*:･ﾟ✧*:

thirteen years ago.

Sunghoon took a deep breath as the chill air of the rink, even from where he sat in the locker room, sent shivers down his spine. His thin black blouse with rhinestoned sleeves did nothing to shield him from the cold. 

He should have been used to it by now. But today would be the most important skate of his life. 

The World Championships. The event that would decide his place at the next Olympics. 

Just a few years ago, he had missed out on competing completely due to a knee injury. Sunghoon was determined this time to make his dreams come true. His seniors always said that Olympic ice felt different, more real. This would be it. His last chance before the younger, more talented skaters took his spot later down the line.

He was picking at his nails with his teeth, a habit he so desperately needed to let go of. Even with ten competitors ahead of him, Sunghoon was already on edge. You, his good luck charm, had not arrived yet. It wasn't typical of you. In your three years of dating, you never missed the opening skate of any competition he'd been in. 

It’s where you first met. You had been in the stands, taping your phone number onto a penguin plushie he’d caught after his award-winning skate. Since then, it's been tradition for you to sit in the same exact seat during local competitions.

His left leg bounced impatiently as he sat on the locker room bench. Sunghoon has sent about 16 texts to your phone already. He shook his head, unlocking his phone for the umpteenth time. Crickets. His phone screen photo of you blowing a kiss into the camera was taunting him now.

Where the hell were you?

Coach Jung patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t think too much. You're gonna psych yourself out.”

“I'm not nervous,” Sunghoon replied, unconvincingly. “It's just cold.”

Coach Jung rolled his eyes.

“You're not new to this, kid,” he doubted the young man. “You're gonna do great out there. This is what you've been dreaming of. Just don't mess it up.”

Sunghoon didn't know if that was meant to be motivating or not, but when Coach Jung left, he felt a pit in his stomach start to form. It's been years in the making. Blood, sweat, and tears were poured into this. The time he could've spent going on longer dates with you all went to extra hours practicing quads in the rink. He couldn't let his sacrifices go to waste. It would be a disservice to both of you.

He put his hands to his face and repeated a mantra of self-affirmations.

‘You got this, you got this, you-’’

“Hoon?” He heard your sweet voice call out. Your head poked through the locker room door before entering cautiously. Audience members weren’t typically allowed in here, but you always managed to sneak your way in.

He dropped his hands immediately, a wave of relief washing over him.

“There you are,” Sunghoon whispered to himself, rushing to you as fast as he could with skates on the carpet. You let out a small sound as he picked you up by the waist, spinning you around like a princess.

“Where have you been?” Sunghoon sighed happily, setting you down with a kiss to your temple. “I was blowing up your phone! I thought you died.”

You smiled, but he noticed how tight it looked. The light didn't quite reach your eyes, and your lips twitched as if it was almost painful to maintain. He brushed a stray hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

“Everything okay?”

You nodded, resting your hand on his as his thumb drew small circles on your cheek.

“I…” you trailed off. You were looking at the ground, at the ceiling, and even at the trash cans. Anywhere but him. “I want to talk to you about something.”

He raised a brow. Your fingers were quivering, and he noticed redness in the whites of your eyes. Were you crying?

“Of course, baby. You can tell me anything.” 

Sunghoon is worried now as he took both of your hands into his. He felt how cold they were, even more so than his.

“Can the remaining five acts please be on stand-by?” the overhead speaker blared into the locker room. That was him. He was one of the last five. 

He pursed his lips as he looked towards the door and back at you. Your mouth opened, just as flustered by the announcement.

“Let's wait,” you said in a rush, noticing the sweatiness of his palms. “It can wait.”

Sunghoon shook his head. Your voice faltered. He knew better now not to let these things linger.

“No, [Y/N]. Tell me what's wrong.” He stood his ground. Your eyes were watering, his gaze unmoving from yours. As you spoke, it was like the world around him went still. His chest felt heavy, throat so constricted he thought he would choke.

“I'm pregnant.”

No, he thought. It can’t be.

“H-how? We never– That’s impossible– We always use-”

His voice trailed off, afraid that if he said anything out loud, it would become more real. You pursed your lips, biting your top lip so hard that it drew blood. 

“Don’t you remember?”

two months ago.

You were laughing, he was laughing. You both looked insane, obnoxiously cackling at nothing, in the dimly lit streets that led to his apartment. You were drinking with the guys at a new bar, underestimating the power of tequila compared to the usual shots of soju.

Sunghoon's arm was wrapped around your waist, putting his weight on you to prevent himself from faceplanting on the ground. He had lost too many hands in poker with Jay and Jake, and instead of betting money, he took an extra four shots as punishment. It was a big mistake.

“They got lucky,” he blabbered, “If we played Go Fish, I would have wiped the floor with them.”

He was hiccuping, and that sent you into a further spiral of giggles. Sunghoon was always so darn cute when drunk, so different from his icy exterior. His cheeks were tinged with red, and his pupils dilated. You weren't doing all that well either, with your body so warm from the alcohol that you had shed your jacket on the ground just a few minutes earlier. Where that jacket was now is lost on you.

“Hoon!” you exclaimed, pointing at his apartment gate. “We did it!”

Sunghoon stumbled to get his keys from his pocket. Opening the gate and then going up the steps felt like an hour-long operation with how you two struggled. When he slid down the wall by the entrance of his apartment, you collapsed with him. 

The two of you, by his coat rank, staring into each other with heavy-lidded gazes and too far gone to even turn the lights on. By then, your movements were already out of your control. 

You traced the moles on his face like divine art, cradling his jaw with such care. Even in the drunkest of states, he looked so heavenly. He was so pretty in the moonlight. 

You pressed your lips against his, slowly at first, tugging at the rolled-up sleeves of his button-up shirt. Sunghoon made a noise of shock before deepening the kiss, hands roaming everywhere until they met your waist. His lips were so plush against yours, hungry to taste every inch of you. Your tongues danced with an urgency you've never felt before. Nipping at your bottom lip, he coaxed small sounds out of you. 

Sunghoon lifted you, firm hands on your bum to sit you atop him. 

He broke the kiss to bury himself in the junction between your neck and shoulder. Sunghoon's lips found your pulse point, suctioning around it like he was drawing your heartbeat out of your body. You gripped his soft hair and tilted your head back to give him better access. He lapped at your neck, your collar bone, anywhere his tongue could access. He was addicted to the taste of your skin, to the taste of you. You always smelled so good, had him so riled up even in the most unassuming of moments. He remembered how you looked in the bar with this sparkly red dress. Remembered how it rode up every time you sat down next to him. Fuck. 

You felt him then. The tent of his pants and the friction of his hips as they hopelessly jut up to meet yours.

You whined at the contact. He was palming your ass now with both hands, massaging as he moved you up and down on the tightness of his jeans.

“Hoon,” you gasp. “Not here-”

He lifted his head to look at you, eyes so dark and full of lust. He wasn’t having it; you could see it in his face. His deliciously tense jawline. The bead of sweat running down his temple. You felt yourself clench around nothing just at the sight. How could a man be so gorgeous?

“Can't wait,” he hummed. “Need you now.”

He pushed your dress up your body, the material bunched at your waist.

You purse your lips in anticipation. He’s rock hard by now, and you can’t help but take it as an invitation to feel him. Your hands find his bulge, ghosting over his form. It jumped in response when you finally took hold, squeezing cautiously. Your cheeks warmed at the sight of the front of his jeans already damp with your fluids. Sunghoon enjoyed the view just as much as you did, his head tilted back to relish in your ministrations. He couldn’t hold back any longer.

Sunghoon’s hand, large and veiny, moved your panties to the side impatiently. 

"Hoon-" you gasped at the skin-to-skin contact.

His fingers traced the slit of your folds up and down, covering his digits with your slick. You found his swollen lips again to suppress your whimpers, saliva running down your joined mouths as you unzipped his painful-looking jeans. He was already prepping you for him, index finger cautiously pushing its way inside your plush walls. He groaned at the feeling of your fluttering warmth. Already, you were sucking him in.

“Always so fucking wet,” he muttered on your lips. You couldn’t help but grind down on him, a roundabout way of telling him to apply more pressure. To go harder. Rougher. To ruin you. He chuckled at your frustration. Needed to see more of it, more of you begging.

Sunghoon tested the waters and pushed in a second. Your moans were drowned out again by his merciless mouth. Tongues shoved so far down each other's throats, you swore you could feel him at the back of your neck.

He was fucking you onto his hand now, his palm making contact with your clit after every thrust. His forearm was tense, pace so relentless. Animalistic. You were practically bouncing on him, hands digging into his shoulder blades to chase your release. He loved the sight, wanting to hear you come undone just from his measly fingers in your dripping pussy.

“So desperate,” he hummed into your mouth. “Who's making you like this?”

Sunghoon was never this mouthy during sex, usually because he didn’t want the apartment next door to hear through the thin walls. But he had let go of all his inhibitions, the tequila still sitting fresh in his stomach.

“You, Hoon,” you cried out, legs shaking from the harsh pace of his fingers and your incessant grinding. “Please-”

You didn't know exactly what you were begging for, but you knew he could give it to you. Knew he was the only one who could. Your mind was filled with Sunghoon and Sunghoon only. The effects of the alcohol had made you a bumbling mess, pleading and begging for more. Your back arches to meet his fingers better, but it wasn’t not enough.

He added a third to relieve you, watching as your mouth opened into a silent scream.

“Hoon– Need it– Please– I need–”

You couldn't find the right words, couldn’t even keep yourself upright without his support. Sunghoon’s hands roamed up your body as one made its way to the back of your neck. With his thumb, he pressed down gently on the pulse point he was nipping at just earlier. His eyes were heavy on you, watching you so intently. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, as your airways slowly constricted, as his thumb pushed against you. God, you loved the feeling.

“Enjoying yourself, baby?” 

Lightheaded, you were practically gripping his bulge at this point. The sounds between your legs were borderline pornographic, his fingers drawing out every wet squelch as they sank and twisted in and out of you. You felt so full of him, three fingers so deep inside you. But you could take more; you wanted to take more.

“Speak up,” he drawled, his voice slurring from the tequila. “Tell me what you want, or I'll stop.”

You sobbed, clawing at his clothed chest as he let go of your neck to let you talk. You gasped for air as you let yourself fall onto him.

“Need you inside me,” you cried as he pistoned his fingers into you harder. You wished he could just rip your underwear so you could feel his rough palm grind onto your bare clit. “Please, please, pl-”

"I am inside you," he teased. And all you could do was wail, shaking your head out of distress.

"Hoon-"

Your movements were forced to stop as Sunghoon's free hand gripped your thigh. His fingers were curved into you, stroking that spongy spot that he always managed to find. He massaged your G-spot at a steady pace, anticipating your climax. You wanted to move, but he held you down roughly. Your eyes were forced to look into his, and you felt the floodgates of your release start to open. 

“No-,” you whined. 

You were close, so close. But your mind was made up. Well, at least what was left of it.

“Wanna cum with you. Can I, Hoonie? Please?” you beg.

“Fuck-”

His grip on you loosened. His hand slowly left your tight folds, and he admired the slick that coated his long fingers. He brought them to your mouth, motioning you to taste the juices he coaxed out of you. With your doe eyes looking straight at him, you swallowed around him. Tongue flattened and bringing him in deeper.

His other hand reached into the back of his pocket, fiddling around to find his emergency condom. The one that became a necessity to bring around you. 

Sunghoon's mind was all over the place. Your tongue lapped at his fingers, sucking them so harshly. He'd have given anything right now to see your lips wrapped around his cock instead.

He'd almost grabbed the condom until you pulled his boxers down. Your mouth released his fingers with a small ‘pop’ as his painfully hard member slapped his stomach. You positioned yourself closer, adjusting so that his thickness slid against your soiled, clothed pussy. You cursed your stupid underwear for getting in the way again.

“B-baby-” Sunghoon stuttered out as you moved your panties to the side once more, his raw cock lined up to your aching hole. “Just give me a second-”

His hand tried to reach for his wallet again, but you interlocked them with yours instead. You shook your head, grinding against him cautiously. You don't know what's gotten into you. It's like the tequila was letting you act out your deepest, darkest dreams — ones of him fucking his cum so deeply into you that you were dripping wet with his fluids.

“Please?” you asked hopelessly. Your breath hitched. His cock met your clit, his precum spread all over your folds. Fuck it. You were too far gone. “I-I wanna feel you.”

Sunghoon would like to think he had self-control. Would like to believe that he was calmer than most. But the way your pleading eyes looked at him, and how your legs trembled in excitement. His intoxicated brain couldn't tell right from wrong. He wanted to give you everything you asked for. 

“Fuck, are you sure?” he groaned as you aligned his cock to your entrance, pushing down slightly to envelop his tip. He lets out a hiss, teeth gritting from the feeling. You were so tight, so fucking perfect for him.

“Mhm,” you mustered, wrapping your arms around his neck as his large hands met your ass again. “It's okay…”

You were sinking onto him now, his head buried into your neck from the sensation. You two had never done it without a condom before, always so careful. But he wondered, as his large cock was slowly sucked into your soaked pussy, why he'd never fucked you raw before. Sunghoon swore under his breath as he felt you clench around him. Fucking you with a condom was ruined for him forever. He could never put one on again. 

“Fuck, baby,” he willed himself not to move too fast. The stinging stretch of him had you withering above him, but you didn’t care. Not one bit. You clutched his hair as you impaled yourself on him, so lost in the feeling of him penetrating you so slowly. 

He was fully sheathed inside you now. Sunghoon needed a second to recuperate, but you were making it so difficult for him.

"Fuck-" he inhaled sharply as you grinded down on his pulsating cock. You were so impatient, already so worked up from his fingers.  

You were suctioning him, trapping him in your walls like you would never let him go. His grip on your hips tightened as he growled into your collarbone.

“Baby,” he said sternly this time, finding some semblance of sanity. “Don't.”

You whined, your hips stuttering through his tight grip on your ass cheeks. You wanted him to plow into you like you were his personal toy. Was there anything wrong with that?

“Why?” you drawled out, desperate for movement, for anything. Your eyes met his, and even through your drunken haze, you understood. He was close, already so on edge from feeling your raw pussy. And that made you want him even more.

You swore your hips moved on their own. You lifted yourself, shallowly thrusting yourself against him as he tried to hinder your attempts.

“N-no,” he grunted. “Too soon-”

You giggled as his hands were on your back now. Despite your protests, he did not stop you in any meaningful way. 

His grip on your ass was replaced with him pulling the straps down of your dress and bra to free your bouncing tits. He cupped them as you raised yourself higher, until just the very tip of him was left inside you. You took a deep breath, pushing yourself down on him without assistance. You moaned, feeling his heaviness in your lower stomach.

“Fuck-” he cried through clenched teeth. Sunghoon’s head was against the wall now, hands massaging your breasts so eagerly. 

He tugged at your nipples, pinching them between his index finger and thumb. Such a sight for sore eyes, seeing him so fucked out underneath you as you bounced on his cock. You wished you could engrave this in your memory. His parted lips and glistening forehead. 

You grinded your hips so helplessly against him, hands on his knees as you squeezed him through every downward thrust. 

“Baby, s-slow down.”

You're determined now, even as you start to feel that fluttering ache in your core. You wanted to do good for him, wanted to make him lose control like you would whenever he had you pinned to the bed and crying.

“Hoon, speak up,” you teased, mimicking his earlier words. “Tell me what you want or I-”

You couldn't finish your sentence as his hand meets the back of your neck, crashing his lips onto yours. His hands traveled down to your thighs, squeezing them roughly.

He thrusted up into you harshly, his grip on you guiding his movements. His pace was even more merciless than yours, not giving you time to catch your breath as you felt your inner walls contract around him. 

No! 

He needed to cum first. It was always you who came undone before him. You just needed to hold out, just for a few more seconds-

And in perfect timing, he found it. That part of you that had you practically screaming into his mouth. He smirked against your lips and hoisted you closer, fucking up into you as his fingers pressed firmly into the flesh of your thighs. Your insides churned with a tingling feeling, like something needed to be released. You pulled yourself away from his lips.

"No… Hoon-"

"Take it," he grunted. "You want it, right?”

You cried as his thrusts grazed your G-spot over and over again, his tip kissing your cervix at the right angles. 

“So fucking take it."

Your eyes roll back, the sensation was stronger and stronger until-

"Oh my god-"

Your climax hit you like a ton of bricks, crashing down on you so unexpectedly that your walls wanted to hold his raw length in place. Sunghoon continued his thrusts, not caring for the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. You had your fun. Now, let him have his. 

His hands spread your ass cheeks apart, guiding you down onto his painfully hard cock with fervor. Sunghoon felt his high inching closer as he pumped in and out of your wetness, ignoring your cries of overstimulation.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned into your neck. He's there. He felt it. You braced yourself for his sweet release. 

“Need to pull out...”

Your eyebrows furrowed, expression laced in devastation. As if on instinct, you clenched around him. You wanted it. Whatever ‘it’ was. 

“In me,” you babbled through strained moans. “Please, Hoonie?”

He grit his teeth. That damn pet name. You were evil, so fucking evil. With your pretty tits and batting eyelashes. Who was he to deny you? His thrusts were erratic, admiring as your breasts bounced to the rhythm of his thrusts. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu-”

His hips stuttered up into you. White, hot spurts met your cervix as you reached another orgasm from the sheer feeling of his release, mouth wide open. Your hips gyrated against his, easing both of you through your releases. His head rolled back, jaw clenched, and eyes wired shut as he felt you milk his cock of everything he was worth. 

You watched as a white ring formed around his cock was buried deep in you, still a little hard. You rested your body against his. Your eyelids were heavy, so content and warm in ways that only Sunghoon could bring out in you. 

“I love you,” he sighed into your hair, his own lethargy getting the best of him. “So fucking much.”

“I love you too.”

And as ridiculous as it sounds, the two of you slept in that position for hours. Two bodies connected at the entrance way of Sunghoon's studio apartment. When the sun came up and you realized what was done in your drunken states, you two panicked for the wrong reason. Did the neighbors hear? What happened to your jacket? Were you gonna get a UTI?

Sunghoon's cheeks reddened from the memory. It had to have been that night.

“A-are you sure?” he stuttered. 

You nodded solemnly. You knew it wouldn't be good news for him. It wasn't for you either. 

You were almost done with university. It’s supposed to be the year you figured out what you wanted out of a career. So when your first wave of morning sickness hit you just a week earlier, you knew every plan that you had would be forever ripped from your fingers. 

To travel the world. To start new hobbies. It would all have to wait. This would be your life now.

When you told your mother, tears streamed down her face. She called you everything underneath the sun. But she knew what it was like to carry a life unexpectedly, so she hugged you through it. Your dad’s reaction was worse. He hadn’t spoken to you yet.

“Two months along,” you whispered. Though he could never regret that night, he realized now how stupid it must have been to ignore the alarm bells in his head. He knew better. You knew better. Why the fuck did it end up like this? 

“So…” He gulped. He didn’t know what to say. “What now?”

“I…” you started. Heaving a deep breath, you felt him tense up. 

“I want to keep the baby,” you swallowed. Sunghoon’s mouth was parted, and his eyes were blank of emotion. 

It made you anxious, his lack of response. 

When he didn't reply, you started again. “What should we-”

“Sunghoon Park. Sunghoon Park. Please be on stand-by,” the overhead speaker rang out. He didn't mean to, but like muscle memory, his hand let go of yours. Guilt crashed over him, and he couldn't bring himself to look into your wavering eyes as he walked past you. 

The competition. This was his last chance. Coach Jung's voice resounded in his head. Don't mess it up.

“Hoon-” 

Your voice fell on deaf ears. His hands covered his face again, trying to refocus. He couldn't throw this away. Years. It took him years to get to this point. He couldn't. He had to skate. 

Tears spilled over as you watched his back retreat away from you. You should have waited to tell him, but he had asked. He said he wanted to know. 

Your back slumped against the wall of lockers, clutching your stomach as you cried. You couldn't bring yourself to go to the stands and watch him perform.

You knew it was dumb. You weren’t ready, not even close. But still… You wanted to try.

But him. Sunghoon.

You leaned your head back against the cold wall, breath faltering through your tears. What did you even expect? That he'd be happy? Excited?

You let out a shaky laugh.

Of course not. It's not like you were either.

You stood up, dusting yourself off.

You'd figure out a way to do this, you convinced yourself. If it meant that you were by yourself, that was fine. He didn't have to be there. He had big dreams, ones that predated you. You understood, even though it hurt. 

“Next to skate, representing the People's Republic of Korea. Sunghoon Park!” 

The cheers that ensued soon after made your chest constrict just a little more. You just couldn’t bear to watch him skate now. It was all too much.

You trudged towards the ice rink's exit, arms crossed around you like you were holding yourself. You were proud of him, so proud. He worked so tirelessly for an opportunity like this. Missed sleep and took a gap year from college to pursue this. He wanted it so bad, and though it was heartbreaking to watch him walk away, you knew why. You could talk later, you convinced yourself.

But the thoughts still echoed in your head.

A professional figure skater couldn’t be a father—not now, not at his age. You knew that. God, you hated that you knew it so well. His life wasn’t what most people imagined. There was no glamor in it. 

It was practices at the crack of dawn in freezing rinks and endless flights to cities he barely saw beyond hotel rooms. He could only fund basic living expenses with what little he earned from winning. He had a part-time job working the graveyard shift at a convenience store to even afford competition fees and dates with you. 

He gave everything for this dream—his body, his sanity, his youth. 

But he tried. In everything he did, he tried. That was the worst part.

Because even with all that trying, you still knew. That there would be no space in his life for the tiny heartbeat inside you.

You knew he'd have to quit. There was no way around it. Raising a child takes too much time away from the rink. 

If he stayed, if he chose to be in this child's life, he'd have to give it all up.And it would be because of you. 

But this was your life too. Your body. Your future. And no matter how tightly you clung to the image of him at your side, holding your hand in the delivery room, learning how to hold a newborn with trembling fingers—you had to be honest with yourself.

You wanted this baby. Even if it meant letting him go, even if that meant standing alone with a life you never planned for, you’d do it.

Because you knew that if it ever came down to choosing between his dream and you, it would always be-

“[Y/N], wait!”

You stopped in your tracks, stunned to hear his voice so close. Like he was here and not on the ice. You didn’t even notice that music stopped permeating the walls of the rink, that the announcer had moved on to the next contestant. He was running to you, socks thumping on the ground like he had taken his skates off only a moment before. 

No. It couldn't be. 

He reached you, his arms wrapped around you from behind. You heard his shaky breath against the back of your head. His thumb rubbed your forearms, planting a small kiss on your hair.

“We'll figure it out,” Sunghoon blurted out when he felt like the silence between you two was suffocating. “Together.”

You turned around to face him, panicked.

“Sunghoon, no,” you tried to push him away, but he pulled you in closer. “You need to go-”

“No.”

You looked at him, pain etched in every part of his beautiful face.

“But that's your future,” you cried out, mustering everything in yourself to not melt in his embrace. He was making a mistake. He'd hate you for the rest of your life if he-

“No,” he said again, much clearer. More determined. “It’s you.”

His hand drifted to your stomach, and he smiled this time as he looked into your teary eyes.

“You're my future.”

You shook your head incessantly. “Hoon, you're not thinking straight. I should've waited to tell you. You're not in your right mind. You need to go back and-”

He silenced you with his lips, so soft—like it might break you if he were any less gentle. You fell into his touch, unknowingly pulling him closer. He kissed you again and again, hands holding yours until your tremors faded with his touch.

“I love you,” he would say between each peck. “I'm not letting you do this alone.”

And you smiled, a real, genuine smile.

“I love you too.”

You moved in with him in that tiny studio apartment, shortly after, sharing a bed that barely even fit his tall frame. The cradle he built took up the majority of the living area.

But it was nice, waking up with him every day. He talked in his sleep, would whisper your name in that sweet voice of his so lovingly. Some days, Sunghoon wouldn't let you lift a finger, would insist that you needed as much rest as possible before your due date. You had to convince him that your job as a receptionist was certainly not so physically taxing that he had to follow you to it every day.

You also got married. It was simple. Just Sunghoon and you in a courthouse with Jake and Jay, trying not to stifle their laughter as witnesses to your marriage ceremony. You wore the white dress your mother wore, and Sunghoon wore his best suit, tie tied by you.

“Say cheese!” Jake chimed as you two posed with your signed certificate. The two of them cooed at your growing belly.

You were showing now, a small bump that Sunghoon admired each time he saw you do your online classes on the kitchen counter. He never got around to buying a desk, even though he was also back in school full-time. 

He had that dreaded conversation with Coach Jung beneath the dim lights of an empty rink. Sunghoon told him quietly, almost like an apology, that he’d be hanging up his skates until further notice. He wanted to be there for you at every step of the pregnancy. If he was going to stick beside you, he was going to do it right.

Coach didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. The disappointment on his face said everything. 

And so Sunghoon hadn’t touched the ice since.

He couldn’t bear to set foot in that rink anymore. Not when he knew he’d only be watching from the stands.

Not when the sound of blades carving through the ice was coming from someone else’s skates.

Not when he used to relish in the cold air passing through his body. Now, the only wind on his face came from passing cars as he biked to his second job.

He picked up a shift at a nearby restaurant. Just as a server. The kind of job that reminded him how painfully ordinary he was without his skates. Sometimes, when no one’s looking, he’ll shift his weight just right and practice his landings in the break room, arms out, knees bent. 

Other times, he scrolls through YouTube during his graveyard shift at the convenience store, searching up his own name with trembling fingers, watching old performances through a phone screen. Reading comments. Trying to remember what it felt like to matter to people he never met. 

You noticed, probably more than you let on. You just tried not to pry. He would get distant when you mentioned it, like that part of himself needed to be tucked away and out of his sight. You knew he was afraid, terrified to look back and see everything he gave up. 

But when Sunghee was born, it was like his world started to make sense again. He held her like she was made of glass. Sobbed so loudly the first time he saw her, you thought he was in pain. 

But no, he was just overwhelmed. Taken by the way her tiny hand curled around his finger, how her cries quieted the moment he held her close.

He’d protect her, he swore to himself. That this—her—wrapped up in the pink hospital blanket, was his life now.

And maybe, for a moment, he believed that was enough.

But the thoughts never stopped. His eyes would flicker toward the old duffel bag in the closet, where his skates were still packed away. He gave that up. For you. For her. And he’d never say he regretted it. But you knew.

You understood what he was grieving. Because you grieved too.

That girl who used to dream of making art, she felt like a ghost now. Someone you used to know.

Your passions, the things that once lit a fire in you, now sat gathering dust. All shelved quietly the moment your body became a home for Sunghee.

And your parents. You were still trying to reassemble the broken pieces of your relationship with them. Your mother tried to be there for you in her own way, but her disappointment was loud in the quietest moments between you two. And your father… well, he still hadn’t really looked you in the eye since the day you told him. 

And though she was born healthy, Sunghee came into the world screaming. She was a loud baby, inconsolable most nights, and the exhaustion had tested Sunghoon and you.

You took turns because you had to. He’d rock her until sunrise, then stumble to his classes. He started falling asleep during his breaks at work, cheek pressed against cold metal tables.

He didn’t care much for his own health, but the bags beneath your eyes pained him. Your face, once bright and curious, had dimmed under all the sleepless nights and rising costs of diapers. You were both burnt out.

He dropped Sunghee off with his parents for one night and dragged you out to see your friends. It was Jake's going-away dinner.

“It’s so hard to meet nowadays,” you sighed. “Feels like I’ve been nursing a migraine for the past three months.”

Jake laughed.

“Sad I won’t get to see her grow up,” he said as he poured himself a beer. “Make sure to bring her to Australia one day. She deserves to see her coolest uncle play football.”

Niki rolled his eyes.

“No one’s paying for that long-ass flight to see you benchwarm,” Niki mumbled, chewing on some chips. “Have her come see me dance instead. At least I’ll be in the center.”

Jake smacks his friend on the back of the head.

“No need for any of that,” Jay chimed in. “She won’t have time for either of you. Papa bear here probably already has her future all mapped out. Skates on before she can walk.”

An awkward silence filled the room. The joke was lighthearted, but it landed too close to a wound no one had dared to touch in the past year. Sunghoon gave a quiet laugh, a hollow one without warmth. He brought the bottle to his lips and didn’t look at anyone when he spoke.

“Yeah... she’ll be a star.”

He eyed the ceiling, pondering what she would look like. Maybe just like him. Graceful. Passionate. “Olympic-worthy. Could probably win gold if we find the right coach early enough.”

You pursed your lips and stared at the condensation running down your glass. 

Sunoo cleared his throat, noticing the tense atmosphere. He raised his glass with forced enthusiasm. “To our beautiful Sunghee,” he cheered. “And to Jake’s success!”

Sunghoon smiled, but not really. He was happy for his friend, sure. But behind his facade, envy sat heavy on his tongue.

‘This night could have been for you. They could have been congratulating you. And you gave it all up. Now look at you. You’re a nobody.’

You couldn’t help but watch him throughout the night as he grew quieter, his sips of beer more like chugs now. You rubbed circles on his back like you always did when he got like this, hoping to bring him back into the conversation. But his eyes stayed glued to the back corner of the bar.

As you patted him, he pulled your wrist away. Not harshly. Not angrily. Just a simple tug. He set your hand back on your lap, his gaze straight ahead and away from you.

“I’m okay,” he assured you, but you didn’t believe him. Not then. 

Not ever, really.

Though time passed, life never got easier. The weight of responsibility pressed harder on your shoulders with each passing year. And while you both smiled through milestones and made do with the small hiccups in your relationship, you were content with this life. Doing laundry on lazy Sundays, Sunghoon singing nursery rhymes to Sunghee before school.

But after the birth of your second child, Sungjae, it had all started to rot.

Sunghoon’s longing for his old life never faded. It stewed in him, creeping into his thoughts at his corporate job after finishing university, haunting him on bus rides home. 

The bills piled higher. Your patience wore thinner. Conversations turned into quiet disagreements and tired sighs. You no longer fought. You didn’t even have the energy for that. Just two ghosts of your former selves moving through the same rooms, sleeping in the same bed, wondering what could’ve been. 

thirteen years later. the present.

Sunghoon adjusts his tie, furrowing his brows as he sees how crooked it is from the reflection of the mirror. He gives up halfway through. Fuck it, it would be a no-tie kind of day. He exits the bedroom, his footsteps making loud echoes on the way down the spiral staircase and towards the all-marble kitchen. He inhales slowly as he smells the fragrance of smoked spices dancing around his nostrils. It was enough to make his mouth water.

“What's cooking, good-looking?” he says, entering the kitchen with a wide grin on his face.

“Ew,” a voice rang out, soft and disgruntled. Sunghoon turns the corner and almost laughs at the sight.

“Shut up,” Sunoo scoffs, clad in an apron and silk pajamas. “Don’t say corny shit like that in my house until you get your act together.”

Sunghoon takes a seat on the barstool of the kitchen counter. He watches Sunoo maneuver the wide expanse of the kitchen like an expert.

“I'm a dad,” Sunghoon sighs out. “That’s kind of our thing.”

“Yeah, one going through a divorce,” Sunoo snaps back, monitoring his frittata closely on the stove.

Sunghoon's shoulders slump. Of course, the only friend willing to let him stay for an indefinite amount of time was the one most critical of his life choices. Sunoo insisted, in fact. Said his place was “feeling empty” anyway.

“So,” Sunoo coughs, acknowledging he might have taken it too far with his earlier comment. “Any word from her about the court date yet?”

Sunghoon shrugs, eyes on his watch as it nears 8:30 a.m. He'd have to leave soon to get to work. His boring, dull job as a fiscal manager at blah blah blah corporation. Even he barely knows what he does for a living.

“Can I borrow your car?” Sunghoon asks, ignoring his friend's question. He doesn't like to talk about it. Doesn't want to speak anything into existence, even if it was already happening. 

You asked for it two weeks ago. A divorce.

He's been living with (mooching off of) Sunoo since.

“Which one? The Bugatti or the Ferrari?”

Sunghoon gives Sunoo a side-eye, and the younger fails to stifle a laugh. He never wastes a second to flex on his friend, the only one out of their friend group who worked at a 9-5 job in total and absolute misery.

Heeseung's a streamer, Jay took over as CEO of his father's company, Jake was still playing football in Australia, Jungwon started his own Taekwondo studio, and Niki was traveling the world as a choreographer. And of course, Sunoo wound up in a big old mansion with his modeling career.

Sunghoon thought he'd end up like them. He got the right experience after university to find a stable job that didn't involve slaving away at customer service gigs like he did before.

He thought he'd move up higher in his company by now. Have a team to call his own, like Jungwon had, or make “small, high-impact decisions” like Jay claims he does. But none of that ever came. His heart was never in it.

Sunghoon sighs. 

“Whatever gets me from Point A to Point B,” he mutters. Sunoo cuts a piece of frittata from the skillet and plates it. He slides it over to his older friend and tosses a key from his pocket.

“Take the Kia Soul.”

Sunghoon groans. “You're fucking with me.”

“Mr. Park,” his coworker chirps into his ear. “I was wondering how your KPIs were this week…”

Sunghoon lets him drone on as he types on his computer. No private office, just a cubicle by the elevators. He hates how people tend to gravitate towards him for small talk. He's not very good at it. Never has been. It was a common joke within his family that he skated more than he spoke growing up. 

You dragged him out of his shell when you met, cracked him open with your bright-eyed gazes and addictive laughter. He’d planned to keep his head down when he was younger. No distractions and no detours. Just figure skating.

But how could he not fall in love with you?

He shakes his head, trying to push the thoughts aside before it settles in too deeply. He reminisces too much.

It’s like the past is all his mind drifts off to these days.

He leaves work on time. Gets stuck in traffic, like usual. And drives to the home you two once shared. A routine he's used to by now. 

He sees your car in the driveway and groans. He knew if he sees you, you'd bring up the papers again. Those stupid fucking papers.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says as he enters the once-familiar home. You've made changes to it since he's been gone. He squints to get a better look. In just two weeks, the kitchen's completely repainted with a soft green instead of gray. The living room was completely rearranged, and family pictures were taken down from the walls.

Sungjae is sitting on the couch, playing with his iPad. He only looks up for a second before he gets back into whatever is playing on his device. Sunghoon knew he should have hidden that thing before he left. Or, he guesses, before you kicked him out.

“Where's your sister?” he asks, practically into the void.

As if on cue, Sunghee walks down the stairs. Her eyes are already rolling, and she's still wearing her pink pajamas and bunny slippers.

“Get dressed, princess. We're gonna be late for your practice!”

Sunghee tsks. 

“C'mon,” Sunghoon adds with a forced smile. “You missed the last two practices already. You're gonna fall behind-”

“Dad, I already told you I want to quit,” she cuts in. “Can't you just take a freaking hint?”

Sunghoon stares blankly at his daughter, trying to hold back the irritation bubbling beneath the surface. Sunghoon doesn’t know where she gets the attitude comes from. It's like when Sunghee hit the age of 13, she morphed into a walking stick of dynamite with a terribly short fuse.

“Well,” he begins, voice tight but even. “Why don't we push through it for today, hm? You know, back in my day, I wasn't always up for the challenge, but-”

“We get it dad!” she groans. “'Back in my day' this, 'if I were you' that. No one cares!"

It stings him more than he cares to admit. 

"Sunghee," he says, slower this time, the edge creeping into his voice. 

She just scoffs at her father's serious expression. She's never been scared of him when he's angry. That was always your role. 

"I’m not going," she stands her ground, crossing her arms. "You can't make me. If you wanna go so bad, then go to that stupid ice rink by yourself.”

Sunghoon inhales sharply, planting his hands on his hips to seem more assertive.

From the couch, seven-year-old Sungjae snickers.

“Listen here, young lady-”

“Listen here, young lady…” Sungjae mocks, in a tone much like his father's. Sunghoon whips his head to his iPad kid.

“And you, young man-”

“Sunghoon,” you say sternly as you appear at the staircase. “I already called to cancel. Indefinitely. Even if you take her now, she won't even be able to join the other kids.”

Sunghee sticks her tongue out at her father, prancing to the couch to pinch her younger brother's cheeks.

He blinks, brows knitting together. “What? Why would you do that without telling me?”

"Sorry, was that a decision that needed your approval?" you ask sarcastically. "You can't make her do something she doesn't want to do."

Sunghoon scoffs, pointing an accusatory finger at you. But he stops himself. His gaze flickers to the kids, who pretend like they're not watching from the living room.

He swallows down whatever instinct tells him to argue right here, right now. You two never fought in front of them, an unspoken rule. Even if you were technically separated, he would not break that now. 

“Let's talk in our room,” he whispers closely, and you roll your eyes.

“My room,” you correct, already turning to head back up. You don’t see it, but he tries not to flinch at your harshness.

He closes the door behind you two, the air thick with tension. He starts again.

“Why are you making decisions without me already?” he asks, trying to keep his tone level. “You cancel her figure skating classes and repaint the kitchen? Why are you-”

You sigh, already tired.

“We've been talking about repainting that ugly kitchen for years, Sunghoon,” you sigh. "You never wanted to actually get started on it. Sorry, I actually make time for the things I want."

So this is the direction you wanted the conversation to go in? Fine. He can be passive-aggressive, too.

"And Sunghee? Didn't you think to run that by me when I’m the one that pays for those lessons?"

You grit your teeth. He sees where Sunghee gets it from now, your hands crossed over your chest in disdain.

"Have you tried listening to her about practices? She gets injured all the time! Coach Jung is horrible to her. She’s miserable-”

His jaw tightens. “You don't think I was too? Half the time, I hated skating! But that’s what it takes. You think greatness just feels good all the time?! And the kitchen was fine. I don’t get why—”

"She's not trying to be great, Sunghoon!" you cry exasperatedly, your hands thrown up into the air. "She's not trying to be you."

You point your finger at his chest. “And you always think everything's fine. Until it's too late.”

Your words hung in the air, his eyes meeting yours. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he says finally, quieter this time. 

You retract your hand, nervous under his gaze. It’s intense, familiar in a way that still sends sparks throughout your body, even now. Even after everything.

“Stop trying to force your dreams onto her,” you finally let out, and you see his eyes waver. "Just because it didn't work out for you doesn't mean you can try again through her."

“That's not what-”

“Look,” you interrupt him, turning away from him to face the wall. “All I'm saying is that maybe this is your wake-up call. Things change. Not everything that you want is going to happen. Maybe learn to change with it.”

He scoffs.

You turn back around to face him. He's angry, but his face doesn’t give it away. It’s his trembling hands, how his posture straightens just a little too stiffly.

“A little too late to change when my whole life was already laid out for me,” he says through bated breaths. “It’s not like I ever had a choice where I’d end up.”

Your heart sinks. “And it's all my fault, right?”

Sunghoon’s eyes flicker, his gaze softening at your hurt expression.

“I didn't say that-”

“But it's what you think, right?” You try to look strong. You think of all the nights he lay awake replaying his old skating clips in the glow of his phone screen. The way he cheered for Sunghee during competitions, like his voice alone could ignite the passion she didn’t have. The muffled sniffles from the shower after the last Winter Olympics ended. You saw it all. You always did.

Sunghoon is silent, and you fight the sting in your eyes.

“I never asked you to marry me,” you say as low as a whisper, cutting through the silence.

“But I did,” Sunghoon says quickly. Desperately. “And I wanted to.”

You draw out a laugh, bitterness dripping through.

“I'm so sorry, Sunghoon,” you say, sarcasm spilling over your lips. “I'm sorry this isn't the life you wanted. But newsflash: you're not the only one living with regrets. ”

He steps forward, but you move back. The weight of everything presses against your chest now that the words are out. Now that it’s not just his pain taking up space in your relationship.

“You act like you’re the only one who lost something,” you say, softer now. “But I gave up things, too. I had dreams too.”

You don’t mean it cruelly, and he doesn’t take it that way. But it hurts, still.

"And I'm done walking on eggshells around you just because you can't stand the fact that you aren't living the life you wanted.”

You take a deep breath and continue.

“If I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met-"

His hand hovers over your cheek. His lips, so dangerously close to yours. “Stop it.”

His voice is shaky.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

You don't pull away, but your gaze does not waver. “I mean it. Genuinely.”

You don’t see Sunghoon’s heart break at that moment. But he feels it. Feels the tightness in his chest, the way his throat closes up, like your words were enough to kill him.

“When did you become so cruel?” Hurt laced his voice.

“And when did you start resenting me?” you bite back, but the words barely escape your throat. 

He doesn’t answer, just leans in and kisses you. And you let him.

Because maybe this is the last time you’ll feel him like this. Maybe this is the last tender moment you two will share.

His hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing gently over your cheek. You feel your own breath catch, and for a second, you almost melt into him.

“I love you,” Sunghoon says, but it sparks nothing in you.

Instead, you hear everything he didn’t say. He didn’t say no or that you were wrong. So maybe he really does, you thought to yourself.

His kisses almost make you forget. Almost enough to blur out the long winters and how distant he gets. How painfully silent he is at the dinner table, eyes always somewhere else. 

His lips guide you through it all, each kiss igniting a memory.

How his shoulders sagged the day he started that full-time job. How his smile, once so quick to bring out of him, turned into something you had to search for. How the light in his eyes, so blinding when he was on the ice, dimmed, little by little. 

His hands trail under your shirt now as he peppers kisses down your throat. 

“I miss you,” he sighs. 

How he’ll wake up in the middle of the night and leave without a word, how you’ll see his location is at the ice rink, probably watching the Zamboni circle around. But he'd never bring his skates with him.

His lips meet yours again, deeper this time. His knee finds its way in between your legs.

You couldn’t do this anymore. It’s been far too many times, letting him wiggle his way back into your good graces. This was it. You would choose yourself this time.

Your fingers close around his wrists, gentle but firm. The warmth of his skin against yours nearly breaks your resolve, but you force yourself to meet his eyes. Even though it hurts.

“I think you should leave.” 

You release yourself from his hold. Sunghoon's expression is unreadable, but you know by now it's a facade. 

You could not carry his pain with you any longer. You needed him to let you go, just as much as you needed to let him go.

“Baby...” he starts, voice fragile.

“Don't,” you say quickly, lips pressed tight. “You can't call me that anymore, Sunghoon.”

His heart aches. He was supposed to be Hoon to you. Your Hoon. When did that change?

But he doesn't ask. He just watches you, eyes dark and full of all the things he never figured out how to say until it was already too late.

“The papers...” you pause, swallowing hard. You see a flicker of panic flash across his face. 

“They're on the kitchen counter. Take them before you leave.”

Sunghoon did not take the papers. 

In fact, just like Sunghee suggested, he went to the so-called “stupid” ice rink by himself. 

He sits in the highest row of the stands, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The kids glide around the ice below. Parents he used to talk to are filming on the sidelines, their laughter echoing faintly off the cold, hard walls.

Envy coats his skin.

Coach Jung is barking commands at the kids. He sneaks glances up at Sunghoon every so often, trying to be subtle. But he knows what that look means. It’s pity. 

At one point, Coach Jung had pulled him aside to tell him that Sunghee wasn't built for the sport. Not like Sunghoon was. She was too stiff, too in her own head about spinning in the air. She never cracked a smile when she was on the ice. She always kept her head low and movements small, as if it was still scary for her after years of practicing.

It's not like Sunghoon didn't notice, but he always thought she’d come around to it. He was pushed into figure skating by his parents, much like he was doing for her. It wasn’t like his passions ignited overnight. ‘It could be her dream if she let it be,’ he thought to himself.

Why couldn’t she let it? Why wouldn’t she even try?

Sunghoon sits in the stands, even after the kids pour out one by one and the lights start to dim. Coach Jung offers one last, forced smile before disappearing into the locker rooms. Sunghoon stays until he’s the only one left under the lights.

The Zamboni comes in, shaving and washing the ice to be used for the next day. When the machine finishes, the driver climbs out and heads up toward the stands. He's in his early twenties with blonde hair and dark eyes. He's moving towards Sunghoon with a smile.

Sunghoon stands up, a little intimidated by the younger man. His back turns to go up the stairs and to the exit, wanting to avoid a conversation.

“You're always here at night, sir,” the guy calls out. “Do you have a special connection to this place?”

Sunghoon stops in his tracks. He used to get recognized all the time. On the streets and in this very place. He used to mean something.

He turns around and gives a polite smile to the young man. He points at one of the many banners that hang from the ice rink walls. “Park Sunghoon” was in bright gold colors on each one. 

“I used to train here,” he says, with a hint of pride. “National champion for ten straight years, from when I was 11 up until I was 21.”

The guy whistles softly, impressed.

“We could use you, you know?" he says. "I think they’re looking for a new coach. Heard the old one's retiring soon.”

Sunghoon flinches. “Coach Jung? He hasn't told me yet. My daughter trains with him.”

He can't bring himself to use the past tense with her just yet.

The young man just nods. "I think he's planning to announce it after the next competition."

Sunghoon feels his chest constrict. He shakes his head. Another person leaving.

“I guess everything’s changing…” he whispers, but it did not fall on deaf ears. The stranger moves closer to him. "We're all so old now."

The stranger sighs. “Youth can be so cruel, can't it?”

Sunghoon, in his confusion, scoffs.

“The opposite, actually,” he argues. “Life's easier when you're young. Anything was possible back then.” 

He takes a second to continue.

“And it all can be taken from you,” he mutters, more to himself. “Before you even realize it.”

“That's the worst, isn't it?” The young man chimes in. He's sitting where Sunghoon was earlier. “When you wonder what could've been…”

Sunghoon’s mouth twists into something like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“That's all I think about,” he said, surprised at himself for opening up to a stranger. And it's true. 

What if he hadn’t stopped skating? What if you hadn’t gotten pregnant?

He sits back down, next to the Zamboni driver.

“We all have regrets,” the young man says, looking ahead, voice soft.

Sunghoon stares up at the ceiling and lets out a breathless laugh through the silence. Flashes of you overcame his vision. Nights of hushed arguments and facing away from each other on the bed. Nothing went his way after the World Championships. He lost it all. His passion. His dreams. You. 

“Why does it have to be that way?” he asks no one in particular.

A silence fills the room. The blonde turns his head to face him. “Maybe you could live a life without one, Park Sunghoon.”

He stills for a second.

“How did you know my na-” And as Sunghoon turns to face the stranger, he is met with nothing. Like the man was never there in the first place.

He's driving in that ugly, neon green Kia Soul, making his way back to Sunoo's egregiously large mansion.

Sunghoon's grip on the steering wheel tightens every time he checks the rearview mirror. He can’t shake the feeling like he’s being watched. That guy… the way he talked, like he knew him. Not just his name, but everything underneath. 

But screw that guy and whatever cryptic bullshit he was spouting. Screw his perfect friends, rich and successful. Every time they reunite, it’s like a reminder of everything Sunghoon’s not.

And screw the way Sunghee and Sungjae don’t even look at him like he matters. He tries. God knows he does. But they don’t know him. Don't know who either of you were outside of being their parents.

And you know what? Screw you and those damn papers too-

SCRREEEEE.

In an instant, his world is spinning out of control. Airbags deploy as Sunghoon jostles in a car that tumbles with him. The last thing he remembers is flashing lights and the loud sound of a crash. A sharp pain shoots through the left side of his body, and he feels as if he is coming in and out of consciousness. 

Sunghoon's eyes blink open, but he's not lying where he thinks he should be. It’s not the inside of a casket, nor is it a hospital room ceiling. He lies there with a cold and familiar feeling.

Ice.

Instead of the wrinkled suit he threw on that morning, he’s wearing sweatpants and a fitted black top. Not a scratch on him. No blood, no bruises. 

Was he dead?

“Is just one axel hard for you now, kid?” a voice calls out. 

He recognizes it almost immediately. Coach Jung. Sunghoon sits up, yanking his gloved hands from the coldness. What the fuck was happening?

“Get your ass back up and do it again,” Coach Jung shouts from the sidelines. The music starts again. Sunghoon’s eyes flutter shut, and he swears it's muscle memory. He knows this routine. The one from that night. The night he met you.

He moves. Instinct takes over. Jumps, spins, the sharp sound of his blades cutting clean into the ice. Every turn and landing exactly where it should be. He’s smiling from ear to ear now, almost childlike.

And if he were dead and this was the last thing he'd ever experience, then maybe dying wasn't so bad. He’d stayed off the ice for years, terrified that if he felt this weightless feeling again, that his regrets would consume him. 

“Perform like that and you'll win no matter what,” Coach Jung calls out as the music fades. Even breathless, Sunghoon felt like he could do ten more spins across the ice. His heart was racing. Everything felt so real. The soreness of his muscles, the cold air against his skin, the echoes of Coach's voice.

“What day is it today?” Sunghoon asks abruptly. "And what year?"

He’s pinching his wrist now, nails digging in and almost drawing blood. He flinched. It hurt like hell. Was this not a dream?

“Kid, did you hit your head when you fell?” Coach Jung laughs. 

And when he says the exact date, Sunghoon's confused. It wasn’t like today was anything special. Just a random Tuesday. So why would this moment, 16 years ago, be where he ended up after crashing his car? 

Looking at the reflection of his younger, more athletic self in the mirror, he just couldn't believe it. No matter how much he slapped his face or banged his head against the locker room door, he was still here. In this younger body.

He's walking home from practice now. His phone buzzes in his pocket of the boys’ group chat, the old one they used to fill with dumb inside jokes before you and the other significant others joined the group. But your name is yet to be in his contacts. 

And then he remembers. It’s three days before you’re in the stands of the smaller national competition he won many years ago. 

He’s not one to panic, but his thoughts are running in circles. Did he actually go back in time, or is this all in his head?

He sees someone in his periphery. A man around his age, standing near the curb, waving. Casual. Like they’ve met before. And they have.

The Zamboni driver.

He has a sinister smile, one that sends shivers down Sunghoon’s spine. Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate. He marches forward and grabs him by the collar. “Who the fuck are you? Is this happening because of you?”

