He can’t figure out why he’s so unsettled. He has pieces of the puzzle, but it feels impossible to put them together to see the entire picture. He doesn’t know why he went to your apartment that night, what he was expecting to get out of it, what any outcome would have done to benefit him. He wasn’t expecting you to kiss him– he sure as hell wasn’t expecting to deny you, but you weren’t kissing him for the right reasons. You were trying to prove his words, the very real and obvious facts he knows about you, wrong. How the fuck does he even know so much about you in the first place? Why does he give a fuck about your intentions?

He’s never considered himself to be one of those people who can read others. He’s never cared that much about others’ feelings, their emotions, their personalities. But it bothers him, how easily he can see you when you can’t see yourself. You’re transparent to him, the fake confidence, the control you work so hard to keep locked in your jaw when he knows you don’t possess a lick of it. You have the ability to, but you don’t trust yourself enough to lean into it, to step into those shoes. He wonders about you. But the more he wonders, the more he seems to understand less.

He lays flat on his back, sighing. What did he even say all of that shit for if you were just going to turn around and repeat history? What was it all for? He doesn’t care if your relationship or whatever the fuck with Yunho doesn’t have a label on it, he hears the way Yunho talks about you, he saw just last night how you two look at each other. That’s not casual, that’s so fucking far away from casual it makes him feel stupid for even attempting to help you out of the box you put yourself in. Your rules, your morals, your standards, they’re all a shield so no one sees the real you.

But Wooyoung has seen it, the you who doesn’t back down, the you who refused to let him leave, who grabbed his wrist, pulled him down by his chain. A part of him misses it, seeing that version of you, just a little. The volume of your voice, even if it’s spitting words in his direction, even if it’s reminding him he had fucking chlamydia. The nasty smirk painted on your lips, eyes sparkling with amusement, shoulders pushed back, proud when your words hit their mark. Even if both of you would die before admitting it, there was something forming, and Wooyoung can feel the loss of it. 

He kicks the sheets off his body, pushing himself up until he’s sitting, rubbing at his face with his rough, callused palms. He’s been lifting more lately, spending more time in the gym, just after dawn. He hates hypocrisy, when people say they’re one thing and act differently, he hates when people lose themselves in another person, but not enough to lose sleep over it. Not enough to think this fucking hard. But all the alone time, he and his headphones blaring music so loud he can feel his eardrums crying, he can’t stop thinking about it.

He wills his brain to shut up while he’s in his bathroom, but it refuses as he throws a tank over his head and grabs his gym bag from the floor. Headphones hugging his neck, he pulls his bedroom door open, bothered by the fact that you’re three fucking rooms over. He shakes his head, huffing a short, tight breath as he jogs down the steps, searching for the familiar itch in his chest from moving his body.

“Oh.” He hears from his left, a very you sound coming from the kitchen. A smaller, watered down version of you. “Hi. Morning.”

He glances, but only because he can’t help himself. Your– Yunho’s shirt swallows you down to mid-thigh, like that night in your apartment. Instinct wonders if you’re wearing anything beneath it, he knew that night a week ago, you weren’t. His jaw locks as he takes a few steps toward the counter, ripping a banana off the bunch sitting beside the refrigerator, then turns to leave again. 

“So now you won’t even speak to me?” The edge in your voice is back, still softer than what he’s used to. “I don’t get it. You said shit to me, I said shit to you, I thought that was our thing. Now you hate me for it?”

A huff of amusement tumbles out of his nose, but he keeps his back to you. “Our thing doesn’t exist. There is no we, remember?”

“We came to the conclusion of friendship. That, I remember.” He hears your glass of water hit the counter. “Did I hit a soft spot? See you too clearly? Now you have to shut me out, just like you do everyone else?”

Yet another thing he can’t get off his mind. How easy it is for him to see you, how transparent you are to him, he hates that it seems to be the same for you. You’ve curated your own reputation, and it’s for a reason. His lips tighten, frustration making his spine straighten out.

He turns around. “Now you’re direct? How is it that you only have a fucking backbone when it comes to me?”

Your face twists in confusion. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re still fucking doing it, Virgin,” he argues, and inside himself, he can’t find a single reason why. “Hiding behind choices made for you.”

“I’m not,” you argue too quickly to have thought about his words. Blinking, cheeks flushed, you sputter like you weren’t expecting him to bring it up again, “Yunho– he and I– I’m single… we’re–”

“I don’t care what you’re doing,” Wooyoung snaps, and he can taste the lie on his tongue. “I don’t care what you do. This conversation is pointless, and a waste of my time.”

You laugh, a punched sound that has no warmth, no amusement in it. You take a step closer to him, and he can feel the heat of anger swimming toward him. “A waste of your fucking time? It was a waste of my time when you came to my apartment to chew me out for shit that has nothing to fucking do with you.”

“Exactly,” he turns back around, heading for the front door. “None of it has anything to do with me, so why are you still talking to me?”

