of my career.”
You laughed, shaking your head as you returned to the vanity in your bedroom, sliding into the seat you’d abandoned in your rush to answer the door.
The mirror reflected the sight of Hyunjin setting the bottle on your kitchen counter, returning to place his toolbox on your bedroom floor, and stretching his arms up to push at the panel lifting off the jamb of your doorframe, doing his own mister fix it investigation. He leans down into his open toolbox, hands getting busy pulling out screws and the drill.
The panel itself wasn’t much—it was just a strip of wood peeling away from where it had once been flush—but Hyunjin treated it as though it were the most intricate repair he’d ever been asked to do. Every whir of his drill was unhurried, every lift of a screw rid of haste. He had decided keeping himself perched in your door was preferable to letting you walk out of it.
He drilled in the first screw, the sound sharp in the air, his arm flexing with each turn of the tool. You caught his reflection in the mirror, the way the veins colonized his forearm and swelled with the effort, the subtle stretch of his shirt over the top of his back when he pushed and drilled at the panel. He paused between each screw, peeking over at you as though to check your progress, though the look in his eyes mused over you longer than necessary.
What should have been a five-minute fix stretched languidly, his movements akin to a tortoise. He measured twice before driving in a screw, wiped his hands on his thighs even though they weren’t dirty, and spent a long time running his fingers along the wooden frame as if searching for invisible imperfections.
You pressed a brush to your cheekbones, pretending not to notice, but your heart had long deceived you, thudding rampantly against the confines of your ribs. His shirt had ridden up slightly when he had to stretch further up to reach the end of the panel—his height could only do so much for him. The lack of fabric revealed the sharp cut of his waist, the shadow of his v-line dipping into the waistband of his boxers. You bit down gently on your lip, sliding gloss across it and pretending your sudden distraction was entirely the fault of your reflection.
Hyunjin shifted again, kneeling lower, one hand braced against the frame while the other steadied the drill. His head tipped just enough for his hair to fall into his eyes, and he blew it away with a quick puff of air, his lips parting, the softest bite against the bottom one when the screw met more resistance than he’d expected.
“You’re awfully quiet over there,” he said suddenly, in a low voice that travelled easily in the few feet separating you.
“I’m trying not to distract you,” you consoled, your cheeks warming as you spoke.
He glanced up at you through your vanity mirror from his crouch, the corner of his lips quirking, his gaze so direct it sent an icy bullet up your spine. “Too late for that.”
You exhaled slowly, feigning nonchalance as you twirled an absentminded finger through the ends of your hair. Still, you couldn’t help sneaking glances, at the flex of his biceps when he leaned into the drill, at the way his jeans sagged just enough for the band of his boxers to peek through, at the lines of muscle carved into him even in the simplest of motions.
The panel should have been fixed in five minutes flat.
So why was it that twenty had passed, and he was still crouched there, examining his work, adjusting, pausing to wipe his palm against his denim-clad thigh, taking every opportunity to look up at you in the mirror?
With one last turn of the drill, he leaned back on his heels, wiping a speck of dust from his forearm with the back of his hand.
“There,” he said, his voice casual, though the smug curve at the corners of his lips told you he was proud of his unnecessary patience. “Door closes smooth as butter now.”
You twisted in your seat, eyeing him where he knelt on the floor, sweat beading faintly along his temple. “You made that take three times longer than it should have.”
He shrugged, setting the drill back in the toolbox, the muscles in his arm flexing with the movement. “Maybe I just like fixing things for you.”
The words landed heavy in your chest and echoed in your head longer than they should have, and you found your throat tightening because you weren’t sure how to respond.
With Hyunjin on your bedroom floor, his back pressed against the wall just beside the mended doorframe, the sight of him danced in your vision longer than it should have. The shadows of evening and dim light threw half of his face in a mellow shade. The sheen of sweat gathered along his temples caught the last strands of light, giving him a glow one only ever noticed when they were already looking too closely.
He sat with his legs stretched, denim tugged taut along his thighs, and even though he’d finished fixing what he came to mend, his body still held the languid tautness of a man in the midst of work, chest rising with each deep breath, fingers twitching as if reluctant to stash his tools away.
You hesitated only a moment before speaking. “We should open the wine,” you kept your voice casual through your shallow breaths, smiling through a raging heart, “it would be a waste if I drank it alone, and after all your effort today, you deserve it more than anyone.”
His mouth quirked, the curl of amusement playing at the commissures of his lips, but his eyes softened when they met yours. “You sure about that?” His voice was smooth, teasing. He knew you would never say no, but he wanted to hear you insist anyway.
“I’m sure,” you replied, pushing yourself to your feet, walking across your room, stepping over his long limbs stretched out in front of the door, and moving toward the kitchen, acutely aware of his gaze trailing behind you. It was almost too much, the weight of it pressing against your back as you retrieved the bottle, found two glasses, and returned to the room where he remained on the floor, waiting quietly with patience and two twinkling eyes.
You sank down beside him, close enough that your bare knees brushed against the denim stretched over his thighs. The cork slid free with a soft pop, the sound strangely intimate in the otherwise quiet room, and you poured the wine carefully into each glass, the liquid catching a blush of red as it swirled. When you offered his glass forward, his fingers grazed yours in the exchange, resting in their lingering, and the simple touch made your stomach clench far tighter than it had any right to.
He lifted his glass, eyes never leaving yours. “Cheers, doll,” he said, the nickname slipping off his tongue with ease, the way it always had, and when the glasses clinked, the sound seemed more stark than it should have, echoing in the space between you.
The first sip was warm, rich, and melted along your tongue. He leaned his head back against the wall, glancing at you sidelong with a smug, careless expression doing little to hide the intent in his pupils. “You’re not going to be late to that dinner of yours?”
You shook your head, swirling the wine in your glass, watching the surface slant before peeking at him again. “I wasn’t really looking forward to going. Honestly, I’d much rather stay here.”
Something flickered in his expression, a spark he smothered quickly under a chuckle. “What were you celebrating, anyway? Must’ve been something big if it meant dragging you out of the apartment in a dress that–” his eyes dropped briefly, unapologetically, before rising to meet yours again, “–looks like it was tailored onto you.”
You smiled, suppressing a scoff. “It was just a deal we signed with another company. Nothing I was strictly required to attend.”
“So you g’na tell them you were sick?” His lips curled around the words.
“I could,” you admitted, tilting your head, “and I probably will.”
The sound of his laugh rumbled in his chest. He turned his glass in his hands before taking another sip, then leaned his head back again, exhaling through his nose. “Shame for them, though,” he murmured, grinning, “they won’t get to see my doll all dolled up.”
Your breath caught, but you narrowed your eyes and matched his tone easily. “That’s fine. At least you got to see me.”
His grin dampened on his lips but not in his eyes. He paused, a flash of surprise quickly hidden, his jaw clenching briefly before he looked away, taking his time with his next sip. “Dangerous thing to say to me,” he said. He spoke in a mellow tone, even through the grit of his loitering wit.
You smirked into your glass. “You’ll live.”
His eyes snapped back to yours, and the air between you stilled almost imperceptibly. “You’re trouble,” he muttered, his gaze flicking down to your lips before returning to your eyes, “and you don’t even try to hide it.”
“You’re still here, so it doesn’t seem like you mind,” you countered, lifting an eyebrow.
His grin returned lazily. “I don’t,” he admitted, almost thoughtful, before his lips tugged further. “When it’s you, I think I like trouble.”
The words sank into you faster than the wine. For a heartbeat, you forgot how to breathe, your pulse tripping unevenly, and it felt as if your body didn’t quite know what to do with the sudden weight of his admission, playful though it was. You shifted slightly where you sat, the hem of your dress brushing against your thighs, and you tried to focus on the swirl of red at the bottom of your glass rather than the man watching you so intently beside you.
Perhaps it was the gentle buzz of alcohol, but you found yourself speaking before you could stop yourself.
“You know,” you said quietly, softer than your usual banter, “I really am grateful. For everything you do for me. You don’t have to, but you still always show up.”
He tilted his head, his lashes lowering as though he was trying to decide whether to make light of it, but you didn’t give him the chance. You placed your now-empty glass down on the floor on the other side of you, reached out, and let your fingers graze the ends of the hair at the nape of his neck.
The touch was simple, almost innocent, but the effect was anything but. His breath caught in the most imperceptible of ways, throat bobbing as he swallowed, and though he tried to mask the sudden tension in his body, you felt it waver under your hand.
“I feel like I should pay you somehow,” you added, fingertips skimming from the ends of his hair to the warm skin just at the base of his neck.
Hyunjin stilled, the glass halfway lifted to his lips before he finally tipped it back, draining the last sip as if it were needed armor. When he lowered it, his voice was firm. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“That's not fair–”
“No.”
“But–”
“No.”
Your hand might have retreated if not for the way he leaned into it, surrendering himself into your touch as though he’d been waiting for it all along. The strength of him, the sharpness of his jaw, the unruly softness of his hair between your fingers—it all came together with a kind of inevitability that made your chest ache in built-up anticipation. Encouraged, you threaded your fingers deeper into the strands, scratching your nails lightly at his scalp.
He closed his eyes briefly, his mouth parting, and when he opened them again, his pupils were wide, swallowing the warm brown into a dark chocolate. He looked at you with awe, as if the mere weight of your hand in his hair was liberating him, his lips tugging faintly between his usual grin and something far more vulnerable.
The silence sprawled on, until his voice broke it with a confession so plain, so unguarded, it sent a shock straight through you.
“Haven’t you ever considered that maybe I just want you?”
Your fingers froze mid-scratch. The words landed with the force of a blow, leaving your face blank as you scrambled to compose your inner self, to not let him see the way your chest had tightened or the way your breath had retreated from its post.
Hyunjin opened his mouth to add more, but you didn’t give him the chance.
For a fleeting second, he thought you might laugh, or scoff, or even slap him, the flash of your eyes unreadable, but when you leaned in, his breath left no room for comprehension as your lips molded upon his.
He carefully placed his emptied glass down beside him—he almost would’ve let it slip from his fingers from how off-guard you had caught him with your lips, but he wasn’t going to ruin your pretty drinkware. His hands immediately sought you, almost desperately, one sliding beneath the soft fabric of your dress to cup your thigh, the other reaching for your waist to drag you closer to him.
His biceps bulged when he shifted you over his lap, your dress slipping against the denim stretched over his thighs as you settled onto him in a straddle. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your lips.
You hummed in response, your lips moving hungrily against his, and he matched you without hesitation, kissing you with eyebrows pinched painfully together. One calloused palm rubbed up your side to your back, rough fingers leaving trails of fire as he found the back of your neck, threading through your hair, urging you closer until there was no space left to close.
This should feel absurd, kissing your neighbour, your own personal handyman, but it was exhilarating. You had no idea just how bad you had wanted him—how bad your body longed for him—until your lips slotted against each other and hands gripped each other, whatever they could touch and hold.