The man smirks, clearly amused.

“You wanted to try, right? A life without regrets?”

Sunghoon glares at him, confused.  “What?”

“Park Sunghoon,” the blonde says sternly. “This is your last chance. Use it wisely.”

Before he can respond, the man shoves him back.

“What are you talk-”

And as he blinks, the stranger disappears. His head starts throbbing uncontrollably, and ringing sets in his ears. He hears a voice then, yet he can’t recognize it.

“What will you choose in this life?”

Even as the reality of everything he left behind starts to settle, he feels a strange sense of calm wash over his grief.

He knows what to do.

three days later.

Sunghoon sees you in the corner of his eye as he’s tightening his skates. You’re sitting with your friends, ones who had encouraged you to come and watch him. Back then, he was all anyone on campus could talk about. The quiet freshman with Olympic dreams who just missed his opportunity last year. He was skating harder than ever, pushing himself to the edge. Skipping classes. Shutting out everything but the rink. 

Until you came along.

He remembers your first date. He'd asked awkwardly, “How come you like me?” because he genuinely didn’t understand.

It’s not like the plushie you threw was the first with a phone number taped to it. Not even the tenth. He got plenty of confessions growing up, but he wanted to know why. What made anyone interested in an introverted and one-track-minded guy like him? He had no hobbies outside of figure skating, no real conversation skills that went past awkward greetings.

Yet, you teased him with that Cheshire grin of yours. 

“How could I not?" you say so casually as his heart bloomed. "I’ve never seen someone pour so much love into what they do until I met you. You know what you want. I admire that.”

Your words stuck with him. He’d never forgotten it. And even now, those words echo in his chest as he skates to the center of the ice.

The music starts, and he lets himself get lost in the rhythm. As he glides across the ice, there is nothing on his mind. He just takes it all in. The roar of the audience. The sound of skates hitting ice. It’s all he ever wanted.

The routine, like in the past, was met with a standing ovation. The screams of those in the stands overwhelm him. He goes to each section of the rink, bowing as tears threaten to spill over. It’s all too much. And not enough.

Then, he reaches yours. Sunghoon finds you in the sea of people like he did before. Your hair is down, and your face is softer. He chokes back on his tears, so enthralled by your beauty. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. 

He bows, more deeply than to the other sections.

You throw that stuffed penguin through the air at the perfect time as it lands by his feet. And as Sunghoon rises from the bow, your eyes are on him again. Expectant. 

You don’t know him yet. Not really. You aren't aware of the pain to come. The fights. The distance. The way he’ll drain all the color from your life. 

As he turns to move to the final section, he catches a flicker of sadness in your eyes. A frown is present on your beautiful face. He wants to make it go away, but he can’t. Not in this life.

And so the penguin sits on the ice, lifeless, as he skates off the rink.

That night, he skips the afterparty. He goes straight to his shitty studio apartment, the one with the thin walls and peeling paint, and collapses on the bed.

He buries his face into the sheets, the fabric dampening his sobs. The crowd’s cheers still ring faintly in his ears, but now it all sounds hollow. He screams then, into the mattress, at the thought of Sunghee and Sungjae. His babies. The only pieces outside of you in his old life that made it worth fighting for. Would they ever exist in this version of his life?

He tries to steady himself. Tells himself this was for the best. That your life would be easier without him as your words echoed in his head.

"If I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met."

No years wasted, no sacrifices stacked on top of each other until they became resentment. No nights spent worried about bills or appeasing your parents, who never really quite liked him.

He wants to believe he’s doing you a favor.

But the tears don’t stop. Not when he thinks about the weight of Sunghee in his arms the first time he held her. Not when he remembers teaching Sungjae how to read with his tiny hands clutching the book, his eyes lighting up at each new word.

He’s letting it all go. All of it.

This was supposed to be his second chance. To live his dream without regrets. To see what it felt like. 

And it felt like hell.

The next few nights were abysmal. Practice became unbearable. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t sleeping. His body hit the ice harder whenever he missed a spin, which was every time at this point. Coach Jung eventually pulled him aside, clearly frustrated.

“Go home, Sunghoon. Straighten yourself out and get the hell off my ice.”

But home didn’t feel real. None of this did.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t keep skating like this, not when every turn reminded him of you.

Sunghoon had to see you. Just once. Just enough to know you were okay. He told himself the kids would still exist somehow, even if your love story started differently in this version of life. That thought was the only thing holding him together.

He freshens himself up to go to campus, not having touched his backpack in weeks. He remembers your route like the back of his hand. Morning coffee at the cafe just off campus, right before your 9 AM. He will intercept you here, at this corner of the street.

Sunghoon's in a black turtleneck, wearing the glasses you would always steal off of him. The one that made you squirm under his intense gaze. The air was chilled, and his hands were buried deep in his navy jeans. He sees you coming into view, and he almost extends a hand to wave. 

But he sees him, too.

Beomgyu. Your ex. The one who would ask your friends how you were doing, knowing full well that you were married with kids. The one who eventually became a guitarist for a band he would pretend not to like. Sunghoon had asked you to block him from everything before, and you complied. It hurt to admit that his insecurities were still present even now, in another life.

Sunghoon hides behind a tree as he watches you two struggle through the cold. Your shoulders are close but not quite touching. He feels his heart rate accelerate, his lips pursed to prevent himself from saying anything that would compromise his hiding spot. 

“Beomgyu, you don’t have to walk me to class,” he overheard you say with a laugh. “I’m okay, really.”

Sunghoon’s hands balled into fists. Why did your voice sound an octave higher than it usually does? 

Beomgyu had the nerve to laugh, and it took Sunghoon everything in himself not to jump out.

You once told him that Beomgyu was your first love. Your high school boyfriend. You had ended things on good terms at the end of high school to find yourselves in college.

“Good,” Sunghoon once said. “Because you found me.”

And now here you were, looking happy. Grinning from ear to ear. What was there to smile about? 

“Doesn’t this remind you of old times? You used to stuff your hands in my pockets-” 

And though Sunghoon almost wills himself to leave the spot behind the tree, he doesn’t. Because he needed to watch this. Needed to watch you live the life you would’ve had without him. The easier one. 

He sees it now in the way your nose would scrunch to laugh at Beomgyu’s jokes. How you playfully hit the boy’s shoulder and hide your giggles with the sleeve of your puffer jacket. 

Maybe that’s why the stranger had chosen this year. To taunt him.

Look how happy someone else could make her. Was he the only reason why you were miserable? How much did he really hold you back? 

And so Sunghoon steps aside, shoving his hands back in his jeans. The icy wind cuts through his reddened cheeks. He asked for this. And he’ll have to live with it in this life.

Sunghoon turns around to give you one last look. But he also sees Sunghee, in her Elsa costume for Halloween. Sungjae asking for a mountain of kimchi at every restaurant. Your hand reaching for his across the dinner table.

He’ll have to live with it.

In the next three years, Sunghoon put his all into skating. He is consumed by it. Throws himself into it like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His professors have to send him emails to remind him not to neglect his studies. His mother scolds him for missing holidays at home because he travels so much for competitions. But Sunghoon doesn’t care.

He loves figure skating. Loves the endless cheers from the crowd when he lands a clean program. Loves the headlines, the trophies lining his apartment shelves, the constant buzz of being "the nation's pride." It’s everything he knew he wanted. 

But, there’s always that one seat in the stands. The one you used to sit in during his competitions, holding up a handmade banner and shouting his name louder than anyone. 

Now, the face in that seat changes all the time. Some new fan. Some stranger holding a sign that doesn't mean anything to him.

He tells himself the past doesn’t matter. That this version of you, the one who laughs in cafes with Beomgyu, who’s always posting photos from new cities, new hobbies, new lives, wouldn’t even recognize the girl he remembers.

The girl who used to sit cross-legged on his couch, studying while he iced his ankle. Who wept with joy the night he won first at an international competition.

Now you’re in a photography club. A painting class. Pottery? Really?

You travel more now than you two ever did in your 16 years together. He scrolls past your updates with a numb thumb, telling himself he’s glad. He guesses that he did the right thing. 

And every time he walks past you with Beomgyu, smiling with all your teeth, it lingers. Those damn words are repeating in his head again.

"If I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met."

Now he gets it. He guessed that he held you back from so much. Look at you with your wonderful friends and the amazing life you live without him! He scoffs. You deserve it.

You adjusted to him and his demanding training schedule, canceling plans with people so that you could maximize the time you had with him in the rare chance that he was in town. Maybe Beomgyu never would’ve asked you to sacrifice like that. Maybe he would’ve waited for you to come home from your clubs, instead of dragging you to cold rinks and rushed meals together in between practice sessions.

Sunghoon's fine. He swears on it.

Wake up. Go to class (if he feels like it). Skate for hours. Push through the pain. Go home. Cry into his pillow. Rinse and repeat. 

The Olympics are a year away. The World Championships are in two months.

And the night you two conceived Sunghee is tomorrow.  

tomorrow.

He wills himself to stay home, even when the boys suggest he hit up a few bars and clubs. It's the weekend after all. 

But Sunghoon is used to making excuses by now. Blames it on his training schedule, his diet, Coach Jung. Whatever would get Jake off his back. 

So when Sunghoon hears a knock at his door, and three boys pull up already reeking of alcohol, he’s surprised that he finds himself in that exact bar where he promised himself he wouldn’t be.

It’s just like before. Same music, same sickening smell of spilled tequila and too much cologne from Heeseung. And, as always, he’s bad at poker. Worse than he remembers. He’s downing a shot after every loss until his head is spinning and he can’t remember the rules anymore.

“I’m gonna… go… pee…” he tries to say, but his words get lost in mumbles and drooping eyes. He miraculously stumbles towards the restroom and does his business in the urinal. He’s dousing his face with water after barely washing his hands, and he smiles at his reflection. God, why didn’t he want to go out again? 

Sunghoon exits the restroom, shaking his wrists to expel the water from his hands. And his breath catches. He sees you.

Your back’s to him at first, your sparkly red dress riding up on the stool just like it was that night. You’re laughing at something the bartender says. And he swears for a second, time stops.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Or maybe it’s the years of missing you bottled up too tight. But he starts walking over before he can stop himself. 

“Hey,” he says plainly, elbow hitting the bar. You turn towards him, eyebrows raised in curiosity. 

He'll be different in his first impressions this time. More experienced and confident than the shy fool he was when he met you. He'd match this new version of you, too. Show you what you were missing out on.

There’s a confused smile on your face.

“Hi.” He looks at you more clearly, his vision impaired from leaving his glasses at home and the tequila shots in his system.

“You come here often?” He’s too out of his senses to stop himself from saying it. But he doesn’t regret it because you laugh. He does too.

“You say that to every girl, Park Sunghoon?” 

His heart skips a beat. “You know my name?”

You roll your eyes, taking a sip of the cocktail that the bartender just handed you.

“Call me a fan,” you smile up at him, and he swears he could have melted right then and there. “Your face is everywhere.”

Sunghoon licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry.

“I wish I could see more of yours,” he grins. “I think I’d skate ten times better if I saw you in the crowd.”

You scoff jokingly. “And here I thought winning was enough for you.”

It should be. It was supposed to be.

He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. That he’d leave you alone. He would let you go about your life, forget him, and be who you wanted to be. Who you should have been before he came to your life.

But here you are, impossibly close, and every part of him is begging not to let you go.

"You... you single?" he asks, trying to be casual. But his voice catches at the end. He wants to know. Needs to hear from your own lips if you actually chose Beomgyu in this life.

Relief washes over him when you shake your head.

"Wouldn't be talking to you if I was," you say with a teasing grin. Electricity shoots through him as he watches you. Too bright, too much. This short conversation, one he never planned on having, could never satisfy him. He could never get enough of you.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” he asks before he could stop himself, arm outstretched for you to take. Your face stiffens, and he almost thinks you’d say no until your fingers wrap around his arm.

“Where to?” 

You barely make it past his front door before he has you up against it. His hands hold yours above your head, pinning your body against his. Sunghoon’s lips move against you ferociously, an unending battle between your tongues. You try to match his movements, but he is starved beyond belief.

You have no idea how badly he missed this.

Three years since he last heard you speak to him. Three years since he’s felt your lips. And the last time was when you asked him to pick up some stupid divorce papers from the kitchen counter. He needs this. Needs this more than breathing, more than eating, more than skating.

Sunghoon lifts you to wrap your legs around his middle. His hands find your bottom, giving a gentle squeeze that has you arching into him. He didn’t want to scare you, but he couldn’t will himself to stop. Your scent was too intoxicating for his mouth to ever leave yours.

You tap at his chest to push him away softly. With bruised lips, you whisper, “Can we go to your bed?”

He could almost moan just from the sound of you. His sweet, beautiful wife. Still so perfect for him.

His grip on your ass tightens as he maneuvers you through the studio apartment you once shared, laying you softly on the bed. Sunghoon wonders why you two just went at it like animals at the entrance way when the bed was only a few steps away back then. This time, he would savor it. Savor you.

He follows you down as he trails kisses on your neck. You crane it for him like you used to, giving him access to your most sensitive spots. His hands trail underneath your dress, teasing the hem of your panties. He looks up at you, silently asking for permission. All you could do was nod, opening your legs wide for him to continue. His dick twitches in his pants. You drive him insane.

Sunghoon peppers a few more kisses on your collarbone as his index finger prods carefully at your clothed pussy. 

“Already soaked,” he whispers into your skin, pressing the pads of his fingers onto your underwear. Liquid courage still very much in his system.

He feels bold right now, eager to impress. He doesn't know who you've been with in this life, but he'll make you forget them all. Fuck you so good that you forget those experiences. Remind you that he's your husband for a reason. His fingers hook the side of your ruby red panties, gliding them down your plush thighs.

“I bet I’d go in so easily, huh?” his drunken voice slurs out. "So fucking wet."

When you nod again, he tsks. So silent, and for what? His fingers find your clit, ghosting over it. You arch to lean into his touch, but his hand retracts.

“Use your words, baby,” he says darkly. “Whatever you want, I can give it to you.”

You groan, eyes shut in frustration. “Can’t you just fuck me?”

He laughs. Always so uncharacteristically vulgar when horny. He loves it. He loves you.

“Can’t I get a taste first, baby?” he says, his face already inching downwards. He pulls your dress all the way off you, so that your breasts are finally exposed. Your satin red bra matched your panties like they were made to be seen tonight. He didn’t know why that fired him up so badly. 

Would another man have you like this if he didn't make a move?

He dips his head between your thighs, latching his mouth onto your clit. You gasp at the suddenness, not knowing how much you’ve angered him just from your underwear choices. His tongue moves downwards, lapping at your folds like a man dying of thirst. His hands pinned your legs to open even wider, and you writhed underneath him.

“Please-” you beg, hands gripping his hair as his tongue plunges into your wetness. Sunghoon’s eyes roll to the back of his head at the sensation. He could never, ever forget this taste. 

He pushes his tongue in and out as deeply as he can with his curled tongue, grinding against the mattress for any semblance of stimulation.

He would make love to you tonight. Until you remember who he was. Until you remember the life you built together.

His tongue does one agonizing lick all the way up to your clit, and your back arches just to feel him better. He’s sucking it harshly, tongue flicking at it in all the right ways.

“Sunghoon-” you cry out, your feet digging into the mattress to push your hips up to meet his ravenous lips. He pulls away and glares up at you. Your hips fall.

“Why’d you stop?” you whine, pushing his hair back down to your core. It takes everything in him not to laugh. He adores you like this. Desperate for him. Needy for him. Shaking in pleasure for whom? Him.

“Don’t call me that,” he whispers into your inner thigh, nipping at it slightly. He chuckles at your confused expression. “Hoon. If you’re gonna moan my name while I fuck you, I need you to say it properly.”

Your cheeks warmed. Heaving out a groan, you nod your head anyway. 

“H-hoon,” you test out. “Can you please continue?”

He smiles mischievously. “With what?”

You huff out in frustration. “I swear if you don’t fucking make me cum right now I’m going to-”

And his lips smash down on yours to shut you up. His hands replace his tongue as his middle finger draws figure-8s on your clit. He pulls your slickness from your folds and up to that sweet spot, relishing in the indecent noises between your legs.

Your moans are muffled by his tongue, body twitching underneath his. You taste yourself, so sweet on his lips as he caresses the most inner parts of your mouth. So dirty and so wet. He knew every part of you. Knew what made you cry, knew what made you scream. And fuck, he will make you scream. 

He pulls away from you to admire his ruthless pace on your clit.

You are clenching around nothing as your nails dig into his shoulders. He coaxes a gasp out of you as a coil in your stomach starts to form.

“Want me so fucking bad, don't you?” he teases, his other hand on the nape of your neck. Sunghoon tilts your head down to show you the mess you were making. 

His sheets are stained with your arousal, and his fingers are drawing circles on your bundle of nerves with such fervor. You catch a glimpse of his painfully clothed member. 

He was right. You wanted him so desperately, wanted to feel him inside you at that very moment. Your breath hitches. Fuck. You felt something building.

Your hips start to rise again, and it’s hard to formulate a sentence.

“Hoon! Oh my god– Fuck it’s– It’s–” You cry out as Sunghoon’s pace quickens, motivated by the sound of your moans. His other hand tries to anchor your thighs down. You feel it as you start to lose vision in your eyes. His thumb is rubbing so intensely that it draws a whine right out of you.

The coil inside of you snaps.

“Fuuuck…Ngh…”

A wave of pleasure washes over you, and you feel your juices coat your folds, dripping more than before. 

You're squirming underneath him, thighs twitching from the stimulation. He slows his pace, drawing out your orgasm for as long as possible.

His cock was in pain, desperate for it to make contact with any part of you. In this life, one thing he developed over the past three years of watching you in the shadows was patience. And you had none.

“God, just put it in,” you groan so casually, resting your forearm to shield your eyes away from him. You were so fucked out. Hair splayed all over the pillow in messy waves. Lips bruised, your cherry gloss staining your chin and his cheek.

So eager to just have him take you. If he were a weaker man (maybe Beomgyu), he would have listened. But like he said earlier. He would savor this.

His fingers travel down to your folds, one dancing at your entrance to tease you. Sunghoon smirks as you whimper. He pushes a finger in and bites his lip at the feeling. He hasn’t felt you, or anyone for that matter, in ages. In these past three years, he couldn't bring himself to even talk to another woman who wasn't you. It didn't feel right.

All the lonely, and frankly sad, nights touching himself to thoughts of you. Fucking himself on his wrist as he remembers all the nights you’ve shared in your 13 years of marriage. He had plenty of material to work with, with all of your past escapades, but it was nothing like the real thing. Nothing like feeling you again.

“Sunghoon, stop teasing me-”

His finger stilled, and you thought about cursing him out. He pulls your forearm away from your eyes, forcing you to look into his.

“Want to try that again?” he says, threateningly slow. The darkness of his gaze was enough to have you pliant and doe-eyed.

“Hoon?” He smiles, kissing you on the forehead softly.

“Good girl.” And just like that, he dips another finger in, scissoring them into you with precision. You’re a mess underneath him, overstimulated beyond belief, but he honestly couldn’t give less of a fuck. He needed you to be ready for him. His heaviness was throbbing painfully just thinking about how you'd take him after all this time.

How long would it take you to adjust to his size?

Sunghoon’s fingers squelch with each thrust, finding the soft spot he was so familiar with. He’s obsessed, drinking in the sight of your eyelashes fluttering, your hands gripping at his shoulders like your life depended on it. You were so wrapped up in your own pleasure, fucking yourself onto his fingers. Grinding up at him without a care in the world. 

“Look at you,” he laughs. “So needy.”

Sunghoon pulls his fingers out of you before he brings them to his lips. He hums, relishing the taste. He’d have to go down on you again later tonight. Taste you after his cock has had its fill.

You watch him in anticipation as he takes his pants off. You follow his lead as you unhook your bra, throwing it across his floor, sighing at the feeling of cool air hitting your nipples. Sunghoon pulls his throbbing member out of his briefs, pumping himself languidly. 

Sunghoon's eyes meet yours for a second before they go back to your cunt. He's churning something in his mouth, and you almost ask him what he was doing until he positions his mouth just above your folds. 

With sultry eyes directly gazing up at yours, Sunghoon lets his saliva drip down onto your pussy. 

You throw your head back on the pillow from the sight. Fuck, that was hot. He moves back up to you, guiding his hand to spread his spit with the tip of his leaking cock.

His dick smears your joined liquid in an up-and-down motion, pushing in ever-so-slightly. You gasp and clutch his chest, nails digging in enough to get his attention. He stops.

“I’m not on birth control,” you mutter, like you’re scared to tell him. 

“Should I stop?” he asks, even with his tip pulsing so desperately between your folds. You avoid eye contact, though he doesn’t know why. 

“Look at me.” he growls.

Sunghoon tilts your chin to face him, and with glossy eyes, you shake your head. He smiles, and a tinge of sadness hits him. You look so soft underneath him, so fucking beautiful.

He’s spent three years stuck in this version of his life, crying over you to avoid this very moment. But he just wanted you so bad. Wanted to feel you at least once again. Then, he’ll let go, he swears. This will be the first and last.

“Use your w-” 

You interrupt him with a kiss, wrapping your legs around him to push him deeper into you. He groans, collapsing onto his elbows. You dig your heels into his back as you pull him in deeper. Sunghoon's lips leave you to lay his forehead against yours. His breathing grows heavy, so lost in how your hole sucks him in.

“So fucking tight,” he groans, testing the waters with a small thrust after bottoming out. You squeak in response. “Fuck, baby.”

He wraps you in a tight hold, propping his knees underneath your thighs into a mating press. He fucks into you at an agonizing pace. It's so slow, you could feel every part of his rigid cock. His large size. His thick veins. The soft pulsing. It's so slow that you almost flip him over to ride him instead. But the desperation in his eyes stops you. His head buries deep in your hair, and you could hear the shakiness of his breath as he pulls out of you and plunges back in.

Sunghoon relishes the way you clench around him, your tight warmth pulling him deeper and deeper with each thrust. He drives himself into you with languid, but strong thrusts. He wants to engrave his place inside you so that you are ruined for anyone who might come after him. And again, he angers himself.

"You only this good for me?" he asks, searching your eyes for reassurance. But you aren't listening. You meet his thrusts, grinding yourself onto him. You want more. More of his touch. More of his length. Just more of him.

“Faster–” you whine, thighs pushing into his sides with each hard thrust. He was reaching the deepest part of you, your cervix kissing his tip ever so deliciously. Sunghoon doesn’t abide, so you take what he gives you.

"You this desperate for everyone, baby?" he whispers into your ear darkly. You shake your head, tears forming in your eyes.

"No..." you muster out. "Just you."

And even through all the tequila and the self-restraint not to jackhammer into you, he believes you. 

His hands are on your tits now, catching them as they bounce with the strength of his slow thrusts. He twists a nipple between his fingers, coaxing a moan out of you. He tugs and pulls, and it's enough to have you moaning underneath him.

You feel that familiar fire build inside of you. An ember that burned in your lower stomach and traveled down to the very tip of your toes. 

“Hoon! Please- Fuck- I need... I need-” 

You couldn’t form full sentences. His thrusts were so harsh and still so painstakingly slow. His eyes never left your face. He basked in the way your brows furrowed for him. How your lips formed silent screams as he hit that certain spot within you. Again and again.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers hoarsely, his lips so close to yours. “Tell me who you need.”

“You!” you cry out. "Only you!"

He smashes his lips against yours as he finally thrusts into you hard and fast. His hands on your breast travel down to your waist, locking you onto the mattress as he fuck into you.

You feel something pooling, feel the tingling of your toes intensify with his breath against your face. His moans are just as loud as yours, grunting in your hair like a beast.

“You feel so fucking good–” his hips piston forward, brushing against that spot with every movement. Your chest is pressed into his as you claw at his back. The sensation builds and builds as your stomach starts to tighten.

“Hoon- Oh my god- I’m-Angh!”

Your second orgasm rips through you, the tension within snapping like a chord. It's so much stronger than your first one. It hits you in waves as you weep through it, your hips grinding up to meet his unending thrusts. You were so sore, so sensitive, but his pace stayed so relentless. 

“Close– So fucking close, baby–” he moans into your hair.

He clutches your hips, driving into you with reckless abandon. Even if you had no idea who he was, he would have your body remember him. Sunghoon, in this life, would be your best one-night stand. He swears on it.

He grunts as he feels you clench around him harder, his hips stuttering against yours.

“I’m gonna–” He tries to pull out, tries to push you away. Tries not to repeat the same mistakes. But your arms pull him downward as legs wrap sternly around his waist. You push him in deeper.

And he comes. Hard. 

“Fuck-”

Sunghoon plants an open-mouthed kiss on your lips, drowning out his sweet noises as he feels his raw cock twitch deep inside. His hot cum spills deep inside you with thick spurts. Your lips parted at the warm feeling, and he could tell you enjoyed every bit of milking him dry. 

Sunghoon pulls away from you with a soft groan. He watches as his cum spills out of you. He brings his finger to your folds, pushing his fluids into you. 

As he meets your eyes, he’s shocked to see how concerned you look. Because unbeknownst to him, there were tears streaking down his face. And before he can fully sober up and stop himself, he says it.

"I love you."

You’re gone before he wakes up.

Sunghoon screams into his pillow, recalling his words like a bad nightmare. Stupid. So stupid. This was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be different.

That stranger, whoever he was, said this was his last chance. And what did he do? He threw away three years of silent pining just to chase you down on the very night the troubles in your relationship had begun.

Was he a fucking idiot? 

You never even said goodbye, never even replied to his confession last night. Didn’t even leave a trace of what last night meant to you—if it meant anything at all. He must’ve looked insane.

Sunghoon grips the back of his neck, exhaling hard. You don’t know him. You aren’t the same girl from his past life. You're different now. Three years. That’s how long you’ve had to become someone else.

And him? He hasn’t changed at all. He’s still chasing ghosts. If it wasn't figure skating in his past life, it would be you in this one.

He sighs and sits up. Practice. He should go to practice.

two months later.

“Are you messing around, kid, or do you actually want to win this thing?!” Coach Jung shouts after Sunghoon falls on his ass for the umpteenth time. His palms sting from the fall, but he barely feels it. 

The World Championships are in a week, and he hasn’t heard a single peep from you since you left his apartment. Hasn’t seen you on campus in his usual routes to watch you from afar. He knew he had reached a new level of patheticness when he actually went up to Beomgyu to ask how you were.

Turns out, you two weren't even as close as he thought you were. He smiled to himself after that, but frowned when he realized that it truly was as if you had disappeared.

“Sorry,” he huffs, out of breath from the demanding routine. “One more time?”

Coach Jung pinches the bridge of his nose. “How about ten more, you punk? Get your act together.”

Coach mutters something under his breath and storms off, leaving Sunghoon alone with the cold silence of the rink. He tries again. Falls again. He smacks his gloved hand against the ice, hard enough that the sharp sting shoots up his arm. He should’ve known. The moment he got a taste of you, he knew this would happen. 

No matter when or how, he would always bother you. He would always lose himself. He would always manage to ruin everything.

“Are you living the life you wanted, Park Sunghoon?” a voice echoes behind him. He spins on his skates. 

There he is again. The blonde prick. Somehow, he’s in his sneakers and standing still on the ice. His hands are smug in his coat pockets.

Sunghoon doesn’t take the time to question it until he’s skating at breakneck speed towards him.

He swings at him, but the stranger disappears into smoke. 

“Or do you still have regrets?” the voice is behind him again. Sunghoon turns around to the stranger, giving him that annoying, shiteating grin. 

“I want out,” Sunghoon says with a strained jaw. “Bring me back. To Sunghee. To Sungjae. To her. Now.”

The blonde laughs. “You haven’t even done what you set out to do yet. Wasn't this what you wanted?”

Sunghoon lets out a bitter sigh, chest tight.

“I get it, okay?" he says with wavering breaths. "I was selfish. I asked for too much. I get it now. So just... please. Please, send me back.”

The boy steps forward. His sneakers make no sound on the ice. Inches away from Sunghoon now, just a little taller than him. 

“You don’t always get what you want in life,” the stranger says with that sick, twisted grin. It sends a rush of dread through Sunghoon's body.

“I thought you would have learned that by now.”

the world championships.

He’s in the locker room. His left leg is bouncing up and down, nail splitting as he gnaws at it incessantly. Only ten contestants ahead of him, but he has the time to panic. Just like he did before.

Coach Jung pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t think too much. You're gonna psych yourself out.”

Sunghoon shakes his head, unlocking his phone to check the time. The lockscreen, snow falling past a dark streetlight, holds his gaze longer than it should. He sighs.

“I'm not nervous,” Sunghoon replies, unconvincingly. “It's just cold.”

Coach Jung rolls his eyes.

“You're not new to this, kid,” he doubts the young man. “You're gonna do great out there. This is what you've been dreaming of. Just don't mess it up.”

And when Coach Jung shuts the door behind him, Sunghoon puts his hands to his face. And instead of self-affirmations, he is trembling. Barely breathing, he replays the memory again. Of him spinning you in his arms. Of your kind smile.

Sunghoon told himself not to expect you. In this lifetime, you'd only met once. Only fucked once. But he still thought... maybe the universe would be kind. Maybe you’d show up like you did back then.

“Can the remaining five acts please be on stand-by?” the overhead speaker blares into the locker room. That's him. He's one of the last five. 

There’s no one to hold him back this time. No distractions. Just an aching in his chest. 

Sunghoon's by the stands now. He watches with shaky hands as the crowd ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ at his competitors’ routines. He hates watching before his turn. 

His eyes naturally fall on a seat in the stands. He blinks, rubbing his eyes to check if he was hallucinating. 

Someone sits there. Not a stranger. Not this time. It's you. Your brows furrowed like you were forcing yourself not to enjoy his competitor’s performance. Wearing the same outfit. He huffs a laugh under his breath. What are you doing here?

As the routines passed one by one, he could not take his eyes off you. Even from afar, your eyes glisten so beautifully. The same eyes that once glowed, helping the kids with homework. The same eyes that looked at him across the table after long days and short tempers. His wife. The mother of his children. The version of life he gave up for this one.

Now, he would have to settle for this. Longing stares and a heartbeat he could hear in his ears.

“Next to skate, representing the People's Republic of Korea. Sunghoon Park!”

He steps onto the ice with a big smile on his face. He forces it out, forces himself to act fine when you cheer at the sound of his name. He takes his pose at the center of the ice.

The music begins. His edges wobble, nerves bleeding into the blade. He practiced day and night, no distractions. Not even you. So why… Why was this happening? 

He takes in a deep breath as he prepares himself for the first spin. He’s skating backwards, building up momentum. He pushes off the ice. Toe pick hits.

Sunghoon rose high. He spots himself. One. Two. Three. Almost four– but his shoulders tilt, the axis too loose. The rotation slows. A half-second of weightlessness gives way to gravity, and he’s tumbling onto the ice hard. 

Gasps echo through the arena, and then applause as he brushes himself back up and onto his skates again.

He gets up. He keeps going. Muscle memory takes over. The rest of the routine is clean. Almost perfect, but not enough. 

The first quad... He fucked it up. He bows, head down, as if apologizing for even trying.

And when the score is announced while he's sitting on the sidelines, his body is limp. He barely reacts, face blank with emotion.

He could blame you for it. Pretend you were the reason why his routine didn't score high. But the truth is, he stopped believing in excuses a long time ago.

Years of hating himself led here. All this time, resenting the path he took, only to fuck this one up, too. 

Sunghoon had to laugh. He deserves it. Of course he did. The low score. You leaving him. The heartache. 

Everything he thought he was capable of, everything he pushed aside to have this moment. None of it mattered without you. 

As he rises from his seat on the floor, he searches for you in the endless crowd of faces. The other competitors pass by him with pity; he sees it in everyone’s faces. But they don't matter. 

Because you're gone. Your seat is empty. 

"Kid-" 

He pushes past Coach Jung without looking back. There's nothing left to say.

Sunghoon pulls his skates off skillfully, breaking into a sprint towards the exit. He runs with only socks separating him from the floor. 

Then he sees you, clutching your stomach and moving toward the exit. His breath catches. Somehow, he knows. He's seen it all play out before.

“[Y/N], wait!”

You stop in your tracks, hands trembling. You turn around, and he is already clutching your face, kissing you so deeply. You would have every right to push him away, to call him a creep and spit every insult at him. But you don’t, and he doesn’t understand why.

Instead, you lean into his touch, fingers fisting the thin fabric of his blouse. He’s the first to pull away, forehead resting against yours.

“Why are you here?” he asks. It’s not the only question he has, but it’s the first that comes out. You’re crying now, eyes wide, mouth parted. But why?

“I was just…” You try, but you fail to find the right words. “I just came to support you?”

Sunghoon shakes his head. He doesn't buy it. Not for a second. Your voice faltered. He knew better now not to let things linger.

“You came to tell me something,” he says knowingly, replaying the scene of the past in his head as it happens right in front of him. He smiles sadly, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “What is it?”

You flinch.

“I can’t,” you whisper, the first barrage of tears falling down your face. “It'll ruin you.”

He laughs then. Quiet. Tired. Even in this life, you were so selfless. He doesn’t deserve you. Never did.

“You always say that. Even now.”

He takes your hands into his.

“Are you pregnant?” he asks, taking the words right out of your lips. Your mouth opens in shock.

“How did you-?”

“We'll figure it out,” Sunghoon interrupts softly. He was smiling now. Sunghee was here. She was growing inside you. “Together.”

For a moment, something shifts. You search his face like you’re looking for confirmation. And just like that, you pull away. What? It stings. 

This didn't happen before. Why were you-

“You went back," you say. "Didn’t you?” Your voice sounds foreign now, laced with hurt. It’s his turn to look confused. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, hands reaching for yours again. You avoid them, and he feels a sharp pain in his chest. “What are you talking about?”

“You… You went back in time like I did, right?” Sunghoon’s eyes widened. “That’s how you knew.”

He freezes.

It clicks. Like cold water hitting his skin. He remembers the first time he saw you in this life. How carefully he avoided you. How he left the penguin plushie behind, just like before. How badly you’d looked at him after that. It all makes sense now.

“I didn’t want to avoid you,” he musters. “I had every intention of finding you again. I passed by that damn cafe every day just to see you-”

You shake your head, but he keeps going, vomiting out word after word.

“I even tried to talk to you, but you looked so happy. All I could think about was the last time we spoke. How you said you regretted us. Watching you with Beomgyu, or whatever his name is-"

“Sunghoon-” 

“I was fucking miserable-” His voice cracks.

“Sunghoon-” You’ve never heard him talk this much. Never seen him look so broken.

“And I couldn’t even fight the guy who dragged me into this mess. I was stuck. Thinking about you. About us. About Sunghee. Sungjae. God, I missed you all so fucking much it hurt to breathe—”

“Sunghoon, please—”

“And I should’ve just caught that stupid penguin. I should've just relived our memories together. I should’ve been a better man, a better husband, a better father. But I just keep fucking it up. Every single time, even now-”

“Hoon!” you shout, grabbing his face with your hands. His words die off. He finally breathes. You don’t look angry, not at him at least.

“I know,” you say quietly. “Because I didn’t put my number on the penguin.”

His mouth parts slightly. "Wha-"

"I thought I was the one who messed it all up," you confess. “When you didn’t pick up the plush, I thought it was because of me. Because I tried to change things.” 

You swallow back your tears as he listens to you intently, your hands sliding to his chest.

“I thought you’d be better off without me, too.”

You let out a bitter laugh.

“I tried to fill the space,” you continue. “Tried to pick up things I couldn't before. But all I think about was Sunghee and Sungjae."

Your eyes waver, lips pressed together tightly.

"And you," you breathe out. "I saw you skating, training so hard, and you looked happy. I couldn’t bring myself to take it away from you again.”

You pause, lips trembling.

“So I made a plan. I thought—if I could just get Sunghee back, maybe one day I’d find you again for Sungjae.”

You both let out a shaky laugh.

"So then I went to the bar," you sigh. "I wore that red dress and I just hoped you would find your way to me again-”

“Of course I would,” Sunghoon interrupts, kissing your temple. “I always do.”

“And it worked.” You look at the ground like you're ashamed. “The test was positive. I wasn’t planning on telling you.”

Sunghoon takes your hands, forcing you to look at him. His eyes assure you.

“And then you fell during your routine,” you whisper, a sad laugh slipping out. "I thought… I avoided you all this time for nothing.”

He laughs too. “I wasn’t even going to win anyway.”

Sunghoon pulls you back into a hug, stroking your hair ever-so-softly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For making you ever feel like I regretted choosing you.”

And you didn’t know you needed to hear those exact words until you sob into his chest.

Sunghoon soothes you. He’s had enough crying. All he is now is grateful. The pain, the mourning. It all led him here. 

“This time we’ll do it right,” he assures you. “I love you. I’m not letting you do this alone.”

You pull away from him, eyes wet but smiling.

“I love you too.”

And you tilt your head as he reaches down to kiss you. With your eyes both closed, the world around you spins. Just you and him. In each other’s arms. His lips are soft against yours.

And a voice unfamiliar to both of you echoes in the air.

“I hope you can live a life without regrets.”

Sunghoon’s eyes open groggily, pain shooting through his spine almost immediately. All he sees are sterile hospital walls and Jay and Sunoo’s concerned faces.

They hover over the foot of his bed, their faces a mix of worry and irritation.

He blinks, scanning the room. Wires. A blood pressure cuff. An IV drip. Another bed. Then your eyes flutter open too.

“You know, with how the divorce is going, we thought you two crashed into each other on purpose,” Sunoo chirps, unempathetic to the dazed state of his friends. Jay smacks him on the shoulder.

“You’re lucky I managed to get you both a private room,” Jay mutters. “The nurses kept whispering about you two in the ICU.”

Sunghoon turns his head slowly, wincing. You’re awake now, alert, your expression matching his. His chest tightens. And almost in a panicked daze, his head snaps back to his friends.

“Sunghee and Sungjae–” he strains out, pain shooting through his lungs. “Where are they?”

Jay furrows his brows.

“They weren’t in the car with [Y/N], if that’s what you’re worried about,” he starts. “They’re looking for a vending machine with Heeseung and Jungwon-”

You both let out a shaky breath. For a second, relief replaces pain. Your eyes meet his for just a second before the door bursts open.

“Mom! Dad!” Sunghee's voice cries out. She’s running towards you two now, but Heeseung stops them.

“Whoa there, princess. They’re fragile.”

Her eyes are red, as if she had just finished crying. Sungjae's behind Heeseung, tugging at his jacket, worry etched across his little face.

“You didn’t do it on purpose, did you?” Sunghee blurts in your direction. Sunghoon has to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh. “They don’t have it on camera, but they said your car hit Daddy’s!”

He feels something warm bloom in his chest. It’s been a while since Sunghee sounded so protective of him.

You shake your head frantically. “No, darling. My brakes stopped working! I could never hurt your dad. He and I love each other very much-”

You stop yourself, but it's too late—cheeks already warming at the shifting gazes of the four grown men in the room. Jungwon fakes a cough.

“Love? As in, present tense?” he teases.

Sunghoon has the biggest grin on his face, and Sunoo scoffs as his eyes pivot between the two of you.

“Did you both hit your head in the accident?”

Heeseung clears his throat. “So, why don’t we take the kiddos to dinner, hm? Looks like Mom and Dad have some catching up to do.”

Sungjae nods excitedly. “Please! They're so icky.”

The adults usher the kids out, and Jay gives one last wink to the two of you before the doors close. The room falls quiet except for the not-so-steady beeping of the monitors. Sunghoon is the first to speak.

“So... when do you want me to pick up the papers again?” 

You laugh softly. 

“Oh! I guess if you want to go through with it…”

“No!” Sunghoon shouts, eyes huge. 'He’s so cute when he doesn’t mean to be,' you think to yourself.

You tilt your head, smiling. “Then don’t even think about getting them.” 

Your bed is near enough for you to inch your hand towards his forearm. Your touch is featherlight against his skin. It takes all of his strength to intertwine your fingers with his.

“So what does this mean for us?” you say through bated breath. He ponders for a second.

“It means… maybe I can build you an art studio in our garage?” he says cautiously. “And maybe I quit my job? Become a figure skating coach? How does that sound?” 

You let out a stronger laugh this time, one that aches in your ribs but still feels good. And in this version of you, older and wiser. He still thinks you’re so beautiful.

“I don’t resent you,” he whispers. And your heart skips a beat, in a way that it hadn’t in a long time. You smile at him. And finally, you find the courage to say it in this life too.

“I love you.”

He brings your fingers to his lips and plants gentle kisses on your knuckles.

In every lifetime, Sunghoon knows. He could be standing on the Olympic stage, the roar of thousands echoing in his ears. He could have everything he ever thought he wanted. But none of it would matter. Not if you weren’t there.

“I love you too," he replies, quietly.

And in every lifetime, he will always find his way back to you. And he will choose you. Over and over again.

epilogue.

Sungjae is on the garage floor, legs crisscrossed as he watches something on his iPad. Sunghoon is installing shelves for your future artist corner while Sungjae's video is strangely on mute.

“What you watching, son?” he asks, trying to distract himself from the tight pull in his lower back.

Sungjae doesn’t look up. “Your skating videos.”

Sunghoon nearly drops the shelf on his eye. “W-what?”

Sungjae shrugs. 

“Looks interesting,” he mutters. “Wish I could fly like that.”

Sunghoon sets the shelf down carefully, then crosses the room to crouch beside Sungjaee. On the screen, a much younger version of himself soars across the ice. He remembers that routine. His first national win.

“Didn't think you'd be into it,” he ruffles his son’s hair.

Sungjae shrugs again, but pink tinges his cheeks.

“You never asked.”

The words hit him. He never really did. Not even with Sunghee.

“Do you want to try?” Sunghoon asks slowly. “Figure skating?”

Sungjae finally looks up, eyes wide. “Can I?”

Sunghoon feels tears well up in his eyes, and he coughs them away. What was up with him and crying these days?

“Of course, son,” he says, pulling him into a gentle side hug. “You'll be my first student.”

fin. 

thirteen years ago.

Sunghoon took a deep breath as the chill air of the rink, even from where he sat in the locker room, sent shivers down his spine. His thin black blouse with rhinestoned sleeves did nothing to shield him from the cold. 

He should have been used to it by now. But today would be the most important skate of his life. 

The World Championships. The event that would decide his place at the next Olympics. 

Just a few years ago, he had missed out on competing completely due to a knee injury. Sunghoon was determined this time to make his dreams come true. His seniors always said that Olympic ice felt different, more real. This would be it. His last chance before the younger, more talented skaters took his spot later down the line.

He was picking at his nails with his teeth, a habit he so desperately needed to let go of. Even with ten competitors ahead of him, Sunghoon was already on edge. You, his good luck charm, had not arrived yet. It wasn't typical of you. In your three years of dating, you never missed the opening skate of any competition he'd been in. 

It’s where you first met. You had been in the stands, taping your phone number onto a penguin plushie he’d caught after his award-winning skate. Since then, it's been tradition for you to sit in the same exact seat during local competitions.

His left leg bounced impatiently as he sat on the locker room bench. Sunghoon has sent about 16 texts to your phone already. He shook his head, unlocking his phone for the umpteenth time. Crickets. His phone screen photo of you blowing a kiss into the camera was taunting him now.

Where the hell were you?

Coach Jung patted him on the shoulder. “Don’t think too much. You're gonna psych yourself out.”

“I'm not nervous,” Sunghoon replied, unconvincingly. “It's just cold.”

Coach Jung rolled his eyes.

“You're not new to this, kid,” he doubted the young man. “You're gonna do great out there. This is what you've been dreaming of. Just don't mess it up.”

Sunghoon didn't know if that was meant to be motivating or not, but when Coach Jung left, he felt a pit in his stomach start to form. It's been years in the making. Blood, sweat, and tears were poured into this. The time he could've spent going on longer dates with you all went to extra hours practicing quads in the rink. He couldn't let his sacrifices go to waste. It would be a disservice to both of you.

He put his hands to his face and repeated a mantra of self-affirmations.

‘You got this, you got this, you-’’

“Hoon?” He heard your sweet voice call out. Your head poked through the locker room door before entering cautiously. Audience members weren’t typically allowed in here, but you always managed to sneak your way in.

He dropped his hands immediately, a wave of relief washing over him.

“There you are,” Sunghoon whispered to himself, rushing to you as fast as he could with skates on the carpet. You let out a small sound as he picked you up by the waist, spinning you around like a princess.

“Where have you been?” Sunghoon sighed happily, setting you down with a kiss to your temple. “I was blowing up your phone! I thought you died.”

You smiled, but he noticed how tight it looked. The light didn't quite reach your eyes, and your lips twitched as if it was almost painful to maintain. He brushed a stray hair away from your face, tucking it behind your ear.

“Everything okay?”

You nodded, resting your hand on his as his thumb drew small circles on your cheek.

“I…” you trailed off. You were looking at the ground, at the ceiling, and even at the trash cans. Anywhere but him. “I want to talk to you about something.”

He raised a brow. Your fingers were quivering, and he noticed redness in the whites of your eyes. Were you crying?

“Of course, baby. You can tell me anything.” 

Sunghoon is worried now as he took both of your hands into his. He felt how cold they were, even more so than his.

“Can the remaining five acts please be on stand-by?” the overhead speaker blared into the locker room. That was him. He was one of the last five. 

He pursed his lips as he looked towards the door and back at you. Your mouth opened, just as flustered by the announcement.

“Let's wait,” you said in a rush, noticing the sweatiness of his palms. “It can wait.”

Sunghoon shook his head. Your voice faltered. He knew better now not to let these things linger.

“No, [Y/N]. Tell me what's wrong.” He stood his ground. Your eyes were watering, his gaze unmoving from yours. As you spoke, it was like the world around him went still. His chest felt heavy, throat so constricted he thought he would choke.

“I'm pregnant.”

No, he thought. It can’t be.

“H-how? We never– That’s impossible– We always use-”

His voice trailed off, afraid that if he said anything out loud, it would become more real. You pursed your lips, biting your top lip so hard that it drew blood. 

“Don’t you remember?”

two months ago.

You were laughing, he was laughing. You both looked insane, obnoxiously cackling at nothing, in the dimly lit streets that led to his apartment. You were drinking with the guys at a new bar, underestimating the power of tequila compared to the usual shots of soju.

Sunghoon's arm was wrapped around your waist, putting his weight on you to prevent himself from faceplanting on the ground. He had lost too many hands in poker with Jay and Jake, and instead of betting money, he took an extra four shots as punishment. It was a big mistake.

“They got lucky,” he blabbered, “If we played Go Fish, I would have wiped the floor with them.”

He was hiccuping, and that sent you into a further spiral of giggles. Sunghoon was always so darn cute when drunk, so different from his icy exterior. His cheeks were tinged with red, and his pupils dilated. You weren't doing all that well either, with your body so warm from the alcohol that you had shed your jacket on the ground just a few minutes earlier. Where that jacket was now is lost on you.

“Hoon!” you exclaimed, pointing at his apartment gate. “We did it!”

Sunghoon stumbled to get his keys from his pocket. Opening the gate and then going up the steps felt like an hour-long operation with how you two struggled. When he slid down the wall by the entrance of his apartment, you collapsed with him. 

The two of you, by his coat rank, staring into each other with heavy-lidded gazes and too far gone to even turn the lights on. By then, your movements were already out of your control. 

You traced the moles on his face like divine art, cradling his jaw with such care. Even in the drunkest of states, he looked so heavenly. He was so pretty in the moonlight. 

You pressed your lips against his, slowly at first, tugging at the rolled-up sleeves of his button-up shirt. Sunghoon made a noise of shock before deepening the kiss, hands roaming everywhere until they met your waist. His lips were so plush against yours, hungry to taste every inch of you. Your tongues danced with an urgency you've never felt before. Nipping at your bottom lip, he coaxed small sounds out of you. 

Sunghoon lifted you, firm hands on your bum to sit you atop him. 

He broke the kiss to bury himself in the junction between your neck and shoulder. Sunghoon's lips found your pulse point, suctioning around it like he was drawing your heartbeat out of your body. You gripped his soft hair and tilted your head back to give him better access. He lapped at your neck, your collar bone, anywhere his tongue could access. He was addicted to the taste of your skin, to the taste of you. You always smelled so good, had him so riled up even in the most unassuming of moments. He remembered how you looked in the bar with this sparkly red dress. Remembered how it rode up every time you sat down next to him. Fuck. 

You felt him then. The tent of his pants and the friction of his hips as they hopelessly jut up to meet yours.

You whined at the contact. He was palming your ass now with both hands, massaging as he moved you up and down on the tightness of his jeans.

“Hoon,” you gasp. “Not here-”

He lifted his head to look at you, eyes so dark and full of lust. He wasn’t having it; you could see it in his face. His deliciously tense jawline. The bead of sweat running down his temple. You felt yourself clench around nothing just at the sight. How could a man be so gorgeous?

“Can't wait,” he hummed. “Need you now.”

He pushed your dress up your body, the material bunched at your waist.

You purse your lips in anticipation. He’s rock hard by now, and you can’t help but take it as an invitation to feel him. Your hands find his bulge, ghosting over his form. It jumped in response when you finally took hold, squeezing cautiously. Your cheeks warmed at the sight of the front of his jeans already damp with your fluids. Sunghoon enjoyed the view just as much as you did, his head tilted back to relish in your ministrations. He couldn’t hold back any longer.

Sunghoon’s hand, large and veiny, moved your panties to the side impatiently. 

"Hoon-" you gasped at the skin-to-skin contact.

His fingers traced the slit of your folds up and down, covering his digits with your slick. You found his swollen lips again to suppress your whimpers, saliva running down your joined mouths as you unzipped his painful-looking jeans. He was already prepping you for him, index finger cautiously pushing its way inside your plush walls. He groaned at the feeling of your fluttering warmth. Already, you were sucking him in.