“You’re a fucking asshole,” you grit out harshly from behind him, following him to the door. “I can’t believe I ever put any trust in you or valued your opinion. All you care about is yourself.”

“That’s how it should be,” he sighs, grabbing the handle. Looking over his shoulder, your arms are crossed, your skin flush with anger. “If you were a little more selfish, your ex never would have hurt you. You wouldn’t be down here arguing with a fucking wall.”

He gives it a second, warming the brass knob with the heat in his palm, but you have no argument. You stare at him, no rebuttal, no curses thrown, just angled brows and pointed eyes and arms that are either crossed in defense or hugging yourself for comfort. He peels the banana on the walk to his car, chewing hard enough to crack his fucking teeth on his drive to the gym. 

Your chest aches.

You’ve been staring at the door for what feels like ten minutes, even if you can still hear the roar of his engine down the road. It’s fucking frustrating that you can’t figure it out, you can’t figure him out– you don’t even know what went wrong. Where this all came from, why it’s blowing up in your face, why you’re hurt over someone you never cared about, and never cared about you. He’s right.

None of it ever had anything to do with him, you made all of your problems his, but he helped you. He helped solve them, even if he didn’t owe you anything, even if you never would have interacted with each other if it wasn’t for chance. You don’t like him, you aren’t friends, there are no factors in your association that hold any weight to either of you.

He’s always been a fucking asshole, but his words, his body language has never felt so angry. So mean. You wish you argued, you wish you said something to keep him here longer just to force an explanation out of him. You didn’t know what else to say, and that might have been a first for you when talking to Wooyoung.

“Morning, sunshine,” the softest voice in the world sings brightly from behind you, embedding light back into your chest, your skin. You turn on your heel and he’s shirtless, in nothing but boxers, grinning with tired eyes like he’s still half-asleep. Aware he always is, naturally, he asks, “What’s wrong? You okay?”

“I’m fine,” you shake your head, meeting him halfway, swinging your arms around his middle, laying your cheek against his soft, warm skin. Comfort personified, he pets your hair, scratching your scalp lightly. You look up when he doesn’t answer, his brows furrowed like he doesn’t believe you, which he shouldn’t. You insist, “I’m fine, Yun.”

“Okay,” he says softly, lips curving. He doesn’t press it. “I didn’t know where you went. It’s early.”

“I came down to get water,” you press your chin to his chest, keeping your gaze upward. You should go home and try to map out your next episode of Unscripted, but instead you ask, “Do you have anything to do today? I’m free if you’re free.”

“My turn to grocery shop,” he says before craning his neck, pressing his lips to your forehead. “That’s it, though. Wanna come with?”

“Grocery shop on a Saturday?” Your nose crinkles. “I’d rather die.”

He uses both hands to push your hair away from your face, “I want to do something just you and I today.”

You pop a bow, teasing him, “And your idea is to grocery shop?” 

“It’s simple,” he shrugs as you peel yourself off of him. “Domestic.”

“It’s going to be a fucking zoo in there.” You move toward the kitchen again, wanting the water you barely got to drink before you were interrupted. 

“But we’ll be together.” Yunho comes up behind you as you take a long sip. You stare at the bunch of bananas on the counter, the ripped stem revealing one missing, lips scrunching to one side. His hands find your shoulders, squeezing, “I want to be together.”

You smile absentmindedly, eyes still glued to the bananas as you lean back into Yunho’s chest, “Me too.”

Turning, you reach up for his neck, pulling him down to kiss you. He makes a noise of surprise as his palms land on your hips, dipping you backward. “What is it about a kitchen that makes you so horny?”

You laugh into the kiss, reaching up into his hair, “Cutlery, appliances.”

He snorts, hands sliding down your back, squeezing your bare ass beneath your tee. “My theory is that you have an exhibitionist kink you accidentally forgot to tell me about.”

You try to trap your laughter, but fail as miserably as you always do. Your head tips backward as his lips trail down your neck, “Maybe I do and I just don’t know it.”

He hums a note, muffled against your skin, vibrating your throat. “Maybe I should help you figure it out.”

“Maybe you should,” you whisper as he kisses you again, tongue slipping past your lips, holding your hips like he’s trying to make a belt with his fingers. “I thought you didn’t want anyone to see me?”

“They’re all asleep.” He looks up like he could see through the ceiling into everyone’s rooms. When he looks back down at you, his eyes have darkened, slipping into that heavy stare that makes your spine scream, your toes curl. “It’s still early enough that they won’t get up for a while.”

“You want to?” you ask, looking up at him through your lashes, head tilting. 

“Why are you even asking?” His brows furrow as he bends down again. He whispers against your lips, “I’ll give you anything you want.”

When he kisses you again, it’s his pace you’re following. His body swallows yours, shifting you backward with his hands on your hips until you hit the counter, hands sliding up to your waist under your tee, hiking it up your torso. You arch into him, one leg lifting to hook over his hip, gasping as he starts kissing down your neck again. 

