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wonwoo's head turns the moment he hears you sighing in frustration.
"what's wrong, my love?", he asks, walking around the room looking for his glasses, still shirtless after the shower he took.
you're sitting in front of his giant, state-of-the-art black computer, headphones placed on only one side of your head, covering just one ear.
"this stupid game! i've died again", you groan. "it's like, the seventh time already."
wonwoo laughs, finally getting his glasses from under a pillow on the couch - and mentally cursing himself for leaving it there - before walking up to you. he slides his glasses up his nose, reading the "YOU LOSE" words on the screen.
"um... your skills are rated as a B, so you might not be that bad. maybe you're just not defending yourself right."
"and how the hell do i do that?"
in a swift motion, wonwoo pushes your chair a bit, so he can stand behind you. one of his arms snakes around your left shoulder, while the other one slides down your right arm, holding the computer's mouse with you.
he clicks on the "REMATCH" button that is glowing blue on the screen, and the game starts loading again. as soon as your character appears, wonwoo clears his throat.
"alright, so what you gotta do is make sure you're always next to something that can hide you", he clicks a bit, covering your hand with his. "you see that big barrel over there? that's your best friend."
you - him - makes the character walk over to the barrel, hiding as a few shots start to ring on your headphones. the other players are already shooting each other.
"how do i know when to shoot too then?"
"you feel it", wonwoo smiles, turning his head a bit to look at you, which makes his breath hit your cheek.
on your own, without his help, you peek from behind the barrel, seeing two other characters unprotected. you hit both of them, hiding again and then running to some other place.
"your aim is really good."
"thank you, baby."
someone runs after you, and wonwoo is quick to take control over the keyboard (and over your hands), teaching you how to duck behind a car.
"you did right, leaving the last place so they wouldn't find you after you killed those guys. but remember to be quicker than them."
you nod, feeling the way wonwoo's fingers move over yours as he helps you, trying to remember everything he's clicking and how, when, why.
soon enough, your character is clear again, and wonwoo takes a step back, his warmth no longer embracing you.
"now you do it."
"thank you, baby", you say again.
"we might have to get a computer set for you. we can place it right next to this one, he mentions to his set, where you're sitting.
"can i get a white one?"
wonwoo looks around his game room. a white computer set isn't exactly going to match the decoration, but what else can he say besides-
"yeah, of course. anything for you, love."
a/n: i'm sorry if there's any typos here, it's been a while. all it took was ONE wonwoo tiktok edit to make me write this. he will always be my muse, won't he?
Summary: Drunk you has no filter and your husband has always been a weak, weak man when it comes to you. He just didn’t expect your family planning conversation to awaken the caveman part of his brain or a raging breeding kink in both of you.
Warnings: smut!MDNI, established relationship, trying to conceive, pregnancy, soft dom!cheol, domestic fluff, humor, healthy communication, breeding kink awakening, enthusiastic consent, multiple + creative locations and one very smug husband who knocked you up in paradise, married life, baby fever, hormone-induced chaos, obsessed husband!Cheol x obsessed wife!reader, as usual I might be missing something.
W.C: 18.1k
Sometimes being married to Choi Seungcheol felt like a fever dream as you often wondered how you managed to bag a man that ticked every box. He had his moments, his little beige flags as you liked to call them, but you knew that man loved you which is why you’re seeking him out as soon as you stumble through your front door. You had an itch only your husband could scratch and if you were right, he would still be holed up in the home office.
Seungcheol had been reading reports in his home office when he heard the front door slam. A quick look at his watch alerts him to the time, 1:47 AM.
His eyes narrowed. Why didn’t you call him to come pick you up? He gets out of his chair when he hears the unmistakable sound of heels being kicked off carelessly and soft humming.
“My husband!” your voice singsongs from the down the hall. “Where are youuu?”
He barely has time to make it to the hallway before you stumble into the room seconds later, eyes glazed and clutching your purse like it’s plotting against you.
“Babyyyy,” you gasp, “There you are.”
His brows draw together. “You’re drunk.”
You blink at him, smile growing. “Nuh-uh, just a tiny bit tipsy.” You measure with your fingers before breaking into a fit of giggles. Seungcheol can count on one hand how many times he’s seen you drunk—it’s still one hand—as you can hold your liquor very well.
You walk—well, sway—across the room and launch yourself at him. He stumbles half a step back, catching you as your arms wrap tightly around his waist, face burying into his chest.
“You smell expensive and…sexy,” you mumble.
“What happened?” he asks, voice low.
“Work has been shit,” you whisper. “Needed a—” you hiccup, “—a break.”
He exhales slowly before his hand finds its way to your back. His grip tightens as he studies your lightly smudged eyeliner and flushed cheeks. The scent of your favorite wine lingers on your breath but beneath it lies your usual perfume, brown sugar, coconut, vanilla.
“You’re a mess,” he murmurs, though there’s no bite in his tone.
You giggle against his chest, fingers curling into the fabric of his dress shirt. “You married this mess.”
A beat of silence passes before his lips twitch despite himself. “What am going to do with you, huh?”
The weight of you against him is familiar, grounding even, despite the alcohol-fueled abandon in your movements. Seungcheol’s hand moves in slow, deliberate circles against your back, a habit he’s developed over the years; one that always seems to settle you.
“Do with me?” you repeat, pulling back just enough to look up at him through your lashes. Your eyes are glassy but focused entirely on him, pupils blown wide. “I have some ideas.”
He catches the shift in your tone immediately, the way your fingers stop their aimless fidgeting and instead trace deliberate paths along his chest. His jaw tightens.
“You’re drunk,” he repeats, firmer this time, even as his treacherous body responds to your proximity.
“In loveeeeee” you respond as you attempt to sing lyrics from Drunk in Love.
Seungcheol’s resolve wavers as you butcher the Beyoncé song, swaying in his arms with unselfconscious joy. Despite everything—the late hour, the worry that had knotted in his chest when he heard the door slam, the very valid concern about your current state—he feels his lips curve into a reluctant smile.
“You’re ridiculous,” he says, but his hands have already moved to steady you, one sliding to your hip while the other cups the back of your head.
“Ridiculously in love with you,” you counter, poking his chest for emphasis. The motion throws off your already questionable balance, and you stumble forward again.
He catches you easily, muscle memory from years of being your safety net. “Alright, come on. Let’s get you to bed.”
“Ooh, bed,” you waggle your eyebrows in a way that would be seductive if you weren’t also hiccupping. “See? You do have ideas.”
“To sleep,” he clarifies, already guiding you toward the bedroom with his arm firmly around your waist. “We’re going to bed to sleep. You’re going to wake up tomorrow wondering why you thought drinking on a work night was a good idea.”
“Tomorrow me’s problem,” you declare, then immediately contradict yourself by clinging tighter to him. “Don’t you dare leave me alone tonight, Choi Seungcheol.”
Something in your voice—beneath the alcohol and the playfulness—sounds small. Vulnerable.
His expression softens. “Never,” he promises quietly. “Now come on, let’s get you changed.”
“Would you still love me if I was a worm?” You stop and ask randomly as he sits you on the bathroom counter and tries to remove your makeup.
Seungcheol blinks. This was getting more surreal by the second. You were sitting before him, arms hanging off his shoulders with your head tilted with genuine curiosity and you wanted to know if he’d love you…as a worm? He’s quiet for a moment. Then, his hands curve around your waist.
“A worm?” he repeats, deadpan. “Seriously?”
“Yahhhh, you wouldn’t?” You pout.
Seungcheol sighs, the kind of deep, put-upon sigh that somehow still sounds fond. He reaches for the micellar water and a cotton pad, tilting your chin up with two fingers so he can start wiping away your makeup.
“Hold still,” he murmurs, ignoring your question as he gently swipes at your eyeliner.
“You’re avoiding the question!” you accuse, though you do hold still,mostly. “That means you wouldn’t love me. You’d just…leave me in the dirt somewhere. Alone. A poor, lonely worm—”
“I would build you a terrarium,” he interrupts, deadpan, moving to your other eye. “With the best soil money can buy. Organic, the expensive kind.”
You gasp, eyes flying open and nearly getting makeup remover in them. He gently presses them closed again with his thumb.
“I said hold still.”
“You’d really build me a terrarium?” Your voice has gone soft, touched, as if he’s just promised you the moon.
“Mhm.” He’s focused on removing your mascara now, touch careful and practiced. “With a heated lamp. Perfect pH balance in the soil. I’d probably hire someone to monitor your…worm health.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m answering your question.” His lips twitch as he tosses the used cotton pad aside and reaches for another. “You’d be the most spoiled worm in existence. I’d make sure of it.”
You’re quiet for a moment and when he glances at your face, you’re smiling at him with such open adoration it makes something in his chest squeeze tight.
“I love you,” you whisper.
His hand pauses mid-swipe. Then he leans forward and presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and lingering.
“I love you too,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even if you ask me stupid questions at two in the morning.”
“Not stupid,” you mumble but you’re already melting into him again, arms tightening around his shoulders. “Important worm logistics.”
“Right. Very important.” He pulls back just enough to finish cleaning your face, his touch impossibly gentle. “Now let’s get you into pajamas before you ask me what I’d do if you were a dolphin.”
“Ooh, would you—”
“No.”
You cup his cheeks in your hands squishing them together, looking at him with those eyes before you kiss him. “Please, Cheollie? Want you?”
“Not tonight, princess.” It’s utterly amazing, the way you switch from asking him unhinged shit to asking him to fuck you. It should give him whiplash but it’s not the first time it’s happened.
“‘m not drunk…” you pout. “Can’t a girl just want her hot husband?”
Seungcheol’s jaw flexes under your palms, his eyes darkening despite his best efforts to maintain composure. He gently pulls your hands away from his face but doesn’t let go, instead intertwining his fingers with yours.
“You can,” he says, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “And you will, tomorrow. When you’re sober and won’t regret it.”
“I would never regret you,” you protest, leaning forward until your forehead rests against his. “Not possible. Scientifically impossible.”
“Scientifically impossible,” he repeats and there’s amusement threading through the restraint in his tone. “Is that so?”
“Mhm.” You nod seriously, the motion making you slightly dizzy. “Did research. Very thorough.”
His thumb traces circles on the back of your hand; that same grounding gesture, keeping himself anchored as much as you. “Your research involved how much wine exactly?”
“Irrelevant data,” you whisper, then press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “The conclusion is still valid.”
He inhales sharply and for a moment you think you’ve won. His free hand comes up to cup your face, thumb brushing your bottom lip but then he’s pulling back, putting necessary distance between you even as everything in his expression says he doesn’t want to.
“I’m not doing this while you’re drunk,” he says firmly. “I don’t care how much you pout or how many times you tell me you’re fine. This is non-negotiable.”
You study him for a long moment, his set jaw, his dark eyes that are clearly affected despite his iron will, the way his hand trembles just slightly against yours.
“You really won’t?” you ask, quieter now.
“I really won’t.” His expression softens. “Ask me tomorrow. When you can look me in the eye without the room spinning. When you’ll actually remember every detail.” His voice drops to something almost possessive. “Because when I do touch you, I want you to remember all of it.”
The promise in his words sends heat pooling low in your stomach despite your alcohol-hazed state. You bite your lip and his eyes track the movement with dangerous focus before he deliberately looks away.
“Evil man,” you mutter. “Making me wait.”
“Responsible husband,” he corrects, then slides you off the counter and scoops you up bridal style in one smooth motion. “Now come on. Pajamas, water, bed, in that order.”
“Fine,” you sigh dramatically, letting your head fall against his shoulder. “But I’m picking the pajamas.”
“As long as you actually put them on instead of trying to seduce me again.”
“No promises.”
He huffs what might be a laugh as he carries you toward the bedroom. “Why am I not surprised?”
“Y’know everyone thinks I married you for your status and money.” You say switching the subject again as he starts unbuttoning your shirt.
“No, you didn’t. You had no idea who my family was when we met so I know it’s not that.”
“I married you for that fat ass.” you reply, hands drifting down and grabbing his ass. “don’t need your money.” You grin at the look on his face.
“God, I forgot how handsy you get with alcohol in your system.”
“Horny too but I guess I don’t do it for you cause…what kinda hisb—” you hiccup “husband doesn’t like his wife t-throwing herself at him? Is it Jeonghan? Is Hannie prettier than me?”
Seungcheol freezes mid-button, his eyes snapping to yours with an expression caught somewhere between exasperation and disbelief.
“Did you just—” He stops, takes a breath, then continues with strained patience. “Did you seriously just ask me if I want Jeonghan?”
“Well, you don’t want me,” you say, bottom lip trembling in a way that would be more effective if you weren’t also still squeezing his ass. “He’s got nice hair,” you say defensively, words slurring slightly. “And that whole…pretty boy thing going on. Maybe you like that better than—”
“Jesus Christ woman,” Seungcheol mutters, catching your wandering hands and firmly moving them to your sides. “Okay, listen to me very carefully.”
He cups your face with both hands, forcing you to meet his eyes.
“First of all, Jeonghan is my best friend and I love him like a brother, which means the thought of anything else makes me want to bleach my brain.” His thumbs stroke your cheeks as he continues, voice firm but gentle. “Second, I always want you. Every single day. Sometimes so much it’s inconvenient, like in the middle of board meetings when you text me something cute.”
“Really?” you sniffle.
“Really.” He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “The reason I’m not touching you right now isn’t because I don’t want to. It’s because I respect you too much to take advantage when you’re drunk. Do you understand the difference?”
You’re quiet for a moment, processing. Then, “So, you do think I’m prettier than Hannie?”
A laugh bursts out of him, unexpected and genuine. “You’re completely ridiculous, you know that?”
“But am I prettier?”
“You’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen,” he says and the sincerity in his voice cuts through your alcohol-fogged brain. “Drunk, sober, first thing in the morning, all dressed up, doesn’t matter. It’s always you. Only you.”
Your eyes well up. “Cheollie…”
“Oh no.” He recognizes the signs immediately. “No crying. We’re not doing drunk crying tonight.”
“But you’re so nice to me,” you warble, tears already spilling over. “And I love you so much and you built me a theoretical worm terrarium, and you think I’m pretty—”
“I think we need to get you in pajamas right now,” he says, already reaching for the shirt buttons again with renewed determination, “before this spiral gets worse.”
“’m not spiraling,” you protest, even as another tear rolls down your cheek. “Just got a lot of feelings about my hot, respectful, worm-loving husband.”
“Worm-loving,” he repeats under his breath. “What is my life?”
“Your life is amazing,” you inform him, helpfully (unhelpfully) trying to unbutton your own shirt and just making the process more difficult. “You have me. And my ass. Which is also amazing.”
“I’m aware,” he says dryly, gently batting your hands away so he can actually finish unbuttoning. “I married it, remember?”
You gasp, delighted. “You do remember! See, we’re perfect for each other. You married my ass, I married your ass—”
“That’s not how marriage works.”
“—it’s like…ass-tronomy. No, wait. Ass-trology? We’re ass-trologically compatible.”
Seungcheol pauses, shirt halfway off your shoulders, and just looks at you. “Did you just—you can’t just put ‘ass’ in front of words and expect them to make sense.”
“Ass-olutely can,” you say with complete conviction.
He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, clearly praying for strength. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t just say that.”
“You love it,” you singsong, finally cooperating enough to let him pull your shirt off. “You love meee and my drunk ass puns.”
“I love you despite your drunk ass puns,” he corrects, reaching for one of his old t-shirts from the drawer. “Arms up.”
You obey, lifting your arms like a toddler as he slides the shirt over your head. It’s enormous on you, falling nearly to your knees and smells like his cologne and laundry detergent. You immediately burrow into it with a happy sigh.
“Now pants,” he says, reaching for your waistband.
“Ooh, taking my pants off. Scandalous.”
“We’re literally married.”
“Still scandalous.” You boop his nose as he efficiently unbuttons your pants. “You’re being very professional about this. Very doctor-y. Do you do this for all your patients?”
“You’re my only patient and you’re testing my patience,” he mutters, helping you step out of your pants. “Other leg. Good.”
“Such a good caretaker,” you coo, patting his head as he kneels in front of you. “Gonna leave you five stars on MangoPlate. ‘Husband refused to have sex with drunk wife. Very responsible. Would recommend.’”
He looks up at you with an expression of pure suffering. “Please never write that review.”
“‘Also has a great ass,’” you continue thoughtfully. “‘Ass-ceptional, even.’”
“I’m begging you to stop.”
“‘Ass-tounding restraint—’”
He stands abruptly and just picks you up, cutting off your commentary as you squeal in surprise. “Okay. That’s enough. Water and bed. Now.”
“You can’t silence me!” you declare, even as you wrap your arms around his neck. “The people deserve to know about your ass!”
“The people know plenty,” he says, carrying you toward the bed with the long-suffering patience of a saint. “Now drink this.”
He somehow manages to grab the water bottle from the nightstand one-handed and present it to you. You take it obediently, suddenly realizing how thirsty you are.
“Good girl,” he murmurs and even in your drunk state, you don’t miss the way his voice dips on those words.
You lower the water bottle, eyes narrowing. “You can’t just say things like that and then refuse to—”
“Drink,” he interrupts firmly, tipping the bottle back up toward your lips.
You drink, plotting your revenge but the cool water actually does help clear some of the fog. When you’ve had enough, he sets the bottle aside and carefully deposits you onto your side of the bed.
“Stay,” he commands, pointing at you like you’re a mischievous puppy.
“Woof,” you respond because apparently the filter between your brain and mouth has completely dissolved. He huffs what might be a laugh and disappears into the bathroom. You hear water running and then he’s back with a damp washcloth, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“Come here,” he says softly, and when you scoot closer, he gently wipes your face; getting the spots he missed earlier, cooling your flushed cheeks. It’s tender and intimate in a way that makes your chest ache.
“Cheol?” you whisper.
“Mm?”
“’m really glad I married you. Not just for your ass.”
His lips twitch. “Good to know.”
“For your heart too. And your face. And the way you take care of me even when I’m being ridiculous. Oh, and that dick, can’t forget about that.”
“Woman, I swear to—”
“Just lemme keep it warm, please?” Your hand moves to rest low on his stomach. There you go trying to get him to fuck you, again.
“Baby, no. We both know you won’t stop there.”
You open your mouth to protest—to make very compelling arguments about your self-control and how you would totally just keep things innocent—but he cuts you off by pressing his thumb gently against your lips.
“Don’t,” he warns, though there’s affection in his eyes. “Don’t make promises drunk-you can’t keep. I know you.”
You deflate slightly because, fine, he’s right. Sober-you has minimal self-control around him. Drunk-you has absolutely none which is exactly why you keep asking.
“Just wanna feel you inside, promise I’ll behave.”
Seungcheol’s composure cracks visibly, his breath hitches, his grip on the washcloth tightening as his eyes darken with want. For a moment, you think you’ve finally broken through his resolve.
Then he closes his eyes, jaw working and when he opens them again his expression is pained but firm.
“You’re killing me,” he says roughly. “You know that?”
“Good,” you mumble, though you’re already yawning. “Suffer with me.” You say pressing your lips to his.
“I shouldn’t have to deal with my ovulation alone.” And suddenly the wheels are turning in Seungcheol’s head. He goes completely still against your lips, his brain clearly short-circuiting as he processes what you just said.
“Your…what?” He pulls back to look at you, eyes wide.
“Ovulation,” you repeat matter-of-factly, like you’re discussing the weather. “Why d’you think I’m so horny? It’s science, Cheollie. Biology. Nature.” You wave your hand dramatically. “My body wants a baby and it’s making me crazy and you’re—you’re just sitting here looking all hot and responsible and—”
“Okay,” he interrupts, voice strangled. “Okay, we’re not, you can’t just drop that information on me while you’re drunk and expect me to—”
“To what?” You tilt your head, genuinely curious despite the alcohol. “Finally give your wife what she wants?”
His eyes flutter closed and he takes several deep breaths, clearly fighting an internal battle. When he opens them again, there’s a new tension in his expression; want, restraint, and something darker all tangled together.
“That’s not fair,” he says roughly. “You can’t use the ovulation card. That’s playing dirty.”
“Everything’s fair in love and baby-making,” you counter, then giggle at your own modification of the phrase.
“We are not having this conversation right now,” he says firmly, even as his hand unconsciously tightens on your hip. “We’ll talk about this tomorrow. When you’re sober, when we can have an actual discussion about—about family planning and—”
“Already know I want your babies,” you interrupt, cupping his face. “Known that for years. Since like…our third date probably.”
“Third date,” he repeats faintly.
“Mhm. You were wearing that gray sweater and you laughed at my joke and I just thought—” you sigh dreamily, “—‘yeah, I want tiny humans with his laugh and dimples.’”
Something shifts in his expression; it goes soft and vulnerable in a way that makes your heart squeeze even through the alcohol haze.
“You’re not playing fair at all,” he whispers.
“Don’t wanna play fair,” you whisper back. “Want you. Want your baby. Want—” another yawn interrupts you, “—want you to stop being so responsible and just…”
But exhaustion is finally catching up with you, the alcohol and emotional rollercoaster of the evening taking their toll. Your eyes are getting heavier despite your best efforts.
Seungcheol notices immediately, his expression gentling. “There we go,” he murmurs, carefully maneuvering you under the covers. “Finally.”
“’m not tired,” you protest weakly, even as you burrow into the pillow.
“Sure you’re not.” He slides in next to you and immediately you roll toward him, seeking his warmth.
“Cheol?” you mumble against his chest.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Tomorrow…we can talk about it? The baby thing?”
His arm tightens around you, and you feel him press a kiss to the top of your head. “Tomorrow,” he promises. “We’ll talk about everything tomorrow.”
“And you’ll actually consider it? Not just…say we’ll talk and then avoid it?”
There’s a pause, and then, “I’ve been considering it for months,” he admits quietly. “I just wanted to wait for the right time. When we were both ready.”
You manage to pull back just enough to look at him, suddenly feeling more alert. “Months?”
He smiles, a little embarrassed. “Why do you think I cleared out the guest room last month? I’ve been planning…thinking about turning it into a nursery. Eventually.”
“You—” your eyes well up again, “—you sneaky, wonderful man.”
“Don’t cry,” he says, but he’s smiling as he wipes away the tears with his thumb. “Save it for tomorrow when you can properly yell at me for not telling you sooner.”
“Gonna yell and cry,” you inform him. “And then jump your bones.”
“Looking forward to it,” he says dryly. “Now sleep. You’re going to feel terrible in the morning.”
“Worth it,” you mumble, already drifting. “Got you to admit you want babies…”
“I want your babies,” he corrects softly. “There’s a difference.”
But you’re already asleep, a small smile on your face, wrapped securely in your husband’s arms. Seungcheol lies awake a little longer, looking down at you; his drunk, ridiculous, beautiful wife who just ambushed him with baby talk and ass puns in the same conversation.
“What am I going to do with you?” he whispers, echoing his earlier question.
But this time, he’s smiling as he says it. Tomorrow, he thinks. Tomorrow they’ll talk—really talk—about the future. About expanding their family. About all the things he’s been too cautious to bring up, worried about timing and readiness and a thousand other factors.
But tonight, you’re here, safe and warm and his, talking about wanting his babies since the third date.
Yeah. Tomorrow is going to be interesting.
He presses one more kiss to your forehead before settling in, keeping you close. His ovulating, drunk, perfect disaster of a wife. He wouldn’t have it any other way.
The next morning, you wake up to three things; a pounding headache that feels like a marching band has taken up residence in your skull, blinding sunlight streaming through curtains you thought you closed and the smell of coffee and something sweet wafting from the kitchen.
You groan, throwing an arm over your eyes. Your mouth tastes like something died in it and when you try to sit up, the room spins just enough to make you regret every life choice that led to this moment.
“Oh god,” you mutter, flopping back down.
Fragments of last night start filtering back through the haze. Coming home late. Seungcheol’s concerned face. The bathroom counter. Worm terrarium? You definitely said something about worms. And then—
Your eyes fly open.
“Oh no.”
The baby conversation. The ovulation announcement. Your very detailed commentary about your husband’s ass. The—you bury your face in your hands—the begging.
“Kill me now,” you whisper to the empty room.
“Can’t do that, I’m afraid.”
You nearly jump out of your skin. Seungcheol is leaning against the doorframe, holding a mug of coffee and wearing an expression that can only be described as deeply amused.
He’s already somewhat dressed for the day in a simple white t-shirt and gray sweatpants, hair slightly damp from a shower, looking infuriatingly well-rested and attractive. Meanwhile, you’re pretty sure you look like a gremlin who lost a fight with a bottle of wine.
“How long have you been standing there?” you croak.
“Long enough to hear you bargaining with God.” He pushes off the doorframe and walks over, setting the coffee on the nightstand. “How’s the head?”
“Like I deserve it,” you admit, gratefully reaching for the mug. “How much did I—” you pause, coffee halfway to your lips, “—how bad was it?”
His smile grows. “On a scale of one to ten?”
“Cheol.”
“You asked if I’d love you as a worm,” he says, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You accused me of wanting Jeonghan. You made approximately ten puns involving the word ‘ass.’ And—” his expression shifts to something more heated, “—you made some very compelling arguments about baby-making.”
You choke on your coffee. “Oh my god.”
“Also, apparently you decided you married me for my ‘fat ass’ and not my money or status, which is good to know.”
“I hate everything,” you moan, setting the coffee down so you can bury your face in your hands again. “I’m never drinking again. I’m becoming a nun. I’m moving to a remote island where I can’t embarrass myself—”
“Hey.” His hand wraps around your wrist, gently pulling your hands away from your face. His expression is soft now, affectionate. “You were cute.”
“I was a disaster.”
“A cute disaster.” He coils a loose curl around his finger. “You always are when you drink. It’s part of your charm.”
“There’s nothing charming about drunk me telling you I want to—” you can’t even finish the sentence, heat flooding your face.
“Keep me warm?” he supplies helpfully. “Just want it inside you, you’d behave, you promised?”
“Seungcheol.”
He’s grinning now, clearly enjoying your mortification. “Or was it the part where you said your ovulation shouldn’t be a solo activity?”
You grab the nearest pillow and smack him with it. He laughs, catching it easily and tossing it aside before catching both your wrists in his hands.
“I’m just saying,” he continues, eyes dancing with mischief, “you were very…articulate about your needs.”
“I’m going back to sleep,” you announce, trying to pull away. “Wake me in ten years when I’ve died of embarrassment.”
“Can’t do that either.” He releases one wrist but keeps hold of the other, his thumb tracing circles on your pulse point. “We have things to discuss. Remember?”
Your heart skips. The amusement in his expression hasn’t faded, but there’s something else there now; something serious and warm and a little nervous.
“The…baby thing?” you venture quietly.
“The baby thing,” he confirms. “But first—” he reaches over to the nightstand and retrieves two pills and a glass of water you hadn’t noticed, “—pain meds. Then breakfast. Then we talk.”
“Cheol, I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable or—”
“You didn’t.” He’s firm about that, waiting until you take the medication before continuing. “You surprised me, yeah. But uncomfortable? No.” He pauses. “Turned on while trying desperately to maintain my morals? Absolutely, but not uncomfortable.”
Despite everything, you feel a smile tugging at your lips. “I really tried to break you, huh?”
“You almost succeeded,” he admits. “The ovulation thing was a low blow.”
“It’s true though,” you say, then immediately want to take it back because…
“I know.” His voice drops, eyes darkening. “I checked the calendar while you were sleeping. You’re right in the middle of your fertile window.”
The air between you shifts, charges. You’re suddenly very aware that you’re in bed, wearing only his t-shirt and he’s looking at you like,
“Breakfast first,” he says firmly, standing up. “You need food and hydration. Then we’ll talk. Really talk. About timing, readiness and what we both want.”
“And if we decide we want the same thing?” you ask, unable to help yourself.
He leans down, bracing one hand on the mattress beside you, bringing his face close to yours. “Then I clear my schedule for the rest of the day,” he murmurs. “And give you exactly what you were begging for last night.”
Your breath catches.
“But sober,” he adds, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead before straightening. “And enthusiastically consenting to every single detail.”
“That’s—” you have to clear your throat, “—very responsible of you.”
“Someone has to be.” He heads toward the door, then pauses. “Oh, and baby? For the record?” He looks back with a devastating smile. “I’ve been ready for months. I was just waiting for you to catch up.”
Then he’s gone, leaving you sitting in bed, headache temporarily forgotten, heart racing with possibilities. From the kitchen, you hear him call, “French toast or pancakes?”
“French toast!” you call back, already scrambling out of bed.