“Always so fucking wet,” he muttered on your lips. You couldn’t help but grind down on him, a roundabout way of telling him to apply more pressure. To go harder. Rougher. To ruin you. He chuckled at your frustration. Needed to see more of it, more of you begging.

Sunghoon tested the waters and pushed in a second. Your moans were drowned out again by his merciless mouth. Tongues shoved so far down each other's throats, you swore you could feel him at the back of your neck.

He was fucking you onto his hand now, his palm making contact with your clit after every thrust. His forearm was tense, pace so relentless. Animalistic. You were practically bouncing on him, hands digging into his shoulder blades to chase your release. He loved the sight, wanting to hear you come undone just from his measly fingers in your dripping pussy.

“So desperate,” he hummed into your mouth. “Who's making you like this?”

Sunghoon was never this mouthy during sex, usually because he didn’t want the apartment next door to hear through the thin walls. But he had let go of all his inhibitions, the tequila still sitting fresh in his stomach.

“You, Hoon,” you cried out, legs shaking from the harsh pace of his fingers and your incessant grinding. “Please-”

You didn't know exactly what you were begging for, but you knew he could give it to you. Knew he was the only one who could. Your mind was filled with Sunghoon and Sunghoon only. The effects of the alcohol had made you a bumbling mess, pleading and begging for more. Your back arches to meet his fingers better, but it wasn’t not enough.

He added a third to relieve you, watching as your mouth opened into a silent scream.

“Hoon– Need it– Please– I need–”

You couldn't find the right words, couldn’t even keep yourself upright without his support. Sunghoon’s hands roamed up your body as one made its way to the back of your neck. With his thumb, he pressed down gently on the pulse point he was nipping at just earlier. His eyes were heavy on you, watching you so intently. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, as your airways slowly constricted, as his thumb pushed against you. God, you loved the feeling.

“Enjoying yourself, baby?” 

Lightheaded, you were practically gripping his bulge at this point. The sounds between your legs were borderline pornographic, his fingers drawing out every wet squelch as they sank and twisted in and out of you. You felt so full of him, three fingers so deep inside you. But you could take more; you wanted to take more.

“Speak up,” he drawled, his voice slurring from the tequila. “Tell me what you want, or I'll stop.”

You sobbed, clawing at his clothed chest as he let go of your neck to let you talk. You gasped for air as you let yourself fall onto him.

“Need you inside me,” you cried as he pistoned his fingers into you harder. You wished he could just rip your underwear so you could feel his rough palm grind onto your bare clit. “Please, please, pl-”

"I am inside you," he teased. And all you could do was wail, shaking your head out of distress.

"Hoon-"

Your movements were forced to stop as Sunghoon's free hand gripped your thigh. His fingers were curved into you, stroking that spongy spot that he always managed to find. He massaged your G-spot at a steady pace, anticipating your climax. You wanted to move, but he held you down roughly. Your eyes were forced to look into his, and you felt the floodgates of your release start to open. 

“No-,” you whined. 

You were close, so close. But your mind was made up. Well, at least what was left of it.

“Wanna cum with you. Can I, Hoonie? Please?” you beg.

“Fuck-”

His grip on you loosened. His hand slowly left your tight folds, and he admired the slick that coated his long fingers. He brought them to your mouth, motioning you to taste the juices he coaxed out of you. With your doe eyes looking straight at him, you swallowed around him. Tongue flattened and bringing him in deeper.

His other hand reached into the back of his pocket, fiddling around to find his emergency condom. The one that became a necessity to bring around you. 

Sunghoon's mind was all over the place. Your tongue lapped at his fingers, sucking them so harshly. He'd have given anything right now to see your lips wrapped around his cock instead.

He'd almost grabbed the condom until you pulled his boxers down. Your mouth released his fingers with a small ‘pop’ as his painfully hard member slapped his stomach. You positioned yourself closer, adjusting so that his thickness slid against your soiled, clothed pussy. You cursed your stupid underwear for getting in the way again.

“B-baby-” Sunghoon stuttered out as you moved your panties to the side once more, his raw cock lined up to your aching hole. “Just give me a second-”

His hand tried to reach for his wallet again, but you interlocked them with yours instead. You shook your head, grinding against him cautiously. You don't know what's gotten into you. It's like the tequila was letting you act out your deepest, darkest dreams — ones of him fucking his cum so deeply into you that you were dripping wet with his fluids.

“Please?” you asked hopelessly. Your breath hitched. His cock met your clit, his precum spread all over your folds. Fuck it. You were too far gone. “I-I wanna feel you.”

Sunghoon would like to think he had self-control. Would like to believe that he was calmer than most. But the way your pleading eyes looked at him, and how your legs trembled in excitement. His intoxicated brain couldn't tell right from wrong. He wanted to give you everything you asked for. 

“Fuck, are you sure?” he groaned as you aligned his cock to your entrance, pushing down slightly to envelop his tip. He lets out a hiss, teeth gritting from the feeling. You were so tight, so fucking perfect for him.

“Mhm,” you mustered, wrapping your arms around his neck as his large hands met your ass again. “It's okay…”

You were sinking onto him now, his head buried into your neck from the sensation. You two had never done it without a condom before, always so careful. But he wondered, as his large cock was slowly sucked into your soaked pussy, why he'd never fucked you raw before. Sunghoon swore under his breath as he felt you clench around him. Fucking you with a condom was ruined for him forever. He could never put one on again. 

“Fuck, baby,” he willed himself not to move too fast. The stinging stretch of him had you withering above him, but you didn’t care. Not one bit. You clutched his hair as you impaled yourself on him, so lost in the feeling of him penetrating you so slowly. 

He was fully sheathed inside you now. Sunghoon needed a second to recuperate, but you were making it so difficult for him.

"Fuck-" he inhaled sharply as you grinded down on his pulsating cock. You were so impatient, already so worked up from his fingers.  

You were suctioning him, trapping him in your walls like you would never let him go. His grip on your hips tightened as he growled into your collarbone.

“Baby,” he said sternly this time, finding some semblance of sanity. “Don't.”

You whined, your hips stuttering through his tight grip on your ass cheeks. You wanted him to plow into you like you were his personal toy. Was there anything wrong with that?

“Why?” you drawled out, desperate for movement, for anything. Your eyes met his, and even through your drunken haze, you understood. He was close, already so on edge from feeling your raw pussy. And that made you want him even more.

You swore your hips moved on their own. You lifted yourself, shallowly thrusting yourself against him as he tried to hinder your attempts.

“N-no,” he grunted. “Too soon-”

You giggled as his hands were on your back now. Despite your protests, he did not stop you in any meaningful way. 

His grip on your ass was replaced with him pulling the straps down of your dress and bra to free your bouncing tits. He cupped them as you raised yourself higher, until just the very tip of him was left inside you. You took a deep breath, pushing yourself down on him without assistance. You moaned, feeling his heaviness in your lower stomach.

“Fuck-” he cried through clenched teeth. Sunghoon’s head was against the wall now, hands massaging your breasts so eagerly. 

He tugged at your nipples, pinching them between his index finger and thumb. Such a sight for sore eyes, seeing him so fucked out underneath you as you bounced on his cock. You wished you could engrave this in your memory. His parted lips and glistening forehead. 

You grinded your hips so helplessly against him, hands on his knees as you squeezed him through every downward thrust. 

“Baby, s-slow down.”

You're determined now, even as you start to feel that fluttering ache in your core. You wanted to do good for him, wanted to make him lose control like you would whenever he had you pinned to the bed and crying.

“Hoon, speak up,” you teased, mimicking his earlier words. “Tell me what you want or I-”

You couldn't finish your sentence as his hand meets the back of your neck, crashing his lips onto yours. His hands traveled down to your thighs, squeezing them roughly.

He thrusted up into you harshly, his grip on you guiding his movements. His pace was even more merciless than yours, not giving you time to catch your breath as you felt your inner walls contract around him. 

No! 

He needed to cum first. It was always you who came undone before him. You just needed to hold out, just for a few more seconds-

And in perfect timing, he found it. That part of you that had you practically screaming into his mouth. He smirked against your lips and hoisted you closer, fucking up into you as his fingers pressed firmly into the flesh of your thighs. Your insides churned with a tingling feeling, like something needed to be released. You pulled yourself away from his lips.

"No… Hoon-"

"Take it," he grunted. "You want it, right?”

You cried as his thrusts grazed your G-spot over and over again, his tip kissing your cervix at the right angles. 

“So fucking take it."

Your eyes roll back, the sensation was stronger and stronger until-

"Oh my god-"

Your climax hit you like a ton of bricks, crashing down on you so unexpectedly that your walls wanted to hold his raw length in place. Sunghoon continued his thrusts, not caring for the tears that threatened to spill from your eyes. You had your fun. Now, let him have his. 

His hands spread your ass cheeks apart, guiding you down onto his painfully hard cock with fervor. Sunghoon felt his high inching closer as he pumped in and out of your wetness, ignoring your cries of overstimulation.

“So fucking tight,” he groaned into your neck. He's there. He felt it. You braced yourself for his sweet release. 

“Need to pull out...”

Your eyebrows furrowed, expression laced in devastation. As if on instinct, you clenched around him. You wanted it. Whatever ‘it’ was. 

“In me,” you babbled through strained moans. “Please, Hoonie?”

He grit his teeth. That damn pet name. You were evil, so fucking evil. With your pretty tits and batting eyelashes. Who was he to deny you? His thrusts were erratic, admiring as your breasts bounced to the rhythm of his thrusts. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fu-”

His hips stuttered up into you. White, hot spurts met your cervix as you reached another orgasm from the sheer feeling of his release, mouth wide open. Your hips gyrated against his, easing both of you through your releases. His head rolled back, jaw clenched, and eyes wired shut as he felt you milk his cock of everything he was worth. 

You watched as a white ring formed around his cock was buried deep in you, still a little hard. You rested your body against his. Your eyelids were heavy, so content and warm in ways that only Sunghoon could bring out in you. 

“I love you,” he sighed into your hair, his own lethargy getting the best of him. “So fucking much.”

“I love you too.”

And as ridiculous as it sounds, the two of you slept in that position for hours. Two bodies connected at the entrance way of Sunghoon's studio apartment. When the sun came up and you realized what was done in your drunken states, you two panicked for the wrong reason. Did the neighbors hear? What happened to your jacket? Were you gonna get a UTI?

Sunghoon's cheeks reddened from the memory. It had to have been that night.

“A-are you sure?” he stuttered. 

You nodded solemnly. You knew it wouldn't be good news for him. It wasn't for you either. 

You were almost done with university. It’s supposed to be the year you figured out what you wanted out of a career. So when your first wave of morning sickness hit you just a week earlier, you knew every plan that you had would be forever ripped from your fingers. 

To travel the world. To start new hobbies. It would all have to wait. This would be your life now.

When you told your mother, tears streamed down her face. She called you everything underneath the sun. But she knew what it was like to carry a life unexpectedly, so she hugged you through it. Your dad’s reaction was worse. He hadn’t spoken to you yet.

“Two months along,” you whispered. Though he could never regret that night, he realized now how stupid it must have been to ignore the alarm bells in his head. He knew better. You knew better. Why the fuck did it end up like this? 

“So…” He gulped. He didn’t know what to say. “What now?”

“I…” you started. Heaving a deep breath, you felt him tense up. 

“I want to keep the baby,” you swallowed. Sunghoon’s mouth was parted, and his eyes were blank of emotion. 

It made you anxious, his lack of response. 

When he didn't reply, you started again. “What should we-”

“Sunghoon Park. Sunghoon Park. Please be on stand-by,” the overhead speaker rang out. He didn't mean to, but like muscle memory, his hand let go of yours. Guilt crashed over him, and he couldn't bring himself to look into your wavering eyes as he walked past you. 

The competition. This was his last chance. Coach Jung's voice resounded in his head. Don't mess it up.

“Hoon-” 

Your voice fell on deaf ears. His hands covered his face again, trying to refocus. He couldn't throw this away. Years. It took him years to get to this point. He couldn't. He had to skate. 

Tears spilled over as you watched his back retreat away from you. You should have waited to tell him, but he had asked. He said he wanted to know. 

Your back slumped against the wall of lockers, clutching your stomach as you cried. You couldn't bring yourself to go to the stands and watch him perform.

You knew it was dumb. You weren’t ready, not even close. But still… You wanted to try.

But him. Sunghoon.

You leaned your head back against the cold wall, breath faltering through your tears. What did you even expect? That he'd be happy? Excited?

You let out a shaky laugh.

Of course not. It's not like you were either.

You stood up, dusting yourself off.

You'd figure out a way to do this, you convinced yourself. If it meant that you were by yourself, that was fine. He didn't have to be there. He had big dreams, ones that predated you. You understood, even though it hurt. 

“Next to skate, representing the People's Republic of Korea. Sunghoon Park!” 

The cheers that ensued soon after made your chest constrict just a little more. You just couldn’t bear to watch him skate now. It was all too much.

You trudged towards the ice rink's exit, arms crossed around you like you were holding yourself. You were proud of him, so proud. He worked so tirelessly for an opportunity like this. Missed sleep and took a gap year from college to pursue this. He wanted it so bad, and though it was heartbreaking to watch him walk away, you knew why. You could talk later, you convinced yourself.

But the thoughts still echoed in your head.

A professional figure skater couldn’t be a father—not now, not at his age. You knew that. God, you hated that you knew it so well. His life wasn’t what most people imagined. There was no glamor in it. 

It was practices at the crack of dawn in freezing rinks and endless flights to cities he barely saw beyond hotel rooms. He could only fund basic living expenses with what little he earned from winning. He had a part-time job working the graveyard shift at a convenience store to even afford competition fees and dates with you. 

He gave everything for this dream—his body, his sanity, his youth. 

But he tried. In everything he did, he tried. That was the worst part.

Because even with all that trying, you still knew. That there would be no space in his life for the tiny heartbeat inside you.

You knew he'd have to quit. There was no way around it. Raising a child takes too much time away from the rink. 

If he stayed, if he chose to be in this child's life, he'd have to give it all up.And it would be because of you. 

But this was your life too. Your body. Your future. And no matter how tightly you clung to the image of him at your side, holding your hand in the delivery room, learning how to hold a newborn with trembling fingers—you had to be honest with yourself.

You wanted this baby. Even if it meant letting him go, even if that meant standing alone with a life you never planned for, you’d do it.

Because you knew that if it ever came down to choosing between his dream and you, it would always be-

“[Y/N], wait!”

You stopped in your tracks, stunned to hear his voice so close. Like he was here and not on the ice. You didn’t even notice that music stopped permeating the walls of the rink, that the announcer had moved on to the next contestant. He was running to you, socks thumping on the ground like he had taken his skates off only a moment before. 

No. It couldn't be. 

He reached you, his arms wrapped around you from behind. You heard his shaky breath against the back of your head. His thumb rubbed your forearms, planting a small kiss on your hair.

“We'll figure it out,” Sunghoon blurted out when he felt like the silence between you two was suffocating. “Together.”

You turned around to face him, panicked.

“Sunghoon, no,” you tried to push him away, but he pulled you in closer. “You need to go-”

“No.”

You looked at him, pain etched in every part of his beautiful face.

“But that's your future,” you cried out, mustering everything in yourself to not melt in his embrace. He was making a mistake. He'd hate you for the rest of your life if he-

“No,” he said again, much clearer. More determined. “It’s you.”

His hand drifted to your stomach, and he smiled this time as he looked into your teary eyes.

“You're my future.”

You shook your head incessantly. “Hoon, you're not thinking straight. I should've waited to tell you. You're not in your right mind. You need to go back and-”

He silenced you with his lips, so soft—like it might break you if he were any less gentle. You fell into his touch, unknowingly pulling him closer. He kissed you again and again, hands holding yours until your tremors faded with his touch.

“I love you,” he would say between each peck. “I'm not letting you do this alone.”

And you smiled, a real, genuine smile.

“I love you too.”

You moved in with him in that tiny studio apartment, shortly after, sharing a bed that barely even fit his tall frame. The cradle he built took up the majority of the living area.

But it was nice, waking up with him every day. He talked in his sleep, would whisper your name in that sweet voice of his so lovingly. Some days, Sunghoon wouldn't let you lift a finger, would insist that you needed as much rest as possible before your due date. You had to convince him that your job as a receptionist was certainly not so physically taxing that he had to follow you to it every day.

You also got married. It was simple. Just Sunghoon and you in a courthouse with Jake and Jay, trying not to stifle their laughter as witnesses to your marriage ceremony. You wore the white dress your mother wore, and Sunghoon wore his best suit, tie tied by you.

“Say cheese!” Jake chimed as you two posed with your signed certificate. The two of them cooed at your growing belly.

You were showing now, a small bump that Sunghoon admired each time he saw you do your online classes on the kitchen counter. He never got around to buying a desk, even though he was also back in school full-time. 

He had that dreaded conversation with Coach Jung beneath the dim lights of an empty rink. Sunghoon told him quietly, almost like an apology, that he’d be hanging up his skates until further notice. He wanted to be there for you at every step of the pregnancy. If he was going to stick beside you, he was going to do it right.

Coach didn’t yell. He didn’t need to. The disappointment on his face said everything. 

And so Sunghoon hadn’t touched the ice since.

He couldn’t bear to set foot in that rink anymore. Not when he knew he’d only be watching from the stands.

Not when the sound of blades carving through the ice was coming from someone else’s skates.

Not when he used to relish in the cold air passing through his body. Now, the only wind on his face came from passing cars as he biked to his second job.

He picked up a shift at a nearby restaurant. Just as a server. The kind of job that reminded him how painfully ordinary he was without his skates. Sometimes, when no one’s looking, he’ll shift his weight just right and practice his landings in the break room, arms out, knees bent. 

Other times, he scrolls through YouTube during his graveyard shift at the convenience store, searching up his own name with trembling fingers, watching old performances through a phone screen. Reading comments. Trying to remember what it felt like to matter to people he never met. 

You noticed, probably more than you let on. You just tried not to pry. He would get distant when you mentioned it, like that part of himself needed to be tucked away and out of his sight. You knew he was afraid, terrified to look back and see everything he gave up. 

But when Sunghee was born, it was like his world started to make sense again. He held her like she was made of glass. Sobbed so loudly the first time he saw her, you thought he was in pain. 

But no, he was just overwhelmed. Taken by the way her tiny hand curled around his finger, how her cries quieted the moment he held her close.

He’d protect her, he swore to himself. That this—her—wrapped up in the pink hospital blanket, was his life now.

And maybe, for a moment, he believed that was enough.

But the thoughts never stopped. His eyes would flicker toward the old duffel bag in the closet, where his skates were still packed away. He gave that up. For you. For her. And he’d never say he regretted it. But you knew.

You understood what he was grieving. Because you grieved too.

That girl who used to dream of making art, she felt like a ghost now. Someone you used to know.

Your passions, the things that once lit a fire in you, now sat gathering dust. All shelved quietly the moment your body became a home for Sunghee.

And your parents. You were still trying to reassemble the broken pieces of your relationship with them. Your mother tried to be there for you in her own way, but her disappointment was loud in the quietest moments between you two. And your father… well, he still hadn’t really looked you in the eye since the day you told him. 

And though she was born healthy, Sunghee came into the world screaming. She was a loud baby, inconsolable most nights, and the exhaustion had tested Sunghoon and you.

You took turns because you had to. He’d rock her until sunrise, then stumble to his classes. He started falling asleep during his breaks at work, cheek pressed against cold metal tables.

He didn’t care much for his own health, but the bags beneath your eyes pained him. Your face, once bright and curious, had dimmed under all the sleepless nights and rising costs of diapers. You were both burnt out.

He dropped Sunghee off with his parents for one night and dragged you out to see your friends. It was Jake's going-away dinner.

“It’s so hard to meet nowadays,” you sighed. “Feels like I’ve been nursing a migraine for the past three months.”

Jake laughed.

“Sad I won’t get to see her grow up,” he said as he poured himself a beer. “Make sure to bring her to Australia one day. She deserves to see her coolest uncle play football.”

Niki rolled his eyes.

“No one’s paying for that long-ass flight to see you benchwarm,” Niki mumbled, chewing on some chips. “Have her come see me dance instead. At least I’ll be in the center.”

Jake smacks his friend on the back of the head.

“No need for any of that,” Jay chimed in. “She won’t have time for either of you. Papa bear here probably already has her future all mapped out. Skates on before she can walk.”

An awkward silence filled the room. The joke was lighthearted, but it landed too close to a wound no one had dared to touch in the past year. Sunghoon gave a quiet laugh, a hollow one without warmth. He brought the bottle to his lips and didn’t look at anyone when he spoke.

“Yeah... she’ll be a star.”

He eyed the ceiling, pondering what she would look like. Maybe just like him. Graceful. Passionate. “Olympic-worthy. Could probably win gold if we find the right coach early enough.”

You pursed your lips and stared at the condensation running down your glass. 

Sunoo cleared his throat, noticing the tense atmosphere. He raised his glass with forced enthusiasm. “To our beautiful Sunghee,” he cheered. “And to Jake’s success!”

Sunghoon smiled, but not really. He was happy for his friend, sure. But behind his facade, envy sat heavy on his tongue.

‘This night could have been for you. They could have been congratulating you. And you gave it all up. Now look at you. You’re a nobody.’

You couldn’t help but watch him throughout the night as he grew quieter, his sips of beer more like chugs now. You rubbed circles on his back like you always did when he got like this, hoping to bring him back into the conversation. But his eyes stayed glued to the back corner of the bar.

As you patted him, he pulled your wrist away. Not harshly. Not angrily. Just a simple tug. He set your hand back on your lap, his gaze straight ahead and away from you.

“I’m okay,” he assured you, but you didn’t believe him. Not then. 

Not ever, really.

Though time passed, life never got easier. The weight of responsibility pressed harder on your shoulders with each passing year. And while you both smiled through milestones and made do with the small hiccups in your relationship, you were content with this life. Doing laundry on lazy Sundays, Sunghoon singing nursery rhymes to Sunghee before school.

But after the birth of your second child, Sungjae, it had all started to rot.

Sunghoon’s longing for his old life never faded. It stewed in him, creeping into his thoughts at his corporate job after finishing university, haunting him on bus rides home. 

The bills piled higher. Your patience wore thinner. Conversations turned into quiet disagreements and tired sighs. You no longer fought. You didn’t even have the energy for that. Just two ghosts of your former selves moving through the same rooms, sleeping in the same bed, wondering what could’ve been. 

thirteen years later. the present.

Sunghoon adjusts his tie, furrowing his brows as he sees how crooked it is from the reflection of the mirror. He gives up halfway through. Fuck it, it would be a no-tie kind of day. He exits the bedroom, his footsteps making loud echoes on the way down the spiral staircase and towards the all-marble kitchen. He inhales slowly as he smells the fragrance of smoked spices dancing around his nostrils. It was enough to make his mouth water.

“What's cooking, good-looking?” he says, entering the kitchen with a wide grin on his face.

“Ew,” a voice rang out, soft and disgruntled. Sunghoon turns the corner and almost laughs at the sight.

“Shut up,” Sunoo scoffs, clad in an apron and silk pajamas. “Don’t say corny shit like that in my house until you get your act together.”

Sunghoon takes a seat on the barstool of the kitchen counter. He watches Sunoo maneuver the wide expanse of the kitchen like an expert.

“I'm a dad,” Sunghoon sighs out. “That’s kind of our thing.”

“Yeah, one going through a divorce,” Sunoo snaps back, monitoring his frittata closely on the stove.

Sunghoon's shoulders slump. Of course, the only friend willing to let him stay for an indefinite amount of time was the one most critical of his life choices. Sunoo insisted, in fact. Said his place was “feeling empty” anyway.

“So,” Sunoo coughs, acknowledging he might have taken it too far with his earlier comment. “Any word from her about the court date yet?”

Sunghoon shrugs, eyes on his watch as it nears 8:30 a.m. He'd have to leave soon to get to work. His boring, dull job as a fiscal manager at blah blah blah corporation. Even he barely knows what he does for a living.

“Can I borrow your car?” Sunghoon asks, ignoring his friend's question. He doesn't like to talk about it. Doesn't want to speak anything into existence, even if it was already happening. 

You asked for it two weeks ago. A divorce.

He's been living with (mooching off of) Sunoo since.

“Which one? The Bugatti or the Ferrari?”

Sunghoon gives Sunoo a side-eye, and the younger fails to stifle a laugh. He never wastes a second to flex on his friend, the only one out of their friend group who worked at a 9-5 job in total and absolute misery.

Heeseung's a streamer, Jay took over as CEO of his father's company, Jake was still playing football in Australia, Jungwon started his own Taekwondo studio, and Niki was traveling the world as a choreographer. And of course, Sunoo wound up in a big old mansion with his modeling career.

Sunghoon thought he'd end up like them. He got the right experience after university to find a stable job that didn't involve slaving away at customer service gigs like he did before.

He thought he'd move up higher in his company by now. Have a team to call his own, like Jungwon had, or make “small, high-impact decisions” like Jay claims he does. But none of that ever came. His heart was never in it.

Sunghoon sighs. 

“Whatever gets me from Point A to Point B,” he mutters. Sunoo cuts a piece of frittata from the skillet and plates it. He slides it over to his older friend and tosses a key from his pocket.

“Take the Kia Soul.”

Sunghoon groans. “You're fucking with me.”

“Mr. Park,” his coworker chirps into his ear. “I was wondering how your KPIs were this week…”

Sunghoon lets him drone on as he types on his computer. No private office, just a cubicle by the elevators. He hates how people tend to gravitate towards him for small talk. He's not very good at it. Never has been. It was a common joke within his family that he skated more than he spoke growing up. 

You dragged him out of his shell when you met, cracked him open with your bright-eyed gazes and addictive laughter. He’d planned to keep his head down when he was younger. No distractions and no detours. Just figure skating.

But how could he not fall in love with you?

He shakes his head, trying to push the thoughts aside before it settles in too deeply. He reminisces too much.

It’s like the past is all his mind drifts off to these days.

He leaves work on time. Gets stuck in traffic, like usual. And drives to the home you two once shared. A routine he's used to by now. 

He sees your car in the driveway and groans. He knew if he sees you, you'd bring up the papers again. Those stupid fucking papers.

“Hey, kiddo,” he says as he enters the once-familiar home. You've made changes to it since he's been gone. He squints to get a better look. In just two weeks, the kitchen's completely repainted with a soft green instead of gray. The living room was completely rearranged, and family pictures were taken down from the walls.

Sungjae is sitting on the couch, playing with his iPad. He only looks up for a second before he gets back into whatever is playing on his device. Sunghoon knew he should have hidden that thing before he left. Or, he guesses, before you kicked him out.

“Where's your sister?” he asks, practically into the void.

As if on cue, Sunghee walks down the stairs. Her eyes are already rolling, and she's still wearing her pink pajamas and bunny slippers.

“Get dressed, princess. We're gonna be late for your practice!”

Sunghee tsks. 

“C'mon,” Sunghoon adds with a forced smile. “You missed the last two practices already. You're gonna fall behind-”

“Dad, I already told you I want to quit,” she cuts in. “Can't you just take a freaking hint?”

Sunghoon stares blankly at his daughter, trying to hold back the irritation bubbling beneath the surface. Sunghoon doesn’t know where she gets the attitude comes from. It's like when Sunghee hit the age of 13, she morphed into a walking stick of dynamite with a terribly short fuse.

“Well,” he begins, voice tight but even. “Why don't we push through it for today, hm? You know, back in my day, I wasn't always up for the challenge, but-”

“We get it dad!” she groans. “'Back in my day' this, 'if I were you' that. No one cares!"

It stings him more than he cares to admit. 

"Sunghee," he says, slower this time, the edge creeping into his voice. 

She just scoffs at her father's serious expression. She's never been scared of him when he's angry. That was always your role. 

"I’m not going," she stands her ground, crossing her arms. "You can't make me. If you wanna go so bad, then go to that stupid ice rink by yourself.”

Sunghoon inhales sharply, planting his hands on his hips to seem more assertive.

From the couch, seven-year-old Sungjae snickers.

“Listen here, young lady-”

“Listen here, young lady…” Sungjae mocks, in a tone much like his father's. Sunghoon whips his head to his iPad kid.

“And you, young man-”

“Sunghoon,” you say sternly as you appear at the staircase. “I already called to cancel. Indefinitely. Even if you take her now, she won't even be able to join the other kids.”

Sunghee sticks her tongue out at her father, prancing to the couch to pinch her younger brother's cheeks.

He blinks, brows knitting together. “What? Why would you do that without telling me?”

"Sorry, was that a decision that needed your approval?" you ask sarcastically. "You can't make her do something she doesn't want to do."

Sunghoon scoffs, pointing an accusatory finger at you. But he stops himself. His gaze flickers to the kids, who pretend like they're not watching from the living room.

He swallows down whatever instinct tells him to argue right here, right now. You two never fought in front of them, an unspoken rule. Even if you were technically separated, he would not break that now. 

“Let's talk in our room,” he whispers closely, and you roll your eyes.

“My room,” you correct, already turning to head back up. You don’t see it, but he tries not to flinch at your harshness.

He closes the door behind you two, the air thick with tension. He starts again.

“Why are you making decisions without me already?” he asks, trying to keep his tone level. “You cancel her figure skating classes and repaint the kitchen? Why are you-”

You sigh, already tired.

“We've been talking about repainting that ugly kitchen for years, Sunghoon,” you sigh. "You never wanted to actually get started on it. Sorry, I actually make time for the things I want."

So this is the direction you wanted the conversation to go in? Fine. He can be passive-aggressive, too.

"And Sunghee? Didn't you think to run that by me when I’m the one that pays for those lessons?"

You grit your teeth. He sees where Sunghee gets it from now, your hands crossed over your chest in disdain.

"Have you tried listening to her about practices? She gets injured all the time! Coach Jung is horrible to her. She’s miserable-”

His jaw tightens. “You don't think I was too? Half the time, I hated skating! But that’s what it takes. You think greatness just feels good all the time?! And the kitchen was fine. I don’t get why—”

"She's not trying to be great, Sunghoon!" you cry exasperatedly, your hands thrown up into the air. "She's not trying to be you."

You point your finger at his chest. “And you always think everything's fine. Until it's too late.”

Your words hung in the air, his eyes meeting yours. 

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” he says finally, quieter this time. 

You retract your hand, nervous under his gaze. It’s intense, familiar in a way that still sends sparks throughout your body, even now. Even after everything.

“Stop trying to force your dreams onto her,” you finally let out, and you see his eyes waver. "Just because it didn't work out for you doesn't mean you can try again through her."

“That's not what-”

“Look,” you interrupt him, turning away from him to face the wall. “All I'm saying is that maybe this is your wake-up call. Things change. Not everything that you want is going to happen. Maybe learn to change with it.”

He scoffs.

You turn back around to face him. He's angry, but his face doesn’t give it away. It’s his trembling hands, how his posture straightens just a little too stiffly.

“A little too late to change when my whole life was already laid out for me,” he says through bated breaths. “It’s not like I ever had a choice where I’d end up.”

Your heart sinks. “And it's all my fault, right?”

Sunghoon’s eyes flicker, his gaze softening at your hurt expression.

“I didn't say that-”

“But it's what you think, right?” You try to look strong. You think of all the nights he lay awake replaying his old skating clips in the glow of his phone screen. The way he cheered for Sunghee during competitions, like his voice alone could ignite the passion she didn’t have. The muffled sniffles from the shower after the last Winter Olympics ended. You saw it all. You always did.

Sunghoon is silent, and you fight the sting in your eyes.

“I never asked you to marry me,” you say as low as a whisper, cutting through the silence.

“But I did,” Sunghoon says quickly. Desperately. “And I wanted to.”

You draw out a laugh, bitterness dripping through.

“I'm so sorry, Sunghoon,” you say, sarcasm spilling over your lips. “I'm sorry this isn't the life you wanted. But newsflash: you're not the only one living with regrets. ”

He steps forward, but you move back. The weight of everything presses against your chest now that the words are out. Now that it’s not just his pain taking up space in your relationship.

“You act like you’re the only one who lost something,” you say, softer now. “But I gave up things, too. I had dreams too.”

You don’t mean it cruelly, and he doesn’t take it that way. But it hurts, still.

"And I'm done walking on eggshells around you just because you can't stand the fact that you aren't living the life you wanted.”

You take a deep breath and continue.

“If I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met-"

His hand hovers over your cheek. His lips, so dangerously close to yours. “Stop it.”

His voice is shaky.

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

You don't pull away, but your gaze does not waver. “I mean it. Genuinely.”

You don’t see Sunghoon’s heart break at that moment. But he feels it. Feels the tightness in his chest, the way his throat closes up, like your words were enough to kill him.

“When did you become so cruel?” Hurt laced his voice.

“And when did you start resenting me?” you bite back, but the words barely escape your throat. 

He doesn’t answer, just leans in and kisses you. And you let him.

Because maybe this is the last time you’ll feel him like this. Maybe this is the last tender moment you two will share.

His hand lingers at your jaw, thumb brushing gently over your cheek. You feel your own breath catch, and for a second, you almost melt into him.

“I love you,” Sunghoon says, but it sparks nothing in you.

Instead, you hear everything he didn’t say. He didn’t say no or that you were wrong. So maybe he really does, you thought to yourself.

His kisses almost make you forget. Almost enough to blur out the long winters and how distant he gets. How painfully silent he is at the dinner table, eyes always somewhere else. 

His lips guide you through it all, each kiss igniting a memory.

How his shoulders sagged the day he started that full-time job. How his smile, once so quick to bring out of him, turned into something you had to search for. How the light in his eyes, so blinding when he was on the ice, dimmed, little by little. 

His hands trail under your shirt now as he peppers kisses down your throat. 

“I miss you,” he sighs. 

How he’ll wake up in the middle of the night and leave without a word, how you’ll see his location is at the ice rink, probably watching the Zamboni circle around. But he'd never bring his skates with him.

His lips meet yours again, deeper this time. His knee finds its way in between your legs.

You couldn’t do this anymore. It’s been far too many times, letting him wiggle his way back into your good graces. This was it. You would choose yourself this time.

Your fingers close around his wrists, gentle but firm. The warmth of his skin against yours nearly breaks your resolve, but you force yourself to meet his eyes. Even though it hurts.

“I think you should leave.” 

You release yourself from his hold. Sunghoon's expression is unreadable, but you know by now it's a facade. 

You could not carry his pain with you any longer. You needed him to let you go, just as much as you needed to let him go.

“Baby...” he starts, voice fragile.

“Don't,” you say quickly, lips pressed tight. “You can't call me that anymore, Sunghoon.”

His heart aches. He was supposed to be Hoon to you. Your Hoon. When did that change?

But he doesn't ask. He just watches you, eyes dark and full of all the things he never figured out how to say until it was already too late.

“The papers...” you pause, swallowing hard. You see a flicker of panic flash across his face. 

“They're on the kitchen counter. Take them before you leave.”

Sunghoon did not take the papers. 

In fact, just like Sunghee suggested, he went to the so-called “stupid” ice rink by himself. 

He sits in the highest row of the stands, arms crossed, jaw clenched. The kids glide around the ice below. Parents he used to talk to are filming on the sidelines, their laughter echoing faintly off the cold, hard walls.

Envy coats his skin.

Coach Jung is barking commands at the kids. He sneaks glances up at Sunghoon every so often, trying to be subtle. But he knows what that look means. It’s pity. 

At one point, Coach Jung had pulled him aside to tell him that Sunghee wasn't built for the sport. Not like Sunghoon was. She was too stiff, too in her own head about spinning in the air. She never cracked a smile when she was on the ice. She always kept her head low and movements small, as if it was still scary for her after years of practicing.

It's not like Sunghoon didn't notice, but he always thought she’d come around to it. He was pushed into figure skating by his parents, much like he was doing for her. It wasn’t like his passions ignited overnight. ‘It could be her dream if she let it be,’ he thought to himself.

Why couldn’t she let it? Why wouldn’t she even try?

Sunghoon sits in the stands, even after the kids pour out one by one and the lights start to dim. Coach Jung offers one last, forced smile before disappearing into the locker rooms. Sunghoon stays until he’s the only one left under the lights.

The Zamboni comes in, shaving and washing the ice to be used for the next day. When the machine finishes, the driver climbs out and heads up toward the stands. He's in his early twenties with blonde hair and dark eyes. He's moving towards Sunghoon with a smile.

Sunghoon stands up, a little intimidated by the younger man. His back turns to go up the stairs and to the exit, wanting to avoid a conversation.

“You're always here at night, sir,” the guy calls out. “Do you have a special connection to this place?”

Sunghoon stops in his tracks. He used to get recognized all the time. On the streets and in this very place. He used to mean something.

He turns around and gives a polite smile to the young man. He points at one of the many banners that hang from the ice rink walls. “Park Sunghoon” was in bright gold colors on each one. 

“I used to train here,” he says, with a hint of pride. “National champion for ten straight years, from when I was 11 up until I was 21.”

The guy whistles softly, impressed.

“We could use you, you know?" he says. "I think they’re looking for a new coach. Heard the old one's retiring soon.”

Sunghoon flinches. “Coach Jung? He hasn't told me yet. My daughter trains with him.”

He can't bring himself to use the past tense with her just yet.

The young man just nods. "I think he's planning to announce it after the next competition."

Sunghoon feels his chest constrict. He shakes his head. Another person leaving.

“I guess everything’s changing…” he whispers, but it did not fall on deaf ears. The stranger moves closer to him. "We're all so old now."

The stranger sighs. “Youth can be so cruel, can't it?”

Sunghoon, in his confusion, scoffs.

“The opposite, actually,” he argues. “Life's easier when you're young. Anything was possible back then.” 

He takes a second to continue.

“And it all can be taken from you,” he mutters, more to himself. “Before you even realize it.”

“That's the worst, isn't it?” The young man chimes in. He's sitting where Sunghoon was earlier. “When you wonder what could've been…”

Sunghoon’s mouth twists into something like a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“That's all I think about,” he said, surprised at himself for opening up to a stranger. And it's true. 

What if he hadn’t stopped skating? What if you hadn’t gotten pregnant?

He sits back down, next to the Zamboni driver.

“We all have regrets,” the young man says, looking ahead, voice soft.

Sunghoon stares up at the ceiling and lets out a breathless laugh through the silence. Flashes of you overcame his vision. Nights of hushed arguments and facing away from each other on the bed. Nothing went his way after the World Championships. He lost it all. His passion. His dreams. You. 

“Why does it have to be that way?” he asks no one in particular.

A silence fills the room. The blonde turns his head to face him. “Maybe you could live a life without one, Park Sunghoon.”

He stills for a second.

“How did you know my na-” And as Sunghoon turns to face the stranger, he is met with nothing. Like the man was never there in the first place.

He's driving in that ugly, neon green Kia Soul, making his way back to Sunoo's egregiously large mansion.

Sunghoon's grip on the steering wheel tightens every time he checks the rearview mirror. He can’t shake the feeling like he’s being watched. That guy… the way he talked, like he knew him. Not just his name, but everything underneath. 

But screw that guy and whatever cryptic bullshit he was spouting. Screw his perfect friends, rich and successful. Every time they reunite, it’s like a reminder of everything Sunghoon’s not.

And screw the way Sunghee and Sungjae don’t even look at him like he matters. He tries. God knows he does. But they don’t know him. Don't know who either of you were outside of being their parents.

And you know what? Screw you and those damn papers too-

SCRREEEEE.

In an instant, his world is spinning out of control. Airbags deploy as Sunghoon jostles in a car that tumbles with him. The last thing he remembers is flashing lights and the loud sound of a crash. A sharp pain shoots through the left side of his body, and he feels as if he is coming in and out of consciousness. 

Sunghoon's eyes blink open, but he's not lying where he thinks he should be. It’s not the inside of a casket, nor is it a hospital room ceiling. He lies there with a cold and familiar feeling.

Ice.

Instead of the wrinkled suit he threw on that morning, he’s wearing sweatpants and a fitted black top. Not a scratch on him. No blood, no bruises. 

Was he dead?

“Is just one axel hard for you now, kid?” a voice calls out. 

He recognizes it almost immediately. Coach Jung. Sunghoon sits up, yanking his gloved hands from the coldness. What the fuck was happening?

“Get your ass back up and do it again,” Coach Jung shouts from the sidelines. The music starts again. Sunghoon’s eyes flutter shut, and he swears it's muscle memory. He knows this routine. The one from that night. The night he met you.

He moves. Instinct takes over. Jumps, spins, the sharp sound of his blades cutting clean into the ice. Every turn and landing exactly where it should be. He’s smiling from ear to ear now, almost childlike.

And if he were dead and this was the last thing he'd ever experience, then maybe dying wasn't so bad. He’d stayed off the ice for years, terrified that if he felt this weightless feeling again, that his regrets would consume him. 

“Perform like that and you'll win no matter what,” Coach Jung calls out as the music fades. Even breathless, Sunghoon felt like he could do ten more spins across the ice. His heart was racing. Everything felt so real. The soreness of his muscles, the cold air against his skin, the echoes of Coach's voice.

“What day is it today?” Sunghoon asks abruptly. "And what year?"

He’s pinching his wrist now, nails digging in and almost drawing blood. He flinched. It hurt like hell. Was this not a dream?

“Kid, did you hit your head when you fell?” Coach Jung laughs. 

And when he says the exact date, Sunghoon's confused. It wasn’t like today was anything special. Just a random Tuesday. So why would this moment, 16 years ago, be where he ended up after crashing his car? 

Looking at the reflection of his younger, more athletic self in the mirror, he just couldn't believe it. No matter how much he slapped his face or banged his head against the locker room door, he was still here. In this younger body.

He's walking home from practice now. His phone buzzes in his pocket of the boys’ group chat, the old one they used to fill with dumb inside jokes before you and the other significant others joined the group. But your name is yet to be in his contacts. 

And then he remembers. It’s three days before you’re in the stands of the smaller national competition he won many years ago. 

He’s not one to panic, but his thoughts are running in circles. Did he actually go back in time, or is this all in his head?

He sees someone in his periphery. A man around his age, standing near the curb, waving. Casual. Like they’ve met before. And they have.

The Zamboni driver.

He has a sinister smile, one that sends shivers down Sunghoon’s spine. Sunghoon doesn’t hesitate. He marches forward and grabs him by the collar. “Who the fuck are you? Is this happening because of you?”

The man smirks, clearly amused.

“You wanted to try, right? A life without regrets?”

Sunghoon glares at him, confused.  “What?”

“Park Sunghoon,” the blonde says sternly. “This is your last chance. Use it wisely.”

Before he can respond, the man shoves him back.

“What are you talk-”

And as he blinks, the stranger disappears. His head starts throbbing uncontrollably, and ringing sets in his ears. He hears a voice then, yet he can’t recognize it.

“What will you choose in this life?”

Even as the reality of everything he left behind starts to settle, he feels a strange sense of calm wash over his grief.

He knows what to do.

three days later.

Sunghoon sees you in the corner of his eye as he’s tightening his skates. You’re sitting with your friends, ones who had encouraged you to come and watch him. Back then, he was all anyone on campus could talk about. The quiet freshman with Olympic dreams who just missed his opportunity last year. He was skating harder than ever, pushing himself to the edge. Skipping classes. Shutting out everything but the rink. 

Until you came along.

He remembers your first date. He'd asked awkwardly, “How come you like me?” because he genuinely didn’t understand.

It’s not like the plushie you threw was the first with a phone number taped to it. Not even the tenth. He got plenty of confessions growing up, but he wanted to know why. What made anyone interested in an introverted and one-track-minded guy like him? He had no hobbies outside of figure skating, no real conversation skills that went past awkward greetings.

Yet, you teased him with that Cheshire grin of yours. 

“How could I not?" you say so casually as his heart bloomed. "I’ve never seen someone pour so much love into what they do until I met you. You know what you want. I admire that.”

Your words stuck with him. He’d never forgotten it. And even now, those words echo in his chest as he skates to the center of the ice.

The music starts, and he lets himself get lost in the rhythm. As he glides across the ice, there is nothing on his mind. He just takes it all in. The roar of the audience. The sound of skates hitting ice. It’s all he ever wanted.

The routine, like in the past, was met with a standing ovation. The screams of those in the stands overwhelm him. He goes to each section of the rink, bowing as tears threaten to spill over. It’s all too much. And not enough.

Then, he reaches yours. Sunghoon finds you in the sea of people like he did before. Your hair is down, and your face is softer. He chokes back on his tears, so enthralled by your beauty. He couldn’t take his eyes off you. 

He bows, more deeply than to the other sections.

You throw that stuffed penguin through the air at the perfect time as it lands by his feet. And as Sunghoon rises from the bow, your eyes are on him again. Expectant. 

You don’t know him yet. Not really. You aren't aware of the pain to come. The fights. The distance. The way he’ll drain all the color from your life. 

As he turns to move to the final section, he catches a flicker of sadness in your eyes. A frown is present on your beautiful face. He wants to make it go away, but he can’t. Not in this life.

And so the penguin sits on the ice, lifeless, as he skates off the rink.

That night, he skips the afterparty. He goes straight to his shitty studio apartment, the one with the thin walls and peeling paint, and collapses on the bed.

He buries his face into the sheets, the fabric dampening his sobs. The crowd’s cheers still ring faintly in his ears, but now it all sounds hollow. He screams then, into the mattress, at the thought of Sunghee and Sungjae. His babies. The only pieces outside of you in his old life that made it worth fighting for. Would they ever exist in this version of his life?

He tries to steady himself. Tells himself this was for the best. That your life would be easier without him as your words echoed in his head.

"If I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met."

No years wasted, no sacrifices stacked on top of each other until they became resentment. No nights spent worried about bills or appeasing your parents, who never really quite liked him.

He wants to believe he’s doing you a favor.

But the tears don’t stop. Not when he thinks about the weight of Sunghee in his arms the first time he held her. Not when he remembers teaching Sungjae how to read with his tiny hands clutching the book, his eyes lighting up at each new word.

He’s letting it all go. All of it.

This was supposed to be his second chance. To live his dream without regrets. To see what it felt like. 

And it felt like hell.

The next few nights were abysmal. Practice became unbearable. He wasn’t eating. He wasn’t sleeping. His body hit the ice harder whenever he missed a spin, which was every time at this point. Coach Jung eventually pulled him aside, clearly frustrated.

“Go home, Sunghoon. Straighten yourself out and get the hell off my ice.”

But home didn’t feel real. None of this did.

He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t keep skating like this, not when every turn reminded him of you.

Sunghoon had to see you. Just once. Just enough to know you were okay. He told himself the kids would still exist somehow, even if your love story started differently in this version of life. That thought was the only thing holding him together.

He freshens himself up to go to campus, not having touched his backpack in weeks. He remembers your route like the back of his hand. Morning coffee at the cafe just off campus, right before your 9 AM. He will intercept you here, at this corner of the street.

Sunghoon's in a black turtleneck, wearing the glasses you would always steal off of him. The one that made you squirm under his intense gaze. The air was chilled, and his hands were buried deep in his navy jeans. He sees you coming into view, and he almost extends a hand to wave. 

But he sees him, too.

Beomgyu. Your ex. The one who would ask your friends how you were doing, knowing full well that you were married with kids. The one who eventually became a guitarist for a band he would pretend not to like. Sunghoon had asked you to block him from everything before, and you complied. It hurt to admit that his insecurities were still present even now, in another life.

Sunghoon hides behind a tree as he watches you two struggle through the cold. Your shoulders are close but not quite touching. He feels his heart rate accelerate, his lips pursed to prevent himself from saying anything that would compromise his hiding spot. 

“Beomgyu, you don’t have to walk me to class,” he overheard you say with a laugh. “I’m okay, really.”

Sunghoon’s hands balled into fists. Why did your voice sound an octave higher than it usually does? 

Beomgyu had the nerve to laugh, and it took Sunghoon everything in himself not to jump out.

You once told him that Beomgyu was your first love. Your high school boyfriend. You had ended things on good terms at the end of high school to find yourselves in college.

“Good,” Sunghoon once said. “Because you found me.”

And now here you were, looking happy. Grinning from ear to ear. What was there to smile about? 

“Doesn’t this remind you of old times? You used to stuff your hands in my pockets-” 

And though Sunghoon almost wills himself to leave the spot behind the tree, he doesn’t. Because he needed to watch this. Needed to watch you live the life you would’ve had without him. The easier one. 

He sees it now in the way your nose would scrunch to laugh at Beomgyu’s jokes. How you playfully hit the boy’s shoulder and hide your giggles with the sleeve of your puffer jacket. 

Maybe that’s why the stranger had chosen this year. To taunt him.

Look how happy someone else could make her. Was he the only reason why you were miserable? How much did he really hold you back? 

And so Sunghoon steps aside, shoving his hands back in his jeans. The icy wind cuts through his reddened cheeks. He asked for this. And he’ll have to live with it in this life.

Sunghoon turns around to give you one last look. But he also sees Sunghee, in her Elsa costume for Halloween. Sungjae asking for a mountain of kimchi at every restaurant. Your hand reaching for his across the dinner table.

He’ll have to live with it.

In the next three years, Sunghoon put his all into skating. He is consumed by it. Throws himself into it like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

His professors have to send him emails to remind him not to neglect his studies. His mother scolds him for missing holidays at home because he travels so much for competitions. But Sunghoon doesn’t care.

He loves figure skating. Loves the endless cheers from the crowd when he lands a clean program. Loves the headlines, the trophies lining his apartment shelves, the constant buzz of being "the nation's pride." It’s everything he knew he wanted. 

But, there’s always that one seat in the stands. The one you used to sit in during his competitions, holding up a handmade banner and shouting his name louder than anyone. 

Now, the face in that seat changes all the time. Some new fan. Some stranger holding a sign that doesn't mean anything to him.

