3am

the music is way too loud to think straight, but not loud enough to stop jisung from leaning in every time he wants to say something that clearly doesn’t need to be whispered. his voice gets lost in the noise, but his breath doesn’t. warm, close, persistent against your ear, like everything else is irrelevant.

you’re sitting on his thigh like it’s the most natural thing in the world—because honestly, it is—barely holding onto his shoulder while people brush past you both without care.

his hand’s been on your waist for a while now, firm but absentminded, like he hasn’t realized he never took it away. or like he decided not to a long time ago.

“you’re heavy,” he murmurs, leaning in, his warm breath grazing your ear.

you laugh under your breath and shrug, not moving.

“then put me down,” you reply, turning your head just slightly to look at him.

he smiles at that, but doesn’t do anything to move you.

his thumb slides just a little over your waist, following a rhythm that isn’t quite the music. you shift on him, intentionally, feeling his leg tense beneath you for just a second. jisung lets out a quiet, restrained laugh.

“you’re taking advantage,” he says, but it doesn’t sound like a complaint.

“don’t see you doing anything to stop me.”

“that’s because i don’t mind.”

he says it fast. too fast. and that makes you smile. you rest your forehead against his for just a second, enough to feel the heat of his skin before pulling back to really look at him: cheeks slightly flushed, eyes bright, that look of his that shows up when he stops overthinking.

you see it shift. the way his eyes narrow slightly, how his smile tilts, how something crosses his mind and he decides to say it.

“there’s a theory,” he murmurs, like he just remembered something important, leaning in again.

“here we go…,” you say with mock annoyance, but you’re still looking at him, interested.

“listen,” he insists, lowering his voice a little, conspiratorial. “hyunjin once said that… everything that happens when you’re drunk doesn’t count.”

you blink slowly, trying to find the joke in his words. but there isn’t one, and that makes you laugh. stupid and a little too loud.

it’s not soft or subtle either. someone nearby even glances over, annoyed, but you don’t care. you never do when you’re like this with him.

“that sounds like an excuse to do dumb shit.”

“exactly!” he answers immediately, like that proves his point. “and that’s why it works.”

“works for what?”

jisung looks at you now, more serious for a second, even if that smile is still there, tucked into the corner of his lips.

this time he doesn’t look away, something steadier in his gaze, even if that cocky edge is still sitting there.

“to do whatever you want… without overthinking it.”

the small silence that follows isn’t awkward. it’s heavy, charged with that kind of ridiculous logic that, in that exact moment, starts to make way too much sense.

you tilt your head slightly, studying him like you’re actually considering it.

“and it doesn’t count?” you ask, repeating him.

“doesn’t count,” he confirms, without hesitation.

“not even if it’s a really bad idea?”

“especially if it’s a really bad idea,” he emphasizes, making that exaggerated expression you love.

your hand comes up to his jaw without thinking, guiding him just slightly closer, just because you can. because you always can.

“how convenient…,” you admit, letting your gaze drift over his face.

“it’s the perfect excuse,” he says, leaning in a little more.

you stay like that for a second. too close to be “just a joke,” but natural enough that no one questions it.

“so…,” you murmur, dragging the word out. “according to your theory…”

“our theory,” he corrects quickly.

“our theory…,” you repeat, a small teasing smile on your lips. “we could do anything right now.”

jisung doesn’t answer right away, but he doesn’t pull away either. if anything, his fingers tighten slightly on your waist, slipping just under the fabric, like he’s already testing the limits of his own idea.

“and it wouldn’t count,” he adds, raising his brows suggestively.

you look at each other for a few seconds and then, inevitably, you both laugh.

because it’s stupid. because it makes no sense. because it’s exactly the kind of decision that only exists in moments like this: music vibrating in your chest, alcohol warming your blood, confidence blurring every line that ever mattered.

“fine,” you say finally, shifting on him again. “let’s test it.”

jisung smiles—that mix of disbelief and anticipation that always shows up when he knows something’s about to go wrong… and still wants it anyway.

“and how?”

you lean in closer, enough to make him look up at you, closing the distance until it’s almost unbearable.

“by stopping the talking,” you murmur, your gaze dropping to his lips. “and doing something about it.”

the effect is immediate.

you see it in the way he blinks, how his expression falters for just a second before he pulls it back together. a low, disbelieving laugh slips out of him, like he’s trying to regain control he just lost for a moment.

“just like that?” he says, tilting his head. “you giving me orders now?”

“does it bother you?”

but you don’t wait for an answer. your hand is already at his neck again, firm, pulling him closer until your lips brush dangerously against his.

“doesn’t seem like it.”

jisung exhales a quiet laugh through his nose and swallows hard, but his grip tightens, less casual now. his fingers dig into your waist, pulling you in enough that you feel it, that there’s no space left between you that isn’t intentional.

“you’re playing dirty…”

“and i don’t see you stopping me.”

you watch him roll his eyes, that smile still there, and that’s enough to know you’ve got him exactly where you want him.

you tilt your head slightly, brushing your cheek against his, slow, deliberate, letting your lips pass just a little too close to his skin before moving up to his ear.

“then stop talking,” you whisper, feeling him shiver under your voice. “show me.”

and that’s it. that’s what breaks him.

you hear the low sound that slips out of him before he can stop it, almost a whine, and you feel it in the way his body reacts before he does.

his fingers slip under your shirt, brushing over the warm skin of your side. his eyes find yours, restless, a teasing smile pulling at his lips.

“don’t complain later,” he murmurs, turning his face just enough to invade your space.

the second between you is short, charged, electric. and then he leans in to seal it.

the kiss is direct, deep, like he’d been waiting for an excuse more than a moment. it catches you off guard for a second before you respond just as quickly, gripping him tighter, pulling him closer, leaving no space for doubt.

that’s all it takes.

he makes a muffled sound against your lips, his hands losing any pretense of casual as he pulls you in, grabbing your ass and settling you fully on top of him.

after that, there’s no pause. everything speeds up. messier, rougher, more intense. you barely pull away to breathe and he follows you immediately, not giving you that second, like pulling back isn’t an option.

“hey-” he starts, but his voice cuts off.

because you don’t let him think before you’re kissing him again, and this time there’s no hesitation, just response.

his hands move without care, finding you, holding you, while you do the same, pushing him back into the couch to deepen kisses that are turning wet, needy.

and then someone crashes into your back.

it pulls you apart just enough to look at each other. enough to notice your uneven breathing, your parted lips, that mix of laughter and something heavier, harder to ignore, hanging between you.

“this…,” jisung says, still too close, still a little gone.

“come with me.”

it’s not really a suggestion. you’re already pulling him, and jisung follows without resistance.

your hand finds his easily, fingers lacing together as you move through the crowd, bumping into people, laughing for no real reason, still carrying that same energy that hasn’t settled, just shifted.

“careful,” he says, laughing, but he doesn’t let go.

“you started it. deal with it.”

you make your way upstairs half stumbling, laughing at everything and nothing, the music fading behind you. the air shifts, the noise dulls, but the tension doesn’t.

you reach a random door, fumbling it open and pulling jisung inside while he laughs out loud.

and when the door closes, the party noise dulls into something distant, muffled, irrelevant. in here, it’s quiet, broken only by your still uneven breathing.

jisung doesn’t move. he stays a step away, looking at you like he’s only just now realizing where you are, like the silence gave him a second of clarity… or doubt.

it doesn’t last. it never does with you.

you push him against the door. not rough, but firm enough that there’s no space to question it. the dull thud barely echoes before you’re on him again, too close, taking up all the air he tries to breathe.

“you got quiet all of a sudden?” you murmur, tilting your head, your lips barely a breath from his.

jisung lets out a short, breathless laugh, still a mess, but his hands find you instantly, like they don’t know how to be anywhere else.

your hand comes back to his jaw, guiding him, making him look at you. you see it in the way he exhales, the way his eyes drop to your lips for a second before coming back up. darker now, less steady.

he kisses you with urgency, like that moment of doubt is gone for good, his hands pulling you closer, firm, needy, like getting back into it is all that matters.

and you don’t stop him, but you don’t let him take control either.

you keep him pinned there, guiding him without making it obvious, setting the pace in the way you move closer, the way you pull back just enough to make him follow, the way every breath he takes depends on your next move.

and jisung really tries to keep up, but it gets harder the moment your thigh slips between his legs, grinding against him.

you feel it in the way his breathing breaks first, the way his fingers tighten too much against your body, the way every time you pull back even a little, he chases you without thinking, like stopping isn’t an option.

your hands slide down from his neck, slow, certain. every touch intentional, every movement pushing him further off balance.

and he reacts to everything. not always with words, sometimes it’s just a low, half-held sound, or the way his head drops back against the door for a second, like he needs air, like he can’t decide whether to follow you or stop you.

your mouth brushes his skin, slow, deliberate, tracing a path that isn’t trying to be subtle. you feel him tense under you, his hands gripping without knowing where to settle.

and when you go back to his lips, it’s slow this time. no rush at first, just intention.

you set the rhythm, and jisung tries to follow, but he loses it again quickly, responding more on instinct than control, pulling you closer like it’s the only way not to fall behind.

his hands move again, this time not even trying to hold back, and you match him, keeping him right there, at that point where there’s no room left to question anything.

and that’s when the distance disappears completely.

at some point neither of you even notice, his jacket and shirt are gone. you only realize when your mouth stops meeting fabric and hits bare skin instead: warm, damp, way too reactive under your touch. you move down without rushing, but not gently either, leaving kisses that open, drag, turn into small sucks that make him tense beneath you.

jisung can’t stay still.

you feel it in the way he shifts constantly: one hand in your hair, tugging slightly, the other sliding down your waist to squeeze your ass with a need he’s not even trying to hide anymore. there’s no rhythm in him. just reaction and impulse.

and that pulls a smile from you against his skin.

you grab his neck and make him look at you, and when you kiss him again there’s nothing careful about it. it’s messy, wet, teeth knocking, breaths breaking, like neither of you wants to give up even a second. you’re not trying to make it pretty. just close. just more.

you step back without letting go and he follows without question, stumbling slightly until the edge of the bed stops him. you drop back onto it and let go just enough to look up at him.

he really is a mess. hair wrecked, lips swollen, chest rising too fast, skin marked by you, and that expression somewhere between disbelief and something much darker.

it only turns you on more.

jisung doesn’t hesitate this time. he’s back on you fast, messy hands pushing at your clothes, shoving them aside like they’re in the way more than they should be. he kisses you again, direct, wet, no real pauses, and he loses any control he had in the way he chases you.

your tongues meet, clash, search with no real coordination, mixed with small bites, stolen breaths, sounds neither of you bothers to hide.

jisung drops onto the bed, sitting, and you don’t waste the chance. you’re on him immediately, straddling him, looking down as you bite your lip, enjoying way too much how he looks under you, like you’ve got him without saying it.

his hands grab your ass instantly, squeezing hard, almost desperate, like he needs you closer than you already are. that’s all you need to start moving.

you start slow, rolling your hips over him, letting the contact build, the friction grow, teasing him just enough to push him over that edge he’s barely holding onto.

jisung can’t take it.

the first gasp slips out low, the second breaks. his hips react on their own, chasing you, lifting every time the movement hits right, and soon there’s no rhythm, just this messy need to keep up.

“mmmh- wait…” he tries, but there’s no order in his words.

he buries his face against your chest like he needs to hide or hold onto something and instead he finds you. his mouth moves without thinking: kisses, bites, messy marks that aren’t meant to be pretty. just real.

your fingers tangle in his hair, pulling every time it hits right, every time the friction sharpens. the heat builds too fast.

you feel it between your legs, wet, obvious, inevitable. jisung notices too when his hands slide to your thighs and squeeze, pulling a sound from you that you don’t bother to hide.

“no more games…” he pants against your mouth, voice broken, low. “shit… no- i don’t wanna wait…” he cuts off, breathing hard. “i wanna fuck you right here, right now.”

his voice keeps breaking into whines and moans he can’t hold back. you laugh against his lips, but there’s no real teasing in it. just heat. just urgency.

your hands go straight to his belt, undoing it without care. jisung follows clumsily, slower than he wants, but just as desperate.

you end up on the bed without remembering how. just that he’s under you and it feels so right.

his hands find your hips again like they never left, hissing softly when he feels how wet you are through the fabric. too direct, too real.

“you’re already this wet…?” he murmurs, trying to sound teasing.

the look you give him shuts him up instantly. he knows when to stop pushing before it burns him, and it’s already too late.

you free him slowly, just to watch him react, to feel the way his breathing shifts again. jisung cups your face, kissing you quick, needy, guiding your hand to him like he needs that extra contact to stay grounded.

but he’s already gone in you. you both are.

you settle over him, lining yourself up slowly, holding his gaze, keeping him there, aware of every second. and when you feel the tip push in, the sound slips out of you before you can stop it.

“ah- fuck…” his head falls back. “i need all of you, please…”

but you don’t go faster. you make him feel it, every inch. his hands dig into your hips, not to stop you, but to hold on. to stay steady in something that’s already too much.

and when you adjust, you started moving.

small circles at first, and jisung reacts instantly. his sounds climb, breaking when you change the pace, when you start moving up and down without any real pattern.

“no- like that…” he pants, voice cracking. “shit- i can’t…”

he can’t keep up. not when you’re wrapped around him like that, when your chest is right there against his face.

his hands leave you for a second, gripping the sheets like he needs something that isn’t you.

you’re not any better.

your sounds come out messy, mixed with short breaths, broken words. you lean into him, feeling every reaction under you.

jisung grabs you again, desperate, uncoordinated, trying to follow even when he clearly can’t.

you lean forward, changing the angle, searching. and when you find it, you both feel it at once. jisung loses it there, his hands shaking, his mouth back on your skin. messy kisses, soft bites with no care for gentleness.

you don’t even notice when he starts slapping your ass, uneven, trying to match your rhythm without really managing it.

“fuck… you’re so…” he can’t finish, whines cutting him off. “mmmh- i could fuck you like this all night…”

his voice is a mess. his thoughts too. and that just pushes you to go faster, deeper. you feel his body trembling, see the way he tenses every time you take him fully.

one of his hands moves down, finding your clit, pressing, rubbing just enough to make everything hit all at once. your sounds mix together wiith no filter, no pause.

the heat builds under your skin, in your stomach, fast, inevitable.

“i’m…” he pants, hissing. “i’m so close- please…” he whimpers, pouting.

you feel it in every messy, desperate movement, so you kiss him quick before dropping to his ear.

“do it,” you whisper without thinking. “come in me… i need it-”

and that’s all it takes.

his hands snap back to your hips, setting a real rhythm now, thrusting up to meet you, hitting that spot over and over until he breaks.

you feel him spill inside you, hot and deep. but it doesn’t stop him. he can’t stop, still fucking into you, still needing you there, needing you to came too.

“ji- shit… i’m- i’m gonna-”

you don’t get to finish. not with his hand playing with your chest and the other on your clit, working you so well.

you come on him, biting into his shoulder to muffle the sound, your whole body tightening. jisung moans under you, softer this time, deeper, feeling the way you clench, the way you pull him with you.

for a second, it really feels like he could come again just from that.

you stay collapsed on him, feeling your uneven breathing try to settle. his chest rises against yours, warm, damp, and for a moment there’s no rush to move, like you’re both too comfortable in the quiet you carved out.

jisung lets out a low sound when he pulls back just slightly, but his arms wrap around your waist right after, pulling you close again, like letting go completely isn’t an option yet.

you don’t say anything. you don’t need to.

you just stay there for a second longer, letting the heat settle, letting everything come down enough to laugh again.

because you know it’s coming. it always does.

you end up sliding next to him, slipping under the sheets with a soft sigh, turning your head to look at him. the smile comes easily, still heavy with everything that just happened, still a little dangerous.

jisung looks back at you, then laughs for real. soft at first, then it breaks into something bigger when his eyes drop to your neck. you follow his gaze, and when you get it, you raise a brow.

“no idea how you’re gonna explain that,” he says, nodding toward the marks. “good luck.”

you scoff, rolling your eyes, not even trying to cover them.

“tomorrow’s problem.”

“classic,” he murmurs, still smiling.

you shrug like it doesn’t matter and move closer to him without thinking. jisung responds just as easily, slipping an arm under you and pulling you into his side, like going back to this is the most natural thing in the world.

and everything feels normal again, almost ridiculously fast.

you stay there, leaning into him, listening to his breathing even out, until you recognize something.

on the other side of the wall, filtering through the noise, your favorite song starts playing.

your head lifts immediately and you look at him, excited. jisung’s already looking at you, smiling.

“no-” he starts, amused, like he’s trying to stop you.

“yes,” you cut him off instantly, pushing yourself up a little, a grin you’re not even trying to hide anymore. “you know we have to go.”

you look at him like it’s obvious. like the only ridiculous thing would be staying.

jisung sighs, but there’s no real resistance. just a low, resigned laugh as he runs a hand through his messy hair.

“you’re impossible.”

you lean in without thinking and press a quick kiss to his cheek, casual, like it’s nothing new. jisung makes an exaggerated face immediately, wiping it off with the back of his hand like you’ve deeply offended him.

“gross,” he says, smiling like he doesn’t mean it at all.

you laugh loud this time.

“five minutes ago you didn’t think that.”

and that’s it. no tension, no shift.

just the two of you and a theory that, clearly, worked way too well.

amortentia - the most powerful love potion in the world. it smells different to each person, according to what attracts them

“what does your amortentia smell like, minho?”

changbin dropped onto the couch beside him, a green tie knotted around his head. minho thought he looked stupider than ever, which was impressive considering the competition. the younger boys had a habit of mimicking whatever he did, and minho could spot more than five in the room wearing their ties the same way purely because of seo changbin’s influence.

the slytherin common room was vibrating with triumph after their merciless quidditch win over gryffindor this evening. the celebration had already dissolved into rounds of illicit firewhisky and music loud enough to rattle the stone. they didn’t usually bother with this level of noise. but how could they not celebrate when the griffindorks lost against them?

minho slouched back on the couch, one arm draped over the velvet spine. he gave his glass a slow swirl, watching the shadows fracture through the amber liquid.

“burnt caramel. catnip. and something like a girl’s perfume,” he said at last, voice flat. “makes my fucking head spin.”

changbin whistled. “you’ve got it bad. don’t even know who for?”

“didn’t say that.” the corner of minho’s mouth lifted.

changbin leaned back beside minho with a smug smile, tugging his tie further down over one brow like a bandana, as if that somehow made him look less ridiculous. it didn’t.

“it’s y/n, innit?”

minho scoffed. “as if.”

changbin laughed. “please. everyone knows you two aren’t sneaking alone just to duel.”

minho rolled his eyes and took a slow sip of firewhisky, letting the burn settle under his tongue. he didn’t deny it. what would be the point?

and then, as if right on cue:

“speak of the devil.” changbin sat up straighter, snickering. 

minho’s head snapped toward where changbin was looking, like a compass needle finding north.

you were across the room, walking away from whoever you’d been talking to, still facing them as you chattered on. your backwards steps were carrying you straight toward the couch where minho and changbin sat. minho was already bracing for whatever stupid, trivial thing you were about to bother him with. he was also looking forward to it.

you laughed brightly, tossing a quick goodbye over your shoulder without really looking where you were going. your shoulders turned first, your head following a second later. your gaze finally landed on minho.

you smiled. minho watched it happen, how it started in your eyes and curled around your pink lips. 

he didn’t mean to look lower. truly. but his eyes snagged on the green-striped tie dangling loose and crooked around your neck. the top buttons of your blouse were undone—two, exactly—which made it worse than if you were fully exposed. you weren’t even showing cleavage and he was starting to feel himself sweating. what the fuck was wrong with him?

“hi,” you said, voice sweet as honey but clearly laced with mischief. 

minho’s eyes narrowed. 

he didn’t trust that smile. but he did want to see what it was about. “what’s going on in that scheming little head of yours?”

your gaze dropped meaningfully to minho’s lap, then lifted back to his face like you hadn't just sent a spark up his spine with one look.

without breaking eye contact, you stepped forward and held out your hand.

“come see,” you said.

minho stared at you for another second. he tilted his head, as a show of resistance. he only did it to keep up appearances and pretend he wasn’t that easy when it came to you. because changbin, smug little bastard that he was, would never let him live it down. 

but really, what was the point?

changbin had been teasing him into oblivion for weeks already. so he didn’t bother fighting it now. especially not when you were looking at him like that. 

he reached out and took your hand.

changbin gave a low, obnoxious whistle. you gave changbin a little pout over your shoulder, before turning and tugging minho with you. minho let out a soft, helpless chuckle, not even trying to mask how amused he was by your theatrics.

he stumbled a bit as he stood, his balance just off from the alcohol buzzing through his veins, but your grip kept him steady. his laughter followed as you pulled him toward the stairs. he turned around and mouthed help to changbin, who just shook his head.

the noise dulled behind you both as the winding stairs took you higher into the boys’ dorm tower, torches flickering emerald flames in brackets along the wall. 

“where are we going?” he asked, breathless more from you than the climb. his voice dropped half an octave. 

you didn’t answer him. 

still, minho followed without resisting, boots thudding behind yours, his other hand brushing the worn stone railing with each step.

you reached the top and without hesitation, shouldered open the heavy wooden door to the boys’ dormitory.

to your luck, it was empty. the four other boys in minho’s dorm were still all down there, drunk on victory. minho stepped inside behind you, scanning the shadows of his bed’s green velvet hangings, the cracked window open just a little to let in the frigid night air.

“sit,” you ordered, and shoved him.

he fell back onto the bed with a rustle of green and silver sheets, his elbows catching him halfway. his green slytherin tie hung limp around his neck, the collar buttoned neatly.

minho’s heart pounded in his ears. this is it, he thought. you were losing your virginities to each other today.

“you know,” he said, trying to lace his nerves in nonchalance, “if you were ready, you could’ve just said so. we could have a mature, adult conversation about it, instead of—” he gestured at himself, “forcing me into bed like a hostage.”

you gave him a drunk smile. “are you really dense enough to think i brought you up here to shag?”

before he could say anything, you started to climb on top of him, knees bracketing his thighs, your skirt pooling over his lap. 

“excuse me if the situation’s a bit confusing,” he hissed, hands planted behind him on the bed. “but you throw me on a bed and you’re climbing on top of me. i don’t know what the hell you expect me to think.”

“oh, i don’t know,” you said, rolling your eyes. “maybe think with your brain instead of your dick for once?”

minho scoffed sharply. his fingers twitched behind him, visibly debating whether to touch you or keep pretending he had a shred of self-control left.

“so,” he murmured. “why’d you drag me here? did you just want to kiss me or what?”

you then slowly reached into the inner pocket of your robe that was laying at the foot of the bed and pulled out two small vials. the pink liquid inside shimmered under the moonlight coming from the window.

the second he saw them, minho stilled under you completely.

“what is that?” his eyes narrowed at the vials.

“come on, minho. use your head.” you watched him, waiting for the penny to drop.

“…love potion?”

you grinned. “from the storeroom. i stole a couple this morning.”

“fucking hell.” he dropped his head back with a groan.

“it’s only temporary,” you said quickly. “i mean, what better way to spend a night than getting high on each other?”

minho stared at the vial, eyes flicking between the slow swirl of pink liquid and the smile playing on your lips like this was the best idea you’d ever had.

“this is fucking stupid,” he said flatly. “absolutely mental.”

he sat all the way up now, forcing you to shift with him, your knees tightening around his hips for balance. he glared at you, jaw clenched, that familiar venom in his stare—but it never really landed when it was aimed at you. 

“we will fuck if we drink that.”

“we won’t,” you said smoothly. “we might just see how bad we want to.”

“and that’ll have the exact same outcome,” he snapped. “you have any idea what you do to me already?”

you tilted your head. “then i guess i’m the only one with self-control, here.”

he scoffed, eyes flashing. “you want to talk about self-control? you nearly came just from me kissing your neck in the closet last week.”

“you were moaning and biting my neck,” you snapped back immediately. “who wouldn’t feel turned on?”

“you were the one humping me like a dog. any guy would moan.” he narrowed his eyes. “and i was biting you to shut you up,”

“i was only grinding on you to shut you up!”

“you always grind on me!” he snapped.

you blinked at him, then let out a long sigh, now confused by both of your lines of reasoning. arguing with him always took an unnecessarily large amount of energy. ultimately, you held out the vial.

minho didn’t take it right away. you saw the gears turn in his head. slowly, he reached out and took the glass from your hand.

“fine, i’ll do it. but i have to remind you one last time that this is a horrible idea,” he said, eyes narrowed, voice flat. “monumentally, astronomically stupid. if i wake up in azkaban, it’s on you.”

you grinned so wide your nose crinkled. “i’ll send you letters.” 

you uncorked your vial with a soft pop, the shimmer inside glowing faintly. you held your arm out. he shook his head with a huff, uncorking his, and looped his arm through yours.

“bottoms up.”

“cheers,” he mumbled, and you both tipped the vial back.

the potion slid warm and syrupy over your tongue. it was shockingly sweet at first, then spicy underneath which must have been from the peppermint. it burned just a little as you swallowed, fizzing down your throat.

you set the empty vial gently on the bedside table, glass clinking softly against the other. 

you both sat there in silence after. nothing happened. no sudden rush of heat or collapsing into each other in a frenzy like people always warned about.

you glanced down at him. his eyes flickered up to yours, one eyebrow raised under his messy bangs. 

“i don’t feel anything,” you said finally, frowning.

minho shook his head. “not sure i do either.”

you squinted at him. “do you feel like kissing me until your mouth hurts?”

“always.” his expression didn’t shift. “that’s not the potion,”

you frowned deeper, brows tugging together as you slumped a little. “it didn’t work,” you muttered, lower lip jutting out.

“shame,” he said blandly. “oh well.”

you stared at him, aghast. “oh well?”

minho just blinked at you.

you shoved his shoulder. “you’re unbelievable.”

he barely rocked from the push. “i mean, what did you expect?”

“i expected you to lose your goddamn mind, minho!” you snapped, flinging your arms out in exasperation. “i expected panting, grabbing, throwing me down like some lust-crazed—something.”

“you act like i wouldn’t just do that,” he said.

“i-i expected you to look like you wanted me instead of blinking like the dead-eyed minister!”

minho tilted his head at you, utterly dry. “well, maybe try a bit harder convincing yourself i don’t want you because my cock’s not exactly subtle about it.”

you froze for a beat. your eyes dropped before you could stop them, dragging down his front. at his crotch, the fabric of his trousers was dark and creased. 

minho was still propped on his elbows, watching you with infuriating neutrality. he made no move to help or hide anything.

you blinked up at him. “could just be a wrinkle,” you muttered.

he smirked. “could be. wanna check?”

you glared. as if the potion failing wasn’t irritating enough, minho’s smug little remarks were the last thing you needed.

“what a pathetic waste of time,” you huffed, glaring at the empty vials on the bedside table. “excuse for a love potion, honestly. we could have been making out this entire time instead of sitting around.”

minho’s mouth curled, equal parts amused and relieved. “i second that,” he said.

before you could respond, he grabbed you by the collar and pulled you into a heated kiss. 

you let out a startled gasp but the shock melted instantly. you could’ve sworn you felt your pulse in places it had no business being. it was stupid, how fast your body went from annoyed and bickering to suddenly grinding down without even thinking, chasing friction because your brain had long since checked out.

minho pulled back. “bloody hell,” he rasped as you rolled your hips again. “i think i’m gonna die.”

you couldn’t help but giggle quietly. “i should hope not. you’re far too useful to have around, especially when you kiss me like that,” you teased.

he grinned, the expression soft. “that’s all i am to you, y/n? something useful?” his fingers brushed your cheek, trailing down your jaw, thumb catching on your bottom lip.

“well, you’re more than a little fit. and apparently good at snogging.”

minho had never felt so at ease flirting with you. it felt as if his natural defences melted into nothing. he should have been wondering if it was the love potion starting to take effect, but honestly, he’d forgotten about that already. it was hard to care about enchanted syrup when you were giggling against his lips. he had tunnel vision. his world was reduced to you and the little creases beside your eyes when you smiled at him. 

he leaned in, letting his nose brush yours, voice pitched just for you. “i’ll have you know, i’m exceptional at a few things besides snogging. if you’re lucky, i might demonstrate.”

you grinned. “well, i am the luckiest girl in the world, aren’t i?”

minho let out a chuckle as your noses nudged together. then he kissed you softly. you sighed against his mouth, melting into the kiss, your arms hugging his neck.

his hand drifted up the bare skin of your thigh, fingertips tracing lazy circles higher, slipping beneath your skirt. his fingers splayed to cup your ass, and you let out a muffled moan into his mouth. your lips left his, trailing down to the line of his jaw, then to his neck. you sucked at his skin, your tongue flicking out to soothe the mark after. he tilted his head back to give you more space, hands gripping you tighter as you painted little love bites in the area below his ear.

you broke away, your mouth hovering above his, lips still brushing as you caught your breath. “minho,” you murmured.

he hummed, eyes half-lidded. “what is it?”

you took another little breath, heart thudding wild in your chest. “we’ve never really…well, brought each other off before.” you smiled, gaze flicking up to meet his. “thought maybe you’d want to try something more tonight.”

he stilled, then his mouth curled at the corner. “you want me to make you come?”

you nodded. “i mean, i’ve only ever done it myself, when the dormitory’s empty.”

“well,” he murmured, “who do you think about when you’re alone?”

you rolled your eyes, fighting a smile. “that’s private, minho.”

he grinned, not the least bit chastened. “wouldn’t be uncomfortable if you said it was me, that’s all.”

you pressed a quick, warm kiss to his jaw, lips curving against his skin. “who else would it be, you idiot?” you whispered. 

minho’s smile stretched wide, his eyes shining with an affection that made your chest flutter. his hand slid from your ass around to the front, fingertips dancing along the edge of your knickers, only your skirt hiding you. he paused there, eyes flicking up to yours, his voice a low murmur just for you. “you’re alright with this?” he asked.

“yes,” you breathed, hardly more than a whisper.

his fingers slipped near the thin cotton. you buried your face in the curve of his neck, your breath shuddering against his skin.

minho thought maybe he’d spoken too soon about the potion not working, because he felt utterly, pathetically besotted. he’d loved you for years, but right now he wanted you to know it.

“i think i’m in love with you,” he whispered.

you grinned against his skin. “i think so too.”

“in love with me, or you also think i’m in love with you?”

“i don’t know, i think both,” you whispered, “you’re being very distracting.”

minho had only just started to reach down, fingers barely sliding under your panties, when the heavy door burst open with a bang against the stone wall. minho’s hand instantly yanked back, your body scrambling off his lap, straightening your skirt as you tried desperately to look like you hadn’t just been caught on the precipice of something indecent.

standing in the doorway was bang chan, the ever-diligent slytherin head boy. his gaze swept over the two of you, lingering on your flushed faces and disheveled uniforms.

“i knew you two were up here!” chan bit out. “thank goodness i caught you before something actually happened.”

minho’s jaw clenched, irritation flaring in his eyes as he shifted to sit a little straighter on the bed, deliberately casual. “do you mind?” he shot back.

“yes, actually, i do mind,” chan replied coldly, marching further into the room. he fixed you with a hard stare, eyes narrowed. “y/n, you stole two vials of love potion from the storeroom this morning you think no one would notice?”

your heart leapt into your throat, hands twisting in your skirt, trying desperately not to meet chan’s eyes for fear you’d laugh.

minho rolled his eyes, utterly unrepentant. “nothing even happened, chan. you’re interrupting a perfectly innocent evening.”

chan snorted, gaze flicking between you and the empty vials on the bedside table. “innocent? this is the stupidest shit i’ve ever seen—consuming potions so you can be in the completely wrong state of mind—merlin’s beard, this is exactly how people end up with a howler from your parents or, i don’t know, bloody pregnant! ”

he stepped forward and snatched the vials, shoving them deep into his robe pocket. you and minho watched in silence, equal parts shame and irritation burning in your chests. all you wanted was chan out of the room so you could pick up where you’d left off.

“y/n, you’re coming with me. minho, stay put.”

you reached for minho’s hand immediately, a frown washing over your features. “i’m not leaving him, chan,” you said. 

“you’ll have to hex me to take her away.” minho squeezed your hand, looking more sure of himself than ever. 

chan stared at the pair of you, then let out a loud sigh and scrubbed his face with both hands. “do you even hear yourselves?” 

you barely had time to blink before he was striding forward and grabbing your arm as he pulled you upright off minho’s bed.

“no!” you snapped, trying to twist out of his grip, but he just re-anchored his hold higher on your sleeve and kept moving. 

minho’s eyes flared. “you’re the worst fucking head boy in the history of hogwarts—”

“i love you minho,” you cried as you were being dragged towards the exit.

chan finally yanked the door open, muttering under his breath as he tugged you out into the corridor.

when you stepped into the great hall the next morning, it seemed that the two opposing quidditch teams had spent very different nights.

the gryffindor table looked like a funeral procession in scarlet and gold. their players sat scattered and sulking. no one met anyone else’s eyes. the usual boisterous laughter was replaced by silence. it was broken only when some poor guy knocked over a pitcher of pumpkin juice. he let spill across the table for a full three seconds before a passing ghost finally tutted in disapproval.

the slytherins were late. but not all of them. a few had trickled in before you, those that had ducked out early or avoided the worst of last night’s victory bender. changbin was at the table, lounging with his head cradled in both hands like it might fall off otherwise. the same tie he used as a headband last was now around his neck, but loosely knotted and trailing into his plate.

you and your roommates entered, steps slowing as you neared your usual spot.

minho was already there.

he was resting his chin on his hand, elbow propped on the table. his fingers tapped lightly against the side of his face, rhythm distracted, like he wasn’t even aware of it.

you saw the smallest flicker of his eyes the moment your shadow passed into the space across from him. you slid into your seat quietly and some of your roommates settled in beside you. you don’t remember ever feeling this awkward with minho.

you cleared your throat gently. 

“hi,” he said.

“hi.”

he glanced down at his own empty plate, then back up. “you… sleep okay?”

“yeah.” you nodded, eyes flicking down. “did chan give you detention?”

he shook his head, “he told me to never let this out or the three of us would all both be doomed.”

“well, that’s good.” you said, staring at the tea in front of you. the steam had thinned, barely curling now, but it gave you something to focus on.

you risked a quick look at him. there was the faintest shadow of a purple mark peeking just above the collar of his shirt. heat crept up your neck at the memory, and you quickly dropped your gaze back to the table.

minho cleared his throat. “did he make you drink the antidote as well?”

you nodded, still not quite looking at him. “last night.”

“gross, wasn’t it?” minho muttered.

“yeah,” you agreed. “absolutely vile.”

one of your roommates, who had been quietly buttering her toast beside you, suddenly perked up.

“antidote?” she asked, eyes widening with curiosity. “antidote for what?”

you froze. minho’s tapping stopped.

minho gave the witch a sharp look. “nothing that concerns you.”

before you could even shoot him a warning glare, changbin’s voice cut through the table.

“antidote for the love potions they took together last night,” he announced. “i heard these two idiots thought it was a brilliant idea.”

“seo changbin!” you hissed, cheeks burning. looks like bang chan wasn't too careful about this secret either.

your roommate gasped, toast halfway to her mouth. “you two—?”

minho’s eyes narrowed at changbin. “if you wanna win the house cup this year, i suggest you zip it. unless you’d rather explain to the entire house why our points suddenly vanished because of your big mouth.”

changbin grinned around a mouthful of eggs, completely unfazed by the threat. “relax. i’m just saying, you two don’t even need potions to be infatuated with each other.”

you pushed your plate away. “i’ve lost my appetite.”

“so have i,” minho said, rising from the bench.

you both stood at the same time, slipping out from opposite sides of the long slytherin table. the green and silver banners swayed overhead as you walked toward the grand doors.

your eyes met minho’s across the aisle. minho tilted his head to the left, referring to the broom closet on that side of the great hall. you scoffed but nodded.

as the two of you left together, changbin muttered under his breath, “there they go again…”

The worst part? It wasn’t just rage pooling low in my stomach.

It pissed me off how he could make me hate him and want him at the same time.

Fucking disgusting.

When Professor Lee handed back our essays and Seungmin’s stupid name was sitting pretty at the top with a shiny gold “A+”, I didn’t even think.

I whipped my head around, caught his eyes across the lecture hall, and mouthed: “Rigged.”

His mouth curved into that slow, infuriating smirk, the kind that crawled under my skin and set it on fire.

He leaned back in his chair, arms folded behind his head like he owned the goddamn place, and mouthed back, exaggerated and slow: “Don't be mad just because you’re second best, sweetheart.”

Complete with a wink.

A goddamn wink.

I could feel the heat rising from my chest to my ears. Rage. Or something dangerously close to it.

Seungmin tilted his head, still watching me like I was a particularly amusing science experiment. His eyes glinted, and I knew — I knew — he wasn’t going to let this go.

When class ended, I shoved my notebook into my bag and bolted for the door, hoping he’d get the hint. Of course he didn’t.

He caught up easily, his steps lazy, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets like he hadn’t just declared academic war ten minutes ago.

“Rough day, princess?” he asked, voice dripping mock-sympathy.

I didn’t even look at him. “Bite me, Seungmin.”

“Careful,” he said, his voice dropping half an octave. “Might take that as an invitation.”

I stopped walking and turned to him so fast he almost collided with me. He did collide, his chest bumping into mine with a low thud that made both of us stiffen on reflex.

For a second — a stupid, reckless second — we just stood there. Breathing the same air. Close enough that I could see the tiny mole in the middle of the bridge of his nose. Close enough that I could smell the faint hint of mint gum and something warm and boyish underneath.

His eyes flickered down to my mouth — fast, involuntary. My heart hammered against my ribs. Not from fear. From something far worse. He caught himself a beat too late and pulled back a step, but it was already too late.

I smirked.

“Problem?” he asked, trying to sound bored, but his voice was rougher now. Edgier.

“You wish.” I snapped, shoving his chest lightly with my hand.

It wasn’t enough to move him, but it made him smile — that crooked, infuriating, I-know-you-want-me smile. I wanted to punch him. Or grab him by the hoodie strings and crash our mouths together. Maybe both.

“Tell you what,” he said, hands sliding casually into his pockets, pretending like his pulse wasn’t visible on his throat. “Winner of the next project challenge picks a punishment for the loser. No rules.”

I raised an eyebrow, chest still rising and falling too fast. “You’re serious?”

He nodded, slow, like daring me to back down. “Afraid to lose?” he teased, voice pure poison wrapped in honey.

I narrowed my eyes. “You're on.”

His smirk stretched wider — a flash of sharp teeth and gleaming mischief. “Try not to cry when you lose, princess.”

“Worry about your own dignity first, loser.”

He stepped closer again — not touching, but close enough that my body registered the heat pouring off him. “Oh, princess…” he murmured, low and deliberate. “You’ll be begging me for mercy by the end of it.”

Then, without waiting for my reply, he turned on his heel and walked away, hands in his pockets, whistling some stupid upbeat tune like he hadn’t just detonated a bomb between us.

I stood there, heart pounding, palms sweating, fists clenched at my sides. Already plotting how I was going to destroy him.

Or how I was going to let him destroy me. Maybe both.

If working in the same room as Seungmin was supposed to be a punishment from hell, it was starting to feel a lot more like slow torture.

The worst kind. The kind where you like it.

We weren’t even officially working together — our articles were separate — but somehow, like roaches or debt collectors, he always managed to appear wherever I was: library, café, empty classrooms.

And every time, the same thing: Provocations. Smirks. Stupid bets.

We sat across from each other now, laptops open, papers strewn everywhere. My screen glowed under the cheap library lights, reflecting the blank document I hadn't touched in twenty minutes.

Because Seungmin was there. Existing. Breathing. Tapping his stupid pen against his stupid mouth like he had no idea how distracting he was.

I chewed the end of my pencil, glaring at my thesis statement like it was all its fault.

“Need help, princess?” he drawled, spinning lazily in his chair.

“I'd rather set myself on fire.” I muttered, not looking up.

He chuckled under his breath — that soft, infuriating laugh that always made my skin prickle.

I refused to glance at him. Refused to notice the way his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, veins visible on his forearms. Refused to notice how he tapped his pen in an unconscious rhythm that somehow matched the way my heart stuttered when he leaned back and stretched like a smug little shit.

Focus. Focus.

I bent lower over my keyboard, typing harder than necessary.

He reached across the table to steal my highlighter, and his fingers brushed mine — quick, electric. My body jolted before my brain could catch up.

He smirked. Saw it. Filed it away for later.

I hated him. Absolutely hated.

If hating him included wondering what his hands would feel like pressed somewhere else, well — that was between me and my rapidly deteriorating sanity.

Three hours, five insults, and two coffee runs later, we submitted our articles

I stood stiffly at the front of the lecture hall, arms crossed, waiting for the verdict. Seungmin stood next to me, too close. His shoulder brushed mine once. I moved. He moved closer again.

Asshole.

Professor Lee shuffled through the papers, humming thoughtfully.

