You’re staring at your own reflection in the bathroom mirror, and the girl staring back looks like she’s about to either throw up or ascend to another dimension. Maybe both. In that order.

The letter is clutched so tightly in your hand that the pale lavender envelope is starting to crease, and you force yourself to loosen your grip before you ruin the one thing you’ve spent three weeks perfecting. Three weeks. That’s twenty-one days of drafting, crossing out, rewriting, Googling “how to write a love letter without sounding like a desperate loser,” and then rewriting again. You’ve used up an entire pack of stationery. You’ve watched so many calligraphy tutorials that the YouTube algorithm thinks you’re training to become a medieval scribe. All for this one moment. This one letter. This one massive, terrifying, possibly life-ruining leap of faith.

You are a hopeless romantic. Hopeless being the operative word.

It’s not that you don’t believe in love. You do. Desperately, overwhelmingly, with every fiber of your first-year STEM student soul. You believe in meet-cutes and slow burns and the exact moment when two people look at each other and the entire world goes soft around the edges. You’ve read about it a hundred times. You’ve watched it play out on every screen you own. You’ve composed entire daydreams about it during particularly boring chemistry lectures. Love is your favorite subject, the one you’ve studied with more dedication than calculus or physics combined. There’s just one tiny, inconvenient, absolutely infuriating problem.

You’re terrified of it.

Not the idea of it. The idea is lovely. The idea is safe. The idea lives in your head where everything unfolds exactly the way you want it to, where you always say the right thing, where you never trip over your own feet or laugh too loud at the wrong moment or stand frozen in a doorway like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. But real love? The kind that requires vulnerability and eye contact and actually speaking words out loud with your mouth? That kind of love makes your palms sweat and your heart race in a decidedly unromantic, fight-or-flight kind of way. You are, and this is the most embarrassing part, a coward. A romantic coward. You dream of grand gestures but can barely manage a coherent sentence when an attractive person so much as glances in your direction.

Which brings you back to the letter.

The letter is your loophole. Your workaround. Your way of confessing your feelings without actually having to say them, because writing them down felt manageable in a way that speaking never has. You can be eloquent on paper. On paper, you can say things like “the first time I saw your smile, it felt like someone had turned on all the lights in a room I didn’t even realize was dark” without immediately wanting to crawl into the nearest hole and live out the rest of your days an hermit. On paper, you’re brave. On paper, you’re the kind of person who goes after what she wants.

In reality, you’ve been hiding in this bathroom for fifteen minutes, and your hands are shaking so badly that a passing person would think you are having an epileptic seizure.

“Okay,” you whisper to your reflection. “Okay. You can do this. You are a woman on a mission. You are a warrior. You are-”

A toilet flushes in one of the stalls behind you, and you nearly launch yourself through the ceiling.

A girl you vaguely recognize from your introductory programming class emerges, gives you an odd look as she washes her hands, and leaves without saying anything. You wait until the door swings shut, then press your forehead against the cool glass of the mirror and contemplate every life choice that has led you to this moment.

His name is Jungwon.

Yang Jungwon. Second year. Undeclared major but leaning toward something in the humanities, which you know because you may have done a bit of light, respectful, completely non-creepy research. He has a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes and a laugh that sounds like sunshine if sunshine could make noise, and he holds doors open for people even when they’re still like ten feet away, which creates that awkward situation where the person has to speed-walk to not seem rude, but he never seems to mind. You first noticed him at the campus library during midterms when he quietly slid a pack of gummy bears across the table toward you at 2 AM, muttering something about glucose being good for brain function, and then went back to his book like he hadn’t just fundamentally altered the trajectory of your entire emotional existence.

That was four months ago. You’ve been pining ever since. Pining, yearning, longing, you’ve run through the entire lexicon of unrequited affection, and you’re exhausted. Today, you’ve decided, is the day it ends. One way or another.

You push yourself off the mirror, square your shoulders, and march out of the bathroom with the determination of someone going to war. The envelope is slightly damp from your grip, but it’s still intact, and the words inside are still true, and somewhere on this campus, Yang Jungwon is about to receive the most heartfelt confession letter ever written by a first-year student who has consumed an unhealthy amount of romance media.

Now you just have to find him.

—————

The hallway is bustling with students, the usual midday chaos of people rushing to classes or huddling in groups to complain about assignments. You scan the crowd, looking for a familiar face that might point you in the right direction, and your eyes land on a guy leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone with the dead-eyed expression of someone who has just finished a three-hour lab.

“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out about an octave higher than normal. You clear your throat. “Sorry, um, do you know where I can find Yang Jungwon? Second year?”

The guy looks up, blinks slowly, deciding whether or not to acknowledge your presence, and then shrugs. “PC room, I think. Saw him heading there like twenty minutes ago.”

The PC room. Of course. It’s in the engineering and informatics building, a place you’ve rarely ever been to. But you know where it is, roughly, and you thank the guy with what you hope is a normal smile and not the rictus grin of someone rushing toward emotional catastrophe.

The walk across campus takes approximately seven minutes, and you spend every single one of them rehearsing what you’re going to say. You’ve already written the letter, so technically you don’t have to say anything, you can just hand it over and flee but you want to say something. Something cool. Something memorable.

“Hey, Jungwon, this is for you.” Simple. Direct. Good.

“I wrote you something. No pressure, just read it when you have time.” Casual. Low-stakes. Excellent.

“Hi, I’ve been emotionally compromised by your existence for several months, please accept this paper rectangle of feelings.” Okay, maybe not that one.

The engineering building looms in front of you before you’re ready. You push through the main doors and immediately feel out of place. The students here move with a different energy, less frantic, more focused, the kind of people who probably know what a server is and have opinions about programming languages you’ve never heard of.

You follow the signs toward the PC room, your footsteps echoing in the corridor, and with every step, your heart climbs higher up your throat. This is it. This is the moment. You’re going to walk in there, find Jungwon, hand him the letter, and then whatever happens happens. At least you’ll have tried. At least you’ll have been brave, even if it’s only for thirty seconds.

The door to the PC room is slightly ajar, and you can hear voices inside, multiple voices, which gives you pause. You assumed he’d be alone. Or with maybe one other person.

You hesitate. Your hand hovers over the door handle. Every instinct is screaming at you to turn around, go back to your dorm, and spend the rest of your life wondering what could have been. And maybe you would, if not for the small, stubborn voice in the back of your mind that says: You’ve already come this far. Don’t you want to know? Don’t you want to be the kind of person who actually does the thing instead of just dreaming about it?

Yes. Yes, you do.

You squeeze your eyes shut, take a breath so deep it makes you lightheaded, and push the door open with more force than strictly necessary. It slams against the wall with a bang that makes approximately twelve heads swivel in your direction, and for one horrifying moment, you are the center of attention in a room full of strangers.

But you don’t see any of them. You only see the figure sitting at the computer closest to the door, his back half-turned to you, hair falling over his forehead, the exact silhouette you’ve been looking for. Or at least, the exact silhouette you think you’ve been looking for.

You don’t stop to confirm. You don’t let yourself think. You just march forward, thrust the letter out in front of you like a shield, and launch into the speech you’ve been rehearsing for three weeks.

“This is for you. I’m sorry if this is weird or sudden but I’ve liked you for a really long time and I couldn’t keep it to myself anymore. You don’t have to respond right away. You don’t have to respond ever, actually. I just wanted you to know that someone out there thinks you’re wonderful and I wrote it all down because I’m better at writing than talking and honestly I might pass out if I keep standing here so please just take this and I’ll go-”

You finally look up.

And the face staring back at you is absolutely, categorically, one hundred percent not Jungwon.

The boy in front of you is taller than Jungwon. Broader shoulders. Sharper jawline. Different eyes, darker, deeper, currently widened in a mixture of surprise and something you can’t quite read. His lips are parted slightly, as if he was about to say something before you launched into your emotional word-vomit, and he’s holding a half-eaten protein bar that’s now frozen halfway to his mouth.

The room has gone completely, utterly silent.

You can feel the stares of every single person boring into the back of your head. Someone coughs. Someone else whispers something that sounds suspiciously like “did she just-” before being shushed by their neighbor.

And then the boy, the very handsome, very wrong boy, sets down his protein bar, takes the letter gently from your trembling hand, and says in a voice that’s low and smooth and completely unfamiliar: “Wow. Okay. What’s your name?”

This is the worst moment of your entire life. You are going to die right here, in this PC room, surrounded by computer monitors and half-empty energy drink cans and a dozen witnesses who will spread this story to every corner of the university within the next three hours. Your obituary will read: here lies Y/N, the loser who can’t even recognize her ultimate crush.

“Y/N,” you croak, because your mouth is apparently still functioning even though every other part of you has shut down. “L/N Y/N. First year. STEM.”

You don’t know why you said STEM. He didn’t ask for your department. You’re offering information nobody requested. This is a disaster.

But the boy, he’s looking at you with an expression you can’t decipher, his head tilted slightly to the side like you’re a puzzle he’s trying to figure out. He’s wearing a dark hoodie with the informatics department logo on it, and there’s a pair of expensive-looking headphones draped around his neck, and his hair is slightly mussed in a way that suggests he’s been running his fingers through it while concentrating. He’s absurdly good-looking, the kind of good-looking that makes you simultaneously want to stare and look away, and you’re only now noticing the way several girls in the room have been watching him since you entered, not just because of your blunder, but because they’ve been watching him.

“I’m Heeseung,” he says, and there’s a hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”

Lee Heeseung. The name registers somewhere in the back of your panic-addled brain. It’s familiar in the way that campus gossip is familiar, attached to words like hot and player and don’t get your hopes up because he’ll charm you and then move on. You’ve heard girls in your dorm talking about him in hushed, giggling tones, trading stories about brief encounters and misinterpreted invitations. And you, in your infinite wisdom, have just handed a love letter meant for someone else directly into his notorious hands.

You have to fix this. You have to tell him it was a mistake. You have to-

“I’m flattered,” Heeseung says, and his smile widens slightly, not quite a smirk but definitely approaching smirk territory. “Really. This is... I mean, no one’s ever confessed to me with an actual letter before. It’s kind of old school.” He turns the envelope over in his hands, examining it with what seems like genuine curiosity. “The handwriting is really pretty. Did you do the calligraphy yourself?”

“Yes,” you say, because you are physically incapable of lying when put on the spot, and also because your brain has apparently decided that the best course of action is to just answer whatever questions he asks like this is a normal conversation and not the emotional equivalent of a tornado.

“Impressive.” He looks at you, really looks at you, and something shifts in his expression. The teasing edge softens just a fraction. “A confession is a lot, though. I mean, I’m honored, but we don’t even know each other.”

This is your opening. This is the moment where you say “actually, that’s because this letter wasn’t meant for you, there’s been a terrible misunderstanding, I’m so sorry, please forget this ever happened.” The words are right there, lined up on your tongue, ready to go.

But the room is still watching. A dozen pairs of eyes. The whispers have stopped, but the staring hasn’t, and you can feel every single gaze like a physical weight pressing down on you. If you correct him now, in front of everyone, you’ll have to explain. You’ll have to admit that you walked into a crowded room and confessed to the wrong person like an absolute buffoon. You’ll become a campus legend for all the wrong reasons: the girl who was too stupid to even identify her own crush. The story will follow you for the rest of your university career. You’ll never live it down.

But if you just... let him believe it... if you just nod and agree and leave as quickly as possible... you can fix this later. Privately. Without an audience. You can find him tomorrow, or send him a message, or do literally anything other than humiliate yourself further in front of all these people.

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

“I know,” you hear yourself say. “It’s a lot. I know.”

Heeseung nods thoughtfully, like you’ve said something profound. “But I’m not against it. Starting slow, I mean. If you want.”

What.

“What,” you say, but it comes out more like a statement than a question.

“I’m okay with starting slow,” he repeats, and now the smile is definitely back, a little crooked, a little curious. “You’re cute. And clearly brave. I like that. So if you want to, I don’t know, get coffee sometime and see where this goes... I’m open to it.”

Someone in the room lets out a low whistle. Someone else says “Heeseung, are you serious right now?” in a tone of utter disbelief. But Heeseung doesn’t look away from you. He’s waiting for your answer, his gaze steady and warm, and you are standing in the epicenter of a complete and total catastrophe with absolutely no idea how to get out.

Say no. Say it was a mistake. Say the truth.

“Okay,” you whisper.

Okay?! Okay?!

“Okay,” he echoes, and the smile breaks fully across his face, transforming him from handsome to devastating. “Good. I’ll find you. Y/N, first year, STEM, right?”

You nod mutely.

“Cool.” He tucks your letter carefully into the pocket of his hoodie, like it’s something precious, like he’s planning to read it later, and the gesture makes your stomach twist with guilt so intense you think you might actually be sick. “I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

You don’t remember leaving the room. You don’t remember the walk back across campus or the elevator ride to your floor or the moment you collapsed face-first onto your dorm bed. All you know is that one moment you were standing in the PC room, and the next you are here, staring at the ceiling, replaying every single agonizing second on an endless loop.

You confessed to the wrong person.

You confessed to the wrong person.

And for some reason that you absolutely cannot comprehend, he said yes.

Across campus, in a PC room that has finally returned to its normal hum of activity, Lee Heeseung pulls a slightly crumpled lavender envelope out of his hoodie pocket and stares at it for a long moment.

“Dude,” says his friend Jay from the next computer over, not bothering to hide his grin. “What just happened?”

“I don’t know,” Heeseung says honestly. And he doesn’t. He’s used to attention, he knows how to handle it, how to smile and nod and gently redirect without hurting anyone’s feelings. It’s a skill he’s developed over the years, the only way he knows to deal with the unfortunate side effect of his people-pleasing tendencies. He’s nice to someone, he helps them with an assignment, he holds a door open or offers a pen, and suddenly they’re looking at him with stars in their eyes, and he doesn’t know how to tell them that he was just trying to be polite without sounding like an arrogant jerk. So he lets them down easy, or he avoids the situation entirely, and his reputation grows in ways that don’t reflect the truth at all.

But this, this is new. A letter. An actual, physical, handwritten letter, with swooping calligraphy and a lavender envelope and a girl who looked so terrified that he thought she might actually pass out right there on the linoleum floor.

She looked at him like he was a natural disaster. Like she was watching a building collapse in slow motion and couldn’t do anything to stop it.

And then she said okay anyway.

“She’s interesting,” Heeseung murmurs, more to himself than to Jay, and carefully opens the envelope.

“Interesting how?”

He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy reading, his eyes moving slowly across the carefully penned words, the ink slightly smudged in places where the writer’s hand might have trembled. It’s beautiful. It’s earnest. It’s the kind of letter that someone writes when they mean every single word, when they’ve poured their entire heart onto the page without holding anything back.

He’s never received anything like it before.

And he wants to know more about the girl who wrote it, the girl who burst into his afternoon like a hurricane of nerves and feelings.

“Jay,” he says, still staring at the letter, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. “I think something interesting just walked into my life.”

He doesn’t notice the way his friend shakes his head and mutters something about “here we go again.”

He’s too busy wondering when he’ll see Y/N next.

—————

The following forty-eight hours of your life can be accurately described as a masterclass in strategic avoidance and tactical regret.

You skip two classes. Not on purpose, exactly, you just can’t bring yourself to leave your dorm room when every shadow in the hallway might be Lee Heeseung coming to collect on that coffee date you apparently agreed to in a moment of temporary insanity. You survive on instant noodles and the protein bars your friend left on her desk with a sticky note that said “FOR EMERGENCIES ONLY,” which this absolutely qualifies as. You watch three entire seasons of Bridgerton without retaining a single moment because your brain is too busy replaying the PC room incident on a continuous, merciless loop.

“I’m Lee Heeseung. Third year. Informatics engineering.”

“I’m okay with starting slow.”

“You’re cute.”

You bury your face in your pillow and scream, but it comes out muffled and pathetic, like a small animal giving up on life.

By day three, you’ve developed a system. You only leave your room during off-peak hours, skittering through campus, your head on a constant swivel. You’ve memorized the locations of every vending machine in buildings Heeseung is unlikely to frequent. You’ve started taking the long way to your remaining classes, cutting through the art department and the greenhouse and once, memorably, a service corridor that smelled strongly of bleach and soap. You’ve become a ghost. A phantom. A creature of the shadows who survives on granola bars and instant noddles.

But the problem with running away from your problems is that your problems don’t actually go anywhere. They just wait. And think about you. And eventually, when you least expect it, they catch up.

It happens on a Thursday.

You’re crouched behind a potted plant near the science building, scanning the courtyard for any sign of tall, attractive informatics students, when your phone buzzes with a text from your best friend, Yunjin.

Yunjin: heard you’ve been living like a sewer rat. want me to bring you real food?

You: can’t. i’m in the middle of a crisis

Yunjin: You’re executing what we talked about yet?

You: it’s in process

Yunjin: at the end of the day, you will have to tell him

You stare at the message for a long moment. It’s such a simple solution. So elegant. So reasonable. And yet, every time you imagine yourself walking up to Heeseung and saying “actually, I meant to give that letter to someone else,” your entire body physically recoils like you’ve touched a hot stove. The humiliation would be astronomical. The look on his face, surprise, then confusion, then that horrible moment of realization that he was never supposed to be the recipient would haunt you for the rest of your natural life. And you’d still have to explain the Jungwon part. And Jungwon would find out. And then you’d be the weird girl who couldn’t even confess to the right person, and Heeseung would be the guy who got accidentally confessed to, and everyone would laugh about it for weeks, and-

Your phone buzzes again.

Yunjin: i can hear you overthinking from across campus. just rip off the bandaid. what’s the worst that could happen

You type back a single message: he could tell everyone and i’d have to transfer schools and change my name and become a farmer in New Zeland

Yunjin: dramatic. but valid. good luck with your plant hiding

You shove your phone back into your pocket and peek around the potted plant again. The courtyard is clear. This is your window. You take a deep breath, steel your nerves, and scuttle out from behind the foliage.

The plan for today is simple: find Heeseung, explain the misunderstanding, and disappear forever. You’ve spent the entire morning psyching yourself up for this. You’ve practiced the speech in the mirror seventeen times. You’ve even written a script on your phone that you can refer to in case of emergency. It’s thorough, it’s clear, it leaves absolutely no room for misinterpretation, and it ends with a sincere apology and a polite request that you both pretend this never happened. It’s perfect. It’s foolproof. All you have to do is locate the target.

Easier said than done. You’ve been looking for him since yesterday, not to talk to, but to observe from a safe distance so you could plan your approach and the universe, in its infinite comedic wisdom, has made him completely unfindable. It’s like he vanished off the face of the earth the moment you actually wanted to see him. Three days ago, you couldn’t walk three feet without catching a glimpse of him, but now? Now he’s a ghost. A myth. A concept rather than a physical entity.

You’re going to have to ask for help.

This is, objectively, a terrible idea. Asking for help means talking to people, and talking to people about Heeseung means potentially revealing that you’re looking for him, which means potentially revealing why you’re looking for him, which means the whole campus could know about the letter situation by lunchtime. But you’re running out of options, and you’re running out of granola bars, and you can’t live behind potted plants forever.

You find your informant near the engineering building, a girl with neon green headphones and a laptop covered in stickers, sitting on a bench and typing furiously at something that looks like code. She seems approachable. She seems like she won’t ask too many questions. You approach with what you hope is casual confidence and not the desperate energy of someone who has been living on protein bars.

“Excuse me,” you say, and your voice comes out surprisingly normal. Points for you. “Do you know where I can find Lee Heeseung? Third year, informatics?”

The girl looks up, her eyes flicking over you with mild curiosity. She doesn’t ask why you’re looking for him, which makes you want to hug her. “Heeseung? Yeah, I think I saw him heading to the quad about ten minutes ago. Something about meeting up with some people before his next class.”

The quad. Of course. The most open, public, exposed location on the entire campus. The place where literally everyone congregates. The absolute last place you want to have a conversation about accidental love confessions.

“Great,” you say, and your voice is definitely an octave higher now. “Great. Thank you. Thanks. So much.”

The girl gives you a weird look, shrugs, and goes back to her coding.

You’re already moving, your feet carrying you toward the quad before your brain can catch up and talk you out of it. This is fine. This is progress. You’ll find him, you’ll pull him aside, you’ll give him the speech, and then you’ll be free. You’ll be a normal person again. You’ll be able to walk through campus without checking every corner for a tall informatics student who thinks you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date.

The quad is bustling when you arrive, clusters of students sprawled across the grass and gathered around the stone benches near the fountain. The afternoon sun is bright and warm, the kind of weather that makes everyone want to be outside, which is lovely and picturesque and deeply inconvenient for your purposes. You squint against the glare, scanning the crowd for a familiar dark-haired figure.

No Heeseung.

You circle the perimeter, weaving between groups of friends and dodging a frisbee that comes sailing dangerously close to your head. You check near the fountain, near the big oak tree, near the cluster of food trucks that’s set up along the east edge. Still no Heeseung. Your informant said ten minutes ago, he should be here. Unless he already left. Unless you missed him. Unless this is a sign from the universe that you should give up and commit to the farmer life plan after all.

You’re so focused on your search that you don’t notice someone approaching until a shadow falls across your path, and a voice, warm, familiar, the exact voice you’ve been daydreaming about for four months, says:

“Y/N? Hey, it is you!”

You look up.

Yang Jungwon is standing right in front of you, smiling like the sun just came out from behind a cloud, and every single coherent thought in your brain immediately evaporates.

He’s wearing a soft-looking cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, and his dark hair is slightly windswept, and there’s a tiny mole near his chin that you’ve never noticed before but is now seared into your memory forever. He’s holding a book, something with a cracked spine and a title in a language you don’t recognize and he’s looking at you with genuine, undiluted pleasure, like running into you is the best thing that’s happened to him all day.

“It’s me,” you say, because you are a conversational genius. “I mean. Yes. Hi. Hello.”

Smooth. Flawless execution. Ten out of ten.

Jungwon doesn’t seem to notice your complete lack of verbal grace. His smile widens, crinkling the corners of his eyes in exactly the way you’ve catalogued in your mental Jungwon database. “I thought I recognized you. You’re in my philosophy elective, right? Front row, near the window?”

He knows where you sit. He knows where you sit. This is both the best and worst information you’ve ever received, because on one hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, but on the other hand, Yang Jungwon has noticed your existence, and now you have to be a normal human being and not the disaster you currently are.

“Front row near the window,” you confirm, nodding a little too vigorously. “That’s me. I like the natural light. For... note-taking purposes.”

“Makes sense.” He shifts his weight, tucking the book under his arm. “You take really detailed notes, by the way. I sat behind you once, and I was honestly impressed. Your color-coding system is no joke.”

Jungwon has looked at your notes. Jungwon has been impressed by your notes. Your brain is short-circuiting at approximately the speed of light, and you have to physically resist the urge to fist-pump in the middle of the quad.

“Thank you,” you manage. “I have a lot of highlighters. Maybe too many. Is there such a thing as too many highlighters? I don’t think so, but I’ve been told my stationery collection is concerning.”

Oh no. Why are you talking about stationery? You need to say something charming. Something witty. Something that will make him see you as more than the girl with the aggressive color-coding system.

“I don’t think it’s concerning,” Jungwon says, and there’s a teasing lilt to his voice that makes your knees go weak. “Passionate, maybe. Dedicated. I respect it.”

“Passionate and dedicated,” you repeat faintly. “That’s... yeah. That’s my brand.”

He laughs, and it’s exactly like you remember, bright and warm, the kind of laugh that makes you want to do whatever you just did again and again just to hear it on repeat. “I like it. Passion is underrated.” He tilts his head, studying you with an expression you can’t quite read. “So what brings you to the quad? You usually eat lunch in the science building courtyard, don’t you?”

Your heart stutters. He knows where you eat lunch. He’s observed your habits. This is either a sign of mutual interest or you’ve accidentally become the subject of a sociological case study, and at this point you’re willing to accept either outcome.

“I’m, um, looking for someone,” you say, and the confession letter debacle comes crashing back into your consciousness like a wrecking ball through a glass window. Right. You’re supposed to be finding Heeseung. You’re supposed to be fixing the misunderstanding. That’s why you’re here. Not to bask in the radiant warmth of Jungwon’s attention like a lizard on a sunny rock.

“Anyone I know?” Jungwon asks, and there’s something in his tone, curiosity, maybe.

“Probably not,” you say quickly. “Just a... just a person. A random person. Not important.”

Jungwon raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but before he can press further, a new voice cuts through the afternoon air like a knife through butter.

“There you are.”

You freeze. Your blood turns to ice. Every cell in your body screams in unison: run.

Lee Heeseung is walking toward you across the quad, his headphones hanging around his neck and his hands tucked casually into the pockets of his jacket. He looks exactly as devastatingly attractive as he did three days ago, which is deeply unfair. His expression is a mixture of curiosity and amusement, and when his eyes meet yours, that slight smile, the one that’s not quite a smirk but definitely is a smirk’s second cousin, curves across his lips.

“I heard you’ve been looking for me,” he says, coming to a stop beside Jungwon like this is the most natural gathering in the world. “You know, if you wanted to see me, you could have just messaged. I would have given you my number at the PC room.”

Jungwon looks between you and Heeseung with visible confusion, his earlier smile fading into something more guarded. “Wait. You two know each other?”

This is it. This is the moment the universe has been building toward. Every terrible decision, every act of cowardice, every misguided attempt to avoid embarrassment, it’s all led here, to this exact spot on the quad, with the wrong guy standing next to the right guy and your entire romantic future hanging in the balance.

“I wouldn’t say know,” you begin, but Heeseung is already talking over you, apparently immune to the desperate telepathic signals you’re trying to beam directly into his brain.

“She confessed to me two days ago,” Heeseung says, and his tone is so casual, so conversational, like he’s discussing the weather or what he had for lunch. “Walked right into the PC room, handed me a letter, told me she’d liked me for a long time. It was very romantic. Very old-school. I was impressed.”

Silence. Jungwon stares at Heeseung. Then at you. Then back at Heeseung.

“She... confessed to you,” Jungwon repeats slowly, and his voice has gone flat in a way that makes your heart splinter into approximately seven thousand pieces.

“Full confession,” Heeseung confirms, still smiling. “I’m thinking we’ll start with coffee. Keep it simple, you know? She’s shy. I don’t want to overwhelm her.”

This is a nightmare. This is a waking, breathing, actively-unfolding nightmare, and you are trapped in it like a fly in amber, unable to move or speak or do anything except watch as every possible future with Jungwon crumbles to dust before your eyes.

Because here’s the thing you realize in that horrible, crystal-clear moment: you can’t correct Heeseung now. Not in front of Jungwon. Not when Jungwon has just been told, in no uncertain terms, that you confessed to someone else. If you explain the truth, that the letter was actually meant for Jungwon, that the whole thing was a catastrophic mistake, then what? Jungwon would know you’d been planning to confess to him, but he’d also know that you somehow managed to mess it up so spectacularly that you confessed to his friend instead. You’d look incompetent at best and completely unhinged at worst. And Heeseung would be humiliated, and Jungwon would be awkward, and you’d be the epicenter of a social catastrophe so immense that all three of you would have to avoid each other for the rest of your academic careers.

You are trapped. Completely, utterly, irreversibly trapped.

“Interesting,” Jungwon says, and the word is so neutral that it cuts deeper than any insult ever could. “I didn’t realize you two ran in the same circles.”

“We don’t,” you croak. “We really, really don’t.”

“We’re just getting started,” Heeseung says cheerfully, and he has the audacity to wink at you. Like this is some kind of adorable inside joke instead of the emotional apocalypse it actually is.

You have to get out of here. You have to escape before the sob building in your chest forces its way out and makes everything infinitely worse. You can feel it pressing against your ribs, hot and insistent, and if you don’t leave right now, you’re going to burst into tears in the middle of the quad in front of both of them, and then the disaster will be complete.

“I have to go,” you blurt out, and you’re already backing away, your feet moving before your brain can issue any kind of warning. “I have… a thing. A class. A lab. A lab class. It’s very important. I can’t miss it. I have to go.”

Heeseung’s brow furrows slightly. “Wait, I thought you wanted to talk to-”

“Nope! No talking! We’re good! Everything’s fine! Bye!”

You spin around and power-walk toward the nearest exit, which happens to be in the direction of the fountain, which you only realize when your foot catches on the low stone ledge and you go sprawling forward with all the grace of a newborn giraffe.

Your knee hits the ground. Your dignity hits the ground approximately three feet to the left. Several people turn to look.

“Y/N!” That’s Jungwon’s voice, concerned and moving closer, and you absolutely cannot handle that right now.

“I’m fine!” you shriek, scrambling to your feet with adrenaline-fueled desperation. “Totally fine! Happens all the time! I’m very clumsy! It’s part of my charm!”

You don’t look back. You can’t look back. If you look back, you’ll see Jungwon’s worried expression and Heeseung’s confused one, and you’ll have to confront the full magnitude of what just happened, and your fragile emotional state simply cannot withstand that kind of pressure. So you run. Not jog, not power-walk…run. Across the quad, past the food trucks, through a gap between two buildings, and out onto the main campus pathway like the hounds of hell are snapping at your heels.

You don’t stop until you reach the arts building, and you don’t start breathing normally until you’ve locked yourself in a practice room on the third floor, surrounded by soundproof walls and a piano that’s seen better days. You slide down against the door, pull your knees up to your chest, and let out a sound that’s halfway between a groan and a wail.

Everything is ruined. Everything. You had one chance, one single, solitary chance to fix the misunderstanding and salvage your dignity and maybe, just maybe, preserve the possibility of something with Jungwon somewhere down the line. And instead, you let your hopeless romantic heart get distracted by a five-minute conversation about philosophy notes and highlighters, and now you’re the girl who confessed to Lee Heeseung, and Jungwon thinks you’re interested in someone else, and there is no conceivable way to untangle this mess without making everything exponentially worse.

You’re going to have to transfer schools. You’re going to have to move to another country. You’re going to have to fake your own death and start a new identity as a goat farmer in New Zeland.

The door handle jiggles behind you. “Occupied!” you yell, your voice cracking.

“Y/N? Is that you?”

Your best friend Yunjin’s voice filters through the door, muffled but unmistakable, and the sound of it is enough to crack the dam you’ve been desperately trying to hold together. You scramble to your feet, fumble with the lock, and yank the door open to reveal Yunjin standing in the hallway with a cup of bubble tea in each hand and an expression of profound concern on her face.

“I saw you running,” she says, her eyes scanning your disheveled appearance. “Like, truly running. I’ve never seen you run before. You once told me running was for people who don’t appreciate the journey.”

“Yunjin,” you crumble, and your voice is so pitiful that she immediately sets down both drinks and pulls you into a hug.

“Okay,” she says, steering you back into the practice room and closing the door behind her. “Okay. Sit down. Tell me everything. What happened? Did you talk to Heeseung? Did you fix it?”

You laugh, but it comes out wrong, high and wobbly, on the edge of hysteria. “Fix it? Fix it? Yunjin, I made it so much worse. I made it so much worse that I think I actually created new dimensions of worse. Scientists are going to have to invent new words to describe how badly I messed this up.”

“That’s... improbable,” Yunjin says carefully. “But I’m listening.”

She settles onto the piano bench, and you collapse onto the floor in front of her, crossing your legs and burying your face in your hands. The story spills out of you in a torrent, the quad, the search for Heeseung, the unexpected appearance of Jungwon, the conversation that made your heart soar, and then the moment Heeseung appeared like a harbinger of doom and casually announced your confession to the one person you never wanted to know about it.

“And then I fell,” you finish miserably. “In front of both of them. And I ran away. And now Jungwon thinks I like Heeseung, and Heeseung thinks I like Heeseung, and I can’t correct either of them without making everything even weirder, and my life is a romantic comedy written by a petty incel.”

Yunjin is quiet for a moment. Then she lets out a long, slow breath. “Okay. That’s... that’s a lot.”

“I know.”

“And you’re telling me you couldn’t just say, hey Heeseung, sorry for the mix-up, the letter wasn’t for you, my bad?”

You look up at her, your eyes rimmed with red. “In front of Jungwon? After Heeseung already told him I confessed? What would Jungwon think of me?”

Yunjin considers this. “That you’re a disaster, probably.”

“Exactly!”

“But a lovable disaster,” she adds. “Disasters can be endearing.”

“Yunjin, please focus.”

She holds up her hands in surrender, but there’s a glint in her eye that you recognize, the one that means she’s about to drop some wisdom on you whether you’re ready for it or not. Yunjin has been your best friend since orientation week, when you both accidentally joined the wrong club meeting and ended up spending two hours in a competitive gardening seminar before realizing your mistake. She’s practical where you’re dreamy, decisive where you’re hesitant, and she’s talked you down from approximately four hundred anxiety spirals since the semester started. If anyone can find a way out of this mess, it’s her.

“Okay,” she says, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees. “Let me present you with an alternative perspective.”

“I’m listening.”

“Lee Heeseung,” she says, ticking off points on her fingers, “has a reputation. A big one. Everyone knows it. He’s the guy who’s super nice to everyone, especially girls, and then they fall for him and he gets all surprised when they expect something more, and then things fizzle out because he wasn’t looking for anything serious.” She makes air quotes with her fingers. “Sound familiar?”

You blink. “I mean... I’ve heard things. But he didn’t seem like-”

“That’s his whole thing,” Yunjin interrupts. “He doesn’t seem like it. That’s why it works. He likes when everyone is after him. But nice doesn’t equal interested, so girls get the wrong idea and then they get hurt. It’s a cycle.” She pops a tapioca pearl into her mouth and chews thoughtfully. “My point is, you don’t need to do anything. You don’t need to fix this. You just need to wait.”

“Wait for what?”

“For him to get bored.” She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Think about it. You’re not actually interested in him, right? You’re not going to fall all over yourself trying to get his attention. You’re not going to be waiting outside his classes or accidentally showing up wherever he hangs out. You’re not going to be like every other girl who’s chased after him.”

You frown. “So... what, I just... do nothing?”

“No, you do the opposite of chasing.” Yunjin grins, and it’s slightly wicked. “You make yourself as uninteresting to him as possible. You’re awkward, you’re weird, you’re clearly not trying to impress him. You don’t dress up when you know you might see him. You talk about boring things. You mention, I don’t know, your extensive collection of vintage stamps or whatever nerdy hobby you can think of. You make yourself boring.”

“I don’t have a stamp collection.”

“Then make one up! The point is, Heeseung is used to girls who want him. If you clearly don’t want him, his interest is going to fizzle out faster than a cheap sparkler. He’ll move on to the next girl who bats her eyelashes at him, and you’ll be free. No confrontation necessary.”

You turn this over in your mind. It’s... not the worst idea you’ve ever heard. In fact, compared to your current strategy of blind panic and tactical fleeing, it’s practically genius. If you can’t correct the misunderstanding without making everything worse, maybe you can just... let it die on its own. Let Heeseung’s fabled short attention span work in your favor. Become so aggressively unappealing that he loses interest within a week and never thinks about you again.

And once he’s out of the picture, once enough time has passed, maybe you can try again with Jungwon. Properly. With better aim.

“You’re a genius,” you tell Yunjin, the hope creeping back into your voice. “An absolute genius. I could kiss you.”

“Please don’t, you’re covered in grass stains.” She nudges one of the bubble teas toward you with her foot. “Drink your tea. Hydrate. And then we’re going to brainstorm all the ways you can make yourself seem as unappealing as possible to a hot third-year informatics student.”

You grab the drink and take a long sip, the sweetness settling something in your chest. For the first time in three days, you feel something other than panic. You feel strategic. You feel determined. Lee Heeseung might think you’re cute and brave and worthy of a coffee date, but he hasn’t met the version of you that’s about to emerge, a version so bland, so uninteresting, so aggressively mediocre that he’ll run in the opposite direction before the week is out.

“Okay,” you say, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Okay. Let’s do this. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested starts now.”

Yunjin raises her bubble tea in a toast. “To being boring.”

You clink your cup against hers. “To being boring.”

Somewhere across campus Heeseung is still standing in the quad with a confused expression on his face and a lavender envelope in his pocket, wondering why the girl who supposedly has a crush on him just sprinted away like she was being chased by bears.

He’s not used to this. He’s not used to any of this.

And that, he realizes with a small, bemused shake of his head, is exactly what makes it so interesting.

—————

Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested lasted exactly four days before it encountered its first major obstacle.

That obstacle is approximately six feet tall, has flowing hair that falls perfectly across his forehead, and is currently walking directly toward your table in the cafeteria with a tray in his hands and a smile on his face that suggests he has absolutely no idea he's supposed to be losing interest in you.

You spot him approximately 2.3 seconds too late. By the time your brain registers the approaching danger, you are already mid-bite into a sad cafeteria sandwich, your mouth full of bread and lettuce and the dawning realization that you are trapped. There is no escape route. Your table is in the corner, surrounded on three sides by walls and on the fourth side by Heeseung's rapidly approaching form. You are a cornered animal. A very stupid, very panicked cornered animal with mayonnaise on her chin.

"Y/N!" Heeseung says your name like it's his favorite word, bright and warm and entirely too enthusiastic for someone who's supposed to be a notorious womanizer with a short attention span. "I was hoping I'd run into you. Mind if I sit?"

Mind if he sits? Of course you mind. You mind immensely. You mind with every fiber of your being. Sitting with Heeseung is the exact opposite of what Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is supposed to accomplish. Sitting with Heeseung means talking to Heeseung, and talking to Heeseung means opportunities to accidentally charm him, and charming him is categorically Not The Goal.

But Heeseung is already pulling out the chair across from you, and his smile is so genuine, and there's a tiny bit of what looks like grease on his cheekbone that suggests he's just come from some kind of engineering lab, and you are weak. You are so, so weak.

"Go ahead," you hear yourself say, and then immediately want to punch yourself in the face.

Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested, Day Four, 12:34 PM: catastrophic failure already in progress.

Heeseung settles into the chair with an easy grace, setting his tray down and immediately stealing one of your fries like you're old friends who share food on a regular basis. You watch the fry disappear into his mouth and feel a small part of your soul leave your body.

"So," he says, leaning back and studying you with those dark, unreadable eyes. "You ran away from me pretty fast the other day. Should I be worried? Do I have something on my face?"

He doesn't. He absolutely doesn't. He has the kind of face that belongs on a billboard, all sharp angles and soft edges and that one little mole on his forehead that you are definitely not noticing because noticing things about Heeseung's face is counterproductive to the mission.

"No," you say quickly. "No, you're fine. Your face is fine. I mean, you don't have anything on your face. I just remembered I had somewhere to be. Very suddenly. It was urgent."

"An urgent… lab class?" Heeseung's lips twitch. "That's what you said, right? An urgent lab class on a Thursday afternoon?"

Your face heats. "Yes. Exactly. Lab class. Very urgent. Science doesn't wait."

"Mmm." He pops another one of your fries into his mouth. "Well, the good news is, you don't look like you're in a hurry right now. So we can actually talk. You know, like normal people who are supposedly getting to know each other?"

Right. Getting to know each other. Because you confessed to him. Because he thinks you like him. Because you're living in an elaborate lie of your own making.

This is your chance, though. This is the perfect opportunity to implement Phase One of the Make Him Uninterested plan: Be Weird and Off-Putting. You just have to be the most boring, strange, unappealing version of yourself that you can possibly imagine. How hard can it be?

Pretty hard, as it turns out, because your brain chooses this exact moment to go completely blank.

"So," Heeseung says, apparently unbothered by your silence, "tell me about yourself. What do you like to do for fun? Besides writing beautiful love letters and then running away from the recipient?"

You choke on your own saliva. Just… straight up choke on nothing, like a cartoon character. "I don't…that wasn't…I do normal things. Normal fun things. Like… watching paint dry. And counting ceiling tiles. Very relaxing. You should try it."

Heeseung's expression flickers, confusion, amusement, something in between. "Counting ceiling tiles?"

"There are forty-seven in this cafeteria," you say, doubling down with the desperate energy of someone who has already committed to the bit. "Forty-eight if you count the one that's partially covered by that vent over there. But some people don't count partial tiles. It's a philosophical debate, really."

"Fascinating," Heeseung says, and the worst part is that he sounds like he actually means it. "What else?"

What else? What else can you say that will make you sound completely unappealing? You cast around for inspiration, your eyes landing on your sandwich. Okay. Fine. If words can't do the job, maybe actions can.

You pick up your sandwich with both hands and take the weirdest bite you can physically manage, mouth open slightly too wide, chewing with exaggerated jaw movements, making an unfortunate amount of noise in the process. You feel like a cow. You look like a cow. You are embodying the spirit of a cow, and surely, surely, this is enough to make any self-respecting hot informatics student run for the hills.

Heeseung watches you chew. His expression doesn't change.

"Good sandwich?" he asks mildly.

"Mmf," you say, still chewing, still being a cow. "Very good. I love-"

And then the lettuce hits the back of your throat.

You don't know how it happens. One moment you're chewing normally, well, abnormally, but in a controlled way and the next moment a piece of lettuce stages a rebellion and lodges itself directly in your windpipe. Your eyes go wide. Your hand flies to your throat. You make a sound that is somewhere between a wheeze and a honk.

"Y/N?" Heeseung's amused expression shifts to concern. "Are you okay?"

You are not okay. You are choking. You are choking on lettuce in front of Lee Heeseung in the middle of the cafeteria, and this is how you're going to die.

Heeseung is on his feet now, moving around the table with surprising speed. "Hey, hey, can you breathe? Do you need me to-"

You shake your head frantically, still making dying cow noises, and grab your water bottle with shaking hands. The first gulp does nothing. The second gulp, by some miracle, dislodges the lettuce just enough for you to cough it up into a napkin with all the grace and dignity of a cat hacking up a hairball.

Silence.

The entire cafeteria, you're convinced, is staring at you. In reality, probably only a few nearby tables have noticed, but it feels apocalyptic. You sit there, red-faced and teary-eyed, clutching a napkin full of your own near-death experience, and want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.

Heeseung kneels beside your chair, one hand hovering near your shoulder like he isn't sure if touching you would be welcome. "Hey. You're okay. You're okay, right? Do you need me to get you anything? More water? A doctor? A new sandwich without lettuce?"

His voice is gentle. Genuinely gentle. Not the smooth, charming tone you expect from someone with his reputation, but something softer, something that sounds almost like real concern.

"I'm fine," you croak, your voice ravaged. "I'm fine. That happens. All the time. I'm very bad at eating. It's one of my traits."

"One of your traits," Heeseung repeats, and the corner of his mouth twitches despite his obvious worry. "Being bad at eating?"

"It's a lifestyle choice."

He laughs. Not a polite chuckle or a mocking snicker, but a real laugh, surprised and bright and completely unguarded. He sits back down in his chair, shaking his head, and looks at you with something that is definitely not boredom or disinterest.

"You're really something else, you know that?"

You don't know how to respond to that, so you don't. You just sit there, still clutching your napkin of shame, and wonder how Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has somehow resulted in him laughing at your jokes and looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's encountered all week.

"So," Heeseung says, propping his chin on his hand, "I've been wondering. What made you decide to confess to me? Was there a specific moment? Something I did?"

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

This is the worst possible question he could ask. You can't tell him the truth…I didn't mean to confess to you, I meant to confess to your friend, you just happened to be sitting in the wrong place at the wrong time, please don't hate me…but you also can't just… not answer. He's looking at you expectantly, his dark eyes curious and open, and you have approximately three seconds to come up with a convincing lie before the silence becomes too awkward to recover from.

"Your… kindness," you say, grasping at straws. "You're very… kind. To everyone. I noticed."

Heeseung tilts his head. "My kindness?"

"Very kind," you repeat, nodding vigorously. "So kind. The kindest. I saw you… hold a door open for someone once. It was… inspiring."

"I held a door open."

"A door. Yes. It was a very heavy door. And you held it. For a long time. Multiple people went through. It was very impressive."

Heeseung stares at you for a moment, and you stare back, your face burning, your soul evacuating your body. This is it. This is the moment he realizes you are completely unhinged and decides to never speak to you again. This is the victory of Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested.

"That's…" Heeseung starts, and then pauses. "That's the first time anyone's ever confessed to me because I held a door open. Usually I get compliments about my face. Or my voice. One girl told me I had a nose made to be sat on, which I still don't fully understand."

"Your node is… fine," you say weakly. "I didn't notice your nose. Or your face at all. Just the door. The door was the important part."

"A door," Heeseung says, and that smile is spreading across his face again, the one that makes him look less like a notorious player and more like someone who has just found a particularly entertaining puzzle. "You wrote me a three-page love letter because I held a door open."

"The calligraphy alone took a week," you say, and immediately regret it.

Heeseung laughs again, and this time it's softer, almost wondering. "You're not what I expected," he says. "At all."

"Is that… good or bad?"

"I haven't decided yet." But he's still smiling, and his eyes are still fixed on you with that curious intensity, and you're starting to get the sinking feeling that everything you do, no matter how strange or off-putting you try to be, is having the exact opposite effect of what you intend.

You need a new strategy. Something foolproof. Something so aggressively unappealing that even the most determined people-pleaser can't pretend to be interested.

And then, like a gift from the gods of social awkwardness, the topic of video games comes up.

Heeseung mentions something about blowing off steam after a tough assignment by playing a few rounds of something, and the question slips out before you can stop it: "Wait, do you play League of Legends?"

He raises an eyebrow. "Sometimes. You?"

And that's it. That's the moment the dam breaks.

You don't mean to start geeking out. It just happens. One moment you're thinking be boring, be uninteresting, be bland, and the next moment you're fifteen minutes deep into an impassioned monologue about the current meta, the problems with the jungle role, and why Riot Games needs to nerf a specific champion into the ground before she single-handedly destroys the competitive scene.

"-and don't even get me started on the new items, because the balance team clearly doesn't play their own game, which is fine, whatever, it's not like I have strong opinions about it except I absolutely do, and I wrote an entire essay about it on the subreddit that got like two thousand upvotes, so clearly I'm not the only one who thinks the armor penetration scaling is completely broken-"

You stop.

You stop because you have just realized, with dawning horror, that you have been talking for an incredibly long time without letting Heeseung get a single word in. You have been gesticulating. You have been making sound effects. At one point, you're pretty sure you drew a diagram on a napkin to illustrate the optimal jungle pathing route.

This is it. This is definitely, absolutely it. There is no way a hot third-year informatics student wants to listen to a first-year STEM girl rant about video game balance for fifteen straight minutes. Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested has just achieved its first genuine success.

You brace yourself for the polite excuse, the awkward glance at his phone, the slow backing away.

Instead, Heeseung leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and says: "Okay, but hear me out, what if the armor penetration scaling isn't the problem, and it's actually the base damage values that need to be adjusted? Because if you look at the win rate data across different elos, the issue isn't consistent at all levels of play."

You blink.

"I main ADC," he adds, as if this is a perfectly normal confession. "So trust me, I feel your pain about the jungle situation. Do you know how many times I've been left to solo dragon because my jungler was AFK farming? Too many. Too many times."

"You… main ADC?"

"Vayne and Kai'Sa mostly. Sometimes Jhin if I'm feeling dramatic."

You have no response to this. Your brain has short-circuited somewhere around the phrase "win rate data across different elos," and it's still rebooting.

"Your essay on the subreddit," Heeseung continues, pulling out his phone. "What was the title? I want to read it. I love seeing well-reasoned arguments about game balance, and honestly, most of what gets posted is just people complaining without any actual data to back it up."

"It was… it was called The Current State of Armor Penetration: A Statistical Analysis and Why I'm Losing My Mind," you say faintly.

Heeseung types something into his phone, scrolls for a moment, and then his face lights up. "Found it. Two thousand three hundred upvotes and fourteen awards? That's impressive. Wait, you made graphs? You made graphs?"

"I was very passionate about the subject."

"Passionate," Heeseung repeats, looking up from his phone with an expression you can't quite read. "Yeah. I'm starting to get that about you."

He tucks his phone away and smiles at you, and it isn't the smooth, practiced smile you expect from the campus womanizer. It's something smaller. Something realer. Something that makes your stomach do a weird, traitorous flip that you immediately try to suppress.

"You know," he says, tilting his head as he studies you, "you remind me of a mouse."

Your brain screeches to a halt. "A… mouse?"

"Yeah. A little field mouse. The way your nose scrunches up when you're thinking, and how you get all twitchy and skittish when you're nervous. It's cute. It's really cute."

Cute. He calls you cute. He compares you to a rodent and somehow makes it sound like a compliment, and worst of all, worst of all, you can feel a traitorous blush spreading across your cheeks like wildfire.

"I'm not…I don't…mice are not cute. Mice are pests. They carry diseases. I'm basically a health hazard."

Heeseung laughs, and it's the same genuine laugh from before, and he's looking at you like you're the most entertaining thing he's seen in years. "A health hazard. Right. Well, consider me warned."

He stands up, gathering his tray, and for one beautiful, hopeful moment, you think the ordeal is over. But then he pauses, looking down at you with that unreadable expression, and says the words that haunt you for the rest of the day:

"I was interested before, but now?" He shakes his head, still smiling. "Now I'm really interested. See you around, little mouse."

And then he walks away, leaving you alone at your corner table with a half-eaten sandwich, a napkin full of regurgitated lettuce, and the sinking realization that Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested is not only failing, it's backfiring spectacularly.

You try to be weird, and he calls you cute.

You try to be boring, and he engages with your niche gaming opinions.

You try to choke to death in front of him, and he kneels beside your chair with genuine concern in his eyes.

You bang your forehead against the cafeteria table once, twice, three times, not caring who sees. This is a disaster. This is an unmitigated, unprecedented, absolutely catastrophic disaster. Hana's plan was supposed to work. Heeseung was supposed to get bored. He was supposed to move on. He was not supposed to look at you like you're a puzzle he wants to solve, or call you a mouse in a tone of voice that makes your heart do gymnastics, or read your League of Legends essay and compliment your graphs.

You need to regroup. You need to call an emergency meeting with Yunjin. You need to figure out a new strategy before this situation spirals even further out of control.

But first, you need to go to the library and return the books that are due today before you accrue another fine, because no matter how catastrophic your love life becomes, the university library shows no mercy.

—————

The library is your sanctuary. It always has been, a quiet, climate-controlled haven where the smell of old paper and the soft hum of fluorescent lights can soothe even the most tensed of nerves. After the cafeteria incident, you need sanctuary more than ever. You slip through the main doors with your stack of books clutched to your chest, inhaling the familiar scent of knowledge and dust, and feel some of the tension begin to ease from your shoulders.

Everything is fine. Everything is going to be fine. You return your books, you find Yunjin, you regroup, and you figure out a way to-

"Y/N?"

The voice comes from somewhere to your left, and you know that voice. You know it the way a flower knows the sun, the way a compass knows north, the way a hopeless romantic knows the exact cadence of her crush's greeting.

Jungwon is sitting at a table near the history section, surrounded by a fortress of textbooks and loose papers. He's wearing glasses…glasses…and his hair is slightly mussed from what you assume is hours of intense studying, and he's looking at you with that smile, the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes your entire nervous system short-circuit.

"Hey," he says, waving you over. "What are you doing here?"

Existing in the same space as you, you think. Breathing the same air. Trying not to spontaneously combust.

"Returning books," you say, holding up your stack as evidence. "I have some overdue ones. The library fines are no joke."

"Tell me about it. I had to pay fifteen thousand won last semester because I forgot about a book I'd checked out for a research paper." Jungwon winces at the memory. "My wallet still hasn't recovered."

"That's brutal."

"The library giveth, and the library taketh away."

You laugh, and it comes out surprisingly normal, not too loud, not too high-pitched, just a regular human laugh from a regular human person who is definitely not having an internal meltdown about how good Jungwon looks in glasses.

"Hey," Jungwon says, glancing at the empty chair across from him, "if you're not in a hurry, do you want to study together? I've been here for three hours and my brain is starting to melt. It would be nice to have some company."

Your heart stops.

Yang Jungwon, the Yang Jungwon, the owner of the smile and the laugh and the gummy bears at 2 AM is asking you to study with him. This is the kind of moment you've daydreamed about for months. This is a meet-cute in progress. This is the universe throwing you a lifeline after the cafeteria disaster, a chance to actually spend time with the boy you've been pining over since midterms.

"Yes," you say, before your brain can remind you of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. "Yes, I'd…I'd love to. Let me just return these first."

You practically skip to the returns desk, your heart doing a full backflip in your chest. By the time you make it back to Jungwon's table, your philosophy textbook and notebook spread out in front of you, you've convinced yourself that this is exactly what you need. Some time with Jungwon. Some time to remember why you wrote that letter in the first place. Some time to reconnect with the feelings that got buried under the chaos of the Heeseung situation.

The only problem is that you can't focus on studying at all.

You try. You really, genuinely try. You open your textbook to the assigned chapter. You uncap your highlighter. You fix your eyes on the page and attempt to absorb information about ethical frameworks and moral philosophy. But your eyes keep drifting up, against your will, over the top of your book, to the boy sitting across from you.

Jungwon is studying. Actually studying, not fake studying, not pretending to study while secretly watching you the way you're watching him. His brow is furrowed in concentration, his pen moving steadily across his notebook as he takes notes. Every so often, he pauses, taps the end of his pen against his chin, and then resumes writing with renewed focus. The late afternoon light slants through the window behind him, catching the highlights in his dark hair and making him look like he's stepped out of a painting.

He is beautiful. He's so beautiful that it makes your chest ache, a soft, sweet ache that you've been carrying around since the moment you first saw him in this very library. You watch the way his fingers curl around his pen, the way he bites his lower lip when he's thinking, the way his glasses slide down his nose and he pushes them back up with an absent gesture.

"I can feel you looking at me," Jungwon says, not glancing up from his notebook.

Your entire body jolts like you've been electrocuted. "I wasn't…I was just…there's a clock behind you. I was checking the time."

Jungwon looks up then, and there's a knowing glint in his eyes that makes your stomach do a slow, somersaulting flip. "The clock is to your right, Y/N. Not behind me."

You look to your right. Sure enough, there's the clock, hanging on the wall in plain view, which you would have noticed if you'd spent even one second actually looking for it instead of gazing at Jungwon's face like a Renaissance painter studying their muse.

"I'm… directionally challenged," you say weakly.

"Uh-huh." Jungwon sets down his pen, and the smile playing at the corners of his mouth is soft and teasing and absolutely devastating. "Come here for a second."

"What?"

"Just come here. Lean forward a little."

Your body obeys before your brain can intervene. You lean across the table, your heart hammering so loudly you're certain the entire library can hear it. Jungwon leans forward too, closing the distance between you, and you catch a faint whiff of something clean and subtle, laundry detergent, maybe, or the kind of fragrance that just smells like him.

His hand reaches out, and before you can process what's happening, his index finger gently pokes your cheek.

"Boop," he says.

You make a sound. You don't know what the sound is supposed to be. Maybe a laugh, maybe a question, maybe a plea for mercy. What comes out is something closer to a squeak, a small, strangled, completely undignified squeak that would be embarrassing if you had any brain cells left to feel embarrassment.

Jungwon's smile widens, and his finger lingers on your cheek for just a moment longer than necessary. "You had an eyelash," he says. "Right there. But also, you just looked really cute staring at me like that. I couldn't resist."

Cute. He calls you cute. That's twice in one day that a devastatingly attractive boy has called you cute, and your hopeless romantic heart doesn't know whether to celebrate or go into cardiac arrest.