Suddenly, you’re feeling much better about facing this day and the conversation that could change everything.
You pad into the kitchen after finishing your morning routine. He’s plating the last of breakfast before sitting down and as you go to take your place beside him, he pulls you onto his lap.
“Cheol?”
“You asked me to keep it warm last night,” he whispers. “Think you can do that while we sit and have breakfast, love? Bet I’d be able to slide right in.”
You freeze, every nerve ending suddenly awake and hyper-aware. Your headache? Gone. The lingering nausea? Vanished. There’s only Seungcheol beneath you, solid and warm, his breath hot against your ear.
“I…what?” Your voice comes out embarrassingly breathy.
His hands settle on your hips, fingers slipping just under the hem of his t-shirt you’re still wearing. “You heard me.” His voice is low, rough in a way that sends heat pooling low in your belly. “You wanted this last night. Said you’d behave. That you just wanted to feel full.”
“I was drunk,” you manage, even as your body is already responding, already leaning back against his chest.
“And now you’re sober.” His lips brush the shell of your ear. “So, I’m asking properly. Do you want this? Want to sit here, keeping me warm while we eat breakfast and talk about our future?”
Your breath hitches. This is…it’s obscene. It’s intimate in a way that makes your head spin and you want it so badly you can barely think straight.
“What about the talking?” you whisper. “The responsible conversation?”
“We can still talk.” One hand slides up your spine, settling between your shoulder blades. “I can be very articulate, even when I’m buried inside you. Question is, can you?”
It’s a challenge. One you’ve never backed down from.
You turn your head just enough to meet his eyes. They’re dark, intense but there’s a question there too. Real consent. Making sure this is what you actually want and not just lingering drunk decisions.
“Yes,” you breathe. “I want this.”
His grip tightens. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You shift in his lap, feeling him already half-hard beneath you. “Want you. Always want you.”
He makes a low sound in his throat. “Lift up a little, baby.”
You obey, bracing your hands on his thighs as he shifts beneath you. You hear the rustle of fabric, feel him pushing his sweatpants down just enough, and then,
“No underwear?” His voice is strained as his fingers trace up your bare thighs, discovering you came to the kitchen in just his shirt and nothing else.
“Seemed inefficient,” you manage, gasping when his fingers brush where you need him most.
“Fuck,” he mutters, and you feel him stroke himself once, twice. “You’re already so wet.”
“Told you,” you say breathlessly. “Ovulation. Biology. Can’t help—oh—”
He’s guiding himself to your entrance, letting you feel the blunt pressure of him. “Slow,” he murmurs. “Take your time. We’ve got all morning.”
You lower yourself gradually, inch by torturous inch, feeling the stretch and burn and perfect fullness of him. His hands are steady on your hips, helping you and his breathing is harsh against your neck.
“That’s it,” he encourages roughly. “Just like that, baby. So good for me.”
When you’re fully seated, both of you still for a moment. You’re trembling slightly, overwhelmed by the intimacy of it; sitting in his lap in your bright kitchen, completely joined, the morning sun streaming through the windows.
“Okay?” he asks, voice strained.
“So okay,” you breathe. “So…Cheol, you feel—”
“I know.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. “I know, baby. Now—” he reaches around you for the plates, sliding them closer, “—breakfast.”
You laugh, slightly delirious. “You can’t be serious.”
“Completely serious.” He picks up a fork, cutting a piece of French toast. “Open.”
This is insane. You’re sitting on your husband’s lap in the kitchen, full of him, while he feeds you breakfast like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
You open your mouth and he slides the fork in. The French toast is perfect, crispy outside, soft inside, with just the right amount of cinnamon and syrup. You chew slowly, hyper-aware of every small movement, how even that makes you shift slightly on him.
His breath catches. “Don’t,” he warns.
“Don’t what?” You shift deliberately, just a little and feel him twitch inside you. “I’m just eating breakfast.”
“You’re playing with fire,” he growls but he’s already cutting another piece. “Now, let’s talk about this baby thing.”
You nearly choke on nothing. “Now? You want to have this conversation now?”
“Why not?” His free hand settles possessively on your lower belly, thumb stroking just above where you’re joined. “Seems like the perfect time. Can’t run away. Can’t deflect. You’ve got my undivided attention.”
His voice is teasing but there’s an edge of seriousness underneath. He really does want to talk about this. Like this. Your utterly insane, wonderful husband.
“Okay,” you manage, reaching for your coffee with shaking hands. “Okay. Let’s talk.”
“So,” Seungcheol says, his voice remarkably steady despite the situation, “you said last night you’ve wanted this since our third date.”
You take a sip of coffee, trying to focus on the conversation and not the fact that you can feel every minute shift of his body. “I—yeah. I mean, not immediately, obviously but I knew. Knew that I wanted a future with you. Kids. All of it.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?” His hand is still on your belly, thumb tracing idle patterns that are absolutely not helping your concentration.
“I don’t know. Timing? We were building our careers, and I didn’t want to pressure you, and—” you gasp softly as he shifts slightly beneath you, “—are you doing that on purpose?”
“No,” he says but you can hear the smile in his voice. “Just getting comfortable. Keep talking.”
“You’re evil.”
“You’re stalling.” He offers you another bite of French toast. “Come on. I want to hear this.” You accept the bite, chewing while trying to organize your thoughts, which is nearly impossible when you’re so acutely aware of him inside you, stretching you, filling you so completely.
“I was scared,” you finally admit. “That maybe you didn’t want the same things. That I’d bring it up and you’d feel trapped or obligated and then months kept passing and it felt like the moment never came up naturally and—” you laugh shakily, “—I guess drunk me decided to just rip the bandaid off.”
“Drunk you has terrible timing but good instincts.” His lips brush your shoulder. “I’ve been wanting to have this conversation for months too.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He sets down the fork, both hands coming to rest on your hips now. “I meant what I said earlier. About clearing out the guest room. I’ve been thinking about it constantly…what it would be like. You, pregnant. A baby. Our baby.”
Your heart stutters. “Cheol…”
“I think about you with a bump,” he continues, voice going rougher. “About feeling them kick. About watching you become a mother.” His hips shift up slightly, making you gasp. “About putting a baby in you.”
“That’s—oh god—that’s not fair,” you whimper, fingers digging into his thighs.
“What’s not fair?”
“Saying things like that when I can’t move, can’t—”
“Who says you can’t move?” His grip tightens on your hips. “I said sit still during breakfast. We’re done eating now.”
Your breath catches. “Are we?”
“Mhmm.” One hand slides up to cup your breast through the thin t-shirt, thumb brushing over your nipple. “I think it’s time for dessert. Don’t you?”
“Seungcheol—”
“Tell me what you want,” he demands, voice dropping to that commanding tone that never fails to undo you. “Use your words, baby. Sober words.”
You’re trembling now, desperate. “Want you. Want this. Want—” you break off as his other hand slides between your legs, finding where you’re joined.
“Want what?” he presses. “Say it.”
“Want you to fuck me,” you gasp out. “Want you to put a baby in me. Want…please, Cheollie, please—”
“There she is,” he murmurs approvingly. Then his grip shifts, and he’s lifting you slightly before pulling you back down, finally, finally giving you the friction you’ve been craving.
You cry out, head falling back against his shoulder as he sets a devastating rhythm. The breakfast dishes rattle on the table with each thrust and you distantly think you should care about the mess you’re probably making but then he angles his hips just right and all thoughts scatter.
“That’s it,” he growls against your neck. “Take it. Take all of me.”
“Yes, god, yes—”
His hand on your breast squeezes while the other works between your legs and the combination is overwhelming. You’re already close, wound too tight from sitting still for so long, from the filthy intimacy of it all.
“Gonna fill you up,” he pants. “Gonna give you exactly what you want. What we both want. You want that, baby? Want me to get you pregnant?”
“Yes,” you sob and you’re not even sure if it’s the hormones or the moment or the fact that this is your husband, your partner, your person and you’re finally talking about this, finally doing this…
“Come for me first,” he demands. “Let me feel it. Show me how much you want this.”
His fingers press harder and that’s all it takes. You shatter, clenching around him, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you in waves.
“Fuck, baby—” his rhythm falters, becomes erratic and then he’s following you over, groaning against your neck as he pulses inside you, holding you tight against him. For a long moment, neither of you move. You’re both breathing hard, trembling, still joined together as aftershocks roll through you.
“So,” Seungcheol finally says, voice rough and satisfied, “I think that’s a yes? We’re doing this?”
You laugh breathlessly, turning your head to kiss him. “Yeah, we’re doing this.”
“Good.” He nuzzles into your neck. “Because I meant every word. I want this. Want you. Want our family.”
“Even though I ambushed you while drunk?”
“Especially because you ambushed me while drunk.” You can feel his smile against your skin. “Shows you trust me. Even when you’re not in control.”
You shift slightly and he groans. “Don’t move yet. Just…let me hold you like this for a minute.”
So, you do, sitting in your dining room in the morning sunlight, still connected, still close, talking softly about the future you’re going to build together.
About nursery colors and baby names and how you’ll tell your families and whether you want to know the gender or be surprised. About all the beautiful, terrifying, wonderful possibilities ahead and when he finally, reluctantly slips out of you, he immediately scoops you up and carries you back to the bedroom.
“Again?” you ask, surprised but definitely not opposed.
“We’re optimizing our chances,” he says seriously but his eyes are dancing. “It’s just good planning.”
“You’re a fein.”
“You’re ovulating,” he counters, laying you gently on the bed. “And I have months of baby-making fantasies to work through. So,” he crawls over you, settling between your thighs, “we’re going to be here a while.”
“What about our schedules?” you tease. “Don’t you have meetings? I have work.”
“Cancelled everything,” he says, leaning down to kiss you slowly, deeply. “Told them I have important business with my wife.”
“Very important business,” you agree, gasping as he enters you again.
“The most important,” he murmurs against your lips. He flips you on your hands and knees first, arched just the way he wants you.
“Stay just like that,” Seungcheol commands, his hands spreading across your lower back, pressing down slightly to deepen the arch. “Perfect. So, fucking perfect.”
You’re trembling already, forehead pressed against the sheets, completely exposed to him. You feel vulnerable like this, open, but the way he’s looking at you; you can practically feel the heat of his gaze dragging over every inch of exposed skin.
“Cheol—” you start but the word cuts off into a moan as he runs his hands up your sides, thumbs tracing your spine.
“Shhh,” he soothes, though there’s nothing gentle about the way he’s positioning you, adjusting your hips exactly where he wants them. “Just feel.”
One hand wraps around your hip while the other slides between your legs, finding you still wet, still sensitive from before. You jerk at the contact and his grip tightens, holding you steady.
“Still so ready for me,” he muses, almost conversational, like he’s not currently destroying your composure with just his fingers. “Even after I just filled you up. You really do want this, don’t you?”
“Yes,” you gasp into the sheets. “God, yes, please…”
“Please what?” He’s teasing now, the head of his cock brushing against you but not entering, just barely there, making you crazy.
“Please fuck me,” you whimper, trying to push back against him, but his hand on your hip keeps you in place. “Please, I need—”
“Need what, baby? Use your words.”
“Need you inside me,” you practically sob. “Need you to…to get me pregnant, need you to—oh fuck—”
He slides in with one smooth thrust, burying himself completely, and the angle is devastating. You can feel him so deep like this, stretching you, filling every inch.
“This what you need?” His voice is strained now, control slipping. Both hands grip your hips hard enough to bruise and you hope they do, want to see the marks tomorrow, proof of this.
“Yes, yes, don’t stop—”
“Not stopping,” he growls, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back in. “Not until you’re dripping with me. Not until I know it took.” The pace he sets is brutal, desperate, his hips snapping against yours with a force that has you crying out with each thrust. One hand leaves your hip to fist in your hair, not pulling, just holding, grounding you.
“Gonna look so good pregnant,” he pants. “Gonna love watching your belly grow. Knowing I did that. That you’re carrying my baby.”
“Cheol—” you’re incoherent now, can only hold on as he takes you apart.
“Say it,” he demands. “Tell me what you want.”
“Want your baby,” you gasp out. “Want you to…to come inside me, want—god—want everyone to know I’m yours.”
His rhythm stutters at that, becomes somehow even more intense. “Mine,” he agrees roughly. “Always mine. My wife. Mother of my children. Mine.”
The possessiveness in his voice, the certainty, sends you spiraling. Your second orgasm hits harder than the first, whiting out your vision and you feel yourself clench around him rhythmically.
“Fuck—baby—” he groans and then he’s there too, pressing as deep as he can go, holding you against him as he fills you again. This time when he pulls out, he immediately maneuvers you onto your back, grabbing a pillow and shoving it under your hips before you can protest.
“Elevate,” he explains breathlessly and you can’t help but laugh.
“You really did research.”
“Told you.” He collapses partially on top of you with his head resting on your chest. “Months of thinking about this. I’m prepared.”
Your fingers find his hair, feeling satisfied and tender and so completely loved. “How long do I have to stay like this?”
“Twenty minutes at least.” His hand finds your belly again, splaying possessively across it. “Maybe thirty to be safe.”
“And what are we doing for the next twenty to thirty minutes?”
His eyes darken again and you feel him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Well,” he says thoughtfully, “I can think of a few ways to pass the time. After all—” he rolls you on your side carefully, mindful of the pillow, settling behind you and lifting your leg up and over his hip, “—we should really make sure we’re being thorough.”
“Thorough,” you repeat breathlessly.
“Very thorough,” he agrees, kissing down your neck. “It’s important to be thorough about these things.”
“You’re insatiable.”
“You’re irresistible.” He nips at your collarbone. “And ovulating. And my wife. Who I’m trying to get pregnant. So yes—” he enters you again, slow and deep, making you both groan, “—insatiable sounds about right.”
And as he begins to move again, slow and intimate and perfect, you think that maybe drunk you had the right idea after all.
Sometimes the best conversations happen in the most unexpected ways.
Seungcheol folds you with both legs to your chest and you know your body is going to complain about it later.
“Wait, Cheol—” you gasp as he pushes your knees toward your chest, folding you in half.
“Trust me,” he murmurs, his hands hooking under your knees, spreading you open as he presses them down. “This angle—fuck, baby, you have no idea—”
And then he’s sliding back in, and oh—he’s right. The angle is incredible. Overwhelming. He’s somehow even deeper like this, hitting spots that make stars explode behind your eyelids.
“Oh my god—” you can barely breathe, pinned beneath him, completely at his mercy.
“That’s it,” he groans, watching where you’re joined with dark, hungry eyes. “Take it. Take all of me.”
Your flexibility has never been your strong suit and you can already feel the strain in your hips, your thighs protesting the position but the pleasure overrides everything else; the way he’s grinding against you with each thrust, the delicious pressure, the intimacy of being folded completely under him.
“You’re so deep,” you whimper, fingers scrabbling for purchase on his forearms. “I can’t…it’s too much—”
“Not too much,” he counters, but there’s a question in his eyes even as he maintains the brutal pace. “Color?”
“Green,” you gasp immediately. “So green, don’t stop, please don’t—ah—”
His thumb finds your clit, circling with perfect pressure, and you nearly scream. Everything is heightened like this, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust punching the air from your lungs.
“Gonna keep you just like this,” he pants, sweat dripping down his temple. “Gonna fill you up so deep it has to take. You want that?”
“Yes—yes—Cheol, I’m—”
“I know, baby. I can feel it.” His movements become more purposeful, grinding deep rather than thrusting, the friction against your clit constant and maddening. “Come for me. Squeeze my cock. Show me how much you want my baby.”
The combination of his words, his thumb, the relentless pressure against that spot deep inside, it’s too much. You shatter with a cry that’s probably too loud for the morning, clenching around him so hard you see white.
“Fuck, just like that—” Seungcheol’s rhythm falters, his hips jerking erratically as he follows you over the edge for the fourth time, groaning your name like a prayer as he empties himself inside you.
He stays buried deep for a long moment, both of you panting, trembling. Then carefully—so carefully—he releases your legs, helping you straighten them out with gentle hands.
“Ow,” you whimper immediately as your hips protest, muscles cramping.
“Sorry, sorry—” he’s already massaging your thighs, pressing kisses to your knees. “I got carried away.”
“Worth it,” you manage, even as you wince. “But I’m definitely going to feel that tomorrow.”
“I’ll give you a massage later,” he promises, still working the tension from your muscles. “A proper one. With oil and everything.”
“You better.” You reach for him, pulling him down into a kiss. “I’m going to be walking funny for days.”
“Good,” he says against your lips, unrepentant. “Let everyone wonder why.”
“You’re terrible.”
“You love it.” He rolls to the side, immediately pulling you with him, tucking you against his chest. His hand finds your belly again; it’s apparently his new favorite spot. “Think it worked?”
“Cheol, we can’t possibly know that yet—”
“But do you think it worked?” he insists, almost childlike in his eagerness.
You soften, covering his hand with yours. “I don’t know, maybe. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“And if not?”
“Then we try again,” you say, smiling. “And again. As many times as it takes.”
His answering grin is devastating. “I love this plan. Best plan we’ve ever had.”
“Of course you love it,” you tease. “You’re getting sex on demand.”
“I’m getting to start a family with the love of my life,” he corrects, suddenly serious. “The sex is just a bonus. A really, really good bonus, but still.”
Your throat tightens with emotion. “I love you.”
“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead. “Now, twenty more minutes with your hips elevated, and then I’m running you a bath.”
“And then?”
“And then lunch. Hydration. Maybe a nap.” His smile turns wicked. “And then round whatever we’re on.”
“Again?!”
“Baby,” he says solemnly, “we’re not leaving this bed until tomorrow. I told you, I’m being thorough.”
You should protest. Should remind him you both have lives, responsibilities, that you can’t spend an entire day having sex no matter how appealing that sounds but then his hand starts tracing patterns on your belly again and he’s looking at you with such love and want and hope that all protests die in your throat.
“Thorough,” you agree weakly. “Right, very important.”
“The most important,” he confirms and as he settles beside you, already planning the rest of your day—which apparently consists entirely of various positions and strategic pillow placement—you think that maybe, just maybe, drunk you deserves some credit.
After all, she got the conversation started, even if her methods were…unconventional. Your husband certainly isn’t complaining and neither—despite your aching hips and the knowledge that you won’t be able to walk straight tomorrow—are you.
The shower was supposed to be innocent, just washing off, getting clean, maybe some gentle aftercare. That lasted approximately three minutes before Seungcheol’s hands started wandering from “helpful” to “decidedly unhelpful.”
“Choi Seungcheol,” you warned but it came out breathless as his fingers traced your hip. “We’re supposed to be cleaning up.”
“We are cleaning up,” he murmured against your neck, pressing you forward until your palms hit the cool tile. “Very thoroughly.”
“That’s not—oh—”
His hand slid between your thighs from behind, finding you still sensitive, still wet with more than just water. “Still ready for me,” he observed, voice dropping an octave. “Even after all that.”
“It’s the hormones,” you managed, even as you arched back into his touch. “I told you, ovulation makes me—fuck—”
“Makes you what?” He was already lining himself up, the head of his cock pressing against your entrance. “Insatiable? Desperate? Willing to let me fuck you against the shower wall?”
“All of the above,” you gasped as he pushed in, the slide easy despite how much you’d already taken him today.
This time was different, harder, more primal. The tile was cold against your breasts, your cheek, contrasting with the hot water and his body pressed against your back. His hand wrapped around your throat, squeezing lightly, keeping you in place as he took you apart.
“This is what you do to me,” he growled in your ear. “Walking around, talking about my baby, being so fucking perfect—”
“Cheol, baby please—”
“Please what?”
“Please don’t stop,” you begged. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need.” His other hand found your clit, and you nearly sobbed. “Need me to breed you. Need me to pump you so full—”
You came with a sharp cry, clenching around him, and he followed immediately after, groaning against your shoulder as he held you pinned to the wall.
The water was starting to run cold by the time you both caught your breath.
You genuinely thought he’d be tired after the shower. Thought maybe you’d eat, cuddle, take that nap he’d mentioned.
You made it halfway through your sandwich.
“Come here,” Seungcheol said suddenly, pushing his chair back.
“I’m eating—”
“You can finish later.” There was something almost feral in his eyes as he stalked around the table toward you. “Right now, I need you bent over this table.”
“Choi Seungcheol—” but you were already standing, already letting him turn you around, already bracing your hands on the polished wood as he flipped up the oversized t-shirt you’d thrown on.
“No panties again,” he noted with approval. “It’s like you want me to fuck you at every opportunity.”
“Maybe I do,” you shot back, then gasped as he entered you in one smooth thrust.
The angle was perfect, the table the ideal height and he took full advantage of it. His fingers dug into your hips as he set a punishing rhythm, the sound of skin slapping against skin obscenely loud in your quiet dining room.
“Look at you,” he panted, gathering your hair in one fist. “Taking it so well. So eager for it. Bet you’d let me fuck you anywhere right now, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes, god, anywhere—”
“Kitchen counter? Bedroom floor? Against the windows where the neighbors might see?”
The thought shouldn’t be as hot as it is, but combined with his relentless pace, it pushes you over the edge. You came with a strangled moan, and he wasn’t far behind, but he didn’t give you time to recover. Just pulled out, ignored your whimper, and guided you to the couch.
“Hands on the back,” he instructed. “Ass up.”
You were shaking as you obeyed, gripping the back of the couch as he positioned himself behind you again. This angle was even deeper, and you could feel him in your belly with each thrust.
“Too much,” you whimpered, but you didn’t use your safeword, didn’t actually want him to stop.
“Not too much,” he countered, one hand sliding up your spine. “You can take it. You can take everything I give you.” And you did, you took it until you were crying with pleasure, until your legs gave out, until he had to hold you up as he finished inside you for the—you’d lost count at this point.
When he finally pulled out, your legs couldn’t support you. You collapsed onto the plush living room carpet, and he followed you down, immediately positioning you on your hands and knees.
“One more,” he said, voice rough. “Just one more, baby, and then we’ll rest.”
“Can’t—” you protested weakly, but your body was already responding, already arching for him.
“You can.” He slid in easily, and the stretch was almost too much on your oversensitized flesh. “You’re doing so well. Taking me so perfectly. Gonna make such a good mother.”
The praise broke something in you. You dropped to your elbows, pressing your face into the carpet as he took you with long, deep strokes. There was something almost desperate about it now, like he couldn’t get deep enough, close enough, like he was trying to merge you into one person.
“Love you,” he panted. “Love you so fucking much. Gonna give you everything. Everything you want. Everything you deserve.”
You were too far gone to respond with words, could only moan and take it and feel yourself building toward yet another impossible orgasm.
When it hit, it was almost painful in its intensity. You felt him swell inside you, felt the warmth as he came again, and then everything went soft and hazy.
You came back to yourself slowly, aware of gentle hands cleaning you with a warm cloth, of being lifted and carried, of soft sheets against your skin.
“Did I pass out?” you mumbled.
“Just for a minute.” Seungcheol sounded worried now, the feral intensity finally broken. “I’m sorry, I got carried away—”
“Don’t apologize.” You caught his hand, pressing it to your cheek. “That was…I didn’t know you had that in you.”
He laughed shakily. “Neither did I. I just—when you said you wanted a baby, something in my brain just…short-circuited.”
“Clearly.” You shifted, wincing at the soreness. “I’m going to be feeling this for a week.”
“I’ll take care of you,” he promised immediately. “Bath, massage, whatever you need. I’m sorry—”
“Stop apologizing.” You pulled him down beside you. “I liked it. Loved it, actually. I just…didn’t expect the conversation about trying for a baby to turn my usually controlled husband into…that.”
“Into what?”
“Into someone who fucks me in every room of the house,” you say bluntly. “Who can’t go an hour without being inside me. Who looks at me like he wants to devour me.”
He flushed. “The ovulation thing wasn’t helping. Knowing you’re fertile right now, that any of these times could be the one—” he broke off, shaking his head. “It did something to me.”
“I noticed.” You traced his jaw. “For the record? I’m not complaining. I’m just surprised and very, very sore.”
“Nap now,” he decided. “Then massage. Then dinner. And then—”
“If you say ‘and then round whatever number we’re on,’ I’m divorcing you.”
He grinned, unrepentant. “I was going to say ‘and then we’ll see how you feel.’”
“Uh-huh. Sure you were.”
“But if you’re feeling up to it…” His hand slid to your belly again. “We should probably maximize our chances.”
You stared at him. “You’re actually insatiable.”
“Only with you.” He kissed your forehead. “Only ever with you.”
And despite the soreness, despite the exhaustion, despite the fact that you’d had more sex in one day than most couples have in a month, you found yourself smiling because this was your husband. Your partner. The father of your future children and if his method of “trying for a baby” involved fucking you in every room of the house until you couldn’t walk straight?
Well.
You’d had worse problems.
“Fine,” you conceded. “But after a nap and a massage, you’re carrying me everywhere for the next week.”
“Deal,” he agreed immediately, already pulling you closer.
Nothing came from that day of marathon sex but with how feral your husband had gotten that day you knew something had awakened in him that would be hard to reign in which is how you found yourself in your current position, bent over the balcony of your bedroom at the Airbnb that had been booked for his work trip to Hawaii which he insisted you come on. Something about a second honeymoon.
You should have known something was up when Seungcheol insisted you come on his work trip.
“It’s Hawaii,” he’d said, showing you the booking confirmation with an innocence that should have been your first warning. “We’ve never been. Plus, my meetings are only in the mornings. We’d have the afternoons and evenings together.”
“A second honeymoon,” he’d called it with that devastating smile.
What he’d failed to mention was that the “trying for a baby” conversation had apparently permanently rewired something in his brain.
You’d learned this over the past few weeks. The man who used to be controlled, measured, professional in every aspect of his life had developed a hair-trigger when it came to you. A lingering glance, your hand on his thigh at dinner, the way you bit your lip while concentrating—any of it could result in him finding the nearest private surface and bending you over it.
The office after hours? Check.
The car in the parking garage? Check.
The fitting room at the boutique where you’d been shopping for maternity clothes (optimistically)? Very much check.
But this—this was a new level, even for him.
“Cheol,” you hissed, gripping the balcony railing as he pressed against your back, his hands already pushing up your sundress. “We’re outside. Someone could see—”
“The nearest villa is hundreds of feet away,” he murmured against your neck, teeth grazing your pulse point. “No one can see unless they’re in a helicopter.”
“That’s not the point—”
“The point,” he interrupted, one hand sliding between your thighs to find you already wet—because of course you were—your body had learned to anticipate him now, “is that you’ve been walking around all day in this dress. This tiny, barely-there dress. Bending over to pick up seashells. Stretching in the sun. Driving me insane.”
“We were on the beach,” you protested weakly, even as you arched back into him. “What was I supposed to wear?”
“Nothing.” His fingers hooked into your panties, pulling them aside. “Preferably nothing.”
You were about to respond when he pushed inside you in one smooth thrust, and all coherent thought fled. Your fingers tightened on the railing as he set a deep, rolling rhythm that had you biting your lip to keep quiet.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, one hand gripping your hip while the other slid up to cup your breast through the fabric. “Take it. Take all of me.”
The view from the balcony was stunning; turquoise water stretching to the horizon, white sand beaches, palm trees swaying in the breeze. The sun was setting, painting everything gold and pink. It should be romantic.
It was romantic. Just also obscene.
“God, you feel so good,” Seungcheol groaned, picking up his pace. “So perfect. Made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to carry my baby.”
There it was, the thing that set him off every time. The baby talk. Ever since that day, since you’d opened that door, he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was like the idea of getting you pregnant had become an obsession.
“Cheol—” you gasped, trying to keep your voice down even as pleasure built in your core. “Someone might hear—”
“Let them hear.” His hand slid from your breast to your throat, tilting your head back. “Let them hear how good I make you feel. How well you take me. How desperate you are for my baby.”
“You’re insane,” you managed, but it came out more like a moan.
“You made me this way.” His lips brushed your ear. “Walking around, talking about wanting my babies, being so fucking perfect—you broke something in me, baby. Can’t think straight anymore. Can’t function unless I’m inside you.”
His hand left your throat to slide down your body, finding your clit with practiced ease. The dual sensation—him inside you, his fingers working you expertly—was too much.
“That’s it,” he encouraged as you started to tremble. “Come for me. Come on my cock while I fill you up. Maybe this time it’ll take. Maybe in nine months you’ll be here with my baby in your belly.”
The image he painted—you pregnant, round with his child—combined with his relentless pace pushed you over the edge. You came with a cry you couldn’t quite muffle, clenching around him and felt him follow seconds later with a groan. He stayed buried inside you for a long moment, both of you breathing hard, the sound of waves crashing below mixing with your racing heartbeats.