You were soft, warm, intoxicating, and he wanted all of you, every inch and sound and breath. He pulled you flush against him, his other hand tightening at your waist until your chest pressed against his and—fuck, you’re not wearing a bra?
You shivered and broke the kiss to moan against his lips. He was hard beneath you, there was no mistaking it, the rough denim straining as he pulled you down onto him, greedy for the heat radiating through the thin barrier of your dress. The pressure made you arch and bite back a cry, his groan rumbling into your mouth as if the very sound was welded to your pulse.
His hands dragged you closer, sliding up from your waist until his palms cupped your breasts, squeezing them with a hunger that made your blood beat harder. The fabric of your dress was ruffled now, bunched beneath his fingers, and the lack of a bra—a reckless decision you had barely thought about—was driving him mad. His thumb pressed over your nipple through the cloth, and the sharp friction made your lips part with a gasp he swallowed, his tongue catching yours in a kiss both messy and deliberate.
He pulled back suddenly, lips glistening and breathing deeper. “Do you have any idea,” he murmured against your cheek, “what you’ve been doing to me all this time?”
The words made you shiver again, though he didn’t wait for your answer. His mouth found your neck, wet and hot, kissing, sucking, biting in quick succession as if he couldn’t decide which sensation he wanted you to suffer through more. Your head tipped back, helpless, giving him room, and the moan that spilled out was involuntary, humiliating in its rawness.
Your fingers threaded into his hair without thought, tugging lightly, guiding him, but he hardly needed encouragement. He licked a slow path down your throat to the swell of your breasts, pausing only to drag his teeth along your collarbone in a mark you already knew would bloom later. You felt his smirk against your skin as if he was entirely aware of the claim he was leaving behind.
Your dress slipped lower with each kiss until his mouth pressed over your breast, heat seeping through the thin fabric, his tongue circling your nipple until it peaked against the damp spot his lips left behind. You whimpered, tightening your hold on his hair as he drew you deeper into his mouth, sucking hard enough that your back arched further into him.
Your body had utterly surrendered to his touch. You were putty in his arms, his big, bulging arms that caged you to his front so perfectly. His big arms that had you wondering whether he’d lift and toss you on the bed, manhandling you into whatever position his dick was yearning for.
Hyunjin groaned in frustration because it wasn’t enough. The friction was mocking him rather than giving him what he wanted. He writhed in discontent beneath you, jerking up his hips, and the pressure of his cock through his jeans against your core made you cry out, rolling your hips down in response.
“Fuck,” he groaned, the sound ripped from his chest. His eyes peered up at you from where his mouth was still latched to your breast, pupils blown wide, gleaming with unrestraint. His grip on you tightened, fingers dipping into your spine as though daring you to move again.
You did. You slowly rocked your hips, dragging your core from the base of his denim-covered cock to the tip, feeling how hard he was even through layers of fabric. His entire body shuddered, his groan breaking into something darker, almost pained, and you knew you had undone him.
“Do you have any idea how long you’ve had me bricked up?” he muttered, smirking at his own confession and pulling away from your chest only long enough to speak before biting lightly over the other breast, sucking your nipple through the dress until you swore your body would combust.
Your head spun, blood beating rampantly in your veins, and still he wasn’t satisfied. He pulled away entirely, panting, hair messy from your fists in it, and peeked at the floor beneath you with contempt. “Not here,” he murmured hoarsely, “I– shit, can’t have you how I want here.”
Before you could process, his arms were wrapping around you, strong and determined, lifting you up with him. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, your breath hitching at the sheer effortlessness of it, at the sensation of his cock pressing directly against your core in the new position. He grinned at your reaction, lips brushing yours in a kiss too brief and taunting.
He dropped you onto the mattress with a carelessness that was not cruel but desperate, his body already covering yours before you had time to adjust. His mouth returned to yours in a kiss that tasted of urgency and hunger, his hands sliding up your thighs, over your hips, until they cupped your breasts again, as though he couldn’t bear to let go of them for even a moment.
Your dress was pulled higher, your thighs bare to the cool air of the room, and his hips pressed down, denim rough against your soaked core. He rolled into you once, then over and over, his teeth sucking at your bottom lip as he groaned into your mouth and cursed softly against your neck, every sound from him making you ache from exactly where he needed you.
His restraint was fraying, you could feel it in the tremor of his hands and desperate way he pressed his hips harder against you. Yet, even now, he took his time, his tongue circling, teasing, claiming, leaving you on the verge of begging. And still, all you could do was hold him closer, your fists tangled in his hair, eyelashes fluttering, body arching into every touch, every kiss, every grind of his hips that promised more than either of you could stand to wait for.
“Hyunjin–”
“Yeah?” he answered back, breathing heavily and pressing his forehead to yours.
You whined, tugging at his t-shirt.
Hyunjin let out a ragged breath, his chest heaving. “Ah, shit.” He reeled back from you, his hair mussed, lips kiss-bruised, eyes dark and wild, and tried to ignore the way his cock jerked at the sight of you sprawled on the bed, your dress sliding dangerously low over your shoulders.
His fingers gripped the back collar of his shirt, tugging it over his head in one smooth pull that left his torso bare, lean muscle stretching and flexing in a way that made your thighs squeeze together without you meaning to. Your legs felt weak just looking at him, your stomach flipping with every inch of golden skin he revealed. His jeans hung low, riding down his hips, boxers peeking just enough to tease before he shoved both down in one go.
His cock sprang free, flushed and hard and glistening along the tip, thick veins straining, the sheer sight of it enough to send heat pooling at your core. Hyunjin caught your eyes flickering down, and his tongue darted across his lips—he knew exactly what the sight did to you.
“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than you, his voice husky from having been slotting his tongue against yours not too long ago, before he leaned forward again and hooked his fingers under the straps of your dress, sliding it down your body.
He tried not to show how his cock twitched at the sight of your breasts bared, but the sharp exhale that escaped him had braced all the hot pressure that was building at the pit of his stomach. He didn’t dawdle, tugging the dress away until you lay there in nothing but your panties, blushed and messy-haired, your pouty lips parted to let the quick string of breaths out from the confines beneath your heaving breasts.
Hyunjin froze for a moment, swallowing hard, eyes roving over you and trying to control the way the sight was making him almost feral. His chest rose and fell like he was composing himself, but it was already useless; he was wrecked beyond repair.
“You don’t even know,” he whispered, leaning down again, brushing his lips across yours in a kiss that was soft despite the frantic hunger of moments before. His hand slid across your stomach, fingers toying with the waistband of your panties, tracing the elastic. “Tell me what you want.”
You writhed, clutching at his broad shoulders. “Anything, Hyunjin– just anything. I’m so wet for you, I can’t–”
His forehead dropped to your shoulder, and he let out a broken, desperate groan, the sound so raw it nearly had you cumming right then and there.
“Fuck, don’t say that,” He whispered, his hand slid down further, the pads of his fingers pressing against the soaked cotton of your panties. He felt the damp heat immediately and nearly lost it.
But he had lost it.
He had. He was so far gone, so taken by you, he was convinced the night would never end and he’d have you like this until time fizzled into oblivion.
His voice cracked when he spoke again. “Shit, you’re– soaked.” He breathed slowly for a few beats. “You know how many times I’ve thought about you like this? And now…” His sentence dissolved into another curse, whispered into your skin.
You whimpered against his temple, the ends of his hair tickling your cheek, squirming your hips against his palm. “Take it off, Hyune.”
He wastes no time hooking his fingers into the waistband of your soaked panties, tugging slowly, dragging them down your legs until it was discarded ball of fabric with a wet splotch, leaving you utterly naked before him.
The sight confiscated the air from his lungs. His cock throbbed so fucking hard at the vision of your slick pooling between your thighs, proof of just how badly you wanted him too, and his jaw clenched as though the sheer need pained him.
“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, rubbing his lips along your knee, your inner thigh. God, he’d thought of you like this so many times. He’d thought of you, his pretty neighbour, his doll in distress, sprawled atop the sheets of a bed, legs spread for no one but him, your core slick-sheened and dampening the sheets for no one but him.
When he sank between your legs and pulled your thighs over his shoulders, the scent of your arousal hit him so hard, he nearly whimpered and salivated like a Pavlovian dog, dragging in a breath through his nose as if your heady scent was the only oxygen he’d need for the rest of his damned life.
“Need’a taste you,” he mumbled, lips fluttering over your folds and making you squirm at the lack of contact.
“Jinnie,” you whimpered.
And whimpered once again, after you felt the chaste kiss he gifted your clit.
“Taste so google, doll,” he panted between licks, his voice shaking. “Do you know how many nights I’ve fucked my fist thinking about sucking on this pretty cunt? About making you feel good, hearing you moan for me?” His words spilled hotly, desperate—the wit had left him. “I’d do anything for this, anything for you. Just let me make you come on my tongue.”
Hyunjin’s mouth moved with a hunger that was nothing short of feral, his lips sealing against you in a messy kiss that had your thighs trembling against his shoulders. He licked at your folds, sliding his tongue between them, tasting you with greed, tongue dipping and circling before laving flat against your nub, doing everything to draw little gasps from your lips because they kept pushing him further.
The only sounds filling your room were your whines and whimpers, Hyunjin’s groans muffled in your heat, and the wet, slick squelches of his tongue burning itself in you, his lips sealing over your bud and sucking, the kisses and licks he gave your clit.
“God, you’re unreal,” he muttered, dragging his tongue over you again before sucking hard at your clit, his cheeks hollowing with the effort.
Your fingers threaded into his hair, gripping onto his messy strands when his tongue pressed firmer. The sound that tore from his chest was a groan-turned-whine, his hips rutting into the bed as if even the friction of his cock against the duvet wasn’t enough. He ground himself down again and again, his cock leaking against the fabric.
One long finger flit against your entrance, sliding in easily through the slick mess he had already made of you. You clenched helplessly around him, and he moaned so loudly it almost startled you, pulling away from your clit to mutter against your skin. “Tight– fuck, you’re so tight around my finger, I might– aah, I might cum before I even get inside you.”
He kissed your thigh, nipped at it, then sucked at your clit again, his finger curling deep inside until you were gasping.
“Hyunjin–”
“Yeah, baby, I’ve got you,” he said quickly, voice rough, before sucking harder, the obscene sounds of his mouth slurping at you filling the room. His hips rutted down against the sheets in frantic rhythm with his tongue, his need consuming him whole.
He slid in another finger, stretching you, filling you, working them both in time with his mouth until you were writhing, grinding up into his face and messing his hair with your fists.
“N-nngh—Hyune, need you.”
“Yeah? Need me?” He smirked against you. “You need me?”
When he looked up at you, he thought he might cum from the sight alone.
You’re panting, breasts heaving with each breath that escapes you. Your lips are glazed over and still puffy from your makeout. Your eyebrows are knotted together, cheeks flushed, temples sheening with sweat, and your eyes—gosh, your angel eyes are so, so fucked-out.