He tells himself the past doesn’t matter. That this version of you, the one who laughs in cafes with Beomgyu, who’s always posting photos from new cities, new hobbies, new lives, wouldn’t even recognize the girl he remembers.

The girl who used to sit cross-legged on his couch, studying while he iced his ankle. Who wept with joy the night he won first at an international competition.

Now you’re in a photography club. A painting class. Pottery? Really?

You travel more now than you two ever did in your 16 years together. He scrolls past your updates with a numb thumb, telling himself he’s glad. He guesses that he did the right thing. 

And every time he walks past you with Beomgyu, smiling with all your teeth, it lingers. Those damn words are repeating in his head again.

"If I knew this was how we'd end up, we should have never even met."

Now he gets it. He guessed that he held you back from so much. Look at you with your wonderful friends and the amazing life you live without him! He scoffs. You deserve it.

You adjusted to him and his demanding training schedule, canceling plans with people so that you could maximize the time you had with him in the rare chance that he was in town. Maybe Beomgyu never would’ve asked you to sacrifice like that. Maybe he would’ve waited for you to come home from your clubs, instead of dragging you to cold rinks and rushed meals together in between practice sessions.

Sunghoon's fine. He swears on it.

Wake up. Go to class (if he feels like it). Skate for hours. Push through the pain. Go home. Cry into his pillow. Rinse and repeat. 

The Olympics are a year away. The World Championships are in two months.

And the night you two conceived Sunghee is tomorrow.  

tomorrow.

He wills himself to stay home, even when the boys suggest he hit up a few bars and clubs. It's the weekend after all. 

But Sunghoon is used to making excuses by now. Blames it on his training schedule, his diet, Coach Jung. Whatever would get Jake off his back. 

So when Sunghoon hears a knock at his door, and three boys pull up already reeking of alcohol, he’s surprised that he finds himself in that exact bar where he promised himself he wouldn’t be.

It’s just like before. Same music, same sickening smell of spilled tequila and too much cologne from Heeseung. And, as always, he’s bad at poker. Worse than he remembers. He’s downing a shot after every loss until his head is spinning and he can’t remember the rules anymore.

“I’m gonna… go… pee…” he tries to say, but his words get lost in mumbles and drooping eyes. He miraculously stumbles towards the restroom and does his business in the urinal. He’s dousing his face with water after barely washing his hands, and he smiles at his reflection. God, why didn’t he want to go out again? 

Sunghoon exits the restroom, shaking his wrists to expel the water from his hands. And his breath catches. He sees you.

Your back’s to him at first, your sparkly red dress riding up on the stool just like it was that night. You’re laughing at something the bartender says. And he swears for a second, time stops.

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Or maybe it’s the years of missing you bottled up too tight. But he starts walking over before he can stop himself. 

“Hey,” he says plainly, elbow hitting the bar. You turn towards him, eyebrows raised in curiosity. 

He'll be different in his first impressions this time. More experienced and confident than the shy fool he was when he met you. He'd match this new version of you, too. Show you what you were missing out on.

There’s a confused smile on your face.

“Hi.” He looks at you more clearly, his vision impaired from leaving his glasses at home and the tequila shots in his system.

“You come here often?” He’s too out of his senses to stop himself from saying it. But he doesn’t regret it because you laugh. He does too.

“You say that to every girl, Park Sunghoon?” 

His heart skips a beat. “You know my name?”

You roll your eyes, taking a sip of the cocktail that the bartender just handed you.

“Call me a fan,” you smile up at him, and he swears he could have melted right then and there. “Your face is everywhere.”

Sunghoon licks his lips, his mouth suddenly dry.

“I wish I could see more of yours,” he grins. “I think I’d skate ten times better if I saw you in the crowd.”

You scoff jokingly. “And here I thought winning was enough for you.”

It should be. It was supposed to be.

He promised himself he wouldn’t do this. That he’d leave you alone. He would let you go about your life, forget him, and be who you wanted to be. Who you should have been before he came to your life.

But here you are, impossibly close, and every part of him is begging not to let you go.

"You... you single?" he asks, trying to be casual. But his voice catches at the end. He wants to know. Needs to hear from your own lips if you actually chose Beomgyu in this life.

Relief washes over him when you shake your head.

"Wouldn't be talking to you if I was," you say with a teasing grin. Electricity shoots through him as he watches you. Too bright, too much. This short conversation, one he never planned on having, could never satisfy him. He could never get enough of you.

“Do you wanna get out of here?” he asks before he could stop himself, arm outstretched for you to take. Your face stiffens, and he almost thinks you’d say no until your fingers wrap around his arm.

“Where to?” 

You barely make it past his front door before he has you up against it. His hands hold yours above your head, pinning your body against his. Sunghoon’s lips move against you ferociously, an unending battle between your tongues. You try to match his movements, but he is starved beyond belief.

You have no idea how badly he missed this.

Three years since he last heard you speak to him. Three years since he’s felt your lips. And the last time was when you asked him to pick up some stupid divorce papers from the kitchen counter. He needs this. Needs this more than breathing, more than eating, more than skating.

Sunghoon lifts you to wrap your legs around his middle. His hands find your bottom, giving a gentle squeeze that has you arching into him. He didn’t want to scare you, but he couldn’t will himself to stop. Your scent was too intoxicating for his mouth to ever leave yours.

You tap at his chest to push him away softly. With bruised lips, you whisper, “Can we go to your bed?”

He could almost moan just from the sound of you. His sweet, beautiful wife. Still so perfect for him.

His grip on your ass tightens as he maneuvers you through the studio apartment you once shared, laying you softly on the bed. Sunghoon wonders why you two just went at it like animals at the entrance way when the bed was only a few steps away back then. This time, he would savor it. Savor you.

He follows you down as he trails kisses on your neck. You crane it for him like you used to, giving him access to your most sensitive spots. His hands trail underneath your dress, teasing the hem of your panties. He looks up at you, silently asking for permission. All you could do was nod, opening your legs wide for him to continue. His dick twitches in his pants. You drive him insane.

Sunghoon peppers a few more kisses on your collarbone as his index finger prods carefully at your clothed pussy. 

“Already soaked,” he whispers into your skin, pressing the pads of his fingers onto your underwear. Liquid courage still very much in his system.

He feels bold right now, eager to impress. He doesn't know who you've been with in this life, but he'll make you forget them all. Fuck you so good that you forget those experiences. Remind you that he's your husband for a reason. His fingers hook the side of your ruby red panties, gliding them down your plush thighs.

“I bet I’d go in so easily, huh?” his drunken voice slurs out. "So fucking wet."

When you nod again, he tsks. So silent, and for what? His fingers find your clit, ghosting over it. You arch to lean into his touch, but his hand retracts.

“Use your words, baby,” he says darkly. “Whatever you want, I can give it to you.”

You groan, eyes shut in frustration. “Can’t you just fuck me?”

He laughs. Always so uncharacteristically vulgar when horny. He loves it. He loves you.

“Can’t I get a taste first, baby?” he says, his face already inching downwards. He pulls your dress all the way off you, so that your breasts are finally exposed. Your satin red bra matched your panties like they were made to be seen tonight. He didn’t know why that fired him up so badly. 

Would another man have you like this if he didn't make a move?

He dips his head between your thighs, latching his mouth onto your clit. You gasp at the suddenness, not knowing how much you’ve angered him just from your underwear choices. His tongue moves downwards, lapping at your folds like a man dying of thirst. His hands pinned your legs to open even wider, and you writhed underneath him.

“Please-” you beg, hands gripping his hair as his tongue plunges into your wetness. Sunghoon’s eyes roll to the back of his head at the sensation. He could never, ever forget this taste. 

He pushes his tongue in and out as deeply as he can with his curled tongue, grinding against the mattress for any semblance of stimulation.

He would make love to you tonight. Until you remember who he was. Until you remember the life you built together.

His tongue does one agonizing lick all the way up to your clit, and your back arches just to feel him better. He’s sucking it harshly, tongue flicking at it in all the right ways.

“Sunghoon-” you cry out, your feet digging into the mattress to push your hips up to meet his ravenous lips. He pulls away and glares up at you. Your hips fall.

“Why’d you stop?” you whine, pushing his hair back down to your core. It takes everything in him not to laugh. He adores you like this. Desperate for him. Needy for him. Shaking in pleasure for whom? Him.

“Don’t call me that,” he whispers into your inner thigh, nipping at it slightly. He chuckles at your confused expression. “Hoon. If you’re gonna moan my name while I fuck you, I need you to say it properly.”

Your cheeks warmed. Heaving out a groan, you nod your head anyway. 

“H-hoon,” you test out. “Can you please continue?”

He smiles mischievously. “With what?”

You huff out in frustration. “I swear if you don’t fucking make me cum right now I’m going to-”

And his lips smash down on yours to shut you up. His hands replace his tongue as his middle finger draws figure-8s on your clit. He pulls your slickness from your folds and up to that sweet spot, relishing in the indecent noises between your legs.

Your moans are muffled by his tongue, body twitching underneath his. You taste yourself, so sweet on his lips as he caresses the most inner parts of your mouth. So dirty and so wet. He knew every part of you. Knew what made you cry, knew what made you scream. And fuck, he will make you scream. 

He pulls away from you to admire his ruthless pace on your clit.

You are clenching around nothing as your nails dig into his shoulders. He coaxes a gasp out of you as a coil in your stomach starts to form.

“Want me so fucking bad, don't you?” he teases, his other hand on the nape of your neck. Sunghoon tilts your head down to show you the mess you were making. 

His sheets are stained with your arousal, and his fingers are drawing circles on your bundle of nerves with such fervor. You catch a glimpse of his painfully clothed member. 

He was right. You wanted him so desperately, wanted to feel him inside you at that very moment. Your breath hitches. Fuck. You felt something building.

Your hips start to rise again, and it’s hard to formulate a sentence.

“Hoon! Oh my god– Fuck it’s– It’s–” You cry out as Sunghoon’s pace quickens, motivated by the sound of your moans. His other hand tries to anchor your thighs down. You feel it as you start to lose vision in your eyes. His thumb is rubbing so intensely that it draws a whine right out of you.

The coil inside of you snaps.

“Fuuuck…Ngh…”

A wave of pleasure washes over you, and you feel your juices coat your folds, dripping more than before. 

You're squirming underneath him, thighs twitching from the stimulation. He slows his pace, drawing out your orgasm for as long as possible.

His cock was in pain, desperate for it to make contact with any part of you. In this life, one thing he developed over the past three years of watching you in the shadows was patience. And you had none.

“God, just put it in,” you groan so casually, resting your forearm to shield your eyes away from him. You were so fucked out. Hair splayed all over the pillow in messy waves. Lips bruised, your cherry gloss staining your chin and his cheek.

So eager to just have him take you. If he were a weaker man (maybe Beomgyu), he would have listened. But like he said earlier. He would savor this.

His fingers travel down to your folds, one dancing at your entrance to tease you. Sunghoon smirks as you whimper. He pushes a finger in and bites his lip at the feeling. He hasn’t felt you, or anyone for that matter, in ages. In these past three years, he couldn't bring himself to even talk to another woman who wasn't you. It didn't feel right.

All the lonely, and frankly sad, nights touching himself to thoughts of you. Fucking himself on his wrist as he remembers all the nights you’ve shared in your 13 years of marriage. He had plenty of material to work with, with all of your past escapades, but it was nothing like the real thing. Nothing like feeling you again.

“Sunghoon, stop teasing me-”

His finger stilled, and you thought about cursing him out. He pulls your forearm away from your eyes, forcing you to look into his.

“Want to try that again?” he says, threateningly slow. The darkness of his gaze was enough to have you pliant and doe-eyed.

“Hoon?” He smiles, kissing you on the forehead softly.

“Good girl.” And just like that, he dips another finger in, scissoring them into you with precision. You’re a mess underneath him, overstimulated beyond belief, but he honestly couldn’t give less of a fuck. He needed you to be ready for him. His heaviness was throbbing painfully just thinking about how you'd take him after all this time.

How long would it take you to adjust to his size?

Sunghoon’s fingers squelch with each thrust, finding the soft spot he was so familiar with. He’s obsessed, drinking in the sight of your eyelashes fluttering, your hands gripping at his shoulders like your life depended on it. You were so wrapped up in your own pleasure, fucking yourself onto his fingers. Grinding up at him without a care in the world. 

“Look at you,” he laughs. “So needy.”

Sunghoon pulls his fingers out of you before he brings them to his lips. He hums, relishing the taste. He’d have to go down on you again later tonight. Taste you after his cock has had its fill.

You watch him in anticipation as he takes his pants off. You follow his lead as you unhook your bra, throwing it across his floor, sighing at the feeling of cool air hitting your nipples. Sunghoon pulls his throbbing member out of his briefs, pumping himself languidly. 

Sunghoon's eyes meet yours for a second before they go back to your cunt. He's churning something in his mouth, and you almost ask him what he was doing until he positions his mouth just above your folds. 

With sultry eyes directly gazing up at yours, Sunghoon lets his saliva drip down onto your pussy. 

You throw your head back on the pillow from the sight. Fuck, that was hot. He moves back up to you, guiding his hand to spread his spit with the tip of his leaking cock.

His dick smears your joined liquid in an up-and-down motion, pushing in ever-so-slightly. You gasp and clutch his chest, nails digging in enough to get his attention. He stops.

“I’m not on birth control,” you mutter, like you’re scared to tell him. 

“Should I stop?” he asks, even with his tip pulsing so desperately between your folds. You avoid eye contact, though he doesn’t know why. 

“Look at me.” he growls.

Sunghoon tilts your chin to face him, and with glossy eyes, you shake your head. He smiles, and a tinge of sadness hits him. You look so soft underneath him, so fucking beautiful.

He’s spent three years stuck in this version of his life, crying over you to avoid this very moment. But he just wanted you so bad. Wanted to feel you at least once again. Then, he’ll let go, he swears. This will be the first and last.

“Use your w-” 

You interrupt him with a kiss, wrapping your legs around him to push him deeper into you. He groans, collapsing onto his elbows. You dig your heels into his back as you pull him in deeper. Sunghoon's lips leave you to lay his forehead against yours. His breathing grows heavy, so lost in how your hole sucks him in.

“So fucking tight,” he groans, testing the waters with a small thrust after bottoming out. You squeak in response. “Fuck, baby.”

He wraps you in a tight hold, propping his knees underneath your thighs into a mating press. He fucks into you at an agonizing pace. It's so slow, you could feel every part of his rigid cock. His large size. His thick veins. The soft pulsing. It's so slow that you almost flip him over to ride him instead. But the desperation in his eyes stops you. His head buries deep in your hair, and you could hear the shakiness of his breath as he pulls out of you and plunges back in.

Sunghoon relishes the way you clench around him, your tight warmth pulling him deeper and deeper with each thrust. He drives himself into you with languid, but strong thrusts. He wants to engrave his place inside you so that you are ruined for anyone who might come after him. And again, he angers himself.

"You only this good for me?" he asks, searching your eyes for reassurance. But you aren't listening. You meet his thrusts, grinding yourself onto him. You want more. More of his touch. More of his length. Just more of him.

“Faster–” you whine, thighs pushing into his sides with each hard thrust. He was reaching the deepest part of you, your cervix kissing his tip ever so deliciously. Sunghoon doesn’t abide, so you take what he gives you.

"You this desperate for everyone, baby?" he whispers into your ear darkly. You shake your head, tears forming in your eyes.

"No..." you muster out. "Just you."

And even through all the tequila and the self-restraint not to jackhammer into you, he believes you. 

His hands are on your tits now, catching them as they bounce with the strength of his slow thrusts. He twists a nipple between his fingers, coaxing a moan out of you. He tugs and pulls, and it's enough to have you moaning underneath him.

You feel that familiar fire build inside of you. An ember that burned in your lower stomach and traveled down to the very tip of your toes. 

“Hoon! Please- Fuck- I need... I need-” 

You couldn’t form full sentences. His thrusts were so harsh and still so painstakingly slow. His eyes never left your face. He basked in the way your brows furrowed for him. How your lips formed silent screams as he hit that certain spot within you. Again and again.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispers hoarsely, his lips so close to yours. “Tell me who you need.”

“You!” you cry out. "Only you!"

He smashes his lips against yours as he finally thrusts into you hard and fast. His hands on your breast travel down to your waist, locking you onto the mattress as he fuck into you.

You feel something pooling, feel the tingling of your toes intensify with his breath against your face. His moans are just as loud as yours, grunting in your hair like a beast.

“You feel so fucking good–” his hips piston forward, brushing against that spot with every movement. Your chest is pressed into his as you claw at his back. The sensation builds and builds as your stomach starts to tighten.

“Hoon- Oh my god- I’m-Angh!”

Your second orgasm rips through you, the tension within snapping like a chord. It's so much stronger than your first one. It hits you in waves as you weep through it, your hips grinding up to meet his unending thrusts. You were so sore, so sensitive, but his pace stayed so relentless. 

“Close– So fucking close, baby–” he moans into your hair.

He clutches your hips, driving into you with reckless abandon. Even if you had no idea who he was, he would have your body remember him. Sunghoon, in this life, would be your best one-night stand. He swears on it.

He grunts as he feels you clench around him harder, his hips stuttering against yours.

“I’m gonna–” He tries to pull out, tries to push you away. Tries not to repeat the same mistakes. But your arms pull him downward as legs wrap sternly around his waist. You push him in deeper.

And he comes. Hard. 

“Fuck-”

Sunghoon plants an open-mouthed kiss on your lips, drowning out his sweet noises as he feels his raw cock twitch deep inside. His hot cum spills deep inside you with thick spurts. Your lips parted at the warm feeling, and he could tell you enjoyed every bit of milking him dry. 

Sunghoon pulls away from you with a soft groan. He watches as his cum spills out of you. He brings his finger to your folds, pushing his fluids into you. 

As he meets your eyes, he’s shocked to see how concerned you look. Because unbeknownst to him, there were tears streaking down his face. And before he can fully sober up and stop himself, he says it.

"I love you."

You’re gone before he wakes up.

Sunghoon screams into his pillow, recalling his words like a bad nightmare. Stupid. So stupid. This was supposed to be different. He was supposed to be different.

That stranger, whoever he was, said this was his last chance. And what did he do? He threw away three years of silent pining just to chase you down on the very night the troubles in your relationship had begun.

Was he a fucking idiot? 

You never even said goodbye, never even replied to his confession last night. Didn’t even leave a trace of what last night meant to you—if it meant anything at all. He must’ve looked insane.

Sunghoon grips the back of his neck, exhaling hard. You don’t know him. You aren’t the same girl from his past life. You're different now. Three years. That’s how long you’ve had to become someone else.

And him? He hasn’t changed at all. He’s still chasing ghosts. If it wasn't figure skating in his past life, it would be you in this one.

He sighs and sits up. Practice. He should go to practice.

two months later.

“Are you messing around, kid, or do you actually want to win this thing?!” Coach Jung shouts after Sunghoon falls on his ass for the umpteenth time. His palms sting from the fall, but he barely feels it. 

The World Championships are in a week, and he hasn’t heard a single peep from you since you left his apartment. Hasn’t seen you on campus in his usual routes to watch you from afar. He knew he had reached a new level of patheticness when he actually went up to Beomgyu to ask how you were.

Turns out, you two weren't even as close as he thought you were. He smiled to himself after that, but frowned when he realized that it truly was as if you had disappeared.

“Sorry,” he huffs, out of breath from the demanding routine. “One more time?”

Coach Jung pinches the bridge of his nose. “How about ten more, you punk? Get your act together.”

Coach mutters something under his breath and storms off, leaving Sunghoon alone with the cold silence of the rink. He tries again. Falls again. He smacks his gloved hand against the ice, hard enough that the sharp sting shoots up his arm. He should’ve known. The moment he got a taste of you, he knew this would happen. 

No matter when or how, he would always bother you. He would always lose himself. He would always manage to ruin everything.

“Are you living the life you wanted, Park Sunghoon?” a voice echoes behind him. He spins on his skates. 

There he is again. The blonde prick. Somehow, he’s in his sneakers and standing still on the ice. His hands are smug in his coat pockets.

Sunghoon doesn’t take the time to question it until he’s skating at breakneck speed towards him.

He swings at him, but the stranger disappears into smoke. 

“Or do you still have regrets?” the voice is behind him again. Sunghoon turns around to the stranger, giving him that annoying, shiteating grin. 

“I want out,” Sunghoon says with a strained jaw. “Bring me back. To Sunghee. To Sungjae. To her. Now.”

The blonde laughs. “You haven’t even done what you set out to do yet. Wasn't this what you wanted?”

Sunghoon lets out a bitter sigh, chest tight.

“I get it, okay?" he says with wavering breaths. "I was selfish. I asked for too much. I get it now. So just... please. Please, send me back.”

The boy steps forward. His sneakers make no sound on the ice. Inches away from Sunghoon now, just a little taller than him. 

“You don’t always get what you want in life,” the stranger says with that sick, twisted grin. It sends a rush of dread through Sunghoon's body.

“I thought you would have learned that by now.”

the world championships.

He’s in the locker room. His left leg is bouncing up and down, nail splitting as he gnaws at it incessantly. Only ten contestants ahead of him, but he has the time to panic. Just like he did before.

Coach Jung pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t think too much. You're gonna psych yourself out.”

Sunghoon shakes his head, unlocking his phone to check the time. The lockscreen, snow falling past a dark streetlight, holds his gaze longer than it should. He sighs.

“I'm not nervous,” Sunghoon replies, unconvincingly. “It's just cold.”

Coach Jung rolls his eyes.

“You're not new to this, kid,” he doubts the young man. “You're gonna do great out there. This is what you've been dreaming of. Just don't mess it up.”

And when Coach Jung shuts the door behind him, Sunghoon puts his hands to his face. And instead of self-affirmations, he is trembling. Barely breathing, he replays the memory again. Of him spinning you in his arms. Of your kind smile.

Sunghoon told himself not to expect you. In this lifetime, you'd only met once. Only fucked once. But he still thought... maybe the universe would be kind. Maybe you’d show up like you did back then.

“Can the remaining five acts please be on stand-by?” the overhead speaker blares into the locker room. That's him. He's one of the last five. 

There’s no one to hold him back this time. No distractions. Just an aching in his chest. 

Sunghoon's by the stands now. He watches with shaky hands as the crowd ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’ at his competitors’ routines. He hates watching before his turn. 

His eyes naturally fall on a seat in the stands. He blinks, rubbing his eyes to check if he was hallucinating. 

Someone sits there. Not a stranger. Not this time. It's you. Your brows furrowed like you were forcing yourself not to enjoy his competitor’s performance. Wearing the same outfit. He huffs a laugh under his breath. What are you doing here?

As the routines passed one by one, he could not take his eyes off you. Even from afar, your eyes glisten so beautifully. The same eyes that once glowed, helping the kids with homework. The same eyes that looked at him across the table after long days and short tempers. His wife. The mother of his children. The version of life he gave up for this one.

Now, he would have to settle for this. Longing stares and a heartbeat he could hear in his ears.

“Next to skate, representing the People's Republic of Korea. Sunghoon Park!”

He steps onto the ice with a big smile on his face. He forces it out, forces himself to act fine when you cheer at the sound of his name. He takes his pose at the center of the ice.

The music begins. His edges wobble, nerves bleeding into the blade. He practiced day and night, no distractions. Not even you. So why… Why was this happening? 

He takes in a deep breath as he prepares himself for the first spin. He’s skating backwards, building up momentum. He pushes off the ice. Toe pick hits.

Sunghoon rose high. He spots himself. One. Two. Three. Almost four– but his shoulders tilt, the axis too loose. The rotation slows. A half-second of weightlessness gives way to gravity, and he’s tumbling onto the ice hard. 

Gasps echo through the arena, and then applause as he brushes himself back up and onto his skates again.

He gets up. He keeps going. Muscle memory takes over. The rest of the routine is clean. Almost perfect, but not enough. 

The first quad... He fucked it up. He bows, head down, as if apologizing for even trying.

And when the score is announced while he's sitting on the sidelines, his body is limp. He barely reacts, face blank with emotion.

He could blame you for it. Pretend you were the reason why his routine didn't score high. But the truth is, he stopped believing in excuses a long time ago.

Years of hating himself led here. All this time, resenting the path he took, only to fuck this one up, too. 

Sunghoon had to laugh. He deserves it. Of course he did. The low score. You leaving him. The heartache. 

Everything he thought he was capable of, everything he pushed aside to have this moment. None of it mattered without you. 

As he rises from his seat on the floor, he searches for you in the endless crowd of faces. The other competitors pass by him with pity; he sees it in everyone’s faces. But they don't matter. 

Because you're gone. Your seat is empty. 

"Kid-" 

He pushes past Coach Jung without looking back. There's nothing left to say.

Sunghoon pulls his skates off skillfully, breaking into a sprint towards the exit. He runs with only socks separating him from the floor. 

Then he sees you, clutching your stomach and moving toward the exit. His breath catches. Somehow, he knows. He's seen it all play out before.

“[Y/N], wait!”

You stop in your tracks, hands trembling. You turn around, and he is already clutching your face, kissing you so deeply. You would have every right to push him away, to call him a creep and spit every insult at him. But you don’t, and he doesn’t understand why.

Instead, you lean into his touch, fingers fisting the thin fabric of his blouse. He’s the first to pull away, forehead resting against yours.

“Why are you here?” he asks. It’s not the only question he has, but it’s the first that comes out. You’re crying now, eyes wide, mouth parted. But why?

“I was just…” You try, but you fail to find the right words. “I just came to support you?”

Sunghoon shakes his head. He doesn't buy it. Not for a second. Your voice faltered. He knew better now not to let things linger.

“You came to tell me something,” he says knowingly, replaying the scene of the past in his head as it happens right in front of him. He smiles sadly, wiping a stray tear from your cheek. “What is it?”

You flinch.

“I can’t,” you whisper, the first barrage of tears falling down your face. “It'll ruin you.”

He laughs then. Quiet. Tired. Even in this life, you were so selfless. He doesn’t deserve you. Never did.

“You always say that. Even now.”

He takes your hands into his.

“Are you pregnant?” he asks, taking the words right out of your lips. Your mouth opens in shock.

“How did you-?”

“We'll figure it out,” Sunghoon interrupts softly. He was smiling now. Sunghee was here. She was growing inside you. “Together.”

For a moment, something shifts. You search his face like you’re looking for confirmation. And just like that, you pull away. What? It stings. 

This didn't happen before. Why were you-

“You went back," you say. "Didn’t you?” Your voice sounds foreign now, laced with hurt. It’s his turn to look confused. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, hands reaching for yours again. You avoid them, and he feels a sharp pain in his chest. “What are you talking about?”

“You… You went back in time like I did, right?” Sunghoon’s eyes widened. “That’s how you knew.”

He freezes.

It clicks. Like cold water hitting his skin. He remembers the first time he saw you in this life. How carefully he avoided you. How he left the penguin plushie behind, just like before. How badly you’d looked at him after that. It all makes sense now.

“I didn’t want to avoid you,” he musters. “I had every intention of finding you again. I passed by that damn cafe every day just to see you-”

You shake your head, but he keeps going, vomiting out word after word.

“I even tried to talk to you, but you looked so happy. All I could think about was the last time we spoke. How you said you regretted us. Watching you with Beomgyu, or whatever his name is-"

“Sunghoon-” 

“I was fucking miserable-” His voice cracks.

“Sunghoon-” You’ve never heard him talk this much. Never seen him look so broken.

“And I couldn’t even fight the guy who dragged me into this mess. I was stuck. Thinking about you. About us. About Sunghee. Sungjae. God, I missed you all so fucking much it hurt to breathe—”

“Sunghoon, please—”

“And I should’ve just caught that stupid penguin. I should've just relived our memories together. I should’ve been a better man, a better husband, a better father. But I just keep fucking it up. Every single time, even now-”

“Hoon!” you shout, grabbing his face with your hands. His words die off. He finally breathes. You don’t look angry, not at him at least.

“I know,” you say quietly. “Because I didn’t put my number on the penguin.”

His mouth parts slightly. "Wha-"

"I thought I was the one who messed it all up," you confess. “When you didn’t pick up the plush, I thought it was because of me. Because I tried to change things.” 

You swallow back your tears as he listens to you intently, your hands sliding to his chest.

“I thought you’d be better off without me, too.”

You let out a bitter laugh.

“I tried to fill the space,” you continue. “Tried to pick up things I couldn't before. But all I think about was Sunghee and Sungjae."

Your eyes waver, lips pressed together tightly.

"And you," you breathe out. "I saw you skating, training so hard, and you looked happy. I couldn’t bring myself to take it away from you again.”

You pause, lips trembling.

“So I made a plan. I thought—if I could just get Sunghee back, maybe one day I’d find you again for Sungjae.”

You both let out a shaky laugh.

"So then I went to the bar," you sigh. "I wore that red dress and I just hoped you would find your way to me again-”

“Of course I would,” Sunghoon interrupts, kissing your temple. “I always do.”

“And it worked.” You look at the ground like you're ashamed. “The test was positive. I wasn’t planning on telling you.”

Sunghoon takes your hands, forcing you to look at him. His eyes assure you.

“And then you fell during your routine,” you whisper, a sad laugh slipping out. "I thought… I avoided you all this time for nothing.”

He laughs too. “I wasn’t even going to win anyway.”

Sunghoon pulls you back into a hug, stroking your hair ever-so-softly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For making you ever feel like I regretted choosing you.”

And you didn’t know you needed to hear those exact words until you sob into his chest.

Sunghoon soothes you. He’s had enough crying. All he is now is grateful. The pain, the mourning. It all led him here. 

“This time we’ll do it right,” he assures you. “I love you. I’m not letting you do this alone.”

You pull away from him, eyes wet but smiling.

“I love you too.”

And you tilt your head as he reaches down to kiss you. With your eyes both closed, the world around you spins. Just you and him. In each other’s arms. His lips are soft against yours.

And a voice unfamiliar to both of you echoes in the air.

“I hope you can live a life without regrets.”

Sunghoon’s eyes open groggily, pain shooting through his spine almost immediately. All he sees are sterile hospital walls and Jay and Sunoo’s concerned faces.

They hover over the foot of his bed, their faces a mix of worry and irritation.

He blinks, scanning the room. Wires. A blood pressure cuff. An IV drip. Another bed. Then your eyes flutter open too.

“You know, with how the divorce is going, we thought you two crashed into each other on purpose,” Sunoo chirps, unempathetic to the dazed state of his friends. Jay smacks him on the shoulder.

“You’re lucky I managed to get you both a private room,” Jay mutters. “The nurses kept whispering about you two in the ICU.”

Sunghoon turns his head slowly, wincing. You’re awake now, alert, your expression matching his. His chest tightens. And almost in a panicked daze, his head snaps back to his friends.

“Sunghee and Sungjae–” he strains out, pain shooting through his lungs. “Where are they?”

Jay furrows his brows.

“They weren’t in the car with [Y/N], if that’s what you’re worried about,” he starts. “They’re looking for a vending machine with Heeseung and Jungwon-”

You both let out a shaky breath. For a second, relief replaces pain. Your eyes meet his for just a second before the door bursts open.

“Mom! Dad!” Sunghee's voice cries out. She’s running towards you two now, but Heeseung stops them.

“Whoa there, princess. They’re fragile.”

Her eyes are red, as if she had just finished crying. Sungjae's behind Heeseung, tugging at his jacket, worry etched across his little face.

“You didn’t do it on purpose, did you?” Sunghee blurts in your direction. Sunghoon has to bite the inside of his cheek to stifle a laugh. “They don’t have it on camera, but they said your car hit Daddy’s!”

He feels something warm bloom in his chest. It’s been a while since Sunghee sounded so protective of him.

You shake your head frantically. “No, darling. My brakes stopped working! I could never hurt your dad. He and I love each other very much-”

You stop yourself, but it's too late—cheeks already warming at the shifting gazes of the four grown men in the room. Jungwon fakes a cough.

“Love? As in, present tense?” he teases.

Sunghoon has the biggest grin on his face, and Sunoo scoffs as his eyes pivot between the two of you.

“Did you both hit your head in the accident?”

Heeseung clears his throat. “So, why don’t we take the kiddos to dinner, hm? Looks like Mom and Dad have some catching up to do.”

Sungjae nods excitedly. “Please! They're so icky.”

The adults usher the kids out, and Jay gives one last wink to the two of you before the doors close. The room falls quiet except for the not-so-steady beeping of the monitors. Sunghoon is the first to speak.

“So... when do you want me to pick up the papers again?” 

You laugh softly. 

“Oh! I guess if you want to go through with it…”

“No!” Sunghoon shouts, eyes huge. 'He’s so cute when he doesn’t mean to be,' you think to yourself.

You tilt your head, smiling. “Then don’t even think about getting them.” 

Your bed is near enough for you to inch your hand towards his forearm. Your touch is featherlight against his skin. It takes all of his strength to intertwine your fingers with his.

“So what does this mean for us?” you say through bated breath. He ponders for a second.

“It means… maybe I can build you an art studio in our garage?” he says cautiously. “And maybe I quit my job? Become a figure skating coach? How does that sound?” 

You let out a stronger laugh this time, one that aches in your ribs but still feels good. And in this version of you, older and wiser. He still thinks you’re so beautiful.

“I don’t resent you,” he whispers. And your heart skips a beat, in a way that it hadn’t in a long time. You smile at him. And finally, you find the courage to say it in this life too.

“I love you.”

He brings your fingers to his lips and plants gentle kisses on your knuckles.

In every lifetime, Sunghoon knows. He could be standing on the Olympic stage, the roar of thousands echoing in his ears. He could have everything he ever thought he wanted. But none of it would matter. Not if you weren’t there.

“I love you too," he replies, quietly.

And in every lifetime, he will always find his way back to you. And he will choose you. Over and over again.

epilogue.

Sungjae is on the garage floor, legs crisscrossed as he watches something on his iPad. Sunghoon is installing shelves for your future artist corner while Sungjae's video is strangely on mute.

“What you watching, son?” he asks, trying to distract himself from the tight pull in his lower back.

Sungjae doesn’t look up. “Your skating videos.”

Sunghoon nearly drops the shelf on his eye. “W-what?”

Sungjae shrugs. 

“Looks interesting,” he mutters. “Wish I could fly like that.”

Sunghoon sets the shelf down carefully, then crosses the room to crouch beside Sungjaee. On the screen, a much younger version of himself soars across the ice. He remembers that routine. His first national win.

“Didn't think you'd be into it,” he ruffles his son’s hair.

Sungjae shrugs again, but pink tinges his cheeks.

“You never asked.”

The words hit him. He never really did. Not even with Sunghee.

“Do you want to try?” Sunghoon asks slowly. “Figure skating?”

Sungjae finally looks up, eyes wide. “Can I?”

Sunghoon feels tears well up in his eyes, and he coughs them away. What was up with him and crying these days?

“Of course, son,” he says, pulling him into a gentle side hug. “You'll be my first student.”

fin. 

a year ago.

It’s the last year of high school, on a relatively normal walk back home. The same cracked sidewalks, the same autumn breeze, the same shy boy matching his steps beside you like he always did. Just like any other day. 

Until he decided to ruin it.

“Do you wanna… like, date?” Jake asked suddenly, hands shoved deep into his uniform pants pockets, trying too hard to sound nonchalant. “You know… put a label on us. Or whatever.”

You remember almost running away out of pure instinct, soul escaping your body. But instead, you laughed. Because what the fuck was he on about?

You? Jake? Date?

The two of you were barely even supposed to be friends. He's a straight-A student teachers constantly compared you to, with those thick-rimmed black glasses glued to his face and unkempt bowl of hair. A striker on the football team who watched matches from the sidelines just as much as you did… and you weren't on the team.

And on the other hand, there’s you. Not-so-pleasant you. Considered a troublemaker because you always showed up late to class, talked back to ill-meaning adults, and picked fights with boys who catcalled too much. A rumor spread through school that your dad was a terrifying loan shark with gang ties. He’s a banker.

Assigned classroom cleaning duties was what brought you two together in the first place. It wasn’t fate. Nothing notable. You more or less picked him up on your shoulder and claimed him as a personal assistant. Someone who would fetch you water when you’re thirsty or give you answers to math problems when you were too lazy to solve them yourself. 

So why in the world did he think you two should date?

“Who put you up to this?” you wheezed between bursts of cackling. “I’m gonna beat their ass.”

Jake scratched the back of his head, clearly not amused.

“I mean… You and me?” you continued, tears of laughter blurred your vision. “We would make the worst couple ever—”

“I don’t think so.”

You froze mid-step. Jake had slowed his strides down a long time ago, but now he was completely still. You turned to find him a few steps behind, face flushed and hands by his sides. 

He’s holding something. A small, turquoise box. One that looked suspiciously like…

You felt like throwing up.

“I-I’ve been thinking about it for a while,” he stammered. “What it’d be like if I were your boyfriend. If we… went on dates and stuff.”

Oh, hell no.

It’s like an immediate sense of panic overcame your body. And before your brain could process a single rational thought, you broke out into a sprint. Running down the street like a maniac. In hindsight, you probably should’ve known that you couldn’t outrun an athlete. But you weren’t really thinking, period. 

You feel a tug on your waist. Jake had already caught up to you. He spun you around, like the male leads do in those stupid romcoms, and pulled you into him. His face was close. Too close. His glasses slipped halfway down his nose, and a bead of sweat clung to his temple. And it wasn’t from running.

It was from you.

He looked nervous. Ridiculously nervous.

The ring box pressed into your back, and you put your palms sternly against his chest, trying to create some distance between you two. It wasn’t helping.

“Jake,” you warned. “Let go of me or I scream.”

He shook his head, his arms only wrapped tighter around you. “Only if you promise you won’t run,” he replied, a sort of desperation laced in his voice. “And that you’ll listen to what I have to say.”

You bit your bottom lip, suddenly too aware of his intense gaze and how they searched yours through those big, fat lenses. You gave a small nod, not trusting your voice to come out right. The moment his grip loosened, you broke your agreement almost immediately. Your feet moved on their own, like fight-or-flight, as you tried to rush out of his arms. But he was one step ahead of you, grabbing your wrist to bring you back right where you were.

“Really?” he asked, exhausted. “That’s not gonna work a second time.”

You glared, but your eyes betrayed you. They slid down to the turquoise ring box, still in his hand. Jake's eyes flickered in the same direction, clearing his throat awkwardly. 

“I can put it away if it’s freaking you out,” he muttered, slipping it back into his pocket. You almost let out a sigh of relief, but not when his large hand was still wrapped around your wrist.

“...Thank you,” you mumbled, eyes fixed on the ground. “Now make it quick.”

Jake's heart constricted. ‘The worst thing she could say is no!’ the internet had told him. This was a lot worse, actually!

“[Y/N],” he started sharply, and the sound of your name on his lips sent shivers down your spine. He released you, only to set both his hands on your shoulders, guiding your gaze up to meet his.

“I… I think—” He stopped, inhaling a deep breath. “No. I know. I… really… really… l-like you.”

His voice was as shaky as his hands, and for a brief second, almost every part of you wanted to knock him out with your backpack because your heart was beating too loud in your chest. It pissed you off. But you held back and just… stared.

Jake, ever the hopeless romantic, had fallen for you the moment you asked him to clean the entire classroom alone while you skipped duties to hang out with your friends. He said yes, only because he has a hard time saying no, especially to someone he found so pretty. But then you laughed and told him you were joking. Told him not to bend over backwards just to please other people. Spent time with him that day when usually, others paid him no attention.

He was enamored ever since. 

But the silence between you two was suffocating, heavy enough to stall his breathing. Jake’s palms were growing damp against the fabric of your uniform blazer, and his heart felt like it was ready to fall to the floor. Maybe this was a bad time to do it. Or maybe the ring really freaked you out. Was it too big a gesture? The WikiHow tutorial he consulted had told him to bring a gift, after all. 

“Hello?” Jake’s voice cut through your thoughts. He gave your shoulders a tiny shake, trying to pull you out of your entranced state.

“Hm? Sorry… say that again? I don’t think I heard you…”

Jake’s expression fell as he dropped his hands back to his sides in defeat.

“Okay,” he muttered, voice small. It wasn’t worth it. Everything went off script anyway. “Never mind. Pretend I didn’t say anything.”

He brushed past you, shoulders hunched, hands shoved deep in his pockets again. He was fidgeting with the ring box, wishing he could throw it into the nearest bushes. God, he felt dumb. So fucking dumb.

Of course you’d say no! He was nobody. Just Jake. Just some guy you latched onto at the start of high school so you could poke fun at him for the next few years and make him pay for your boba addiction. And you, with your cool-ass friends with eyebrow slits and really underground music tastes. You’re way out of his league—

“Jake,” you called out, surprised at how loud your voice could get if you were desperate. 

He turned around immediately, wearing such a pronounced pout even from a few meters away. Somehow, seeing his face again made your throat close up. He liked you. He really liked you.

“Say it again,” you demanded, arms crossed with doubt written all over your features. “I need to hear you say it one more time.”

You walked toward him until you stood close enough to see the nervous twitch at the corner of his mouth. Was this it? Would you actually give him a chance? Jake pressed his lips together and inhaled a deep breath to calm himself. 

“I like you,” he said as softly as a whisper. “Would you… Be my girlfriend?”

You looked at the ground, feigning a calmness when your mind was racing with thoughts too insane to vocalize. When you finally looked up again, your heart betrayed you. It skipped a beat at the way his gaze fell on yours, wide and hopeful. It almost hurt. He was too bright, too cute.

(Okay, so what if you liked him back. He didn’t have to know that.)

“Sure,” you said, forcing your voice to sound casual. Jake froze.

Then his entire face lit up. Suddenly, he was grinning from ear to ear, jumping in place like a dog begging for a treat. “Really? Like really? You’ll go out with me?!”

He took your hands in his, tenderly. Like he wasn't entirely sure the moment was real. You felt the dampness of his palms first, then the tug of his fingers intertwining with yours, like he had already rehearsed this part of his confession a thousand times in his head. Your cheeks warmed.

‘What a weirdo,’ you thought to yourself. It’s not like he’d just won the lottery. What was he so happy about?

“Just don’t make it weird,” you grumbled. “Keep it on the down low.”

Jake’s smile faltered, brows knitting together so tightly you were sure it’d leave a wrinkle on his cute face.

“Like… you don’t want people to know?” he asked, voice quieter now. You nodded, confused by his confusion. 

“Why would anyone need to know?” you asked genuinely. He frowned, his thumb gently rubbing the back of your hand, silently asking you to reconsider.

“Not even Sunghoon or Jay?”

You scoffed. “Especially Sunghoon and Jay.”

“Why not?” he groaned. You just shrugged.

“I don’t want our dynamic to change just ‘cause we’re dating,” you reassured him, letting go of his hands to ruffle his hair. Like you always do when you tease him. Like that would make it all better. “And all that coupley PDA stuff draws too much attention anyway.”

You’d spent years cultivating your intimidating persona, and in your mind, it was simple. No one else needed to know that you were vulnerable to something as cringe-inducing as dating. The other students would only use it against you. For what? Who knows.

But you could just imagine the teasing glances and whispers in the hallways. If Jake were really serious about dating you, surely he’d be understanding of your aversion towards embarrassment. Right?

He didn't seem entirely convinced. At all. “So… what would be the difference then? Between us now and before?” 

You sighed and stepped past him.

“It's what we'd do in private, you know?” you muttered over your shoulder. “Kissing and all that…”

You didn’t see it, how Jake’s ears completely reddened or how his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. His fingers twitched at his side, like he was already imagining what it’d be like to hold you properly. To touch you. To kiss you. Like real couples do.

“D-do you want to see the ring I got you?” he blurted out, catching up to you. “I swear it’s lowkey. It has a ‘J’ engraved inside the band. I got a matching one with your initial, too! No one would even notice if you wore it—”

And you feel your heart thunder in your chest, scaring you into another sudden sprint. “Get the hell away from me, weirdo!” 

Your joined laughter echoed down the street as he chased after you. And even though he could catch up to you, he let you have your fun, staying just a little out of his reach.

–

Jake is very good at obeying orders, always has been. Especially after the first few times you glared at him for accidentally reaching for your hand in the cafeteria. He learned fast.

He tried his best not to show affection publicly, no matter how badly he wanted to wrap his blazer around your shivering frame when you would nap during class. He forced himself not to linger near you when you were loitering with your fellow delinquents by the school staircase, laughing at a joke he didn’t quite understand. He suppressed the urge to defend you from teachers who reprimanded you out in the hallways. Tried not to look behind at you for too long during football games he never played in anyway.

Once, someone asked him about his love life, and he instantly turned into a blushing, mumbling mess. And they laughed it off. It was Jake. No one thought twice. He was always like this. Awkward. Flustered.

The parasites he calls friends, Jay and Sunghoon, would probably go into cardiac arrest if they ever found out how he doted on you in private. How soft he was. How gentle.

You pretended not to notice. But ever the observer, Jake sees how your defenses weaken, ever so slightly, each day.

You let him put his arm around you in dark movie theaters instead of yanking it away. Let him stay for dinner with your parents when he comes over to help you study (because lord knows you need it). You stopped flinching when he called you ‘babe’ in private, sometimes responding without even questioning who he was speaking to. It was baby steps, but to Jake, it was everything.

Was it awkward? Yes. The way his glasses got in the way when he finally kissed you for the first time. Your noses bumped together. Too much tongue involved. It was a mess. Still life-changing, nevertheless. 

He replays the memory often. The two of you on your bed, him holding your plushie hostage, you trying to rip it out of his arms. The way you fell on top of him with your lips accidentally crashing on his. He pretended like the make-out session that occurred immediately after didn't absolutely ruin him.

Jake edged past the warmer parts of you when no one was around to bear witness. And you both were so good at keeping secrets. No one would have believed it anyway. You’d made sure of that.

–

“You two are very strange,” Jay commented, maybe a couple of months into your secret relationship. Every senior was gearing up for graduation, choosing which universities to attend or which path to take in life.

And of course, Jay and Sunghoon found out that Jake and you would both be attending the same university. Not just any school. A top one. Yonsei. 

Jake had earned a full-ride scholarship after finally getting off the damn bench and scoring four goals in a single match against the best high school team in the nation. Jake could've gone abroad to an Ivy League, but he chose not to. Because at Yonsei he could visit family more often, save a lot of money, and… well, keep you close, most of all.

And by the will of a higher being (Jake’s relentless tutoring), you somehow made it in as well.

“I thought you said you wanted to go straight into the workforce,” Jay questioned you. “Now you’re telling me you somehow, in some way, got into the same school as Jake? This fucking nerd?”

Sunghoon chimed in with a smile he always wore before teasing you. “I didn’t even think you could get into college, honestly.”

You wanted to hit him so bad, but you stopped yourself. Your resolution for the new school year was to turn over a new leaf. And that comes with not hitting annoying boys over the head with your fist. You could get arrested for that from now on... So instead, you used your words.

“You’re mad I got in, and you didn’t,” you snorted, sticking out your tongue as Jake snickered beside you. You sat close enough to feel the warmth of his shoulder, but far enough apart to keep Jay and Sunghoon from noticing.

“You guys have no faith in her,” Jake sighed earnestly. “She’s really smart when she applies herself. She just needed a push, that's all.”

You glared at him, not sure if his comment was entirely a compliment. Yes, he played a role in your achievements. No, he could not credit himself for the hard work you put in to get that high-ass score on the college entrance exam. Even your teachers apologized for doubting you.

“Should’ve put those hours of tutoring her into me instead,” Jay groaned. “Now you’re gonna be all alone with no friends.”

Jake’s brows furrowed. “What do you mean? S-she’s my friend.”

He stumbled over the words, clearly thrown off by the ominous comment. You watched him, amused. God, he was so obvious.

Sunghoon just looked between you two, doubt etched all over his face. “Barely,” he scoffed. “Trust me, bro, you are getting left behind as soon as she finds another victim willing to pay for all her food.”

You can start your resolution next week. This time, you really smacked him, sharp on his bicep. Sunghoon yelped.

“Why are you always so aggressive?” he whined, rubbing the sore spot with his arm. You raised your hand threateningly again, but you stopped yourself short. 

At the corner of your eye was Jake’s soured expression, a flash of worry obviously overcoming him. But you couldn’t comfort him. Not now. You wouldn’t hear the end of it from these two.

“You never know,” Jay chirped, faking thoughtfulness with a hand on his chin. “Jake might be too cool for us once school starts.”

Jay and Sunghoon exchanged a look and then burst into laughter.

“Ain’t gonna happen!” Sunghoon cackled, putting his whole gut into it. You joined in hesitantly, though your eyes kept drifting to your sullen boyfriend. And he wasn’t amused. Not at all.

Because he never found it funny, the idea of you leaving him behind.

–

“Do you think I’m weird?” Jake asked one evening, with you curled up beside him on your bed. Your knee draped over his stomach, his glasses pushed up just enough to rest comfortably against your pillow. On his late-night visits, your parents would come in to check if you two were truly studying as you claimed. After Jake gained their trust, they learned to leave the two of you alone (when they probably shouldn’t have).

Your eyes were shut tight to prepare yourself for an oncoming nap.

“Yes,” you said quickly, not even giving him time to process the response.

“Like… bad weird?” he asked after a second. He’d been thinking lately, after the conversation with his friends, how different the two of you really were.

How easy it was for you to stand up for yourself. Go against the grain. How you don’t automatically default to nods as he does or lose your train of thought mid-conversation. How you hated being touched by most people but would smack someone’s shoulder when you genuinely found something funny. 

He wanted that, wanted to see the world the way you saw it. To move around without hesitation. Even when people called you a troublemaker. Even when teachers scolded you for wearing your uniform skirt shorter than the dress code. How was confidence so natural for you?

“Bad weird,” you teased, eyes still closed. “But it’s okay. I’m used to it by now.”

A small ache tugged at his heart. “You still like me though, right?”

You laughed. Jake loved to do this sometimes. Bait for reassurance. But you’re not that kind of fish.