Finally, he smiled — a slow, proud smile. “Excellent work from both of you.”

I exhaled. Barely.

“But…” He held up one article.

And I saw it. My name. Bold. Clear. Victorious. I blinked. Once. Twice. I won.

The shock punched through me, followed by something molten and dizzying: triumph. I turned slowly to Seungmin, ready to gloat.

His face was unreadable — that blank, impassive mask he wore when he didn’t want anyone to know he was losing his shit inside. Which meant he was furious.

I smiled sweetly. Sickeningly. “Aw. Better luck next time, loser.”

He tilted his head, mouth twitching like he was fighting a smirk.

“Don’t get too cocky. One win doesn’t make you better.”

“No, but it makes you worse.”

He stepped closer, enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his gaze. Enough that I could feel the heat coming off his skin again.

His eyes dropped to my mouth — quick, instinctive — and I hated how it made my pulse jump.

Before either of us could say something, even dumber, Professor Lee cleared his throat. “Both of you. A word, please.”

We turned, startled, as if remembering there was a whole room watching.

He led us to his desk, his expression serious.

“You two have been selected to represent our department at the International Academic Congress next weekend.” He paused for effect. “An honor. Only given to our best.”

My brain blanked.

Congress? An entire weekend?

With Seungmin?

I felt my stomach flip in the worst way.

Beside me, Seungmin shoved his hands in his pockets, feigning boredom, but I caught the twitch of his jaw. He hated surprises. Almost as much as I hated liking the idea of being trapped with him somewhere far from rules and reputations.

“You’ll be presenting your articles separately, of course,” Professor Lee continued. “But you’ll be traveling together. Hotel accommodations are arranged.”

I nodded, tight, pretending not to panic.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Seungmin turn his head, studying me carefully. Like he knew exactly what I was thinking. Like he was already plotting how to use this against me.

I gritted my teeth and forced a tight smile. Seungmin smirked, slow and lethal.

The conference was supposed to be an exciting opportunity. At least, that’s what I told myself when I boarded the plane. A few days away from the usual routine, presenting my research for relevant people, making connections — sounds like a dream, right? In theory. The reality? Well, the idea of spending two days in close proximity to Seungmin was a little less appealing. But hey, I was here for the experience. And because I didn’t have much of a choice.

The flight was long, and Seungmin had already made himself an expert at finding ways to annoy me.

He sat one row behind me, but naturally, he ended up next to me when the seatbelt sign was switched off. Classic Seungmin move. “Mind if I join you?” he asked as if I had a say in the matter.

I didn’t even bother to look at him. “Please, make yourself at home.” I said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in my voice.

Seungmin didn’t waste any time. He slid into the seat beside me like we’d been lifelong friends, his shoulder brushing mine in the process. "You know,” he said, stretching his legs out a little too far into my space, “I actually enjoy these long flights. So much time to read, think, or just bother you.”

I pretended to focus on the screen in front of me, but it was hard to ignore him when he practically moved in. “Lucky me.” I muttered, trying my best to be invisible.

He grinned, clearly unfazed. “You could at least pretend to enjoy my company. I’m doing you a favor, really.”

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you are.” I said dryly.

Seungmin leaned in closer, like he was about to share a deeply profound thought. “I think you’re just afraid of my charm.”

“I’m not afraid of your charm,” I said flatly. “I’m just trying to survive the flight without having to throw you out of the window.”

“You'd kill all of these people if you opened that window, you know that, right?”

Of course I knew, who whe thought I was?

I could practically hear him smirking, even though I refused to look at him. He was annoyingly good at finding ways to make my blood pressure rise with minimal effort.

By the time we landed, I was exhausted—not from the flight, but from keeping my cool around him. The conference itself? That was going to be cakewalk compared to this.

We finally made it through the airport and to the hotel. The city was exactly what I expected: bigger, louder, and more chaotic than I needed. Then, with that, all my excitement died, and I was so ready to be done with everything.

The lobby was eerily quiet, the kind of place where every sound felt exaggerated. When we approached the reception desk, the receptionist greeted us with a smile so practiced it almost looked fake. I wasn’t in the mood for polite exchanges.

She typed something on her keyboard while keeping her eyes on the screen, then lifted her gaze to us with that same, professional smile. “Good afternoon. How can I help you?”

I stepped up first, handing over my conference credential with a formality I didn’t really feel but was trying to project. It made me look like I had my life together, something that wasn’t going to be ruined by an unexpected trip with my academic rival.

“Hi, we’re from the Department of Social Sciences at National University. We're here for the research congress.”

She glanced at the screen for a moment longer, tapping away before meeting our eyes again. “Ah, of course. Everything’s set for you.” She grabbed a key from behind the desk, placing it on the counter with that same pleasant smile. “Here’s your key. You’ll be in room 325.”

I grabbed the key, but something felt off. The way she handed it to us made me stop, the words almost caught in my throat.

“Just one key?” I asked, raising an eyebrow, hoping the confusion I was feeling didn’t show too obviously. It didn’t make sense that she was giving us a single key for both of us, especially since I knew the rooms were supposed to be separate.

The receptionist looked at me like my question was perfectly normal. “Yes, one key for each couple of participants.”

I blinked, mouth slightly open. A couple? Did she just assume…? I glanced over at Seungmin, who was casually leaning against the counter, an eyebrow raised.

He caught my look and immediately let out a low chuckle. Of course, he found this funny. “What? You didn’t think we were a couple?” He gave me a wink, his voice dripping with that infuriating confidence.

I felt my face flush with a mix of annoyance and… something else. I wasn’t about to let him have the upper hand, but honestly, why was the receptionist so sure of that? Was I really giving off those kinds of vibes?

I couldn’t suppress my irritation.

“We’re not a couple,” I snapped, a little too harshly. “We’re just… two students who happened to be presenting at the same event.”

The receptionist merely nodded, completely unfazed. She didn’t seem to think anything was out of the ordinary about the situation. “Oh, I see. Well, the rooms are all prepared. Would you like me to change the key?”

Before I could open my mouth to say anything, Seungmin was quicker. He grabbed the key off the counter with an air of ease that only made me more frustrated. He was enjoying this, I could tell.

“No, it's okay,” he said smoothly, his eyes flicking to me with that self-satisfied gleam. “We’re fine with it.”

He turned to me, the smugness on his face practically radiating. Of course, this would be his idea of a good time.

I shot him a death glare but said nothing. He was always so quick to take charge of situations that were inconvenient for me. It annoyed the hell out of me.

The receptionist, apparently oblivious to the tension, gave us a polite nod. “Enjoy your stay!”

I didn’t bother replying. Instead, I grabbed my bag and turned away, trying my hardest to ignore Seungmin’s amused expression as I walked to the elevator.

“I can’t believe you’re okay with this,” I muttered under my breath, trying to sound angry, but I knew I wasn’t fooling anyone.

Seungmin followed behind me, taking his time.

The elevator ride up to the third floor was a quiet one, and as we stepped out into the hallway, I could already feel the weight of the situation sinking in. The reality of having to share a room with Seungmin was a lot less fun when you were actually facing it.

Seungmin, still as calm as ever, walked ahead of me toward room 325. His hand was already on the doorknob when I caught up.

I hesitated, then turned to him. “I seriously don’t think this is a good idea.”

Seungmin paused, his back to me, then slowly glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable. For a second, there was no hint of a smirk. “What’s the worst that could happen?” he asked quietly.

I wanted to answer — everything — but he was already opening the door.

The door swung open, and I stepped inside, Seungmin trailing right behind me. The room was… fine. Clean, neat — boring in the way all conference hotels were. But then my gaze hit the bed.

One. Single. Bed.

A king-size, sure. But still — one bed. No second mattress tucked in a corner. No pull-out couch. Just that massive betrayal sitting right in the middle of the room like it knew exactly what it was doing.

I froze, dread pooling in my stomach.

Seungmin bumped into me from behind and cursed under his breath. “Wait. Are you fucking serious?” His voice was low, disbelieving.

I didn’t even look at him. I just stared at the bed like it had personally betrayed me.

I turned to him slowly, my face blank with disbelief. “Well, unless you’re planning on summoning another bed out of thin air, yeah, we’re serious.” I waved my hand dramatically toward the offending mattress.

Seungmin stepped around me, eyeing the bed like it had personally insulted his family. “They expect us to sleep in the same bed?” he asked, incredulous.

“Apparently ‘academic excellence’ comes with complimentary sexual tension. Maybe they'll even throw in some rose petals and a bottle of champagne while we're at it too.” I muttered, folding my arms.

He snorted, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “I didn’t sign up for this.”

“No shit. You think I did?” I snapped. The sarcasm was practically a second language between us at this point.

The room already felt too small, the air too charged.

He looked at me, his expression sharpening into something defensive. “Don’t flatter yourself, princess. I’d rather cuddle a cactus.”

I gave him a slow, sarcastic smile. “Cute. I was about to say you could sleep outside with the stray dogs. You’d fit right in.”

He threw me a sideways look, half a smirk playing on his lips. “If it’s that unbearable, I can sleep on the floor. Wouldn’t want you losing sleep over me.”

I rolled my eyes so hard I practically saw my brain. “The floor’s probably cleaner than whatever germs you’re carrying anyway.”

The tension crackled between us — electric, unbearable. We both stood there, stubbornly glaring at the bed, as if sheer willpower would make it disappear.

Seungmin shook his head, glancing once more at the cursed bed like it might suddenly sprout another mattress. “This is unbelievable. Who the hell organizes a conference like this?”

“Maybe it's a new academic technique.” I deadpanned. “See who survives forced proximity without committing murder.”

He actually snorted at that, running a hand through his hair in frustration. He shook his head, still clearly pissed off. “This is ridiculous. What’s next, sharing a toothbrush?”

I snapped back, my sarcasm sharp as a knife. “Oh, I’m sure that’s exactly what’s going to happen. They’ll give us matching PJs next, too.”

We stood there for another long, heavy beat, neither of us moving.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Seungmin exhaled sharply and said: “We’re not gonna survive this if we keep acting like kids.”

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt. “Screw it. We'll put a damn pillow wall in the middle. Switzerland rules: you stay on your side, I stay on mine.”

“Fine. But if you snore, I’m suffocating you with a pillow.”

“If you steal the covers, I’m kicking you onto the floor.” I shot back.

He met my glare with one of his own, but there was something else beneath it now.

Something heavier. Thicker. Neither of us said it, but we both felt it. The heat. The pull.

I slung my bag over my shoulder, already moving toward the door. “Let's just get through the conference first. We'll deal with... this trainwreck later.”

Seungmin didn’t argue this time. He just muttered under his breath, low enough that I almost missed it: “Yeah... easier said than done.”

We step off the elevator and into a wide, polished corridor leading to the conference rooms. The air smells faintly of burnt coffee, new carpet, and desperation. The walls are covered in generic modern art — squares inside of other squares — like they were trying very hard to seem sophisticated without actually having a soul. I already feel the weight of expectation pressing down on me like a headache.

Seungmin walks beside me, hands shoved deep into his pockets, looking unimpressed with life itself. His hair falls messily into his eyes, but he doesn’t bother fixing it. Typical.

His eyes dart around the hallway, scanning faces like he’s already categorizing who’s worth ignoring. “Ready to pretend we care?” he mutters, voice pitched low enough just for me.

“Thrilled,” I deadpan, not even glancing at him. “Can’t wait to have my brain melted by endless talks about sustainable quinoa farming.”

He snorts, biting back a laugh. “Sounds like your dream date.”

“Yup. Right up there with tax seminars and dental surgery.”

We keep walking, moving with the flow of the crowd. I can see the bright lights of the conference rooms ahead, and it's all I can do to not roll my eyes at the sheer formality of it all. The event feels more like a display of ‘look how important we are’ than anything else.

He grins — a real one, small and crooked — before drifting off toward a group near the front, already blending in like a professional social chameleon. I roll my eyes and slink toward the back, sinking into an empty chair, pulling out my phone just to avoid making small talk with strangers who all think they’re smarter than everyone else.

The speaker drones on about something to do with regenerative soil or whatever. I zone out, letting the words wash over me like white noise.

That’s when I notice him — a guy standing near the refreshment table, dressed casually enough to look out of place among all the tight blazers and forced smiles. He’s got a lazy grin, a coffee cup in one hand, and the vibe of someone who definitely isn’t taking this seriously.

Our eyes meet by accident. I immediately look away, pretending to be fascinated by my own shoes.

Too late.

Footsteps approach, and a moment later, he’s there, leaning on the back of the chair next to mine like he owns the place, like he’s got nothing better to do.

“Hey.” he says when he’s standing in front of me, offering a slight, disarming grin. “I don’t know if you’re as bored as I am, but I swear this place feels like a corporate zombie apocalypse.”

I glance up at him. His voice is light, teasing, and there's a mischievous glint in his eye that reminds me — alarmingly — of someone else I know. He's charming, but not in the typical, obnoxious way.

I can’t help a small smirk. “I’m pretty sure zombies would be more interesting. At least they’d be honest about their intentions.”

“You look about as thrilled as I feel.” he says with a grin.

“Is it that obvious?” I say, tilting my head. “I thought I was hiding it so well.”

“Subtle as a brick to the face,” he deadpans, smiling wider.

I snort before I can stop myself. Okay, he's funny. Dangerous.

“Chan.” he says, holding out a hand like we’re not at the most painfully formal event on earth.

“Y/N.” I reply, shaking his hand briefly before pulling back.

Chan smirks. “So, Y/N... what's your poison? Boring keynote speeches or awkward networking attempts?”

I fake think about it. “Mmm... death by boredom sounds slightly less painful.”

He chuckles. “Agreed. I’m just here for the free coffee and questionable snack trays.”

“You’re brave. I think those pastries have been alive longer than some of the speakers.”

He laughs, a real, full laugh, and leans closer like we’re already conspirators. “Survival of the fittest. Or the most caffeinated.”

I smirk, feeling a little lighter despite myself.

“Guess I’ll see you at the coffee table battlefield later, then.”

“Only if you’re prepared to fight dirty.” He winks. “I swear, if they put any more bland hors d'oeuvres out there, I might start questioning why I even left my house for this.”

I can’t help it — I actually laugh at that. “Yeah, I’d rather be at home, in my pajamas, eating cereal. At least I know it’s not going to taste like cardboard.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “Oh, so you're one of those people. Respect.”

There's a beat of silence, and for a moment, we just stand there, awkward in the best way. But I don’t mind it. It's kind of refreshing to talk to someone who isn’t immediately making small talk about "networking."

Chan shrugs, his eyes glinting with a bit of humor. “So, what’s your take on all of this? The conference, I mean. I’m assuming you’re not here for the food production knowledge either.”

I think about it for a moment before responding. “Honestly? It’s not exactly what I expected. I thought it’d be more... engaging, that I'd have a great opportunity to talk about my research, but it’s mostly just people trying to sound important.”

Chan nods knowingly, looking amused. “Yeah, that’s pretty much the vibe I’m getting too.”

I’m about to fire back something sarcastic when the temperature of the room shifts. I feel it before I see him — that tightening sensation in the air.

I turn slightly, and there he is.

Seungmin.

Standing a few feet away, arms crossed tight over his chest, shoulders rigid. His mouth is pressed into a thin line, but it’s his eyes — sharp, dark — that give him away.

He's staring at Chan like he’s a mosquito buzzing too close.

Chan notices too, casting a casual glance over his shoulder. “Didn’t realize you had company.” Chan says easily, raising an eyebrow at Seungmin.

Seungmin’s smile is a weapon — all teeth, no warmth. “Yeah. She’s with me.”

She’s with me.

My eyebrows shoot up, but I say nothing.

Seungmin’s jaw clenches, and he steps forward, his gaze still fixed on me, but the edge to his voice has softened slightly as he addresses me. “Y/N, we should go.”

Chan shrugs like he couldn’t care less. “Right. I’ll catch you later, Y/N.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, feeling the weight of Seungmin’s presence beside me. “Later.”

He flashes me one last grin before wandering off, utterly unbothered.

The second he’s gone, Seungmin steps closer, his body language screaming tension. His glare burns into me, his jaw flexing as if he’s chewing on all the words he can’t say out loud.

The air between us is thick, but I can’t help it. I need to poke at him, need to let him know that I see right through his little act.

I cross my arms, matching his posture. “You gonna tell me why you look like you’re about to start a bar fight?” I ask sweetly.

He huffs through his nose, looking anywhere but at me.

We head back toward the front, the noise of the conference around us feeling a hundred times louder. The tension doesn’t seem to let up, and I know this is just the beginning of whatever this is between us, the silence between us thick enough to choke on.

I can’t help myself.

“You know,” I say, tilting my head toward him. “you’re acting like I committed a crime by talking to someone with a better haircut than you.” I lied, Chan's haircut isn't better than his long bangs that fall onto his eyes.

Seungmin’s jaw tightens, his eyes flickering toward me, but he says nothing. His lips are pressed together in a thin line, and the way his fingers flex against his crossed arms doesn’t escape me. He’s annoyed.

I grin to myself, enjoying this just a little too much. “I mean, it’s not like I invited him to a romantic dinner or anything,” I continue, my tone teasing. “But I did notice your death stare. If looks could kill, I think I’d be six feet under right now.”

Seungmin's head snaps toward me, eyes narrowed. “You’re imagining things.”

“Am I?” I tease. “Because from where I’m standing, it looked a lot like jealousy. Like… borderline ‘punch a guy over a coffee joke’ levels of jealousy.”

He stops walking abruptly, forcing me to stop too. He steps closer — too close — and lowers his voice so only I can hear.

“I’m not jealous.”

I tilt my head, giving him a sidelong glance. “Really? Because it kind of seemed like you were about to challenge him to a duel or something.”

Seungmin glances at me, his expression unreadable, but I can tell he’s getting more irritated by the second. He stops walking again, and his eyes narrow in that way he does when he’s not sure whether to get sarcastic or serious. “I don’t care, okay?” he finally says, voice sharp. “But you could’ve at least told me you were, whatever, you know, talking to him.”

I can’t help but laugh at that. “Oh, so I’m supposed to run my social interactions past you now? Got it, boss.”

Seungmin’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t smile. “It’s not about that.”

“Then what is it about, exactly?” I prod, stepping closer to him. “You sure you’re not feeling a little... territorial?”

“Territorial?” He glares at me, clearly trying to keep his cool. “What, like some caveman marking his territory?”

I raise an eyebrow, smirking. “More like a chihuahua, actually.”

Seungmin glares, his ears pinking. “You’re impossible.”

“You’re adorable when you’re angry.” I shoot back, my grin widening.

He lets out a short, frustrated laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Keep pushing, princess. See what happens.”

I arch an eyebrow, leaning closer, letting my shoulder brush his for just a second longer than necessary. “Maybe I’m counting on it.”

For a heartbeat, we just stare at each other — the conference noise fading into the background — locked in this stupid, electric standoff.

Then he huffs, muttering under his breath as he turns to walk ahead of me: “You’re gonna drive me insane.”

I smile, slow and wicked, before following him back into the crowd.

The second the door to the hotel room clicked shut behind us, the weight of reality hit again — one bed.

Still just one.

I sighed loudly, dropping my bag near the dresser.

Seungmin tossed his hoodie onto a chair and stretched his arms above his head, way too nonchalant for someone about to sleep three inches away from their mortal enemy.

“Guess we’re really doing this,” I muttered, staring at the bed like it was a battlefield.

“What’s wrong, princess? Afraid you won’t survive one night without jumping me?” he teased, kicking off his shoes.

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.

“Please. I’m more worried about you crying because I stole all the covers.”

He laughed, short and sharp. “In your dreams.”

We stood there for a second, facing the bed like it killed someone of our family.

“Truce?” I offered reluctantly, lifting a pillow.

“Temporary ceasefire.” He smirked. “Until you start snoring and ruin my life.”

I flipped him off without ceremony and started building a pathetic little wall of pillows down the middle of the mattress.

He watched, arms crossed, amusement flickering in his dark eyes. “Very professional. I feel safer already.”

“Good. Now if you so much as breathe on my side, I’m kicking you out.”

“Looking forward to it.”

I grabbed my pajamas and locked myself in the bathroom before I could throw something at his smug face. Changing into my satin slip felt almost ridiculous. It wasn’t even that revealing — thin straps, low neckline, cut just short enough to be a problem if you looked too long — but somehow, the second I caught my reflection, I hesitated.

Why the hell did it feel like I was getting ready for something? I shook off the thought and stepped out.

Seungmin was sprawled across his side of the bed, now wearing only a pair of gray sweatpants, no shirt. His skin caught the soft hotel lighting, warm and distracting. He was tapping away at his phone, pretending not to notice me.

He looked up when he heard the door click.

And froze.

Just for a second.

Eyes raking over me in one quick, betraying sweep before he schooled his face back into something vaguely unimpressed. “Nice pajamas,” he said casually. “Planning to seduce the minibar?”

I narrowed my eyes. “Planning to murder you in your sleep, actually.”

He grinned — wide, wolfish. “Kinky.”

I gave him my middle finger again and climbed into my side of the bed, tugging the covers up to my chest like armor.

Seungmin tossed his phone onto the nightstand and settled against the pillows, arms behind his head. The faint glow of the bedside lamp carved shadows down his chest, and I hated — hated — that my eyes kept betraying me, sliding over the lines of his collarbone, the dip of his stomach.

I turned off the light with an aggressive click. The darkness didn’t help.

We lay there, stiff, silent, breathing the same charged air. The pillow barrier might as well have been made of tissue paper.

Minutes stretched. The kind of minutes where you feel everything — the brush of fabric, the shift of weight, the tiny creaks of the bed under him.

I couldn’t sleep.

Neither could he.

I could hear his breathing, shallow and uneven. The bed felt too big and too small all at once.

The shitty pillow wall between us was a joke now — some flimsy excuse to pretend there was still a line we hadn’t crossed.

Neither of us spoke for a long moment. The air was thick. Every shallow breath I took, I swore I could taste him on my tongue. The silence wasn’t peaceful. It was tense. Ticking. Waiting.

I couldn’t see him clearly in the dark, but I could feel him — every shift of weight on the mattress, every small movement that jolted straight through my body like static.

Finally, Seungmin’s voice broke the stillness — low, rough around the edges: “You keep fidgeting.”

I scoffed quietly, turning onto my side to face the vague outline of his body. “Maybe because I’m stuck sharing a bed with my worst enemy.”

“You flatter yourself,” he muttered, and even in the dark, I could imagine that insufferable smirk of his. “You’re the one who built a wall of pillows like I’m going to jump on you or something.”

He shifted closer, just enough that the mattress dipped between us, erasing another inch of space.

“Well, I've heard of your uncontrollable violent behavior, Kim Seungmin.” I lied, I heard nothing, but anything, now I might just witness it.

He laughed under his breath, sharp and derisive. “You're so full of yourself, it’s a miracle your head fits in this room.”

He didn’t say anything else immediately. Instead, he let the silence stretch — heavy, charged — until I was practically vibrating from it.

Then, almost too casually: “Bet you think about it though.”

I blinked, my heart stuttering. “Think about what?” I asked, my voice coming out sharper than I meant.

“This,” he said simply. “Us. Fighting, fucking... whatever.”

I opened my mouth to snap back — some scathing insult on the tip of my tongue — but nothing came out.

Because the worst part? He wasn’t wrong.

The silence between us roared.

Seungmin shifted again, close enough now that the heat of his body seeped through the covers. “What’s the matter, princess?” he teased, voice dangerously low. “Cat got your tongue?”

I hated him. I hated how my skin burned under his words. I hated how badly I wanted to wipe that smug tone off his mouth — preferably with my own.

I swallowed thickly. “You’re delusional.” I said, but it lacked bite.

He laughed quietly, a deep, rumbling sound that curled low in my stomach. “Am I?” he challenged, voice pure sin.

Then, the tension snapped.

I pushed the stupid pillow barrier away with one aggressive swipe, grabbed a fistful of his face and yanked him toward me.

Our mouths crashed together like a fucking car wreck — brutal, messy, unstoppable. We kissed like we were trying to prove something. Or maybe like we were trying to forget something.

He groaned into the kiss, grabbing my waist like he’d been waiting for permission he was never going to ask for.

I gasped when he rolled over me, pinning me down into the mattress, his hips pressing between my thighs with a hunger that sent a shudder straight through me.

His mouth was everywhere — jaw, neck, collarbone — as if kissing me could somehow make up for all the weeks of tension we’d spent pretending we didn’t want this. His hands gripped my thighs, my waist, like he couldn’t decide where he needed me most.

His hips pressed down, slow and firm, and I felt the friction hit just right — enough to make me gasp into his mouth. He did it again. Purposefully this time. Pressing against me like he wanted me to feel just how hard he was. Like he needed me to know what I was doing to him.

Then he started grinding.

Desperately.

There was nothing careful about it. It was all friction and hunger, his sweatpants dragging against my panties, the pressure building every time our hips met. He was breathing heavily now, panting into my neck, his hands gripping my waist like he was trying to keep himself from losing it completely.

I arched against him instinctively, my hands sliding up his back, nails digging in just a little when our hips met again. The fabric between us was too much and not enough at the same time — the pressure maddening, delicious, torturous. Heat pooled low in my stomach, and I hated how easily he made me feel like I was unraveling — so I did what I always did when I felt too much.

I smirked. “Wow.” I whispered, my voice low and venomous as my lips brushed his ear. “I couldn’t imagine grinding was your way of begging.”

He groaned — like the sound had been ripped out of him — and ground harder, sharper, until I could feel all of him pressing against me.

Hard. So fucking hard.

And that’s when I laughed — breathless and wicked — dragging my nails down his back just enough to make him hiss. His breath was shaky against my collarbone, his lips dragging a trail of heat along my skin. He was already panting, his hips grinding into mine like he couldn’t stop himself, like he needed the friction just to stay sane. I felt him — hard, throbbing against my center — and it only made the smirk on my lips grow sharper.

“You’re really down bad, huh?” I murmured against his ear, dragging my nails slowly up his back. “You barely touched me and you're already losing it.”

He groaned, a sound that came from deep in his chest, and buried his face in the crook of my neck. “You’re not helping.” he muttered, grinding against me again, slower now, desperate.

“Then beg better.” I whispered, my voice deliberately calm, teasing. “Maybe I’ll take pity on you.”

He pulled back just far enough to look at me, eyes wild, jaw tight, completely wrecked.

“You think this is funny?” he asked, his voice a growl now. “You think I can fucking control myself when you're like this?”

“No.” I whispered, rolling my hips up slowly, deliberately. “That’s the fun part.”

Something snapped in him after that. He thrust against me again, this time rougher, more desperate, and I swallowed a moan as his mouth found mine once more. I felt him everywhere — in the way his body moved, in the way his hands clutched at me like I was something he couldn’t hold onto fast enough, in the way our hips met again and again, friction making it hard to think, hard to breathe, hard to do anything but feel.

My fingers slipped into his hair, yanking just enough to make him hiss, and I couldn’t help the smug little grin that curled at my lips. He pulled back just enough to look at me, flushed and breathless, pupils blown wide.

“You're dangerous.” he whispered, his voice low and reverent.

“You love it.” I shot back.

He crushed his mouth back onto mine, swallowing my gasp, and his hand slipped down between us to pull at my panties like he couldn’t stand one more second without being inside me. The kiss deepened, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, hands roaming recklessly.

Seungmin kissed like he fought — relentless, stubborn, like he had something to prove.

And fuck, I loved it.

His hands slid under my nightgown, fingertips dragging up my sides, rough and needy. I arched into him, desperate for more contact, for anything to ground me against the chaos exploding under my skin.

He pulled back just enough to mutter, breathless: “Still think I'm delusional?”

“Shut up.” I gasped, dragging him back down to me.

He grinned against my mouth — cocky, victorious — and then kissed me even harder.

“This is purely academic.” I said, smirking into the dark. “Data collection. Stress relief. Killing time.”

“What, like a science experiment?”

“Exactly.”

“Uh-hum, of course.” he agreed mock-seriously.

Clothes became obstacles. His hands found the hem of my slip, pushing it up, bunching the silky fabric at my waist.

He kissed down my neck, slower this time, like he was trying to savor every inch of skin. My shame was long gone, and so were the layers of sarcasm I wore like armor. His mouth trailed lower, over my chest, down my stomach — and when he reached the waistband of my panties, he paused. Looked up. Eyes dark. Lips swollen. Breath unsteady. Like he was about to kneel at an altar. And I was the altar.

“Don’t look at me like that.” I muttered, trying to hold onto some control.

“Like what?” he said, voice low, his fingers already sliding down my panties.

“Like I’m the answer to a question you didn’t know you were asking.”

He smirked — not his usual cocky kind, but softer, full of want.

He kissed down my stomach slowly, like he wanted to memorize every inch of skin. There was something almost reverent in the way he did it — not rushed, not greedy — just hungry, in a quiet, desperate kind of way.

When his fingers hooked under my panties and slid them down, he didn’t say a word. But his eyes — God, his eyes were wrecked. Like he’d been waiting for this since the day we met and couldn't believe it was finally happening.

I let my head fall back against the pillows, biting my lip, trying to stay composed. But the second I felt his breath on my inner thigh, I knew I was in trouble.

And then his mouth found me.

The first lick was slow. Soft. Testing.

He groaned like he was the one being touched, and the vibration made me shiver.

I grabbed a fistful of his hair on instinct, trying to ground myself. He didn’t stop.

His tongue moved in careful, messy circles, as if he was learning me — like every stroke was a question and every moan was an answer. He sucked gently, then harder, switching rhythms like he wanted to see what would make me break first.

I hated how good it felt. Hated how easy it was to melt under his mouth.

So I did the only thing I could do — I mocked him. “You’re really putting your whole heart into this, huh?” I breathed, voice shaky but laced with sarcasm.

He pulled back just enough to look up at me, lips already wet, face flushed. “I’ve been dreaming about this since the first time you yelled at me in chem lab.” he said, voice rough. “So yeah. I’m not fucking around.”

Then he went back in, hungrier than before. His hands slid under my thighs, pushing them further apart. He moaned into me like I was something he couldn’t get enough of — and maybe he couldn’t.

I gasped without thinking, barely able to form the words. He looked up at me with a crooked grin and shook his head before diving back in. And I couldn’t stop myself anymore. My hips rocked against his face. My hands tangled in his hair. My breath stuttered and caught.

My body arched. My breath stuttered. My control cracked. “Fuck—” I gasped, rolling my hips into his face. “You’re gonna make me—”

He sucked harder. His tongue flicked just right. And I did. I came with a whimper I tried to swallow, thighs trembling around his head.

Still, he didn’t move — didn’t stop — not until I was squirming away from the overstimulation, dragging him up by the hair and breathing like I’d run a marathon.

He looked wrecked. And so fucking proud of himself. “You should’ve insulted me earlier.” he whispered, kissing the inside of my knee. “I think I’m kinda into it.”

“Shut up.” I said, pulling him into a kiss.

I pulled him up by the hair, still panting, and crashed my mouth into his. Tasting myself on his lips only made it worse.

My hands roamed his bare back — warm, solid, lean muscles flexing under my touch — and I scratched lightly down his spine, earning a low, broken noise from deep in his throat.

He retaliated by sucking a bruise into the hollow of my throat, making me gasp and tangle my fingers in his hair, yanking just hard enough to hear him groan again.

Somehow, he managed to shove his sweatpants down just enough, the condom appearing – from God knows where – clumsily between kisses, torn open with shaky fingers. Even stoned on adrenaline and lust, we managed — barely.

When he finally slid inside me, it wasn’t gentle. It was desperate. Raw.

We both gasped — harsh, ragged — the sudden connection knocking the breath out of our lungs. Seungmin pressed his forehead to mine, breathing hard.

“Fuck.” he whispered. “You're gonna be the death of me.”

I laughed — sharp and breathless — grabbing his hips and rolling mine up to meet him, forcing a groan from his mouth.

He moved inside me — slow at first, testing, then harder, deeper, each thrust sending little shocks of pleasure ripping through me. I clutched at him, nails digging into his shoulders, my body meeting his rhythm without hesitation.

The world blurred around the edges, just his breath against my neck, the creak of the mattress, the wet, filthy sound of skin on skin.

The tension in my stomach coiled tighter with every rough drag of his hips, every filthy word he muttered against my skin when he thought I couldn’t hear.

“So fucking tight.”

“So good like this.”

“Mine tonight.”

I whimpered, burying my face against his shoulder, biting down just enough to make him hiss and drive into me harder. The buildup was brutal, slow and fast at the same time, until I was clinging to him, gasping his name like a curse.

He felt it too, I could tell — the way his thrusts became uneven, ragged, the way he cursed under his breath when my nails raked down his back.

I shoved him away, straddling him. “Lie down.” I climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, letting my thighs press against his bare skin.

He looked wrecked — eyes glazed, mouth parted, like he couldn’t believe this was real. He obeyed instantly. Hair a mess, chest heaving, lips red. Completely at my mercy. He lifted his head, eyes wild, pupils blown, lips parted. He looked at me like he didn’t know whether to kiss me or cry.

“Please.” he said, barely a breath. “I need you." He whimpered. “You're so fucking beautiful.” he whispered, almost like he hated himself for saying it. “Like a dream I shouldn’t be allowed to have.” His fingers brushing my hair.

The words made something flutter in my chest, but I ignored it. Instead, I pushed him down by the shoulders, forcing him to lie back on the mattress. He obeyed instantly.

“That's right, pretty boy.” I said, straddling his hips slowly, my fingers dragging over his chest.

His breath hitched at the praise.

I leaned down, lips brushing over his ear. “You’re gonna keep your hands to yourself.” I said softly. “Just for a while. Got it?”

He nodded quickly. Too quickly. His restraint was paper thin.

I rolled my hips down against his again, this time without any barrier. His sweatpants were already low on his hips, and I could feel how badly he wanted it, the way his whole body arched up, chasing friction, chasing me.

“Fuck, Y/N…” he gasped, trying so hard not to move.

I shifted down slowly, kissing along his stomach, watching the muscles tense under my lips. When I reached the waistband of his boxers, I heard him whisper my name again, like a prayer. Desperate. Soft. Shaky.

But instead of going lower, I came back up, hovering over him again. His hands clenched at his sides. He was trembling. He looked like he was losing his mind.

And I loved it.

“You want me to fuck you?” I asked, voice still soft, like I was offering something sacred. He nodded again, eyes locked on mine. “No, Seungmin.” I said, smile sharp. “I want to hear it.”

He swallowed hard. “I want you.” he said. “Please. I want you so fucking bad.”

Only then did I slide down onto him — slow, torturously slow. We both gasped. His hands flew to my hips on instinct, gripping tight, but he didn’t move, like he remembered my words. His head fell back. A sound tore from his throat — low, desperate, guttural. “Fucking hell…”

I started moving, hips rolling in deep, slow circles. He looked drunk — eyes fluttering, head tilted back, mouth open. “Shit.” he choked out. “You’re gonna kill me.”

I leaned down, brushing my lips over his. “You’re lucky I like you needy.”

He grabbed my wrist, eyes locking with mine again, glassy, overwhelmed. “You’re in fact a dream.” he whispered. “You’re a fucking dream, I don’t wanna wake up.”

He was completely under me, wide-eyed, overwhelmed, needy. I rode him slow and deep. He reached up, fingers trembling as they gripped my thighs. “Fuck… you’re unreal.”

I leaned forward, dragging my lips down his jaw. And I kept going. Until he couldn’t speak. Until he was all moans and gasps and praise whispered into my skin. Until the only thing either of us knew was this — us — messy, out of control, too much and never enough.

And this time, I didn’t tease. I kissed him, slow and deep, as I kept moving, feeling him tremble beneath me, completely undone

It hit me like a wave — hot, violent, overwhelming.

I came with a cry I couldn't bite back, my body clenching around him so hard it ripped a guttural moan from his mouth. A few more frantic, desperate grinds and he followed, coming with a rough, broken sound against my ear.

We collapsed together, sweaty, shaking, our bodies tangled messily in the sheets and in each other.

For a long moment, we just lay there — breathing hard, the air heavy with sex and everything we weren't saying.

He didn't move away.

Neither did I.

I woke up tangled in the sheets, the faint light from the window cutting through the darkness of the room.

The room was cold, but the heat of his body next to mine made it almost unbearable.

I shifted under the covers, blinking against the soft morning light bleeding through the curtains.

Seungmin was lying on his side, facing me. His hair a mess, his mouth slightly open, his arm carelessly thrown over the invisible line that we had so dramatically ignored the night before. He looked criminally good for someone who had completely ruined my ability to think straight.

For a second, I just stared at him. At the peaceful rise and fall of his chest. At the faint scratch marks I’d left on his skin.

It should’ve made me feel guilty.

It didn’t. It made my stomach flip in a way I refused to name.

I shifted under the covers, careful not to wake him. Not because I cared. Because I didn’t feel like dealing with the smugness that would explode across his stupidly handsome face when he realized he had officially broken my sanity.

But of course, the bed creaked, and his eyelids fluttered open. He blinked slowly at me, his mouth curling into a lazy, dangerous smirk. “Good morning, sunshine.”

I rolled my eyes hard enough to sprain something. “You drooled on my pillow.”

“You moaned on my neck.” He said it so casually I almost threw the remaining pillow at his face.

I rolled over with an exaggerated huff, pulling the blanket up to my neck.

The bed shifted a second later, and a raspy voice muttered: “You're staring. Creepy.”

I snorted without turning. “Dreaming. About how much I regret this.”

“Sure.” He stretched, the covers sliding lower on his body, revealing way too much bare skin for a casual glance.

I refused to give him the satisfaction. Instead, I tossed a pillow at his head.

It hit him square in the face. He grunted. “Assault. That's how you say good morning?”

“You should thank me. I could’ve done worse.”

He laughed, low and rough. God, that laugh should be illegal before 9 a.m.

“You already did worse last night.” he teased, flashing that stupid grin that made my chest tight for no good reason.

“Delusional much?” I snapped, pushing the blankets away and standing up, my satin slip sticking to my thighs.

His eyes dropped — quickly, involuntarily — and when he realized, he immediately smirked wider.

“If I'm delusional, at least it's a nice view.”

I threw another pillow at his face and stormed into the bathroom, slamming the door harder than necessary.

Behind me, his laugh chased me like smoke under the door.

The last day of the conference loomed over me like a thundercloud. People buzzed around the lobby and corridors, all polished shoes and stiff blazers, pretending not to be nervous while clutching folders a little too tightly.

I sat at the back of the auditorium, my hands cold and clammy around my notes. My stomach twisted itself into knots. My brain, usually so quick and sharp, felt sluggish and heavy.

What if I mess up?

What if they laugh at me?

What if I open my mouth and nothing comes out?

A quiet nudge at my side snapped me out of my spiral. I turned sharply — already defensive — only to find Seungmin sliding into the seat next to mine, a crooked grin on his face. “You look like you're about to pass out” he said under his breath, eyes glinting with amusement.

I scowled. “Thanks for the support, Seungmin.”

He smirked, unbothered. His arm brushed mine as he leaned back casually, like he didn’t have a care in the world. Meanwhile, I was over here two seconds away from vomiting.

He studied my face for a moment, his smile fading slightly. “You’re gonna kill it.” he said, voice lower, more serious.

I blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. “Wow. High praise coming from my archnemesis.” I said, raising an eyebrow.

Seungmin snorted. “Don’t get used to it.” He tapped my folder with the back of his hand. “But seriously. You’re smarter than half the people in this room. Probably smarter than me, too. Not that I'd ever admit it out loud.”

My chest tightened strangely at that. I tried to cover it with sarcasm. “Aw, how cute. If I didn't know better, I'd think you actually cared.”

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Don't flatter yourself. I just don't want to be associated with someone who faints mid-presentation.”

I let out a shaky laugh despite myself, some of the weight on my chest easing. I glanced at him sideways, heart hammering for a different reason now. “You think I can really do it?” I asked, my voice smaller than I intended.

Seungmin’s gaze softened. He didn’t tease this time. He didn’t smirk.

He just nodded once, firm and certain. “I know you can.”

Something in me cracked a little at that. Before I could embarrass myself further by actually tearing up or something equally pathetic, the coordinator called my name.

I stood up too fast, my knees almost buckling. Seungmin reached out instinctively, grabbing my wrist lightly to steady me. His touch was brief, casual — but it set my skin on fire.

“Go show them why you scare the shit out of me.” he murmured, just loud enough for me to hear.

I managed a breathless laugh, clutching my notes like a shield as I walked toward the stage.

His gaze followed me the whole way. I could feel it — hot and unwavering, like a tether pulling at me even across the room.

And somehow, because of him, my hands steadied. My voice, when I finally spoke, didn’t shake.

When I finished my presentation and stepped off the stage, heart still hammering, my eyes found his immediately.

Seungmin sat casually slouched in his seat, arms crossed, looking every bit the cocky bastard he always was. But when he caught my gaze, he gave me the smallest nod. Barely there. But it hit harder than a standing ovation.