"I wasn't staring," you whisper, but it comes out completely unconvincing.

"You were absolutely staring." Jungwon withdraws his hand, but his smile stays, warm and fond and knowing. "It's okay. I don't mind. It's kind of nice, actually. Being looked at like that."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm something worth looking at."

The words settle into your chest like a stone dropping into still water, sending ripples through your entire body. He thinks it's nice. He thinks you're nice or at least your staring is nice and he pokes your cheek and calls you cute and now he's going back to his studying like he hasn't just fundamentally altered your brain chemistry.

You try to return to your textbook. The words swim in front of your eyes, meaningless and blurry. You highlight a sentence at random, realize you have no idea what it says, and highlight it again for good measure. The page is now approximately forty percent highlighter ink.

"You're going to run out of highlighter at that rate," Jungwon observes, not looking up.

"I have backups," you say. "I always have backups."

"Of course you do."

The studying session continues for another hour, and you absorb approximately zero information about ethical frameworks. What you do absorb is a comprehensive catalogue of Jungwon's study habits: the way he organizes his notes with color-coded tabs, the way he mutters to himself when he's working through a difficult concept, the way he absentmindedly drums his fingers against the table when he's thinking. Every detail is another entry in your mental Jungwon database, another thread in the tapestry of your affection.

By the time you pack up your things and say goodbye, "See you in philosophy," Jungwon says, and you respond with something that might be words or might be a series of enthusiastic nods, you are floating. You are literally, physically floating, your feet barely touching the ground as you drift out of the library and across campus toward your dorm.

Jungwon pokes your cheek. Jungwon calls you cute. Jungwon says he likes being looked at by you.

You are winning. Despite the Heeseung disaster, despite the cafeteria catastrophe, despite everything, you are winning.

By the time you reach your dorm room, you are a mess of giddy energy with nowhere to go. You close the door behind you, throw your backpack onto your desk chair, and then proceed to wriggle across your bed like an ecstatic worm, kicking your feet and muffling your squeals into your pillow.

"He called me cute," you whisper to your empty room, your voice muffled by fabric. "He poked my cheek. He did the boop thing. The boop thing, you guys. Who does the boop thing? Adorable people, that's who. Perfect people. People with beautiful smiles and kind eyes and-"

You roll onto your back, staring at the ceiling with a dreamy expression. The ceiling has forty-three tiles in your room. You counted them on your first night in the dorm. But right now, all you can see is Jungwon's face, the way he looked at you across the library table, the way his finger felt against your cheek, the way his voice went soft when he said like I'm something worth looking at.

You are going to marry him. You are going to marry Yang Jungwon and have a beautiful wedding with string lights and wildflowers and a three-tier cake, and you will tell the story of how you stared at him in the library and he poked your cheek and-

You stop wriggling.

Wait.

Wait, wait, wait.

You can't marry Jungwon. You can't even confess to Jungwon, because Jungwon thinks you confessed to Heeseung. Jungwon thinks you're interested in someone else. Jungwon was sweet and friendly and maybe a little bit flirty, but that's just his personality. He's nice to everyone. He gives you gummy bears at 2 AM; he probably gives gummy bears to everyone who looks tired. You aren't special. You are just… there.

The giddiness begins to drain out of you, replaced by the familiar weight of reality. You are still trapped in the Heeseung situation. You are still the girl who confessed to the wrong person. And no matter how many times Jungwon pokes your cheek, that fundamental fact isn't going to change.

With a heavy sigh, you drag yourself through your evening routine: shower, skincare, the episode of the baking show you're halfway through and finally crawl into bed around midnight, your emotions a tangled knot of hope and despair.

Sleep comes slowly, a gradual descent into darkness, and then-

—————

You are in the PC room again.

But this time it's different. The lights are dimmer, the computers all dark, the chairs empty. It's just you, and the door is swinging shut behind you, and there's someone waiting at the computer closest to the door.

Heeseung.

He's sitting in the chair, facing away from you, his headphones around his neck and his shoulders relaxed. When he hears your footsteps, he turns, and his expression isn't surprised or amused or curious. It's something else entirely. Something darker. Something that makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You're here," he says, and his voice is lower than you've ever heard it, a rumble that vibrates through your bones. "I've been waiting for you, little mouse."

"I'm not-" you start, but he's already standing, already moving toward you, and you can't seem to make your feet work. You're rooted to the spot, watching him approach with a mixture of fear and something else, something you don't want to name.

He stops inches away from you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body, close enough that you can see the individual strands of his hair and the curve of his lips and the way his eyes, God, his eyes are fixed on your mouth.

"You know what I've been thinking about?" he murmurs, and one of his hands comes up to brush a strand of hair away from your face, his fingers lingering against your temple. "I've been thinking about that letter. The way you said you only had eyes for me. The way you said you couldn't stop thinking about me."

"That wasn't-" you try, but your voice comes out as barely a whisper, and Heeseung's thumb is tracing along your jawline now, feather-light and devastating.

"I can't stop thinking about you either," he says, and his face is getting closer, closer, and you can feel his breath against your lips. "Do you want to know what I think about?"

Your heart is hammering. Your skin is on fire. You can't move, can't speak, can't do anything except stare up at him with wide eyes as his other hand settles on your waist, warm and solid and pulling you closer.

"I think about this," he whispers, and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is…it's…

It's intense. It's consuming. It's the kind of kiss that erases every rational thought from your brain and replaces it with pure, unfiltered sensation. His lips are soft but insistent, moving against yours with a confidence that makes your knees weak. His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you make a sound against his mouth, something small and breathless and completely involuntary.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead resting against yours, his voice is rough. "You’re what I’ve been looking for my whole life, Y/N. You’re my miracle."

And then his lips are on your neck, trailing fire down to your collarbone, and your head falls back, and his name escapes your mouth in a way you've never said it before-

He kneels before you, his movements fluid and deliberate. His eyes never leave yours as he unzips his jeans, freeing his already hard cock. It stands proud and thick, the tip glistening with pre-cum. He takes your foot in his warm hand, bringing it to his shaft.

"Look what you do to me," he murmurs, his voice husky with desire. He wraps your foot around his length, his thumb pressing against your arch as he begins to move your foot up and down his cock. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, a low groan escaping his lips.

The sensation of his hot skin against your sole sends shivers through your body. You watch, mesmerized, as he uses your foot to pleasure himself, his hips thrusting in rhythm with the movements of your foot. His other hand moves to your ankle, his grip firm but gentle, his fingers stroking your sensitive skin.

His eyes open, locking with yours again, and the intensity in his gaze makes your breath catch. "You're so beautiful," he breathes, his movements becoming faster, more urgent. "You’re perfect the way you are."

His breathing grows ragged, his muscles tensing. With a guttural moan, he comes, his hot release spilling over your foot and his hand. He leans forward, his tongue darting out to taste his own cum from your skin, his movements slow and sensual. He licks your foot clean, his tongue tracing patterns on your arch, between your toes, sending waves of pleasure through your body.

Then he shifts, positioning himself between your legs. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire. "I need to taste you," he says, his voice rough with need.

He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. He tosses them aside, then leans in, his breath hot against your most sensitive flesh.

His tongue flicks out, teasing your clit, and you gasp, your hands flying to his hair. He chuckles, the vibration sending another jolt of pleasure through you. "Patience, little mouse," he murmurs against your skin.

His tongue moves in slow, deliberate circles, building your pleasure gradually. He alternates between broad, flat strokes and quick, precise flicks of his tongue against your clit. His fingers join in, one, then two, sliding inside you, curling to hit that spot that makes you cry.

Your hips buck against his face, your breath coming in ragged gasps. "Heeseung," you moan, your fingers tightening in his hair.

He responds with increased enthusiasm, his tongue working faster, his fingers pumping in and out of you. The pressure builds inside you, a coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter until it snaps.

You come with a cry, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure wash over you. But Heeseung doesn't stop. He continues his assault on your senses, his tongue and fingers working in perfect harmony to bring you to the edge again.

And then you are squirting, your release flooding his mouth and chin as he drinks you in, his movements never faltering. He looks up at you, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he laps up every drop.

When he finally pulls away, his face glistening with your juices, he crawls up your body, capturing your lips in a searing kiss. You can taste yourself on his tongue, and the intimacy of it sends another wave of desire through you.

"Tell me you’re only thinking of me," he whispers against your lips, his hands roaming your body. "and not Jungwon."

You wake up.

You wake up in your dorm room, in your bed, at 7:43 AM on a Tuesday morning, with your heart pounding and your skin flushed, your panties soaked and your sheets twisted around your legs like they've been through a battle.

For a long moment, you just lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe.

Did you just… did you just dream about… did Lee Heeseung, the guy you're supposed to be making uninterested in you, the guy you've been trying to avoid and ignore and repel, just star in what can only be described as an extremely obscene dream? The virgin you are just cringed at the memory.

You press your hands to your burning cheeks and let out a sound that is somewhere between a groan and a scream.

"No," you whisper to the empty room. "No, no, no. This isn't, this can't…I don't even like him. I like Jungwon. Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon for four months. I wrote a letter to Jungwon. I have a color-coded mental database of Jungwon's habits. I want to marry Jungwon and have a three-tier wedding cake with wildflowers!"

But your brain, traitorous and unhelpful, keeps replaying fragments of the dream, the way Heeseung's eyes go dark, the way his voice rumbles against your ear, the way his hand feels on your waist, the way his tongue is warm and-

You grab your pillow and press it over your face, screaming into it with all the force your lungs can muster.

This is wrong. This is so, so wrong. You are a Jungwon girl. You've always been a Jungwon girl. You don't think about Heeseung like that. You don't think about Heeseung like anything. Heeseung is an obstacle. Heeseung is a problem to be solved. Heeseung is the guy you're actively trying to repel, not the guy who shows up in your subconscious and does things that make you blush in the privacy of your own bed.

"I'm a psychopath," you say to your pillow. "I'm a complete and utter psychopath. Who dreams about this with a guy they're supposed to be making uninterested? A psychopath, that's who. A deranged lunatic. A person with a broken brain."

Your pillow, predictably, does not respond.

You drag yourself out of bed and into the bathroom, splashing cold water on your face and avoiding your own reflection in the mirror. You don't want to look at yourself. You don't want to see the evidence of the dream still lingering in your flushed cheeks…and between your legs.

This is a problem. This is a Major Problem with capital letters and possibly a warning siren. You can't afford to be having dreams about Lee Heeseung. You can't afford to be thinking about Lee Heeseung at all. Your entire strategy, Operation Make Heeseung Uninterested depends on you being able to keep a clear head and a steady heart, and neither of those things is going to be possible if your subconscious keeps ambushing you with extremely vivid, extremely inappropriate content.

You need to talk to Yunjin. Immediately. Before your brain can conjure up any more unauthorized imagery.

But as you grab your phone and type out a frantic message, EMERGENCY MEETING REQUIRED IMMEDIATELY CODE RED REPEAT CODE RED, you can't quite shake the lingering sensation from the dream.

The way Heeseung's thumb traces along your jawline.

The way he calls you little mouse in that low, rumbling voice.

The way he says you were perfect the way you were like he means it, like it's true, like he's been into you his whole life and hasn't even known it.

You shake your head violently, flinging droplets of water across the bathroom mirror.

"Nope," you say out loud. "Nope, nope, nope. We're not doing this. We're not thinking about this. We're going to go to class and eat lunch and avoid all tall informatics students, and we're going to get our brain back on the Jungwon track where it belongs."

But even as you say it, even as you try to mean it, a small, treacherous part of you wonders if maybe, just maybe, the Jungwon track isn't the only track worth following anymore.

You shove that thought into a mental box, lock it, and throw away the key.

You have a plan. You have a strategy. You are going to make Heeseung uninterested, and you are going to figure out a way to untangle the misunderstanding, and you are going to end up with Jungwon like you were always supposed to.

The dream is just a dream. It doesn't mean anything. It can't mean anything.

You refuse to let it mean anything.

(But when you catch yourself glancing toward the informatics building on your way to class, you walk a little faster, and you definitely, absolutely, one hundred percent do not wonder what Lee Heeseung is doing right now.)

—————

The dream haunts you for three days.

Not in a supernatural, ghost-in-the-corner kind of way. More in an I-can't-make-eye-contact-with-my-own-reflection kind of way. Every time you close your eyes, fragments of it flicker behind your eyelids like a movie you hadn't asked to watch. The dark PC room. The way Heeseung's voice drops to a rumble. The phantom sensation of his tongue on your clit, his hand on your ankle, his look-

You physically convulse every time the memory resurfaces, which is approximately every forty-five minutes. Your philosophy notes become a graveyard of distracted doodles, half of which look suspiciously like the curve of someone's jaw. You have to throw away an entire page because you accidentally write "little mouse" in the margin instead of "moral relativism."

Yunjin is no help whatsoever.

"So you had a wet dream about the hot guy who you’re supposedly getting bored of," she says over bubble tea the day after the incident, her expression thoroughly unimpressed. "This is a problem because…?"

"Because I don't like him, Yunjin! I like Jungwon! I've liked Jungwon since midterms! Jungwon is the goal! Jungwon is the three-tier wedding cake!"

"And Heeseung is…?"

"A temporary obstacle! A misunderstanding with legs! A very tall, very inconvenient plot twist!"

Yunjin sucks on her tapioca pearls with the air of a therapist who has heard it all before and is no longer surprised by anything. "You know what they say about protesting too much."

"I am not protesting too much. I am protesting exactly the right amount. I am protesting a perfectly calibrated quantity."

"Sure." She pats your hand with condescending sympathy. "Whatever helps you sleep at night. Oh wait-"

You throw a tapioca pearl at her face. It sticks to her cheek for a solid three seconds before falling off, and the look of absolute betrayal on her face is the only bright spot in your otherwise nightmare-plagued week.

But now it's Thursday. Thursday, 2:15 PM. You're stationed in the science building's main hallway, crouched behind a bulletin board that is absolutely not wide enough to hide your entire body, waiting for the coast to clear so you can sprint to your next class without encountering any tall informatics students.

Your system has evolved since the early days of the crisis. You now have a color-coded schedule of Heeseung's known movements, courtesy of some light reconnaissance work that Yunjin calls "stalking" and you call "strategic intelligence gathering." You know his class schedule. You know his preferred study spots. You know that he tends to grab coffee from the campus café at exactly 3 PM on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which means the science building hallway should, theoretically, be a Heeseung-free zone at 2:15.

Theoretically.

You're just about to make your move, a quick dash to the stairwell, then up two flights, then a straight shot to classroom 307, when you hear it.

"Hey, is Y/N L/N in there?"

Your blood freezes. Your muscles lock. Your soul briefly departs your body and then slams back into it with force.

That's Heeseung's voice. That's unmistakably, undeniably, catastrophically Lee Heeseung's voice, and it's coming from approximately ten feet to your left, where the door to your department's main office stands open.

You press yourself harder against the bulletin board, praying for invisibility, praying for a sudden power outage, praying for the ground to open up and swallow you into its merciful embrace. None of these things happen. Instead, you hear the department secretary respond with cheerful obliviousness.

"Y/N L/N? First year, STEM? I think I saw her in the hallway just a minute ago. Let me check, oh, there she is! Y/N! You have a visitor!"

The secretary is pointing directly at your bulletin board. Your bulletin board that is not hiding you at all. Your bulletin board that is, in fact, leaving approximately seventy percent of your body completely visible to anyone who happens to look in that direction.

Heeseung turns.

Your eyes meet.

Time stops.

There are moments in life that feel like they stretch into eternity, moments so profoundly awkward, so cosmically embarrassing, that the universe itself seems to pause and take notice. This is one of those moments. You are frozen in a half-crouch behind a bulletin board, your backpack dangling from one shoulder, your hair escaping from the ponytail you threw it into this morning, your expression one of pure, unfiltered terror. Heeseung is standing in the doorway of the department office, looking unfairly attractive in a simple black hoodie and jeans, his eyebrows rising slowly toward his hairline.

A small crowd of students has paused in the hallway to watch. You can feel their eyes on you like a physical weight. Someone whispers something to their friend. Someone else pulls out their phone.

You are going to die. You are going to perish right here in the science building hallway, and your ghost will be doomed to haunt this bulletin board for all eternity.

"Y/N?" Heeseung's voice is a mixture of confusion and amusement. He takes a step toward you, and you instinctively take a step back, which results in you bumping directly into the bulletin board and causing several flyers to flutter dramatically to the ground. "Were you… hiding behind that?"

"No," you say, too quickly. "No, I was…I dropped something. A contact lens. I was looking for my contact lens."

"You don't wear contacts."

"I might! You don't know my life!"

"Your glasses are literally on your face right now."

You reach up and touch your glasses, which are indeed sitting on your nose, clearly visible, doing their job of correcting your vision. You have no response to this. There is no response to this. You have been caught in a lie so transparent it's essentially a window.

Heeseung's lips twitch. "You know, most people who have a crush on me don't run away and hide behind furniture. This is very confusing for my ego."

The crowd is still watching. Why is the crowd still watching? Don't they have classes to go to? Midterms to study for? Lives to live that don't involve spectating your public humiliation?

"I wasn't hiding from you specifically," you say, because apparently your mouth has decided to operate independently from your brain. "I was hiding from… the sun. It's very bright in here. I'm photosensitive."

"You're a STEM student hiding from the sun in a basement hallway with no windows," Heeseung says slowly. "That's… a new one."

"It's a medical condition. It's very serious. My doctor says I need to avoid direct fluorescent lighting."

"The fluorescent lighting is what's getting you."

"Absolutely. It's my greatest enemy. Well, second greatest. After-" You stop yourself before you can say after incredibly hot informatics students who keep appearing in my life like a recurring nightmare.

Heeseung waits. When you don't finish the sentence, that smile, the one that's definitely a smirk's second cousin, maybe even its first cousin at this point, spreads across his face.

"Well," he says, "now that I've found you and dragged you out of the shadows, literally, I was wondering if you wanted to grab coffee. With me. Right now."

Every single person in the hallway is looking at you. The secretary is looking at you from the office doorway, her expression one of grandmotherly delight at what she clearly perceives as a romantic overture. The students who stopped to watch are exchanging glances and whispers. One girl gives you an encouraging thumbs up.

You are trapped. You are cornered. You are a mouse being offered coffee by a very tall, very persistent cat.

And just like every other time Heeseung has put you on the spot, you open your mouth and the wrong words come out.

"I love coffee," you say. "Coffee is my favorite liquid. After water. And possibly juice. But it's definitely in the top three."

"Is that a yes?"

"…Yes."

This was the nth time. The nth damn time since you’d moved in six months ago. With a sharp exhale, you shoved your chair back and stormed out of your apartment, not even bothering to change out of your oversized hoodie and sweatpants. The hallway reeked of spilled beer and expensive cologne.

You could already hear the chaos before you even reached his door. Laughter, glasses clinking, some girl’s high pitched giggle cutting through the music.

You banged on the door harder than necessary. It took a few seconds before someone inside yelled over the noise, “Yoo Heeseung! Someone’s banging at your front door!”The door finally swung open.

Heeseung stood there in all his infuriating glory tall, broad shouldered, black hair slightly tousled like he’d been running his hands through it. His button up was half undone, revealing a silver chain that rested on his collarbones and a glimpse of toned chest. Behind him, the party pulsed with red solo cups, dim lights, and at least half the basketball team.

A pretty girl with long hair and a tight dress was pressed close to his side, her hand resting possessively on his arm. He’d clearly been in the middle of charming her into his bed by the end of the night.

The second his dark eyes landed on you, that signature cocky smirk curved his lips.“Hi, miss morals,” he drawled, voice low and teasing, like he’d been waiting for this exact interruption.

You rolled your eyes so hard it was a miracle they didn’t get stuck. “Can you turn it down? The music is too loud.”

Heeseung didn’t move. Instead, he leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms in a way that made his biceps strain against the fabric of his shirt. The girl behind him shifted, clearly annoyed at the sudden attention shift, but Heeseung didn’t spare her a glance now.

“Miss morals strikes again,” he laughed, the sound rich and mocking. It sent an unwelcome spark of irritation down your spine. “What’s the problem this time, neighbor? Come to bless us with your righteous presence?”

“I’m serious, Heeseung,” you said, voice sharp as you folded your arms tightly across your chest. “Not everyone has the pleasure of partying all night. Others have to actually study to pass their exams whereas others can just have daddy pay for everything when they fuck up.”The words hung in the air between you.

Heeseung’s smirk faltered instantly. His jaw tightened, and he sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth. For a split second, something raw annoyance, maybe even hurt flashed across his face before he quickly shoved it back into that indifferent mask. His eyes darkened, the playful glint gone.

“Whatever,” he muttered, voice suddenly flat and cold. “I’ll lower the volume.”He said, “Thank you,” you replied curtly, refusing to let the small victory show on your face even though your heart was hammering.

Heeseung didn’t say anything else. He simply stepped back and shut the door right in your face with a firm click that echoed down the empty hallway.

You stood there for a moment, staring at the closed wooden door, fists clenched at your sides. The music inside dropped almost immediately, not completely off, but low enough that you could finally breathe. Muffled laughter and voices still filtered through, but at least your walls wouldn’t shake anymore.

“Asshole,” you whispered under your breath, turning on your heel and heading back to your apartment.As you closed your own door behind you, you leaned against it for a second, eyes closed. Why did he always have to make everything so difficult? Why did one look from him always manage to crawl under your skin like this?

You shook your head, forcing the thoughts away. Back to studying. Back to pretending Lee Heeseung didn’t exist. But deep down, you already knew tonight’s silence between you two had just gotten a little louder.

You were halfway through rewriting your notes when your phone buzzed on the desk, the screen lighting up with a new message.

yunjin : you know sunghoon righttt? he’s throwing a massive party after midterms and he personally invited me. pleeease come with me?? i don’t wanna go alone 🥺

You stared at the text, already feeling the familiar dread settle in your stomach. Another party of course. You typed back quickly

you : No thanks im good have fun tho

The two dots appeared immediately.

yunjin : babe come onnnn

yunjin : it’s after midterms!! you deserve to relax

yunjin : sunghoon’s parties are actually fun i swear

yunjin : there’ll be good music, free drinks, and i heard the basketball team is coming too 👀

You groaned, rubbing your temples. The last thing you wanted was to be anywhere near the basketball team especially not after tonight’s lovely encounter with their captain.

you : exactly why I’m not going pass

yunjin : please please please i really like sunghoon and this could be my chance

yunjin : i’ll owe you big time i’ll even help you study for the next round of exams i’ll buy you that expensive matcha you like for a month!!

You leaned back in your chair, biting your lip. Yunjin was relentless when she wanted something. And honestly she had been there for you through every late night breakdown this semester. Saying no felt a little cruel the pleading texts kept coming

yunjin : i won’t leave your side the whole night ( she is lying )

yunjin : we can leave early if you hate it , pretty please with cherries on top?? 🥺🍒

You sighed deeply, already knowing you were about to lose this battle.

you : fine, ONE HOUR that’s it if it sucks, we’re out.

yunjin : YESSSSS!!! you’re the best i love you so much

yunjin : we can dress up together at my place okay , see you tomorrow <33

You tossed your phone onto the desk and dropped your head into your hands. Great, just what you needed. Another night surrounded by loud music, drunk athletes, and the very real possibility of running into the Lee Heeseung again.

You glanced at the wall that separated your apartment from his. The music was still playing faintly, but at least it was bearable now. Just one party, you could survive one party right?

The next morning, the art history lecture hall was already filling up with the usual mix of sleepy students and last minute crammers when you slipped into your regular seat in the middle row.

The faint scent of fresh coffee and old books lingered in the air. Yunjin dropped dramatically into the chair on your right, her long hair still slightly damp from her morning shower, eyes bright with far too much excitement for a 9 am class.

On your left, Soobin settled in quietly, tall frame folding gracefully into the seat. He placed his neatly organized notebook on the desk and pulled out a perfectly sharpened pencil, offering you a soft, reassuring smile.

Soobin was always like this calm, steady, the kind of friend who showed up without making a fuss. He was the complete opposite of the loud, chaotic energy that seemed to follow Heeseung everywhere.

Yunjin, however, was already completely distracted. She was leaning forward, chin resting on her hand, openly staring toward the front rows where Sunghoon sat chatting with a couple of friends. Her gaze was soft and dreamy, a tiny smile tugging at her lips every time he laughed at something.

You nudged her arm with your elbow, voice low and teasing. “You’re oogling him again it’s getting embarrassing at this point.”Yunjin didn’t even pretend to deny it. “I’m not oogling, im appreciating art,” she whispered back, still not tearing her eyes away. “Look at him he’s literally perfect.”

Soobin let out a quiet chuckle beside you, shaking his head as he flipped open his notebook. “Sure ‘appreciating’ that’s why half your notes from last week were just little hearts around his name.” He teased her, to which she replied,

“Traitor,” Yunjin hissed playfully, finally glancing at both of you as her cheeks flushed pink. “You two are supposed to be on my side.”The light banter continued until Soobin turned to you, lowering his voice a little. “Hey, I heard there was a party at Heeseung’s last night, did you survive the noise?”

You let out a long, dramatic groan and slumped back in your seat, the memory of last night’s confrontation still fresh and irritating. “Barely. That idiot had the music blasting so loud my textbooks were literally vibrating on the desk. I had to march over there in my hoodie and sweatpants like some angry neighbor from a sitcom again.”

Soobin listened attentively, his expression patient and sympathetic. He never interrupted your rants or told you to just ignore it. He just nodded along, dark eyes focused on you, making you feel genuinely heard.

It was one of the many reasons you treasured his friendship he was thoughtful, kind, and never loud or arrogant for the sake of it. The polar opposite of Heeseung.

“And of course he answered the door half dressed with some girl hanging off his arm like a trophy,” you continued, voice dripping with annoyance. “Called me ‘miss morals’ like it’s the funniest joke in the world.

Then when I pointed out that not everyone has a rich daddy to bail them out when they party instead of studying, he got all pissy, sucked in this dramatic breath, and slammed the door right in my face. He’s such an entitled asshole.”

Soobin hummed softly, a small frown creasing his brow. “That sounds exhausting, you should’ve texted me you know, i could’ve come over with snacks and we could’ve studied together instead of dealing with his nonsense alone.”

You smiled faintly at the offer, warmth cutting through the irritation. “Next time, maybe at least someone in this building has basic human decency.”

Yunjin finally tore her gaze away from Sunghoon long enough to grin at you. “Heeseung’s just bored and likes getting a rise out of you if you stopped reacting, he’d probably get bored and stop.”

“Easy for you to say,” you muttered, crossing your arms. “You don’t have to live next door to the human equivalent of a walking migraine.”The professor walked in moments later, cutting off any further complaints.

The next hour passed in a blur of projected slides on Renaissance techniques, quiet note taking, and the occasional whispered comment from Yunjin whenever Sunghoon shifted in his seat.

When class finally ended, the three of you packed up your things and joined the stream of students flowing out into the crowded hallway. The air was filled with chatter about upcoming midterms, weekend plans, and the usual campus gossip.

As you walked side by side, Yunjin suddenly looped her arm through yours, her excitement bubbling over again. “So, about Sunghoon’s party after midterms you’re definitely coming, right? And Soobin you should come too! It’ll be so much more fun with all three of us there.”

Soobin blinked, surprised, his eyebrows raising slightly. “Wait you’re actually going?” He looked at you, genuinely shocked. “I thought you hated parties, especially ones thrown by the popular crowd.”

You shrugged, already regretting your decision a little. “Yunjin begged a lot and guilt tripped me with matcha promises. One hour max, if it sucks, I’m dragging her out.”

Yunjin squealed happily and squeezed your arm. “See? She’s coming! So you have to come too, Soobinn please?”Before Soobin could respond, a familiar voice cut through the hallway noise from behind you.

“Can’t imagine miss morals at a party but I’m looking forward to seeing you there.” Your stomach dropped, you didn’t even have to turn around to know who it was.

Heeseung was leaning casually against a set of lockers a few feet away, arms crossed over his varsity jacket, that signature cocky smirk playing on his lips. He must have overheard the entire conversation.

His dark eyes locked onto yours with clear amusement, like he lived for these moments of catching you off guard.

You rolled your eyes so hard it almost hurt, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a verbal response. Heat crept up your neck partly from annoyance, partly from the embarrassment of him hearing your plans.

Yunjin stifled a laugh beside you while Soobin just shook his head quietly, a small, amused smile tugging at his mouth.

Heeseung’s low chuckle followed you as the three of you kept walking, but you kept your gaze fixed straight ahead, jaw tight. God, you really, really hated that guy.Midterms week stretched into a brutal two week marathon, and as an art curator major, you felt every single hour of it in your bones.

Your apartment had become a war zone of curated chaos towering stacks of books on museum exhibition design, printed slides from Art Conservation and Curatorial Practices, mood boards pinned to the wall for your upcoming gallery proposal project, and color coded flashcards scattered across every surface.

Late nights blurred into early mornings as you hunched over your laptop, drafting proposals for hypothetical exhibits while trying to memorize the intricate history of 19th century European collections. Sleep was a distant dream. Caffeine was your only reliable companion.

And then there was Heeseung.

He didn’t blast music or bring girls over every single night that would have been almost predictable. No, he was crueler than that. He chose random days, like he knew exactly how to keep you off balance, turning your already exhausting study schedule into a minefield of unwanted interruptions.

The first time hit on the second night of midterms. You were deep into analyzing a case study on museum ethics when the wall behind your desk started to vibrate faintly. At first it was just low music.

Then came the giggles two distinct female voices, breathy and flirtatious. Heeseung’s deep laugh cut through it all, followed by the unmistakable sound of bodies moving against furniture.

“Fuck, Heeseung you’re so good at this,” one of the girls moaned loudly, the words carrying crystal clear through the thin shared wall. The headboard started thumping a slow, steady rhythm against your wall rhythmic, insistent, growing faster.

You could hear the wet slap of skin, her exaggerated gasps turning into full throated cries every time he thrust.You yanked your noise canceling headphones on so hard the band dug into your temples, cranking the volume until classical music drowned most of it out.

But you could still feel it, the steady bang bang bang vibrating through your desk, through your chair, through your skull. Your cheeks burned with secondhand embarrassment and pure rage.

'Of course he’s fucking some random girl while I’m trying to memorize the difference between Baroque and Rococo curation techniques.' You thought bitterly, stabbing your highlighter across the page. Must be nice to have zero responsibilities except basketball and dick appointments.

It stopped around 2 a.m., but the damage was done. You only managed three hours of sleep before your 8 a.m. lecture.

The next morning, you were running on pure spite and too much coffee when you caught Heeseung in the hallway just as he was stepping out of his apartment. He looked annoyingly fresh — hair still damp from a shower, varsity jacket slung over one shoulder, that perpetual cocky smirk already in place.

You stopped right in front of him, arms crossed tightly. “Keep it down next time,” you said flatly, voice low but sharp. “Some of us are actually trying to pass our midterms instead of auditioning for porn.”

Heeseung raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Aw, miss morals heard everything? Didn’t know you were such a light sleeper.” You glared at him, heat rising to your cheeks. “Just tone it down, the headboard banging is ridiculous.”

He chuckled lowly, the sound sending another spike of irritation through you. “Noted.” Then he leaned in slightly, voice dropping. “Though from the sounds of it last night, she seemed to enjoy the banging.”

You rolled your eyes and walked away without another word, his soft laugh following you down the hall.The next disruption came four days later. A random Thursday when you had a massive group project due on modern curatorial strategies.

You’d just settled in with your laptop open to a half finished exhibition proposal when his door slammed open down the hall. One girl this time, but she was even louder.

The moment they got inside, the sounds started again her high pitched whimpers, Heeseung’s low, cocky murmurs “Yeah? You like that? Tell me how much you want it” followed by the unmistakable wet sounds of them going at it on what sounded like his couch first, then migrating to the bed.

The headboard slammed against the wall so hard your framed print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night rattled. Her moans turned into broken sobs of pleasure, each one punctuated by Heeseung’s grunts and the filthy slap of bodies. “Harder fuck, right there, Heeseung don’t stop—”

You ended up studying in your bed instead, laptop balanced on your knees, pillows stacked around you like a fortress. Headphones on full blast. Still, every thrust made the wall tremble.

Every moan crawled under your skin and made focusing on your notes feel impossible. By the time they finally finished (or at least quieted down) around midnight, your eyes were burning and your proposal was only half done.

You hated how your body reacted sometimes not with attraction, but with pure, simmering resentment that made your stomach twist.That same night, after the noises finally stopped, you grabbed your phone in a fit of exhausted anger and texted him.

you : keep the noise down, some people are trying to study for actual grades, not coast on basketball talent and daddy’s money

His reply came faster than you expected. A picture popped up first. A close up selfie of Heeseung lying in bed, shirtless, messy hair, lazy smirk on his face, with the caption

heeseung : sorry, miss morals hard to stay quiet when they scream my name like that

heeseung : next time i’ll try to fuck quieter or maybe you can just join and tell me how to do it right?

You stared at the message, face flaming with a mix of rage and disbelief. You immediately blocked the image from your mind ( and definitely did not linger on the way his abs looked in the dim lighting ) before typing back a single furious reply

you : delete my number, asshole

The worst random night came during the final stretch, just three days before your last exams.

You were pulling an all nighter on your capstone project a full digital mock up of a contemporary art exhibit you’d spent weeks perfecting when the noises started again around 11 p.m. This time it was two girls.

Their laughter spilled into the hallway first, then straight through your wall. Heeseung’s voice was low and teasing, the kind of filthy charm that probably worked on every girl on campus.

Soon the bed was creaking loudly, headboard banging in a frantic rhythm while both girls moaned in tandem one breathy and high, the other deeper and more desperate.

“Heeseung oh god, yes fuck me like that—” mixed with wet, obscene sounds that left zero doubt about exactly what was happening next door. The wall vibrated so intensely your coffee mug slid an inch across the desk.

You sat there in your oversized hoodie and sweatpants, staring at your glowing screen, jaw clenched so tight it ached. Every moan, every dirty encouragement from Heeseung, every rhythmic thud felt like a personal attack on the one thing you actually cared about your future.

Your grades, your dream of curating real exhibitions someday. While I’m over here trying not to fail out of the only thing I’m good at, you thought, fingers flying angrily across the keyboard, he’s over there living his best life with a rotating cast of girls screaming his name.

You wore the headphones until your ears rang. You even tried white noise apps, earplugs underneath nothing fully blocked it. The sex noises went on for nearly two hours that night, loud and shameless, until they finally quieted around 1:30 a.m.

By the end of the two weeks, you were running on fumes dark circles under your eyes, caffeine shakes in your hands, and a permanent knot of irritation lodged in your chest whenever you passed his door.

The random nights had been spaced out just enough to feel like psychological warfare instead of constant chaos.Heeseung never once toned it down. Never once seemed to care that someone on the other side of the wall was actually trying to build a future that didn’t involve daddy’s money or NBA scouts.

When Friday morning finally arrived and your last exam was over, you dragged yourself back to the apartment building, shoulders heavy with exhaustion. The hallway was quiet for once. Heeseung’s door looked innocently closed.

You unlocked your own door, stepped inside, and immediately collapsed face first onto your bed, still in your clothes midterms were done.But the resentment toward the boy next door had only grown sharper and Sunghoon’s party was tonight. You groaned into your pillow one hour in and out. Just don’t kill Heeseung on sight.

You took the quickest shower of your life, and changed into the first comfortable outfit you could find—a simple black crop top that showed just a sliver of your midriff and your favorite pair of dark jeans—comfortable, practical, safe.

You texted Yunjin that you were ready to head over to her place to “get ready together,” secretly hoping she wouldn’t make a big deal out of your clothes—big mistake. Yunjin’s apartment was only two blocks away, and the second you stepped inside, she took one look at you and gasped like you had personally offended her.

“No no absolutely not,” she declared, hands on her hips, eyes scanning you up and down with pure horror. “You cannot go to Sunghoon’s party looking like that.”

You glanced down at yourself, confused. “What’s wrong with this? It’s cute it’s comfortable.”“Cute? Comfortable?” Yunjin repeated, already dragging you toward her bedroom like a woman on a mission.

“Babe, we’re going to a party, not the library. You just survived two weeks of hell tonight you’re supposed to look hot, not like you’re about to give a museum tour.”

Before you could protest, she flung open her closet and started pulling out clothes with frightening speed. She held up a black mini skirt dangerously short, made of soft leather like material and a sheer black button up shirt that was practically see through.

“Try these,” she ordered, shoving the hanger into your hands. You stared at the outfit like it might bite you. “Yunjin, no way, that skirt is barely legal and the shirt is see through i’m not wearing that.”

“Yes way, you are,” she sang, already pushing you toward the bathroom. “You agreed to come to the party that means you’re under my styling jurisdiction for tonight go change now”

You argued the entire time you were changing. “This is ridiculous! im going to freeze, people are going to stare i look like I’m trying way too hard—”

But Yunjin was relentless. The second you stepped out in the mini skirt and sheer shirt ( with a black bralette underneath so you weren’t completely exposed ), she clapped her hands and squealed.

“Oh my god, yes! Look at you!” She spun you around in front of her full length mirror. The skirt hugged your hips and ended high on your thighs, making your legs look longer.

The sheer shirt draped softly over your shoulders, the black bralette visible underneath in a way that was teasing but not outright scandalous. “You look insane like, dangerously hot.”

You tugged at the hem of the skirt, cheeks burning. “I feel naked. Can't I at least wear the jeans over this or something?”“No,” she said firmly, already sitting you down in front of her vanity. “We’re doing makeup now sit still.”

For the next twenty minutes, Yunjin worked her magic. Winged eyeliner sharp enough to cut glass, soft smoky eyes, a touch of highlighter on your cheekbones, and a bold red lip that made your mouth look fuller. She even styled your hair into loose, effortless waves that framed your face perfectly.

When she finally stepped back, she let out a satisfied sigh.“Anyone would worship the ground you walk on looking like this,” she said, grinning proudly. “Trust me tonight, you’re not the stressed out art curator girl who yells at her neighbor. You’re the girl who turns heads even Heeseung won’t know what to do with himself when he sees you.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small flutter of nerves mixed with reluctant confidence settled in your stomach as you looked at your reflection. The outfit was way bolder than anything you’d normally wear, but you had to admit it looked good.

“Fine,” you muttered, smoothing down the skirt one last time. “But if I hate it, we’re leaving early and if Heeseung says one word about ‘miss morals’ in this outfit, I’m pouring a drink on him.”Yunjin laughed and linked her arm with yours. “Deal now let’s go make Sunghoon’s party unforgettable.”

You and Yunjin barely made it out of her apartment before your phone buzzed with a text from Soobin saying he was already waiting downstairs. The three of you had agreed he would drive so none of you had to worry about getting home later.

The elevator ride down felt too short. Your heart was already beating a little faster than usual partly from the unfamiliar outfit, partly from the knowledge that you were actually going to a party after surviving two brutal weeks of midterms.

The black mini skirt kept riding up slightly with every step, and you kept tugging nervously at the hem while Yunjin wouldn’t stop complimenting how good you looked.

When you stepped out of the building into the cool evening air, Soobin’s car was parked right in front, engine idling. He was leaning casually against the driver’s side, scrolling through his phone, but the moment he looked up and saw the two of you approaching, his eyes widened noticeably.

Especially when they landed on you. Soobin froze for a second, his usual calm expression cracking into pure, genuine shock. His gaze traveled slowly from your loose waves and sharp winged eyeliner, down to the sheer black shirt that subtly revealed the black bralette underneath, then to the dangerously short leather like mini skirt that made your legs look endless.

He blinked once, twice, before quickly clearing his throat and straightening up, ears turning a light shade of pink.“Wow” he said, voice a little higher than his normal soft tone. “You both look really nice like, really nice.”

Yunjin grinned triumphantly, looping her arm through yours and squeezing. “See? Told you! Even Soobin is shook, she looks hot, right?”

You felt heat creep up your neck and quickly crossed your arms over your chest, suddenly hyper aware of how different you looked from your usual oversized hoodie and jeans self.

“It’s all Yunjin’s doing. She basically held me hostage in her room until I changed. I tried to wear my normal clothes and she acted like I committed a crime.”

Soobin gave a small, shy laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as he opened the back door for both of you like the gentleman he was. “No, it really suits you, you look great tonight.” His compliment was sincere and gentle, making the awkwardness feel a little softer. “Ready to go? Sunghoon’s place isn’t too far from here.”

The car ride was filled with easy, light chatter that helped calm your nerves. Yunjin sat in the front passenger seat, already buzzing with excitement about seeing Sunghoon, while you sat in the back, occasionally tugging at your skirt and staring out the window at the passing streetlights.

Soobin kept the conversation flowing comfortably, light complaints about how brutal midterms had been, predictions about how wild the party might get, and Yunjin’s endless teasing about how

Sunghoon had “personally invited” her. Every now and then Soobin would glance at you through the rearview mirror, still looking a little flustered whenever your eyes met.

Before you knew it, Soobin was pulling up to a large off campus house that was already pulsing with loud music and flashing colored lights. Cars lined both sides of the street, and groups of people were laughing and chatting on the front lawn, red cups in hand.

The three of you climbed out of the car, and the heavy bass from inside immediately hit you like a wave. The night air smelled like a mix of cheap beer, sweet perfume, and fresh cut grass. Yunjin practically bounced on her heels with excitement as the three of you walked up the pathway toward the front door.

Sunghoon was standing right at the entrance, playing the perfect host in a simple black shirt and jeans. His sharp, handsome features broke into a warm, genuine smile the moment he spotted your group approaching.

“Hey! You guys actually made it,” he greeted cheerfully, voice carrying easily over the noise from inside. His eyes lingered on Yunjin for an extra beat, a soft grin tugging at his lips. “Yunjin, glad you came and you brought friends, nice.”

He gave Soobin a friendly nod and then turned his attention to you, eyebrows raising slightly in pleasant surprise as he took in your bold outfit. “Hey! you clean up really well. Welcome to the party, hope you guys have fun tonight.”

You managed a small, polite smile, still feeling slightly out of your element. “Thanks for inviting us.”Sunghoon handed each of you a red solo cup filled with something fruity and strong smelling a sweet cocktail that had a sharp kick of alcohol when you took your first cautious sip.

“Drinks are flowing inside help yourselves to whatever you want. There’s food in the kitchen, beer pong in the living room, and dancing. Pretty much everywhere enjoy!”

Yunjin thanked him brightly, her cheeks already a little flushed with excitement, and steered you and Soobin further into the crowded house. The interior was packed wall to wall with people.

Students were laughing loudly, dancing in the middle of the living room, playing intense games of beer pong, and making out in dimly lit corners. The music was loud but not yet overwhelming, colorful lights flashing across the walls and bodies.

For the first few minutes, the three of you stuck close together, weaving through the crowd while sipping your drinks. Soobin stayed protectively near your side, occasionally leaning down to say something quiet and reassuring whenever he noticed you looking a bit overwhelmed by the chaos.

Then you felt it. That familiar, annoying prickle on the back of your neck, like someone was watching you. You turned your head slightly, and there he was.

Heeseung was leaning casually against the wall near the staircase, a red cup dangling from his fingers. He was surrounded by a small group of his closest friends—Beomgyu laughing at something on his phone, Jake with his usual bright smile, and Jay nursing his own drink while scanning the room.

Heeseung looked effortlessly good tonight in a black button up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing his toned forearms, and dark jeans that sat low on his hips. His hair was styled in that signature messy but perfect way.

The moment his dark eyes found you across the crowded room, his conversation with the guys stopped mid sentence.

His gaze dragged slowly and shamelessly down your body, taking in the short black mini skirt that hugged your hips and thighs, the sheer shirt that teased the black bralette underneath, the way the outfit accentuated your curves before snapping back up to your face.

For once, his usual cocky smirk didn’t appear instantly. Instead, there was a flash of genuine surprise, followed by something darker, more heated, and appreciative.

He pushed off the wall and started walking straight toward your group, completely ignoring whatever Beomgyu was saying behind him.

“Well, well, well,” Heeseung drawled when he was close enough, his voice cutting smoothly through the music. His eyes were still shamelessly roaming over you. “Look who decided to show up. Miss morals in a mini skirt i almost didn’t recognize you damn.”

You felt your stomach twist with that familiar mix of irritation and unwanted warmth. Before you could even open your mouth to snap back, Yunjin jumped in defensively, stepping slightly in front of you with a bright but sharp smile.

“Excuse me, Heeseung? She looks amazing, and she doesn’t need your backhanded compliments,” Yunjin said, tilting her head with fake sweetness.

“Unlike some people who only know how to throw loud parties and bring random girls over during midterms, maybe focus on your own game instead of commenting on her outfit.”

Heeseung chuckled lowly, clearly amused by Yunjin’s quick defense, but his eyes never left you. Jake, Beomgyu, and Jay were now watching the exchange from a few feet away, Beomgyu smirking like he was enjoying the show and Jake looking mildly entertained.

“Relax, Yunjin,” Heeseung replied smoothly, taking a sip from his cup. “I’m just saying that she cleaned up dangerous tonight, didn’t think our neighbor owned anything shorter than ankle length. Beomgyu, Jake, Jay back me up here. She looks good, right?”

Beomgyu grinned and raised his cup in a lazy toast. “Yeah, she do be looking fire tonight.”Jake nodded with a bright laugh. “For real, new look suits you.”Jay just shook his head with a small smile, staying quiet but clearly entertained.

You rolled your eyes, lifting your red solo cup to your lips to hide the flush creeping up your cheeks. “Don’t start with me tonight, Heeseung i’m only here for one hour, and I’d rather not spend it dealing with your nonsense.”

Heeseung tilted his head, that signature cocky smirk fully back in place now as he took another slow step closer. The way he was looking at you made the noisy room feel suddenly ten degrees warmer.

“Gonna dance tonight, or are you just here to supervise everyone else’s fun like usual, miss morals?”

You didn’t even give Heeseung the satisfaction of a proper reply. Instead, you flipped him off with a sharp middle finger, turned on your heel, and grabbed Yunjin’s arm. “Come on, let’s go.”

Yunjin laughed loudly, clearly proud of your reaction, and let you drag her deeper into the crowded house while Heeseung’s low chuckle followed behind you. Beomgyu, Jake, and Jay were already teasing him in the background, but you refused to look back.

For the first half hour, the party actually felt manageable. You stuck close to Yunjin and Soobin, sipping from your red solo cup and people watching from a quieter corner of the living room.

The music was loud, the lights flashed in rhythm with the bass, and the alcohol slowly started to loosen the tight knot of stress that midterms had left in your chest. Then Sunghoon appeared again.

He approached your group with that easy, charming smile, eyes mostly locked on Yunjin. “Hey want to dance?”Yunjin’s face lit up like he’d just offered her the moon. She turned to you quickly, squeezing your hand. “You’ll be okay for a bit, right? I’ll be right back!”

Before you could even answer, she was gone, disappearing into the sea of bodies on the dance floor with Sunghoon’s hand on her waist, now it was just you and Soobin.

You tried to keep the conversation light, but the longer you stood there, the more the party energy started to pull at you. The drink in your cup was strong and sweet, and after two weeks of pure academic hell, the idea of letting loose felt dangerously tempting.

“Fuck it,” you muttered under your breath. You downed the rest of your drink in one go, the burn sliding warmly down your throat. Then you grabbed another cup from a passing tray and started sipping again. Why not? Midterms were over. You deserved this.

Soobin noticed and raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t judge. He stayed beside you, chatting quietly, making sure you weren’t completely alone. But after a while, you started feeling guilty. He was sweet, always listening, always there and here he was babysitting you instead of enjoying the party.

“Go talk to your friends,” you told him, giving him a gentle push toward a group of guys waving at him from across the room. “Seriously, Soobin i’ll be fine, i don’t want you wasting your night stuck with me. Go have fun i’ll text you if I need anything.”

He hesitated, looking concerned, but you begged him with your best pleading eyes until he finally nodded. “Okay but stay safe, text me if anything feels off.”

Once Soobin walked away to join his friends, you let yourself drift toward the dance floor. The alcohol was hitting nicely now a warm, fuzzy buzz that made the music feel better and your body lighter.

You moved to the edge of the crowd first, swaying gently, then slowly worked your way deeper into the pulsing bodies.

You didn’t notice him at first. But Heeseung had been watching you the entire time. From the moment Yunjin disappeared with Sunghoon, his eyes had followed you. He watched you down your drinks. He watched you convince Soobin to leave.

And now he watched as you finally stepped fully onto the dance floor, hips moving to the heavy beat, the short black mini skirt riding up just enough to draw attention, the sheer shirt catching the flashing lights.

Heeseung set his cup down and started moving through the crowd toward you, slow and deliberate. When he was close enough, he didn’t just grab you like most guys would. Instead, he leaned in slightly, voice low and surprisingly respectful against the loud music.

“Hey can I dance with you?”

You turned your head, alcohol making you bold. Your eyes met his, and for once, you didn’t immediately snap at him. The buzz in your veins, the way he was looking at you like he couldn’t look away…it made something reckless spark inside you.

You nodded “Yeah okay.” Only then did Heeseung step closer. The moment he did, the space between you disappeared. His body pressed lightly against yours at first, hands hovering respectfully before you started moving together.

The music was sensual, slow and heavy, and your bodies naturally fell into rhythm. It didn’t stay innocent for long. Heeseung’s hands gradually grew bolder one sliding to your waist, the other brushing up your side, fingers grazing the sheer fabric of your shirt.

You moved closer, hips rolling against his, the short skirt brushing against his thighs. His touch grew hotter, palms sliding down to grip your hips, then slowly roaming over the curve of your ass, pulling you flush against him.

The air between you thickened. Your breathing grew heavier. Every brush of his body sent sparks through your skin. Heeseung leaned in, lips brushing the shell of your ear as he spoke, voice low. “fuck, not being able to kiss you right now is actual torture.”

The words hit you like a shot of pure heat. The alcohol, the weeks of built up tension, the way his hands felt all over your body everything crashed together in one reckless moment.

You didn’t think, you just acted. turning your head as you grabbed the front of his shirt, and crashed your lips against his.

The kiss was messy, desperate, and instantly wild. Heeseung groaned into your mouth the second your lips met, one hand flying up to cup the back of your neck while the other tightened possessively on your waist, pulling you even harder against him.

You kissed like you were angry at each other—teeth clashing, tongues sliding hot and deep, lips moving with raw hunger.

Heeseung kissed like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. His mouth was demanding, devouring, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. You moaned softly against him, fingers threading into his hair and tugging, which only made him kiss you harder.

The dance floor disappeared around you. The music faded into background noise. There was only the heat of his body, the taste of alcohol on his tongue, and the way his hands roamed greedily over your curves sliding up your back under the sheer shirt, gripping your hips, pressing you so close you could feel exactly how much he wanted you.

The makeout was crazy sloppy, passionate, breathless. You bit his lower lip, and he responded with a low growl, sucking on your tongue before kissing you even harder.

Your bodies moved together to the beat, grinding slowly while your mouths stayed locked in a heated battle.

When you finally pulled back for air, both of you were panting, lips swollen and shiny. Heeseung’s eyes were dark, pupils blown wide as he stared down at you like he wanted to devour you right there on the dance floor.

“Shit” he breathed, forehead resting against yours. “You’re going to kill me tonight.”The kiss finally broke, both of you breathing hard, lips swollen and glistening under the flashing party lights.

Heeseung’s forehead rested against yours, his hands still gripping your hips like he was afraid you’d disappear if he let go.

His eyes were dark, pupils blown with want, and the way he looked at you sent another rush of heat straight through your body.

You didn’t think. The alcohol, the weeks of hating him, the way his hands had felt all over you everything made you reckless. You leaned in closer, voice low and breathless against his ear. “Wanna go back to your apartment?”

Heeseung pulled back just enough to look at you, a dangerous smirk tugging at his swollen lips. For a split second, surprise flashed across his face, but it quickly melted into pure hunger.

“Fuck yes”

He didn’t waste another second. His hand slid down to grab yours firmly, fingers lacing tight as he started pulling you through the crowded dance floor. People moved out of the way as Heeseung cut a path toward the front door, his grip on you possessive and urgent.

You barely had time to register anything else Yunjin and Soobin were somewhere in the house, but right now, none of that mattered.The cool night air hit your flushed skin the moment you stepped outside, but it did nothing to calm the fire burning in your veins.

Heeseung’s car was parked a little down the street. He didn’t let go of your hand the entire way, and the second you reached the passenger side, he opened the door for you with surprising speed before rounding the car and sliding into the driver’s seat.

The moment the doors closed, the tension exploded again. Heeseung started the engine, but you were already growing impatient. The short drive back to your apartment building felt too long. Every red light, every stop sign made the ache between your legs worse.

You kept stealing glances at him his jaw tight, hands gripping the steering wheel, the way his shirt was slightly undone from your earlier tugging. At the third red light, you couldn’t hold it in anymore.“Fuck this,” you muttered.

Before Heeseung could react, you unbuckled your seatbelt, climbed over the center console, and straddled his lap in one swift motion. The mini skirt rode up high on your thighs as you settled on top of him, your hands immediately cupping his face as you crashed your lips back onto his.

Heeseung groaned loudly into the kiss, his hands flying to your waist to steady you. The kiss was even wilder than on the dance floor desperate, messy, all tongue and teeth. You rocked your hips against him, grinding down slowly at first, then harder, feeling him harden beneath you through his jeans.

His hands roamed greedily, one sliding up under your sheer shirt to palm your breast over the bralette, the other gripping your ass and pulling you tighter against his growing bulge.

“Shit you’re driving me crazy,” he muttered against your mouth between kisses, voice rough and wrecked.

You moaned softly, grinding down harder, the friction sending sparks through your entire body. The car windows started to fog up as you moved together, lips never leaving each other for long.

Heeseung’s tongue slid against yours, deep and filthy, while his hips bucked up to meet your movements, the steering wheel pressing into your back.

You were completely lost in him hands in his hair, tugging, lips sucking on his bottom lip, hips rolling in desperate circles when the sharp sound of honking suddenly pierced through the haze.

Once, twice, then a chorus of angry car horns blaring behind you reality crashed back in.

You pulled away from the kiss with a gasp, lips shiny and swollen, breathing ragged. The light had turned green, and the cars lined up behind you were laying on their horns, some drivers shouting out their windows.

Heeseung let out a breathless laugh, his hands still gripping your thighs tightly. His eyes were dark, hair messy from your fingers, lips red and kiss bitten.“Fuck,” he rasped, voice hoarse. “We’re gonna cause an accident if you keep this up.”

You quickly scrambled back into the passenger seat, heart pounding, cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and lingering arousal.

Your skirt was hiked up dangerously high, and you tugged it down with shaky hands while Heeseung adjusted himself in his seat, clearly struggling to focus on the road.

He shot you a heated sideways glance, smirk returning as he pressed the gas pedal.“Almost home,” he said, voice low and promising. “Try not to jump me again until we’re inside or don’t. I'm not complaining.”

The rest of the short drive was torturous. The air in the car was thick with tension, both of you stealing glances, the memory of your grinding still fresh and electric.

When Heeseung finally pulled into the parking spot outside your shared apartment building, he killed the engine and turned to you, eyes blazing.

The second you were both out of the car, he grabbed your hand again and practically dragged you toward the entrance, the promise of what was about to happen hanging heavy between you.