“We need to talk about this,” you finally said, even as you melted back against his chest.
“About what?” He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, still not pulling out.
“About this—” you gestured vaguely, “—thing that’s happened to you. This breeding kink you’ve developed.”
You felt him smile against your skin. “Is it a kink if we’re actively trying for a baby?”
“Cheol, we’ve had sex multiple times everyday in the last week. Everyday.”
“You’re counting?”
“Hard not to when I can barely walk straight.” You turned your head to look at him. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not complaining about the sex. The sex is incredible but you’ve been…intense. Ever since that conversation.”
His expression shifted, becoming more serious. He finally pulled out—you whimpered at the loss—and turned you around to face him, hands gentle on your waist.
“I know,” he admitted. “I’ve been…I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like something clicked that day, and I can’t turn it off. Every time I look at you, I think about getting you pregnant. About you carrying our baby. About our family. And it just—” he broke off, looking almost embarrassed. “It does something to me. Makes me crazy.”
“I’ve noticed,” you said dryly.
“Is it too much?” There was genuine concern in his eyes now. “Am I being too much? Because if you need me to dial it back—”
“No,” you interrupted quickly. “I mean, yes, it’s a lot but it’s also…kind of hot? Knowing you want me that badly. That you’re that desperate to start our family.”
His eyes darkened. “You have no idea how badly I want you. How much I want this.”
“I’m getting a pretty clear picture,” you teased, feeling him already starting to harden against your thigh. “Case in point.”
He huffed a laugh. “Can you blame me? You’re standing here, freshly fucked, my cum dripping down your thighs, the sunset making you glow and you’re surprised I want you again?”
“We literally just finished—”
“And I’m already thinking about round two.” His hands slid down to cup your ass. “And three. And four. We have all night, baby. No work tomorrow. No interruptions. Just you and me and this view and a very comfortable bed inside.”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.” He kissed you, deep and slow. “Now, shower, dinner and then I’m taking you apart in that massive bed. Sound good?”
It sounded perfect, actually. Even if your husband had apparently turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation. Especially because your husband had turned into a sex-crazed maniac since the baby conversation.
“One condition,” you said as he started leading you inside.
“Anything.”
“When we get home, we’re making a doctor’s appointment. To make sure we’re doing everything right. That I’m healthy. All of it.”
His expression softened. “Of course. Whatever you need. I’ll set it up as soon as we’re back.”
“And maybe—” you bit your lip, “—maybe we dial it back just a little? Don’t get me wrong, I love the enthusiasm, but I’d like to still be able to walk when we get home.”
He grinned. “No promises but I’ll try.”
“That’s all I ask.”
As he pulled you inside to the shower, his hands already wandering again, you thought about how much had changed in just a few weeks. Your controlled, measured husband had been replaced by someone who couldn’t keep his hands off you. Who fucked you on balconies and whispered filthy promises about getting you pregnant. Who looked at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.
The test from last week had been negative. You’d both been disappointed but not surprised, these things took time but watching Seungcheol now, the way he touched you with reverence even as his eyes promised wickedness, you knew something had fundamentally shifted between you.
This wasn’t just about making a baby anymore. It was about the intensity of wanting something together. About the intimacy of trying. About how the goal had somehow made everything—every touch, every kiss, every time he was inside you—feel weighted with meaning and possibility.
“What are you thinking about?” he asked, soaping your shoulders.
“About how that drunk conversation might have been the best terrible decision I ever made.”
He laughed. “Oh, it was definitely terrible. But yeah,” he pulled you close, “also the best.”
“Even though I asked if you’d love me as a worm?”
“Especially because you asked if I’d love you as a worm.” He kissed your forehead. “Now come on. We have dinner reservations in an hour and I plan on having you at least twice before then.”
“Twice?! Cheol, we just—”
But he was already lifting you, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically, and honestly? You weren’t complaining, not even a little bit.
Your insatiable, baby-crazy, utterly perfect husband. You wouldn’t change a thing.
You didn’t make it to dinner.
Well, not the reservation anyway. By the time Seungcheol had finished with you in the shower and then carried you to the bed still dripping wet, you were both too boneless and satisfied to even consider getting dressed and going out. Instead, he’d ordered take out—an absurd amount of food—and you’d eaten on the balcony wrapped in plush robes, watching the stars come out over the ocean.
“This is nice,” you murmured, stealing a bite of his dessert. “Romantic. Almost makes me forget you’ve turned into a caveman.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Caveman?”
“Mhm.” You grinned. “Me want baby. Me fuck wife constantly. Me carry wife everywhere because wife can’t walk—”
He silenced you with a kiss, tasting like chocolate and coconut. “I don’t hear you complaining when I’m making you come.”
“That’s because my brain stops working when you’re making me come.”
“Mission accomplished then.” His hand found yours on the table, fingers interlacing. “But seriously, are we okay? This isn’t too much?”
You squeezed his hand. “We’re more than okay. I promise. Yes, you’ve been insatiable. Yes, I’m going to need a week to recover when we get home. But Cheol,” you met his eyes, “I love seeing you like this. Passionate. Uninhibited. It’s like you’ve finally let yourself want something without overthinking it.”
“I want you,” he said simply. “I want our family and yeah, maybe I’ve gone a little crazy about it, but…” he shrugged, unapologetic, “I’m not sorry.”
“Good.” You stood, letting your robe slip off your shoulders. “Because I’m not done with you yet either.”
His eyes went dark, tracking the fall of fabric. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You moved to straddle his lap, the balmy night air warm on your skin. “We have four more days in paradise. Might as well make the most of them.”
“Four more days,” he repeated, hands spanning your waist. “Think we can set a record?”
“For what? Most times having sex in a single vacation?”
“I was thinking most creative locations, but that works too.” His thumbs traced circles on your hipbones. “There’s the beach at night. The private pool. That hammock near the—”
“You’ve been planning this.”
“Maybe.” He pulled you down for a kiss. “Can you blame me? My beautiful wife, a tropical paradise, and no responsibilities for four whole days? I’m going to worship you in every way possible.”
And he did.
You woke to his mouth between your thighs, the sunrise painting the room in shades of gold and pink. He brought you to orgasm twice before you were even fully awake and then pulled you into the shower where he took you against the tiles while water cascaded over you both.
Breakfast was served on the balcony, and you made it through most of your meal before he was pulling you onto his lap, pushing your sundress up, filling you while you clutched his shoulders and tried to keep quiet.
“Love you like this,” he murmured against your neck as you rode him slowly. “Sun-kissed, desperate and so fucking wet for me.”
“Always wet for you,” you gasped. “Can’t help it.”
“Good.” His hands guided your hips, helping you find the perfect angle. “Never want you any other way.”
Later, he kept his promise about the hammock. You’d been reading peacefully in the shade when he appeared with that look in his eyes and suddenly your book was forgotten as he stripped you down and arranged you across the swaying fabric.
“Cheol, this is going to tip—”
“I’ve got you,” he promised and he did, holding the hammock steady as he knelt between your legs and proved that his mouth was just as talented as the rest of him. By the time he finally entered you, you were already trembling, oversensitive, and the gentle sway of the hammock with each thrust was unlike anything you’d experienced.
“This is insane,” you laughed breathlessly.
“This is perfect,” he corrected and the way he looked at you—like you were the only thing in his universe—made your chest tight with emotion.
His morning meeting ran long and you’d gone down to the beach alone, content to swim and sunbathe and give your body a much-needed break. You should have known better. You were waist-deep in the crystal-clear water when you felt arms wrap around you from behind.
“Meeting over?” you asked, leaning back against his chest.
“Cancelled the rest.” His lips found that spot behind your ear that made you shiver. “Told them it was a family emergency.”
“Cheol! You can’t just—”
“Can’t just what? Choose my wife over a conference call about quarterly projections?” His hand slid down your stomach, disappearing beneath the water. “Pretty sure I can since y’know, I’m the boss.”
“Someone could see—”
“No one’s around.” And he was right—the beach was completely empty, the nearest people just tiny dots in the distance. “And you’re wearing this bikini. This tiny, barely-there bikini. What did you expect?”
“I expected to swim peacefully—oh—”
His fingers had found their target, working you expertly while his other arm banded around your waist, holding you against him.
“Can you be quiet?” he murmured. “Or are you going to let the whole beach know how good I make you feel?”
You bit your lip, trying desperately to stay silent as he worked you closer to the edge. The water lapped around you, warm and gentle and the contrast between the peaceful setting and what he was doing to you was almost too much.
“That’s it,” he encouraged. “Come for me, baby. Right here in the ocean where anyone could see how desperate you are for me.”
You came with a strangled gasp, your legs giving out and only his arm around your waist kept you upright.
“Good girl,” he praised, turning you around. “Now, think you can stay quiet while I fuck you?”
You couldn’t, as it turned out but the beach stayed empty, and Seungcheol didn’t seem to mind your breathless cries as he lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he entered you in the warm, shallow water.
The private pool became his new favorite place. You’d lost count of how many times he’d taken you there; bent over the edge, pressed against the infinity wall overlooking the ocean, on the submerged lounger, against the smooth rocks of the artificial waterfall.
“We’re never leaving,” he declared as the sun set on your last full day. “I’m cancelling our flights. We live here now.”
“We have jobs,” you reminded him, though you were currently in his lap in the pool, still joined, neither of you in any hurry to move.
“We’ll work remotely. I’ll buy this villa. We’ll raise our kids here.”
“Kids, plural?”
“At least three.” His hands slid over your belly, possessive and tender. “Maybe four.”
“Let’s start with one,” you laughed. “See how we do.”
“We’ll do perfectly.” He kissed you slowly. “You’re going to be an amazing mother.”
“And you’re going to be an amazing father.” You cupped his face. “Even if you are a sex-crazed maniac right now.”
“Only for you,” he promised. “Only ever for you.”
You woke early, bodies tangled together, the sound of waves your only alarm. Seungcheol was already awake, watching you with that soft expression that still made your heart skip.
“Morning,” you murmured.
“Morning.” He brushed hair from your face. “Last day.”
“Don’t remind me.” You snuggled closer. “I’m not ready to go back to reality.”
“Me neither.” His hand found your belly again,it was becoming a habit. “But we’ll take this with us. This feeling. This certainty.”
“The certainty that you can’t keep your hands off me?”
“The certainty that we’re ready for this. For our family. For our future.” He shifted, rolling you beneath him. “And yeah, also the certainty that I’ll never get enough of you.”
The morning light filtered through the curtains as he made love to you slowly, tenderly, so different from the frantic desperation of the past few days. This was soft and sweet and full of promise.
“I love you,” he whispered against your lips. “So much. More than I can say.”
“I love you too,” you breathed. “Even when you’re being insane.”
“Especially when I’m being insane,” he corrected with a grin and as you lay together afterward, wrapped in each other and the morning warmth, you thought about the past few weeks. The conversation that started it all. The shift in your relationship. The intensity and passion and sheer want of it all.
You still didn’t know if you were pregnant yet. Wouldn’t know for another week at least but somehow, it didn’t matter as much as you thought it would. Because you had this. Had him. Had the absolute certainty that whatever happened, you were in it together. Even if your husband had apparently developed a permanent breeding kink in the process. You could think of worse problems to have.
“Round two?” Seungcheol murmured hopefully against your neck.
You laughed. “We have to pack. And check out. And catch a flight.”
“So that’s a yes to a quickie before all that?”
“You’re impossible.”
“You love it.”
And because he was right—because you did love it, loved him, loved this new chapter you were writing together—you pulled him down for a kiss.
“Make it quick,” you warned. “We actually do need to pack.”
His answering grin was wicked. “Oh baby, I haven’t done anything quick with you since university.”
He was right about that too. You missed your flight but honestly?
Totally worth it.
The next few months go by in blur of your everyday life and the fact that you and your husband behaved like two virgins in a whorehouse at every given opportunity. He had somewhat simmered down, a work project keeping him busy and away from you for the past month.
You knew he was stressed so tonight you had planned to treat him, leaving work early to set up everything and it was well worth it when he comes through the door of your home calling out for you. He asks what smells so good before he stops when he takes in the way you’re dressed, in that cherry red dress he loves, and his mind starts wandering to important dates.
“Did I forget something?”
You turn from the stove, wooden spoon in hand and can’t help but smile at the panic already creeping into his expression. Seungcheol stands frozen in the doorway, briefcase still in hand, tie loosened, eyes frantically scanning you for clues.
“Did I forget—” he starts again, more urgently this time. “Is it our anniversary? Your birthday? Some other important—”
“Relax,” you interrupt, setting down the spoon and crossing to him. “You didn’t forget anything.”
“Then why are you wearing that dress?” His eyes drag over you, taking in the cherry red fabric that hugs every curve, the neckline that shows just enough to be distracting. “You only wear that dress for special occasions.”
“Maybe I just wanted to look nice for my husband,” you say innocently, reaching up to loosen his tie the rest of the way. “Is that a crime?”
His hands find your waist automatically, pulling you closer. “You’re up to something.”
“Maybe.” You stretch up to kiss him softly. “Or maybe I just missed you. You’ve been working so much lately.”
Something in his expression shifts, guilt mixing with exhaustion. “I know. This project has been insane. I’m sorry, baby. I’ve barely been home and when I am, I’m usually passed out or distracted—”
“Which is exactly why I wanted to do something nice tonight.” You smooth your hands over his chest. “So,no work talk. No stress. Just dinner, wine, and your wife who’s been very lonely without you.”
His eyes darken at that. “Lonely?”
“Mhmm.” You let your fingers trail down his abdomen. “Very lonely. Do you know how long it’s been since you’ve touched me?”
“Twenty-two days,” he says immediately and you blink in surprise.
“You’ve been counting?”
“Of course I’ve been counting.” His grip tightens on your waist. “You think I haven’t noticed? That I haven’t been dying every night, coming home to you already asleep, leaving before you wake up? I’ve been going insane.”
“Have you?” You press closer, feeling him already starting to respond. “Because you seemed pretty absorbed in your work.”
“The only reason I’ve been able to focus on work is because I’ve been channeling all my sexual frustration into spreadsheets and project timelines.” His forehead drops to yours. “I’ve missed you so much. Missed this. Missed touching you.”
“Well,” you slide your hands up to his shoulders, “dinner’s going to take another twenty minutes. Whatever shall we do to pass the time?”
“Twenty minutes?” He’s already backing you toward the counter. “I can work with twenty minutes.”
“Cheol,” you laugh as he lifts you onto the granite, “we eat here.”
“We’ve done worse shit here.” He’s already pushing your dress up your thighs, and his eyes go even darker when he discovers what you’re not wearing. “No underwear. You really were planning this.”
“Maybe I was planning to torture you through dinner,” you tease. “Make you wait. Make you suffer.”
“Fuck that.” He drops to his knees, pulling you to the edge of the counter. “I’ve suffered enough. Now I’m collecting.”
Your protest dies as his mouth finds you and suddenly the simmering pots on the stove are the last thing on your mind.
Dinner is slightly overcooked by the time you both make it to the table—flushed, disheveled, and thoroughly satisfied. Seungcheol keeps apologizing for ruining your perfect meal but you just laugh and pour more wine.
“It’s fine,” you assure him, serving the pasta that’s only a little too soft. “This was kind of the plan anyway.”
“To seduce me before dinner?”
“To remind you that I still exist.” You raise your glass. “That we exist. Outside of work and stress and trying to conceive and everything else.”
His expression softens. “I know we exist. I always know that.”
“But you’ve been distant,” you say gently. “And I get it, this project has been huge, and you’re under a lot of pressure but Cheol…” you reach across the table for his hand, “I’ve missed my husband. Not just the sex, though yes, definitely that but you. Talking to you. Laughing with you. Just being with you.”
He squeezes your hand, looking guilty. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize—I thought I was handling it okay, but I guess I’ve been shutting you out.”
“A little bit,” you admit. “And I know it’s not intentional. You get focused on work and everything else fades but we can’t let that happen, especially not now when we’re trying to start a family.”
“You’re right.” He stands, moving his chair closer to yours so he can pull you against his side. “I’m sorry. Really. The project wraps up next week, and then I’m all yours. No more late nights. No more missing dinner. No more—”
“No more twenty-two day dry spells?” you supply with a grin.
“Especially no more dry spells.” His hand slides up your thigh. “In fact, I think I need to make up for lost time.”
“We haven’t even finished dinner.”
“We can reheat it.” He’s already pulling you into his lap. “Right now, I need to apologize properly to my wife for neglecting her.”
“How do you plan to do that?”
His smile turns wicked. “I have some ideas.”
You’re curled up on the couch together, plates pushed aside, wine glasses empty, and you’re finally feeling like you have your husband back.
“So,” Seungcheol says, his hand tracing lazy patterns on your bare shoulder; your dress didn’t survive the transition from dining room to living room, “I actually have something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Hmm?” You’re pleasantly drowsy, content in a way you haven’t been in weeks.
“About the baby thing.”
That gets your attention. You sit up a little, looking at him. “What about it?”
He’s quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “We’ve been trying for almost three months now. And I know that’s not that long in the grand scheme of things, but…I don’t know. I guess I thought it would happen faster.”
Your chest tightens. You’ve been thinking the same thing but haven’t wanted to say it out loud. “Yeah. Me too.”
“And I was thinking—maybe we should make that doctor’s appointment. Like you said. Just to make sure everything’s okay. That we’re doing everything right.”
“Okay,” you agree softly. “Yeah, we can do that.”
“I’m not worried,” he adds quickly. “I mean, I am a little worried, but mostly I just want to be proactive. Make sure we’re giving ourselves the best chance.”
You cup his face, making him look at you. “Hey. Three months is nothing. The doctor will probably tell us to keep trying and come back in a year if nothing happens.”
“I know, but—” he breaks off, frustrated. “I just want this so badly. Want to give you this and every time another month goes by and the test is negative, I feel like I’m failing somehow.”
“You’re not failing,” you say firmly. “This isn’t something we can control. It happens when it happens.”
“I know that in my head. But in my heart,” his hand finds your belly, “I’m impatient.”
“I’ve noticed,” you tease gently. “The whole ‘acting like virgins in a whorehouse’ thing kind of gave it away.”
He huffs a laugh. “Was I that bad?”
“You were that eager,” you correct. “Which was actually pretty hot. Still is, when you’re not drowning in spreadsheets.”
“No more spreadsheets,” he promises. “Project’s almost done, and then I’m taking some time off. We’ll go somewhere. Relax. Maybe not having so much stress will help.”
“Maybe.” You kiss him softly. “But either way, we’re in this together, okay? Whether it happens next month or next year, we’ll figure it out.”
“Together,” he agrees, pulling you closer.
You settle back against his chest, his heartbeat steady under your ear, and try to ignore the small kernel of worry that’s been growing with each negative test.
Three months isn’t that long but it feels longer when you want something so badly. When every month brings hope and then disappointment. When you see the look on your husband’s face each time that single line appears instead of two.
“Hey,” Seungcheol murmurs, as if reading your thoughts. “No spiraling. We’re okay.”
“We’re okay,” you repeat.
And you are, you will be. Even if it takes longer than expected. Even if the road is harder than you hoped. You have him, and he has you, and that’s what matters.
Everything else will come in time, you just have to keep believing that.
Seungcheol had accompanied you to your usual checkup with your doctor and you’re currently waiting for your results to come back. When she enters with your files there’s a look on her face you can’t really read.
“Is there something wrong?” Seungcheol asks, his hand squeezing yours tighter.
“Well, that depends Mr. Choi,” she says before turning to you. “This happens quite often and I know it can be a shock, but I hope you both will make the decision that suits you best.”
The suspense is killing you and before you can ask what she means she says “Mrs. Choi, did you know that you’re three months pregnant?”
“Que?”
You must be hearing things. You took tests, hell you had a period two weeks ago. The room tilts slightly, and you’re glad you’re already sitting down.
“I’m—what?” Your voice comes out strangled, disbelieving. “That’s not—I can’t be. I’ve been having my period.”
Dr. Kim’s expression softens with understanding. “What you experienced was likely implantation bleeding and spotting, which can be mistaken for a light period. It’s more common than you’d think. Based on your blood work and the ultrasound we just did, you’re measuring at about twelve weeks.”
“Twelve weeks,” you repeat numbly. Your mind is racing, trying to do the math. Twelve weeks ago was…
“Hawaii,” Seungcheol breathes beside you, and when you look at him, his face has gone pale. “That was twelve weeks ago.”
Dr. Kim pulls up something on her computer screen, turning it so you can see and there it is. A tiny blob on the screen, barely distinguishable, but with a flickering white spot in the center.
“That’s the heartbeat,” Dr. Kim says gently, pointing. “Strong and healthy.”
Your own heart seems to stop entirely.
“But—” you’re struggling to process this, “—I’ve taken at least four pregnancy tests in the past two months. They were all negative.”
“How early were you testing?”
“I don’t know—a few days before my period? And then after what I thought was my period…”
“That’s likely why. Some women don’t produce enough HCG hormone early on for home tests to detect. It’s rare, but it happens.” Dr. Kim’s smile is warm, reassuring. “But your levels now are exactly where they should be for twelve weeks. You’re pregnant, Mrs. Choi. Congratulations.”
The word hangs in the air between you and Seungcheol.
Pregnant. You’re pregnant. You’ve been pregnant for three months and didn’t know.
“I—” your voice cracks, “—I’ve been drinking coffee. And I had wine at dinner last week. And I, oh god, I’ve been taking ibuprofen for my headaches—”
“Hey, hey,” Dr. Kim interrupts gently. “Let’s take a breath. Small amounts of caffeine are fine. One glass of wine before you knew won’t hurt anything. And occasional ibuprofen, while not ideal, isn’t going to cause problems at this stage. Your baby looks perfectly healthy.”
Your baby.
“I can’t—” you turn to Seungcheol, and the expression on his face nearly breaks you. He looks stunned, overwhelmed, and like he might cry at any moment. “Cheol—”
“We’re having a baby,” he says, voice rough with emotion. “We’re actually…holy shit, we’re having a baby.” And then he is crying, tears streaming down his face as he pulls you into a tight embrace.
“You said there was a decision to make?” Seungcheol asks suddenly, pulling back and looking at Dr. Kim with concern. “Is something wrong? You said—”
“Oh, no—I’m sorry, I worded that poorly.” Dr. Kim looks apologetic. “I just meant that unexpected pregnancies can be a shock, and I wanted to make sure you knew you had options. But if this is welcome news—”
“It’s welcome,” you say immediately, even as your hands are shaking. “Very welcome. We’ve been trying. We just—we didn’t know it had already worked.”
“Well then—truly, congratulations.” Dr. Kim starts printing out information. “I’m going to refer you to an OB for your ongoing care. You’ll want to schedule your first official prenatal appointment within the next week or two. I’m printing out the ultrasound photo for you, and some information about what to expect in your first trimester—though you’re already almost through it.”
Almost through the first trimester. You’re almost through the first trimester and you had no idea.
“Can you—” your voice is shaky, “—can you print two copies of the ultrasound? Please?”
“Of course.” Dr. Kim smiles knowingly. “Most parents want several.”
Parents. You’re going to be parents. The rest of the appointment passes in a blur. Dr. Kim goes over nutrition, what to expect, warning signs to watch for, answering questions that Seungcheol asks because you seem to have lost the ability to form coherent sentences.
By the time you make it back to the car, you’re both silent, clutching the ultrasound photos like lifelines. Seungcheol doesn’t start the car. Just sits there, staring at the grainy black and white image in his hands.
“We made this,” he finally says, voice thick. “In Hawaii. In that villa with the ocean view. We made our baby.”
“All those times,” you whisper, then laugh slightly hysterically. “All those months we kept trying, and it had already happened. We were already pregnant during—oh my god, we were pregnant when you bent me over the dining room table last month—”
“And in the shower last week,” he adds, then starts laughing too, slightly wild. “And on the counter. And—Jesus, we’ve been having incredibly athletic sex while pregnant.”
“Dr. Kim said it’s fine—”
“I know, I just—” he runs a hand through his hair, “—I can’t believe we didn’t know. How did we not know?”
“I don’t know.” You’re staring at your own copy of the ultrasound, at that tiny blob that’s apparently your baby. Your baby who’s been growing inside you for weeks while you had no idea. “I feel like I should have known. Like my body should have told me somehow.”
“Hey.” Seungcheol reaches over, taking your hand. “This is okay, right? This is—we wanted this.”
“We wanted this,” you confirm, squeezing back. “I’m just…I’m in shock. Are you in shock?”
“Completely.” He brings your hand to his lips. “But also, baby, we’re having a baby. We’re actually having a baby.”
The reality of it starts to sink in, and suddenly you’re crying too. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears, scared tears, all mixed together.
“We’re having a baby,” you repeat, and it feels more real each time you say it. “In—oh god, when? When am I due?”
Seungcheol scrambles for the paperwork Dr. Kim gave you. “It says…June. June tenth. Holy shit, that’s only six months away.”
“Six months.” You press a hand to your stomach, which still looks completely normal. “There’s a baby in there. Right now. With a heartbeat.”
“The fastest heartbeat in the world,” Seungcheol says, smiling through his tears. “Did you hear how fast it was going? Like they’re already excited to meet us.”
“They.” The pronoun makes it more real somehow. “We’re going to have a tiny human. Who depends on us for everything. Who we’re responsible for.”
“Are you freaking out?” he asks gently.
“Little bit. You?”
“Completely.” But he’s smiling, radiant, more happy than you’ve ever seen him. “But also,I’ve never been more excited about anything in my life.” You lean over the center console to kiss him, tasting salt from both your tears and his.
“We’re going to be parents,” you whisper against his lips.
“Best parents ever,” he promises. “This kid is going to be so loved.”
“So spoiled.”
“That too.” He pulls back just enough to cup your face. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For this. For giving me this. For—” his voice breaks, “—for making me a father.”
“Cheol—” now you’re really crying, “—you did half the work.”
“Yeah, but you’re the one growing them. Carrying them. Creating an entire human being inside you.” His hand moves to your stomach, reverent. “You’re incredible.”
“Ask me again in four months when I’m huge and miserable and demanding pickles at 3 AM.”
“Still incredible.” He kisses you again. “Now, we need to celebrate. And tell people. And—oh god, my mom is going to lose her mind. Your mom is going to cry. Jeonghan is going to make fun of me for crying earlier—”
“We don’t have to tell anyone right away,” you interrupt. “I’m only twelve weeks. A lot can still—” you can’t finish the sentence, but he understands.
“You’re right. We’ll wait. Just, maybe a little longer? Until we’re into the second trimester?”
“Which is only a few more weeks now,” you realize. “We’re already almost there.”
“We’re already almost there,” he repeats wonderingly. Then, more firmly, “Okay, new plan. We go home. We process this. We maybe have a minor freak out and then we start planning.”
“Planning what?”
“Everything.” His smile is infectious. “Nursery. Names. Parenting books. Baby-proofing. Everything we need to do in the next six months to get ready for this tiny human who’s apparently already been along for the ride.”
You look down at the ultrasound again, at that flickering heartbeat frozen in time. Your baby. Made in paradise, growing in secret, already loved beyond measure.
“Let’s go home,” you say softly.
Seungcheol finally starts the car, but before he pulls out, he looks at you one more time.
“I love you,” he says. “You and our little blob.”
“I love you too.” You press your hand over his on your stomach. “All three of us.” And as he drives home, both of you stealing glances at the ultrasound photos, you think about how everything has changed in the span of one appointment.
All those months of trying.
All that hoping and waiting and disappointment and it had already worked.
Your baby had been there all along, growing quietly, waiting to surprise you. Just like everything else with Seungcheol—unexpected, intense, and absolutely perfect.
Even if you had been doing very athletic things while pregnant without knowing it.
You’d probably need to apologize to your baby for that eventually but for now, you just hold the ultrasound close and let yourself feel it.
Pure, overwhelming joy.
You’re going to be a mom and Seungcheol is going to be a dad. In six months, your family of two is going to become three.
Best surprise ever.
You both still haven’t told anyone and it’s been two months since you found out. Your body hasn’t changed much but your need for your husband has which has made Seungcheol work from home twice now and this morning is no different when he wakes up with your mouth on him.
Seungcheol wakes slowly, consciousness returning in gradual waves. There’s warmth, wetness, and a familiar pressure that has him groaning before he’s even fully awake.
“Fuck, baby—” His hand instinctively goes to your hair as his hips jerk involuntarily. You’re under the covers, between his legs and the sight when he lifts the duvet nearly finishes him right there—your eyes meeting his as you take him deeper.