“What do you need, baby?” he taunted, finger pushing at the gummy end of your hole, making you roll your hips and give him a desperate look.
“Need you inside,” you whined.
Hyunjin’s smirk widened, his fingers still relentless inside your walls. “Hmm, I think you’ll need to be a little more specific, doll.”
You whimpered a bratty hmph, scrunching your eyebrows together and rolling your head back before you peered down at him again.
He gazed at you, amused, fingers pumping. His thumb came up to rub at your clit just to tease you a little more. When you didn't say anything, he raised his eyebrows, and you mewled in defeat.
“I– fuck, Hyunjin, put your dick in me. Fuck me, please.”
Hyunjin ripped his fingers from your core, grabbed your hips, and flipped you onto your stomach, pulling at your hips until they lifted over the edge of your bed and your toes pressed into the floor.
His thumbs slid up the insides of your thighs and pulled at the glistening lips surrounding your cunt.
“Fuck, you’re a mess,” he marveled, voice shaking, catching some of your slick on his thumb and dragging it over the swollen tip of his cock. He smeared it over himself with a hiss through his teeth, gaping at the way it shined along his length. “So pretty like this, bent over for me, soaked for me.”
He hoisted your hips further up when you arched back into him with a moan. You rolled your hips in his hands and peeked back at him over your shoulder.
“Fuck me hard, Jinnie.”
He snapped his eyes to yours, his chest heaving, his tongue darting out to wet his slick-coated lips, trying his best not to cum at the sound of those words in your voice.
“Say it again.”
“Fuck me, Hyunjin.”
“Again.”
“Fuck me, please. Fuck me so hard, Jinnie, I’ll–”
Hyunjin slammed into you, cutting your words short. Your mouth hung open in a broken moan, and your cheek fell against the sheets of your bed. It mattered not whether your makeup smudged along the comforter. In fact, nothing mattered, apart from the hard, veiny drag of Hyunjin’s cock along your tight, hot walls.
“Mmm, shit,” he choked out. “Fucking tight– God.”
It took everything in Hyunjin to pull out, watching his cock glisten with your wetness, before rutting back into you harder, rubbing at your hip with one hand while sliding the other down your back to grip your waist.
He thrusted in and out of you, his cock squelching along your wet walls. Little gasps and whimpers slipped from your lips and buried into the sheets, his groans filling the room with each drag of his cock.
The hand on your waist slid up your back, his fingers running through your hair before he leaned down, chest flush to your spine, and kissed along your neck, wet open-mouthed kisses smearing heat into your skin. The grip on your waist never dimmed in strength, pulling you back into each thrust, rutting harder, deeper, until you were squirming beneath him
“How long have you wanted this?” He mumbled into your neck, thrusting deep into you and clasping his fingers along the base of your skull. “Is this why you kept calling me over, hm? Wanted to see what I looked like all hot and sweaty for you, yeah?”
You whined and jerked your hips back into him, nodding pathetically with the will of half your mind—the other half had long been sucked out of you.
He rubbed the nape of your neck with so much delicacy it was almost a contradiction, at odds with the way his cock kept battering into you with ruthless precision. The hand in your hair snaked along your back, around your torso, sliding up the front of your warm body to grab the base of your neck. He drilled into you again and again, his words dirty against your neck and seemingly never ending.
“Taking me so well, baby, fuck. You’re so good for me, my pretty doll.”
“Feel that? Feel how hard you made me? It’s all for you, just for you.”
“G’na fuck you full with my load. You want that? Want me to fuck a baby in you?”
“Yes, Jinnie—mmph, please,” you whimpered into the sheets at his last words, your reply so fast and frantic it had Hyunjin’s eyes rolling back into his head, his jaw flexing as he groaned.
“Yeah?”
He needed to see you. He needed to see your face, your lips parted in an oh, eyes glazing over with a coat of tears that might spill at any given thrust. He wanted to see what he was doing for you, wanted so desperately—yearned—to watch you beautiful you looking breaking apart under him.
He reeled back from you, slid his hand down your back, and gripped your hips with both hands before pulling out of your cunt with a wet drag and flipping you onto your back again, your body pliant beneath his grip.
He wasted no time filling you full with his cock again, watching your face at the exact moment the head slipped back in, almost shaking at seeing how good it made you feel. Your legs wrapped him closer to you when he leaned down and smashed his lips to yours. He tasted of your arousal and nothing but.
He flattened his hand against your back, curving you into his chest, groaning when your breasts pressed into him, the feeling of your hardened nipples rubbing along his chest making him rut harder. Then, he grabbed onto your hip so he could really start pounding into you.
The squelch of your walls around his pumping cock filled the room, and your little sounds serenaded the fibres in his ears. His hot, open mouth rested against the base of your neck, his wreaked moans sinking into your warm skin. Your hands were in his already unkempt hair, nails digging into his neck and scraping over his upper back.
He snapped his hips, squeezed onto yours, and ground his dick deeper into you. His tip grazed your g-spot, and you clenched around him, trying to keep him in, trying to make him stay there and rut into your spot over and over until you were coming undone for him and only him. You squeezed your legs around him, attempting to bury him further into you.
“Big.”
He looked at you, into your half-open eyes, the way your lips part after weakly moaning out the singular syllable.
“Yeah? It’s big?” He panted, a curl in the corner of his lips, adoration submerging his eyes. You nodded at him, a knot deepening between your eyebrows. “You’re taking it so good, though, baby. Taking me so fucking good.”
His fingers wreathed through your hair, the pad of his thumb is circling over your hip bone, and he mumbled incoherent praises against the supple skin of your neck.
The hand on your hip smoothed over your lower stomach, his palm pressing into it when he pounded into your g-spot again. You whimpered at the friction of his tip against your sweet spot, gripping whatever part of him you could get your hands on—his shoulders, his biceps, anything.
He slid his hand further down, his fingers pushing your swollen clit out from under its hood, and rubbed a languid circle down into your nub.
That was all it took for you to feel the pressure rippling in the core of your being.
“You’re clenching down so hard on me, baby, shit,” he groaned, pulling his head back to watch your face. “You’re cumming? You gonna cream on my dick?”
“Yes—yeah,” you moaned, your eyebrows scrunching tight, staring into his dark, chasmic, heavy-lidded gaze.
“Cum, baby. Cum for me, and I’ll fill you up so good. I’ll fuck my seed so far into you, I promise– shit.”
His words were all it took to have you clenching down onto his dick rhythmically, the pressure exploding in your core and ripping through you until you spasmed against his frame and dug your head back into the pillow.
Hyunjin plastered his forehead along your bare neck when his own orgasm threw him over the edge just after yours, after feeling the way your walls tightly hugged along his length over and over again, abs tightening and spurting his seed deep into you, coating your walls white hot, adhering to the promise he’d made just moments ago. He groaned the most beautiful, broken sound against your skin before his muscles relaxed and he hovered his face above yours, panting heavily against your lips.
You could feel how hot his cum was inside you, how full you were with his seed and slowly softening dick still buried deep inside you, plugging you full with everything he’d given you.
Your breaths leveled out together, Hyunjin giving you the softest kisses as you both calmed down.
Your hands drifted along his bulging biceps that caged you in, along the contours of his shoulders until you had a hand wrapping along his neck, the other pushing at the messied hair that spiked over his forehead.
He gazed at you with the warmest of eyes before a boyish grin lit up his face. You couldn’t help but smile back up at him, still full with his cum and softened dick.
“You should come fix things spontaneously more often,” your voice wisped against his cheeks, so soft and hoarse. He laughed, eyes twinkling, crinkling at the angel beneath him.
“I should keep you from work dinners more often.”
In the comfortable silence that passed with the both of you smiling at each other, Hyunjin decided he was going to stay buried in you like this for the rest of his life. Then, you wouldn’t need him to fix anything ever again. He wouldn't need to show up with his bitchass toolbox and tattered jeans, hoping to see you smile at him, pleased at the work he did for his doll. Although, to his dismay, he knew he couldn’t stay buried in you forever, because—
“Can I take you out to dinner sometime?"
Hyunjin finally grew a pair. He even felt them slap against the backs of your thighs.
Maybe all he needed was to work his doll in a different way.
৬ৎ 𝑙𝑒𝑒'𝑠 𝑝𝘰𝑠𝘵𝑙𝑢𝑑𝑒 ࿐ reblog, comment, slide into my inbox !! please let me how i did, it'll make me happy :D (i have a praise kink)
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⚠️ Contains explicit sexual content, psychological manipulation, and obsessive behavior. Depicts coercive control, stalking, emotional dependency, and trauma bonding within a toxic, yandere-style relationship dynamic. All sexual acts are consensual within a context of manipulation and obsession.
he'll let you go if that's what you really want. is it?
You find him in your kitchen with the lights too bright and the counters too clean. He’s drying a glass with the kind of attention people give to explosives. The dish towel is folded in exact thirds. The sink is empty. Your phone is hot in your hand.
“This is not normal,” you say, jacket still on, keys biting your palm. “You can’t just—show up at my job and—you went through my emails.”
Minho doesn’t look up. “Hello,” he says. As if you’ve disrupted something. As if you forgot the rules of civility.
"Minho." You say through gritted teeth.
He still doesn't look up. “I did read them,” he says. Calm. “You wrote at 9:07, 11:23, and 3:58. The last one had three typos.”
“I... What? That’s not— You weren’t supposed to come at all.”
“You sounded overwhelmed.” He smooths the rug, stands, and finally looks at you. His pupils don’t dilate like other people’s when the light changes. They stay steady. “I brought you lunch.”
A neat brown bag sits on the counter with your name written in small, clean letters. You hate that it’s the right bread.
“Minho, stop.” Your keys go down too hard; the sound jumps. “You embarrassed me. My manager thinks we’re— That you’re—”
“Caring?” he offers mildly.
“Controlling.”
Something in the air tightens like a violin string turning to pitch. Minho tilts his head a fraction, as if listening for a sound only he can hear. “She thinks many things. Most of them are inaccurate.”
“She asked me if I was okay.”
“Were you?” He says it like reading a recipe: tell me quantities; I will adjust the heat.
“That’s not the point!” You hear your voice hit the wall and come back thinner. “This isn’t— healthy. You tracked my commute last week. You corrected my calendar invites. You ‘fixed’ my phone so now it mirrors to your iPad and when I asked why, you said—”
“—so I can help when you forget,” he finishes, as if you should be grateful he remembers your lines. “You hate forgetting. It overwhelms you. It makes you cry.”
Heat climbs your neck. “I cry because you make me feel like a child.”
Minho blinks. “Don't be ridiculous. I'm not a pedophile.”
“Minho.”
He studies you the way he studies new knives—checking weight, balance, what it will cut cleanest. “You’re shaking,” he observes. “That’s the adrenaline. Sit for a moment and let your body catch you up.”
“I don’t want to sit.”