I looked away quickly, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from smiling too wide. I shouldn’t have cared. But fuck — I did. More than I wanted to admit.

By the end of the last presentation, I was vibrating with tension from the happenings of today and yesterday. I couldn't help myself but let my eyes wander to him every second.

Then suddenly, Chan — the guy from the day before — found me again, appearing with a crooked smile and two cups of coffee. “We really survived it, huh?” he said, handing me a cup. "Yeah..." I took it automatically, forcing a smile.

But my eyes weren’t on him. They were locked across the crowd, watching Seungmin sling his backpack over one shoulder, heading toward the exit without even glancing back.

Something inside me twisted violently.

I barely heard Chan say something else. I just shoved the coffee back at him with a muttered excuse and slipped into the crowd, my body moving on instinct.

I followed Seungmin. Out of the conference center. Down the hall. Toward the elevators.

He didn’t turn when he heard my footsteps. He just stepped inside the elevator. Waited.

When I caught up, panting slightly, I saw the look in his eyes. Tense. Dark. Dangerous.

He hit the button for our floor, and the doors slid closed with a soft ding. The elevator was filled with nothing but heavy breathing and electricity.

Neither of us spoke. Neither of us had to. As soon as the room door closed, I acted on pure instinct. I shoved him. Hard.

Seungmin stumbled back against the wall, his eyes widening in shock — and something hotter — before narrowing with a slow, dangerous smile.

I didn't wait. I closed the distance, grabbed the front of his hoodie, and yanked him into a kiss.

This wasn’t soft. It was furious, messy, teeth and tongue clashing as I pressed him back harder against the wall, claiming him. He grabbed my hips, hauling me closer, but I was faster — shoving him backward until he hit the bed.

I pushed him down, climbing on top of him with a wicked grin.

He stared up at me, breathless, pupils blown wide.

“You like being bossed around, huh?” I teased, grinding down on him mercilessly.

“Only when it’s you.” he rasped, his hands gripping my thighs like he was seconds from losing it completely.

Fury and need and regret crashing together in a way that didn’t make sense but at the same time felt like the only thing that did.

Campus looked the same. Gray, busy, loud.

But everything felt different.

We didn’t talk about what happened. We didn’t even look at each other.

Pretend. Pretend. Pretend. Pretend we weren’t carrying around the memory of each other’s bodies burned into our skin

In class, he sat two rows behind me. I could feel his eyes burning holes into my back, searing a path down my spine. Every. Single. Second. By the end of the lecture, I was practically shaking with frustration.

I grabbed my notebook, marched out into the hallway — and waited.

When he passed, I grabbed his wrist and dragged him into the nearest empty classroom, slamming the door shut.

For a second, we just stood there, staring at each other, the tension so thick it felt like drowning.

“Problem, princess?” he asked, mock-innocent.

I shoved him lightly. “Yeah. You're breathing again. What the hell is your problem?” I hissed, arms crossed.

Seungmin leaned against the wall, lazy, unbothered, like this was amusing. “Problem? I don't have a problem.”

I stepped closer, glaring. “You stare at me like you want to burn me alive and then act like nothing happened.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I do want to burn you alive.”

I shoved him hard. He didn’t even flinch.

Just smiled — slow, infuriating — and let his eyes drag down to my mouth.

My chest heaved with fury. “Stop looking at me like that!” I snapped.

“Like what?” he said innocently, gaze dropping to my lips again.

I groaned and rolled my eyes before grabbing the front of his hoodie and kissed him.

Hard.

He responded immediately, hands sliding to my hips, slamming me back against the door.

The kiss was brutal, messy, full of months — maybe years — of frustration detonating all at once. Starved. Wild.

We stumbled back against the teacher’s desk, knocking over papers and god-knows-what, neither of us caring.

When we finally broke apart, panting, he whispered against my mouth: “You’re fucking annoying.”

“Takes one to know one.” I whispered back, yanking him down for another kiss.

And somehow...

It became a habit.

It wasn’t supposed to become a habit. It wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

But suddenly, he was everywhere. In my bed. On his bed. In the backseat of his shitty old car, the windows fogged, the gearshift digging into my thigh as he moved inside me, rough and desperate. In the abandoned book storage, under a dusty skylight, where he bent me over an old desk and muffled my moans with his mouth. And now, in the farthest corner of the library.

He had me pinned against a bookshelf, one hand gripping my hip, the other tangled in my hair as he fucked me from behind. The worn wooden shelf rattled with every thrust, the sound obscene in the silent library.

My skirt was bunched up around my waist, panties forgotten somewhere on the floor. His jeans pooled around his ankles.

I couldn’t hold back a shaky moan when he lifted my leg higher, the new angle making me see stars.

His mouth was pressed to my shoulder, muffling his moans against my skin, teeth grazing whenever I clenched around him. He grabbed my wrist, guiding it to his mouth, biting the heel of my palm, making me gasp, as he fucked me harder.

Seungmin growled low in his throat, and I smirked wickedly, whispering breathless: “Can't handle it, can you, baby?”

He growled low in response, fucking into me harder, faster, more desperate, making it clear who was really in control.

And it wasn’t him.

The orgasm hit so fast it almost knocked the breath out of me, my forehead pressed against the dusty shelf to stay standing.

He followed a second later, groaning my name like a curse, collapsing against my back for a few shuddering breaths before pulling out, carefully, his hands trembling slightly as he tucked himself back into his jeans.

We straightened ourselves quickly — or as quickly as two wrecked, sweaty people could in the middle of a goddamn library.

He grabbed his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder like nothing had happened. I smoothed my skirt down, pretending my legs weren’t shaking.

As we walked out of the library, Seungmin shoved his hands into his pockets and said, almost casually: “I... bought that soju you said you liked once.” He scratched the back of his neck awkwardly. “Was thinking... maybe you could come over. Study. Drink a little. Then…” He shrugged, pretending nonchalance. “You know.”

I blinked at him, caught off-guard.

“Wait. That soju? How the hell did you even find it?”

He scowled, defensive. “I just found it, alright?” he muttered, like he hadn’t spent two hours scouring online stores for it.

I raised an eyebrow. “You scoured the internet for it, didn’t you?”

He rolled his eyes, ears pink. “Whatever. Just... if you want to come over later. Study. Drink. Maybe…” He shrugged.

I grinned wickedly. “I'd love to drink myself into a coma with you.”

He grumbled something under his breath but didn’t hide the way the corner of his mouth tilted up.

And maybe...

Maybe I was already too far gone to care

When I stepped into Seungmin’s apartment, a gust of cold air followed me inside, swirling around my ankles and raising goosebumps along my arms. The windows rattled faintly, and somewhere in the distance, I could hear the low rumble of thunder, soft but persistent, like a warning. The faint smell of clean laundry and takeout lingering in the air.

It was neat, tidy — almost aggressively so, like he had scrubbed it just to have something to do with his hands.

Seungmin closed the door behind me a little too quickly, shutting out the cold — but not the tension that immediately filled the room.

He didn’t even bother with his usual sarcasm. He just moved toward the kitchen, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders stiff. In that brief moment, I could tell something was off.

I kicked off my shoes and shook the chill off my skin, frowning slightly as I watched him.

Something was wrong. Something more than the storm brewing outside.

“Hey.” I said, having him help me take off my coat and eyeing him suspiciously.

He gave a grunt of acknowledgment and motioned toward the living room, where the bottle of soju sat already open on the coffee table.

We moved to the couch, cracking open our notebooks, pretending we were actually there to study. At first, we did — sort of.

I read over a few pages. He pretended to make notes. We sipped soju in between, the alcohol smoothing the edges of the tension, but not erasing it.

It only grew heavier, thicker. He barely looked at me. His jaw clenched every time I shifted closer.

After nearly half an hour of fake studying and awkward silences, I slammed my pen down dramatically.

“Okay.” I said, turning fully to face him. “Spill it. What the hell is going on with you?”

He didn't answer immediately. Just scribbled something meaningless in his notebook, avoiding my eyes like they were lethal weapons.

“Nothing” he muttered.

I snorted. “Bullshit. Come on, Min. You’re a lot of things, but a good liar isn’t one of them.”

I reached across, closed his notebook slowly, deliberately, and stared him down.

“You’re acting like someone kicked your puppy. You’re moody. You’re stiff. And not even in the good way.”

His lips twitched slightly at that, but he still didn’t meet my gaze. “I said it's nothing.” he repeated stubbornly, but his tone cracked halfway through.

It was almost adorable.

Almost.

I leaned in closer, so close that our knees bumped. “You’re not getting away with it.” I said in a mock-sweet voice. “Not tonight.”

I let my hand trail up his thigh slowly, watching the way his breath hitched. He didn’t stop me. Didn’t move.

“If you're not going to talk…” I murmured, holding his gaze, sliding off the couch and kneeling between his legs, “then I'll just have to loosen you up another way.”

His eyes widened slightly, but he still didn’t say a word — stubborn even now.

I tugged the drawstring of his sweatpants loose, my fingers moving with slow, calculated intent. He was already half-hard — a clear sign that no matter how much he was pretending to be unaffected, his body wasn’t lying.

I freed him with a slow, deliberate motion, my hand wrapping around him. He groaned, low and desperate, his head falling back against the couch.

I leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the sensitive tip, tasting the faint saltiness of his skin. He shuddered, his hand immediately sliding into my hair, not pushing, just... anchoring.

When I took him into my mouth, slow and deep, his head fell back against the couch with a broken groan.

“Fuck, Y/N…” he gasped, voice already wrecked.

I set a slow, torturous rhythm, hollowing my cheeks, dragging my tongue along every inch of him, savoring every helpless sound he made. His thighs trembled under my palms, and the way his hand tightened in my hair made me smirk against his skin.

His free hand came up, brushing the hair gently away from my face so he could see me — see everything. And then, in the middle of a particularly deep stroke, he whispered it — raw, desperate.

“I saw you…” he rasped, pushing the hair gently away from my face, his thumb brushing my temple tenderly. “At the library... talking with that asshole… laughing… looking so fucking pretty”

I hummed around him, and he let out a strangled sound, his hips bucking slightly.

“Fuck, Y/N... I hated it, it made me crazy.” he admitted, his voice cracking as he stroked my cheek. “Wanted to punch him.” he gasped. “Wanted to drag you away... claim you…”

The words sent a sharp pulse of heat through me. I pulled back just enough to look up at him, my hand stroking him lazily. My heart pounded at his raw honesty, but I didn’t let up. If anything, I doubled down — moving faster, stroking the base with one hand while my mouth worked him expertly.

He was unraveling. Completely. And he didn't even try to hide it anymore.

“Fucking jealous.” he muttered, his head tipping back, exposing the long line of his throat.

I felt him tense, his thighs trembling slightly. Before he could lose it completely, he tugged me up by the shoulders, pulling me into his lap with a growl.

“Get up here” he ordered, voice rough, desperate.

Without another word, he pulled me up by the arms, yanking me onto his lap. I straddled him, sliding my body against his, feeling the heat of his skin under my fingers. Our faces inches apart, both breathing hard.

The soju had given him a slight flush — his cheeks pink, his chest heaving — and it made him look almost innocent. Almost. He wasn't.

I could feel his eyes on me, his gaze dark and filled with something I wasn’t sure I was ready to acknowledge. His hands were on my hips, gripping me so tightly it almost hurt, and for a moment, I let myself savor that — the way he was barely holding on, like if he let go, I might slip away from him.

I pulled my sweater off slowly, teasing him with every inch of skin that was exposed, the fabric sliding over my shoulders and down my arms, before I tossed it carelessly aside. His breath caught when my bra followed, and I couldn’t help but smile at the way his eyes devoured me, like he was trying to memorize it, the hunger in them making my pulse race.

I stood up, feeling his gaze track every movement as I slowly unzipped my skirt and let it fall to the floor, leaving me in nothing but my lace panties. Seungmin was breathless now, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths as he reached out to touch me, his fingers brushing against my bare thighs, reverent, sending a wave of shivers through me.

“Fuck, you're killing me…” he whispered, voice hoarse.

I leaned in, kissing him slow and deep, feeling the desperation vibrating through him. Without breaking the kiss I slid my hand between us, guiding him to my entrance, and slowly, excruciatingly slowly, I sank down onto him.

The feeling of him inside me was overwhelming — I could feel every inch of him, stretching me, filling me completely. Both of us gasped at the same time, my body shaking slightly from the intensity of it.

I stayed still for a moment, letting the sensation settle, trying to focus on the way his hands gripped my waist, his fingers digging into my skin as if he was trying to keep me grounded.

“You feel so fucking good.” he groaned, his voice low and strained. “I can’t even…”

His hands moved from my waist to my hips, his thumbs pressing against the sides of my ribs, and then he helped me move, his body matching the rhythm I set. I leaned back slightly, letting him fill me deeper with every movement, my hands resting on his chest for balance as I rocked against him. He reached up, running his hands over my waist, my stomach, my breasts, like he couldn't get enough.

His eyes never left me, watching the way my body moved over his, the way I controlled the pace, the way I made him feel like he was losing his mind. I leaned down, kissing him hard, desperate, letting him taste the hunger that had been building between us.

His hands slid up my back, pushing my hair away from my neck, and he kissed me there — soft at first, then with more urgency. The contrast between his gentleness and the rawness of our bodies crashing together made my breath catch.

“You’re fucking perfect.” he muttered, his lips against my skin. “God, you feel so perfect.”

I increased the pace, rolling my hips faster, harder, the friction between us driving both of us to the edge. He was moaning now, his hands moving to my breasts, squeezing and massaging them as I continued to ride him.

I could feel him getting closer — his movements more frantic, more desperate — and I loved the way he was losing himself in me.

“Y/N... Fuck, you’re incredible…” he groaned, his hands slid under my ass, guiding me, helping me move faster, deeper.

I felt my own orgasm building — the pressure, the heat, the way our bodies were in perfect sync, like we were both caught in the same storm.

I leaned down, kissing him again, this time slower, more tender, as I continued to move on top of him. He pulled me closer, his hands sliding up my back, pulling me into him as if he couldn’t get close enough.

“God, you’re beautiful.” he praised me again, his voice cracking. “You're a fucking dream, Y/N.”

That broke me. The words, the way he said them with such vulnerability, the way he couldn’t hide how much he cared — it was too much.

I came first, my body shaking as the pleasure coursed through me, and Seungmin followed right after, his whole body tensing beneath me as he groaned my name.

We collapsed together, both of us gasping for air, trembling from the intensity of it all.

Seungmin’s hand found my face, his thumb brushing over my cheek as he pulled me into a slow kiss, still out of breath but somehow still wanting more. He pulled back after a moment, his forehead resting against mine as we both tried to catch our breath.

I smiled, my fingers tracing the lines of his jaw as I looked down at him.

The slow kiss between us deepened, his forehead pressed against mine, so close I could feel the soft flutter of his eyelashes against my skin, his arms still cradling my waist, his body still warm and heavy inside me. Seungmin's hand traced slow, lazy circles along my spine, as if he had no intention of letting me go.

As if I belonged there.

With him.

The world outside blurred into nothing — just the soft rumble of thunder far away and the faint tremble of Seungmin's breath against my lips.

And somewhere, in the middle of all that… my heart stuttered violently. But it wasn’t like before — not the rush of lust, not the usual reckless thrill.

It hurt.

A sharp, aching kind of pain that made my chest tighten and my lungs forget how to breathe.

And that was when it hit me.

I loved him.

The realization knocked the air out of me, heavier than the storm clouds gathering outside the window. Panic flared instantly in my chest, hotter than anything I had felt that night. The thought sliced through me with terrifying clarity.

I tried to breathe, tried to ground myself, but my mind betrayed me — flooding with every moment, every memory that led me here.

The way he encouraged me before the presentation and said — in the most nonchalant way possible — “You’re gonna kill it.” and “You’re smarter than half the people in this room.” Like it was the most normal thing to say to the girl you're supposed to hate.

The way he used to sit across from me in the library for hours, flicking tiny crumpled paper balls at my forehead every time I started to lose focus, pretending it was just to annoy me — but never leaving until I finished every last page.

The way, after the first time at his house we crossed the line, he wordlessly pulled me up from the messy bed, his arms steady and sure, carrying me straight to the bathroom. No teasing, no smirking — just warm hands steadying me under the shower spray, his fingers gently untangling my hair like I was something precious.

The way he disappeared into the kitchen afterward, reappearing fifteen minutes later with a grilled cheese — tragically burnt, awful grilled cheese — because he thought I might be hungry.

The way he always had some sarcastic comment ready to throw at me — just to see me roll my eyes and smile.

The way that when we were alone his fingers always found my wrist, my waist, the small of my back — little touches so casual they could have been accidental, but they never were. Like he needed the reassurance that I was real and still there.

The way he never once made me feel like I owed him anything in return.

The way he just... stayed.

All of it crashed into me at once, a kaleidoscope of moments that I hadn't realized mattered so much until now.

I opened my eyes, searching his face. He looked so peaceful. So real. His hair messy from my fingers, lips swollen from my kisses, a faint pinkness staining his cheeks from the soju we’d shared earlier. He looked like something I could never deserve but stupidly still wanted. No — needed.

The love sat heavy in my chest, raw and suffocating.

I love him.

I loved his stupid sarcasm. I loved his soft touches hidden behind gruff words. I loved his messy hair, his crooked smile, his smartass mouth. I love his little mole on the bridge of his nose. I loved the way he fought me, pushed me, infuriated me — and still made me feel seen in ways no one else ever had.

Panic clawed at my throat. This wasn’t part of the plan. This wasn’t supposed to happen.

No.

No, no, no.

I wasn’t supposed to feel this. I wasn’t supposed to love Seungmin.

Reality slammed back into me.

I shifted slightly, pulling away just enough for the space between us to feel vast again. Seungmin's brows furrowed, his hand tightening instinctively on my waist.

Leaning away from him, my body trembling as I scrambled off his lap. I could feel the sudden chill on my bare skin as I grabbed my discarded clothes, pulling my sweater over my head with frantic, clumsy hands, avoiding his confused, sleepy gaze.

“Y/N?” he called softly, his voice was thick, confused, still hoarse from our kisses. “Where are you–”

I didn't answer. I grabbed my skirt, slipping it back on quickly, reaching for my bag like the room was on fire.

“Where are you going?” he asked, standing up, his brows furrowing.

I didn’t even look at him. I needed to get out. Out of that room, out of the weight pressing down on my chest. I needed to breathe.

Before I did something irreversible. Before I begged him to love me back.

He moved toward the window and then froze. Outside, it had started to pour — sheets of rain hammering against the glass, the sky flashing briefly with distant lightning.

“It’s's raining.” he said, voice cautious. “Why don't you just... stay tonight?”

I shook my head frantically, shoving my feet into my shoes, my fingers trembling. “I can't.” I choked out, barely able to breathe, my throat closing.

He reached for me but I bolted, slamming the door behind me, running down the hallway, the sound of my footsteps echoing against the walls, my heart breaking with every step.

I ran down the stairwell, skipping steps as I sprinted downward, my heart racing, my vision blurring. The sound of rain getting louder, closer, until I burst through the front doors into the storm.

The moment I pushed the exit door open, the cold rain hit me like a wall, instantly soaking me to the bone — I had forgotten my coat —. I stumbled forward blindly, tears and raindrops blurring together on my face.

I barely made it a few steps before I heard him.

“Y/N!”

His voice, sharp, desperate, cutting through the downpour.

I ignored it. Kept walking. And then suddenly —A hand grabbed my arm and yanked me back, spinning me around.

Seungmin stood there, drenched, hair plastered to his forehead, chest heaving like he had just run a marathon, anger and hurt twisting his face into something almost unrecognizable.

His other hand fisted in my hair, yanking my head back slightly so I had to look at him. We were soaked, trembling, our breaths steaming in the cold night air.

His face was wild with frustration, with something deeper, something raw and terrified. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!” he shouted, his voice cracking with anger and something else — fear.

I shoved him. Hard.

My hands slamming against his chest, tears spilling from my eyes. “This is your fault!” I screamed, my voice raw, breaking. “Your stupid hair– your fucking smile– your goddamn eyes–”

I shoved him again, sobbing now, my fists hitting his chest uselessly. “I wasn't supposed to feel this! I wasn’t supposed to love you!”

Seungmin grabbed my wrists, holding them tightly, forcing me to stop hitting him. His hands were rough but not cruel — desperate. “You think this was easy for me?!” he shouted back, his voice cracking. “You think it didn’t fucking kill me to see you every day and pretend you weren't everything I wanted?!”

I struggled against him, tears streaming down my face, mixing with the rain.

“You think I didn’t want to scream every time someone else looked at you like you weren't mine?!” he gasped, voice hoarse with the weight of everything he had been holding back. “I wanted to tell everyone. I wanted to grab you and say— she’s fucking mine.”

The rain pounded harder, soaking through our clothes, making our bodies slick against each other.

I tried to pull away again, but he gripped my shoulders tighter, pulling me closer, locking his burning eyes to mine. “You felt it too.” he whispered fiercely. “Tell me you felt it too, Y/N.”

I shook my head weakly, trying to pull away from him, the rain blinding me, my heart pounding so loud I couldn’t think. “I can't–” I gasped, my voice barely audible.

But he didn’t let me go. He stepped closer, almost shaking with the effort of keeping himself together. “Look at me.” he demanded. “Look me in the fucking eyes and tell me it wasn’t real. Tell me you don’t feel anything. Tell me you don’t love me.”

I opened my mouth. Tried to speak. Tried to lie.

Nothing came out, not a single curse or remark. Nothing except a broken sob.

“Tell me you don't feel it, Y/N.”he shouted. “Tell me you don't love me.” His voice broke on the last word, and for a second, the world around us went silent except for the rain pounding against the pavement.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out. My throat closed up, the words stuck somewhere between terror and heartbreak. “I don't– I–” I tried, but I couldn’t finish. I couldn’t lie.

The pain on his face when I faltered nearly broke me in half. He saw the truth in my eyes before I could even say it.

We crashed into each other. The kiss was brutal, angry, full of tears and frustration and all the love we were too scared to admit. Full of every unspoken word, every feeling we were too terrified to say out loud.

His hands tangled in my hair, yanking me closer, desperate, like he needed me to breathe. My fists clutched his soaked shirt, pulling him down to me as if I could tear him apart and rebuild him at the same time.

Tears mixed with the rain on both of our faces, the salty taste of heartbreak on our lips as we clung to each other in the storm, drowning in everything we had tried so hard to deny.

We kissed like we were drowning. Because maybe we were.

We were soaked. We were shaking. We were real. And for the first time, we weren't hiding anymore.

He pressed his forehead against mine, rain soaking us, his hand trembling on my waist, his breath was shaky against my lips.

You hover there for a second, fingers still curled around the strap of your bag, staring at the back of his head.

He’s exactly where you expected him: sunk into the corner of the couch, one knee propped up, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows. The TV throws sharp light over his profile, catching on the curve of his mouth as it shapes around another sharp comment into the mic. Hair pushed back messily, headset slightly crooked. He’s leaning forward, elbows on his thighs, fully locked in.

Normal. Everything about this is normal.

It makes the way your throat tightens feel even more ridiculous.

You force yourself to move. Drop your bag by the shoe rack, hang your coat, fumble your scarf off. The metal hooks clack too loud; one of them scrapes the wall. His head twitches minutely in your direction, but his eyes don’t leave the screen.

“Finally,” Seungmin says. “My useless roommate returns.”

There’s a crackle in his mic; someone must be answering him in his ear. He snorts. “No, not you. The other useless one. The one who pays half the rent.”

Normally, you’d lob something back—I payed more than half last month, you freeloader—before raiding the fridge or leaning over the back of the couch to mess up his hair. Tonight, your mouth opens and nothing comes out. Your lips press together again. You swallow.

You walk past him toward the kitchen instead.

“Hey,” he calls out, still not looking away. “How was the—no, oh my God, Jisung, if you peek one more corner like that—”

You pull open the fridge and blink at the rows of containers without really seeing them. The cold air licks at your face, makes your eyes sting. There’s leftover pasta. Half a carton of eggs. Three different kinds of yogurt you bought during a health kick you abandoned after two days.

You close the fridge.

You end up standing there with both palms braced on the counter, eyes fixed on the tile backsplash while your heart beats too loud in your ears.

“—I asked you a question, you know,” Seungmin says. Closer now. The audio chaos is still going, but it sounds a little further away. “Don’t ignore me, that’s rude.”

You don’t realize he’s actually walked into the kitchen until his shadow cuts into your peripheral vision. You flinch a little, breath catching, and that’s what makes him really look at you.

He’s still wearing his headset, mic tipped up. The game continues yelling in his ear; his fingers tap restlessly at the controller he’s brought with him out of habit. He opens his mouth, some quip already lined up, and then his gaze finally settles properly on your face.

All the air goes out of his tone.

“Hey.” His brow furrows. “What’s with the funeral vibe?”

You try for a smile. It lands somewhere around “pained grimace.”

“Nothing. It’s—” You flick your eyes down to the counter, tracing a crack in the laminate. “I’m fine.”

“You’re lying.” It’s not an accusation, just a flat fact. “You look like someone kicked your puppy. Did your train catch fire again or something?”

A shout comes through his headset, tinny and frantic. “Hold on,” he mutters into the mic, pulling it down. “Yeah, yeah, play without me for a sec, you’ll live.”

He yanks the headset down around his neck entirely, hits something on the controller, and the living room finally, blessedly, goes quiet as the game pauses. The sudden absence of noise makes your chest feel even more exposed.

He sets the controller on the counter next to your hand.

“Talk,” he says simply.

You stare at his fingers. Long, deft, a smear of something orange—Cheeto dust, probably—staining his knuckle. You focus on that instead of the concern tightening his mouth, the way his eyes keep searching your face like he’s trying to line you up with a version of you that exists in his head.

“It’s stupid,” you say.

“Doubt it.” He nudges your elbow with his. “You don’t look like this for stupid stuff. You look like this when your mom calls.”

The mention of her is like a quick jab to the ribs. Your breath hitches.

He notices. He always does. His voice softens a fraction.

“She called?”

“And texted. And… voice noted. And then my aunt chimed in. And my cousin. And…” You trail off, jaw tightening. If you keep listing names, you’re going to cry, and you refuse to start crying in front of the fridge.

“Okay.” He leans his hip against the counter, turning so he’s angled toward you. “What’s the damage this time? You secretly have three more siblings? They’re all moving in? Your mom wants your firstborn child as collateral for loaning you the car that one time?”

If you weren’t so wound up, you’d laugh. As it is, the corner of your mouth twitches once and falls again.

“It’s Christmas,” you say instead, like that explains anything. To him, it kind of does.

He pulls in a quiet breath. “Right. The Annual Festival of Emotional Blackmail.”

“That’s the one.”

He doesn’t rush you. Seungmin never rushes you. He just waits, eyes steady, like he’s got all night.

You pick at a hangnail, then drop your hand before you draw blood.

“They’re doing a big thing at the house this year,” you say. “Everyone’s coming. All the cousins, the aunts, everybody. Mom’s already in Pinterest-hell about the menu. Apparently there’s a color theme.” You huff a humorless laugh. “She sent me a moodboard.”

“That sounds… horrible,” he says. “But also standard. You’re acting like this is new.”

“It is.” Your throat is tight. You swallow hard. “They invited him.”

He doesn’t ask who. He doesn’t have to. His brows lower, eyes narrowing.

“Seriously?” he says, flat. “After everything?”

You nod, jaw clenching.

There’s a pause. The fridge hums. Somewhere in the building, a pipe knocks.

“Of course,” he says, voice dipped in that particular brand of dry disgust he usually reserves for lag and pineapple pizza. “Why not invite the human red flag to celebrate the birth of baby Jesus.”

You snort automatically, the sound half-choked. “Don’t blaspheme in my mother’s presence, she’ll feel it through the walls.”

“Good.” He folds his arms, shoulder bumping yours again, this time on purpose. “Maybe she’ll also feel how insane this is. Did you tell her no?”

“I tried.I said it would be weird. She said I was being dramatic and that I should ‘just be mature’ about it.” Your voice pitches slightly higher when you mimic her, the words tasting sour. “Apparently he was ‘so good for me’ and he ‘always brought out the best in me.’”

Seungmin makes a noise low in his throat, something between a scoff and a growl. “Yeah, because nothing says ‘brings out the best in you’ like—”

“Don’t,” you cut in quickly. “I really… I don’t want to replay it. I just—” You press your thumb and forefinger hard to the bridge of your nose. “It doesn’t matter. They love him. They love the version of him they saw, and they think I’m stupid for letting him go.”

“You’re not stupid,” he says immediately.

“That’s not the part they’re arguing.”

He opens his mouth, closes it again. You can see him working through several options and discarding all of them because none of them will fix the fact that your family is who they are.

“So don’t go,” he says finally. “You didn’t go last year. Or the year before that.”

Your hands fall to your sides. You stare at the tile pattern until it blurs.

“Yeah,” you say quietly. “Well. This year’s different.”

“How?”

You swallow. The word tastes heavier than everything else.

“Grandma.”

His posture changes. The tension in him shifts, goes from irritated on your behalf to something more careful.

“Is she…” He trails off, searching your face.

“Mom says she’s not doing well. They’ve had to take her to the hospital a few times this year. She gets tired easily. She… she asked if I would come.” You blink hard. 

The last part cracks something open. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop it from spilling out.

Seungmin watches you, jaw working.

“So you have to go,” he says quietly.

You nod.

“And they’re not uninviting him.”

You shake your head, a bitter little laugh hitching out. “Mom says it would be rude. He’s ‘family to them’ now.” You curl your fingers into the fabric of your shirt. “Isn’t that funny? He’s family. I’m apparently… the one who should get over it.”

His silence is sharp.

When he speaks again, his voice is low, careful. “Do you want to see him?”

You answer without thinking. “No.”

“Do you want to see your grandmother?”

Your throat tightens. “Yeah. Of course I do.”

“Okay.” He pushes off the counter, straightening. The movement makes you look up. His expression has settled into something focused, the same look he gets right before he clutches a match and turns an entire game around. “Then we make it happen.”

“Seungmin, it’s not that simple.” You rake a hand through your hair, frustration bubbling up hot. “They’re going to ask a thousand questions. They’re going to make comments. They’re already acting like I made this huge mistake and he’s God’s gift to our bloodline and—” You cut yourself off, breath coming too fast.

He steps closer. Not enough to crowd you, just enough that when he lowers his chin a little, you can’t avoid his eyes.

“Look at me,” he says softly.

You do. You always do.

His gaze is steady, dark and intent. For a second, the usual sarcasm drops away completely, and you see the bare, unvarnished worry underneath.

“You’re not going to skip seeing your grandmother because your family has the emotional intelligence of a potato,” he says. “I’m not letting that happen.”

“I don’t—” You swallow. “I don’t know what else to do.”

“You go.” He shrugs, like he’s saying something simple. “And I’ll go with you.”

You blink. “What?”

“I’ll go,” he repeats, like you’re the one being slow. “To Christmas. To your parents’ place. I’ll come.”

The idea is so absurd you almost laugh in his face. “You? With my family? Do you have a secret death wish I don’t know about?”

“Apparently,” he says dryly. “Because I’m still offering.”

You stare at him, trying to picture it—Seungmin in your mother’s immaculate living room, enduring your aunt’s interrogation, navigating your cousins’ chaos. Him sitting at that table where everything between you and your ex fractured so neatly apart.

Your stomach swoops.

“You don’t have to do that,” you say quickly. “Seriously, I just— I needed to vent. I’ll figure something out. I always do.”

“You don’t always,” he says, and there’s no heat in it, just quiet truth. “Sometimes you avoid. Sometimes you stay here and pretend Christmas doesn’t exist and eat ramen with me instead.”

“That sounds like a good plan,” you mutter.

“Not this year.”

He holds your gaze, and something slots into place behind his eyes. Decision. Resolve.

“You said the problem is facing him alone,” he says. “And dealing with your family’s… collective delusion.” His nose wrinkles slightly. “So don’t be alone.”

You blink again. “What does that even mean?”

“It means,” he says slowly, like he’s spelling it out for you, “I’ll be your boyfriend.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“Excuse me?” you manage.

“Fake,” he adds. “Obviously. I’ll go as your boyfriend. They’ll be too busy asking me invasive questions and comparing me to your ex to pull their usual crap, and he…” His jaw tightens. “He’ll see you’re not still orbiting him like he’s the sun.”

The room tilts just a little. You grip the edge of the counter.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s insane,” you say, half-laughing, half-panicking. “Because my family is insane. Because you’d be trapped in a house with them for at least three days. Because my mother will show you baby pictures of me and ask how many grandchildren you want.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You think I’m scared of your mom?”

“You should be,” you say fervently.

He huffs out a breath that might be a laugh. “I’m not. And even if I was, I’d still go.” He shrugs one shoulder, casual in a way that doesn’t quite match the intensity in his eyes. “You need backup. I’m here. It’s not that complicated.”

It feels complicated. It feels like your heart is trying to climb up your throat.

“Seungmin,” you say, softer now. “You don’t owe me that.”

His gaze flicks over your face, cataloguing every line of doubt, every crack. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet, almost matter-of-fact.

“I know,” he says. “I want to.”

That pulls the air right out of your lungs.

You look at him fully, really look—the stubborn line of his mouth, the way his shoulders are squared like he’s already bracing himself for your family’s version of war, the warm focus in his eyes that’s always, always been there when it comes to you. Suddenly, the idea isn’t insane. It’s dangerous in a different way.

“Are you sure?” you whisper.

He nods once. “Text your mom back. Tell her you’re bringing your boyfriend home for Christmas.”

He lets the word hang there between you, steady and unflinching, while your pulse stutters and races.

“And,” he adds, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth, “you might want to warn her I eat a lot. Wouldn’t want to be rude and demolish the whole Christmas dinner without notice.”

A startled laugh bursts out of you, sharp and wet. You swipe quickly under your eye; your fingers come away damp. He pretends not to see.

“Okay,” you say, voice shaking around the edges but stronger than before. “Okay. I’ll… I’ll tell her.”

“Good.” He reaches for the controller, then pauses. “And hey?”

“Yeah?”

He bumps your shoulder again, gentler this time. “We’re going to make them regret inviting him,” he says lightly. “They’ll be too busy falling in love with me.”

You roll your eyes, but your chest feels a little less tight, a little more like you can breathe.

“Cocky much?”

“Realistic,” he counters, already slipping the headset back on. “My charm is devastating. Ask literally anyone who isn’t you.”

You shake your head, the beginnings of a real smile pulling at your mouth as you reach for your phone.

Your screen lights up with the group chat, the last message still glowing:

Mom: we invited Daniel too!! it’s been so long since we saw him 🥰

Your thumbs hover.

Then, with Seungmin’s presence warm and solid at your side, the living room filling back up with the noise of resumed gunfire and shouted insults, you type:

Y/N: I’m coming. And I’m bringing my boyfriend.

You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it.

The highway gives way to smaller roads without you really noticing.

One minute it’s gray lanes and salt-streaked barriers, the city shrinking in the rearview; the next you’re rolling past strips of dark trees and gas stations dressed up in half-hearted tinsel. The sky’s the kind of flat December white that promises snow and delivers only slush, and the car is just warm enough that your fingers have stopped hurting.

Your stomach, however, has not.

You twist your hands in your lap. The radio is low, some classic Christmas song murmuring about chestnuts and open fires. The heater hums. The world outside is all muted browns and the occasional flash of a plastic wreath on a front door.

“Stop it,” Seungmin says.

You blink. “Stop what?”

He flicks his eyes off the road just long enough to angle a look at your hands. “You’re going to untangle your cuticles. It’s disturbing.”

You glance down. Red crescent marks bloom at the base of your nails where you’ve been worrying them.

“Oh.” You drag your hands away from each other and press them flat against your thighs, sitting up straighter. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me.” He shifts a little, one hand steady on the wheel, the other reaching down. “Apologize to your fingers.”

He pries one of your hands up from your leg with practiced impatience, like he’s done this a hundred times before, and threads his fingers through yours. His palm is warm, grip firm. It makes your bones feel less like they’re rattling around inside you.

You stare at your joined hands for a second, then turn your gaze resolutely to the windshield.

“This is not going to fix my anxiety,” you mutter.

“Maybe not,” he says, thumb brushing absently along the back of your hand like he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “But it’ll stop you from mauling yourself before we even get there.”

The GPS mounted on the dash chimes cheerfully.

In 1.5 miles, turn right onto Maple Lane.

Your chest tightens at the name. You know what comes after Maple Lane. You could drive this route in your sleep. 

You wish you were asleep.

“How far?” you ask, even though you heard it.

“Ten minutes,” he says. “Maybe less.”

“Great.” You swallow. “Fantastic.”

He glances over again. His mouth pulls to the side. “You look like you’re going to throw up on my dashboard.”

“Thanks,” you say faintly. “That helps.”    

“I’m just saying,” he goes on, turning onto a narrower road flanked by sleeping trees. “If you’re going to hurl, aim for your side. I like my shoes.”    

You make a weak chirping noise that’s probably supposed to be a laugh.    

Houses start appearing between the trees, spaced further apart than anything in the city, with wide driveways and mailboxes that all look like variations on a theme. Wreaths on some doors. Lights on others. A giant inflatable Santa listing to one side in someone’s yard like it’s given up on life.    

Your childhood neighborhood, exactly as you remember it and somehow smaller.    

You fall quiet. So does he.    

The GPS chirps an instruction you don’t hear. Seungmin makes another turn, and there it is.    

Your parents’ house appears around the curve like it’s been waiting for you: the same blue-gray siding, the white trim, the porch with the railing your dad always meant to fix and never did. Every inch of it is dressed for the season—fairy lights crisscrossing the porch, a lit-up reindeer on the lawn, garland wound around the pillars. There’s a glowing star plugged into the upstairs window of what used to be your room.    

Your heart lurches.    

Seungmin slows to a crawl, then eases the car up to the curb.    

“Home sweet psychological war zone,” he murmurs.    

You don’t answer. Your tongue feels stuck to the roof of your mouth.    

He puts the car in park and lets his hands rest on the wheel for a second. The engine ticks softly as it settles.    

“Hey,” he says. “Look at me.”    

You peel your eyes away from the house and force them sideways.    

He’s not smiling now. Up close, in the thin winter light coming through the windshield, he looks unexpectedly grown—jaw set, eyes steady and dark, hair still a little mussed from the beanie he yanked off when you hit the outskirts of town.    

“It’s just a house,” he says quietly. “It has no actual power. It’s wood and nails and an aggressive amount of fairy lights. The people inside are loud and wrong a lot of the time, but they can’t reach into your chest and rearrange you without permission. Got it?”    

You huff a shaky breath. “You rehearsed that?”    

“Came up with it just now. I’m a genius under pressure.” He clicks his seatbelt free. “We get out. You ring the bell. I carry the bags. That’s it. First quest.”    

You fumble with your own seatbelt. The buckle sticks once, then pops free. Your fingers are clumsy on the door handle, but you get it open and the cold air slaps you in the face, sharp and clean and full of woodsmoke from some neighbor’s fireplace.    

He rounds the car in a few strides, already shrugging into his coat. You step onto the curb, knees a little watery.    

“I can grab—” you start, reaching for the trunk.    

“Nope.” He holds up a palm like a traffic cop. “Pretty sure the terms of service state I have to show up looking useful.”    

“You made those terms up.”    

“And yet they’re legally binding.” He pops the trunk before you can argue and starts loading himself up with the practiced efficiency of someone who has hauled your overpacked suitcases up three flights of stairs more than once.    

Your overnight duffel goes over his right shoulder. The tote bag of presents over the left. He hooks the grocery bag your mom insisted you bring (homemade cookies, double-wrapped) in his fingers for good measure, then closes the trunk with his elbow.    

You hover uselessly at the end of the driveway.    

“You look ridiculous,” you say. “Like a Christmas pack mule.”    

“And you look like you’re about to bolt.” He jerks his chin toward the porch. “Ring the bell.”    

You swallow, nod, and force your legs to move.    

The porch boards creak under your boots. The doormat still says WELCOME in curling letters that have faded more with each year. The wreath on the front door is new, though—darker greenery, big red velvet bow. You stare at it for a second, then lift a hand that doesn’t feel entirely attached to you and press the doorbell.    

The chiming echoes faintly inside. A second later, you hear muffled footsteps, a voice calling your name, the thump of someone hurrying down the hall.    

You drag in a breath. Your heart is a drumline in your ears.    

The lock clicks. The handle turns.    

The door swings open.    

And it’s not your mother standing there.    

For a second, your brain rejects what it’s seeing. It’s been long enough that you’ve mentally filed him away as an abstract problem—text on a screen, a name in a group chat, a shadow in old memories.    

But there he is, in the flesh, filling your parents’ doorway like it’s his.    

Daniel.    

He looks almost exactly the same. A little shorter than Seungmin, hair styled carefully, the same easy smile that used to make your stomach flip for very different reasons. He’s wearing a sweater you’ve seen before—navy, soft-looking, something you helped him pick out once in a mall two towns over.    