The second the door to Heeseung’s apartment slammed shut behind you, all restraint vanished.He had you pinned against the wood before you could even catch your breath, mouth crashing back onto yours in a filthy, open mouthed kiss.

His hands were everywhere one sliding up under your sheer shirt to palm your breast roughly, the other gripping your ass and yanking your hips flush against the hard line of his cock already straining in his jeans.

“Been thinking about this since you walked in wearing that tiny fucking skirt,” he growled against your lips, biting your bottom lip hard enough to make you moan. “Look at you acting like such a good girl all semester and now you’re begging to get fucked in my bed.”

You didn’t deny it you couldn’t. The alcohol and weeks of pent up hatred had turned into pure, desperate need. You tugged at his shirt buttons, popping a few open in your haste, and Heeseung chuckled darkly before ripping the rest off himself.

The shirt hit the floor. Yours followed a second later, then your bralette, leaving your tits exposed to the cool air of his apartment.

Heeseung’s mouth was on your neck instantly, sucking a mark right below your jaw while his hands squeezed your breasts, thumbs flicking over your nipples until they were hard and aching. “So fucking pretty when you’re needy like this,” he muttered, voice low and rough. “Bet you’re already soaked for me, huh?”

You whimpered when he shoved the mini skirt up around your waist and cupped you over your panties. His fingers pressed against the soaked fabric, rubbing slow circles over your clit.

“Shit you are dripping already.” He smirked against your throat. “Such a dirty little secret you’ve been hiding, miss morals.”

You didn’t have time to snap back. Heeseung dropped to his knees right there in the entryway, hooked your panties to the side, and buried his face between your thighs without warning. His tongue dragged a long, nasty stripe up your pussy, groaning at the taste of you.

“Oh my god—” Your head thunked back against the door as he licked and sucked like a man starved, two fingers sliding inside you easily because you were so wet.

He curled them perfectly, pumping fast while his tongue flicked mercilessly over your clit. The sounds were obscene wet, sloppy, loud and he didn’t care. He ate you like he wanted to ruin you.

You came hard on his tongue within minutes, thighs shaking, fingers yanking at his hair as you cried out his name. Heeseung didn’t stop until you were trembling and pushing at his head, then he stood up, lips shiny with your arousal, and kissed you deep so you could taste yourself.

“Bedroom now,” he ordered.

He didn’t wait for you to walk. He grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted you like you weighed nothing, carrying you down the short hallway while your legs wrapped around his waist.

Your skirt was still bunched around your hips, panties shoved to the side. You could feel his cock pressing against your soaked core with every step.

The second he kicked his bedroom door open, he dropped you onto the bed. You barely had time to bounce before he was stripping the rest of his clothes off. His jeans and boxers hit the floor and his cock sprang free—thick, hard, and already leaking at the tip.

Your mouth watered at the sight. Heeseung climbed over you, caging you in with his arms. “You want this?” he asked, voice dark, one hand stroking his cock slowly as he looked down at you. “Tell me you want it.”

“I want it,” you breathed, reaching down to wrap your hand around him. “Fuck me, Heeseung.”That was all it took.

He shoved your legs apart wider, lined himself up, and pushed in with one long, brutal thrust. You gasped at the stretch, nails digging into his shoulders as he bottomed out inside you, so deep you swore you could feel him in your stomach.

“Fuck, so tight,” he groaned, forehead dropping to yours. “Taking me so well already.”Then he started moving hard fast and filthy.

The headboard slammed against the wall with every thrust, the same wall that separated your apartments. The irony wasn’t lost on you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

Heeseung fucked you like he’d been imagining this exact moment for months.Deep, punishing strokes that made your tits bounce and your breath hitch.

He grabbed one of your legs and hooked it over his shoulder, folding you in half so he could fuck you even deeper. The new angle made you cry out, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing through the room.

“Look at you,” he rasped, eyes locked on where his cock was disappearing inside you. “Taking every inch like a good little slut, who would’ve thought the girl next door gets this fucking nasty?”

The degradation was light, just enough to make your pussy clench harder around him. You moaned louder, hips trying to meet his thrusts.

Heeseung’s hand slid between your bodies, thumb rubbing tight circles on your clit while he pounded into you.

“Come on, baby. Come on my cock again, wanna feel you squeezing me.” You shattered for the second time, back arching, walls fluttering around his thick length as your orgasm crashed through you. Heeseung fucked you through it, hips never slowing, chasing his own release.

“Fuck— I’m close,” he growled, voice strained. “Where do you want it?” He asked, “Inside,” you gasped, still riding the high. “Come inside me.”

Heeseung cursed loudly, thrusting a few more brutal times before he buried himself to the hilt and came hard. You felt every pulse, every hot spurt filling you up as he groaned your name against your neck, hips jerking through the aftershocks.

For a moment the only sounds were both of you breathing hard, bodies slick with sweat.

Heeseung stayed inside you for a long minute, forehead pressed to yours, before he finally pulled out slowly. A trickle of his cum leaked out of you onto the sheets, and he watched it with dark, satisfied eyes then collapsed beside you.

Instead of pulling away, Heeseung immediately reached for you. He wrapped one strong arm around your waist and tugged you against his chest, your back flush to his front in a tight, warm hug. His other hand gently pulled the duvet up over both of you, cocooning your naked bodies in soft warmth.

You were still sticky with sweat and cum, thighs trembling, but the way he held you possessive yet surprisingly gentle made something soft flutter in your chest despite everything.

Heeseung pressed a lazy kiss to the back of your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.“Stay,” he murmured, voice already thick with sleep as he tightened his arm around you. “Just stay.”

Exhausted, fucked out, and strangely comforted by his warmth, you let your eyes drift shut. His steady heartbeat against your back and the heavy duvet wrapped around you lulled you quickly into sleep, safe in Heeseung’s arms for the night.

ꪆ୧ ─── ドラマ. next morning !

The first thing you registered was the pounding in your head. Your eyes fluttered open slowly, the dim light filtering through unfamiliar curtains making everything feel hazy. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed red 4:28 a.m.

Your mouth was dry, throat scratchy, and a dull throb pulsed behind your temples the unmistakable aftermath of too many drinks and not nearly enough sleep. You shifted slightly under the heavy duvet, and that’s when you felt it.

A warm, solid body pressed against your back. An arm draped heavily over your waist, holding you close skin against skin. The faint scent of cologne, sweat, and something distinctly masculine filled your senses.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Memories from last night crashed over you like ice water.

The party, the red solo cup dancing. Heeseung’s hands all over your body on the dance floor. The reckless invitation. The car ride where you’d climbed into his lap like you had no shame.

The way he’d pinned you against his door, dropped to his knees in the entryway, fucked you hard on his bed until you were crying out his name. The filthy sounds. The way he’d filled you up. The way he’d pulled you against his chest afterward, hugging you tight under the duvet as you both drifted off.

You had fucked Lee Heeseung

You had fucked your loud, cocky, insufferable neighbor the basketball captain you’d spent months complaining about, the one who called you “Miss Morals” like it was the funniest joke in the world.

Mortification burned hot through your entire body. Your stomach twisted violently. What the hell had you been thinking? The alcohol had stripped away every ounce of common sense, and now you were lying naked in his bed, his cum still faintly sticky between your thighs, his arm wrapped around you like you belonged there.

Heeseung was still sound asleep behind you, breathing deep and even, his chest rising and falling steadily against your back. His face was relaxed in sleep no smirk, no cocky grin but you knew the second he woke up, everything would change.

He would never let you live this down. The teasing would be relentless. “Miss morals” would turn into something far worse. He’d smirk every time he saw you in the hallway, make dirty little comments about how loud you’d been, how desperate you’d sounded begging for him.

The walls between your apartments were thin he’d probably bring it up every time you complained about his noise again. Your life next door would become a living hell.You couldn’t stay here.

Panic clawed up your throat. You had to leave before he woke up. Before this became real. Before he opened his eyes and looked at you with that knowing, satisfied smirk.

Carefully, so carefully, you lifted his arm from your waist. He stirred slightly but didn’t wake, murmuring something incoherent under his breath. Your heart hammered as you slowly slid out from under the duvet, the cool air hitting your naked skin and raising goosebumps.

You moved like a ghost around his room, gathering your scattered clothes as quietly as possible. Your sheer black shirt, the black bralette, the dangerously short mini skirt, your panties all crumpled on the floor where they’d been tossed in the heat of the moment.

You dressed as fast as you could, fingers trembling as you buttoned the sheer shirt and tugged the mini skirt down your thighs. Your hair was a mess, makeup probably smudged, but you didn’t care. You just needed to get out.

Barefoot, shoes in hand, you tiptoed toward the bedroom door. Every creak of the floorboards felt deafening. You glanced back once at Heeseung still asleep, one arm now stretched across the empty space where you’d been, dark hair messy against the pillow.

A strange, unwelcome pang twisted in your chest, but you shoved it down hard. This never happened.

You slipped out of his bedroom, quietly closing the door behind you. The living room was dark and silent. You navigated through the unfamiliar space, heart racing, until you reached the front door. The lock clicked softly as you turned it.

The hallway was empty and dimly lit when you stepped outside. The cool air felt like freedom. You didn’t even bother putting your shoes on yet you just hurried the few steps to your own apartment door next door, fumbling with your keys until they finally slid into the lock.

The moment you were inside, you locked the door behind you, leaned against it, and slid down to the floor, breathing hard.

Your body still ached in the best and worst ways. Thighs sore, a faint bruise forming on your hip from his grip, the ghost of his touch lingering everywhere. You could still feel him inside you, still taste the heat of his mouth.

You buried your face in your hands, mortified beyond words. What had you done?You had slept with the one person you couldn’t stand and now you had to live right next door to him, pretending it never happened.

Because if Heeseung ever found out you’d run away like this, the teasing would only get worse much, much worse. You spent the rest of that early morning in a haze of denial.

Your phone vibrated then again. You reached for it with a heavy sigh, squinting at the bright screen.

yunjin ( 3 new messages )

yunjin : babe where did u go?? one second u were dancing and then u disappeared 😭

yunjin : sunghoon said he saw u leave with someone?? pls tell me ur okay

yunjin : im worried call me when u wake up!!

soobin ( 4 new messages )

soobin : hey, you okay? you left pretty suddenly last night without telling both of us yunjin’s freaking out a bit

soobin : let me know if you got home safe

soobin : if you need anything or want to talk, i’m here no pressure

soobin : hope you’re resting well ❤️

You stared at the messages, throat tightening. The kindness in Soobin’s texts and Yunjin’s worried energy made fresh tears prick at your eyes. They had no idea what you had done. No idea you had spent the night in Heeseung’s bed, letting him touch you, kiss you, fuck you like you’d lost all common sense.

You typed back with trembling fingers, keeping it short and vague

you : got home safe, just drank too much and needed to leave early sorry for worrying you guys i’m okay, just tired talk later ❤️

You sent it and immediately turned your phone on silent, burying your face in your hands the memories wouldn’t stop replaying. Heeseung’s hands on your hips, his mouth on your neck. The way he had groaned your name when he came inside you.

How safe and warm his arms had felt when he pulled you under the duvet afterward. You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to push it all away this never happened.

After sliding down your front door and sitting on the cold floor for what felt like hours, you finally dragged yourself to the shower.

You scrubbed your skin until it was raw, trying to wash away every trace of Heeseung his scent, his touch, the sticky evidence of what you’d done between your thighs. The hot water did nothing to erase the soreness or the vivid flashbacks that kept playing on loop in your head.

By the time the sun came up, you had made a decision this never happened. You would bury it so deep that even you would start to believe it. No one needed to know. Not Yunjin, not Soobin, not even yourself on most days.

You would go back to normal go to classes, focus on your art curator projects, complain about the noise next door like always. And most importantly, you would avoid Lee Heeseung at all costs.

ꪆ୧ ─── ドラマ. flashback !

Heeseung stepped out of his apartment with a half empty water bottle in hand, planning to grab the last box from his car before the evening practice. The hallway was quiet until it wasn’t.

A girl came rushing around the corner, arms overloaded with a massive cardboard box that completely blocked her line of sight. She collided straight into his chest with a startled gasp.

The box flew out of her hands and crashed to the floor, spilling books, notebooks, and what looked like art supplies everywhere across the hallway carpet. Heeseung instinctively reached out and grabbed her arms to keep her from stumbling backward.

She looked up at him, flushed and clearly annoyed, strands of hair falling across her face from the chaotic move. She was pretty, sharp eyes, determined expression the kind of girl who didn’t seem impressed by campus status.

A smirk tugged at his lips before he could stop it.“Easy there, neighbor,” he drawled, voice laced with amusement. “You always run into people like you’re trying to tackle them, or am I just lucky?”

She blinked, then quickly crouched down to gather her scattered belongings, avoiding his gaze.“Sorry,” she muttered, tone tight and clipped. “Didn’t see you.”

Heeseung crouched down as well, picking up a thick book on museum curation that had slid toward his foot. He turned it over in his hands, raising an eyebrow.“Art stuff, huh?” he asked casually. “You moving in next door?”

“Yeah just today,” she replied shortly, snatching the book back from him with a little more force than necessary.

He stood up first and leaned against the wall, arms crossing over his chest as he watched her struggle to reorganize everything into the box. Most girls would have smiled, maybe even recognized him as the basketball captain.

This one? She looked like she already wanted nothing to do with him.“I’m Heeseung,” he said, flashing his most charming grin. “Lee Heeseung, your new neighbor. Need help carrying that? Looks heavy.” He offered,

“I’m good thanks,” she answered without even looking up, standing quickly and slinging the tote over her shoulder.

Heeseung didn’t move out of the way. Instead, he tilted his head, studying her with open curiosity. There was something refreshing about her indifference that it made him want to push a little harder.

“Just so you know,” he added, voice dropping into a teasing tone, “The walls here are pretty thin, try not to be too loud when you’re studying or doing whatever it is, serious art curator girls do at night.”Her eyes finally snapped up to his, narrowing with clear irritation.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she said flatly. “And maybe you can try keeping your parties down some people actually have to study to pass their classes.”

Heeseung let out a low, genuine laugh that echoed down the empty hallway. She had bite and he liked that.

“Welcome to the building, miss morals,” he called after her as she turned toward her door, the nickname slipping out naturally. She didn’t respond. She fumbled with her keys, unlocked her apartment, and slipped inside without another word, the door shutting with a firm click.

Heeseung stood there for a moment longer, still grinning to himself. The girl next door already hated him, and he hadn’t even thrown his first party yet. This was going to be interesting.

The gym echoed with the sharp squeak of sneakers and the rhythmic bounce of basketballs. Afternoon practice was in full swing, but during a water break, Heeseung leaned against the bleachers, towel draped over his shoulders, a cocky grin already plastered on his face.

Jay tossed him a bottle of water. “You look way too happy for someone who just ran suicides.”Heeseung laughed, taking a long sip before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Can’t help it ran into the new neighbor again this morning.”

Beomgyu perked up immediately, spinning the ball on his finger. “The girl next door? The one who already hates your guts?”

“miss morals herself,” Heeseung confirmed, his smirk widening. “I was just leaving for practice when she came out, i told her the walls are thin and she should try not to be too loud at night. You should’ve seen her face, she looked like she wanted to throw her coffee at me.”

Jake, who was stretching nearby, let out a loud laugh. “Dude, you’re obsessed! that’s like the third time this week you’ve mentioned her.”

“I’m not obsessed,” Heeseung shot back, but his grin betrayed him. “It’s just too easy. She gets so worked up over the smallest things. Last week I had a couple of people over, nothing crazy and she banged on my door at midnight like the apartment was on fire, called me an entitled asshole who only passes because ‘daddy pays for everything.’”

The group burst into laughter. Sunghoon shook his head, amused. “She’s got balls, most girls on campus would be throwing themselves at you the second they find out you’re the captain.”

“Exactly,” Heeseung said, tossing the towel aside. “That’s what makes it fun, she doesn’t give a single fuck who I am. No flirty smiles, no asking for tickets to games, nothing. She just glares at me like I personally ruined her life by existing next door it’s hilarious.”

Beomgyu grinned mischievously. “So what’s your plan? Keep annoying her until she moves out?”

“Nah,” Heeseung replied, bouncing the ball once. “I’m just getting started, next time the music’s on, I might turn it up a little louder to see how long it takes before she comes marching over again. Bet she’ll have that cute little angry face on.”

Jake, who had been quietly listening while stretching his hamstrings, suddenly straightened up with a knowing look.“Don’t you think you’re in love with her or something?” he asked casually, but loud enough for the whole group to hear.

The gym went quiet for half a second before the guys exploded with laughter and teasing whistles. Heeseung nearly choked on his water. “What the fuck, Jake?”

Jake shrugged, completely unfazed. “Think about it, she’s literally the only girl who doesn’t give a shit about you no ego stroking, no chasing after the basketball star. She treats you like any other annoying neighbor and instead of leaving her alone, you keep poking at her like a kid with a new toy. That sounds like a crush to me.”

“Bullshit,” Heeseung scoffed, but his ears turned slightly red. He dribbled the ball harder than necessary, trying to play it cool. “I’m not in love with her, she’s just entertaining. It's fun watching her get all riled up, that’s it.”

Jay raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Sure ‘Entertaining.’ that’s why you bring her up every single practice.”

“Exactly,” Jake added with a grin. “If she suddenly started being nice to you, you’d probably be bored in a week but because she ignores you and calls you out, you can’t stop thinking about her.”

Heeseung pointed the ball at Jake threateningly, though his smirk was fighting to stay hidden. “Keep talking and I’ll make you run extra laps, Sim.”

The team laughed again, but Jake just held up his hands in surrender, still smiling. “I’m just saying, man. One day you’re gonna realize you’re not annoying her because it’s funny, you’re doing it because you like the way she fights back.”

Heeseung rolled his eyes and turned away, dribbling the ball toward the court to end the conversation. But as practice resumed and he sank a clean three pointer, Jake’s words lingered in the back of his mind longer than he wanted to admit.

Maybe there was a tiny bit of truth to it. Or maybe he just really, really enjoyed getting on your nerves.

The laughter from the team slowly died down as practice resumed. Heeseung shook off Jake’s teasing comment, channeling the slight irritation into sharper shots. He sank another clean three pointer, the ball swishing through the net with satisfying precision.

For a few minutes, the court felt like the only place where everything made sense no annoying neighbors, no complicated feelings, just the game. Then the gym doors swung open with a loud bang.

Everyone turned as a tall, sharply dressed man in a tailored coat strode in, his presence immediately sucking the casual energy out of the room. Coach paused mid instruction, nodding respectfully.

Heeseung’s stomach dropped the moment he recognized the figure his father. Mr. Lee didn’t smile. He never did when he showed up unannounced like this. His eyes scanned the court with cold calculation, lingering on Heeseung with clear disapproval.

“Take five, boys,” Coach called out, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Heeseung wiped the sweat from his brow and walked over, jaw already tight. “Dad what are you doing here?”Mr. Lee stopped a few feet away, arms folded behind his back. His voice was low but carried easily across the quiet gym.

“I came to see if my son is actually putting in the work that’s supposed to get him into the NBA,” he said flatly. “From what I’ve been hearing, it doesn’t look like it.”Heeseung’s friends lingered nearby, pretending to drink water but clearly listening.

“I’ve been at every practice,” Heeseung replied, keeping his tone even. “Coach said my shooting percentage is up this week—”

“Don’t make excuses,” his father cut him off sharply. “Your brother Heedo was never this distracted at your age, he was laser focused top scorer captainfull ride to the best program in the country. And you? You’re out here laughing with your little friends during water breaks, probably thinking about parties and girls instead of the game.”

Heeseung’s grip tightened on the basketball until his knuckles turned white.“I’m not distracted,” he said through gritted teeth. Mr.Lee stepped closer, voice dropping into that familiar, cutting tone that always found its mark.

“You’re good for nothing if you can’t even focus on what matters. All that talent wasted because you’d rather play around and act like some campus king. You think the scouts care about your popularity? they don’t, you will never be enough if you keep this up and you will certainly never be better than your brother.”

The words landed like punches. Heedo — the golden child. The one who had already made it pro overseas. The one their father never stopped comparing him to.Heeseung’s jaw clenched so hard it ached. He wanted to snap back, to defend himself, but years of this had taught him it was useless. His father never listened.

Mr. Lee straightened his coat, expression unchanging. “Fix it or don’t bother coming home for the holidays, i didn’t raise a failure.”Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked out of the gym, the heavy doors swinging shut behind him with a final, echoing thud. The silence that followed was uncomfortable.

Heeseung stood there for a moment, staring at the floor, chest tight with anger and something heavier he refused to name. The team slowly went back to practice, but the energy had shifted. Jake shot him a concerned look, but Heeseung ignored it, dribbling the ball harder than necessary as he moved back onto the court.

Inside, the familiar bitterness churned.His father’s words echoed louder than any cheering crowd ever could. You will never be enough. You will never be better than your brother. Heeseung sank another shot, but this time it didn’t feel satisfying.

All he could think about was how easy it was to annoy the girl next door because at least when she glared at him and called him an entitled asshole, he felt something other than this hollow, crushing weight.

The heavy gym doors swung shut behind Mr. Lee, leaving an awkward silence in his wake. The team tried to resume practice, but the atmosphere had soured.

Heeseung stood frozen for a few seconds, staring at the spot where his father had been. The familiar sting of those words good for nothing, never enough, never better than your brother settled heavy in his chest like lead.

Jake jogged over, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, man don’t let him get to you, your dad’s always been like that you’re killing it out here.”

“Yeah,” Beomgyu added, spinning the ball on his finger. “Ignore him, you’re the one who’s gonna make it to the NBA, not Heedo.” Jay nodded. “Come on, let’s run some more plays we’ll crush the next game.”Heeseung forced a half smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah sure.”

He went through the motions for the rest of practice dribbling, shooting, defending but he was quiet. No cocky jokes no teasing his teammates no loud laughter. Every time someone tried to pull him into conversation or hype him up after a good play, he gave short, one word replies and kept his head down. The usual spark was gone.

Even Coach noticed, shooting him concerned glances but saying nothing.The moment practice officially ended, Heeseung grabbed his bag and left first, ignoring the calls from his friends asking if he wanted to grab food. He needed air. He needed to get away from the echoes of his father’s voice.

He walked aimlessly for a while, the cool evening air doing little to clear his head. Eventually, his feet carried him toward the small café just off campus the one with decent coffee and quiet corners where he sometimes went to think.He pushed open the door, the bell jingling softly, and scanned the room out of habit and then he saw you.

You were sitting alone at a corner table near the window, surrounded by textbooks, notes, and your laptop. Your hair was tied up messily, a pen between your teeth as you frowned at something on the screen. You looked focused serious and annoyingly cute in that concentrated way of yours.

A small, familiar spark ignited in his chest the one that always appeared whenever he spotted you. Before he could think better of it, Heeseung walked straight over and slid into the seat across from you without asking.You looked up, startled at first, then your expression quickly shifted into pure annoyance.

“What the hell are you doing here?” you asked, voice sharp but low enough not to disturb the other customers. You closed your laptop slightly, glaring at him. “This is my table, go sit somewhere else.”

Heeseung leaned back in the chair, crossing his arms, that signature smirk slowly returning despite the heavy weight still sitting in his stomach. Seeing your irritated face felt lighter somehow. Easier than dealing with everything else.

“Relax, miss morals,” he said, voice teasing. “I’m not here to ruin your precious study time. Just saw you and thought I’d say hi to my favorite neighbor.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it was almost impressive. “Favorite? We barely tolerate each other and I’m trying to work unlike some people who can afford to slack off because ‘daddy can pay for everything.’”

The jab should’ve stung more, especially after his father’s visit, but instead it made Heeseung’s smirk widen. There, it was that fire. That complete lack of care for who he was or what people usually said to him. You didn’t tiptoe around him. You didn’t try to impress him. You just called him out.

It felt strangely nice. Not in a romantic way, just refreshing ( liar liar liar he is totally in love with her ) He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbows on the table. “Ouch straight for the throat today. What are you working on that’s got you so grumpy? Another museum thing? Planning to curate an exhibit called ‘Why Heeseung Should Shut Up’?”

You gave him a flat look, clearly not amused. “It’s for my capstone project and yes, if it helps keep loud neighbors quiet, I might include a whole section on it.”

Heeseung chuckled softly, the sound genuine even if it was quiet. For the first time since his dad had shown up, the tight knot in his chest loosened just a fraction. He realized something in that moment. Your company wasn’t bad.

In fact, sitting here watching you get all annoyed and snappy at him felt better than sitting alone with his father’s words ringing in his head. It was simple predictable in the best way. You gave him a reaction real, unfiltered and for a few minutes, it made everything else fade into the background.

He loved annoying you. Not because he wanted to hurt you but because when you pushed back, it reminded him he was still here. Still capable of feeling something other than pressure and disappointment.

“Fine,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender, though he made no move to leave. “I’ll behave for now but only if you tell me what that exhibit is actually about.” You narrowed your eyes suspiciously, clearly debating whether to kick him out or just ignore him. Heeseung waited, smirk still in place, secretly hoping you’d keep arguing with him a little longer.

ꪆ୧ ─── ドラマ. heeseung’s pov !

Heeseung woke up to a heavy, unfamiliar silence.

His eyes opened slowly, the soft gray morning light filtering through the curtains. His body felt sore in places that reminded him immediately of last night a dull ache in his shoulders, the faint stickiness between the sheets, the faint scent of sex still hanging in the air.

He turned his head to the side the bed was empty. The spot where you had been lying was cold, the pillow slightly dented but untouched now. No clothes scattered on the floor no shoes by the door nothing.

Heeseung sat up slowly, rubbing his face with both hands. The memories came back in quiet, unflinching flashes the party you in that short black skirt.The heated dancing that turned into something reckless.The desperate makeout in his car while horns blared behind you.

How he’d carried you inside, how urgently you both had moved against each other against the door, then on this bed.The way you had moaned his name.The way he had finished inside you.

And how, afterward, he had pulled you close under the duvet, your back against his chest, both of you falling asleep in silence.

Now you were gone. He glanced at the clock. 7:23 a.m. You must have woken up in a panic sometime in the early hours and slipped out while he was still asleep. The realization settled in his stomach like a stone heavy, uncomfortable, and strangely final.

Heeseung let out a long, tired breath and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat there for a moment, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. This was a mistake, a stupid, drunken mistake.

You had always made it clear how much you couldn’t stand him. The constant complaints about his noise, the glares in the hallway, the way you called him entitled behind his back.

Last night had been nothing more than too much alcohol and bad judgment on both sides. You waking up and running away only confirmed it.He didn’t blame you. If anything, he felt a quiet wave of regret wash over him. He should have known better.

He should have stopped things before they went that far. Now things between you two were already tense, this was going to be even more awkward.

Heeseung stood up and walked to the bathroom. While the shower heated up, he looked at himself in the mirror. There were faint scratch marks on his shoulders and a small bruise near his collarbone. Physical proof that last night had really happened.

He stepped under the hot water, letting it run over his face and shoulders. It never happened, he told himself. That was the only way forward.He would forget about it. Pretend the entire night was a blur he couldn’t quite remember.

No teasing no comments in the hallway no bringing it up ever again. You clearly wanted to erase it, and honestly so did he. The last thing he needed right now was more complications in his life especially with someone who lived right next door.

After the shower, he got dressed in a simple black t-shirt and sweatpants. He made coffee in the kitchen, moving on autopilot. The apartment felt too quiet now.

Heeseung leaned against the counter, sipping the bitter drink, and stared at the wall that separated his place from yours.From now on, things would go back to normal. You would keep avoiding him like you always did.

He would keep his music at a reasonable volume when he remembered. And neither of you would ever speak about what happened last night. It was better this way, cleaner and simpler.

He finished his coffee, rinsed the mug, and set it in the sink. Last night was a mistake and as far as Heeseung was concerned, it was already forgotten.

For the next two weeks, you turned your life into a carefully orchestrated mission of avoidance while your body slowly started betraying you in ways you couldn’t ignore. The mantra remained the same this never happened.

Every morning began the same way. Your alarm went off at 6:15 a.m., pulling you from restless sleep. The moment you sat up, a familiar wave of nausea rolled through your stomach, not violent, but persistent and queasy, making the room feel slightly off balance.

You’d sit on the edge of the bed for a few minutes, breathing slowly through your nose, waiting for it to pass. Some mornings it did. Others, you’d rush to the bathroom and dry heave over the sink, nothing coming up except bitter bile and a metallic taste that lingered on your tongue.

Once the worst of it subsided, you’d quickly get ready, choosing simple, comfortable clothes that wouldn’t draw attention. Then came the listening part. You’d press your ear to the front door, heart beating a little too fast, straining to hear any sound from Heeseung’s apartment next door.

If you caught even the faintest click of his lock or the low murmur of his voice on a phone call, you’d wait sometimes ten minutes, sometimes twenty pretending to reorganize your bag or check your notes until the hallway was silent again.

Leaving became a tactical exercise. You slipped out as quietly as possible, taking the side staircase instead of the main hallway whenever you spotted his car in the parking lot. The fatigue hit hardest during these moments.

Your legs felt heavier than usual, and by the time you reached campus, you were already drained, needing to sit down in the library for a few minutes just to catch your breath. Coming home was even more stressful.

You started timing your returns obsessively. If practice usually ended around 6 p.m., you’d stay late at the library or in an empty classroom, working on your capstone exhibition proposal until you were sure Heeseung was either out with friends or already inside. One evening, the dizziness caught you off guard.

You had just turned the corner into your hallway when the world tilted slightly. You had to lean against the wall, breathing shallowly, while a strong wave of nausea made your stomach churn.

The faint scent of someone’s dinner cooking nearby sent you rushing the last few steps to your door. The moment you got inside, you barely made it to the toilet before vomiting actual, forceful vomiting that left you trembling on the cold tile floor.

You told yourself it was stress. The constant hyper vigilance. The lack of proper sleep. The emotional weight of pretending that night had never occurred. But the symptoms kept creeping in, growing harder to dismiss.

Smells became your enemy. The aroma of coffee from the café near campus, which you used to love, now made your stomach revolt. You switched to plain crackers and ginger tea, keeping a secret stash in your bag.

Even the scent of your own shampoo sometimes triggered a gag reflex. Food tasted strange too salty, too sweet, or completely off. You lost interest in meals altogether, surviving on small portions that you could keep down.

The fatigue settled deep in your bones. You’d come home from classes, collapse on the couch, and wake up hours later feeling like you hadn’t rested at all.

Your breasts felt tender and slightly swollen, brushing against your shirt making you wince. Mood swings hit at random. One minute you were focused on your work, the next you felt inexplicably teary or irritable. All of this made the avoidance even more draining.

One Thursday night, your timing failed you had stayed late at the library, hoping Heeseung would already be inside. When you finally dragged your tired body back to the building, the hallway lights felt blindingly bright.

Just as you reached your door, fumbling with your keys, you heard the unmistakable click of his lock opening.Panic surged through you. Your hands shook so badly that the keys nearly dropped. You managed to slip inside just as his door opened, pressing your back against the wood, heart hammering wildly.

You held your breath, listening to his footsteps pass by. The moment they faded, the nausea hit like a wave. You barely made it to the bathroom before throwing up again, knees weak, tears stinging your eyes from the force of it.

Afterward, you sat on the bathroom floor with your forehead resting on your knees, breathing shakily. This was getting worse.You were exhausted from the constant calculation when to leave, when to return, which route to take, how long to wait in the stairwell. The thin wall between your apartments felt like a constant threat.

You’d hear him moving around sometimes. The low sound of his music ( mercifully quieter these days ), the murmur of his voice when he was on the phone, the occasional laugh. Every sound made your stomach twist with anxiety and unwelcome memories.

You became hyper aware of everything. You avoided cooking anything with strong smells. You did laundry at 2 a.m. when you were sure he was asleep. You even changed the time you took showers, worried the sound of running water might coincide with him coming home.

Yunjin and Soobin noticed the changes. “You’ve been canceling plans a lot,” Yunjin said during one quick lunch. “And you look really tired, are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine,” you lied, forcing a weak smile while fighting the nausea brought on by the smell of her food. “Just stressed about the capstone deadline it’s taking everything out of me.”

Soobin watched you quietly, concern clear in his eyes, but he didn’t push. Inside your apartment, the symptoms continued to build.

Mornings were brutal. You’d wake up with tender breasts and that persistent queasy feeling. Some days the vomiting was so bad you had to keep a small bucket discreetly by your bed.

The fatigue made it hard to focus during lectures. You'd find yourself zoning out, head heavy, fighting the urge to lay your head on the desk. Yet you refused to connect the dots .It’s just stress, you told yourself repeatedly. The avoidance the guilt the lack of sleep.

You pushed through, continuing your careful dance of avoidance. You timed every exit and entry with military precision. You became an expert at predicting Heeseung’s schedule ( she should become a dispatch employee )

You kept your headphones on to drown out any sound from next door. You buried yourself in your art curator work, sketching exhibition layouts late into the night until your eyes burned.Two full weeks passed in this strange limbo.

You were pale, exhausted, and constantly on edge. The nausea came in unpredictable waves. The fatigue made simple tasks feel monumental. And the fear of accidentally seeing Heeseung in the hallway kept you trapped in this self imposed isolation.

Deep down, a small, terrified voice in the back of your mind whispered that something was very wrong. But you silenced it the same way you silenced every memory of that night this never happened.

You would keep avoiding him. You would keep pretending everything was normal.Even as your body screamed louder and louder that nothing was normal anymore.

One ordinary afternoon, everything shifted. You were sitting in the small campus café with Yunjin and Soobin, the three of you squeezed around a corner table. Yunjin was dramatically slumped in her chair, one hand pressed to her lower stomach, complaining loudly.

“Ugh, my period is literally killing me today,” she groaned, stirring her iced latte with a pout. “Cramps are so bad, I can barely sit straight why does it always hit the worst during the worst season? I swear my uterus hates me.”

Soobin chuckled softly, offering her a sympathetic smile. “Do you want me to grab you some painkillers from the convenience store?” You tried to smile and nod along, but the words barely registered.

Her period is killing her…..

The sentence echoed in your head like a siren your own period. You mentally counted the days. It should have come a full week ago. Seven days late. Maybe more.

You had been so caught up in avoiding Heeseung, dealing with the constant nausea, fatigue, and vomiting that you hadn’t even noticed the date slipping by. Your heart started beating faster.

You pulled out your phone under the table and quietly opened your cycle tracking app. The screen glowed with the familiar calendar. A bright red notification stared back at you

period : 7 days late

You stared at the words until they blurred. No no, no, no. You tried to push the thought away immediately. It had to be stress. The irregular sleep, the constant anxiety of avoiding Heeseung, the vomiting all of it could easily throw your cycle off. That was normal right?

But then the symptoms started flashing through your mind like warning lights. The persistent nausea every morning. The vomiting that left you weak on the bathroom floor. The crushing fatigue that made it hard to stay awake in lectures.

The dizziness, sensitivity to smells, tender, swollen breasts. Your stomach dropped, could you be pregnant?

The word felt foreign and terrifying in your head. No. Absolutely not. You wouldn’t get pregnant from one night. One reckless, stupid night. People had unprotected sex all the time and nothing happened.

You were on the pill…wait, were you? You had been so stressed with midterms that you couldn’t even remember if you had taken it properly that week. The thought made bile rise in your throat again.

Across the table, Yunjin and Soobin were still talking something about upcoming assignments and a group project. Their voices sounded far away, like you were underwater.You couldn’t focus on a single word they were saying. Your mind was spinning, heart pounding so hard you were sure they could hear it.

Yunjin waved a hand in front of your face. “Hello? Earth to you! you’ve been spacing out the entire time are you okay?”You blinked, forcing yourself back to the present. Your mouth felt dry.

“I—yeah, sorry just tired,” you mumbled. “Guys, I think I’m gonna head home early today my head’s killing me.”Soobin frowned, concern clear in his eyes. “Do you want me to walk you back?”“No, it’s fine,” you said quickly, already standing up and grabbing your bag. “I’ll text you later promise.”

You left the café before they could protest, walking fast, then almost jogging once you were out of sight. The nausea was back, stronger now, mixing with pure terror. Your hands were shaking as you headed straight for the small convenience store two blocks away.

Inside the store, you felt like every camera was watching you. You moved quickly through the aisles, heart hammering, until you found the family planning section. There were several pregnancy test kits.

You grabbed the most reliable looking one with trembling fingers, not even reading the brand properly. The cashier gave you a neutral look as you paid, but you couldn’t meet her eyes.

Bag clutched tightly to your chest, you practically ran the entire way back to your apartment building. You took the side stairs again, praying Heeseung wasn’t around. The moment you were inside your own apartment, you locked the door twice and leaned against it, breathing hard.

You pulled the kit out of the bag with shaking hands. The box felt heavy dangerous. You read the instructions carefully, twice. Pee on the stick. Wait three minutes. One line = not pregnant. Two lines = pregnant simple but terrifying.

You went to the bathroom, heart pounding so loudly it echoed in your ears. You followed every step exactly, hands trembling so badly you almost dropped the test. When you were done, you placed the stick on the counter and set a timer on your phone three minutes.

You paced the small bathroom, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. Every second felt like an hour. The nausea was back, but this time it had nothing to do with morning sickness. It was pure fear.

What if it was positive?

What if you were actually pregnant with Heeseung’s baby?

The thought made your knees weak. You slid down the wall until you were sitting on the cold tile floor, staring at the test on the counter like it was a bomb about to go off.The timer was still counting down.

Two minutes left. You hugged your knees to your chest, eyes fixed on the small plastic stick that now, held your entire future in two little lines. You were so scared.

The timer on your phone hit zero with a soft chime that felt deafening in the small bathroom. You stayed frozen on the cold tile floor for several long seconds, knees drawn to your chest, staring at the pregnancy test lying face up on the counter like it was a live grenade.

Slowly, you pushed yourself up on shaky legs and stepped closer. One line was already dark and clear the control line. The second line was faint at first, but unmistakable. A pale pink line slowly darkening right beside the first one.

two lines = positive

You blinked hard, once, twice, as if the result would magically change if you stared long enough.“No…” you whispered, voice cracking. “No, that can’t be right.”Denial crashed over you like a wave. You snatched the test off the counter and held it closer to the light, turning it at different angles. Maybe it was a faulty test.

Maybe the line was an evaporation line. Maybe you had read the instructions wrong. You grabbed the box again and reread the instructions three more times, your hands trembling so badly the paper shook.

But no matter how many times you checked, the two lines stared back at you, clear and undeniable. It was positive. You were pregnant. The reality slammed into you all at once.

Your knees buckled. You sank back down to the bathroom floor, the test still clutched tightly in your hand. A sob tore out of your throat before you could stop it. Hot tears spilled down your cheeks as the full weight of what this meant crashed over you.

You were pregnant with Heeseung’s baby. The boy you couldn’t stand. The neighbor you had spent months avoiding. The one person you had sworn to pretend never touched you.

A broken sound escaped you half sob, half laugh of pure disbelief. Your free hand moved instinctively to your stomach, pressing lightly against the still flat surface. There was a life growing inside you right now. A tiny, real consequence of one reckless, drunken night.

The crying came harder. You curled in on yourself, forehead resting on your knees as sobs wracked your body. All the symptoms you had tried to blame on stress the nausea, the vomiting, the fatigue, the dizziness suddenly made perfect, terrifying sense.

You were going to have a baby. And the father was the last person on earth you wanted to be tied to. After several long minutes, the tears slowed, leaving you drained and hollow. You wiped your face with the back of your hand, staring blankly at the two pink lines.

You made a decision right there on the bathroom floor. You were not telling Heeseung anything, not a single word.He didn’t need to know. He would never know. Telling him would only make everything worse the teasing, the drama, the forced proximity, the endless complications with someone you already couldn’t stand.

You could barely handle living next door to him as it was. Bringing a child into that mess was unthinkable. This was your problem. Your body, your choice. You would handle it quietly. You would get rid of it.The thought made fresh tears sting your eyes, but you forced them back. There was no other option.

You were still in school, chasing your dream of becoming an art curator. Your life was barely stable right now. A baby, especially one with Heeseung as the father would ruin everything.

You stayed on the floor for a long time, clutching the test, letting the weight of the decision settle over you.

Eventually, you stood up on unsteady legs. You wrapped the test in toilet paper and hid it deep in the trash can under some tissues. You washed your face with cold water until the redness in your eyes faded a little.

You looked at your reflection pale, exhausted, terrified and whispered to yourself “This never happened.” You would schedule an. appointment. You would end this quietly.You would move on with your life and never speak of that night again.

But as you turned off the bathroom light and stepped into your silent apartment, the weight in your chest felt heavier than ever. You were pregnant. And for the first time since that night, the wall between you and Heeseung felt like it was closing in.

The decision sat heavy in your chest like a stone. You weren’t going to tell Heeseung. You were going to end this quietly and move on with your life. The very next morning, you tried to make the appointment.

You sat on your bed with your laptop open, hands shaking as you searched for clinics near campus that offered termination services. Your stomach was already churning with nausea again, but you forced yourself to focus.

You found a few options a women’s health clinic downtown and a Planned Parenthood branch about twenty minutes away. You clicked on the booking page for the first one. The form asked for your name, date of birth, contact number, and reason for visit.

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard for a long time. You couldn’t do it. Every time you tried to type your real information, panic surged through you. What if someone recognized your name? What if the clinic called or sent confirmation texts while you were near Heeseung?

What if the appointment somehow got back to campus gossip? The thought of walking into a clinic alone, explaining your situation to a stranger, and going through with it made your throat close up.

You closed the laptop without saving anything. You told yourself you’d try again tomorrow when you felt calmer. But tomorrow came and went. Then the next day. And the next. Meanwhile, the symptoms grew worse.

The nausea was no longer just morning sickness it hit you at random times throughout the day. The smell of food in the cafeteria made you gag. Even walking past the coffee shop near campus triggered violent waves that left you rushing to the nearest bathroom.

You started carrying saltine crackers and a small bottle of ginger ale everywhere, but they barely helped anymore.

Vomiting became more frequent. One afternoon during a lecture, you had to excuse yourself midway through and barely made it to the restroom before throwing up.

You returned to class pale and sweaty, mumbling something about food poisoning when Yunjin looked at you worriedly.

Fatigue wrapped around you like a heavy blanket. You fell asleep in the library twice that week, waking up with your cheek stuck to your notebook. Simple tasks like climbing the stairs to your apartment left you breathless and dizzy.

Your breasts were constantly tender, and your mood swung wildly one moment you were numb, the next you felt like crying over nothing. Yunjin and Soobin started noticing. During lunch on Thursday, Yunjin set her chopsticks down and stared at you.

“Okay, something is seriously wrong,” she said, voice firm but concerned. “You’ve been looking like a ghost for days, you barely eat anything, you keep disappearing to the bathroom, and you look exhausted even when you say you slept are you sick? Is it stress? Talk to us.”

Soobin nodded, his gentle eyes filled with worry. “You’ve been canceling plans and spacing out a lot. If something’s going on, you don’t have to deal with it alone. We’re here.”You forced a weak smile, pushing your untouched food around your plate. The smell of it was making you nauseous again.

“I’m okay, really,” you lied, voice quieter than usual. “Just… really behind on my capstone. The deadline is stressing me out more than I thought. I’ll be fine once I catch up.”

They didn’t look convinced, but they let it drop for the moment. Still, you could feel their eyes on you for the rest of the meal. Even Heeseung started noticing something was off.

You had managed to avoid direct contact with him for weeks, but it was impossible to hide everything when you lived next door.

One evening, you were coming home later than usual after another failed attempt to book the appointment online. You felt dizzy and nauseous, moving slowly up the hallway with your keys already in hand. As you reached your door, Heeseung’s door opened.

He stepped out, wearing a simple black hoodie, hair slightly messy like he’d just come back from practice. His eyes landed on you immediately.

You froze for half a second, then quickly turned your face away and fumbled with your lock, trying to get inside before he could say anything. But Heeseung didn’t tease you this time.

Instead, he paused in his doorway, brow slightly furrowed as he watched you. You looked pale. Thinner. There were dark circles under your eyes, and the way you moved seemed off fragile.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. For once, the usual cocky remark didn’t come.“You good?” he asked quietly, voice lacking its normal edge.

You didn’t answer. You finally got the door open and slipped inside without looking at him, shutting it quickly behind you

Heeseung stood there for a moment longer, staring at your closed door with a strange, unsettled feeling in his chest. Something wasn’t right with you. He could see it.But after everything after that night you both had silently agreed to forget he didn’t know if he had the right to ask.

Inside your apartment, you leaned against the door, breathing hard. Fresh tears stung your eyes as another wave of nausea hit you. You slid down to the floor, hugging your knees. You still hadn’t been able to book the appointment.

The symptoms were getting worse every day, your friends were worried and now even Heeseung had noticed something was wrong. You pressed your forehead to your knees, whispering to yourself again and again

“This never happened… this never happened…” But the lie was starting to feel impossible to keep. Heeseung had noticed. For the past two weeks, it had become painfully obvious that you were avoiding him like the plague.

At first, he thought it was the usual the cold shoulder after that night you both had silently agreed to forget. But it quickly went beyond that. You timed your movements with military precision.

He would hear your door open and close at odd hours, always when he was either inside or already gone. You took the side stairs. You left earlier than usual in the mornings and came back much later at night.

Even at university, catching a glimpse of you had become nearly impossible. You seemed to disappear into the library or empty classrooms the moment practice ended.It was clear you were doing everything in your power to never cross paths with him.

Heeseung told himself it didn’t bother him. He had decided to forget that night too. No teasing. No bringing it up. Just normal or as normal as things could be when you lived right next door

But something was wrong. You looked terrible lately. He first noticed it in passing the dark circles under your eyes, the way your shoulders seemed to slump with exhaustion. Then it got worse you moved slower.

Your face was paler than usual. You barely left your apartment except for classes, and even then you looked like you were running on empty.

One evening, after a long basketball practice, Heeseung was walking back to the apartment building, gym bag slung over his shoulder. The sun had already set, and the streetlights cast long shadows on the path. That’s when he saw you.

You were a few meters ahead, heading toward the entrance. Your steps were unsteady, one hand pressed lightly against the wall for support.

Even from behind, he could tell something was very wrong. Your posture was slumped, your breathing looked shallow, and you looked like you were barely holding yourself upright.

Heeseung’s stomach tightened. He quickened his pace without thinking and caught up to you just as you reached the building door.“Hey,” he said, voice low and serious, no trace of his usual teasing tone. “Are you alright?”

You turned your head slightly, eyes glassy and tired. The moment you recognized him, your expression hardened.“I don’t have time for your teasing right now, Heeseung,” you muttered weakly, trying to push past him toward the elevator.

Heeseung felt a flash of annoyance, not because you were dismissing him, but because he was genuinely worried and you clearly didn’t believe it.“I’m not teasing,” he said, more sharply than he intended. “You look like you’re about to pass out.”

You didn’t respond, just kept walking toward the elevator. Heeseung followed, stepping in right after you. The doors closed, trapping the two of you in the small space. The silence was thick and uncomfortable. He could hear your breathing too fast, too shallow.

When the elevator reached your floor, you stepped out first. But the moment your feet hit the hallway, your legs buckled. You swayed dangerously, one hand reaching out blindly for the wall as the world spun around you. Heeseung moved fast.

He dropped his gym bag and caught you before you could hit the floor, one arm wrapping around your waist, the other supporting your back. Your body went limp against him for a few terrifying seconds.

“Shit—” he muttered, heart pounding. “Hey, stay with me.” You were half conscious, mumbling something incoherent about being fine. Heeseung didn’t waste time arguing. He adjusted his grip and lifted you carefully into his arms in bridal style, your head lolling against his shoulder.

Your apartment was right next to his. He fumbled for a moment with your keys ( which had fallen from your hand ) until he managed to unlock the door. He carried you inside, kicking the door shut behind him, and headed straight for your bedroom.

The room was neat but clearly lived in textbooks stacked on the desk, a half finished sketch on the table, a small trash can near the bed. Heeseung gently laid you down on the bed, pulling the blanket over you. Your face was pale, forehead slightly damp with sweat.

He stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. You looked so small and fragile like this. Nothing like the fiery girl who used to bang on his door and call him an entitled asshole.

Heeseung grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen and placed it on your nightstand. Then he pulled up the chair from your desk and sat down beside the bed, watching you carefully.

Your breathing slowly evened out. The tension in your face relaxed as you slipped into a deeper sleep. Heeseung stayed there, elbows on his knees, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t know what was going on with you.

He didn’t know why you looked so sick. He didn’t even know if you’d want him here when you woke up. But right now, leaving you alone didn’t feel like an option. So he stayed quietly waiting.

Until your breathing became steady and deep, and he was sure you were fully asleep. Heeseung stayed. He told himself he’d only wait until you fell into a proper sleep, but the longer he sat there watching your pale face and shallow breathing, the harder it became to leave.

You looked exhausted, truly exhausted in a way that went beyond simple tiredness. Dark circles under your eyes, lips slightly chapped, skin lacking its usual color. Something was clearly wrong, and the protective instinct he didn’t know he had kept him rooted to the chair.

After almost an hour, when your breathing had deepened into steady, even inhales, Heeseung stood up quietly. He couldn’t just sit there doing nothing. He moved silently through your apartment, careful not to make noise.

Your kitchen was small and neat, but the fridge was nearly empty a few bottles of water, some crackers, and not much else. Heeseung frowned. No wonder you looked so drained. He opened the cupboards and found rice, a couple of eggs, and some ginger.

Simple gentle on the stomach. He decided to make congee something light that his mom used to make for him when he was sick.

He worked quietly, chopping what little he could find, boiling water, and stirring the pot on low heat. The smell of ginger and warm rice slowly filled the small apartment. He hoped it would help when you woke up. Maybe it would make you feel a little better.

He kept glancing toward the bedroom every few minutes, making sure you were still resting. Almost two hours later, you started stirring.

Heeseung was just turning off the stove when he heard movement from the bedroom. He poured some congee into a bowl, added a bit of water to make it lighter, and was about to bring it to you when

You bolted upright in bed, eyes wide with sudden panic. The smell of the food hit you like a wave. Your face went even paler, hand flying to your mouth as nausea surged violently. Heeseung’s eyes widened. “Hey—”

You didn’t wait. You scrambled off the bed on shaky legs and ran straight to the bathroom, barely making it in time.

Heeseung followed right behind you, worry spiking through his chest. He reached the bathroom door just as you dropped to your knees in front of the toilet and started throwing up violently.

“Shit—” He moved quickly, kneeling beside you without hesitation. One hand gently gathered your hair, holding it back from your face. His other hand rubbed slow, soothing circles on your back. “It’s okay I’ve got you, just breathe.”

You retched again, body trembling with the force of it. Heeseung stayed right there, murmuring quiet reassurances, his hand never stopping its gentle motion on your back.

When the worst of it seemed to pass, he reached over and flushed the toilet, then grabbed a clean towel from the rack and dampened it with cool water.“Here,” he said softly, handing you the towel. “Wipe your face.”

You took it with trembling hands, still breathing hard. Heeseung stood up briefly to get a glass of water from the sink and brought it back to you.“Small sips,” he instructed, crouching down again. “Don’t drink too fast.”

While you rinsed your mouth and took careful sips, Heeseung’s eyes wandered around the small bathroom, looking for anything that might help. His gaze landed on the trash can beside the sink. Something white and plastic was poking out from under some tissues.

Curious, he reached down and pulled it out, it was a pregnancy test. Two distinct red lines stared back at him clear, unmistakable, and positive. Heeseung froze.

His brain short circuited for a second. The test felt heavy in his hand as the reality sank in. Positive you were pregnant. He slowly turned his head toward you. You were already looking at him.

Your eyes were wide with pure terror, face drained of all color, lips parted in shock. You looked caught completely and utterly caught like the worst secret in the world had just been ripped open. The glass of water trembled in your hand.

Heeseung’s mouth opened, but no words came out at first. His gaze flicked between the test in his hand and your terrified expression.

The pieces clicked together horribly fast the avoidance, the exhaustion, the vomiting, the way you looked like you were barely holding yourself together for the past two weeks.

This wasn’t just stress this was because of that night because of him. Heeseung swallowed hard, his voice coming out quieter than he expected.

“…Is this yours?” The bathroom fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. You were still staring at him, tears already gathering in your eyes again, looking like you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.

Heeseung didn’t know what to say. He only knew that everything had just changed. Heeseung stared at the two red lines on the pregnancy test for what felt like an eternity.

The bathroom was deathly quiet except for your shaky breathing. When he finally looked up at you, your face was pale, eyes wide with pure terror, tears already spilling down your cheeks. He swallowed hard, his throat tight.

“…Are you pregnant?” he asked, voice low and rough. You didn’t speak at first. Your lips trembled as fresh tears rolled down your face. Then you gave a small, barely noticeable nod.

Heeseung felt something twist sharply in his chest. He looked back down at the test, then at you again. His next question came out quieter, almost hesitant.

“Is the baby mine?” The moment the words left his mouth, your face crumpled completely. You broke into heavy, broken sobs, shoulders shaking as you tried to cover your mouth with one hand.

“I’m sorry…” you choked out between cries. “I’m so sorry… I didn’t want this to happen, i never meant for any of this, it was just one stupid night and I— I’m planning on getting rid of it. I won’t bother you with any of this, i won’t get in your way. You don’t have to worry about anything, i’ll handle it quietly.”

Heeseung’s expression shifted the instant you said those words. Hurt flashed across his face raw, unguarded hurt. His brows drew together, jaw tightening as he processed what you were saying.

The idea that you were planning to terminate the pregnancy without even telling him felt like a punch to the gut. His hand holding the test lowered slowly to his side. You kept crying, words tumbling out faster now, desperate and apologetic.

“I’m really sorry. I know you didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for this either, i’ll take care of everything. You can just forget about it…i promise I won’t drag you into anything.”

Heeseung stayed silent for a long moment, staring at you as you sat on the bathroom floor, looking small and devastated.

The hurt in his chest mixed with something heavier confusion, disbelief, and a strange ache he couldn’t quite name. Finally, his voice came out low and strained.

“and you didn’t bother telling me?”

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You vaguely remember his hand wrapped tight around your wrist, pulling you through the crowd. You didn’t fight it, you never do. The last clear image in your head is his jaw clenched, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them, and then… nothing.

And now you’re here, in the aftermath of something you can’t fully piece together, your pulse still uneven.

You and Heeseung have been tangled together for as long as you can fucking remember. Childhood scraped knees, teenage secrets whispered past midnight, growing pains and growing up side by side. He knew you better than anyone… or at least, that’s what you told yourself.

Because you were so damn convinced you knew him too. God, you were wrong. So fucking wrong.

There were parts of him you never saw or maybe you did, in flashes, in those moments you brushed off because it was easier than questioning it. The way his expression would shift when he thought you weren’t looking, smth darker, almost… hungry. Then it would be gone, replaced with that soft, familiar version of him you clung to.

You called him overprotective. That’s the word you used, laughing it off when your friends pointed it out.

“He’s just like that,” you’d say. “He cares.” And he did, like he really fucking did.

He’d hover too close when you talked to other guys, his presence pressing in as a silent warning. He always knew where you were, somehow?texting at the exact moment you needed a ride, showing up before you even asked. He’d walk you home, wait until you got inside.