He nods once. “Then stand. But stop clenching your jaw. It gives you headaches.”
The room has that oppressive quiet that makes appliances sound too loud. The fridge hums. The clock ticks and misses once every minute like a heartbeat with a stutter. Minho steps around the coffee table and lines the TV remote parallel to the edge—two millimeters of adjustment that feels like a verdict.
“You called my mom,” you say, because the other things are too many to hold. “You told her I was tired.”
“You were.”
“You made me sound incompetent.”
“I made you sound like someone who should be protected from requests she doesn’t owe anyone,” he says, and the gentleness in it makes you want to throw something. “She agreed.”
“She always agrees with you, she loves you. Everyone loves you.”
He smiles a tiny, closed-mouth smile. “Yes.”
You swallow. “I’m not an experiment.”
“Of course not,” he says. “Experiments can fail. You do not.”
“Stop—” You press your palms to your eyes hard enough to spark shapes. “Stop doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Making it sound like love when it’s control.” The words come out hot and shaky. “You rearranged my cupboards while I was in the shower.”
“The spices were alphabetical by brand,” he says, faintly appalled. “You don’t cook by brand.”
“That’s not the point!”
“It is to me.” He says it without malice, without anything at all—like you’ve both stated your preferences and now he’s writing them on a list.
You breathe. You count. Ironically, it's the method he taught you to calm you down when you get upset. “This is wrong, Minho. It’s sublte, which makes it worse. I walk in and I can feel the outline of where you want me to stand.”
“You’re standing in it,” he notes. “By the door, three feet in. You always do that when you’re about to say something you can’t unsay.”
The clock misses its beat again. Your stomach drops with it. “Then listen,” you say, and your voice steadies in the way voices do right before they break. “I want to break up.”
Nothing moves. Even the hum under your soles feels like it tips and waits.
Minho’s expression doesn’t change. He sets the remote down exactly where it was and puts both hands in his pockets like that will keep them polite. “All right,” he says.
You blink. “All—”
“Right,” he repeats, level, like a surface that doesn’t ripple when you throw a stone.
You feel stupid for bracing for the wrong kind of fight. “You’re not— You’re not going to argue.”
“You’re telling me your preference,” he says. “I’m listening.”
“It’s not a restaurant order,” you snap, because anger is easier than whatever this is. “It’s a boundary.”
“I heard it.” A pause. “You think I haven’t heard it before?”
Your chest tightens. “Have you?”
He doesn’t answer. He looks at your keys instead. “You should put those in the dish,” he says after a moment. “You forget easily when you’re upset and that'll just make you cry again.”
“Minho.” Your hands open. “Stop managing me.”
His smile is very small. “You’re asking me to stop loving you the only way I know how.”
“That’s not love. That’s... That’s colonization.”
He laughs once. “You're being dramatic.”
“No, I'm being honest.” You inhale until it hurts. “I don’t feel like a person with you. I feel like a project.”
He nods once, as if the word slots neatly into a file he already labeled. “Then we’ll stop.”
You were ready for a cage you could rattle, not an open door you can’t see the threshold of. “That’s it?”
He tilts his head. “What would you like it to be?”
“I want you to say you understand.”
“I do.”
“I want you to... I don’t know. React.”
“I am reacting,” he says, and you know that he is. This is Minho’s version of panic—the way his attention narrows, the way he looks at your mouth every time you say “I” like he’s counting how many more times you’ll use it in this room.
“I’m serious,” you say, hating your own doubt. “This is the end.”
“Of this version,” he agrees.
Something cold slips under your ribs. “What does that mean?”
“It means,” he says, patient as a professor, “that you’re declaring a boundary and I’m honoring it. We won’t speak for a while. You’ll sleep better the first night. Worse the second. By the fourth, you’ll discover your hands shake when you pour coffee. By the seventh, the quiet will feel like a large room in a museum—beautiful, echoing, and not for touching.”
You stare. “Are you—predicting me?”
“Observing.” He shrugs lightly. “You’re more pattern than you think.”
You want to scream. You don’t. “Don’t text me,” you say. “Don’t come to my work. Don’t talk to my mother. Don’t leave things at my door.”
“All right.”
The simplicity is so clean it burns. You wait. He doesn’t fill the silence. He lets it grow tall as a wall.
“Don’t text me,” you say again, each word put on the table like a knife that doesn’t shine. “Don’t show up at my job. Don’t talk to my friends. Don’t talk to my mother. Don’t touch my accounts. Don’t leave food. Don’t ‘fix’ anything. Just—” your mouth trembles and you hate it— “leave me alone. I’m serious.”
Minho looks at you for a long, even breath. Then a small, unhelpful smile folds one corner of his mouth. “You are,” he says, and the softness of it makes you want to throw the lunch bag at the wall. “You are very cute when you use your big girl voice.”
“Don’t condescend me.”
“I’m not.” He tips his head. “I like it.” He glances at your keys still not in the dish, at the jacket still on your shoulders. “It makes me want to package your life in bubble wrap, which is exactly the impulse you are naming, so—” he opens his hands.
“Minho.” Your throat hurts. “Stop playing the professor.”
“Mm.” He reaches for his phone. “All right. Field work.”
You flinch, expecting him to text someone, fix something. He turns the screen so you can see: his contact card for you. He taps three settings—Emergency Bypass: Off. Favorite: Removed. Focus Exceptions: None. Then he scrolls to a device list and unpairs Your iPhone from Minho’s iPad. A polite notification bleeps from your pocket a second later. Device no longer sharing. He lays the phone on the table like a priest setting down a Bible.
“There,” he says. “No mirroring. No priority. I’ll archive our threads. I’ll mute your name. I’ll set a rule on my inbox so your email routes to a folder I won’t check.” His eyes stay on yours. “I will leave you alone.”
You wait for the but. He doesn’t give it. The room hums. The clock skips its beat again.
“Say you heard me,” he prompts, mild.
“I heard you.”
“Good.” He reaches for the brown bag without looking at you. “And since you don’t want it, I’ll take the lunch home.” He extracts it neatly. “You can be furious that I remembered your bread some other day.”
“Minho.” Your palm presses down on the table, steadying your voice. “I’m not bluffing.”
“I know.” He sets the bag beside his keys. “You’re very serious. It’s adorable.”
“And if you show up anywhere—home, work, gym—I’ll call security.”
“Of course.”
“You think I won’t.”
His brows lift a millimeter. “You will,” he says, perfectly agreeable. “If you see me.”
If you see me. The words send an uncomfortable prickling sensation up your spine.
He nods at the door. “This is the part where you ask me to hand over my key.”
“Give me your key.”
He walks to the entry, lifts the small ceramic dish, and tips it. A silver key falls into his palm. He puts it on the console and steps back like he’s finished a magic trick. “Done.”
He watches your face for the visible wobble and does nothing to exploit it.
“Minho.” You keep your feet in the outline he named by the door. “Please leave me alone.”
“All right.” He slides his hands back into his pockets. “Here is what ‘alone’ will be, so you don’t confuse it with cruelty.” He counts on his fingers, not performative, just inventory. “I won’t initiate contact. If you message me, I won’t reply. If you call, I won’t pick up. If you are unsafe, you will call emergency services, not me.” His eyes flicker, a hairline crack of irritation at that but he smooths it. “I won’t speak to your mother. I won’t speak to your friends. I won’t nudge your calendar, correct your grammar, or pay your parking tickets. I will not show up anywhere you haven’t explicitly asked me to be.” He tilts his head. “And because you’re serious, you’ll block me, and you’ll mean it for… let’s call it two weeks.”
You swallow. “Longer.”
“Maybe.” He’s not arguing; he’s humoring your projection. “Because you’re serious.”
“I am.”
“I know.” He takes a small step closer—not enough to crowd, enough to make you feel measured. “And because I love you, I will leave you alone even though you’re very bad at being alone.”
“Fuck you.”
“Mm.” He glances at your jaw. “Unclench.”
You do, and hate that you do.
He checks his watch—not to rush you, just to mark the shape of the moment. “I’ll go now,” he says. He reaches to straighten the collar of your jacket and stops himself an inch away, fingers hovering. “Ah. Right.” He steps back. “Leaving you alone includes leaving your collar misaligned.”
You swallow, because there’s something about the almost-touch that feels worse than anything he’s done to a password.
He studies you for one second longer than manners allow, then nods as if you’ve passed a test you didn’t know he was giving. He picks up his bag, his phone, leaves your key. At the door he pauses, not turning, not lingering. “Don’t open for anyone who knocks after ten,” he says, conversational, as if he’s telling you the weather. “You get soft about salesmen when you’re tired.”
“I’m not your project.”
“I know.” His hand closes on the handle. “I’m leaving you alone.”
You stand there, the room hissing quietly with appliance breath, while he steps into the hall. The door clicks. The sound is polite. It feels obscene.
Your phone buzzes. A cascade of notices: Minho removed [Device] from Family; Minho stopped sharing location with you; You are no longer a priority contact in Focus: All.
You put your keys in the dish because you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of being right. Halfway there you stop and put them on the counter instead, out of spite, and immediately see the future where you’re late tomorrow and you curse yourself and think of him.
The apartment creaks. The clock misses its beat. Your phone is very quiet.
Minutes pass. It’s almost impressive, how large silence can get when it stretches its arms.
On the other side of the door, in the hall you cannot see, there is the audioless sensation of a man standing still for exactly three seconds—the time it takes to confirm a latch has seated, a hinge hasn’t stuck, a lock will turn cleanly from both sides. Then footsteps. Then the elevator. Then nothing.
The first morning is easy by accident: your body wakes at the time Minho used to make you wake, and the coffee machine still has water because he always left it filled. You don’t notice that you don’t notice.
By the second morning, the machine blinks ADD WATER and you stand in front of it stupidly for a full minute, feeling judged by an appliance. You pour until it slops and mop the counter with a paper towel because the towels are in the wrong drawer; he moved them months ago and you still reach for the wrong drawer.
By the fourth, the quiet thickens. The calendar on your phone looks smaller without the tidy colored blocks he used to drop in on Sundays—pay this, call that, take your vitamins, answer mom. A dentist reminder pings and you swipe it away because you don’t remember which office he picked or where the address lives.
Your mom texts four times in two days, each message soft and barbed. You okay? Do you need anything? Do you want me to come over? Call me. You type and erase three drafts, two apologies, and one paragraph complaining about the coffee machine, then put the phone face down and tell yourself these are the growing pains he promised you’d have.
Nights are loud with nothing. You try a podcast; the host laughs too sharply and you rip your earbuds out. You microwave something you don’t want and forget to eat it until the edges are cold and the middle is lava. The apartment’s clock misses its beat and you flinch like a dog hearing thunder on a clear day.
Sometimes, leaving work, you feel watched—the specific pressure of eyes between your shoulder blades. It’s ridiculous, so you name it ridiculousness: you forgot your headphones; you’re overtired; your boss used the phrase touch base too many times. Still, when you pass the glass front of the florist’s, you catch a reflection that makes your skin go pebble-fine: a man across the street, face blurred by distance and motion, standing too still. You blink and it’s traffic.