“Hey,” he says, like you just bumped into each other at the grocery store. His eyes skim over your face, warm, familiar. Like nothing ever went wrong.    

Your breath stalls.    

Your grip tightens on the strap of your bag until your knuckles hurt.    

“Wow,” he adds, letting out a low whistle. “Look who finally decided to come home.”    

His gaze flicks over your shoulder, scanning the driveway. The practiced ease in his posture falters just a fraction when he realizes you didn’t arrive alone.    

Seungmin is halfway up the walk, weighed down with bags but still moving with that unhurried, controlled stride he has. He looks… annoyingly good, actually. The coat fits him, the scarf you bullied him into wearing makes his skin look warmer, and the wind has flushed his cheeks faintly pink.    

Daniel’s eyes narrow, just a hair.    

You feel like you’re watching all of this from behind glass.    

“Hi,” you manage, throat dry. “Um. Hey. I didn’t… know you were going to be the one answering the door.”    

He shrugs, leaning one shoulder casually against the frame like he belongs in it. “Your mom’s drowning in kitchen stuff. Your dad’s yelling at your uncle about football. I pulled the short straw.” His mouth quirks. “You look good.”    

The compliment hits like a small, dull stone. Once, it would’ve made you glow. Now it just makes something in you bristle.    

“Thanks,” you say, because muscle memory is a powerful thing. “You, uh… you’re—here.”    

“Yup.” His smile brightens, like you’ve said something charming. “Wouldn’t miss it. Your mom practically begged.” He laughs, light, like it’s all a joke. “Besides, wouldn’t be Christmas without you starting some fight at the table, right?”    

There’s an edge beneath the words that only you hear. The implication. The rewriting.    

Heat crawls up the back of your neck. You open your mouth—god knows what was about to come out—when Seungmin’s shoulder bumps gently into your arm.    

“Hey,” he says, breath puffing white in the cold. “Did you ring an alternate dimension or something? It take this long to say hi?”    

His tone is light, but his eyes flick over your face quickly, cataloguing the pale set of your mouth, the tension in your shoulders. They sharpen when they slide to the man in the doorway.    

You feel something in you unclench, just a little, at the sight of him there beside you. Solid. Familiar. Yours—for now, at least.    

Daniel straightens off the doorframe, easy charm snapping back into place like a mask.    

“You must be Seungmin,” he says, sticking his hand out. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”    

There’s an assumption tucked neatly inside the phrase, like he’s offering Seungmin a script: we are men who know where we stand in this story. I am the Ex. You are the New Guy. You’ve heard of me, of course you have. I matter here.    

For a heartbeat, you freeze.    

Because of course Seungmin has heard about him. He was there for the whole messy end, the nights you came home hollow-eyed, the way your hands shook when your phone lit up with certain notifications. He’s heard plenty.    

But he doesn’t take the script.    

Instead, he shifts the bags on his shoulder, freeing one hand carefully, and looks at Daniel’s outstretched hand with polite puzzlement, like he’s not entirely sure if he’s supposed to recognize him from somewhere.    

Then he smiles.    

It’s his nice smile. The one he uses on baristas and professors and neighbors’ kids. Soft at the edges, just enough teeth, completely void of the contempt you know he’s capable of.    

“Hi,” he says. “And you are…?”    

The silence that falls is microscopic and enormous at the same time.    

Daniel’s hand hangs there midair for a fraction of a second too long.    

“Oh,” he says, a flicker of something crossing his face before he catches it. “Uh. Daniel.” He recovers into a laugh that’s just a little too loud. “I’m—sorry, I thought she would’ve mentioned me.”    

He glances at you as he says it, like he’s tossing a ball into your court. Like he expects you to jump in and fill the space, to reassure him, to patch his ego.    

You feel Seungmin’s gaze slide to you then back to Daniel.    

“Daniel,” he repeats thoughtfully, as if tasting the name for the first time. “Nice to meet you.” He shifts the bags again so he can give the other man’s hand a brief, firm shake. “She hasn’t, actually.”    

Your pulse ricochets.

Daniel’s smile falters, just a fraction. “Oh,” he says again. “Huh.”

He looks at you, waiting for you to fix it, to jump in with oh my god, I talk about you all the time, of course I do, you’re unforgettable.

You let the beat stretch.

“Yeah,” you say, voice even. “Didn’t really… come up.”

Something flickers in his eyes—confusion, then a quick bruise of offense he tries to smother with a shrug.

“Well,” he says, clearing his throat. “Guess I’m not as memorable as I thought.”

“There’s still time to impress,” Seungmin says pleasantly. “Door’s only been open for a minute.”

Daniel huffs a little laugh, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

Before the moment can stretch into something uglier, your mother’s voice blasts down the hallway.

“Who is it? Is that her? Is she here?”

You flinch. The sound yanks you straight back to sixteen: late for curfew, shoes already off in your hand to keep from making noise.

“Yeah, Mom, it’s—” you start.

She appears before you can finish.

Your mom barrels around the corner in a flurry of apron strings and holiday earrings, cheeks flushed from whatever chaos she’s been orchestrating in the kitchen. She’s got a dish towel in one hand and the unmistakable look of a woman who has been waiting all day to perform motherhood at maximum volume.

“There she is!” she squeals, wiping her hands hastily on the towel as she closes the distance. “My runaway child finally decides to come home!”

You barely have time to brace before she wraps you up, arms banding tight around your shoulders, the dish towel still faintly damp against your neck. She smells like rosemary and sugar and the sharp floral of the perfume you always thought was too much.

Your own arms come up on instinct. Hug back, don’t twitch, don’t pull away. Old programming kicks in like muscle memory.

“Hi, Mom,” you manage around the squeeze.

She pulls back just enough to cup your face between both palms, scanning you with a critical, affectionate eye like she’s judging wear and tear.

“You’re too thin,” she declares immediately. “Do you not eat in that city? You look pale. Look at those dark circles—oh, we’ll fix that this week. I have this new eye cream, reminds me, I have to show you—”

Her words tumble over each other. Your head starts to buzz.

“And you cut your hair.” She flicks at the ends like they’ve personally offended her. “I liked it long. You never ask my opinion.”

“Hello Ma’am,” Seungmin says from behind you.

For a second, she doesn’t even register him. Her gaze slides past your shoulder—locks on something over your other one—and her face lights up in a different way.

“Danny!” she crows. “You got the door, thank you.” Her hand drops from your cheek as she reaches to squeeze his forearm. “You’re such a help. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

There it is. The pivot. The familiar little sting of being temporarily displaced in your own entrance.

Daniel smiles, sliding easily back into the role. “It’s nothing. You know I like feeling useful.”

“You always were,” she says, voice going soft. “Such a good boy.”

It’s like watching a play you’ve already seen. Daniel in his mark, your mother feeding him his lines.

You stand there with your half-finished hug and try not to fidget.

Then, finally, her gaze boomerangs back to you—and catches on the figure standing just behind your shoulder.

“Oh!” she says, blinking like she’s only just noticed the man loaded down with half the contents of your life. “And this must be…”

She lets it trail, brows lifting in anticipation. She wants you to say it. Wants you to present him like a project you’ve brought home for grading.

You inhale.

“Mom,” you say, stepping slightly to the side so Seungmin is fully in her line of sight. “This is Seungmin. My boyfriend.”

The word feels heavy on your tongue, but once it’s out, it sits there solidly, undeniably real.

Seungmin shifts the bag to his fingertips and offers a lopsided, polite smile.

“It’s really nice to finally meet you,” he says. “Thank you for having me.”

He’s annoyingly good at this. His voice is pitched just right—respectful, warm, not too eager. If you didn’t know him, you’d believe it without question.

Your mother looks him up and down in a quick, assessing sweep.

He’s not what she expected, you can tell. There’s a fractional pause where she recalibrates, where you can see the lists forming in her head: clothes, posture, tone, whether he’s an upgrade or a downgrade on paper.

Then she plasters on a hostess smile.

“Oh my goodness,” she says, feigning breathlessness. “Well, aren’t you handsome.”

You feel Seungmin go very still for a millisecond at your side, then he executes a tiny bow of his head.

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “I’ll try to live up to the hype.”

Your mom laughs, charmed despite herself. “Listen to him,” she says to Daniel, like you’re not even there. “Isn’t he funny?”

Daniel’s mouth twists. “Seems like it,” he says.

Your mother turns back to you, the appraisal starting all over again, this time with more pointed edges.

“So,” she says, that particular tone creeping in—the one that always means you’re about to be under a microscope. “This is the famous roommate we’ve heard so much about?”

You blink. “You’ve… heard about him?”

“Of course,” she says briskly. “Every time we talk it’s ‘Seungmin this, Seungmin that, my roommate does this, my roommate doesn’t know how to use a dishwasher’—” She clucks her tongue, aiming the last bit at him like a joke. “I just assumed you were staying in that little phase. Didn’t realize it had turned into…” Her eyebrows rise meaningfully. “This.”

Her eyes flick between the two of you, like she’s checking for visual proof. Hand-holding. Rings. Some sign that this isn’t just a test run.

Your stomach flips.

“Well,” you say, before she can fill in the silence, “it has.”

Seungmin’s elbow brushes yours. When you glance up, he meets your eyes for a heartbeat and there’s something like quiet praise there, like you just got an answer right in class.

He shifts the bags as if reminded and offers them shyly.

“Where can I put these?” he asks. “I’d hate to drop your cookies. She was very… insistent about them making it intact.”

Your mother softens automatically at the mention of food. “Oh, did she finally bring my sugar cookies? Good.” She reaches for the grocery bag, and Seungmin smoothly prevents her from taking it, stepping forward instead.

“Let me,” he says. “You look busy. Tell me where and I’ll get out of your way.”

Her eyes linger on him for a second—on the way he moves, the way he speaks. Calculating, recalculating.

“Such manners,” she says, almost grudgingly impressed. “Now I see why she was so keen to skip Christmas to sulk in that apartment with you.”

“Mom,” you mutter.

“What? It’s true.” She waves the dish towel dismissively. “If you’d just come back and live at home like I've been telling you—”

She doesn’t finish the sentence.

She doesn’t have to.

Maybe we wouldn’t have lost Daniel. Maybe you wouldn’t have broken up. Maybe you wouldn’t have ruined a perfectly good thing. Maybe—

“—maybe things would’ve gone differently,” she finishes lightly, with a little shrug, like she hasn’t just lobbed a grenade between all three of you. “But what’s done is done.”

She gives you a bright, brittle smile, the kind she wears at work events.

“You always did have to learn things the hard way,” she adds. “Didn’t you, sweetheart?”

It takes effort not to flinch. You make your face do something approximating neutral instead.

“Guess so,” you say.

Seungmin’s fingers flex minutely on the strap of your bag. You can feel the shift of his weight at your side, like he’s readying himself.

“Well,” your mother says briskly, tilting her head, “at least this one knows how to carry a bag without complaining.”

She aims the line at Daniel, teasing, but it hits sideways. Daniel tips his head, accepting the jab with the kind of easy grin that always convinced people he didn’t mean anything by it.

“Hey, I complained plenty,” he says. “But I still did it.”

Your chest tightens. And reminded me afterward how much I owed you for it, your memory supplies, unhelpfully.

“Well,” she says again, turning the full wattage of her hostess-smile on Seungmin, “however much she packs, it’s very kind of you to put up with her. She can be… a lot, sometimes.”

The way she says it—light, amused, confiding—makes your stomach twist. It sounds like a joke. It lands like a verdict.

Seungmin’s head tilts, just a fraction.

“She’s never too much for me,” he says, offhand and smooth enough that it takes you a second to process it. “I like having her around.”

It’s such a simple sentence. It feels like someone’s reached into your chest and quietly rearranged all the furniture.

Your mother’s eyebrows lift.

“Do you,” she says. It’s not quite skepticism, not quite disbelief. Something in the middle. “Well. That’s… sweet.”

She swipes her towel at an imaginary speck on the doorframe, lips curving.

“Daniel always said you kept him on his toes,” she adds to you, in that faux-conspiratorial tone that pretends to invite you in while placing you on display. “Remember, Danny? You said she was like a hurricane.”

Your throat closes around air.

Daniel laughs on cue, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he says. “She’s… intense.”

He doesn’t say you were exhausting when you didn’t agree with me, or you always made everything a big deal, but you hear it anyway.

“Passionate,” Seungmin corrects, like he’s adjusting a mispronounced word. His tone is still gentle, but there’s a new thread running through it—something firmer. “That’s one of the first things I liked about her.”

Liked. Your heart stutters. It still makes something warm flicker low in your ribs.

Your mom blinks at him, as if she hadn’t expected an opinion from that direction.

“Mm,” she says after a beat, noncommittal, and then snaps back into motion before the moment can settle. “Anyway. We’re in the doorway like fugitives, this is ridiculous. Come in, both of you. Shoes off. You know I just mopped.”

She steps back, ushering with her free hand, herding you like a stray cat.

You toe your boots off on autopilot, bracing a hand on the wall when your foot almost slips. The familiar entryway rushes at you—the same console table with the chipped corner, the same mirror reflecting all of you back, the same family photos lining the wall. Most of them still include Daniel.

You try to take up as little space as possible as you tuck your boots onto the mat. Daniel is already moving with well-practiced ease, toeing his own shoes neatly to the side.

Daniel bends to scoop up one of the bags before Seungmin can move.

“I’ll take that,” he says easily, fingers already closing around the strap of your duffel. “I can show him where everything goes. I know the layout.”

Of course he does. He used to breeze through this house like it was an extension of his own, opening cabinets without asking, changing the thermostat without checking.

You watch his hand on the strap of your bag and feel your jaw tighten.

Seungmin shifts his weight, the easy line of his shoulders hardly changing—but the grip on the duffel doesn’t loosen.

“Thanks,” he says, pleasant as anything, “but I’ve got it.”

Daniel’s smile sticks for a beat. “It’s really no problem.”

“I know.” Seungmin’s voice stays soft, almost apologetic. “Still. She’ll never let me live it down if I show up as the boyfriend who can’t even carry luggage up a flight of stairs.”

Your mom makes a little approving noise. “That’s true,” she says. “She’d complain about that for years.”

You don’t correct her. You’re too busy watching the way Daniel’s fingers reluctantly unhook from the strap, leaving Seungmin’s hand exactly where it was.

“Besides,” Seungmin adds, like it’s an afterthought, “you’ve already been helping in the kitchen, right?”

The implication is mild, almost invisible: you already have your place here; let me have mine.

Daniel’s mouth twitches. The polite thing to do is back off. He does, but you can see the dent in his pride.

“Sure,” he says, stepping back half a pace. “Whatever you want, man.”

Your mom claps her hands once, done with the posturing even if you’re not.

“Alright,” she declares. “Bags to your room, then you can both come help me. We’re behind on the potatoes.” She tosses you a bright glance. “You and your boyfriend will be in your old room, sweetheart. I put fresh sheets on the bed.”

Heat floods your face. “We—what?”

“It’s not complicated,” she says breezily, already turning toward the hallway. “One room, one bed, two young people in love. I’m modern.”

You almost choke. 

She doesn’t wait for an answer. She’s halfway to the kitchen, calling, “Danny, honey, can you check the timer?”

“Yeah, I’ve got it!” he calls back, already moving toward her voice.

You stand there, momentarily shell-shocked, Seungmin at your side with both bags still in his hands.

Your old room. With him. In the same bed.

Later problem. Deal with it later.

You suck in a breath. “I should—”

“Go see your grandma,” Seungmin finishes quietly, like he’s been reading your mind. “Before she gets tired.”

Your attention snaps to him. “But the bags—”

He shrugs, adjusting the straps on his shoulder like they weigh nothing.

“I’m not eighty-two,” he says. “She is. Priorities.”

Your throat stings.

“I can come with you,” you offer weakly. “Drop these off first, then—”

He shakes his head, tipping his chin toward the hallway branching right. “Sitting room’s that way, yeah? By the big window?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Second door on the left.”

“Then go.” His eyes hold yours for a beat, steady and warm. “Let her have you to herself before the circus starts. I’ll find the room.”

You hesitate. The idea of leaving him alone in this house with these people for even five minutes makes your stomach do weird, protective flips.

“You sure?” you murmur.

He huffs a soft laugh. “What’s the worst that can happen?”

You raise an eyebrow at him, deadpan.

“Seriously,” he insists. “I’ll be fine.”

He watches your face and softens, just slightly.

“Go,” he repeats, gentler. “I’ll drop this stuff and meet you there. You can introduce me as the guy your grandma’s going to like more than everyone else in this house combined.”

You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t have its usual bite.

“Big talk,” you say.

“Big truth,” he counters.

You squeeze his forearm—quick, impulsive—then let go before you can overthink it.

“Okay,” you say again, more for yourself than for him. “Second door on the left.”

“I’ll find you,” he promises.

As you turn down the hallway toward the sitting room, you glance back once.

Daniel has reappeared briefly in the archway to the kitchen, watching Seungmin with an unreadable expression as your boyfriend—fake boyfriend, fake—shifts both bags onto his shoulders and starts up the stairs without so much as a wobble.

Your mother is saying something to Daniel, her hand light on his arm, her attention already torn away from you.

Seungmin doesn’t look at either of them. He just glances down the hall, catches your eye, and gives you the smallest nod.

You hold onto that as you head toward the one room in this house that’s ever felt like a refuge.

Your grandmother first. Everything else—the ex in your doorway, your mother’s digs, the strange comfort of Seungmin’s hand in yours, the knowledge that your old bed now has his name on it too—you can untangle later.

The hallway to the sitting room is narrower than you remember.

Same runner rug, same framed cross-stitch of some Bible verse your grandmother liked, same faint smell of dust and floral fabric softener. Your hand skims the wall as you walk, fingertips tracing the familiar bumps in the paint.

Second door on the left.

You pause with your fingers on the knob, heart stuttering, then ease it open.

The sitting room is dim, lit only by the weak gray outside and the blue glow of a muted TV playing an old movie. The recliner is angled toward the window, and in it—smaller than your memory, wrapped in a knitted throw—is your grandmother.

Her eyes are closed, mouth slightly open in the soft, unbothered way of real sleep. The blanket you recognize from a dozen winters is tucked under her chin. Her hair is thinner, more silver than white now. Her chest rises and falls in shallow, even breaths.

You’d braced yourself for this, and somehow it still knocks the air out of you.

“Hey, Grandma,” you whisper, even though she can’t hear you.

You step in, letting the door click shut behind you. The room smells like her—powder and peppermint, a faint trace of whatever lotion she’s always used. There’s a walker folded against the wall. A pill organizer on the side table, days neatly labeled.

You move to her side, knees bumping the recliner. Her hand is resting on the armrest, skin papery, veins like blue thread. There’s a hospital bracelet loose around her wrist.

You touch her fingers lightly. They’re warm.

Guilt hits you harder than you want it to. All the excuses from the past couple years—work, school, money, “I’ll make it next time”—sound flimsy in here, in the hush of this little room where everything is slower, quieter.

“I’m here,” you murmur, thumb brushing gently over her knuckles. “I made it.”

She doesn’t stir. Of course she doesn’t. She’s probably exhausted from the drive, from the noise, from your mother fussing. Rationally, you know it’s better for her to rest. Irrationally, a horrible part of you is convinced that if she doesn’t open her eyes right now, you’ve already missed something you can’t get back.

You sink down onto the little footstool at the base of the recliner, knees pulled close. For a while you just sit there, listening to her breathe, watching the rise and fall of her chest under the blanket. The TV flickers nonsense in the corner.

“I’m sorry,” you tell the blanket. “For not coming before. For leaving you alone with them. For making you ask for me.”

Your eyes sting. You blink up at the ceiling until the water blurs the crown molding.

“You’d like him, you know,” you add, voice barely above a breath. “The guy I brought. He’s… decent. He thinks I’m not a total disaster. That’s gotta count for something.”

A quick, ridiculous urge rises—to shake her gently, to wake her up like you’re a kid again, begging for one more story. You swallow it down. Her hand is heavy in yours, her face so peaceful it hurts.

“Okay,” you whisper, more to yourself than to her. “You rest. I’ll come back when you’re awake.”

You press a quick, clumsy kiss to the back of her hand, the way she used to do to yours when you scratched your knees on the pavement. The familiar texture of her skin against your mouth undoes you more than you expect.

By the time you stand, your throat is tight and your nose burns. You scrub at your eyes with the heel of your palm, determined not to look wrecked before you even make it to the hallway.

You crack the door open as quietly as you can and slip back out.

When you turn, he’s already there.

Seungmin is leaned against the opposite wall, hands in his pockets, head tipped back like he’s been studying the ceiling while he waits. At the sound of the door, his gaze drops to your face.

Whatever he was going to say dies before it reaches his mouth.

You drag your sleeve over your cheek, pointless—the skin is already hot and tight. His eyes track the movement, then come back to yours, dark and steady.

For a moment, neither of you speaks.

He pushes off the wall, closing the space between you in three easy steps. He doesn’t reach for you immediately, just stops close enough that you have to tilt your head a little to keep looking at him.

“How is she?” he asks quietly.

You manage a thin shrug. “Sleeping.”

Your voice is rough. It makes you wince.

He studies you for another heartbeat, then lifts one hand. The backs of his fingers brush under your eye, catching a tear you missed. The touch is light, careful.

You go very still.

His thumb follows, smoothing the dampness away. He doesn’t make a joke. He doesn’t tell you you’re being dramatic. He just… looks at you, like he’s trying to hold your face steady by will alone.

The knot in your throat tightens. You swallow against it.

“Sorry,” you murmur, out of habit more than anything.

His brow creases. The pad of his thumb presses, barely, at the corner of your mouth, a wordless don’t.

You exhale shakily.

“Can you…” You trail off, fingers twisting in the hem of your sweater. You don’t know what you’re asking for exactly. A distraction. A shield. Something solid to lean on.

He seems to understand anyway.

His hand drops from your face only so he can step that last half-step closer. Then his arms come up, slow enough to give you a chance to move away.

You don’t.

You step into him instead.

Your forehead finds his collarbone, your hands curling into the front of his sweater like they’ve been waiting for an excuse. The fabric is soft under your fingers, warm from his body.

He hesitates for a breath—just one—and then his arms fold around you, firm and sure. One wraps around your shoulders; the other settles low on your back, palm broad and steady between your shoulder blades.

The contact knocks the last bit of composure loose.

You don’t sob, exactly. It’s quieter than that—a series of tight, hitching breaths against his chest, the kind that make your ribs ache. Your fingers scrunch tighter in his sweater, knuckles white.

He doesn’t shush you. He doesn’t tell you it’s okay when it clearly isn’t. He just holds you, his chin resting lightly on top of your head, his breath moving slow and even like he’s offering you a rhythm to sync up to.

His hand moves in small, absent circles at your back. Up, down. Up, down. Every pass reminds you: here. Here. Here.

You don’t know how long you stand there in the dim hallway, tucked between a closed door and his chest, the muffled sounds of the house a world away—distant clatter in the kitchen, a burst of laughter from somewhere else, the low murmur of the TV leaking under the sitting room door.

Eventually, the sharp edge of it dulls. Your breathing evens out. The tight band around your lungs loosens enough that air can come and go without scraping.

You pull back a little, just enough to tilt your head up.

He looks down at you, eyes searching, expression open in a way he keeps for moments when he thinks you’re not really looking.

“Better?” he asks, barely above a whisper.

You nod. Your cheeks are still damp, but the urge to unravel has passed.

“Stay close?” you hear yourself say, before your brain can censor it.

Something flickers in his face—surprise, then something softer that he reins in fast.

“Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious. His hands don’t drop from your waist. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You hold his gaze for a second too long, aware all at once of how little space there is between you, how his fingers span the curve of your hip, how your name might sound if he said it like that for a different reason.

The thought makes your pulse jump. You step back another half-inch, enough to breathe but not enough to break whatever this is.

“Your room’s upstairs,” he says, voice clearing a little as he shifts back into motion. “I dropped the bags already. Whenever you want to escape to… that.”

You huff out a faint laugh. “You saw my posters.”

One corner of his mouth tips up. “Hard to miss the life-size boyband shrine,” he murmurs.

You groan, scrubbing at your face with your sleeve. “I’m never bringing you here again.”

“Sure you will.” His fingers brush a strand of hair away from your damp cheek, knuckles barely grazing your skin. “You’re stuck with me, remember?”

The word stuck shouldn’t feel like comfort. It does.

You sniff, take a breath that doesn’t scrape on the way in. The sounds of the house creep back in around you—pots clanging in the kitchen, your aunt’s laugh from down the hall, someone calling for more foil.

“I should clean up,” you say. “Before my mom decides crying is a character flaw.”

He nods toward the bathroom a few steps away. “I’ll wait.”

You hesitate. “You don’t have to—”

“I know.” His hand slides down, finds yours, gives it a quick squeeze before letting go. “I’ll still be here.”

You duck into the bathroom, splash cold water over your face, pat your skin dry with a hand towel that smells faintly of your mother’s detergent. When you glance in the mirror, your eyes are a little red, but you look like a person again, not a live wire.

The door squeaks when you open it. He’s exactly where you left him, shoulder to the wall, gaze flicking up the second you appear.

“Better,” he says, like a quiet verdict.

“Define better,” you mutter, but your mouth curves.

He steps in beside you, close enough that your arms brush. For a second you just stand there, side by side in the narrow hall, facing the direction of the noise.

“Ready?” he asks.

“No,” you admit.

His hand settles low at your back, warm through the fabric. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go anyway.”

You nod, draw in one more breath, and let him steer you toward the light and the voices and the rest of the evening, his touch a steady point as the hallway opens back up around you.

Seungmin sits on the edge of your childhood bed and tries not to think about the fact that he’s on your childhood bed.

The mattress dips under his weight, springs giving a tired little groan. The comforter is different from the one in the photos downstairs—updated sometime after the era of cartoon princesses and neon—but the headboard’s the same white-painted wood with a nick in the left post. He remembers you pointing at it once in a picture, explaining some elaborate war you’d waged against a bunk bed ladder when you were eight.

Now he’s in the room instead of looking at it through a phone screen.

The shower runs down the hall, pipes humming through the walls. It’s the only sound up here, aside from the faint clink of dishes still happening downstairs. Everyone else is busy packing leftovers, arguing about containers, pretending they’re not watching Daniel help your mom in the kitchen like some kind of golden retriever in an apron.

Seungmin had offered.

Your mom had told him, very sweetly, that he was a guest.

Then she’d handed Daniel the carving knife.

He blows out a slow breath and digs his thumbs into his knees.

Dinner could’ve been worse. That’s the generous read.

He’d survived:

– The barrage of questions from your aunts. How did you meet? How long have you been together? What are your intentions? He’d smiled, lied smoothly, felt your knee press against his under the table every time you needed grounding.

– Your father’s polite interrogation about careers and “stability,” the emphasis landing just a bit too hard on every word Daniel ticked all the boxes for.

– The not-so-subtle stories about remember when you and Danny did this and you two were so good together.

The words slid around the table like side dishes: help yourself to emotional sabotage.

He’d watched you shrink, just a little, every time your mother said Daniel like it was synonymous with ideal. Watched your fingers tighten around your fork, your smile go thinner, your shoulders creep up by degrees.

So he’d kept talking. Joked when he could, redirected when he had to. Answered questions before you could be cornered by them. Slid his hand over your thigh under the table when your mom said, “I just worry she’ll never find someone who really understands her the way he did.”

Your leg had jumped under his touch. You hadn’t pulled away.

And then there’d been your grandmother.

She’d finally woken up an hour after dinner—blinking blearily, calling your name like she’d just had you here yesterday. You’d flown to her side; he’d hung back in the doorway, suddenly unsure, feeling like he was intruding on something sacred.

Until she’d waved him closer with a surprisingly impatient flap of her hand.

“Come here, boy,” she’d said, peering up at him like she was looking over the top of glasses she wasn’t wearing. “Let me see you.”

He’d taken the seat by her knee, folded himself down small. She’d wrapped her cool fingers around his wrist and patted his hand like she was testing the grain of something.

“You look kind,” she’d pronounced. “And stubborn. She needs someone who won’t blow away when she gets loud.”

You’d groaned. “Grandma.”

“Don’t ‘Grandma’ me,” she’d sniffed. “You’re a storm. You need a tree. Otherwise you’ll knock everything down and then cry about it.”

Her thumb had brushed over the back of his knuckles, softer.

“Take care of my girl,” she’d added, like it was a simple errand. “She doesn’t know how to do it herself yet.”

He’d swallowed, throat suddenly tight in a way that had nothing to do with the dry turkey.

“Yeah,” he’d said. “I can do that.”

He meant it so hard it scared him.

Now, in your room, he stares at the chipped paint on the closet door and tries not to replay that sentence on a loop.

Take care of my girl.

The shower shuts off.

The silence that follows is a different kind. Thicker. Closer.

He can hear you moving around in the little bathroom—cabinet door, the soft thud of your toiletry bag, the whisper of fabric as you change. He pictures you in there, hair damp, cheeks still a little pink from the hot water, folding yourself into clean pajamas while trying not to think about the bed situation.

He’s been trying not to think about the bed situation either.

The mattress isn’t big. Full-size, maybe. Two people could fit if they didn’t mind… sharing oxygen.

He scrubs a hand over his face.

This was easier before today. When you were just his roommate who took his hoodies and fell asleep on his shoulder during movie nights and left your socks all over the couch. When liking you was something he could pretend lived in the same category as liking coffee or his favorite pair of headphones—annoying to be without, but survivable.

Now he’s replaying every little moment from the last twelve hours like an idiot.

The way your hand had found his in the car and stayed there. The way your voice shook when you said boyfriend at the door and then steadied when you felt him behind you. The way you’d breathed into his chest in the hallway outside your grandmother’s room, trying not to come apart.

“Stay close,” you’d said.

Like you didn’t even realize you were asking him for something he’d already decided to give.

He leans back on his hands, stares up at the ceiling where you used to tape glow-in-the-dark stars. A few ghost outlines remain, little circles of less-yellow paint.

Objectively, he knows he was calm today. He did his job. He played the part. He kept his voice level and his eyes steady and his touch casual enough that no one, especially you, could accuse him of going off-script.

Inside, he feels like someone took his already-stupid crush and ran it through whatever machine your mom uses to whip cream: volume doubled, structure completely ruined.

He watched your ex watch you all evening—watched the way Daniel’s eyes narrowed when you laughed at something Seungmin said, watched his jaw clench when your grandmother reached for Seungmin’s hand instead of his. Watched that petty flicker of ownership that shouldn’t exist anymore.

And under all the irritation and protectiveness and mean little sparks of satisfaction when he pretended not to know the guy, there’d been this other thing.

Older. Quieter. Sitting in his chest like a weight.

Not just I like her.

I love her.

He doesn’t know when it tipped over. Maybe the night you fell asleep on the couch with your cheek pressed to his thigh and his foot going numb, but he didn’t move because you’d had a bad day. Maybe the first time he heard you rant about your family at three a.m. with your hair in a lopsided bun and your eyes on fire. Maybe when you told him about the way this house made you feel small and he could hear the little crack underneath the joke.

He just knows that today, listening to you apologize to your sleeping grandmother, feeling your voice break in the doorway, something inside him stopped pretending it was anything else.

He loves you.

It sits there in his chest, stupid and obvious and absolutely useless, because none of this is real. Not to you.

To you, he’s a shield. A safe person to stand behind while your family replays their favorite narratives. He agreed to be your boyfriend for the weekend, and you thanked him like he was taking out the trash.

He’d do it again. He’d do worse for you. That’s the problem.

The bathroom door clicks.

He jerks upright a little too fast, scraping his heel on the hardwood. The knob turns. Light spills into the dim hallway, then into the room as you step in.

Your hair is damp, curling at the ends, a few strands sticking to your cheek. Your pajama bottoms are patterned with tiny stars. It’s stupidly on-brand.

You stop just inside the room, hand on the knob, eyes flicking from the bed to him and back.

For half a second, the two of you just look at each other.

“You survived,” you say at the same time he blurts, “Nice pants.”

You look down at the star print. “Shut up.”

“They’re very mature,” he says. “Very ‘I pay taxes.’”

“You literally wear cartoon dog socks to class.”

“Those dogs are iconic,” he says. “This is slander.”

Your mouth twitches. Good. The tight, brittle look you had when you disappeared down the hall after dinner has loosened a little. Your shoulders have dropped half an inch.

You let go of the doorknob and come in properly, padding across the room. Your hair leaves little damp marks on the shoulders of your shirt. His shirt, he realizes belatedly—one of his old tees, collar a little stretched where you’ve tugged at it a hundred times.

He swallows.

“You okay?” you ask, stopping by the desk to drop your toiletry bag. “After all that?”

“All that,” he echoes. “You mean the three-hour live podcast on Why Daniel Is God’s Gift To Our Bloodline?”

Your mouth pulls sideways. “Yeah. That.”

He snorts, looking away just long enough to let the irritation flicker across his face. “I’ve had worse.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Name one.”

“Middle school talent show.”

“That can’t be the same.”

“I had a bowl cut and sang a Bruno Mars song,” he says. “In public. Trust me, your family has nothing on that.”

You huff out a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t stick. Your fingers start worrying the edge of his t-shirt where it hangs over your forearm.

“Still,” you say. “They were… a lot.”

“They’re always a lot, right?” he says. “That’s what you said.”

“Yeah, but it’s different when it’s not just me,” you mutter. “I dragged you into the circus.”

His shoulders lift in a half-shrug. “I bought my own ticket. VIP pass.”

“That’s not helping,” you say, but your voice is softer now.

You turn away, fussing with a stray bottle on the desk, and the apology comes out on a low rush.

“I’m sorry about dinner.”

He blinks. “Why?”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Did you not hear them? My mom asking when we’re getting married, my aunt quizzing you about kids, my dad doing the ‘so how exactly do you plan on supporting a family on that’ thing—”

“That was fun,” he says dryly.

“And the Daniel stuff,” you go on, like you didn’t hear him. “All the ‘remember when you two’ and ‘he’s practically one of us.’ Like you weren’t right there. It was—” Your mouth twists. “It was rude.”

“I’m fine.”

“I’m not,” you snap, then immediately wince. “Sorry. I just… hate that you had to sit through all of that. They don’t even know you. They barely tried.”

His chest does something messy and warm.

“I mean,” you add quickly, “Grandma did. Obviously. But the rest of them…”

He watches the way your shoulders curl in as you trail off, like you’re trying to take up less space even in your own room.

“You know I didn’t come here for them, right?” he says.

You look at him properly this time. “Then why did you come?”

He could say the easy thing—for you—but it feels too naked in the air, too close to the stuff he’s been trying not to name all evening.

Instead, he lets his mouth do what it always does and detours.

“For the food,” he says. “Obviously.”

Your face does that offended little scrunch he likes too much.

“Wow,” you say. “Okay. Go date the mashed potatoes, then.”

“They don’t talk back,” he says. “Kind of a selling point.”

You grab the nearest object—a scrunchie—and throw it at him. It bounces off his shoulder and lands on the bed.

“Jerk,” you mutter.

“Accurate,” he says. “Still not mad at your family, though. That would require caring what they think.”

You hesitate, chewing that over.

“Not even a little?” you press.

“Okay,” he concedes. “Your mom’s whole ‘proper job’ thing was annoying.”

You roll your eyes. “Tell me about it.”

“And your dad thinks stability only exists in Excel sheets.”

“You noticed that too, huh.”

“And your cousin kept kicking me under the table.”

You blink. “Wait, seriously?”

“I kicked back,” he says. “Gently. I’m not a monster.”

That pulls a real laugh out of you, the sound loosening something in his chest.

“But,” he adds, quieter, “the rest of it? The Daniel storytime hour? I knew what I was signing up for.”

“Doesn’t mean you deserved it,” you say.

He looks at you for a beat, the way you’re standing there in star pajamas and borrowed cotton, genuinely offended on his behalf like you haven’t spent the entire day being slowly dismantled at that very table.

“It bothered you more than me,” he says.

“Yes,” you answer, like it’s obvious. “Because it was about you.”

His mouth goes a little dry.

“Anyway.” You sigh, cutting yourself off before you spiral. “I just… wanted to say sorry.”

“Apology rejected,” he says.

You frown. “That’s not how that works.”

“It is tonight,” he says. “I’m not taking it. They sucked. You didn’t. End of.”

You stare at him for a second, then shake your head, almost smiling despite yourself.

“Why are you so sure about everything?” you grumble.

“Somebody has to be,” he says. “You’re busy running worst-case scenarios.”

“Rude. Accurate. Whatever.” You scrub a hand over your face. “Okay. Bed.”

Instant static in his brain.

“Right,” he says. “That.”

Your gaze flicks to the mattress, then back to him, then to the floor, where the rug is doing its best but very clearly not designed for human spines.

“I can take the floor,” he hears himself say, too fast. “If you want. It’s fine.”

You stare at him like he’s just suggested sleeping in the driveway.

“Absolutely not.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he says. “I’ll just grab some—”

“There are no extra blankets,” you cut in. “Mom raided every closet for my aunts and uncles and all their gremlin children. You’ll freeze. The floor is hardwood. Have you met your back?”

“My back is young and resilient,” he lies.

“You literally complained about it last month because you fell asleep on the couch wrong,” you say. “You made me bring you a heating pad, remember?”

“That was different,” he says, because he refuses to be slandered in his hour of sacrifice. “There was a spring in the—why am I defending myself? Point is, I don’t mind.”

“Well, I do,” you say firmly. “You’re not sleeping on the floor like some stray cat I snuck in.”

He opens his mouth. You steamroll right over him.

“And before you say anything,” you add, “we’ve already fallen asleep together, like, a bunch of times. Movie nights? Remember those? Couch naps? You drooled on my shoulder last week.”

“I did not—”

“You absolutely did,” you say. “So we can share a bed without you nobly martyring your spine, okay?”

He should argue. It would be the gentlemanly thing or whatever. It would also give him more time to get used to the idea of you lying within arm’s reach all night.

Instead, he hears himself say, “Fine.”

You nod once, decisive, like you’ve just won a court case.

“Good,” you say. “Glad that’s settled.”

He shifts over automatically, making space against the wall, pretending his heart isn’t beating too fast for someone who’s just… sitting.

You cross to the bed, the mattress dipping again as you climb in on the other side. For a second, everything is rustle and fabric and not looking directly at each other.

You flick the lamp off. The room falls into soft shadow, the ceiling ghosts of your old star stickers barely visible in the dark.

Under the covers, your shoulder brushes his. You both go still.

“Too close?” you ask quietly, not moving.

“No,” he says. His voice comes out lower than usual. “It’s fine.”

“Okay.” You exhale. “Good.”

Silence slips in, not entirely comfortable, not entirely not.

He stares up at the ceiling, counts the little pale circles he can see.

After a beat, you say, softer, “Thanks. For… today. All of it.”

He rolls his head on the pillow to look at you. Your face is turned toward the ceiling, but your eyes are half-lidded, lashes dark against the faint lamplight from the street.

“Don’t make it weird,” he says.

“You’re the one being weird,” you mutter, but there’s the tiniest smile at the corner of your mouth.

He watches it for a second, feels the familiar urge to poke at you just to see it widen.

“Go to sleep,” he says instead. “Big day tomorrow. More character assassination, more passive-aggressive hugs.”

“Can’t wait,” you sigh.

You shift, getting comfortable, and your foot brushes his under the blanket. Neither of you moves it away.

“Night, Seungmin,” you murmur.

He closes his eyes, the weight in his chest settling into something that feels, against all logic, a little like relief.

“Night,” he says. “Hurricane.”

You huff out a quiet breath that might be a laugh, and the house creaks around you, and in the small, borrowed dark of your old room, he lets himself lie there next to you and feel every inch of the distance you’re not putting between you.

Christmas Eve smells like onions and butter and guilt.    

You’re at the counter with a knife in your hand, wrist moving on autopilot as you chop carrots into obedient little coins. Your mom is two feet away at the stove, conducting pots and pans like an orchestra—one hand on a wooden spoon, the other flicking burners higher and lower, muttering about timing under her breath. Behind you, at the small table, your grandmother sits like a tiny queen in her chair, apron tied over her cardigan, peeling potatoes with slow, practiced motions.    

You should be paying attention to your knife, to the rhythm of your hands, to your mother’s barked instructions.    

You are absolutely not.    

Because in the doorway that opens into the living room, you can see Seungmin.    

He’s on the floor with three of your younger cousins, knees bent, socked feet flat on the carpet. Someone has unearthed the big plastic bin of toys that lives in the hall closet, and it has swallowed him whole. There are blocks and mismatched action figures everywhere, a scattering of crayons, a coloring book open and abandoned.    

From here, you can’t hear what he’s saying over the sizzle of onions and your mother’s running commentary, but you can see everything else.    

The way he’s folded himself down to kid height like it’s the most natural thing in the world. The way his mouth moves—teasing, exasperated, amused—as your youngest cousin waves a plastic dinosaur in his face. The way he tips his head when he listens, all that attention focused on a five-year-old earnestly explaining the rules of a game that clearly has none.    