He’d hold doors open, buy you flowers for no reason, do all the little things your boyfriends never quite managed to get right. Hell, he did their job better than they ever could but you never questioned it, even when it drove them insane.

Not that you blame them. How could they compete with someone who already had all of you?And that was the thing.

Heeseung never spoke, never gave a reason. He didn't open up. Didn't share what he thought or how he felt. His emotions stayed hidden. Locked away like a vault no one could access.

No one except you. Or at least… that’s what you thought.

What you didn’t know—what you never even fucking considered was behind that careful control, there was smth else entirely. Heeseung would grunt, biting down on his shirt held up by him, hands fisting his angry cock, pumping them up and down. He pants, looking infront of him, into his computer and there you are.

You were stretched across your bed, laughing at whatever the person on the other side was saying. You were wearing nothing but just a simple tank top with black panties, circling your fingers over your belly absentmindedly. Girls do that when they don’t know they’re being watched.

He has hacked your devices, your web cam, everything you owned was his. Your cloud backups. Your email. He had access to your photos, your notes, your private drafts you never showed anyone. Conversations you deleted, thinking they were gone, he still had them.

Your social media—Knew who liked your posts, who DM’d you. Even the accounts you stalked quietly? He knew. Your ride apps. Your late-night searches. Your playlists. The things you ordered, the things you almost ordered but didn’t. Every digital footprint you left behind—was his.

Of course you didn’t know any of this. Thats what made it even more thrilling. Though, heeseung knew this was illegal, that he shouldn’t do any of this but fuck. How can he not? Heeseung rolls his eyes back, cock twitching into his palms as he neared his release. “Fuckk—Y/n.” So innocent and so mine. He thought as he came in a loud groan.

He tried to get over you. God, he tried. Threw himself into other relationships, distractions, anything that might dull whatever this was. But it never worked. It always came back to you. It always ended because of you.

And maybe the worst part? along the way, he stopped trying to fight it. He started to like it.

Obsession is dangerous as hell. At first, it’s small. Harmless. A touch that means a little more than it should. A word, a feeling you brush off because it’s easier not to think about it.

But then it grows. It twists. It sinks its claws in. And suddenly, it’s not enough anymore. You want more. And Heeseung? He crossed that line a long fucking time ago.

And for some reason, your twisted brain found the mystery of him even more attractive, like the opposite of a moth drawn to a flame, drawn to his darkness she could feel calling to yours.

PRESENT — 10:30 PM.

Now here you are, back hitting the wall with a dull thud, breath knocked out of you as he corners you in, the door clicking shut behind him.

It all comes rushing back in fragments. “Come with me.” You had never heard his voice sound like that. Cold. Icy. It ...it didn't suit him, at least not the him you knew, though that knowledge was limited. No, heeseung was the collision of control and chaos, hellfire and hedonism, a hades of his own underworld, and damn you if a part of you didn't want to be the girl he brought into it.

“Tell me,” Heeseung murmured, voice lower. You panted, “Wait—we shouldn’t—you should go.” You had no idea what you were saying at this point, all you knew was your stomach flipped, heat rushing up your spine. "Go here?" His mouth moved to your shoulder. "Or here?" It moved up your neck.

Heeseung’s hand lifted, fingers brushing against your chin. “Did you do that to bait me, angel, hmm?” The pet name sent smth electric through your veins. You hated it did that.

All of this started when he saw you entering the party house, wearing a tight black dress, with a sprinkle of white painted on the side, just like his, but with glitter around the paint.

‘I'm looking at a fucking angel. My angel.My anchor.Mine. I love her more than life.’

A dark sense of obsession takes hold of him, urging him to rip off that dress and sink inside your tight heat.

Heeseung titled his head, observing you from afar, contemplating whether to walk up to you or not. But it wasn't that which stopped him in his tracks. No, it was the man sitting opposite you, too close to you, almost his age, laughing at something you said and making you crack a small smile.

That smile fell like daggers in his chest. They were his. Your smiles. Your laughter. Your tears. Your noises. Everything.

He knew he was being unreasonable, but the idea, the sheer thought of another man seeing your softness made him see red. You were his, and it was about time the world knew that.

You stood there stiff, his warm tongue forcing his way past your lips meeting your pink ones. Heeseung pushed his knee up against your core, pressing right where you wanted him. You exhaled loudly, eyes closing as he started rubbing his knee over your now-soaked fabric making your thighs quiver, head dropped back.

Heeseung was not watching you intensely, watching to what friction you reacted to most, knee pressing hard against you. The press of his length near your thighs doesn’t help and when you roll your eyes, he shoots out an amused chuckle.

Suddenly, Heeseung picked you up, his hands wrapping around the curve of your ass making you gasp, “Hee—” pulling you down with him as he drops onto the couch, both of his hands trailing up to your hips before pulling you down flush against his lap, facing him. You can’t help the yelp of surprise that leaves your mouth.

You rest your hand on his shoulder, steadying your self. “Fuck—you drive me crazy.” He buries himself in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent. You let your head fall back, exposing more of your neck, too drunk of him to stop now. "This stops when you say so," heeseung whispered against your neck. "This doesn't even start unless you say so."

You press your hips down on him harder, giving him the answer he’s waited for years. “Hmm shit, angel.” His already hard cock in his pants hits the seam of your jeans just right, making him groan, lips trailing along your jaw.

You pull back only to meet his lips, moving with yours slowly. “You have no idea—” He pulls back before biting your lips, Heeseung drowned out your gasp by sticking his tongue inside your mouth instead at the golden opportunity. “No fucking idea how long ive been wanting this. You, beneath me like this…fuck. The thought always drove me mad.” He whispers. It was true, of all people in his life, you were the only one who could make him lose control. You feel his hands digging into the flesh of your skin, cupping your ass through your jeans, grinding you back down on him again and again.

Your mind and pulse gone haywire. You didn't say a word. You didn't have to; your presence was telling enough. This time, there was no crowd, no music, only the desperate, frantic need to get as close to him as possible. A moan rose in your throat when he drew your bottom lip between his teeth and the stiff, reserved best friend of yours was gone. In his place was someone who kissed like a man possessed, filled with filthy promises and wicked intent.

Your hands roamed over warm skin and sculpted muscles, you were pressed so tightly together you could literally feel the wild beats of his heart, but it wasn't enough.

Heeseung trailed sloppy kisses back up ur jaw, relishing in how your body jerked each time your clit dragged along his thigh and his teeth grazed over the sensitive hickeys he just left. But, he wouldn’t just let you cum that easily.

He didn’t even bother to move his black hair out of his eyes so you could really see how much it had actually pissed him off. Heeseung groaned when you arched into him, craving more. "I was right. You are going to be the death of me," he muttered.

Strong, warm hands swept up the backs of your thighs and lifted you up, only to grind you back down on his hard-on. One stayed on your thigh, sliding up and around until it brushed the wetness soaking your underwear; the other stole beneath your top and bra to palm your breast.

The world tilted when the fabric of your dress slipped from your shoulders, body all bare under his stare. His other hand hooked your panties and dragged them down your legs while lifting you up for a while, eyes glued to the slick mess between your thighs. Air hitting your pulsing pussy, heeseung moved back to glance at your slick folds, glistening under the dim light. He suddenly kept his thumb on your pussy, working it deeper with each movement. A whimper clawed up your throat as your body lit beneath his erotic manipulations.

"Please." half gasp, half whimper. You felt his lips twitching, “Already begging? i haven’t even started, angel.” your head grew light, every ounce of consciousness arrowing to the heat building in your center. Heeseung’s fingers squeezes your chin until your gaze snapped back at him.

"Eyes on me, baby," he murmurs, voice thick and wrecked, lips shiny with you. "Wanna see exactly what I do to you." He still hadn’t done anything and you were shaking. “You look perfect, so pink and wet for me." All you could do was gasp as both his fingers and his already straining cock were hitting your wetness at the same time.

A yelp of surprise leaves your mouth when you’re being lifted up by him, heeseung walks you to his bed, kissing your forehead before dropping you onto the mattress with a soft bounce. Then, he takes a step back, admiring the art he’s been waiting for years to have in his hands, here you were. In his bed, ready to melt at his touch.

"So fucking pretty," he praises. "Look at you. All laid out for me." Your first instinct is to hide, so you try to close your legs, but Heeseungs hands clamp against your inner thighs, holding you open. You moan, both opposed to what he's doing and not all at once. "Don't you dare," he chides.

"I want to see you. All pink and dripping for me." You gasp at his words. You know Heeseung has a dirty mouth. You’ve been well aware from the start, but hearing it for real is drugging because you want all his filthy promises.

Heeseung swallows hard, his gaze dragging over your body—Eyes half lidded, mouth slightly open, cheeks flushed, tits bare and heavy, pussy dripping only for him. You're beautiful. So fucking beautiful it messes with his head. It doesn't matter what you wear. You could walk in the simplest outfit and he’d still lose his breath.

He’s that obsessed with you. Addicted to you. Fucking in love with you and the beautiful chaos you bring to his life.

God, how badly he wanted to know what it was about you that made him crazy like this, but Whatever it was, from the moment your fire had found his, your fate was already sealed.

Heeseung drags a teasing knuckle over your slit, tutting when you whimper and arch. "Sweet girl, you must be aching. So wet and swollen. Have you been this needy all night long under that pretty dress?" You watched as heeseung shed his clothes one by one until you weren’t the only one naked. God, his body was even more beautiful up close.

Your lips parted at the sight of his cock, the tip of his cock had turned a heated shade of red from all the build-up you've done. "Give me those pretty eyes.” He growls, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you closer. “Spread your legs for me, angel.” His thumb presses into your clit, rubbing ruthless circles.

You do as he says, spreading your legs wider, making his eyes drop down. “Little slut is dripping.” He chuckles when he feels you throb around his fingers, “Needy little thing, aren’t you? You’re so fucking desperate for cock that it has you clenching around nothing.” Heeseung continues, rubbing his thumb in your wetness.

“Pleaseee.” You cried out, “Please what?” He asked, still tormenting your clit. “Tell me what you want, you’re a good girl, aren’t you?” You shook your head, hips bucking up for more fraction of his fingers but he shoved you down, “Stay still.” He hummed, “Hee, please—please touch me, please.”

Satisfied, he finally shifted. Without any warning, he pushed a finger deep enough inside you to make you cry out. “Fuck, so tight.” He swore when your cunt clenched around him instantly. His fingers kept moving, a strange and growing warmth between your legs made you shift on the bed, hips chasing his fingers. You cried out when you felt another one of his fingers slip inside your puffy folds as he started pistoling them in and out , settling in a fast rhythm.

You whimpered at the sudden stretch of his fingers pushing till hes buried himself up to the knuckles. High pitched moans spilled into the air, masking the existing, filthy noises of moans, whimpers, and the wet sounds of his fingers plunging in and out of you. “Heeseung—i can’t.” Your arousal dripped down your thighs. “You can’t what?” He spoke low, voice slightly whiny. “I need to—come—oh my, please.” You whined out, the tip of his fingers teasing your clenched hole with shallow thrust.

A whimper clawed through the air when he buried his fingers to the hilt and pressed a thumb against your swollen clit, you crave for every inch of your body to be touched by his, that’s how needy you are right now.

“Gonna come for me, sweetheart?” You think you nod, but then your not sure when you see heeseung dipping his face down, eyes still fixated on the ones he fell in love with—then you feel it, warm liquid falling on your dripping filth. Did he just? did he just spit on you— it’s the last thing you could care about—not when his digits are working to spread his spit all over you.

Another finger claws its way up. Oh god, it was getting too much. “Wanna have you real wet and open for me, angel.” You clench around him hard, body all tensed up as you accommodate the sudden change in thickness. Your slick covered his whole hand in seconds, the embarrassing amount of arousal oozed out of you with each plunge of his long fingers inside of you as he kept massaging your walls with in a fast pace.

Inch by torturous inch. It felt unbearably intimate, but you didn't look away until he withdrew to the tips, slamming them back in and your eyes instinctively shut with a gasp.

He increases the pace of his pumps while lowering his head, sucking on your nipples into his mouth. Heeseung groaned. You tasted even better than he'd imagined. He licked and sucked on your nipples while he savagely fucked in and out of your tight, clenching pussy. "No—please." You beg, shaking your head, he's been at it for god knows how long.

He grazed his teeth over your nipple. "You need to come? Hmm?" You whisper, "Y—yes." It came out as a half plea, half moan. You were wrecked. Hair a mess, your face streaked with tears, your skin slick with sweat and hot with arousal. His tongue, hot and wet, comes out and swirls around the pebbled flesh of your nipple, teasing you, and his fingers dig into your skin as he goes back for more, nibbling the whole breast.

Then he lifts his head and dragged his mouth on your neck until he reached your ear where he whispered, "Come for me like the slut you are." Heeseung pinched your nipples and fucked his fingers into you with the hardest thrust yet, and you exploded, your mouth falling open in a soundless scream while your cunt strangled his fingers. Pulling him in more, he winced.

Pain prickled at you, followed by a white-hot burst of pleasure. You’ve had toys to keep you company the past years, but none of them had been so big or buried so deep. The unrelenting stretch drove the oxygen from your lungs, and your body involuntarily bucked and twisted as you struggled to take only his fingers.

"So pretty when you're soaking wet like this I can't wait to see how perfect you look around my bare cock" Another, more guttural groan. You’re so wet and tight and heeseung is so impossible hard. He could cum right now just thinking about how good you’d feel wrapped around himm, walls convulsing and milking him dry with every orgasm he gives you, every orgasm you rip out of him. "That's it, sweetheart. You can take it." You sniffle, hands gripping the bedsheets. "Please." You weren’t sure whether you were begging him to stop or make you come again. Both. Neither. It didn't matter. All you knew was you craved something only he could give, and you desperately hoped he could figure it out on his own because you couldn't so much as remember your name right now.

Heeseung gripped your thighs to hold you in place while he withdrew. Slowly, until just the tip of his large fingers were inside you. Then he thrust back in. Deeper. Faster. Harder.

"Fuck, your cunt’s getting wetter. Are you gonna cum again just with my fingers, hmm?” His cruel cackle rang in your ears. A strangled noise leaves your throat, vision blurring, lashes damped. Heeseung would kill to see this side of you everyday. He curled them inside you, the loud squelching noises of his fingers abusing and stretching out your wet cunt were too much to bear.

Any remaining coherence shattered as he fucked you open on the mattress with so much force it rattled your bones. Your nails dug into his shoulders as squeals and whimpers poured out of you, mingling with his low grunts whenever you’d clench around him. You were getting close.

Heeseung’s teeth grazed the skin of your thighs. “Come for me, angel.” His voice whispered into your ear in time with a particularly savage thrust. White-hot sensation ripped through you when you felt his other hand smacking your ruined slit with so much force the trickles of wetness dragged down. Tears leaked from your eyes as you finally let go, releasing into his hands.

He doesn’t stop, pushes in deeper and deeper until you’re gushing on his palm, your essence dripping down his wrist. Another lightening strikes through you as you feel heeseung fucking you through your orgasm with his tongue. The new sensation causing a chocked-back moan to let out of you. Heeseung groans, you taste exactly like he knew you would—all his.

You’re still fluttering around it and releasing your juices right into his awaiting mouth as heeseung slurps up all he can get out of you. This is getting dirtier, nasty, the lower half of his face is completely coated in your essence, chin shiny with your slick but he doesn’t care. He keeps going.

Heeseung’s hand slid up your thighs, spreading them wider as he lowered himself further, alternating between slow and sloppy kisses, teasing without giving. He nuzzled his nose into your wetness, groaning. “Fuckk—you taste like heaven.” Inhaling your essence through his nose. You whimper, he drags a cry of pleasure from you as one fang grazed your sensitive nub of flesh. The strokes of his tongue were firm and determined. Your hands were fisting the sheets by your sides as you rolled your hips into his face. Heeseung’s strong hands slipped past your thighs to your hips, yanking them down back on the bed. “No. You take what i give you and you like it.”

Heeseung let his tongue taste the mess you’ve made, licking a stripe from your hole, grabbing a handful of your ass as he spreads your pussy lips open with his tongue to find your clit, throbbing from your previous orgasm.

His tongue is everywhere at once, broad, flat, filthy laps from your clenching hole then sucking the swollen bud between his lips, rolling it between his lips, toys with it with his tongue till your bucking into his mouth. He moans into your pussy like he’s the one getting off of this, nails digging into your hips, pulling you closer when you start moving too much.

“Fucking stay still, angel.” He licked and sucked. Then he feasted, feeding from you as desperately as he had at your chest. You were lost. Your body tried to follow, but the hands at your hips held you in place. “Fucking hell.” Heeseung pulls off of your clit with a loud popping noise to talk to you, his tone sweet as honey but the edge in his voice sending shivers down your spine, hollowing his cheeks around your cunt for the last time as he licks his lips afterwards. Heeseung yanked his hands away from your pussy and pushed them into your mouth, you moan, it’s so easy for him to get a reaction out of you.

He hummed in approval when you sucked and licked your own juices without him asking you to. "Do you taste that, Angel? That's the taste of you giving yourself to me. Because from now on, I own you. Body, mind, soul, everything." Another moan. “You know you’ve always been mine, right?” You cry out, the noise breaking from the pitch as deep-seated pleasure consumes you from the inside out when you feel him shoving his fingers inside again, pumping in and out, hitting all the spots which made you scream.

“You know everything i do is for you, yeah?” Of course you know. How could you not? He’s always there. Waking up before you even ask, memorizing your routines, finishing your sentences like he’s already lived them with you. Snacks appear without you mentioning you’re hungry, your favorite things lined up exactly how you like them.

He notices when your tone shifts by the slightest bit, when your smile doesn’t quite reach your eyes. He remembers what you wore on random days, who you talked to, what made you laugh. If something bothers you, it’s gone before you even bring it up. If someone upsets you, they don’t stay in your life for long.

Heeseung wasn't a believer, but you were his miracle. He didn't know if what happened inside him where you were concerned was love. It felt wrong to say that. Love was light, love was beautiful, love was pure. What he felt was dark, obsessive, deviant, and utterly possessive. He would kill for you, as he always had, and he would die for you, if needed. He would slay your demons and give you the sword to slay them if you wanted. He wanted to hold you close and protect you from anything wanting to tarnish your being.

You’re his, my y/n. You're the girl he killed for and you're the woman he’d die for. You are his and you are exactly where you're supposed to be. He’s fairly positive he’d be the one burning the world down if anyone ever tried to take you from him.

“You have no idea how long i’ve been wanting this. I've been thinking about it all these fucking years. I don't think I'll be able to get enough of you.” He grunts as he lowers himself, His erection pressed against your inner thigh, thick and hard. Oh God. Your insides knotted; your breaths came out in heavy, whining pants. So close.

You loudly gasp when he latches his mouth onto your pussy all over again and starts sucking. Still keeping the pressure of his fingers inside you, never slowing down. Thumb brushing your clit in lazy circles, curling against that spot inside while he tongue flicks your clit in rapid, relentless strokes. He kept pushing until he was knuckles deep inside you. "Please—no more.” you moaned, too dizzy and turned on to think properly. Tears leaked down your cheeks as you arch your back. He growls into your pussy, the vibration making your vision spark white.

You feel his nose bump your entrance each time he sucks a breath in, “Heeseung—fuck!” You yelp at a particularly harsh tug on your clit. You bucked again, but it was no use. You couldn't get enough friction to light the simmering fuse in your stomach. "I need to come...let me come...please." Your fingers were nothing compared to his, the stretch was unfamiliar. “Fuck, angel. I love the way you sound while screaming my name. Can’t wait to hear it when i’m inside you.” He added a second finger, scissoring them to open you up, his thumb rubbing your pussy left to right, steady motions. “My pretty angel likes my fingers?” Your orgasm ripped through you in one brutal, mind-numbing tear. Your entire body bowed from the intensity; bursts of light exploded behind your eyes.

“Soak my fingers. Give it to me.” You finally shatter with a broken cry, clamping down around him in hard, pulsing waves. “Fuckfuckfuck, you’re so fucking pretty like this.” He groaned, watching your face, his free hand stroking your thighs as they shake violently. You gueh around his hand, slick flooding out around his fingers, soaking his entire hand and You twisted your head to look at heeseung, your face flushed from your orgasm and your eyes round with shock. You were drenched, cum dripping down your thighs and probably ruining the sheets before you both even actually started.

He fisted your hair with one hand and gripped your hips with the other hard enough to bruise. “I’m not done using you, get on your knees.” You pant, the aftershocks still not denying down. You slowly pulled yourself up, wincing. You sank to the floor, obeying, your eyes never leaving his and that only made him go crazy, his chest hurt and his cock throb. He fisted your hair and you watched as heeseung shed his clothes, revealing broad shoulders, and a sexy V-cut and veins that led down to his...

Holy shit.

Your mouth dried at the sight of his cock. Long, thick, and hard, with a bead of pre-cum glistening at its tip. It was so big that you involuntarily clenched at the thought of it filling you. You shuffle closer between his legs eagerly, heeseung chuckles at the moment. “Eager now, are we?” He cocked his head to the side, eyes scanning your pathetic state infront of him. But to him, you still looked the most beautiful woman alive.

“Gonna make you choke on it. You’d like that?” You nodded furiously, desperate for anything he’d give you rn. “You wanna gag and drool all over yourself while you do it, hmm?” You nodded, too far gone to even think about what you were agreeing to. Heeseung tangled his hands in your hair tighter, roughly pulling you closer to it. You look at the hand that comes down to shaft as he gives himself a few long pumps. "Open your mouth. I'm going to fuck you exactly how you need to be fucked. Now, you be a good girl and spit on it.” You sigh, taking it in your hands, tongue darting out before your spit coats his tip, he actually whimpers, you give out a small kitten lick at his tip, circling your tongue around it and looking up at him for approval.

He smirked, shaking his head. “You can do better, angel.” So you took him in further, trying to run your tongue along the underside of his cock . Tongue flicking over heeseung's, giving him a slow pump to the remaining half that didn't fit into your mouth. You blinked up at him—eyes watering at his size.

"Oh fuck, angel." Heeseung moans, fisting your hair with one hand as his head falls back with a low groan. You start bobbing your head as you slowly lowered an inch or two more, feeling him in your throat. You slid down a few more inches and sucked like a pro on ur way up. Fuck. His hand fisted in your hair once more, gliding your head back down. And up. And down.

He restrained his movements, going easy on you because of your previous orgasms. But when you made little humming noises around his cock and pressed your thighs together, Heeseung realized this was really turning you the fuck on. 'Fuck me.’ He thought and his restraint snapped. "Deeper, angel," He ordered harshly. Complying, you quickened your pace, spit coating the shaft of his dick as you used your other hand to twist up and down. You could taste the pre cum from the tip of his dick, you moaned at the taste.

“Just like that, good fucking girl.” your mouth slid down even farther to take in those last few inches. You gag horribly before you make it. He curses the moment you squeeze the base with a teasing motion of your hand. You trap him inside your mouth, flicking your tongue over the ridges of his digits. “Fuck yeah, suck that cock like a good little whore.” You chocked, burying your head as close to his groin as you could before driving back up for air, taking in greedy little breaths before diving back in on his dick.

He fisted your hair and used it as a leverage to yank you down on his length more causing you to gag as you hallow your mouth around his digits. Your spit was running down to your hand and his shaft. That didn’t really matter, it was a problem you’d think of later. His hips snap into your mouth, forcing himself to sear into the back of your mouth and pressing your nose against him more, chin hitting his balls repeatedly. You choke as you manage to breathe slowly through your nose. "Relax your throat," He rasped, slapping your cheeks slightly. You pulled back to suck in a ragged breath, a string of spit connecting the tip to your lips as you sputtered, chest heaving.

And the next time you took him in ur mouth, you slid down, managing to take every fucking inch. He grips your head and shoves you down, moaning. "That's it—Take it. Your mouth is made to be fucked." You claw at his thighs, lips wrapped around heeseung's cock like it's the only thing you're made to do. He griped your hair with both hands and fucked your mouth, "Fuck, yes. Just like that. Take me in, angel. Let me fuck that pretty little throat." He hissed through his teeth, enjoying the sight of your mascara running down your face, chest covered in drool.

Your throat constricted around him and it was game over. “This is where you belong, under me. Chocking on my dick as if your fucking meant for it.” You couldn't see properly through the tears clouding your vision, but the buzz between your legs had grown too loud for you to ignore. The heat inside him erupted so violently his ears rang as heeseung finally came down your throat. “Swallow every drop. Yeah, just like that. Drink me whole, y/n. I’m planning to come down your throat every night for the rest of our lives.” You weakly nod, his release burning hot in your mouth, you gobble it down till every last bit of his come was now down your throat.

"Your mouth looks so pretty full of my cum." He squats down, swiping two fingers across your tongue, dragging them over your chin and throat. He continues the descent down your chest, circling each one of your. nipples, leaving a glistening trail of moisture in his wake. "Bet your tight little cunt would look even better filled up." Heeseung caressed your cheeks, "filthy fucking slut." You whimper, your tongue swirled one last time. A last lick that sent a shudder through him and then you release him with an audible pop.

“Ass up, face down, on the bed. Now.” His palms ran up your legs as You get up, his thumbs pressing into your inner thighs, lifting you up with a harshness that made your stomach tighten in an unexpected way. His rough hands felt so absolute against your soft skin. Your hands hit the mattress first. He manhandled you over your stomach, yanking your ass up into the air before spanking it hard enough to sting. Spank! Your body jolted upwards at the new sensation. “Hmph! heeseung!” You whined, “Uh huh? You like that, angel?” Spank! He grinned, gripping your ass with both hands and spreading your cheeks to expose your holes, nails digging into your flesh before he spanks your ass again. Spank!

You yelped when heeseung yanked you back towards him by pulling your hair until you were looking up at him with teary eyes. He looks into your eyes, the ones he finds beautiful filled with lust and every ounce of pleasure left in you, “Say it. Who do you belong to?” He smiles and Spank! “You!—” Spank! “I belong to you.” You wail out, hips bucking up more as you grind back on him for any kind of friction. Heeseung closes his eyes, fuck. The sight of you like this, giving him a view of a lifetime. Legs spread, cool air brushed your pussy and you were suddenly aware of how wet you were. His gaze touched you there, warm yet still tinged with anger.

“Such a good little slut, ass out, pussy up, just the way i like it." He said before shoving your face down into your pillows and you felt him align the head of his cock against your folds with wet smacks, barely thrusting in half an inch in and out as he enjoyed the sounds your pussy made. The way he was teasing you like this, barely letting you feel even the tip was driving you crazy. You bit your lips, grinding back to have him sink into you but his grip on your hips were like iron steels.

"Remember, every part of you is mine, angel, and you will never feel whole again without me inside you." He glides his tip up and down your slit, pressing it with teasing motion which makes you buck your hips onto him more. A whimper escapes from your lips as he works his head between your folds, using his hand to coat the rest of his length in your arousal. “Pleaseee— just put it in already.” He scoffed, “Woah missy! you’re alot bratty today. What’s with this attitude?” He sunk in a bit more now, the head of him inside you and the problem was heeseung was thick. So it made your thighs quiver with just his tip in.

Heeseung moaned when he slid in a bit further, hissing at how you squeezed him so tight, you felt so fucking good. Tight and wet and made for him, like You were the puzzle he'd been missing all his life. He once more sank in what felt like another inch, you sniffled, your walls trying to accommodate his girth. He pulled out, then slid back in with a slow, smooth glide. "Your pussy was made for me, y/n. Every part of you, made for me." His own breaths harshened as he increased the pace.

“I’m not even halfway in, angel.” He pushed his hips more, “And you’re already crying?” You gasped, tears sprung at the corner of your eyes. “Crying like a bitch when i’m not even halfway in. Do i need to stretch you open more? Where’s your vibrator?” your eyes widen. “W-what?” He caresses the curve of your ass.

“Your vibrator. The one i’ve heard you fuck yourself with everytime i was sleeping over? Tell me. Where is it?” his voice all innocent. Your gaze shifts to your drawer next to the bed and he follows it. You see him yanking the drawer open, his eyes turning dark when he finds what he was looking for.

Lube and a vibrator. Not just any vibrator, it was double standard, with clitoral suction, one which could give you a mind blowing orgasm. He brought the vibrator down beneath you, the buzzing head being dangerously close to your slit. “Sit pretty for me, slut.” Heeseung held on your shoulders before arching them back. He pressed the tip of the toy on you, and you let out a ringing sob. No, the overstimulation was so fucking much.

Your body trembled, legs shaking as he sank inside you further that he could literally feel the vibrations of the toy on his dick as your walls slicked up more. “Look, you’re opening up for me. Such a good girl.” You couldn't think, couldn't breathe. All you could do was lay there-only for him to see, only for him to ruin. A slave to his doings while he fucks you open like a madman. Fast. Slow. Fast. Slow.

“You have no idea what you look like right now." You were so close already, heeseung slipped out till on the thick tip of his remained inside you, paused, and plunged back in, cockhead spearing to the deepest part of you against your cervix, hitting all the sweet spots you didn’t know you had.

His hands reached around and pinched your swollen clit and your body spiked with pleasure so hard and intense that you instinctively tried to scoot away from him for mercy, but you couldn’t. His hands held you in place.

“Try that again, and i’ll spank you so hard you won’t be able to sit in this damn house tomorrow without wincing.” He pulled the vibrator away, turning it off, throwing it somewhere on the bed. You could feel him completely now, hips pistoling into you, forcing you to stay still and feel the way he stretched you open. The same hand coming up and smacking your flushed cheeks, making you jerk forward before he rubbed the flesh there, smoothing off the sting.

You look back at him, spit falling down to your neck, makeup smudged, new puddle of tears falling down. Fuck, you looked so beautiful, so perfect and so entirely ruined—His.

I love you, Heeseung thinks . And he suspects that you love him, too. And he cannot wait for you both to admit it to each other. He cannot wait to see what happens next.

The tip of his cock was rubbing so deeply in you, you felt a bulge in your belly. “Fuckfuckfuck—no more, please—” you drop your head on the cushions, the noise being muffled by it. Babbling out nonsense yet you didn’t notice the way your hips kept grinding back into his hold because you’re fucking greedy and ruined. Heeseung hissed as he felt your walls swallowing him whole. "Your pretty pussy is just eating me up every single time. Greedy little thing." He rasped to himself. Your arousal was coating even his thighs now, a large wet spot darkening on the bedsheets under you as you continued to drip.

He pulled back out again, then thrusting inside, watching you fall apart infront of him as he wrecked your pussy like he promised he would. “That’s my girl. Taking every inch of my cock.” Before you could even respond, even think, Heeseung was wrapping his bicep around your throat, halting the breath from your lungs from the pure shock. He didn’t hold back—his arm around you was just tight enough to make you were lightheaded. Your ears rang and your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

He squeezed as he pulled you in to meet his thrusts, his other hand holding you still to keep himself up. You chocked back for air, tears landing on his biceps now as he pounded into you mercilessly. “Good fucking girl. Yeah? You like being my good girl, Angel? You like when I tell you how pretty you look with my cock stretching you open?" He cooed in your ear. Heeseung’s headlock got a fraction tighter with each sentence, teetering you right along the edge before throwing you over completely. Your pussy fluttered wildly around his cock and his harsh thrusts that he refused to soften.

“So much—no…” You gasped out, “Too deep.” the only answer you got was his dark chuckle as he yanked you up, straightening his back and arching yours as he forced you upright, bicep srill curled around yours neck. You felt his hand meet with your stomach, pressing in hard on the bulge— A perfect outline of how beautifully you were taking him. Then he pressed harder causing you to moan, “You feel this? look. That’s me in your stomach. Fuckk—Gonna fucking breed this cunt till it’s dripping all over this room.”

You whined as he pushed you down again, hands finding your clit, giving it that same mean pinch and rub that had you seeing stars. You completely unraveled, melted right into heeseung’s arms as your body shook and a moan that only could be heard in a cheap porno moved right through you. And you come, going weightless in his arms as your knees practically gave out but he just used it as a way to slip deeper into you. You felt your release dripping down to your knees.

“Who fucks you?” He growled, throwing your ass back to meet his thrusts, “Y-you do—” you whined, feeling his cock twitch and move, pressing right against your cervix, “Now say that without stuttering, angel.” Spank! He buried himself to the hilt one last time before he uploaded inside of you, warm liquid coating your walls in white.

“You do!” You sniffle, sighing out another breathy moan. “Who else?” Heeseung’s thrusts finally slowed as he kept fucking you through his own orgasm, pressing wet kisses to the side of your neck and sending shivers down your spine. At last he pulled out, cock still hard, leaking with the left over cum that trickled out of your hole. “Only you.”

You fall face flat on fhe mattress, fucked out. Then the very next second he flips you onto your back, your eyes nearly popping out of your skull when you see the vibrator in his hand again. You blinked and your body shivered, “Wa-wait!” You tried closing in your legs but he forced them apart, hand shoving between a knee to expose your puffy core to him once more.

“Oh, we’re just getting started, angel.”

After what felt like an hour of non stop fucking, him just ruining your insides, it had finally stopped. Heeseung was laying beside you now, your head resting on his shoulder. The silence was comfortable—too comfortable. The aftershocks of how good he fucked you still running through your body and the smell of sex lingering in the air, the faint rise and fall of his breathing… everything felt too real.

You tilted your head, looking up at him. “So…..” He turned to you, his gaze already on yours. His breath brushed against your lips, noses touching.

“So….?” he echoed quietly. Then his hand came up, brushing a strand of hair away from your face. “Do you think this was just… something that happened?” he murmured. Your eyebrows pulled together. What was he saying? “Do you think idk you love me?” Your chest tightened. “Heeseung—”

“I know you, Y/n,” he cut you off softly, his forehead pressing against yours. “The deepest desires of your heart, the softest secrets of your soul, the meanest moments in your mind. I know them all… I own them. Every desire, every secret, every thought.”

Your breath hitched, his words sinking into you slowly. “This isn’t just tonight,” he continued, his voice dropping. “It never was.” You pulled back slightly, searching his face, but he didn’t let you go far. His hand tightened gently around your wrist, grounding you in place.

“I want you ti know. You have been, you are, and you will always be my only obsession.” Obsession. Your heart started racing, but you couldn’t tell if it was want, fear or smth else entirely. The confession was sudden, you didn’t think he’d pull if off like this. “If there was any love in this world of mine, Y/n… it would be you,” he said, quieter now, almost a confession that felt as if it was been buried for years. “I am darkness. I live it, I breathe it, I am it. There is no redemption, no emotion, nothing for me.”

Heeseung’s thumb brushed against your cheek.“Nothing but you.” The way he said it…..Everything inside you stilled.

“You’re the moon to my dark night, angel,” he whispered, his gaze never leaving yours. “You’re the only thing in this black sky that can thrive when I swallow everything else whole.”

God, you fucking loved this guy snd he didn’t even know it. Not yet.

“The stars don’t exist in this space. Just you and I.” His lips hovered just barely against yours, before he places a quick kiss.

“You need me to glow… and I need you to exist.” A pause. “It’s simple as that.” heeseung has always looked at you like you were just… there. Just his. And maybe that was the worst part.

Because he didn’t see it—the way you lingered, the way you stayed, the way you kept choosing him even when you knew you shouldn’t. Or maybe… he did. And he was just waiting for you to admit it first.

“I love you.” The words left you before you could stop them—soft, fragile, and terrifying in how real they sounded once they existed outside of you. Heeseung blinked, once then twice. Sucking in a ragged breath before groaning. “Say that again.” You smile softly at him, eyes glowing. “I love you.”

“I love you too… god, you drive me insane.” His voice was low. The words wrapped around you, heavier than you expected, settling deep in your chest. His hand came up to your face, thumb brushing your cheek slowly. “You don’t even realize what you do to me, do you?” he murmured, a faint, almost disbelieving smile tugging at his lips. “The way you look at me… the way you stay…”

He exhaled softly, forehead resting against yours.“It’s enough to make me lose my mind.”

You step down onto the road and the heat hits you like a physical thing.

Chicago in September is crisp. Leaves turning, wind off the lake, the smell of the city sharpening into something almost bearable. You have lived your whole life in that particular kind of autumn and you are standing here now in what should by all rights be the tail end of summer and the ground is baking. The sky is enormous. There are no buildings tall enough to interrupt it, nothing to cut the blue into manageable pieces, and for a moment you just stand there with your suitcase at your feet and your hat in your hand and feel very, very small.

“You the new schoolteacher?” You turn. A young man — can’t be more than nineteen — is leaning against the side of the bus stop with his arms crossed and his dark hair falling into his eyes. He’s got a look on his face that isn’t quite a smile but is clearly thinking about becoming one.

“That obvious?” you say.

“You’ve got a suitcase and a look on your face like you’re trying to figure out if you made a terrible mistake.” He pushes off the wall and picks up your larger bag before you can protest. “Riki. I work out at Sunrise Ranch but I’m in town most days. Mr. Lee sent me to check if you’d arrived.”

You blink. “Someone was expecting me?”

“Mrs. Calloway at the boarding house would’ve had your room ready since Tuesday,” he says, already walking. “Small town. News travels.”

You pick up your smaller case and follow him. Mrs. Calloway. The name lands somewhere behind your sternum and sits there, inert. Just a name. A common enough name. You are done flinching at common names. “I’m Y/N,” you say.

“I know,” Riki says, not unkindly. “Everyone does.”

—

Main Street — the only street, really, though two dirt roads branch off it like afterthoughts — is quiet in the way that feels inhabited rather than empty. A woman sweeps her front step and nods at you. Two men outside the hardware store pause their conversation to watch you pass with open, unapologetic curiosity. A little girl with two braids chases a dog around the side of the church and neither of them pays you any attention at all, which you find oddly comforting.

The diner is called Park’s and it has a specials board in the window that reads Tuesday: Peach Pie in chalk letters, and through the glass you can see red vinyl booths and a long counter with spinning stools and a man behind it who catches your eye through the window and raises a coffee pot in greeting like he’s been expecting you too. “That’s Jay,” Riki says, following your gaze. “He’ll want to talk your ear off. I’d give yourself a day before you go in or you’ll never get unpacked.”

“Is everyone here this—” you search for the word.

“Friendly?” Riki offers.

“I was going to say informed.”

He considers this. “Yeah,” he says. “Both.”

The boarding house sits at the end of the main street where the road widens slightly, a two-storey white clapboard building with a porch and a wind chime and flower boxes in the windows. It is, you think, the most aggressively quaint thing you have ever seen in your life. You grew up in an apartment on the fourth floor of a building that smelled like other people’s cooking and city rain and you are trying very hard not to let your face say anything impolite about wind chimes.

Mrs. Della, the landlady — not a Calloway, you exhale quietly — is a broad warm woman in her sixties with silver hair and flour on her apron who opens the door before you knock and says “There she is” like you’re something she ordered and is pleased to find arrived undamaged. “Come in, come in, you must be half dead from that bus.” She takes your smaller case clean out of your hand. “Riki, you staying for supper?”

“Can’t,” he says, setting your larger bag inside the door. He looks at you briefly, something almost like reassurance in it. “You’ll be alright here,” he says, which is a strange thing to say and which you believe immediately, and then he’s back down the porch steps and heading up the road with his hands in his pockets.

“Good boy,” Mrs. Della says, watching him go. “Lee Heeseung took him in two years back, gives him work and a roof. That man would give you the shirt off his back.” She says it the way people say things that are simply true, established fact, no elaboration required, and ushers you inside before you can ask who Lee Heeseung is.

Your room is small and clean and has a window that looks out over the back garden and a field beyond it and then nothing but flat land and sky all the way to the horizon. The bed has a quilt on it in yellow and white. There is a writing desk and a lamp and a hook on the back of the door.

You sit on the edge of the bed and let the quiet settle around you. In Chicago there is always noise — traffic and neighbours and the radiator banging in winter and the el train every twelve minutes rattling the windows. You have slept to that noise your whole life. This quiet is a different texture entirely. Crickets, somewhere. Wind moving through something dry. The distant low sound of what might be cattle.

You think about the apartment you gave up. The life you gave up — or that was given up on — and the way the story circulated, the whispers at the school where you’d taught for three years, the way your mother had said maybe if you’d been less difficult, Y/N, as though your own broken engagement was a character flaw you’d displayed in public. You’d applied for twenty-seven jobs in towns you’d never heard of. Castillo Creek, Texas was the one that wrote back.

You lie back on the yellow quilt and look at the ceiling and think: New soil. See what grows.

In the morning Mrs. Della makes you eggs and biscuits and coffee so strong it makes your eyes water and tells you that the schoolhouse is two blocks north, that school starts Monday which gives you four days to settle, that the previous teacher Miss Hargrove retired to be closer to her sister in San Antonio and left her lesson plans in the desk drawer, and that if you need anything at all you are to ask and not to be proud about it. “We don’t stand on ceremony here,” she says, refilling your cup. “You’ll find people are plain. They say what they mean.”

“That’s refreshing,” you say, and mean it more than she knows.

“You’ll fit in fine,” she says, in the same tone Riki used last night, that same easy certainty, and you don’t know yet whether Castillo Creek is simply a town full of optimists or whether they can see something in you that you can’t currently see in yourself.

After breakfast you walk the street. Slowly, no destination, just learning the shape of the place. The hardware store is run by a man named Gus who shakes your hand and calls you ma’am and means it respectfully. The general store has everything from canned peaches to horse liniment arranged with cheerful illogic on its shelves. The church noticeboard has a harvest dance announced for the first week of October, hand-lettered on card. A tabby cat sleeps on the post office step and does not move when you step over it.

You end up at Park’s because you are not made of stone and the peach pie in the window has been watching you since yesterday. The bell above the door chimes when you push it open. The diner smells like coffee and something frying and woodsmoke and the particular warm smell of a place that has been feeding people for a long time. Three of the booths are occupied — two older men playing cards over the remains of breakfast, a young woman nursing a baby and reading a magazine, a teenager staring out the window like he’s being paid for it.

The man behind the counter looks up and grins like you’ve just won something. “There she is,” he says, which is apparently how everyone in this town greets you. He’s handsome in an easy, untroubled way — dark eyes, an apron over his shirt, the kind of smile that has probably never caused him a day’s trouble because it is entirely, disarmingly genuine. “Jay Park. Welcome to Castillo Creek, and more importantly, welcome to my diner. Sit anywhere. Coffee?”

“Please,” you say, sliding onto a counter stool. “Y/N.”

“I know.” He’s already pouring. “The whole town knows. Don’t let that spook you — it’s not menacing, we’re just starved for news.” He sets the cup in front of you. “You surviving Mrs. Della’s biscuits?”

“They’re extraordinary.”

“Don’t tell her I said this but mine are better.” He leans on the counter. “How are you finding it so far?”

“I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours.”

“First impressions.”

You wrap your hands around the coffee cup. Outside the window the main street sits quiet in the morning sun, dust turning gold where the light hits it, a man on horseback moving slow at the far end of the road, hat low against the glare. “It’s very quiet,” you say.

“City girl.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“The accent gives you away a little,” he says, not unkindly. “Chicago?”

“Born and raised.”

He nods like this explains something. “You’ll either love it here or you’ll be back on the bus in a month. There’s not usually an in-between.” He tilts his head, studying you with the frank, comfortable curiosity of a man who talks to everyone and has learned to read them quickly. “My money’s on love it.”

“Why?”

“You ordered coffee before you ordered pie,” he says. “Practical. And you’re still here instead of back at the boarding house wondering what you’ve done. Means you’re the kind of person who walks toward things.”

You look at him for a moment. “You do this with everyone?”

“Do what?”

“Make them feel like you’ve known them for years.”

Jay grins, unabashed. “Only the interesting ones.” He reaches under the counter and produces a plate with a slice of peach pie on it, sets it in front of you without asking. “On the house. Welcome to town.”

You eat the pie. It is, genuinely, one of the best things you’ve ever tasted, which you tell him, and he looks so pleased about it that you find yourself smiling for what feels like the first time in a long time — the real kind, not the composed kind you’ve been wearing since spring.

You are still there an hour later when the bell above the door chimes and a man walks in. You notice the hat first. Worn tan leather, shaped by years and weather, pushed back just enough to see his face.

Then the face — and it is, unfairly, a lot of face: dark eyes, jaw that belongs in a painting, and a smile that appears when he spots Jay like the sun deciding to come out from behind something. He is tall and lean in the way of men who work with their bodies, wearing a shirt with the sleeves rolled and boots with actual dust on them, and he moves through the diner like a man who is completely comfortable taking up space, not arrogantly, just — naturally. Like the room fits him.

Half the diner looks up when he walks in. You notice this and then notice that he doesn’t seem to notice it. “Heeseung,” Jay says. “You’re late.”

“Riki let one of the mares out this morning,” the man says, dropping onto the stool two down from you. “Had to get her back in before she ate the garden.” His voice has the particular warm drawl of a man who has lived in Texas his whole life, the vowels long and unhurried. He glances over — and for just a moment, before the smile arrives, you see him register you. A quick, frank, unguarded look. Then the smile.

It is, you think distantly, a remarkably good smile. “You must be the new schoolteacher,” he says.

“So I’ve been told,” you say.

He huffs a quiet laugh and extends a hand across the empty stool between you. “Lee Heeseung. I run Sunrise Ranch, out east of town.” A pause, then, easy as breathing: “Welcome to Castillo Creek, darlin’.”

The darlin’ lands warmly, casually, the way he probably says it to everyone. You shake his hand. His grip is firm and his palm is calloused and he lets go at exactly the right moment. “Y/N,” you say.

“Pretty name,” he says, and turns back to Jay to ask about the lunch special, and that is that.

You finish your pie. You say goodbye to Jay, who tells you to come back tomorrow, and nod to Heeseung, who tips his hat slightly without looking up from his coffee, and you push out into the dry Texas morning with the bell chiming behind you and the sky enormous overhead. You think: new soil.

You walk back toward the boarding house and do not think about the smile. (You try.)

—

The schoolhouse is a single rectangular building painted white, sitting back from the road behind a low wooden fence with a gate that sticks. There is a bell above the door on a rope, a covered porch with two steps, and six windows along each side that let in long rectangles of morning light. Inside: four rows of desks, a blackboard, a bookshelf with a sadly depleted top shelf, a globe with a crack running through the Pacific, a teacher’s desk at the front with a chair that wobbles on its left leg, and the lesson plans Miss Hargrove left in the drawer, written in such small precise handwriting that you have to hold them close to the lamp to read them.

You spend the weekend getting acquainted with it. You rearrange the desks slightly — four rows feels regimented for fourteen children ranging from five to eleven — into a looser configuration that won’t make the little ones feel like they’re waiting to be sentenced. You find chalk in the wrong drawer and a box of coloured pencils in the right one. You fix the gate with a piece of wire you find coiled on the porch. You read Miss Hargrove’s lesson plans and her notes on each child, written in the margins in that same small hand: Clara D. — very bright, reads above her level. Tommy H. — struggles with numbers but never says so. Eli L. — clever, restless, tests limits. Handle firmly but don’t let him know you’re doing it.

You read that last one twice. Eli L.

You’d heard the name once already, briefly, the way you hear a lot of names in a town like this — someone mentioning someone else in passing, the social web of a small place where everyone is connected to everyone by approximately two degrees. Riki worked at Sunrise Ranch. Sunrise Ranch belonged to Lee Heeseung. Lee Heeseung had a son. Clever, restless, tests limits.

You put the lesson plans back in the drawer, look at the rearranged desks.

Monday morning arrives with the particular clarity of a sky that has not clouded in weeks. You are at the schoolhouse by seven-thirty. You write your name on the board — Miss Y/N — and you stand at the front and look at the empty desks and do something you haven’t let yourself do since you stepped off that bus: you feel, briefly and privately, afraid. Not of the children, not of the job — you have been a teacher for three years and you are good at it, this you know — but of the starting over. Of the standing in a room and introducing yourself to people who don’t know you yet and hoping that this time, in this place, what they learn about you is something you’ve chosen.

You take a breath. You put your composed face on. You go stand on the porch to watch them arrive.

They come in ones and twos, mostly walked by mothers who linger at the gate with polite curiosity to get a look at you, a few by fathers, one or two on their own who are clearly old enough to have decided they don’t need walking. The little ones are solemn and wide-eyed. The older ones are watchful. They file onto the porch and past you with varying degrees of shyness, and you smile at each of them and say good morning, and most of them say it back.

The boy who doesn’t say it back arrives at eight on the dot, alone. He is small for seven — wiry and dark-haired with his father’s eyes and a gap where one of his front teeth used to be — and he walks through the gate with his lunch pail swinging and his chin up with the specific energy of a child who has decided in advance that he is not going to be impressed. He stops at the foot of the porch steps and looks up at you.

You look down at him. “Good morning,” you say.

He considers you. His gaze is frank and assessing in a way that reminds you immediately, disconcertingly, of his father. “You talk funny,” he says.

Behind him, two of the other children go very still in that particular way children do when someone has said the thing everyone was thinking. “I do,” you agree pleasantly. “Good morning.”

He blinks — he was expecting something else, you can tell — and then, almost against his will: “Morning.” He goes inside. You allow yourself precisely one second of satisfaction and then follow him in.

Their names, as you learn them through the morning: Clara, Tommy, Ruth, Beau, Ida, Jesse, Mae, Henry, Grace, Daniel, Lottie, Patrick, Susie, and Eli. Fourteen children, five to eleven, in one room with one teacher, which is simply the way of it in a town this size and which you knew going in and which presents itself as exactly the specific beautiful chaos you anticipated.

The little ones need different work from the older ones, the older ones need to be trusted enough not to resent the time you spend with the younger, and the whole arrangement requires a kind of orchestrated independence that takes most new teachers a month to establish.

You have it running by lunch. This is not arrogance. It is three years of practice and the lesson plans of Miss Hargrove, who clearly knew what she was doing, and the children themselves, who are — beneath the shyness and the staring — genuinely good. Clara reads to the two youngest while you work arithmetic with the middle group. Tommy, who struggles with numbers and has clearly been told by someone who loves him to hide it, relaxes visibly when you kneel beside his desk and show him the same problem three different ways without making it a thing. Grace, who is eleven and takes her seniority seriously, helps you hand out the coloured pencils for the afternoon drawing exercise with the gravity of someone performing a civic duty.

Eli sits in the second row and does exactly enough work to be technically compliant and spends the rest of the time studying you like you’re a puzzle he’s deciding whether to bother solving. He is not disruptive. He does not cause trouble, exactly. He just — watches. And occasionally says something, not quite under his breath, that makes the children near him stifle laughter, and when you look at him he is already looking at the ceiling or his pencil or the middle distance, expression perfectly innocent.

At half past two he raises his hand for the first time. You are, cautiously, relieved. “Yes, Eli?”

“How come you don’t say cahn’t like us?” he says. “You say can’t like it’s short.” The room goes quiet with interest.

“Because I grew up in Chicago,” you say. “People talk differently there.”

“Why?”

“That’s a good question. Different places develop different ways of speaking over time depending on who settled there and where they came from originally. It’s called a dialect.”

He turns this over. “So you’re not talking wrong, you’re just talking different.”

“That’s exactly right.”

He seems to file this away somewhere. He looks at his desk, then back up at you. “My dad says Chicago’s real big.”

“It is.”

“Did you like it?”

There is nothing loaded in the question — he is seven, he is simply curious — but the room is listening and you have a composed face for exactly this and you use it. “I did,” you say. “But I like it here too. Different things to like.” You hold his gaze for just a moment. “Good question, Eli.” He ducks his head in a way that might, if you’re reading it right, be pleased.

You let them out at three o’clock. They pour off the porch like water and scatter in every direction — some toward the main street, some down the side road, a few collected by waiting parents at the gate. You stand on the porch and watch them go with the pleasant exhausted satisfaction of a good first day, the kind where you know the shape of things now even if the details are still forming.

The last child through the gate is Eli, lunch pail swinging again, cap pushed back on his head. He pauses at the gate and turns back. “Miss?” he calls.

“Yes?”

He looks at you for a moment, that assessing look. Then: “You fixed the gate.”

“It was sticking,” you say. He nods, apparently satisfied with this. And then he’s gone, off down the road at a trot, and you lean against the porch post and look at the empty yard and the long afternoon light making everything gold and think that clever, restless, tests limits is right but that the note should have also said watching everything, deciding what to do with it.

Jay brings you pie. Not in the diner — he appears at the boarding house at half past five with a covered plate and the energy of a man who has been wanting to ask you about your day since approximately eight that morning. Mrs. Della lets him in with the equanimity of someone accustomed to Jay Park appearing with baked goods and sets an extra cup on the table. “Well?” he says, sitting down across from you with the plate between you, which you note he has not uncovered, clearly operating on the pie as leverage.

“Well,” you say.

“First day.” He tilts his head. “Good? Bad? You still here, which is promising.”

“Good,” you say honestly. “They’re good kids.”

“They are.” He uncovers the plate — cherry, this time. “Any trouble?”

You think of dark eyes and a gap-toothed grin and you talk funny. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

Jay smiles, something knowing in it. “Eli Lee give you a hard time?”

“He was perfectly behaved.”

“That’s almost worse, honestly.” He leans back in his chair. “He’s a good kid. He just — tests people. Wants to know if you’re going to stay.” He says it lightly but you hear something underneath it, something careful. “His last teacher, Miss Hargrove, he adored her by the end. Took him a month.”

“I’ve got time,” you say.

Jay looks at you the way he did that first morning at the counter, that frank easy assessment. “You know Heeseung came into the diner after you left Friday,” he says, with the absolute casualness of a man deploying information he has been sitting on for days.

You cut into the pie. “Did he.”

“Asked how you seemed. Whether you looked settled.” Jay’s expression is the picture of innocence. “Just being neighbourly.”

“That’s nice of him.”

“Mm.” Jay drinks his coffee. “He doesn’t usually ask.”

You eat your cherry pie and look at Jay Park over your fork and decide that you like him enormously and that he is also going to be an absolute menace and that these two things are entirely compatible. “Thank you for the pie,” you say.

Jay grins. “Anytime, darlin’.”

The word lands differently in his mouth — friendly, careless, the way you’d expect. The way it probably sounds from everyone. You eat your pie and don’t think about the way it sounded Friday morning on a counter stool two seats down from you, unhurried and warm, like the man saying it had all the time in the world.

Wednesday afternoon you are erasing the board after the children have gone when you hear the gate. You turn, chalk dust on your hands, and Heeseung Lee is coming through it.

He has his hat in his hand this time — held at his side, the gesture you will come to learn is his version of courtesy, the small deliberate thing he does when he’s on someone else’s ground. He is in his work clothes, boots dusty, shirt with the sleeves rolled like the first time you saw him, and he is looking at the schoolhouse with a particular quiet expression that you can’t read yet. “Mr. Lee,” you say from the porch.

He looks up. “Miss Y/N.” The smile comes easy and unhurried, the same one from the diner, and you are annoyed to find that it works just as well the second time. “Hope I’m not disturbing.”

“Not at all.” You dust the chalk from your hands on your apron. “Is something wrong?”

“No, ma’am.” He reaches the foot of the steps and stops there, which you note — he doesn’t come up onto the porch uninvited, just stands at the bottom with his hat in his hand. “Eli mentioned you fixed the gate.”

You blink. “It was sticking.”