You grip the counter between your fingers, squeezing your eyes shut, jaw locking. Rolling your hips into his, you moan softly, “Yunho.”

“You want more?” he asks, voice heavier now, layered with arousal. “You want me to fuck you right here? Where anyone could come down and see you?”

Your stomach flips with excitement, adrenaline, arousal all bundled into one swirl in your gut. You nod, panting now, rolling your hips again. An almost-groan, quiet and short escapes him as his hand slides between your spread legs, his two middle fingers adding pressure against your clit. Even if it’s too light, even if it’s teasing and nothing more, you hiss sharply, looking up at him with brows high, a pleading look. “More.”

“Ask nicely.”

You pick your head up. “Please?”

His cheeks are pink, a short, rough noise falling past his lips. He presses harder, cracking your jaw open, brows knitting together in pleasure. “Say it again.”

“Please, Yunho,” you whine, hips rolling into his hand, grinding yourself against his fingers that he holds flat out. “Please give me more.”

He slips his hand beneath the waistband of your panties, lips parting when he feels you pooling onto his fingers. “Fuck,” he groans out, quiet but clear. “This wet for me already?”

You spot yellow in your periphery again and the reminder is starting to get on your last fucking nerve. “Inside,” you squeeze your eyes shut, reaching for his shoulder with one hand, grinding yourself into his fingers, aching to get them further, deeper. 

He slips his two middle fingers inside with ease and your body nearly bends in half. A sharp moan falls from your lips and immediately he’s shushing you, using his own body to keep you upright, your forehead on his shoulder with your spine curved in a perfect arc. 

“Gotta be quiet for me,” he whispers, keeping his fingers still while you twitch around them. 

“Yes, yes,” you whisper, clawing at his shoulder and the counter, body begging for more. “I’ll be quiet, I’ll be good, please.” 

Your voice cracks on please and he starts moving his fingers, curling them into your walls, making another sharp moan fall past your lips. He uses his other hand to move your head by your jaw, pulling you upward to meet his lips, swallowing your sounds by shoving his tongue past your lips, both of your arms wrapping around his shoulders to meet the thrusts of his fingers. 

Every time he does this it renders your brain quiet. How long his fingers are, how he curls them so perfectly, like his fingers were made to hit every single spot inside you that makes you see stars. It's inconceivable every time, how much pleasure he can give you with only two fingers, he’s spent most of the last week showing you just how easy it is for him. 

You moan again when the edge of his palm makes contact with your clit, making you whisper apologies into his mouth, and his grip tightens on your jaw. Your eyes fly open as his thumb presses on your bottom lip, testing the waters like he might slide it inside. 

You watch him debate, his eyes flickering to your eyes to your mouth, the pad of his thumb pushing on your bottom row of teeth, opening your mouth wider. Your eyes tell him to do it, saliva pooling in the space behind your teeth, you want to feel it. You want him to lose that last shred of control, to give you a reason to call him sir. You want to know what it’s like, what he’s like. You want to learn.

His hand leaves your jaw to land on your waist, pushing a sharp breath past his lips, holding onto that last shred of control like his life depends on it, just like he has all week. Like there’s something still stopping him, like he’s scared of showing you who he is, what he wants. You swallow your spit, head tipping backward, bending toward him, disappointed at how empty your mouth feels, but the feeling is fleeting with the pleasure building in your gut. Your clit grinds against his palm with every roll of your hips, his fingers fucking into you now, reaching deeper than anyone’s ever been with one hand. 

“Wanna fuck you,” he whispers, then looks over his shoulder at the living room, then to the ceiling again like he could see if anyone has woken up. Slipping his fingers out, quickly he grabs at your hips, “Turn around.”

He does it for you, flipping you smoothly until you’re facing the backsplash on the wall, getting an eyeful of their toaster, two half-full bottles of whiskey. You glance behind, only catching a glimpse of him rolling his briefs down, spitting into his palm before spreading it over the length of his cock. Your heartbeat picks up, saliva pooling in your mouth again, gut rumbling with anticipation, aching to feel full.

 “Remember what I said,” he reminds you as he grabs the hem of your panties, rolling them over your ass until they fall down to your ankles. Lifting your leg up onto the counter, spreading you, he says, “If you make a sound, I stop. Okay?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, nodding, feeling the cool air of the kitchen on your folds, your clit pulsing. A part of you is nervous, you haven’t fucked him yet without finishing at least once, he’s stretched you out every single time before even glancing at his own cock.

One hand holding your thigh up, he prods at your entrance, and you quickly realize you couldn’t make a sound if you tried with how wide he’s stretching you by just pushing inside. “Good,” he praises, his voice quiet but full of warmth. “Takin’ me so well, baby. Knew you could do it.”

Your face scrunches, jaw slack, the smallest squeak sneaking out because his length feels never ending. His cock is so fucking long, so thick, you felt full an inch ago, maybe two. His hand rubs at your thigh, still soothing you, praising you, “A little more, doing so good for me. So proud of you.”