You start to build little arguments with the empty room. No one is following you. You list reasons. He said he’d leave you alone. You repeat it. Your hands are steady as long as you’re thinking about keeping them steady.
At work, you discover you don’t know your own passwords because he reset them to phrases you liked the sound of and then never told you what the phrases were. Now that he’s logged out of everything, you’re no longer automatically signed in. IT sends you a temporary login that expires while you’re on hold. Your manager leans in your doorway and says, too brightly, “If you need to take time, we can redistribute your plates,” which is how she says you’re wobbling without saying you’re wobbling.
Mark—the coworker Minho never liked—stops by your desk with the casual swagger of someone who has never learned the word no has teeth. “So,” he says, braced on his knuckles like a gym teacher, “you and the robot broke up.”
You blink. “Don’t call him that,” you say.
“Harsh,” he grins, then softens it with a shrug he thinks is charming. “Sorry. You okay?”
“Fine.”
“Cool, cool.” He looks at your empty mug. “You want a walk? Coffee? Fresh air?”
You should say no. You say, “Sure,” because you have never been good at rehearsing boundaries and the word sticks to your molars.
Outside, the winter sun is the wrong kind of bright. Mark’s voice fills the space where your thoughts would be; he is good at that. He tells a story about trivia night that features five women’s names and one bar tab, and you nod in the right places because your hands are in your coat and if you take them out you will wring them.
On the walk back, he bumps your shoulder, light and proprietary. You step left and he steps left with you, as if the sidewalk is a lane and you are merging into him. When you stop at the corner, he leans in just enough that you smell his gum—peppermint, too sharp—and you look, bodily, across the street because it feels like the safe direction.
A masked man stands by the bus shelter. He isn’t looking at you. He isn’t not looking. His fingers are clenched so tightly around the book he’s holding it takes you a minute to realize that he hasn’t turned the page in ten minutes. The bus pulls up and when it leaves, so has he. You tell your heart to return to the inside of your body.
You become meticulous about locking your door. Twice, three times, rational to ritual. You put your keys in the dish because refusing Minho that tiny victory isn’t worth missing a meeting. You sleep with your phone on your chest so it’s easier to grab if you need it.
On Thursday, your mother calls and you don’t pick up because you don’t want to hear where Minho has been inside the story already. You let it go to voicemail and later, on the couch, you listen to her tell you in her soft, worried cadence that she still has the spare to your place “from that time you were sick” and she might swing by with soup, “only if you’re up to it,” and you realize you do not, in fact, remember making that key.
At work, Mark starts stopping by every afternoon. He jingles a bag like a door-to-door Santa and announces, “Snack time,” because you forgot lunch twice and looked ghost-white at three. He buys the wrong bread and brings you food you are deathly allergic to. You thank him anyway because gratitude is a default.
When it snows, Mark drops by your office again, says Don’t walk alone. I’ll be outside after you’re done. Your tongue shapes the words no thanks. You picture the block and the dead lamp and the way the wind gums up your eyes with tears you don’t want anyone to name. You say: Okay. Just to the corner.
He is waiting, bouncing on his heels like a boy at a bus stop. “I brought you gloves,” he says, and holds up mittens so bright and fuzzy you feel five and forty at once. “I know you forget.”
Your spine goes hot. You take them. “Thanks.” You don’t wear them.
He fills the walk with noise. He tells you what you should do about your overreacting mother when she calls you three times in a row; he tells you he always thought Minho was “kind of a creep”; he tells you he likes women who are “low maintenance” and you wonder briefly if he has ever said that to a human woman who enjoyed hearing it. A car passes slow and too close and you half-turn toward the street like you’re going to check the license plate; the driver’s face is a blur under a hood, anonymous as a mannequin. It keeps going. You tell your pulse to stop writing novels.
By your building, Mark reaches for your bag strap and you step backward because your body finally remembers a rule. He laughs and calls you skittish in a voice that leaves no room for shame. The vestibule light flickers once, lazy, then steadies.
“Thanks for walking me,” you say, brisk. You’re almost free. “Goodnight.”
He doesn’t move. He glances at your mouth in a way that makes you feel like you’re going to throw up. “We could—” he starts, and you hear it: the wet hinge of a scene you don’t want to be in. “I mean, you know. Come up? Or I could—”
“No,” you say, but softly, because you are still learning how to say it with your chest.
He smiles like you flirted. “I’ll just walk you upstairs, then. Make sure you get in okay.”
“I’m okay,” you say, louder.
He leans in. It’s meant to be quick and charming, the kind of kiss you are supposed to find flattering because it exists. His hand lands at your hip like Minho’s never would have—flat, thoughtless, assumptive—and the shock detonates something you didn’t know you had stored.
You shove him.
It isn’t elegant; you don’t aim. It’s both hands and a noise you have never heard yourself make, an animal sound shaped like stop. Mark stumbles back hard enough to hit the railing with a grunt, eyes wide, hands up like you’ve pulled a weapon. “Whoa,” he says, as if the ground has broken a rule. “Okay. Okay. Jesus.”
Your heart is slamming so hard you can feel it in your gums. Your key bites your palm. “Don’t touch me,” you say, and the words scrape raw on the way out, bright and ugly and exactly right. “Do not ever touch me.”
He laughs in a small, wounded way men do when their math fails. “It just was a kiss.”
“It wasn’t yours,” you spit. The cold finds your lungs. “Leave.”
He hesitates, like you might apologize if he waits long enough. You don’t. He shakes his head once, brittle, then steps back into the snow, palms up again, a retreating mime. “Okay,” he says. “Okay, wow.”
“Goodnight, Mark,” you say, and you are shaking so hard the key takes three tries. On the third, the door yields and you nearly trip over the threshold. You slam it with more force than you meant and the echo sounds like someone else’s house.
You slide the chain, throw the deadbolt, and then just… stop. Your back to the door, your breath sawing ragged like you sprinted here from a life you could have stayed in.
It hits late—like weather arriving after the forecast. Your hands go numb first, then your lips, then the ugly little tremor in your wrists that makes the key ring chatter against the wood. The room is the wrong size, your jacket is too loud on your shoulders, and every sound has edges.
You try to do the sensible things. Water. A light. Sit down. Your body misunderstands of them. It screams, DANGER DANGER DANGER. You stand in the middle of the living room with the faucet running and the lamp off, crying with your whole throat open, breath catching and breaking, a fish on a dock that won’t make up its mind whether it wants the ocean or the knife.
It gets worse because panic always gets worse before it changes its mind. Your breath starts to skip—inhale stutter-inhale—like learning to drive a stick. You bend at the waist and clutch your knees and that just makes the world tilt harder. You try to count. One is a cliff. Two is a long hallway. Three is a word you forget.
Somewhere outside, a voice shouts—male, close enough to make the floorboards listen. Your head snaps up; the world swims; it sounds like Mark. You stumble to the window, fumble the curtain, press your forehead to the cold glass, and see nothing but your own ghosted face and a car idling at the corner. Another voice answers; or the wind does. Your eyes won’t focus. The street blurs into lights and the slap of tires in slush.
You back away and the room backs away with you. Your chest squeezes itself smaller, smaller, meaner. You hate that you’re still wearing your jacket, hate that you can’t figure out how zippers work. Your phone is a weight in your pocket; you find it by instinct, not by plan.
You scroll to his name without letting your mind see it. Your thumb hovers. You remember: If you call, I won’t pick up. You remember the way he said it—reasonable, final, like a law you voted for.
You call anyway.
One ring. Two. Three. The sound is a metronome inside a burning room. At four, the tone clicks into voicemail and your throat makes a noise that would be a word if words could carry water. You hang up because you don’t have muscles for a message.
You pace in a bad line from door to sink to couch and back, breath catching, catching, catching. You sit and stand and sit again like a broken instruction. Thirty minutes pass. Forty. You try to open a window and can’t lift the latch. You consider 911 and picture explaining the shape of this to a stranger with a clipboard.
At fifty-four minutes, the shout comes again—farther this time, more ragged, a syllable that could be your name or a swear. You clap your hands over your ears like a child. You cry harder because you hate the child living inside your chest.
You call again.
And again.
The call screen becomes a stuttered prayer: Minho → Ended. Minho → Voicemail. Minho → Failed. You don’t keep count until your phone starts dimming between attempts, scolding you for forgetting to charge it. You plug it in by muscle memory and keep going.
Seventeen calls. Eighteen. Nineteen.
On the twentieth, you hear your own pulse in your ear. On the twenty-first, it connects.
He answers on the inhale.
“—hello.” His voice is not the controlled blade you’re used to; it’s roughened, chopped at the edges like he’s been running. Air moves across the mouthpiece; you hear the echo of a stairwell or an alley, someplace that make sounds taller. “I’m here.”
You make a sound that embarrasses you as it leaves. “You said— you said you wouldn’t—”
“I know.” A breath. A scrape, as if he’s shouldering a door with his phone between ear and shoulder. “I’m sorry I didn’t pick up sooner. I was busy.”
“Busy—” The word fissures in your mouth. “I’m— I can’t— I’m coming over.”
The smallest pause, a hinge clicking shut. “I’m not home.”
Your heart drops and hits every stair on the way down. “Then where—”
“I’m coming to you,” he says, choosing it for you. “Stay where you are.”
He hangs up before you can cling to the word please and make it ugly.
The apartment condenses itself around your breath. You put the phone down; you pick it up; you walk a line into the rug. You try the window again; the latch lifts this time and the cold air cracks your lungs like an egg. You close it. You sit with your back to the door because he told you to once and your body trusts old orders more than new freedoms.
The hallway outside gathers a new sound—footfalls with intent, the soft cough of fabric against a wall, a key brushing metal. The first soft test of your lock, then the exact turn that means this one. The handle goes down. You don’t move. You don’t wonder how he still has a copy of your keys when he already gave you his. You don’t wonder how he got here so quickly when he lives a good while away.
The door opens a measured inch against the chain. “Unhook it,” he says through the gap, voice low, not loud enough to carry.
Your hands remember how to be hands. The chain slides; the door yields. He steps in.
He never looks like this.
Not Minho.
Hair raked back in a way that isn’t style. Shirt untucked at one corner, coat slung on his shoulders without the ceremony he gives to sleeves, breathing too fast for someone who pretends cardio is vulgar. There’s a single diagonal scratch along his right cheekbone, beading slow, precise drops that collect, then let go. One has made the reckless decision to travel: a thin red dash down the line of his jaw toward his throat.
You feel sick with the wrong kind of relief.
“Hi,” he says, almost amused by the word now that it has to make room for how he looks. He kicks the door shut gently with his heel, checks the lock without looking like he’s checking the lock, then puts his phone on the console. His hands are bare; the knuckles are flushed as if they’ve been told a secret.