You catch the echo of his laugh even through the closed kitchen door. It makes the hairs on your arms stand up.    

“Stop daydreaming and pass me the salt,” your mother snaps.    

You jolt, nicking the carrot instead of a finger by pure luck. “Sorry.”    

She doesn’t look at you, hand outstretched, eyes on the pan. “Salt.”    

You fumble for the little ceramic cellar and slap it into her palm. She throws a pinch into the pan, stirs, tastes, frowns.    

Behind her shoulder, Seungmin does something ridiculous with one of the kids—pretends to fall over when she tags him, flopping backwards in exaggerated slow motion. All three cousins shriek with laughter, collapsing on top of him in a pile. He lets himself be buried, one arm flung out, the other covering his face like he’s truly defeated.    

Your heart does a weird, traitorous twist.    

You force your eyes back to the cutting board. Slice, slice, slice. Carrot coins. Focus.    

You last five seconds.    

“Don’t cut them so thick,” your mom says, glancing over. “They’ll never cook through. Honestly.”    

“They’re fine,” you mutter, but you start making the slices thinner anyway.    

She makes a disapproving noise and turns back to the stove.    

You chance another look.    

Now Seungmin is holding two action figures, facing them off in midair. One of your cousins—Isla, with the lopsided ponytail and the perpetually sticky hands—is leaning against his arm, watching with rapt attention. The other two are arguing over who gets to be “the dragon,” voices high and frantic.    

Seungmin’s mouth shapes something that makes Isla giggle so hard she almost tips over. He catches her without even looking, hand coming up to steady her shoulder while his eyes stay on the other two kids. His hair falls into his eyes; he blows it away with a quick huff, lips pursed.    

You realize you’ve stopped cutting again.    

“Honestly,” your mom says, exasperated, “you’d think you’ve never seen a man around children before.”    

Heat rushes to your cheeks. “What?”    

“You keep staring,” she says. “Like he’s reinventing the wheel.”    

“I’m not—” You clamp your mouth shut. “I’m just making sure they’re not killing him.”    

“He seems to be doing fine without your supervision,” she says dryly. “Unlike these carrots.”    

“Grandma?” you say desperately, without turning. “Back me up.”    

Behind you, your grandmother chuckles, the sound low and scratchy. “Leave the girl alone,” she tells your mother. “It’s Christmas Eve. Let her look at her boyfriend.”    

The word lands like a pebble in a pond, ripples spreading out along your spine.    

Boyfriend.    

You swallow, fingers tightening around the knife handle.    

Your mother snorts. “Please. She’ll have plenty of time to stare at him when they go back home.”    

The oven timer goes off with a sharp beep. “Ugh. I swear, everything has to happen at once.” She slams the fridge door with her hip. “I need to go check the ham, and your aunt will get lost if I don’t tell her exactly which exit to take. Don’t let anything burn.”    

She swipes her phone from the counter and marches out toward the dining room, already angrily texting, trailing the smell of rosemary and irritation behind her.    

The kitchen feels quieter the second she’s gone, even with the fan whirring and something bubbling on the back burner.    

You exhale. Your shoulders drop.    

“Bring those here,” your grandmother says.    

You turn. “The carrots?”    

“No, the ceiling fan,” she says. “Yes, the carrots. My hands are faster than yours.”    

You huff a laugh and gather the cutting board, bringing it and the knife over to the little table. She pushes aside her peeled potatoes to make space. Her fingers are gnarled and spotted, but the way she handles the knife is still sure, efficient. You feel twelve again watching her, perched at this same table, trying not to cut yourself while she made neat, perfect slices.    

You sink into the chair opposite her. The edge of the table bites into your thighs. From this angle, you can still see through the doorway—Seungmin now sitting cross-legged as one cousin styles his hair with tiny plastic clips, another drawing on his arm with washable markers. He holds his forearm steady, expression solemn as if this is Very Serious Work.    

Your mouth goes dry.    

You snap your gaze back to the table so fast your neck twinges.    

“Careful,” Grandma says, not looking up. “You’ll sprain something staring like that.”

“I’m not staring,” you say automatically.

She makes a small, knowing noise in her throat. “Mm. And I’m not old.”

You peel a potato with unnecessary focus, curls of skin dropping into the bowl between you. The fan hums overhead. Something pops in the oven. You can feel his presence more than see it now, a little pressure at the edge of your awareness—the way you always know where he is in a room.

“He’s good with them,” Grandma says after a moment, like she’s commenting on the weather. “Those little monsters. They like him.”

“He’s got nieces and nephews,” you mumble. “He’s used to chaos.”

“Still,” she says. “There’s used to it, and there’s good at it.”

You don’t answer. Your throat feels too tight.

Her knife keeps moving, steady little arcs against the cutting board. “He looks at you nice, too,” she adds, almost offhand.

Heat rushes up your neck. “Grandma…”

“What?” Her eyes flick up, sharp and amused. “You think I didn’t see him disappear after you when you went down the hallway? I’ve had that house longer than you’ve been alive. I know where the echoes go.”

You swallow. Guilt prickles under your skin, hot and sour.

“Don’t start,” you say quietly. “Please.”

She studies you for a beat, then lets it go with a soft exhale. “Fine,” she says. “Stand in front of the stove and pretend I can’t see through you. I’ll be generous.”

You let out a shaky breath and focus on the potato in your hand. You don’t tell her that every time she calls him your boyfriend, something in your chest lurches like it’s trying to line up with the word. You don’t tell her it feels like lying and like the closest thing to the truth you’ve ever said in this house.

You don’t tell her anything.

Because her eyes are already rimmed red from the cold and the meds and the effort of being upright. Because she’s wearing the apron you made her in third grade with your handprints on it. Because she asked you to come, and you did, and you can’t bear to put another crack in the fragile, glittering thing she’s trying to build out of these days.

So you sit there and peel and let her think what she wants, and hope to god it’s not obvious how badly you wish you deserved it.

By the time the sun goes down, the house has tipped from busy into chaotic.

The kitchen is a war zone of dirty pans and covered dishes. Your aunts are arguing about whether the yams need more marshmallows. Your mom is shouting into the phone about traffic. Children are everywhere, sugared up and barefoot, darting between adults like they’re running drills.

And then the front door bangs open and a blast of cold air rolls through the hallway.

“Timber!” your dad yells, which is what he says every single year, even though the tree is nowhere near falling.

You’re standing at the doorway between the hall and the living room when they appear: your father at the back end of the tree, Daniel at the front, the two of them wrestling the enormous, slightly crooked fir through the too-narrow door.

Pine needles shake loose with every bump. Your mom appears out of nowhere to clap her hands and tell them not to scratch the floors. Your younger cousins shriek and bounce, trailing in their wake.

“They always do this last minute,” you mutter.

Seungmin materializes at your elbow like he’s been summoned by your eye roll. “What, chaos?” he says. “Feels on brand.”

You jump a little; you hadn’t seen him slip away from the kids. When you look at him, you have to bite back a smile. There are still three plastic butterfly clips in his hair, and a faint purple comet drawn on his arm in washable marker.

“Hold still,” you say, reaching up before you can think about it.

His brows lift. “What are you—”

You pluck one of the clips free, then another, combing your fingers through his hair to smooth it back into place. It’s softer than it looks. Your knuckles graze his temple; his breath catches just enough that you feel it.

The third clip is stuck closer to his ear. You step in, squinting, fingertips brushing his skin as you pry it loose. He goes very still under your hands.

“Your head is a crime scene,” you murmur.

“You’re the one who let them at me,” he says, but his voice has gone a shade lower. His gaze drops briefly to your mouth before flicking back to your eyes.

He’s close enough that you can smell his soap, the faint citrus of dish detergent from helping in the kitchen earlier. The noise of your family swells around you—the scrape of the tree stand on hardwood, your dad’s running commentary, your aunt yelling at her kids to stop sword-fighting with wrapping paper tubes—but for a second it’s just the two of you in the doorway, your fingers in his hair and that look on his face.

You pull your hand back like you’ve touched a hot pan.

“Fixed,” you say, a little too briskly.

He arches a brow, something unreadable flickering in his eyes, but doesn’t push it.

“Tree incoming!” your dad bellows, as if the massive green object isn’t already in the room.

Everyone converges on the living room like a tide. The tree is wrestled into its stand in the corner by the window, tilted, adjusted, debated over, pronounced Acceptable. Someone plugs in the lights to test them; half the string flickers and dies. Your uncle swears under his breath. The kids cheer anyway.

“Alright,” your mom says once the worst of the chaos settles. She claps her hands for attention, the way she always does. “You all know the drill.”

The kids immediately start whining.

“We want to decorate it now,” Isla says, tugging at the hem of your sweater. “Pleaseee.”

“Yeah!” another cousin chimes in. “We can help!”

Your mother puts a hand to her chest in mock horror. “And ruin the magic?” she says. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s tradition,” your father adds, as if anyone has forgotten. “Tree goes up Christmas Eve, gets decorated after you monsters go to sleep. That way when you wake up…” He spreads his hands, miming sparkles. “Boom. Christmas miracle.”

The kids groan but they’ve done this enough years to know they’re not winning. There’s some half-hearted arguing, some bargaining for one ornament, just one, please. Your mom holds firm. Eventually the herd is wrangled into pajamas and teeth-brushing and goodnights, with promises of Santa and cookies and “if you get out of bed, he skips this house” threats.

You end up on the couch next to Seungmin while the bedtime exodus happens, your knee pressed against his. He sits close enough that you can feel the warmth of his arm through your sweater, his attention split between the circus and the unlit tree.

When the last child has been kissed and shooed and threatened into staying in bed, the adults reconvene in the living room with the air of people about to draw straws for jury duty.

“Okay,” your mom says, rubbing her hands together. “Who’s on tree duty this year?”

Silence.

Your uncle suddenly finds his phone very interesting. One aunt starts stacking plates that don’t need stacking. Your father adjusts the TV volume despite no one watching it. Daniel leans back in the armchair with the posture of a man waiting for a role he knows is coming.

Your mom sighs elaborately. “You’d think I was asking for a kidney.” She turns to the sideboard and picks up a ceramic bowl. “Fine. We’re doing it the old-fashioned way.”

She holds up a handful of folded slips of paper. “Names in. Whoever I draw has the honor of making Christmas morning magical while the rest of us get our beauty sleep.”

“You mean you’re too tired,” your father says under his breath.

“Beauty sleep,” she repeats pointedly.

The bowl goes around. You write your name on the slip, fingers slightly clammy. Seungmin’s thigh is warm against yours as he reaches after you. His shoulder brushes your arm.

“You look nervous,” he murmurs.

“I always lose this game,” you mutter back. “Every year since I was nineteen.”

“Maybe this year you’ll get a break.”

You snort. “You clearly haven’t met my luck.”

He gives you a sidelong look, something wry and a little soft at the edges. “I met you,” he says. “Can’t be that bad.”

Before you can figure out how to process that, your mom returns to center stage, bowl in hand.

“Drumroll?” she says.

No one obliges. She rolls her eyes and digs in anyway.

“First elf,” she announces, unfolding the slip with theatrical flair. “Daniel!”

Of course.

There’s a ripple of polite laughter, a couple of whoops. Your dad claps him on the shoulder.

Daniel grins, unbothered. “Hey, I don’t mind,” he says. “You know I’ve got this down to a science.”

“That’s our boy,” your mom says warmly. “Always reliable.”

The words land like a stone in your stomach.

Seungmin goes very still beside you.

“Second elf,” your mom says, fishing again.

She unfolds the second slip.

Your name looks too big in her hand.

“Oh!” she says, eyes lighting up. “Look at that. Just like old times.”

Your aunts make a collective, delighted noise. Your dad chuckles. Someone actually claps.

Your mouth goes dry. “Wait—”

“Come on, sweetheart,” your mom says. “You and Danny always did the best job. Remember that year you stayed up until three making the little paper snowflakes? The tree was beautiful.”

“Me and Seungmin can do it,” you blurt, before you can stop yourself.

All eyes shift to him.

He straightens, jaw tight, but his voice is even. “I don’t mind,” he says. “If she’s tired.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” your mother says, waving a dismissive hand. “You’ve had a long day already. You’re a guest. Let the people who know where everything is handle it.”

The people. Like you and Daniel are a matching set.

“It’s really not a big—” you start.

“It’ll be fun,” Daniel cuts in smoothly. “Right?” He flashes you that old, familiar grin, the one that used to mean fireworks and now makes your skin crawl. “For old times’ sake.”

You open your mouth to say no. To say anything but yes.

Your mother sees it coming.

“Unless your… boyfriend is uncomfortable,” she says, the word boyfriend suddenly sounding like a test instead of a label. Her gaze slides to Seungmin. “You’re not the jealous type, are you, Seungmin?”

The room tilts.

Everyone looks at him. You can feel the way his body has coiled beside you, the tension humming off him like a wire.

He could laugh it off. He could say it’s fine.

He doesn’t.

“I just think it’s weird,” he says, voice calm in a way that makes it worse. “Pairing her up with her ex to play house in the living room while I sit upstairs pretending not to notice.”

Your father shifts. Your aunts exchange looks. The air in the room sharpens.

“Seungmin,” you say under your breath.

Your mom’s smile goes thin. “No one’s playing house,” she says. “We’re talking about ornaments.”

“Ornaments,” he repeats. His eyes are on your mother, but you can see the muscle jumping in his jaw. “Right.”

Daniel leans back in his chair like this is a show he ordered. “It’s just tradition, man,” he says lightly. “We’ve done it every year. We know where everything is. Relax.”

The word lands like a slap.

Seungmin’s eyes flick to him, cool and flat. “I’m very relaxed,” he says. “This is my relaxed face.”

You can hear the edge beneath it. So can everyone else.

“Don’t be dramatic,” your mom says, the brittle brightness creeping into her voice. “She’s a grown woman. She can be in a room with someone she used to date without it being a scandal. Right, sweetheart?”

Every head swivels to you.

This is the part where you are supposed to laugh. To reassure everyone that nothing is wrong, that everyone’s overreacting, that your feelings are manageable and containable and won’t inconvenience anyone.

You feel Seungmin’s stare on the side of your face. You don’t look at him.

“It’s fine,” you say, because you can hear the alternative echoing in your mother’s future phone calls for the next decade. “We’ll just decorate and go to bed.”

Your mom exhales, triumphant. “See?” she says. “Everyone’s adults here.”

Seungmin makes a quiet sound that could be a laugh or a scoff. 

“Yeah,” Daniel says, smiling lazily. “We’re all adults.”

You hate the way he says it. You hate that your family eats it up.

Something in Seungmin snaps taut. You can feel it.

Before he can open his mouth again, you reach over and curl your hand around his wrist. Just that—skin on skin, your fingers firm, a silent please.

He looks down at your hand, then up at your face.

For a second, it feels like the whole house is holding its breath. Your mom, your dad, your aunts—waiting to see if the boy you brought home is going to make a scene.

Seungmin swallows. His jaw works once. Then he clicks his tongue softly and slumps back against the couch, the picture of someone letting it go.

“Whatever you want,” he says.

It sounds nothing like whatever you want.

Your mom beams, already moving on, launching into a timeline for when the tree should be done by and how no one is allowed to use tinsel because it looks “cheap.”

Your hand stays on his wrist until you realize he’s not going to do anything else. When you let go, your palm feels cold.

Later, in your room, the house has gone muffled and hollow.

The kids are asleep. The aunts and uncles have either gone home or retreated to guest rooms. There’s a low murmur of the TV downstairs where your parents are doing their annual “we’re not tired” movie that they will not finish.

You’re in front of the tiny dresser mirror, pulling your hair into a loose ponytail. There’s a pile of ornament boxes by the door, waiting for you and Daniel like a chore chart you didn’t sign up for.

Behind you, Seungmin sits on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely. He hasn’t said much since the living room. The silence hangs between you like a too-heavy coat.

“You don’t have to stay up,” you say, meeting his eyes in the mirror. “I know it’s late. You can crash. I’ll be quiet when I come back.”

He snorts. “Yeah. Because I’m going to sleep great knowing you’re downstairs on nostalgia duty with golden boy.”

You turn to face him. “It’s just a tree.”

“It’s not just a tree,” he says.

You rub your palms on your thighs. “What is it, then?”

His mouth twists. “An excuse,” he says. “For them to pretend nothing ever changed.”

“That’s not what this is,” you say, too fast.

He looks at you for a beat, eyes tired. “If you say so.”

Guilt spikes. You take a step closer, fingers catching lightly on his sleeve.

“I just want to get through tonight,” you say. “No fights. No scenes. Please.”

He huffs a quiet breath, not quite a laugh. “Yeah. Wouldn’t want to ruin the magic.”

“Seungmin.”

He finally meets your eyes. There’s a whole storm sitting there, pressed flat.

“Be careful,” he says. “That’s all.”

You nod, throat tight. “Okay.”

Your mom’s voice carries faintly up the stairs, calling your name.

You let go of his sleeve.

“I’ll be back soon,” you murmur.

“Sure,” he says, looking past you now. “I’ll be here.”

You hover in the doorway for half a second, wanting to fix something you don’t have words for, then force yourself down the hall, leaving the room—and him—behind.

PART TWO

He chuckles, like you’ve said something cute. “Still all business, huh?”

You don’t dignify that. You flip open the nearest lid, tissue rustling, the smell of cardboard and old pine sap puffing out. The ornaments glint up at you—some cheap, some delicate, some with your childhood handwriting baked into the glaze.

He joins you at the box, close enough that his knee brushes your thigh when he bends. You shift a fraction away.

“Same system?” he asks. “You do top, I do bottom? Or you want to trade this year?”

“Whatever’s fastest,” you say.

He watches your profile for a beat. “You always say that,” he murmurs. “Then spend forever.”

You grab the first thing your fingers land on—a faded paper star with crooked scissors marks—and straighten up. “Maybe don’t talk so much and it’ll go quicker.”

His smile hooks. “There she is,” he says again, softer this time. “I missed the attitude.”

You ignore that and move to the tree.

It’s muscle memory at first—the way your hands find branches spaced just right, the way you tuck the older, uglier ornaments deeper in, the ones from your grandmother front and center. Daniel works around you, looping lights with practiced ease, humming along tunelessly to the Christmas playlist he’s pulled up on his phone.

For a while, it’s almost bearable. You talk about nothing: how tall the tree is this year, which kid broke which ornament in what year, whether the stand is listing to one side. You keep your answers short, factual. His keep sliding sideways—small hooks, tossed lightly.

“Remember when your mom bought those awful blue lights and you cried?” he asks, untangling a stubborn knot.

“I was thirteen,” you say. “I hated change.”

“You still do,” he says. 

You tighten the wire of a tiny bell around a branch until it bites your fingers. “I adjusted, didn’t I?”

He glances over his shoulder at you. “Yeah,” he says. “Eventually.”

The music switches to something slow, some old crooner you can’t even name, all strings and nostalgia. You feel it like pressure, pushing around the edges of the room.

“Grandma looked good today,” he says after a while.

“Yeah.”

He smiles. “She lit up when she saw you.” A beat. “And when she saw me.”

Your jaw clenches. “She likes people who visit.”

He lets that sit for a second, then: “We used to be good at that. Visiting.”

You shove a glass bauble deeper into the tree than it needs to go. “You had your hands full,” you say flatly. “With your new family.”

There. You’ve said it out loud.

He doesn’t flinch the way you hoped he will. He just exhales through his nose, slow, like he’s been expecting the punch.

“You’re still mad about that,” he says. Not a question.

You laugh, sharp and humorless. “You cheated on me and got her pregnant. I’m not sure ‘mad’ covers it.”

He sets down the lights, leans his shoulder against the tree, branches brushing his arm. He looks at you properly now, all traces of easy grin smoothed into something softer, manufactured.

“I made a mistake,” he says quietly. “A stupid, drunk, one-night mistake that turned into… more.”

Your stomach churns. “You have a daughter,” you say. “And she’s three. That’s not a mistake. That’s a whole life you built after me.”

He spreads his hands, like he’s offering you something. “And I’m owning it,” he says. “I’m a dad. I show up. I pay. I’m there. You think that’s what I planned?”

“Yes,” you say. “I do.”

He chuckles once, disbelieving. “You think I didn’t want it to be you?”

Your fingers go numb around the porcelain angel you’re holding. “Don’t,” you say. “Do not say that to me in this house.”

He pushes off the tree, closing a little of the distance between you. “Why? Because it’s true?”

You turn away, shove the angel onto a branch harder than necessary. It wobbles; you catch it with shaking fingers.

“Because it’s irrelevant,” you manage. “We’re done. You made choices. I made choices. We live with them.”

His voice follows you around the tree. “You left,” he reminds you, like you need reminding. “You took that internship and ran. You didn’t even try.”

“You were already sleeping with her,” you bite out. “What exactly was I supposed to try for?”

He is quiet for a moment. The lights glow weakly between you, half the strands still unplugged.

“I was scared,” he says. “You were talking about grad school and moving to the city and all these big plans. I didn’t know where I fit. She…” He shrugs, a bitter twist to his mouth. “She was easy. Close. Made me feel needed.”

“And I didn’t,” you whisper.

He steps closer. “You made me feel like I had to be more,” he says. “It’s not the same thing.”

The words thread into all the old cracks in you, the ones you thought you’d plastered over. For a second, the room blurs at the edges.

You hate that he still knows where the weak spots are.

“Can we not do this?” you say, blinking hard. “It’s late. We’re here to hang tinsel and lie to children. That’s it.”

He searches your face, then nods slowly, like he’s granting you a favor.

“Okay,” he says. “Tree now. Emotional honesty later.”

“There is no later,” you mutter.

He doesn’t answer, but something in his eyes says we’ll see.

You move faster after that, mechanical. Hooks, branches, boxes. You keep a buffer of needles and plastic between you whenever you can, circling opposite sides like you’re orbiting something that might explode if you get too close.

He keeps trying anyway.

You give him nothing but the bare minimum—yes, no, fine, sure. Your voice comes out sharp enough that you hope the walls hear you.

When you’re done, you both end up standing shoulder to shoulder in the middle of the room, looking at your work. The tree glows, ornaments catching the light. It does look good. It always does.

For a moment, you let yourself just see that. The soft, warm, pretty thing you’ve made out of all this.

“Still the dream team,” Daniel says, low.

You take a step forward to grab the empty ornament box. He moves when you do, cutting across your path.

“Hang on,” he says. “One more thing.”

“I’m going to bed,” you say. “We’re done.”

He doesn’t move. You shift right to get around him; he mirrors you. It’s subtle, a lazy little block, but effective. You end up backing up a fraction instead.

“You mad I spoke up earlier?” he asks. “With your boyfriend?”

You bristle. “You mean when you told him to relax?”

He shrugs, unbothered. “He was being dramatic.”

“He was defending me.”

He huffs. “From what? Hanging ornaments with your ex? We’re not monsters.”

You try again to sidestep. Again, he steps with you, shepherding you gently but firmly into the space between the coffee table and the doorway arch.

“Move,” you say, a thin edge creeping into your voice.

“Hey.” He holds his hands up, palms out, but doesn’t actually step back. “I’m just talking.”

You’re about to tell him exactly where to shove his “just talking” when you feel the shift in the air above you—a faint tickle, like the ghost of leaves overhead.

You glance up.

Mistletoe. Hung in the archway, tied with the same red ribbon your mother has used every year since you were small.

Of course.

When you look back down, his smile has changed. Softer. Hungrier.

“It’s tradition,” he says quietly.

Your heart stutters, unpleasantly. Your spine goes rigid, every muscle suddenly unsure of what to do.

“No,” you say. It comes out small.

He steps in, closing the last sliver of space, one hand bracing lightly on the wall beside your head. Not touching you, not quite, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him like a threat.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “It’s just a kiss. It’s Christmas.”

Your brain does the stupid thing it’s been conditioned to do in this house: it freezes and starts flipping through old versions of yourself on autopilot.

You remember being nineteen and dizzy with him for the first time, kissing under this same stupid plastic plant while your cousins squealed. 

You remember, too, the last time you saw his name pop up on your phone beside a picture of a newborn that wasn’t yours.

Your nails bite into your palms. Your feet don’t move.

He watches your face, misreading the paralysis as something else. “You still feel it,” he says softly. “Don’t pretend you don’t. You can’t look at me like that and tell me it’s gone.”

“I’m not looking at you,” you manage.

He laughs under his breath. “You always were a terrible liar.”

He shifts closer, the hand on the wall sliding down, fingers hovering just above your hip now. Your back bumps the molding. There’s nowhere else to go without climbing furniture.

“Daniel,” you say, fighting for air. 

He tilts his head, eyes dropping to your mouth. “Say you don’t want me,” he says. “Say it like you mean it, and I’ll back off.”

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because you do want something—an apology that feels real, a do-over, a universe where he wasn’t such a coward, a house where you didn’t feel like a girl pressed into an old script. Want and hurt and anger are a knot in your chest and your tongue can’t pick one thread to pull.

He sees the hesitation and smiles, soft and triumphant.

“That’s what I thought,” he whispers, starting to lean in.

“You should step back.”

The voice is flat and sharp and comes from behind him.        

Daniel’s shoulders tense. He half-turns, annoyance already creasing his brow.        

Seungmin stands in the archway from the hall, barefoot in sweats and an old t-shirt, hair rumpled from the pillow. His eyes are wide awake. And furious.        

Daniel snorts. “You again,” he says. “Relax, man. We were just—”        

“Spare me the sound of your voice,” Seungmin cuts in.        

The words are quiet, but they hit like a slap.        

A beat of silence stretches. The tree hums faintly with its own electricity. Your pulse roars in your ears.        

Daniel straightens, squaring his shoulders like he’s gearing up for a fight. “Look,” he starts, glancing between the two of you, “I get that this is… weird for you. First love, history, all that. But this is our thing. We always—”        

“Walk away,” Seungmin says.        

No inflection. No please. Just instruction.        

Daniel’s mouth twists. “You think you can just roll up here and—”        

“Man.” Seungmin finally moves, stepping forward into the arch so he’s half in the room, half in the hallway. He’s still not raising his voice, but something in it sharpens. “You’re not that interesting. Go to bed.”        

For a second, Daniel just stares at him, actually thrown.        

Then he huffs out a laugh, shakes his head like this is all beneath him. “You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about,” he mutters. He drops his hand from the wall, steps sideways out of the doorway, brushing past Seungmin with a little deliberate shoulder bump.        

Seungmin doesn’t react to it. Doesn’t even look at him.        

“You done?” he asks, eyes still on you.        

Daniel pauses in the hallway, like he might lob one last comment over his shoulder. Whatever he sees on Seungmin’s face makes him think better of it.        

“Night,” he tosses instead, voice light and empty. “Tree looks good.”        

His footsteps retreat down the hall. A door clicks shut.        

Silence slams down in his wake.

The silence after Daniel’s door clicks shut is loud enough to make your ears ring.

You’re still pinned to the doorway like part of the molding, lungs fluttering, fingers numb. The tree glows obliviously in the corner, throwing soft light over everything that just happened.

Seungmin doesn’t move at first.

He stands there in the archway, chest rising and falling a little too fast, hands clenched at his sides. His eyes are on the hallway, like he’s making sure there aren’t any reruns.

Then he looks at you.

“You okay?” he asks.

His voice is low, rough around the edges. The anger’s still there, but it’s pulled back a layer, concern bleeding through.

You try to nod. Your head feels separate from your body. “Yeah,” you say. Your voice comes out thin. “I’m fine, I just—”

“Are you still in love with him?”

The question hits so fast it cuts your sentence in half.

You blink. “What?”

“Don’t,” he snaps, and the word cracks like a whip. “Don’t act confused. Are you still in love with him?”

You just stare at him. You’ve seen him irritated, exasperated, quietly pissed on your behalf.

You have never seen him like this.

His jaw is tight, shoulders tense under the worn cotton of his t-shirt. There’s a sharpness to him you don’t recognize, all the softness burned off.

“That’s not a fair—” you start.

“It’s a yes-or-no question,” he says. “Which part is unfair?”

“Everything,” you hiss back, remembering to keep your voice low at the last second. “The timing, the place, the fact that we’re at my parents’ house at midnight—”

“So you can’t answer,” he says. “That’s an answer.”

Heat spikes up your neck. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to decide what my non-answers mean.”

He lets out a quiet, ugly laugh. “I just walked downstairs and saw your ex boxing you in under mistletoe while you stared at him like someone hit pause,” he says. “Sorry if I’m not feeling super charitable about nuance right now.”

Your hands ball into fists. “What did you want me to do? Start screaming? Wake up my grandma so she can watch me have a breakdown in front of the nativity set?”

“I wanted you to move,” he bites out. “Push him, duck under his arm, do something that wasn’t just letting him get closer and closer while you looked like you were about to pass out.”

“I froze,” you say, teeth clenched. “That’s what I do when I panic. Sorry I didn’t pick the reaction that would make you feel less insecure.”

His eyes flash. “This isn’t about my insecurity.”

“Really?” you whisper. “Because it kind of feels like it is.”

Something ugly flickers across his face. He takes a step into the room, closer to you, like he can’t decide if he wants to get in your face or get away and his body picked for him.

“I—” you start.

“You brought me here,” he says over you, voice still low but fierce enough to vibrate in your chest. “You asked me to be your boyfriend in front of these people. Do you understand what that means?”

“I didn’t ask,” you snap. “You offered.”

“Because I thought your ex was a footnote,” he shoots back. “Not the main fucking plot.”

You flinch.

He sees it. He doesn’t back off.

“I thought I was coming to run interference,” he goes on. “Smile when they’re rude, hold your hand when they’re shitty, make sure you don’t end up crying in a bathroom somewhere. I did not sign up to watch you almost kiss the guy who cheated on you while I stand in the doorway like an idiot.”

“It wasn’t almost—” you start, then stop, because you don’t actually know how close it was.

He pounces. “You can’t even finish that sentence.”

Your throat closes. “You’re twisting this.”

“I’m looking at it,” he says. “You’re the one twisting, trying to make it look like something it’s not.”

You press your back harder against the wall, like you can sink through it. “You don’t know what it’s like with him,” you say, barely above a whisper. “In this house. With everyone… expecting things. You’ve been here two days and you think you have it all figured out—”

“I know he cheated on you and knocked up someone else,” Seungmin says. “I know he let your mom rewrite the narrative so it somehow turned into your fault. I know he hasn’t apologized in a way that actually matters. And I know that the second he corners you, you go quiet.”

“That’s—”

“You could have said, ‘I don’t want you anymore,’” he says. “Five words. He literally asked you to. You opened your mouth and nothing came out.”

The worst part is that he’s not wrong.

“It’s not that simple,” you say, voice fraying. “You don’t just flip a switch and stop caring that someone blew up your life. I hate him, and I still—” You cut yourself off, biting down hard enough on your tongue that you taste metal.

His eyebrows rise slowly. “And you still what?”

You stare at him, furious at yourself, at him, at this whole house. “I still… feel things,” you grind out. “Residual whatever. You happy now?”

“No,” he says, and the way he says it makes your stomach drop. “I’m really fucking not.”

Your eyes sting. “I just—I’m trying, Min. I’m really trying not to explode this whole thing while my grandma is in the next room and my mom is one passive-aggressive comment away from a meltdown. I’m doing the best I can.”

“And your best is what?” he asks. “Letting them shove you back into the old script while I stand there and clap?”

“You’re the one who insisted on coming,” you say, anger finally matching his. “You made this big show about being there for me, and now you’re pissed at me for needing it.”

“I’m not pissed at you for needing me,” he says, and his voice cracks for the first time. “I’m pissed that you apparently still need him too and somehow I’m the one who looks crazy for being bothered by that.”

The word hangs between you like a slap.

You swallow hard. “I don’t—”

“Are you still in love with him,” he repeats, each word deliberate. “Yes or no.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You feel nineteen again, under this same doorway, with your mom watching from the couch and everyone chanting kiss-kiss-kiss while your heart tried to beat its way out of your ribs.

“I don’t know,” you finally choke out. “Is that what you want to hear? I don’t fucking know. I hate him and I miss who I thought he was and I can’t untangle it in the middle of my parents’ living room with you glaring at me like—”

“Like what?” His eyes are bright, too bright. “Like I care? Like I’m not okay being your prop while you figure out if you still want the guy who treated you like a hobby?”

“That is not what I’m doing,” you hiss. “I agreed to let you come so I wouldn’t drown. Not so you could stand here and demand a clean emotional spreadsheet.”

He laughs, low and mean. “A clean—? You’re unbelievable.”

“Oh, I’m unbelievable?” you hiss. “You’re the one acting like you got tricked into this. Like I lured you here, tied a bow on you, and forgot to mention my trauma at the door.”

He steps right up to you then, close enough that the wall digs into your shoulder blades again. His voice stays low, but every word is a shard.

“You think I don’t know you’re traumatized?” he says. “I’ve watched you flinch at every text with his name in it for three years. I’ve held your hair while you threw up because phone calls with your mom make you sick. I’ve slept on the couch because you couldn’t be alone and wouldn’t admit you were scared.”

Your eyes blur. The lights smear.

“I know you,” he says. “That’s the whole fucking problem.”

Your breath shudders out. “Then why are you acting like this is news?”

“Because I thought… I don’t know what I thought.” He shakes his head, a bitter half-laugh catching in his throat. “That maybe if I came here and did this right and they saw how much better you were with someone who actually gives a shit, it would finally click for you. That you’d look at him and feel nothing.”

“That’s not how feelings work,” you whisper.

“I know that,” he says. “My feelings haven’t gone anywhere for a year and a half.”

The words slam into you.

You stare at him. His chest is rising and falling, eyes searching your face like he wants to yank the understanding into you.

“And now,” he says, softer but no less furious, “I’m standing here choking on it while you stand under mistletoe with him and tell me ‘it’s complicated.’”

Your voice breaks. “You didn’t tell me,” you say. “You never said—”

“Yeah,” he snaps. “Because I didn’t want to be another person who made you responsible for their shit. I didn’t want to be one more thing you had to manage. I was fine being… just your roommate. Your friend. Whatever.”

“You’re not ‘just,’” you say, stunned and hurting. “You know you’re not.”

“Do I?” he asks. “Because tonight it kind of felt like I’m the guy you drag home to piss off your ex and calm your mom, and he’s still the one you can’t say no to out loud.”

“That is so fucking unfair,” you whisper. “You walked in at the worst possible second and decided that’s the whole story.”

He scoffs. “Worst possible second? Or the most honest one?”

You push at his chest then, a little shove that doesn’t move him much, but he rocks back half an inch.

“Stop putting words in my mouth,” you say. “If you wanted to know how I feel, you could have asked before tonight. Before we were stuck here with my entire family sleeping upstairs.”

“I’m asking now,” he says. “And you’re telling me you don’t know.”

“Because I don’t,” you whisper. “I know I don’t want to be with him. I know I don’t trust him. I know the idea of actually getting back together makes me sick. But if you’re asking if some stupid part of me remembers what it felt like before he fucked everything up—yeah. It does. Brains are messy. I can’t shut it off just because you need me to pick a team right this second.”

His face twists, like that answer physically hurts.

“That’s what I needed,” he says. “Not because I want you to perform for me. Because I’m in love with you, and it feels fucking insane to stand here and wonder if the biggest thing in my life is just… background noise compared to your nostalgia.”

Your heart lurches.

You grab for his shirt without thinking, fingers curling in the fabric. “It’s not,” you say. “You’re not. You’re—”

You stall, because the word you’re about to say terrifies you almost as much as everything else.

His eyes flick to your mouth, then up again, jaw clenching.

“Say it,” he murmurs. “I’m what?”

You swallow. “Important,” you manage. “You’re… you’re everything, okay? You’re home. You’re the only reason I’m not losing my mind here.”

He laughs once, broken. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You make a helpless noise. “You’re twisting my words now.”

“Yeah?” he says. “Maybe I learned from the best.”

The words hang between you, meaner than he meant them, uglier than either of you deserve and you flinch.

He sees it. His face changes—just a flicker, guilt breaking through the anger—then shutters over again. He lets out a rough breath, steps back like he’s physically yanking himself out of the conversation.

“This is pointless,” he mutters. “I’m going upstairs.”

He turns, shoulders tight, already half in the shadows of the hallway.

Something in you panics.

“Wait,” you say, too fast, too small. Your hand shoots out on instinct, catching the hem of his t-shirt before he can get away.

The cotton bunches in your fist. He stops dead.

For a second, neither of you moves.

You can feel your own pulse beating in your fingers where they’re curled in his shirt. The house hums around you—heater, distant fridge, the faint buzz of the tree lights—everything too loud and too far away at once.

“Min,” you start, because you don’t know what else to say except his name.

He looks down at your hand on him, at your white-knuckled grip, then back up at you.

Whatever was holding him together snaps.

“Stop,” he says, but it comes out wrecked. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” you whisper.

“Grabbing me when you’re about to let go,” he spits, spinning back toward you in one sharp motion. “You can’t keep—”

He doesn’t finish.

One second he’s mid-sentence, eyes burning, chest heaving; the next he’s crowding you back into the doorway, his hands catching your face like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold on.

His mouth hits yours.

There’s no hesitation, just the crash of a wave that’s been building for too long. You gasp against him, more from shock than anything, and he takes the opening, kissing you like he’s been starving and someone finally handed him air.

Your back smacks lightly against the trim. One of his thumbs digs into the hinge of your jaw; the other hand slides to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair. He’s shaking, just a little. You feel it everywhere he’s touching you.

You should push him away.

You don’t.

Your hand that was still fisted in his shirt drags him closer instead, knuckles catching on his ribs as you haul yourself up into him. The other finds his shoulder, then the back of his neck, fingers digging in like you’re anchoring yourself to something solid for the first time all night.

He makes a low sound into your mouth—frustration, relief, something wild—and tilts his head, deepening the kiss. It’s messy, teeth clicking once, your noses bumping before you both adjust. His breath tastes like mint and leftover bitterness. Yours stutters against his, catching on all the words you didn’t say.

The anger is still there, threaded through every movement—too tight, too urgent—but there’s something else underneath it, older and softer and terrifyingly bare. Every time his mouth drags over yours it’s I’m mad at you and I’m mad at me and I love you, I love you, I love you, no matter how hard he tries not to.

You match him without meaning to. All the fear and shame and want you’ve been choking down rise up at once, pouring out of you in the way your fingers clutch at him, in the way your lips part, in the tiny, helpless sound that slips out when his teeth catch your lower lip.

He freezes at that, just for a heartbeat—like he heard it, really heard it—and then kisses you harder, like he’s answering something you didn’t know you asked.

Your knee bumps his thigh. His hand slides down from your neck to your waist, fingers spreading over your hip, pulling you closer into the line of him. The tree glows warm at the edge of your vision, ornaments blurring into streaks of red and gold.

Somewhere above you, a floorboard creaks. The house reminds you that it exists.

The sound cracks through the moment like cold air.

Seungmin jerks back.

It’s abrupt enough that your head knocks lightly against the wall. You suck in a breath like you’ve been underwater. He’s still close—too close—but his hands have dropped away, hanging uselessly in the small space between you.

His lips are red. His pupils are blown wide. He looks horrified.

“Shit,” he breathes. “I—”

You can’t say anything. Your mouth tingles. Your heart is trying to punch a hole through your ribs.

He drags both hands back through his hair, fingers lacing at the back of his neck like he’s trying to hold his head on.

“That shouldn’t have…” He trails off, jaw working. “Fuck.”

“Min,” you manage, voice wrecked.

He winces at the way it sounds. His eyes flick to your mouth, then wrench away, like looking hurts.

“This is exactly what I meant,” he says, more to himself than to you. “I can’t— I don’t know how to do this halfway.”

You swallow, throat raw. “Do what?”

“Any of it,” he says. “Be your fake boyfriend, your real… whatever. Watch you deal with him. Pretend I’m not—” He cuts himself off, biting down hard.

His hand twitches like he’s about to reach for you again.

You almost let him.

You almost grab him first.

Instead, you both stand there, breathing each other’s air, the aftershock of the kiss buzzing under your skin like static, the argument still sitting between you like a live wire.

The tree lights blink once, twice.

Somewhere in the house, a clock starts to chime the hour.

Seungmin is the first to move.

He steps back like he’s just realized how close he still is to you, like he’s been standing with his hand on a hot stove and finally felt it. His gaze skates over your face—mouth, eyes, the place on your neck where his fingers were a second ago—then jerks away.

“I can’t,” he says, under his breath. “I can’t do this right now.”

He turns on his heel, already heading for the hallway.

Panic spikes through you, sharp and stupid. You lurch forward, fingers catching at his wrist.

“Wait,” you say. It comes out cracked. “Don’t just—don’t go.”

He stops so abruptly you almost bump into his back.

For a heartbeat he doesn’t turn. You can feel the tension roped in his arm under your hand, the way his muscles have gone rock-solid. His head dips once, like he’s breathing through something.