“Who said I ever did?”

You said it jokingly, but a silence followed. You don’t quite catch it as you drift to sleep, the way Jake’s eyes dimmed.

“Oh,” he said disappointingly, staring at the ceiling.

Sometimes, he wondered if the reason you wanted your relationship to be private in the first place was because of him. If his inability to relate to your friends with secret tattoos and chains on their jeans made you embarrassed to be his girlfriend. 

Because you got along well with his friends just fine, could tease Jay and Sunghoon like you’d known them your whole life. But it was so hard for him to do the same with yours. To look natural when he joined that one karaoke hangout, where they looked at him expectantly because you had bragged that he could sing well.

You said it so proudly too, and he wanted to prove himself to them. That he was worthy to be in their presence. And then his voice had to crack.

“Should we get your friend some water?” someone joked, and the whole group laughed. With his cheeks red with embarrassment, Jake sat back down next to you, silent for the rest of the night. It was lame of him. Even he knew that. 

But even as he watched you defend him with all your heart, he couldn’t find himself to cheer up. Because in your world, he had always felt out of place. 

–

And so Jake did what he’s known to do best. Research.

He avoided WikiHow tutorials on how to ask out a girl and headed straight to the most honest part of the internet: Reddit.

‘makeover tips for guys’

‘how to gain more confidence’

‘how to be attractive enough that your girlfriend isn’t ashamed of you (serious responses only pls)’

He frequented the self-help section of the school library, took notes on everything from fashion advice to fixing his posture. He practiced eye contact with himself through the mirror until they watered, joined Sunghoon in the gym, and copied his weirdly intense routine.

Jake kept this process all to himself, much like your relationship. He learned to be good at that. Keeping secrets.

He would reinvent himself for university. Become someone you’d be proud to show off because he didn’t want to feel like this anymore. Like he would fall behind. And knowing you… he wasn’t sure if you’d bother to look back and see if your loyal puppy was still there trailing behind you. 

–

present. 

So that’s how your relationship’s been going so far. While Jake was on this great journey to undergo metamorphosis, there were no real complaints on your side.

So why was it like this now? 

Waiting for your very late boyfriend, who was making you miss the first minutes of the university’s freshman orientation ceremony. You almost text him a paragraph about how, usually, you're the unpunctual one in the relationship, but a stranger approaches you.

“BOO!” 

You almost let out a scream when you notice who it is. Or who you think it is. Is it who you think it is?

Because instead of wild, unruly hair hiding his eyebrows and big black frames resting on his nose bridge, your boyfriend looked like someone else entirely. His hair was styled in a middle part, framing his handsome features perfectly. Instead of his usual oversized hoodie with holes on the sleeves masking his athletic body, he’s wearing a varsity jacket and a simple white shirt that clung way too well to his muscular frame. You could even see the faint outline of contact lenses in the whites of his eyes.

Your eyelashes flutter in confusion. You literally just saw him yesterday. When did he find the time to get a haircut and invest in a new closet?

Jake steps forward with a small, hopeful smile and holds out a box of egg tarts. Did it add to his already late ETA? Yes, but he always thinks about you and what you'd like to eat. Could you blame him for getting you a sweet treat?

But that wasn’t the part you were really focused on.

“Who are you and what did you do to Jake?” you ask, fists raised like a boxer. He chuckles nervously, bringing the pastry box back to his side.

“Do I look weird?” he asks quietly, shifting his feet. The vulnerability in his voice made you lower your hands instantly.

“So…” you start, eyes looking him up and down. “This is on purpose? Like, Sunghoon didn’t put you up to this? Or Jay?”

He pouts. His mom practically screamed, “So handsome!” when he showed her his new look over video call. So, why was your reaction like this? 

“I just thought… new school year, new me! No?” he says, puffing up with pride.

You shake your head, moving your hand on instinct to ruffle his freshly styled hair. But he catches your wrist before you can touch him. You pull away, heart squeezing a bit, knowing that he dodged one of your rare bouts of affection. Or whatever you call it.

“It took me forever to get my hair to look like this,” he mutters, looking away. “Don’t want my hard work to go to waste.”

You click your tongue, trudging past him. Since when did he care about what his hair looked like? This was the same guy who showed up to graduation with a T-shirt and sneakers and got confused when the teachers asked him to go back home and change.

“Whatever,” you sigh. “No more standing around. We have to go—”

“Still not wearing the ring?” he asks, catching up to you. He noticed it earlier when he caught your arm. 

When Jake gave it to you just a year before, he set no expectation for you to wear it. He really hadn’t… But it has been a year. Wasn’t it about time? He wears his everyday…

You suck in your teeth and glare at him. “Why would I?” 

He flinches. And you start to feel guilt bubbling in your chest as his steps start slowing next to you.

“It’s just…” he mumbles. “It’s not like we’re in high school anymore. No one’s even gonna notice. And no one’s gonna care if we’re dating.”

You roll your eyes. You care. You still had a reputation to uphold. Maybe not as a troublemaker anymore. But still. Something about wearing your boyfriend’s ring for everyone to see and question seemed like your own personal hell. Who would want to be the center of attention as a university freshman?

“It’s the principle,” you say, not really knowing what you mean by it either. Because you are wearing it. Just not on your finger. It hangs around your neck, hidden underneath your blouse. But Jake didn’t have to know that.

You would rather die than give anyone the satisfaction of knowing you were smitten with this man. Soft, but only for him. Your biggest weakness.

“So are we always just gonna be a secret?” he sighs. You turn to face him, but you keep it pushing. It’s too much to explain right now. Or ever.

“Come on,” you insist. “We need to get to the orientation.”

–

Indeed, it wasn’t high school anymore. Because everywhere you turn, Jake’s name is being brought up.

“The hot guy on the football team—”

“He set the curve on the first exam and proved Professor Kim wrong on the board—”

“I saw him help a grandma cross the street. Soooo dreamy—”

It was enough to almost make you pull your hair out of your head. This was Jake they were talking about! The guy who was too shy to ask for no pickles in his damn burgers, who used to let Sunghoon copy off his homework and then rewrote his own just to make sure the teachers wouldn’t catch on. This was your Jake.

You take a moment to breathe.

You sound crazy. Deranged, even. It shouldn’t even matter. Jake was always good-looking! People just never noticed or took the time to appreciate him outside of his ability to decode the most difficult of physics equations.

“A couple of guys from the team think I’d look good with a sweatband,” he says, showing you a photo during a late-night walk. He’s shoving his phone screen to your face, and you pout at the sight. His hair pushed back, forehead glistening. A perfect view of his beautiful, dark eyes. 

“Nah,” you say dismissively, trying to push down the fluttering in your heart. He tilts his head, staring at the photo once more.

“Really?” he mutters. “I thought it looked pretty good.”

“Do you really wanna look like Jay in junior year? He’s gonna tell you that you copied him.”

He gives a small sound of acknowledgement. You could tell he’s taking your comment seriously, like you said something truly eye-opening.

“You’re right,” he nods. “Then, how do you feel about a lip piercing?”

Your brows furrow at the thought of metal against his pouty lips. The way his teeth would tug on it. The effect he would have on all of his newfound admirers…

“Absolutely not!” 

Yeah, you were losing it.

–

No, really, you might actually be going insane.

It was hard enough for you to create genuine friendships at Yonsei, full of stuck-up rich kids who only managed to get in through elite cram schools and expensive tutors. But after a few polite conversations, their masks fell to show their true intentions. You know now that you are being used as a shortcut to get on Jake’s radar. 

Because why do people you’ve never met before suddenly feel comfortable enough to ask you to introduce them to him? Why do they request to follow you on Instagram only so they can find his account more easily? And what pisses you off most—the question they always ask, without fail: “Is he single?”

And you know there's a quick answer you can give. A very simple solution to your eye-twitching problem. Because every time someone high-fives him in the corridors or bats their eyelashes flirtatiously in his direction, you have the overwhelming urge to just pounce on him. To wrap your arms around his middle and never let him leave your sight. 

But you can’t. Your pride is too big, your ego too fragile to admit that someone actually managed to slip past the cold exteriors of your heart. So instead, you're waiting impatiently for him to reply to your text.

He's not at practice. He's supposed to be on his way. So where the hell was he?

jake: sorry! study group went for a lil bit longer than I thought. everyone kept asking me for help haha. omw!

And then he sends a photo. It's a group selfie, with him in the middle. Three girls on his right and another two on his left, surrounding him like a piece of meat.

you: dont bother coming. im sick.

With envy, maybe. But you're perfectly healthy.

jake: im sorry babe :( you feeling okay? want me to get you anything from the store?

you: Nah.

You almost scream. There's so much you want to say and admit, but your fingers won’t type any of it. You really don't deserve him. He's so nice, and you're so… Fuck.

Why is it so hard to admit to your own boyfriend that you miss him?!

jake: ok :( I love you!

Your stomach flips.

Haha… You needed professional help. Really.

–

Jake was better at football than the bench in high school ever suggested. Senior hierarchy was everything at Yonsei. A starter as a freshman was practically unheard of before Jake. How he managed to level up from being a designated benchwarmer to being on the field at all times felt like whiplash.

Did he just have this in him this whole time?

I mean, you guess he looked kind of cool out there, all sweaty and serious-looking. Shouting call-outs to his team mid-game. Your legs squirm at the sight. He really needs to put on his damn glasses. (Though knowing you, that might only make things worse.)

You sit there, wearing the university colors of white and blue, holding onto a sign that says “Go Team!”

You would have made something with his name on it, but the thought alone sends shivers down your spine. You could not bear to give the stupid boys beside you the ammo of watching you scream Jake’s name and go crazy over his goals. So instead, you silently watch and admire as he steals the ball yet again.

Jay and Sunghoon, decked out in the rival school’s signature red for no reason whatsoever (they don’t even attend that university either), stood on either side of you with a level of passion you’ve never seen from them before.

“GET HIS ASS!” Jay screams. “Play the mental game! When Player 15 cries, he calls his mom first—”

Player 15 would happen to be Jake.

“The guy with ‘Sim’ in the back of his jersey loves to sing Celine Dion in the shower—”

You groan as heads turn, not enjoying the various glares and snide remarks from your surrounding schoolmates. You still haven't made any substantial friends yet at university. Being associated with these bozos would only make it that much harder. This would be the last time you sneak them into the student section. 

“Can you two please sit down?” you mutter. “We’re ahead by like four goals. Psychological warfare is not enough for Jake to lose.”

Sunghoon drops back into his seat with a huff, cracking his neck.

“This won’t do,” he mutters. “Jake’s gonna surpass me in Instagram followers if he wins this.”

Jay chuckles on your left side, still standing and selfishly blocking the view of everyone behind him. “If he wins, you think he’ll invite us to their celebration party after?”

Your brows furrow. “What party?”

Jay finally sits down when the opposing team calls a time-out, one eyebrow raised at your confused expression. “Isn’t that like a thing every school does? First big game of the year, there’s bound to be something.”

Sunghoon nods in agreement. “Yeah, that’s like common knowledge.”

You almost pout before catching yourself. Jake never mentioned anything about a party. 

So when the game ended and, of course, Yonsei won, the two boys could not help but ask. 

“So there’s a party, right?”

“And you’re taking us?”

Jake looks between the two of them, forehead glistening and hair damp with sweat.

“What party?” he asks, and you smile gingerly. That’s right! You weren’t crazy. He would’ve told you if there was—

“You have to go to the party, Jakey!” a voice chirps from behind you.

You recognize her. The team manager of the football team. Short hair and a cute button nose. Very pretty. Your eyes cut between Jake and her. Wait.

Jakey? Who the hell calls him that?

Jay and Sunghoon give each other some shifty glances and step aside, letting the girl join the conversation. You feel this weird inclination to move closer to Jake, but you suppress the urge. 

“Hm?” Jake finally replies, confused more than ever. “No one told me about a party.”

The girl giggles. What even was her name?

“Oh, Jakey! Since you’re a freshman, I’ll give you the rundown.” 

She scooches in between you two, pushing you slightly to the side. The boys don’t seem to notice, and you have half your sense not to shove the girl right back.

“Whenever we win,” she starts, “the whole school goes to En Bar nearby and takes it over! Free drinks and everything. You’re our star player, so you definitely can’t miss it. Your friends are invited too, of course.”

She looks between Jay and Sunghoon, not even sparing you a glance.

Jake scratches the nape of his neck. “Sorry, I’m actually feeling pretty tired—” 

“We’ll be there!” Jay and Sunghoon say instantly. You raise your eyebrow at them, and the two brush it off.

“We’ll make sure he comes,” Jay laughs, slapping Jake hard on the shoulder. Having gotten hit by the ball in that exact spot just an hour before, he winces.

“I’m not really—”

“Great!” the girl smiles, clapping her hands together. “I’ll see you all there then?” 

Of course, her back is fully turned towards you. Dumb and dumber nod in unison, and as the girl walks off, they push at each other excitedly.

“First college party,” they cry out in joy.

“Oh my god,” you mutter. “You two are pathetic.”

Jake nods slowly in agreement. “Well… you guys have fun. I think I’m just gonna head back to my dorm and shower…”

“And get ready, right?” Sunghoon says dangerously, wagging a finger at him. “Because you are coming, right?”

Jake shivers under his friends’ threatening glares. But what really scares him is when his eyes find yours. You look pissed. Fuck. What did he do this time?

“I mean… I guess I could pop in…” Jake says reluctantly. He sneaks in another glance in your direction and sees that your frown grows even deeper. Was that the wrong thing to say?

“Babe?” Jake calls after you as you stride across campus, shivering in your t-shirt and mini skirt. “Why are you walking so fast?”

It’s dark now, save for the dim street lamps. You stop abruptly, and he almost bumps into you. When you turn, your jaw is already clenched.

“Am I crazy, or did that girl just completely ignore me?” you ask genuinely, voice at the seams of losing composure. Because what the fuck was her problem?

Jake laughs nervously. “Choa? I thought she seemed pretty friendly?”

Your expression sours. “Yeah, maybe a little too friendly,” you say under your breath. Jake catches it.

“Wait,” he says with a shit-eating grin, leaning in. “Babe… are you jealous? Hm?”

Your cheeks heat up, arms crossing like a toddler. “Fuck off.”

He laughs now, twisting you around and guiding you forward with an arm around your shoulder. “You’ve got nothing to worry about, babeeee…”

He notices how you don’t pull away from his touch, when normally you would hiss something like, “people are watching,” or something like that. Jake bites back an even bigger smile. You just let him hold you.

The walk to his dorm was peachy for him, save for the fact that his sweaty arm stank up your shirt.

You! Jealous. This has to be a dream. When you reach his room, shared with a sophomore named Heeseung who never seems to be around, you sit on Jake’s bed, still reeling from the earlier interaction.

“Am I overreacting?” you ask him, not at all bothered that he was taking his jersey off. You’re well past the stage of pretending his bare torso flusters you. “Like… did it not seem like she wanted you?”

Jake laughs, wiping his underarms with a nearby towel. “Me? Babe, no. That’s out of the question. She's like four years older than us—”

You roll your eyes. “So where the fuck did ‘Jakey’ come from?”

He shrugs, catching his reflection in the wall mirror hanging on his door. His muscles flex in a way that makes your eyes travel down his well-toned back…

You snap your gaze back to the wall. No. Focus. You’re supposed to be mad.

“New year, new nickname?” he offers, teasingly.

You throw a pillow at his head. Like the athlete he is, Jake dodges it. He turns to you, laughing, amused by how sulky and adorable you look on his bed. Brows furrowed in contemplation, tugging your legs close to your chest. Your plush thighs in your pretty little skirt that would have gotten you dress-coded back in high school with your knee-high socks and…

Fuck. 

“It’s not like I care,” you mumble, unconvincingly. 

Jake huffs out something that sounds like a chuckle, but his thoughts are elsewhere. His mind (and eyes) are on the edge of your skirt. He places a hand on your thigh and rubs it softly. To you, it felt like reassurance, and it was. But he was also incredibly horny.

“Babe,” his words drawl. “Look at me.”

Your eyes meet his for a split second before he plants a wet kiss on your cheek. “Hey—”

He chuckles as he plants another on your nose. Then your chin. And then your other cheek. And now you’re trying to push him away, but he holds your wrists to prevent you from stopping his incessant attacks. 

“Jake—You stink—Freak!” You try to say as his lips find yours, while he’s giggling up a storm. So cute. You're so fucking cute. 

His next kiss is deep, drawing out your breath sharply. Your back is on the bed now with Jake on top, his hands still wrapped around your wrists.

Jake’s lips move against yours, your eyes fluttering shut. His tongue prods and pushes in, his taste so sweet and heavy as you breathe in his weirdly intoxicating scent. Like fresh laundry doused in the salt of his sweat. You clench his biceps as he comes up from the kiss to catch some air.

He looks at you, face flushed and mouth parted. 

“I’m hard,” he blurts out, and you smack him on his naked chest.

“What do you want me to do about that?” you mutter as you start to feel him press against your stomach. “Don’t you have a party to go to?”

He shakes his head, burying his face in your hair. He lets out a groan, grinding onto you just to feel any part of you against his football shorts. You let out a squeak, clenching at his toned muscles harder.

“You’re not coming with?” he asks, and you can hear the shakiness in his breath. You smirk, wrapping your legs around him and shifting up so that his tent could meet your core. Jake fit between you so snugly.

His head lifts to meet yours, pupils already so dilated.

“Why would I?” you say through hooded eyes, and you could visibly see him gulp. It almost makes you laugh. But instead, you tease him, moving your hips up to graze his bulge. 

“I have time,” he groans quickly. “For this. Or whatever you want to do. Like I’m really down for any—”

You roll your eyes, gripping the back of his head to smash him back down to your lips. Your movements are messy, tongues clashing at a feverish pace. He’s still sore from earlier, but like hell he would let this opportunity go. Not when you looked this fucking good. And angry too. (For him, these things aren’t mutually exclusive...)

With trembling fingers, he lifts your shirt and almost moans at the sight of your bare skin. While he wants to thank you for saving him the trouble of not fiddling with a bra clasp, you pat yourself on the back for leaving your necklace at home.

Knowing how frisky Jake gets after the adrenaline of a good win runs through him, it was the right call. You don’t think you could handle Jake seeing you so jealous while having his ring resting on your chest. Yeah, you’d probably die right in front of him.

His hands grab your tits softly, massaging them between his fingers. Jake dips down, swallowing a nipple in his mouth as he watches you sigh out in pleasure.

He’s confident in one thing when it comes to you, and it was this right here. He could make your tough exterior melt just as long as you were under him. Or over him. He has no preference.

His tongue circles your bud, tugging with his teeth lightly. 

“Jake—” When he hears you squeak, his dick twitches with anticipation. So pliant now. What happened to that dominance earlier? He’d like to see it come back…

He moves on to the other breast, licking and massaging so it doesn't feel too neglected. Jake loves your tits, could be buried between them for the rest of his life if you let him. But now isn't the time! He has a very mean and very jealous, but also very hot, girlfriend to please. And maybe some party to make it to, who knows.

Jake pulls his shorts down roughly, just enough so that he can take his dick out. Already so big, the bulbous tip weeps with desire for you. He’s palming himself, relishing in how your eyes shut tight, lips parted open as his wet, pink muscle traces circles over your sensitive skin.

He’s nipping the top of your breasts now, careful not to leave marks in visible areas. Jake knows how you get about that sort of thing. 

His fingers drag your white, damp panties off your legs, but keeps your skirt on. And the knee-high socks for good measure. His hand meets your core, pushing down on your clit with a heavy pressure he knows you like.

You gasp, covering your eyes with your forearm. You’re so embarrassed. The noises you're making are unbecoming of you. All he does is laugh. Still so sensitive during sex after a whole year of dating. And he’s supposed to be the shy one.

His fingers drag slowly on your folds as he spreads your juices all over his digits. Jake might just cum in his pants with how soft your tits feel as he nestles his head in between them. 

He pushes two fingers in right away, and you draw out a sharp breath. You almost hit him on the shoulder. He has no idea how big his hands are. How sometimes you would eye them whenever he helps you with homework. Veiny, like his cock.

He’s moving his fingers in and out of you at a steady pace, wet squelches echoing through the room. 

“Ngh—Mmm—” you groan, arching your back to meet his movements. Impatient. You’re always so impatient.

“JAKE!” you cry out, when he rubs over a certain spot.

He looks up at you from his comfortable position between the valley of your chest, and with a teasing glint in his eyes, he says, “You mean Jakey?”

And it’s not an exaggeration in the least to say that you start seeing red. You grab his wrist, the pads of your fingers digging into his flesh. He stops his movements, looking at you with those puppy-dog eyes like he did something wrong. And he did. Something very. Very. Wrong.

“Sorry, I just wanted to tease—”

You pull his fingers out of you. With one swift movement, you grab him by his shoulders and push him down onto the bed. You’re hovering over him now, eyes dark.

Jake swallows nervously. Why’d you have to look so hot when provoked?

“Did I ruin the vibe or…”

“Shut up,” you growl, crashing your lips onto his. He tries to hold your waist to offer support, but you hold his wrists down onto the sheets. He could probably push you off very easily. But he doesn’t. Because he loves seeing you like this. Loves the urgency in your touch.

You want him! And you’re showing it! His heart is practically doing backflips in his chest.

Your tongue explores the inside of Jake’s mouth, licking the roof of it in a way that has him seeing stars. You’re so rough with it. Sucking on his, biting his lip, moving so desperately against him.

“Babe—” he tries to say in between your assaults on his mouth. But it comes out in a breathless whisper when he feels you grinding your slick pussy against him.

“I said,” you say through gritted teeth. “Shut. Up.”

He almost moans when his leaking tip hits your clit. Just the contact alone has the back of his head hitting the pillow roughly. But he forces himself to watch as you move against him as he offers no assistance. Your grip on his wrists moves to the sheets as you focus on grinding against his dick. Swiveling yourself on him back and forth. Rubbing and rubbing. But it’s not enough. He needs to be inside. Needs to feel you right now.

Your breath is on his neck now, riling yourself up at his stunt. Jakey? What grown woman calls someone that? Choa and her nice ass bob... Fuck her!

“Ngh—” he lets out as you suction an erogenous zone on his neck, sucking and biting him like a vampire. Your tongue lapping at his skin to soothe him from the brutal assaults of your teeth. You close your eyes to relish in his taste. So salty from sweat, but still so sweet. But you’re distracted now as Jake breaks free from your hold. He grips your ass with one hand, the other guiding his pulsing member to your slippery entrance.

“Wha—” 

He’s looking at you with pleading eyes. “Can I, baby?” Jake begs, cheeks tinged pink. “Please?”

You bite back a smile. What a fucking loser.

You push down on him, just slightly, just enough for his bulbous tip to slip inside. His grip on your ass is now slack. He doesn't even want to fight back, really.

“Fuck—” Jake’s mouth parts open, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes when you come back up. No longer inside you, he groans.

“Whyyy,” he whines. “I said I’m sorry—”

He inhales a sharp breath when you engulf his tip again, tightening around him just a little harder. 

“Do you like being called Jakey?” you question darkly. “Like it when other girls feel up on you?”

He shakes his head desperately. “No—Only you—” he says through pained groans.

And then you lift again, laughing at his pathetic form. “I don’t believe you.”

He’s practically writhing underneath you now, his mushroom tip pulsing against your folds. Your skirt hides it all from view, and he just wishes he could rip it off you. Give you a new one, much, much shorter, so he can see everything better. 

But only if you let him.

“You’re literally torturing me,” he whimpers, hips jutting up messily. He keeps missing your entrance, the one he desperately needs to be buried in. “Need to feel you right now—”

“What’s it to me?” you ask meanly, your thumb prodding at his bottom lip. His tongue comes out to lick at the pad of your thumb, sucking it ever-so-slightly. You enjoy this view. Him underneath you. Pleading. Whining. Like he's starving. 

“I’ll make you feel so good, baby,” Jake offers through the haziness of his lust. Not entirely conscious of how desperate he sounds. “You can use me however you want. I’ll literally do anything. Just please—”

And then you sink, so slowly that his eyes roll to the back of his head. The devil. His girlfriend is the devil.

“Babe—” You shut him up with another open-mouthed kiss. Messy, just how he likes it.

He grips his hands into yours as you suckle his tongue, intertwining your fingers together. You try not to wince as you sheath him fully, realizing now that you were overconfident in taking control before he could properly prep you.

Usually, sex was an hours-long ordeal with Jake. He likes to finger you, then eat you out, then repeat, until he can slip into your slick warmth with little issue. Sex is the only time you don’t deny him the pleasure of seeing you flustered over him. Over what he could do for you. What he could provide you if you let him tell everyone in the world that he’s yours. 

Regardless, Jake will always be long and thick, and he still stretches you out so deliciously. Your mouths clash against each other, swallowing back both of your moans as saliva pools at the sides of his bruised lips.

Depraved. That’s all you could think of when Jake bottoms out inside you. He’s so sweaty now, the scent so musky that it drives you insane. Do other girls smell these pheromones when he’s around? Or is this just you and your hypersensitivity to everything that involves him?

You’re moving up and down now, with shallow thrusts that do little to satiate the flame in your stomach. You don’t do this enough—take control enough. Your knees are already weak, wobbling, as you grind down on him.

But you push through it as you continue to impale yourself on his cock, gummy walls clenching him tightly with each thrust. You want to get him off like this, even if your whole body is trembling above him. 

And it’s not like Jake doesn’t notice. But like the little shit he is, he doesn’t feel like helping. Because he enjoys the feeling too much, of your breasts bouncing filthily against his chest. When you lift yourself from his lips so that you can focus on riding him, he finds it so endearing. How you put your hands on his abdomen to steady yourself, how you fuck yourself on his length. How much you struggle to take all of him in. Not sure what to do with yourself.

‘My poor baby,’ Jake thinks, chuckling at how tight your eyes shut just to feel him better. 

“Need help?” he hums, his hand drawing circles on your hip. You shake your head, teeth gritted.

“N-no,” you try to muster out, but it’s unconvincing. Your movements are stuttering, moans slipping out of your mouth too easily. He smirks. His little pillow princess. 

Jake, with his grip on your hips, pulls you down onto his cock. Hard. You gasp as his hips snap up with it.

“Ah—” you cry out, your nails now digging into his shoulder blades. He pounds into a spot that had you almost come undone at that very moment. How did he get so good at this?

Jake lifts you, all the way until his pink tip is the only thing in your wet pussy. Then, as harshly as he could, he pushes you down on him, his thickness grazing at your deepest parts. And he does this again and again until you collapse onto his chest from the roughness of his thrusts.

“I’m gonna—Ngh—Fuck—You—” you try to say through your moans, try to sound angry. But you love it. Love how tight he grabs your bum. Love the slight stretch of pain as he stuffs you full of him. Love that trickle of spit that falls out of his mouth as his back lifts off the bed to feel you better. Ugh, you hate him.

“JAKE—”

“Shhh, baby, ” he whispers, forcing your face into the crook of his neck. “Just take it.”

Jake plunges up into you, propelling your hips down with his harsh grip. He lifts a heavy hand, smacking your ass from behind as you try to match his timing. You scream. He does it again, massaging the tender spot. The pain mixes with the pleasure, as tears prick the corner of your eyes. You feel your climax building now as your lips find his neck again, sucking and biting. Marking him. Let everyone know that he’s yours. That you own him.

“Babe…” he whines, too lost in the suctioning of your tightness to really care. Because he’s close too. So fucking close. 

Jake’s arms move up to your back, caging you into a bear-like embrace. His feet plant themselves on the bed, as his dick shoves into you with newfound energy. He’s going so fast, you could practically hear the speed. Feel it too. The wet squelches of his balls slapping against your ass. You move with him, trying to sync your rhythm to his.

“Mmm—Ahh—” your moans jumble into each other. Your legs are trembling, even more than they were before. A searing feeling within you continues to build and build. A single, full thrust from him has you biting into his neck brutally, stifling your moans as your orgasm crashes through you in waves. 

“Shit—” he cries out, from both the pain of your teeth and the pleasure of your cunt's constricting grip. You grind down on him, whimpering into his skin, back arched to ease yourself through the sensitivity.

Jake’s dick twitches in you once, then twice. He pushes you off of him and onto the bed, harsher than he intended. But he doesn’t have a condom on, and... he likes the way you look in white.

He hovers over you now, his painfully hard length in his hand. He’s stroking himself with urgency, fist wrapped around himself with a panicked grip. He’s watching you intently as you splay out underneath him. So fucking pretty for him. Lips bruised and bitten so sensually. Legs opened with your juices glistening on the inside of your thighs. Maybe he should stuff his cock into your—

“Fuck—” he groans, mouth parting at the sight of his thick ropes of cum spurting out of him, coating your stomach and tits. He strokes slowly, pumping all that he’s worth onto your body. You welcome it, eyes drinking in his flushed demeanor.

“I love you,” Jake mutters as he comes down from his high. And you don’t say anything back, distracted as your fingers coat themselves on the sticky fluids on your skin. Such a mess, both of you.

You hear it then. Intense vibrations on his nightstand. Jake’s phone, very much neglected, is blowing up with texts and calls. Was it going off like that the whole time? Then his eyes go wide like saucers.

“Shit! The party—” 

Your eyes narrow. Before he can pick it up, you grab the nape of his neck to pull him down into another sloppy kiss. Your legs wrap around Jake once more, smirking as you feel him melt into you with little resistance.

“What party?”

morning after.

“You’re a bitchhhh,” Sunghoon cries out, over a FaceTime call that Jake was forced to pick up at nine in the morning. You were already gone by then, running late to your morning lecture. 

Heeseung, thankfully, still hadn’t returned to the dorm. Or else you wouldn’t have been able to stay over and let Jake devour you a few more times, but that’s besides the point. He starts humming happily to himself with the memories of last night still fresh in his mind.

“They wouldn’t even let me into the bar because I was wearing the wrong colors,” his friend continues to complain.

“I get it, I get it,” Jake replies, only half-listening. He’s fixing his outfit in the mirror, admiring how well a polo shirt fits him. It’s weird. He’s getting used to not looking like a dweeb all the time, just a few weeks into his big transformation, even with his glasses on right now.

“Yo, do you think these pants look better with a belt or nah?” he asks, not really sparing Sunghoon a glance. He adjusts his shirt’s collar slightly until—

“WHAT THE FUCK—”

Jake jumps, phone nearly dropping from the desk he sat it on.

“WHAT IS THAT?!”

“What? What?!” Jake snaps his head to look behind himself, like Sunghoon might have seen a ghost.

“Did you get eaten by a fucking lion?!” Sunghoon gawks. Jake’s cheeks turned a bright shade of red.

Damn, he forgot.

“W-what are you talking about?” he mutters unconvincingly, slowly coming out of frame. He strips the polo off in a panic, digging through his closet until he finds a turtleneck. It’s autumn anyway. This is fine, right?

“Our friendship is done,” Sunghoon deadpans at the camera. “You got fucking laid and didn’t tell me?! I mean, I understand Jay, he’d make it weird. BUT NOT EVEN ME?!”

Jake shakes his head, tugging the turtleneck on. He tries to roll up his sleeves to look more casual, but now he looks like Steve Jobs. Shit. He should put his contacts on.

“So who is it?!” Sunghoon presses. “Who’s the unlucky girl?” 

 When Jake doesn’t reply, Sunghoon gasps.

“Unlucky guy?!”

“Man, shut up!” Jake cries, snatching his phone off the desk and coming back into frame. “Please don’t tell Jay.”

–

“Okay, so he told Jay,” he blurts, shielding himself with his arm like you’re about to hit him. “Please don’t get mad at me.”

You almost asked why he was wearing a turtleneck in relatively warm weather when he tugged the collar down to show his neck. Absolutely purple and bruised. And yes. Maybe a dark, suppressed part of you jumped with glee. But the more rational part started cursing yourself out.

“I can’t believe you’d video call him the morning after,” you groan, massaging your temple with your fingers. “Ugh, I’m so stupid. What was I even thinking?!”

Jake gives you a sly smile. “I mean, I’m not complaining—”

You shoot him another icy stare, and he stops. 

“W-well, it’s not like they know that it’s you! They probably think it’s someone else…”

You inhale a sharp breath at the thought. Was he gonna tell them the hickeys on his neck were from someone else? Who? Choa?

“Whatever,” you mutter, whipping around as your bag purposely smacked his bicep. You walk off, fists clenched, ignoring Jake’s calls out to you. 

Fucking Choa.

–

A full week has passed since the disaster that was Sunghoon seeing Jake’s bruised neck. Your boyfriend only felt safe enough to see the two idiots once the marks faded, and even then, he was a little disappointed to wake up and see them all gone. 

“So run it through with me again,” Jay requests, leaning over the boiling hot pot broth. The boys sit in a dimly lit restaurant with a stage in the back. 

“Like, you were just walking back to your dorm and boom—you found a rando to hook up with out of nowhere?!” Jay questions, dropping tofu into the soup so aggressively that it splashes Jake’s wrist.

“Why are you making up fantasies in your head about my sex life?” Jake mutters, pushing his glasses up his face. He was too lazy to put his contacts on just to hang out with these two. “I plead the fifth.”

“Bro, I thought you were a virgin this whole time!” Sunghoon adds unhelpfully. “Excuse us for trying to be supportive.”

Jake rolls his eyes, struggling to grab an udon noodle with his chopsticks.

“Wait,” Jay says through the hot pot steam. “Weren’t you walking with [Y/N] that night?”

Jake gulps, throat bobbing as he fiddles with the noodle more to avoid suspicion.

“Right!” Sunghoon snaps his fingers, and for a second, Jake’s life flashes before his eyes. They know. They have to! Fuck, you’re gonna be so mad at him—

“Why don’t we just ask her who it was?”

Jake stares at them and breaks out into a nervous laugh. Never in his life was he happier to have a more idiotic set of childhood friends.

“Please do,” Jake smiles, wondering how you would weasel out of that conversation with them. “She knows her very well…”

A piercing sound of microphone feedback ricochets through the restaurant. The three cover their ears as everyone’s attention turns to the neglected stage.

“Who wants to sing?! It's open mic night!” the restaurant owner booms. When a deafening silence fills the air, Jay lifts Jake’s hand straight into the air without hesitation.

“This guy loves Celine Dion!” he cries out as Jake tries to yank his arm back down. He curses at his friend, but to no avail.

“Okay!” the owner shouts excitedly. “Come on right up, sir!” 

Jay and Sunghoon practically drag Jake up the stage, laughing themselves all the way back to their seats in the far back of the restaurant. Jake stands frozen as dozens of strangers stare at him, his heartbeat thudding in his ears. He takes off his glasses, shoving them in his pocket, and brushes his hair back. He couldn't bear to look at all these blank faces staring at him. Confidence. This is all about confidence.

When ‘My Heart Will Go On' starts echoing through the restaurant walls, Jake’s face flushes all the way red. This is exposure therapy; he tries to cope with himself. If he could do this, he could probably build up the courage to ask you about going public. So that his friends stop thinking he’s a loser. Maybe for you to stop thinking it, too.

He sucks in a deep breath. What’s the difference between this and a showerhead? Nothing. Absolutely nothing!

“Every night in my dreams, I see youuuu… I feel youuu…” he starts slowly, welcomed with a soft gasp from an audience member. Jay and Sunghoon’s laughter dies as Jake sings. Shit. He was actually doing it. And he sounded good, too. Like an angel. Was Jay crying?

Jake loses himself in the slow melody of the song, singing his heart out as he does in every postgame shower. ‘This one’s for you, babe,’ he thinks. Wherever you are… 

When the song ends and Jake’s eyes open, he’s met with a standing ovation. At a damn hot pot restaurant. Jay and Sunghoon are cheering the loudest, holding their hearts like their once-nerdy best friend was their child at a talent show. The owner comes up to the stage, sniffling.

“Give it up for this random kid!”

As Jake makes his way back to the table, he holds his head up high. He couldn’t have imagined doing this a year before, let alone ordering food at a kiosk without stuttering. It’s like taking off his glasses gave him super powers.

“Excuse me—” Jake turns around. A girl with long flowing hair stops him. 

“Are you Jake Sim? The freshman on the football team?” she asks, eyes bright. He nods. Does he know her?

“I’m Suji from the Dance department.” She bows slightly. “Your performance was incredible, by the way!” 

He nods, giving a small “thanks,” before he turns back around.

“Actually!” She calls after him. He stops again. “I just wanted to ask if you were interested in auditioning to be the male lead of our upcoming musical! It’s about a football player who finds passion in singing and dancing. I just thought it would fit you so well!”

Jake turns back to face the stranger. He ponders deeply. A musical? Him? He’d never thought about it before, but what the hell! He guesses he’s the type to try new things now. The power of a good haircut, maybe.

“I’ll think about it,” he says with a polite smile. 

Suji grins back. “Auditions start tomorrow. We’d love to have you.”

By the time Jake finds his way back to his seat, his friends are already geeking.

“You pulled another?!” Jay cries in anguish, biting his fist. “I should have gone up there. That should have been me! Damn it!”

“It’s not fair,” Sunghoon wails, leaning his head dramatically against the wall. “You had no play in high school. Like absolutely zero bitches—”

Jake snorts, scrounging for his glasses once more to slip them back on. “She was just asking me to audition for some musical.”

“I’m sure she was,” Jay says with a smirk. “I’m sure she’s staring straight at your back right now because she wants you in that musical soooo bad.”

Jake shifts in his chair uncomfortably, and sure enough, Suji is watching him. She shoots up her arm to wave. He looks back at his friends with a confused glance.

“Maybe they’re desperate?”

Sunghoon groans. “I’m gonna call [Y/N]. Let’s get her expertise on this.”

“Don’t!” Jake lunges, trying to grab Sunghoon’s phone as he takes it out of his pocket. But then flashes from that night start playing in his head. You above him. Riding him. Gripping his shoulders. Your lips on his neck, marking him until he whined and begged. All at the mere mention of Choa’s weird pet name for him. Jake clears his throat and sits back, not even trying to hide the shit-eating grin spreading across his face.

“...Yeah,” he says more casually. “Ask her.”

–

ma baby: Come over. Now.

Jake receives your text after Sunghoon’s impromptu call, bringing his hands together in a prayer position to the sky. Thank you to whatever higher being was watching over him.

When he reaches your residence hall, you’re waiting outside your door in pajamas, foot tapping impatiently against the carpet. You start glaring at his silhouette even before he comes into view. 

“So,” you start slowly, “you just let anyone talk to you these days?”

Jake’s already giddy. Yes… Be angry with him… Let him in your dorm room and reprimand him, while you’re at it…

“Babeeee,” he teases, his arms already reaching for yours. You dodge him. “Are you mad at me?”

“No,” you reply flatly. “I’m just wondering when you started serenading restaurants and accepting invitations from random girls?”

“Just thought I could finally get some appreciation for my many talents,” he says teasingly, raising an eyebrow at you. 

“Are you saying I don’t appreciate you?” you ask, not at all amused by his playful gaze. “I tell you all the time that you’re smart!”

He chuckles. “Everyone and your mom knows that by now, babe.”

You narrow your eyes. ‘He’s learning how to fight back,’ you think sourly. 

“So you enjoyed that girl's appreciation, then?” you counter, knowing that you were riling yourself up by asking such a loaded question. Jake bites his lip to stifle a smile. There it is. 

He shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, pushing his glasses up. “I think I might actually consider auditioning!”

And this part is genuine. He’s always enjoyed singing. It could be a cool new experience, especially since he shied away from doing theater back in high school. Maybe now was his moment to shine... But when he notices how your expression darkens, he’s suddenly excited to audition for the musical for a whole different reason.

You look around the hallway, checking to see if anyone's coming by. Then you pull him by the collar and into your dorm room. The door shuts behind you two as you push him to sit on the bed. Jake looks up, eyes bright with pure anticipation as you climb onto his lap.

“What’s up, babe?” he asks, feigning ignorance. And you fall for it. Because your cute, nerdy boyfriend couldn’t possibly have ulterior motives… Right?

“You have class tomorrow?” you ask as you adjust yourself on him, legs encasing both sides of his thighs. His hands find your hips, pulling you closer.

“It depends,” he says, knowing full well he has an 8 a.m. physics lab. “Is your roommate coming back anytime soon?”

Oh yeah. Her. 

“Not tonight,” you mutter, already peppering his neck with small kisses. “She’s visiting her parents.”

Jake smirks, tilting your chin up so your eyes meet his. His thumb brushes over your bottom lip as the wheels are already turning in his head. He fakes a cough.

“You know… I think the musical is actually a romantic comedy.”

You’re on your knees, carpet harshly grazing your skin. 

“Fuck,” Jake groans, head thrown back as his hand clutches your hair. He’s pushing you down onto his cock, relishing in the way your cheeks hollow around him. How you take his whole length into your mouth without your usual snappy commentary. Look at you. Underneath him. So eager to please, but so in need of control. He bites his bottom lip at the view. It's addictive.

“Just like that,” Jake encourages, stroking your cheek so lovingly. Your tongue licks the underside of his thickness, careful not to have your teeth graze his sensitive skin. He’s so flushed above you, a darkness blooming in your heart. The sight of his glasses pushed so low on his nose bridge. So focused, so desperate for release.

‘My Jake,’ you think to yourself. ‘All mine.’

You bob your head up and down, your mouth plunging down to the base of his member with the help of his tight grasp on your hair.

“Y-yes,” he sighs, his hips coming up to meet your lips. Jake’s gaze never leaves yours, unable to tear his eyes from the tears forming in your eyes from just how much he fills you up. You always had something to say. Always rolling your eyes at him. Now, your eyes were rolling back for a different reason.

His mouth falls open. “F-fuck—” 

You smirk as his hips start to lose rhythm. You remember the first time you gave him head. Just like this, knees on the floor of his room back home, with his parents watching TV downstairs. Glasses perched and foggy. He came within seconds. You were proud, just a little, that he was able to last this long now.

“B-babe?” he tries to cry out. “I’m close—”

You pull away from him with a pop of your lips, teasing the slit of his tip with the flat of your tongue. He groans in frustration, but his hands don’t push you down to take him in again.

“Already?” you say, eyes batting up at him. “Why should I give you the satisfaction?” 

He whines, his grip on your hair tightening just a little. 

“Please?” he asks, not really sure what you want from him. It’s not like he asked you to just fuck him with your mouth! That was all your doing. Okay, yes, maybe he did provoke you. But did that mean he didn’t deserve to orgasm?!

You’re pumping him slowly with your right hand, gripping tightly and stroking enough so that he’s still edging close to his climax. But not close enough to actually reach it.

“I thought I was supposed to be showing you appreciation,” you say pointedly. “Take my time with you and all that.”

He shakes his head ferociously, his hips snapping up into your fist. 

“Babe—Please—I’m so—” he groans when he feels you slow your pace again. 

“So what?” you ask, feigning naivety. You really are the devil.

He shakes his head. He can’t speak. Can’t even think. Just frustrated with how your lips aren’t wrapped around his fucking dick anymore.

“I’m sorry,” he cries. “I’ll do anything, baby. Please—Just stop teasing—Please—”

His sobs are music to your ears. Your wrist’s pace on him quickens, as your mouth engulfs his swollen tip. Your tongue circles the head, pumping him up and down with all your strength and might. Jake’s hands are clutching the sheets, hips pistoning up into your sticky fingers. He feels his load threatening to spill over. 

“Fuck—Yes, baby—There—” He pulls your head back, hand encasing yours, pumping ferociously with you. Your mouth is wide open, tongue sticking out, eyes looking directly up at his. An invitation.

Spurts of his hot, white release coat your pink tongue. He unloads everything within him all over your features. Your cheeks. Your chin. Your cute ass nose. All covered in his milky cum. His mouth parts at the sight. So pretty. His girlfriend is so fucking pretty.

“I love you,” he whispers, as he wipes dribbles of his liquid off your chin with his thumb. “I love you so fucking much…”

You hum back in approval as he lifts you back up and onto his lap. Your face, still stained with his orgasm, comes up to kiss him. He grimaces slightly. You taste infinitely better than he does. He’s almost thankful you part ways with his lips so that you could pepper kisses down his neck.

And when you start sucking and nipping in the same way you did that game night, he smiles. His arms wrap around your waist as you suction his pulse point.

‘I could get used to this,’ Jake thinks.

The audition the next day went surprisingly easily. He truly was the only one trying out for the main role, while Suji was already pre-selected to play the female lead. Jake thinks it’s a bit unfair. What if other people wanted to audition too? But whatever. At least he got the part.

He finds you in between your lectures, holding out a boba for you in his hand. Jake’s not wearing a turtleneck this time, proudly wearing the battle scars of your teeth on his neck. No one’s brave enough to bring it up to him yet, to his dismay. Except you, who promptly smacks him in the arm for his shamelessness. 

“You look like a pervert,” you grumble, still taking the drink from him.

He chuckles at your cute expression. You say that like it wasn’t your intention to have him show the bites off. To show that he is very much occupied with someone else. Not Choa. Or whoever this other girl was.

“I was wearing my jacket the whole day,” he reassures. “Just took it off when I came to see you.”

He flexes slightly. “You think I’ve bulked recently?”

You roll your eyes and ignore his obvious fish for compliments. “So how’d it go? The audition?”

He smiles. “You’re looking at the male lead of Singing Striker,” he says proudly, hand to chest. “And before you ask, the name was not my choice.”

You scoff at the cheesiness. “Congrats,” you say through small sips of your gifted drink. “Break a leg.”

“Babe… when you say it like that, I feel like you mean it the other way.”

You shake your head, speaking robotically. “So who’s the female lead? It’s a romcom, you said?”

“The girl,” he starts, snapping his fingers like he doesn’t already know who she is. “Suji. From the restaurant. The one who recruited me.”

Your eyes morph into a squint, like you’re glaring at him. 

“...Interesting,” you say, willing yourself not to overreact. So Jake is hot now (always was). Girls just love to approach him with invitations to stuff. And he gets to act in a musical with someone that Jay described as “the baddest girl I’ve ever seen in my life.” Great! You love that, actually.

You bite down hard on the boba straw. “You know what… Are they casting for extras?"

And it's like a bad habit now. How you nip and scar his neck like you’re feeding off him every time a girl even so much looks in his direction. It’s easier than saying you’re jealous, easier than admitting that you have a sick sort of need to control who Jake interacts with.

You almost bent a metal spoon in the cafeteria when a girl asked for his number while you were sitting right in front of him. Granted, you did denounce being in a relationship with him pretty heavily the first few weeks at school. You knew she had every right to shoot her shot, but that didn't stop you from taking Jake right into a janitorial closet and making you eat him out as an apology.

“Fuck, baby,” he moans into the space between your thighs as your hands push him deeper into your wetness. “I've never even seen that girl in my life—”

You grit your teeth, angry that he even mentioned her.  “Did I ask?” you growl through sharp breaths. “Just shut up.”

He smiles against your clit, sucking harshly to elicit more of your beautiful noises. He hums into you. Happy that you're mad at him. Happy that he gets to do dirty things with you without having to practically be on his knees and begging. Well, really, he already was.

His tongue laps at your folds, thrusting in and out to prolong his stay in between your thighs. Maybe he is teasing, but really, he’s just taking it all in. Your addictive noises. Your sweet taste. The feeling of his fingers digging into your ass just to hold you up. The way you clench around his tongue when he arches it inside, real deep. Yeah, he needs you bad.

Jake is lapping at you, your legs constricting around him even tighter when he finds his way back to your clit. When he tugs on it with his teeth, you jolt.

“Jake—” He does not care. He nips again, flattening his tongue to soothe the slight pinch. You arch your back into him, riding his face until you stop yourself. You look desperate. Pathetic even. But Jake groans.

“Keep going,” he huffs. “Use me, babe. Use me like I’m your fucking toy.”

You tsk, wondering where he learned to talk like that. 

“Fucking pervert,” you mutter through harsh breaths. But your grip on him does tighten, and he whimpers at the feeling of you tugging on his locks.

“You like it when I'm like this, don't you?” You grit your teeth, pushing him in further. His nose is practically buried into your clit as he fucks his pink muscle into you at a merciless pace.

“Like when you get attention. Like when everyone fucking wants you.”

You're seething, practically riling yourself up. He tries to speak, but you clench around his tongue, trapping his voice. He hums into your folds instead, licking the roof of your warm hole as he finds the exact spot he's been searching for. You mewl.

“Fuck! T-there!”

You're grinding onto his face now, smothering him with your scent. Yes, he thinks to himself, please suffocate him. Tremors go through your body as you feel something intense build in the lower pit of your stomach. So close. So fucking close.

Jake’s grip on your ass loosens as he lets you do all the work. Your legs over his shoulder pump furiously into his face. Like, Jake is just a mere vessel for your climax. And he wouldn't have it any other way. He doesn't even nurse his own hard-on, one that's painfully stretching his jeans. 

You're fucking his tongue, whining with each thrust, eyes starting to roll back, fingers almost pulling Jake’s hair from his scalp. Your hips stutter and then—

“Fuuuck…” Your orgasm pulses through you in ways that have you screaming silently. Your legs are trembling as his mouth vibrates with his hums against your core. Jake’s lapping up all your juices with an urgency.

Everything. He wants to taste everything. When you gently push him off from the oversensitivity, he resists at first. He holds you in place until he gets his fill, until tears are threatening to spill over. But your legs finally find the ground as he looks up at you with half-lidded eyes.

“I love you,” he whispers, out of breath. 

‘Whore’ you want to say out loud, but you know that would only make him hornier. He’s weirdly into stuff like that. But you smile as you comb through his hair. He doesn’t have complaints about you messing it all up as long as you’re fucking him, huh?

Jake, still on his knees, looks up at you with a lick of his lips, savoring the remaining taste of you on it. You wish he could see how he looked. Flushed. Damp. Yours. You almost lift him up to kiss him when—Ding.

The loving gaze you two share is cut off by the sound of his phone. He finally gets up from his knees, checking the notification.