“You said you wouldn’t answer,” you say, and it comes out like accusation and confession at once.
“I did.” He meets your eyes, taking inventory. “I also said you should call emergency services if you were unsafe.” His attention flicks once toward the window and back. “You weren’t going to.”
You hate that he’s right. You hate the tiny sound you make that agrees.
He steps closer, slow enough that you could mistake it for asking. You don’t step back. Up close, the scratch is clean, a narrow serif on skin. He smells like cold air and something metallic threaded under soap, not enough to name, just enough to bother the part of your brain that likes labels.
“What were you busy with?” you ask, because the words line up on their own and jump.
His eyes do that soft thing—affection folded around condescension until they’re indistinguishable. “Not you,” he says gently, which is a kindness and a cruelty in the same breath. “Now? You.”
He reaches for your face and stops a centimeter shy, polite, a man who knows the choreography and respects the pause that makes the step look graceful. “Touch or no,” he asks, like a doctor.
Your head tilts into the empty space before you can decide. His thumb taps at your jaw like muscle memory and you unclench your teeth. His other hand lifts, hovers at your cheek, then changes its mind and drifts to your wrist instead, finding your pulse where you can’t lie. “Too fast,” he murmurs. “But not dangerous.”
"What happened to your face." You ask and his lip quirks slightly.
"That's not a very polite thing to ask."
Your mouth moves before your sense finds the brakes. “I’m— I’m sorry,” you blurt, words tripping over each other to get out first. “For— for breaking up with you, for acting like I could just—like I could be fine without— I can’t do anything, I can’t even breathe right and the coffee and the passwords and the— I know you said you’d leave me alone and I asked you to and I meant it, I did, but then I didn’t, and I—”
He leans in and closes your sentence with his mouth.
It’s hungry—clean, decisive hunger that steals the shape of your apology and turns it into a sound in his throat. His hand slides to your jaw, then lower, angling your face exactly how he wants it; the other finds your hip and fits there like it’s been setting this key in this lock for months.
You gasp; he takes the breath and gives you a better one. The kiss deepens—slow for a heartbeat, then rougher when you chase it, your fingers bunching in his coat to pull him flush. He tastes like winter air and the metallic ghost of a cut and something that feels like relief. He makes a low, pleased noise against your tongue when your body finally stops hesitating and chooses him.
“I was wrong,” you manage between kisses, the words catching on heat. “You were right—about all of it, about me, I can’t—”
He swallows your confession and answers with pressure instead: mouth to yours, then the hinge of your jaw, then the fragile place below your ear that makes your knees soften in a way that has nothing to do with panic. “Shh,” he murmurs into your skin, not a hush so much as a promise. “I know.”
He walks you backward without breaking contact, guiding, arranging—your calves touch the couch and you go down with him following, weight careful even when the kiss is not. His coat slides off your shoulders; his fingers find the hem of your jacket and tug until it’s a memory on the floor. He catches your wrist when you try to fumble with your own buttons and does it for you, impatient, practiced—the soft rasp of fabric a counterpoint to the wet sound of your mouths.
“Say it again,” he breathes, forehead to yours, pupils blown wide. “You need me.”
“I—need you,” you whisper, and the way he exhales at that makes heat pool low and certain.
He kisses you harder for it—teeth catching your lower lip, tongue soothing the bite—then drags his mouth down your throat in a slow, claiming line that makes your head tip back on reflex. His palm spreads over your ribs, steadying the quick of your breath; his thumb strokes once, reassuring and possessive at once, like he’s re-learning the map he never really forgot.
His mouth works you open while his hands get practical. Buttons give; fabric slides. Each inch of him he reveals is annotated: a constellation of fine brown spatters on his undershirt near the collar, a smear along the hem like a thumb dragged through something and wiped on cotton, a bruise blooming under his left rib in the thumbprint shape of insistence. When he pushes the shirt up and off, there are faint fingerprints ghosting his bicep like someone tested the grip. His knuckles are abraded, swollen at the ridge; a single bead of red stains the curl of his thumb.
You reach for the bruise at his ribs; he catches your wrist midair without looking, kisses your palm instead, then guides your hand to his belt.
“Are you sorry,” he asks, almost gentle.
“Yes,” you say, too fast, throat tight. “Yes, Minho, I’m— I’m sorry.”
“Show me,” he says.
You’re on your knees before the last word lands, knees biting into the rug, hands behind your back like your body already knows the rubric. He frees himself with the neat economy he gives everything—buckle, zip, the rasp of fabric—and his cock falls heavy against his palm, thick and flushed, already slick at the tip. He doesn’t stroke. He taps the head against your lower lip, patient as a metronome. “Open.”
You open. He slides the head past your lips and just rests there, the hot weight of him on your tongue like a promise you haven’t earned. “Eyes,” he reminds you, and when you look up through your lashes, he makes a pleased, broken sound that goes straight between your legs.
“Slow,” he says. “You know I like it slow.”
You hollow your cheeks and he groans—an unguarded, low sound he never makes for anything else. The bead on his cheek breaks and tracks down to the corner of his mouth; he swipes it away with the back of a bruised knuckle impatiently, breath snagging when your tongue flattens along the underside of him.
“Slow,” he says again, but it’s already a plea. His composure lives in his hands—one braced on the back of the couch, tendons tight; the other on your crown, not forcing, just trembling there like he’s remembering why he shouldn’t. His hips betray him anyway, a tiny, helpless forward twitch that bumps the head against the soft back of your throat. His jaw locks. “Fuck.”
You take him deeper by degrees, learning the rhythm of his breath, riding the arcs of it. Spit spills hot over your lower lip and strings to your chin when you ease back to breathe; he watches it catch the light and exhales a wrecked laugh that makes you wetter.
“Give me your eyes,” he reminds, softer, and when you look up he comes apart another inch. Pupils blown, lips parted, that thin scarlet line brightening when his pulse kicks in his neck. “God, you—” He cuts himself off with a bitten groan when you curl your tongue at the slit, taste salt, then slide down until your nose brushes the damp heat of his lower belly.
His head tips back. “Fuck—” It’s almost a hiss, dragged out of him like confession. He holds there, shaking minutely, letting your throat cradle him while you breathe through your nose like he taught you. When you swallow, on purpose, his composure rips a stitch. “Do that again.”
You do; his knees flex, thighs taut under your hands where they’re laced behind your back. He shouldn’t thrust—he told you slow—but his body betrays him, a shallow, rhythmic press he can’t quite stop, the heavy heat of him gliding over your tongue in a slick, obscene cadence. He looks down, and the sight—your lips stretched, your chin shiny, his cock vanishing into the warm pink of you—makes his voice drop into something rough. “Look at this mouth. My perfect apology.”
You hum around him, pleased and filthy, and the vibration makes his breath stutter. His thumb strokes your cheek, then your lower lip where it’s stretched, tender, and the sight softens his face into something almost painful. “So pretty,” he says, and then it breaks again into ruin: “So—mm—pretty.”
A fresh bead wells at the scratch and wobbles; he flinches when it reaches the corner of his jaw and smears it away on his forearm, impatience roughening the motion. “Ignore it,” he mutters, more to himself than you, and goes right back to falling apart for you—hips ticking, abs twitching, the cords in his throat standing out when you take him to the hilt and hold.
He pulls you off with a gasp just before you gag, hand cupping your jaw, thumb rubbing your spit-slicked lip like he’s trying to memorize shine. He pants against your forehead, eyes unfocused, a breathy, astonished laugh bleeding into a curse. “You’re going to ruin me.”
“Please,” you whisper, raw, mouth swollen. “I wanna.”
“Show me,” he answers, voice gone wrecked and fond, and feeds you again.
You set a wicked, patient pace, dragging the crown along your tongue, dipping, rising, letting your saliva make a mess of your chin and his fist. Every time you angle just right—grazing the sweet spot under the head with the soft of your tongue, sealing your lips tighter at the ridge—his control slips: a groan bitten into the heel of his hand, a curse strangled low in his chest, his fingers clenching in your hair and immediately easing like he’s apologizing to you for needing you so much.
“Listen,” he pants, and you do—wet suck, breath through your nose, the quiet animal sounds he can’t stop making now. “God, that’s—” His hips stutter; you take it, greedy, and he breaks completely for a second, eyes closing, forehead creasing. “Fuck, angel, you’re—”
He yanks you off again when he feels the edge—he always knows exactly where it is—palming your cheek, dizzy with breath. A string of spit clings between the flushed head and your mouth, shining when it snaps onto your tongue. He stares like he wants to frame you. His self-control wobbles; he kisses you, hard and wet, tasting himself, groaning when you chase him for more.
He breaks the kiss and drops to his knees like a verdict, hands sliding up your thighs, breath hot where you’re already slick. His mouth hovers over you—one long inhale like he’s about to ruin dinner with dessert—and you feel his smile against your inner thigh.
“Minho—” you whine, hips tipping up, desperate. “I want you to fuck me.”
His head lifts. The look he gives you is molten and amused. “Do you?” he says softly, thumb pressing to your clit in a lazy circle that steals your next breath. “I was going to be generous.”
“I don’t want your mouth,” you gasp, shameless. “I want you.”
He laughs, wrecked and fond, and the sound vibrates against your knee. “Filthy girl.” He licks a single stripe up you anyway—slow, deliberate, just to hear the noise you make—then wipes his mouth with the back of his bruised hand. The scratch on his cheek beads again; he doesn’t notice. “Turn around. Hands on the back of the couch.”
You move fast, presenting, needy. He palms your ass, spreads you open with thumbs that tremble just a little, groans helplessly at the sight of you swollen and slick. “Look at that,” he mutters, reverence fraying into hunger. His fingers tighten slightly around the flesh of your ass.
He settles behind you, hands neat on your hips, thumbs stroking small, steady arcs as if smoothing out the tremor in your skin. “Easy,” he says in that cool, patient voice that always sounds like instructions. “Shoulders down.” He nudges your knees a touch wider with his own, then straightens your spine with a light press between your shoulder blades. “There. Better.”
You feel the heat of him against you and then the first slow drag is maddeningly careful, a measured glide along the seam of your thighs that promises and withholds at the same time. He doesn’t push forward; he rocks, deliberate, keeping just enough distance to deny you what you’re reaching for.
“Minho,” you gasp, trying to tip your hips back. His grip tightens, not unkind. Containing.
“Ah.” A soft click of his tongue, almost fond. “Impatient already?” His mouth finds the hinge of your jaw, cool and controlled, and you feel the faint wetness of that thin line on his cheek as it grazes your shoulder. He wipes it away with a knuckle without looking, then returns to arranging you like a favorite habit—hair swept aside, chin turned so he can hear every noise you make. “Ask properly.”
“Please,” you manage. “I want—”
“I know what you want,” he murmurs, and the glide comes again—longer, closer, the length of him pressing snug where you’re aching, but never, ever giving you the final answer. “I am being generous.” His hands travel your waist like he’s counting vertebrae. “But not careless.”