Then he rips his wrist gently but firmly out of your grip and spins around.

His eyes are bright, mouth pulled tight. He looks furious. He looks wrecked.

“Do you have any idea how cruel you’re being?” he says, very quietly.

The word shocks you more than if he’d yelled.

“Cruel?” you repeat, stunned. “I’m not—”

“You are,” he says. “You might not mean to, but you are. You can’t keep doing this. You can’t keep grabbing me every time you feel yourself slipping and then freezing the second you have to actually look at what that means.”

Your throat burns. “I didn’t—”

“You kissed me back,” he says, over you. “In case you’re tempted to pretend that was all me. You grabbed me and you held on and you made that noise and—” He cuts himself off, jaw locking. “Do you think I don’t notice? Do you think that doesn’t… fucking wreck me?”

You swallow hard. “Min, I’m not trying to hurt you.”

“I know,” he says. “That’s the worst part. You’re doing it without even looking at it.”

He takes a step closer, not quite touching you, but close enough that you can feel the heat rolling off him again.

“You know how I feel about you,” he says. Not a question.

You force yourself to meet his eyes. “You never said—”

“I just did,” he bites out. “Have been, all night, using every word except ‘I’m in love with you’ because apparently I have a self-preservation kink I didn’t know about.”

The words land like a kick to the chest. You grip the doorway behind you to stay upright.

He laughs once, broken. “There,” he says. “Is that clear enough? Does that finally make it into your calculations?”

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. Your brain is a static hiss—him, the tree, Daniel’s door down the hall, your grandmother asleep two rooms away, all crashing into each other.

“Say something,” he says, and there’s a plea under the anger now. “Anything that isn’t ‘it’s complicated.’ Are you ready to deal with that? With me actually wanting you? Not as a bit. Not as a favor. For real.”

He waits. The house hums.

You try.

You really do.

You think about saying yes, about stepping off the cliff you’ve been standing on for months—years. You think about saying no, about shutting it down clean and watching something in him go out.

Your tongue won’t pick either.

“I…” you start, and your voice breaks on the first syllable. “I don’t know how to answer that right now.”

His face shuts down so fast it’s almost audible.

“Right,” he says. “There it is.”

“Min—”

He holds up a hand. “Don’t. Don’t apologize. Don’t explain. I get it. You’re not ready, you’re overwhelmed, everything’s messy.” He nods once. “Good news is, you don’t have to be ready tonight.”

He takes another step back, toward the hall this time. Away.

“I told you I’d play the part,” he says. “I will. I’ll be back in the morning. I’ll hold your hand and smile for the pictures and pretend I don’t want to put Daniel through a wall every time he opens his mouth.”

Your chest squeezes. “Where are you going?”

“Out,” he says. “Away. Anywhere that isn’t this house with him down that hall and you under this—” he jerks his chin up at the mistletoe, eyes flashing “—like some fucked-up set piece.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” you say, horrified. “You can’t just—”

“I’m a grown man,” he says. “I can get a cab. Sleep on a friend’s couch. Sit at a twenty-four-hour diner until my brain stops trying to crawl out of my skull. I’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t have to do that,” you whisper.

He looks at you for a long, long moment. Whatever softness is left in his face is held together by threads.

“I do,” he says. “Because I can’t stand in this living room one more second looking at you and wondering if I’m just the guy you grab when you’re drowning and let go of the second you’re back in shallow water.”

Your eyes sting. “That’s not what you are.”

“Maybe,” he says. “But until you’re ready to say what I am to you, I can’t keep guessing. It’s tearing me apart and I’m… I’m done pretending it’s not.”

You step forward, hand reaching out again on instinct. “Seungmin, please—”

He flinches away from your touch like it burns.

“Don’t,” he says, and now he sounds exhausted more than angry. “Don’t do that if you’re not going to follow through. Don’t hold onto me unless you’re actually going to hold onto me.”

The words cut clean.

Your hand drops.

His shoulders sag for half a second, like taking himself out of your reach physically hurts. Then he straightens, pulls in a breath, and pastes on something that almost looks like calm.

“I’ll text you when I’m on my way back,” he says. “You can tell your mom I went for a walk if anyone asks.”

“Min,” you say again, helpless.

He steps backward into the hall. Shadows swallow him up to the chest, leaving his face in the spill of tree light. It paints him in green and red and gold, like he’s already half a memory.

He hesitates one last time.

“Merry fucking Christmas,” he says.

Then he turns and walks away.

Seungmin is back before you open your eyes.

You know it in that weird half-waking way you know when someone enters your room in the dark. The draft under the door shifts. The floorboard by the dresser gives its familiar, traitorous creak. Zipper teeth whisper, then a soft thud of a bag.

You stay still.

The room smells like cold air and the outside, clinging to his hoodie. The mattress dips a little as he sits on the edge of the bed, just for a second. You feel the weight of him through the covers, through your own rigid attempt at playing dead.

You think he might say something. Your name. A curse. Anything.

He doesn’t.

The bed lifts as he stands. A drawer slides open. Fabric rustles—clean shirt, probably—and then the bathroom door clicks shut, light slicing under it.

You open your eyes to the dim winter morning of your childhood room and focus on the wrapped box at the back of the closet shelf.

Small. Neat. Green paper with gold stars. The gift you bought him: the limited edition vinyl you spent months tracking down and then meeting with a shady seller you met on the internet to retrieve. You don’t know much about these sorts of things but the way he spoke about it longingly made you determined to get it.

You stare at the box until your vision blurs.

Then you shut the closet and pretend it isn’t there.

Christmas Day wears your nerves down by degrees.

You and Seungmin move around each other like people in a crowded kitchen who don’t know each other well enough to bump hips. You trade space instead of warmth.

He carries things, helps your grandma to her chair, reads instructions on the toy packaging. You refill water glasses, pass napkins, slice bread. You say “thanks” and “here” and “careful, that pan is hot” and nothing that touches last night at all.

Everyone notices without knowing what they’re noticing.

Your mom’s eyes flick between the two of you more than usual. Your aunts trade looks, the kind that say Is something up? without words. Your dad squints like he’s trying to solve a crossword clue.

Daniel notices and knows exactly what he’s seeing.

He’s been smug all day—the relaxed, loose-shouldered kind of smug that comes from a win only he can see. When you catch his eye across the room, he smiles like you’re sharing a private joke.

You look away every time.

Seungmin seems to have ironed his expression into something mild and blank. He laughs when appropriate, answers questions about work, about the city. He’s perfectly polite. Perfectly decent. Perfectly distant.

He doesn’t look at you unless he has to.

You don’t give him the present. You carry it in your head all day, its outline as sharp as a stone in your shoe. Every time you think about sneaking it into his bag, leaving it on his side of the bed, pressing it into his hand with a muttered “this is stupid, just take it,” you hear his voice from last night:

Don’t hold onto me unless you’re actually going to hold onto me.

So you keep your hands to yourself.

By the time dinner rolls around, you’re running on caffeine and adrenaline and the tight, buzzing feeling of a fire alarm that never stops.

The table looks the same as it always has on Christmas: too much food, not enough space. Platters jammed in wherever there’s a gap, bowls nesting on top of other bowls, gravy boats perched like they’re waiting to leap.

You take your usual seat without thinking—third from the end, left side, good view of the tree. Seungmin ends up beside you because there’s nowhere else for him to go. Daniel drops into the chair across and one over, the same spot he’s occupied for years.

You fold your napkin into your lap and keep your eyes on your plate.

Conversation bubbles up around you—your aunt complaining about airport security, your dad asking your cousin about college, your mom narrating every dish like it’s a cooking show no one asked for. Cutlery scrapes. Glasses clink. Someone passes the rolls the wrong way and your grandmother scolds them with fond irritation.

Beside you, Seungmin is careful. That’s what it feels like, more than anything. Every move measured. He says “thank you” and “please” and “no, I’m good, this is plenty, thank you” with a politeness that climbs higher every time someone insists he take more turkey. He pours water for your grandma before she asks. He cuts his ham too small, like he needs something to do with his hands.

He doesn’t look left.

You don’t look right.

Daniel looks everywhere.

He’s relaxed, one arm slung over the back of his chair, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms in that practiced casual way he has. He laughs at your uncle’s story, compliments your mom’s potatoes, makes a fuss over your grandmother’s cranberry sauce.

He catches your eye once, mid-laugh, and gives you a little half-smile like you’re in on something together.

You stare at the mash on your plate until the smile slides off your peripheral vision.

You get through the first round of food without saying a word.

You nod when you have to. You smile when someone looks directly at you. You chew. You swallow.

It’s almost survivable.

Then Daniel tips his chair back a fraction, lazily stabs at his potatoes, and says, “So, Seungmin.”

Your fork pauses halfway to your mouth.

Beside you, you feel rather than see Seungmin straighten a millimeter. “Yeah?”

Daniel’s grin is gentle, interested. It’s the one he uses on strangers he’s about to sell something to.

“Where’d you go last night?” he asks. “You disappeared.”

The word lands with a little clink, like dropped cutlery.

Your mom’s head snaps up. “What?”

Seungmin’s jaw flickers. He sets his fork down carefully, like he’s defusing a bomb.

“I went for a walk,” he says. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“At midnight?” your aunt echoes, brows shooting up. “In this weather?”

Your dad frowns. “Did you at least take the car? Roads are a mess at that hour.”

“No, I just—” Seungmin starts.

“Front door woke me up,” Daniel cuts in pleasantly. “Sounded more like leaving than a little walk around the block.”

There’s a soft hum around the table. A shifting. People settling in.

Your mother’s mouth pinches. “You went out in the middle of the night and didn’t tell anyone?” she says. “What if something had happened? Your poor grandmother would’ve thought we were being robbed.”

Grandma waves a dismissive hand, but she’s drowned out.

“It’s not safe,” your dad adds. “You don’t know this area. There are deer, black ice—”

“It’s fine,” Seungmin says, voice still low, still calm. “Nothing happened.”

“But it could have,” your mom presses. “Honestly, if you were upset about the tree thing, you could have just said so. Sulking off into the night is a bit much, don’t you think?”

Across from you, Daniel hides a smile in his glass.

One of your aunts clucks her tongue. “Kids these days,” she says. “No coping skills.”

“He’s not a kid,” another aunt says. “He’s—how old are you again?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “Old enough to know better.”

Your uncle chuckles. “City boys,” he says. “Drama, drama.”

“He wasn’t being dramatic,” your grandmother mutters, but again, she’s swallowed by the tide.

Seungmin sits very still. His shoulders are set, his hands folded on either side of his plate now. He looks like he’s back in the interrogation room from last night—only this time, you’re not holding his hand under the table.

You feel your pulse start to pound in your ears. Heat crawls up your chest, into your throat, hot enough it makes your eyes sting.

Daniel takes a slow sip of water, watching it all unfold like a show he’s already seen the ending to.

“I just asked where he went,” he says lightly, when your mom gives him an approving look. “It’s weird to sneak out like that when you’re a guest, isn’t it? Especially when your girlfriend is still up. All alone.”

Your mom’s gaze snaps to you. “You were awake?” she says. “And he left?”

You open your mouth. Nothing comes out.

“She was finishing the tree,” Daniel goes on, easy, relentless. “I told him he was overreacting. Guess he needed some alone time to cool off.” He smiles, all concern. “No hard feelings, right, man?”

Seungmin’s fingers flex once, knuckles whitening. His eyes stay on his plate.

“Right,” he says.

The word is flat enough that anyone paying attention would hear it for what it is.

No one is.

Your aunt leans forward. “Sweetheart, did you know he went?” she asks you, scandalized on your behalf. “If my husband walked out like that on Christmas Eve, I’d have his head.”

“She probably didn’t want to make a fuss,” another says. “She hates conflict, remember?”

“Well, she certainly knows how to pick complicated ones,” your mother sighs. “You really know how to pick them, don’t you?”

Something in your chest tears.

Your hand tightens around your fork until the metal bites your fingers.

Daniel is still watching you. Waiting. Enjoying.

“Maybe he just doesn’t like being reminded he’s the rebound,” he says mildly.

You stop hearing individual words.

You hear tone—teasing, judgmental, indulgent. You hear your name, couched in “we’re only worried” and “we just want what’s best” and “you always were so intense about these things.” You hear Seungmin’s name in your mother’s mouth and the way it bends around Daniel’s history like gravity.

You hear your own heartbeat, loud and furious in your ears.

Beside you, Seungmin inhales like he’s about to say something.

You beat him to it.

BANG.

Your fork slams into the table.

The tines bounce once, ringing against porcelain. Gravy splashes the edge of your napkin. Every head at the table jerks toward you.

You’re already sitting up straight, shoulders squared, hands flat on the table to keep them from shaking.

“Thats enough,” you say.

Your voice isn’t loud, but it hits the table like a dropped stone.

Everything stops.

Your aunt’s mouth freezes mid-word. Your dad’s fork hangs in the air. A kid halfway to shoving a pea up his nose pauses, finger suspended.

Next to you, Seungmin goes very still.

You look straight at Daniel.

“Do not call him a rebound again,” you say. “Ever.”

He blinks, actually thrown. “I was joking—”

“No, you weren’t.” You turn your head, sweeping the table. “None of you are joking. You’re all sitting here picking him apart because it’s easier than admitting you’re being cruel.”

“Sweetheart—” your mom begins, scandalized.

“Mom, stop.” Your hands curl against the table edge to keep from shaking. “You’ve gotten everything you wanted this trip. I came home. I smiled. I ignored half the digs you threw at my life choices. You made me decorate the tree with the guy who cheated on me and knocked someone else up, and I let it go.” You huff out a disbelieving laugh. “But you don’t get to sit here and drag Seungmin for leaving the room before he said something he’d regret.”

“It’s not dragging,” your aunt says tightly. “We were just saying—”

“You were all ganging up on him,” you cut in. “He left for a few hours because he was overwhelmed. That’s it. He didn’t throw anything, didn’t scream, didn’t pick a fight. He took a walk. He removed himself from a situation that was hurting him. That’s textbook healthy.” 

Your dad sets his fork down. “Watch your tone,” he says.

“No,” you say, and your voice is steadier now. “Actually, I’m done watching my tone while everyone else gets to say whatever they want.”

Your mom’s eyes flash. “We are only worried about you,” she says. “You always choose the difficult path. We tried to give you a chance to remember what you had with Daniel—”

You laugh. It comes out sharp and incredulous. “By rigging the names?”

The color drains a little from her face. “Excuse me?”

“The bowl,” you say. “You think I didn’t see you tuck slips back in when you pulled the ‘wrong’ ones? You chose me and Daniel. You decided for us. Because God forbid you let me have one Christmas without your fantasy reunion.”

A ripple goes around the table. Your dad frowns. “Is that true?”

She stiffens. “I was trying to recreate a tradition,” she says. “You always decorated together. You were happy then—”

“I was nineteen and too stupid to notice half the ways he made me feel small,” you say. “And you liked him because he smiled pretty and agreed with you about everything. He cheated on me, Mom. He has a child with someone else. And somehow you spent more time asking what I did wrong than you ever spent being angry at him.”

Daniel’s jaw tightens. “Okay, that’s not fair—”

“You know what’s not fair?” You swing your gaze back to him. “Cornering me under mistletoe last night after all of that and acting like my inability to spit out a perfectly scripted speech for closure is a sign I still want you.”

“You didn’t say you didn’t,” he says quietly, watching you too closely.

Your chest squeezes. “I shouldn’t have had to,” you say. “You lost that right the second you lied to me and then let my family build a shrine to you in this house.”

You suck in a breath, feel it scrape. “So for the record—since everyone here seems so invested in my romantic status—let me be really, painfully clear.”

You look at your mother first.

“I am never getting back together with Daniel,” you say. “Not in a year, not in ten, not in some made-up Hallmark future you’ve written in your head. That door is closed. Dead-bolted. Bricked over.”

You turn to Daniel.

“You are not the one that got away,” you say. “You’re a pathetic loser who can’t handle not being worshiped.”

His face goes flat, color climbing into his cheeks.

“Don’t speak to him like that at my table,” your mom snaps.

“You’ve let him speak about me like I’m a problem he almost solved for years,” you say. “Consider us even.”

Your pulse is pounding so hard it makes your fingers tingle. You press your palms down harder into the tablecloth, feel the pattern under your skin.

“And second,” you say, your throat tightening around the words and forcing you to slow down, “Seungmin is not a rebound. He’s not a prop. He’s not some convenient boy I dragged home to make a point.”

You feel him react beside you before you see it—his knee jumps, the slightest shift of air as his head turns toward you. You keep your eyes forward.

“He is the one who sat with me at three a.m. while I sobbed over the way this house makes me feel,” you go on. “He’s the one who walked me to campus in the snow because my anxiety was eating me alive. He’s the one who held my hand in the car yesterday so I wouldn’t claw my skin off before we pulled into this driveway.”

Your eyes sting. You blink hard.

“He is the one Grandma trusted with me after five minutes,” you finish. “Because she’s right. I’m a storm. And he’s the tree.”

A couple of your cousins look confused. Your grandmother makes a tiny, satisfied noise.

Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your teeth.

“I love him,” you say.

No one moves.

You hear it echo in the silence—small, terrified, true. It lands on the table between the gravy boat and the cranberry sauce like something alive.

Your mom stares at you like you’ve slapped her. Your dad’s mouth is a hard line. Your aunts look between you and Seungmin as if expecting someone to deny it.

Beside you, Seungmin goes red from his collarbones to the tips of his ears.

It’s instant, like someone flipped a switch. His head ducks on reflex, hair falling into his eyes. His hand clenches once on his thigh, then releases. When he looks over at you, it’s quick, wide-eyed, like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

You meet his gaze. You don’t look away.

Everyone sees that.

You inhale, shaky, and push your chair back. “I’m not going to sit here and listen to you talk about him like he’s some unstable stranger ruining your Christmas because he dared to reach his limit,” you say. “He doesn’t owe you that. I don’t owe you that.”

Your chair scrapes against the floor. The sound is loud and ugly and perfect.

“We’re leaving,” you say.

Your mom’s hand slams down on the table. “You are not walking out in the middle of Christmas dinner,” she says. “Don’t you dare make a scene.”

“This is the first time in my life I’ve ever made a scene,” you say. “Maybe that’s part of the problem.”

There’s a beat where no one moves.

Then you turn to Seungmin and hold out your hand.

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask a single question. He just laces his fingers through yours and stands up with you, chair pushed back neatly with his leg.

He looks at your family then, shoulders squared, jaw still tight but eyes steady.

“Thank you for having me,” he says, and his voice is so polite it almost sounds like a weapon. “Dinner was great. And I’m really grateful you let me spend time with your grandmother.”

Grandma beams at him. “You’re welcome any time,” she says. 

Your mom looks like she might actually combust.

“After everything we’ve done for you—” she starts.

“Mom,” you say. “Stop. Please.”

You don’t trust yourself not to cry if she says one more thing.

“Sweetheart, don’t be rash,” your dad says. “You’re overreacting—”

Daniel leans back in his chair, arms folding like he’s settling in to watch you crash. “It’s fine,” he drawls. “Let her go. We all know she’ll come back when she realizes city boy isn’t going to put up with her drama forever.”

The words are barely out of his mouth when Seungmin looks at him.

The shift is small but seismic. He goes from politely neutral to something colder, cleaner.

“Daniel,” he says, tone still maddeningly calm, “Kindly, shut the fuck up.”

The silence that follows is so complete you can hear the kids stop chewing.

Your aunt drops her fork. Someone chokes on a sip of wine. Your mother sputters your first and middle name like she can somehow contain the swear by addressing you.

You don’t flinch.

A slow, stunned grin spreads across your grandmother’s face.

Daniel stares, actually blindsided for once. Color creeps up his neck. “You can’t talk to me like that—”

“I just did,” Seungmin says. “You’ve had plenty to say about me for two days. That’s my contribution.”

He turns back to you then, like he’s just finished answering a dull question at work.

“Ready?” he asks.

Your throat is too tight to speak, so you nod.

You lean over to kiss your grandmother’s cheek. Her fingers catch your wrist for a second, squeeze.

“About time,” she murmurs in your ear.

You swallow around the burn in your chest. “I’ll call you tomorrow,” you whisper back.

Then you straighten, still holding Seungmin’s hand, and look at the rest of the table.

“Merry Christmas,” you say. Your voice shakes, but you don’t take it back. “Really. I hope it’s everything you wanted.”

You don’t wait for an answer and you don’t look back. You don’t need to—you can feel the table behind you like a pressure between your shoulder blades, all those eyes on your spine, your mother’s anger, your father’s disappointment, Daniel’s bruised ego burning a hole in the wallpaper.

Seungmin’s hand stays locked with yours all the way up the stairs.

Neither of you speaks.

In your room, you let go of him only because you have to. The door clicks shut behind you, muffling the house to a dull, distant hum. Your heart is still beating too hard, too fast. Your fingers tingle.

Seungmin drags a hand through his hair and exhales, like he’s been holding his breath since the dining room.

“About what you said—” he starts.

“No.”

One word, sharper than you mean it to be.

He goes quiet, eyes flicking to your face.

You swallow. “Not yet,” you say, softer. “Please. Just… can we pack first?”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. For a second, it looks like he might push anyway, like the last twenty-four hours are right there behind his teeth.

Then he nods once.

“Okay,” he says.

That’s it.

You move.

You grab whatever is yours in arm’s reach—chargers, the book on the nightstand, the pajama shirt you shoved under the pillow this morning. You fold badly, shove worse. He doesn’t comment. He doesn’t let you carry anything heavier than a hoodie.

When you reach for your duffel, his hand gets there first.

“I got it,” he says.

You open your mouth.

He just lifts an eyebrow.

You close it.

He shoulders his own bag, then yours, then grabs the tote before you can touch it. By the time you fumble your coat on, he’s already holding your scarf out to you.

“Here,” he murmurs.

You slide into it without thinking. His fingers brush the back of your neck as he settles it, quick and impersonal and familiar enough to make your throat burn.

You don’t talk on the way down the stairs.

No one is in the hallway. You can hear the murmur of voices from the dining room—your mother’s sharper now, your dad’s low, your name tossed around like a problem set they’re working through together. Your grandmother’s cough. A child asking what “fuck” means.

You keep walking.

The air outside hits you like a slap. It’s full dark now, the kind of cold that bites the inside of your nose. Fairy lights blink from the gutters, oblivious. The plastic reindeer on the lawn lists slightly, one leg sunk deeper into the snow.

Seungmin goes straight to the car, breath puffing white. He unlocks it, loads his bag into the trunk, then yours, then tucks the tote in last.

You stand there on the driveway, arms wrapped around yourself, fingers dug into the meat of your elbows.

He reaches up, grabs the trunk lid, and swings it down. It thunks shut with a solid finality that makes your heart jolt.

Before he can turn fully away, you move.

You step in and shove at his chest. It’s not hard—just enough to make him stumble back half a step until his shoulders bump the car. One of his hands flies out to catch the edge of the trunk, more on reflex than because he needs the support.

“Whoa,” he says, startled. “What are you—”

“Don’t,” you blurt. Your fingers curl into the front of his sweater, bunching the knit under your fist. “Just—don’t say anything yet, okay? Please.”

He blinks down at you.

You’re close enough to feel his breath ghost over your forehead, to see the rapid flutter of his pulse in his throat. His hands hover like he doesn’t know where to put them—back to his sides, on your hips, nowhere at all.

“Let me talk first,” you rush on, staring hard at his chest because you absolutely cannot handle his eyes right now. The wool under your grip is warm from his skin. “Before the adrenaline wears off and I freak out and pretend I didn’t just explode my entire life in there.”

He swallows. You feel the movement under your knuckles.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “Look at—”

You tighten your fist deeper into his sweater, knuckles brushing his sternum, head ducking further like you can burrow into the stitches.

“No,” you say, voice shaking but firm. “If I look at you, I’m going to lose my nerve. So just… stay there. Don’t move. Don’t be nice. Don’t make a joke. Just let me say this, and then you can decide if you still want to get in the car with me.”

Your breath fogs between you in quick, uneven bursts. The yard is silent, the house looming behind you like a stage you’ve just walked off.

Seungmin exhales slowly, like he’s physically pushing words back down.

“Okay,” he says at last, and his voice is rough but steady. “Go ahead.”

Your fingers are still knotted in his sweater. You stare at the stitches like you can line your thoughts up between them.

“For the record,” you start, and your voice comes out thin and breathless, “I didn’t plan any of that. The speech. The… ‘I love him’ thing. It just—came out.”

You feel him go a little stiffer against the car.

“I figured,” he says quietly.

“I’m not saying that so you think it doesn’t count,” you rush. “I’m saying it because it wasn’t some performance for them. It wasn’t—” You swallow. “It wasn’t about them at all.”

Your throat burns. You press your forehead against the center of his chest, hiding in the rough knit, fingers fisting tighter.

“Last night,” you say, words muffled, “you asked me if I was still in love with him, and I said I didn’t know. And that was… not quite right.”

He doesn’t move. His breath is slow and shallow under your cheek.

“I don’t know how to flip a switch on hurt,” you say. “I still feel sick when I think about what he did. I still remember what it felt like to be happy here with him, and that makes me want to throw up, because I hate that those memories exist in my head at the same time. And when he cornered me, my brain just went—static. It always has in this house.”

You suck in a shaky breath. Cold air burns your lungs.

“But I do know some things,” you go on, softer. “I know I don’t want him. I know I don’t want to get back together with him now, or ever. I know that even before he cheated, I was already shrinking to fit what everyone wanted, and I’m done doing that.”

Your hand shakes in his sweater.

“And I know that when you walked in last night and saw what you saw, it looked really bad,” you whisper. “I hate that. I hate that I hurt you. I’m so, so sorry, Seungmin. You didn’t deserve to be standing in that doorway wondering if you’re just… filler until I decide if I want to be stupid enough to try again with him. That’s not what this is.”

His fingers twitch at his sides. You feel the almost-touch like a phantom.

“It felt like that,” he says, low.

“I know.” The words scrape. “I know it did. And I made it worse. I froze. I gave the worst possible answer and then expected you to magically understand everything I was too scared to say out loud.” You let out a humorless breath. “I keep doing that with you. Hoping you’ll just… read my mind so I don’t have to risk saying the thing that might break everything.”

You press your forehead harder into his chest, like you can shove the fear straight through him and out the other side.

“I brought you here because you’re the safest person I know,” you say. “I didn’t think about what it would feel like from your side. How it would look to stand in a house full of people who still worship my ex while I tell you ‘it’s complicated’ and make you wait in the hallway with your feelings in your hands.”

The image makes your stomach twist.

“I’m not confused about you,” you say, voice barely above a breath now. “Whatever residual garbage is left over from him, whatever my brain is still untangling—that’s just… noise. You’re the part that makes sense.” You swallow. “You’re the future part. You’re the one I want in the car with me, and on my couch, and at three a.m. when I’m spiraling, and… at stupid family dinners where I finally grow a spine.”

His chest rises under your cheek, slow and deep.

You tighten your grip on his sweater until your knuckles ache.

“I love you,” you say again, smaller now, just for him. “Not because you came here and played the part. Because you’ve been here the whole time. I should have said it before last night. I should have said it before we ever knocked on that stupid door.”

You feel his fingers finally land—one hand settling, carefully, at your hip, the other bracing light against the small of your back like he’s not sure how much he’s allowed.

“Look at me,” he says quietly.

You shake your head against his chest. “You promised you’d let me finish.”

“That sounded pretty finished,” he murmurs. “And I’m not going to decide anything while you’re talking to my sweater.”

A wet, shaky laugh jerks out of you. “I’m serious,” you say. “If you decide you’re done after this weekend, I won’t blame you. You tried. You warned me. I just… needed you to know that if you walk away, it’s not because I don’t want you. It’s because I didn’t figure this out fast enough and that’s on me, not you.”

His hand at your hip tightens.

“God,” he mutters. “You really think that little of me?”

Your head snaps up before you can stop it.

He’s closer than you thought—obviously, because you shoved him here—but seeing his face this near, this night-lit and raw, makes your breath catch. His eyes are dark and blown-wide, lashes spiked slightly from the cold. His mouth is set in that flat, stubborn line you know means he’s two seconds from saying something he thinks you won’t like.

“Don’t tell me what I’d decide,” he says, steady. “You’re not the only one who gets to choose here.”

You open your mouth, flustered. “I wasn’t—I just—”

“I hated last night,” he says, clean and unvarnished. “I hate that I saw you stuck and couldn’t tell if you were frozen or… tempted. I hate that you had to deal with that at all. I hate that every person at that table thinks they know what’s best for you and somehow I still let them make me feel like the crazy one for having a problem with it.”

His thumb is moving without him realizing it, a small, tight stroke against your hip.

“But I don’t love you because it’s easy,” he says. “And I’m not in this because your family will throw me a parade. I’m in this because I’ve spent a year and a half watching you try to hold yourself together with duct tape and bad jokes, and every time you let me help, it feels like the only part of my day that makes sense.”

Your eyes sting again. “Seungmin…”

“You froze,” he says. “Okay. You panic. You go quiet. None of that makes what he did less shitty, and none of it makes me less pissed about how it looked. But you walking out of that house for me? Telling them you love me in front of… all of that?” He huffs, disbelief and something like awe tangled together. “That doesn’t look like someone keeping me around as a prop.”

You make a helpless noise in the back of your throat.

“I’m still mad,” he warns, because he’s him.

“I know,” you say. “You’re allowed to be.”

“I’m going to bring it up in, like, three separate arguments six months from now,” he adds.

You let out a watery laugh. “That’s fair.”

“But I’m not done,” he finishes quietly. “Not with you. Not because of this.”

The relief hits so hard your knees wobble. Your hand in his sweater loosens, then fists again, because you’re not risking letting go just yet.

“I’ll do better,” you say quickly. “Next time—”

“There’s not going to be a next time with him,” Seungmin cuts in. “That’s kind of the point.”

You breathe out a shaky smile. “Yeah,” you say. “There really isn’t.”

He studies you for a beat, the sharpness in his face softening at the edges. You can see him replaying the dining room, the way you said his name, the way you stood up. The way you walked out with your hand in his.

“Say it again,” he says, almost under his breath.

Your chest flutters. “Say what again?”

His mouth tips, not quite a smile. “You know.”

You swallow. “I love you,” you say, a little stronger this time. “Kim Seungmin, I am stupidly, completely in love with you, and I’m sorry it took me this long to stop being a coward about it.”

His throat works. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “That one.”

Your heartbeat is in your mouth now. You’re suddenly very aware of the fact that you still have him pinned to his car, fingers curled in his sweater like a lifeline.

“Okay,” you whisper. “That was the speech. You can… say whatever you want now. Or leave. Or laugh in my face. Or—”

“God, shut up,” he says, and then he’s leaning down.

He doesn’t give you a chance to overthink it.

“God, shut up,” he says, and then his mouth is on yours.

It’s not cautious, not testing the way you half-expected. It’s like the thread that’s been pulled taut between you for a year and a half finally snaps and all that tension has to go somewhere.

His first kiss lands hard enough that you stumble back a bit. His hand on your hip tightens, dragging you that last inch closer so there’s no space left to negotiate. His other hand slides up your spine and into your hair, fingers threading at the back of your head like he’s terrified you’ll move away.

You don’t.

You tilt up into him, fingers fisting higher in his sweater, and the sound he makes—low, rough, like he’s been holding it in for months—goes straight down your spine.

The cold disappears fast. All you can feel is his mouth moving against yours, a little desperate, a little clumsy with how hard he’s trying not to be. He kisses you like he’s been dying to and finally, finally got permission.

When you part your lips on a shaky inhale, he doesn’t hesitate. He deepens it immediately, tilting his head, catching your bottom lip between his, sucking just enough that you gasp against him. His thumb presses at your waist, anchoring you; his fingers tighten in your hair.

You break away for half a second—just enough to breathe—and he follows, chasing your mouth like he can’t bear the distance.

“Seungmin,” you whisper, but it comes out wrecked, more plea than warning.

“Yeah?” he mutters against your lips, like that’s an answer, and kisses you again.

It’s messier now, all teeth and breath and relief. His nose bumps yours; you laugh into his mouth, and he swallows the sound like he wants to keep it.

“Say it again,” he breathes, not really pulling back, words brushing your lips.

You manage to get enough distance to look up at him—barely. His pupils are blown, cheeks flushed high with cold and something hotter.

“I love you,” you whisper.

He groans, actual, honest-to-god groans. His hand drops from your hair to your jaw, thumb stroking along your cheek as he kisses you like repeat, repeat, repeat. Each time you try to catch air, he’s there again, softer, then deeper, like he literally cannot help himself.

Your fingers slide from his sweater to the back of his neck, pulling him down. He goes willingly, pressing you up more firmly against him.

“Been trying not to do this for months,” he mutters between kisses, lips dragging along your jaw, back to the corner of your mouth. “So if you wanted me to stop—too late.”

You laugh, breathless, and hook your fingers into the collar of his shirt, tugging. “Not complaining,” you manage. “Just… air. Occasionally.”

He pulls back an inch, panting, forehead dropping to yours. His breath fogs between you, mingling with yours.

“Right,” he says, voice wrecked. “Air.”

He doesn’t move.

You tip your head just enough to brush your mouth against his again, a quick, soft kiss that turns into three, four, because apparently he really can’t stop. Every time he pulls away, his lips find some new bit of you—your top lip, the edge of your smile, that spot just beside your mouth that makes your stomach flip.

“Okay,” he says finally, like he’s negotiating with himself. “We… should go. Before your dad comes out here with a snow shovel.”

“Probably,” you murmur, kissing him once more anyway.

He laughs, a short, disbelieving burst against your lips, and gives in for one last, lingering kiss that feels like a promise and a problem all at once.

When he pulls back this time, it’s slow, like it physically pains him. His hand slides from your jaw to your shoulder, squeezing once.

“Get in the car,” he says gently. “Before I start something we really can’t finish in your parents’ driveway.”

You snort, half-hysterical. “Bold of you to assume I’d stop you.”

“Don’t tempt me,” he mutters, eyes flicking to the lit windows. “I’m hanging on by a thread here.”

You peel yourself off the car with effort, fingers reluctantly letting go of his sweater. The air hits you properly again, sharp and cold, rushing into all the places he just warmed up.

You slide into the passenger seat. The upholstery smells faintly like him and stale coffee and the little pine-scented air freshener your mom passive-aggressively stuck on the vent before you left the city.

He gets in on his side, slamming his door against the cold. For a second you both just sit there, hands in your laps, breaths visible in the dim.

Then he leans over and buckles your seatbelt for you.

“Really?” you say, voice small and fond all at once.

“Motor skills drop after that many kisses,” he says. “I don’t trust you not to concuss yourself on the dashboard.”

“You kissed me.”

“Yeah,” he says. “And I’d like to keep doing it, so—seatbelt.”

You roll your eyes, but his hands are steady, fingers brushing your collarbone once as he clicks it into place. Your chest tightens stupidly.

He sits back, starts the engine. The heater coughs to life, whirring hard, blowing cold air that will eventually be warm if you give it time.

You clear your throat. “So… what now?”

He keeps his eyes on the windshield. A long breath fogs out of him. “Now,” he says slowly, “I drive us back to the city. You put on the least cursed Christmas playlist you can find. We both crash for sixteen hours. Tomorrow we order obscene amounts of food and pretend the only family we have is your grandmother.”

A tiny smile pulls at your mouth. “That’s a plan.”

“And,” he adds, fingers flexing on the wheel, “somewhere in there we have a conversation that doesn’t involve your ex, your mom, or the threat of snow shovels.”

You nod, staring at your hands. “Okay.”

He glances over then, like he’s checking your face for cracks. “Unless you were looking for something more… official.”

The word makes your stomach swoop.

You twist in your seat to face him properly. “I mean, kind of?” you say. “I did sort of tell my entire extended family I love you and then drag you out of their house, so it’d be a little embarrassing if you were like, ‘thanks for the field trip, roommate.’”

His mouth twitches. “You were never just my roommate.”

“Still,” you say. “I’d like to know what we are when we get back home. So I don’t… wake up tomorrow and convince myself I hallucinated all of this.”

He watches you for a long beat, engine idling, the dashboard throwing soft light over his face.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s be really, painfully clear for once.”

Your heart stutters.

“You’re my girlfriend,” he says simply. “I’m your boyfriend, if you’ll have me. No fake clauses, no ‘just for the weekend.’ I am fully, stupidly in love with you and have been for an embarrassingly long time. If you try to downgrade me back to ‘roommate’ I will sue.”

You huff out a shocked laugh. “On what grounds?”

“Emotional damages,” he says. “Plus hazard pay for the last forty-eight hours.”

You bite the inside of your cheek, fighting a wobbly smile. “You’re really sure,” you say, half awe, half warning.

“You called me your tree in front of your entire family,” he points out. “I’m pretty locked in, hurricane.”

The word catches you off guard. “What?”

His eyes soften. “Your grandma was right,” he says. “You’re a storm. Loud and messy and too much for people who’d rather keep everything neat.” His hand leaves the wheel for a second, fingers brushing the back of your wrist. “I like storms.”

Heat prickles behind your eyes. “Sounds like a lot of work.”

He shrugs, hand finding yours properly now, tangling your fingers together over the console. “I’m stubborn,” he says. “I can handle some wind.”

You look down at your joined hands. His knuckles are pink from the cold; one of your fingers still has a faint smear of cranberry sauce near the nail. 

“Okay,” you whisper. “Then you’re my boyfriend. For real. No refunds.”

He exhales, something in his shoulders finally dropping. “Good,” he says. “Because if you’d tried to demote me after that driveway performance, I’d have just kept kissing you until you changed your mind.”

You snort. “Bold strategy.”

“Effective, though,” he says, smirking a little now. “Data suggests it works.”

You squeeze his hand. “You’re insufferable.”

“You love me,” he reminds you.

You meet his eyes, steady. “Yeah,” you say. “I really do.”

He looks away first this time, ears going pink again as he shifts the car into reverse. “Buckle up,” he mutters. “We’re getting the hell out of Maple Lane.”

“You already buckled me,” you say.

“Right,” he says. “See? Boyfriend of the year.”

You laugh, the sound lighter than anything that’s come out of you in days.

As he backs out of the driveway, you glance up at the house one last time—the porch lights, the sagging reindeer, the glow of the dining room window. A shadow crosses past the curtain. For once, you don’t flinch.

You turn back to the car, to the boy at the wheel, to his hand warm in yours.

“Hey, Min?” you say, as the house shrinks in the mirrors.

“Yeah?”

You lean over the console and press a quick, sure kiss to his cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

He blows out a soft, incredulous breath, the corners of his mouth tipping up.

“Merry Christmas, hurricane,” he says.

The road opens up ahead, dark and clear. You lace your fingers tighter through his and let him drive you home.

Seungmin’s face is right there, too close, framed by the dim, late-afternoon light leaking around the curtains. His hair’s mussed, his mouth is a tight, pale line, and his eyes—

“Thank God,” he breathes, exhaling so hard his shoulders drop. “Jesus Christ, you scared me.”

Your heart thuds against your ribs, still catching up to the rest of you. The room swims a little, your vision blurry at the edges. You’re on your side of the bed, half buried in the blanket, cheek pressed into your pillow. 

“What—” Your throat is dry. You clear it, try again. “What happened?”

“You didn’t wake up.” His voice is softer now, but not calmer. He’s kneeling by the bed, one hand braced on the mattress near your hip like he’s been shaking you for a while. “I’ve been calling you for, like… five minutes? At least. You were out.”

“That’s… normal,” you mumble, brain still scraping itself together. 

“Yeah,” he says, and it comes out almost sharp. His fingers flex against the sheets. “But not like that.”

You blink at him, then past him, squinting toward the digital clock on your nightstand. The red numbers stab through the haze.

5:42 p.m.

You stare at it, confused.  “It was barely three when I laid down.”

“I know.” He sits back onto his heels, rubbing a hand over his face. “You told me to wake you by five-thirty. You have that get-together thing tonight, remember?”

You frown. “Get-together…?”

He looks at you for a long second, some expression flickering across his face that you can’t quite catch.

“With your friends?” he prompts gently. “At the wine bar? You made me put it in my calendar and everything so I wouldn’t forget to remind you.”

The memory lands in pieces. Group chat. Clinking glasses emoji. 

“Oh.” You swallow, cheeks warming. “Right. Yeah. That.”

You really don’t remember telling him to wake you up. You don’t remember getting into bed, either, not clearly—just the soft weight of the blanket, thinking I’ll just close my eyes for twenty minutes…

“Hey.” His voice pulls you back. “Have you taken your medication today?”

You open your mouth to say yes—then hesitate.

Did you?

You try to rewind, to replay your day like a film. Work. The bus. Coming home. His arms around you in the kitchen, a quick hug that smelled like coffee and printer ink. The ache behind your eyes. 

But everything after that is muddy, like someone smeared wet paint over the reel.

“I…” You press your fingers into your temple, frustrated. “I don’t know. I thought I did, but—”

“Okay.” He pushes himself to his feet. “Come on. Let’s check.”