The praise sets you ablaze, hips bucking backward to meet the rest, clamping a hand over your mouth to moan into your palm when he’s seated fully. “Yes,” he moans quietly. “Holy fuuck, you’re so fucking tight.”

You curse under your breath, nails scratching at the counter with your other hand, forcing the sounds clawing at the base of your throat to stay there. He doesn’t move, letting you adjust to the stretch, grip tightening on your thigh with every pulse of your walls. “I can’t–” you croak, the sound ragged, embarrassing. You grip the edge of the counter with both hands, “Move.”

He obliges, of course he does, his pace agonizingly slow. The only sound in the room is your breathing, the creamy noises of him slowly dragging his cock through your walls, setting your cheeks, your ears on fire. You can hear his smile, words coated in awe as he says, “Listen to how wet you are, holy shit.”

He thrusts back inside, sharper this time, angled perfectly, and the moan that sneaks past your lips is anything but voluntary. It’s loud, too loud, you clamp a hand over your mouth, but it’s too late. He pauses, sheathed, slowly leaning over your back until his lips graze the shell of your ear, “Did I miss something, baby? Do you want me to stop?”

He sounds teasing, no, taunting, your toes press into the hardwood beneath you, gut boiling with arousal. You shake your head, stuttering, “N-no.”

“Then don’t let me hear another fucking sound,” his voice is too even, his tone too calm. You’re reeling with curiosity, you know there’s so much more under the surface than what he’s shown you, you need him to rip the Band-Aid off and show you who he really fucking is. From that first be careful after the Penny to the first night you slept together, he’s given you snippets, small tastes of what he’s capable of, what he likes. You need him to give you everything.

He speeds up, gripping your thigh tighter, hips snapping into the plush of your ass. Your breaths are staggered, chest tight with how hard you’re holding back your noises, nails clawing at the fucking counter because his cock is carving into you like there was never space for him to fit in the first place.

“Yun– ho,” you whimper, reaching behind you, the knee that’s holding you up bending, folding. There’s nowhere for you to run, the only thing you can do is take it and the pleasure is fucking excruciating. 

He catches your wrist with a tight grip, pinning it to the base of your spine. “Take it.”

“I can’t,” you cry, head dropping, the tip of your nose grazing the counter with each thrust. “I can’t, ‘s too good, Yunho. I can’t!”

You must have not realized your volume growing, your pitch, because his body bends over yours, his other hand clamping around your mouth before pulling you up to his chest in a quick, sweeping movement. Your eyes go wide, babbling apologies into his palm as he grits harshly into your ear, “You wanted to be fucked in the kitchen. You asked for this, take it like a big fucking girl.”

You curse into his palm, spine bent in half, eyes squeezing shut as he keeps fucking into you, cock dragging against your walls like he knows exactly what to touch, where to hit, what’ll make you scream. Maybe after the past week he does know. Your free hand claws at his forearm, your other arm still pinned behind your back pushing against his grip, the pleasure growing unbearable.

“I’m gonna let go of your arm,” he says coolly, but his voice is shaky, the only hint that he feels just as good as you. “Keep it there, don’t move.”

You nod into his palm, first curling and uncurling, nails digging into the edge of your palm as he swings his now free hand over your front, between your legs, drawing harsh circles over your clit. You thrash against him, babbling against his palm, the heat of pleasure turning to heavy, building pressure.

“Need you to cum for me,” he whispers into your ear, his breath hot against your skin. You shiver, hips twitching, your head still pinned backward by his palm over your mouth. “C’mon, baby, let me feel it. Cum for me.”

With a few more strokes of his tip over your walls, a few more circles over your clit, your legs shake as blinding, white pleasure steals all of your senses. Your ears ring, breath caught in your throat, your arm behind your back clawing at Yunho’s torso as your orgasm tears through your body.

“Good girl, so fuckin’ good for me, fuck, oh my god,” you finally hear when your ears stop ringing, his voice rough, heavy like he was about to finish, too. You can’t stop clenching, so oversensitive, his cock still massaging your walls with purpose, all you can do is whimper into his palm, your brain emptied of anything coherent.

He lets go of your mouth only when he pulls out, you slump over the counter with a soft moan, listening to the slick sounds of him pumping his length, his biting breaths, until you feel him paint your ass, your lower back, over your shirt, white. You don’t know how you’re keeping yourself upright, panting, hands braced on the counter beneath your torso, both your legs back on the hardwood.

Your head is still spinning, body still coming down when you hear him turn the sink on, running something under the faucet. You jump when a warm paper towel wipes at your back, your ass, between your thighs, then you hear him huff a small noise of amusement through his nose. “Good thing this is my shirt and not yours.”

“Is it ruined?” you ask, barely recognizing your own voice. Rough, battered, like he just put you through hell. You push yourself up off the counter, grabbing at the hem, twisting it around to see the streaked stains.  