“What are you—oh god—what time is it?”
You pull off with an obscene pop, your hand replacing your mouth as you stroke him slowly. “About six thirty. You have a meeting at nine.”
“Then why are you—” his words cut off as you lick a stripe up his length, “—trying to kill me?”
“Because,” you pause to take him in your mouth again, working him in that way that makes his brain short-circuit, before pulling back, “ I need you…again.”
“Again?” His laugh is strained. “Baby, love we went three rounds last night. How are you—”
“Pregnant,” you finish, crawling up his body. You’re wearing one of his t-shirts and nothing else and when you straddle him, he can feel how wet you already are. “I’m pregnant and my hormones are insane and I can’t stop thinking about you inside me.”
“Not complaining,” he manages, hands gripping your hips as you position yourself above him. “Just concerned about your poor—Jesus—”
You sink down on him in one smooth motion and his concern evaporates. You’re so wet, so ready, that he slides in effortlessly despite no preparation.
“Fuck, you feel good,” you moan, starting to move. “So good. Why do you always feel so good?”
Seungcheol can’t answer because his brain has officially stopped working. You’re riding him in the early morning light, his t-shirt riding up to reveal the slight swell of your stomach, barely visible but there. Evidence of your baby growing inside you.
His baby. The thought still makes him feral.
“That’s it,” he encourages, helping you find your rhythm. “Take what you need. Use me.”
And you do, you ride him with an urgency that’s become familiar over the past two months. Dr. Kim had warned you that increased libido was common in the second trimester, but this was beyond anything either of you expected. Not that Seungcheol is complaining.
“Cheol,” you’re already close, he can tell by the way you’re clenching around him, “touch me, please.”
His thumb finds your clit, circling with practiced pressure and you come apart with a cry that could wake the neighbors. He follows seconds later, pulling you down onto him as he empties inside you. You collapse on his chest, both of you breathing hard.
“I’m calling in sick,” he announces.
“You can’t. You have that important meeting—”
“Then you’re coming to the home office with me,” he decides, rolling you both over so he’s hovering above you. “Because if the past two months have taught me anything, it’s that you’re going to need me again in approximately—” he checks his watch, “—two hours and I’d rather be here than trying to take a ‘lunch break’ or hoping my camera stays off.”
You laugh, remembering last week when he’d had to abruptly mute himself because you’d walked into his office wearing nothing but a smile.
“That was your fault for working from home in grey sweatpants,” you point out.
“Everything is apparently my fault now.” But he’s smiling as he says it, pressing kisses down your neck. “You needed water at 3 AM? My fault for getting you pregnant. Your jeans don’t fit? My fault. You cried at that commercial with the puppy? Definitely my fault.”
“It was a very sad commercial,” you defend, even as you’re arching into his kisses. “And yes, this is literally all your fault. You and your—” you gesture vaguely at him, “—your everything.”
“My everything?” He’s laughing now, working his way down your body.
“Your face. Your body. Your—Cheol, what are you doing?”
“Well—” he settles between your thighs, “—if I’m working from home anyway, might as well make sure you’re thoroughly satisfied before my first meeting.”
“You just…we literally just—”
“And you’re going to need me again soon anyway,” he points out reasonably. “Might as well get ahead of it.” His mouth finds you and your protests dissolve into moans.
Seungcheol is forty-five minutes into his video call when you appear in the doorway of his office. He sees you in his peripheral vision and tries to focus on the presentation his colleague is giving but you’re wearing that look. That needy, desperate, “I need you right now” look.
He mutes himself and mouths, After this meeting.
You pout. Actually pout. Then you do something that nearly makes him fall out of his chair; you pull up your dress to show him your stomach, running your hand over the small bump. It’s not fair. It’s biological warfare. You know exactly what seeing you like that does to him.
He unmutes. “Actually, I need to step away for a moment. Personal emergency. Give me ten minutes?”
His colleagues agree—they know he’s been working from home more lately—and he kills his camera and mic before you’ve even crossed the room.
“Ten minutes,” he warns as you climb into his lap. “That’s all we have.”
“Then you better make it count,” you challenge, already undoing his belt.
He does.
“We need to tell people,” Seungcheol says over lunch. You’re both in the kitchen, you’re eating pickles and bacon cream cheese spread—a combination that horrifies him but apparently makes perfect sense to your pregnant brain—and he’s trying not to watch in fascinated disgust.
“I know,” you agree around a mouthful of your horrible creation. “We said we’d wait until after the first trimester, and we’re at—what? Fifteen weeks now?”
“Sixteen tomorrow,” he corrects. He’s been tracking it religiously, has an app on his phone that tells him how big the baby is each week. Currently, the size of an avocado.
“Sixteen weeks,” you repeat. “And I’m starting to show. Like, actually show. I can’t hide it in loose clothes forever.”
“You look beautiful,” he says immediately.
“I look pregnant.”
“Beautiful and pregnant.” He comes around the island to wrap his arms around you from behind, his hands spanning your small bump. “Best combination ever.”
You lean back into him. “Your mom is going to cry.”
“My mom is going to plan the entire baby’s life before they’re even born,” he corrects. “Your mom is going to cry.”
“Both our moms are going to lose their minds,” you decide. “And then they’re going to become best friends over baby shopping.”
“Jeonghan is going to make fun of me.”
“Hannie’s going to be the uncle who teaches our kid bad habits.”
Seungcheol groans. “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe we don’t tell anyone. Just let them figure it out when you go into labor.”
“Cheol.”
“Fine.” He kisses your temple. “This weekend? We’ll have both families over. Tell them together?”
“Together,” you agree. Then, after a pause, “Are you scared?”
“Terrified,” he admits. “But also, this is real now. We’re really doing this. In four and a half months, we’re going to have a baby. Our baby and I want to share that with people. Want everyone to know how happy I am.”
You turn in his arms, looking up at him. “Even though I keep attacking you at inappropriate times?”
“Especially because you keep attacking me at inappropriate times.” He grins. “Though maybe we should warn the doctor at your next appointment. Make sure this is…you know. Normal.”
“I already asked,” you admit, blushing. “Last appointment while you were filling out paperwork. She said it’s completely normal and actually healthy.”
“Healthy,” he repeats, smirking. “So really, we’re just being responsible parents-to-be.”
“Exactly, very responsible.”
“Speaking of responsible—” his hands slide down to cup your ass, “—I think I have another meeting in an hour. Which means we have time—”
“On the counter?” you ask hopefully.
“Wherever you want,” he promises, already lifting you.
The pickles and cream cheese are forgotten as he makes good on his promise and later—much later—when he’s finally back at his computer for his afternoon meetings, you curl up on the couch in his office with a blanket and one of your pregnancy books.
This has become your routine over the past two months. Him working, you nearby and periodic breaks for the insatiable need that’s apparently a hallmark of your second trimester. It’s chaotic and wonderful and occasionally makes him miss important conference calls but he wouldn’t change a thing.
This is his life now. His pregnant wife who can’t keep her hands off him. His baby growing bigger every day. His future taking shape in ways he couldn’t have imagined a year ago. All because of one drunk conversation about worms and ovulation and wanting his babies.
Best conversation ever. Even if it did result in him having to work from home regularly because his wife has turned into an insatiable pregnant goddess. He glances over at you, at the small bump visible even under the blanket and feels that now-familiar surge of overwhelming love.
Four and a half months until they meet their baby but first, telling their families this weekend and surviving whatever chaos that brings.
synopsis: your dating history had been nothing but bad sex and even worse goodbyes. he showed you a patience and certainty that silenced every doubt, proving that you weren’t hard to love; you’d been loved by him all along.
wc: 10.5k
warnings: 18+, explicit sexual content | oral (f. receiving), unprotected sex, dom!mingyu, sub!reader, soft power play, heavy praise kink, multiple orgasms | best friends to lovers, swearing, fluff, aftercare.
authors note: i’ve been wanting to post a mingyu fic for ages now, and as i was going through some of my older fics, this one gave me insane mingyu energy and i had no other choice but to rewrite it for him! this is a rewrite of my fic ‘tears’, and yes, the plot is based on the sabrina carpenter song! i hope that you all enjoy this as much as i do, and as always, please feel free to let me know what you think! ♡
you weren’t heartbroken; that would’ve implied there was something left to break.
you’d been on dates.
enough of them to know when there wouldn't be a second one before the drinks even hit the table.
enough to hear the same compliments repeated back to you like a script.
enough to recognize the tone men used when they were trying to impress you without actually learning anything real.
you’d slept with some of them, too.
sometimes because you wanted to. sometimes because you were desperate for relief. sometimes just to prove to yourself that you could still feel something, even if it didn’t last.
you weren’t bitter. you didn’t walk around openly hating men or rolling your eyes at every couple on the street.
you just didn’t have it in you anymore.
the hope. the performance. the energy it took to pretend someone’s bare minimum was enough.
so when you got home from yet another date that left you completely drained, you didn’t even bother with the lights.
you left your bag by the door, kicked your shoes aside, and sank onto the kitchen floor with a box of cookies at your side.
you weren’t heartbroken. you weren’t even sad. it was quieter than that; almost like resignation.
maybe it wasn’t that love never came; maybe it was that you were never the kind of person people stayed for.
being alone didn’t scare you.
what scared you was how much work it always seemed to take to avoid it.
every man felt like a mirror you kept wiping down, but no matter how clean you made it, the image was never your own.
it was smudged with their ego, clouded by their expectations, and warped by the way they looked at you like you were a puzzle they were entitled to solve.
you were tired of carving yourself down. of softening your edges. of apologizing for being too much or not enough.
tired of folding yourself smaller and smaller until there was nothing left of you at all, except whatever version might finally be enough to make someone stay.
your phone buzzed against the counter, a small sound that cut through the stillness and broke the spiral of your thoughts.
you kept your focus on the cookies in your lap, thumb working over the cardboard as though the solution to all of your problems might appear if you traced it long enough.
until it buzzed again. then again. and again.
you let out a weary sigh and reached for the phone, answering blindly, not bothering to see who it was before lifting it to your ear.
mostly because you already knew who was on the other end of the line.
“hi,” you said, voice low and a little scratchy from disuse.
“you sound like shit,” mingyu replied, warm and easy.
you smiled without meaning to. “thanks.”
fabric shifted on his end, a soft thud like he was throwing himself deeper into a couch.
“you didn’t text me today,” he spoke, not accusing, just noticing.
“mm,” you agreed quietly. “didn’t really feel like it.”
a quiet hum of understanding slipped out before his voice turned lighter. “hold on. didn’t you have that date tonight? with moustache guy?”
you shut your eyes. “unfortunately.”
“so…how bad was it?” he asked, already seeming to know the answer.
your head tipped back against the cupboard, the cool surface steadying you for a moment. “he called me dramatic,” you muttered, eyes fixed on the ceiling.
“ouch.” he made the sound like a real wince. “what’d you do, insult his shirt?”
despite yourself, you let out a small laugh. “no. i just didn’t want to sleep with him.”
the quiet that followed was brief, but you felt it; he was biting back his first thought and thinking of something more appropriate to say.
“ah,” he said finally, voice dry. “god forbid you make a decision about your own body.”
you snorted, the sound sharp in your throat. “right? how dare i.”
“so you blocked him?” he asked, though it sounded more like certainty than a question.
“while he was walking me home,” you admitted, reaching into the box for another stale cookie.
his laugh rolled through the receiver, low and warm. “brutal and efficient…i respect it.”
the sound pulled a laugh out of you too, small and worn around the edges, before it faded back into quiet.
his voice softened in the pause. “you doing okay, though?”
you hesitated, not because you didn’t want to tell him, but because you couldn’t figure out how to shape the heaviness in your chest into words.
“i’m tired,” you said at last, the words too small for what you actually meant. “not just tonight, though. it’s the kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix.”
“mm,” his agreement was soft, a sound that told you he knew exactly what that felt like, and that he’d been there more times than he could count.
his breathing stayed steady in your ear, present in a way that made the silence feel less empty.
“how did you even know it went badly?” the question slipped out before you could stop it.
“because you picked up,” he answered simply, as if that explained everything.
you frowned at the ceiling, not satisfied. “that doesn’t even make sense.”
there was movement on his end again, the soft rustle of fabric and a dull thud in the background, though his voice never faltered.
“you never pick up during good dates,” he reasoned. a pause stretched, just long enough for the smile in his voice to be obvious. “not that you’ve ever actually had one.”
your mouth fell open, half offended, half amused. “you are such an asshole.”
“tell me i’m wrong,” the grin in his voice was obvious, even without seeing his face.
you opened your mouth, ready to argue, but nothing came out. you knew he was right.
“yeah. that’s what i thought,” he said, his tone dripping with satisfaction.
“you’re insufferable,” you muttered.
“and correct,” he shot back without missing a beat, the faint shuffle of noise still bleeding through the line.
you squinted, suspicion tugging. “seriously, what are you doing? it sounds like you’re losing a fight with your furniture.”
“i’m coming over,” he said easily, the kind of casual certainty that came from years of getting away with it.
“gyu—” you started, fully ready to argue with him.
“don’t even start,” he cut in. “you’re not winning this one.”
“you don’t have to come,” you mumbled, curling tighter on the kitchen floor. “my apartment is a disaster, and i look like i’ve been hit by a bus.”
“cool,” he said, not missing a beat. “and?”
you blinked. “and i don’t want you to see me like this?”
his laugh slipped through, low and amused. “please. i’ve seen worse. like that night you got super wasted, missed the bathroom stall completely, and made me hold your hair while you cried into the toilet about how you were ‘too pretty to suffer like this.’”
you let out a dramatic groan, dragging your palm down your face. “you swore you’d never bring that up again.”
“i lied,” he said, sounding far too pleased with himself. “messy hair and a graveyard of takeout boxes don’t even crack your top ten. i’ve watched you full-body sob during tangled.”
“that was emotional,” you defended.
“it was,” he agreed easily. “your eyes were swollen for hours afterwards.”
“you’re actually unbearable,” you muttered.
“maybe,” he said lightly, “but i’m still coming over. you don’t get to argue with me about it, either. i’m already out of the house.”
you shook your head, pressing the phone tighter to your ear. “this feels like harassment.”
his laugh came easy, smug enough to make your chest tighten in spite of yourself. “yeah, yeah. file a complaint when i get there. i’ll see you in ten.”
he ended the call before you could get another word in.
you stayed on the floor a little longer, the kitchen tiles cool against your legs.
your bra strap had slipped down your arm, the dress from earlier felt too tight, and the lingering scent of ramen from your date was starting to make your stomach turn.
eventually, you peeled yourself off of the floor and padded toward your bedroom, tugging at zippers and straps as you walked.
you made it to your room without bothering to flick on the light.
the soft outline of mingyu’s hoodie was easy to spot in the dark, still draped over your desk chair like it had been waiting for you.
you slipped it on and tugged a pair of cotton shorts from the drawer without bothering to check which ones they were.
you were already turning back towards the kitchen before you’d fully registered the choice; like your body had already decided for you.
the only light came from the lamp in the living room and the soft glow above the stove, casting a dim warmth over the mess you said you’d clean hours ago.
piled up boxes. dirty dishes. the garbage you should have changed yesterday.
none of it was catastrophic; just enough to be annoying.
you lingered in the doorway, taking it all in. like maybe, if you stared hard enough, the mess would clean itself.
you thought about moving. picking up a box, rinsing a dish, doing the bare minimum to prove that you weren't completely useless.
you stood there long enough to accept it wasn't going to happen.
you couldn't help but laugh at how pathetic it all felt.
it was a five minute job at best, yet you still allowed yourself to sink back down to the floor, because avoidance had always came easier than effort.
the apartment was quiet for all of thirty seconds before his voice crashed through it, loud and certain, like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to make an entrance.
“yo,” mingyu called out. “sorry i’m late—traffic was actual hell, and your street is like a one-way to satan. also,” he paused, mostly for dramatic effect, “i brought some noodles and that weird mango drink you like. worship me accordingly.”
you leaned off the cupboards to glance toward the entrance. “you’re not late,” you said flatly. “i told you not to come.”
“and yet,” he replied, already kicking off his shoes. “here i am.”
he crouched down to fix them; heel to toe, perfectly aligned with yours like it was second nature.
it was just shoes. nothing more.
except most men you’d gone out with would’ve kicked them halfway across the floor, expecting you to deal with it later.
the care he gave to something so small shouldn’t have meant anything, but the heat that flickered low in your stomach said otherwise.
you dismissed it just as quickly as it came, telling yourself it was just the bad date making scraps of effort look bigger than they actually were.
with a groan, you tipped onto your back, landing against the tile with a quiet thud. one arm draped across your eyes, the other one splayed out like you’d officially given up. “god, you're annoying.”
“love you too,” he muttered, easing the bags onto the counter, careful not to knock over the leaning tower of unopened mail.
he turned and pulled the fridge open with one hand, already bracing himself. “wow. shredded cheese, expired oat milk, and…ranch? you’ve really outdone yourself.”
“oh my god,” you peeked out from under your arm to glare at him. “i literally had ramen earlier.”
he glanced at the takeout container still sitting on the counter; unopened and untouched.
“that from your date?” he asked, already tugging off the lid. “what, was the guy’s moustache so gross you lost your appetite?”
“can you not,” you sighed, laughter sneaking into your voice despite your best efforts.
he barely reacted. “you didn’t even eat this. the broth has a film.”
you rolled your eyes, not even bothering to argue. “stop inspecting my trash like a raccoon.”
“stop living like a raccoon,” he shot back. “and sit up. this is getting depressing.”
“no,” you said. “maybe i like the floor.”
“my bad,” he said, stepping over you without hesitation. “i’ll leave you two alone, then.”
he picked up your container of ramen you'd abandoned on the counter, emptied the broth into the sink, and scraped the noodles into the trash.
there was no hesitation. no second thought.
only quick, deliberate movements carried out with the kind of ease that came from knowing exactly what needed to be done.
if it were up to you, the container would have gone straight into the trash, broth and all.
yet for some reason, it stayed in his hands.
he held it under the stream of hot water, and watched it spill over the sides until the cloudy film began to dissolve. he made it look so natural, as if rinsing it had always been the obvious choice.
without breaking his rhythm, he crouched down and tugged open the cabinet beneath the sink. his hand slipped inside, bypassing the clutter you usually shoved in there, until his palm landed on the caddy tucked against the wall.
he didn’t fumble or search. his fingers closed around the sponge instantly as he pulled it free in one smooth motion.
you stayed frozen on the floor, eyes locked on the way he worked it over the container.
the water slid over his veins as if it had chosen that path on purpose, dragging your gaze there and daring you to keep staring.
every drop seemed designed to make you notice the strength in his hands and each flex of his fingers, until you couldn’t stop imagining what else they could do if they turned their attention towards you instead.
before you could spiral any further, he rinsed the last of the bubbles away and placed the container neatly into the drying rack, never once glancing in your direction.
he wasn’t doing it for praise. he wasn’t trying to make a point, either.
he simply noticed what needed to be done, and instead of judging you or making you feel guilty for letting it sit, he took care of it himself without needing a single thank you.
it shouldn’t have made your stomach drop. it shouldn’t have made your mouth go dry.
yet the heat was already there, rushing low until you felt the dampness pool against the cotton of your shorts.
you pressed your thighs together, trying to convince yourself it wasn’t as obvious as it felt, but there was no denying it.
your body didn’t care about the logic. it only cared about the way his hands moved, sure and unbothered, as if caring for the mess you’d left behind came easier to him than just leaving it.
your eyes followed him as he moved towards the garbage. he gathered the bag in his hands, twisting it into a knot with an easy strength that made his forearms flex, his muscles shifting with every pull.
it was quick and efficient; the kind of movement that never asked to be noticed.
he placed it by the door, not just to move it out of the way, but with the unspoken intention of taking it out later. the kind of small, thoughtless promise no one else had ever made you.
when he stepped back into the room, you told yourself he had to be finished by now, though every part of you already knew he wasn’t.
the fabric of his sweats pulled tightly across his thighs as he crouched again, reaching for the cabinet.
a new bag rustled open in his hands, his fingers working with quiet certainty as he slipped it into the bin. each edge was pressed down carefully, tucked into place until it held exactly the way you liked it.
a task that should’ve looked mundane somehow carried weight in his hands. your pulse climbed in uneven beats, chest tight, as if the air in the room had turned heavier just because he was in it.
there was nothing seductive in what he did, yet every precise movement drew the heat higher until your body responded as though he’d touched you directly.
too many bad dates had taught you to not expect this kind of care.
you were used to men who thought effort stopped at sending a text, and who never lifted a finger unless it benefited them.
the guy from tonight hadn't even bothered to hold the door open for you, so the thought of him replacing a garbage bag was almost laughable.
most men had always treated care as an obligation; something only performed because they felt they had to.
with mingyu, it was instinct; as natural as his next breath.
something in you gave way the longer you watched him.
it became too easy to let your mind wander, to twist the steady rhythm of his hands into something else; something meant just for you.
suddenly, his hands weren’t cleaning anymore. they were gripping your hips, sliding lower until his fingers pressed between your thighs, stroking through the damp heat he’d already put there without even trying.
you could almost feel them pushing inside, filling you with the same easy certainty he carried into every small thing he did.
the realization of what you’d just imagined made your eyes snap shut, mortified at your own mind and yet powerless against the pulse it left thrumming through you.
by the time you found the courage to open them again, he was drying his palms against his sweats, shoulders rolling back as if he’d just wrapped up a shift.
“alright,” he said, stretching with a groan, joints popping as his hoodie slid higher. “time to get up, princess.”
you didn’t budge. your cheek stayed pressed to the tile, knees pulled in close, hair half-in your face.
he tipped his head at you. “hello? earth to y/n.”
you blinked. “what?”
“i said it’s time to get up,” he repeated, flat like it was obvious. “we’re not eating dinner with you laid out like a crime scene.”
“i’m fine here,” you muttered into your arm.
he gave your hip a light kick with his socked foot. “i know i look sexy doing dishes,” he smirked, already catching the eye roll you tried to hide. “but come on. pull it together.”
your head tipped just enough to glare at him. “you’re delusional.”
“and you’re dramatic,” he shot back without missing a beat, crouching just enough to extend his hand toward you. “now get up before i drag you to the couch myself.”
your lips twitched, but you refused to give him the satisfaction of a smile. “i’d like to see you try,” you mumbled, even as your hand slipped into his.
he tugged you up in one smooth pull, steadying you with a hand at your back until your feet found the floor again.
the touch was brief, casual, but your skin still burned under it.
you shook him off a little too quickly, ducking your head like maybe he wouldn’t notice. his brows lifted anyway, but he let it slide.
“come on,” he said, already reaching for the takeout bags on the counter. “i didn’t bring all of this food over just so you could mope on the floor.”
you trailed him into the living room, trying not to stare at the way his shoulders shifted under his hoodie as he carried the takeout.
he collapsed onto the couch, bags spread across the table like he owned the place.
you hovered for a beat before sitting beside him, close but not too close, hoping he wouldn’t feel the heat radiating off of your body.
“so,” he started, tearing open the first container, “soonyoung threw a tantrum when i told him you weren’t coming to rehearsal today.”
your lips tugged at one corner. “define tantrum.”
“like…fully rolling on the floor,” he said, chopsticks already clicking into place. “claimed he couldn’t get through practice without his number one fan watching.”
“sounds about right.” you said, easily picturing his dramatics in your head.
“seungkwan even backed him up,” he went on. “got all serious about how you’re ‘the glue that holds us together.’” he mimed quotes in the air, rolling his eyes.
your laugh slipped out before you could stop it.
he turned his head upon hearing the sound, like he’d been waiting for it, then reached for another container. the lid snapped open, steam spilling up between you.
“they’re ridiculous.” you said, shaking your head.
“it gets worse,” he assured, “seokmin told everyone in the studio that you were cheating on him.” he said casually, as if it wasn’t the wildest thing to say.
your brows shot up. “cheating? he and i aren’t even—” you cut yourself off with a disbelieving laugh, shaking your head again. “my god, he’s actually insane.”
mingyu’s smirk tilted, like he wanted to say more, but he just went back to portioning noodles.
you watched him work. how his hands moved quick and precise without thought. the crease in his brow when the chopsticks slipped.
the way his shoulder brushed yours when he reached for another box, like he didn’t even register the contact.
even if he didn’t, it still left you warm and restless, your shorts clinging tighter as your pulse tripping over itself.
you forced yourself still, arms wrapped tightly around your stomach, hoping he couldn’t read what was written all over your body.
without any warning, he slid the plate onto your lap, already reaching for another.
you glanced down ready to thank him, only to freeze.
every bite was exactly what you liked; no stray toppings, no sides bleeding into each other. even the noodles sat neat, twisted in their own space like he’d portioned them with care.
your brows furrowed. “wait…this is for me?”
“yeah?” his tone was flat, chopsticks already busy over his own plate.
“no, but—you separated everything.” you gestured vaguely at the plate, thrown. “none of the food’s even touching.”
he shrugged like it wasn’t worth noticing. “yeah. you hate it when it does.”
your mouth opened, stalled. “since when do you—”
“since always.” his smirk tugged faint, eyes still on the food. “i just pay attention. relax, it’s not that deep.”
you sat there, pulse loud in your ears, trying to pretend it wasn’t.
your shorts clung even tighter when you shifted, and the heat crawling up your neck made the plate almost too warm to balance on your lap.
by the time he leaned back with his own food, your eyes still hadn’t left him once.
his brows drew together, catching it instantly. “what?”
you blinked, caught off guard. “what?”
“you’re staring,” he said, chopsticks frozen midair like he’d caught you red-handed.
“am not,” you muttered, keeping your eyes locked on the plate in your lap.
“are too,” he shot back, smirk tugging as his chopsticks hovered. “seriously, what’s your deal?”
you shifted slightly, tugging your knees in closer as the words spilled out before you could catch them. “you’re just…way too thoughtful.”
he blinked, deadpan. “that’s a crime now?”
“no, it’s—” you waved a hand at the table, trying to find the words. “you cleaned, you set everything up, you made my plate exactly right without even asking—”
he glanced up mid-bite, chopsticks pausing. “uh-huh.”
“and you didn’t even hesitate, you just—” your voice pitched higher, flustered. “you just did it, like it was nothing—”
he reached for his bottle of water, lifting it toward his mouth, eyes narrowing with a half-smile. “because it is nothing.”
“it’s not nothing, gyu!” you shot back, heat crawling up your neck. “it’s—it’s hot, okay?”
he choked mid-sip, coughing and laughing all at once, nearly spraying water across the table as his shoulders shook.
at the same time, you slapped your hand over your mouth, instantly mortified. “oh my god.”
he was still coughing through a laugh, sleeve dragging across his mouth as his grin broke wide. “hot?” his voice cracked, half-raspy. “you think me scrubbing your dishes is hot?”
“nope,” you blurted through your hand. “you’re hearing things.”
his eyes lit like he’d just been handed blackmail material for life. “unbelievable. years of friendship, and this is how i find out your kink is…choreplay?”
“shut up,” you groaned, dragging your hands down your face.
“no fucking way,” his hand patted at his sweats like he was checking his pockets. “where’s my phone? the boys have to hear this—”
your stomach dropped, panic snapping through you. “don’t you dare.”
his grin only widened, his hands now patting down the front pocket of his hoodie like he was already halfway to victory. “oh, i definitely dare.”
you scrambled to shove your plate onto the coffee table, causing the chopsticks to clatter against porcelain in your rush. “nope. no. absolutely not—”
he’d barely gotten his fingers inside of his pocket before you launched yourself across the couch, tackling him sideways into the cushions.
he landed flat on his back with a thud, and you climbed over him, straddling his hips while reaching desperately for his hoodie pocket.
“this is an invasion of privacy!” he gasped, twisting under you, but his laugh broke through every word.
“you don’t need privacy!” you shot back, breathless, hair falling in your face. “you need to shut up!”
his free hand darted to your side, fingers digging right into the spot he knew would make you squeal.
you squirmed against him, shrieking through your laughter. “stop, you asshole!”
he was laughing so hard his voice cracked, words tumbling out between breaths. “you picked the fight—i’m just defending myself!”
you finally slipped your hand into his pocket and yanked his phone free.
“mine!” you yelled triumphantly as you tossed it gently onto the carpet, way out of reach.
he burst out laughing, head sinking back into the cushion, chest shaking under you. “unreal,” he wheezed, grin splitting wide. “you just committed straight-up theft.”