“I know. I kept meaning to get to it.” He looks at the gate briefly and back at you. “Just wanted to thank you. And to say — he told me about the dialect conversation.”

“Oh?”

“He came home and used the word dialect four times at supper.” Something warm moves through his expression. “He hasn’t stopped asking questions about Chicago.”

You lean against the porch post. “He’s very bright.”

“I know,” Heeseung says, quietly, the way parents say things about their children when they’re proud and trying not to make a production of it. “He can be a handful.”

“He’s been fine,” you say, and mean it. “He’s testing me. I don’t mind being tested.”

Heeseung looks at you for a moment — that same brief, unguarded register you caught in the diner, there and then gone. “Miss Hargrove said the same thing about him.” A pause. “She was right, and so are you.” He puts his hat back on, settling it with the ease of long habit. “I won’t keep you. Just — thank you. For the gate and for the patience.”

“It’s my job,” you say.

“The gate wasn’t,” he says simply, and tips his hat, and walks back through it — and you notice, as he goes, that he lifts the handle the right way so it doesn’t stick on him. He knew how it worked. He just hadn’t gotten to it.

You stand on the porch for a moment after he’s gone, chalk dust still on your apron, the afternoon light going gold and long across the schoolyard. Alright, you think. But it’s a different alright than the one on the bus.

—

You learn the rhythms of Castillo Creek the way you learn anything new — by paying attention. Monday through Friday the main street wakes slowly, the diner first, Jay’s lights on before six and the smell of coffee reaching the boarding house if the wind is right. The general store opens at seven, the hardware store at eight. The church bell rings at nine for no reason anyone can explain except that it always has.

Afternoons are quiet in the way that heat makes things quiet, everyone retreating into shade, and then around four the street comes back to life — horses at the post, trucks pulling in, the sound of voices carrying in the dry air. Evenings on the boarding house porch: crickets, the occasional distant sound of music from the diner where Jay sometimes puts a record on after hours, the sky going colours you don’t have names for yet.

Weekends the ranch hands come into town. This is when you first understand that Sunrise Ranch is not a small operation. Saturday morning and there are three trucks parked outside the general store and Jay’s counter is full and the voices are different — louder, easier, the particular looseness of men at the end of a working week. You are becoming a recognisable figure on the main street now, two weeks in, and people nod or wave or say morning, Miss Y/N with the comfortable familiarity of a town that has decided you belong, or is at least willing to extend the provisional assumption.

Riki finds you at the general store on the second Saturday, reaching for a tin on a high shelf. “Here,” he says, getting it down for you without ceremony.

“Thank you.” You put it in your basket. “How’s the mare?”

He blinks, then remembers. “Back in her paddock. She does it once a month like clockwork.” He falls into step beside you toward the counter, hands in his pockets. “How’s Eli?”

“Getting there,” you say.

Riki’s mouth twitches. “He told me you knew what a dialect was.”

“He told his father the same thing four times at supper, apparently.”

“Five times,” Riki says. “I was there. Mr. Lee made him use it in a sentence correctly before he could have dessert.” Something soft moves through his expression — fond and private, the look of someone describing a home. “He does that. Makes it a game so Eli doesn’t know he’s being taught.”

You look at him. “You live at the ranch?”

“Have done for two years.” He picks up a paper bag of something from the counter and adds it to your basket without asking, then pays for it along with his own things before you can protest. “Mr. Lee offered me the room off the stable when I first got here. Said I could work it off.” A pause. “I haven’t worked it off yet. I don’t think he’s keeping count.”

You think of the gate. Of a man standing at the foot of porch steps with his hat in his hand, not coming up unless invited. “He seems like a good man,” you say, carefully.

Riki looks at you with the frank, uncomplicated assessment of a nineteen-year-old who has not yet learned to be oblique. “He’s the best man I know,” he says simply. And then the door opens and two of the other ranch hands come in and Riki’s face shifts back into something easier and the conversation moves on, but you carry that best man I know out of the store with you and into the bright Saturday morning and find that you believe it without quite knowing why.

The invitation comes through Eli. It is a Thursday, three weeks into term, and Eli has — incrementally, perceptibly, in the way of a child who makes decisions slowly and then commits to them entirely — decided that you are acceptable. This has manifested in: asking you approximately forty questions about Chicago over the course of various lunchtimes, showing you a drawing he did of his horse with the air of someone bestowing an honour, correcting Tommy’s arithmetic before you can get there and then looking at you to see if you’ll mind, and most recently appointing himself the unofficial distributor of coloured pencils, a role Grace has had to be diplomatically persuaded to share.

On Thursday he stays behind after the others have gone.

You are at your desk reviewing the week’s work when you become aware that he is still in his seat, lunch pail on the desk in front of him, regarding you with his father’s eyes and an expression of elaborate casualness. “Yes, Eli?” you say, without looking up.

A pause. “My dad says you should come see the ranch.”

You look up. He is studying his lunch pail. “He said if you wanted. He said don’t make it a thing.” He glances up at you briefly. “I’m supposed to say it like it’s my idea.”

You press your lips together very firmly. “Whose idea was it?”

Eli considers the ethics of this for a moment. “Both,” he decides. “I said you’d like the horses and he said he’d been meaning to ask.” He picks up his lunch pail. “Saturday morning. Riki said he’d make sure the good horses are out.”

You look at this seven-year-old boy with his gap-toothed earnestness and his father’s dark eyes and the absolute transparency of a child who is not yet old enough to be a convincing liar and feel something in your chest do something inconvenient. “Saturday morning,” you say.

Eli nods, satisfied, and slides off his chair. At the door he pauses. “Miss?”

“Yes?”

“Dad said wear boots if you have them.” A beat. “Do you have boots?”

“I’ll manage,” you say. He looks doubtful but lets it go.

You do not have boots.

Mrs. Della solves this problem on Friday evening by producing a pair from somewhere in the back of a wardrobe that fit you well enough and have clearly belonged to several people before you, worn in and comfortable in the way of things that have been used properly. She does not make a fuss about it. She sets them by your door and says “for your visit to the ranch” with the serenity of a woman who knew this was coming before you did, which you are beginning to understand is simply Mrs. Della’s relationship with information.

Saturday morning is cooler than usual, a thin cloud cover cutting the worst of the heat, and you walk the road east of town with Mrs. Della’s boots on your feet and the particular feeling of a person going somewhere they haven’t decided how to feel about yet.

Sunrise Ranch announces itself before you reach it. The land opens up, the scrub giving way to fenced pasture, horses moving slow in the morning light — four, five, you count seven in the near paddock — and then the gate with Sunrise in iron letters across the top, and beyond it a long low ranch house in weathered timber, a stable block, a water tower, a barn with its doors open, and the general cheerful disorder of a working property.

Eli appears from nowhere, running. “You came,” he says, like this was uncertain, and then immediately: “You have boots.” He looks at them. “They’re okay.”

“Thank you,” you say gravely.

“Come see Maple.” He is already walking, assuming you’ll follow, which you do. “Maple’s mine. Dad got her for me last year. She’s brown.” He says this last detail with enormous authority, as though colour is the primary criterion for horse quality.

“Is she,” you say.

“She’s the best one.” He pushes open the stable door. “Don’t tell Riki’s horse.”

The stable smells of hay and horses and something warm and animal that is not unpleasant, and the light comes through the high windows in long dusty bars, and Maple is indeed brown and does indeed regard you with the large patient eyes of a creature who has learned that humans are mostly harmless if you wait them out. Eli shows her off with the proprietorial pride of a small boy who has been trusted with something real, and you let him lead you through every detail — her feeding schedule, her preferred brushing side, the way she does something with her ears when she’s happy — and listen properly, because he is telling you something important about himself by telling you about the horse. “She’s beautiful,” you say, and mean it.

Eli glows. “Yeah,” he agrees. He strokes her nose. “Dad taught me to ride on her. Well — on her and Scout. Scout’s too big for me yet but I can get on him if someone helps.”

“Who’s Scout?”

“Mine,” says a voice behind you. You turn. Heeseung is in the stable doorway, hat on, a coffee cup in one hand, backlit by the morning in a way that is doing no one any favours. He looks at you with that easy unhurried expression and then at Eli. “You showing her around properly?”

“I was getting to the rest,” Eli says, with dignity.

“Sure you were.” Heeseung’s gaze moves back to you. “Morning. Glad you came.” He says it simply, no particular weight on it, and holds out the second coffee cup that you hadn’t noticed he was holding. “Mrs. Della said you take it black.”

You take the cup. “She told you that?”

“Jay told me. Mrs. Della told Jay.” He lifts a shoulder. “Small town.”

You drink the coffee. It is good — strong and dark and made by someone who takes it seriously. “Thank you.”

“Thank Eli,” he says. “It was mostly his idea.”

“He told me,” you say.

Heeseung looks at his son with an expression of fond resignation. “Did he.” Eli, sensing this conversation is edging toward accountability, has become very interested in Maple’s left ear.

He shows you the ranch himself, Eli orbiting ahead and behind like a satellite, Riki appearing occasionally from whatever task he’s been given and nodding at you with the quiet approval of someone whose opinion you hadn’t realised you were seeking.

Heeseung walks beside you with his coffee and talks about the land with the ease of a man who has known it his whole life — the pasture his father planted, the fence line he extended six years ago, the water table, the horses by name and temperament, the rhythm of the seasons out here where seasons are more about rain than temperature. He is not performing. That is the thing you notice, watching him from the corner of your eye as he points out the far ridge where the light hits different at sunset. He is simply telling you, the way people talk about things they love when they’re comfortable enough to let it show. “How long has your family been here?” you ask.

“Three generations,” he says. “My grandfather broke the land. My father ran it until—” a brief pause, easy enough that you’d miss it if you weren’t paying attention “—until I was ready to.” He looks out at the pasture. “I can’t imagine being anywhere else.”

“I used to think that about Chicago,” you say, before you mean to.

He glances at you. “What changed?”

The morning light is warm on the fence rail where you’ve stopped. The horses move slow in the paddock. Eli is attempting to convince Riki to let him ride something he’s probably not supposed to, and Riki is maintaining a very patient no. “Things do,” you say. “Change.”

It is not an answer and you both know it. But Heeseung doesn’t push — just nods once, slow, and looks back out at the pasture, and the silence that follows is the comfortable kind. The kind you don’t feel obligated to fill.

“Scout,” he says, after a moment. You follow his gaze. A large grey horse has appeared at the paddock fence — appeared is the right word, horses move quietly for their size, you’re learning — and is regarding you with the same patient assessment as Maple, though with more authority behind it.

“He’s enormous,” you say.

“He’s a gentleman,” Heeseung says. “Come here.” You follow him to the fence. Scout watches you approach with ears forward. Heeseung holds out his hand and the horse drops his nose into it with the ease of long familiarity, a small exhale of breath like a greeting. “Give him your hand,” Heeseung says. “Palm up.”

You do. Scout sniffs your palm, his breath warm and grass-scented, and then shifts his nose slightly to nudge at your wrist, which makes you laugh — actually laugh, surprised out of it, the unguarded kind. Heeseung is watching you when you look up. He looks away just a moment too late, back to Scout, and settles his hand on the horse’s neck. “He likes you,” he says.

“Or he wants something.”

“Same thing, with horses.” The corner of his mouth lifts. He rubs Scout’s neck once and steps back from the fence. “You ride?”

“No.”

“You want to?”

You look at Scout. Scout looks at you. He is very large and very calm and the morning is soft and there is coffee going warm in your hand and no one in this field knows anything about you except that you fixed a gate and knew the word dialect and took your coffee black. “Yes,” you say.

He doesn’t put you on Scout — that comes later, he says, and something in the later is easy and assuming in a way that you notice and don’t examine — but on a smaller bay mare named Honey who is, in Eli’s expert opinion, basically a chair, she’s so calm, which Heeseung overrules diplomatically.

He helps you up with one hand steadying the stirrup and one hand briefly at your waist — functional, impersonal, the practiced efficiency of someone who has helped people onto horses many times — and then steps back and talks you through it. Heels down. Hands soft. Don’t grip with your knees. Breathe.

You walk Honey around the paddock twice with Heeseung at her head and Eli on the fence calling encouragement that is mostly suggestions about how you’re holding the reins wrong. By the third pass Heeseung drops back and lets you go alone, and there is a specific feeling in that — in him deciding you’re ready, stepping back, watching from the fence with his arms resting on the top rail and his hat low — that you don’t have a name for but that sits somewhere behind your sternum and stays there. “You’re a natural,” he calls.

“She’s a chair,” you call back, and hear him laugh from across the paddock, a real one, the kind that alters the whole shape of his face.

Eli says “I said that” with great indignation.

You stay until noon. It isn’t planned. It is the accumulation of small things: Eli deciding you needed to see the barn cat’s new kittens, the kittens being an objectively compelling argument for staying, Riki appearing with a plate of something Mrs. Lee — Heeseung’s housekeeper, an iron-haired woman named Bea who has been with the ranch for twenty years — had left covered on the kitchen table. You all eat on the porch in the late morning sun, Eli wedged between you and Heeseung with a kitten in his lap that he has named Chicago with the satisfied look of someone cementing an inside joke.

It is — easy. Unreasonably easy for a woman who has spent two months being careful about everything.

Heeseung sits with his ankle crossed over his knee and doesn’t push any conversations and doesn’t fill silences that don’t need filling and listens when you talk in the particular way that makes you feel actually heard rather than waited out. Once, when Eli says something that makes you laugh, he catches it — the laugh — in that peripheral way, not staring, just noticing, and then looks deliberately at something else. You notice him noticing. You look at something else too.

He walks you back to the gate at noon. Eli has been redirected to afternoon chores with the selective enthusiasm of a child who has negotiated the terms. Riki raises a hand from the stable door. The horses stand easy in the afternoon quiet.

At the gate Heeseung stops and holds it open — it swings cleanly, well-oiled, this one — and tips his hat. “Thank you for coming,” he says. “Eli’s been talking about this since Thursday.”

“Only since Thursday?” you say.

He smiles. God, that smile. “Since Tuesday,” he admits. “I told him to wait.”

You step through the gate and turn. He’s on the other side of it, hat tipped forward, the morning light going warm gold over the ranch behind him. Scout visible in the paddock beyond, Maple beside him. “Thank you for the coffee,” you say. “And the riding lesson.”

“Anytime,” he says. And then, easy as breathing, the way he always does it, like it costs him nothing: “You’re welcome here, darlin’. Any time you want.”

You walk the road back to town with the borrowed boots and the feeling of a morning that opened up something you hadn’t known was closed. Behind you the gate swings shut, clean on its hinge. New soil, you think. See what grows.

—

October arrives like an exhale. The heat doesn’t break exactly — you’re learning it doesn’t really break here, not the way it does in Chicago where summer ends with a week of storms and then suddenly you need a coat — but it softens. The mornings are cooler now, the light coming in at a different angle, and the scrub on the edge of town goes colours you weren’t expecting: amber and rust and a dry pale gold that isn’t quite like anything you’ve seen before. Mrs. Della puts a second quilt on your bed. The church noticeboard updates the harvest dance announcement with a date: Saturday, October 12th. All welcome. Bring a dish.

You have been in Castillo Creek six weeks. You know, now, which floorboard in the schoolhouse creaks and how to avoid it during silent reading so you don’t startle the little ones. You know that Tommy is left-handed and was made to switch and that this is why his numbers come out backwards sometimes, and you have quietly, without making it a thing, begun letting him work with his left hand and watching his shoulders drop two inches with relief. You know that Clara will read anything you put in front of her and that the shelf of books in the schoolhouse is genuinely inadequate and that you have written to the county school board about this and received in response a letter of such elaborate non-commitment that you have started a separate fund from your own salary, small but growing. You know that Eli Lee will behave perfectly for four days and then on the fifth do something just left of the line — not malicious, never malicious, just testing — and that the correct response is to look at him steadily and say his name once, and he will subside, and on day six he will be angelic in a way that is clearly an apology.

You know that Jay’s cherry pie is better than his peach, that Riki takes his coffee with enough sugar to make your teeth hurt, that Bea at the ranch makes the best biscuits in Texas and would probably agree with you about this if you said so, that the tabby cat on the post office step is named Gerald and will accept exactly one ear scratch before moving to bite you. You know that Heeseung Lee tips his hat to every woman on the main street and that it means something different when he does it to you, and you have not examined this too closely because you are being careful and new soil takes time and you are not here to start anything. You are just noticing. That’s all.

Eli asks you about your family on a Tuesday. It is lunchtime, the other children spread across the yard in the October sun, and Eli has taken to eating his lunch on the porch steps near where you stand with your coffee. This started without announcement — one day he was in the yard, the next he was on the steps — and you have not remarked on it because remarking on it would make him self-conscious about having done something soft. “Do you miss Chicago?” he asks, through a mouthful of whatever Bea has packed him.

“Sometimes,” you say. It’s true. You miss the lake. The particular smell of the city in November. The diner near your old apartment that made pierogi on Thursdays.

“What do you miss?”

“The lake,” you say. “Lake Michigan. It’s enormous — like an inland sea. You can stand at the edge and not see the other side.”

Eli processes this. “We have the creek,” he offers.

“I know. I like the creek.”

He nods, satisfied that the comparison comes out even. Then: “Do you have family there?”

“My parents,” you say. “A brother.”

“Do they visit?”

You think of your mother’s voice on the telephone — the one call you’ve made since arriving, standing in the general store with the receiver pressed to your ear, your mother saying when are you coming home in the tone that meant you’ve made your point now. “Not yet,” you say.

Eli swings his feet against the step. “My grandma visits sometimes. Dad’s mom. She lives in Austin.” He picks at his lunch. “I don’t have a mom,” he says, with the casual directness of a child who has been saying this long enough that it no longer feels like a wound, just a fact. “She went away.”

Your chest does something careful and quiet. “I know,” you say, gently. “I’m sorry.”

“Dad says she got sick,” Eli says. “But I think—” he stops. Looks at the yard. Starts again: “I think that’s not the whole story. But he doesn’t want me to be sad so he says it that way.” He looks up at you with those dark perceptive eyes. “Do you think that’s bad? To say a not-whole story?”

You look at this seven-year-old boy who is so much older than seven in the specific ways that loss makes children old, and you think about not-whole stories and composed faces and she wanted a simpler life and how many versions of the truth are actually just the parts you can bear to carry in public.

“I think,” you say carefully, “that sometimes people tell not-whole stories because they’re trying to protect someone they love. And I think when you’re older you’ll understand the rest, and your dad will tell it to you when you’re ready.” You meet his eyes. “Does that make sense?”

Eli thinks about it seriously, which is the only way he thinks about things. “Yeah,” he says. Then: “You’re smart.”

“Thank you.”

“Dad thinks so too.” He says it with absolute offhand innocence and takes a large bite of his sandwich and looks at the yard, and you look at the middle distance and drink your coffee and say nothing at all.

The thing about a small town is that the architecture of people’s lives is visible in a way it never is in a city. In Chicago you could live next door to someone for three years and know nothing about them. Here the walls are thin by design — not maliciously, just the natural result of everyone’s business being conducted in the same four blocks, the same diner, the same church on Sundays, the same post office queue. You learn things about people without trying. You learn them through Jay, who is a font of town history delivered in the register of casual conversation, and through Mrs. Della, whose knowledge of Castillo Creek extends back forty years and who shares it in the same tone she uses to describe the weather — matter of fact, no particular drama.

This is how you learn that Heeseung Lee has been running the ranch alone since he was twenty-six. That his father died the year before Eli was born, and his mother moved to Austin to be near her sister, and Heeseung stayed because someone had to and because the land was in him the way some things get into people.

That Clara — his wife, Eli’s mother — left when Eli was two. Jay tells you this on a Wednesday evening when you’ve stayed past closing, helping him wipe down the counter because you were in the middle of a conversation and neither of you wanted to stop it, and he says it quietly, without the gossipy relish he sometimes deploys for lesser information. He says it like he’s trusting you with something.

“She wasn’t unhappy,” Jay says, wiping the same spot twice. “Or — she was, but not because of him. She was a person who needed more than this place could give her and she stayed too long trying to want what she had and then she left.” He sets down the cloth. “Eli was two. Heeseung — he didn’t fall apart. That’s the thing about him. He just. Kept going.” He looks at the counter. “He hasn’t let anyone close since. Not like that.”

You are quiet for a moment. “Why are you telling me this?”

Jay looks at you with his frank dark eyes and the expression of a man who has thought carefully about what he’s going to say. “Because you’re going to be around for a while,” he says. “And I think you should know who he is. The real shape of him.” A pause. “And because he asked about you again today.”

“Jay—”

“He asked if you seemed settled,” Jay says. “Same question as before. He asks it like it’s nothing.” He picks the cloth back up. “Heeseung doesn’t ask about people, is the thing. He notices them. He listens. But he doesn’t ask.” He looks at you. “He’s asking about you.”

You go home to the boarding house and sit at your writing desk for a long time without writing anything.

—

The week before the harvest dance, Eli presents you with a drawing.

This is not unprecedented — he has given you two previous drawings, one of Maple and one of what you eventually identified as the schoolhouse, rendered in the bold confident lines of a child who draws from feeling rather than observation. This one he places on your desk at the end of Friday with the elaborate casualness he deploys for things that matter to him.

You wait until the room is empty before you look at it. It is two figures. One small, one tall. The small one has a gap in its teeth rendered in careful pencil. The tall one has long hair and is wearing — you look closer — a dress with a collar, which is clearly you. They are standing in front of something you take a moment to identify as the paddock fence, and between them, taking up most of the page, is a horse. Brown. Maple, you think, though the horse has been given an expression of benevolent authority that transcends species.

At the bottom, in the large uneven letters of a child still mastering the relationship between thought and handwriting: MISS YN AND ELI. FRIENDS.

You sit with that for a long moment. Then you take a piece of tape and put it on the wall beside the blackboard, where you can see it from your desk, and you go home for the weekend with something warm sitting in your chest that you don’t try to name.

Saturday, the day before the harvest dance, you are in Jay’s diner mid-morning when Heeseung comes in. This is not unusual. He comes in most Saturday mornings, sometimes with Riki, sometimes alone, and you have in six weeks arrived at a kind of comfortable parallel presence with him — you are often there, he is often there, you talk easily when you talk and don’t force it when you don’t, and Jay watches the whole thing with the serene satisfaction of a man who has predicted an outcome and is waiting for everyone else to catch up.

Today he comes in alone and sits at the counter and orders coffee and then turns to you with his hat on the stool beside him and says: “You going to the dance tomorrow?”

“Mrs. Della seems to think I’m obligated,” you say.

The corner of his mouth. “She’s not wrong. First harvest dance as a Castillo Creek resident is non-negotiable.” He turns his coffee cup in his hands. “It’s good. They do it right.”

“Do you go every year?”

“Every year.” He pauses. “I usually take Eli for the first part. He passes out around nine and I bring him home and come back.”

“Who looks after him?”

“Bea stays late.” He glances at you sidelong. “She has opinions about the dance. Mostly that someone should be dancing and it might as well be me.”

You smile. “Sound advice.”

“Mm.” He is quiet for a moment in the comfortable way he does quiet. Then: “Would you want to — go over together? You and me and Eli. He’d like that.”

The way he says it: simple, direct, no particular performance of casualness but no weight on it either. Just an offer, made plainly. You look at him. He is looking at his coffee cup with the expression of a man who has said the thing and is now waiting without making it a big deal either way. “Yes,” you say. “I’d like that.”

He nods, once, and drinks his coffee, and Jay behind the counter turns to do something at the back shelf that absolutely does not require his attention, and the diner is warm and smells of coffee and something frying and outside the Texas October is going gold in the morning light.

That afternoon you go back to the boarding house and sit on the edge of the bed and look at the window.

Outside: the field, the flat land, the sky. You think about Richard. You do this less than you used to — the thinking about Richard — which is itself a kind of measurement of how much has shifted in six weeks. He is still there, the way a bruise is there: faded but present when you press on it, the particular combination of shame and anger that comes from having your own story told about you rather than by you. The thing he did was not dramatic. That is almost the worst of it. He simply — ended the engagement, and then explained it in a way that made people look at you, and you could not stay in a city where everyone was deciding what version of you to believe.

You think about what Jay said: He asks about you. You think about Eli’s drawing on the wall beside the blackboard. You think about a gate that swings clean on its hinge, and a man who knew how it worked all along.

You are being careful. You are allowed to be careful. A woman who has had her story taken from her is allowed to be careful about who she gives it back to. But you are also — and this is newer, tentative, growing in the way things grow in new soil when they finally get enough light — you are also here. Present, in this room, in this town, in this life that is beginning to feel less like a retreat and more like an arrival.

You look at the field and the sky until the light goes gold and then rose and then the soft dark blue of a Texas evening. Tomorrow there is a dance. Heeseung Lee is going to take you and his son and bring you home after, and this is a simple thing, a neighbourly thing, a Castillo Creek thing where everything means less than it would mean somewhere else.

Or it means exactly as much as it means, and you’re just going to have to find out.

Eli arrives at the boarding house at six o’clock exactly.

You hear him before you see him — the gate, then footsteps on the porch, then a knock that has clearly been practiced for being the right amount of grown-up. You come downstairs to find Mrs. Della already at the door with the expression of a woman who has been waiting for this moment since approximately Tuesday.

Eli is in a white shirt with the collar buttoned and his hair combed flat in a way that will not survive the evening. He is holding his hat in both hands the way his father holds his, you notice — at his side, turned slightly. He looks up at you and his face does something he can’t quite control, a brightness that he immediately tamps down into dignity. “Dad’s outside,” he says.

“You look very smart,” you tell him.

He stands slightly taller. “Bea made me tuck in,” he says, in the tone of a man who has suffered and endured. Behind you Mrs. Della makes a sound that is definitely not a laugh.

You have worn the blue dress. You own three dresses suitable for an evening out and the blue one has a collar and buttons down the front and a skirt that moves when you walk and it is the one that makes you feel most like yourself, which is the only criterion that matters tonight. You have your hair down, which you don’t do at school, and Mrs. Della’s good earrings which she pressed on you with the firmness of a woman who will not be argued with about earrings.

You step out onto the porch. Heeseung is at the foot of the steps. He is in a dark shirt, clean boots, his hat. He looks up when you come out and there is a moment — brief, unguarded — where his expression does something he doesn’t quite catch before the easy steadiness comes back. His eyes move over you once, quickly, and then he looks at Eli.

“Hat,” he says. Eli puts his hat on. “Good.” Heeseung looks back at you, and the corner of his mouth lifts. “Miss Y/N,” he says. “You look real nice.”

“Thank you,” you say. “So do you.”

He makes a small sound, not quite dismissive, like a man who doesn’t know what to do with a compliment offered plainly and has decided not to examine it. He offers his arm — an old-fashioned gesture, natural on him — and you take it, and Eli immediately takes your other hand with the confidence of someone who has decided this is simply how the arrangement works, and the three of you walk down the road toward the lights and the music already drifting from the community hall at the end of the street.

The harvest dance is, as advertised, done right. The community hall is a low timber building you’ve walked past without knowing what it was, and tonight it is strung with lanterns and smells of sawdust and food and the particular excitement of a town that doesn’t get many occasions. Tables along the walls hold enough food to feed Castillo Creek twice over — Mrs. Della has contributed a peach cobbler, which you carried over earlier, and it is already half gone. A four-piece band is set up at the far end: fiddle, guitar, upright bass, a woman on piano who plays with her whole body. The dancing has already started, couples moving on the cleared floor, children weaving between adult legs at the edges.

The town turns to look when you walk in. Not unpleasantly — it is the small-town version of a head-turn, curious and warm, the collective noting of Heeseung Lee with the new schoolteacher that you can feel passing through the room like a current. Several women note it with expressions ranging from warmly approving to something more carefully neutral, which tells you what Jay has already told you about the general feeling toward the man beside you.

Heeseung appears to notice none of it. He steers you toward Jay, who is leaning against the far wall with a plate of food and the expression of a man who has been looking forward to tonight for reasons that are entirely about watching other people. “Well,” Jay says, looking between you with magnificent restraint, “don’t you both clean up nice.”

“Food’s good,” Heeseung says, ignoring this.

“I made the cornbread.”

“I know. I already had some.” He looks at Eli, who has been scanning the room with the efficient tactical assessment of a child locating friends. “Stay where I can see you.”

Eli is already gone. Heeseung watches him go with the particular expression of a parent who knows better than to fight it and has positioned himself where he can see the whole room.

The evening unfolds the way good evenings do: without agenda, in the accumulation of small moments. You eat. Jay introduces you to people you haven’t met, which turns out to be fewer than you expected — you know more of Castillo Creek than you realised, the six weeks of main street mornings and school gate conversations having done their quiet work. Mr. and Mrs. Holt from the farm to the north, who have a daughter in your class — Ruth, the one who does everything left-handed and ambidextrously, a fact you have been admiring for weeks. Old Pete from the hardware store, who shakes your hand and says “you fixed the school gate” with the respect of a man who rates practical competence above most other virtues. The minister’s wife, who is warm and enormous and has clearly decided you are good people and broadcasts this to the room through sheer force of conviction.

Heeseung stays near you without being beside you constantly — he moves through the room the way you’ve noticed he does, at ease everywhere, known to everyone, the smile given genuinely and the name remembered for everyone he talks to. Women approach him with the practised ease of long familiarity and he is warm and kind to all of them and doesn’t linger with any of them and drifts back in your direction after each one with the reliability of water finding level. Jay watches this and eats his cornbread and says nothing, which from Jay is extremely loud.

Eli reappears at intervals to report on things of importance: that Tommy has had four pieces of pie, that someone’s dog has got in and is under the far table, that the fiddle player has a hole in his boot which Eli finds compelling for reasons he can’t fully articulate. Each time he appears he is slightly more dishevelled — the collar loosened by degree, the hair no longer remotely flat, a smear of something on his cuff that you choose not to investigate.

The ninth time he appears he is pulling someone by the hand. “Miss Y/N,” he says, with great ceremony, “this is my friend Cody. Cody, this is my teacher. She’s from Chicago and she knows what a dialect is.”

Cody, who is approximately Eli’s age and has the look of a child who has eaten too much pie, nods with solemnity. “What’s a dialect?” he asks you. You explain it, briefly, and both boys listen with their heads slightly tilted, and Heeseung beside you makes a sound very low in his chest that is a laugh he has decided not to have.

The boys disappear again. You look up at Heeseung. He is already looking somewhere else, but his mouth is still doing the almost-laugh. “He’s been telling people that for weeks,” he says. “The dialect thing.”

“I know,” you say. “Grace told me he explained it to the minister’s wife.” The laugh escapes this time, quiet and genuine, and the shape it makes of his face is something you file away without meaning to.

The band shifts tempo around eight. The faster songs have been running for most of the evening — the kind of music that makes your feet move without asking — and now the fiddle drops into something slower, longer, the bass underneath it steady and low. Couples move differently on the floor. The children at the edges drift toward the food tables.

You are by the lantern at the far wall when Heeseung appears beside you. “Dance with me,” he says.

Not would you like to or may I have this — just dance with me, quiet and direct, the way he says most things, like an offer that trusts you to say no if you want to. You look at him. The lantern light is warm on his face, the hat casting a slight shadow, and he is watching you with the patient steadiness that is simply how he is — unhurried, undemanding, there. “Alright,” you say.

He takes your hand and leads you to the floor and puts his other hand at your waist, and you are aware of the warm weight of it through the blue dress, and you put your hand on his shoulder and you dance.

He is good at it. Not showy — he doesn’t have the look of a man who thinks about whether he’s good at things — but easy and sure, the same way he moves through everything. He leads without being heavy about it, and after the first few measures you stop thinking and just follow, and the music goes slow and the lanterns are warm and the whole room is soft at the edges. “You’re surprised I can dance,” he says.

“A little,” you admit.

“My mother’s doing.” Something fond in it. “She said a man who can’t dance is a man who doesn’t know how to listen.” He tilts his head slightly. “She’s right about most things.”

“She sounds formidable.”

“She’d like you.” He says it simply, without apparent awareness of what it implies, and you think: he means it exactly as plainly as he said it, which is somehow more significant than if he’d been trying.

You dance without talking for a while. The fiddle goes somewhere low and sweet. Around you other couples turn slowly, and across the room you can see Jay watching with the expression of a man witnessing the inevitable and finding it satisfying. “Can I ask you something?” Heeseung says.

“Yes.”

“Why Castillo Creek?” He looks at you — not the look he uses on everyone, the warm social look, but something quieter and more direct, the look you’ve caught a few times when he doesn’t know you’re watching. “Of all the places.”

“It was the furthest,” you say. You’ve given this answer before, half-answer that it is, and you feel him register the incompleteness of it.

He doesn’t push. He nods once, slow. “Were you running from something?” he asks. Gently. No judgment in it, just the question, open-handed.

The music turns. You consider him — the steadiness of him, the patience, the careful way he holds you on the dance floor like something he doesn’t want to break but also doesn’t want to handle too gingerly. “Yes,” you say. First time you’ve said it plainly.

He absorbs this. “You don’t have to tell me what,” he says.

“I know.”

“But if you ever want to—” he stops. Starts again. “I’m not going anywhere.”

I’m not going anywhere. Said so simply, with no particular weight on it, just a fact, and yet it lands in you somewhere deep and quiet and stays there like something settling.

“Thank you,” you say. He nods. You dance.

Eli falls asleep in a chair at half past eight. Not gracefully — he is mid-sentence, apparently, Cody reports, about something to do with the dog, and then he simply isn’t anymore. He is curled in the chair with his hat over his face in a pose of complete unconscious dignity, and Heeseung looks at him for a moment with an expression that is purely and simply love, uncomplicated by anything else. “I’ll take him home,” he says.

“Of course.” You help him get the boy upright — Eli stirs briefly, says something about the dog, and goes back under — and Heeseung lifts him with the ease of long practice, the boy’s head dropping onto his shoulder.

“Come back,” Jay says, appearing from nowhere.

“Give me twenty minutes,” Heeseung says. He looks at you over Eli’s sleeping head. “Will you—” a pause, something careful in it. “Will you still be here?”

“Yes,” you say. He holds your gaze for a moment. Then he nods, and carries his son home through the warm October night, and you go back to Jay and the music and the lanterns and the feeling of a hand at your waist that you can still feel even though it’s gone.

“Well,” says Jay.

“Don’t,” you say. He puts his hands up, peaceable, and hands you a glass of lemonade. But he is smiling.

Heeseung is back in eighteen minutes. You are talking to Mrs. Holt when you see him come through the door, hat resettled, and he finds you in the room immediately — doesn’t scan for you, just finds you, the way you find a light when you walk into a dark room. He comes over and Mrs. Holt makes a gracious excuse and leaves, and he stands beside you and accepts the glass of lemonade you’ve been holding for him without either of you remarking on why you knew to have it.

The band starts something slow again. Heeseung looks at you. You look at him. “Again?” he says.

“Again,” you say.

This time when he puts his hand at your waist you don’t catalogue it, don’t file it, don’t hold it at a careful distance to examine later. You just — let it be what it is, warm and steady and real, his hand and your shoulder and the fiddle going slow and the lanterns burning low, and if the space between you is slightly less than it was the first time then neither of you mentions it.

You dance until the band stops for a break and then you get food and eat it on the hall steps in the cool October night and talk — easily, unhurriedly — about nothing much and everything, the ranch and the classroom and things you’ve read and things you’ve seen, the way a conversation goes when two people discover they have more to say to each other than they anticipated.

At some point you become aware that the music has started again inside and neither of you has moved to go back in. At some point after that you become aware that your shoulders are nearly touching on the step and neither of you has moved apart.

The night is clear, stars enormous in that Texas sky that has too much room in it, the music muffled through the wall, and Heeseung is talking about the ranch in winter and you are listening and also listening to the warm unhurried sound of his voice and the night is soft and something is very quietly happening, the way things happen in new soil: without announcement, without drama, just the steady irresistible work of growing.

He walks you home at eleven. The street is quiet, the dance still going distantly, the air cool and smelling of dust and something dry and sweet. He walks beside you with his hands in his pockets and you walk with your arms crossed against the chill and at the boarding house gate you stop. He is looking at you.

The porch light is on — Mrs. Della — and in it his face is all warm shadow and that particular steadiness, and you are aware that this is a moment, the kind that has a before and after, and that you are both standing in it. “I had a good night,” you say.

“Me too,” he says. Quiet. Sincere. A pause. The street is empty. The stars are doing what they do.

He reaches out — slowly, deliberately, giving you every opportunity — and tucks a strand of hair back from your face, his fingers barely grazing your cheek, and it is such a small thing, so careful, and it takes your breath in a way that no grand gesture ever has. He drops his hand. “Goodnight, darlin’,” he says. Soft. Just yours.

“Goodnight,” you say. He tips his hat and walks back down the street and you watch him go and then you go inside and you sit on the edge of your bed in the dark and you press your fingers to your cheek where his hand was.

Outside the stars are enormous. New soil, you think. Something’s growing.

—

Nothing is said. This is the thing about Heeseung Lee — he does not press. He does not arrive at the schoolhouse the next morning with declarations or at Jay’s diner with meaningful looks or at the boarding house gate with anything that requires you to respond to it formally. He simply — continues. Being present in the way he is always present, warm and steady and unhurried, and the only difference after the harvest dance is a slight calibration in the frequency with which he finds reasons to be near you, and the way the darlin’ sounds when it’s only the two of you, lower and more deliberate, like a word that has been renegotiated.

You continue also. Teaching, reading, eating Jay’s pie, watching the season turn. But you are aware of him now in a way that has moved past noticing into something more like — waiting. Not anxiously. Just the particular heightened attention of a person who has begun to understand that something is being built, slowly, with care, and who has decided to trust the pace of it.

Eli notices. Of course Eli notices. He is seven and perceptive and he has his father’s eyes. He doesn’t say anything directly — he is too clever for direct — but the quality of his watching changes. He begins positioning himself as a reason for the two of you to be in the same place. Dad, can Miss Y/N come see the new foal. Miss, Dad says you should have Bea’s recipe for the cornbread. The transparent architecture of a child conducting an operation he believes to be covert, and which you and Heeseung have both silently agreed to treat as such because he is seven and it is working and no one is going to be the one to make him stop.

The new foal is three weeks old when Eli invites you to see it, and it has not yet decided what its legs are for. Eli brings you to the ranch on the second Saturday of October — I asked Dad and he said yes and also that it was fine if you were busy but you’re not busy, right? — and the foal is in the small paddock nearest the stable, bewilderingly long-limbed, a dark bay that will probably lighten as she grows. She looks at you when you approach the fence with the expression of a creature that has been in the world twenty-one days and has not yet accumulated the patience to find humans interesting. “She doesn’t have a name yet,” Eli says. “Dad said I could name her.”

“What are you thinking?”

He has clearly been thinking about it for days and has not decided, which is unusual for him — he is not generally a boy who holds back opinions. He leans on the fence rail and watches the foal with unusual gravity. “It has to be right,” he says.

“It does,” you agree. Heeseung is on the other side of Eli, his arms resting on the fence, watching the foal with the particular quiet warmth he reserves for the ranch and for his son. He glances over Eli’s head at you and something passes between you — amusement, tenderness, the shared appreciation of a child being serious about something — and it is so easy, so natural, that for a moment you don’t know what to do with how easy it is.

“What about Chicago?” Eli says. Casually. You look at him. He is studying the foal. “The horse you name,” Heeseung adds. “The barn cat?”

“The barn cat’s name is Chicago,” you tell Heeseung.

“I know,” he says. He is looking at the foal. His mouth is doing the thing. “He named it the day you came to the ranch.”

Eli has achieved maximum innocence, his face a study in disinterest.

“I think Chicago is a good name,” you say. The foal, as if in response, takes three uncertain steps and sits down abruptly.

Eli looks at his father. His father looks at you. You look at the foal, sitting in the dirt with its legs at improbable angles and its ears pricked forward as if this was entirely the plan. You all three start laughing at the same moment.

Riki makes coffee. This has become a thing — the coffee on the porch, the late morning sun, the ranch quiet around you. You have been to Sunrise Ranch four times now and each time it has arranged itself into the same comfortable shape: Eli showing you something, Heeseung nearby, Riki appearing and disappearing like a benevolent ghost, Bea’s food involved at some point, the afternoon light eventually demanding that you walk back to town.

Today Riki sits on the porch steps with his cup and looks out at the paddock where Chicago the foal is attempting, again, to organise her legs. “She’s going to be good,” he says, about the foal. “Look at the shoulder on her.”

“You know horses?” you ask.

“Mr. Lee taught me.” He says it simply, the way he says most things about Heeseung, with that uncomplicated weight of someone describing a fact that is also a debt he’s decided he’s glad to owe. “When I first came here I didn’t know anything about any of this. I just needed work.” He drinks his coffee. “He didn’t ask a lot of questions. He said: here’s the work, here’s the room, the rest we’ll figure out. And then he just — showed me things. Every day. How to work the land, how to read a horse, how to fix what breaks.” A pause. “He does that. Shows rather than tells.”

You think of the riding lesson. Heels down. Hands soft. Don’t grip. Breathe. And then stepping back and watching from the fence to see what you’d do on your own. “Yes,” you say. “He does.”

Riki glances at you with his dark eyes and the particular directness of someone who is not quite nineteen yet and hasn’t learned to be oblique about what he observes. “He’s happy,” he says. “More than usual. I thought you should know.”

You look at your coffee cup. The morning is warm and still.

“Thank you, Riki,” you say. He nods and goes back to watching the foal, and the matter is settled, and you sit on the porch of Sunrise Ranch in the October sun and feel the particular quiet terror of something you want very much beginning to feel possible.

—

The almost-kiss happens on a Wednesday. It is not planned. It is not even exactly an almost-kiss, which is perhaps the most honest thing about it — it is more a moment in which a kiss becomes a possibility that both of you become aware of simultaneously, and the awareness itself is so charged that it amounts to nearly the same thing.

You have stayed late at the schoolhouse marking reading assessments, the kind of work that requires the particular quiet of an empty room, and you are still there at five when you hear the gate and look up to see Heeseung coming through it with something in his hand. He stops at the foot of the steps. “Bea sent this.” He holds up a cloth-wrapped parcel. “She made too much.”

Bea, you have come to understand, always makes too much. This is not accidental. “Tell her thank you,” you say.

“You tell her. She likes you more than she likes me.” He comes up the steps — this is newer, the coming up the steps, the crossing of the porch — and you open the door and he follows you inside because the light is going and neither of you suggests he leave.

He sets the parcel on your desk and looks at the wall beside the blackboard. Eli’s drawing. He looks at it for a long moment without saying anything. “He gave it to me on a Friday,” you say. “I put it up that evening.”

Heeseung is quiet. In the low afternoon light his profile is — you don’t look directly. You tidy the papers on your desk. But you are aware of him in the specific physical way you have been aware of him since the harvest dance, a warmth that doesn’t require proximity to function, that exists simply because he is in the room. “He doesn’t give drawings to people,” Heeseung says, finally.

“I know.”

“He gave one to Jay once.” A pause. “Jay cried.”

“Did he?” You let out an amused breath.

“He’ll tell you he didn’t.” He turns from the wall and the small distance of the schoolroom is between you, both of you standing in the last of the afternoon light through the windows, the assessment papers on the desk and Bea’s parcel beside them and the drawing on the wall. “You’ve been good for him,” he says. “For Eli.”

“He’s been good for me,” you say. Heeseung looks at you. The directness of it, steady and warm and something beneath it that is no longer entirely hidden from you — something careful and wanting and very, very controlled.

He takes a step. Just one. The room is small and one step is a significant renegotiation of the space between you, and you are aware of your own stillness, the way you are not moving away, the way you are — you realise — leaning, fractionally, toward him.

His hand comes up. The same gesture as the gate night — slow, deliberate, no ambiguity about the intention — and his fingers brush your jaw, not your cheek this time but your jaw, tilting your face up very slightly. He looks at you. You look at him. The moment is right there, the exact shape of it, and you can feel his breath and the warmth of his hand and the whole quiet room holding itself still— the gate.

You both hear it. A second later: footsteps on the porch, and Eli’s voice, Dad? Riki said you came here, and the door opens.

Heeseung’s hand drops. He steps back — not hastily, not guilty, just back — and turns toward the door as Eli comes through it with his schoolbag still on his shoulder from wherever he’s been, looking between the two of you with eyes that miss nothing.

“Bea sent food,” Heeseung says.

Eli looks at the parcel. Looks at you. Looks at his father. He is seven years old and he has the perceptive assessment of someone three times that age and you watch him put something together behind his eyes and decide, with great and deliberate charity, not to say it. “Okay,” he says. He drops his bag. “Can I have some?”

—

November comes in quietly. The cold arrives properly now, the mornings sharp, the light later. You have a proper coat from the general store — Castillo Creek wool, practically indestructible, Mrs. Della’s recommendation — and your own boots now, bought from the hardware store with the heel worn to fit your foot. You are, you realise one morning walking to the schoolhouse in the frost, no longer performing belonging. You just — belong. In the small ordinary way of someone who knows which floorboards creak and which gate sticks and which order to say good morning to the main street in. This is a thing you didn’t know you needed until you had it.

The children change too — they are yours now, fully, in the way a class becomes yours when they’ve stopped watching you to see if you’ll stay and started simply assuming you will. Tommy does his arithmetic left-handed and his numbers come out clean. Clara has read everything on the bookshelf and you’ve started lending her your own. The new books arrived last week from the county — three boxes, more than you expected, apparently the board received two letters — and the morning you unpacked them Eli said did you write two letters? and you said the second one was more strongly worded and he looked at you with pure satisfaction and said good.

Grace organises the shelf. Eli helps whether or not he’s asked. The little ones treat the new books with the reverence of sacred objects, which is the correct response.

The second time it almost happens is on your porch. Heeseung walks you home from the diner on a Friday — you’ve fallen into this, the Friday evenings at Jay’s that end with him walking you the two blocks home — and at the gate he stops, as he always does, and you turn, as you always do.

But tonight is different. Maybe it’s the cold, the way it makes the air sharp and close. Maybe it’s the week that’s been — Eli had a difficult day on Tuesday, something about a boy from another farm saying something about his mother, and he’d been quiet for three days until this evening when he’d appeared at Jay’s with Heeseung and been loud enough to make up for it, and you’d watched Heeseung watch his son come back to himself and felt something in your chest pull tight with feeling.

Maybe it’s just that you’re tired of the careful distance and your body is making decisions your head hasn’t approved.

You are at the gate and he is looking at you and the cold is making your breath visible between you and you say, before you’ve decided to: “You could come in.” He goes still. “For coffee,” you say. “Mrs. Della makes it before bed. She won’t mind.”

He looks at you for a long moment. The street is empty and dark and cold and the porch light is on and he is — you watch him weigh something, watch the careful consideration of a man who has learned the cost of moving without thinking, and you wait, and you don’t take it back.

“Not tonight,” he says. Quietly. Not as a rejection — the quality of it is entirely different from rejection, warm and regretful and something else, something that sounds almost like not yet. His eyes hold yours. “But—” he stops.

“But?” you say.

His hand finds yours, briefly, in the cold — not holding, just his fingers over yours for a moment, warm against the chill, a contact so small it might be nothing and is absolutely not nothing. “Soon,” he says.

You look at your hands. His fingers over yours. “Okay,” you say.

He squeezes once and lets go and steps back. Tips his hat. “Goodnight, darlin’.”

“Goodnight.” You go inside. You stand in the hallway for a moment with your hand held against your chest. Soon, you think.

Outside, his footsteps on the road, going home.

Tuesday in the third week of November, after school, after everyone has gone, the room is empty and the light low and you are at your desk and Heeseung has come — ostensibly to fix the wobbling chair leg, he appeared with a tool and a particular determined expression — and has fixed it and straightened up and you are still at the desk and the room is quiet and the space between you is approximately nothing.

He looks at you. You look at him. You say: “Heeseung.” Just his name. No question in it, no instruction, just the sound of it in the empty room, and something in him — the careful controlled something — gives way.

He crosses the room and his hands find your face and he kisses you.

Gently. Almost unbearably gently for a man who has been waiting this long — his mouth soft on yours, one hand curved around your jaw and one in your hair, the kiss slow and thorough and so tender that you feel it behind your eyes. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world and intends to use it, like he’s been thinking about exactly this and is in no hurry now that he’s here.

You make a sound, quiet and involuntary, and his hands tighten slightly in your hair — controlled, so controlled — and then he pulls back just enough to look at you, your face between his hands, his forehead almost touching yours. “Been wanting to do that,” he says, low, “since the diner.”

“The first morning?” you say. Your voice is not entirely steady.

“The first morning,” he confirms.

You pull him back down. This kiss is different — less tender, more certain, the both of you having established the territory now and moving through it with more confidence. His hands stay in your hair and at your jaw and you have one hand in his shirt and one on his arm and the chair leg is fixed and the school room is empty and the afternoon is going dark outside the windows.

Eventually — reluctantly — you separate. He rests his forehead against yours. His breathing is not entirely steady either, which you find deeply satisfying. His thumb moves along your jaw, once. “Eli’s at the ranch,” he says.

“I know.”

“Riki’s with him.”

“I know.” He pulls back enough to look at you properly. The expression on his face is something you haven’t seen before — open, unguarded, the steadiness still there but with something warmer beneath it, something that has stopped being controlled.

You look at him. This man who fixes things slowly and holds gates open and walks beside you without filling every silence and has been waiting, you realise, as carefully as you have — the both of you circling something real at a respectful distance because you both know the cost of getting it wrong. “Not here,” you say. “Not yet.”

He nods immediately, no argument, no pressure. “No.” He straightens. His hand drops from your jaw to your shoulder, rests there for a moment. “Soon.”

“Soon,” you agree.

He kisses you once more — brief, deliberate, a punctuation — and steps back and picks up his tool from the floor. At the door he pauses with his hand on the frame. “Fixed the chair,” he says.

“Thank you,” you say.

The corner of his mouth. He puts his hat on. He goes. You sit in the fixed chair in the empty schoolroom with your fingers at your lips and the particular feeling of someone standing at the very edge of something they’ve been walking toward for a long time.

Outside: Castillo Creek, going dark, going cold, going quiet. Inside: something beginning.

—

You don’t see him come in — you’re at the schoolhouse, mid-morning, working fractions with the older children while the little ones do their letters — but the town sees him, which amounts to the same thing. A black car, which is the first thing, because nobody in Castillo Creek drives a black car, everyone drives trucks with dust on them, and a black car with city plates sitting outside the boarding house is the kind of thing that travels the length of the main street in approximately four minutes.

Jay tells you at lunch. He appears at the schoolhouse gate during the midday break with his hands in his apron pockets and the expression of a man who has information he doesn’t want to deliver but will, because not delivering it would be worse. “Someone checked into Mrs. Della’s this morning,” he says.

You are eating a sandwich on the porch steps. “Who?”

“Man from Chicago.” He watches your face. “Name of Calloway.”

The sandwich stops being something you’re interested in. Jay sees it — the thing that happens to your face, the quick controlled shutting-down of it, the composed face coming up like a shutter. He sees it and his expression does something careful and angry on your behalf. “Richard,” you say. Not a question.

“Mrs. Della said he asked for you by name.” Jay’s voice is even, but only just. “Said he was an old friend.”

You set the sandwich down on the step beside you. In the yard the children are playing — Eli is attempting to teach Cody something that involves a great deal of running, unclear objective, self-invented rules — and the sound of them is bright and ordinary and very far away from the thing that is happening in your chest. “How long is he staying?” you say.

“Didn’t say.” Jay pauses. “You don’t have to see him. I mean it. You don’t have to do a single thing.”

“I know, Jay.” You look at the yard. Eli has apparently won whatever the game was and is explaining this to Cody with both hands. “Thank you for telling me.”

Jay looks at you for a long moment with the expression of a man who wants to say more and knows you well enough to know not to. “I’ll be at the diner,” he says. “All night if you need.” He goes. You sit on the steps and watch the children play and breathe.

You see Richard in town at four o’clock. You don’t plan it — or rather you plan to not plan it, to go home the back way and avoid the main street, but you have never been a person who runs from things indefinitely, which is different from a person who retreats to regroup, which is what Castillo Creek was supposed to be, and the distinction matters to you.

So you walk the main street at four. He is outside the general store. Six months since you’ve seen him and he looks exactly the same, which is the particular cruelty of certain kinds of men — Richard Calloway at thirty has the same easy handsomeness he had at twenty-five, the good jaw and the good clothes and the way of standing that broadcasts money without appearing to try. He is talking to Mr. Gus from the hardware store with the particular charm he deploys on strangers, warm and attentive, and Mr. Gus, who is a perfectly reasonable man, appears to be finding him perfectly reasonable.

Richard sees you at the same moment you see him. “Y/N,” he says. He says it the way he’s always said your name — with a kind of ownership, like the name is his to use, like he coined it. Six months ago that sound did something to you. Now it does something different: a cold clarity, like being fully awake.

“Richard,” you say. Mr. Gus, sensing something, makes a gracious excuse and goes inside.

Richard crosses the distance between you with that easy unhurried gait. He is looking at you the way he always looked at you — the assessing look, cataloguing, deciding what he’s working with. He looks at your coat, your boots, the dust on them. “You look well,” he says.

“What are you doing here?”

No preamble. His expression flickers — he expected something else, you can tell, some version of the composed uncertainty he knew how to work with — and then recalibrates. “I wanted to see you.” He tilts his head. “I’ve been worried. Your mother has been worried.”

“My mother knows where I am.”

“She knows where you are.” He glances around — the main street, the hardware store, the distant sound of the diner — with an expression that is almost too carefully neutral. “She’s less certain about why.”

“I am,” you say. “Certain about why.”

Something moves through his expression. Not hurt — Richard doesn’t do hurt, exactly, he does the performance of it — but something more like recalculation. He has come here with a script and you are not following it and he is deciding which page to go to next. “Can we talk?” he says. “Properly. Not — here.”

“Not today,” you say.

“Y/N—”

“I need to get home,” you say. “I have work to do.” You walk past him. You feel his gaze on your back the whole length of the street and you keep your spine straight and your pace even and you do not look back, and you turn the corner to the boarding house and you stand in the hallway for thirty seconds with your hand flat against the wall.

Then you go upstairs and sit at your desk and write lesson plans for the following week with the particular furious focus of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing and exactly why.

He stays.

This is what you didn’t account for — or what you knew, somewhere, and didn’t want to know: that Richard Calloway does not come somewhere and leave without getting what he came for, because Richard Calloway has not, in thirty years of life, not gotten a thing he came for. He is patient in the manner of a man who has never had to be truly patient, which is a different thing from Heeseung’s patience — Heeseung’s patience is the patience of someone who understands that good things take the time they take. Richard’s patience is the patience of someone who is simply waiting for the situation to arrange itself correctly.

He is in the diner on Friday morning when you come in. He has clearly been there a while — Jay’s expression when you walk in tells you everything, the tight professional smile of a man maintaining composure in his own establishment — and Richard stands when he sees you with the automatic courtesy of old money and gestures at the booth across from him like you’ve just arrived somewhere he owns.

You sit at the counter instead. Jay puts coffee in front of you without being asked and goes to the back. Richard slides onto the stool beside you. “Your friend doesn’t like me,” he says pleasantly.

“Jay doesn’t know you,” you say. “He’s good at people.”

A flicker. “I see you haven’t lost your—” he pauses, finds the word “—sharpness.”