“Nothing a load of laundry can’t fix,” he shrugs, throwing the paper towel away. Quickly walking back to you, he grabs you by your cheeks, holding your face up to look at him. “Are you okay? I wasn’t too rough with you, was I?”

You shake your head, or try to, your cheeks squished by his pressing palms. He smacks his teeth, “Words, sunshine.”

“No, you weren’t,” you whisper, slowly blinking. You could take a nap right now. “‘m tired.”

His cheeks are still flushed, chest still covered in splotches of red, crescents and lines of red from your nails covering his torso. He smiles like it was a job well-done, proud of himself, proud of you. He presses his lips to the top of your forehead, “Should we nap and then go grocery shopping?”

You groan, grabbing his hands from your cheeks. “Do we really have to go?”

“We can wait until later,” he grabs your hand instead, pulling you toward the staircase. 

You grab your glass of water from the counter before letting him pull you along. “I promised Jen I’d go out with her later.”

“Then we’re napping and going,” he says certainly. “You’re stuck with me.”

At the top of the staircase is Hongjoong, arms crossed, hair shooting in every direction on the top of his head. You both stop in your tracks, your heart picking up speed at the sight. He asks, “Am I free to use my own kitchen now?”

Heat blooms, skin erupting in flames. Yunho laughs, continuing up the stairs again, “My bad, you’re good.”

“Sorry,” you mumble in a small whisper as you walk past him, mortified. When you shut Yunho’s bedroom door behind you, you tear his shirt off your body, hissing, “You were the loud one, so you can’t even blame that on me.”

All he does is giggle from the bed, holding the sheets up to welcome you in.

Part of Wooyoung feels guilty. In the way that eats at him, bothers him incessantly, like a dog that won’t stop following him around, begging for a treat he doesn’t have. He isn’t completely sure why, maybe it’s because of the look on your face earlier, how obvious it was that you were reaching out for him and he didn’t let you in, not even a little. You shouldn’t be reaching for him, though. If you’re reaching for anyone, it should be Yunho. You shouldn’t need him, want him for anything, even friendship. He doesn’t need you. 

San stares at him, face completely flat and void of emotion from behind the register. “Do you know how much you’ve talked about her in the past week?” 

Fuck him. “I’ve brought her up, like, twice,” Wooyoung defends himself, immediately aggravated. He is at San’s job right now just so he could talk about it again. “It’s annoying, she won’t leave me alone, like a mosquito buzzing in my fucking ear.”

“Have you ever considered that maybe she considers you her friend?” San asks. “Also, from what I understand, she’s spoken to you literally one time since she started hooking up with Yunho. How is that annoying?” 

“I’m not her friend,” Wooyoung’s eyes thin, bringing his drink up to his lips. Taking a sip, the cold coffee does nothing to cool his boiling blood. “I don’t want her to talk to me at all. Are you on her side now because you’re fucking Yunjin?” 

“Jen told me a lot about her,” San shrugs simply, grabbing the stained towel from over his shoulder, wiping at the counter below his palms just to look like he’s doing something. “Nothing crazy, just stuff with her ex, personality shit. She seems like she deserves someone like Yunho.” 

A huff of something sarcastic sneaks out from between Wooyoung’s lips, even if he knows that somewhere inside him, he agrees. “Yunho is basically the same as her bum-ass ex, San. Minus the cheating with a dude thing, although, technically, that isn’t impossible—”

San cuts him off, “Yunho would never do that, don’t even say that shit.” 

“Still,” Wooyoung urges. “You don’t know her like I know her.” San’s brows raise, pausing his wiping. “Not like that, dickhead. She’s quiet around him.” 

San stares at him for a second, blinking twice. “Do you even hear yourself?”

“Yes, I hear myself—”

“Maybe she’s quiet because she’s happy. Jen said Yunho makes her feel safe, wouldn’t you want that after you caught your boyfriend cheating on you?”

“I guess, but—”

“I don’t know why you’re so bothered by it,” San finally says, like he’s pressing the real issue. “Do you even know why you’re bothered by it? Are you just irritated that your little bickering partner is too busy for you? Did you want to fuck her before Yunho got his hands on her?” 

“No,” Wooyoung answers too quickly to be convincing, and then backtracks when he realizes disagreeing is worse than agreeing. “I mean, yes, of course I did, but that’s not why I’m bothered.”

He should have known it would be impossible to get his point across without mentioning you riding his face, kissing him in your apartment. Now he just sounds jealous or something, and it might be the most humiliating hole he’s ever dug himself in. 

“It sounds like that’s why.” San’s brows raise, lips flattening like he knows something Wooyoung doesn’t. “Maybe you should think about that instead of wondering why she wants to be your friend. You could use a girl friend who’s just a friend.”

Wooyoung’s jaw tightens. “I don’t need her to be my friend, I already have seven.” 

San laughs under his breath, shaking his head. “I love Yunho, and I really like Jen so I don’t want to say this, but I’ve never seen you so involved with a girl, especially without fucking her.”