You let him tug you upright. Your limbs feel like they were poured in one piece and forgot how to be separate parts. The room tilts for a second; his hand closes around your wrist, firm and steady until your balance catches.

He leads you out of the bedroom and down the short hallway to the tiny kitchen. The overhead light hums to life when he flicks the switch, too bright after the dimness of the bedroom, edges of cabinets and countertops suddenly sharp.

Your pill organizer is exactly where you always leave it: on the counter by the fridge, next to the fruit bowl you never actually put fruit in. It’s a plain plastic thing, seven little compartments in a row. The days of the week are printed on top in fading black letters, Monday through Sunday.

Seungmin picks it up and turns it so you can see.

You lean closer.

Monday: empty. Tuesday: empty. Wednesday: empty. Thursday: empty. Friday: empty.

“See?” he says quietly. “You .must have taken it before your nap.”

The fog in your head shifts, just enough for a quick flash of déjà vu: the click of the Friday lid popping open, the chalky pill in your palm, water from the tap running cold over your fingers. You’d swallowed it standing right where you are now.

“Oh.” Heat creeps up your neck. “Right. I guess I… forgot that part.”

He sets the organizer back down exactly in its spot, lining it up with the edge of the counter. He always does that, tiny straightening habits that would drive you insane on anyone else.

On him, they’re just—Seungmin.

“You’ve been really tired lately,” he says, softer, like he’s testing the words as he places his hands lightly on your waist. “Work’s been a lot. It makes sense.”

You roll your eyes, more out of habit than belief. “You’re literally busier than I am.”

“Yeah, but I’m built different,” he says, deadpan.

You huff out a laugh. The last of the panic in your chest starts to bleed out, replaced by that familiar, stupid fondness. You loop your arms loosely around his neck, tugging him closer until your bodies fit together, your forehead almost bumping his.

“Built annoying, maybe,” you murmur..

“Wow,” he says. “So mean to the guy who just resurrected you from the dead.”

“You woke me up from a nap. It’s not that serious.”

He tilts his head, the corner of his mouth tipping up. Up close, you can see the faint smudge of tired under his eyes, the little crease between his brows he gets when he’s worried. The fear you saw when you first opened your eyes is still there, just buried now, smoothed over.

You smooth your thumb over that crease, and his gaze softens like it always does when you touch him like that.

“Don’t scare me like that again,” he says quietly.

You blink. “I was sleeping.”

“You weren’t waking up,” he insists, and there’s a flash of something raw in his voice. “It… you looked like you weren’t even there. Just—” He huffs out a breath. “I know you sleep heavy on your meds, but—”

“Hey.” You cut him off with a small smile, fingers sliding into his hair. It’s soft, still a little damp from a shower. “I’m here, okay? See? Very annoying, very alive.”

He shuts his eyes when you card your fingers through his hair, soaking it in. When he opens them again, the fear is mostly gone, replaced by that look that always makes your chest feel too full, like he’s memorizing your face just in case it disappears.

“That’s debatable,” he mutters. “The alive part. The annoying part, not so much.”

You laugh, and it feels more real this time. Your body remembers him even when your brain is fogged—your thumbs brushing the back of his neck, your hips fitting against his, the way he instinctively leans down when you tip your chin up.

You kiss him.

At first it’s just a brush of lips, a hello / sorry / I’m fine all in one. Then his fingers tighten on your waist and he pulls you closer, and the kiss deepens without either of you really meaning to. His mouth is warm, familiar, unhurried. He tastes faintly like coffee and mint.

His hand slides up your back, palm flat between your shoulder blades, anchoring you there. You let yourself melt into it, into him, into the way his body curves protectively around yours like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Your brain quiets. The clock, the pills, the scare—everything recedes to the edges for a moment.

“You’re gonna make me late,” you murmur against his mouth.

“Good,” he says, kissing you again, slower. “Stay home.”

“Tempting,” you mumble, and kiss him again before he can say anything else.

He makes a quiet sound in his chest, low and unguarded, and his hands slide further around you, fingers tightening at the small of your back. The edge of the counter digs into your hip as he walks you back a step, like he can’t decide between pulling you closer or pinning you there.

You don’t make him choose. You hook your fingers into the collar of his shirt and tug, opening your mouth under his, and whatever restraint he was clinging to frays fast.

He tilts his head, deepening the kiss. His nose bumps yours, his breath mixing with yours, warmer now, rougher. Your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck and curl, and he reacts instantly, a little shiver running through him. His grip on you tightens, dragging you flush against him.

You can feel him, all solid heat and tension, the steady thump of his heart where your chest presses to his. There’s a line to his shoulders that says he’s trying not to push, trying to keep it slow, but his thumb is rubbing circles just above the waistband of your shorts like he can’t help it.

“Stay,” he repeats against your mouth. It doesn’t sound like a joke now. 

You smile, breathless. “You gonna write my apology text?”

“I’ll ghost them for you,” he says, and then you feel him grin. “Block the whole group chat. Problem solved.”

“Huh.” You nip lightly at his lower lip; he sucks in a breath. “You want me all to yourself that badly?”

His answer is to kiss you like he’s been holding back all day.

The change is subtle and then it isn’t—his hand sliding up your spine to cradle the back of your head, his other hand splaying wider over your hip, anchoring you in place. He’s not rough, exactly, but there’s a surety in the way he moves you that makes your knees feel a little unreliable, like if he let go you might actually melt into the floor.

You let out a small, surprised sound when he shifts his stance and slots a thigh between yours. It’s nothing, just pressure, but your body reacts faster than your brain, a little spark lighting low in your stomach.

His fingers flex at your waist when he feels you tense.

“Careful,” you tease when he shifts from your lips to your jaw, words coming out thinner than you meant. “Last time we started something before I went out, I missed my train.”

“Last time you were the one who climbed into my lap,” he mutters, but his mouth is still on your jaw, then the spot just under your ear that makes you shiver. “I’m innocent.”

You huff out a laugh that turns into a sharp inhale when he finds a sensitive patch of skin and lingers, teeth scraping just enough to make heat chase down your spine.

“Innocent is not the word I’d use,” you manage.

“What word would you use?” he asks, and you can feel his smile against your neck, infuriating and fond and entirely too pleased with himself.

“Hazard to productivity.”

“That’s three words,” He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, lashes low. “You love me.”

You do. God, you do. It’s there in the way your hands don’t want to leave him, in the way your body leans without asking you first, in the way you can feel your resolve about tonight’s plans wobbling because he’s looking at you like that.

“Unfortunately,” you say.

His gaze flicks between your eyes, searching for something. Whatever he sees makes his expression soften, the cocky edge fading, replaced by something softer. His thumb traces a slow line along your cheekbone.

“I really thought you weren’t going to wake up,” he says, almost to himself. “I kept thinking—I should’ve checked earlier, I should’ve—”

“Hey.” You slide your hands down from his neck to his chest, press your palms flat over his heartbeat. “You woke me up. I’m fine. No more doomsday scenarios.”

He swallows, throat working. For a second you think he’ll argue, that he’ll confess whatever worst-case films his brain was putting on loop while you were out. Then he seems to tuck it away, the way he always does, folding the fear into something smaller and shoving it somewhere you can’t reach.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Okay.”

He leans in and kisses you again, quick this time.

“You really are gonna be late,” he adds, voice back to its usual dry cadence even as his fingers linger at your waist, reluctant to let go. “Go shower. I’ll make you something you can eat in like, three bites.”

“What a romantic,” you say, but you’re already stepping back, your body complaining about the loss of contact. “Promise you won’t move the entire kitchen around again while I’m gone?”

He lifts a hand, mock-scout’s honor. “I’ll only alphabetize the spices.”

“Don’t you dare,” you warn, pointing a finger at him as you back toward the hallway. “If I come back and cumin is anywhere near cinnamon—”

“You say that like you actually cook,” he calls after you.

You flip him off over your shoulder; he laughs, the sound following you down the hall.

Under the hot spray of the shower, your skin still tingles where his hands were. You lean your forehead against the tile for a second, breathing in steam, letting your heartbeat settle. It’s too easy to imagine staying—slipping back into one of his shirts, curling up on the couch with him, letting the night pass in a blur of warmth and dumb jokes and movie credits.

But your phone is buzzing on the sink with messages you can’t ignore, and somewhere in the apartment, you can hear him moving around, the clink of dishes, the soft thud of cabinet doors. Domestic noise. Safe noise.

You scrub shampoo into your hair and try not to think about the way he said you scared me.

By the time you’re out, wrapped in a towel and digging through your closet for something that says I am a functioning adult who leaves her house sometimes, the scare has already faded to a dull, ignorable unease. You chalk the heaviness up to the meds, the weird, sticky way sleep clings to you when you take them and nap in the middle of the day.

You don’t see Seungmin pause in the kitchen as he cuts toast into quarters, staring at the pill organizer like it’s a bomb. You don’t see the way he checks the Friday compartment twice, thumb hovering just above the empty slot before he jerks his hand back.

You only hear him call down the hall:

“You’ve got fifteen minutes! And you’re not leaving without eating something!”

“Yes, dad!” you yell back, pulling a dress over your head.

He mutters something you don’t catch, low and affectionate.

You smile to yourself and keep getting ready.

By the time you get to the wine bar, you’re warm with it—heat in your cheeks from the walk, from the tiny rush of making it on time, from Seungmin’s mouth on your neck still ghosting on your skin like a thumbprint.

The place is exactly what your friends love: dim amber lighting, a wall of bottles that glints like stained glass, the kind of music that’s just loud enough to make you lean in close and feel like you’re sharing secrets even when you’re talking about nothing. Your group is already halfway through their first round, clustered around a high table near the back.

“There she is!” someone sings as you weave between tables.

You slide in with a grin that feels a little practiced at first, then real when they start talking over each other, pulling you into the noise. Someone hugs you. Someone immediately steals your coat. Someone shoves a menu into your hands.

“You’re late,” your friend accuses, eyes bright. “I was about to file a missing persons report.”

“I was in a medically-induced coma,” you say solemnly.

They laugh. You laugh too, because it’s easy, because you’re here, because this is normal.

A server comes by. You order something you don’t have to think about. Your phone buzzes once in your pocket—Seungmin, probably, asking if you need him to pick you up later. 

Someone’s telling a story—office drama, a new manager, someone’s boyfriend doing something stupid. You’re nodding along, half listening, half watching the room the way you always do in public, cataloguing exits, counting faces, letting your brain settle into that quiet observational mode that makes you feel a little more in control.

That’s when you see her.

She’s at the bar, angled toward the bartender with the kind of posture that says she’s used to being accommodated. Perfect hair, perfect eyeliner, a fitted coat draped like it’s part of the outfit. She’s laughing—sharp, bright, rehearsed—and the sound threads through the room in a way that makes your shoulders tighten before you even know why.

It takes your brain a second to place her.

Then it clicks, like a tab closing.

Oh.

Seungmin’s coworker.

The one he complains about nearly everyday. The one who “forgets” to add him to email chains, who talks over him in meetings, who “accidentally” takes credit for his work. The one he hates with the calm, simmering intensity of someone who doesn’t hate easily.

You’ve never met her. You’ve only seen her through Seungmin’s words: She’s so fake. She’s so loud. She thinks everyone is stupid. She does that thing where she smiles like she’s being kind but she’s not.

Now you watch her tilt her head at the bartender, a manicured finger tapping the wood like she owns it, and you understand exactly what he means.

You don’t stare. You’re careful not to. You take a sip of water and let your gaze slide past her like you’re looking at the shelves behind the bar.

Your friend follows your line of sight, curious. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say automatically.

They squint. “No, you just looked like you saw a ghost. Who is that?”

You shrug, making it casual, making it small. “I think she works with Seungmin.”

Your friend’s eyebrows jump. “Ohh. That coworker. The enemy.”

You huff a laugh, because the way they say it makes it sound like Seungmin is a superhero with a nemesis, and that’s stupid and kind of adorable. “Yeah. That one.”

“Have you met her before?”

“No.” You pick at the condensation on your glass. “I’ve just… heard about her. A lot.”

“How bad is she?” someone else asks, leaning in, delighted by the idea of a villain.

You keep your tone light, your expression neutral. Not too interested. Not too sharp. Just… conversational.

“Seungmin literally hates her,” you say, like you’re sharing a funny tidbit. “He complains about her every chance he gets.”

One of your friends snorts into her glass.

“Okay but,” she says, leaning in too far because she’s definitely on her second—or third—drink, “can we talk about how that’s a red flag?”

You blink. “What is?”

“The fact that your boyfriend never shuts up about how much he hates another woman,” she says, waving her hand vaguely in the direction of the bar. “Like. That’s not normal.”

You laugh automatically. “He just finds her annoying.”

“Mmm,” she hums, unconvinced. “No. See. Men don’t talk that much about women they don’t care about.”

A couple of your friends make a noise at the same time.

“Okay, relax,” one of them says, already bracing herself. “You’re drunk.”

“I am right,” the drunk one insists, poking the table for emphasis. “I’m just saying—if a guy keeps going on and on about how much he ‘hates’ a girl? He’s either obsessed with her or fucking her.”

You choke on your water. 

“Hate sex,” she continues cheerfully, completely unfiltered now, “is top-tier. Like, the chemistry? Off the charts. They’re probably ripping each other’s clothes off between meetings.”

“Stop,” another friend hisses, mortified, slapping her arm. “What is wrong with you?”

“I’m being honest!” she protests. “I’m doing her a favor.”

You feel heat crawl up your neck, equal parts embarrassed and irritated. “That’s—no. That’s not a thing. He genuinely can’t stand her.”

“Sure,” the drunk friend says, lifting her glass. “That’s what they all say.”

“Okay, that’s enough,” someone else cuts in quickly. “Let’s not plant insane thoughts in her head.”

“Yeah,” another adds, pointedly. “She’s happy. Let her be happy.”

The drunk friend raises her hands in surrender, grinning. “Fine. Fine. I’ll shut up.”

You force a laugh and shake your head, trying to let it roll off you. “She’s just drunk.”

“Very drunk,” someone agrees.

The conversation shifts almost immediately—back to dating horror stories, back to laughter, back to normal.

You go with it. You really do.

But across the room, the coworker laughs again at something the bartender says, head tipped back, throat exposed—and for just a second, uninvited and sharp, your friend’s voice echoes in your head.

If a guy keeps going on and on about how much he hates a girl…

You take another sip of water and push the thought away.

It’s stupid.

It’s nothing.

And you absolutely do not look back at the bar again.

You keep your focus on your friends, on their faces, on the rhythm of their conversation. Someone’s telling a story about a terrible first date, everyone groaning, and you’re about to respond—about to say something snarky, something that’ll make them all laugh—

Wake up.

You wake up to softness.                        

Sheets against your legs. A familiar weight of blankets. The faint, clean scent of your body wash clinging to your skin.                  

Your eyes blink open slowly, unfocused. Morning light sits pale and thin on the wall, making everything look washed-out and quiet. The room is still. Too still.                        

You’re in your pajamas.                        

Your hair is brushed. Your skin smells like soap. There’s that slightly tight feeling on your face that usually means you did your skincare.                        

You stare at the ceiling for a long second, waiting for the memory of getting home to slide into place.                        

Nothing comes.                        

There’s a small ache behind your eyes, like a leftover echo. Your mouth is a little dry. Your limbs feel… heavy, but in that post-shower, post-sleep way. Like you were tucked in properly.                        

You turn your head.                        

Seungmin is sitting on the edge of the bed, facing away from you.                        

His elbows rest on his knees, his head bowed into his hands like he’s trying to hold himself together by force. His hair is messier than usual, sticking up in the back. There’s a dark shadow under his eyes, the kind you only get from not sleeping or sleeping in jagged, shallow pieces. His shoulders are drawn in tight, as if he’s bracing for impact.                        

He doesn’t notice you’re awake.                        

For a few seconds you just watch him, confused in a way that makes your throat tighten. He looks… stressed. Not his normal mild, annoyed-at-the-world stressed. This is different. Rawer.                        

“Seungmin?” Your voice comes out soft, scratchy with sleep.                        

He flinches. Hard.                    

His head snaps up. His hands drop. His eyes whip toward you, sharp and startled—                        

For half a beat he looks afraid.                                           

“Oh,” he exhales, voice cracking just slightly on the first sound. He clears his throat immediately like it didn’t happen. “You’re up.”                        

You push yourself onto an elbow, brow furrowing. “Yeah.”                        

He blinks at you like he’s checking that you’re real, that you’re not going to slip away if he looks too hard. Then, like a switch flips, he smooths his expression down into something casual. Normal. A Seungmin you recognize.                        

“Morning,” he says, a little too evenly.                        

“Morning,” you echo, and then—carefully—your hand reaches out.                        

You touch his arm.                        

Just above the elbow, where his sleeve has ridden up. Warm skin. Solid. He’s here.                        

He jolts again, smaller this time, then lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh he swallowed.                        

“Sorry,” you say automatically. “I didn’t mean to— you just looked… are you okay?”                        

“I’m fine.” Too quick.                        

You narrow your eyes. “Seungmin.”                        

He shifts, turning slightly so he’s angled toward you now. His gaze drops to your face, skims your hairline, your mouth, like he’s searching for something he won’t name.                        

“You were…” He stops. Starts again, lighter. “You passed out pretty hard last night. I didn’t want to wake you.”                        

Last night.                        

A cold little prickle crawls up your spine. “Last night as in… when I came home?”                        

He pauses—just a fraction. So small you almost miss it.                        

“Yeah,” he says.                        

You swallow. “I don’t… remember coming home.”                        

His eyes flick away. Back. “You were tired,” he says carefully. “You showered. You changed. You went straight to bed.”                        

You stare at him. “I showered.”                        

“Mhm.”                        

“I did skincare,” you add, because the tightness in your cheeks is undeniable.                        

A beat.                        

He nods. “Yeah.”                        

That should be reassuring. It should. It’s normal. It’s domestic. It’s the kind of thing he’d notice because he always notices. He notices when you switch conditioners. When you’re low on toothpaste. When you haven’t eaten enough protein for three days in a row.                        

But the way he’s answering—like he’s reading off a script he memorized—makes something uneasy coil in your stomach.                        

“I don’t remember any of that,” you admit quietly.                        

Seungmin’s jaw tightens. He forces it loose again. “It’s okay.”                        

“Is it?” You sit up more fully, blanket sliding to your lap. The air is cool against your arms. “I don’t remember leaving the bar, either.”                        

He reaches out, slow, and tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger there for a second too long, like he’s grounding himself in the fact that you’re warm and alive.                        

“You were with your friends,” he says. “You had a good time.”                        

“I did?”                        

“Mm.” His voice is gentle. His eyes aren’t.                        

There’s a pulse in him today, a jitter under the surface, like a wire pulled too tight.                        

You cover his hand with yours. “Did I do something weird?”                        

“No.” Immediate.                        

You squint. “Seungmin.”                        

He exhales through his nose, then tips his forehead forward until it almost touches yours. Not quite. Like he wants the comfort but is afraid to take it.

His breath ghosts over your mouth. “I’m fine,” he repeats, like if he says it enough times it’ll become true.      

You don’t buy it.      

It’s not just the dark under his eyes, or the way he’s been sitting on the edge of the bed like he’s waiting for a siren to go off. It’s the way his gaze keeps flicking—too quick—to the door, to the window, to your nightstand, like he’s checking for something you can’t see.    

When you slide your hand down his forearm, you feel a faint tremor in the muscle under your palm. His skin is warm. Too warm.      

His throat bobs when he swallows. His eyes lift to yours, and for one raw second you see it: the fear, stripped bare.      

Then his lashes lower.      

He kisses you.      

It starts gentle—almost a quiet apology. A press of lips. A careful slide of his hand to your waist. But there’s urgency underneath it, a need that doesn’t match the sleepy morning light. His fingers curl into the fabric of your pajama top, anchoring you to the bed, to this moment, to him.      

You make a small sound into his mouth. Your hands find his shoulders out of instinct, because your body recognizes comfort faster than your brain recognizes danger.      

He kisses you again, deeper, and the heat blooms anyway, betrayal-soft in your chest.      

“Seungmin,” you breathe, and it isn’t a warning this time. It’s a plea you don’t fully understand. Don’t do this if you’re doing it to distract me.      

He doesn’t answer with words.      

His mouth drops to your jaw. Your neck. He’s careful where he touches, but there’s a frantic edge to his tenderness, a sweetness that feels… strategic.      

Your pulse stutters. You tilt your head back, letting him, because the truth is: it works. It works in the simplest, oldest way. He knows your body. He knows the exact places that make your thoughts go soft, the exact pressure that makes your spine go loose, the way your breath catches when he murmurs your name against your skin.      

His hand slips under the blanket, warm palm gliding up your thigh just enough to make you gasp.       

He’s trying to pull you into something wordless, something where you can’t interrogate him, because you’re too busy feeling.      

And you hate that it works.      

But it does.      

You curl into him, fingers fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer until there’s no space left for the questions. He lets out a shaky breath, like he’s been drowning and you’re air.      

“I love you,” he whispers, finally. His voice cracks on the last word.

Your chest tightens, reflexive and sharp, like your body knows something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet. You search his face—his eyes, his mouth, the tense line of his jaw—as if love alone can translate whatever he’s not saying.

“Min,” you murmur, and the nickname comes out instinctive, softening the moment even as it makes your stomach dip. “Why are you saying it like that?”

He blinks like you’ve shoved your fingers into a wound.

For a second, he looks like he might tell you. Like the truth is sitting right there behind his teeth, trembling, ready to fall out.

Then he kisses you again.          

Harder—still gentle, still careful, but urgent in the way a door is urgent when it’s being held shut against something trying to get in. His hand cups your cheek, thumb stroking once, twice, as if to soothe you into silence.            

“Because,” he breathes against your mouth, “I do.”            

“That’s not—”            

He hushes you with another kiss, drawing a soft sound from you despite yourself. His palm stays on your face, anchoring you. His other hand slides up your side under the blanket, warm and steady, and your body betrays you again, melting into the familiar.            

You hate how easy it is to let him. To let the warmth drown the unease. To let his touch convince you that whatever’s wrong is just anxiety, just your medication, just one of those mornings where your brain wants to chew its own tail.            

He’s so good at you.            

He always has been.            

“You’re here,” he murmurs, mouth at your temple now, his breath hot against your skin. “You’re okay. You’re with me.”            

Each sentence sounds like he’s checking off a list.            

You swallow. “Seungmin…”            

He presses his mouth to your throat again, like he can erase the question with skin and breath. “Nothing happened,” he says, too smooth. “You just— you were tired. You fell asleep. That’s it.”            

You don’t believe him.            

But your body is warm, and his hands are steadying, and the way he’s looking at you—like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of you in this light—makes something in you soften despite the alarm bells.            

He kisses you slow now. Not frantic anymore. Almost reverent. Like he’s trying to make something right.            

Your eyes flutter shut. Your fingers slide into his hair and tug lightly, just enough to make him exhale through his nose.            

His mouth drops to your shoulder, then the soft skin just below it, and the warmth blooms in you again, pulling your thoughts apart like threads.            

He’s doing it on purpose.            

You realize it with an odd, distant clarity—this isn’t just desire. It’s an intentional blur. A soft smothering of your questions with touch and heat until you’re too floaty to hold onto anything sharp.            

And still—            

You let him.            

Because you love him. Because he looks like he’s been drowning. Because the fear in him is real even if you don’t understand it. Because the missing pieces in your mind feel like a hole you’ll fall into if you stare too long.           

Seungmin’s fingers find the hem of your pajama top.            

He glances up once, searching your face—permission, reassurance, something. When you don’t pull away, when you only breathe in shallow and nod, his shoulders loosen by a fraction, as if the world just gave him one small mercy.            

The fabric lifts.            

Cool air brushes your skin, and his palms follow immediately—warm, steady, familiar—like he can’t stand the idea of leaving you untouched for even a second. His touch isn’t hurried, but there’s an intensity to it that makes your thoughts slip loose. He drags his hands over you, mapping you by memory, like he’s confirming you’re still here, still real, still his.            

Your suspicion—sharp a moment ago—blunts at the edges.            

There’s only him.            

His mouth at your collarbone. The scrape of his breath. The quiet sound he makes when you shiver. The weight of him braced carefully over you, holding himself back and failing a little at a time.            

“Min,” you breathe again, and it comes out like a soft break in your voice.            

He answers by tugging you closer, closeness the only language he trusts. He kisses you until your name and his are just shapes in the dark behind your eyelids, until your brain stops reaching for last night and starts reaching only for now.            

Your hands roam. You fumble at buttons, fabric, seams. He helps— he’s done it a thousand times and needs it to happen again, right now. If there’s skin and warmth and the familiar slide of you against him, then whatever’s chasing him can’t catch up.            

Clothes gather on the floor in soft, careless heaps.            

The sheet twists around your legs. He nudges it down with his knee and follows it, slow and deliberate.

His mouth leaves yours.

You feel it immediately—the absence, the cool air where he was—followed by the press of his lips lower, softer. He kisses a line down your throat, lingering at the hollow there like it’s something precious. Your breath stutters when his teeth graze your skin, just enough to make your nerves spark.

“Seung—” you start, but the sound breaks apart when he bites again, a little firmer this time, right at your collarbone. Claiming. 

He hums quietly, satisfied, and keeps going.

His mouth trails down your chest, unhurried, reverent in the way he touches you—as if he’s grounding himself in every inch. He kisses, then nips, then soothes the spot with his tongue, over and over, until your thoughts go pleasantly blank and your hands clutch at the sheets without you meaning to.

You forget what you were worried about.

You forget the missing hours. The questions. The quiet dread that was coiled in your stomach just minutes ago.

There’s only the warmth of his mouth, the careful pressure of his hands, the way he pauses now and then like he’s listening for something—your breathing, your heartbeat, the way your body arches into him without being asked.

He bites lightly again, lower this time, and you gasp. The sound pulls a soft, broken exhale from him, like relief.

“There you are,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

His kisses continue downward, slower now, more intent, teeth catching gently at sensitive places he knows by heart. Each bite feels deliberate, anchoring you in sensation, pulling you further away from thought and closer to instinct.

You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging without thinking. He stills for half a second at the touch—just long enough for you to feel how tightly wound he still is—then relaxes again, pressing a kiss to your skin like an answer. His hands glide along your hips, palms spreading over your skin like he’s claiming the right to touch you everywhere.

When he reaches the waistband of your underwear, he hooks his fingers into the fabric and pulls them down your legs with a care that makes your stomach flutter.

You’re already warm.

Already open for him.

He exhales softly at the sight of you, a sound that lands low in your belly. His hands slide up the inside of your thighs, pushing them gently apart, settling them over his shoulders as he lowers himself between your legs.

He looks up once.

Just once.

Asking without asking.

And when you nod—small, breathless—he leans in and kisses you there.

His tongue follows immediately after, a soft, unhurried drag from the bottom of your slit all the way up to the top, and your entire body jolts. He hums against you, pleased, and does it again—slower this time, savoring the way your thighs tighten around his shoulders.

His hands grip your hips, thumbs stroking the soft flesh as he settles in deeper, as if he’s planning to stay there until you forget why you ever thought about anything else.

He parts you gently with his fingers, exposing you to the warm press of his mouth. His tongue flicks lightly at first—testing, teasing—until he finds exactly what makes your breath hitch. He focuses there immediately, circling you in slow, precise movements that make your back arch off the mattress.

“Good…” he murmurs against your skin, the vibration sending a pulse straight through you. “There you are.”

He licks you again, firmer this time, tongue flattening against you as he drags it in a slow, deliberate stroke. Your hand flies to his hair without thinking, fingers tangling, urging him closer. He groans softly when you tug, your reaction is the only thing he’s hungry for.

He sinks deeper.

The tip of his tongue presses where you’re most sensitive, flicking lightly until your thighs tremble around him. Then he opens his mouth wider and sucks gently—slow, steady pressure—drawing a desperate sound from your throat that you didn’t know you were capable of.

He smiles against you.

You feel it.

He keeps going, alternating between long, languid licks and short, focused strokes that make heat curl tight and hot in your stomach. His hands roam as he works you open—one squeezing your thigh, the other sliding up to caress your hip, grounding you as your breathing turns ragged.

When he senses you’re close—your legs tightening, your fingers trembling in his hair—he adjusts. His thumb replaces his tongue for a moment, circling you with perfect pressure while his mouth trails lower.

Slowly at first, then deeper, tongue moving with sinful intent, tasting you like he’s been starving for it. His nose nudges your clit with every movement, the friction making your hips jerk helplessly against his face.

“Please,” you whisper, not sure what you’re asking for.

He answers by flattening his tongue against you and sucking softly at the same time—an obscene combination that makes your vision spark. Your thighs clamp around his head, but he doesn’t stop; he digs his fingers into your hips and pulls you closer, because he wants more of you, wants all of you, wants you to fall apart in his mouth.

You’re panting now, toes curling, body tightening in a slow, unstoppable build.

He senses it immediately.

His mouth returns to your clit, tongue circling with devastating precision while two fingers slip between your folds, sliding inside you in a slow, perfect glide—curling up, stroking that spot that makes your whole body flare hot.

You cry out.

He groans against your skin—deep, hungry—as if your pleasure feeds something in him.

His fingers work you in steady, deliberate strokes. His tongue matches the rhythm. And when you start to shake, when the heat coils tight enough that you can’t breathe, he presses your hips down firmly, holding you right against his mouth—

The orgasm hits hard—blinding, sharp, pleasure rolling through you in waves that make you gasp and claw at his hair. He keeps sucking you through it, slower now, savoring each shiver as if he’s memorizing the way you come.

When your hips finally fall still, he kisses your fluttering cunt gently—once, twice—soft, soothing your overstimulated skin.

Then he looks up at you from between your thighs.

Eyes dark.

Mouth glistening.

Chest rising and falling.

The fear you felt earlier is gone.

Completely swallowed by the way he handled you.

By the way he’s still holding you.

He lingers between your thighs for a moment longer, breathing you in, eyes half-lidded and dazed like he’s drunk on you. Then he presses one last slow kiss to the inside of your thigh.

He kisses up your body the same way he went down.

His lips skim over your hipbone, your stomach, your ribs. Every inch gets his mouth, his tongue, the faint scrape of his teeth as marking a path back to your lips. You’re still trembling from the orgasm he pulled out of you, muscles loose and sensitive, breath coming unevenly.

You taste yourself on his mouth when he finally reaches your lips, warm and wet and dizzying, and the sound you make gets swallowed by his tongue as he licks into you, claiming your mouth with the same focus he had between your legs. His hand cups your jaw, angling your face so he can kiss you properly, thoroughly, like he wants to replace every question in your mind with the shape of him.

You gasp, your hips lifting off the mattress instinctively, seeking him. He smiles against your lips and presses you down again.

“Easy,” he murmurs into your mouth, voice roughened by hunger. “I’ve got you.”

You feel him hard against your thigh, hot through the thin fabric of his boxers. The pressure makes your breath hitch. Your hands slide down his torso, over the smooth, hard lines of his stomach.

His breath catches the second your fingers slip under the band of his boxers, brushing the heat of him through the thin fabric. The reaction is immediate—his hips jerk forward just slightly, like his body answers you before he can.          

His mouth moves over yours with a hunger that wasn’t there a moment ago, deeper and more desperate, as if your touch flipped something inside him he can’t keep quiet anymore. His hand tightens at your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek as he breathes into you, swallowing every soft sound you make.          

You curl your fingers around him through the fabric—slow, deliberate—and feel him throb in your hand.          

He groans into your mouth.

It’s raw, pulled from somewhere low and helpless inside him. His kiss falters for half a beat, the sensation dragging him under, then he recovers, kissing you even harder, his tongue sliding against yours, trying to anchor himself in your mouth while your hand works him.          

You stroke him again, firmer this time.          

His breath breaks against your lips.          

“Fuck…” he murmurs into your mouth, the word hot and shaky. He pulls you closer, chest pressing against yours, like he can’t get enough contact. His lips trail down your jaw, your throat, kissing wherever he can reach while your hand strokes him in slow, deliberate motions.          

You slip your hand fully inside his boxers now, fingers wrapping around the bare, hot length of him.          

He shudders.          

His mouth is on your neck, kissing, sucking lightly, teeth scraping when you stroke him from base to tip. His breath stutters against your skin; every exhale trembles. He keeps trying to stay focused on your body but he keeps breaking, nipping at your skin with a needy sort of urgency whenever your grip tightens.          

You slide your thumb over the head, smearing the warm slickness there.

The slick warmth coats your thumb, and you can feel how hard he is, how close to the edge you’re pushing him just by the way his breath stutters.

He curses again, the sound muffled against your throat.

“Baby,” he rasps, voice frayed. “If you keep doing that, I’m gonna—”

You squeeze a little tighter on the next stroke.

In one smooth, desperate motion he grabs your wrist, stilling your hand on him, and rolls his hips down into your palm. The groan that rips out of him is wrecked, unguarded, like he’s been trying too hard to be careful and you’ve just snapped whatever restraint he had left.

“Turn over,” he says, his voice soft. “C’mere.”

You let him guide you, breath catching as he shifts you where he wants you—up the bed a little, centered, the mattress dipping under both of you. He tugs his boxers down the rest of the way, kicking them aside without looking, and then he’s shifting again, nudging your thigh with his knee.

You realize what he’s doing right as he drags you up with him, sitting back against the headboard and pulling you into his lap.

Your knees spread instinctively on either side of his hips. The heat of him presses against you, thick and insistent, sliding against your slick as he settles you, one hand firm on your waist, the other splayed low on your back.

Your breath stutters.

“Oh,” you say, a little helplessly.

“Yeah,” he says, a shaky laugh catching in his throat. “Oh.”

He looks up at you like this is the last good thing he’ll ever get.

“Ride it, baby,” he murmurs, and the way he says it sends a bolt of heat straight through you.

Your hands find his shoulders for balance. You shift your hips, dragging your slick along the length of him. Both of you shudder at the contact. His fingers tighten at your waist.

“You sure?” you test, even though your body already knows the answer.

He nods so quickly it’s almost funny, eyes never leaving your face. “Yes. God, yeah. Please.”

The please undoes you a little.

You reach between you, wrap your hand around him again, and guide him to your entrance. The head nudges against you, hot and solid, and you sink down slowly, inch by inch, the stretch making your mouth fall open.

His head drops back against the headboard, a strangled sound punching out of him as you take him in. His hands fly to your hips, fingers digging in, but he doesn’t force you down; he just holds you there, thumbs stroking your skin like he’s trying to soothe you through the burn.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel so good.”

You pause halfway, catching your breath, adjusting, feeling yourself pulse around him. He’s big enough that you have to go slow, but your body remembers him, remembers this, remembers the way you always end up wanting more.

You sink the rest of the way down with a slow, steady roll of your hips.

Both of you groan at once.

He’s fully seated inside you now, filling you in a way that sends a deep, aching pleasure radiating outward. You feel obscenely full, stretched around him, your thighs trembling where they bracket his.

He forces his eyes open, looking up at you like he never wants to forget what you look like like this—flushed, breathing hard, beautiful.

“You okay?” he manages, voice shredded.

You nod, swallowing. “Yeah. Just… give me a second.”

“Take all of them,” he says hoarsely. “All the seconds. All the years. I don’t care.”

You huff out a breath that’s almost a laugh, and the tiny movement makes both of you gasp as he shifts inside you. You feel him twitch, feel your own body clench in response.

You plant your hands on his shoulders, fingers curling into his skin.

And then you move.

At first it’s small—testing the give of your muscles, the drag of him against your walls—as you rock your hips forward and back. The friction sends a hot jolt up your spine. You do it again, a little deeper this time, and his reaction is immediate.

He groans, head thumping against the headboard, eyes squeezing shut as his hands clamp down on your hips.

“Oh my—mmfghk,” he chokes. “Just like that. Please, keep—”

You roll your hips in a slow circle, grinding down on him so he hits that spot inside that makes your breath catch. A moan slips out of you before you can swallow it. His eyes snap open, glued to your face, watching every micro-expression.

You find a rhythm—lift, sink, grind—your thighs burning in the best way as you ride him, feeling every inch of him inside you. His hips start to move with you, a subtle upward thrust that meets your descent perfectly, doubling the intensity.

Each time you slide down, he fills you completely, hitting that deep, perfect angle that makes the room blur.

“Look at you,” he whispers. His hands move from your hips to your waist, up to your ribs, then back down, like he can’t decide where to hold you. “You’re… fucking beautiful.”

Your cheeks heat, but the compliment only makes you roll your hips harder, chasing that spot, that friction, that building coil of pleasure.

His breathing gets rougher, more uneven, each exhale pushed out of him with every drop of your body onto his as you speed up the pace. He’s not in control anymore—you are—and it shows in the way his fingers grip your thighs, in the way his eyes keep darting between your face and the place where your bodies meet.

“Don’t stop,” he begs, voice cracking. “Oh-h”

You don’t.

You ride him harder, thighs shaking, every movement sending sparks through your nerves. The sound of skin meeting skin fills the room, mingled with both of your noises—your soft, broken moans and his low, wrecked curses.

There’s a moment—just a flicker—where you think, distantly, that you should be worried, that you should be asking questions instead of losing yourself like this.

Then he thrusts up just right, and the thought disappears in a white-hot rush of pleasure.

Right now, there is only this.

Only him.

Only the way he holds you like he’s terrified of losing you, even as you fall apart in his lap.

Your bodies move together in a rhythm that's messy, greedy, heady in a way that strips language out of both of you. Every shift of your hips, every slide of him inside you, sends another wave rolling up your spine until your thoughts dissolve into heat.  

He’s so deep.  

And you’re so gone.  

Pleasure drunk. That’s the only way to describe it—your limbs warm and loose, your breath a broken cadence, his hands leaving fingerprints on your hips as he tries and fails to keep himself steady beneath you.  

He’s breathing hard. Harder than usual. His mouth is half-open, catching each gasp like it’s a surprise, his eyes blown wide and glassy as he watches you ride him.  

“Christ…” he moans, voice thick, “you’re— you’re unreal.”  

Your pace falters for just a second—not stopping, just stuttering—as you take in the expression on his face. He’s not just needy.  

He’s desperate.  

More than you’ve ever seen him.  

Like he’s clinging to you with something deeper than lust, like he’s terrified this might be the last time he gets to feel you like this.  

You lean forward, bracing your hands on his shoulders again, and his reaction is instant. His fingers dig in, dragging you down onto him with a choked groan that sounds almost pained.  

“Baby—” he gasps, voice cracking. “Please, please don’t stop. I need— I need you.”  

You’ve never heard him beg like this.

Your thighs start to tremble from the effort, the pleasure knotting tight and hot in your belly—but before you can adjust, his hands clamp around your waist, holding you still.  

Then the world tilts again.  

He flips you over.  

It’s a sudden, urgent movement, because he can’t stand one more second of not being inside you the way he needs. Your back hits the mattress, your breath knocked out of you as he follows you down, settling between your legs with a groan that sounds like relief and agony all at once.  

He’s bracing himself on his forearms above you, chest pressed to yours, his hips already pushing forward, sliding back into you in one deep, desperate stroke that makes you cry mewl into his shoulder.  

“Oh— god—” he stutters, burying his face in your neck as he thrusts again, harder this time, his breath hot and frantic against your skin. “I can’t— I can’t — I’m sorry— I—”  

He’s not sorry.  

Every thrust is hungry, relentless, rutting into you like he’s been starved for weeks. His fingers laced with yours beside your head, squeezing, grounding himself even as he drives into you with a need that borders on frantic.  

You gasp his name, nails digging into his back, and he shudders so violently you feel it in your teeth.  

“Please don’t let go,” he murmurs against your throat, voice shaking, thrusts stuttering when you squeeze around him. “Please— I need— god, I need you— don’t leave—”  

Leave?  

Your pleasure-blurred brain tries to grab hold of the word, to dissect it—why he said it, why his voice broke on it, why it sounds less like sex and more like fear.  

But then he thrusts deeper—harder—hitting that spot that makes your vision white out, and the thought disintegrates.  

His pace grows wild, hips snapping forward. His breath turns ragged, nearly sobbing, every exhale painting your neck with heat.

The quiet after feels different this time.

He stays pressed to you, chest rising and falling slow and heavy against your own, one arm wrapped around your waist like a seatbelt. His thumb moves absentmindedly along your side, a small, grounding motion he’s done a thousand times before, muscle memory. You fit together easily, bodies still humming, sheets twisted around your legs.

For a while, neither of you speaks.

The morning light has shifted, brighter now, spilling across the wall in a thin band that crawls toward the bed. Somewhere outside, a car door slams. Life going on. Normal.

He nuzzles into your hair, breath warm. “You okay?” he murmurs, softer now, steadier.

You hum, eyes half-lidded. “Yeah. Just… cozy.”

That earns a quiet huff of a laugh from him. He kisses your temple, then your forehead, lingering memorizing the shape of you again—but it feels gentler now, calmer. The edge from earlier is gone, smoothed down into something domestic and familiar.