“it was self-defense,” you corrected, still straddling his hips as you tried to hold him down. “you were about to ruin my life.”
his hands came up half-heartedly, bracing against your thighs as his laugh cracked again.
“you literally said i was hot when all i did was rinse a bowl—” he bucked his hips just enough to throw you off balance, making you squeal. “imagine if i started mopping the floors.”
“stop talking.” you slapped your hand over his mouth, desperate to stop the teasing.
he looked at you with mock innocence, then dragged his tongue across your palm.
you yanked it back with a yelp. “gross!”
he laughed so hard it broke into hiccups, chest still shaking.
your forehead pressed into his hoodie, both of you still caught in the aftershock of laughter.
the sound trailed off in little bursts, until it faded completely. silence settled around you, thicker than it had any right to be.
you lifted your head without meaning to, hair falling forward, your fists still bunched in the fabric of his hoodie.
he was right there; flat on his back, smile softening into something slower that tugged at your ribs.
the awareness of it all seeped in slowly, until every place your body touched his became impossible to ignore.
your thighs hugged his sides. your hips were pressed flush against his. his palms rested warm and steady on your bare legs, fingers splayed like he didn’t trust himself to move.
your faces hovered only inches apart from one another, the remnants of his grin fading as the air thickened between you.
the echo of laughter still hummed in your chest, but it was drowned beneath the heavy thud of your heartbeat.
the ache you’d been pushing down all night came rushing back, hot and relentless, flooding every nerve until there was no disguising it.
every slight shift of your hips made it worse. your slick heat pressed directly against him; betraying just how badly you wanted more.
his eyes held yours, steady and certain, as if he could read every thought you were trying to bury.
a quick flicker down to your lips slipped past his control; small enough to deny, but impossible for you to miss.
the second his gaze lifted to yours again, the tension snapped.
you closed the gap in a rush, kissing him with all the want you’d been choking down.
he answered immediately, almost as if he’d been holding back just as much. the kiss was deep from the start, his mouth moving against yours with a kind of certainty that stole your breath.
his palm skimmed up your bare thigh until it fit at your waist, while his other hand curled behind your neck, coaxing you closer, unable to bear an inch of distance.
the pressure of his hands anchored you as he shifted beneath you, pushing up from the cushions until he was sitting.
the movement never broke the kiss; it only dragged you closer, chest to chest, your legs tightening instinctively around his hips.
his mouth worked over yours hungrily, lips parting like he couldn’t get enough. you clutched at his hoodie, fingers knotted tightly in the fabric, pulling harder to erase whatever little space remained.
every brush of his mouth made your pulse spike harder. every drag of his lips left your lungs aching, but neither of you were willing to stop long enough to breathe.
his lips moved against yours like he already knew every secret you’d been hiding. each shift was deliberate, practiced without practice, pulling raw sounds out of you before you even realized you were making them.
his hand left the back of your neck first, dragging slowly over your skin before slipping down to join the other at your waist.
his hands slipped lower in a slow drag, following the natural curve of your body until both palms curved around your ass, pressing you down against the growing buldge in his sweatpants.
the press of him right against your center dragged a moan from your throat before you could stop it, hips rolling down on instinct, desperate to feel more of the friction you’d been aching for all night.
“breathe,” he murmured against your mouth, voice steady even through his own ragged breath. “i’ve got you.”
your hips rolled again before you could stop them, chasing more of the thick heat beneath his sweats. the noise he made vibrated through your chest, deep and broken, sending sparks racing down your spine.
you clenched around nothing, thighs tightening at his sides, every nerve screaming for more.
“gyu,” you whispered, voice trembling. “please.”
his thumb brushed slowly over your side through your hoodie, grounding you even as his mouth swallowed your plea.
“i hear you,” he said, rough and certain. “but we’re not doing this here. not on a couch.”
the protest tangled with want on your tongue, but you gave a shaky nod. “okay,” you breathed.
his grip tightened, both hands already firm at your ass, and in one motion, you were lifted off the couch.
your legs wrapped around his waist before you even thought about it, a startled laugh breaking from your chest as his mouth chased yours again.
he carried you like he’d done it a thousand times, steady even with your legs locked tight around him.
your back met the mattress before you even realized you had made it to your bedroom, the mattress dipping under your shared weight as he laid you down without once breaking the kiss.
he hovered above you, his weight balanced on one arm, while his other hand found your jaw. his thumb traced lightly along your skin as his eyes searched yours. “still with me?”
“still with you,” you whispered.
he brushed a strand of hair away from your lips, fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary before adjusting the pillow under your head.
he caught the details no one else ever did; every small adjustment only served as proof that he knew exactly what you needed before you said a word.
his hand drifted lower again, pausing at the hem of your hoodie. “can i?” he asked, eyes locked on yours.
“please,” you breathed, the word spilling out before you could catch it.
he pulled the hoodie over your head in one smooth motion, leaving you in nothing but your bra and shorts.
the air hit cool against your skin, though it was nothing compared to his stare, heavy with years of memorizing every detail; knowing you in ways no one else ever had.
“fuck,” he murmured as his hand lifted to your cheek, tucking your hair behind your ear. “you’re so beautiful.”
your breath hitched, chest pressing up into his. heat rushed over your skin, your body giving you away as your hips shifted closer, chasing him without thought.
his lips moved with purpose, each kiss a quiet claim as he trailed them along your jaw, across your cheek, down the line of your throat, and back up to your lips.
his mouth traced you in reverence, each touch tugging another tremor loose, stoking the ache already clawing at you.
his hands followed the same rhythm, palms sliding over your sides, dragging heat everywhere they lingered.
he touched you like he already knew what your body was asking for; steady where you needed grounding, firmer where you were aching for pressure.
he moved with purpose, mapping you in ways that left no part of you untouched, and no ache unanswered.
your fingers slipped to the hem of his hoodie, tugging at it clumsily, more desperate than precise. you weren’t subtle about it, trying to work it up his torso without breaking the kiss.
his mouth curved against yours in a half-laugh, half-groan. “you know you can just ask, right?” he murmured, amused even through the rasp of his breath.
you rolled your eyes, breath catching anyway. “just take it off,” you whispered, impatience clear in your voice.
he rocked back onto on his heels, and tugged the hoodie off in one smooth pull. the shirt beneath stretched across his shoulders, while his sweats slouched low on his hips like an invitation.
your gaze slipped down, dragging his with it, until you were both staring at the obvious wet mark stamped across his lap.
your stomach flipped, eyes flying wide before you could stop them. his laugh cracked out, caught somewhere between disbelief and delight.
“wow,” he said, brows shooting up. “i rinse one bowl and you baptize my pants?”
you slapped a hand over your mouth, laughter already breaking through. “oh my god—no! that is not from me!”
his grin only widened, mischief written all over it. “no? so what, i pissed myself?”
you let out a choked laugh, shoulders shaking. “maybe you did!”
he leaned closer, laughter still shaking out of him, his hands warm and steady at your hips. “mm. want me to check your shorts, just to be sure?”
you shifted in his grip, laughing helplessly even as your face burned. “absolutely not!”
his grin turned smug, laughter still ghosting in his voice. “that’s what i thought.” his thumbs pressed deeper into your hips, steady and sure. “guess initiative really does go a long way, huh?”
you rolled your eyes, though the smile tugging at your lips gave you away. “apparently.”
he hummed, pleased, leaning in closer until his nose brushed yours. “good answer,” he mumbled.
his mouth found yours again, the trace of a smile still there, though it melted quickly into something hungrier.
his knee slid between your thighs, nudging them a little further apart, while his hands tightened at your hips, keeping you close.
you gasped into him, the sound breaking into a whimper when he angled himself lower, kissing along your jaw.
“there she is,” he murmured, voice brushing warm against your pulse before his lips dragged down your neck.
your breath caught as your hands slipped to his chest, sliding lower, reaching for the hem of his shirt. he caught your wrists easily, pressing a soft kiss into your open palm.
“not yet,” he whispered, steady and certain. “this is about you.”
his mouth trailed down slowly, lingering against your collarbone before sinking down the curve between your breasts.
his lips lingered like he had all the time in the world, and every deliberate pause only made your need claw harder, trembling for the next touch.
he knew exactly what you needed without you ever having to say it.
he caught it in the way your legs tightened, in the way your hips tipped towards him, in the twitch of your hands gripping the sheets.
he noticed everything, always had, and now he was using it to unravel you piece by piece.
“i’ve been dreaming about this for so long,” he breathed against the lace of your bra, voice low like he almost couldn’t believe you were real.
his hand slid beneath you, guiding your back into a soft arch. the clasp of your bra gave way under his fingers like it had been waiting for him, undone without him ever breaking from your skin.
the straps slipped down your shoulders, one after the other, and his mouth followed their path in slow devotion.
every new inch of bare skin was met with his lips, each kiss a quiet vow that nothing about you would be left unseen. he traced you with patience, as though to prove that you were worth memorizing in full.
his lips found the swell of your breast, his hands steadying you against the tremor of your own breath.
his lips lingered wherever they touched, tracing the faint lines that marked your skin as though they were meant to be cherished, never concealed.
“so beautiful,” he said, voice quiet but unshakably sure, like the words had been waiting years to fall out of him. “every inch of you.”
his tongue flicked over your nipple and the moan that tore from you was answered instantly by his own; muffled against your breast, like the taste of you undid him as much as his touch wrecked you.
your thighs shifted restlessly, helpless in their search for relief.
“you’re already trembling,” he breathed, kissing down over your ribs, following the soft curve beneath your breast. “and i’ve hardly even touched you.”
your voice broke apart on his name. “gyu—”
he didn’t look up, lips still moving like prayer, heat spilling across your skin. “no one’s ever touched you like this, have they?”
the truth of it broke you open, unraveling you from the inside out. your breath faltered, stuttered, until it was nothing but gasps and moans, your hips tilting into his hands without thought.
“i—” the attempt at words dissolved into moans, “fuck—oh my god—”
his palms slid down, fingers tracing the edge of your shorts, stopping just above where you needed him most.
“yeah,” he said, already knowing the proof had been in your body all along. “i figured.”
instead of giving in right away, he bent to your waist, his lips dragging heat over the skin just above your shorts.
“they never earned this,” he said, voice quiet but edged with conviction. “never learned you like this.”
“oh god,” the sound tore out of you, thin and desperate, your fingers curling around his wrist with no strength behind them.
he took your weak hold as encouragement, not resistance.
“they didn’t take their time,” he whispered, lips tracing slowly over the softness of your stomach. “didn’t listen.”
your fingers found his hair, tugging softly, guiding him closer without words.
“p-please,” you pleaded, the word breaking before it even left your throat.
his head lifted just enough to meet your eyes, steadying you in an instant.
“oh, baby,” his voice softened as one hand left your waist, reaching for the pillow beside you.
he slid it close, eyes never leaving yours. “lift up for me, princess,” he coaxed gently. “just a little.”
you obeyed, lifting just enough for him to slide the pillow breath you. his hands adjusted it with care, easing your hips down until he was sure you were comfortable.
“there we go,” he muttered, brushing his thumb over your skin. “that’s better.”
his thumb traced idle circles at your hip, grounding you while the other hand slid lower. when his fingers brushed the band of your shorts, he lifted his gaze, catching yours with a question he didn’t need to voice.
the quiet in his eyes made your chest ache; knowing he would wait if you asked him to. your body answered before your words could, hips tilting up in silent permission.
his lips tugged into a soft smile, eyes fixed on you as he drew the fabric down.
he shifted your shorts and underwear down slowly, guiding the fabric over your hips with deliberate care; every motion unhurried, every detail handled with care.
he gently lifted your leg, his hand steady at your calf. his lips pressed to your ankle first, soft and lingering, before traveling upward in slow succession.
each kiss trailed higher — the curve of your calf, the dip at your knee, the inside of your thigh — like he was intent on worshipping every step closer to where you ached for him most.
your nails dug into the sheets as his palms splayed over your thighs, easing them apart.
“breathe for me, sweetheart,” his voice was strained, as if he was holding himself back just to guide you. “just breathe.”
your body obeyed his words before your mind could, chest lifting with a shaky breath.
he didn’t let you finish it.
his mouth found you the next second; no hesitation, no warning. just him, warm and certain, like he’d been holding back only for as long as you could bear.
the pillow lifted you right into his mouth, every inch of you exposed to the slow drag of his tongue. his mouth worked with a patience that burned, each movement a vow to remember every detail of you.
your fingers threaded into his hair, desperate for something to hold on to.
“oh my—fuck—” the words tore out half-formed before collapsing into a moan you couldn’t contain.
he groaned in response, the sound reverberating against you as his grip tightened on your thighs, steadying you when your body tried to jolt away.
the way he moved against you was unhurried, and devastating in its precision. every swipe of his tongue felt like he already knew what would break you apart.
your chest heaved, breath shattering into pieces. you tightened your grip in his hair, dragging him closer without thinking.
he let you guide him, humming low like the taste of you was everything he’d ever wanted.
heat rushed through your stomach, twisting tighter with every pass of his mouth.
you were soaked. aching. unraveling with every second he stayed between your thighs.
“feels so good—” you choked out, hand fisting in the sheets now. “i can’t—it’s—gyu.”
he paused just long enough to glance up at you, eyes dark and blown wide with need. “you’re doing so fucking good for me, baby.” he praised, voice filled with honesty.
he found you again without pause, urgency written in every motion. his lips tightened over you, his tongue pushing deeper than before.
your head tipped back, voice spilling out like prayer. “don’t—please don’t—don’t stop—please.”
another groan broke free from his mouth, vibrating through your every nerve.
pleasure ripped through you so fast it stole the air from your lungs, leaving you clinging to him as though he was the only thing keeping you tethered.
“that’s it,” he whispered against you, voice low, almost reverent. “let it happen, baby.”
your thighs quivered around his shoulders, hips twisting helplessly.
his hold only tightened, dragging you deeper into every surge of pleasure until you had no other choice but to give in.
“gyu—fuck,” you gasped, tears stinging from the intensity of it all.
he slowed his pace, pressing soothing kisses as his thumbs circled your skin.
“that’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured. “you did so good for me.”
your chest heaved, lungs struggling to catch up with the aftershock.
when his gaze lifted, the change was immediate; eyes softening on sight, like tasting you had only deepened the reverence already written into him.
your lungs were still searching for air when he started climbing back up your body, mouth brushing every inch along the way.
your thigh. your stomach. the underside of your breast. your collarbone.
each kiss softer than the last, like he was pulling you back into yourself piece by piece.
by the time he found your mouth, you were already leaning into him, reaching before you realized it.
his lips lingered, smiling faintly against yours. “felt good, huh, beautiful girl?”
a broken laugh slipped out, shaky as you tried to catch your breath. “good?” you asked, head shaking in disbelief. “gyu, no one’s ever—” you paused, voice breaking, “not like that.”
his grin tugged at the corner of his mouth, soft but smug, like he couldn’t help himself.
“yeah?” he teased gently, eyes searching yours. “that’s because they were all idiots.”
he leaned in, brushing his nose against yours before kissing the corner of your mouth. “you deserve more than they’ll ever know how to give.”
his words sank deep, leaving you trembling all over again. you tried to laugh, but it broke halfway when his lips caught yours, sealing the truth of his words right into you.
what began tender turned restless in seconds.
his mouth moved against yours, only you couldn’t help but deepen it, chasing him like you couldn’t get close enough.
his chest pinned you down as his hips dragged slowly between your thighs. you felt him, hard and thick through his sweats, sending another wave of heat to rip through you.
it didn’t matter that you’d already fallen apart once; your body lit up for him all over again.
a whimper caught in your throat, swallowed by his kiss as your hands scrambled higher, clawing at his shirt.
you tugged like you were frantic; like the thin barrier of fabric was the only thing keeping you from breathing.
“off,” you rasped against his lips, desperate, the word breaking. “please—take it off.”
“yes, ma’am.” he said, a smirk tugging at his lips, but it vanished the second your fingers brushed his waistband like you couldn’t wait a second longer.
you shoved his sweats down with shaking hands, boxers going along, nearly knocking him off balance in your urgency.
he huffed a laugh, his eyes catching the hunger in yours. “greedy, are we?” he chuckled, sounding more undone than smug.
“shut up,” you shot back, no patience for his teasing.
your eyes had already landed on him; thick and already slick at the tip.
heat rushed hot up your chest, a grin tugging weakly at your lips despite yourself. “so that’s what i do to you?”
he groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “you know what you do to me.”
“still,” you whispered, tugging him closer, “it’s nice to have the evidence.”
a rough laugh slipped from him, cut short as his mouth slammed back onto yours, heavy with need.
your legs wrapped around his waist without thought, but he held himself back; grinding his hard length through your slick folds with a patience that felt merciless, his lips still on yours like he needed to drink down every sound before giving you more.
“turn over for me, baby.” his voice was rough at the edges, but his touch stayed soft, guiding you onto your stomach like he was handling something precious.
as you shifted, the pillow resting underneath your hips slipped slightly.
before you could react, his hand was already there, sliding it back beneath your stomach with quiet care; making sure the angle favoured your comfort more than his own.
“there we go,” he muttered, like he was admiring a work of art. “just like that, angel. fuck—look at you.”
you could feel the heat of him behind you, hovering close, and the way his hands coasted up and down your sides; thumbs pressing in like he was trying to memorize every inch.
“you’re unreal,” he whispered, mostly to himself. “my fucking dream girl.”
his palms settled at your waist, urging your hips higher before gliding up your spine, pressing lightly between your shoulders until your chest sank into the mattress.
“fuck, baby,” he groaned as he lined himself up. “you’re gonna kill me.”
the blunt press of him at your entrance had you gasping, nails twisting in the sheets.
“gyu—” your voice cracked, the sound nothing but a plea.
“i know, i know.” his hand smoothed down your side, soothing you. “just breathe, beautiful. i’ve got you.”
he slid in with agonizing slowness, every inch a stretch that stole the air directly from your lungs.
a broken sound escaped you, and his groan followed fast, spilling into the space between your bodies.
“f-fuck—” your cried helplessly, “it’s—oh my—fuck—”
he bottomed out with a shudder, his hips pressed flush against you, both of you shaking with the effort it took not to fall apart right there.
his forehead dropped between your shoulders, breath hot against your skin.
“jesus christ—” he groaned, the sound rough and reverent all at once. “you feel—fuck, baby, you feel insane.”
your back arched, body clenching around him, another helpless moan tearing through you. “too much—no, it’s—god, gyu—it’s so good.” the words spilled broken, tumbling past your lips before you could catch them.
his hand slid to your stomach, pulling you up into him, grounding you through the dizzy stretch. “that’s it,” he murmured, kissing along your shoulder blade. “you’re doing—f-fuck—you’re perfect—fucking made for me.”
your thighs quivered, but the need to feel him move was stronger than the ache. you shifted back against him, desperate. “please…move—i need—”
he groaned again, like your words undid him. “fuck—yeah, baby, i know.”
he slowly eased his hips back, dragging himself out until you thought you’d break, then pushed in again, steady and deep.
the rhythm was unhurried but merciless; every stroke deliberate, every thrust angled like he knew exactly how to pull you apart.
after a few slow strokes, his pace quickened; each thrust sinking deeper, chasing every sound that spilled from you.
“there it is—fuck, yeah. that’s it,” he breathed, forehead tipping down for a beat before he straightened again, eyes locked on the way your body yielded to him.
your moans spilled raw into the mattress, high pitched and broken, your hips rocking back into him without thought. “oh my god—don’t stop—please, gyu, don’t—”
he answered with another thrust, sharp enough to punch a cry straight out of you.
“never,” he panted, jaw tight, reverence spilling through every word. “you feel too fucking good—i could stay here forever.”
your walls clenched tight around him, the build snapping faster than you could process.
“gyu—i’m gonna—fuck—” the cry tore out of you as your whole body bowed into the mattress, release ripping straight through you.
he groaned at the feel of you breaking around him, hips stuttering once before he forced himself to steady, dragging it out for you instead of chasing his own end.
“fuck—yeah—” his voice cracked. “that’s it, angel…let go for me—just like that.”
your thighs shook uncontrollably, but his hands steadied you; one gripping your waist, the other pressing into your stomach, keeping you grounded as you unraveled.
the sob that followed buried itself in the sheets, your release hitting so hard it fractured every breath into ragged pieces.
he bent over you, lips trailing soft kisses along your spine, his hips still moving but gentler now, easing you down instead of pulling you higher.
“i’ve got you,” he whispered into your skin, kissing your shoulder like a vow. “just breathe for me, angel…that’s all you need to do.”
he eased out of you slowly, the sudden emptiness pulling a broken whimper from your throat before you could stop it. “gyu—w-why…what are you—”
“shh, i know, sweetheart,” he soothed, palms steady as they skimmed your sides, guiding you gently. “just needed to see you. fuck—look at you. you think i could stop now?”
desire threaded through his voice, yet his hands remained careful, guiding you as if you were fragile in his hold. he eased you onto your back, settling your hips back onto the pillow with a care that made it clear he wouldn’t let you feel anything but comfort.
you let him move you, pliant in his hold, your body trembling as you blinked up at him. his hand cradled the back of your neck, thumb tracing lightly like he needed to feel you breathe.
he kissed your temple first, lingering there, before trailing down to your cheek.
his mouth wandered unhurriedly across your skin; tracing over your brow, brushing the bridge of your nose, grazing the corner of your lips.
“hi, beautiful,” he whispered against your skin, words cracked but full of awe.
your smile barely surfaced, dazed and weak, but it was there. “hi,” you breathed back.
his forehead tipped to yours, lips brushing in a fleeting kiss. “you okay?” he asked, though the look in his eyes said he already knew the answer.
your breath caught, a soft laugh tumbling out with your words. “more than okay.”
the corner of his mouth curved into a soft smile before he slid his hand down to steady your hip.
he lined himself up and pushed back in with one long, steady stroke. the stretch tore a gasp from your throat, your body clenching around him so hard it forced a groan straight out of him.
“jesus—” his voice cracked, forehead pressing to yours again. “baby, you feel—fuck—you’re so tight.”
your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging him closer, mouth falling open on a sound you couldn’t swallow down.
“gyu—” his name slipped from your lips, almost a sob. “it’s—s-so deep—oh my god.”
his palm pressed firm to your stomach, making sure you felt every inch of him. “there we go,” he rasped, kissing your jaw through ragged breaths. “you’re taking me so well, beautiful. you’re—fuck, you’re perfect.”
his hips pulled back, just enough to make you feel the loss, before he drove in sharper. the force knocked the air from your chest as your nails clawed down his shoulder blades.
“eyes on me,” he mumbled, catching your gaze. “don’t look away, baby—want to see you fall apart.”
your gaze clung to his until the next thrust stole it away, lids fluttering shut as another cry tore loose from your throat.
“no, no—look at me,” he urged, groaning when you blinked back up at him, glassy-eyed and trembling. “that’s it. good girl.”
your moans came fractured, tumbling past your lips with every push. “please—gyu, please, just like that—f-fuck—feels so good, so good—”
“fuck—” his voice cracked, hips driving harder, the sound of you begging ripping the control straight out of him.
“oh my god—i’m gonna—” the words broke into a sob, your voice splintering. “mingyu, i—fuck—i can’t—”
his thrusts faltered, a groan tearing from his chest as he forced himself deeper. “yes, you can, angel. just a little more—fuck—i can feel you. you’re right there.”
you broke apart around him, crying out his name like it was the only word left in you. “gyu—”
“that’s it—oh, fuck—that’s it, baby,” he gasped, forehead dropping to yours as his own rhythm fell apart. “come with me—yeah, just like that—fuck—”
your third release tore through you, carrying his first with it. your body squeezed around him, causing him to let out a wrecked moan as he came inside of you.
he stilled for a moment, chest pressed to yours as both of you trembled through the last shreds of release.
there was no detachment. no instinct to turn away. he hadn’t looked anywhere but at you.
when his breathing finally slowed, he pressed a soft kiss to your jaw. “are you okay?” he asked.
you nodded, unable to trust your voice.
he gave you a moment longer before easing out, slow and careful, drawing a broken whimper from your throat.
his mouth followed the loss; kissing the inside of your thigh, the curve of your hip, and the hollow below your ribs; each one gentle and deliberate in their own way.
“stay here,” he said softly. “just rest, baby.”
your head fell back against the pillow in the faintest nod, eyes glassy with exhaustion.
he lingered a second longer, his thumb brushing your cheek in a touch that felt reluctant, before finally pushing himself to stand.
he bent down to grab his boxers from where they’d been tossed, sliding them on around his hips.
the quiet between you stretched thin, filled only by the sound of his breathing and the faint creak of the floor.
by the time he reached the door, your chest was already tight. you stayed where you were, staring up at the ceiling, the fan turning in lazy circles above you.
the longer you watched, the more the quiet shifted.
at first it was just silence, but eventually, that silence turned into space, which slowly turned into panic.
you weren’t naïve. you knew the script.
sex that good, that messy, that consuming, usually ended the same way.
a roll to the side. maybe a muttered ‘that was fun’. the scrape of denim. the excuse about an early morning.
sometimes the door would shut before you’d even pulled the sheets over yourself.
your heart sank.
what if this was that moment?
what if you’d just traded years of friendship for a few hours of wreckless, selfish pleasure?
what if you’d just ruined everything?
before the thoughts could spiral any further, the door creaked open again.
“hey,” he spoke softly, not wanting to startle you.
you blinked towards him, body still draped exactly where he’d left you.
his boxers hung low on his hips, hair damp and sticking to his forehead, chest still flushed from the heat of you. a towel was slung over his shoulder, two water bottles gripped in one hand, and a warm cloth in the other.
your throat went tight. “you came back,” you whispered, the words slipping out before you could catch them.
his face softened immediately, something tender breaking through. “of course i did,” he said, stepping closer. “what—did you think i’d just disappear after that?”
you tried to smile, but it wavered.
“hey,” he said again, lowering onto the edge of the bed. “don’t go quiet on me now, pretty girl. not after you already woke all of the neighbors up.”
a soft, broken laugh escaped your lips.
he bent to press a soft kiss to your knee. “scoot up a little, sweetheart. let me take care of you.”
his hands moved with quiet certainty, every touch measured and unhurried. patience lingered in everything he did; a tenderness you weren’t used to.
you felt the difference in your chest before you even felt it between your thighs.
no one had ever done this for you before.
the most you’d ever been given was a half-hearted towel tossed your way, like it was your job to deal with the aftermath alone.
but here he was, treating you like you were something worth handling with delicacy.
“i kept the pillow there,” he said quietly, “’cause i figured you’d be sore. didn’t want you shifting too much.”
he finished with quiet care, dropping the cloth and towel into your hamper before reaching for your hoodie on the floor.
he eased it over your head, guiding your arms through the sleeves, tugging it down until you were completely covered.
as he climbed back into the bed, you reached for him without thinking twice.
he was already leaning into you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you against him like it was the only place you belonged.
“you still with me?” he asked, lips brushing your hair.
you nodded, eyes still shut until his voice pulled you back.
you blinked up at him as he dipped his head, catching your gaze. “you scared me for a second.”
your voice was small. “i just…wasn’t expecting you to come back.”
his brow furrowed, a little hurt, though his tone stayed soft. “come on. you really thought i’d leave you like that?”
you huffed out a laugh. “it wouldn’t be the first time someone did.”
his chest rose on a sigh as he shifted to really look at you. “baby…what kind of assholes are you fucking?”
the bluntness startled a laugh out of you. “you’ve heard all the stories,” you reminded him.
“unfortunately.” his hand stayed warm at your spine, steadying you. “and i hated every single one of them.”
you froze, but he continued nonetheless.
“you don’t understand,” he said, shaking his head. “listening to you try to laugh off how some guy left before you could even breathe again—” he paused, exhaling hard through his nose. “i swear, prison stripes nearly sounded worth it.”
“you never said anything,” you said, genuinely surprised at his words.
his lips lifted into a small smile, but the weight in his eyes gave him away. “never felt like my place.”
“gyu…” you whispered.
he shook his head gently, already seeing where your thoughts were headed.
“you really don’t get it, do you?” his voice softened, a little rough at the edges.
“get what?” you murmured as your eyes searched his face for any clues on what he could be referring to.
his hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, so tender it made your chest ache.
“how easy you are to love.”
you froze, lungs stuttering like they’d completely forgotten how to work.
“i’ve wanted to do this right for so long,” he whispered, leaning his forehead to yours. “not just the sex. all of it. making you laugh. holding you when you cry. being the one who never leaves. giving you the kind of love you should’ve had all along.”
your lips parted, but no sound followed. the weight of his words pressed down until all you could do was hold his gaze, completely undone by the gentleness in his voice.