“I don’t know what she wants, San, but it’s not fucking Yunho,” Wooyoung argues, heart pumping in his chest, heat kissing his cheeks. “Yunho presented himself to her, of course she’s gonna hop on it. She didn't choose him herself, she just accepted it.” 

San looks up, eyes squinting ever so slightly like he’s trying to piece it together but he can’t. “Then what does she want, Wooyoung?” San’s fists find his hips. “Does she want you? Is that what you’re getting at?” 

“No!” Wooyoung nearly shouts, exasperated. He looks around to the heads that have turned, swallowing down his embarrassment. He lowers his voice again, “You don’t get it, you don’t know the whole story.” 

“I don’t think I need to,” San laughs a little, smirking like he knows enough. His smirk drops almost immediately like realization hit him, replaced with an expression much more grave. “I’m sorry you’re going through this, but Woo, just because your parents—”

“Don’t finish that sentence,” Wooyoung raises his finger, cutting San off completely. “Don’t bring them up.” 

“There’s a reason you’re talking to me,” San crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m the only one that knows that shit and you’re here, talking to me. Why did you come here then?”

“I made a mistake coming here,” Wooyoung grits out, anger clear in the hinge of his jaw. “I told you that in confidence, not for you to bring it up whenever you fucking want. Forget it.” 

“Wooyoung—”

He’s already turning around, making for the front of the shop, angry at the fucking jingle over his head when he pushes the glass door open. He left his fucking drink inside. He’s sure as hell not going back in to get it. 

Fuck that. Absolutely fucking fuck that. It was pointless going there, if he can’t figure his own shit out himself, then how could he expect someone else to do it for him? San is so fucking far off the mark it’s laughable. He swings open his car door, throwing himself into the driver's seat, and barely waits for the engine to roll over before he’s tugging the gearstick into first. 

Picking up his phone, there’s a text from Sana on his lock screen. An invitation, short and sweet, most likely the outcome of liking some of her old Instagram pictures while he wasn’t sleeping last night. And even though he’s not one to fuck the same person twice, it feels like a gift from god, divine intervention, exactly what he fucking needs to put his head back on straight. He texts her back an equally short response, eyes half on the screen, half on the road, and turns down a side street that’ll take him to her house.

There’s a part of Wooyoung that feels like maybe stepping into a house where six women live, especially when he’s slept with five of them, is kinda like walking into a lion’s den. Maybe he doesn’t have the sense to care, or maybe he’s so frustrated that he’ll fuck whoever looks at him first upon walking through the front door. It’s likely that all five would fuck him again, and if he’s really honest, he’ll be happy if all five do fuck him as soon as they see him.

Parking out front, walking inside like he owns the place, he quickly learns that Sana is the only one home. Not that he’s disappointed about it, because fucking her does exactly what it’s supposed to: it takes the edge off, makes him forget his anger, his frustrations, she even tires him out after two rounds. Two. Laying on her bed, still there after she showered for some reason, too tired to get up and join her, she jolts him out of his almost-slumber by announcing, “Get up. I’m going out and you’re coming with me.”

Wooyoung huffs his amusement. “You could have just told me to leave, I’m about to head out anyway. Did you know your bed is hella comfortable?" 

Butt-ass naked, she rests her hands on her hips. “The girls are out, we’re meeting them. You’re being weird and I think you need to get drunk.”

His brows furrow. “Weird?”

“I feel energy radiating off of you,” she shivers, rolling her shoulders as she walks toward her closet. “Don’t argue with me. Put your clothes back on.”

Wooyoung might be more tired than he thinks he is, because he gets up and changes back into his jeans, his hoodie that it’s too warm outside to wear. It’s comfortable. He doesn’t know what ‘energy’ he’s giving off, but he’s too tired to think about it, laying flat on his back on her bed again while she does her hair, her makeup. He thinks he might have fallen asleep when she yells, “Jesus Christ Wooyoung, what is wrong with you? Get up.”

He snaps in half, rubbing at his eyes. “I’m awake, damn.”

She’s in a tiny little skirt, a tiny little top. His dick doesn’t even jump. He should really go home and go to bed.

Hands on her hips again, she tells him, “You’re driving, I don’t feel like waiting for a ride.”

“You said I needed to get drunk,” he argues.

“Then leave your car there,” she shrugs. “I don’t care. Let’s go.”

He’s still blinking sleep out of his eyes when his engine turns over, he doesn’t even know when it got dark outside. He’s confused, exhausted, but he’s comfortable, and he keeps fucking driving all the way to the Penny. 

It’s busy when he trails inside behind Sana, busy enough that he pulls his hood over his head, not wanting to be bothered by anyone’s eyes or offers. He’s not in the mood, and it might actually be a fucking first for him. 

He follows Sana toward the bar and buys her a drink just because he fell asleep in her bed. The first sip of his beer goes down like shit, so he takes another gulp just to make it easier, trailing behind her to a tall table that’s full of women he’s fucked. Probably. He doesn’t even really look. 