“I’ve been busy,” you say. “Teaching.”

“Yes.” He turns his cup in his hands. This is a gesture you know — he does it when he’s choosing his approach, the hand movement while he thinks. “You’re a good teacher, Y/N. You were always good at it. You could be doing it in Chicago. Somewhere with—” he doesn’t finish it but you hear it: resources, standing, people like us.

“I like it here,” you say.

“You’ve been here two months.”

“Ten weeks.”

“Ten weeks,” he says. “In a town with four hundred people.” He looks at you sidelong. “Is this really what you want? Or is it just — the furthest you could get?”

The question lands because he knows you well enough to know it might. You drink your coffee.

“Both,” you say. “And then it became what I wanted.”

He is quiet for a moment. Then, lower, the charm dialed back, something more direct underneath: “I made a mistake.” You look at him. “The way I handled things,” he says. “The way I — let people talk.” He meets your eyes. “I should have been clearer. About what happened.”

“What did happen, Richard?” you say. “Tell me your version.”

Something careful moves through his face. “We weren’t right for each other. I should have said that, instead of—”

“Instead of implying that I was unstable,” you say pleasantly. “Instead of telling your mother that I had become erratic, which she told her friends, which—” you stop. The composed face. “You know what was said. You know what it cost me.”

“That’s why I’m here,” he says. “I want to make it right.”

“By coming here,” you say. “To this town with four hundred people where I have managed, without your help, to make a life.”

He looks at you. His jaw is set slightly. “Come home,” he says. “That’s all I’m asking. Come home and we can—”

“No,” you say. Quietly. No drama. Just no, the way you should have been saying it for the two years you spent trying to become something that would satisfy him.

You finish your coffee. You put the money on the counter. You stand. “I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit,” you say. “The peach pie is very good.” You walk out. Behind you the bell chimes.

You don’t tell Heeseung. This is the thing you’ll come back to later — not telling him. It’s not deception, exactly, or you tell yourself it isn’t. It is the particular guarded instinct of a woman who has had her story taken from her once and is not ready yet to hand it to someone else to hold, even someone she trusts, even someone whose hands are the careful kind.

But Castillo Creek is four hundred people and a black city car parked on the main street and Richard Calloway has his father’s charm and the town is talking.

Jay doesn’t tell him either — you don’t have to ask, Jay simply knows — but Jay also cannot control what a town talks about, and towns talk.

You are outside the schoolhouse at half past four, gate latched behind you, walking toward the main street, and Richard is there.

He has been doing this — appearing at the edges of your day, not enough to be a confrontation, enough to be a reminder. Outside the general store, at the end of the street when you’re walking from the diner, once at the boarding house gate, though he didn’t approach that time, just stood at the end of the road as you went in.

Today he is at the corner near the schoolhouse and when you come through the gate he falls into step beside you. “I need you to stop,” you say.

“I just want to talk.”

“We’ve talked.”

“Y/N.” He takes your arm. Not hard — he’s never hard, that’s not how he operates, Richard operates through persistence and charm and the slow rewriting of reality until you can’t find the original — his hand on your arm, a familiar gesture from a thousand ordinary moments, the gesture of someone who knows where your arm is.

“Let go,” you say.

He does. Immediately, palms up, the gesture of a reasonable man. “I’m sorry. I just—”

“Richard.” Quietly. Firmly. “Go home.”

You step around him and walk. You don’t see Heeseung at the end of the street. But he sees you.

He doesn’t come to the diner on Friday. This is the first Friday in all the weeks you’ve been here that he doesn’t come. Jay notices — of course Jay notices, Jay notices everything — and he watches the door and watches you and keeps your cup full and doesn’t say anything, which from Jay means he is thinking very carefully about what not to say. You notice the absence like a change in weather. A front coming in.

He doesn’t come on Saturday either. Eli is in town — you see him outside the general store with Riki, who gives you a look you can’t fully interpret, something complicated — and Eli waves but doesn’t run over, which is so unlike him that something cold and certain settles in your stomach. You go to Jay. “What does he think he saw?” you say.

Jay is wiping the counter. He wipes it for a while. “Man from the city with his hand on your arm,” he says finally. “Outside the schoolhouse.”

“Richard grabbed my arm. I told him to let go. He did.”

“I know that.”

“Heeseung doesn’t.”

Jay sets down the cloth. He looks at you with the expression of a man who cares about two people who are being stupid at each other and has to navigate this carefully. “He didn’t ask me,” he says. “Which tells you something. If he thought it was nothing he would’ve asked.” You look at the counter. “He’s not angry,” Jay says. “He’s just — he’s gone back inside himself. The way he does.” He pauses. “You know about Clara.”

“I know she left.”

“He watched her talk to someone for a week before she told him she was going. He came home one day and she was packed.” Jay says it plainly, not for drama, just because you need to know the shape of what’s happening. “He doesn’t — he doesn’t do this consciously. It’s just where he goes. When it looks like someone’s about to leave.”

“I’m not leaving,” you say.

“I know.”

“He doesn’t know why Richard is here.”

“No.”

You are quiet for a moment. The diner is warm around you, the smell of coffee and the distant sound of the radio, and outside the window the main street is grey and cold under the November sky. “I should have told him,” you say.

“Yes,” Jay says, not unkindly. “You should have.”

—

Riki appears at the boarding house in the early morning of Sunday with his hands in his pockets and the look of someone who has decided to do something and is committed to seeing it through. You sit on the porch together in the cold and he looks at the street. “He’s not eating properly,” Riki says.

“Riki—”

“I’m not saying it to make you feel bad. I’m saying it because you should know what’s happening over there.” He looks at his hands. “He got up at four this morning and went out to the fence line and I don’t know when he came back.” He pauses. “Eli asked him why you hadn’t visited and he said you were probably busy. Eli didn’t believe him. He’s seven and he didn’t believe him.” You close your eyes briefly. “The man from the city,” Riki says. “Who is he?”

“My ex-fiancé,” you say. “He came here to bring me back. I told him no. What Heeseung saw—” you stop. “It wasn’t what it looked like.”

Riki is quiet for a moment. “He won’t ask,” he says. “He’ll just—” he does a gesture, a closing-in, both hands coming together. “He’ll just decide it’s already over and start making peace with it. He does it fast. He had a lot of practice.”

The cold is sharp on the porch and the street is empty and you think about a man up at four in the morning walking a fence line alone. “I’m going to the ranch,” you say.

Riki stands. “Good,” he says. Simply. And goes back down the porch steps and up the road, and you watch him go and then you go inside and put your coat on.

The ranch is quiet in the Sunday morning. Heeseung is at the paddock fence when you come through the gate — you know his shape at this distance now, the particular way he stands, the hat — and he turns when he hears you and goes very still. You walk toward him. The cold air is clean and the horses move slow in the paddock and the sky is white and enormous.

You stop at the fence beside him. He looks at you — that careful, closed look, the inside-self look that Jay described, and underneath it something that is trying very hard to be nothing and isn’t.

“His name is Richard Calloway,” you say. “He was my fiancé. He ended our engagement and made sure the story that circulated made me look like the problem. I came here because I needed to be somewhere no one knew that story.” You look at the paddock. “He came here to bring me back. I told him no. What you saw — he took my arm. I told him to let go. He did. And then I walked away.” Heeseung is very quiet beside you.

“I should have told you he was here,” you say. “I know that. I was—” you stop. Find the honest word. “I was holding it. My own story. I’ve had it taken from me before and I wasn’t ready to hand it to someone else yet, even someone I—” you stop again.

The paddock. The white sky. Chicago the foal, visible at the far end, picking her way through the grass. “Even someone I trust,” you finish.

A long silence. “He’s gone?” Heeseung says. His voice is careful. Controlled.

“He left yesterday morning,” you say. “Mrs. Della told me.”

Another silence. You can hear him breathing beside you, and the sound of it — the slight unevenness of it — tells you more than anything he’s said. “I thought—” he starts. Stops. Jaw tight. Starts again: “When I saw him with his hand on your arm I thought—”

“I know what you thought,” you say, gently. “I know why you thought it.”

He looks at you then. The inside face, still there, but cracking slightly at the edges. “I don’t do this well,” he says. “The—” he stops. “I’m not good at trusting that people—” another stop. He takes his hat off and turns it in his hands, looking at the brim. “I had six years of practice at being fine on my own and I got good at it.”

“I know,” you say.

“And then you came here,” he says. Quietly. “And Eli drew you on his wall.” Your chest does the thing it does. “And I started—” he stops again. The hat in his hands. “Getting bad at being fine on my own.”

You reach out and put your hand over his on the fence rail. Just your hand over his, the way he did at the boarding house gate in the cold, that same small warm contact. He looks at your hand. “I’m not going anywhere,” you say. “I fixed the gate. I’m staying.”

Something in him — the closed, careful, six-years-practiced something — gives. Not all at once, not dramatically. Just a breath, long and slow, and his hand turning under yours so his fingers can close around it. “Okay,” he says.

You stand at the fence in the cold white morning with his hand around yours and the horses moving slow in the paddock and the whole quiet ranch around you.

“I have to tell you something else,” you say.

“Alright.”

“I’ve been in love with you since approximately the harvest dance,” you say. “Possibly since the coffee in the stable. I’m not sure of the exact date.”

Heeseung is quiet for one moment. Then he makes a sound — low and startled and something that becomes a laugh, helpless, the kind that alters his whole face — and he pulls you toward him, one hand at the back of your head, and presses his mouth to your hair, your temple, and holds you there against the paddock fence in the November cold. “The coffee in the stable,” he says, into your hair.

“You’d already made two cups,” you say. “You knew I was coming.”

He laughs again, quieter. His arm is around you and his chin is on your head and across the paddock Chicago the foal is watching you both with enormous disinterested eyes. “Since the diner,” he says. “The first morning.”

“I know,” you say.

“You know?”

“You looked at me before you smiled,” you say. “Just for a second. Before the smile came. That’s when I knew.”

He pulls back enough to look at you. His expression — open, unguarded, the steadiness still there but warm all the way through now, nothing held back. “Lord,” he says softly. “You see everything.”

“I’m a teacher,” you say. “It’s the job.”

He kisses you. Right there at the paddock fence in the cold, his hand in your hair and yours in his coat, and it is nothing like the gentle kiss in the schoolroom — it is certain and warm and long and he kisses you like a man who has been holding something carefully for a very long time and has finally been told he can put it down.

When you separate, eventually, you are both slightly breathless. “Darlin’,” he says, low, the word doing what it does when it’s just yours.

“Yes?” you say.

“Come inside,” he says. “Bea made enough breakfast for six people and Eli is going to absolutely lose his mind when he sees you.”

You laugh. You take his hand. You go inside and Eli does, in fact, lose his mind. Not loudly — he is not a loud child, not in the way of tantrums or theatrics — but in the specific Eli way, which is a brightness that takes over his whole face before he can manage it, and then the immediate, instinctive suppression of it into dignity, and then the dignity failing completely because he is seven and some things are too good to be dignified about.

He is at the kitchen table with Bea when you come through the door behind Heeseung, still holding his hand, which Eli clocks immediately with the particular alertness of a child who has been waiting for exactly this data point. His eyes go to your joined hands. Then to your face. Then to his father’s face. Then back to your hands.

Bea, who misses nothing and reacts to nothing, sets a plate on the table. “Sit down,” she says. “Food’s hot.” Eli sits down. He is vibrating slightly.

You sit across from him. Heeseung sits beside you, easy, his knee against yours under the table. Bea puts coffee in front of you without being asked and goes back to the stove. Eli looks at you. “Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he says. Carefully. Then, unable to help it: “Are you staying for breakfast?”

“If that’s alright.”

“It’s alright,” he says, very quickly. He picks up his fork. He puts it down. He looks at his father with the expression of a child requiring confirmation of something he doesn’t want to ask directly. Heeseung looks at him steadily. “Yes,” he says.

Eli picks up his fork again. He eats a bite of egg with enormous composure. Then: “I told Cody you’d probably end up friends.”

“Did you,” Heeseung says.

“I said probably.” He cuts a piece of biscuit with careful precision. “Cody said maybe.” He looks at you. “I was right.”

“You usually are,” you say.

This pleases him so deeply that he has to look at his plate to manage it. Bea, at the stove, makes a sound that is not quite a laugh but contains one.

Breakfast at Sunrise Ranch on a Sunday morning. This is what it is: the kitchen warm from the stove, the windows fogged slightly at the corners, Bea moving with the unhurried authority of someone who has run this kitchen for twenty years and will run it twenty more. Eli eating and talking and eating and talking, a stream of school information directed primarily at you — Tommy can do multiplication now and Clara finished the new books already, both of them and Grace thinks she should be in charge of the globe but the globe has a crack in it so it seems unfair — and Heeseung beside you, knee against yours, drinking his coffee and listening to his son with that expression, the open unguarded one, the love-without-complication one.

Once, while Eli is telling you about the globe, Heeseung’s hand finds yours under the table. He doesn’t look at you when he does it. He is looking at Eli. His thumb moves once across your knuckles and stays. You look at Eli and listen about the globe.

After breakfast Eli disappears outside — Riki materialises to take him to the stable, the easy choreography of a household that has its rhythms — and Bea goes to do something elsewhere in the house with pointed discretion, and you are alone in the kitchen with Heeseung and the remains of breakfast and the Sunday morning quiet.

He refills your coffee. He sits back down, closer this time, turned toward you slightly, his arm along the back of your chair. “Tell me about him,” he says. “If you want. Richard.”

You look at your cup. “I don’t want to spend the morning on Richard.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I want to understand what he did. What you were carrying when you came here.” His voice is even. “Not for any reason except I want to know what it cost you. Because I think it cost you a lot and I don’t think many people asked.”

You look at him. The steadiness of him, and underneath it now, openly, the warmth. You tell him. Not everything — there is no everything yet, some things need more time and more trust before they become speakable — but the shape of it: the engagement, the ending of it, the way the story moved through their social world with Richard’s fingerprints invisible on it, the school where you’d taught finding reasons to see you differently, your mother’s voice on the phone saying maybe if you’d been less. The twenty-seven job applications. Castillo Creek writing back.

Heeseung listens the way he always listens — completely, without filling the pauses, without deciding what your story means before you’ve finished telling it.

When you’re done he is quiet for a moment. “He came here thinking you’d go back,” he says.

“Yes.”

“And you—”

“I was never going back.” You look at him. “I think I knew that before he arrived. I think Castillo Creek stopped being a retreat and started being — this — weeks ago. I just hadn’t said it out loud yet.”

Heeseung nods, slow. He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with the same careful deliberateness he always uses — the gesture that gives you time to move away, that assumes nothing — and leaves his hand curved at your jaw. “He doesn’t get to have this,” he says. Quietly. “What happened to you back there. He doesn’t get to have the last word on it.”

“He doesn’t,” you agree.

“You fixed a gate,” Heeseung says. “You wrote two letters to the school board. You put a drawing on your wall.” His thumb at your jaw, the lightest movement. “You’re not someone who needed rescuing.”

“No,” you say. “I’m not.”

“Good,” he says. And kisses you, soft and brief, like a conclusion.

—

The weeks that follow are the best of your life.

You will think this later and it will surprise you — not the fact of it but the simplicity of it, that best can be made of such ordinary material. Morning coffee. The schoolhouse. Eli’s questions at lunch. Jay’s diner on Friday evenings. The ranch on Saturdays, your boots by the stable door, your coffee cup with the small chip in the handle that has become yours without anyone saying so.

Heeseung walks you home from the diner on Fridays and comes in now — Mrs. Della receives him with the satisfaction of someone whose predictions are being validated in real time — and they drink coffee at the kitchen table, all three of them, and talk until late, and then he walks back to the ranch and you watch him from the porch.

He kisses you in ordinary places: at the boarding house gate, in Jay’s diner when Jay has turned to the back shelf, at the paddock fence with one arm over the rail and one around you. He kisses you like someone who is very aware of what he has and intends to be careful with it. Tender, deliberate, thorough. You are, you think, going to have to do something about the thorough.

It happens on a Saturday in early December. Eli is in town with Riki — a deliberate arrangement, you’ll think later, with the particular transparency of a child who is also operating a long game — and Bea has gone to her sister’s for the weekend, and the ranch is quiet and cold and yours.

You come over in the morning with the box of marking you’d told yourself you’d do at the kitchen table, which is true, and which you do, for approximately forty minutes while Heeseung works at the desk in the adjoining room doing ranch accounts. The domestic ordinariness of it — the scratch of his pen, the occasional sound of a horse outside, the winter light — is the kind of thing you want to press into memory and keep.

Then the pen stops. You hear his chair. His footsteps. He appears in the kitchen doorway and leans against the frame and looks at you. “You’re not working,” you say, without looking up.

“I finished,” he says.

“I haven’t.”

“How much is left?”

You look at the stack. “Some.”

“Y/N.” You look up. He is in the doorway with his arms crossed and that expression — the warm one, the open one, the one that has nothing controlled about it — and the morning light behind him and the whole quiet ranch around you.

“Come here,” he says. You put your pen down. You go.

He kisses you in the hallway, backed against the wall with one hand braced beside your head and one at your waist, and it is immediately different from all the careful public kisses — there is nothing held back in it, nothing managing itself, just his mouth on yours and the warmth of him and the knowledge that there is no gate, no Eli, no diner bell, nowhere either of you needs to be.

You pull him closer by the front of his shirt. He makes a sound low in his chest — something between a groan and an exhale, the sound of a man whose patience has run its full course — and his hand moves from your waist to your hip and presses there, firm and deliberate. “Heeseung,” you say, against his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says. Like he knows.

“Bedroom,” you say. He pulls back enough to look at you — checking, the way he always checks, that you mean what you say — and you look back at him clearly, no ambiguity, and he makes that sound again and takes your hand and takes you there.

His bedroom is the ranch made interior: worn timber, a quilt in faded colours, the window looking out over the paddock. Clean and spare and entirely his. It smells like him — something warm and outdoor and specific, the smell you’ve catalogued without meaning to over months of being near him.

You sit on the edge of the bed and he stands in front of you and you reach up and take his hat off and set it on the nightstand. He looks down at you with that open expression, the warmth all the way through. “You’ve wanted to do that for a while,” he says.

“Since the diner,” you say. “The first morning.”

He laughs, surprised out of it, and cups your face in both hands and tilts it up and kisses you — but then he slows, and the kiss goes gentle again, the unbearable gentleness, and you feel it in your throat. “I want to take my time,” he says, against your mouth. Low. Deliberate. “That alright?”

You think about six months of composure and careful distances and soon and not yet. “Yes,” you say. “But you should know I’m not going to be patient about it.”

The corner of his mouth, close to yours. “That a fact.”

“Fair warning.” He kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, the soft place below your ear, taking his time as advertised and apparently fully at peace with the consequences of this, and you grip his shirt and close your eyes and let him.

He undresses you slowly.Each button on the front of your dress — his fingers finding each one, unhurried, like he has nowhere to be in the world except here — and watching his face while he does it: the focus, the deliberateness, the slight tension in his jaw that tells you the patience is real but not effortless. “You’re staring,” you say.

“Yes,” he agrees, without apology. When the dress is off he looks at you in the winter light from the window and the expression on his face — unhidden, unmanaged — does something to you more immediately than any touch. “Lord,” he says, soft. Same word as the paddock. Different weight.

“Your turn,” you say, and reach for his shirt buttons. He lets you. He watches you work through them with the stillness of a man exercising enormous self-control, and when you push the shirt off his shoulders you let your hands sit on his chest for a moment — warm skin, the steady beat of his heart beneath your palms — and look up at him.

“Hi,” you say. Something breaks open in his face. He pulls you up and against him and holds you there, skin to skin, his arms around you and his face in your hair, and you feel him breathe.

“Hi,” he says. Into your hair. Low and wrecked and yours.

He keeps his word about taking his time. He lays you back and moves over you and learns you slowly — his mouth at your throat, your collarbone, lower, taking inventory with the thoroughness of a man who intends to know exactly what he’s doing and is not embarrassed about the methodology. He finds the places that make you make sounds and stays there, patient, deliberate, until you are gripping the quilt. “Heeseung—”

“Mm,” he says. Not a response. A sound of someone occupied.

“I said I wouldn’t be patient—”

“I heard you.” He looks up at you from where he is, and the look on his face — dark-eyed, certain, that half-smile with intent behind it — dismantles you completely. “I’m getting there, darlin’.”

The darlin’. In that voice, in this room, low and deliberate. Just yours. “You are going to be the death of me,” you say.

“Not the plan,” he says, and goes back to what he was doing.

When his fingers find you you are already slick and wanting, six months of tension and patience and soon and careful distances arriving at this, and the sound you make is entirely involuntary. He stills. “Okay?” he says.

“Yes,” you say. “Please.”

He watches your face while he works — that focused look, reading you the way he reads everything, paying attention — and his fingers are skilled and patient and exactly right, and you are aware of him watching you come apart under his hands and aware that you don’t mind, that the composed face is nowhere and you don’t miss it. “That’s it,” he says, low, when your hips lift toward him. “There you go.” The voice. The drawl. The absolute certainty of him.

You come with his name in your mouth and his hand at your hip steadying you and his eyes on your face the whole time, and he works you through it with the same thoroughness he brought to everything else, and when you’re done he presses his mouth to your temple and stays there. “Good?” he says.

“Don’t be smug,” you say.

He laughs. “Not smug.”

“You’re a little smug.”

“Maybe a little.” He pulls back to look at you, and the smugness is there, yes, but underneath it something so warm and open that it cancels the smugness out entirely. “You’re beautiful,” he says. Simply. The way he says things that are just true. You reach up and pull him down. You have him on his back.

This is where you reclaim the pace — you swing your leg over and sit up and look down at him and watch his face do something entirely new, an expression you haven’t seen before: surprise, quickly followed by want, and underneath both of them something that is trying to be collected and isn’t. “Hi,” you say.

“Hi,” he says. His hands find your hips. He is, you note with satisfaction, not as composed as he was.

You move — slowly, deliberately — and watch his jaw set and his hands tighten on your hips and his head press back into the pillow. There is a specific pleasure in this that has nothing to do with the physical, or not only — the pleasure of watching Lee Heeseung, who is patient and steady and controlled, lose every one of those things because of you. “Lord,” he says, choked.

“Mm,” you say. His own syllable, returned.

“Y/N—”

“I heard you,” you say. “I’m getting there.”

He makes a sound that is half a groan and half a laugh and his grip on your hips tightens and his hips roll up to meet you and the laugh is gone, replaced by something lower and more urgent. “You’re—” he starts.

“I know,” you say.

“No, I mean you’re—” he stops again, jaw tight, eyes dark, looking up at you with the expression of a man whose vocabulary has been significantly reduced. “God, darlin’—”

His hand leaves your hip and finds your hair and pulls you down and kisses you deep and then his arms wrap around you and he rolls you over and you go, laughing, and then the laughing stops because he is looking at you with that expression still, wrecked and warm, and moves and you stop thinking about anything at all.

Afterward the ranch is quiet around you. You are in the faded quilt and his arm is around you and your head is on his chest and you can hear his heartbeat, slower now, and outside the paddock the horses move in the winter afternoon. His hand is in your hair, a slow absent movement. “That wasn’t what I expected,” he says.

“What did you expect?”

A pause. “Not that,” he says, and you can hear the smile in it.

You prop yourself up to look at him. He is looking at the ceiling with an expression of serene disbelief. “You look like a man who’s had a revelation,” you say.

“Something like that.” He looks at you, and the expression shifts into the warm open one, the real one. “You’re something else,” he says.

“Is that a complaint?”

“No,” he says. Definitively. “Not even close.”

You lie back down. His arm comes back around you. “Eli’s back at four,” you say.

“I know.”

“I should probably be at the kitchen table with my marking.”

“Probably,” he agrees, and makes no move to change the current arrangement. You lie in the quiet ranch afternoon and listen to his heartbeat and the horses and the winter silence and feel — you take inventory carefully, the way you do when something feels too good to trust yet — feel, genuinely and completely, right. In this room, in this town, in this life that was built from the furthest-job-offer and a broken gate and a man who made two cups of coffee because he knew you were coming.

“Heeseung,” you say. “I’m staying,” you say. “I know I said it at the fence. I’m saying it again.”

His arm tightens. Just once. “I know,” he says.

“I want you to know it,” you say. “Really know it. Not — hope it. Know it.”

A silence. His heartbeat steady under your ear. “I know it,” he says. Quietly. And then: “I’m not going anywhere either.”

I’m not going anywhere. First time he said it, at the harvest dance, it was an offer. Now it is something else — an answer, a matching of weight, the both of you putting the same thing down on the same table and deciding to trust it.

Outside: the paddock, the winter sky, Chicago the foal grown enough now to move with some authority, her dark coat catching the low December light.

Inside: the quilt, the heartbeat, the quiet. New soil, you think, for the last time that way. Because it isn’t new anymore. It’s just — yours. The roots are in. The thing has grown.

You stay exactly where you are until three forty-five, and then you get up and go back to your marking, and when Eli comes home at four and finds you at the kitchen table with your papers and his father making coffee at the stove he looks between you both with the assessment of a child who has gotten what he wanted and finds the result satisfactory.

He sits down across from you and opens his schoolbag. “I have reading,” he announces.

“Do it, then,” his father says.

Eli opens his book. You mark your papers. Heeseung brings coffee and goes back to the stove. The kitchen is warm and smells like dinner starting and outside the winter light is going gold over Sunrise Ranch. Eli reads three pages and then looks up. “Miss?” he says.

“Mm?”

“Are you staying for dinner?”

You look at Heeseung. He is at the stove and not looking at you but the back of his neck says everything. “If that’s alright,” you say.

Eli looks back at his book with an expression of profound satisfaction. “It’s alright,” he says.

—

December in Castillo Creek is cold and clear and strung with the particular quiet of a place that doesn’t make much noise about the holidays but means them deeply. The church puts candles in its windows. The general store gets a pine wreath on the door. Jay hangs lights along the diner’s front awning — coloured glass, old, the kind that have been on the same string for fifteen years and still work because Jay is meticulous about the things that matter to him. Mrs. Della bakes for a week straight and distributes the results to the whole street, appearing at doors with tins and brooking no argument.

The schoolhouse gets a paper chain. This is Eli’s doing — he arrives one Monday in the first week of December with a paper bag of coloured strips and announces to the class that they are making a paper chain, his tone suggesting this is non-negotiable, which it is. Grace organises the distribution of strips by colour. Tommy figures out the interlinking system and explains it to the little ones with unexpected patience. Eli and Clara argue about whether it should go across the windows or along the beams and settle on both, and by Friday afternoon the schoolhouse has been transformed by fourteen pairs of hands into something festive and faintly chaotic and entirely theirs.

You stand at the back of the room on Friday and look at it. Two months, you think. Ten weeks. The number Eli’s father said and you corrected, that first confrontation with Richard outside the general store that feels like it happened to someone in a different chapter of a different book.

You have been here three months now. You look at the paper chain and the drawings on the wall — Eli’s has been joined by two others, unsolicited offerings left on your desk on separate Mondays, one from Lottie of what appears to be you and a horse, one from Tommy of the schoolhouse with everyone standing outside it, their names printed carefully above their heads — and something in your chest is so full it has nowhere to go. You put your coat on and lock up and walk home in the cold.

Heeseung takes you riding properly for the first time on a Saturday in the second week of December. Scout this time — not Honey, not the chair — and you get on him in the yard with Heeseung holding the bridle and talking you through it, that same teaching voice, patient and specific and trusting you to get there. Scout is large and entirely calm and turns out to have a gait so smooth it borders on considerate.

“Told you he was a gentleman,” Heeseung says, walking beside you for the first few minutes.

“You can let go,” you say.

“I know.” He does. Steps back. Watches. You ride Scout to the end of the paddock and back, and then around the perimeter, and somewhere in the second circuit you stop thinking about what your hands are doing and just ride, and the feeling of it — the size of the animal beneath you, the cold air, the ranch open around you in the winter morning — is the kind of feeling you didn’t know you were missing until it arrived.

Heeseung is at the fence when you come back, arms resting on the rail, watching you with that expression he gets when he’s pleased about something and not performing it. “Well?” he says.

“He’s better than Honey,” you say.

“Don’t let Honey hear that.”

You dismount — not elegantly, but functionally, which is an improvement — and Scout drops his nose to Heeseung’s shoulder in greeting and Heeseung rubs his neck without looking away from you. “There’s a place I want to show you,” he says. “If you’re up for a longer ride.”

“How long?”

“Hour out. Hour back.” He tilts his head. “Worth it.”

You look at Scout. Scout looks at you with patient equine agreement. “Alright,” you say.

He takes you east, past the fence line, up into the low hills where the land changes from flat scrub to something rougher and more interesting, the winter grass pale gold, the sky enormous and white-edged. They ride side by side where the terrain allows and single file where it doesn’t, Heeseung ahead on the narrow parts, and he doesn’t talk much on the way, just rides, and you learn something about him in the riding — the ease of it, how completely at home he is moving through this land, how he and Scout communicate in small adjustments with no visible negotiation.

The place he wants to show you is at the top of the second hill. It is, simply, a view: the whole of the valley below, Castillo Creek visible as a cluster of shapes in the distance, the ranch a paler geometry of buildings and fence lines to the west, and beyond everything the flat enormous Texas horizon going all the way to where the sky meets the earth. You sit on Scout at the top of the hill and look at it. “Oh,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says.

The winter light is doing something particular to the valley — low and golden and very clear, the kind of light that makes everything look more itself than usual. You can see the creek, barely, a dark thread through the scrub. You can see, or imagine you can see, the white corner of the schoolhouse.

“My father used to bring me here,” Heeseung says. Beside you now, Scout and his horse standing easy. “When I was Eli’s age. Said if you ever got confused about what mattered you could come up here and look at it.”

“Does it work?”

“Every time.” He looks at the valley. “I came here a lot after Clara left. Trying to—” a pause “—get the proportion of things right.”

You look at him. He is looking at the valley with that quiet expression, the one that belongs to this land and this ranch and the private life he’s lived in them. “Did it help?” you say.

“Eventually.” He glances at you. “Took a while.”

You look back at the valley. Castillo Creek in the winter light. The white edge of the sky. “I want to bring Eli here,” you say. “When he’s old enough to—” you stop, aware suddenly of what you’ve just said — the assumption in it, the future in it, the easy taking-for-granted of a thing that is still, technically, new.

But Heeseung isn’t looking at the valley anymore. He is looking at you. “He’d like that,” he says. Simply. No performance of casualness, no careful management. Just the statement, meaning everything it means.

You look at him. He looks at you. The horses stand easy in the winter wind. “I love you,” you say. First time, on a hilltop in December with the whole valley below you, because it is true and it has been true for long enough that not saying it has become its own kind of dishonesty.

Heeseung is quiet for a moment. Then he reaches across the space between the horses and finds your hand and holds it, his thumb moving across your knuckles in the way it does. “I love you,” he says. “Been a while since I said that to anyone.” He looks at your joined hands. “Feels different this time.”

“Different how?”

He considers this with the seriousness he brings to things that matter. “Steadier,” he says. “Like saying something I already knew instead of something I was hoping would be true.”

You look at the valley and his hand around yours and the winter sky and the whole quiet particular life you have landed in, with its paper chains and borrowed boots and gap-toothed boy and a man who makes two cups of coffee because he knows you’re coming. “Steadier,” you agree.

Christmas at the ranch. This is not planned either — or it is planned by everyone except you, you discover, Mrs. Della and Bea and Jay all operating in quiet coordination, the whole thing arriving complete and inevitable on Christmas morning when Heeseung appears at the boarding house at ten with Eli and Riki and the truck and says “come to the ranch” in the same simple offering voice he uses for everything. Mrs. Della has already sent the cobbler ahead.

The day is the kitchen and the table extended to fit everyone — Jay materialises at noon with cornbread and the particular satisfaction of a man in his preferred social configuration — and Eli opening things with the focused efficiency of a child who has been patient about this for weeks, and Riki eating more than anyone else and not being asked about it, and Bea’s food, and the fire in the front room where you end up in the afternoon, the cold coming down outside and the ranch warm and close around you all.

Eli falls asleep in the armchair at four, his new book open on his chest. Jay catches your eye across the room and very deliberately does not look at Heeseung beside you on the sofa, which is Jay at his most ostentatious.

Riki carries Eli to bed with the long-practiced ease of someone who has done it before. Bea goes home to her sister. Jay stays for dinner and then takes himself off with the timing of a man who knows exactly when he’s no longer needed, and then it is just you and Heeseung in the front room with the fire going low.

He has his arm around you. Your feet are tucked up on the sofa. Outside the ranch is quiet and cold and dark. “Good day,” he says.

“Very good day,” you say.

He presses his mouth to your hair. “Stay,” he says. “Tonight. Eli’s asleep. You can take the—”

“Yes,” you say.

A pause. “I was going to say the spare—”

“I know what you were going to say,” you say. “Yes.” His arm tightens. He laughs, low and warm, into your hair. You don’t take the spare room.

—

January comes cold and clear. The new year settles over Castillo Creek with the quiet confidence of a place that has seen many of them and expects to see many more. The schoolhouse reopens the second week of January and the children arrive back with the particular energy of people who have been inside for two weeks and have run out of patience with it. Eli is approximately three inches taller, which you mention, and he tells you seriously that Bea measured him on the door frame and he grew one inch and you are not to exaggerate.

Tommy’s numbers are clean and confident now, left-handed from the start, and you watch him work through a column of addition with the ease of someone who has finally been given the right tool for the job, and feel the specific satisfaction of a teacher who has solved the right problem.

Clara has started writing stories. She brings you the first one on a Thursday in a folded piece of paper, her best handwriting, three pages, a story about a girl who goes on a journey and comes back changed. She stands by your desk while you read it and doesn’t pretend not to care about your response, which you respect enormously. It is good — genuinely good, the instinct for story already there, the voice already hers. “This is wonderful,” you tell her.

“Really?” she says, in the voice of a child who already knows but needs to hear it.

“Really.” You set it on the desk. “Have you shown your parents?”

“Not yet.” She folds the paper back up carefully. “I wanted to know if it was good first.”

“It’s good,” you say. “Show them. And write me another one.” Clara goes back to her seat with her story in her hand and the particular glow of a person who has been given something real to carry.

On the last Friday in January, Jay closes the diner early. He does this without explanation, just turns the sign and pours three glasses of something that is not coffee and sets them on the counter, and looks at you and Heeseung on opposite stools and says: “I want to make a toast.”

“Jay,” Heeseung says.

“I’m serious. I’ve been waiting for the right moment and I’ve decided this is it.” He picks up his glass. “To the new schoolteacher. Who fixed the gate,” Jay says, overriding you. “And stayed when she didn’t have to. And who—” he stops, and something moves through his expression that is not the easy social warmth but something deeper and more real “—who is good for this town. And for the specific people in it who needed good things to happen to them.”

He looks at Heeseung when he says the last part. Heeseung is looking at the counter. The back of his neck does the thing. “To Castillo Creek,” Jay says. “And to people who stay.”

You pick up your glass. Heeseung picks up his. “To Castillo Creek,” you say.

Jay grins. You all three drink. “Right,” Jay says, setting his glass down with a decisive click. “Now. Heeseung. Are you going to ask her or are you going to make me wait another six months.”

The diner goes very quiet. Heeseung looks at Jay with the expression of a man who is going to have a word with his best friend at a later date. Jay looks back with the expression of a man who has no regrets. “Ask me what?” you say.

Heeseung turns to you. He is — you watch the careful management dissolve, replaced by something undefended, the real face he’s been showing you more and more since December, since the hilltop, since steadier. He looks at you for a moment and then he does something you haven’t seen him do: he reaches into his shirt pocket. “I was going to do this differently,” he says.

“Jay ruined it?”

“Jay ruined it,” he agrees, without looking at Jay, who has the good grace to say nothing.

What’s in his pocket is not a ring box — not the velvet-and-presentation kind. It is a ring wrapped in a piece of cloth, unwrapped in his palm: gold, simple, a small band with a detail you can’t quite see yet. His mother’s, you’ll learn later. The one his grandmother brought from her own mother and passed down and which his mother pressed into his hand the Christmas before last and said when it’s right, you’ll know. He holds it in his palm and looks at you. “I know this is fast,” he says.

“It’s not,” you say. “It’s been since the diner.”

The corner of his mouth. “Since the diner,” he says. “I’ve been—” he stops. Tries again. “I don’t have a speech. I thought I’d have one by now but I don’t.” He looks at the ring in his hand. “I know what kind of person you are. I’ve watched you for four months and I know.” He looks up at you. “You fixed things that weren’t yours to fix. You stayed when it would have been easier to go. You put a drawing on your wall.” He closes his hand briefly around the ring, then opens it again. “My son thinks the sun rises and sets with you, which is—” his voice does something “—which is not a small thing. Coming from him.”

You are doing everything in your power to hold your face together and succeeding imperfectly. “I love you,” he says. “And I would very much like you to stay. Not just in the town. Here. At the ranch.” He holds the ring out toward you, steadily, his hand not moving. “With us.”

The diner. The coloured lights along the awning. Jay, very carefully, looking at the ceiling. You look at Heeseung Lee with his mother’s ring in his palm and his whole face open and waiting and none of the patience effortless anymore, all of it visible, the hope and the care and the barely-controlled terror of a man asking for the thing he wants most. “Yes,” you say.

Jay makes a sound. Heeseung lets out a breath that has been held since approximately November.

He puts the ring on your finger — it fits, which is either luck or fate or Bea, who you will later determine took one of your gloves to a jeweller in the next town, bless her — and then he holds your hand and looks at it and then at you, and the expression on his face is something you will carry for the rest of your life: unguarded and certain and entirely, quietly, happy. “Finally,” says Jay, with enormous feeling.

“I’m going to fire you,” Heeseung says.

“You don’t employ me.”

“I’m going to stop eating here.”

“You were here yesterday and you’re here now.” You are laughing, you realise. Both of you are laughing, your hand in both of his, and Jay is pouring more of the not-coffee and the diner lights are warm and outside Castillo Creek is cold and dark and going about its business.

Eli knows before you tell him. You don’t know how — this is simply a thing about Eli, that he knows things — but when you and Heeseung sit down with him on Saturday morning at the kitchen table with the specific parental gravity of people who have something to say, he looks at you both and then at your hand and then back at you and says: “Are you going to live here now?”

“If you’re alright with it,” you say.

He looks at his cereal. He stirs it. He does this for long enough that something uncertain stirs in you, the awareness that this is a seven-year-old boy whose mother left and whose life is about to change and who is allowed to have feelings about that. “Eli,” Heeseung says, gently. “You can say whatever you’re thinking.”

Eli looks up. His face is doing several things. “I just,” he starts. Stops. “I named the foal Chicago,” he says. “Before. I named it before because—” he stops again. Stirs his cereal. “I wanted you to stay from the beginning,” he says, quickly, like getting a thing out before he can change his mind. “I knew you were good before Dad did. I told Riki.”

“What did Riki say?” you ask.

“He said he knew too.” Eli looks at you. “Are you going to be my—” he stops at the word, turns it over, decides something. “Are you going to be my mom?”

The kitchen is very quiet. You look at this boy — gap-toothed, dark-eyed, too perceptive for his own good, who named a foal after a city to make you feel at home, who put FRIENDS at the bottom of a drawing in careful uneven letters — and your composed face is absolutely nowhere to be found. “I would very much like to,” you say. “If you want that.”

Eli looks at his cereal for a moment. Then he gets down from his chair and comes around the table and climbs into your lap, which he has never done before, and sits there with the specific decision of a child who has made up his mind. “Okay,” he says. You put your arms around him.

Across the table Heeseung has his hand over his mouth and is looking at the ceiling, which is the composed face losing, and you have never loved him more than right now. Eli, from your lap: “Can I still call you Miss at school?”

“You have to call me Miss at school,” you say.

“Good,” he says. “’Cause Cody would be weird about it.”

Riki takes the news with characteristic economy. He looks at your hand. He looks at Heeseung. He looks at you. He nods once, slowly, like a man confirming a long-held suspicion. “I told Eli in October,” he says. “That you were going to stay.”

“You told me in October,” you say. “That he was happy. More than usual.”

Riki looks between you both. “Yeah,” he says. He picks up his coffee and goes back toward the stable. Then, over his shoulder, not quite casually enough: “About time.”

February. The foal is four months old and has decided what her legs are for and uses them constantly, her dark coat catching the winter light where it falls across the paddock. Eli visits her every day before and after school and maintains a detailed running report on her progress that he delivers at the dinner table with the authority of someone who considers herself the foremost expert on Chicago specifically.

Your things have migrated slowly from the boarding house to the ranch over the course of January, the natural movement of a life toward where it belongs — books first, then the rest, Mrs. Della receiving each removal with the particular warm satisfaction of a woman who considers herself personally responsible for the outcome and is not incorrect.

Your coat is on the hook by the ranch door. Your coffee cup — chipped handle, yours — is in the cupboard. Your books are on the shelf in the front room, mixed in with Heeseung’s without ceremony, which is the most domestically intimate thing you’ve ever done and which undoes you slightly every time you look at it.

The drawing is still on the schoolhouse wall. It will stay there. You’ve decided this. Miss Y/N and Eli. Friends. Let every child who comes through that room see it — the evidence that teachers are people who belong somewhere, that belonging is a thing that can be built, that a drawing on a wall can be the most important document in a room full of books.

The last Friday in February, you and Heeseung are at Jay’s after closing. This is the usual arrangement — Jay with his counter, you on the stools, the diner warm and the street dark outside. But tonight Jay has put a record on, something slow, and the coloured lights along the awning are on outside, and it is, you think, the same scene as nearly five months ago except that nothing is the same at all. “Dance with me,” Heeseung says. The same words as the harvest dance. The same quiet directness. You get off the stool.

He takes your hand and you dance in Jay’s empty diner to the slow record, your hand on his shoulder and his at your waist and the ring on your finger catching the light when you turn. Jay watches from behind the counter with the expression of a man who has everything he wanted from this situation and finds it entirely satisfactory. “First dance,” you say. “You said your mother taught you.”

“She did.”

“I want to meet her.”

His hand at your waist, warm and firm. “She’s coming in March,” he says. “She’s been asking since October.”

“October,” you say.

“Eli told her about the dialect conversation.” His mouth at your temple. “She said anyone who could get Eli to use the word dialect correctly in a sentence was worth meeting.”

“High bar,” you say.

“For her, yes.” He pulls back slightly to look at you. The expression — open, warm, steady all the way down. “She’s going to love you.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he says. Simply. “She knows people. Runs in the family.”

You think of a seven-year-old boy naming a foal Chicago in October. Knowing before anyone else. “Apparently it does,” you say. He smiles — the real one, the full one, the one that you catalogued on a diner stool on your first morning in Castillo Creek and have been cataloguing ever since, the one that is different when it’s just yours — and turns you slowly on the diner floor.

Outside: Castillo Creek, cold and clear, the stars doing their enormous Texas thing. The main street quiet, the church dark, the boarding house where you no longer live, the schoolhouse with its paper chain long since taken down and its drawing still on the wall. Inside: the music, the lights, the man, the ring, the dancing. New soil, you think, for the very last time and immediately think: no. Not new anymore. Just home.

—

Spring comes to Castillo Creek the way it comes to places that have earned it. Not dramatically — no single morning where you wake and everything is different — but incrementally, the way the best things happen: a degree warmer each week, the scrub going from pale gold to something greener at the edges, the creek running higher with the snowmelt from somewhere distant and northern. The horses grow restless in the way of animals that can smell a season changing. Chicago the foal gallops the length of the paddock every morning for no reason except that the air tastes different and her legs are finally, fully hers.

The schoolhouse gets its windows opened for the first time since October. This is a significant event. The children treat it as such, orienting their desks subtly toward the new rectangles of warm air, their attention drifting pleasurably to the sounds coming in — birdsong, wind, the distant sound of someone on the main street calling to someone else. You allow this. Spring arriving through classroom windows is an education of its own kind.

Eli sits at his desk on the first warm Friday and tilts his face toward the window with his eyes closed and the expression of a person receiving something they’ve been waiting for. “Eli,” you say.

“I’m thinking,” he says, without opening his eyes. You carry on.

Margaret Lee arrives on a Tuesday in the second week of March. She is not what you expected, which means you had built an expectation without realising it — some composite of your own mother and the idea of a woman who raised Heeseung, formidable and warm. Margaret Lee is both of these things and also neither of them, which is the way of people who exceed the categories you’ve prepared.

She is small. This is the first surprise — Heeseung is tall and she is small, barely to his shoulder, which he accommodates with the automatic ease of someone who has been bending toward her his whole life. She has grey-streaked hair and her son’s dark eyes and the particular posture of a woman who has decided exactly who she is and arranged herself accordingly. She steps down from the bus and looks at the main street of Castillo Creek and then at you, standing beside her son at the bus stop, and her face does something quick and assessing and then opens entirely. “There she is,” she says.

Heeseung looks at you. You look at Heeseung. “I feel like people keep saying that to me,” you say.

Margaret Lee laughs — genuine and sudden, the same quality of laugh as her son’s, the kind that alters the whole face — and takes both your hands in hers. “Lee Heeseung has been talking about you since October,” she says, without preamble. “He didn’t know he was doing it. He thought he was just giving me news from the town.” She pats your hands and releases them and looks at her son. “He mentioned you in every single letter.”

“Mama,” Heeseung says.

“The schoolteacher fixed the gate,” she says, in a perfect impression of neutrality. “‘The schoolteacher came to see the ranch. The schoolteacher can ride.’” She picks up her bag. “Every letter, Lee. Every one.”

“I’m aware,” he says.

“He thought I didn’t notice,” she tells you.

“I’m standing right here,” he says.

“I know, baby.” She pats his arm and walks toward the truck. You fall into step beside her and catch, from the corner of your eye, Heeseung’s expression — the exasperated tender helpless expression of a man who loves his mother and is entirely at her mercy and has made his peace with both of these facts. You like her immediately and completely.

She stays two weeks and in those two weeks she does the following: reorganises the kitchen at the ranch in a way that Bea approves of and Heeseung adapts to without complaint, teaches Eli three card games of increasing moral dubiousness, tells you four stories about Heeseung’s childhood that he would prefer you not to have, sits with you on the porch every morning with coffee and talks to you the way women talk when they’ve decided to trust each other — plainly, without ornament.

On the fourth morning she says: “Tell me about before.” You look at the paddock. Chicago the foal. The pale spring sky. “Before Castillo Creek,” she says. “If you want. You don’t have to.”

You think about before. The specific weight of it, which has changed — not lighter exactly, but different, the weight distributed differently now, held up by more points of contact so no single place takes all of it. You tell her.

She listens the way her son listens — completely, without deciding what it means before you’re done. When you finish she is quiet for a moment. “My husband left me once,” she says. “Heeseung’s father. We were young, we had a fight about something I can’t even remember now, and he left and I thought — that was that.” She looks at the paddock. “He came back in three days. But those three days I understood something I didn’t know before. That some people leave to see if you’ll chase them. And some people leave because they’re gone.” She looks at you. “The man you described sounds like the second kind.”

“He is,” you say.

“Good,” she says. “Those ones you let go.” She drinks her coffee. “My son is the staying kind. In case you didn’t know.”

“I know,” you say.

She looks at your ring. “My mother wore that for fifty-three years,” she says. “She said the secret was that you had to choose each other every day. Not just at the beginning.” She looks up at you. “Can you do that?”

“Yes,” you say. Without hesitation.

She nods. She looks at the paddock. “Good,” she says again. And that is that, and you drink your coffee together in the spring morning, and when Heeseung appears in the doorway looking for his mother she looks at him with the expression of a woman who has conducted her own assessment and is satisfied with the results, and he looks between you both with the wariness of a man who knows he has been discussed and decides not to ask.

The last week of March brings something you didn’t anticipate: a letter from the county school board. You open it at your desk on a Thursday afternoon while the children are doing their reading, and it takes you two passes through it to understand what it says, and then you put it down flat on the desk and look at the middle distance.

“Miss?” Eli, from the second row. The class has the particular sharpening of attention that occurs when a teacher does something unexpected.

“Keep reading,” you say. You pick up the letter and read it a third time.

A school is being built. A larger one, two rooms, in the next town along — not Castillo Creek, but a town of similar size twenty miles east. The county board is expanding provision across the region. They need a head teacher for the new school. They have, they write, been impressed by the correspondence and the results from Castillo Creek. They are writing to offer the position to you. You fold the letter.

You teach the afternoon out. You fix a disagreement between Patrick and Beau about a coloured pencil. You listen to the little ones read and hear in Grace’s oral assessment that her comprehension has jumped significantly since January and make a note to tell her parents. You let them out at three and stand on the porch and watch them go.

Then you go home to the ranch. Heeseung is at the paddock fence when you arrive. He turns when he hears the gate and reads something in your face immediately — not worry, just attention, the way he attends to you when something is different. “What happened?”

You hand him the letter. He reads it. His face is careful while he reads, the deliberate neutrality of a man withholding response until he understands what he’s responding to. He folds it when he’s done and holds it and looks at the paddock. “Twenty miles,” he says.

“Yes.”

“Head teacher.”

“Yes.”

He turns the folded letter in his hands. He looks at the horizon, the flat Texas line, and then at you. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know yet,” you say honestly. “I only just read it.”

He nods. He unfolds the letter and folds it again the other way, a thinking gesture. “It’s a good offer,” he says.

“I know.”

“The children here—” he starts.

“Would have a new teacher,” you say. “Someone good. Someone who needs a start.”

Like you needed a start. Neither of you says it but it’s there. “Twenty miles is a commute,” he says. “Not impossible.”

“No.”

He looks at you steadily. “Whatever you want to do,” he says. “I mean that.”

“I know you do.” You take the letter back, fold it into your pocket. “I need to think.”

He nods. He turns back to the paddock and after a moment his arm comes around you, easy and present, and you stand at the fence together while Chicago runs the length of the paddock for the joy of running and the spring evening comes down gold over Sunrise Ranch.

You think for three days. You think about the schoolhouse and the paper chain and Tommy’s clean left-handed numbers and Clara’s stories and Eli’s drawing on the wall. You think about fourteen children who have become yours in the particular way children become yours when you’ve solved them, when you know which problems are the real ones underneath the presenting ones, when you know who reads above their level and who is covering for a difficulty and who is going to do something surprising one day.

You think about what it would mean to build something from the beginning. Two rooms. New intake. The particular freedom and weight of being the person who sets the tone before there is a tone. You think about twenty miles and a commute and a husband with a ranch and a son who is eight in May. You think about what you came here to do and whether you’ve done it and what comes next.

On the third evening you tell Heeseung. “I’m going to turn it down,” you say.

He is at the kitchen table. He looks up. “Because of us?” he says, carefully.

“No,” you say. “Because of me.” You sit down across from him. “I came here to start over. And I have. And this—” you gesture, vaguely, at the kitchen, the ranch, the everything “—this is what I was starting over toward, even when I didn’t know it. I’m not done here. Castillo Creek isn’t done.” You look at him. “Clara is going to be a writer. I’m not done with Clara.”

Heeseung looks at you for a long moment. “You’re sure?” he says.

“I’m sure.”

He nods. Something in him settles — not the relief of a man who was afraid you’d go, because he’s past that, but the quieter thing, the satisfaction of a man watching someone he loves make a choice that is fully hers. “Write them a good letter,” he says.

“I will,” you say. “Strongly worded.” The corner of his mouth.

You write the letter on Saturday morning at the kitchen table, Eli doing his homework across from you with the focused efficiency of a child who has been told that homework-before-fun is a rule and has decided to take it seriously, Heeseung somewhere on the ranch, the spring morning coming through the window.

You thank them. You decline clearly. You recommend, in the final paragraph, that they consider expanding the library provision at existing schools before building new ones, and include three specific data points about reading outcomes, because some habits are simply who you are now. You seal the envelope. Eli looks up. “Done?”

“Done,” you say.

“What was it?”

“A job offer,” you say. “A bigger school.”

He looks at you. “Are you going?”

“No.”

He looks back at his homework. He does another line of arithmetic. Then, without looking up: “Good,” he says, in the tone of a person confirming the correct outcome. You put the letter in your pocket and drink your coffee and watch the spring morning come through the window, and outside Chicago the foal runs the paddock in the new warm air, her legs entirely hers, her name written on the sky.

May brings Eli’s birthday. He is eight. This is a serious number, he has informed you, because eight is when you can help with the real work on the ranch, not just the small stuff, and Heeseung has responded to this with the expression of a man who knows his son and has been quietly preparing for this specific negotiation for some time.

Riki gets up at dawn to decorate the stable on the day — this is Riki’s doing entirely, streamers in the ranch colours, a sign that says 8 in letters that are clearly Riki’s work and not a calligrapher’s but are heartfelt — and Eli discovers it at six-thirty when he goes to check on Chicago and comes back into the kitchen with the expression of a person who has been given something real.

Jay brings cake. Margaret, who has come back for the occasion — this is not a small thing, the coming back, and you watch Heeseung receive his mother at the bus stop with the quiet particular gratitude of an adult child who is still his mother’s, will always be — Margaret brings a present wrapped in brown paper and a ribbon, which Eli opens with the concentrated focus of someone who intends to remember the opening.

Inside: a pocket watch, old and gold, with an inscription on the back. Eli reads it. His lips move. He looks at his grandmother. “What does it say?” you ask him, gently.

He holds it out to you. You take it and read the back: Go steady. Go kind. Go far.

“It was your grandfather’s,” Margaret says. “And his father’s before that.”

Eli takes it back. He holds it in both palms and looks at it for a long moment with that Eli expression, the one where he is processing something bigger than seven-going-on-eight years of life have quite prepared him for. Then he closes his hands around it and looks at his grandmother and says: “Thank you.” No gap-toothed performance. No dignity management. Just the real thing, plain and clear.

Margaret cups his face in one hand. “You’re welcome, baby,” she says. Heeseung, beside you, takes your hand.

After the cake and the streamers and the stable and Riki being beaten at three card games by an eight-year-old, after Margaret and Jay have gone and Riki has taken himself off to give the evening its shape, you are at the paddock fence with Heeseung in the last of the May light.

Eli is with Chicago. He has had his horse for a year now and the relationship has settled into its permanent form: mutual trust, complete understanding, the particular bond between a child and an animal that is its own language. He is telling her something, pressed to her neck, and she is standing completely still with her ears forward in the way that means she is listening. “He’s going to be extraordinary,” you say.

Heeseung looks at his son. “He already is,” he says. He says it simply, no performance of it, just the fact. You lean into him. His arm comes around you.

The May evening is warm and going golden, the long Texas light doing what it does to the land, making everything more itself, more vivid, more worth looking at. The ranch in the evening — the fence lines, the water tower, the barn with its doors open, the horses in the paddock, Chicago standing still for an eight-year-old boy who is telling her his secrets. “Thank you,” you say.

“For what?”

“For the coffee,” you say. “That first morning. For making two cups.”

He looks at you. The smile — the full one, the real one, the one that is different when it’s just yours, that has been yours since a diner stool in September. “You noticed that,” he says.

“First morning,” you say. “I noticed everything first morning.”

He shakes his head slightly, the almost-laugh. His arm tightens around you. “Jay cried when I told him,” he says. “About the coffee.”

“Jay cried about Eli’s drawing.”