He keeps you there on purpose—slow, teasing passes that make your breath go ragged. Each time you try to chase, he reins you in with that quiet, doting authority that feels like a hand at the small of your back in a crowd. “Good girl,” he says when you hold still for him. “Let me have the pace.” Another careful grind, deeper this time, enough to make your knees quiver. “That’s it. I’ll give you everything when you’ve learned to be patient.”
“Minho,” you whine, shame and want tangling. “Please.”
His laugh is low and satisfied against your ear. “That’s closer.” He rocks again, cruelly precise, letting the friction crest and fade, crest and fade, until your fingers claw at the cushion. “Tell me how sorry you are.”
“So sorry,” you breathe, dizzy. “I shouldn’t have— I need you.”
“Mm.” Approval, cool and clean. He rewards you with a slower, heavier roll that drags a helpless sound out of you. His palm slides to your belly, anchoring you; the other tucks around your throat, not squeezing—just fitting there, a reminder. “You do.”
Another pause—his favorite kind, the one that stretches the moment until it sings. He kisses the side of your neck, almost tender. “One more,” he promises, voice steady even as his breath frays. “And then I’ll decide whether you’ve earned it.”
The next grind is unhurried and devastating; you tremble, pleading on a breath you can’t catch. He smiles against your skin—cool, doting, inexorable—and keeps you exactly where he wants you, drawing the want out until it gleams.
He settles behind you hands neat on your hips, thumbs drawing small, proprietary arcs that make your skin prickle. “Good,” he says, cool and fond at once, aligning you exactly where he wants you against the couch back.
The heat of him slots along you, thick and unambiguous. He doesn’t push in. He rocks—slow, measured passes that press the head of his cock through your slick and up against your clit before dragging down again to glide through your folds. The friction is obscene. Denial is sharper.
“Say it,” he murmurs at your ear, mouth ghosting your skin. “What do you want.”
“You,” you gasp, shame baked in. “I want you to fuck me.”
“Mhm.” The soft approval is almost a purr. He rewards you with a deeper grind that makes your knees dip. Then he withholds again, smug in the control, rubbing the flushed crown over you in tight, merciless passes that wring a little cry from your throat. His knuckles tighten on your hips; you feel the faint sting of bruised skin meeting new grip. “Greedy.”
You push back; he pins you with a tidy press of fingers that will leave fingerprints later. “Uh-uh.” His voice warms with pleasure at how much you want. “You begged for cock. Earn cock.”
Another drag. He fits himself between your cheeks and grinds, slow enough to be cruel, until your breath breaks into pieces. You’re wet enough that every pass paints him; he huffs a ruined little laugh and smears the slick over your clit with the head, lazy, cruel, doting in that cold way that makes you ache.
“Please,” you say, raw, and the word gets him—his composure slips a degree, hips pushing too close to the place he’s denying both of you. “Please, inside.”
“Pretty,” he says, and kisses the corner of your jaw. “Open.”
He presses—patient, claiming pressure—and the thick heat of him parts you. The stretch knocks a helpless sound out of you; he swears quietly into your shoulder, not elegant now, breath hitching as your body seats him inch by inch. When his hips meet you, he stays there, full, shaking just enough to make you feel it.
“God.” A bare confession against your skin. He pulls out an inch and sinks back with punishing slowness, a long, dragging stroke that grinds his pelvis against your swollen clit at the end. The noise you make thrills him; he does it again, same angle, same deliberate cruelty, building you steady without letting you sprint.
When your body starts to climb, he feels it and changes tactics—slides out and denies you with a deliberate rub of the head against your clit, slick and hot, until your thighs tremble and you want to sob. “That’s it,” he murmurs, pleased and awful. “Hold it.”
“Please,” you groan, trying to chase. He doesn’t let you. He slides two fingers in alongside the head and fucks them shallow, the blunt press of his knuckles tapping your lips while the crown teases your clit in small, maddening circles. Your legs shake; your nails bite the cushion. You’re right there.
He stops again. A kiss at your shoulder like a benediction. “Such a mess for me,” he says, pride threading through the calm.
“Please,” you say again, smaller now, honest. “I’m sorry. I won’t—I won’t bolt again. Just—”
“That’s my girl.” He lines up and gives you what you begged for, all of it, pushing deep and starting a rhythm that’s not fast but devastating—long, ruthless strokes that drag over every place he’s mapped, grinding at the bottom just enough to set fire to your clit each time. His hand slides under, palm heavy over your lower belly; the other slips from your hip to your throat, not squeezing, just fitting there like a ring he’s checking for size. “Take me.”
You do. You take him and it rewrites you. The couch thuds a steady beat against the wall; your voice goes high and ugly and perfect. He listens and adjusts—one knee wider, your spine arched a hair more—and the new depth makes the breath punch out of you. He groans against your ear, losing polish, the thin bead of blood at his cheek smearing on your skin as he works.
You start to tip over; he feels it in the way you clutch and tries to be cruel again—pulls nearly out, rubs the head across your clit in a tight, taunting figure—then caves at the noise you make. “Okay,” he says, voice wrecked, and drives back in hard enough to knock a curse out of both of you. “Come on then. Give it to me.”
It hits like a wave breaking right over your head—hot, rolling, messy—your body gripping him in helpless pulses that drag another groan from his chest. He fucks through it, pace going ragged, hand flattening your belly like he can feel himself flood you from the outside. “Mine,” he says, harsh and grateful, hips snapping. “Mine.”
You feel him go—the brutal, gorgeous stutter, the deep lock of his hips, the heat spilling in long, helpless pulses while he murmurs praise right into your shoulder. He stays buried, small, involuntary pushes wringing aftershocks out of both of you until you whimper at the sensitivity and he gentles, palm smoothing slow circles over your stomach like he’s soothing a shiver he put there.
When he finally eases out, the loss makes you gasp; warmth slips down and his thumb is there instantly, lazy, possessive, pushing what he can back inside with a smug little noise that shouldn’t make you clench and does. He kisses the smear on your shoulder where his cheek left red, then the hollow below your ear.
“Apology accepted,” he says, composed again but shining with it, the cold doting back in place like a collar. His fingers slide lower, testing, teasing, already thinking about how easily you’re going to fall apart the second time. “Don’t go anywhere.”
He crowds your hips back into the cushion with one palm and sinks to the floor again, shouldering your thighs apart like he’s taking back a seat. The other hand is lazy and obscene—thumb pushing the slick warmth that’s slipping out of you back where he wants it, smearing it over your swollen clit until you shiver.
“I like when your messy,” he says, cool and satisfied. “That’s mine.”
His mouth replaces his thumb. Not gentle—thorough. He seals his lips around your clit and draws, slow and hungry, tongue flattening and then circling in small, practiced passes that make your calves go tight. You gasp and twist; he pins you with fingers sunk into the meat of your thigh, the faint sting of bruised knuckles a contrast to the wet heat of his mouth.
“T’much,” you whine, already fluttering.
“I know,” he says into you, voice low and pleased, and eats through it anyway. Every time you try to wriggle from the sensitivity, he follows, mouth greedy, dragging you back to the edge until you’re shaking and wet and furious with how good it feels.
You break with a sharp noise, clenching around his tongue; he hums, savoring it, and rides you through the spill with slow, rolling laps that make the aftershocks twitch down your thighs. When you go limp, he kisses the pout of your clit lightly—mocking, doting—and then licks lower, tasting the slick that leaks out around his fingers when he pushes two inside and hooks them, shallow and cruel.
“Look at that,” he says, lifting his head to watch his fingers disappear into you, lips shiny, the thin pink line on his cheek freshly wiped away with the heel of his palm. “Still accommodating.”
“Come here,” you plead, wrecked. “I want you.”
He stands in one smooth breath. Pants half-hung on his hips, cock flushed and heavy, he climbs back over you, guiding your ankle up to his shoulder with a neat, impersonal care that makes your stomach flip. The stretch opens you for him perfectly; he fits himself and rubs the head over your clit once—mean—before sliding down and pressing in again. You make a sound like gratitude and blasphemy at once.
“Eyes on me,” he says softly, and sinks to the hilt in a single, devastating glide.
The first thrust is a measured stroke that drags heat over every place he’s learned matters. The second is deeper. By the third, the cool is fraying. He braces your leg higher, palm flat under your knee, and starts to use you—long, grinding passes that set a slick rhythm, pelvis nudging your clit each time he bottoms out. Your breath catches in little, broken pieces; his jaw flexes.
“Perfect,” he says, voice gone rough. “Take me.”
You do; you take him and the room narrows to the sound of skin and the filthy wet between you. He kisses you like he means to steady your mouth—slow and claiming, a quiet counterpoint to the way he’s driving you open. When you chase him for speed, he gives you one punishing set of hard, deep snaps that make your nails scrabble at his back, then goes right back to the steady, ruinous tempo that keeps your nerves singing.
“That’s it,” he approves when your thighs start to tremble again. He slips his hand between your bodies, tips two fingers to your clit, and barely moves them—just enough to light you up, not enough to let you fall. You try to arch; he flattens the curve of your back with his other hand, pinning you in place to feel every inch he gives you. “Stay with me.”
“Please,” you gasp, humiliated by how quickly you break for him now. “Please—don’t stop—”
“I won’t,” he promises, and you believe him because he never does once he decides you’re going to fall apart for him. He rubs tighter, thrusts deeper, breath tearing out of him in honest, ugly sounds that make your belly clench. The fine control that defines him burns off in the edges—hips hitting harder, a curse bitten into your throat, the tiniest shudder when you grip him just right.
You tip over hard. It drags a cry out of your chest you don’t recognize; your body locks around him, milking, fluttering, and he loses the last of his polish with a low, savage groan, chasing you down into it with deep, ruthless strokes that turn the crest to a flood.
“Good,” he says, broken with it, and folds you tighter—ankle pressed to his shoulder, hand under your knee, the other palming your jaw so he can look at the wreck he made. “Again.”
He doesn’t ask. He takes. His fingers never leave your clit; his cock keeps you full; the aftershocks pile into a second wave that hits too soon, too sharp, and you sob into his mouth. He swallows the sound, praises you against your tongue, and finally lets himself go—pace collapsing into hungry, messy thrusts that punch little sounds out of his throat he’d die before making anywhere else.
“Mine,” he says against your cheek as it drags him under, hips locking; the heat spills deep in thick pulses you can feel against his palm where it spreads over your lower belly. He stays inside, breathing hard, giving two small, possessive pushes that wring one last tremor out of you.
Silence arrives in pieces: your pulse in your ears, his breath in your mouth, the quiet tap of a drop of water somewhere in the pipes. He smooths your hair back with careful fingers, then wipes the faint red smear his cheek left on your shoulder with a thumb, clinical as ever.
“Stay exactly like this,” he says at last, calm sliding back over his voice like a tailored coat. His thumb traces where you’re still slick and a little open around him; he watches it with the cool, pleased look of a man admiring a job done to spec.