“Ladies,” he announces, his only form of greeting accompanied by a short nod.

No one pays him any mind except Yunjin, “You look like dog shit.”

He curses under his breath, blinking his eyes open, actually paying attention to who’s at the table now. Sana, Chaeyoung, Tzuyu, Nayeon, Momo, the dark-haired girl he shared a car with that one time, there’s a space between her and Yunjin, a half-drank martini on the table. Great. Cool. 

“Thanks,” his lips tighten, feeling regretful already. “Is Sannie here?”

“Girls night,” she answers, tipping her beer toward him. He tips his back and takes a swig, sighing when the bottle meets the table in front of him.

“Is anyone gonna mention why he’s here and hanging out with us? Or are we just gonna ignore it?” The dark-haired girl asks the table, refusing to even look at him. He doesn’t care enough to make a snarky response.

“We had sex,” Sana points to him with her thumb. “He seems miserable and I feel bad for him.”

“Jung Wooyoung can feel emotion?” Chaeyoung taunts with an evil grin. 

He shoots her a fake, irritated smile, “Ha ha.”

“Why are you miserable?” Yunjin cuts in again. “Sannie mentioned you were down, but wouldn’t tell me why.”

San’s real as fuck. That just made Wooyoung at least thirty-five percent less pissed at him. He shrugs it off, “I’m fine.”

“What the hell?” he hears, still far enough away that his head perks up. You approach the table with your brows furrowed, your jaw locked, top lip lifted in disgust. “They let dogs in this place?”

The table laughs. Wooyoung’s eyes thin out, but part of him feels just a little satisfied that you’re still insulting him. Sana says your name like a warning, “Be nice.”

Your brows tie together as you sip your martini, arming yourself for a response, but Wooyoung beats you to it. “I’ll go.” He grabs his beer from the table, bidding everyone a nod in farewell. “There’s gotta be women in this bar that I haven’t fucked yet, right?”

“Good luck,” Yunjin calls after him. “Don’t catch chlamydia again!”

He curses under his breath, already walking toward the bar. He should just leave, go home, go to bed. He should go. He chugs the rest of his beer before leaning over the bar in a rare, open space, flagging down the bartender for another. He should go home.

“What’s wrong with you?”

He groans out loud this time, rubbing at his face with his palms before turning his head. You’re standing there, arms crossed, brows furrowed. He looks you up and down before saying, “Nothing. Go back to your friends.”

“You didn’t fight back,” you press, wiggling into the space between him and another guy waiting for a drink. “You always fight back, why are you being weird?”

“Fuck, I’m not being weird, why does everyone keep saying that?” he spits out, grabbing the beer he doesn’t even really want from the bar, taking a long gulp. 

“Because you fucking are,” you argue, leaning your side over the bar, trying to put yourself in his peripherals. “Why are you here? Where are the other guys?”

“I came with Sana,” he points behind him, mumbling. “They’re not here.” He turns to look at you after a second of silence, no response. Your brows are still tied together, staring at his sleeve like there’s something on it. “Go back to your friends.”

“No,” you say with certainty, finality. “Not until you tell me why we’re weird. Did I do something?”

“No, Virgin,” he groans out, bored with the conversation. 

You press him anyway. “Something had to have happened, Wooyoung. I don’t get… ever since that night, you’ve been off.” He doesn’t need to ask which night. He twirls his beer bottle, staring into its mouth while you keep talking. “This is what we’ve done since we met. I say shit, you say shit, we banter, we bicker, that’s our routine. Is it because I kissed you? I was out of my mind–”

“Shut up, Virgin,” he cuts you off, looking at you. “I don’t know what you want from me.”

“I want you to stop acting like you fucking hate me,” you urge, voice raising.

He meets your volume, “I don’t hate you!”

“Well, you’re acting like it,” your shoulders shrug. 

He sighs, long and heavy. “I don’t hate you, I’m just– you piss me off.”

“And you piss me off, I thought that was normal,” you laugh a little, but it’s a clear reach for normalcy, ground to stand on when there is none. “Can you be a little more specific with the current anger?”

He doesn’t have an answer for you. Instead, he shrugs it off. “I don’t fucking know, Virgin.”

You cross your arms over the bar, still standing beside him. He wishes you would just fucking leave.

“I’m sorry for this morning,” you offer, voice strangely soft. “If what I said upset you.”

“It didn’t upset me,” he counters, and at least that’s honest.

“It’s unfair that I acted like you were wrong, and got mad at you for it,” you mutter so quietly that he can tell it’s killing you to say it. He swallows. “But I meant what I said, about valuing your opinion, trusting you. Even if it might make me stupid for doing so.”

“Stupid for trusting the sex guy with sex advice?” he asks, a slice of humor in his tone. “That might be the only smart thing you’ve ever done.”