“and if i ever have to hear about one more guy who made you feel like you were too much, or too emotional, or not worth sticking around for…” he shook his head again, softer this time. “i’ll lose my fucking mind. because you—”
he swallowed hard, trying to find the courage to continue. “you deserve someone who worships the ground you walk on. someone who thanks god every night that you chose them.”
you blinked hard, tears threatening to fall as a soft laugh escaped you. “you’re not supposed to make me cry after sex, idiot.”
“i meant what i said, you know,” he told you, his lips curving into that same boyish grin you’ve adored for years. “and i know my feelings aren’t one sided, either, ms. choreplay.”
tears slipped down your cheeks as you let out a shaky laugh, swatting weakly at his chest. “you are such an asshole, kim mingyu.”
“am i wrong?” he smirked. “because you—” he paused, tapping your thigh, “—basically had tears running down your thighs from me washing, like, two dishes.”
you groaned, burying your face in his chest. “please never phrase it like that again.”
he laughed, the sound warm against your cheek. “don’t act like you didn’t whimper when i changed the garbage bag.”
you pulled back just enough to glare at him. “my god, you’re always so full of yourself.”
his grin only widened, cocky and unbothered. “wait till you find out i sort my laundry by whites and darks.”
Summary: Han likes you and you can’t believe it. Harsh words from the outside lead to extreme measures to feel worthy. Spoiler alert: you always were.
Warnings: MDNI suggestive language, reader develops an (implied) eating disorder, so much angst, poor mental health, reader has very unhealthy self-talk. PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT IF YOU WILL BE TRIGGERED.
Word count: 11.2k.
a/n: this was my first ever request, and it was from the lovely @ilovesungie! Sorry Aish, I took your request and ran with it until it became it's very own full length fic! Even though it's full of angst, I tried to make the ending as beautiful and authentic as I could!
You’d always been on the larger side, ever since you were a child. Whilst boys were crushing on your friends, you fell easily into the role of the funny one, the one there to break the ice. As you grew up, you got used to watching from the sidelines as girls got the guys they liked, and you didn’t.
It wasn’t that nobody ever liked you. At least, that’s what your friends insisted.
“You just don’t notice it.”
“You’re intimidating.”
“People assume you’re already taken.”
The excuses changed depending on who was saying them, but none of them ever felt true. The truth was much simpler. You weren’t the girl people noticed first. So eventually, you stopped expecting them to notice at all… Which was why meeting Han felt so ridiculous.
People like Han weren’t supposed to exist in your life. He was famous, and not to mention beautiful - the kind of beautiful that made people stop walking when he appeared on a screen. Even before he debuted, before the awards and world tours and screaming fans, he’d been attractive. The cameras only amplified it. You, meanwhile, worked a normal job, lived in a normal flat, and spent most evenings convincing yourself that takeaways counted as cooking. Your worlds should never have crossed. Yet somehow, they did.
It started when your company partnered with his agency for a promotional campaign. You’d been assigned to help coordinate schedules. It was nothing glamorous - mostly emails, spreadsheets, and trying not to scream whenever deadlines changed at the last second.
The first time you met him in person, you’d expected arrogance, or at least indifference. Instead, he walked into the conference room, immediately bowed to everyone present, and introduced himself as though nobody knew who he was.
“Hi, I’m Han.”
As if he wasn’t one of the most recognisable idols in the world.
The room practically melted around him, colleagues flocking to meet his every whim (not that he had any, he was too humble for that). You remained determinedly professional… For approximately seven minutes. Then he ruined that professionalism you were striving for by making a joke. A joke that your brain found funny enough to snort out loud at. Before you could die of embarrassment, Han was grinning and chuckling at your reaction.
Before long, he was sitting beside you instead of across the room. The whole thing felt suspicious, especially when he was even more kind than he had first appeared.
Months passed as the campaign continued. You had expected to work quietly in the background, taking notes and turning them into ideas for him to pitch to his management. Han, however, seemed to have other ideas. It started with him constantly finding reasons to talk to you, about both work and you. He’d stop by your desk, drinks in hand for both of you, like he was the employee. You were mortified the first time he did it, telling him that it should have been the other way around, but he’d simply smiled and carried on each day like he hadn’t heard you the first time.
The time at your desk coincided with evening text messages about work-related questions that absolutely could have been emails. The conversations developed into an easy friendship when he’d ask how your day was or remember details from previous conversations.
The first time he brought you a snack without asking what you liked, you nearly accused him of witchcraft.
“You remembered my favourite snack?”
He looked genuinely confused and slightly offended. “Of course I remembered.”
He said it like it was obvious, as though remembering things about you wasn’t unusual.
You spent weeks convincing yourself he was just friendly - months, actually - because the alternative was absurd. The alternative was believing that someone like Han, who was handsome, talented, and adored by millions, might actually enjoy your company. So, whenever your colleagues raised their eyebrows, you ignored them. Whenever he sought you out in a crowded room, you dismissed it. Whenever your stomach fluttered, you told yourself it meant nothing.
Then came the night everything fell apart. Or rather, everything changed.
The team had gone out after a successful event. Most people were drinking, and music played softly in the background. You’d shaken your head and smiled softly to yourself as you realised it was Han’s music playing, before slipping outside for air, enjoying the peace and quiet.
A few minutes later, the door opened behind you, and Han stepped onto the balcony. You immediately sighed and turned back to the view, avoiding his gaze.
“There are like thirty people inside.”
“And?”
“Yet somehow you found me.”
He smiled. “I was looking for you.”
Your heart betrayed you with a violent thud, and you shifted on your feet, ignoring the warmth his simple words brought to you. The city lights stretched endlessly beneath you, and you found yourself wanting to know-
“Why?”
The question came out before you could stop it, and you regretted asking when Han went quiet, face solemn when you glanced at him quickly from the corner of your eye.
“Do you really not know?”
You laughed - a short, humourless sound. “No.”
He stared at you, and for the first time since you’d met him, he looked frustrated.
“Why is it so hard for you to believe someone could like you?”
The words hit harder than they should have, and you tensed at his directness. Years of being overlooked surfaced instantly, and you crossed your arms over your chest in an attempt to put a barrier between yourself and the awkwardness you felt as you replied.
“Because that’s not how my life works.”
Han’s expression softened immediately, and you hated how close his pity looked to kindness.
“You think I haven’t noticed you making yourself smaller in every room you walk into?” he asked quietly.
Your throat tightened enough that you couldn’t answer. For years, without realising it, you’d learnt to make yourself small, to blend into the background rather than risk standing out and attracting attention.
Han took a step closer, and your breath hitched as he started talking, taking another step towards you with every compliment he gave you.
“You make everyone laugh.”
“You’re kind.”
“You’re smart.”
Your eyes burned, and you felt the need to interrupt him, not knowing how to process what he was saying.
“Han—”
“And you’re beautiful.”
The words stole every thought from your head, and you actually laughed at the impossibility of the situation; at the fact that this man had come into your life months ago and was now calling you beautiful when no one else ever had before.
Han didn’t laugh with you; he simply looked at you. His gaze was steady, his eyes certain. His expression showed that he couldn’t understand why you were questioning it, as though it should be the most obvious thing in the world to you.
The silence stretched between you before Han closed the final distance between you, reaching to slide his fingers between your own gently before asking:
“Do you know how long I’ve been trying to get you to notice I’m flirting with you?”
Your jaw dropped at his words, and Han groaned dramatically and covered his face.
“See? This is exactly what I mean.”
Despite yourself, another laugh escaped - a real one this time - and when Han peeked through his fingers and saw you smiling, his own grin returned instantly. He leaned against the railing, tilting his head at you as he spoke again.
"So."
"So."
He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Now that we've established what I think about you..."
Your heart began hammering. "Right."
His eyes met yours, and suddenly this felt very real. You could no longer tell yourself that he was just being nice, no longer write off his seeking you out.
"I like you," he said quietly.
The words settled over you, no room for misunderstanding, and it felt even scarier than all the flirting you’d missed.
You looked down at where your fingers were still laced together. "I don't really know what to say."
"That's okay."
"No, it's not."
You laughed nervously. "I should probably have a normal response."
Han's expression softened. "There's no normal response."
You took a breath, then another, trying to shift the heavy sensation in your chest. It was something you'd been carrying for weeks – months, maybe – without ever properly acknowledging it.
"I think..." you started.
The words immediately disappeared, doubt catching your tongue and forcing the words back. Han waited patiently, though, face calm and eyes understanding.
You tried again. "I think part of the reason I didn't realise you were flirting..."
Your fingers twisted together as you forced the second part of your sentence out, your face heating at your own honesty.
"...was because I couldn't imagine why you'd flirt with me."
His face fell slightly, but you hurried on. "I know you must hate it when I say things like that."
"I do."
"I know." You smiled weakly, barely holding eye contact. "But it's true."
The confession tasted awful. It was embarrassing, leaving a new feeling of vulnerability, but you had to be honest. Han remained quiet, listening to what you had to say.
"Every compliment just got filed under 'Han is nice.'"
A small laugh escaped him. "That explains a lot."
"Right?"
"A concerning amount, actually."
You laughed, but your smile faded just as quickly as it had appeared. "Because if I admitted you might mean it..." Your voice softened. "I'd have to admit that I wanted you to."
Han froze, expression shocked. The words hung in the air, and your heart immediately tried to evacuate your body.
"Oh, God." You covered your face, releasing his hand as you did so. "I wasn't planning on saying that."
Han's eyes widened. "You weren't?"
"No."
"You just accidentally confessed?"
"Apparently."
A grin began spreading across his face, and you groaned.
"Please don't look so happy."
"I can't help it."
"Han."
"You like me."
Your entire face burned. "You already knew that."
"I suspected." He pushed himself away from the railing. "But hearing it is different."
You peeked through your fingers and smiled at the look of pure delight on Han’s face.
"You really had no idea?" he asked.
You lowered your hands. "No."
"Not even a little?"
"No."
Han shook his head. "Incredible."
"Thank you."
"That wasn't a compliment."
"I know."
The two of you laughed, and as it faded, you realised that he was suddenly standing closer. Not close enough to overwhelm you, just enough that you could see the warmth in his eyes and the way he looked at you. Like he genuinely couldn't believe this was happening either.
"You know," he said softly, "I've liked you for a while."
Your stomach flipped. "How long?"
Han winced. "Long enough that your colleagues threatened intervention."
You burst out laughing, but you felt your face flush bright red at how oblivious you must have really been.
"Seriously?"
"Seriously."
"Oh, my God."
"They were tired of seeing me all the time."
You shook your head and giggled. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The city lights still glowed around you, and music still drifted faintly through the doors, but it felt different now than a few minutes ago. Like maybe the lights were that little bit brighter, the music that little bit sweeter.
You swallowed before reaching out and taking his hand once again. His eyes immediately dropped to where your fingers intertwined, and you were over the moon to see a smile tug at his lips.
"Hi," you said softly.
Han laughed. "Hi."
"I like you, too."
His smile grew. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
His fingers squeezed yours, and for a second, he looked so ridiculously happy that you couldn't stop smiling back.
The second you walked back into the party together, every coherent thought vanished from your head. Han was still smiling - not his usual bright, mischievous smile – but a softer one. The kind that kept appearing every time he looked at you (which was constantly). The noise of the party washed over you as people greeted you both.
Someone called Han’s name from across the room, and he answered without taking his eyes off you. You tried not to notice, but you failed. Completely.
“Are you alright?” he asked quietly.
You looked up, and his expression immediately softened.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“You look overwhelmed.”
“Maybe because you confessed your feelings to me ten minutes ago.”
His ears turned pink; the sight made something warm bloom in your chest.
“Fair.”
Before you could react, his hand settled gently against the small of your back. The touch wasn’t possessive or demanding. It was almost hesitant, as if he were checking whether you would pull away. You didn’t, and Han visibly relaxed.
“Come on.”
You followed him farther into the room and quickly discovered that, now that he’d admitted his feelings, he apparently had no intention of pretending otherwise. At all. When people spoke to you, Han drifted closer. When the crowd became busy, his hand found your waist. When somebody squeezed between you, he immediately moved back beside you again. You weren’t even sure he realised he was doing it. It seemed instinctive, natural even. As though being near you was simply where he wanted to be.
The longer the evening went on, the bolder he became.
At one point, you were standing beside the drinks table listening to a story from one of your colleagues. Han appeared beside you, close enough that your shoulders touched. You tried (and failed) not to react as his hand brushed yours. Once. Twice. A third time. Until eventually his fingers hooked loosely around yours.
Your entire train of thought derailed as you stared at your joined hands, Han following your gaze.
“Oh.”
He sounded completely unashamed. “Sorry.”
He made absolutely no effort to let go.
You looked up. “Han.”
“What?”
“You aren’t sorry.”
A grin spread across his face. “No.”
You laughed despite yourself.
The colleague speaking to you rolled their eyes dramatically. “Are we interrupting something?”
Both of you froze, and Han looked delighted. You, on the other hand, wanted the floor to swallow you whole. The colleague laughed and wandered away before either of you could answer. The moment they disappeared, Han leaned closer.
“I think they know.”
“You think?”
His shoulders shook with quiet laughter. God. You were never going to survive this.
As the evening continued, more people joined conversations and drifted away. Han never strayed far. Not once. If he were talking to somebody else, he somehow remained beside you. If someone pulled him into another conversation, his hand would find your arm before he moved away. There was always a brief touch, always a silent reassurance that he’d be right back.
And every single time, he came back.
You were standing with a small group near the balcony doors when somebody asked Han a question. His answer was automatic, distracted, because he was looking at you. Again.
You finally shook your head. “What?”
His smile appeared instantly. “I like looking at you.”
The conversation around you stopped dead. Your eyes widened at the same time that Han realised what he’d said, tips of his ears turning red.
The group immediately erupted into laughter. “You are down catastrophically.”
Han groaned. “I’m aware.”
“You said that out loud.”
“I’m aware.”
You covered your face, but he gently pulled your hands away, murmuring, “Don’t hide.”
“I’m hiding.”
“No.”
“Han.”
His grin softened, and for a brief moment, with everyone else fading into the background, he squeezed your hand. Just once. A quiet little gesture that somehow felt more intimate than all the flirting. The party continued around you, yet somehow, the two of you seemed caught inside your own little bubble. One where every smile lasted too long, every glance lingered, and every accidental touch became deliberate.
Hours passed far more quickly than they should have. Eventually, you checked the time and realised how late it was.
“I should probably head home.”
Han looked disappointed immediately. The expression appeared so quickly that you almost laughed. “Already?”
“It’s late.”
“You’ve become incredibly responsible.”
“Someone has to be.”
“Certainly not me.”
You rolled your eyes, but he smiled. Then, without thinking, his hand found yours again, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The tiny movement made your pulse stumble.
“Can I walk you home?”
The question came out quieter than everything else he’d said all evening. For the first time since his confession, he actually seemed nervous.
You looked at him, at the way his fingers tightened slightly around yours, at the hopeful expression he was trying and failing to hide. Suddenly, the answer felt easy.
“Okay.”
His entire face lit up, and the smile that followed was so bright it was impossible not to smile back.
“Okay?”
“Yes, Han.”
He laughed before he squeezed your hand once more and reached for your coat.
"Wait here for a minute?"
You nodded.
The work party was beginning to wind down. People were collecting coats, finishing drinks, and exchanging goodbyes.
Han smiled. "I'll just say goodbye to your colleagues before they think I've kidnapped you."
You laughed. "Very considerate."
"I know." He leaned down slightly. "Don't disappear."
The warmth that had become so familiar over the last few weeks spread through your chest.
"I won't."
Satisfied, Han headed across the room, immediately getting intercepted by three different people. You smiled to yourself and wandered towards the front door, eyes on his face as he laughed at what one of your colleagues had said.
It still felt surreal - the fact that Han liked you, that he held your hand without hesitation, that he looked at you the way he did.
You were so distracted by your thoughts that you almost didn't notice someone approaching. A woman stopped beside you. She was pretty, beautiful even. She looked like every inch of her was perfectly styled, an expensive-looking dress adorning her perfect figure. She was the kind of woman who seemed effortlessly put together.
She smiled, and at first glance, she seemed friendly.
"You must be Y/N."
"Oh." You smiled politely. "Yeah."
"I'm Ara."
You didn't recognise the name. "Oh, nice to meet you."
Her smile remained in place, though something about it felt slightly forced. "I've known Han for years."
"Oh." You brightened immediately. "Really?"
"Since before all this."
You nodded. "That's nice."
Ara glanced across the room to where Han was talking, then back at you. "So, how did this happen?"
Something about her tone made your stomach tighten.
"What?"
"You and Han."
She gestured vaguely between you.
You laughed awkwardly. "I don't know."
"No, seriously." Her smile sharpened. "I genuinely don't understand."
The warmth in your chest began cooling. "Oh."
Ara folded her arms. "I mean, Han's always had options."
You stared at her. The comment landed heavily, and you instantly started doubting yourself yet again. Maybe she didn't mean it badly? Maybe—
"He usually dates models."
Never mind.
Your stomach dropped, and you looked away, from both her and Han. "Oh."
Ara gave a small shrug. "Not that looks are everything."
The classic phrase people said right before making looks everything. You suddenly felt very aware of yourself - of your dress and the body contained in it, and of every insecurity you'd managed to ignore tonight.
"I just think everyone's surprised."
She said it casually, like she was discussing the weather. As if she wasn't twisting something sharp directly into your ribs.
Your throat felt tight. "Right."
"Like genuinely shocked." Ara laughed lightly, continuing. "I mean, when he first mentioned you, I thought he was joking."
The words hit harder than you wanted them to, because they sounded suspiciously similar to things you'd told yourself. Things you'd believed. Things you were still trying to unlearn.
She tilted her head. "Don't you think it's strange?"
You frowned. "What?"
"That someone like Han would suddenly be interested in someone like—"
She stopped, looking you up and down, her perfectly manicured eyebrow arching in thinly veiled disgust. The unfinished sentence somehow hurt more than if she'd said it.
For a second, you couldn't speak. Your chest felt hollow. This was exactly what you'd always feared everyone was thinking. Exactly what the cruel voice in your head whispered whenever Han looked at you. The only difference was that now someone had actually said it aloud.
Ara sighed dramatically. "I'm just looking out for him."
Your jaw tightened. "Looking out for him?"
"Of course." She smiled again. "I'm his friend."
Friend.
The word felt ridiculous. Friends didn't speak about people like this.
"You know," she continued, "I just think he's getting caught up in attention."
Your eyes snapped back to hers. "Attention?"
"Well." She shrugged. "People like being needed."
The implication hit immediately - that Han pitied you, that he was rescuing you, that whatever existed between you couldn't possibly be real. Your stomach twisted painfully, and for a moment, you couldn't think of a response. You couldn't figure out what to say, because part of you hated how much it hurt, how easily her words found every insecurity you'd ever had.
By the time she walked away, your stomach felt sick. You hated how much her words hurt, hated that a stranger had managed to find every insecurity you’d spent years burying.
Han appeared across the room, smiling as he looked for you. For one awful second, relief had surged through you. Until he reached her, and she smiled up at him. Until he pulled her into a hug and kissed her cheek. It was a normal greeting between close friends, a completely innocent interaction. But through the lens she’d handed you? It looked devastating.
She fit beside him, looked right beside him. They looked like celebrities did in magazines and couples did in advertisements. Ara looked like a girl who always got chosen. And suddenly you were fifteen again, standing against the wall at a school dance, watching somebody prettier get everything you’d secretly wanted.
The ache in your chest became unbearable, and you made the quick decision to leave. You slipped out before Han could reach the door, before he could find you. Before you could embarrass yourself any further.
The cool night air hit your face immediately. You walked faster, then faster still. As though distance could somehow stop the hurt. Your phone buzzed once in your pocket, but you ignored it. You ignored it the next four times they buzzed, too.
By the time you reached your flat, your eyes were burning. You kicked off your shoes and immediately headed for your bedroom. Your phone was buzzing nonstop now, and you finally gave up, pulling it out of your pocket with a frustrated groan.
Han: Where did you go?
Han: I can’t find you.
Han: Are you okay?
Han: Did something happen?
Han: Please answer.
You stared at the screen, reading the messages again and again. Your thumb hovered over the keyboard, then locked the phone instead, because what were you supposed to say?
Your friend pointed out everything I’ve spent my entire life believing about myself, and now I think you’re going to realise she was right?
The thought was pathetic, humiliating even. So instead, you curled up beneath your duvet, fully dressed, and tried not to cry. Your phone rang again and again, the screen lighting up over and over until eventually it stopped. Silence settled over the room, only broken by your uneven breathing. You stared at the ceiling, willing yourself not to cry or to think. Willing yourself not to imagine Han laughing with her right now, no doubt looking at her the way someone should.
Your phone buzzed one final time, and you froze at the voicemail notification.
Han.
You knew it would be him, just like you knew you shouldn’t listen. The sensible thing would be to delete it, to ignore it. Pretend it didn’t exist. Instead, ten minutes later, you found yourself staring at the notification like it had personally offended you. Then another five minutes passed, followed by another. Eventually, you decided that you couldn’t avoid it any longer and, with a shaky breath, you pressed play.
For a second, there was only background noise – music, voices, the sounds of the party. Then Han sighed, and your chest tightened instantly.
“Hey.”
His voice sounded breathless, like he’d been moving around looking for you.
“I don’t really know if you’re listening to this, but I’m hoping you are.”
There was more muffled noise followed by a door opening somewhere in the background. The music became quieter, and you realised that Han had clearly stepped outside.
“You disappeared.” His voice softened as he continued, “And that’s not like you.”
You squeezed your eyes shut.
“I’ve checked every room in this building.”
A small laugh escaped him, but it sounded tired.
“I even checked the bathrooms.”
His tone changed to a more serious one. “I know something happened. Maybe I’m wrong, but you looked different before you left.”
There was a pause, and it was long enough that you could hear him exhale.
“If somebody said something to you…” His voice faltered. “…I need you to tell me.”
Your throat tightened painfully because somehow, he knew. Not what, but that something had happened.
The recording crackled slightly as he shifted the phone, and his voice came through the phone again, quieter this time.
“I know you don’t see yourself the way other people do.”
Tears immediately blurred your vision. You hated how quickly they came, and you hated how accurately he’d hit the wound.
“But I wish you could see yourself the way I do. Because every time you laugh, I want to be the reason. Every time something good happens, you’re the first person I want to tell. And when I walk into a room…”
His voice softened even further.
“…you’re the person I look for.”
You couldn’t breathe. The room felt too small, too warm. The voicemail continued regardless.
“No matter how many people there are. No matter how famous they’re supposed to be.”
He paused again at the end of the phone before letting out a soft sigh.
“I don’t care about any of that. I care about you.”
The words landed directly in the centre of your chest. There was no hesitation or embarrassment, just certainty in his voice, as though they were the easiest truth he’d ever spoken.
The recording went quiet for a moment, and when Han spoke again, his voice sounded smaller somehow. More vulnerable.
“I don’t know why you left. I just know that you looked upset… And I hate the idea of you sitting alone somewhere thinking you have to deal with that by yourself.”
Your vision blurred completely at his words, and you were struggling to hold back your sobs as you finished the message.
“If you want space, I’ll give you space. But please don’t think you have to disappear.”
The final words came softly, almost hesitantly.
“As much as you don’t seem to believe it… I really, really like you.”
There was a brief silence from the other end of the line before he huffed out a small, nervous laugh.
“God, that sounded awful.”
Despite everything, a watery laugh escaped you. The recording ended a second later, and your room fell silent once again. You stared at your phone through tear-filled eyes. No matter how hard you tried, no matter how loudly that cruel voice echoed in your head, you couldn’t stop replaying one thought.
Han had spent the entire evening surrounded by some of the most beautiful people in the industry. And yet when he’d realised you were gone…
You were the person he’d looked for.
The following morning, your thumb hovered over Han’s contact. You should call him; you knew that. You should tell him what happened, what she’d said. Give him a chance to explain.
Instead, you scrolled past his name, past the missed calls and the messages. And stopped on another contact.
Sarah.
You hadn’t spoken properly in months - years, maybe – not beyond birthday messages and the occasional comment on social media. But she’d been there for all of it: school, college, the endless years of being overlooked. If anyone would understand why you were spiralling, it would be her.
So, you called her.
The line rang twice before she answered.
“Hey, stranger.”
Her cheerful voice almost made you cry.
“Hi.”
Immediately she paused. “Oh.”
You heard concern enter her voice.
“What’s happened?”
The words poured out before you could stop them, and you found yourself telling her everything. You told her about meeting Han and working together. About the flirting that you’d mistaken for kindness until the confession. Your voice had cracked as you told her about the party and Ara, about the comments that had left you cut up inside.
Sarah listened quietly throughout, only making the occasional noise to show she was still there. By the end, your throat hurt, and you sat anxiously as silence stretched between you before she finally spoke up again.
“Can I be honest?”
Something in her tone made your stomach drop, and you sat up straighter in preparation.
“Sure.”
A sigh crackled down the line before she started talking. “I think that girl was harsh.”
You nodded immediately. “Exactly.”
“But…”
The word hit like ice water. Your grip tightened on the phone as you waited for her to carry on.
“Sarah?”
She hesitated long enough that you already knew you weren’t going to like what came next.
“I kind of understand what she meant.”
The room suddenly felt very still.
“What?”
“I’m not saying she’s right,” Sarah said quickly. “I’m just saying…”
She trailed off, then tried again.
“Han’s a celebrity.”
You stared at the wall, feeling the pain creep back into your chest, into your heart. “And?”
“And look at the women around him.”
Your chest tightened because you knew where this was going. You hated that you knew.
“Sarah—”
“They’re gorgeous.”
There it was. The familiar ache, the familiar humiliation. The same thing you’d heard your entire life. They were different words, but the message was always the same.
Sarah laughed awkwardly before continuing. “You’ve always been insecure about this stuff.”
The comment stung because she sounded so certain, like she’d always known. Like everyone had.
“I mean…” She hesitated but decided to continue. “You remember school.”
Your stomach dropped because, of course, you remembered school. You remembered everything. Every dance. Every crush. Every time a boy wanted one of your friends. Never you.
“You were always the funny one.”
Funny. Always funny, but never pretty. Never desirable.
Sarah continued speaking, oblivious to the emotional turmoil she was causing for you. “People loved you because you were easy to be around.”
The words landed wrong, terribly wrong. People loved you because—
Because what?
Because you made them look better? Because you were safe? Because nobody had to compete with you?
A memory surfaced suddenly from when you were sixteen. You were sitting at lunch, listening while your friends complained about boys asking them out. You’d laughed along, making jokes, playing your role as the harmless one. The funny one. The one nobody worried about.
Sarah sighed, bringing you back to the present.
“I’m just worried you’re getting your hopes up.”
You swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”
There was another pause as Sarah debated what to say.
“What if he likes the attention?”
The words hit like a slap. “What?”
“You know how kind people can accidentally lead someone on.”
Your heartbeat thundered in your chest. “He told me he likes me.”
“He might think he does.”
You closed your eyes, a horrible feeling growing in your chest now. It wasn’t sadness but recognition, because suddenly you weren’t hearing Ara anymore in your head. You were hearing Sarah. And the more she talked, the more something felt wrong.
“Look,” Sarah continued gently, “you’ve never been the type guys go for.”
The room went silent, and your mind ground to a halt. She’d said it so casually, so naturally, as though it were an established fact. As though she wasn’t saying something devastating. As though she’d always believed it.
You thought back over years of friendship, or what you’d assumed was friendship. You thought about all the jokes she’d made. The compliments that never quite felt like compliments. The way she’d introduce you with a “This is my friend. She’s hilarious.”
Never beautiful, or gorgeous.
Never anything else but funny.
The realisation settled slowly, painfully. You’d always thought that Sarah understood your insecurities, but maybe she hadn’t. Maybe she’d helped build them.
Your eyes burned, but on the other end of the line, Sarah kept talking. “You can’t be too proud about these things.”
The phrase caught your attention immediately.
“You’ve got to be realistic.”
Realistic.
Another word you’d heard your entire life. Realistic meant knowing your place, meant expecting less. Realistic meant understanding that some girls got chosen and others didn’t.
You stared at the dark screen of your television at your reflection, and for the first time, another thought crept in. A horrible one. One that hurt more than Ara’s cruelty.
Do they keep me around because I’m safe? Because standing next to me makes them feel prettier? Because I’m useful?