“Oh shit,” he mutters. “Suji says I missed the costume fitting. I think I need to head out soon—”

You smash your lips against his, interrupting his train of thought. You moan at the taste of yourself on his devious tongue. Jake smirks, wrapping his arms around your waist. Maybe you could add a few more hickeys to his collection before he heads out... Just for good measure.

jake: let’s go to jay’s together?

For one of your weekly hangouts. The nights you try to avoid because they always end with you ignoring the pile of assignments you’ve already been putting off. 

you: sure. wya rn?

You smack your forehead the second you realize how quickly you sent that text. You swear you weren’t waiting. It wasn’t like you were staring at the last message he sent five hours ago, ruminating over whether it was appropriate to tell him how much you missed him.

jake: meet me by the bleachers :D practice is ending soon.

The speed at which you change outfits is impressive, already heading to the damn field before you realize it. He’s there, dribbling with a couple of his teammates. You sit at the top of the stands, a bit out of his sight. He catches a glimpse of you anyway and waves. You shoot him a simple smile of acknowledgement that dampens almost immediately.

Because you also see Choa, handing him a water bottle. When Jake reaches for it, trying to avoid brushing her hand, she purposefully finds his fingers anyway. It’s enough for your stomach to sink.

Even though he’s just smiling politely. Even when it looks like their conversation lasts for two seconds. It doesn’t feel any less bad. Choa notices you staring, and she scoffs. “This is a closed practice—”

“She’s with me,” Jake corrects her immediately. “I told her to come. That’s okay, right?”

You lift an eyebrow, challenging her. Jake said it the nice way. If she had to hear you speak, you would have probably been escorted off the field by now. She coughs awkwardly and nods, instantly folding under Jake’s attention. Your boyfriend, by the way.

“O-of course,” she stammers. “Just make sure she doesn’t see the playbook.”

The guys continue playing, and you move down a few rows, keeping Choa in your line of sight. It’s like she feels the daggers you send her way because she whips around to glare at you.

“It’s kind of pathetic,” she starts. “How you cling onto him.” You squint at her, not sure if you heard her correctly. You turn around, too, to check if she really had the audacity to speak to a stranger like you in that way.

“You talking to me?” you ask, pointing at yourself mockingly. She clicks her tongue.

“Who else?” she bites back. “Do you even have a name, or do you usually just go by Jake’s guard dog?”

Your cheeks burn in anger. Oh, if you were in high school… She’d have been on the ground by now, makeup stained with turf and pebbles. But unfortunately, you’re trying to stick to your resolution. A reformed delinquent girl at a prestigious university—

“You mute too?” Choa adds in for good measure. You stand, and it’s like Jake’s Spidey senses tingle because he stops to watch, monitoring if he needs to step in.

“You know,” you say, voice cool and devoid of emotion, “you’ve got a lot to say for someone who has to talk like a baby to get a man’s attention.”

She snarls. “Excuse me?”

“Jake’s not gonna let you hit,” you mock, scanning her up and down with a disgusted face. You only say the next part just to piss her off. “You’re not really his type.”

“And you are?” She steps in closer. “You’re stuck in the fucking friendzone, acting like hot shit—”

Oh, if only she knew. The truth is sitting on your tongue, burning, begging to be spoken just so you can wipe that stupid smirk off her face. But you’re not that angry yet. Not enough to expose yourself.

“You seem like such a loser,” she continues, voice laced with malice. “Everyone already thinks you look like some stray puppy following Jake everywhere he goes. Don’t you have a life of your own? Any hobbies? Isn’t it sad showing up where you’re not wanted?”

Ouch. Jake was your puppy. He follows you around everywhere. 

She digs right into that ugly little fear in the back of your mind. That you look as pitiful as you feel. That you truly were just biding your time in this dumb university until Jake showers you with attention. Is this what a relationship’s supposed to feel like? Like you’re waiting for him, all the damn time?

You inhale a deep breath. You’re better than this. Better than catfights over someone that’s already yours. A man who sleeps on your chest almost every night... But you’re not above being petty.

“And did he tell you all that,” you ask with fake sweetness, “or are your delusions that Jake’s gonna fuck you starting to get to your brain?”

She opens her mouth, but you cut her off. “I’ll make sure to put in a good word for you,” you continue, sarcasm dripping in your voice. “Make sure Jakey knows exactly the kind of girl you are.”

Choa bites the inside of her cheek. “Not like I said anything wrong.”

“Oh, right.” You pitch your voice up to that grating baby tone she uses with Jake. “I’m sure he’ll appreciate you calling me a ‘fucking loser,’ since you care so much about what he thinks.”

You could laugh at her suddenly hunched shoulders, but you just drop back down onto your seat, fake scrolling through your phone. “Don’t you have a team to manage?”

Choa whips her bob around, stomping back toward the group and desperately hoping that no one heard. But Jake is already staring. He doesn’t look mad. Just resigned. 

“Choa?” he calls out, voice low and almost inaudible. He’s not smiling like usual.

“Yes?” she answers immediately, with that lilted tone that sounds like nails on a chalkboard. You don’t hear the conversation that takes place, so curious as to why Choa’s expression suddenly drops.

“Don’t ever talk to her like that again,” he says, and the entire team stiffens around them. 

“And next time,” he adds, walking past her, “Just mind your fucking business.”

–

You never, in all your years of living, thought you’d be sitting in an auditorium seat watching your boyfriend act like he was in love with another girl on stage. But here you are, leg bouncing and forearms itching from the irritation bubbling in your chest.

“But don't you get it?!” Jake rehearses, script in hand. His hands flail in fake exasperation. You cover your mouth to hide the wince forming on your lips. “How can I choose between the stage and football?!”

“You don't have to choose,” Suji steps in, acting much better than Jake, at least. “You can do both.”

Jake sighs, throwing his hands up in the air. He's facing her now.

She's pretty, you think. Really pretty. Probably one of the most gorgeous girls you've ever seen in your life. And Jake is staring right into her eyes. You can’t help but wonder if he thinks the same. You grit your teeth at the thought.

“But what would people think of me?” he sighs. Suji shakes her head, moving closer. Your brows knit. That's not part of the script.

“Who cares what other people think?” she says softly, resting her hand on his chest. Your expression darkens immediately. “If it feels like you're alone… Then I can be there to support you.”

Maybe Jake's character should care what other people think, especially if he’s gonna prioritize singing on stage with some pretty girl over his football career—

You slap your own cheek lightly. Relax.

“Cut,” the musical director calls out. “Great job, you two! After this is the dance scene. We can rehearse that tomorrow. I think that's all for the day.”

When the actors and stage crew finally funnel out, you watch Jake stay behind, chatting with his costars onstage. So radiant, smiling at them with his toothy grin and cracking jokes as he says goodbye. He never used to be like that. Used to be so painfully shy that Jay had to accept his academic awards for him in high school.

And yeah, you feel like shit when he's standing there, surrounded by people who have stars in their eyes when he talks, while you're grumpily waiting in a faraway seat with no real excuse to interrupt. You're just part of the stage crew, after all. Just one of the invisible people who move props in between scenes while Jake and Suji’s characters fall deeply in love with each other. Yuck.

But you’re not gonna do the usual thing of dragging him to the nearest secluded area and fucking his brains out. No—you’re better than that. You’re not a loser! You’d let this pass.

“Bye, I’ll catch up with you guys soon! My friend’s waiting for me.”

The word ‘friend’ digs deep into your heart. But that’s your own fault.

Jake walks toward you, and the quick smile he throws your way is cut short the moment he pulls his phone out of his pocket. He stops in front of you, forehead still glistening from the stage lights, eyes glued to the screen even as he talks.

“I have practice in like thirty minutes,” he sighs, scrolling through his calendar. “And then the crew wants to have, like, a group dinner later tonight.”

He cranes his neck to release some tension, finally looking up at you. “Damn. My character is lowkey right. It really is hard balancing the two.”

You roll your eyes and stand up. “The crew? Like Jay and Sunghoon?”

He shakes his head as he walks beside you, still a bit occupied with his phone. He's sending text messages to some massive group chat, text bubble after text bubble popping up.

“The main acting crew,” he says, emphasizing the second word. “I think they wanna run the lines at En Bar and get a couple of drinks.”

You almost stop in your tracks, but you force yourself to continue walking with him, arms crossed. Good for him, you think. And you mean it. He's adjusted so well to university life, while yours feels like it revolves around him.

What's Jake up to? Is his practice done? Who's he talking to? Is it Choa? Is it Suji? Is it every girl that makes eye contact with your newly socially adept boyfriend, who just so happens to have the most gorgeous face known to mankind?

You want to punch yourself real bad.

“Do you wanna come?” he asks when he notices you've fallen silent. He thinks it's cute when you're jealous. Sulking and pouty—when it’s obvious why you’re upset. Not when you're quiet. Not when you're creating distance between you two as he walks beside you.

“I can ask them if we can reserve more chairs—”

“It's fine!” you interrupt, but even you don’t convince yourself. “I have work to catch up on anyway.”

His lips part as if recalling something important, something he promised you. 

“I'm so sorry, babe!” he gasps. “I totally forgot that you needed help studying for your exam tomorrow!”

You shrug your shoulders. You’re a cool girlfriend. Super chill. Not crazy at all.

“No, it's okay,” you say, chain necklace feeling heavy on your chest. “I'll just go to the tutoring center. You're busy, I get it.”

His eyes are still laced with concern. You sound so disconnected, so not yourself. Did he do something wrong?

“I can come over tomorrow?” he suggests, but it almost comes out as a plea. “We can watch the new movie you wanted—”

“My roommate’s gonna be home.”

“Okay…” he says, voice fading. “What about my dorm?”

You shake your head.  “I'm not really up for a movie, I guess.” 

Jake’s expression sours. It feels like you’re shoving sheets of metal down his throat. He can take you angry. Can handle you screaming, kicking, crying, and calling him names. He can’t take whatever this is.

“I can just cancel,” he says quickly. “I’ll come over tonight!”

And Choa’s voice resounds in your ear.

“You seem like a fucking loser.”

You bite your bottom lip and stare at his wavering gaze. You wonder if he pities you. 

Has he noticed? How quickly you reply to his texts? How often you show up to his extracurricular activities? How you can’t seem to admit that you’re hurting, even when he’s right here in front of you? God, you hate this feeling.

“It’s okay,” you say, and it’s small like a whisper. “Need some alone time anyway.”

“Alright,” he breathes, relenting to whatever boundary you’ve set with him. He reaches out to brush a strand of hair from your face, but when you flinch, he retracts his hand instantly.

“I love you?” he tests.

You give him a small smile and nod, pushing past him. He moves like he wants to catch your hand and stop you. But as always, he lets you walk just a little too out of his reach.

Because you still don’t say it back.

–

So this is what it feels like to twiddle your thumbs and try not to scream as Jake misses yet another hangout... He’s busy with his daily practices and rehearsals. You get that. But it’s still physically torturous to sit through Jay and Sunghoon stoking the fires of your insecurities.

“He’s gotta be seeing someone,” Sunghoon sighs, reclining into the beanbag in Jay’s apartment. “Dude just abandons his friends without any pussy involved? There’s no way.”

You smash a throw pillow from the couch and into his face, and Jay throws another one for good measure.

“Why do you always think with your dick?” Jay mutters. “Just let Jake be. This is his moment. Not like he had much to work with in high school.”

Sunghoon sighs. “Yeah,” he mumbles, almost apologetic. “He was pretty lame back then.”

You never thought so. Maybe you joked about it, but you never really meant it. He was kind. A little shy. So eager to please and follow you around. And now that the roles were reversed, you weren’t sure how to feel anymore. Fuck. Why couldn’t you just be happy for him?

He has this amazing life outside of you now. Cool friends (not Jay and Sunghoon). Great prospects for the future. It’s like a bird leaving the nest. Your carefully cultivated nest.

You felt like a cloud raining over his head when you’re around him now. After Choa, you started to notice the whispers around campus a little more. How people avoid him when you’re around because you can’t carry empty conversations about upcoming exam scores the same way Jake can.

It’s just different. He is. And it feels like you are too. But not a good different. It’s the kind that makes you feel like this isn’t how you should be. That you aren’t who you want to be… Maybe Choa was right.

And now a pillow is thrown in your direction. You shoot daggers at Sunghoon with your glare.

“What?!” you yell. He pounces in fear.

“I asked,” he coughs. “Is college treating you okay? You making friends?”

You roll your eyes. “Are you my dad?”

Jay sighs. “We always talk about Jake. Sue us for wanting to know how you’re doing for once.”

The words linger. What are you doing?

–

You’re stewing in it, marinating in how lonely it feels to stand in a corner with the stage crew while Jake, Suji, and the rest of the main cast laugh amongst themselves. Whatever.

“Those two are so cute,” a girl beside you says. Gaeul. So sweet, so bubbly. So oblivious to how tightly you clench your teeth. “They’d be like the it couple on campus, no?”

When you look between Jake and his toothy grin and Suji with her sweet laugh, you can’t help the way your heart constricts. “Yeah,” you mutter in disgruntled agreement. “I guess.”

Jake sends you sneaking glances, ones you don’t notice despite your eyes lingering on him. 

You haven't been the most responsive lately. He texts you a lot in between practices and rehearsals. Whenever he has the chance. He asks to come over. Asks you to come over. And you’ve turned him down almost every time.

You didn’t attend his last two games, you’re skipping rehearsals that you used to sit through for hours, and Jay knows where you're holed up more than he does. He’s worried about you. Worried that you’re avoiding him. Were you avoiding him?

“I heard you two are really good friends,” Gaeul asks you with sparkling eyes. “He seems like such a catch. How’d you not fall in love?”

You shrug. What answer are you supposed to give? It’s not like you were resistant to his charm either. “He went through a transformation recently,” you admit. “We were both kind of outcasts in high school.”

“Me too!” she says excitedly. “I bleached my hair, and everything before uni started. What about you? Were you two like super shy?”

You shake your head. “Jake was. I was just a bad student. Got in trouble a lot. My parents literally laughed when I told them I wanted to go here.”

And your heart thuds in your chest from a memory. Because Jake believed in you. Sat through hours of studying, teaching you the difference between derivatives and whatever the fuck linearization was, just for the chance to attend the same university. So he could spend time with you, so he could be with you. And now you barely see him.

“Really? I’m not surprised, though. You seem like such a chill girl. Like you don’t care what other people think of you.”

“Trust me. I’m far from it.” You catch Jake’s longing gaze again, but you turn away.

“Starting to think it was a mistake joining this thing,” you mumble, “with how often everyone forgets their lines.”

She laughs. “I like how straightforward you are,” she says with a wide smile. “Don’t really mince your words, do you?”

You smile too, in what feels like forever. It felt free to talk about something—anything—outside of him.

“Unfortunately, I don’t know how to hold back what I say.” Which is a lie. Because you hold back a lot. More than you let on. 

“Alright!” the stage manager yells. “Let’s get in position for the final scene.”

The kiss scene. The one you’ve dreaded for so long. You and Gaeul move across the stage, setting up the mics and instruments in their right place. You move past Jake with your head down. He frowns. So you are avoiding him.

“Places, people!”

You watch, from the wings, as Jake pours his heart out into the lyrics. A song about breaking free from stereotypes and whatever other inspirational stuff this whole musical’s about. He’s good. Really good. He moves like a natural on stage, throwing Suji these soft, tender glances that look so painfully real. She glows under the lights, stars in her eyes. And as the song comes to an end, he picks her up to spin her.

Just like the script says. And you clutch your forearm at the sight.

“I feel like I can really be myself with you,” he says to her. “Like I don’t have to hide or pretend.”

Whatever.

“And you make me feel like the luckiest girl in the world.”

The two stare at each other. A pause. Jake leans in. And so does she. Fuck.

You can’t do this. Can’t watch. You turn and walk out the back exit. Your chest is heavy, constricted with that ugly pang of envy.

Fuck this feeling. It hurt. Why did it have to hurt? You hate the tears that well up in your eyes, hate the shivering of your shoulders as you hug yourself in the parking lot of the stupid auditorium. You need to go back in. Save face. Show how little that kiss scene affected you because you’re supposed to be his friend in the eyes of everyone else.

You clutch your necklace through your shirt, fingers twisting the ring. Jake, who loves you. Who desperately wants your relationship to be public, to show you off. The same Jake on stage kissing another girl for a stupid musical you didn’t even want to be a part of.

He doesn’t deserve this. This monstrous version of you, who cares too much but gives too little. Overbearing to the point of suffocation.

So you walk back in, face steeled and tears wiped. He’s talking to the director with Suji, like nothing happened. Like all semblance of your self-esteem wasn’t just ruined a few minutes ago. But you need to stop. Because it isn't his fault. It isn't even Suji’s.

It’s yours. You hurt your own feelings.

Jake sees you and immediately lights up, calling your name as he jogs over. You don’t smile back.

“I have some time after rehearsals,” he says lovingly, his hand tugging your arm. “Wait for me?”

This would be the last time you would.

–

He tries to hold your hand on the walk back home to steady his heart rate. Opening night creeps closer and closer, and preparation alone won’t save him from the nerves. But when you pull away before his fingers can intertwine with yours, he flinches.

Maybe there are too many people around, Jake tells himself. You’re probably worried about being seen. And so he continues his merry yapping. He doesn’t notice the defeated glint in your eyes or the slow steps you take next to his. He’s still riding the high from rehearsal, still proud he finally made it through every line without stuttering or needing the script.

Maybe he’ll do well enough on opening night that you’ll let him kiss you afterward. Maybe you’ll walk toward him with flowers while he wraps you in his arms. He’d spin you around, brag to the whole world that you’re his girlfriend. Say it loud and proud in front of annoying ass Jay and Sunghoon, who got front row seats.

The thought pulls a grin onto Jake’s face, making him skip ahead a little. And you both keep walking toward the dorms. Just like any other day.

Until you ruin it.

“I’m dropping out of the stage crew,” you say, casually. He stops in his tracks. All semblance of a smile wipes from his face. The show is sold out. It’s too late to get you tickets. 

“You won’t be able to watch,” he says, panic laced in his voice. You’re at a standstill, in the middle of campus, surrounded by trees and concrete. “You should’ve told me! I can see if I can pull some strings—”

He’s already taking his phone out to text someone. Probably the director. He doesn’t even ask why. Just goes straight to problem-solving. Your Jake. Too good. Too kind. Too forgiving.

It’s too much.

“I’m not coming to watch,” you say, harsher this time, stopping him from sending the message. Guilt washes over you instantly. Because he looks at you with his brows knit together, eyes wavering.

“I don’t understand.”  You don’t want to come? You don’t want to support him?

Your mouth opens to say something. Anything. But your throat feels hoarse, shoulders too heavy. Shit. Don’t cry. You don’t cry in front of anyone.

“Jake,” you start, clenching your quivering hands open and closed. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His heart drops. 

“Do what anymore?” he swallows, his mouth dry. “I’m confused—”

“I think we need to break up.”

Numb. Everything is numb.

“W-what?” Tears sting Jake’s eyes before he can blink them back. “Don’t… don’t say that.”

You shake your head. “Jake,” you whisper, careful not to get too close. Careful so you don’t make the mistake of taking back your words. “I don’t think we’re good for each other.”

He inches forward. You take a step back.

“Do you think that? That I’m not good enough—”

“No,” you interrupt. But he isn’t listening. And he doesn’t want to. Because this feels like a fucked up joke, a prank on him that’s been taken too far. Won’t you stop?

“Because if it’s something I did, I can change,” he begs. And your heart breaks a little at how desperately he searches for a hint of emotion in your face. But you don’t relent. You can be the bad guy. You always are. 

“Please. We can talk this through.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, an unusual softness in your voice. “I don’t want to change my mind—”

“Why not?!” he asks, voice louder. The quiet that falls between you two is masked by the rustle of surrounding trees, orange and red leaves falling around you two. The cool, autumn air brushes your face. His eyes sting with redness. 

“Why don’t you tell me anything?” His voice cracks. The aching in your heart makes you want to give in, to take it all back. But you aren’t like Jake. You can’t adjust, can’t welcome change so openly. 

So as you look at him with his slicked back hair and sharp features, so different from a year ago, it feels like you've already lost something. The version of yourself who had more to give than hollow excuses and marks left on his skin.

You couldn’t admit to it even now. That you hate who you’ve become. “I’m telling you right now,” you gulp, bracing your own words. “That I want to break up.”

And the first semblance of tears falls down Jake’s cheeks as he lets out a bitter laugh. He doesn’t believe it. Can’t accept it. He won’t let this be the end.

“If it’s because of what Choa said—”

Your brows furrow. “You heard what she said?” 

His hands are in his hair, tugging at it with frustration. You seem angry, but he doesn’t know why. He never does.

“I told her to mind her business,” he explains quickly. “It doesn’t matter what she thinks. So if you’re breaking up with me just because she called you clingy or whatever…”

And he doesn’t know it, but the words trigger something in you. Something you’ve been pushing down over and over again. The feeling of seeming weak, of needing him. The need to monopolize. It sickens you.

“It matters what I think Jake!” you finally burst out. Frustration etched in your voice, shaky from the cold air and your wavering emotions. Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

“All I ever do now is wonder who you’re with, why you’re with them, and I just… I just feel so fucking lonely.”

He reaches for you, but you push him away. Your grievances spill out of you before you can hold them back.

“I’m paranoid of anyone who talks to you. I couldn’t even fucking watch you do that stupid kiss scene,” you continue. 

“We didn’t even kiss!”

“That’s not the fucking point!” you scream, before you can stop yourself. You inhale sharply when he flinches. Calm down. This is not his fault. Why are you getting angry with him?

“I’m sorry,” you mumble, taking one more step back. He holds your wrist gently to keep you in place.

Jake stares at you with his lips parted, stunned. “So why can’t we just go public?” he pleads. “You wouldn’t have to feel this way if—”

“That’s not the issue either,” you scoff, but you can’t even convince yourself. Because isn’t this how it all started? Your unwillingness to be embarrassed, to seem vulnerable in front of others. Was this not the root of it all?

“Then what is?!” he cries, his grip on your wrist tightens, not to hurt you, but so that you don’t run. Because you’re good at that. Running.

“I get insecure too,” he reassures, but you look past him now. “But I tell you. I tell you when I’m hurt, I tell you when I’m down. Because I… I want you to understand me. I want to understand you too…”

He swallows hard before continuing. “So I don’t get why you would even bring up breaking up before we even try to solve the problem together—”

“Because I don’t want to solve it, Jake.”

His hold on you loosens instantly, arm dropping to his side. You feel colder as he steps back. Jake stares at you, hurt laced in his gaze. Like you stabbed him in the heart and twisted the knife in to marinate.

“...You're always like this,” he mutters under his breath. “Always saying hurtful things without thinking about how they make me feel.”

He feels his throat close up as he draws in some baited breaths. The tears come in more heavily, his cheeks damp as they roll down his pained face. 

“So you see what I mean?” you say, your own tears threatening to spill over without you even realizing. A part of him instinctively wants to wipe them away, to pull you close and make it stop. But all he feels is anger. Because you’re the one breaking up with him. You’re the one choosing to end things. What right do you have to cry? What right do you have to look shattered when he's the one in pieces?

“I’m horrible to you,” you let out with pained laughter. He shakes his head immediately. 

“No, you’re not—”

“I always pick fights—”

“You don’t—”

“I act like a fucking bitch—”

“Don’t call yourself that—”

"I feel like I’m insane when I’m around you,” you let out, before you can stop yourself.

“I don’t think that at all—”

“But I do, Jake,” you cry. “I hate how jealous I get when you’re surrounded by other people. I hate feeling like I’m holding you back. I hate what I’ve become since…”

And you can’t finish because his tears have stopped. He’s looking at you with a new kind of anguish. The kind that you don’t necessarily expect. The kind that feels like disgust. 

“Since you started dating me?” he says like he correctly finished your statement. But that’s not what you're going to say. Never that.

“Since you didn’t need me anymore,” you whimper. “I’m not a good girlfriend, Jake. You’d be so much happier without me. Everyone would think it if they knew.”

He stands in front of you, hollow. If they knew. He has to laugh. That’s the problem. No one does. You don’t want them to. It’s clear now.

“Fine,” he says, and the steadiness of his voice makes you shudder. Good. This is what you wanted. 

He’s staring at you, jaded like he had come to terms with it. He used to love how insistent you were about your point of view on things, how firmly you stood by your opinions. Used to envy it. But now, he detests it. That stubbornness. 

“Whatever you want,” he sighs, hands slipping in his pockets. “Let’s break up. Pretend we never happened.”

Your mouth parts. “Excuse me?”

Jake scoffs, hands tightening into a fist. They’re trembling, but he won’t let you see. He can do what you do. Act like he’s okay. Act like you didn’t just kill him. He’s gotten very good at that. Acting.

“I’m being honest, Jake—”

“You don’t love me,” he cuts in. And your heart sinks. “That’s all this is. You never show it. You never say it. And I’m tired of hearing you pretend like you’re doing me a favor when I’m practically begging you not to leave.”

His voice cracks, but he continues. “So fine,” he mutters. “Have it your way. You won’t ever have to admit that we dated, start a clean slate without me. Just like you want.”

He presses his lips together and gives you one last look before he takes his hands out of his pockets. He’s fiddling with the ring. His ring. The ring that matches yours.

“You know,” he starts, voice trembling and bitter, “when it was the other way around… when I felt like shit about myself…. I never once thought of leaving you.”

His gaze is on the ground. “Because I always thought I was better with you than without. Because you made me want to be better.”

His voice falters. He looks at you now, sniffling. 

“I tried to be better.”

And in one swift motion, Jake takes off the ring.  “...But you didn’t even want me enough to stay.”

“Jake, no—” 

But it’s too late. You see him throw it, the bushes rustling nearby. Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out. He shoves his hands back in his pockets and walks past you to the direction of the dorms.

“There,” he says quietly behind you. “Like we never happened.”

He doesn’t look back, doesn’t even spare you a glance. It’s only when he’s fully out of sight that you dig through the orange and red pile of leaves, through dirt and branches. Tears stream down your face as you sob, searching for it like a mad woman. Pathetic. So fucking pathetic. 

But you can’t find it. No matter how hard you try to find a silver glint in the greenery, there is nothing. And you clutch onto yours like it’s your lifeline. He threw it away. How could he throw it away?

And you wonder then if you made the biggest mistake in your life.

–

You thought the pit in your stomach would fade once you ripped the bandage, but the hole in your heart opened wider. And it’s only been a week.

Jake used to dodge questions about his love life, but now he admits to anyone with ears who walks by that he’s single. You have ears. And you walk by often. You’re not sure if he’s taunting you or if you just want him to be.

When your eyes meet his at the one lecture you still share, he’s the first to turn away. Jake used to sit beside you, shoulder brushing yours, tilting his laptop so you could keep up when the professor switched the slides too quickly. When you pass the football field, you try not to wince when you see Choa latch onto his arm like she belongs there. He used to always pull away. 

The worst part is that these stolen glances are all you have of him. He’s blocked you on everything, which feels weird to think about. Jake, who’s always gentle, always forgiving, always offering second chances—even to people who don’t deserve it. Maybe this time you’re one of them.

You have no right to be upset. Not anymore.

And so you wrap yourself in your studies, check out new extracurriculars, even try to make new friends on campus who know nothing about Jake. You try to rebuild, try to go back in time before that fateful day in high school when you met him. But it’s been far too long. 

He was a part of you, so deeply ingrained in your daily life. How could you act like you two never happened? Like your relationship never existed? How could he do it so well?

And then, you have to remind yourself. You'd already been doing that anyway.

–

“So what did he do?” Jay questions, tuning his guitar while Sunghoon and you sit in his living room. “Did he tell you he was done paying for your stuff or…”

“Shut up,” you grumble, already agitated enough as you scroll through Suji’s Instagram. You couldn’t even muster the energy to be jealous over a photo of Jake and her holding up peace signs next to each other. You just feel empty. “Nothing happened.”

Jay rolls his eyes. “He’s usually texting one of us to get you to answer his messages by now. It’s been crickets from him for the last two weeks.”

You swallow hard. He used to do that?

Jay’s gaze flickers toward you and sighs as he fiddles with his guitar strings. “You know, I really don’t get the two of you,” he mumbles. “Like you already rejected him in high school, you’re practically just stringing him along at this point—”

You sit up. “Excuse me?”

He shakes his head, dropping the guitar onto his lap. “Jake told us,” he starts hesitantly. “That you ran away when he tried to confess last year.”

‘But that’s not the full story,’ you want to scream out loud. 

“Yeah,” Sunghoon laughs as if recalling a memory. “Dude! Remember in the summer when he started going to the gym with me?”

Jay cringes. “Yeah, and he told us it was because he’d be starting this season, but we knew it was just because you said you liked macho guys.”

You shake your head, ears warming at the thought. That’s insane. 

“Oh, and that stupid ass ring,” Sunghoon adds, clutching his stomach. Your hand instinctively clutches at your necklace, fingers brushing the chain. “His mom beat the shit out of him when she found out how much he spent on it.”

You twiddle with the ring through your shirt. You should've taken it off by now. He'd already thrown his away. So what use was it leaving him if all you were going to do was hold on?

“Why would he do all that for me?” you mutter, not realizing that you said your thoughts out loud. 

Jay shrugs. “Love makes you do stupid things.” And then he sighs. “Go easy on him, okay? You know how he is. Jake’s a sensitive boy. Especially when it comes to you.”

You look down at the ground, shame bubbling up in your chest. Jake loved you. He really did.

–

You smile from your view of the auditorium, even from the back, feeling like a speck of dust in the full house. A bouquet is in your hand as you nervously find your seat. Jake’s right. Everyone’s here to watch.

You could see Jay and Sunghoon’s tiny heads toward the front, pushing down the bitterness of not being able to sit as close as they were. It's not fair, you think. You had to buy a last minute ticket off a student who could no longer make it while they don’t even like musicals. You shake your head.

This isn’t about you. It’s Jake’s big night. 

The lights dim. Your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend—steps onto the stage in a football jersey that looks almost exactly like his real-life one. The audience quiets at his entrance. As he delivers his cheesy opening monologue, you mouth the words with him. He’d practiced it so much in front of you. Pride wells up in your chest. He doesn’t stutter once. 

Even when Suji joins him on stage, even as they sing together during their characters’ first meeting, you couldn’t help but smile. 

The scenes blur as you lose yourself in the show. You watch the characters as they are and not as your ex and the girl you desperately wanted to hate. It was actually fun. The cheeky glances, the perfectly rehearsed dance scenes. The way the main character so seriously thought that singing was going to affect his football career. It made you laugh, made you tear up, made you suck in a deep breath when Jake leaned into her. 

And because you’re still you, and because the wounds still feel fresh, you close your eyes. You don’t have to know if he really did it or not. It doesn’t matter. It’s his moment.

‘If only I felt like this the whole time,’ you thought to yourself. Then maybe you wouldn’t have to psych yourself up to find him afterward and pour your heart out to him. You shiver at the thought.

But Jay had said it: love makes you do stupid things.

And you do. Love him. 

Enough to buy him flowers. Enough to admit that you’re done hiding. Enough to risk asking him to love you again—even if there’s a chance that he already moved on.

–

“Bro,” Jay starts, with tear-stained cheeks. “Don’t ever do that again. I can’t be crying like that in front of everybody.”

“Quit football,” Sunghoon says, patting Jake on the back with unusually red eyes. “Just focus on this musical shit. I swear you could make it big time.”

Jake chuckles, watching as the auditorium empties of guests. “Thanks, guys. I’m glad you two liked it.”

God, he wishes you were here. He could imagine exactly what you’d say when you walk up to him, with a small smile you try to suppress. Saying good job while ruffling his hair. Trying to act like you didn’t cry like everyone else. Jake smiles, quietly, at his own thoughts. It’s ridiculous, coming up with hypotheticals when you’d already made it clear. You don't want to be with him anymore. 

“Jake.” 

His heart instinctively skips a beat.

When he turns, the air in his lungs escapes him. You’re holding a bouquet so big it hides most of your frame, looking at him expectantly as you push it towards him. His eyes widen, unable to speak or even take the flowers from you. Is he dreaming?

“You did a good job,” you say, trying to sound as genuine as possible, wanting him to feel your sincerity.  “You killed it up there.”

“Thanks,” he says shortly, finally taking the flowers from your hands. He can’t help but stare. 

“I—” you try to push out, but Suji rushes to the stage to tap Jake on the shoulder.

“Hey.” She smiles up at him. “We're heading out soon for the celebration. Did you still want a ride with me?”

“Damn, even musicals got afterparties?” Sunghoon mutters to Jay, who attempts to shush him.

Jake returns a smile. “Yeah, just give me a second.”

And when he turns around to look at you, to finally hear what you have to say, your eyes are glossed over. Maybe you’re too late. Maybe this is idiotic after all. It's been weeks. There's no guarantee he'll even listen.

“I just wanted to say congratulations,” you mutter, though you've changed the words you meant to say entirely. It's supposed to be: ‘I’m so proud of you. Will you take me back? I’ll stop being so mean. We can tell everyone we’re in love—yes, even Jay and Sunghoon.’

But old habits die hard. And Suji—beautiful fucking Suji—crushed every ounce of confidence you had to come up to him in the first place.

“That's all,” you say, shooting him a small grin. It doesn't quite reach your eyes. He notices. Jake always does. Just never knows the reason why.

Before you can step back, he grabs your wrist, spinning you into his arms. Like the male leads do in those stupid romcoms.

“Don't,” he whispers. “Please… don't run away this time.”

You stare up at him, searching his gaze.

“Man, what the fuck is going on…” Jay whispers behind the two of you.

Sunghoon shrugs. “You think they finally…?”

Jake turns his head to give a disgruntled look to his two idiotic friends, and they shrink, making their way down the stage to finally give the two of you more privacy. He turns his attention back to you, wrist still in his hand, and gently moves it down to take your hands in both of his.

“I thought you didn't want to come,” he starts, licking his lips through the nerves. “Why are you here?”

Your cheeks heat up. Fuck. Where do you even start?

He draws circles with his thumb on the back of your palms. “Why?” he asks again, more confident this time.

It would be easy to act like your old self and push out a half-assed excuse. That you just want to be supportive, even after you’ve broken up. That you don’t miss him at all. But you're too tired to pretend like Jake's absence in your life didn’t feel worse than when you were with him. 

“Because…” you start, with a shaky breath. “Because I wanted to talk to you.”

His brows furrow. “About what?”

And you feel your heart pumping in your chest, your palms slick with sweat. This is harder than you thought.

“I wanted to—” You swallow, taking in a deep breath before continuing. “I wanted to apologize. With the ring. The one you threw away.”

You see Jake's ears turn a bright shade of crimson. “Actually—”

“But I couldn’t find it,” you cut in. “No matter how hard I looked. I tried. I really, really…”

You start to choke up. Because fuck. He'd gotten you that ring to confess to you. Spent all his pocket money so that he could get something he knew you'd love. Had it engraved with the letter J. Your Jake. Your handsome, talented, smart, and wonderful Jake.

“...really want to get back together,” you finally let out, eyes shining underneath the stage lights as tears threaten to spill over. “I'm sorry, Jake.”

His breath hitches, hands releasing yours so suddenly. Your heart clenches. “You broke up with me,” he mutters.

You nod. “I-I thought I needed to. To find myself. But… you were right. I was just running away from my problems.”

You swallow hard, correcting yourself. “Our problems.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “So is this the part where you expect me to forgive you?”

Your heart clenches. “I'm sorry,” you say again softly.

“You still haven’t even given me a reason,” he scoffs. “So tell me why. Why do you want to get back together when—”

It’s like slow motion, what you do next. You cup Jake’s face right into your hands, crashing your lips onto his. In front of Sunghoon. In front of Jay. In front of the whole cast and crew who were packing up to leave. The same people he’s had to make excuses to about why he suddenly looked so distraught these past few weeks. You pull back, breathless.

“Because I love you,” you say, loud enough to elicit gasps from your watchers. You don’t even have it in you to be embarrassed anymore. Because the words fall naturally from your lips, like breathing. And it's like music to his ears. 

“I fucking love you,” you repeat, hands still on his cheeks. His mouth parts open, breathless. He blinks. Once. Twice. And then he smiles, tears forming in his eyes. Jake swoops in, his lips finding yours again. His mouth moves against yours in tandem, slow and passionate. Your eyes flutter shut, soaking in the taste of him. You missed him so much.

When he pulls away, a shit-eating grin lights up his face. “Finally,” he whispers, cheeks flushed. “You finally said it back.”

You lightly swat his shoulder. You should've known he was trying to egg you on. Jake and all his damn questions.

“I love you too,” he mutters against your temple, squeezing you against him. “I love you so much.”

He peppers kisses all over your face, and you hear gagging on the sidelines.

“Don’t ever leave me again,” he mutters into your hair. “That shit fucking hurt.”

You smile sadly. “I promise—”

“YOU TWO WERE DATING?!” a familiar voice cries out. Of course. Nosy-ass Sunghoon. You resist the urge to drop kick him right then.

“I have a better question,” Jay pipes in. “Are we invited to this afterparty too or…”

Jake furrows his brows, turning to the idiotic duo. “What afterparty?”

Sunghoon and Jay bombard you with questions about your secret relationship, but mainly just start arguing about who was gonna call the taxi for the party they still desperately wanted to go to, since Suji had already left.

Running far away from the auditorium, Jake and you giggle as the two idiots try to chase after you. When you both reach his dorm, he doesn't waste one second after you close the door to lift you over his shoulder. You yelp as your feet lift off the ground, squeaking when your back hits the mattress with a soft bounce.

He sets the bouquet softly on his nightstand before hovering over your frame, and his knees sink into the mattress as he traps you underneath him. Jake strokes your cheek lovingly, his hand trailing down and down until it reaches the edge of your skirt. Still as short as ever. Thighs so pretty underneath the thin fabric.

“I missed you,” he sighs, hands trailing to the edges of your panties. He strokes your plush skin, sending shivers down your spine. You want to roll your eyes, deflect the warm stirring in your core as he scans your figure, eyes clouded with lust. But you’re supposed to be turning over a new leaf. Honesty and all that.

“Imissedyoutoo…” you mutter lowly, rushing through your words.

He moves closer, ear practically touching your lips. “Hm?” 

You lose patience, baring your teeth and nipping his helix. He flinches, glaring at you with a playful scoff.

“You said you weren't gonna be mean anymore…” Jake sighs, tone dripping in mockery as he pouts. And you want to say something more, but Jake’s hands land on your ass, giving you a subtle squeeze.

You know what. You'll humor him. Just this once.

You bring your lips to the ear you just bit, kissing it lightly. Steady hands trail down the fake football jersey he adorns, and to the painful bulge of his shorts. Jake sucks in a deep breath.  You chuckle, amused at how suddenly it hardens. So easy to arouse. 

“Sorry,” you whisper, licking his outer shell. He shudders against your touch, your breath on his neck triggering goosebumps all across his arms. You squeeze him through the fabric, his head falling to your shoulder. “I’ll stop…”

“Don’t,” he lets out through ragged breaths, as you stroke him languidly. You chuckle. He’s so cute. Cheeks tinged with pink. It makes you want to do worse things to him...

“Lie down,” you command, and he gladly takes your place on the bed. Your knees encase him now, tugging his stupid jersey over his head. “Let me make it up to you…”

His muscles are so well-defined, glistening under the light of your dorm room. You trail kisses down his chest, licking down his abs. Salty. Just how you like him. Jake squirms underneath you as you tug his shorts down, his dick slapping your chin on the way up as it springs free. Jake almost cums from the sight, tip flushed red and pulsing with need. To feel you. To be so buried deep inside you that he can feel the head poking through your stomach. 

When you move your head down to kiss his hardness, he digs his fingers into your shoulder. “No, baby,” he mutters. “Come up here, hm?”

You furrow your brows. Why the fuck was he trying to interrupt you during your apology?

“Wha—” 

Jake cuts you short, manhandling your waist as his fingers press into your hips. He positions your knees on both sides of his head, turning you around. He pushes your mini skirt all the way up to scrunch around your midsection. Yes, you might have an amazing view of his throbbing cock, but now you can't see his beautiful fucked out face. He breathes in the scent of your panties with hooded eyes, nose grazing your clothed folds. 

You pout. “I thought I was the one making it up to you—”

“You are,” he chuckles, interrupting you instantly. He pushes your ass down to his face with one hand, using the other to press your chest flush against his body. Your face inches closer to his member. Oh. That's what he's doing.

“Pervert…” you mumble, coyly reaching out for him. So thick and large that you need to use both hands to engulf him, pre-cum dribbling out of him as if on command. 

“I am,” he mumbles, pulling your panties low enough to give him access to your cunt, lying just below your knees. He licks a stripe up your drenched folds all the way to your puckered hole. You wither against him. “Call me whatever you want, baby. Just sit on my face when you do it.”

Your hips land down on him softly as your thumb spreads his liquid down his engorged length. This position was new to you, meaning it was also new to him. But Jake moves expertly like the quick learner he is. He plants open-mouthed kisses on your folds, pink muscle lapping at your labia like a man starved. Your tongue sticks out to offer kitten licks over his tip. 

But Jake hasn’t had you in weeks. And he knows what he wants. And it’s not the weak jutting you do against his face, or the shallow sucking you offer his engorged cock. No. He wants all of you. The sick part of you that would degrade him, that would rile yourself up like all those nights before. And he doesn’t want to have to mention a stupid nickname some stupid girl said to bring it out of you.

There were more healthy methods, he’s sure, to guide you right where he wants to be. And so Jake’s hands grip your ass, pushing you down on him harder. Forcing your hips to grind back and forth against his face at the rabid pace he sets, nose sticking in between your folds slightly as his tongue laps at your clit. Like this. Dirty. Raunchy. Aggressive. He fucking loves it. 

“Ngh—” you cry out, propelling him to push himself deeper in your mouth. You take a deep breath so his cock can slide through more easily, taking as much of him as you can to drown out your warbled moans. Your tongue finds the underside of his thickness, tapping him as you start to gag. And when Jake reaches the back of your throat, he gives you a second to calm yourself before he bucks his hips up into you. Your eyes roll to the back of your head, remembering to hollow your cheeks as he shoots forward. But it’s hard to stay focused when his wet, pink muscle pushes into you. 

“Fuck—Taste so good, baby—” The squelching sounds that mix with Jake’s moans against your bundle of nerves are obscene, sucking and flicking his tongue with a fervor you try to match now. Your tongue curls up to meet the underside of his girth, bobbing your head up and down with ferocity. Anything to please him. 

“Mmmm—” you moan around him. Your mouth feels so fucking good, but your pussy on his lips was like actual heaven. He could eat you out all day. As a reward. As a punishment. Anything. 

And he breathes your scent in again, groaning once more. He pushes his nose closer to your folds, the tip of it engulfed in your wetness. You almost gag around his dick at the intrusion, saliva pooling at the base of his cock. You wrap your thighs around him tighter, bouncing on his face like he was nothing but a sex toy. Erratic. Desperate. Yes. Just like that. Fuck him like you never want him out of your sights again.

He knows you're close, knows by the way you start scratching at his thighs like an agitated pet. But, no. Jake needs it. Needs you to cum all over his face. Make a mess on him. Of him. His tongue plunges into you now, index finger coming up to play with your clit.

His cock pops out of your mouth with little resistance as your body goes slack with pleasure. You're just licking at his dick with a loose hand at this point, eyes rolling back from ecstasy. 

You whimper against the slickness of his sloppy mouth, drool continuing to fall out of the corners of your mouth through your slurred speech. “Ngh—No—Let me—Fuck—Jakeeee—” you try to say, but it all sounds nonsensical.

Jake understands, more than you know, as his heart constricts so deliciously. 'My poor baby,' he thinks. Just wants to make him feel good. Wants to make it up to him so bad. But you don’t know that the only thing that could make him happy right now is for you to choke him out with your sopping cunt. 

“Mmm—Ngh—Ahh—” He’s too good down there. Too fucking messy. Why does he do this? Why does he love making you sound like a fucking animal? Your toes curl, the grip around his shaft tightening as your back arches even more into him. 

You feel it. But it's different from usual. It feels like too much. Like an impending explosion. You claw at his thigh even more, all of a sudden panicked. “Jake—Let go—Jake—” 

When he shakes his head, his tongue swipes your clit left and right. His grip on your ass pushes his nose more deeply into your soaked folds. You whimper, cheek nuzzling against his length in desperation. 

“I'm serious….” you whine as you try to pull away. This is weird. You feel weird. You try to run away from it, that foreign feeling. But it's no use. Jake's too smart, too quick. He presses you down on him harder, hugging your waist, suctioning your clit, cheeks flushed from how quickly his mouth works against you. 

“JAKE!” you scream as your thighs clamp around him, hips shuddering uncontrollably. Like a hose turning on for the first time, a spray of your juices lands onto Jake's chin and neck, coating him in your dampness. He welcomes it, tongue sticking out to taste as much of it as he can.

You cry above him, tears landing on his dick that still rubs against your heated face. He laps up every last remaining bit of your climax desperately, like they’d dry up too quickly if he didn’t. You whine, grinding yourself on him to steady your heart rate. When he’s fully satisfied, Jake frees you from his clutches, lying you down on the bed so your head can finally rest on a pillow.

His cock is still incredibly stiff. And you're still in tears.

“You… fucking… dick,” you say in between sniffles, not believing you could ever climax that hard in your life. “Where the fuck did you learn how to do that?”

And he knows what’s going through your head. Because old habits do, in fact, die hard. And now you probably think he was out fucking anyone and everyone during the weeks-long hell that was your breakup. Jake chuckles, pulling your skirt down. He bites his bottom lip at the sight of your folds. Glistening with his saliva and your juices. He fists himself tightly. 

“Still so jealous, baby?” He smirks. God, please let him indulge in his pouty girlfriend at least once more.

“No, but be honest,” you mumble. “Did you—”

“Fuck other girls?” he finishes your sentence, scoffing playfully at the ridiculousness. Your eyes narrow.

“Well, did you?”

Jake spent almost every day crying, unblocking and blocking your number over and over again just to see if you'd notice. But he can tell you all that later. Because right now, you're giving him a death glare that only makes his cock throb harder. 

“No, babe,” he mutters, swiping his wet tip against your even more drenched folds. So puffy after all he's put it through. He peppers kisses on your shoulder. “You know I’d never.”

And you do. He’s only ever been with you. Will only ever be with you. You know that. But still. The wheels are already turning in your head. You know… you're usually the one worried about these things. Doesn't he deserve a taste of his own medicine?

“Imagine if I did—”

And he slams his dick into your plushness, eliciting a scream from you. He doesn’t even let you complete your evil plan.

“FUCK—”

“Don't finish that sentence,” Jake glowers, brows furrowed. You lick your lips deliciously. "That's not funny."

“See how it feels?” you whimper, as he delivers another harsh thrust, your shirt riding up your stomach from the impact. You arch your back off of the bed as Jake groans into your neck, licking a stripe up your jaw.

“All this just ‘cause I made you squirt,” he mumbles angrily, wincing as your pulsing walls squeeze his length into a tighter grip. “So fucking immature.”

You chuckle evilly. “Immature like who? Sungho—”

His childhood friend’s name doesn't even leave your lips when Jake clamps his teeth into your neck. Hard. “OW—”

A taste of your own medicine. But his skin grazes something then—a thin chain that he's seen before but never questioned.  You never wore it when you fucked. A circular hardness underneath your shirt that weirdly looks like…

He tugs on it before you can protest, and there on the chain is a ring. With J engraved on the inside. His gaze softens. And you become a blumbering mess underneath him, shy with embarrassment. “I can—Explain—Just—” 

Jake pulls out enough so his tip is the only thing suctioned in your folds before pistoning into you harshly once more. You whimper.

“Shut up and let me fuck you,” he mutters into your ear, before engulfing your lips in his. With a newfound energy, Jake pounds into you with urgency, pace brutal against your already sore pussy. His hand comes up to grab your tits, spilling over your bra from the impact of his movements. So rough. So mean. Damn, you were rubbing off on him.

You have this aching desire to flip him over and ride him back into submission, but the slapping of his hips into yours devolves your thoughts into unintelligible moans. 

“Ngah—Fuck—Oh my god—”

Jake’s mouth leaves yours as his eyes travel downwards to the piece of jewelry. He likes how it looks on you. Sitting so nice between your bouncing breasts. Maybe, he’d buy you a necklace next. A pretty Tiffany necklace to go with the pretty Tiffany ring on his pretty girlfriend’s pretty finger. Fuck. You’re so fucking pretty.

He brings the ring up to his mouth, biting down on the metal, before he lowers himself onto your lips once more. With the ring in between his teeth, he grabs at your jaw to open for him. Jake transfers it over to your parted lips as you catch the ring with your tongue, coated in his saliva. He dives down into you, your tongues battling as the coolness of the metal moves between your mouths. His thrusts are slower now, but you moan just the same.

Drool drips down both of your lips, the ring getting passed between you two in the movements of your open-mouthed kisses. He lets up, the necklace falling wetly onto the pillow. He admires the red marks the chain leaves on your neck. Maybe a Tiffany choker instead?

And his thrusts deepen, until your cervix repeatedly kisses his mushroom tip. He wished you could see your expression right now. So needy. So perfect. 

“Jake—Baby—” When the pet name leaves your lips, Jake lets out a deep, guttural groan. Like he'd been waiting his whole life for you to say it.

“Yes, baby?” He repeats after you, sweat beading down his forehead as he continues to split you open, pumping into your tightness with urgency. His hands are pushing your thighs open now, admiring how the ring sits sloppily on your neck as he jackhammers into you.

“I love you,” you moan out, your hands reaching for his face. “I love you so much.”

He looks at you with glassy eyes, soft and tender. He kissed you again, sweeter this time. 

“I love you too.” 