“Jay cries about a lot of things,” Heeseung says, affectionately.

“He does,” you agree. “It’s one of his best qualities.”

Eli has turned from Chicago now and is watching you both from across the paddock with the expression of a child conducting a quiet and ongoing assessment of the results of his work. He catches you looking and raises one hand in a small wave. You raise your hand back. He turns back to Chicago. Heeseung presses his mouth to your temple. Stays there. “Darlin’,” he says.

“Mm.”

“Come inside,” he says. “Bea left dinner.” You stay exactly one more minute — the warm arm around you, the evening light, the boy and the horse, the whole quiet extraordinary ordinary life of it — and then you go inside together, through the gate that swings clean on its hinge, into the ranch that smells like dinner and woodsmoke and home.

Behind you the sun goes down over Castillo Creek in all the colours you don’t have names for yet.

You’re staying. You’ll learn them.

This is home.

it was a humble 7-seater. jay drove, accompanied by jake in the passenger seat, while sunoo, rei, chaewon, and riki squeezed in the middle row.

you interrupt their brief bickering over space. "there's a free seat back here by the way!" you call out from the boot where the two extra seats – that really fit three – were pulled up.

"ew, nobody's gonna come third wheel you two. we'd all just rather suffocate here." sunoo's statement is followed by nods and murmurs of agreement.

heeseung laughs softly beside you. "wouldn't want anyone disturbing our peace, right?" the words rolled smoothly off his tongue. everyone else groaned.

you'd barely been driving for 20 minutes and he's already all over you. arm thrown over your shoulders, fingers drawing patterns across your inner thigh – his whole body angled towards you like you were some magnetic force he couldn't resist.

had this been any other time and you would've brushed it off as him being affectionate, a bit pda. but you could tell his need branched way deeper. it was the way his gaze dropped to your plump lips every time you spoke and he bit his own in response.

it was the way that stupid smirk never left his face, instead growing wider as he invaded your personal space more and more.

it was the way his eyes would trace down the curve of your neck and to your low neckline when he thought you weren't looking. but you were definitely looking.

every word that came out of your pretty mouth was lost in heeseung's mind, stored somewhere but momentarily unacknowledged. he didn't care what you said, as long as he was drowned in the sound of you.

"-and.. are you even listening?"

he blinks. "what? 'course i'm listening, pretty. keep going."

the next hour was spent exactly like this: recounting all major and minor events you've experienced in the last week while heeseung fights off being lulled to sleep (multiple times) by your sweet voice.

you were about halfway through the trip (or so you thought) when jay decided to take a quick pitstop. everyone left the car to use the bathroom or buy extra snacks while jay refilled the gas tank.

heeseung reluctantly released you from his grip as he made his way to the bathroom. you entered the convenience store with rei and chaewon, and began piling your shopping basket with food and drinks.

"i swear i was going to die in there!" chaewon starts, "jay is such a cheapskate. don't pack too much food," she mocks, "now look where that's gotten us. starvation!" rei giggles.

"chae, there's only another hour left in the trip. i think you'll live without all that." rei gestures vaguely with her finger at the shopping cart.

"agreed," you chime in.

as you finish your spree, you walk back out into the summer sun. there's no time for you to enjoy the warmth before you're being dragged to the side by a firm hand.

looking down at the grip on your forearm then up at the culprit's face, you're met with heeseung's bright eyes. eyes that have been glinting with something mischievous since the second you got comfortable in the back of that 7-seater.

his knuckles brush gently along your cheekbone, face only inches away from yours. up close, you noticed his disheveled state. pupils blown, panting, hair sheen with sweat and sticking to his forehead.

"hey," he starts in between loud inhales. "just.. needed you alone for a minute."

a single amused scoff leaves your throat as you instantly connect the dots. your fingers tangle in his shirt, pulling him in closer.

"you good, baby?" a faint red pricked his ears and his deep breathing hitched for a second. he nodded, a bit too fast.

"mhm. all good." he spares a quick glance down to his crotch, only to whip his head back up, cheeks pinkening to match his ears. his eyes don't meet yours, instead the space beside you, before he clears his throat and turns so his back faces you.

"um, let's go back."

thankfully, you didn't notice his.. predicament. you loop your arm through his and walk back to the car.

heeseung curses under his breath, low enough that it gets lost in the wind: "fuck, why are you hard again?"

you try to suppress your smirk as you racked your mind, trying to imagine any scenario where he was up to something innocent in that bathroom. you couldn't think of one.

and now, squished into the tight seats at the very back, the tension between you was palpable.

in the lifetime of your relationship, you had never seen heeseung so uptight. usually, he'd be more than happy to welcome you into his arms. but when you tried to lean against him and return to your original position, it was like he froze under your touch.

quirking an eyebrow, you look up at him.

"hee, are you sure you're okay? you're being.. weird." you clasp your palm around his forehead, feeling frantically for any sign of illness. "like, you don't have a fever? are you light headed? how many fingers am i holding up?"

he peels your hand off his face, finally coming to his senses. stop acting up.

"yn, i'm fine, i promise!" heeseung reaffirms. the fog clouding his vision had now subsided, the gears turning in his head. he was going to make you want him back, and he was going to make it torturous.

the sun was beginning to dip below the horizon. you thought the tiredness would've caught up with everybody by now, but the car was chattier than ever.

"jay, we told you not to listen to google maps!"

"jesus, chaewon, was i supposed to teleport us there?"

"man, just park here, i need to piss!"

it had been another 2 hours since the gas station. jay didn't want to admit he was lost. him and chaewon have been too busy bickering to pay any mind to poor jake, who's been complaining about needing to pee for the last half hour.

rei and sunoo were busy taking selfies, and riki's been knocked out ever since we stepped out the house.

you and heeseung have been talking and giggling like high schoolers. he told you about the new ramen place he went to, and how you've got to go with him soon. about how there's a movie he knows you'd like coming out soon. no matter the thought, everything seemed to revolve around you.

it was easy – stupid easy – how it all flowed so naturally. his speech was so fluid, so gentle, even when speaking about something as mundane as a random film.

the quiet chuckles and scoffs, the sharp inhales before he starts another sentence – all the inbetweens in that velvet melody made you subtly press your thighs together.

your conversation could only block out the noisy car temporarily. once all the overlapping voices grew too loud, heeseung raised his voice.

"jay!"

everyone hushed immediately.

"the villa's 10 minutes away. turn right here."

jay pauses. "so you've had the directions the entire time?" he says cautiously.

heeseung shrugs. "more or less, yeah."

you caught jay's tongue poking against his cheek in the rearview mirror, followed by a sigh.

"alright, hyung."

after at least 4 hours in the car, you finally pulled into the illuminated lights of the villa.

the reception was a proper building that mimicked an old cabin, lit by warm, orange lamps and dim ceiling lights. the rugs were bold and ugly and stood out against the modernity. they were rough underneath the sole of your sneakers.

jay was checking everyone in (including jake, who was in the bathroom somewhere) and counting heads. you were all going to share a big villa with four rooms. on the brief walk there, everyone agreed on roommates: rei and chaewon, riki and jay, sunoo and jake, and you and heeseung.

"don't do anything.. weird," riki mumbles, pointing an accusatory finger at you and heeseung. he had just woken up and it was obvious. he didn't elaborate, but his implication was clear. you barely saw the way heeseung's lips twitched up.

stepping in, the villa was the complete opposite of the reception. nice, yes, but totally abandoning the "cabin" vibe. no one could bring themselves to care as they all claimed rooms and got ready to sleep.

you stepped out of the bathroom, smoke from your hot shower creeping out behind you. heeseung had already showered and was scrolling through his phone on the king sized bed the two of you were going to share for the next few days.

your hair was damp, creating dark splotches on your light grey shirt and dripping down past your sleep shorts and onto your thighs. you flopped down beside your boyfriend, peering over to see what he was looking at.

after watching a couple videos together, he shut off his phone and turned to face you.

"hey," he says innocently, but his eyes were tracing over your features. your eyelashes, your nose, your lips – god, those lips. how he's been wanting to kiss them all day.

"c'mere.."

his head dips down, just enough for his lips to meet yours, hand coming up to cup your jaw.

your mouths moved together in perfect sync. he kissed you with care, slow and purposeful like he's trying to say something more. your nose nudged against his right before he pulled away.

"mm, been meaning to do that all day. didn't want to give me a chance, huh?" he laughs.

you laugh too while a finger plays loosely with his hair. "sorry. i'll make it up you."

heeseung presses a kiss to your jaw, and another one, and another one, before he's basically trailing kisses down your neck and collarbone.

"i know how you can make it up to me, pretty," he murmurs.

he climbs over you, body covering yours. with one more kiss to your forehead, he slides down until you can feel his breath ghosting over the hem of your thin sleep shorts. your legs part instinctively to make room for him. he settles comfortably, his previous need coming back tenfold.

"you know.. i couldn't stop thinking about you earlier. in the car," he admits. "i- you looked so good, and.. fuck, i was so hard, i had to go fix it at that gas station. you drive me insane."

you blink at the confession. before you could even process it, his fingers were hooking under the waistband of your shorts. once he looked up and didn't find any signs resistance on your face, he pulled them down.

you could swear he started drooling.

you weren't wearing any panties, leaving you cold and bare right in front of heeseung's devouring gaze. his bottom lip found its way in between his teeth before being released, a low moan following.

"god, you're beautiful."

he sat up to let you kick them off past your ankles and dove in instantly. you feel his teeth graze your inner thigh and his tongue darting out to soothe the bite, right next to where you needed him most.

he licked a stripe up your entrance, earning a shaky gasp from you.

"my girl needed this bad, hm?" his voice vibrates against your core. you nod eagerly.

he repeats the action, tongue prodding firmer against your wet hole, then latching on your clit. he sloppily draws figure 8s around the bud, all while his mouth is clasped tight over it. it draws another moan from you, one a little too loud, and heeseung's hand has to come up against your lips.

"keep that sweet mouth busy with something else, mkay? can't have the others hearing how good i make you feel." with that, his fingers slide into your mouth, pushing down onto your tongue. your cheeks hollow as you obediently suck his digits.

heeseung groans hoarsely as he feels how quick you are to oblige, it only motivates him to pleasure you harder. his other hand rests on your lower stomach, pinning you down if your hips jerked up. the bridge of his nose poked your clit as his wet muscle plunged in and out of you.

"mmh- fuck, hee!"

he could tell you were nearing your climax when you started moaning again, despite his fingers in your mouth. your own tangled in his brown strands and your legs locked around his head, whole body shuddering to release. with a few final strokes, you came hard on his tongue.

he didn't even falter, pace steady as he lapped everything up. white spotted your vision as he helped you ride through the waves of pleasure before detaching his mouth and fingers from you.

he wiped his glistening lips with the back of his hand and sat up. you lay, panting and wrecked. and he laughs. he actually laughs.

"what.. what the hell are laughing at?" you ask between breaths, eyebrows furrowed but a smile tugging on your lips despite yourself.

"no, nothing. just how fun of a trip this is gonna be."

the sunlight poured into your room from the floor to ceiling windows, waking you up. you felt the weight of an arm across your waist and soft snores behind you.

you wiggled out of heeseung's grip and walked out to the kitchen where chaewon was making some coffee.

"morning," she sings. "want some?" she asks, gesturing to the espresso machine.

"please. i feel like i barely got any sleep."

just then, the door of the other room creaks open and sunoo steps out.

"i'm never sharing a room with jake hyung again, i swear he sleep talks."

the three of you decide to explore the villa; the deck, the pool, and the hot tub nearby it. sunoo then suggests an idea with an evil grin on his face.

"let's wake the others to go swim." you agree on attacking them with pillows.

you started with jake, who yelped and fell off the bed – his screaming woke up jay. then rei, who also screamed, but when she regained her consciousness, joined in on terrorizing the others. after some more chaos, you managed to get the whole group up.

now everyone was in bikinis and swim trunks, and lounging by the pool. you tanned with rei and chaewon on the edge of the pool, feet swirling around in the water.

heeseung was swimming, or you thought he was. in reality, he was spiralling. from the other side of the pool, he couldn't keep his eyes off you in that navy blue bikini. it perfectly outlined everything and didn't leave much to the imagination. he was silently thankful that no one could see the raging hard on pressing against his swim shorts.

you were so getting it later.

you went back inside to get a drink. heeseung followed under the excuse of needing the bathroom. looking back to make sure you're out of everyone's sight, he crowded you against the kitchen counter, hands planted on either side of you.

he used his height as an advantage, admiring the way he could see the valley of your breasts.

"heeseung?" it's like talking to a wall. his eyes are fixated on you and you feel extremely aware of how little you're wearing. his palms rest just above the curve of your ass, bottom lip trapped under his teeth.

"fuck, you look so good.. need you, baby.." his bulge grinds mindlessly against your thigh. "please.. please.."

"hee, we can't. someone might see-"

he cuts you off. "no. i'll be fast. bae, i promise. just.." he trails off, hands disappearing below his waistband. with one quick glance back, he frees his dick, wrapping one palm around it and shoving it into your bikini bottoms. his head drops onto your shoulder as he thrusts, face twisting in pleasure as his length is squeezed between you and your bikini.

he breathes deeply in your ear.

"fuuuuck.."

his pace quickens and his hands grip your hips to keep up, moving you back and forth. the friction is delicious, and he feels himself getting closer and closer.

"shitshit, need somewhere t'cum. o- open your mouth. get down- fuck- hurry.."

before you have the chance to sink down on your knees, the unmistakable sound of footsteps approaches. you both freeze.

"heeseung hyung?" it was riki. his voice was just around the corner.

heeseung gulps and tries his best to sound composed. "yeah?"

"can you bring the soda from the fridge? jay's forcing me but the kitchen's too far."

you hold back a laugh. never once would you have thought that riki's laziness would save your dignity.

"yeah, yeah. give me a sec."

"okay."

once the footsteps retreat, you and heeseung exchange a look. a little giggle escapes your lips and he glares at you.

"always fucking interrupting.."

"at least he didn't walk in."

"still interrupted."

the anger left his face when you finally get on your knees – thighs pressed together in an effort to suppress your own want – mouth open and inviting. heeseung's eyes darted around, paranoid, like he was expecting someone else to walk in at any moment.

you tap his knee reassuringly and urge him to continue. he huffs and guides his length to your mouth. heeseung's eyes roll back as he strokes himself fast, tip fat on your tongue.

"yn-!"

hot, white spurts hit the back of your throat as your lips wrap around him, swallowing down all his release. he moans, shallowly fucking your mouth until the point of sensitivity.

he peels himself off of you, stuffing his now soft cock back into his swim trunks and pulling you up to your feet.

"later tonight, i'll fuck you properly."

except – you all stayed around the pool until darkness fell.

you had spent the entire day with chaewon and rei, lost in conversation, until your neglected boyfriend had to tear you away from them. he clearly craved attention.

so now here you were, thighs pressing against the other's – sticky in the heat of the hot tub – while heeseung's fingers drove in and out of your pussy.

you've completely lost your sense of time and train of thought, you don't know how long his fingers have been down there. maybe it was when you got into the hot tub an hour ago, or maybe it was when jake got in about 20 minutes ago. he was busy on his phone, oblivious to how hard you were holding back.

you had to grit your teeth together to stop your jaw from going slack and spilling out sweet moans, much to heeseung's displeasure.

he didn't rush, just steadily explored your gummy walls, coaxing multiple orgasms from you under the guise of holding your waist. he memorized the way you reacted, the spots that made you crush his hand between your thighs and squirm.

once you peaked for the fourth time, you were dangerously close to moaning and had no choice but to force him off.

"i can't.." you whisper between pants. just as he was about to protest, rei calls out from the deck.

"pizza's here!"

right. the pizza you had all ordered a little bit ago. heeseung groans, annoyed.

"shit. tomorrow night. i promise you."

you peck his cheek. "okay. but behave until then. i'm serious."

he nodded solemnly, like you just told him you'll leave him. "i'll try, baby."

the second day passed by in a blur of stolen glances and lingering touches. heeseung stayed true to his words, keeping his distance for most of the day. honestly, it bothered you. you didn't understand how avoiding you was helping him act accordingly.

he spent most of the day with riki and jay. you didn't know what he was up to, you think you smelled barbecue at some point? you gripped your soda can so fiercely, it crinkled and bent under the pressure. jake and sunoo sensed the tension immediately.

"yn? you good?" jake's voice cut sharp through your thoughts.

"yeah, you seem a bit.. tense." sunoo chimes in.

"it's nothing. i'm, um, trying to smell what they're cooking."

the boys share a knowing look.

jake speaks up again. "i think jay hyung is grilling beef for dinner."

"oh, yeah," you say flatly.

"okay, what's on your mind? clearly you're thinking about something." sunoo presses.

you look down at your fidgeting hands, before meeting their eyes. seeing their curious expressions made you cave in, and you suddenly found yourself telling them everything.

"so heeseung's been all over me and, of course, i was reveling in it, but then i told him to behave and he's basically been avoiding me the whole day and now i'm just frustrated." you rant, purposefully excluding the smut.

after a short pause, jake's the first to make a comment. "he's probably just trying to respect what you said." you nod unsurely at his verdict.

"she didn't tell him to leave her alone, she told him to control himself." sunoo thinks for a second. "maybe the only way he can behave is if he's nowhere near you."

your brows furrow at this suggestion. "that's.. annoying," you mumble.

"aww, you miss your boyfriend?" he teases. "don't worry, yn, we'll keep you company until he finally comes to his senses."

during dinner, heeseung still kept his distance. he sat on the other side of the table, right across from you, but paid you no mind, minus your shoes knocking occasionally. after the (delicious) meal, someone suggests a movie night – probably rei.

you didn't catch the smirk that played on heeseung's lips.

you settle onto the couch, tucked against the side, when someone plops down right next to you. you would've assumed it was chaewon or sunoo or someone, but their arm draped over the back of the couch and their body warmth was familiar. you look over and are met with heeseung's sharp side profile.

he looked straight ahead at jay, who was flicking through movies on the tv, acting completely unbothered by your presence. you knew better, though.

his body leaned towards yours barely, but enough to let you know his composure was probably withering all day without you. you subtly press your thigh against his own and you hear the way his breath hitched quietly.

the movie finally started playing and the lights were turned off. heeseung has clearly given up on resisting you. his arms now wrapped around your shoulders as he nuzzled his face into your neck.

"missed you, sweetheart." his hot breath tickled your ear.

"no one told you to stay away."

"i know. but if i stayed too close, i don't think i would've been able to stop myself," he whispered.

the admission lingered in the air between you and settled deep somewhere in your chest.

as the night passed, heeseung's touches only grew bolder. a hand on your waist, your fingers interlaced, even a teasing pinch to your ass, which earned him a glare in return.

once the movie was over, he was definitely not done with touching you. you lay down, trying to sleep, but his hands were roaming everywhere. tracing up and down your spine, kneading the plush flesh of your hips.

he only stopped when his palm found purchase on your lower back, holding you close to his chest. you both slept peacefully that night.

by the third and final day of your trip, the tension was unbearable. the go-ahead you'd given him the night before was not working in his favor, he only yearned to fuck you stupid more.

before either of you had time to process it, night had fallen and the whole group was gathered in the living room. a few bottles of soju littered the table and floor.

gossip and bad jokes were thrown around, music moderately loud, until someone brings up the idea of playing truth or dare.

"jay," chaewon starts, "truth or dare?"

"truth."

"what's the most embarrassing thing you've ever done?"

"ah.." jay hesitates, and you could practically see i-land flashing before his eyes. he clears his throat. "no comment."

now it's jay's turn. "sunoo, truth or dare?"

"truth."

"what were you, jake, and yn talking about yesterday?"

the three of you falter, clearly not expecting that.

"what? were you eavesdropping on us?" jake asks.

"no! i just.. happened to hear my name in that conversation and wanted to know."

you rack your brain, trying to remember why you had mentioned jay. it suddenly pops in your head. "ohhhh. we were trying to figure out what you were grilling. i couldn't tell if it was beef or pork."

"ohhh." jake and sunoo say in unison.

"i guess it's my turn. yn!" you flinch at the sound of your name. you hated playing this game.

"truth or dare?"

"..dare."

sunoo claps his hands together giddily, like you fell right into a trap.

"i dare you and.." he drags it out intentionally, finger drifting over everyone before eventually landing on your boyfriend. "..heeseung to 7 minutes in heaven." your eyebrows shoot up.

"what aren't you guys dating? this is natural. unless you're boring," he yawns dramatically. "but i know you're not boring, yn. right? so go!"

"gotta play the game, babe," heeseung says, already standing up and offering his hand. you take it and he guides you back into your room.

"let me make a timer.." sunoo starts opening the timer on his phone, but is stopped when heeseung aggressively shakes his head, frantically mouthing no! no timer!

sunoo makes a face before putting his phone down. "ew.." he mutters to himself.

thankfully, your room was a good distance away from everyone else, but you're sure they could've heard heeseung slamming the door and pressing you against it.

"oh my- finally," he rasps. his hands tug at your clothes, gripping your hips and crashing his lips onto yours.

the makeout was unrestrained and sloppy, saliva lining both your mouths as your tongues clash together, fueled by pure want.

you whined, sound lost in the borderline pornographic wet sound of your kissing.

"i know, yn, i know.." he gripped the underside of your thighs and lifted you up, pressing you up on the door as he busied himself with decorating your neck. his teeth dragged intentionally, drawing patterns with his tongue and biting in ways that were bound to create a flourish of red and purple bruises the next day. the column of your throat ached with the promise of his marks on you.

he admired his artwork briefly before reaching the bed in long, hurried strides. he threw you down on your back and climbed right behind you, kneeling in between your legs.

he undressed you with a gentleness that made your whole body shiver in response. first, his old hoodie that you had claimed. as it slid over your head, revealing your breasts, he twitched violently against the rough fabric of his boxers.

"hee, please.." your fingers twisted restlessly in the sheets, absolutely desperate for him to do something. "mnh- need you so bad." your words went through one ear and out the other.

he carefully eyed the pebbled peaks of your nipples for only a second, before his head dipped down and he took one in his mouth. his tongue swirled impossibly fast around the bud, cheeks hollowing as he sucked intently. his hand came up to toy with your other nipple, massaging your neglected tit.

your back arched with a whimper, forcing your cleavage against his face. he switches sides, mouth latching onto the opposite breast, lavishing it with the same amount of passion and attention.

he sits back on his heels and peels his shirt off, abs highlighted in the flattering dim lights of the room.

"you need prep?" the question came from a place of genuine concern, but his fingers already fiddled with the strings on his sweatpants. he was eager and praying you would say no.

"no. just need you."

heeseung smiles to himself. "that's my girl." his sweats were already discarded on the floor, his boxers halfway down his thigh and cock standing proud.

you willed your eyes to not roll to the back of your head as you lifted your hips to abandon your last items of clothing too.

he plants a final kiss on your lips as he lines himself up.

"always so beautiful for me. you're gonna take me so well."

his mushroom tip was bright red and slick with pre release. you nodded once the head breached your hole, urging him to continue. he spits on the bit of length that hasn't disappeared into you yet, rubbing the makeshift lubricant with his fingertips.

he bottoms out with a loud moan. he fit so snugly inside you.

"shit, look at you.. so greedy, keeping me all for yourself, huh?" he pulls his hips back just an inch, every ridge, every vein of his dick dragging over your velvety walls. he thrusts back in, coaxing a breathy gasp from you.

"nnh- faster.."

his hands grip your hips. "whatever you saying, love."

he pulls out almost completely only to slam back in with brutal force. he repeats it again, and again, and again, headboard knocking into the wall faster and harder each time. a choked sound of pleasure left you every time and it only egged him on further.

"fuck, yeah, mm-! keep making those pretty sounds for me. wanna hear you."

your orgasm was approaching, and fast. he sensed it immediately folding your legs onto your shoulders and pace growing faster and messier by the second. the new position allowed him to reach places of extreme pleasure deep in you. his tip kissed your cervix with each snap of his hips, eventually bringing you over the edge as you gushed your juices all over his length with his name sweet on your tongue.

"heeseung!"

your already tight entrance squeezed him tighter. he could only last so long before you milked him dry. cum coated your pink heat in ropes of white, his balls deflating as he tried his best to fuck his seed into you, despite both of your sensitivity.

he pulled out with an almost comical pop. heeseung made the mistake of looking at your face.

your face was shadowed with pure bliss, even if it was only your first orgasm of the night, and he felt himself harden again.

"you can take another one, right? i know you can, my girl."

he flipped you over so you were flat on your stomach. his hands used your hips as handles to lift your ass in the air.

"mm, the best view.."

he drew shapes against your now sopping cunt with his tip, both your previous releases mixing. he couldn't even tease himself, his need to cum inside you again overwhelming any other coherent thought. he plunged back into you with a whiny gasp, eyebrows knit tight in concentration.

any remaining essence of gentleness has evaporated, and heeseung was focused solely on filling you up again.

using your hips to stabilize himself, he didn't even give yout time to breathe before you pounded you from behind. you couldn't hear anything but the distant music and the rhythmic thwap thwap thwap.

your second orgasm hits you like a train, much more intense than the first. your moan is muffled by the pillow. but the pillow can't conceal how vocal heeseung had suddenly become. with every thrust, he would let out a little whine or curse, a moan, even.

"gonna cum in you again.. shit, gonna fill you up- fuck!" he spilled a second load, this one spurting deeper (if that was even possible) than the last. you could hear him panting like a dog above you, cock still spewing little remains of cum into you while he fucked it into you shallowly.

you lost count of how many times you've cum. heeseung keeps filling you to the brim, then asking with his angelic voice. "one more? i know you can do it. good girl."

now, you two lay limply against the damp sheets. he held you firmly, your head tucked under his chin. with a kiss on your hairline, he smiles.

"d'you think it's been 7 minutes?"

you chuckle. "i don't think so."

"mhm. definitely not."

by the next morning, everyone had packed up and was ready to say goodbye to the villa.

when you and heeseung stepped out of your room, no one dared say a word. even as you were checking out, they all avoided speaking, like you had committed some crime and would be proven guilty if they said anything out loud.

the two of you couldn't be bothered. you got into the back of the 7-seater, exchanging a look with eyes that held the secrets of the night before, secrets safe between the two of you.

an: sorry for literally taking 6 years to write this i lost motivation past 3k BUT dont worry bc i made sure it was perfect for all of you 🤍 i actually have a lot of motivation so hopefully i write a bunch these next few weeks and how do we feel about this new theme

‎ ‎ ‎‎ ‎ ‎© piercedjake march 2026 ‎‎ ⋆˙⟡

"H—Heeseung," you moan as your hand pushes him closer to where you need him most.

He gently swats your hand away, giving you a teasing smirk before pressing soft, lingering kisses along your inner thigh to avoid your heated core.

"I thought you were supposed to be enjoying yourself," he murmurs against your skin, but then rises to engulf you in a kiss again. You can taste the soju on his tongue, reminding you of how you got here in the first place.

Heeseung pulls away, reading your face like he knows something is up.

"You're overthinking again, aren't you?"

"No, keep going," you reassure, kissing him once more before he smirks and leaves a hot trail of open-mouth kisses down your chest, stopping above your core. With half-lidded eyes, you watch as he slowly gives in, his tongue sliding slowly up your center, deliberate and wet.

He doesn't rush. Your hips jerk with every lick when his hands hold you down with a firm grip every time you try to buck.

You close your eyes, letting yourself melt against him, but suddenly your mind snaps back to reality.

We're literally best friends. We were just drinking, and now he's tasting me.

Your heart starts hammering, and your cheeks heat up despite the way Heeseung is currently flicking his tongue at your bud, your senses heightened. His lips move with lazy precision entirely focused on you as if this is the most natural thing in the world.

Does he even realize? you think, a mix of thrill and panic flowing through you. You want to stop him and say something because of the lines you just crossed, but the feeling of him keeps your words lodged somewhere in your throat.

Before your thoughts can go any further, Heeseung suddenly pulls back, his hands sliding down your sides.

"Your eyes were closed for too long," he murmurs, then shifts to stand between your legs. The couch sinks as he sits next to you, pulling you onto his lap. He adjusts you, positioning you so that you're straddling him.

His eyes meet yours, filled with a mix of amusement and desire. "You don't even know how much I wanted this," he murmurs, low and rough, and before you can even respond he's pulling you into a heated kiss.

It's not gentle. Not teasing. It's teeth and tongue, the kind of urgency that makes your head spin.

"I want you to watch this time. No closing your eyes, no drifting off into your own world. Watch me."

Heeseung's hands move down to grip your ass, encouraging you to grind against his hard length trapped in his boxers. The sudden friction makes you gasp in his mouth, a string of saliva connecting your lips as you pull away.

He smirks and leans back slightly, letting his head fall against the couch. He looks up at you through his lashes, hands still guiding you. As you continue to grind against him, he slowly starts to pull his boxers down to reveal his hard length. He wraps a hand around it, pumping it as he looks up at you.

"Come here," he whispers, using his free hand to guide you over so you're hovering over him. "Sit on it."

You hold onto one of his shoulders as you position yourself over his cock, the tip brushing your entrance. He doesn't push you down but let you feel how hard he is.

"I want you to sink down slowly," he instructs softly, thumbs massaging your hips. You both look down, watching as you lower yourself onto him inch by inch. Heeseung groans, eyes rolling back for just a second before snapping back up to meet yours.

"Fuck—that's it," he breathes, one hand sliding up to grip your waist as the other tangles in your hair and tilt your head back. "Bounce on it for me."

You nod, moving quicker. As a nod of approval, he leans back and lets you have full control. His eyes drop to watch where you two connect, his thick cock disappearing inside you slowly with each bounce.

"You're so fucking pretty like this."

The sudden praise makes you ride harder, quicker—anything to get him to finish quicker. His expression darkens as you pick up the pace, your breasts bouncing in his face. A low groan escapes him as he wraps both arms around your waist and pulls you down harder onto his cock with each thrust.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck..."

He leans forward, sucking your nipple into his mouth as he hits that perfect spot inside of you. You whimper loudly, your breath heaving with every bounce.

"I'm gonna come inside you if you keep riding me like that," he warns.. He thrusts, meeting you halfway; they become erratic as he starts getting close to his high.

A pornographic moan leaves your lips as one of his hands slips between your bodies to rub your clit in rough circles. The knot inside of you becomes tighter, getting you closer to reaching your high.

Heeseung's head falls back, exposing sweat dripping down his neck and you feel his cock twitching inside of you. With a loud grown, he buries himself deep inside you and comes hard, streams of hot cum filling you up. His fingers work furiously on your clit until you're crying out your own release, convulsing around his cock.

He stays buried inside you, breathing heavily. Slowly, he presses a soft kiss to your neck, then another to your shoulder.

"Still overthinking?"

The next morning, the sunlight hits your face. You blink again slowly and start to become aware of the warmth beneath you—and the fact that Heeseung's arms are wrapped around you. Naked. On your couch.

You brain fires in every direction at once. Heeseung groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

"Morning," he mutters, voice hoarse.

You sit up quickly, covering yourself with a throw blanket, and your eyes land on the coffee table. Empty soju bottles. Scattered shot glasses.

Your heart drops.

Heeseung finally sits up too, running a hand through his messy hair.

"I think... we got too carried away last night," he admits, smirking despite the hangover. You groan, burying your face in your hands. "We can't—we will never talk about this ever again. Promise?"

Heeseung leans back casually. "Promise. But, I mean, I enjoyed it. And I know you did too."

Your eyes snap up at him. "What?"

He chuckles, leaning closer. "I'm just being honest."

A few days have passed since the couch incident. Things have been quieter than usual, but you're not sure if it was because of pure embarrassment, or because you both enjoyed it way more than you could admit.

Heeseung [7:04 PM]: Hey. Need some help decorating for Jungwon's birthday party tomorrow. Come over?

You roll your eyes despite knowing you'd say yes anyway.

You [7:05 PM]: Fine. But don't be weird.

When you arrive at his apartment, it smells faintly of leftover take out he probably had before you arrived. Heeseung's already surrounded by decorations with a banner in his hand, giving you a ridiculous "I'm in charge" grin as you walk towards him.

"Perfect timing," he says, pointing to the scattered streamers and balloons. "I need someone to, y'know, make sure I don't fuck this up."

You start to unpack the decorations to lay them out, but every so often, Heeseung would lean close to show you a certain placement or to ask your opinion on something else. Every time he gets close, your chest does a little jump that you can't control.

By the time the last balloon is in place and the balloons are hanging evenly, you both collapse onto the couch, exhausted. Heeseung stretches out beside you, arm draped lazily over the backrest as you sink into the couch with a long sigh.

"Why did you choose to host it here again? It's going to be a pain taking all of this down," you complain.

He shrugs, giving you a smile—a "you're-helping-me-clean-up" smile.

You shake your head and look away to hide the blush on your cheeks. As you sit there, you try to shove every memory of that night aside, but it's impossible. The feeling of him beneath you, his hands gripping your hips, the low groans, the way he looked at you. The way he said "you don't even know how much I wanted this."

Heeseung shifts beside you, his knees brushing yours. "You thinking about... that?"

Your head shoots back to look at him, cheeks flushed. He leans in closer, enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off of him. Before you can process it, his lips are on yours.

It's sudden and desperate, the kind that drags every thought out of your mind. Your hands tangle in his hair; his arms pull you flush against him. The couch creaks beneath you, a reminder of all the things you've been pretending to ignore.

When you finally break for air, you let out a shaken sigh. "We can't keep doing this," you whisper, although the tremor in your voice betrays just how badly you want to.

Heeseung smirks against your lips. "Who said anything about stopping?"

You stand up and try to run to the bathroom, but Heeseung was quicker, his hand catching your wrist to stop you. He turns you around and takes a step closer, his free hand reaching to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

"You didn't complain when you were riding my cock. Not a single word. Now you want to change the rules?"

Your lips part to say something, but nothing escapes from between them. Heeseung noticed it.

"So unless you're seriously telling me you don't want this anymore," his hand slowly creeps under your shirt, holding your waist. "I'm going to keep doing exactly what we both want."

Without letting another second pass, you pull him in for a kiss, tongues clashing immediately. His arms wrap around you, pulling you flush against his body as he deepens the kiss, walking you backwards until you hit the wall. He lifts you up, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically.

He breaks the kiss to leave open-mouthed kisses down your neck. A soft moan escapes your lips, already feeling a familiar wetness pool in between your legs.

Heeseung groans against your neck as he brings you to his bedroom, the familiar smell of his cologne filling the room. Within seconds, you're falling onto his bed as he follows, gently pressing his weight against you.

His hand grips your thigh, spreading them open as his other hand easily slides under your skirt, fingers hooking onto your panties. He looks at you with a sly smirk on his face, seeing the wet mark from your flowing juices.

Before you could react, he pushes two fingers inside you, pumping slowly. You clench around his fingers, the feeling already making you see stars. You're too far gone at this point to tell him to stop.

He curls his fingers upward, hitting that spot inside you that makes your vision blur. When you start to grind on his fingers, he pulls his fingers out with a wet pop, bringing them to his mouth to suck them clean while keeping eye contact.

"Taste so fucking good," he murmurs, voice thick with lust. Wanting to take control, he lets you push him down easily, switching positions. He spreads his arms out to the sides, giving you full access as your lips attach to his neck, leaving a faint mark. A soft grunt escapes his lips when you suck lightly on his pulse point.

His hands fist the sheets beside him as you continue your trail downwards, slowly unbuttoning his shirt. When you finally finish unbuttoning him, the sight of his toned abs and chest almost makes you fold, finishing right then and there.

Heeseung's chest rises and falls rapidly with each breath. He's completely at your mercy right now, laying there as he waits for you to continue. His hand reaches up to grab your wrists gently when you don't move.

"Keep going," he whispers, begging almost.

You lean down to leave a gentle kiss on his lips as your hand trails down his chest, stopping right at his belt. He shivers slightly when your cold hand brushes against his abdomen, tongue sliding against yours slow.

There's a small whimper in the back of your throat when you feel him get harder against your palm, twitching with every rub. He breaks the kiss to watch you toy with him.

"Go ahead," he breathes, lifting his hips slightly off the bed. Just as your hand begins to trail lower again, Heeseung's lips part, eyes half-lidded, completely lost in you.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

He freezes, a strangled groan leaving him as his hips twitch uselessly against your hand.

"Ignore it. Probably the delivery dude," he murmurs, half-laughing.

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

Then you hear it. It's Jake's voice form outside the door.

"Yo, Heeseung! I know you're home!"

Heeseung groans, burying his face in the pillow, frustrated beyond belief. You bite back a laugh, squeezing his thigh tightly. He grits his teeth, hand gripping the sheets clearly torn between finishing this and answering the door. His cock twitches against your palm as you teasingly continue the job.

"You're enjoying this, aren't you?" he mutters, voice mixed with frustration and lust.

"Maybe a little," you tease, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth before pulling back. "But you should go answer it before he gets too suspicious."

He groans again. "Motherfucker."

Heeseung drags himself off the bed, telling you to wait here. You watch as he readjusts his pants, not caring for his unbuttoned shirt.

As soon as he opens the door, Jake's voice booms through. "Bro, took you long enough."

"Dude... I was shitting. The takeout did a number on me."

Jake blinks, then snorts. "Of course it did. Anyway, I just needed to drop off the cake for Jungwon's birthday tomorrow."

After a few moments, Heeseung returns with Jake on his way back home. You chuckle and shake your head when he falls onto the bed, disappointment flowing through his veins.

"Ugh... I was so close too," he mutters, mentally taking notes on how to take Jake down for cockblocking. You arch an eyebrow, a mischevious smirk playing on your lips.

"Who said we have to stop?" you tease, mimicking his voice from last time. He immediately shot up, eyes narrowing playfully, and then his lips are on yours again.

The next day, you find yourself walking up to Heeseung's apartment, a mix of nerves and anticipation twisting in your stomach. You keep telling yourself to keep composure; only you and Heeseung knows.

By the time you knock, your hands are slightly sweaty, and your heart is pounding. Heeseung opens the door immediately, grinning like nothing happened.

"Hey, you're late."

"Yeah... traffic," you lie smoothly, forcing a casual smile as he gives you a knowing look. Heeseung steps aside, letting you pass, but not before he brushes against your side slowly.

"Glad you finally showed up," he says lowly, almost caging you in to the wall. You thank that there was a small closet across the front door so the others couldn't see behind the wall.

You roll your eyes and take a deep breath before taking a step past Heeseung, trying to throw away the butterflies in your stomach. The living room is alive with chatter, music, and laughter.

Everyone turns towards you as you walk in.

"Hey! You're here!" Jungwon calls, his energy to the max. You grin and wave, wishing him a happy birthday as you step closer.

His eyes sparkle. "I want you to meet my friend Riki," he says, gesturing toward a tall guy leaning casually against the kitchen counter. RIki steps forward, extending his hand, but there's something in his eyes that makes your chest tighten unexpectedly.

You shake his hand, forcing a polite smile. "Nice to meet you."

Out of the corner of your eye, Heeseung shifts slightly, his expression tightening just enough that you notice. After a flicker of something—jealousy, maybe?—crosses his features, he smooths back into his usual grin when Jake approaches him.

The night flows on, and you find yourself laughing more than you expected. Having a conversation with Riki was easy. He's funny, sharp, and easy to talk to. Before you know it, you're completely absorbed in getting to know him.

"So... you're really good at keeping up with Jungwon but still look well, put together," he says, nodding towards Jungwon.

You laughter lightly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "Thanks. I've some practice surviving being around him," you reply, smiling genuinely.

Riki leans a little closer, lowering his voice so only you can hear over the music. "I bet you're even more fun when you're not trying to be polite," he teases, his eyes glinting with mischief.

You feel your cheeks warm up, caught off guard by his comment. When you look away from shyness, you catch Heeseung leaning against the wall over Riki's shoulder. His arms are crossed, watching you like a hawk, his jaw slightly tight.

Heeseung pushes off the wall and starts walking toward you. Riki notices too as his gaze follows your line of vision, and his grin falters when Heeseung gets closer.

"Hey," Heeseung says casually, "mind if I steal her for a second?"

Riki raises an eyebrow, stepping back with a shrug as he realizes the unspoken rules. "Uh... sure, I guess," he says carefully before walking away.

Heeseung smirks at you, nodding his head toward the hallway. "Bathroom?"

You laugh softly, heart racing. "Yeah, but not for too long."

The door clicks shut behind you, shutting out the noise of the party. The small bathroom suddenly feels too small, just the two of you and the quiet hum of the ventilation fan.

Heeseung presses you gently against the counter, his body just close enough to remind you of last night. His hands rest on either side of you, trapping you with that familiar heat.

"You know," he starts, "I didn't like seeing you so... entertained by someone else."

You bite your lip, heart racing. "I wasn't..." you trail off, the words catching in your throat when he leans in, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

He lets out a low chuckle, seeing the flush rising in your cheeks. "Relax," he says, voice teasing, but there's an edge of something darker. "I just want my attention."

You can feel the tension radiating off him, and it’s making your pulse spike. The familiar pull you feel toward him is almost painful.

You laugh nervously, leaning into him. "I thought you were busy with the party. You're the host after all."

He tilts his head, lips brushing your temple. "The party's fine," he mumbles. "I can handle it. But you need to stop teasing me like that."

The way he says it low, is rough, loaded with unspoken frustration. You realize he’s not just teasing; he’s trying not to admit something.

Your breath hitches when his hand slides along your waist, trailing down to toy with the hem of your dress.

"I'm not doing anything," you insist, though your voice is shakier than you want.

Heeseung leans closer, pressing a kiss just below your ear. "Uh-huh," he says. "Sure you're not."

His lips brush against your skin again, and your thoughts spin: you shouldn’t want this, but your body betrays you with every brush and sigh.

His eyes darken as he finally leans in, brushing his lips against yours in a slow kiss. At first, it’s gentle, testing the waters, but there’s a tension under it like he’s holding back, fighting the pull he can’t deny.

Your hands instinctively find their way to his chest, tugging him closer as his tongue brushes lightly against yours. Teasing, that familiar mix of urgency and control that makes your heart race.

Just as the kiss grows more heated, a loud laugh from the living room breaks the trance. Heeseung groans softly, pulling back with an annoyed expression.

"Shit... not now," he mutters, pecking your lips once more before stepping back.

You step out of the bathroom side by side, adjusting your dress as Heeseung follows behind. The loudness of the party washes over you, but the heat between you two hasn’t cooled yet.

As you walk back into the living room, Jungwon waves you over, clearly still buzzing with excitement. "Finally! I thought you disappeared!" he laughs.

It feels like centuries have passed since you last saw Heeseung. Something inside you ached for him, but you remind yourself he’s only your best friend.

You scroll through your phone with hesitation before typing a quick message.

You [4:56 PM]: Hey, you busy tonight?

Almost immediately, his reply pops up.

Heeseung [4:56 PM]: Not tonight. Have a date with Mei.

Your chest tightens, a little pang of disappointment twisting inside you. You stare at the screen, biting your lip. Part of you wants to hate him for being calm, for acting like it’s nothing, but another part—your selfish, frustrated part—wants him to fight for you.

You [5:01 PM]: Oh, okay. Have fun then!

Heeseung replies with a winky face emoji. You can feel your shoulders slump despite yourself, wishing for a spark of jealousy from him, just a hint that you mattered more than you’re pretending.

A few hours pass as you watch movies to occupy your brain. While cleaning up the snacks, your phone buzzes.

Heeseung [9:31 PM]: Done with the date. Come over?

Your heart leaps before your brain can protest. The answer is obvious.

When the door opens, Heeseung doesn’t hesitate to pull you in, pressing you flush against the door as his lips immediately find yours. He kisses you sloppily, desperate, hands gripping your waist tightly enough to bruise. There’s a sharp edge in his urgency, like he’s trying to claim what’s his before it’s too late.

You pull back slightly, needing air. You catch a whiff of floral perfume on his neck; not yours. Something foreign. Yet, his hands grip onto you like you’ll leave if he loosens his hold.

"Looks like you already had your fun with Mei," you reply, slowly pulling away further from him.

"Don’t," he warns immediately, voice low, pleading, but his body contradicts the words, grinding against you as if needing to erase the space between you.

Heeseung continues, "That was nothing. Just dinner. We didn’t—"

He kisses you again, harder, like he can erase the evidence that easily.

"You taste better."

He pulls back, jaw clenched, eyes conflicted. You see the struggle in his expression: the fight between reason and want, between denial and need.

"You know what this is. We’re only friends having fun," he breathes.

Hearing him say it knocks the wind out of you, but your mind drifts when he lifts your shirt over your head without waiting for a response. Your heart races and not just for the touch, but because he’s exposing a vulnerability you didn’t expect him to show.

He tosses your shirt aside before his mouth latches onto your neck, sucking hard in a spot that makes your knees weak.

“Heeseung…” you murmur, voice trembling, both from desire and from the tension you feel between the two of you.

His hands are rough as he unclasps your bra, kneading your breasts while leaving a soft trail of kisses along your collarbone. He looks at you like you’re the only person in the world, and you realize you’ve never wanted someone like this, like you want him right now.

"Bedroom," he growls, and you follow.

Before he even closes the door, he grabs your hand, holding it against his chest. “You know,” he murmurs, voice low and intimate, “I don’t like doing it with anyone else. Even if it’s just a date… I don’t like it.”

You glance up at him, heart hammering. “I’m not yours,” you whisper, but the words feel hollow even as you say them.

Heeseung smirks, a dangerous, knowing smirk. “Not yet,” he corrects, his hand sliding down to your waist, pulling you flush against him. “But you will be.”

Your legs tremble as he pushes you onto the bed, climbing on top. The familiar smell of his cologne, mixed with the faint scent of that floral perfume still lingering on his skin, makes your head spin. You can feel him pressing closer, his hands tracing the curves of your body as if memorizing them all over again.

Heeseung’s fingers hook under your panties, sliding them down with a teasing pull.

“God, I’ve wanted this so badly,” he breathes, lips brushing against your ear, sending shivers down your spine.

He positions himself between your legs, sliding in slowly. The warmth, the pressure—everything about him is familiar, yet every touch feels electric.

“During the date…” he groans, hips pressing in, “I couldn’t stop thinking about this. About you. About me.”

Your chest tightens at his words, a mix of guilt and desire.

“You… should’ve told me,” you murmur, voice catching.

Heeseung’s thrusts slow.

“And ruin the fun of making you want me even more? Never.” His lips find yours in a hungry, desperate kiss, teeth and tongue colliding.

Your hands clutch his shoulders as he moves with a perfect rhythm, eyes locked on yours the entire time. “You’re mine,” he whispers between kisses.

You moan, breath hitching, your body responding before your brain can even protest. “Heeseung… I—”

Your fingers dig into the sheets as he sets a steady, urgent pace, each thrust hitting deeper than the last.

“I can’t… I can’t hold back anymore,” he groans, voice ragged, eyes darkened with need. “I need you so badly.”

You tremble, nails digging into his back, body aching as you ride the wave of his intensity. “I need you too,” you admit breathlessly, finally letting yourself give in to what you’ve wanted all along.

The next time you see Heeseung, it's under completely different circumstances. The air is cooler than you expected, a soft breeze brushing past as you walk beside him. Your hands are tucked into your sleeves, trying to seem casual but your chest is too full of nerves to pretend.

"So," you start, trying to sound casual, "Riki and I are going out this weekend."

Heeseung stops mid-step, his body stiffening just enough to catch your attention.

"Like, Jungwon's friend? You're serious?" His eyes flick to yours, sharp and guarded.

You shrug. "Yeah. Why?"

He lets out a low scoff and shakes his head, kicking at a small rock on the path, jaw tight, voice quieter now. "I don't know. I just think—" He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply.

"You can do better."

There it is. You almost laugh, but it comes out softer than expected. You glance at him, noticing how he’s clenching his fists at his sides, the veins in his neck standing out slightly.

"You keep saying that," you reply, but he only responds with a shrug.

"Because it’s true." Heeseung keeps walking, but there’s a hesitation in his step, like he’s debating whether to continue or turn back.

You stop walking. He notices immediately, turning back slightly, eyes narrowing. You can see the conflict in his expression—anger, jealousy, something deeper he’s trying to hide.

"What?"

You tilt your head, studying him. "Better how?"

He opens his mouth—then closes it again. "I just mean..." he starts, running a hand through his hair, suddenly restless. "You don't have to settle."

"Settle?" Your brow furrows, a mix of curiosity and amusement.

He finally looks at you, and the pause stretches out long enough that your heart starts to hammer. "For Riki?"

His eyes search yours, just for a second, as if he’s hoping you’ll change your mind without him having to say more.

The way his expression shifts is all the answer you need. You knew what he was thinking, yet you wanted to hear him say it to you like he does whenever you're underneath him.

You step closer. "Is it because you don’t like the idea of me going out with someone else?"

Heeseung shifts uncomfortably, brushing his shoulder against yours almost by accident, and then quickly pulls back, like he doesn’t want to admit it. "It’s not like that."

"Then what?"

"You're joking," he says, letting out a disbelieving laugh, but there’s tension in his shoulders, in the way he fidgets with the cuff of his sleeve.

You don’t laugh.

You see the flicker of something deeper crossing his face, but instead of stepping forward, he takes a step back, shaking his head. His eyes drop to the path, avoiding yours, and his jaw tightens as if holding back more than words.

"You don't mean that," he mutters under his breath. "You're just—"

"What?" you press.

"Confused," he finishes, quieter now. "This thing between us... it's not—"

He gestures vaguely between the two of you like he can’t even say it properly. "It's really not that serious," he chuckles, but the corners of his mouth twitch as if he’s holding back irritation—or something worse.

There it is. The distance he keeps forcing between you. Your stomach flips, but you nod slowly, forcing yourself to match his tone.

"Right," you say. "Not that serious."

He looks back at you, and for a split second, his eyes soften before hardening again, betraying a flicker of regret.

Then he moves past you, resuming his walk, but you don’t miss how he stays rooted a second too long, like part of him wants to turn back. Your fingers twitch, almost reaching out, but you stop yourself.

The weekend arrives, and you find yourself sitting across from Riki at a small café. He’s animated, telling a story about Jungwon’s last mishap at a karaoke bar, and you laugh genuinely, but every time you do, your mind flashes to Heeseung’s smirk, the way his lips curl when he teases you, the memory of last time's heat and desperate kisses.

“So… you’re laughing a lot,” Riki teases, reaching across the table to tap your hand. “Do I get points for making you smile?”

You force a smile, nodding. “Yeah… you’re pretty funny.” But in the back of your mind, you can’t stop thinking about how Heeseung makes you laugh without even trying, how just his presence can make your chest feel tight.

The date continues—walking through the park, Riki’s hand brushing against yours once or twice. Your fingers twitch instinctively at the thought of Heeseung’s hands on you, the way he held you so close, so possessively, that it burned into your memory.

Riki leans closer, lowering his voice. “I’ve been meaning to ask… what do you like in a guy?”

You freeze slightly, caught off guard. Your heart skips because you automatically think of Heeseung, not Riki—the way he teases you, the rough kisses, the familiar heat.

“I… uh…” you trail off, chewing your lip, trying to focus. “I guess… someone confident. Someone who knows what they want.”

Riki smiles, oblivious to the fact that every fiber of your being thinks about Heeseung at that very moment. You imagine Heeseung saying the exact same words, leaning closer, voice low and rough, eyes dark. The comparison makes your stomach flutter and your chest ache all at once.

Later, the two of you sit in Riki’s car when he's dropping you off, the engine idling as rain begins to patter lightly against the windows. Somewhere along the way, he turned towards you, closing the distance, lips brushing yours in a soft, tentative kiss.

You respond, because it’s Riki—but your mind immediately drifts to Heeseung: the way he kisses like he’s claiming you, the rough urgency, the teasing murmurs, the way he made your body react without hesitation.

Riki moves his hand to the back of your neck, and you can feel his warmth, his closeness, but you can’t stop thinking of Heeseung’s hands sliding down your sides, gripping your hips, and the flutter in your stomach is impossible to ignore.

The kiss deepens, Riki leaning into you, but your thoughts betray you. You imagine Heeseung’s lips on your neck, his teeth grazing your pulse, the moans you could barely hold back in the quiet of his apartment.

You pull slightly back, blinking at him. “Sorry… I—uh… we should slow down.”

Riki frowns, a little disappointed but nods. You clear your throat and give him one last, soft kiss before bidding your goodbyes with him.

As you opened the door to your apartment, you checked your phone, seeing it was already almost midnight. The notifications flooded in and one caught your eye.

Heeseung [Missed Call 9:07 PM]

Your heart skips a beat. You weren't sure if it was an accident, or because he knew you were going out with Riki today.

You [12:02 AM]: Hey sorry I missed your call

Heeseung [12:02 AM]: Thought I'd check in. How was your date?

Your fingers froze on the keyboard. Even the way he texts, asking about the date with Riki made you want to throw up.

You [12:04 AM]: It was fine. He's a nice guy.

Heeseung [12:04 AM]: Fine? Not great or fun?

You bite your lip, remembering Riki’s lips on yours in the car, but every time you try to focus, your mind betrays you. You see Heeseung—his hands gripping your hips, his voice low and rough, his lips claiming yours.

You [12:05 AM]: I just didn't want to rush things with him so... it was fine.

Heeseung [12:06 AM]: Had to make sure you weren't thinking about me

Your chest tightens. Of course he knows. He always knows. You stare at the screen, heart hammering, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

You [12:07 AM]: Maybe… a little.

Heeseung [12:08 AM]: A little? That doesn’t sound like you.

You feel a flush creeping up your neck. Even while kissing Riki, even while holding his hand in the car, it had all felt wrong because it wasn’t Heeseung. You can’t stop thinking about his lips, his urgency, the way he made your body react without hesitation.

You [12:10 AM]: Okay… fine. It was you I was thinking about.

The screen goes quiet for a moment. You hold your breath, heart thumping like it might burst. Then his reply comes, short but heavy.

Heeseung [12:11 AM]: Figures.

Figures.

Just one word, and yet it makes your stomach flutter and ache all at once. He’s there in your mind, in every thought, and now he’s here through the screen, igniting everything you’ve been trying to push aside.

You [12:12 AM]: Do you wanna come over?

Heeseung [12:13 AM]: Yeah. Already on my way.

You drop your phone on the counter, rushing to the kitchen to find a drink to distract yourself. Within minutes, you hear the familiar knock.

You open the door, and there he is: Heeseung, a little rumpled, hair messy from the night air, expression cautious, unreadable but his eyes flick to yours the second you step inside.

“Hey,” he says softly.

“Hey,” you reply, forcing a smile.

Heeseung steps inside, taking off his jacket. You fall into step beside him as he moves toward the kitchen, the small space forcing you to walk shoulder to shoulder. The air is thick with awkwardness, neither of you saying a word, yet every brush of his arm against yours sends a jolt through your body.

Heeseung leans against the counter, his body angled just enough that you’re trapped in a quiet corner of the kitchen.

“So… Riki,” he finally says, voice low, calm but there’s a sharp edge you can’t ignore.

Of course he’s going there.

“Yeah…” you start, shrugging, trying to play it casual. But then, without thinking, you launch into all the little details.

“He’s so kind and caring. And he knows exactly how to make me laugh. And he brought me these stupid little chocolates…” You keep talking, gesturing with your hands, caught up in the memories.