You remembered every time you’d laughed at yourself first. Every joke you’d made at your own expense. Every moment you’d made yourself smaller so everyone else could shine.
Sarah was still speaking when you realised you hadn’t heard a word she’d said for nearly thirty seconds.
“…are you there?”
You blinked. “Yeah.”
Your voice sounded distant, even to your own ears.
“We’re just worried about you.”
We - not I -as though there had always been a group discussion you weren’t part of.As though everyone had reached the same conclusion about you years ago.
You swallowed hard, then looked down at your phone. At the unanswered messages waiting from Han. The voicemail you’d listened to three times already. The man who had spent months choosing your company, looking for you, remembering things about you, caring about you. As you sat there, a question popped into your mind about Sarah.
If someone genuinely cared about you, would they be speaking to you like this? Or had you spent years mistaking familiarity for friendship?
The answer sat heavily in your chest, because for the first time, Sarah sounded an awful lot like the girl at the party.
And neither of them sounded anything like Han.
The first day after the party, you told yourself you just needed time - time to think, and to calm down. To get your head straight before you spoke to Han again.
When the receptionist called to tell you he was downstairs asking for you, you took a shaky breath and said you were in a meeting. It was a blatant lie; you sat at your desk staring blankly at an unopened spreadsheet while your colleague went down instead.
You hated yourself for it.
But not enough to stop.
The second day, he came back. The third day, too. By the fourth, people in the office had started teasing you about it. They weren’t malicious in their teasing; they just walked around with knowing smiles, jokingly asking questions about why a world-famous idol kept appearing at the reception, looking disappointed.
You laughed it off, tried to change the subject. You avoided looking out the window whenever he arrived. But every evening your phone still lit up.
Han: Hope your day wasn’t too awful.
Han: You looked after yourself today?
Han: I miss talking to you.
Han: Did I do something wrong?
That one sat unread for nearly an hour before you finally opened it.
Did I do something wrong?
The answer was no, because Han really hadn’t done anything wrong. That was the problem. If he’d hurt you, this would have been easier, or if he’d lied or mocked you or revealed himself to be cruel, you could have walked away angry. Instead, he’d been kind, but every cruel thing anyone had said about you had started sounding louder than his kindness.
By the end of the week, you were exhausted. Mentally. The constant battle in your head was becoming unbearable - one side replaying Han’s voicemail, the other replaying what Ara had said, the way Sarah had agreed. You were assaulted with every school memory you’d spent years trying to forget.
“Be realistic.”
“Look at the women around him.”
“You’ve never been the type guys go for.”
At some point, the fear stopped being about whether Han liked you and turned into something much uglier. It became about what would happen when he stopped liking you, because he surely would. Sooner or later, once the excitement wore off, he’d realise. Once he looked around and saw all the women who fit naturally into his world - the women who didn’t have to worry about angles in photographs, the women who looked effortless.
The women who belonged.
You found yourself standing in front of your bathroom mirror one morning, staring at every part of yourself. All you could see was your every flaw, every softness, every insecurity. The comments echoed again and again in your skull, poisoning your mind and your eyes and twisting your own body into a source of disgust so profound that you felt sick to your stomach.
By lunchtime, you’d convinced yourself there was only one solution.
Change.
Immediately.
Drastically.
At first, you were just skipping meals. It was nothing major in your mind, just breakfast becoming coffee and lunch becoming “I’m not hungry.” Dinner became something small, easy to control from the safety of your own flat.
The first day of your new routine felt awful; the second was worse. By the third, hunger had become something you almost welcomed. It was a strange sort of punishment. Proof you were trying, fixing yourself. Every ache in your stomach became evidence that you were finally doing something. You were finally becoming better, more worthy of Han’s attention and a place in his world. The scale became the first thing you checked every morning, the number determining your mood for the entire day. If it dropped, relief flooded through you, and if it didn’t, panic followed.
Soon, your entire life began revolving around it. It was an ongoing mess of calories, numbers, and portion control. Excuses became second nature. You stopped meeting friends after work, stopped accepting invitations, and stopped doing things you enjoyed. Everything became secondary to becoming someone who belonged beside Han. It’s all that mattered to you. In your mind, you needed to be the kind of person that nobody would question or laugh at. Someone nobody would pull aside at parties and warn away.
A few weeks after the party, you were sitting alone at your kitchen table when your phone buzzed again.
Han.
You almost ignored it until your eyes landed on the preview on your screen.
Han: I’m worried about you.
Your chest tightened painfully, so you locked the phone, setting it face down as you tried to focus on anything but the man waiting at the other end for a reply.
A few seconds later, more messages arrived. Guilt mixed with panic, and you froze when you read his words.
Han: If you need space, I’ll respect it.
Han: But please stop pretending you’re okay when you’re not.
Your throat burned with emotion because he wasn’t supposed to notice. Nobody had ever noticed. Sure, people noticed when you were funny or when you were useful, and they definitely noticed when you were making everyone else’s lives easier.
They just didn’t notice when you were quietly falling apart.
Yet somehow Han had.
And that made ignoring him infinitely harder.
You pushed away from the table and headed for the bathroom. The scale sat waiting in the corner, calling out to you. You stepped onto it immediately, heart pounding, and watched the numbers settle slightly lower than they had been the day before. It was a tiny amount – barely anything – yet relief flooded through you so intensely that it was almost embarrassing.
There.
See? It was working!
You just had to keep going. Keep trying. Keep fixing yourself. Then maybe one day you’d be the kind of person who deserved someone like Han.
The thought felt comforting for all of three seconds before another memory surfaced of Han’s voice from the voicemail.
“I wish you could see yourself the way I do.”
You stared at your reflection in the mirror. At the tired eyes and the dark circles sat underneath them. The tension in your shoulders made you look small, a perfect manifestation of the way you’d spent the last week shrinking your entire life down to a number on a scale.
For the first time, a quiet, uncomfortable question appeared.
If Han walked through the door right now and saw what you were doing to yourself, would he think you were becoming someone worthy of him? Or would he be heartbroken that you believed you had to?
The wine had been a mistake; you’d known that when you’d poured the second glass and became certain by the third. But for the first time in days, your thoughts had felt quieter. Not gone, just blurred around the edges.
The scale hadn’t given you the result you’d wanted that morning. You’d spent the entire day carrying that disappointment around with you, letting it grow larger and larger until it consumed everything else. By the evening, your flat was silent except for the television playing something you weren’t really watching.
The Sharpie had appeared almost absentmindedly. One moment, it was sitting in a drawer. The next, it was in your hand.
You stood in front of the mirror wearing only a robe, slightly open at the front. You were staring at yourself as you had weeks ago, eyes critical and expression judgmental. The same way you had every day for the last week.
Only this time, you’d started drawing.
It was just a few marks at first – lines, shapes, outlines. An impossible version of yourself sketched directly onto your skin. You drew a body that took up less space that nobody would question. A body that belonged beside Han. The alcohol made it easier to pretend, to stand there and imagine everything outside those lines simply disappearing.
As though life could be that simple.
As though years of insecurity could be solved with a marker pen.
You were so focused on your reflection that the knock at the door nearly made you jump out of your skin. Your heart stopped when it was followed by another, this time louder. You dropped the Sharpie immediately, and panic surged through you because nobody visited unannounced. Nobody.
You fumbled the robe closed and tied it so quickly your fingers slipped twice. There was another knock, and you called out this time.
“Coming!”
Your voice sounded strange, even to your own ears. It was too high, too breathless. You hurried to the door, mentally running through the possibilities of who it could be. Maybe it was your neighbour, or a delivery? Anyone but-
“Han?”
You’d opened the door and froze. Han stood on the other side, and for a second, neither of you spoke. His hair was slightly windswept, jacket hanging open. He looked as though he’d come straight from somewhere else, straight to you.
Your stomach dropped as you realised that this was the first time you’d seen him in weeks, and you weren’t ready for it. It hadn’t been long enough, you hadn’t dieted enough yet. Hadn’t lost enough weight to belong at his side.
“What are you doing here?”
The words came out sharper than intended, a consequence of your inner panic.
Relief flashed across his face despite your tone, like he’d genuinely been worried you wouldn’t answer.
“Hi to you too.”
You tightened your grip on the door. “Han.”
“I got your address from your colleague.”
Of course he had. You made a mental note to murder that colleague later.
“What are you doing here?” you repeated.
His smile faded slightly, realising you weren’t happy to see him, even now. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
You immediately looked away. “No, I haven’t.”
The lie was pathetic, and you both knew it.
Han sighed. “You have.”
An awkward silence settled between the two of you; you didn’t know what to say, how to get out of this without admitting the truth. The hallway suddenly felt too small, too bright. You felt too exposed. Every second he stood there increased your awareness of what was hidden beneath the robe - the marker pen lying abandoned in the bathroom, the lines still covering your skin.
Your pulse hammered. “I’ve just been busy,” you tried.
Han stared at you, then snorted. “You’re a terrible liar.”
Despite everything, a tiny laugh almost escaped you. His expression softened, concern replacing frustration.
“You disappeared.”
Your throat tightened. “I know.”
“You stopped answering my messages.”
“I know.”
“You won’t see me.”
“I know.”
The quiet honesty seemed to catch him off guard. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then Han took a careful step closer.
“Talk to me.”
The gentleness nearly broke you. You looked down at the floor, hiding the glassiness in your eyes.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
Because if you started talking, everything would come out: Ara, Sarah, the dieting, the spiralling. The fact that every time you looked at him, all you could think was that eventually he’ll realise they’re right.
Your eyes burned, and you shook your head. “Please just go home.”
Han’s face fell, and the sight hurt more than you expected. His gaze drifted down from your eyes, and panic sealed your throat shut as it stopped at your neck. You already knew what he’d see but prayed that it was something – anything - else.
A dark line of marker was visible above the collar of your robe, just enough to be noticeable.
Han frowned. “What is that?”
Your stomach dropped. “Nothing.”
His eyes narrowed as you lied again before they moved lower to where another black line disappeared beneath the robe near your ankle.
The colour drained from your face. “No.”
Han’s voice was careful now – confused, concerned when he asked, “What happened?”
You instinctively pulled the robe tighter, trying to hide the lines from view, even though it was too late. “It’s nothing.”
The concern on his face deepened. It was the kind of concern that comes from realising something is very wrong. Not physically, but emotionally… Mentally. The silence stretched, and for the first time since arriving, Han looked genuinely frightened.
Not of you; for you.
“Can I come in?”
You opened your mouth, closed it, and opened it again. Because suddenly all your excuses felt exhausted, all your energy gone. Standing there under his worried gaze, you realised something.
For weeks, you’d been trying desperately to become someone worthy of Han. Meanwhile, Han had spent those same weeks trying desperately to reach the person he already cared about.
The person standing in front of him now.
Not some future version, or some smaller version.
Just you.
The realisation hurt enough to make the tears in your eyes finally spill over, and Han’s expression immediately crumpled.
“Oh.”
His voice softened.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
The endearment shattered what little composure remained. You looked away, embarrassed by the tears, but Han didn’t move, and he didn’t judge or look disgusted. He simply stood there, waiting, like whatever was hidden beneath the robe wasn’t what mattered. Like the thing he cared about was the fact that you’d been hurting alone.
The moment you stepped aside, Han entered the flat without hesitation. The door clicked shut behind him, and for a second, neither of you spoke as you stared at the floor, and he watched you carefully. The silence felt fragile, like just one wrong word could shatter it entirely. You stood awkwardly in the hallway, arms wrapped tightly around yourself, terrified of saying the wrong thing. Terrified of saying anything at all.
Han looked at you for a long moment, then quietly said, “Come here.”
And somehow that was your undoing – not because of the words, but because of the gentleness. The patience. The fact that he wasn’t angry. You crossed the distance before you could stop yourself, and the second his arms wrapped around you, a sob tore from your throat.
Han held you immediately, firmly. You felt safe in his arms as one hand slid to the back of your head, the other settling around your shoulders. You buried your face against him, and for the first time in over a week, you stopped trying to hold yourself together. Everything hurt - your chest, throat, head – from the exhaustion of carrying so much shame around every second of every day. Han just held you through it, asking no questions and making no demands, just providing a steady warmth that you could sink into.
Until that horrible voice slithered back in.
He can feel you.
You froze.
He can feel how big you are.
Your stomach dropped.
He can feel every fat bit of you.
Immediately, panic flooded through you, and you pulled away so suddenly that Han nearly stumbled.
His hands fell away instantly, confusion crossing his face. “Hey—”
You took another step back, then another. “No.”
Your breathing became uneven. “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
You shook your head violently. Han looked completely lost now, concern replacing confusion.
“What happened?”
“Nothing.”
His eyebrows rose. “You’ve been avoiding me for over a week.”
You looked away. “Nothing happened.”
“That’s obviously not true.”
You started pacing. The energy felt trapped beneath your skin, like if you stood still for even a second, you’d explode. Han watched carefully, waiting for you to speak. The patience only made it worse, because eventually there was nowhere left to run. Nowhere left to hide.
“It was that party.”
The words came out suddenly, surprising even yourself.
Han straightened, though, latching onto your sudden outburst. “What about it?”
You laughed miserably because if you didn’t laugh, you’d cry. “Your friend.”
Immediately, understanding flashed across his face. You could see that he didn’t understand fully, but enough to help. Enough to get to the bottom of what had been affecting you for weeks.
“Who?”
Ara’s name left your mouth, and Han’s expression darkened instantly.
“What did she say?”
The question was a catalyst to your pain, and everything came spilling out. You told him about the comments she’d made, the implications. You mentioned the warnings that she’d given and explained the way she’d looked at you and how she’d made you feel. You sobbed as you recounted the way you’d watched him hug her afterwards and suddenly felt fifteen years old again, watching prettier girls get everything while you faded into the background.
By the time you finished, your eyes were burning, and Han looked furious. You laughed shakily and dragged a hand through your hair.
“You know the worst part?”
His jaw tightened, eyes narrowing. “What?”
“I believed her.”
The confession hung in the room, raw and ugly. You swallowed hard, knowing that you needed to continue. You wanted him to finally understand after hiding for so long.
“Then I called Sarah.”
Han frowned, confused. “Is that your friend? The one from school?”
You nodded, feeling sick as you admitted, “She agreed.”
The silence that followed was deafening, because saying it aloud somehow made it real. Han stared at you, mouth hanging open, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. Meanwhile, the words you’d spent all week swallowing came rushing out.
“I’ve spent my whole life being the funny friend. The one everyone likes but nobody wants.”
You winced as your voice cracked when tears blurred your vision again, but you had to finish now that you had started.
“And maybe they’re right.”
Han immediately shook his head. “No.”
“Maybe they are.”
“No.”
You laughed bitterly. “Han, look at your life.”
His expression hardened. “I’m looking at you.”
The tears spilt over once again, quieter this time, more resigned. “You don’t understand.”
“Then help me understand.”
The desperation in his voice caught you off guard. You were expecting frustration, maybe anger, but instead, he seemed to genuinely want to know. So, you told him everything, the words tumbling out between sobs.
“I’ve… drawn out in Sharpie - where I’d take the scissors. If that’s what it took for me to look in the mirror.”
Han’s face drained of colour, and your chest hurt at the horror on his face.
“I’ve done every diet to make me look thinner.”
A tear rolled down your cheek as you asked the question that had plagued your mind your whole life.
“So why do I still feel so goddamn inferior?”
The room went completely silent. For a moment, Han didn’t move, didn’t speak. He just stared at you. You could see that he was heartbroken by your words, by your pain. It looked like hearing your words caused him his own physical pain. Then, his gaze slowly dropped. To your robe. To the marker visible at your collar, your wrists, and your ankles.
Realisation dawned on his face, and you let out a shaky laugh.
“There.”
Your fingers twisted into the fabric.
“That’s what’s under here.”
Han closed his eyes briefly, a muscle in his jaw jumping. When he looked at you again, his eyes were shining with grief.
“You’ve been carrying this by yourself?”
The question broke something inside you, because even after all of that, he wasn’t disgusted or judgmental. He hadn’t confirmed that the girls had been right. He was just sad that you’d been hurting.
You nodded, a tiny movement, but Han still saw it. His shoulders fell, as though the answer hurt him, before he slowly crossed the room. He was giving you enough of a chance to stop him, you realised. But this time, you didn’t want to.
He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could see the moisture in his eyes, hear his uneven breathing. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“I wish you could see what I see.”
Fresh tears rolled down your cheeks because after weeks of starving yourself and hiding while you tried to become someone else, Han wasn’t looking at you like you were a problem to solve. He was looking at you like your pain was the thing breaking his heart.
For a long moment, neither of you moved. You stood in the middle of your living room, tears drying on your cheeks, arms wrapped tightly around yourself. Han was close enough to touch, to see every flicker of doubt crossing your face.
“You don’t have to do this,” you whispered.
His expression softened. “I’m not doing anything you don’t want me to.”
You swallowed. The shame was still there, sitting heavy and familiar in your chest, but for the first time all week, there was something else alongside it.
Trust.
Slowly, Han reached for your hand. His fingers threaded through yours, warm and steady, as he gently pulled you towards the mirror hanging in your hallway.
He stopped in front of the full-length mirror, tugging on your hand with a gentle “Come here.”
You hadn’t looked in this mirror for weeks, preferring to restrict your view of yourself with the mirror in the bathroom. That one already gave you enough to critique, without bringing your whole body into view.
Immediately, your stomach twisted. “No.”
Han squeezed your hand gently, eyes imploring you to trust him. “Please.”
You took a deep, steadying breath before you stepped in line with the mirror, eyes slowly raising to land on you both in the reflection. You could see your red eyes. Your tear-stained face. His worried expression.
“I hate it.”
“I know.”
His voice was so quiet it almost hurt. For a moment, neither of you spoke. Then, carefully, giving you every chance to stop him, Han loosened the belt of your robe. His eyes never left your face, checking. Waiting to see if you were okay with this.
When you didn’t pull away, the fabric slipped from your shoulders, leaving you in a simple vest and underwear. You immediately wanted to hide, to cross your arms and curl in on yourself until you disappeared. Han gently caught your wrists before you could, gently stopping you in your tracks.
“Don’t,” he murmured.
Your eyes filled again. “Han—”
“Please.”
The look on his face stole the rest of your words. He wasn’t looking at you with revulsion, or with judgment, but with an almost desperate need for you to see yourself differently. For you to appreciate yourself as he did.
Slowly, he turned you towards the mirror, and you tried looking at the floor. He noticed immediately, gently bumping your shoulder.
“Look.”
“I can’t.”
“You can.”
“I hate what I see.”
The words came out broken, raw from their honesty. Han’s jaw tightened, and he stepped behind you. You couldn’t help but tense as one arm wrapped loosely around your waist, the other lifting to your shoulder. His touch was gentle, reassuring, and you found yourself relaxing into his grip more.
“You see flaws,” he said softly as you stared stubbornly at the floor. “Because they’re there.”
The hand resting on your shoulder squeezed softly.
“I see somebody who always takes care of everyone else.”
A tear slipped down your cheek at his words, and his fingers traced lightly along your arm as he carried on softly.
“I see somebody who makes people feel safe.”
You shook your head, but his grip tightened slightly around your hand. He wasn’t letting you retreat or disappear. His gaze met yours through the reflection.
“Look at me.”
Slowly, reluctantly, you did. The emotion in his eyes nearly undid you.
“I love your smile. The real one that you try to hide when you’re embarrassed.”
Your throat tightened, a shaky laugh escaping you. His own lips twitched in response to the noise.
“There it is.”
You rolled your eyes weakly, immediately looking down again. Han sighed, before gently tilting your chin upwards.
“Stay with me.”
The plea in his voice was unmistakable.
Stay with me. Believe me. Please.
His hand settled against your side, warm through your skin, and instead of criticism, instead of the catalogue of faults you’d expected, he spoke with a kind of reverence that made your chest ache.
“I love how soft you are.”
You immediately tried looking away, and Han caught your eye again.
“No.”
The word was gentle but firm.
“You don’t get to run away from that one.”
Fresh tears filled your eyes because he wasn’t saying it despite your body. He was saying it because of it.
As though softness wasn’t something shameful.
As though it was something worth loving.
His forehead creased. “You spend so much time being cruel to yourself. Would you ever speak to somebody else the way you speak to yourself?”
You didn’t answer because you knew the answer.
Never.
His hand squeezed yours. “You are kind.”
Another squeeze.
“Funny.”
Another.
“Beautiful.”
Your eyes closed immediately, and Han made a quiet sound of frustration. Not at you, but at the wall of disbelief you’d built around yourself. When you opened your eyes again, he was already looking at you. His eyes hadn’t left you since you’d stepped in front of the mirror, watching you with nothing but patience – like he would have stood here all night if he had to.
“You keep waiting for me to change my mind.”
The words landed directly in your chest. You’d been waiting for it since the moment he confessed. Waiting for reality to catch up, for him to realise he’d made a mistake.
Han’s eyes softened. “I’m not going to.”
Your breath caught, but he carried on regardless. “I’m not looking at you and wishing you were somebody else.”
Another tear rolled down your cheek, and he wiped it away gently. “I’m not standing here imagining a different version of you.”
His voice cracked slightly. “I’m standing here looking at you.”
The room felt impossibly quiet as you stared at your reflection, at the woman you’d spent years criticising.
Years shrinking.
Years apologising for.
And for the first time, you weren’t seeing her entirely through your own eyes. You were seeing her through Han’s - through the eyes of someone who had searched an entire party looking for her. Who had shown up at her workplace every day. Who had tracked down her address because he was worried. Who looked at her now as though she was worth every bit of that effort.
Han brushed away another tear before he moved to rest his forehead on your own. “You don’t have to become somebody else.”
His eyes searched yours, begging you to believe him.
“You never did.”
That night, after all the tears and confessions and raw honesty, the distance between you and Han felt smaller than it ever had before. You were still standing in front of the mirror, still emotionally exhausted and feeling vulnerable in a way you weren’t used to. But this time, you had Han next to you, brushing a final tear from your cheek. Neither of you said anything. There was nothing left to say right then, and the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm and safe in a way that you only felt with him.
His eyes drifted briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes, giving you the chance to pull away.
You didn’t.
Slowly, he lifted one hand to cradle your face. The touch was impossibly gentle, as though you were something precious or breakable. His other arm wrapped around you, drawing you closer until there was barely any space left between you.
And then he kissed you.
The kiss wasn’t desperate or urgent. It was soft; the kind of kiss that felt like a question and an answer all at once. You melted into it almost immediately. All the months of uncertainty, the weeks of pain and days of spiralling seemed to quiet down for those few moments. Han kissed you like someone who wanted you to understand something, like he was trying to communicate every reassuring thing he’d said that evening without using words.
When you finally pulled apart, his forehead rested against yours, and a small smile touched his lips.
“There you are.”
Your eyes immediately filled again, and Han laughed softly.
“No more crying,” he said.
“I’m trying.”
“You are terrible at it.”
A reluctant laugh escaped you, and his smile widened.
For the first time in a long time, you believed him when he looked at you like you were beautiful.
After that night, things didn’t magically become perfect. Years of insecurity don’t disappear overnight, but they become easier to carry when you aren’t carrying them alone anymore.
Han remained stubbornly, consistently present. The following week, you were there when he confronted Ara. You’d tried to avoid the conversation, but Han hadn’t allowed it.
“You’re coming.”
“Han—”
“You’re coming.”
And so, you had.
The woman looked uncomfortable the second she realised why she was there. Han wasn’t cruel - that wasn’t who he was - but he was firm. Disappointed. Protective in a way that made your chest ache. By the end of the conversation, there was no confusion about where he stood.
He chose you.
Openly.
Without hesitation, embarrassment or apology.
Talking to Sarah was harder - far harder - because, unlike Ara, Sarah had been part of your life for years. You’d spent so long believing she was your friend that accepting the truth felt almost like grief.
Han sat beside you before the call, supportive in his silence with his hand resting over your own. He was a quiet source of strength in a painfully illuminating conversation. For the first time, you noticed things you had overlooked for years. The dismissiveness, the backhanded compliments, and the subtle ways she’d always encouraged you to expect less from yourself.
By the end of the call, your hands were shaking. You stared at the blank screen afterwards feeling strangely hollow.
Han immediately pulled you against him. “You okay?”
You nodded, then shook your head before laughing. “I don’t know.”
“That’s fair.”
His arms tightened around you, and for the first time, ending the friendship felt less like losing something and more like putting down something heavy you’d been carrying for years.
The first time Han told you he loved you was six months later.
You were sitting together on his sofa, neither of you doing anything particularly interesting. A film was playing in the background, and your head was resting on his shoulder.
It happened so casually you almost missed it.
He kissed your forehead, smiled, and just… said it.
“I love you.”
As natural as breathing, as saying good morning.
You froze instantly, and Han immediately noticed. Panic surged through you, your brain racing.
Too fast.
Too much.
What if he means it now but not later?
What if I don’t deserve it?
What if—
“Hey.”
Han’s voice interrupted the spiral immediately. You looked up, and he was smiling softly. He wasn’t offended by the hesitation, or upset, or frustrated. He was just patient like always.
“You don’t have to say it back,” he explained.
Your throat tightened. “What if—”
“Don’t.”
His hand found yours.
“What if I scare you away?”
His expression melted completely. “You won’t.”
“What if—”
“You won’t.”
The certainty in his voice made your eyes sting. Han kissed your forehead again, then your cheek, then the tip of your nose. You laughed in spite of yourself, and Han grinned at you fondly.
“There she is.”
You rolled your eyes, and Han smiled.
“I love you,” he murmured.
The words felt less frightening the second time. Less like pressure and more like a promise.
And eventually, when you said it back, his smile was so bright it looked painful.
As your relationship deepened, intimacy became another place where Han’s patience showed itself.
When you were physically intimate together for the first time, he seemed far more focused on making sure you felt safe, wanted, and comfortable than anything else. Every hesitation was met with reassurance, every moment of insecurity was met with kindness. The same man who had stood beside you in front of the mirror was still there, still looking at you with the same affection, still treating your body as something worthy of care and admiration.
Afterwards, wrapped together beneath blankets, you found yourself tracing patterns across his arm, feeling content in the silence that enveloped the room. Han pressed a kiss into your hair, then another, and another, until you laughed and shoved his shoulder.
“Stop.”
“No.”
“Han.”
“No.”
You groaned, and he grinned before pulling you closer, as though even after everything, he still couldn’t quite believe he was lucky enough to have you there. And for once, lying safely in his arms, you found yourself thinking something that would have seemed impossible a year earlier.
Maybe you weren’t the only lucky one.
Maybe you were worth someone feeling lucky enough to have you.
a/n: so I think this is the angstiest, yet realest, fic I've written yet? what do we think? lmk in the comments bcos I love hearing all your thoughts xo
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This series is a work of fiction inspired by Squid Game and the members of Stray Kids. It explores themes of survival, moral conflict, fear, and the psychological cost of desperation.
The characters are placed in extreme situations that include violence, death, and emotional distress. While moments of connection and loyalty exist, this is not a romance-focused story-survival is always the priority.
———————————————————————
Chapter 4: After the Noise
The dormitory feels smaller than before.
It shouldn’t—nothing about it has physically changed. The same towering bunks, the same cold lighting, the same endless rows of green tracksuits moving in exhausted, obedient lines.
But something presses in on them now.
Fear has weight.
Chan notices it the moment they step back inside. The air feels thicker, harder to breathe. The metallic scent of blood still lingers faintly, no matter how clean the floor looks. Like the room itself remembers.
Jisung nearly trips crossing the threshold.
Minho catches him automatically, fingers tightening around his arm. Jisung doesn’t even look embarrassed. He just lets himself be steadied, shoulders slumping as if the tension holding him upright finally snapped.
“I feel sick,” Jisung mutters.
“You already were,” Minho replies quietly, guiding him toward an empty set of bunks. “Sit.”
Jisung obeys without protest, collapsing onto the lower mattress. His hands shake violently in his lap. He stares down at them like they don’t belong to him.
Felix steers Jeongin to the bunk beside them, easing him down gently. Jeongin curls in on himself immediately, knees to chest, arms wrapped tight like he’s trying to disappear.
Hyunjin stands frozen in the middle of the aisle.
He hasn’t spoken since the field.
His eyes keep flicking to the floor, to places where bodies had been dragged away earlier. His breath comes shallow, uneven.
Changbin notices.
“Hyunjin,” he says softly. “Sit down.”
Hyunjin doesn’t respond.
Changbin steps closer, lowering his voice. “Hey. You’re safe right now.”
Hyunjin lets out a short, broken laugh. “Don’t say that.”