And he spreads you apart further, fucking you into the squeaking mattress with his pulsing dick, so big that it fills you everywhere you need him. He pushes in and out, evoking a new set of tears to stain your cheeks. “Baby,” you cry out. “I'm almost—”

“Wait for me,” he pleads, elbows falling to the sides of your head. He buries himself in the crook of your neck. “Can you, baby? Please—”

You try to nod as he's ramming into you as deep as he can go. He whispers sweet nothings into your ear, about how good you are for him, how pretty, how perfect, how he loves the marks you leave him, how he wants you to control him, how you’re the only one he’d ever be with in any lifetime ever.

“Ngh—” His hips snap forward with everything he can give. He feels it now, too. That coil that threatens to spill inside you. But he can't. No condom. No birth control. 

And when your hips rise, clenching around him, your orgasm hits you like a truck. You mewl out in pleasure, crying as Jake tries to pull out of you. But you suction him so well, too well, that it's a little too late. He twitches deep inside of your pussy. And his mouth falls open as the first spurts of cum spill, but nothing escapes his lips. 

“Fuck, baby,” he whines. He needs to pull out. But your cunt feels so damn good… So warm… So wet… And so much of himself has already spilled inside you… It's okay, right? To fill you up with all of it? But he has self-control. He swears it.

“No…” You whimper when he actually pulls away, his seed dribbling everywhere.

“...’m sorry, babe,” he groans, as his hand wraps around himself, stroking languidly. “I’m so sorry.”

Jake’s cheeks are flushed as he pumps the remainder of his climax on your drenched folds, painting your clit a milky white. He sees the first of his juices push out of you, his fluids like cream all over your puffiness.

“Fuck,” he moans, his fingers coming up to spread it all across your folds. But when you look down, all you feel is empty. All you feel is the need to push down against his fingers and take him all over again. 

Jake's eyes widen as he lets out a shaky breath. You look so desperate. For what? He's not sure. But he can't deny his baby anything. He can't deny himself either. He wants to see it just once. Seems like you do too. 

“Can I?” he asks in a low whisper, fingers spreading your folds apart to watch more of his load seep out of you. And you nod, shyly, relieved you didn’t have to beg for it yourself, already going through too much exposure therapy for one day.

And so Jake gathers the cum that's gushed over his digits, and with a shaky breath, he pushes them back into you. You tighten your grip on his biceps.

“Fuuuuck—” You cry out when he starts pumping them in and out, slow but still so fucking deep. His veiny fingers always know which parts to knead. 

Jake’s eyes are in a daze, obsessed with how his cum goes back in so easily—even when you’re still so tight and so sensitive. Everything feels so fucking drenched. And like this, he wants to see you come undone again.

“One more, baby…” he pleads in a low whisper, pressing butterfly kisses on your eyelids. He licks the tears that spill from your eyes. So pretty like this. “You want to make it up to me, right?”

You can only whine in response, hands shaking as they clutch onto him for dear life. 

“Hm?” He asks for confirmation, curling his fingers up to the spongy spot inside you. He grinds his palm on your engorged clit. Whimpering out a pathetic ‘yes,’ you let the pleasure overtake you once again. Your body feels like it's on fire. Too hot. Too much. But still, your back arches up into him, whimpering.

“Come on,” he whispers into your ear. Low and steady. “Give it to me.”

And you can practically hear the mess that his three fingers are creating as they pump into your folds, can feel the stickiness of your mixed juices coat your inner walls. But you shut your eyes, letting the warm tingling overtake your core. Yes—Right there—Fuck—

“I'M—” you screech, but it's no use. Your head falls back against the pillow as you sob. And Jake curses underneath his breath as you spray all over him once again, massaging your clit as he pulls his fingers out to watch. Your hips rise to meet nothing, just your body spraying so beautifully against his torso. His dick could harden once more any second now from the sight. He relishes in it, admiring his work as his cum pushes out of you again. Thick and creamy.

You look down too, seeing the fucked-out state he's put your body into. Maybe you would've been right to flick his forehead and call him every insult in the book for filling you up like that. But fuck. Could you ever have him cum outside of you again if it felt that good to have his cum inside you? No, you'd definitely need to get on the pill ASAP.

Jake’s gaze falls onto your face now, at your bruised lips and your dried tears. But the ring catches his eye once more, the one he hadn’t seen in a year. And his heart flutters.

“Babe?” he starts, lying softly next to you. He wraps you in his arms, not minding the dampness of the sheets below. He’ll clean you up later.

“Mmm?” You respond, on the brink of unconsciousness. Satiated. He touches your chain, the other hand wrapped around your stomach, giving a reassuring squeeze.

“How long have you been wearing our ring like this?” Your breath catches. You'd hoped that he'd forgotten, that the conversation could wait for the morning when your heart wasn't thumping so loud. It takes you a second before you respond.

“Since you gave it to me,” you admit, slowly. Jake can feel the warmth creep up to your ears. And he wonders how he's never seen it, how you seem to hide it so well after all the times he's undressed you before. But then again, you’ve always been good at keeping secrets.

Still, he smiles. Because even after you walked away, even when you said you were done, you still kept this piece of him. Wore it so beautifully around your neck, too.

Fuck—he’s never letting you walk out on him like that again. If you even hint at breaking up, he might actually end up begging on his knees and—

“Not like it matters anyway,” you cut through the silence grumpily. “You threw yours away.”

He lets out a surprised laugh and pulls you closer, squeezing you tight. You pout. What’s he so jolly for?

“What do you mean?” he asks cheekily. “That never happened.”

You turn around abruptly, facing him with furrowed brows. “I literally saw you—”

Your words are cut short when his mouth finds yours, one hand steadies your jaw as the other reaches blindly into his nightstand. A drawer opens. He pulls back just enough to show you the turquoise box, one eerily similar to the one you have in your closet, as he flips it open.

His ring. Silver and engraved with your initial. But how…?

“I guess I'm really good at pretending to throw things,” he answers before you can even ask. Thought I’d be a little dramatic that day…”

You smack his shoulder, but your hand massages the spot soon after, swallowed by the wave of relief that crashes over you. He didn't really let go like he made it seem. He was still yours, even when you thought you lost him. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” you grumble, pinching his cheek. All he does is chuckle. 

In one smooth motion, Jake lifts your necklace and unclasps it, letting the ring unfurl out and into his palm. You don’t stop him. 

He looks at you for a second, as if asking for permission. You offer Jake your hand instead of speaking. He slips the piece of jewelry onto your ring finger, kissing your knuckles. Then he slides his own ring back where it belongs, to where he’s always kept it. Jake smiles up at you, planting another sweet kiss on your lips.

And you know you’ll wear it proudly this time. Without him having to ask. 

“I love you?” he says, gently, like he needs to hear you say it back just one more time. Just to make sure. And you kiss him again, warmth coating your features.

“I love you too.”

His heart clenches in the best way possible.

Damn, he could really get used to this.

epilogue

Jake runs to the benches, grabbing at his water bottle like it’s his last salvation. He gulps it all down in seconds, sweat seeping down his body. Practice was way too intense today.

“Oh my god, Jakey,” a lilting voice punctures through his ear. “You're literally dripping.”

His eye twitches as she enunciates the last word. 

“Choa,” he starts, shooting daggers at her. He's too exhausted to put up with this today. Or ever. She was graduating in a few months anyway. He might as well say his piece. “First of all, my name is Jake. And second of all, it makes me really uncomfortable when you say things like that.”

Choa pouts, tugging his sleeve like a toddler. “Why?” she giggles. “Do I make you nervous?”

“No.” He pulls away, not even bothering to look at her. “I just don't appreciate how you talk to me.”

She glowers, thrown off by his disposition. He's usually so sweet, so polite. What happened?

“It's ‘cause of your friend isn't it? You know she was so fucking rude to me—”

“My girlfriend,” he corrects immediately. Choa’s hands drop down to her sides. Jake pays her no mind, packing his stuff into his duffle bag instead.

“W-what?” she stutters out. “Since when?”

He shrugs, finally slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Since forever.”

“What?!” she screeches. “How come you never told—”

“Oh Jakeyyyy,” you sing out in an octave higher than your regular speaking voice. He presses his lips together to prevent the laughter that almost seeps through his mouth.

“Yeah, babe?” He calls out, looking past Choa. You're standing with your arms crossed, eyeing her down from a few meters away. A bright new necklace shining above your shirt. 

Your gaze flickers back to him, not bothering to waste your precious energy on the small, vicious girl. You tilt your head to the side, beckoning him over in a silent command. And he follows.

Your loyal little puppy.

Jake takes your hands into his just to really rub salt on Choa's wound, your matching rings clinking against each other.

“Do you remember Gaeul from the backstage crew?” you announce proudly, the bob-headed girl long-forgotten. “She wants to hang out with me tomorrow!”

Jake smiles, ruffling your hair. “That’s great!”

“She's throwing something at her apartment this weekend, too,” you slide in. “Maybe… we can go together?”

“Oh yeah, Suji told me—” And he stops himself. But it’s too late. You’re already frowning.

“Okay, so let me go ahead and take Jay instead…” And he pouts at your words.

“Not fair,” he mutters, but you see the smile he suppresses. 'What a freak,' you think to yourself.

You click your tongue, squeezing his hand a little tighter. “...I'm biting the shit out of you later.”

And if Jake had a tail, it most definitely would’ve started wagging.

“Promise?”

fin.

A/N: Don't save him, he don't wanna be saved.

The worst part was that none of these rules came from his father — a man who, at first glance, seemed exactly like the kind of parent who'd enforce discipline, high standards, high expectations, strict curfews, and strict grades. Except he wasn’t.

These rules came from you, his older sister. Scratch that — his terrifying older sister that’s also been known as a heinous bitch. You somehow managed to be nineteen years old and forty-seven years old at the same time, right after hearing Beyonce talk about girls running the world, and ultimately decided to make it your entire personality.

You remembered appointments, you knew where every important document in the house was, you made sure groceries appeared in the fridge, and you knew the hardware store. That was a good thing, especially since your Mother is a long story and has been gone from the picture since you turned eleven. It should be a good thing, because while your father forgot that he was meant to be a parent, you managed to step into the role for the then nine-year-old boy. 

The bad part was that you also happened to be ruining his life. 

"Don’t drink." you state.

Riki looks up from his phone, brows furrowed and eyes wide with confusion. "Why?"

You roll your eyes. "Because you're seventeen."

He stands up, his hands raised in even more confusion. "So are half the people going!"

You didn't even look up from your laptop, just continued on with your academic duties as the poster-child and perfect student you exactly are. Everything that Riki isn’t (he doesn’t give a fuck, he’s actually glad he isn’t as tense as you are). "Be home by ten."

He groans. "It's a party." 

You narrow your gaze at him. "Then leave at nine-thirty."

He had barely been there twenty minutes before somebody handed him a drink and accepted it immediately. He didn't even know what was in it, but it was blue and it was something that would give you an MI, which practically made every sense for him to take it. 

A hand suddenly smacked the back of his head. "Ow — what the fuck?!"

Riki turned around to find Jay looking unimpressed and clearly annoyed, arms crossed like he was already embodying your spirit for you. “Your sister would freak the fuck out if she saw you.” he says.

Riki scoffs, shaking his head before taking more sips. “Good thing she isn’t here.”

“Wow, someone’s bold.” Jungwon snickers.

Sunoo lets out a laugh from where he's leaning against the counter. “I can already count the amount of times she’ll call me tonight because you won’t be answering your phone.”

The worst part was that none of them were exaggerating. Most people heard the words overprotective older sister and pictured somebody mildly annoying that decided the takeouts. You were something else entirely, you were a mean person with good intentions, who treated Riki like a highly intelligent houseplant that couldn't be trusted unsupervised. Which, admittedly, was only a little unfair.

Jake looks significantly less invested in the conversation than everyone else, which makes sense considering he'd never actually met you before. He knew who you were, obviously. He had seen you around school a handful of times, though only in fragments, passing through hallways with your books tucked against your chest, standing behind podiums during assembly speeches, moving through student events with a clipboard in hand, and occasionally appearing in Riki’s house whenever his friends came over, though never long enough for Jake to understand what everyone meant when they talked about you like you were a natural disaster.

You didn’t hover during those visits, maybe because Riki was already home and therefore safely within the borders of your net, which meant Jake never had any firsthand evidence of the so-called atrocity people kept describing, no grand personal encounter with the hornless devil of a woman they swore you were. To him, you were just Riki’s older sister, put-together, sharper than most people, and clearly the kind of girl who knew how to keep things from falling apart.

He shrugs as if the entire conversation had been blown wildly out of proportion. “Honestly, she can’t be that bad.”

They all try and fail to hide the biggest smiles, until Riki finally let out a laugh so unhinged it sounded like Jake had just said the stupidest thing ever invented. “You’ve never met her, then.”

Jake frowned. “I mean, she just sounds responsible.”

That only made the laughter worse, because how exactly did someone describe you without sounding dramatic? How did anyone explain a girl who could build furniture, schedule doctor’s appointments, cook dinner, maintain perfect grades, and still somehow have enough energy left to lecture her younger brother about road safety, curfew, peer pressure, and why riding in a car with anyone named Jay was apparently a preventable tragedy? 

“She’s like…” Riki started, then stopped, because there genuinely wasn’t a normal word for you, only some abstract painting of red and black, wrathful but organized, terrifying but color-coded.

Jay stepped in with both hands raised, like he was trying to translate a myth. “Imagine your mom, but if she had anxiety.”

“And a planner,” Riki added immediately, “and a superiority complex, and an attitude, and the ability to track your location and all your friends’ locations. She has everyone’s number saved, too, just so she can call around and make sure I’m actually where I said I was.”

Riki smiles though, because the way Jake shrugs it off and doesn’t think you’re that bad makes a terrible idea begin forming in his head. If he felt that way about you, maybe some things could be arranged. 

The thing was, if anyone could survive you, it would probably be Jake. He was patient enough, he was also the kind of person teachers liked, parents trusted, classmates voted for, and strangers somehow ended up telling their life stories because he was just so easy-going. He was responsible enough to get good grades without making it his entire personality.

It was weird how the two of you had somehow never interacted despite orbiting the same school, same academic events, same kind of reputation, and yet somehow the universe had kept you separated for years. Now potentially united because of a very dumb idea.

Riki takes another sip of his drink while the idea starts taking shape. If Jake was as patient as he seemed, maybe he could handle you, if Jake could handle you, maybe he could distract you, and if somebody distracted you — Riki's life would finally begin.

Riki clears his throat, staring directly at Jake, with the kind of focus that makes Jake slowly lower his cup and narrow his eyes in suspicion.

"Why are you looking at me like tha —"

“Have you ever considered dating my sister?”

Jake simply stares, because a question that insane and honest has never landed on him before. The more Riki thinks about it, the better the idea becomes, which is unfortunate for everyone in the room because his expression slowly shifts from impulsive desperation to genuine, terrifying conviction. 

“No.”

“Why not?” Riki asks, genuinely offended, like Jake is the unreasonable one here.

Jake looks at him as if he has lost his mind. “Because she’s your sister.”

Riki waves a hand, dismissing the concern as if family relation is just a minor technicality on a form. “You don’t have to like her. Just take her out.”

Jake shakes his head, “What?”

“Take her out,” Riki repeats, slower this time, like Jake is the one struggling with basic comprehension. “Dinner, coffee, whatever girls like. Somewhere outside the house where she can’t govern my life.”

And for all the ridiculousness of the conversation, something in his face turns a little more serious. “Look, she’s always busy. Always. If she’s not studying, she’s doing house stuff, and if she’s not doing house stuff, she’s worrying about me, and ruining my life. Anyway, I think she needs to go outside and be a normal nineteen-year-old.”

“I’m not dating your sister because you want fewer curfew checks,” Jake says, though his voice has lost some of its earlier horror.

Riki stares at him for a long second, and whatever dignity he has left seems to lose the fight somewhere between desperation and the thought of another month spent being interrogated. So he will compensate. “Okay, fine,” he sighs, “I’ll pay you a hundred bucks weekly,”  

Unfortunately, the offer is not completely ridiculous in the financial sense. Your father might have forgotten how to parent somewhere along the way, but he had certainly remembered how to compensate for it by making sure money was never a scarce resource in the household. You're both pretty spoiled.

Jake was not desperate, of course, and he was not exactly suffering in the financial department either, because the Sim family had enough money for philanthropy. He did not need a hundred bucks a week, did not need to be paid to sit across from a girl at dinner, and definitely did not need to accept what was less like a favor and more like an internship. Still, there was something almost offensively easy about the idea of it — a challenge.

The proposition is ridiculous, the girl in question sounds even more ridiculous, and yet the more Riki talks about you, the more Jake finds himself wondering what kind of person could make everyone so terrified.

Jake exhales slowly, then shakes his head like he is disappointed in himself before finishing the rest of his drink. “When do I start?”

By the time the party began thinning out and people started calling rides home, Riki had graduated from slightly irresponsible to actively incapable of functioning like a normal human being. By his fifth blue drink, he started a speech about oppression that was very clearly about you and was dangerously starting to sound like a prick to the hard-earned established feminism that Jungwon had to cover his mouth. Jake was also unfortunately present for all of it, because he has to drive Riki home.

"You're a good man, Jake."

"I'm aware."

"No, like, a really good man."

"Thank you."

"The best."

Jake adjusts his grip on him, while Riki is leaning heavily against his shoulder, forcing most of his weight onto the former as they make their way up the front path of your house. Every few seconds he stumbles, nearly dragging both of them into the bushes.

"You know what my problem is?" Riki asks. "My sister."

Like he managed to summon you with a single call, the front door opens. And for the first time in his life, Jake finally sees you and not as a passing figure. The first thing he noticed was that you looked nothing like the distant, polished version of yourself he had seen around school. Those glimpses had always been quick and incomplete, a neat figure behind a podium during assemblies with your hair done properly and your expression fixed into something polite enough. Standing on your front porch at midnight, however, your hair loose, a few loose strands escaping around your face, and you're in sleeping clothes. The porch light caught the irritation on your face clearly, and you exactly had a face that looked like it had been designed to ruin a person’s confidence.

Your gaze landed on Riki first, and whatever thin thread of patience you had left snapped immediately. “You’re dead.” you said, voice flat enough. 

Riki, drunk and useless, pointed at you before looking back at Jake. “See?”

Jake could see, yes, but not exactly what everyone else seemed to see.

“I told you not to drink,” you said, already stepping forward.

“Technically,” Riki started. “You said I couldn’t drink too much, and I think —”

“No.”

Riki shut his mouth, which Jake found impressive considering he had spent the entire car ride arguing. You reached them and immediately took over, not gently, but not aggressively either. One second Jake was supporting most of Riki’s weight, and the next you had somehow taken your brother’s arm, and dragged it over your shoulder.

“You are seventeen years old,” you muttered. “Seventeen. Not grown enough to survive every stupid decision your friends encourage.”

Riki groaned and sagged against you, deciding, with the cruelty only younger brothers possessed, to become completely boneless. You nearly stumbled beneath his weight, and your annoyance sharpened so visibly that Jake almost took half a step back. “Stand properly,” you snapped. “I swear to God, Riki.”

“Uh,” Jake said, because apparently he was articulate, just not under porch lights and direct eye contact.

You paused, like you had forgotten he was there, then turned your head just enough to look at him. “What?”

“I can help.” The words left his mouth before he could fully decide whether he meant them, and for the first time that night, your attention shifted from Riki to him.

It lasted maybe two seconds, three if he was being generous, but it was enough for Jake to finally get a proper look at you and realize, with a strange and deeply inconvenient sense of betrayal, that nobody had mentioned the tyrant had pretty eyes. 

You looked at him like he was another problem that had arrived, taking in his face, his clothes, and his car behind him. Your expression did not soften, in fact, it became even more unimpressed. “No,” you said. “I’ve got him,”

You turned away before he could say anything else. The door closed a moment later, leaving Jake alone on the porch with the cool night air, and the silence of having been dismissed by a girl who had barely given him enough time to become charming.

For several seconds, he just stared at the closed door. 

That was it? That was his grand introduction to the infamous sister everyone had sworn was some terrible, unbearable monster? He had spent the entire night hearing stories about you, had driven your drunk brother home, had offered to help, and all he got in return was a death sentence aimed at Riki, two seconds of eye contact, and a rejection so cold.

Wow. Okayyy.

You’re sitting alone beneath one of the trees lining the courtyard, legs crossed neatly at the ankle, a planner open on your lap. Your attention is fixed on whatever system of color-coding you have, your neat cursive filling the page in careful lines. Even from across the courtyard, you look overwhelming. The Miu Miu loafers, the Bottega Veneta resting beside you, like you were deliberately trying to repel anyone who didn’t belong in the same tax bracket as your family.

Jake walks over easily, casually, friendly in the way he usually is without trying.

“Hey.”

You look up, not startled nor pleased, just disturbed. He smiles automatically, the kind people return before they even realize they’re doing it, because he has the sort of face that makes friendliness look charming instead of invasive. Your eyes move from the top of his head to the tips of his shoes, slow and blatantly judgmental, before returning to his face.

He waits, yet you close your planner, stand up, pick up your bag, and leave.

For a second, he just stands there while every gear in his brain grinds to a halt. Nobody has ever dismissed him that cleanly and efficiently, like he had been a minor scheduling conflict you decided to remove from your day. Obviously, he follows. You hear his footsteps behind you but you don’t react, your pace remains even, your expression unchanged, and by the time he catches up beside you, you still don’t give him so much as a glance.

“So that’s how this is gonna be?” he asks, amused despite himself. “You pretending you don’t hear me?”

You finally look over briefly. “Hi.”

Jake practically lights up at that; his smile widening, eyes brightening like he has just won something ridiculous, considering all you did was say hi. Still, he takes it as progress, watching your profile as you keep walking with your attention already returned to your planner. 

He raises an eyebrow. “Do you remember me?”

That barely gets your attention. “Yes, Jake Sim,” you say, your voice stays perfectly even. “You’re one of Riki’s friends.”

The answer comes instantly, and Jake has no idea why you saying his name feels satisfying. “So you do know me.”

You only look back down at your planner as he flashes another smile, the one that usually makes people start talking, or laughing, or tucking their hair behind their ear because what is anyone supposed to do with all of Jake Sim’s attention? Unfortunately, you aren’t looking at him at all.

He exhales a quiet laugh through his nose. “Have you always been this friendly?”

“No.”

He frowns. “So it’s personal.”

“No.”

Before he can decide whether to be offended or impressed, you push open the door to a classroom. He follows one step too close, only for you to stop at the threshold and turn around, leaving him outside. Your eyes land on him properly, sharp and unreadable, and his thoughts stumble over themselves for half a second.

“What exactly do you need?” you ask. Your tone is calm, but somehow it feels like an insult wearing perfume.

Technically speaking, he needs nothing. This becomes obvious the longer he stands there saying absolutely nothing, and from the way your eyes narrow, you reach the same conclusion at the exact same time. “If you’re looking for assistance regarding academics, facilities, or student concerns,” you say politely, “I suggest you start by talking to a member of the student body.”

He opens his mouth, but you continue before he can speak. “Although,” you add, giving him one last slow once-over, “the nurse’s building might be more appropriate.”

For a second, Jake genuinely cannot tell if you’re joking.

You are not. You offer him the smallest smile imaginable, neither warm nor friendly, but decorative at best. Then you shut the door directly in his face — which, for the record, is the second time you have done that since he met you. He stands there, staring at the wood, while inside the classroom he can already hear you speaking to someone else in a perfectly normal voice, as if he had never existed at all.

Jake spots you three days later in the library, clearly because he was looking, but this time he has a plan, and for some reason, he still believes plans work on you.

Afternoon sunlight slips through the tall windows and stretches across the desks in pale strips, and Jake finds you near the history section, seated at a wide table with your laptop open and your papers arranged so neatly. Your curls are pinned back from your face, loose pieces framing your cheeks, your eyeshadow soft and precise in a way that makes you look even more put together. You are highlighting something when he sees you, chin resting lightly on your hand, completely absorbed and completely unreachable.

Naturally, he walks straight toward you. The chair across from yours screeches when he pulls it back, loud enough that two people at another table look up. Your eyes lift immediately, widening at the earsplitting sound before narrowing at him with such open irritation that he almost feels proud for earning a reaction at all.

“What are you doing?” you ask, voice low.

Jake drops into the seat with the confidence of someone who has already survived two doors being shut in his face and is somehow eager for a third. “Studying.”

Your gaze moves from him, to the empty table behind him, to the empty seats beside you, then back to him. The silence that follows is not confused, just judgmental. “And you chose the only occupied table in this section?"

“It had the best lighting.”

“It has me.”

“Exactly.”

You stare at him for another second, face unreadable except for the small, unimpressed lift of your brows. Then you look back down at your notes, clearly deciding he is not worth the strain of further expression. For about twelve seconds, Jake pretends to open his textbook for a real reason — flips one page, glances at your highlighter, then at your face. “Can you help me with something?” he whispers.

You don’t look up. “No.”

Jake’s mouth parts slightly, then closes. He has been rejected before, technically, but never with so little effort. It bothers him more than it should, especially when you do not even look pleased with yourself. You simply continue highlighting, lips slightly parted in concentration, as if dismissing him is just another item on your to-do list.

“Fine,” he says, leaning back. “I need help with economics.”

Your highlighter stops moving, and for one hopeful second, Jake thinks he finally got you. Then your eyes lift from the page, slow and suspicious. “You got a ninety-four.”

He blinks. “So?”

“You have the second-highest grade in the class.”

“You know my grade?”

“I’m the TA,” you say flatly. “That isn’t special.”

It lands with embarrassing accuracy. His smile falters for half a second before he recovers and leans forward again, lowering his voice like the two of you are sharing a secret. “Maybe I want to be first.”

This time, you do smile, but it is not warm. “No,” you say, “Because I’m first.”

The corner of his mouth rises before he can stop it. “Then I definitely need your notes.”

“You need attention,” you correct, closing your highlighter with a soft click. “There’s a difference.”

You turn a page, your tone still calm after shutting him up. “You ask questions you already know the answers to. You sit where you clearly aren’t wanted. You make jokes because you think being charming is the same thing as being interesting.” Your eyes lift to his again. “It’s not.”

Jake stares at you. Around you, the library stays quiet, and the air feels suddenly too still, like everyone else has been kind enough not to watch him being quietly dismantled. He tries to laugh it off. “Wow.”

“You asked for help.”

“I asked for economics.”

“And I gave you something useful.”

His mouth opens, but nothing decent comes out of it — the worst part of it all. Usually, he has a joke, a grin, a way to make people soften, but with you, every easy thing he reaches for turns useless in his hand.

You begin packing your papers into your bag with that same infuriating grace, not rushed, not flustered, not even angry. You stand, bag over your shoulder, eyes catching the light when you tilt your head slightly. “Also, next time you want to sit with me, try having a reason that isn’t your ego.” Then you walk away.

For a long moment, Jake just sits there, staring at the library doors after they close behind you. The silence settles back into place around him, heavy and humiliating. He exhales slowly and comes to one devastating conclusion: he can’t do this.

“Come on, dude! It’s barely been a week and nothing happened yet. I already gave you the cash!” Riki practically begs on his knees.

Jake frowns from the other edge of the pool table as he chalks the cue, the crumpled bills still existing somewhere in his pocket because, technically speaking, he hadn't earned them. At this point, the arrangement felt less like a job and more like repeated exposure therapy that would actively ruin his psychological welfare rather than heal it. 

“No.”

Riki stares. “No? Jake.”

“No.”

Across, Jungwon looks up after his turn in billiards, with the expression of someone witnessing a familiar trainwreck but still expecting it from a mileway anyway. “What happened?”

Jake isn’t entirely sure where to begin. Maybe the front porch, then the devastating situations after it. Collectively, all encounters had taught him one important lesson: you’re impossible, not in the fun way people usually meant when describing someone to be cute — but actually a pain in the ass.

“She’s difficult,” Jake finally says while adjusting the cue against his purlicue. Jungwon just shrugs because such inference wasn’t surprising at all, I mean it’s you. 

“She doesn't want anything,” he adds. “There's usually something. People want you to laugh, they want you to like them, or they want attention. Dude, people want conversation — or literally anything.” Jake scoffs. “And she doesn't.” he exclaims, coming out more frustrated than he intended, resulting in a miscue.

Social interactions followed a pattern and Jake knew that well, even if he wasn’t the most outgoing person on this planet, he still spent his entire life understanding that pattern. With you, it felt like throwing pebbles at a castle wall that decides public embarrassment for his punishment. Normally, being Jake Sim worked. He was hot, smiley, handsome, smart, well-spoken, and had great, healthy hair too. You treated all of that the same way you'd treat a weather report; filed away and forgotten before opening up an umbrella. 

The more Jake thought about it, the more absurd you seemed. You’re nineteen years old and somehow functioning as a parent, a student, a volunteer, and whatever terrifying responsibilities that you could have stowed in that pink planner. There was probably a reason you looked perpetually exhausted, and why every conversation felt like you were mentally checking a to-do list. Also probably why you looked at Jake the way someone looked at a pop-up advertisement — unnecessary. 

“Please,” Riki says, and for the first time all afternoon there was genuine desperation in his voice. “Just keep trying.”

Jake groans. “No.”

“Please.”

Jake rubs a hand down his face, because he already knows he’s going to lose this argument. Not through Riki’s annoying persuasion, but because somewhere between getting his face ignored at the Humanities building and getting dissected in the library, Jake had become painfully curious. Every interaction left him feeling like he'd only managed to scratch the surface of an entire unearthing no one yet has discovered. He hated that a lot, the mysteries and the unfinished conversations because you just can’t seem to bear him. 

Most of all, of course, he hated that he was already wondering where he'd find you next.

A few days later, Jake finds himself in a bookstore three blocks away from campus, flipping through a poetry collection he absolutely does not want to buy. His teacher has insisted on physical copies because apparently PDFs are destroying the educational experience, while Jake personally believes the educational experience would improve significantly if the book cost less than a decent meal.

The bookstore is small, old, and crammed from floor to ceiling with shelves. It smells like paper, dust, and someone’s grandmother’s living room. He is still pretending to care about Shakespeare when the front door chimes, and he barely looks up until he hears your voice. You step inside with a headband pushing your hair back, still dressed like you came from school, except this version of you looks nothing like the girl he has been trying and failing to understand. For one thing, you are smiling, which isn’t polite smile you use like a weapon, but something real and easy.

“Hi, Mrs. Park,” you greet.

The elderly woman behind the counter brightens immediately. “There you are.”

Jake stares because, apparently, his brain has decided blinking is no longer necessary. A fat orange cat sprawled across the counter lifts its head when you approach, and you reach over to scratch beneath its chin. The cat melts instantly, stretching into your hand while you coo at it under your breath. He has seen you annoyed, composed, sharp, and dismissive, but this version of you, smiling at an old woman and whispering sweet nonsense to a cat, feels almost impossible to place beside the girl from campus.

It startles him how much he wants to keep watching.

After telling Mrs. Park you are only going to browse, you turn toward the shelves and move right into his aisle. Jake steps back instinctively, half-hidden behind a row of books, but the sensible part of him lasts for about four seconds before he decides, unfortunately, to bother you.

“You come here often?” he asks, leaning against the shelf like this is a normal thing to say and not the opening line of someone who has clearly run out of better ideas.

Your hand pauses on the spine of a novel, expression already rising from irritation. Slowly, you look at him, then around the aisle, then back at his face. “What are you doing here?”

He blinks, as if the answer should be obvious. “To read books.”

You stare at him for a second before your expression flattens. “Wow. I didn’t know you knew how to read.”

His face shifts into immediate offense. “I know how to read.”

You hum, entirely unimpressed, and continue walking down the aisle. “Coloring books don’t count.”

He laughs under his breath, dragging a hand over his face like he is trying very hard not to look too entertained. Or annoyed at how plainly rude you are without masking it. “Wow,” he mutters, following after you. “For the record, real books. Little Women. The Bell Jar. Percy Jackson.”

You stop walking and turn to him properly, huffing once through your nose. “Percy Jackson is new. Is that a thing now? The male campaign for feminism?”

His eyebrows lift. “All I’m hearing is you also read Percy Jackson and that we have something in common.”

Your eyes lift to his, flat and unimpressed, but there is the faintest twitch at the corner of your mouth. “Right, how exciting it is to bond over a children’s fantasy series.”

“Well,” he says, smiling. “It’s a start.”

You turn away, but he catches the tiny pause in your movement, the almost-smile you refuse to let happen. It feels ridiculous, how much that small reaction does to him even though he has won games in front of cheering crowds and accepted medals in crowded auditoriums, yet somehow, getting half a smile out of you in a dusty bookstore feels more victorious. “Since we’re apparently literary equals now, do you want to get coffee?”

You just stare at him, brows drawn together, lips parted slightly, as if you are trying to understand what series of events in his life has led him to think that was an appropriate thing to say to you. “No,” you say.

The answer comes cleanly, and he just blinks. “What? Why not?”

“I have coffee at home.”

For a second, he just stands there, disbelieved and a little done. You turn back to the shelf like the matter is settled, fingers skimming over another row of spines while he processes the fact that you have somehow rejected him without remorse or politeness.

“That’s not the point,” he says.

You scoff. “Then why did you ask?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Instead, he exhales a laugh, softer this time. “Because most normal people actually understand that getting coffee means spending time together.”

You hum, still not looking at him. “Then you should have asked that.” You reach for a book on the higher shelf, and when you glance at him again, there is the faintest flicker of amusement in your eyes.

He laughs under his breath, and this time, he doesn’t even bother hiding how entertained he is. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re predictable.”

“Fine,” he says, straightening a little. “Go out with me?”

You stop moving for barely a second, but Jake sees the tiny pause in your hand against the shelf, the way your face goes still like the question landed somewhere you didn’t expect. For once, he doesn’t grin.

Then you pull a book from the shelf and shove it against his chest. “No,” you say, coming out quieter than before, less mean than before. “Read your book.”

Jake catches it automatically, turning it a little to see that it’s the poetry collection he came here for.

By the time he looks back up, you’re already walking away, but not before he catches the smallest curve at the corner of your mouth. And, unfortunately for him, that feels a lot like a maybe.

The annual charity gala occupied all three floors of the Grand Ballroom, transforming an expensive venue into something that looked less like an event and more like a display of wealth (though, yes, it is). Guests emerged draped in custom couture and tailored suits, while somewhere near the entrance, a string quartet played softly enough not to interrupt conversation. Crystal chandeliers hung overhead in cascading tiers, fresh floral arrangements towered from the center of each table (imported blooms flown in specifically for the event, you coined in the suggestion of peonies). Waiters moved soundlessly between guests carrying silver trays lined with champagne flutes. 

You had spent your entire life in diamond rooms where people discussed acquisitions over appetizers and spoke about money like it was weather. You'd sat beside CEOs at dinner because they were family friends, and investors shared laughter with your father over barbecue in your backyard. Without the pretense of acting remotely impressed, you boredly made your way through the halls as you passed by familiar faces. You smile, greet, remember names, and pretend you enjoy hearing about quarterly growth projections — your father did tell you to learn from what the older ones tell you, but now you learn to breathe deeply through your nostrils so as to not yawn.

The Elie Saab Spring 2003 gown skimmed against your legs as you moved through the ballroom, pale fabric catching the chandelier light whenever you turned. It was just something your father had pulled from storage for tonight, another piece of old couture that had spent more time preserved in garment bags than actually being worn. The fabric itched, the fit was annoyingly snug around your hips, and entirely wasted on you considering all you could think about how little room it left for dessert.

You'd just escaped a conversation about market expansion into the rural regions of the country when you reach for a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

"Wow."

You freeze immediately. Because you know that voice. Know it well enough that your eyes roll before you even turn around. Jake Sim stands a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, looking entirely too entertained by something.

Specifically you.

"What?" The question leaves you sharper than intended, but he has always had a talent for earning it.

His gaze sweeps over you once, slowly. It isn’t enough to be inappropriate, just enough to be annoying. "Nothing."

You narrow your eyes. Jake, unfortunately, appears completely unbothered by this, like he’s finally used to it and finds it amusing rather than frightening.

For a moment, the two of you simply stand there, shoulder to shoulder, watching guests drift across the ballroom that it almost looks normal — respectable, even, as if you’re two people attending the same charity gala with poise and tact instead of a high school bizarrerie of a situation this has become.

"You clean up well." His gaze drifts back to you for a brief second before returning to the ballroom. 

You turn so quickly towards him he actually laughs. "I always clean up well."

"Right."

"I do."

He bites the inside of his cheek, clearly trying not to smile. You take a sip of champagne as he steals a glass from a passing waiter, mirroring your movement to sip from his. "What are you doing here?" you shoot back under your breath.

He blinks at the question, looking almost offended on behalf of his own presence. "Are you asking why I'm at a charity event," he begins slowly, "or are you accusing me of stalking you?"

You practically glare at him but quickly shift to a warm smile when a familiar older face greets you, wrinkly and your father’s acquaintance. Once she leaves, you clear your throat and shrug casually. "I’m starting to think it's reached concerning levels."

That earns you a look — a long, disbelieving stare. He gestures vaguely to himself, as though presenting evidence before a jury, and that he clearly belongs here about as much as anyone else in attendance. "Come on." he chuckles as his eyebrows rise. "I look like this and your conclusion is that I trespassed just to see you?"

You hate how your eyes give in to immediately flicking toward him because, God, he's annoyingly right.

The black suit fits him unfairly well. His hair, usually left to do whatever it wants, has actually been styled for once, pushed neatly away from his face save for a single strand that has somehow escaped and fallen across his forehead. Standing beneath the chandeliers with a champagne glass in hand, he looks less like the guy who regularly shows up during the most random times and a prince, unfortunately.

You clear your throat and look away before that thought can do any more damage. "You make it hard not to think that way."

You almost forgot just how affluent the Sim’s are — that is, in your defense, was just a detail you overlooked. He isn't some random idiot who keeps appearing in your life through increasingly unlikely circumstances, his family name actually appears in newspapers and annual reports and conversations your father has over dinner. 

You drain the rest of your champagne before he can say anything. "Well," you say, smoothing an imaginary wrinkle from your gown, "it's been lovely speaking with you, Mr. Sim." The title earns an immediate snort, and you continue before he can interrupt. "Please extend my regards to your family." Satisfied with yourself, you offer him the sort of polished smile that had been drilled into you and turn to leave, as you’ve decided that you will stop entertaining the jest.

A hand settles lightly at your shoulder. “There you are.”

You turn at the sound of your father’s voice and immediately straighten. It happens before you can stop it, your spine aligning, your expression smoothing, every loose, irritated part of you folding back into place like a napkin at a five-star restaurant. “Hi, Dad.”

He then guides you aside with the kind of effortless authority. “You’ve been doing well tonight,” he says.

The compliment should feel nice, and it does for half a second until you remember who it’s coming from and how rare it is, and suddenly it feels less like praise and more like something you have to catch carefully. “Thank you,” you say.

His eyes drift past you, scanning the room. “Where’s Riki?”

Your fingers tighten slightly around the stem of your champagne glass. The room remains warm with bodies and lights and expensive alcohol, but somehow you feel cold all at once. “He probably forgot. He had practice earlier, and his workload’s been heavy.”

Your father looks at you then, and you immediately hate the expression on his face. Because it’s disappointment dressed up as responsibility, one you know too well. “You’re his older sister,” he says. “You know how he is. You should have made sure he came.”

For a second, you only stare at him, at the neat way he fixed his hair and made his collar. Somewhere near the stage, the host tests the microphone and the feedback screeches faintly through the room. “I can’t force him to come,” you say carefully.

Your father’s mouth presses into a thin line. “You’ve never had a problem controlling him before.”

Something hot sparks behind your ribs. You didn’t care for anyone to think that way about you, but the way your father had borrowed the notion feels shitty. “He’s seventeen, he’s going to be careless — that’s expected. But you know better.” he looks at you this time. “So do better.”

For a moment, you can’t speak. Because how can you be nineteen, and somehow old enough to be held responsible for everyone else’s failures. “I should talk to some friends,” you say as you take a step back.

Your father nods, already looking toward another guest who has begun approaching him. “Good.”

You turn before your face can betray anything and walk away, heels clicking against the marble floor. By the time you reach the hallway leading away from the ballroom, irritation has burned through whatever hurt came first — your jaw aches from clenching and your chest feels tight with things you can’t say. You turn the corner too quickly and a hand catches your wrist, a gasp spilling as you’re pulled backward, your shoes skidding slightly against the polished floor before another hand steadies you just enough to keep you from stumbling.

Then you look up to see Jake. 

“What the hell?” you hiss.

He raises both hands immediately, though one stays close in case you lose your balance again. “Okay, bad approach.”

You stare at him, breath uneven. “Are you insane?”

“A little,” he admits. “But I just came from the restroom and you came out looking very mad.”

Your expression shifts before you can stop it. “Move,” you say, trying to step past him.

However, he doesn’t move. “You need air,” he says.

“I need people to stop telling me what I need. And I need you to stop appearing everywhere.”

His mouth twitches. “Fair.”

You narrow your eyes again. “Then move.”

He glances behind him toward a side door at the end of the corridor and you follow. Beyond it, you can see the faint spill of garden lights through the glass, and when you look back at him, you can see the words in his eyes. “Two minutes,” he says.

“No.”

“Then one.”

“Jake.”

“You can yell at me outside.”

You should go back into the ballroom, smile at executives, pretend your father didn’t just hand you responsibility for a brother he barely remembered to parent. Instead, when Jake gently reaches for your wrist again, you let him anyway.

The garden outside is cooler, quieter, and beautiful. Tall hedges line the stone pathway, trimmed carefully beneath strings of warm lights while white roses climb the trellises, their petals pale and some aging. The distant sound of the ballroom fades behind the closed door until it becomes nothing but a muffled noise as you walk further.

The cold reaches you almost immediately, slipping through the thin fabric of your gown and settling against your skin, but you refuse to shiver in front of him. For a while, neither of you says anything as you only tighten your arms around yourself, pretending it’s irritation and not the cold making your shoulders rise. He watches you for a second, like he’s debating whether saying anything will get him killed faster than staying quiet. Then, with both hands tucked into his pant pockets, he nods toward the stone path. “Walk with me?”

You stare at him, unimpressed, but eventually follow because the alternative is going back inside and smiling until your face cracks in half. The two of you move beneath the garden lights in silence, your heels clicking softly against stone while his steps stay slower than usual, like he’s matching your pace without making it obvious. You keep your arms crossed tight, eyes fixed on the roses ahead, while Jake walks beside you with his hands still buried in his pockets. For once, he doesn’t fill the silence just to fill it.

Which lasts forty-seven seconds.

“Riki told me he wasn’t going.”

Every strange thing that had happened to you recently could be traced back to your brother tonight. When you open your eyes again, Jake is looking ahead, hands still tucked in his pockets. “Right. You’re friends.” you say as you remember. “So he just tells you things.”

He shrugs. “Occasionally.”

“About me?”

He looks like he already regrets opening his mouth, but only halfway. “Not that much.” He falls into step beside you again, catching up with your pace. “Him not showing up must be why you’re upset?” he says carefully.

You turn your head slowly and he immediately lifts both hands, palms out, although the smile pulling at his mouth ruins the surrender. “I’m just asking.”

“You’re nosy.”

“Well, yes.”

You stare at him for a second longer, trying very hard to remain annoyed. Unfortunately, Jake has this terrible habit of making honesty look harmless. Although, he is very much a threat, maybe not the loud or dramatic kind, but the sort that slips past defenses because it smiles and asks questions and walks slower beside you when your feet are hurting.

You look away first, only for him to take that as permission, because he continues. “Let me guess. Your dad’s pissed because he didn’t show up.”

“No.” Still, your jaw tightens. And he notices. His expression shifts slightly, amusement dimming into something quieter. “You’re shitty at guessing.”

“Am I?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He nods like he’s accepting the challenge. “Then maybe it’s the champagne. Bad year?”

You give him a look. “It’s champagne.”

“So yes.”

“No.”

“Is it the gown? You keep tugging at it.”

Your hand immediately stills at your hip, growing a little insecure. “I am not.”

“You are.”

You glare at him, but there’s a traitorous twitch at the corner of your mouth that you immediately force away. He catches it anyway and his eyes brighten. “There it is.”

“There’s nothing.”

“Well, I think there is something. The garden’s very enchanted tonight.” he sighs in relief, looking very pleased with himself.

“You are so annoying,” you mutter, turning your face away before he can catch the smile fighting its way onto your mouth.

“I’ve been told.”

“Frequently, I hope.” You roll your eyes and keep walking, but the anger inside your chest has loosened slightly, enough that breathing doesn’t feel like swallowing flute glass anymore. It irritates you a little that he helped without doing anything grand, only so much as walking beside you, filling the silence with stupid guesses, making it impossible for you to fully sink into whatever your father had left behind.

He looks at you again. “Is it one of the donors?”

“No.”

“Board member?”

“No.”

Then, because Jake really is bad at guessing, he says, “Or maybe it’s about a guy.”

Your head snaps up. “A guy?”

He shrugs, trying for casual and failing spectacularly because there is something too deliberate in the way he doesn’t look directly at you. “Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe a boyfriend.”

You actually laugh, disbelieving. “A boyfriend?”

“A shitty boyfriend,” he clarifies, like that makes it a more reasonable theory to hypothesize tonight. “Maybe he said something stupid. Maybe he’s the reason you look so grumpy in couture.”

You stare at him before you scoff, shaking your head as you look away. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

The silence that follows is immediate and loud. He doesn’t say anything, and because he doesn’t say anything, you look back to see he’s looking ahead now, with the corner of his mouth lifted just slightly.

“Good.”

Your heart trips over itself. You stare at him, horrified by the fact that your face feels warm. “Good?”

His mouth twitches. “Yeah.”

“You’re being weird.”

He turns back to you then, eyebrows raised. “How?”

You open your mouth but nothing comes out. Explaining it would mean admitting that you noticed the difference between his usual and this one; it would mean admitting that you were paying attention to the boy that’s making space for himself in your life, little by little. So instead, you do the mature thing of looking away and walking.

He hums, pleased with himself, and the sound makes your hands tighten around your arms again without the cold having to do with it at all. For a few steps, neither of you speaks as the garden path curves around a fountain, water spilling quietly over stone. Out here, your hair has loosened from its pins and the night air has cooled your cheeks after learning warmth a little too much tonight.

“You know,” he says after a while, softer now, “for what it’s worth, I don’t think Riki skipping tonight is your fault.”

Your throat tightens before you can stop it, continuing to stare ahead. “I didn’t ask.”

For once, he doesn’t tilt his head with that pleased little smile, doesn’t turn your sentence into something lighter just because he can. He only keeps walking beside you in silence, letting the water from the fountain grow louder as you near it. You almost wish he would say something annoying, just so that it would give you something to swat at, something easy to roll your eyes over, something that didn’t require you to stand there with all the ugly feelings still sitting in your chest like stones.

A bench sits just in front of the fountain, tucked between two rose trellises and half-hidden from the ballroom windows. One second you’re walking, the next you’re lowering yourself onto the bench, careful with the fabric of your gown, your hands folding tightly in your lap like you’re trying to hold yourself together through posture alone. He stops a few feet away and after a careful pause, he sits on the opposite end of the bench, far enough that there’s a whole stretch of cold stone between you, choosing to understand that closeness right now might make you run.

He isn’t looking back when you look at him, his hands are clasped loosely in front of him as he stares at his fidgeting fingers instead, giving you the sort of space he knows you need. The kindness of it is small. A boy sitting a respectful distance away from you in a garden at a charity gala, saying nothing while you pretend you don’t feel miserable.

You bite your bottom lip, contemplating whether you’ll entertain words sitting at the back of your throat, heavy and stubborn, and you tell yourself not to say them. You don’t even know him like that because he’s not your friend; he’s Riki’s friend, an irritating hallway apparition, a boy who somehow knows too much and still not enough.

Your eyes stay on the building across the garden, right where you both came from. When you speak, your voice is quieter. “It’s not just because Riki didn’t show up.”

Jake remains still, but you notice the way his attention sharpens a little. “I told him about tonight,” you say. “I reminded him. I even texted him this morning.” Your fingers tighten around each other in your lap. “And he didn’t come. Which is annoying, yes, but it’s also just Riki. He forgets things, gets distracted, acts like nothing bad can happen to him.”

The fountain fills the silence for a moment, the ballroom doors open briefly, spilling faint music and laughter into the garden before closing again. “I don’t do it for fun,” you say, almost under your breath. “The controlling thing.”

You hate that word and how easily people use it, like it explains everything, like you woke up one day and decided being difficult was easier. “I don’t know how to parent,” you admit. “I know he’s my brother, not my child, but somehow it became my job anyway.”

Jake does not interrupt, he only looks at you, steady and quiet, and that makes it worse because it makes you want to keep talking. “My mom’s a long story, and my dad…” You laugh softly, but there is no humor in it. “He pays for things. He’s not cruel. He just doesn’t know the small things. When Riki has practice, or when he has exams, or when he’s sick and pretending he isn’t.”

You look down at your hands. “He doesn’t know who to call when Riki doesn’t answer his phone.” Your throat tightens. “And I do.” The words sit between you, heavier than you meant them to be. “I just did what I thought was right. I’m not a mom. I don’t know what I’m doing. But then my father looks at me tonight and tells me to do better, like I haven’t been trying since I was eleven.”

For a moment, Jake doesn’t say anything. His expression shifts again, losing the last of its teasing until all that’s left is something quieter, something you don’t quite know how to hold without feeling embarrassed.

He looks down at your hands. “Is that why you’re upset tonight?”

You press your lips together before you nod. His gaze lifts to your face again, his voice gentle when he asks, “Is that why you’re upset every day?”

The question catches you so off guard that you laugh, a soft and helpless sound that slips out before you can stop it. 

Then you nod again and he smiles a little too. “Okay.”