He goes quiet in that efficient, purposeful way of his, leaving you open on the couch while he disappears to the bathroom. The tap clicks; water runs. He returns with a warm, wrung cloth and that cool, clinical focus that always feels like care sharpened to a point.
“Up,” he murmurs, and you let him. One palm under your knee, the other at your hip, he tilts you just enough to slide the heat of the cloth between your thighs. He’s thorough. Slow passes that gather the mess he put there, his mouth brushing your knee like an absent-minded kiss each time you twitch. When warmth slicks down the curve of you, his thumb is there, steady, catching it so it doesn’t reach the couch. Doting, proprietary.
“Too much?” he asks, but it isn’t really a question; he’s already gentling the pressure, already smoothing the cloth along your swollen clit in a careful, non-negotiable circle that makes your breath hitch and then soften. He wipes the inside of your thighs, the mound, the place just below your belly where he marked you with his mouth. He swaps to a fresh corner, folds the cloth with neat thumbs as if this is a ritual he enjoys.
“There,” he says, pleased with his own tidiness. He tosses the cloth into the empty bowl and drags the backs of his fingers over your thigh—knuckles nicked, a faint sting that says he didn’t get through the evening unmarked. “Pretty again.”
He’s halfway to standing when it comes, like an afterthought he’s been waiting to place perfectly. “Have you been taking your pill since I left?”
The words land with surgical precision; you feel yourself go small around them. “Yes,” you breathe, then, timidly, wrecked and honest: “I mean, I—yes. But… maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. If—” Your voice frays. “If we had a baby.”
That earns you a long, patient stare. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t even blink. His thumb drags a lazy line up your inner thigh, a soft brand. “No.”
Your heart kicks. “No?”
He shifts closer, knee on the cushion between your legs, the couch dipping so you tip toward him like gravity picked a side. His hand finds your jaw—cool palm, steady fingers—and tilts your face until you can’t escape the temperature of his eyes.
“Sweet girl,” he says, and the endearment is a velvet sleeve over steel, “you can barely remember to eat when I’m not there to put a fork in your hand.”
“That’s not—” You flush, already losing the argument you started.
“You can’t keep a password in your head for twenty-four hours. You left the kettle on twice last week.” He says it without heat, inventorying you like a pantry. You’re too overwhelmed to wonder how he knows that. “You apologize to men who bump your shoulder in doorways. You take vitamins if I count them into your palm, and not otherwise.” His thumb rubs your lower lip, wipes away a dried shine like he’s tidying the punctuation of your mouth. “You are not a mother. You are just mine.”
It’s cruel because it’s accurate. It’s tender because it’s him.
He leans in and kisses you, soft enough to make your eyes sting. “I won’t let you fail at something that big because you were in a feeling after I fucked you stupid.” A kiss to the corner of your mouth. “You’d love too hard and forget yourself.” Another, to the hollow under your cheekbone. “You forget yourself easily.”
Your voice comes out small. “You think I couldn’t?”
“I think,” he says, precise, “that you would hand your entire body to a screaming seven-pound stranger and then apologize to it while you shattered.” His smile is thin and unbearably fond. “I think you’re a very soft, very pretty creature who needs a caretaker, not a dependent.”
The words should slice. Somehow they hold.
He taps your temple, then your breastbone, then the low place of your belly where he kept his hand while he came. “This is where I live. This is what I manage.” His hand slides back down between your thighs, not sexual now, just claiming the geography. “You want a baby because it sounds like staying. I am staying. Do you understand?”
Tears sting your lashes. You nod, dizzy with afterglow and the quiet, devastating rightness of his voice. “Yes.”
“Good.” He kisses your damp eyelashes like he’s blessing them. “Take your pill tonight. Set an alarm.” He’s already reaching for your phone on the table, swiping to the clock with domestic tyranny. “I’ll put it under a name you won’t swipe away.”
He swipes his thumb under your eyes.
“This is love.” He reminds you, pockets the phone. “Mine comes with rails. You ride better with rails.”
He gathers you with that orderly strength—one arm under your knees, the other at your back—and carries you to bed because your legs are no longer competent at stairs. He lays you down like you’re glass he intends to keep, tucks a pillow beneath your hips to keep you comfortable. When you shiver, he tucks the comforter around your shoulders, fussing the corner like a man who irons napkins.
“Water,” he says, and brings it with a hand at your nape so you don’t spill. “Electrolyte pack?” You nod; he tears, pours, holds the glass while you sip. “Good.”
Your eyes are going. The world narrows to the weight of his palm on your thigh, the phone dimming on the nightstand with the new alarm set, the coolness of his voice like a compress against your hot, spent skin.
He smooths hair back from your face, studying you, satisfied. “No babies,” he says again, softer now, as if it’s a lullaby. “Not while you still need reminding to put your keys in the dish.” His fingers skim your throat, your collarbone, the place his mouth purpled earlier. “I’ll fill you. I’ll keep you. I’ll make sure you don’t wander into fires.”
You close your eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“I know.” He kisses your forehead. “Apology accepted.”
He draws the covers higher, then—like it’s truly an afterthought—adds, “If you want something to care for, I’ll bring a plant. Something forgiving. Something that won’t die if you forget it for a day.” His smile tilts, cruel and adoring. “We’ll practice. And you’ll keep your pill.”
You nod again because he has already made the decision feel like yours. He clicks the lamp off, the bedroom falling into that clean, expensive dark he favors. You feel his weight lower beside you, the mattress dipping, the exact line his body makes around yours—the rail you’ve been craving.
The dark settles in layers—first the hush of the heating unit, then the softer hush of your breath syncing itself to his. He lies on his side behind you like a bracket, one arm under your pillow, the other draped heavy and warm over your waist, palm spread exactly where he likes it. The room smells faintly of antiseptic and skin.
After a while, you turn and face him. The scratch drags a thin, drying seam across his cheekbone, a punctuation mark where his face should be a clean sentence. You lift your hand without thinking.
He lets you touch it, but he guides how: two fingers under your wrist, angling your thumb to skim beside the cut, not over it. “Careful,” he says, quiet, more command than caution. The skin is hot and tight around the edge; a flake of dried red comes away against your fingertip. Your throat tightens.
“Does it hurt?”
He considers, then tips his head a fraction into your hand like a cat that won’t admit it likes petting. “A little,” he says.
You start to sit up. “Let me get—”
He’s already off the mattress and back again before the sheet cools, opening a small kit he must have fetched earlier without you noticing. Alcohol pads, a butterfly strip, a tiny tube of ointment lined up in a straight row on the nightstand as if they’re auditioning for the privilege. He breaks the packet and hands you the wipe. “Since you’re determined to fuss,” he murmurs. “Do it properly.”
You clean him in small, nervous circles. He doesn’t flinch when it stings; you do. He watches your mouth pinch at the corners and looks pleased in that private way of his, as if the ache in your face is his proof of love. When you reach for the ointment, he covers your hand with his and squeezes once—approval and ownership braided together. “Thank you.”
“What happened?” It’s barely a whisper.
He watches you long enough that you start to think he won’t answer. Then: “A miscalculation,” he says, voice even. “Corrected.”
Your chest squeezes. “Because of me.”
“Because of pattern,” he corrects, like he’s straightening a picture on a wall. “People who take liberties tend to repeat them. I don’t like repeats.”
You press the wipe’s cool edge to the last angry shine. He doesn’t move. Up close, you can see other small facts you missed in the heat—the faint crescent of a nail at his forearm, a shadowed bloom just under his collarbone where a knuckle must have landed and then regretted it. He smells like you a little now, but there’s a thin thread of street still in it—cold air, wet concrete.
“I heard him shouting,” you say. “Outside.”
"Who?"
"Mark."
You feel the question rise—what happened to Mark—ready to tear your mouth on the way out. You hold it behind your teeth like a coin you won’t spend. If you spend it, he’ll stand up; if he stands up, the night will tilt, and you are so tired of falling.
His expression doesn’t change. “Mm.” A file dropped into an already-labeled drawer. “Was that his name?”
“Minho?”
“Yes?”
You swallow. "Was?"
He doesn’t blink. “Is,” he amends, soft as dust settling. “For now.”
Your stomach drops a shallow floor. “What did you—”
“Remind him he has a spine,” he says. “And that it bends both ways.”
You stare at the butterfly strip you just pressed to his cheek so you don’t have to stare at his eyes. “Min—”
“He won’t knock at your door again.” He says it like the weather. “He won’t confuse your silence for invitation. He won’t mistake your corridor for common ground.”
The room seems to tilt; you press your palm flat against his sternum until it levels. His pulse is steady under your hand, a metronome that refuses to match your panic. “What if he goes to—”
“He won’t,” Minho says, and there’s a precise, almost bored confidence in it that makes the back of your neck prickle. “He knows the difference between consequences and escalation.” A pause, then, as if to offer you a compromise: “And if he doesn’t, he’ll learn.”
You swallow the next question before it grows teeth. Curiosity is a door; you decide not to open it. Instead you tug at him—small, insistent—until his chest is flush to yours and the weight of him is something your body can understand.
“I love you,” you say, small and clean, like setting a glass on a shelf.
He hums, pleased in that quiet way that makes the dark feel full. “I know.” A beat, warm at your temple. “I love you too.”
“Don’t leave me again.” It comes out fragile and absolute.
“I won’t,” he says, like a weather report. No flourish, just the forecast. His palm settles heavier over your waist, the weight of a book keeping a page from turning. “I don’t abandon what I’m responsible for.”
The room has that museum hush, the kind where sound seems to stand still and think about itself. Somewhere below, a door shuts and then shuts again, as if relearning the action. The butterfly strip on his cheek is a pale hyphen that joins two ideas you can’t look at directly. His thumb draws a slow line along your rib like he’s indexing you for later.
“You don’t have to be afraid of the parts you can’t name,” he says, not unkind. “You just have to let me hold them.”
You nod into the hollow of his throat. The urge to ask frays and unspools; what’s left is the relief of a decision made for you. He tucks you closer, as if there’s still daylight sneaking in somewhere and he means to block it with his body.
“Sleep,” he adds, a soft instruction. “In the morning, the bulb will be replaced. The latch will catch on the first turn. Your inbox will be tidy. You’ll think today was an echo.”
“And you’ll be here,” you say, needing the shape of it.
His lips curve against your hair. “I’ll be here,” he confirms. “I don’t leave.”
Outside, a car rolls past like a distant thought and the radiator ticks once, a metronome set for a slower song. You press closer anyway, almost like apology; he accepts it as tribute, fingers splayed across your belly, possessive and calm.
You breathe him in, and the question you didn’t ask softens into the dark the way salt vanishes when it finds water. His pulse is steady under your mouth. The room holds its breath with you and then, finally, lets it go.
Mark doesn’t come in for work the next day. Or the day after that. In fact, you never see him again.
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