You laugh. He turns his head, confused, just to see you smiling, head tilted while you play with the silver ring on your finger, fully amused. You look up at him, still half-smiling, “I need your advice again.”

“Don’t tell me it’s about Yunho.” You nod, lips tightening in a grin. He groans, “Come on, are you serious? You’re not even dating the guy.”

“Shut up, Wooyoung,” you smack your teeth, nudging his elbow with yours. “It’s sex-related.”

“This is what we’re back to? Sex advice?” his brows raise.

Your lips scrunch to one side. “Apparently trusting the sex guy with sex advice is the only smart thing I’ve ever done.”

He takes another long swig of his beer, and finally, it’s refreshing. “Hit me.”

“He’s dominant,” you say, like it explains everything. Wooyoung nods, waiting for the rest.

When you don’t continue, he pops a brow. “Okay?”

“Did you know that?”

“I’ve always known that.”

“Fuck,” you cover your first with your lips. “Okay. He obviously… is into that, but I feel like he’s holding back with me. Like he won’t be who he is, or do what he wants.”

“What do you want?” Wooyoung asks, and the question is like instinct for him at this point.

“I just told you,” you say simply, blinking at him.

“No, you told me he won’t do what he wants,” Wooyoung explains, shifting so he’s leaning his side into the bar, facing you. “What do you want?”

You groan, head tipping backward before you mimic his stance, defeated as you lean into the bar. “You know what I fucking mean, don’t start with this shit again.”

Wooyoung laughs under his breath. “Your mind is fascinating, Virgin.”

“Can you just help me?” you throw your elbow onto the bar, leaning your head into it, and it just makes Wooyoung laugh more. When you scowl, he apologizes, straightening himself out.

“Okay, what do you mean by holding back?”

Your cheeks flush, eyes dancing around where you stand, checking for listening ears. Your voice lowers, leaning closer, “For example, earlier, he wanted me to be quiet. He was about to put his fingers in my mouth to… shut me up–”

“To gag you.”

“Fuck you. He didn’t do it, he stopped like he was scared or something.”

His head tilts, thinking on it. “So you want him to put his fingers down your throat?”

You smack your lips together, deadpanning. “I want him to not have to think about doing what he wants. I want him to just do it if he wants to do it.”

“You just fucking did it again,” Wooyoung fires back, standing a little straighter, he feels like he’s about to lose his fucking mind. “I just asked you what you want and you told me what he wants.”

You blink at him. “Is that not the same fucking thing?”

He tugs his hood down, running his hands through his hair. He takes a breather, forcing his heart rate into submission by taking a long sip of his beer. Thankfully, you’re silent, if you spoke he thinks he might have actually ripped all of his hair out. 

“Can I ask you a question?” he asks, leaning against the bar again. You nod. “Did you think this fucking hard before we hooked up?”

Your eyes go wide, shushing him, looking around like you’re praying no one heard him. “Shut the fuck up, I don’t know what you’re talking about. Also… no, but that was different.”

“How am I different?” 

“Because you just are. We didn’t fuck.”

His brows furrow, because that makes no fucking sense. “That doesn’t mean– Virgin, you didn’t give a fuck about what I wanted when we hooked up.”

Your lips part, offended. “Yes I did!”

“No you didn’t,” he laughs a little, like it should be obvious to you. “You pulled my hair hard enough that I thought you were gonna rip it out. You were riding my fucking face like you didn’t care if I could breathe–”

“Wooyoung!”

“Which I couldn’t, by the way, but I like it like that. My point is that you took what you wanted from me, you didn’t wait for me to give it to you. You won’t even talk to him about what you want. Are you sure you even want what you think you want?”

Your brows furrow, thinking about it. You look longingly at the table you left, your friends, “I should have brought my drink over here.” He hands you his beer, which you take happily, throwing a long gulp of it back. After wiping your lips with the back of your hand, you ask him, “Does it not sound like I want it?”

“It sounds like you don’t know what you want. From what I’ve experienced, you aren’t the type who can be tamed, you’re the kind of person who needs someone who can handle you. Someone with really healthy, strong hair who can hold their breath for a long time.”

You snort, “You’re such a fucking asshole.”

He grins, “I wish I had a dollar for every time you’ve said that to me. I would have, like, at least five bucks by now.”

“You could buy three beers with that kind of money.” You cross your arms, turning until your back is leaning into the bar. “I don’t know what I want, Wooyoung.”

“I know, Virgin,” he crosses his arms over the bar, trapping his beer between them, sighing. It sits with him that you finally said something he can’t argue with. “You’ll figure it out one day, though. Maybe.” 

You reach for his beer, stealing it from between his arms, taking another long gulp. “I know I just drank all your beer, but you should really buy me another martini for insinuating that we weren’t friends this morning.”

Wooyoung’s head drops, chin meeting his chest as laughter sneaks through his lips. “You’re right. We’re friends, Virgin.”

“Yes we are,” you nod, satisfied. “You’re definitely buying me that drink, though.”