Heeseung shifts slightly closer, the space between you shrinking, his body pressing almost right against yours as he leans on the counter. You notice the jaw tightening, the slight darkening of his eyes with every word.

You keep going, oblivious, or maybe too aware.

“And when we were in the car, he… he kissed me. And it wasn’t just a kiss. It was like he really wanted me, y’know? And I couldn’t stop smiling because it felt—"

Before you could finish, Heeseung's hand shoots up to cup your cheek, tilting your head slowly as his lips crash onto yours. Your eyes widen, but you melt into the kiss.

His body presses flush against yours, leaving no space, no room for anything, or anyone else. His hands move to your waist, pulling you impossibly closer as his lips demand yours, urgent and raw.

You try to pull back, just a little, but his forehead rests against yours, his breath hot, his eyes dark with something fierce, something he can’t stand hearing anymore.

“You…” he breathes against your lips, voice rough. “I cannot bear you talking about him.”

Your heart stutters, caught between shock, want, and that undeniable pull toward him. Every protest dies in your throat as he deepens the kiss, as if to erase every thought of Riki from your mind.

His lips are demanding against yours, tongue pushing past your lips to silence anything else you had to say. You can feel his hands trembling softly as they cup your face, almost like he was too scared to even touch you.

"Don't," he pants, "Don't go back to him."

His hand tangles in your hair knowing you love when he does that. His lips find yours again as he lifts you up on the counter, standing between your legs. You can feel the heat pooling between them, but your mind was too clouded to think any further.

Heeseung breaks the kiss into a trail of hot, wet kisses down your neck until he reaches your collarbone, not stopping because he has you right he wants you.

He pops open your jeans and pull them down, letting them drop to the floor.

"I can't stand the thought of him kissing you."

His voice breaks slightly as he runs his hands over your bare hips, then pulls you flush against him so you can feel him hard against your stomach.

"Only I get to kiss you like that," he breathes, "Only I get to touch you. Only I get to—"

You interrupt him, pulling him back down by his shirt, attaching your lips to his. His hand slides down between your thighs, palming your pussy over your panties. He grinds his palm, making you gasp.

Before you can protest, he pushes your panties aside and slips two fingers inside you, making you cry out against his mouth. Your hands fly back to hold yourself up on the counter as you feel him pump his fingers faster, curling to hit the spot.

His thumb rubs against your clit while he mutters against your lips, "I'll make you forget him, I swear."

He adds a third finger, pumping into you hard and fast, angry at the idea of Riki's hands ever laying on you. His tongue thrusts into your mouth in the same rhythm as his fingers, hungry for you.

You moan into him as fingers slow down, then fully pull them out to show you your slick on his fingers. He smirks, rubbing your clit once more.

"Heeseung, don't tease," you whimper, body twitching at his touch. He leans down to bite on your neck. You push him away, climbing off the counter and turning him to lean against the counter.

"What are you doing?" he asks, but you ignore him and bend down, hands already undoing his belt. His hips jerk, breath hitching as he watches you sink down to your knees, eyes never leaving his. His hands fly to the counter's edge, knuckles turning white.

"You don't have to..." It sounds like a warning, but he doesn't stop you.

Once his pants are down, his cock releases with precum already leaking at the tip. He continues to babble about wanting to only please you, but he immediately shuts up when you leave a soft kitten lick against his mushroom tip.

You take him in your mouth slowly, feeling him hit the back of your throat. His whole body tenses, a broken moan escaping his lip. His hands slide into your hair, not pushing, just holding you there.

"That's— you don't have to—" his protest dies as you hollow your cheeks and suck. "Shit."

He lets you set the pace, hands trembling in your hair. He tried to look down, but he almost finishes inside your mouth when he saw the way your eyes were watering, your eyes glistening as you looked up at him.

You bob your head, taking him deeper each time, swallowing around him. He's moaning your name like a prayer, hips twitching with every blow. When you pull off to take a breath, he holds your head still from going back.

"I want to come inside you."

He helps you get to your feet, his hands already all over you like before. He looks at you like he's done something wrong, like you deserved better than whatever this was.

"I want to take care of you."

Heeseung cups your face, thumbs wiping the corners of your lips softly. It was such a contrast to how he just fucked your mouth. You look at him for another second, admiring his flushed face. Grabbing his hand, you drag him to your bedroom.

You push him onto the bed, straddling his hips and grinding against him. His face contorts with pleasure, but that comes to a halt when he holds you down, stopping you.

He grips your thighs, moving you up to sit on his stomach.

"Sit on my face, baby," he says, the phrase coming out as a command. You hesitate, and he can tell, but you shift forward and position your core over his face. His tongue is already lathering your juices before you could react.

Even though he's gone down on you a million times already, this position felt different. The pleasure easily overstimulates you.

Your hands fly up to hold onto the headboard as his tongue curls inside of you. His nose bumps against your clit with each thrust of his tongue. You tried to pull away with the stimulation being too overwhelming, but his arms wrap around your thighs to hold you down.

"H—Heeseung... I can't," you moan out, tears streaming down your face. His mouth is completely covered by you, muffling the dirty sounds of slurping as he tongue-fucks you mercilessly.

One hand slides back to squeeze your ass, pushing you further up his face. The sudden push made his nose harshly rub against your clit, making you moan and fall forward as you catch yourself against the headboard.

His thumbs spread your lower lips apart. "Ride my tongue."

You start to move on his face, grinding against his tongue as he looks at you. He groans loudly, the vibrations making you whimper. He sucks hard on your clit, his free hand moving to play with your breasts, pinching and pulling at your nipples.

"Cum on my face," he murmurs underneath you.

The pleasure was overwhelming, all your senses clouded with nothing but Heeseung's tongue. His tongue curled inside of you while his thumb quickly rubbed your clit.

You start to move faster, chasing your orgasm as he continues to eat you out relentlessly. When he bites down lightly on your clit, you feel the wave wash over you, your body twitching as your cum all over his face.

He doesn't stop, though. He continues to drink you even as you shake through your orgasm. His tongue keeps lapping at you, making sure he got every last drop.

"I can't anymore," you beg. When you finally come down from your second high, he kisses your inner thigh softly, pulling you down to his chest. As you lay there, Heeseung's cock presses against your thighs. His cock is already hard and leaking, ready to be inside you.

His hands start to roam your body possessively, squeezing your ass and pulling you closer to his erection.

"See what you do to me? I already got you off twice and I'm still rock hard," he shifts his hips, making his cock slide between your thighs.

When you whimper at the contact, he rolls you onto your back gently but firmly, settling between your legs. His eyes fall down to your core, puffy and swollen, glistening with a mix of his saliva and your cum.

His cock presses against your entrance, already slick from sliding it through your folds. He leans down to kiss you as he starts to push inside slowly.

You let out a quiet moan, feeling the way he stretched you out perfectly. He breaks from the kiss to watch himself slide into you inch by inch. His eyes roll back at how good you feel, your walls still fluttering from earlier.

When he fully bottoms out, he lets out a shuddering breath. He pauses for a moment to let you adjust to his size. Once he feels you relax around him, he begins to move slowly, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in.

His thrusts are deep and steady, hitting that spot that makes your toes curl, moaning for more. He captures your mouth again, swallowing your sweet sounds as he picks up the pace. His arms rest on the sides of your head as your hands hold onto his bicep.

The sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room along with your muffled cries. His thumb finds your sensitive clit, rubbing rough circles as he pounds into you. The angle changes as he sits up completely, hitting that spot dead-on with every thrust.

"You wanna ride me? Be my good girl and ride me," he says in between breaths, pulling out completely. He rolls onto his back and pulls you on top of him. You don't hesitate to immediately straddle him and sink down onto his thick cock.

He groans at the sight of you bouncing on his dick, tits bouncing with each movement. His hands slide up to squeeze your breast as you continue to grind him, fingers pinching your nipples.

"Heeseung, I'm so close," you cry out, hands flying to his shoulders as an anchor as he sits up, capturing your nipple in his mouth. His hand reaches between you, pinching your clit, knowing it would have you coming undone in any second.

He feels you getting tighter around him, your movements becoming jerky and desperate. He releases his lips from your nipples and captures your mouth in a messy kiss, swallowing your whimpers as he thrusts from below. You can feel the way his tip kisses your cervix, one second away from seeing white.

Your pussy starts to clench around him, your breathing becoming rigid against his lips. He thrusts up hard, holding you against him when your walls flutter, your head falling forward to rest on his shoulder while you orgasm. Your orgasm triggers his own release as you feel streams of hot cum shoot along your walls, his hands squeezing your ass as he finishes inside you.

Heeseung, still heavy inside you, groans softly as your breathing starts to settle. You stay pressed together, letting the aftershocks ripple through your bodies.

You pull back slightly, resting your forehead against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of him beneath you.

Heeseung shifts so you’re both lying on your sides, his arm draping over your waist, fingers lightly tracing your back.

“Fuck… you’re incredible,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, but softer now, like he’s letting himself feel something more than lust. You hum in response, heart still racing, chest pressed to his.

A quiet pause lingers, the kind of silence that makes the world shrink to just the two of you. Heeseung’s thumb brushes over your hip repeatedly, like he’s testing the waters for what he wants to say.

“I—” he starts, hesitating, swallowing thickly. “I don’t… I can’t exactly say this, but… I think I might… like—love you. A lot.”

He immediately looks away, pretending it’s casual, but the tension in his jaw and the slight tremor in his voice betray him.

You lift your head, brushing your fingers across his cheek.

He leans into your touch, eyes closing briefly as if drawing strength from you. Then, he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead, holding you close.

“Just… don’t leave,” he murmurs, half-laughing, half-serious, and you can feel in the quiet of the room that he means it more than he’s willing to admit.

.✦ ݁˖

and, yeah, loser!jake feels bad about it. he feels bad about it before, when he palming himself through the fabric of his boxers. he really feels bad about it after, when he's sticky and panting, post-nut clarity hitting him like a fucking semi-truck. during, though? he feels great, like he's on a perverted cloud nine, drowning in wanton mental images of you.

loser!jake who you've unknowingly turned into a brainless gooner. how many hours of sleep has he lost to shooting blanks in the dark? shit, he's even falling behind on his assignments.

loser!jake'll try to get them done on time, but no matter what it is, his mind will immediately wander to you. how pretty your smile is. how soft your hair looks. how gentle your laugh sounds. and then... less innocent things. all of a sudden, he's back to square one: face flushed, glasses slipping down his face, abs sticky.

but what else is he supposed to do? it's not like loser!jake has any shot with you, right? you're completely out of his league, right? you'd never notice him, right? wrong, maybe.

loser!jake's luck seems to do a full one-eighty when you get randomly paired up with him for a physics project. it's the worst and the best thing to ever happen to him. the worst because he can't say more than two sentences at a time without choking up, and the best because, god, you're talking to him. you're actually talking to him.

loser!jake who doesn't think things can get better until they do. you give him your number and invite him to your dorm to work on the assignment. that's how he ends up in your room that thursday, hiding his boner with a computer on his lap.

loser!jake who's so quickly overwhelmed. everything about this space is so you. from the polaroids on the walls to the little trinkets on your desk. even the beanbag he's sitting on smells like you. he really thinks he might go insane. so, when you excuse yourself to find the charger in the living room, he can't help but snoop through your things.

loser!jake means for it to be harmless, at first. he just wants to know more about you, that's all. he's just curious. he figures that if he can't muster up the courage to ask you about yourself, there's other ways to attain answers. harmless, but it doesn't stay that way.

loser!jake who stumbles upon your panty drawer, and it all goes downhill from there. he picks one out, a soft ivory, and the fabric is soft to the touch. he can't even begin to imagine how beautiful you'd look in that. with a half-assed quick glance around the room, he pulls out his throbbing cock, smearing the pre-cum with his thumb.

loser!jake, who's so overstimulated from just being in a room with you, finishes so fast. he whimpers softly as his cum spills over his fingers, soaking into the fabric of your panties. light-headed and blissed-out, he shoves the pair into his backpack.

by the time you get back, loser!jake is flushed and sweaty, shyly asking you where the bathroom is, with a hand behind his back. with a sweet smile, you point down the hall and watch him leave.

loser!jake whose backpack is half-unzipped, and the lacy off-white catches your eye. when you peer closer, you realize exactly what they are—and what's on them, the tangy scent making heat coil low in your stomach.

covering your hand with your mouth, you stifle a giggle. loser!jake's such a freak.

As soon as he saw the Aston Martin DB9 Voltane, silver exterior, pink interior, with heavy damage in the front from most likely a rear end collision pull up, he knew exactly what kind of customer he was dealing with.

Wiping his hands on his jeans, the ones he has several pairs of, so he doesnt care if they get messy or not, he watches as you step out of the car. 

Predictable. Denim mini skirt, light pink baby doll top, hair freshly blown out, full face of makeup, and to top it off, playboy bunny heels.

He looks across the mechanic garage at Jay, who's already looking at him with a knowing eyebrow raised.

You grab your designer purse, looking around the garage, the smell of oil, and metal lingering in the air. You curse your father for making you do this by yourself. 

Watching as none of the workers here make any move to come forward and help you, you scoff. Typical of these low lifes.

“Does anyone actually work here?” You say, attitude leaking from your voice

He shakes his head stifling a laugh before making his way to you from across the garage.

You watch as a man, probably around your age approaches you, immediately noting how handsome he is, dark hair, defined features, cat like eyes that draw you in.

“How can we help you today?” He asks, tone calm, collected.

“Well clearly the bumper’s fucked up.” You say, hand signaling to the front of your car

His eyebrows raise slightly at your straight foward attitude.

“Yeah, I can see that.” His eyes drop to your tits for a split second, how could he not when they're practically spilling out of your little top

“So I need you to like, fix it” You say like its the most obvious thing, which it clearly is.

He walks around to the front, crouching to look closer at the damage, you watch his face

“yikes..” He says through his teeth, making a slight panic bubble in your chest

“What?” You ask, urgently needing an answer

“This baby’s gonna need some work that's for sure.” He stands up, walking around the car to check for any more damage

“Sensors are definitely damaged, we’re gonna have to order a new bumper, for this specific car it could be hard to find one. You might need a new engine too.” He looks at you, reaching into the front seat, finger hovering over the hood button “May I?” you nod

He pops the hood before going back around to look at the engine, you watch as another man comes to look at it, he must also work here. “Shit– V12 too, that's gonna cost a fortune to fix” The third party adds.

“Since it uses aluminum body panels, it's going to be harder to fix than steel.” The first one says, hand rubbing his jaw in thought, you look at them confused as ever because you don't know what the hell they are saying.

“I don't even know what that means. Can you fix it or not?” You ask, crossing your arms over your chest, completely oblivious to the way you're pushing your tits up more, and to the way both of their gazes drop to look at them.

“Yeah, I can fix it. But it's not gonna be cheap.” He says

“How much?” You ask, tone uncaring, this is just information your father needs to know anyway.

“It's not definitely not minor damage, parts are probably gonna have to be shipped from out of state, so maybe around 20-25 grand?” He estimates in his head

You don't bat an eye, “How long will it take then?” You ask impatiently 

“Well it sure as hell isn't going to be ready tomorrow, I'm thinking 3-5 weeks.” He says calmly

“That's like almost a month!” practically shouting at him

“Like I said, parts from out of state.” He adds, watching the way you pull out your phone, swiping frantically on it, you don't excuse yourself before walking a good 5 feet away to call your father.

He picks up on the 4th ring 

“Yes Y/n?” he says, bothered 

“Dad, they said it's going to take almost a month to fix it!” You say in your phone, completely unaware of how Jungwon and Jay can hear your conversation perfectly clear.

Typical, you have no sense of space either.

“Well that's what happens when you get your car wrecked.” he says

“But I can't survive a whole month-”

“Well you're going to have to, maybe if you weren't so careless with your speeding, and texting while driving, you wouldn't be in this situation at all.” You quiet down as he continues

“Ill have the driver pick you up, sign whatever papers they give you. You have my card right?” 

‘Yes.” You reply clipped, anger seeping in your tone

“Use it. I don't care for the cost” He adds, you hear the sound of papers shuffling in the back, knowing that the reason for his straight forward attitude is because he's at his office. 

“Fine.” 

“And y/n?”, "Don't be rude.” He adds before hanging up the phone, you bring it down to look at the screen, scoffing before shoving it in your bag and walking back towards the annoyingly hot workers.

They are both looking at your engine when you walk back towards them, you watch the first one look up, before he tells the other one to grab the papers.

He comes back with a clip board and hands it to you with a pen, you scan it, looking at the first box, ‘Mechanic Name’, you look up at him

"What's your name?” tone bored

“Jungwon.” He says, you repeat the name in your head. Leaning against the side of your car to fill out the rest of the form, rolling your eyes as you check off the boxes for the reasoning of your visit. The other worker is already back working on one of the other cars.

You hand him the clipboard without a word, watching his eyes skim over it before he lets a smirk show, what the fuck is he smirking at.

“What?” You ask rudely, making him stifle a laugh. 

“Nothin’ I just knew it’d be a rear end.” He says, pulling out a business card from his pocket

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” Your nostrils flaring at the way he’s speaking to you.

“Just means girls like you are predictable.” He watches your face, ignoring the glare you’re giving him before continuing “Let me guess, you were on your phone”

You open your mouth to speak, to defend yourself but close it, because that's the exact reason why. He grins at that, knowing he’s right.

“Right. I'm gonna see exactly what she’s gonna need, and I'll message you the exact cost so you can come back and pay.” He says, handing you his business card

You take it reluctantly, hating the fact that you actually have to come back here again. You look down at the way his hand is still held out, looking down at the oil stained flesh in disgust before glancing up at his ridiculously perfect face

“What? Do you want me to hold your hand or something?” 

He chuckles lightly, “I need the car keys, princess.” You hide your embarrassment, obviously he needs the keys. You lean into your car, bending enough that your mini skirt rises slightly higher than necessary, revealing the pink lace panties from Victoria's Secret's spring collection, he ignores the way his cock jumps at the sight.

You hand him the keys, he looks down at them, resisting the urge to laugh at your key chains, the mini chanel heel, to the pink fluffy pom pom ball, before bring them down, finger hooking around the key ring

“kay’ so is that all?” You ask impatiently, kitten heel tapping on the ground lightly, “For now.” He says, shamelessly dropping his eyes to your glossy lips before turning around and walking back to his tool table.

You roll your eyes, making sure you grabbed everything out of your car before walking out of the garage, the faint smell of oil sticking to you. Yeah you're taking a long shower when you get home. 

“Y’know, you could've just got her card on file” Jay mutters, walking over to him

“Whats the fun in that?” Jungwon says, looking at the papers you signed, y/n. Pretty name.

-

People often referred to you as the ‘spoiled daddy’s girl’ type, to be fair you didn't deny it. Your father did spoil you rotten, after all he was one of the wealthiest men in the country. Obviously you took advantage of it, from the designer clothes, and bags, your whole closet screamed it. Your friends were rich too, naturally. You didn't want to surround yourself with people who leech off your money.

It had been three days since you saw your car, three days since you saw that sexy ass mechanic.

So what if you wore this outfit just for this specific occasion, you weren't completely clueless. You could tell when a man knew how to fuck, simply by his attitude, and Jungwon was screaming big dick energy.

You reapply your shiny lipgloss on your lips, as your driver pulls up to the shop. Looking down at your outfit, from the tight denim shorts to the white baby tee, you purposely didn't put a bra on with.

You smile sweetly at your driver before stepping out, your dior bag in one hand, and strawberry beverage in the other before walking in the shop.

You look around the shop trying to spot Jungwon, he had messaged you that he was able to find all the parts, and needed to double check with you to confirm the payment.

You don't like when people make you wait either. 

“God, this place is fucking slow.” You say before walking to your car, you pause when you him stand up from working on the engine of your car

“Sorry to keep you waiting princess” He says, putting the wrench in his hand down, dusting his hands off and standing up, he’s wearing a white tank top. Biceps, those biceps are all you can think about right now.

He runs his hand through his hair, pushing the messy strands back before walking past you. You try not to act shocked when he doesn’t even glance at your outfit– guy’s would fucking kill to see you in this. 

You hesitate a beat before following him to what you're guessing is some kind of break room..looking around from the desk, to the couch, to the ash tray sitting on the table in the center.

“Is this like a man cave or something?” You ask, stepping in the room like the floor would burn you, he lets out a low chuckle before sitting down at his desk, and pulling up the website for you to pay. 

You look down at his concentrated face before leaning over his shoulder to get a better look at it, slightly brushing your tits on the side of his face. He freezes for a split second before speaking without looking at you. “I need your card.” 

Standing up straight you reach in your purse pulling out your fathers black card and handing it to him. He scoffs, typing the numbers in “Daddy’s money huh?” He says, voice low before handing it back to you.

You roll your eyes, but you don't deny it either.

“Alright that's all I need from you.” He says, standing up and going back out to the main garage, passing Jay as he works on the engine for another customer. 

You watch him walk away, tossing your finished beverage in his office trashcan "That's all?” You say approaching him again.

“What do you mean ‘thats all’?” He turns to look at you

“You came here for somethin’ else princess?” Using that nickname again. 

He lets his eyes fall to your body, he knew you weren't wearing a bra the second he saw you. Not to mention those tiny shorts that don't leave shit to the imagination.

You must be fucking desperate to shown up looking like that here.

“No–I just thought” You huff out a frustrated breath, before pulling out your phone to text your driver to come back. 

He looks over your shoulder, no sign of Jay. He probably went to the office to smoke anyway.

“Thought what?” He watches the way you shove your phone in your bag, irritation on your features, even though he knows exactly what you thought. Plenty of girls think the same thing.

When you cross your arms over your chest like a spoiled brat he chuckles. “Thought I’d want you just cause’ you show up looking like a slut?” 

Your face switches from irritation to straight up anger “Fuck you-” 

“Yeah I'm sure you’d want that huh?” He smirks, not missing the way your nipples harden under his stare

You look past his shoulder to see the familiar black SUV pull up before looking back at him in his stupid tank top that shows off his stupidly big biceps.

You know what, fine. You're not wasting any more time on this asshole. 

“Dont scratch my car.” You say before walking out, he watches the way your hips sway, your ass begging to be let out of those tight shorts, pushing his tongue against his cheek before getting back to work on your car.

-

“You have got to be kidding me.” It had been a week since you last saw him. Yet here he is, at your favorite club..dancing.

You look at the girl he’s dancing with, the way she slides her hand under his shirt–of course he has fucking abs.

You're pulled from your thoughts when your friend taps your shoulder “Girl, what's going on?” 

“What? Nothing, I just need a drink. Bad.” You walk to the bar, flashing a smile that has the bartender immediately catering to you. 

You can't help but let your eyes stray back to the dance floor, to see Jungwon's hands on that bitches waist, smiling against her ear. You try to ignore the ting of jealousy you feel, what does she have that you don't?

After downing whatever your friend ordered for the both of you, and something more, you turn to face her “I wanna dance” you say, dragging her on the dance floor with you

You don't miss the look of recognition that passes along his face when he sees you walking towards the dance floor, the surprise making you grin.

Took less then 3 minutes to feel a pair of strong hands on your waist, you recognize the rough look of them immediately.

“Got bored of that little whore?” You say, purposely grinding your ass back against him

He chuckles against your ear, “Jealous?”

You scoff at that, which makes him tighten his hands on your waist, for a mechanic he sure can move his hips, hitting every beat with each roll against your body 

“You wanted it to be you huh?” he whispers, voice low

“Why would I voluntarily want to grind against your small dick?” you snap, earning a low chuckle from him

“Small?” He says turning you around to face him “Princess, I promise you nothing about my dick is small.” 

“Yeah?” You say, brow raised, looking up and down his form like he was your next Chanel purchase, “Prove it.” 

He smirks looking down then looking back up at your face, “You asked for it.” He rests his hand on your lower back before leading you two out of the club, you look at him curiously before he drags you into an empty alley, you can still hear the music from out here.

“What? Are you gonna fuck me here?” Your face shows irritation. Even though your heart is nearly beating out of your chest.

“No.” He watches your face, stepping closer till your faces are less than an inch apart, the rough brick of the club building digging into your head.

He trails his lips along your neck, breathing your scent in. You can't help the shivers that go down your spine, and straight to your core at the attention

He presses his hardening cock against your thigh, your breath slightly hitches at the contact

“You feel that?” He whispers against your neck

“What’s that, like 2 inches?” still not letting go of your bitchy attitude.

He chuckles low, but it's not jokingly, it's dangerous, knowing.

“Get on your knees, brat.” you hesitate a second before lowering yourself on the hard concrete. He almost could laugh at how quickly you listen

“Look at you, spoiled rich girl on her knees.” He looks down at you, the way your face is asking for specific instructions

“Go on.”

You hate that your hands are shaking when you lift them to unbuckle his belt, your tongue darting out to lick your lips before you look up at him, he nods, watching as you pull down his jeans and boxers in one go.

You nearly gasp at the way his thick, flushed cock springs out, slapping his abdomen with how long it is. Definitely not 2 inches. 

“You really are a slut huh? On the ground in the middle of some alley, just to suck dick.” He caresses the side of your face, in such a gentle way you would think he’s comforting you, his thumb swipes over your bottom lip urging you to open your mouth

You stick out your tongue for him, letting him stick his thumb down your throat, closing your lips around it, he pushes it in farther earning a small gag from you

“Oh sweetheart, if you can't handle this, how will you take my cock?” He says condensendly, pulling his thumb out of your mouth and wiping it on the side of your face.

His eyebrows raise slightly when you wrap your hand around the base of his cock, and bring him closer to your mouth before wrapping your lips around the tip, the taste of his pre cum coating your tongue. He lets out a groan at how warm your mouth is, his hand coming down to grip your hair in his hand.

“Suck it like the slut you are.” His mouth hangs open slightly as he looks down at you

You mumble around his dick before taking more of him in your mouth, curling your toes in your heels to not gag, because then you would be proving his exact point.

Closing your eyes to concentrate, you take him slightly deeper, you whine when you see he’s not even fully in your mouth, making him chuckle at your desperate state.

“Let me help you out, yeah?” he says before gripping the back of your head harder and thrusting his cock into your mouth further, till your nose kisses his pelvis, he lets the most guttural groan at the way your throat convulses around his length, his other hand coming up to steady himself on the brick wall behind you.

You brace your hands on his thighs, gagging around his cock, before he pulls it out of your mouth, looking down at the way your saliva coats it, “Who’s small now huh?” He doesn't give you time to reply before shoving himself back in your mouth, biting his lip at the way you attempt to adjust to the length. 

You look up at him, the way his head is thrown back, the slight shine of his sweat coating his neck, before moving your hand down to cup his balls in your hand, the sound he lets out is fucking insane. 

“F-fuck–yeah just like that” He breathes out, watching the way you sloppily take him in your mouth, You swirl your tongue around the base, before sucking on the head of his cock sharply, massaging his heavy balls in your hand, when his grip on your hair loosens slightly, you know hes about to come.

“Can you s..swallow like a good girl for me?” He says through a moan, the vibration that comes from your mouth is your answer, he brings his hand down from the wall, gripping the back of your head with both his hands, before pushing himself deep in your throat, making you gag as he spills his warm load into you. He tries to stifle how loud he is, but fails miserably, he looks down at you, pulling his cock out of your mouth slowly, watching the way you swallow his come.

“Fuck that was hot.” He lets go of your hair, admiring the fucked out look on your face

“Should’ve came on your face though.” He says, stepping back, tucking himself in his pants and fixing his belt. 

You stand up wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, fixing the way your mini dress slid up your thighs

“That's all?” you ask, watching him finish buckling his belt before looking at you

He steps closer until your back hits the wall, lips ghosting over yours, you close your eyes slightly, waiting for the kiss, he smirks at that.

“I still have a car to work on sweetheart.” He says slyly, pulling back, not sparing you a glance before he walks out of the alley way. Leaving you, confused, and absolutely soaked. And that just won't do. 

-

You've been told countless times before that you have no shame, but you say it's just because you're bold. You know what you want, and you'll get it no matter what.

Which is exactly why you went back to the mechanic shop, claiming you left something in your car and needed it urgently. When you really just wanted to slip a little something into the center console, and you did just that.

“Jungwon” You watch as he works on your car's engine, sleeves rolled up, hair slick with sweat due to the spike in temperature today.

“Princess.” He replies back, casually. Like this is normal

“I think there's something wrong inside the car, can you look at it?” You ask sweetly, feigning innocence as he looks into the car, eyebrow raised

The vibration of your phone takes your attention, your drivers here. “You’ll know when you find it” You offer that smile that makes men go weak in their knees before walking out of the garage.

He watches you walk away, confusion etched on his face before looking in the cup holder, the second he opens the center console he feels the heat rush to his dick. His fingers wrap around the delicate lace.

He couldn't help but bring them to his nose throughout the day, just to inhale your scent, he swears he could get high off it.

Fine then. If you want to offer yourself on a golden platter to him, then he’s going to take it.

-

9:34

Jungwon: Your cars ready

You: Okay?

He chuckles down at his phone, already sensing your attitude through the damn screen

Jungwon: So, you can pick it up

You: Isn’t it a little late for me to come

Jungwon: Come get your car y/n.

You cant help the small laugh the slips past your lips at the message

You: Fine.

Yes, you purposely aren't wearing panties under your mini skirt, because if you're right, then you're not going to need them. 

The main garage doors of the shop are closed, so you opt for the regular one, the lights are slightly dimmer then usual, but you also haven't been here at night before. You pass by the other cars in the garage, the silence being odd for a place like this, except for the sound of your heels clicking on the ground with every step you take to your car.

Its completely fixed. The bumper is brand new, it honestly looks how it did when your father first bought you it.

You walk around the front of the car to take a closer look, when something solid, No. Someone solid presses against you, a gasp slips past your lips at the contact

“Can’t believe you actually came princess” He says, smiling against the back of your ear, his breath on your skin making you shiver

“You said the car was ready, so obviously I did.” You roll your eyes, even though he cant see it. But he senses it.

His hand trails down your body, resting on your lower stomach “Is that why you're not wearing any panties?” He asks, voice low, a rasp in it you recognize from the alley

“Coming in here with your pussy out. Like a slut. You're lucky it's only me here tonight." He brings his hands back up, cupping your tits in his hand

The filthy words he’s saying only making you all the more wet. You can feel the slick dripping on your inner thigh

A breathy sound slips past your slips as he kneads the flesh in his hands over your tank top “I knew they’d feel like this too” He pulls your tank top neckline down so he can really feel you, the way it slightly pushes your tits up more makes his dick harden in his jeans. “So fuckin’ soft” He knips at your ear before pinching your nipples with his fingers, you whimper at the touch

“Aw, so sensitive already?” He smirks, rutting his hips against your ass, making you have to brace one of your hands on the hood of your car

“Just..F-fuck me already” You say through a breathy moan as he bounces your tits in his hands

He laughs at that, actually fucking laughs. Nothing is funny when you’re in this state of desperation, in need of being filled so badly.

“God, you're actually so desperate it's embarrassing” He says, before pushing you down against the hood of your car, earning a gasp that sounded a whole lot like a moan from you.

He just looks down at you for a second, spoiled rich girl bent over your own fucking car, at his mercy. “Are you just gonna stand there-” You don't even get to finish your sentence when he yanks your skirt down your legs, the air hitting your pussy immediately

You spread your legs the best you can, just to show off for him. “Holy shit, it looks like you fucking pissed yourself” He drags a finger through your folds, collected the slick on his fingers, making you moan into the cold steel of your car

“I knew you’d be this wet, could smell it the second you walked in.” he says, plaming your ass in his hand, making your body jolt when you feel a sharp slap “The fuck-” You start but immeditly shut up when he pinches your clit inbetween his fingers

“Got even more wet from that huh? You like this shit.” He chuckles low before landing another sharp slap to your ass, the sound echoing in the garage

He soothes the burn with his hand, you look behind you, straining your neck when you see him get on his knees behind you, he’s not even looking at your face, his gaze is right on the way your hole clenches around nothing

He spreads your ass just to get a better look, you push yourself back against his face slightly “Stop being greedy.” He says, the tone in his voice asserting his authority, how much power he has in this right now.

You dont have time to come up with a bratty reply when he licks a strip up your pussy, collecting your juices on his tounge “knew you’d taste this fucking good too” He mutters into your pussy before burying his nose in your folds, absolutely inhaling your scent, his dick throbbing in his pants. “Oh my–fuck..” You breathe the words out at the feeling of his nose aligning perfectly. 

He smiles against your pussy before plunging his tongue in your hole making your hands attempt to claw at the hard surface beneath you, “Jungwon-!” You yell out, when his thumb comes up to rub small circles on your clit

He flicks his tongue against you, enjoying the way you squirm

“Want you to come like this” He mumbles into your cunt, fucking his tounge in and out of you at a criminally fast speed

You’re a moaning mess against the car, his name on your lips everytime you’re able to speak.

“m’ gonna come–” You breathe out as his finger speeds up its teasing on your sensitive bud, your juices are dripping on his chin, he sucks whatever you give him, the tight pressure making your legs tremble

If you weren’t bent over this car right now you’d definitely collapse.

You cry out when his tongue hits deep inside you, flicking in your pussy as you come on his face, he presses his thumb against your clit as he licks everything, taking his mouth off your cunt with a pop. 

You’re slouched against the car, knees weak trying to comprehend what the fuck just happened.

He stands up, licking his lips, not giving you any time to react before he flips you onto your back, “No thank you?” He tilts his head to the side slightly, studying your face

You look at him like he has two heads, even when you’re spread infront of him like his next meal, you still have a fucking attitude.

“Oh, but you want me to fuck you right?” He scoffs, before stepping closer to you, fitting right between your legs.

If he just presses against you more, you'll feel the hard bulge in his pants that you can see so clearly right now.

You nod at his question

“You’re so fucking spoiled.” He says before leaning down against you, rocking his hips into you, letting his clothed dick grind on your pussy

You whine at the feeling. He presses small kisses to your neck, trailing up your jaw, he watches your face, the way your eyebrows furrow, like it’s killing you that he’s not inside you right now.

He doesnt think before pressing his lips to yours, Its not sweet, or loving, its fucking unhinged.

You immediately let him in, arms coming up to wrap around his neck to pull him closer, his chest brushing against your hardened nipples, when his hand comes up to twist them in his fingers you moan into his mouth. “Fuck me Jungwon- please” you cry out desperately making him smile

“Yeah? Spoiled brat wants to be fucked on her fancy car?” He looks down at you as you nod frantically

“Words or else you're not getting shit.” He stands up straight, sliding off his shirt with practiced ease before unbuttoning his pants and pulling them down, along with his boxers.

You watch as his cock hits his abdomen, the tip flushed red, you practically drool at the sight of it, at the familiar memory of sucking him off , a memory that has replayed every night since.

“Yes, I want you to fuck me, right here—please” Your face mimicks a pout that has him bringing his hand down to stroke himself in his hand 

“Like the slut you are?” He presses, wanting to hear you say more

“Only for you” You say, biting your lip at the way he squeezes his length in his hand

You watch him line the head of his cock with your hole,coating his dick in your arousal from earlier, and the new wetness thats fomed since, you’re so fucking easy to get wet its insane.

He brings his hand to hold down your hips, to anchor himself before he slides into your pussy, he watches as you squirm, trying to adjust to his cock, his mouth hangs open as he bottoms out,

“You’re so tight holy shit-” He breathes out, doing small movements with his hips to get you to adjust better

You can't even think right now with the way he’s stuffing you so full. He pulls out slowly before stamming back into you, watching the way your tits bounce at the movement.

“mmm..faster “ You say through a moan, he thrusts into you slow, teasing, even if it is taking everything in him to not absolutely drill into your tight cunt.

You let out a frustrated sound, that has his eyes leaving where you two connect, and up to your face, He thrusts into you harder, just see your tits bounce, before he brings his hand up from your hip to squeeze one in his hand. “You want me to go faster?” He asks, voice rough, strained.

“Yes–fuck-” You nearly scream when he delivers a harsh slap to your tit, the sting making you arch your back off the car, He smirks down at you, as the flesh turns a light shade of pink

“Use your manners.” He smooths over the flesh with his hand, fingers grazing lightly over your nipple

“Please..faster Jungwon–please.” You whine out, thats all it takes before hes lifting your leg to rest on his shoulder and ruthlessly pounding into you.

You cant even keep your eyes open as he fucks into you, the only sound being the ones coming from both of your mouths, and your wet pussy squelching around his cock as his balls slap your ass over and over again.

He watches the tears that swell in your eyes “Are you fucking crying?” He teases, thumb coming up to swipe the tear threatening to fall.

He feels the way your hole flutters around his cock, “S-shit princess” He groans out, leaning down to take you in his mouth, you immediately kiss him back

he swallows the moans you let out, letting you wrap your legs around his hips to pull him imposisbly closer

“I-im gonna come–fuck-” You manage to say, moaning into his mouth like a damn pornstar.

“Fuck yeah, come on my cock princess” He says through desperate pants of his own, when he feels you clench down even harder he thrusts into you deeper, letting your pussy suck in his cock as you reach your high, the feeling making him shoot his warm load inside of you, the sounds that leave both your mouths completing it.

His head is buried in the crook of your neck, you feel him start to soften inside you, a major part of you proud of yourself for making him come.

“That was–fuck, you’re perfect.” He whispers, pulling out slowly, the sensitivetly making you wince slightly, using his hands to help him get up, he looks down at you, the fucked out expression on your face before grabbing his jeans and putting them on, you watch him, before moving to get up but he stops you “What are you doing?” he looks at you like you're crazy “I- I was going to leave..” You say sitting up

“No you’re not.” Is all he says before picking up his shirt and using it to clean you “What-” 

“Im not a complete asshole princess.” He mutters, fixing your tank top and grabbing your skirt from the ground

“Plus, I want you to come back.” he adds, watching you put your skirt on

“To fuck?” You ask, tucking a strand of hair behind your ears

He can't help the small smile that paints his lips, watching you act like this, so clueless.

“And incase you rear end someone else.” he shrugs, watching the way your face instantly changes to irritation

“You fucking-” he pulls you to him, shutting you up with a hard kiss against your lips before pulling back

“Dont finish that sentence, because im perfectly fine with fucking you dumb again.” He warns, tone serious

That familiar playful look on your face tells him everything he needs to know, as you finish what you were saying.

-

Yesyesyes freaky won give him to me NOW

you never took your parents seriously when they said they’d send you to live with your grandparents on their farm when you misbehaved as a kid ; you knew they were bluffing — they clearly had other plans once you turned 21 and they no longer trusted you to be home alone during summer break.

“last time we let you have the house to yourself while we went on vacation, we came home to a hole in the wall and our liquor cabinet was empty , even the cheap stuff.” you cringed as your father laid it out clear as day. “okay that was once , i was 18 and dumb.” you said hoping that would work. “not much has changed , except you can now do that stuff legally and not use our alcohol.” you whined hearing your mother. “okay so put cameras up , something — not send me to a farm with dirty animals , and dirt.” your mom rolled her eyes. “you mean your grandparents' house , we’re not sending you to a camp , don’t be dramatic.”

“i’m not being dramatic , i’ve been there twice and the times i have been terrible things have happened.” you exclaimed , recalling the time you were chased by a gang of chickens at 6 , and then at 16 you were kicked by a horse. “and you were fine both times.” you scoffed. “the horse bruised my tailbone.” safe to say you hated your grandparents farm. “look your grandparents are getting older and they need help.”

“can’t they hire help?” you said. “well in fact they did hire help a group of boys who often come by and help out , but that’s just on the farm , they need help buying their groceries and stuff , plus they miss their granddaughter when’s the last time you called them?” you tried to think back. “ah last month , i called grandma to thank her for my birthday card.” your parents stared at you. “when it didn’t benefit you?” you were silent — damn that had you. “exactly , you’re going , who knows you might have fun.” you scoffed , folding your arms with a pout. “no i don’t think i will , but i love my grandparents so i’ll pretend i am for their sake.” you spun around , stomping back up the steps to pack. “what the hell do i even pack? im a city girl.” you looked at your closet.

a few weeks later you found yourself on a plane leaving the comforts of the city — the big buildings , the tons of people rushing to their next stop — to dirt , and grass and animals running around everywhere , those wrenched chickens watching you.. the very same horse who kicked you stood in its stall. “i hate it here already.”

you weren’t a monster , you were happy to see your grandparents , it really had been a while. “oh my god it will be such a fun summer now that you’re here.” your grandmother exclaimed with joy. “yeah.” you said looking around at their very vintage house; the small tv sitting in the living room , outdated mix-match furniture. “sorry we don’t have wifi here , we don’t really see a need for it , it’s just us and well heeseung , but he doesn’t really care for things like that.”

“who’s heeseung?” you asked following your grandmother into the kitchen. “he’s one of the boys who helps out on the farm , he lives down the road.” she said , patting the chair. “sit.” she said. “you hungry?” you nodded. “well sit tight dear, i’ll make you something.” you looked around the dog that was probably older than you laying in its bed , the cat walking in between your legs. “how old is this heeseung?” you asked , picking at the bowl of grapes she sat out for you. “26 i think , a little bit older than you , his grandmother is a good friend of mines and he needed something to do to keep out of trouble , so he helps out sometimes .. he’s out there helping your grandfather right now , even though i told your grandfather to cool it down he doesn’t listen.” she went on a tangent , but you were hardly listening , scrolling on your phone , praying to get a bit of signal. “is that who i think it is?”

you smiled hearing your grandfathers voice , looking up. “well aren’t you the cutest thing i’ve ever seen.” you stood up , wrapping your arms around the elderly man. “should you be out there doing all that? you aren’t as young as you think you are.” you put your hand on your hip. “i still feel like im still 21.” he joked , dancing around making you laugh. “are we gonna try again with the horses again?” you frowned , poking your lip out. “definitely not that old black one out there.” you said sitting back down. “hey now , she’s a nice girl , just a little rough around the edges.”

“more like evil and dangerous.” you mumbled , letting the cat jump into your lap — the screen door opening up. “heeseung is that you?” your eyes went to the door. “yes ma’am.” he was gorgeous , like a boy you saw in the city on a friday night and then never saw again much to your disappointment. “you hungry , sit and eat.” he finally turned to you. “oh that’s just my beautiful granddaughter.” your grandfather said. “she’s a city girl, here to spend the summer with us here on the farm.”

“nice to meet you.” he said with no warmth in his tone. “i can’t stay today ma'am, my grandmother needs her barn door fixed , but im sure jungwon or jake will be down here today to give the horses their feedings and i’ll be back tomorrow to give them their baths and clean the stables.” he said. “tell her i said hello and to come over anytime , and if she needs anything from town yn can surely do it.” you turned to your grandmother. “am i delivery service now? i don’t even remember how to get there.” you said. “oh i’m sure you can figure it out , you figured out how to unlock the liquor cabinets in your parent home didn’t you?”

you lowered your head , cheeks warm with embarrassment. “you didn’t have to bring that up.” you mumbled. “i’ll let her know.” he gave you one last look before leaving out. “cute isn’t he?” your grandmother sat the plate of food in from of you. “he’s alright , doesn’t say much.” he was more than alright , he was fine — he was fuckable , if every boy in this small town looked like that living here wouldn’t be a problem. “he’s just shy probably he’s normally talkative to me and your grandpa.”

“so he doesn’t like me, is what you’re saying?” you scoffed. “no , but you stand out from everybody here , he’s probably just has to get use to you.” your grandfather said. “now eat up and get some rest. you have a long day tomorrow , those chickens aren’t gonna feed themselves .” your eyes widened. “oh please any other animals, those aren’t chickens , they're devils who should be fried.” he laughed. “aren’t you gonna let that go? we told you to stay away from the chicken coop while they were eating.” you took a bite of your food. “i still have the scar , no i won’t forget it.”

between the flight and the meal; it was only right if you crashed right into bed— sleeping through the entire night peacefully. “get up!” you grandfather opened the bedroom door, his voice booming as he flickered the light on. “time to feed the chickens.” you groaned. “it’s like 10 in the morning and it’s summer.” you sat up groggily. “yes that means we’re late , quickly get dressed,” he said. “your grandmother heard you were coming and bought you some boots.” he pointed to the box. “she paid $200 for those dang things, i told her you could wear a pair of your mothers old boot but she insisted you’d like these better.” you picked up the box , opening them — revealing the baby pink boots. “oh my god these are so cute.” you squealed in delight. “yeah yeah, put them on and put them to use.” he said. “hurry.”

you took your shower , getting dressed before making your way downstairs. “your grandpa is out there working , you eat first then feed the chickens.” you sat down , patting the old dog. “me and your grandpa are going into town later with some friends so you’ll be here alone , but heeseung will be here in the stables working.” you bit down on some toast. “around 1:30 take him out some water and a sandwich that i packed in the fridge— i made you one two , make sure to eat it.” you nodded , hearing half. “yn! chickens! now!” you groaned. “him and these damn chickens.” mumbling standing up. “little devil spawns.”

you really didn’t have much to do; luckily your grandparents cut you some slack; only giving you chores such as cleaning the house and feed the chickens and house animals. “heeseung and the boys handles the rest.” well thank heavens for heeseung and the boys because there’s no way you could’ve imagine shoveling horse shit with your manicure. “don’t forget.” your grandmother said , rushing your grandfather out the door. “i know i know.. 1:30 feed and water the stable boy.” you waved them off. “i got it , go have fun.”

okay so you didn’t end up going at exactly 1:30 — more like 3 , but you could shake the smell of chicken and the farm off of you no matter how long you stood under the scolding water. “shit this lotion better fix this.” you grumbled , rubbing the lotion on your skin. “i can take a lot of things , smelling like animal poop is not one of the.” you sat in your underwear , looking at the clock. “oh shit!” you jumped up. “i forgot to give him his food.” you looked through your bag to find something to wear. “this will do.”

you slipped the boots on before grabbing the sandwich and the water , opening the front door. “go go , you little devils.” you kicked at the chickens. “if you bite me i promise you’ll be the first one deep fried.” you grumbled out threats as you made it to the tables , hold the sandwich and the water. “hello?” you stuck your head inside — no one. “well where the hell is he?” you looked around , the horse in their personal stalls. “it’s been a while.” you came faced to face with the horse that kicked you. “you still mean?” the horse huffed. “of course you are , why don’t you like me?” you said holding the sandwich. “i did nothing to you , i was 16 and minding my own business!” you exclaimed. “i actually thought you were the cutest , but you’re so evil.”

“where you standing close behind a voice.” a voice startling you , making you jump. “oh fuck you scared me!” heeseung stood there confused at your reaction. “what did you say?” he walked into the stable. “i said where you standing behind her , horses can’t see you if you are.” he said. “i can’t really remember that it was years ago.” you said , remembering what you were out here for. “here.” you handed him the food and drink. “my grandma told me to come give you this at 1:30.” you smiled as he took it. “it’s 3:00.” was all he said , you frowned. “i got caught up in the shower i was trying to get rid of the smell of the farm off my skin.”

heeseung stared at you; looking at your outfit , all pink shorts with a baby pink tank top and pink boots. “you didn’t have any jeans?” he asked. “it’s summer.” you said. “yeah and you’re on a farm , those little shorts aren’t doing shit.” he bit the sandwich , his forehead was sweating profusely. “they’re cute though.” you clearly never spent time on the farm and heeseung could tell. “are you cleaning?” you said , watching him; he finished off the sandwich. “i have to clean the horses.” he said , raising his arms up a bit to grab ahold of the big animal , the sliver of his stomach showing. “are you just gonna sit there and stare? you gonna help or run back into the house.”

you stayed — and immediately regretted it afterwards. “would you stay still?” you scolded the animal. “i’m trying to clean you , i can clean myself, you’re the one who can’t.” heeseung watched you fight with the animal , who couldn’t help but let out a little smile. “oh im glad you find this funny.” you groaned. “yeah because you clearly don’t know a thing about horses or being on a farm , you're a total city girl.” you glared at him. “i love the city , at least im not being bullied by an animal.” only for the horse's wet tail to slap you. “that’s it i’m done.” you threw the sponge down , about to walk away. “stay dirty.”

you were about to walk away when heeseung grabbed your hand stopping you. “don’t leave.” he said. “i promise you she’s not normally like this , she just has to get use to you.” he said , slowly letting your hand go , taking a step back. “she’s probably just used to me or your grandpa.” he said , quickly turning his eyes , coughing nervously. “your shirt.” he said. “huh?” the feeling of his hand still on yours. “your shirt , its…” he pointed. “it’s wet.” you looked down , your once white shirt now see through , your pink bra showing. “oh.” his cheeks were dusted pink. “i’m gonna change.” you said. “i won’t be here , i have to leave.” he said. “will you be back tomorrow?”

no he wasn’t supposed to work tomorrow , it was jake’s day — but he had a good time with you cleaning the horses , even if you did talk half the time and barely did anything. “fuck no i was i’m getting paid to fix that chicken coop , i need that money.” he said sitting at the table in the bar. “you don’t even want to do it.” heeseung said. “no i don’t , but i want the extra money.” jay came around , sitting the cups of beer down. “why are you so excited to work on the fair all of a sudden?”

“their hot granddaughter is living there for the summer.” jungwon spoke up. “i saw her briefly when i went to feed the animals her first night here.” jake turned to jungwon. “how hot?” he said , jungwon shrugged . “i’d work an extra day to see her.” heeseung rolled his eyes. “so you just want to get your dick wet?” he tapped on his chin. “i’ll give you the job.” he said , heeseungs eyes lit up. “pay me half.” his smile dropped. “you’re joking.” jake shrugged. “what did you expect him to say?” sunghoon stepped in; heeseung thought about it all — he thought about seeing you again , he thought about how he could clearly see your tits through your shirts. “fine.” jake smiled like he had just won the lottery. “well it’s done , good luck with fucking your bosses granddaughter.”

maybe you did have an extra pep in your step that morning — a little too happy to feed the devil spawn chickens. “what’s got you so happy?” your grandfather asked at breakfast. “can’t i just be happy to be here on the farm?” you said they looked at each other. “at least she won’t be mopping around here sad , let whatever it is continue to make her happy.” her grandmother shrugged , leaving you be.

“yn heeseungs here!” you shot up from the desk where you got enough service to scroll through tiktok — making your way down the steps , passing your sleeping grandpa. “take this to him , he’s fixing the chicken coop.” she handed you a glass of lemonade and a plate of cookies. “be careful.” you nodded , making your way out the house to the chickens.

it was hot , the sun beaming on his skin as he worked on the chicken coop; his hat blocking the sun. “i bought cookies!” he heard you round the corner of the barn. “and lemonade.” he took the cup from your hand , downing the cup. “here she made them fresh this morning with eggs made by these spawns.” he smiled as you mean mugged the chickens. “do you like any of the animals on the farm?” he questioned. “the fat pony that’s in the last stall and the old dog who can’t see and runs into my legs.” you smiled, making him laugh , picking up the cookie to eat , you took one too. “so…” you trailed off as he went back to fixing the coop. “i went into town this morning.”

“oh really you finally found the right way?” he said banging on the board. “no i sat in the passenger's seat , but that’s not the point.” you said with a teasing smirk. “and i met someone there.” he stopped. “who?” he turned to you. “his name is jake and he has a lot to say.” the damn bastard he was gonna kill him. “you are a liar , you didn’t have to work here today , it was his day.” you teased. “he said you were really eager to get to work.” he hammered in the last nail , getting down off the stepstool , making his way into the barn — you followed behind him with a smirk on your face. “did you want to see me?”

he turned around to face you. “you want a reaction out me don’t you?” you stepped closer , looking up at him , tilting your head to the side. “i do.” your hands reach for the ends of his shirt , lifting it a bit revealing his stomach. “be careful with what you wish for.” you finger tracing the vein on his stomach. “yeah?” you pouted. “or what?”

he grabbed your wrist and you found yourself pushed up against the wall of the barn. “is this what you wanted?” his forehead pressed against yours. “to push me past my limits?” you tried to free your hands , but he was stringer than you. “what did you expect to get out of it?” his lips ghosting yours. “kiss me please.” you said breathlessly. “of course , needy girl.” he pressed his lips against yours , pulling away before it could get deeper , nibbling at your bottom lip , you let out a whimper. “fuck if you keep making those noises— please touch me.” you were desperate , he didn’t let your wrist go , instead he held it above your head with his one hand , the other one dancing on your waist line. “where do you want me to touch?”

“hee— you don’t making the rules little girl.” he said. “if i ask a question or i leave you here needy for me.” his hand slipping into your jean shorts. “understand?” you nodded and his fingers grazed your clothed cunt. “you’re fucking dripping through your panties , have you been thinking about me fucking you after talking to jake?” you moaned as he moved your panties to the side. “answer me slut.” he pinched your clit. “ye-yes.” he smirked , his fingers slowly dipping into your cunt. “heeseung.” you moaned out , he fingers curling up as he fuck you. “fuck your so tight , gonna stretch you out with cock.” his cock twitching at the mere thought of feeling you. “fuck.”

you tightened around his fingers. “making such a mess you’re gonna cum for me?” he sped up his movement , your hips grinding on his hand. “hee-heeseung im gonn cum.” you whimpered. “cum , now.” your legs felt like they were gonna give out , shaking a you came undone. “look at you cumming like this for me , like a slut.” he pulled you down into his lap , sitting down on a stool. “want you to ride me.” he groaned , freeing his cock from its jeans. “you’re so big.” you wrapped your hands around it. “fu-fuck.” he sighed watching you stroke it. “oh fuck , stand up — take your pants off.”

you obeyed , taking your pants off , straddling his lap once again. “ be a good slut and sit on my dick.” he groaned as you sunk down on his cock. “ah fuck , you’re so fucking tight.” he groaned , holding your hips. “that’s it , good slut.” you fully sat down on him. “now ride my cock.” he slap your ass , your legs dangling off the side of his thighs. “oh shit , faster.” he groaned , holding the stool letting you bounce on your own. “fuck keep going.” he tried to match your movements , bucking his hips up. “fuck you feel so good.” he grunted , slapping your ass. “fuck such a tight pussy.”

“heeseung im gonna cum.” he rubbed your clit. “cum for me.” he groaned, feeling you clench around him. “shit!” you screamed out — dipping your head into his neck as you came , shaking in the boy's lap. “good fucking girl.” he he you held you hip , fucking up into you. “shit i’m gonna cum.” he squeezed you boobs. “oh fuck get on your knees.” you climbed off him , dropping on your knees watching him stroking his cock in front of your face. “ah fuck!” he grunted , cum shooting from his cock , landing on your cheek. “shit.” he threw his head back as he rode his high , tapping the tip of his cock on your lips. “next time i’m gonna fuck this slutty mouth of yours.”

“fucking in a barn is not something i thought i’d do on my third day here.” you said pulling your shirt back on your body — heeseung had to sneak into the house to get a rag to wipe your face. “how was it city girl?” he was leaning against the door. “the scenery? horrible i never want to fuck in front of a horse again.. however you were good .” he pulled you against him , his hands resting on your ass. “sorry princess, next i’ll make sure to take you to a five star hotel.” you rolled your eyes. “your bedroom is fine.” you said. “yeah i would so much rather fuck you into my mattress.” he kissed your lips , you nipped his bottom lip and he slapped your ass. “keep doing that and i’ll fuck you agaisnt this door right now.” his voice was deep.

maybe this summer wasn’t gonna be that bad after all …