He shifts slightly, propping himself up on an elbow to look at you. His hair’s a mess, eyes still a little tired but warm. This is the version of him you know best. The one who asks practical questions after intense moments. The one who worries about time and routine.

“I should probably shower,” he says reluctantly. “I’ve got that stupid morning meeting.”

You groan softly and curl closer, cheek pressed to his chest. “Skip it.”

“I wish.” He sighs, then tilts his head, hopeful. “Come with me?”

You blink. "To the office? I don't think they'll let me in."

His laugh is quiet, the sound vibrating under your cheek. “Not to the office,” he says, fingers tightening around you for a second, hugging you back into place. “To the shower.”                  

You lift your head just enough to look at him. His eyes are soft, almost sheepish, like he knows exactly how he sounds. Like he’s aware it’s a little clingy and doesn’t care.                  

“It’s not even that late,” you point out, voice still sleep-warm.                  

“I know.” He brushes his knuckles down your cheek, slow. “But I have to start getting ready, and… I don’t want to get up yet.”                  

There’s something so simple about it—so normal—that it makes your chest ache in a tender way. You reach up and tug his face down for a kiss, lazy and unhurried. He hums into it, grateful, then stays hovering there a beat longer, forehead resting against yours.                  

“Shower with me,” he repeats. “Please.”                  

You consider it honestly. The idea is tempting—standing under hot water together, his hands on you again, steam fogging the mirror, the whole world reduced to tiles and warmth and him. It’s something you’ve done a hundred times.                  

But your body is heavy, warm, perfectly content right where it is. And the thought of standing up feels like a lot.                  

You make a face. “I’m glued to the bed.”                  

He sighs dramatically, but his mouth quirks. “Unbelievable.”                  

“Besides,” you add, smoothing your hand over his shoulder, “You’ll take forever if I’m in there. You’ll start kissing me and then you’ll forget what time it is.”                  

He looks offended. “I wouldn’t.”                  

You raise an eyebrow.                  

He exhales through his nose, conceding. “Okay. I might.”                  

You smile and tap his chest lightly. “Go.”                  

He lingers, reluctant. His arm tightens around your waist again, pulling you close  to steal one more minute. He kisses your forehead. Then your cheek. Then your mouth—slow, lingering, like he’s leaving a bookmark.                  

Finally, he pushes himself up. The sheets slide down his hips; he grabs them and tucks you back in with an almost automatic tenderness, like you’re something he needs to keep warm. 

You watch him the entire time.

Shamelessly.

He shifts onto his knees first, then stands, and the blanket falls away from him completely—no attempt to cover, no rush to grab clothes off the floor. He’s just… naked, unbothered, like this is the most normal thing in the world. Like your bedroom is his natural habitat and you’re just lucky enough to live in it.

And maybe you are.

Morning light catches him in soft bands—across his shoulders, the slope of his back, the line of his stomach when he stretches his arms over his head with a quiet sigh. He rolls his neck once, like he’s easing out the last of the tension. The movement makes muscles shift under skin in a way that has no right being so distracting at eight in the morning.

You don’t even pretend not to stare.

He glances down at you, one brow lifting in slow, amused accusation. “What.”

You blink, too innocent to be believable. “What, what?”

“You’re looking at me like I’m a museum exhibit,” he says, voice still a little rough.

“Mm.” You tug the blanket up to your chin like you’re modest, which is hilarious considering the way your eyes keep tracking him anyway. “You are. I’m appreciating the artistry.”

He scoffs, but the tips of his ears tinge pink. He steps closer to the bed, and you feel the mattress dip when he leans down, bracing a hand on the sheet near your shoulder.

Up close, he smells like you—warm skin and sleep and that faint, clean trace of your body wash from last night.            

He dips his head and kisses your mouth once more, slow and unhurried. Then he brushes his thumb along your jaw, soft, grounding.              

“Behave,” he murmurs, voice still rough with morning.              

You smile into the pillow. “No promises.”              

That earns you a quiet laugh. He straightens, stretches again—completely unselfconscious—and turns toward the bathroom without bothering to reach for anything. You follow him with your eyes as he walks away, the easy confidence of him making the room feel smaller and warmer all at once.              

You sink back into the pillows, smiling to yourself.              

For a minute you just lie there, listening—the water, the muffled movements, the normal rhythm of a weekday morning. Then you push yourself up, tug the blanket tighter around your shoulders.

The apartment is still half-asleep around you. The shower rushes down the hall, steady and familiar. The morning light has climbed higher while you weren’t looking—bright rectangles across the counter, a soft glow on the cabinets.

Coffee first. That’s the rule.

You grab the kettle, fill it, set it on the stove. Your hands move on autopilot, practiced and quiet. Mug. Grounds. Filter. The small domestic choreography you’ve done a hundred times, the kind that makes a home feel like a home.

You open the cabinet without thinking.

And stop.

There’s a third mug.

You and him have your mugs. Always. Yours is the one with the little crack in the glaze that you refuse to replace. His is the chipped one he insists tastes “better” than every other cup in the house. The rest of the mugs—nice ones, boring ones, holiday ones—live deeper in the cabinet. Guest mugs. Emergency mugs. The mugs you forget exist until someone comes over.

Your gaze locks on the third one.

It’s one of the guest mugs. Plain white, heavier than the others. It doesn’t belong on the rack at eight in the morning, freshly washed like it was used last night.

You reach for it slowly.

The ceramic is cool under your fingers. Clean—mostly. But not the way you clean. Not the way he cleans either, with that meticulous, almost obsessive thoroughness.

This looks like a wash done in a rush.

You turn it slightly.

There’s a faint smear on the rim, just inside the edge. 

A lipstick stain. And it’s not yours.

Your stomach drops so hard it feels like your body forgets how to breathe for a second.

You stare at it, frozen, brain scrambling to find a reasonable explanation. Your hands go numb around the mug. Your thoughts tumble over each other, trying to climb out of the pit before it gets deeper.

Maybe it’s old. Maybe it’s from weeks ago. Maybe—

No. It’s damp around the base, barely dry. It was washed recently. Placed here recently.

Your eyes flick to the sink.

No other dishes. No wine glass. No plate. Nothing that would explain it away as a guest hanging out normally in your kitchen. Just the mug, alone, evidence somebody forgot to hide.

The shower is still running.

You can hear it, and the normalcy of the sound makes you want to scream.

He brought someone here.

While you were out.

While you were—what? With your friends. At the wine bar. Laughing. Existing. And he was here, in your apartment, using your guest mug like this was some casual little thing.

He brought a woman here while you were out.

Your throat tightens, hot and sharp.

Your mind starts putting pieces together without asking permission. Him begging you to stay in bed. Him asking you to shower with him. Him kissing you until you stopped thinking. Him not wanting to leave you alone for even a second.

A distraction. Guilt.

You set the mug down carefully, like if you slam it you’ll shatter the entire kitchen.

The kettle begins to whistle—soft at first, then louder—but it barely registers. You turn it off with a shaking hand and just stand there, staring at the mug like it might grow a mouth and confess.

Who was here?

The question repeats, loud and ugly.

Your eyes flick toward the hallway.

The bathroom door is cracked open. Steam curls out from the crack. The sound of water keeps rushing.

He’s still in there.

And you’re standing in the kitchen staring at lipstick like it’s a knife.

Your chest starts to feel tight, too tight, like you’re laced up inside your own ribs. You need to do something. Anything.

You yank a robe from the hook by the pantry—yours, soft and worn—and shove your arms into it without fully tying it. Your hands fumble with the belt, fingers clumsy with adrenaline, and then you’re moving.

You go to the bedroom first. Your eyes scan the room like you’re looking for a stranger hiding behind the curtains. The sheets are messy, warm from earlier. Nothing out of place. Nothing obvious.

You open his nightstand drawer.

It’s mostly boring: spare charger, chapstick, receipts he never throws away. You shove things aside anyway, heart pounding as if the evidence will be tucked under a pack of gum.

Nothing.

You cross to his dresser, yank open drawers. Socks. Work shirts. The little box where he keeps his watch.

You’re not even sure what you’re searching for—condoms you don’t use, a stray hair tie, a name written down, anything that tells you this isn’t your imagination.

You find nothing and that somehow makes it worse.

Because it means he was careful.

Because it means he planned.

You move into the living room, pulling open the small cabinet where he keeps random things—tool kit, batteries, an old notebook. You flip through papers with shaking hands, eyes scanning for something that isn’t there.

The shower keeps running.

The apartment feels too quiet around it, like it’s holding its breath with you.

You hear the kettle’s click in the kitchen, cooling down. The smell of coffee grounds sits unfinished and sour in the air. Your own heart is so loud you barely register anything else.

You’re halfway through rifling the console table drawer—where he keeps keys and spare change and a folded list of “things to buy” you wrote months ago—when the shower stops.

You don’t hear it.

Or you do, but your brain files it under background noise and keeps spiraling.

You’re staring down into the drawer when a voice behind you makes your blood turn to ice.

“Why are you looking through my things?”

You whip around.

He’s standing in the hallway, fresh out of the shower, towel slung low on his hips, another towel in his hands as he drags it through his wet hair. Water beads on his shoulders and runs down his chest in slow tracks. His skin is flushed from the heat. He looks normal. Confused. Almost… innocent.

Like you’re the strange thing in the room.

Your mouth opens. No sound comes out.

His brows draw together. “What’s going on?” he asks. “Did something happen?”

You swallow hard, forcing your voice to work.

You straighten your shoulders like you can hold yourself together by posture alone. You make your hands stop shaking by curling them into fists inside the sleeves of your robe.

Then you lift your chin.

And ask, as evenly as you can manage:

“Who was here last night?”

Some people might call it fate, serendipity, or kismet, but you're not the type to believe in romantic clichés like that, so let's just call it a coincidence.

It's merely a coincidence that the car got a flat tire on the way to the airport, causing you to miss the flight you were supposed to be on. Otherwise, you would have been sitting in seat 4B on a completely different plane next to a completely different passenger in seat 4A.

As you make your way to your seat, you notice him immediately. A young man sitting in the window seat next to yours, he possesses a rare, gentlemanly beauty. With refined features, a charming smile, and tousled dark hair, he exudes a sophisticated appeal. In other words, he’s the kind of guy who instantly catches your eye.

He glances up as you stow your bag in the overhead compartment, offering a polite nod. You take your seat next to him, trying to keep your cool even though your heart skips a beat.

There’s something about him that draws you in, something magnetic—a quiet confidence that doesn’t need to be loud or showy to be felt.

After you settle in and the plane takes off, you feel the urge to talk to him. You're usually not the type to strike up conversations with strangers, but for some reason, with him, you can't help it. Also, you realize that if you want something to happen, you have to start somewhere.

“Is this your first time flying out of here?” you ask, turning to him with a smile.

He looks at you, his lips curving into a small smile. “No, I’ve been here before, but it’s been a while," he answers, his voice smooth and calm, making something flutter in your chest.

You introduce yourself to break the ice and make interacting easier.

"Seungmin," he says, taking your hand and holding it for a moment as he introduces himself. "Traveling alone?"

"Yes," you answer innocently.

"Business or pleasure?" he asks, a playful glint in his warm brown eyes.

You stare into his eyes and faintly bite your lower lip before answering, "Hopefully, pleasure."

From there, the conversation flows effortlessly. You talk about everything—from favorite travel destinations to the books you're reading. Something about Seungmin makes it feel so natural, and before you know it, two hours have passed in the blink of an eye.

“I can’t believe we’ve been talking for hours,” you say with a low laugh, glancing out the window at the darkened sky.

The Atlantic stretches endlessly below, and the flight attendants have dimmed the cabin lights, casting a soft, intimate glow over the rows of seats.

“Time flies when the company’s good,” he says, his eyes lingering on you in a way that makes your heart race.

The space between you feels charged now, the conversation slowing as the connection deepens into something more. You can feel the pull—the undeniable attraction that’s been simmering since you sat down. Then you catch him glancing at your lips, and you know he feels it too.

Daringly, you lean in slightly, testing the waters, and he responds by shifting closer. The air between you is electric, and when his hand brushes yours, a spark shoots through you.

Both of you hesitate for a moment, caught in that intoxicating space where everything hangs in the balance until neither of you can resist any longer.

Your lips meet in a soft, tentative kiss, and the world outside the window seems to fall away. His kiss is gentle at first, cautious, testing, but when you respond, he takes it as permission to deepen it. He rests his hand on your cheek, and warmth spreads through you as his lips move against yours in a slow, intoxicating rhythm, making you forget you’re on a plane surrounded by strangers.

For those few moments, it's just you and him, lost in each other, the quiet hum of the plane fading into the background.

When you finally pull apart, breathless and dazed, you exchange a look that says everything. This isn't just some fleeting attraction. There’s something real here, something undeniable.

However, once the plane touches down and the cabin lights flicker back to life, reality begins to creep in. It's the altitude, the change in air, and the fact that you now have both feet on the ground. The intimacy of your shared moments with Seungmin starts to fade as you both prepare to disembark.

Everyone stands from their seats to gather their things, and you can feel Seungmin watching as you reach for your bag in the overhead compartment.

"So…" Seungmin begins as you both shuffle out of the row and into the aisle. "Can I get your number? Or at least, a last name?"

Your heart is still fluttering from the kiss you shared just hours ago, but you hesitate. There’s an inexplicable tug in your gut telling you not to give in so easily, to be cautious. You like him—really like him—but you're not going to make it that easy.

You flash him a playful smile. “Hmm... I’m not sure I should make it that easy for you,” you tease, shifting your bag onto your shoulder.

Seungmin raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a half-smile. “You’re going to make me work for it?”

You nonchalantly shrug, trying to keep things light despite your racing heart. “Let’s just say I like a challenge.”

As you walk together through the terminal, the chemistry between you still crackling, you step outside and notice a car waiting at the curb. The driver, standing beside it, is holding a sign with Seungmin’s name. At first, nothing seems out of the ordinary, until you notice his jacket. The driver is wearing a dark blazer, but pinned to it is a familiar emblem—the logo of a political campaign.

Not just any campaign. It's your father’s rival’s campaign.

Your smile falters as you look more closely, and your heart drops when something clicks. You turn to Seungmin, your mind racing.

“Is that your driver?” your voice comes out sharper than you intended.

Seungmin follows your gaze, looking a bit confused. “Yeah. Why?”

Your throat suddenly feels dry. You clear it before asking the big question. “Are you from the Kim family? The same Kim family running for governor?”

"Yes," Seungmin answers, clearly puzzled.

The Kim family. The Kim family. Your father’s bitter rival in the upcoming election. This isn’t just some random guy you met on a plane—he's the son of the man your father has been railing against for weeks. You feel the blood drain from your face as the realization crashes down.

Seungmin’s expression shifts from confusion to concern. “What’s wrong?”

You unconsciously take a step back. "You’re... you’re a Kim," you say, still in disbelief.

Seungmin opens his mouth to respond, but you cut him off. "Your father and mine—they’re both running for governor."

For a moment, Seungmin seems to be processing what you’ve said. Then his face hardens slightly in understanding. You take another step back, the weight of everything pressing down on you.

“This changes everything,” you whisper.

He looks at you, his eyes searching. “No, it doesn’t have to," he says.

If only he knew how badly you wanted to believe him. But you can’t ignore the reality of the situation. Both of your families are in a brutal political war, and no matter how much you like him, getting involved with Seungmin could blow everything up—for both of you.

"How is it not? Your father accused mine of siphoning money from the city’s budget for his campaign."

"Because he did!" Seungmin says boldly.

"There’s no concrete proof!" you counter.

"Of course, because they know how to make things disappear. Your family is known for their generosity with hush money," he remarks bluntly.

You’ve never been one to argue about things that aren’t your business, but when it comes to your family, you naturally defend them.

"As opposed to your father’s blatant hypocrisy," you calmly reply. "He’s fighting the climate crisis, but his wife keeps taking private jets for her shopping trips."

You come up with a concrete data point. "According to the data, those trips contributed 58 metric tons of carbon—the same amount emitted by 4,625 cars in a day."

That seems to shut him up. His jaw clenches, and it's unfair how good he looks when he's mad.

The driver awkwardly clears his throat, glancing between you both. “Sir, we should get going. Your father’s waiting.”

"It was good to see you," Seungmin says before storming off, childishly bumping your shoulder as he passes.

"Goodbye, I guess," you mutter, scoffing in disbelief as you watch him walk away.

That concludes everything, officially making it an unpleasant coincidence.

-

It was just a coincidence!

That's what Seungmin has been telling himself after spending days wrestling with his feelings, convincing himself that it doesn’t matter, that you are just a fleeting moment, a passing fancy. But the truth is undeniable: no matter how much he tries to push you out of his mind, he just can’t stop thinking about you.

When his friend mentioned that you’re living separately from your family, something shifted inside him. The tension between your families has always been an obstacle, a reason to stay away, but now it seems more like an excuse. If anything, the fact that you aren’t on good terms with your family only deepens his curiosity—and somehow, his feelings.

Seungmin hadn’t planned to find your hotel room, but once he knew where you were staying, he couldn’t help himself. And now, as he stands there, waiting for you to open the door, his heart races in anticipation despite the cool facade he tries to maintain.

After a moment, the door creaks open, and there you are—your hair slightly tousled, your expression showing slight shock to see him there. His heart leaps at the sight of you, but instead of the warmth or excitement he hoped to see, your face remains cold, indifferent.

“Are you stalking me?” your voice is cool, a little too casual, as if you haven’t been thinking about him at all.

There's no going back now, so Seungmin pushes forward. "Well, you're not that hard to track."

You lean against the doorframe, crossing your arms in front of you defensively. “You shouldn’t be here,” you say flatly.

Seungmin notices the flicker in your eyes, something you’re trying to hide. He takes a small step closer, his gaze softening, and playfully says, “Maybe."

You stare at him for a moment, your expression hard, but he sees the hesitation in the way your fingers grip the edge of the door. You’re fighting something, trying to keep a wall between the two of you. He understands why you keep your guard up so high—you’re trying to protect yourself, your heart, and maybe even protect him from the mess that is your life right now.

“You shouldn’t be... with me,” you make it even clearer, but even as you say the words, your voice wavers.

Seungmin takes another step forward, placing his hand near where yours rests. “Let me in, and we'll find out."

Your eyes soften for a brief moment before you quickly look away, the conflict clear in your expression. It’s obvious that you want to shut the door, to push him away, but something is holding you back. Maybe it's the same thing that brought him here in the first place—the connection, the spark between you that refuses to be ignored.

The conflict in your eyes only encourages Seungmin. He leans against the doorframe, his eyes never leaving yours. "Why are you staying in a hotel anyway?" he asks, his voice casual but tinged with curiosity.

You remain aloof, folding your arms across your chest as you raise an eyebrow. “Why should I let my enemy know?"

The coldness in your tone is deliberate, a shield to guard against him, against what you’re really feeling. But he doesn’t back down; his smirk only grows wider.

His hand inches closer to yours as he leans in just a bit closer, making his presence suddenly more overwhelming.

“See, that’s the thing..." his voice drops lower, with a teasing edge.

“What?” you ask, trying to keep your cool even though the proximity makes your heart race.

“We’re enemies,” he states the obvious, his gaze locking onto yours with such intensity that it sends a shiver down your spine.

You let out a sigh, already prepared for whatever line he’s about to throw at you. “And what’s your point?”

Seungmin’s smirk deepens as he leans in even closer, his face now mere inches away from yours. His voice is low and soft, almost a whisper, but filled with mischief.

“Sleeping with the enemy is hot.”

Your breath hitches slightly, but you keep your expression in check, refusing to let him see just how much his words affect you. You tilt your head a little to the side, raising an eyebrow, but the corner of your mouth betrays you with the slightest hint of a smile.

“Is that so?” you respond with a daring smirk.

Seungmin lets out a low chuckle, his eyes flickering with something dangerous and alluring, like he knows exactly how this game is going to end.

As you stand there weighing your options, the tension between you and him becomes unbearable. You can feel the electricity crackling in the air, and despite everything, you find yourself taking a step back, opening the door wider without saying a word.

Seungmin’s triumphant smile tells you that he understands your silent invitation. Without wasting another second, he steps inside, the door closing softly behind him as the world outside fades away.

Before you can even catch your breath, he’s on you—his lips crash against yours with a force that makes you dizzy. The kiss is urgent, an explosion of passion and frustration that has been building between you and him for so long.

His hands grip your waist, pulling you closer as if the mere touch of your skin isn’t enough to satisfy the hunger between you.

All the walls you’ve built, all the reasons you shouldn’t be doing this, crumble in an instant. It doesn’t matter that he’s your enemy. Right now, all that matters is the way his lips brush against yours, the way his breath mingles with yours, the way your hearts seem to beat in sync.

In that moment, nothing else exists but the two of you.

-

Doing it on the bed is overrated to Seungmin, so he grabs you by the waist and swiftly hoists you up, setting you on the nearest table. Fortunately, it's sturdy and at the perfect height for whatever he's planning next.

He plants his hands on the table behind you and aligns his body with yours, fitting just right—hardness to softness, curves to hollows. Oh, he has so many ideas of what to do with you. On second thought, he's fine with paying the fine for property damage if it comes to that.

He leans in slowly, teasing your lips for a kiss, but just a millimeter away from contact, he moves to the side and whispers softly into your ear, "Do you know how many times I’ve thought about this moment?"

You look up at him, eyes wide and seductive, a grin peeking at the corner of your mouth. "I don’t want to know. I want you to show me."

Something flickers in his eyes—something that both scares and thrills you. He places a hand on your waist and glides it up your side, stopping at your ribcage.

"What is it about you..." His words trail off as he places a deep, slow kiss on your lips.

As he keeps your mouth busy, his hand palms your breast through your nightdress. When he pinches your hardening nipple, you gasp at the jolt of sensation.

To return the favor, you slide your fingers beneath his shirt, feeling the hard ridges of his stomach. He's soft yet firm, and if it weren't for the warmth under your fingertips, you’d think he was carved from marble.

"I just can’t stop thinking about you and our kiss," he says, a mix of wonder and disbelief in his voice, before capturing your lips again in a hungry kiss, his tongue exploring your mouth.

Seungmin’s thumb rubs your nipple just right, making your insides melt.

"Look at you, getting weak in the knees for me," he says with a triumphant grin.

He pulls his hand from the table and gives it a new task, sliding under your dress to grip your inner thigh, pulling your hips against his arousal, letting you feel the heat of his desire.

"And what we could have done after that kiss..." he continues, your lips meeting again in a breathless kiss.

Seungmin breaks the kiss to move his lips elsewhere—your neck, your chest. His hand roughly pulls down the front of your nightdress, sending your breasts spilling out. He wastes no time, his lips closing over your skin.

Your hand flies to his hair, tugging as he sucks hard on your breast. You watch as his tongue swirls around your nipple before he fills his mouth with your flesh.

"Seungmin..." you call breathlessly, unsure whether you want him to stop or keep going.

Hearing his name roll off your lips soothes something deep inside him, and he wants to hear it again and again. He pushes the hem of your nightdress up around your waist, and in return, you rip open the fly of his jeans, freeing his swollen member.

"Mmh..." you hum with delight, wrapping your hand around his length, hot and pulsing with desire.

Seungmin mirrors your action, palming your clothed core, his thumb tracing your engorged bundle of nerves. Soon, your underwear is damp with arousal.

"What is it about you, mmh?" he asks, eyes locked on yours.

He pulls your panties aside and runs his long fingers down your folds, drenching them in your essence. As his fingers drag down, he pushes them inside you, earning a broken moan from your lips.

"What is it about you that makes me want more..." He keeps pumping his fingers in and out of you, savoring the way your face contorts in pleasure. "And more, and more..."

As he continues, you fist the front of his shirt, pulling him close, your legs opening wider, bringing his cock even closer to where you want him.

He withdraws his fingers, replacing them with his cock. Your legs are raised slightly higher than the table’s surface, aching for more than just the feeling of his tip rubbing between your folds.

"Stop teasing me," you mutter.

His lopsided grin returns, and before you can react, he thrusts into you hard and fast, burying himself completely inside you.

Your breath hitches, and you moan his name, which he finds incredibly hot. He strokes his tongue over every inch of your mouth, claiming it as he angles his hips to hit your clit.

The tight grip of your body, your sweet mouth, your legs wrapped around him—perfection. He indulges in every part of you. His heart races, his need grows desperate, but he holds back, determined to wait for your high to come first.

When you finally shatter and convulse around him uncontrollably, he allows himself to thrust harder. He grasps your hips, your thighs, pressing your foreheads together so he can look into your beautiful, dazed eyes as he thrusts one last time, losing himself completely as he pours everything into you. As his breath saws in and out, he holds you tight, with no intention of letting go.

The theory is proven: sleeping with the enemy is hot.

-

It’s Seungmin’s third time staying over in your hotel room this week alone, and no, you're not complaining at all. You've already grown accustomed to him—Seungmin is part of your routine now, part of your life, and his absence leaves you feeling restless.

When you're not with him, you recall what he’s done to you: the way he kissed you, caressed you, all the things he's said. Your hand unconsciously flies down to your thigh, wishing he was touching you right now.

But don’t get it wrong—the non-bedroom side of Seungmin appeals to you just as much as the lover side, if not more. He makes you laugh, and he listens to you, even when what you talk about isn’t particularly interesting. He’s comfortable around you, and that makes you comfortable around him. You like how he fills the empty space in the bed, and you also like just lying with him in a comfortable silence that doesn’t beg for questions.

However, tonight is an exception.

As you lie on the bed with Seungmin, still recovering from the passionate lovemaking you shared earlier, you feel the weight of reality slowly creeping back in. The silence between you isn’t uncomfortable, but it feels heavy, as if there are things that need to be said.

You roll over slightly to face him and place your hand on his arm, fingers gently tracing the veins coiling down his inner arm. “I need to tell you something,” you murmur.

Seungmin turns his head to look at you, his gaze soft but curious. “What is it?”

You inhale deeply as you gather your thoughts, looking into his eyes as you begin with the one thing you're sure of.

“I really like you, Seungmin.”

“I know,” he says confidently, one corner of his mouth curling into a half-smirk.

You bring your hand up to cup his chin, gently scratching his jaw with your fingertips as you flash him a soft smile and continue speaking.

“What you don’t know is that my family isn’t speaking to me right now, and that’s something I’d like to change.”

“I didn’t know. I’m sorry,” he says earnestly, softly caressing your cheek.

“My family used to control me—I’m sure you know what that’s like. I rebelled, took off, and a year into it, I found out my younger sister was going through something, and I wasn’t there for her because I was trying to prove some... stupid point,” you explain with a dry chuckle.

His gaze remains steady as he listens to you without interrupting.

“I’m just trying to find my way back in, and I happened to bump into you along the way.”

“And I’m glad you did,” he says, catching your other hand in his and resting it on his chest.

You hold his chin, wanting all of his attention focused on you, because what you're about to say is the most important part of this conversation.

“Being seen with you would send the wrong message, and I really can’t risk making my family more upset right now.”

Seungmin’s eyes soften, and without the slightest hesitation, he nods in agreement. “I understand,” he says calmly.

“Don’t worry, I’m pretty good at secret relationships,” he adds with a playful smirk. “And all the sneaking around... it’s kind of thrilling. I find it really hot.”

You let out a soft laugh, suddenly feeling at ease. “Of course you do.”

Seungmin pulls you closer, gently brushing a strand of hair away from your face before placing a chaste kiss on your lips.

“We’ll keep it a secret, but I want you to know that it doesn’t change how I feel about you.”

As Seungmin presses a tender kiss to your forehead, you feel the warmth and reassurance sinking in. For now, the secret doesn’t feel like a burden—it feels like a shared world that belongs only to the two of you.

-

In under a month, Seungmin has learned a lot about you.

In bed, you respond best when he goes slowly, whispering sweet nothings in your ear. But if he wants something more intense—or anything, for that matter—you’re game and eager to please. He couldn’t ask for a better partner.

Out of bed, you live by routine. You get up at the same time every day, then shower away the evidence of morning sex (because Seungmin loves starting the day off right). Your breakfast usually consists of a cup of black coffee and French toast. You share a kiss before parting ways; you get picked up at the hotel entrance while Seungmin makes his exit through the hotel kitchen.

During the day, you help your father with his campaign at the headquarters, returning to your hotel room around 8 or 9 when you have dinner with your family.

As for your evenings, they belong to Seungmin. When you’re not fooling around like hormonal teenagers, you spend time having late-night snacks, talking about random things, or just cuddling in bed—things Seungmin has never experienced with anyone before.

Day by day, he wants more of you, not less.

Tonight, you both decide to watch something on pay-per-view. You rest your head on his shoulder while your eyes are fixed on the large screen mounted on the wall. From time to time, Seungmin kisses you, and it feels so good having you near, as if he were made to be your lover.

Occasionally, you react to certain scenes in the film, your bare legs shifting beneath the hem of your nightdress.

“Are you wearing underwear?” he jokes into your ear.

You part your legs, giving him the opportunity to find out for himself. It’s funny that he only realizes now—you’ve never turned him down; you’re just as starved for him as he is for you.

Seungmin pouts when his fingers meet silky fabric instead of your tender flesh, but that doesn’t stop him from continuing to touch you. You gasp as he massages your clothed clit, and your head lolls on his shoulder.

It doesn’t take long before you’re wet, your essence coating his fingertips as he traces your folds. His cock aches inside the confines of his jeans, as if it’s been weeks since he last had sex, not just hours. He wants you again—craves that closeness, that connection, that unbelievable, mind-blowing pleasure. No amount of you is ever enough for him.

Before long, you give in and pull him down for a hungry kiss, which leads to another, and another, and another...

The next thing he knows, the credits are rolling on the TV screen—the whole film played while the two of you were busy with other things. At the end of the night, you climb into bed and nuzzle your head into the crook of his neck, wrapping your warmth around his body.

Seungmin brushes a stray hair from your face, his fingertips trailing over the smooth curve of your lips before placing a gentle kiss, tender and possessive.

“Goodnight,” he mutters when he breaks the kiss.

The next morning, he finds you wearing his shirt—the one from the very first night you spent together. He doesn’t know how to describe how he feels seeing you in his clothes, knowing you kept his shirt and have been wearing it; all he knows is it’s a good feeling.

Truthfully, he’s been feeling like this a lot lately—whenever you smile, ask for a kiss, or cross the room just to be near him. But also when the two of you aren’t together. He has spent the past few weeks in a euphoric high, grinning for no other reason than thinking of you.

There’s no doubt about it—Seungmin is stupid in love.

-

The fundraiser party is in full swing, the lights casting a warm, polished glow over the room as it's buzzing with conversations and the clinking of glasses. You stand beside your father, perfectly poised, playing the part of the dutiful daughter.

This night isn’t about you—it’s about him. Every charming smile, every polite nod you give is an extension of the image he wants to project: a perfect family, a perfect father. But you know the truth.

As you watch your father work the room, shaking hands and making connections, you know your role is to boost his image—not because he cares about you, but because you are part of his political strategy. Still, this is your chance to prove yourself, to show him you can be the daughter he wants, even if the real connection is long gone.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you see Seungmin and his brother-in-law approaching. Your heart skips a beat, but you hurriedly calm yourself down, knowing this isn’t the time for emotions—it’s the time for control.

Seungmin and his brother-in-law stop in front of you and your father. Seungmin’s gaze briefly meets yours for a second, and despite the public setting, the intensity of that look sends a small thrill through you.

“Good evening,” Seungmin’s brother-in-law says politely and formally. “We’re here representing our father tonight, and he sends his regards.”

Your father, ever the politician, gives a thin, practiced smile. “Ah, yes, it’s unfortunate he couldn’t attend himself. I suppose running a campaign must keep him quite busy.”

There’s a subtle edge to his words, a slight sneer that isn’t lost on you or anyone, but fortunately, Seungmin and his brother-in-law remain composed, not rising to the bait.

“Of course,” Seungmin replies calmly. “He’s doing everything he can for the campaign.”

Your father’s gaze shifts to Seungmin, sizing him up before his eyes narrow in curiosity. "Seungmin, isn’t it? I’ve heard good things about you. You’ve been quite the asset to your father’s campaign, haven’t you?”

“Oh, please. I’m just doing the best I can to help,” Seungmin humbly replies, perfectly nailing the model son role.

“It’s refreshing to see someone so dedicated to their family’s success. We could all learn from that, couldn’t we?” your father says, glancing at you, making it clear that his praise for Seungmin is a thinly veiled comparison.

You keep your composure, your smile unwavering, even as a knot of discomfort forms in your stomach. You entertain yourself with the thought that your father has no idea what is really going on—that the very man he is praising is the one you are secretly seeing. The joke is on him.

“Have you met my daughter?" your father asks, gesturing toward you as if you haven’t been standing there the whole time.

Seungmin turns to you, his expression steady, but his eyes flicker with something only you can recognize. He holds out his hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise,” you reply, keeping your smile polite. You have to continue acting as if nothing has ever happened between you and him.

Hours pass as you mingle with other guests, but the pressure of keeping up appearances starts to weigh on you. Toward the end of the party, when most of the guests are distracted, you slip away, catching Seungmin’s eye as you do. He follows discreetly, and soon you find yourselves in an isolated part of the building, the muffled sounds of the party still audible.

The moment he comes into sight, you let out a sigh of relief, allowing yourself to drop the mask you’ve worn all night.

"I missed you," he whispers as he steps closer. Before you can respond, he presses his lips to yours, the kiss filled with longing and the tension that has been building up since your last secret meeting.

"I missed you too," you murmur between kisses.

In the dimly lit, secluded hallway, you and Seungmin find a rare moment of peace. His hands cup your face, his lips moving urgently against yours, pouring all the longing and frustration of the past few days into every kiss.

It is reckless, but being with him feels too good to resist. In fact, it feels so good that you almost forget the dark shadow that has been hanging over your mind. Almost.

"My mom found out about us," you blurt out after breaking the kiss.

Seungmin freezes, his lips barely an inch from yours, his brows furrowing as he processes what you’ve just said. "Wait... what?"

“I guess we didn’t fool the doorman,” you say with a heavy sigh as the gravity of the situation sinks in.

For a moment, Seungmin just stands there, panic rising in his chest. If your mom knows, it won’t be long before both of your families find out, and he knows exactly what that would mean for both of you—and for his father’s campaign.

“So... you told her the truth?” he asks, focusing on the possibility that your mom might indirectly support this relationship.

“Obviously, I didn’t want to risk everything with my family for some fling that wasn’t going to last,” you reply meekly.

Seungmin blinks, then his lips curl into a teasing smile. "Oh, so it isn’t just some fling?”

“Seungmin, I’m serious!" you whine in frustration, giving him a playful slap on the chest.

"You can’t keep sneaking into the hotel anymore. It’s too risky, and if my father finds out...” You can’t even finish your sentence without feeling sick to your stomach.

Seungmin’s smile fades as he realizes the danger you are both in. It feels as if the walls are closing in on both sides, and it won’t be long before someone else notices the two of you together. His mind races, trying to think of a solution, somewhere you can be together without the prying eyes of your families.

Just as he opens his mouth to say something, a voice interrupts, and both of you stiffen.

“Seungmin?”

His brother-in-law is standing a few feet away, his eyes narrowing as he glances between the two of you, catching sight of Seungmin’s hand still holding yours.

None of you speak, and in that moment, it feels like the quiet before a storm about to break.

-

Seungmin’s brother-in-law has always been sharp, and tonight is no exception. As you and Seungmin slipped out of the party, thinking you were being discreet, he spotted the two of you. From the moment you met, he sensed something was already there. He observed further, noticing the sneaky glances, the looks that said more than words, and the way you interacted with each other. He must admit, both of you are poor actors.

When his brother-in-law corners the two of you in the hallway, Seungmin braces himself, expecting him to spill everything to his father immediately, knowing what he could gain from it.

“Why aren’t you saying anything?” Seungmin asks, suspicion creeping in. He knows his brother-in-law has always been loyal to the family, especially to his father, so this calm, nonchalant reaction doesn’t add up.

Instead, his brother-in-law glances between you both with a knowing smile and says, "You two are playing a dangerous game, but you know what? I won’t stand in your way."

That doesn't make Seungmin relax. If anything, the words make him more cautious. "And why’s that? Why are you suddenly on my side?”

“Seungmin, I already think of you like my own brother,” his brother-in-law replies simply, with enough sincerity to convince anyone who hears him. “I want you to be happy."

Seungmin remains quiet for a moment, still wary, but realizing he has little choice. Whatever his brother-in-law’s motives are, this is the only lifeline he has right now.

“So, what’s the plan?” Seungmin finally asks, keeping his voice steady.

“I have a boat. It’s docked not far from here. No one checks it, no one comes by." His brother-in-law reaches into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small set of keys, handing them to Seungmin. "You two can stay there, alone, as long as you need."

Seungmin’s gaze flicks from the keys to his brother-in-law’s face, still unsure if he can fully trust him. But this is the best option you both have right now. He decides to take a leap of faith and takes the keys from him.

"It's docked on the west side, slip twenty-three," his brother-in-law informs him. Before Seungmin can say anything else, he adds, “Oh, you may want to check the first aid kit on the boat.”

Seungmin’s eyebrows knit in confusion. “What for?”

His brother-in-law puts on a mischievous grin. “Let’s just say you’ll find some essentials in there."

Seungmin’s suspicion deepens, but he doesn’t question it further. Maybe his brother-in-law is being sincere, so Seungmin stops overthinking it. On a more important note, you both need a place to hide, and this is as good as it’s going to get. He glances over at you, and with a silent agreement, you both know you have to take this opportunity, no matter the risks.

“Thanks,” Seungmin mutters, cautious but grateful. “I appreciate it.”

His brother-in-law pats him on the shoulder, giving him a reassuring nod. “Just be careful,” he says.

With that, you and Seungmin slip away into the night, heading toward the boat where, for at least one night, you can finally be alone.

-

The boat is bigger than you thought it would be, bobbing gently in the moonlit water. As you step onto the deck, you feel a sense of freedom, as if, for once, the outside world can’t reach you. You settle into the small but comfortable space, the tension between you fading into something softer, more tender.

When it’s just the two of you, you can finally let your guard down and be your authentic self. You walk up to him and slip into his arms for a warm embrace.

"It's just you and me now," you say, resting your forehead against him.

"Just you and me," he repeats, gently tilting your head with his hand on your chin, and places the gentlest kiss, treating you like a fragile piece of art.

Seungmin leads you through the cabin, the scent of saltwater and wood lingering in the air, mixing with the faint aroma of the sea breeze drifting in from the open hatch.

“This is nice,” you comment, running your fingers along the edge of a worn leather couch. “But do you think your brother-in-law keeps any food around? I’m starving.”

He lets out a soft chuckle and makes his way to the small kitchenette, opening the fridge with a creak. “Looks like frozen pizza is on the menu,” he says, pulling out the pack and showing it to you.

As Seungmin prepares the frozen pizza and tosses it into the microwave, you head to the bedroom to find something comfortable to wear. In the bathroom, you find a soft bathrobe neatly folded on the top shelf. Without a second thought, you change out of your dress and into the robe. As you tie the belt around your waist, you sigh in relief, feeling a great sense of comfort.

By the time you return, Seungmin is plating the pizza, the smell filling the small cabin. He has also found a bottle of champagne in the cabinet, the label a little worn and the drink lukewarm. Both of you eat in comfortable silence, exchanging small smiles between bites, enjoying this rare moment of normalcy.

When the food is all gone, you lean back in your seat with a contented sigh. The dinner is simple, yet it feels more special than any you’ve had before.

Being the neat person he is, Seungmin wastes no time cleaning up after dinner.

“You can clean up later,” you tell him, sipping your warm champagne.

“There’s not much to clean anyway,” he replies, taking the dirty plates back into the cabin.

Remembering what Seungmin’s brother-in-law said before you left, you decide to go on a little hunt for the first-aid kit he mentioned and see what’s inside. It doesn’t take long to find it tucked away in one of the cabinets in the control room. As you open it, you blink in surprise.

“Well, well…” you murmur, pulling out a small Ziploc bag among the usual bandages and ointments.

Seungmin raises an eyebrow when you bring it over and show him. He shakes his head, already deciding it’s a bad idea.

You shrug, holding the pack out to him with a playful smile. “Why not? Let’s live a little.”

“We shouldn’t even be touching his things,” he says, leaning back on the sun lounger.

“What are you talking about? We’ve just eaten his frozen pizza and drunk his champagne,” you remind him, settling onto his lap.

“I can buy those things back for him,” he replies, folding his hands behind his head.

“But he mentioned it, so that means he’s fine with it, right?”

He shakes his head, eyes closed, unwilling to hear more persuasion.

“Come on,” you urge, taking a rolled blunt out of the bag and rolling it between your fingers. “Just one. It’s a special night, isn’t it?”

He opens his eyes and finds himself unable to resist you when you smile so sweetly. He reaches for the blunt.

“Alright, fine," he gives in, "but just one.”