Changbin falters.
Chan watches all of this from a few steps away, chest tight. He feels like he’s watching his members fracture in real time, and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.
Seungmin leans against a bunk post, arms crossed, eyes sharp but tired. He’s quiet—too quiet—but his gaze keeps drifting to the ceiling, tracking the subtle hum of cameras hidden behind panels.
“They’re watching us,” he murmurs.
Minho glances up. “Of course they are.”
“No,” Seungmin says. “More than before.”
The announcement comes without warning.
A sharp tone cuts through the dormitory, snapping everyone’s attention to the screen.
“Congratulations to the remaining players,” the distorted voice says calmly. “You have successfully completed the first game.”
A graphic appears: a massive glass piggy bank suspended above them, already partially filled with stacks of money.
Each stack represents a life.
Jisung makes a choked sound.
Jeongin turns away, burying his face in Felix’s shoulder.
“Current prize total,” the voice continues, “is 11.3 billion won.”
Someone laughs hysterically.
Someone else screams.
Chan feels bile rise in his throat.
“This is sick,” Changbin snarls under his breath. “They’re showing us like it’s a reward.”
“It is,” Minho replies grimly. “Just not for us.”
The screen changes.
“Players will now be given the opportunity to vote.”
A ripple of tension sweeps the room.
“Vote?” Hyunjin finally speaks, voice hoarse.
“Rule three,” Seungmin says quietly. “Majority vote stops the games.”
Hope sparks like a live wire.
People surge toward the center, voices rising, overlapping.
“We can leave!”
“They can’t stop all of us!”
“This is murder!”
Chan’s heart starts pounding again.
“Everyone,” he says, turning to his members. “Stay together.”
They form a loose cluster instinctively, backs nearly touching.
Minho’s eyes scan the crowd. “This won’t be simple.”
The voting devices are handed out—small, black buttons with two options displayed on the screen.
Continue
Stop
“Each player has one vote,” the voice announces. “Majority decides.”
Jisung stares at the device in his hand like it might explode.
“If we vote to stop,” he whispers, “we go home. Right?”
Felix hesitates. “That’s what they said.”
“What if they’re lying?” Jeongin asks quietly.
No one answers.
Chan looks at each of them.
Minho meets his gaze, expression unreadable. Changbin’s jaw is clenched tight, anger barely contained. Hyunjin looks hollow, eyes red-rimmed. Jisung is trembling. Felix is tense, protective. Seungmin is calculating. Jeongin looks terrified.
“We can’t stay,” Jisung says suddenly, voice breaking. “Hyung, we can’t. People died.”
Chan’s throat tightens.
“I know.”
“But if we leave,” Minho says slowly, “we leave with nothing.”
Felix turns sharply. “Minho—”
“I’m not saying we stay,” Minho adds, tone controlled. “I’m saying that’s the choice they’re forcing.”
Changbin scoffs. “That money isn’t worth this.”
“Easy to say,” Minho replies quietly. “You didn’t see the numbers before you came here.”
Changbin bristles, stepping forward. “You think I don’t know what desperation looks like?”
Chan steps between them immediately.
“Stop,” he says firmly. “This isn’t us. Not like this.”
Silence stretches.
Seungmin breaks it.
“They want us divided,” he says calmly. “If we vote to stop, they lose their leverage. If we vote to continue, we accept it.”
Hyunjin’s hands curl into fists. “I don’t care about the money.”
Minho glances at him. “You might. Later.”
Hyunjin flinches.
Jisung’s eyes fill with tears. “I just want to go home.”
Felix wraps an arm around him instinctively.
Chan looks down at the device in his own hand.
Stop.
It should be easy.
But his mind keeps replaying the image of the piggy bank filling. The number climbing. The implication hanging heavy in the air.
He presses the button.
One by one, they all do.
The results flash on the screen.
Vote to Stop: 101
Vote to Continue: 86
A majority.
For a moment, no one moves.
Then cheers erupt. People cry, laugh, collapse into each other. Relief surges like a tidal wave.
Jisung sobs openly now, clinging to Felix. Jeongin lets out a shaky laugh that turns into tears. Changbin sinks onto a bunk, head in his hands.
Hyunjin exhales, shoulders slumping for the first time.
Chan’s knees nearly give out.
The voice returns.
“By majority vote, the games are suspended.”
The piggy bank stops filling.
Guards lower their weapons slightly.
Chan lets himself believe it.
Just for a second.
Then—
“Players will be released,” the voice continues, “and returned to their previous lives. However—”
The word lands like a blade.
“All debts incurred prior to the games will remain.”
The cheering dies instantly.
Silence crashes down.
Minho’s face goes still.
Jisung looks up sharply. “What… what does that mean?”
This series is a work of fiction inspired by Squid Game and the members of Stray Kids. It explores themes of survival, moral conflict, fear, and the psychological cost of desperation.
The characters are placed in extreme situations that include violence, death, and emotional distress. While moments of connection and loyalty exist, this is not a romance-focused story-survival is always the priority.
————————————————————————-
Chapter 3: When the World Stops
The hallway is a maze.
That’s Chan’s first thought as they’re forced forward in rigid lines, pink guards flanking them on both sides, guns raised casually like accessories instead of weapons. The walls are painted in cheerful colors—pastel blues, yellows, pinks—geometric shapes stretching endlessly upward.
It feels wrong.
The brightness. The cleanliness. The way fear echoes louder here, bouncing off painted staircases and hollow laughter murals.
Jisung keeps tripping over his own feet.
Not because he’s clumsy—because his legs won’t stop shaking.
Minho notices before Jisung does.
He slows his pace just enough to stay beside him, voice low. “Hey. Breathe. You’re walking too fast.”
“I can’t—” Jisung swallows, fingers curling into the sleeve of his tracksuit. “If I stop moving I think I’ll pass out.”
“Then don’t stop,” Minho replies quietly. “Just… match me.”
Jisung nods, latching onto Minho’s pace like it’s a lifeline.
Behind them, Felix keeps his hand firmly on Jeongin’s shoulder, thumb rubbing small, grounding circles into the fabric. Jeongin’s eyes are fixed straight ahead, unblinking.
“Felix,” he whispers, barely audible over the shuffle of feet. “Are we going to die?”
Felix’s chest tightens.
He doesn’t lie.
“I don’t know,” he says softly. “But you’re not alone. Okay?”
Jeongin nods once.
Changbin walks with his fists clenched, jaw locked so tight it looks painful. He positions himself instinctively between Hyunjin and the crowd, shoulders squared like he could physically block bullets if it came to that.
Hyunjin barely notices.
His thoughts are spiraling too fast, images replaying on loop—the gunshot, the body collapsing, blood blooming across the floor. His fingers twitch at his sides, itching to run, to scream, to do something other than walk obediently toward whatever nightmare waits ahead.
Seungmin watches everything.
The guards’ formation. The way cameras tilt and track movement. The absence of blind spots. The timing between turns.
“This place was planned for panic,” he murmurs under his breath, close enough that only Chan hears.
Chan exhales shakily.
“I know.”
The hallway opens suddenly.
Light floods in.
The field stretches out before them—wide, open, deceptively innocent. Fake blue sky arches overhead, clouds painted too perfectly to be real. Oversized playground equipment dots the landscape like props in a children’s show.
And at the far end—
A giant doll.
Its back is turned to them, pigtails stiff, yellow dress bright against the green field. Its presence alone sends a chill crawling up Chan’s spine.
“What… is that?” Jeongin whispers.
“Nope,” Changbin mutters. “I don’t like that.”
A massive screen flickers to life above the field.
Game 1: Red Light, Green Light
A collective murmur ripples through the crowd.
“This is insane,” someone laughs. “That’s a kid’s game.”
Minho’s expression doesn’t change.
“Kids’ games are simple,” he says quietly. “That’s what makes them dangerous.”
They’re lined up at the starting line.
The guards fan out, guns raised.
Chan’s heart pounds so hard he’s sure everyone can hear it.
“Everyone,” he says urgently, turning to his members. “Stay close. Don’t run unless you have to. If you fall—”
“Get back up,” Changbin finishes grimly.
Hyunjin nods stiffly.
Jisung swallows hard. “What if we mess up?”
Minho meets his eyes. “Then we don’t.”
The rules echo through the speakers, calm and cheerful.
“When the doll says ‘green light,’ you may move. When it says ‘red light,’ you must stop. Any movement detected during ‘red light’ will result in elimination.”
Elimination.
The word lands like a gunshot.
Felix squeezes Jeongin’s shoulder. “Eyes on me if you need to,” he murmurs. “Don’t look at anything else.”
Jeongin nods, breathing shallow.
The doll’s head begins to turn.
“Green light.”
No one moves at first.
Then one step.
Another.
Chan walks slowly, every muscle coiled tight, hyperaware of the ground beneath his feet. He can hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Jisung stays close, shoulder brushing Chan’s arm. Minho hangs slightly back, watching the crowd, calculating angles and pace.
Hyunjin moves stiffly, like his body doesn’t trust itself. Changbin keeps glancing sideways, tracking everyone’s position. Seungmin walks evenly, measured, eyes flicking constantly to the doll.
Felix guides Jeongin forward gently, murmuring quiet encouragement under his breath.
The doll’s head snaps around.
“Red light.”
The field freezes.
A man near the center sways.
Just barely.
The gunshot cracks the air.
He drops instantly.
Screams erupt.
Jisung gasps, body jerking instinctively before Minho’s hand clamps onto his wrist, holding him still.
“Don’t move,” Minho whispers fiercely. “Don’t. Look at me.”
Jisung locks eyes with him, tears spilling freely, breath shaking so badly it hurts to watch.
Chan doesn’t breathe.
Neither does Hyunjin.
Changbin’s nails dig into his palms, pain grounding him.
Felix presses closer to Jeongin, shielding him from the sight as much as possible.
“Green light.”
People move again—but faster now.
Fear is contagious.
Someone bumps into Hyunjin hard enough to knock him off balance. He stumbles, arms flailing.
“Hyunjin!” Changbin hisses.
Hyunjin freezes mid-motion, terror flooding his face.
The doll begins to turn.
Chan’s heart stops.
Changbin moves without thinking.
He steps behind Hyunjin, gripping his shoulders, physically locking him in place.
“Don’t,” Changbin whispers. “I’ve got you.”
“Red light.”
A body collapses behind them.
Blood splatters the grass.
Hyunjin’s knees buckle.
Changbin holds him up.
Hyunjin’s eyes are glassy, lips trembling. “I—I thought—”
“I know,” Changbin says hoarsely. “You’re still here.”
The game continues.
Each round grows louder. Faster. Deadlier.
Someone trips and doesn’t get back up.
Someone screams for their mother.
Someone tries to crawl.
The guards don’t hesitate.
Halfway across the field, Jisung’s breath starts coming in sharp, painful bursts.
“I can’t—” he whispers. “I can’t breathe—”
Minho moves closer, body angled protectively. “Listen to my voice. Step when I step. Stop when I stop.”
Jisung nods frantically, clinging to the rhythm Minho sets.
Felix nearly loses Jeongin when the younger freezes completely during a red light, fear locking his joints.
Felix doesn’t let go.
He braces, grounding both of them, whispering, “You’re okay. You’re okay. I won’t move.”
Jeongin squeezes his eyes shut, tears streaming silently.
Seungmin notices something then.
“The sensors,” he murmurs. “They’re tracking speed changes.”
Chan glances at him sharply. “What?”
“People who panic are dying faster,” Seungmin says quietly. “Control matters more than distance.”
The finish line is close.
Too close.
The final stretch erupts into chaos as players break into a run.
Chan grabs Seungmin’s sleeve instinctively, pulling him forward. Changbin practically carries Hyunjin. Felix half-drags Jeongin, refusing to let go.
Jisung stumbles.
Minho catches him.
They cross the line together.
Gunfire echoes behind them.
Then—
Silence.
The screen updates.
Players remaining: 187.
They’re alive.
For now.
Jisung collapses to the ground, sobbing openly, hands tangled in Minho’s jacket. Minho sinks down with him, one arm braced around Jisung’s shoulders, face pale but steady.
Felix drops to his knees in front of Jeongin, gripping his face gently. “Hey. Hey. Look at me. You did it.”
Jeongin breaks, crying into Felix’s shoulder.
Hyunjin sinks to the grass, shaking violently. Changbin crouches beside him, silent but solid, presence unwavering.
Seungmin exhales slowly, hands trembling for the first time.
Chan stands there, chest heaving, staring at the field behind them.
At the bodies.
At the blood soaking into fake grass.
Something inside him fractures completely.
They didn’t just survive a game.
They crossed a line they can never uncross.
As the guards begin herding them away, Chan realizes the most terrifying truth of all:
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
This series is a work of fiction inspired by Squid Game and the members of Stray Kids. It explores themes of survival, moral conflict, fear, and the psychological cost of desperation.
The characters are placed in extreme situations that include violence, death, and emotional distress. While moments of connection and loyalty exist, this is not a romance-focused story—survival is always the priority.
————————————————————————-
Chapter 2: Wake Up
Bang Chan wakes to silence.
Not the comfortable kind.
The wrong kind.
It presses in on his ears, thick and unnatural, like the world is holding its breath. For a moment, his body doesn’t respond when he tries to move. His limbs feel heavy, distant, like they don’t belong to him.
Then the smell hits.
Sterile. Chemical. Too clean.
His eyes snap open.
White ceiling. Fluorescent lights. A vast, cavernous space stretching endlessly in all directions. Rows upon rows of metal bunk beds tower above him, stacked three high, packed so close together that there’s barely space to walk between them.
And people.
Hundreds of them.
All wearing the same green tracksuit.
Chan’s heart slams violently against his ribs.
He jerks upright so fast the world spins. His gaze drops immediately to his chest.
A number.
068
Cold floods his veins.
“What the—”
Movement to his right.
“Hyung.”
Jisung’s voice is thin. Fractured.
Chan turns. Jisung is sitting on the edge of the lower bunk beside him, fingers dug so hard into the mattress his knuckles are white. His eyes are huge, darting frantically around the room like he’s searching for an exit that doesn’t exist.
“You see this too, right?” Jisung whispers. “This isn’t… I’m not still asleep?”
Chan opens his mouth to answer, but Minho beats him to it.
“Oh, we’re awake.”
Minho stands a few steps away, arms folded tight across his chest. His face is pale, jaw locked, eyes sharp and calculating even as tension radiates off him in waves. He looks like someone trying very hard not to panic.
Changbin is pacing.
Back and forth. Back and forth. His footsteps echo too loudly in the space between bunks. He runs a hand through his hair, breathing heavy.
“This is fucked,” he mutters. “This is seriously fucked.”
Felix sits frozen on the lower bunk opposite them, hands clasped together in his lap like he’s praying. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, unfocused, as if he’s scared that if he moves, something worse will happen.
Jeongin is perched on the edge of a top bunk, legs dangling, gripping the metal rail. He looks smaller than Chan has ever seen him. Younger. His lips tremble as he looks down at the floor far below.
“Hyung,” Jeongin whispers. “I don’t like this.”
Hyunjin doesn’t say anything.
He’s standing still, too still, staring at the number printed on his sleeve like it personally offended him. His reflection stares back faintly from the polished metal of the bunk frame, fractured and distorted.
Seungmin is the only one who hasn’t moved at all.
He’s standing slightly apart from the group, eyes scanning the room methodically. Guards. Cameras. Entrances. Exits. His expression is calm in a way that unsettles Chan more than fear would.
Chan forces his body to move.
“Everyone—” His voice cracks. He clears his throat, tries again. “Everyone here?”
One by one, they respond. A nod. A quiet yes. A shaky breath.
Eight.
They’re all here.
That should be comforting.
It isn’t.
Around them, panic begins to spread.
People shout. Cry. Argue. Some pound on the walls. Others demand answers from no one in particular. The sound builds and builds until it feels like the room itself is vibrating with fear.
Then—
A sharp bang echoes through the dormitory.
Instant silence.
Every head snaps toward the far wall.
A massive screen flickers to life.
A figure steps forward — tall, dressed head to toe in pink, face hidden behind a black mask with a white square stamped where the face should be.
“Good morning, players,” the voice says, distorted and calm.
Chan’s stomach drops.
Players.
“This is a joke, right?” someone yells from the crowd. “You can’t do this!”
The figure doesn’t react.
“You are currently participating in a series of games,” the voice continues evenly. “There are six games in total. Those who win all six will receive a cash prize of 45.6 billion won.”
Laughter breaks out.
High-pitched. Hysterical.
“No way,” Minho mutters. “That’s not real.”
Jisung shakes his head violently. “This is illegal. This is—this has to be—”
The screen changes.
A video plays.
A cartoon. Bright colors. Smiling characters. A piggy bank filling with money as players are eliminated.
“Failure to complete a game will result in elimination,” the voice says.
“Elimination?” Changbin snaps. “What does that even mean?”
A man in the crowd laughs loudly. “It means you’re out, idiot.”
The pink guard raises a gun.
And fires.
The sound is deafening.
Chan flinches violently.
The man who laughed crumples to the floor.
Blood spreads fast. Too fast.
Screams rip through the room.
Jeongin cries out, scrambling backward, nearly falling from the bunk before Felix lunges forward and catches him, arms wrapping tight around his waist.
Jisung makes a broken noise in his throat, hands flying to his mouth.
Hyunjin stumbles back like he’s been punched.
Changbin freezes, eyes locked on the body, chest heaving.
Minho doesn’t move.
He just stares.
The guard lowers the gun.
“Player 271,” the voice announces calmly. “Eliminated for disrupting the explanation.”
Chan grabs him by the shoulders. “Jisung. Look at me.”
Jisung’s eyes are glassy, unfocused.
“Breathe,” Chan says, even as his own hands shake. “You’re here. I’m here. Okay?”
Jisung nods weakly, breath hitching.
The rules appear on the screen.
Rule 1: You may not quit the game.
Rule 2: Failure results in elimination.
Rule 3: If a majority agrees, the games may be stopped.
Hyunjin swallows hard. “Stopped?”
Seungmin’s eyes narrow. “A vote.”
Changbin lets out a humorless laugh. “So they give us hope just to watch us fight over it.”
Minho finally speaks.
“If they can kill him that easily,” he says quietly, “they’ll do it again.”
Silence swallows them whole.
Chan feels something inside him crack.
He looks at each of them — Minho’s tight control, Jisung’s shaking hands, Changbin’s forced toughness, Hyunjin’s haunted stare, Felix holding Jeongin like a lifeline, Seungmin watching everything with terrifying clarity.
This is his responsibility.
And he has no idea how to protect them.
“You will be escorted to the first game shortly,” the voice announces.
The screen goes dark.
The lights dim.
Doors at the far end of the dormitory slide open.
Pink guards flood in.
“Get up,” one of them orders.
The crowd moves slowly, terrified, obedient.
As they’re herded toward the exit, Jisung presses closer to Minho without realizing it. Minho doesn’t pull away.
Felix keeps his arm firmly around Jeongin’s shoulders.
Changbin positions himself slightly in front of Hyunjin.
Seungmin walks beside Chan.
“Hyung,” Seungmin murmurs quietly, “this place is designed to break people.”
Chan swallows.
“I know.”
As they pass through the door, Chan takes one last look at the dormitory.
At the blood still staining the floor.
At the body being dragged away like trash.
This is the moment it becomes real.
Not when they were invited.
Not when they woke up.
But now.
Because now they understand:
This place does not care who they are.
And it will not hesitate to erase them.
———————————————————————
I HOPE YOU ENJOYED !! please read the other chapter!!
This series is a work of fiction inspired by Squid Game and the members of Stray Kids. It explores themes of survival, moral conflict, fear, and the psychological cost of desperation.
The characters are placed in extreme situations that include violence, death, and emotional distress. While moments of connection and loyalty exist, this is not a romance-focused story—survival is always the priority.
The man doesn’t remember the exact moment his life went wrong. Only that it did. For Bang Chan, it’s a quiet realization that creeps up on him sometime after midnight, when the studio lights are still on and the world outside has gone dark. The clock on the wall reads 2:47 a.m. His phone buzzes again—another missed call, another reminder he doesn’t answer because he already knows what it is.
Bills. Deadlines. Promises he made that he can’t keep.
He rubs his eyes, fingers pressing into his temples as if that might push the weight away. The music software is still open on the screen, half-finished tracks stacked like evidence of effort that hasn’t paid off. He used to believe hard work was enough. That if he stayed longer, tried harder, sacrificed more, things would eventually even out.
They haven’t.
The studio smells faintly of coffee gone cold and exhaustion. Chan leans back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of electricity. He thinks of the others—of how he’s supposed to be the one who holds everything together.
Leader. Protector. Anchor.
What kind of leader can’t even save himself?
His phone vibrates again. This time, it’s a text.
Unknown Number: Do you want to start over?
Chan stares at the screen. His thumb hovers, uncertain. He tells himself it’s a scam. A joke. Some algorithm targeting people who look desperate enough to answer.
He doesn’t reply. The phone buzzes once more.
Unknown Number: Then meet me.
A location follows. A time. Tomorrow night.
Chan locks the screen. He tells himself he won’t go.
⸻
Lee Minho knows exactly where his life went wrong. It was the day he learned how easy it was to lie—and how hard it was to stop.
The betting app glows against the dark of his apartment, numbers rising and falling with cruel indifference. He sits on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, cigarette unlit between his fingers. He quit smoking months ago. Or at least, he told people he did.
The account balance refreshes. Lower than before.
Minho exhales sharply, jaw tightening. He laughs once, humorless, the sound echoing too loud in the small space. The apartment is neat, controlled, almost sterile—nothing out of place, nothing personal enough to betray weakness.
Except the debt notices stacked on the counter.
He flicks the cigarette into the trash without lighting it. No point wasting money on something that won’t fix anything. His phone buzzes.
Unknown number. He doesn’t hesitate before opening it.
Unknown Number: I hear you’re good at games.
Minho’s eyes narrow. His fingers hover over the screen, instincts screaming caution even as curiosity pulls him in.
Minho: Who is this?
The reply is instant.
Unknown Number: Someone who can help you win. A location. A time.
Minho smirks, leaning back, arms crossing over his chest. Scams usually try harder than this. Flashy promises. Fake urgency.
This one is quiet. Confident. That’s what bothers him. He locks the phone.
He tells himself he won’t go.
⸻
Han Jisung’s hands shake as he counts the change.
Coins clink against the counter of the convenience store, loud in the empty space. The clerk watches him with barely concealed impatience. Jisung’s face burns as he scoops the coins back up, realizing he’s still short.
“I—sorry,” he mutters, voice barely audible.
He leaves without buying anything, the bell above the door chiming as he steps back into the cold night. The street is quiet, lampposts flickering. His breath comes out in uneven puffs, anxiety curling tight in his chest.
He presses his back against the brick wall, sliding down until he’s sitting on the pavement, knees pulled in. His head drops forward.
He hates this feeling. The constant buzzing panic. The way his thoughts spiral faster than he can catch them. He checks his phone.
No new messages.
Then—buzz.
Unknown number.
Unknown Number: You look like you need money.
Jisung flinches, heart pounding. He looks around instinctively, eyes scanning the street as if someone might be watching him.
Jisung: Who are you?
Unknown Number: A chance.
A location. A time.
Jisung laughs weakly, fingers trembling as he locks the screen. His stomach twists, equal parts fear and something dangerously close to hope.
He tells himself he won’t go.
⸻
Seo Changbin punches the wall.
The crack echoes through the small room, pain flaring up his knuckles. He hisses, shaking his hand, but the pain grounds him. Keeps him from thinking. He’s tired of being strong. Tired of pretending he isn’t scared.
The eviction notice sits on the table, folded neatly like an accusation. Changbin stares at it, chest tight. He’s tried everything—side jobs, loans, favors. Pride swallowed and still not enough.
His phone buzzes. Unknown number.
Unknown Number: Strength alone won’t save you.
Changbin’s jaw clenches.
Changbin: You don’t know me.
Unknown Number: I know you need this.
A location. A time.
Changbin squeezes his eyes shut, breath heavy. He wants to throw the phone across the room. Instead, he sets it face down on the table.
He tells himself he won’t go.
⸻
Hwang Hyunjin watches his reflection fracture in the subway window as the train rattles forward.
His face looks unfamiliar lately—cheekbones sharper, eyes hollowed by nights spent awake. He touches the glass, fingers leaving faint prints. He’s surrounded by people, yet the loneliness presses in on him like a physical weight.
His phone vibrates.
Unknown number.
Unknown Number: You’re running out of time.
Hyunjin’s throat tightens.
Hyunjin: Running out of what?
The reply takes longer this time.
Unknown Number: Options.
A location. A time.
Hyunjin swallows, heart racing. He looks back at his reflection. At the person he’s becoming.
He tells himself he won’t go.
⸻
Felix doesn’t open the message right away.
He lets the phone buzz against the table, the sound grating against the quiet of his room. The walls are bare. Suitcases half-packed sit by the door, a life perpetually ready to move because settling has only ever ended badly.
When he finally reads it, his hands go cold.
Unknown Number: Do you want to stop feeling guilty?
Felix’s breath catches.
A location. A time.
No explanation.
Felix stares at the screen until it goes dark.
He tells himself he won’t go.
⸻
Kim Seungmin reads the message twice.
Then a third time.
He doesn’t react outwardly. He never does. But something inside him shifts—subtle, deliberate. He’s always been good at noticing patterns, at recognizing when something doesn’t quite fit.
This doesn’t fit.
Which makes it dangerous.
Unknown Number: Observation is a skill. We value skill.
A location. A time.
Seungmin deletes the message.
Then he memorizes the address.
He tells himself he won’t go.
⸻
Yang Jeongin hesitates before opening it.
He’s sitting on his bed, feet not touching the floor, homework spread out in front of him like he still believes school matters. The world has been getting heavier lately, expectations piling up faster than he can grow into them.
Unknown Number: You’re not ready for the real world.
Jeongin frowns.
A location. A time.
His heart pounds, fear and curiosity tangling in his chest. He locks the phone, lying back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.
He tells himself he won’t go.
⸻
They all do.
And yet—
⸻
The building is unremarkable.
Gray concrete. No sign. No windows on the lower floors. The kind of place people pass without ever really seeing.
Chan arrives first.
He stands across the street, hands in his pockets, hoodie pulled low. He tells himself he’s just here to look. To prove to himself this is nothing.
Then Minho shows up.
Their eyes meet instantly—recognition flashing between them. Relief, followed quickly by suspicion.
“You too?” Minho asks, voice casual, like this isn’t deeply wrong.
Chan nods once.
One by one, the others appear.
Jisung, hovering close to Minho without realizing it. Changbin with his shoulders set like armor. Hyunjin quiet, eyes darting. Felix pale but composed. Seungmin unreadable. Jeongin lingering at the back, clearly the youngest, clearly out of place.
No one speaks for a moment.
Then Changbin lets out a breathy laugh. “So… this is either a scam or we’re all idiots.”
Minho smirks. “Could be both.”
Chan looks at them—really looks. Something twists in his chest.
“We don’t have to go in,” he says. “We can leave. Right now.”
No one moves.
The door opens.
A man in a suit smiles from the shadows.
“Welcome,” he says. “Please, come inside.”
The door closes behind them with a soft, final click.
And none of them see daylight again for a very long time.
————————————————————————-
sooooo how was the first chapter?? anyways thank u for reading !! next chapter coming soon !
This story is a work of fiction inspired by Squid Game and the members of Stray Kids. It explores themes of survival, moral conflict, fear, and the psychological cost of desperation.
The characters are placed in extreme situations that include violence, death, and emotional distress. While moments of connection and loyalty exist, this is not a romance-focused story—survival is always the priority.
—————————————————————————
Eight men burdened by debt, desperation, and quiet regret accept an invitation that promises a way out.
They wake up in an unfamiliar compound, dressed in numbered green tracksuits, surrounded by hundreds of strangers—and a single rule: win the games or die.
As the rounds progress, childhood games twist into instruments of brutality, and survival demands choices no one is prepared to make. Alliances form and fracture under pressure. Loyalty becomes dangerous. Mercy becomes fatal.
Stray Kids enter the games as a group—brothers who trust each other with their lives—but the system is designed to tear that trust apart. Each game strips away another layer of who they used to be, forcing them to confront fear, guilt, and the terrifying realization that not all of them will leave alive.
In a world where survival is the only currency, the greatest question isn’t who will win— but what it will cost them to do so.
—————————————————————————
IM SO EXCITED TO START THIS SERIES AND IM HOPE U GUYS ENJOY IT HERES A BRIEF INTRO!!
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