You huff, wiping beneath your eye quickly before anything can happen there. Somehow sitting beside Jake Sim in the cold garden after admitting the worst parts of yourself feels less humiliating than it should. Maybe because he hasn’t moved closer, even though some terrible, traitorous part of you wonders what would happen if he did. Instead, he stays on his side of the bench, careful and warm from a distance.

You look at him finally. “Do people really think I’m a bitch?”

He freezes instantly, so immediate that you sigh for even asking. His eyes flick to you, then away, then back again, like he is suddenly trying to navigate a conversation with several live wires tucked into it.

You raise your brows, but you’re smiling. “So yes.”

“No.”

He exhales, rubbing the back of his neck, looking genuinely shy, which is oddly enough to distract you from your own misery. “I mean, I don’t think that.”

You tilt your head, amusement softening your face. “Okay, so what did you think?”

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were scary.” He looks at you, then immediately adds, “I still think you’re scary.”

Your eyes narrow, almost to a glare. “You’re scared of me?” You try to make it sound like a joke but it doesn’t quite work.

His mouth tilts. “The first time you shut the door in my face? Yeah.”

A breath of laughter escapes you as you remember a very irritable night of a brother coming home drunk. “You should’ve stopped then.”

“I considered it.” He leans back slightly, looking at the fountain instead of you now. “But then you smiled at a cat named Chicken.”

Your head snaps toward him. For a second, he looks like he wants to physically pull the words back into his mouth after saying it too easily and comfortably, like the memory had been sitting there the whole time and slipped out before he could decide. He exhales, rubbing a hand over the side of his face. “I saw it,” he admits. “You were with Mrs. Park, and then the cat got up, and you just...” He stops, suddenly aware of how much detail he is giving. “You looked different.”

Your face warms despite yourself, but you keep your expression sharp. “So you were watching me.”

He lifts one hand like he is surrendering in court. “I know how it sounds. I just mean I noticed you before you noticed me.”

You fold your arms, still looking at him like he has committed some minor felony against your privacy. “And you remembered the cat’s name?”

“You called him Chicken.”

“Because his name is Chicken.”

“Which is insane, by the way.”

You almost smile at that, but you press it down immediately. Unfortunately, Jake sees the attempt; fortunately, he has enough survival instinct not to mention it, and to choose his words with more care this time. “I guess I just didn’t expect you to look less angry.” His gaze flicks to yours.

You scoff, but there is barely any bite in it. “So you watched me because I looked less angry?”

“No,” he says, then pauses. “Maybe. A little. I don’t know.” He exhales, looking down at his hands. “Everyone talked about you like you were this impossible person. Then I met you and, yeah, you were mean to me.”

A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it, quiet and a little disbelieving. “Yeah, well,” you say, looking away first, “I wasn’t exactly making myself likable.”

His smile softens at that, not teasing this time. “I’m not saying you made it easy.” His eyes stay on you, steady enough to make your chest feel weird. “I’m saying I still wanted to get to know you.”

For once, you don’t have anything sharp to say back. You study him, searching for the joke, the little loophole where he gets to wriggle away from accountability. But he only sits there on the far end of the bench, shoulders slightly hunched, looking embarrassed enough that it almost feels unfair to keep glaring. The two of you listen to the fountain where water spills over stone, soft and repetitive, while the ballroom continues humming in the distance like another life waiting for you to come back and behave.

“You know,” you say slowly, “normal people introduce themselves.”

He glances at you. “I did.”

You give him a look. “You followed me through campus.”

“I said hey.”

“That is not an introduction, that was stalking.”

He laughs, and you roll your eyes, though the smile threatening the corner of your mouth makes the whole thing less convincing than you probably want it to be. He turns his body slightly toward you, still careful not to crowd your space, his expression shifting into something softer beneath the amusement.

“Okay,” he says. “Then let me redo it.”

He straightens a little, smoothing one hand over his suit jacket like he is preparing for something far more formal than a conversation beside you. It should look ridiculous, but then he looks at you with an earnestness that makes your guard hesitate before you can stop it.

“Hi,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m Jake Sim. I’m Riki’s friend. I have a border collie named Layla. I play soccer, I’m good at math, and I’m apparently terrible at approaching girls who scare me.”

You stare at him. Surprised. Confused. Heart fluttering a little.

His smile softens, but he keeps going, quieter now, like the next part matters more than the joke. “I also know I made a bad first impression. And I know you had every reason to think I was annoying.”

“You are annoying,” you say automatically while your hand reaches his to shake.

“I know.” His smile grows a little. “But I’m trying to be less annoying.”

“Unlikely.”

“Probably,” he admits. “But I’d still like to try.”

For a second after that, neither of you says anything. Your hand slips out of his, and both of you look away at almost the same time, like you’re both processing that you’ve just held hands. Jake clears his throat and fixes his posture, sitting up straighter as if that might undo the way his smile is still refusing to leave his face. 

“Well,” you say after a moment, folding your hands over your lap, “you’re the first person who’s actually lasted this long with me.” You say it lightly, almost dismissively, but your eyes stay in front of you. “Most people usually give up before this part.”

His smile fades just a little, not into sadness exactly, but into something more attentive. “Because you push them away?”

You huff out a small laugh. “Friends, mostly.” Then your mouth twists, like you’re deciding whether to soften the words or not. “Apparently, people can’t handle a heinous bitch for very long.”

He huffs a small laugh, looking down at his fidgeting hands. You glance at him, confused. “What?”

He shakes his head once, like he’s amused by something private. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

His gaze lifts to yours again. There’s a strange look on his face now, which isn’t teasing exactly, but not shy either. 

Then he says, “I’m not trying to be your friend.”

The sentence lands so cleanly that, for one impossible second, your entire brain goes quiet. You stare at him and Jake stares back.

Somewhere behind the doors, people are still drinking champagne and discussing donations and waiting for you to return as the version of yourself they understand, while here, on this bench, Jake Sim has just said something far too simple to be misunderstood.

Your mouth parts slightly. “What?”

His confidence seems to flicker only after he realizes he has actually said it out loud and not something he kept in his head. His ears go faintly red, but he doesn’t look away, keeping his legs crisscrossed on the bench like an idiot prince, looking at you like he knows exactly what he meant and is terrified by it anyway.

“I mean,” he starts, then stops. He exhales, laughing under his breath, embarrassed now. “I mean, I can be. Your friend.”

“That is not what you said.”

“I know.”

“You said you weren’t trying to be my friend.”

“I know what I said.”

Your face feels hot. Horribly, unmistakably hot.

His eyes drop for half a second to your mouth before returning to your face so quickly you almost think you imagined it. You look away first because if you keep looking at him, something very stupid is going to happen to your composure.

You clear your throat. “I should go back.”

His gaze lifts immediately, but he doesn’t argue. “Yeah.”

You expected a joke, a dramatic sigh, maybe some irritating line about how tragic it is that society needs you more than he does. Instead, he only nods and begins unfolding himself from the bench. “You’re not going to convince me to stay?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

Jake stands, brushing one hand over his trousers. “Do you want me to?”

He looks at you, and something in his expression grows rigid again when he realizes what he just asked. So he corrects himself. “I mean,” he says, “I can. But I can also walk you back.”

You look away, pretending to adjust the fabric of your gown. “Fine.”

His mouth curves. “Fine?”

“Yes.”

He laughs under his breath, and you hate that you smile. You stand carefully from the bench, smoothing the skirt of your gown with both hands, only to freeze to find the pale fabric is stained. It’s not ruined, necessarily, but definitely marked where the garden path must have turned soft near the fountain, with a faint smear of mud that darkens the edge of the gown, and when you glance down at your shoes, the thin straps and pointed toes have flecks of dirt on them. You’ve spent all night holding yourself together, only to end up in a garden with Riki’s friend, exposing everything you’ve kept to yourself, and now covered in mud at your father’s charity gala.

“I can’t walk back in like this.” you can only sigh.

He grins, then his eyes drop again to your shoes, while the amusement fades into thoughtfulness. “Do you want me to carry you?”

You look at him so fast your neck nearly protests. “What?”

His face changes instantly and his ears go red again. “Sorry. I mean, not like that. I just meant because of the mud, and your heels, and the dress, and the path is kind of wet. It might get worse. Aren’t your feet tired?”

You stare at him as he exhales, glancing away for a second before looking back at you, steadier this time. “I can carry you back.” The correction is soft, because it’s not a question that leaves you to decide whether accepting makes you ridiculous. It’s an offer.

“In front of everyone?”

“No,” he says quickly, then gestures toward the side path. “Not everyone. There’s another entrance near the hallway, right? The one we came out of. I can take you there.”

You blink and the idea is absurd, too much for everything that has happened tonight. “I’m not letting you carry me.”

“Okay.”

You shake your head, but you’re smiling again, and this time you don’t try to hide it anymore. 

The two of you start down the side path slowly, your steps careful over the damp stone and softer patches of grass. The garden seems colder now as the breeze slips beneath the thin fabric of your gown, crawling across your bare shoulders until you can’t stop the small shiver that runs through you. You tuck your chin, tighten your arms around yourself, and keep walking like your body hasn’t just betrayed you in front of the most observant boy alive.

One second he is walking beside you in his perfectly fitted black suit, and the next, warm fabric settles around you, heavy and soft, falling over your bare shoulders with a carefulness that makes your breath catch. You stop walking, letting his hands hover for half a second near your shoulders to make sure the jacket doesn’t slide off before he pulls them back.

You look down at the jacket, then back at him with a glare of concern. “You’re going to get cold.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re in a dress shirt.”

“And you’re shivering.”

“I was not.” You glare at him, but it has no teeth now, no bite, which he seems to know that too, because his smile turns softer. 

“Just wear it.”

The two of you continue toward the side entrance, slower than necessary, slower than you have ever been. Your gown brushes against the grass, stained hem gathered slightly in one hand, while his jacket hangs around your shoulders.

You should worry about the mud, the whispers, your father, the fact that Jake Sim’s jacket is currently covering your gown in a way that feels too intimate for something so practical. But you haven’t cared even though the vintage and expensive dress you wear is dirty. Instead, you laugh again when your heel sinks slightly into the damp ground. Your heels click against the marble as you step back into the hallway, the sound suddenly too clean after the wet grass and stone path outside. You can already hear the faint swell of conversation beyond the ballroom doors waiting at the end like a mouth full of gold light and noise; the clinking glasses, the polite laughter, the entire world you are supposed to return to with your posture fixed and your expression arranged.

You reach for his jacket before you can think too much about it. He takes it carefully, his fingers brushing the fabric where your hands had been. You smooth the front of your gown, trying to rebuild yourself enough to step back inside. “If you tell anyone what happened...”

“I won’t,” he says, before you even finish. “I won’t.” he repeats, softer.

For some reason, you believe him immediately. So you nod once, gathering yourself before pushing the doors open. The warmth and noise rushes back in at once, golden light spilling over your face as you step into the room again. 

It takes less than a minute for your father to find you, and once he does, his eyes move over you, first your hair, then the faint mud near your dress, then your shoes. His brows draw together. “What happened to you?”

Normally, you would straighten, explain and apologize, but this time, you only shrug. “I had a bit too much champagne,” you say lightly.

By the time you returned to your room that night, the mud had already dried along the hem of your gown, your hair had loosened almost completely from its pins, and even though Jake Sim’s jacket had been returned before either of you stepped back into the ballroom, the warmth of it still seemed to sit stubbornly across your shoulders — surreal until beneath the covers.

That was the irritating part, really. Things were supposed to end when they ended. Jackets were returned, doors were opened, conversations were folded away with the rest of the evening, but the garden did not leave with the night, nor did the memory of him sitting across from you on the bench, careful with the distance, looking at you like he had seen the worst parts and somehow decided they were not enough to scare him away.

Neither of you talked about it after. Not properly.

There were moments where it almost happened, which was perhaps worse than if nothing had happened at all, because the next morning at school, when you saw him across the courtyard with Riki and the others, laughing at something Jay said, his eyes found yours through the movement of students and sunlight, and for one strange second, the entire campus seemed to narrow into the space between you — before Riki shoved his shoulder like a dumbass.

Jake learns fairly quickly that he is feeling (concerned, of course, that’s all) for you. And it’s inconvenient.

At first, that is the only word he lets himself use, because it sounds harmless enough. It is easier to call you inconvenient than admit that somewhere between a porch light, a bookstore cat, and a garden bench, his original reason for approaching you has started to rot quietly in the back of his conscience.

Riki had paid him.

Not in a serious way, or in a way any adult would consider legally binding or morally sophisticated, but still enough that Jake sometimes thinks about the crumpled bills and feels something unpleasant crawl under his skin. At the beginning, it had meant a task, this whole idea of keeping you occupied so Riki could have room to breathe. You were a challenge then, a sharp-tongued older sister with a reputation, a schedule, a glare that could salt the earth, and a list of rules for a brother who needed to survive for his benefit.

It was getting harder to think of you as a job when you showed him what you thought were the ugliest parts of yourself, and he could only think you still looked pretty. 

He is also actively trying not to think about it on the pavement when his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

“Bro,” Riki says the second Jake answers, voice low and hurried. “I need you to take my sister out tonight.”

He pauses with one hand still on Layla’s leash, standing on the sidewalk outside his house while the dog sniffs a bush. Jake’s starting to think that Riki’s a bit more insane than you are, because he always asks the most unhinged favors. “What?”

“You know,” Riki says quickly, then seems to think about it. “Our deal. I need it badly tonight. I have plans.”

Jake’s expression flattens. “What plans?”

“A date.”

There is silence — one awkward silence.

Layla tugs at the leash and Jake lets himself be pulled two steps forward before asking, very carefully, “Does your sister know?”

“No, obviously not.”

“Riki.”

“It’s not bad,” Riki insists immediately. “I’m just going out with this girl from school, and I’ll be home early, but if my sister’s home and I’m not, she’s gonna start calling people and asking questions again. It’s part of her rules that I’m not allowed to date ‘til I’m eighteen.”

Jake rubs a hand over his face, already feeling the shape of the problem and disliking how familiar it has become. Especially not when he was just trying to control his little growing trouble that made up of you and your pretty eyes and adorable smile. “So your solution is to make me distract her.”

“I pay a hundred bucks a week for that!”

Jake almost laughs, because three weeks ago he might have been amused enough to play along with the joke, but now the whole thing sits differently in his chest. There is the old agreement, of course, the stupid one made at a party over drinks and Riki’s desperation, but there is also the garden, your face under the lights, your voice beside the fountain, your hand taking his jacket before you stepped back into the ballroom, and the way you had looked at him like you did not know whether to trust him but might have wanted to.

“I’m not doing this because you asked,” Jake says.

Riki makes a confused sound. “But I did ask.”

“I know.” Jake says, watching Layla sit neatly at his feet and look up as if even she understands this is going badly. “I’m saying if I take her somewhere, it’s because I want to.”

Then Riki says, with the kind of slow horror that proves he has begun realizing his plan may have developed organs and free will, “Oh.”

By the time evening settles over the city, you are in your room with your hair clipped back and a half-finished movie open in front of you when your phone lights up with Jake’s name, which is already annoying because he has apparently become someone whose name makes your attention trip over itself before you can discipline it with strict rules and bad parenting.

You stare at the screen for two rings. Then you answer. “What?”

There is a brief pause, and you can almost hear his smile through the phone. “Hi to you too.”

His voice slips through the speaker in a way that makes your room feel a little more warm than it did a second ago. You hate that he can do that now, that he can enter a space and rearrange the air without even being physically present, as though your life has become embarrassingly vulnerable to boys with good timing and probably bad intentions, because who calls at 9PM?

You lean back against your headboard. “Why are you calling me?”

“Because I’m going to the night market across town,” he says. “There are food trucks, stalls, probably overpriced shit,”

You cock a brow at relevance. “Okay?”

“Come with me.”

The sentence is too simple. Not do you want to come, or are you free, or any kind of question you can fold neatly into an excuse and return unopened. 

Your fingers tighten around your phone. “No.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and you expect him to push immediately, because that is usually what he does. He appears in hallways, sits at your library table, follows you through conversations until you leave, but now he only lets your answer sit there for a second.

Then he says, “Okay.”

You blink. The movie on your laptop continues playing in the background, but your attention has already abandoned it entirely.  “Then why are you still calling?” you ask.

On the other end, there is a small pause. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. “I guess I don’t really want to hang up yet.”

The movie keeps playing in front of you, bright colors moving across your laptop screen, but the sound has become nothing. You stare at the monitor instead, and try to ignore the way your face has warmed.

“That’s a terrible reason,” you say quietly.

“Yeah.” he laughs after. Neither of you speaks for a second until he breathes out softly. “I just thought you might like it.”

You smile down at your phone, suddenly brave because he can’t see your face. “You sound nervous.” 

He goes quiet for half a second before answering, softer, “I am nervous. A little.”

You press the phone closer to your ear without meaning to. “Why?”

Then, quieter, “Because I asked you to come with me and you said no.” he lets out a soft chuckle, like he can’t believe himself for what he’s about to say, “But I’m going to be there,” he says. “And I’d rather go with you.”

There it is again, that careless honesty of his, the kind that does not ask for anything too loudly. Despite the oddity of the situation, your brain is less of a shamble than it is mellowed out — which you should probably question and panic about. Later.

You stare at your laptop for a long second. And for reasons you cannot fathom, you wonder what’s so bad about going somewhere tonight. With Jake. “How far is it?”

He does not answer immediately, maybe busy weighing in what that means already. You can practically feel him trying not to sound pleased. “Across town,” he says carefully. “Twenty minutes, maybe.”

You still for a moment, playing with your blankets in between your fingers while you think this through. And like he can sense your hesitance, he helps you. “Give me one hour,” he says. “If you hate it, I’ll take you home.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “You’re very confident for someone I haven’t technically agreed to go out with.”

The silence that follows is immediate as your eyes open wide, just realizing it at the exact same time he does. You sit up straighter, heat rushing to your face because you didn’t mean it like that. “I mean go out to the market.”

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “I know.”

Fifteen minutes later, you step out of the house in comfortable clothes, locking the door behind you before you can think too hard about the fact that you came out at all. The night air hits your face immediately, cooler than expected, and you hug your arms loosely around yourself as your eyes find him near the curb.

Jake is leaning against his car with his hands in his pants pockets, head slightly lowered, looking unfairly casual in a hoodie layered beneath a jacket, his hair falling over his forehead like he did not spend even one second thinking about how he looked before coming here. Which is ridiculous, because some people look better when they try, but Jake Sim has apparently been designed by nature to look the most when he appears completely unaware of himself.

His gaze travels over you once, slow to take you in. You usually look like you’ve been assembled by clothing that make people feel underdressed by association, but tonight you’re in sweatpants and a fitted tank top beneath a jacket, hair loose, face bare. He looks at you like he is taking in the fact that you came downstairs for him.

“What?” you ask, already defensive.

He shakes his head, but the smile gets there before his denial does. “Nothing.”

“Tell me.”

He pushes himself off the car, one hand already reaching for the passenger door handle. “You look cute.”

You physically jerk to a stop and your face warms immediately. “You’re weird.”

“I’ve heard.”

“You can’t just say things like that.”

He opens the passenger door and looks at you, smiling in a way that is trying to be innocent and failing by a devastating margin. “Get in.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re bossy tonight.”

“Please get in,” he corrects, still smiling.

You stare at him for another second, mostly because your pride requires a brief fight before surrender, then walk past him and slide into the passenger seat with as much dignity as possible. He closes the door once you are settled, and through the window, you catch the small smile he tries to hide as he circles around the front of the car. 

The ride’s quiet with the memory of Jake flirting with you in the gala garden — it makes you feel warm despite how cold the night is. You look out the window, watching streetlights slide over the glass, trying not to notice how different this feels from every other time you have been near him.  The night market appears before you in scattered pieces first, a line of cars, a spill of warm lights, people crossing the street in groups, then the whole thing opens up beyond the parking area in a bright, crowded stretch of stalls and food trucks and lanterns strung overhead.

You step out of the car and immediately pause, because it’s loud and crowded, which means it’s not your thing. There is smoke from grills twisting into the cold air, music blasting everywhere, laughter rising and falling in waves — which feels less like a market and more like a small fair.

You look at the crowd, then up at Jake. “This is busy.”

He closes his door and comes around the car, following your gaze. “Yeah.” He laughs, but softly, and when you look at him, he is already looking at you with that careful smile again, the one that does not make fun of you for being cautious. He looks at the crowd, then back at you, and for a second you think he might offer to leave, which would be considerate and therefore deeply inconvenient, but instead he reaches over and gives the sleeve of your jacket a small tug.

“Come on,” he says.

Before you can decide whether to argue, he starts walking, slow enough that you can follow without feeling dragged into the crowd. You hesitate for another second, but then the smell of something fried and warm cuts through the smoke, and your stomach chooses betrayal.

At first, you keep maneuvering to avoid everyone. You move through the crowd with shoulders turning at sharp angles, arms tucked close, stepping aside whenever someone comes too near. He notices after the third time you dodge a stranger by nearly stepping into a potted plant.

He laughs and you sigh without looking at him. “People have no spatial awareness.”

“People are walking.”

“Badly.”

Jake looks like he is trying very hard not to enjoy you, which makes the smile on his face even worse. You are halfway past a food truck with skewers smoking over a grill when you stop so abruptly that Jake nearly walks into you.

He catches himself at the last second. “What?”

You are staring at a small stall tucked between two larger ones, steam curling from bamboo baskets stacked in neat towers while a woman behind the counter folds dumplings quickly with practiced hands.

“I’ve been craving dumplings.”

The sentence leaves you softer than intended, and his expression changes in a way you do not have time to analyze because you are already in front of the stall. He follows without comment. A few minutes later, the two of you are walking again, slower this time, both eating from your trays with the market moving around you in bright, noisy pieces.

For a while, neither of you says anything, though it is not uncomfortable. You take another bite, then he glances at you. “Do you want a drink with that?”

You nod, mouth still full, and he’s already turning toward a nearby cooler display. He comes back with two cheap glass soda pops, the kind with bright labels and caps that need to be opened on the side of the stall counter, and hands one to you without making a thing of it.

You take it, fingers brushing condensation. “Thanks.”

“Was that gratitude?”

You look at him over the rim of the bottle. He lifts both hands in surrender, still holding his own drink. 

You walk with him after that, and slowly, your shoulders unintentionally begin to loosen. The crowd is still loud, still too close, still full of strangers with elbows and sauce and terrible directional instincts, but it becomes less unbearable now. He notices when your attention starts catching, but he never comments, which is the only reason you allow yourself to drift toward a booth crowded with little trinkets and charms. There are cats, dogs, bears, strawberries, cherries, tiny books, moons, stars, and one orange cat keychain with a round face and a deeply unimpressed expression.

You pretend your decision is practical, of course, like owning a tiny orange cat charm is somehow a necessary purchase. He watches quietly while you pay, your expression focused and pleased in a way that makes him look away for half a second because apparently he has some survival instincts left.

You attach it to your bag immediately. He looks at it, then at the rest of the display, and his mouth twitches. “That one looks like you.” You follow his gaze to a small cat charm with narrowed eyes, pointed ears, and an expression so deeply displeased it almost feels personally designed to insult you.

Your face flattens. “No, it does not.”

He picks it up. “It does.”

You glare at him and he smiles at the charm. “See? Same expression.” he says as he holds it up beside your face to compare.

“Put it back.”

Instead, he pays for it and you stare at him. “Why did you buy that?”

He looks at it once, and then pockets it without explanation. “Come on.”

“No, why did you buy it?”

“I liked it.” He keeps walking, and you have to follow because the crowd is moving again. For some reason the gesture bothers you more than the teasing does. 

The next booth that caught your attention is almost obnoxiously catered to your weaknesses, with neat stacks of sticker sheets, tiny memo pads, washi tape, highlighters in soft colors, planner tabs, bookmarks, stamps, and pens arranged in little acrylic containers. You stop so completely that Jake has to step aside to avoid blocking a passing couple.

For the next several minutes, you become very busy with the most random things, all as Jake stands slightly behind you, holding his soda and yours because at some point you handed it to him without looking, and he accepts this responsibility without saying anything. The two of you keep walking after, and you look more relaxed now than you did at the entrance, less like you are bracing for the world to touch you and more like you have forgotten that you disliked it. You stop at stalls, drift toward anything cute or useful, and Jake continues to follow at your side with no complaint, carrying your soda when you need both hands and slowing whenever you slow.

Then, just as you lean slightly toward a booth selling handmade bookmarks and tiny pressed-flower frames, a pair of kids comes rushing through the gap between stalls, chasing each other with glowing toys in their hands. He moves before thinking, his hand finds the space near your lower back, hovering as he shifts closer to keep the children from bumping into you. His other arm angles subtly between you and the crowd, and he looks over his shoulder just long enough to make sure they pass without catching your side.

You do not notice because you are too busy looking at a bookmark with a little painted cat on it. For some reason, that makes him smile to himself as he lets his hand fall away before you can feel the absence of it.

You turn to him a second later, holding up the bookmark. “This is cute.”

He looks at the bookmark, then at you, still smiling faintly. “Yeah.”

At some point, the crowd gets worse, which you didn’t even notice at first, but then the path in front of you disappears almost entirely, swallowed by families, couples, groups of students, people stopping without warning, people cutting through gaps that do not exist — just people. For a moment, both of you stand at the edge of the crowd, watching everyone press forward in a messy current of shoulders and laughter and swinging shopping bags.

You sigh. “This is ridiculous.”

He looks thoughtful for a second, then makes a decision you do not see coming at all. His arm lifts slightly, hovering behind your shoulders, and you immediately turn your head to look at him.

Jake, to his credit, only looks mildly nervous. “It’s practical.”

Your eyes narrow. “Is it?”

He glances toward the crowd like it might help him build a better defense. “There are a lot of people.”

He presses his lips together, fighting a smile, but his arm stays there, careful and waiting rather than assuming. It should not feel like such a big thing, but it does, mostly because he looks like he is giving you every chance to refuse. “You don’t have to,” he says after a second, already starting to lower his arm.

You hate that the consideration makes it worse. So before you can think too much about it, you roll your eyes and step closer, letting his arm settle around your shoulders like this is somehow the most casual thing in the world (it is not). Jake goes very still for half a second, like he did not actually expect you to allow it, and the brief pause is so obvious that your face warms immediately.

“This is practical,” you say, staring straight ahead.

“Yeah,” he answers, voice lower than before. “Very practical.”

You glance up at him despite yourself, and he is already looking away, but the corner of his mouth is lifted, and his ears have gone faintly pink beneath the market lights.

“Are you blushing?” you ask.

Jake looks at you then, and the smile finally breaks loose. “No.”

“You are.”

“It’s cold.”

You should move away after that because the path opens slightly, enough for you to walk without being separated, and there is no official reason for his arm to stay around your shoulders anymore. But he keeps it there, loose enough that you can step away anytime, steady enough that no one can push between you.

So you stay.

He walks half a step beside you, not dragging you, only guiding when the crowd tightens again. His shoulder angles gently through the busiest parts, his arm drawing you closer whenever someone cuts too near, and each time it happens, your side brushes against him.

You stare ahead and try to remember that this is for crowd navigation, nothing else. Then someone with a swinging tote bag steps backward without looking, and Jake reacts before you do, pulling you in carefully until your shoulder presses against his chest for one quick, breathless second.

“Sorry,” he says near your ear, already loosening his hold. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

You hate how much easier it becomes after that. Not the crowd, because the crowd is still awful, still shifting and pressing and stopping without warning, but moving through it with him is easier. He notices gaps before you do, and he shifts when people come too close. At some point, without asking, he takes the unfinished cake cup from your hand too, tucking the little wooden spoon beneath the lid and holding it in his free hand like carrying your dessert is normal.

You do not protest, and that is the truly alarming part. For once, your brain gets to go quiet. Not completely, of course, because you are still you, but some strict part of you loosens just enough to let him lead. It should bother you more. It does bother you. But it also feels good.

By the time you finally return to the car, the one hour has become more than one hour by a margin neither of you mentions — you both had stopped checking the time altogether. 

He only opens the passenger door for you, takes your bags long enough for you to get in comfortably, then hands them back once you are settled like this is all very normal. You start to think that’s the kind of person who knows where your hands are too full and fixes it without asking (which is bad because it detangles the wires in your brain). The drive back is quiet because you’re both tired, and the city slips past the windows in streaks of light while you sit with your head turned slightly toward the glass. He keeps one hand on the wheel and the other resting loosely near the gear shift, his posture relaxed now, his eyes on the road.

When he finally pulls up outside your house, you both sit there. Then Jake unbuckles first, getting out already, and by the time you open your door, he is already there with your things gathered carefully in his arms.

“I can carry my own stuff,”

“I know.”

He hands you the paper bag first, then the little pouch from the trinket stall, then your phone, which you had somehow left in the cup holder without realizing. With your things in your hands, you stand across the passenger door while he leans back against it, spine resting against the car, hands slipping into his pockets after he has nothing left to hand you. He is closer like this, enough that the porch light catches the tired softness around his eyes.

Jake looks at you for a moment, and for once, he does not seem like he is trying to come up with anything clever. Then his voice goes soft. “Did you have fun?”

You look down at the paper bag in your arms, thinking that you could say it was fine, or tolerable, or simply that dumplings were good. Instead, you think about his hand around yours in the crowd, his laugh when you dragged him away from the flowers, the way he never made you feel strange for relying on someone.

“A little,” you say.

His smile appears slowly, like he is trying not to let it happen too fast. “A little?”

“Don’t get greedy.”

“I feel greedy.”

Your face warms immediately, but he seems to hear himself a second later because his smile widens just slightly. “I had fun,” he says and you hold his gaze. 

Your fingers tighten around the handles of your bag. “You’re very easy to entertain then,” you say.

“Only tonight.”

“Because of the market?”

“Sure.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “What was it then?”

He leans his head back lightly against the window, still watching you through half-lidded eyes, his smile barely there now. “You really wanna know?” he asks.

You smile despite yourself, shaking your head before he can answer. “No.” because you know what he’ll say, and it feels dangerous to hear it out loud.

He laughs softly, head still leaned back against the window, the porch light catching the slope of his cheek and the tired softness in his eyes. For a second, he looks less like someone trying to win an argument and more like someone who would be perfectly fine just standing there with you until the night runs out. “I figured.”

You lift the paper bag in your hand. “The dumplings were good.”

He sighs, disbelieving but still completely okay with it anyway. “I’ll take it,” he says.  Then he straightens slowly, pushing himself off the car like he has finally accepted that the night has to end, but even after he says, “I should go,” he does not actually move.

You nod. “Yeah.”

Neither of you moves.

You should say goodnight, walk up the steps, unlock the door, and pretend the whole drive home had not gone quiet in a way that felt different from tiredness. But your feet stay planted near the passenger side, your bags looped awkwardly over your fingers, your phone pressed against the paper bag in your arms. The porch light spills softly over the driveway, catching the side of Jake’s face, and he looks tired in the gentlest way, hair slightly messy from the night air, hoodie sitting loose on his shoulders, eyes still on you like he is waiting for something without wanting to ask for it.

That is the worst part: he does not push, he does not tease, he does not make some stupid comment that would make it easier for you to roll your eyes and leave. He just stands there, patient in a way that makes your chest tighten.

“You should go,” you say, even though you are the one not stepping away.

His mouth curves faintly. “I know.”

“You’re not going.”

“Neither are you.”

You look away first, irritated by the truth of it. This is awful.

It is awful because you are used to handling things yourself, used to needing no one, used to being sharp enough that people stop trying. And then Jake Sim shows up, too warm, too persistent, too easy to like when he stops trying so hard, and suddenly your own brain feels like it has been rearranged.

He watches your face, his smile fading into something softer. “What is it?”

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“Okay.”

He says it like he believes you have the right to keep it, and somehow that makes it harder to keep anything at all. You glance at him again, and he is still there, hands tucked into his pockets now, shoulders relaxed, giving you every chance to go inside.

You hate that. You hate him. You hate that you don’t hate him at all.

“You’re thinking really loud,” he says quietly.

You let out a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “You’re very annoying.”

“I’ve heard.”

“No.” You look up at him properly this time, and your voice comes out softer than you meant it to. “You’ve been very inconvenient.”

He tilts his head, confusion crossing his face. “Inconvenient?”

You hate that he genuinely does not seem to understand. It makes the whole thing worse, somehow, because of course he would stand there looking at you like that, soft-eyed and patient, after spending the entire night making it harder and harder for you to pretend he was still just Riki’s friend.

“Yes,” you say, almost sharply. “Inconvenient.”

His mouth opens, probably to ask another stupid question, but you cannot handle another second of him being careful with you. So you drop your bags at your feet, step forward before you can change your mind, grab the front of his hoodie, and pull him down.

Then you kiss him. 

He goes completely still beneath your hands, so still that your heart drops almost immediately. The courage leaves you as quickly as it came, replaced by a sharp rush of embarrassment that burns all the way up your neck. You pull away before he can even react, fingers slipping from his hoodie as your eyes fall anywhere but his face.

“I —” You swallow, already stepping back. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have —”

But you’re already turning before you can finish. You barely make it half a step before his hand catches your wrist, gentle but certain. The next second, he turns you back toward him, and you stumble straight into his chest.

Jake is looking at you now like he has finally caught up with himself. His hands find your waist, careful for only a heartbeat before his grip firms, pulling you closer, and he kisses you back. It is warm and firm and breathless, like he is making up for the second he lost, like he cannot believe you almost walked away again. 

Your hands grab at his hoodie again, more out of surprise than anything, and he leans into you just enough that the whole world seems to narrow down to his chest against yours, his fingers at your waist, and the quiet night around you. He towers closer, holding you tighter when your knees buckle underneath you, especially when a gasp slips out of your lips and his tongue enters your mouth.

When he finally pulls back, he does not go far. For a moment, both of you just stand there, close and silent, breathing unevenly under the porch light. Then Jake lets out the smallest, stunned laugh, his forehead pressed against yours.

“You have no idea,” he says quietly with his hands steady at your waist. “How long I’ve wanted you to stop walking away from me.”

For once, there is no sharp answer on your tongue, no insult, no eye roll, no clean little exit you can use to save yourself from the way he is looking at you. There is only Jake and you.

“You froze,” you whisper, because it is the only thing your pride can still manage.

His laugh comes out breathless. “You surprised me.”

“That’s your excuse?”

His hands tighten at your waist, like even now he cannot believe you are still arguing with him. “That’s my apology.”

You lift your chin slightly. “It wasn’t very good.”

His eyes drop to your mouth for half a second before coming back to yours, and this time, the smile he gives you is softer than it is teasing.

“Then let me do better,”

You barely have time to pretend you are annoyed before he kisses you again. This one is slower at first, like he is giving you the chance to pull away, but your hands are already gripping his hoodie and pulling him closer before either of you can pretend otherwise. You feel him smile against your lips as he deepens the kiss.

When you part again, your face is warm, his hair is a little messed up from where your fingers had caught in it, and both of you are breathing like the night has tilted beneath your feet.

You look toward the door, then back at him, suddenly shy now that the night has become quiet again. “Do you want to come in?”

His gaze lifts to yours, and the look on his face changes so quickly it makes your breath catch. The teasing is gone now, the stunned smile from earlier fading into something quieter, heavier, like he understands exactly what you just asked and is trying very hard not to make you regret saying it.

For once, he does not say anything clever. He only looks at you and nods.

You unlock the front door carefully, as if the sound itself might become suspicious, then step inside with him following after you. The house is dim, only the soft light over the staircase left on, and for a second the two of you stand in the entryway like you have smuggled the whole night in with you.

He closes the door quietly behind him as you slip off your shoes. Neither of you says anything, but when you glance back, he is already looking at you. You step toward him first, his expression shifting like he has not fully learned what to do with you when you are the one closing the distance. For once, he does not move first. He only stands there, still and watching, as your fingers curl into the front of his hoodie. You pull him in and his breath catches softly, then you reach up and kiss him again. He responds after half a second of surprise, hands lifting to your waist, like even now he is keeping some part of himself gentle.

The kiss is still sweet, still careful, but there is less hesitation in it this time. Your hand stays fisted in his jacket, and when he leans closer, you feel his smile against your mouth before he kisses you back properly.

He pulls away just enough to breathe, his face still close, eyes warm and slightly dazed in a way that makes your stomach turn uselessly soft. “You’re getting very bold,” he whispers.

You glare at him, which is difficult when you are still holding onto him. “Are you complaining?”

His smile breaks wider. “No. I’m not.” Then he kisses you again before you can argue, which is unfair because arguing has been your only reliable defense against him and he has apparently discovered a much better strategy. His hands stay at your waist, warm and steady, not pushing, only holding you close enough that you forget to keep track of where the hallway ends and where he begins.

Somehow, between one kiss and the next, your back meets the front door. You do not notice right away because all you notice is him, the warmth of his mouth, the careful way he keeps slowing down like he is reminding himself to let you breathe, the way his thumb shifts at your waist when your fingers tighten in his jacket. The whole house is quiet around you, but your heart is being so loud it feels impossible that he cannot hear it.

Then he pulls back just enough for his words to brush against your mouth. “I want to be your boyfriend.”

You go still, and his eyes open, searching your face. You look at him for a second, breath still uneven, then whisper, “Think you can wait a little bit more?”

His expression softens immediately. The shift is quick; the want in his face makes room for patience again, how fast he understands. He nods once, small and serious, his hands loosening at your waist like he would let go the second you asked him to. “I can wait,” he says quietly.

And he looks like he means it. Like he would stand there in your hallway with your lipstick slightly smudged on his mouth, with his heart in his hands, and let you kiss him while still waiting for you to decide what to do with it. Like he would take every almost, every maybe, every not yet, and still look at you like you are not being cruel for needing time.

Your hands slide up from his jacket to his hair, fingers threading carefully through the soft strands at the back of his head, and his eyes flutter like that small touch just ruined whatever patience he had left. You lean in again and he goes still for one startled breath before he melts into it, a quiet laugh slipping against your mouth as he realizes, too late, that you were not saying no. Your hands stay curled in his jacket, keeping him close, and this kiss feels different from the others, still soft, still careful, but warmer now, more certain, like an answer you are not ready to say out loud.

When you pull away (barely), he is smiling so openly that you almost regret letting him have this much evidence. His smile turns stupidly happy. “That sounds like a yes.”

“It sounds like you should kiss me again before I change my mind.”

He laughs, quiet and breathless, and does exactly that. Somewhere between the hallway and the kiss after that, the two of you become very bad at making responsible decisions. 

In whispered laughs and careful footsteps up the stairs, with your hand around his wrist and him following behind you like he is trying not to smile too loudly. The house stays dim around you, every creak in the floorboards suddenly dramatic enough. By the time you reach your room, your heart is doing something ridiculous again. You open the door slowly, letting the faint light from the hallway spill over your bed, your desk, the half-finished planner still open from earlier, the ordinary pieces of your life that suddenly feel less ordinary with him stepping into them behind you. He looks around for half a second, not nosy, just quietly taking it in.

You step toward him before he can say anything worse, catching the front of his jacket again, and he lets you pull him down with an ease that makes your stomach turn soft. The kiss starts as a way to shut him up, or at least that is what you tell yourself, but then his hands find the small of your back to steady you, careful and familiar now, and suddenly the room feels smaller.

You back up without thinking, until the backs of your legs meet the edge of the bed, and he stops immediately. He pulls away just enough to look at you. “Okay?”

You hate that he asks. You love that he asks.

Instead of answering, you sit down on the edge of the mattress and tug him gently. He follows, careful even when he looks like every bit of caution in him is being tested. The bed dips beneath both of you, your knees brushing first, then your hands finding his jacket again, pulling him close enough that he has no choice but to lean over you when you lie back against the pillows.

For a second, he just looks at you. It is almost funny, how still he goes, hands planted beside your shoulder like he has forgotten what to do with himself now that you are the one inviting him closer. His eyes move over your face, not rushing anywhere else, and something about that makes your chest feel warmer.

“You’re overthinking,” you whisper.

Jake lets out a quiet laugh, but it sounds strained in the softest way. “Yeah.”

“You usually have more to say.”

His smile appears, small and helpless, before he leans down and kisses you again. It is still gentle and careful, but being this close makes everything feel bigger. The quiet room, the faint light from the hallway, the warmth of him above you and being in between your legs, the way his breath catches when your fingers slip to the back of his neck. 

He pulls away, not far, just enough to look at you properly, his eyes searching yours. “Still okay?” he whispers.

You nod, but he does not move immediately, like he wants the answer to be something you choose twice. So you smile, softer than you mean to. “I’m okay.” The relief on his face is quiet, but obvious.

“You’re very careful.”

His mouth lifts faintly. “With you? Yeah.”

You look away for half a second, because that is a terrible sentence to hear while he is this close. He sees it, the way the gears turn inside your head, the way you’re suddenly pushing his jacket off him and your knees are tightening against his waist. He swallows, struggling as he keeps himself over you, trying not to dive into something he’s not sure you want.

Except, you do. And it is very obvious.

You pull him down again, kissing until you know you’ve bruised his plump lips, until his tongue finally slips into your warm mouth as you make a sound against him. You gasp when you feel his hips press in between your thighs and his breath hitches, like he’s in between behaving and giving in. He pulls away abruptly, mouths detaching with a pop, and you visibly grow annoyed.

“God,” he lets out an airy and startled laugh, “What the fuck.”

He hates that he really likes the way his growing bulge is pressing against your ass. The warmth of his body makes you so needy, embarrassingly enough, though you only pull him closer. “Why are you so far away?” you whine.

“We should probably stop,” he says, but it comes out more like a breathless laugh, his forehead dropping for a second.

But you frown. You grind your ass against his hips, feeling the imprint of his cock. “Your dick says otherwise,” God, you are so mean, and he loves it. 

A hand lifts from the mattress and slips towards your bare thigh that’s pressed against his waist, squeezing the soft fat there. You practically melt at the sight of veiny hand smoothing over the skin, until the tips of his fingers carefully disappear into the fabric of your shorts. You squirm against him and he shoots his eyes back up at you, eyebrows furrowed down to his lids. 

 “I don’t have a condom,” he says lowly, voice made of velvet and restraint.

You smile, evil and insatiable. “I don’t care.”

He sighs, disbelieving of how you’ve completely turned to a 180. “I’m trying to be good,” he says. “You’re making it impossible.” Yet he slips his shirt off his body, exposing the toned muscles of his abs, the deep grooves carved. His chest is flat and broad, expanding to the sculpted arms that are solid without looking heavy, just all quiet strength.

“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly, “And I will.” right before he bows down to kiss you again. His tongue brushes into your mouth, meeting yours as your hands find the privilege of slithering down his exposed skin, fingers grazing against the muscles that twitch from your soft touch.

He kisses your cheek next, then your jaw, until his lips reach the soft skin of your neck. He sucks there, until it’s littered with hickeys. “This isn’t good, baby,” he whispers, contradicting himself when he continues to bite the flesh above your pulse. You can only smile and moan, fascinated with the way he’s quickly losing composure.

He helps you out of your sweater next, carefully lifting your upper body up. “Arms up,” you follow, staring into his eyes once he takes it off you. His hand slides to your back, leaning down a little where his lips ghosts above your forehead, then presses a kiss there as he unclasps your bra, the black material slipping off you. You grow a little shy, lips pressing to a line while your own arms curl around yourself. He chuckles softly, then reaches for your wrists with careful fingers and gently uncrosses them. “Where did all that attitude go now, hm?” he murmurs before leaning down to press a kiss to the inside of your wrist, then another just above it, slow enough to make your breath catch.

He circles your arms back around his neck and you pull him closer to you, so he presses a soft kiss to your lips right before he bends down to your chest. “You’re making this too easy,” he whispers. “I thought you liked arguing with me.” You can only bite down on your bottom lip when he takes your perked nipple into his mouth, all wet and warm, before he sucks and bites down gently. 

“Shut up.” you somehow still manage, and you can feel him smile against your breast.

His tongue swirls around the bud before he pulls away, then takes the other one into his mouth next. After he fondles your breasts, caressing you gently but firmly, he moves down your belly, his soft tongue trailing down your skin slowly. He presses kisses on the swell of it, smiling when you tense against him. His large, veiny hands tightens on your waist, attempting to memorize the way the dip feels under his palms. They find your hips next, thumb teasing the hem of your thin shorts, slipping into the fabric just to feel how soft you can get underneath.

“Miss Attitude is so fucking soft,” he murmurs. “They have no idea.” 

He hooks his fingers over the hem of your shorts and slides it off you along with your panties. You’re already feverish when his face meets your cunt after, his breath fanning your folds, large hands holding your thighs so tightly you know it’d mark. 

He can smell how sweet you are, your wetness glistening with so much arousal. He looks over you, sharp eyes through the hoods, like he wants to make sure you’re watching him. “I’ve got you.” Then, because he’s so cruel and careful at the same time, he presses soft kisses on your folds first. Then he kisses your clit next, a deep breath spilling out of you, your hands locking through his hair, attempting to pull him closer. 

He licks a stripe this time, from your hole to your clit, your sensitivity reaching an all time high. “Fuck, Jake, come on,” you practically whimper.

With a prideful grin, he pins your thighs back against the bed. Then he buries his face into your cunt, his tongue laps inside your folds like you’re his favorite meal. He kisses the flesh, then sucks on it like he’s mad, sounds so wet and frenzy.

“Oh my God — Jake, fuck —” Your eyes shoot to your ceiling before your eyelids shut. He groans against you, sending vibrations through your pussy, his moans muffled while yours echo in your bedroom. He stuffs his face in, tongue slurping your entrance before his lips latch onto your clit next, sucking it dry. Your fingers tug at his roots, while your thighs threaten to clench around his head. 

He pushes his long tongue into your hole next, the tip of his nose nuzzling your clip as he buries himself deeper, making sure to coat his face with your sweetness and his saliva. He thinks he can do this until the sun sets again and again, just latching his lips around your clit and holding your shivering thighs around his head. 

He shakes his head slightly, just drinking your juices and moaning into your cunt, not being able to have enough of you. When he pulls away, he’s breathing heavily and you’re pouting, unsure why he’s stopping. Though the sight’s going to kill you still anyway, black hair soaked in sweat, brushing over his eyes while his plump pink lips and chin glisten with your juices.

“I want more, please…” you sigh, attempting to reach for him.

His hand lowers from your thigh to your cunt now, thumb gently grazing over your clit before spreading the folds apart. Practically glimmering with how drenched you are, he teases by pushing his thumb in and pulling back right after. He watches your face, at the way your brows knit together and how you flush into a puddle for him.

He smiles, all of his teeth showing, before he leans back down. “Prettiest pussy I’ve ever seen.” Then he inserts his middle finger in, impossibly longer than yours, stealing a gasp from your throat when he pushes his digits so deep inside, reaching his pink knuckles. 

The squelch of your walls squeezing around him should be sin, as he feels just how soft you are. He sneaks another one in, two fingers buried deep into your pussy that you clench so tightly. “S-shit — s-so fucking good…”

“Fuck,” he huffs a chuckle. “So tight. How would my cock fit you?” 

He licks his lips, swallowing the remnants of you from his mouth. Then he dives back down, open mouth attaching on your clit while his thick fingers pull, push, and curl inside you. Your legs spread for him while you whine his name as if in a desperate prayer.

He continues to retract his digits before pushing it all back inside, carefully picking up the pace with the thrusts. He sucks on your clit hard, the sheer overstimulation of both his mouth and hand working on your pussy makes you a whining mess, loud and fucked, that you have to cover your mouth with your palm.

Though it’s no use, your brother definitely knows now just who’s fucking you with just his fingers and tongue. After a few more thrusts, the tips of his fingers touches that spot that makes your cunt clench tighter and your spine curve against your sheets. 

“I-I’m gonna cum — Jake, c-cumming —” He drinks up all your liquid but then abruptly pulls back, fingers leaving your entrance and his mouth detaching with a wet pop, leaving you so bare.

You feel empty without him filling you up, that you’ve got to open your eyes and look over your breasts and belly, where he sits up, adjusting his weight on his knees while his face and fingers are sopping with your arousal, somehow still making you embarrassed. He licks it off clean, making sure not to waste any of you that you’ve given to him, and you sheepishly curl a little in your bed.

He leans forward now, propping himself on his hands as he hovers over you. Your hands reach up to soothe over the muscles of his traps, warm and bulky under your palms, before you find his hair again, stroking through the black locks. “You’re such a fucking tease,” you mumble, soft and spent.

Jake only has to bite his bottom lip to keep from grinning, eyes soft with the kind of fondness that makes you want to look away. Your gaze falls on the veins protruding from his arms, trailing up to his elbows that you just have to turn away again because is his dick just as veiny? When you look back up at him, there’s something unbearably gentle in his eyes, like he’s looking at the prettiest thing he’s ever been allowed to keep close. Without any words, he leans down, kissing you again, soft but firm, but he presses you deeper into the bed. 

He lifts your leg again, spreading you wider than your dignity lets you, taking your thigh against his hip before he jerks forward, pushing his clothed bulge against your exposed pussy. Your kiss stutters and he pauses a little, pulling away suddenly to let out a shaky breath. “S-shit…”

You whine, weak but pitched. “Take it out, Jake, please,” You buck into his cock, feeling the heavy outline of it slide into your folds.

He doesn’t even argue this time, he just nods, breath uneven, eyes fixed on yours like whatever fight he had left in him disappeared the second you said his name. His hand finds your waist like he’s been waiting for permission all night, squeezing you tightly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice low and completely gone. “Okay.”

He lets go of you for a bit to push his sweatpants off, revealing his boner so prominent and practically hanging in his boxers. You can see his hands shaking a little as he takes his boxers off next, before throwing them into a corner of the room.

His cock practically springs forward to you, desperate and leaking. He’s thick, long, veiny. And pink at the tip.

You don’t even pretend you’re not staring anymore, and you don’t notice the tips of his ears flushing pink this time, a little hint of sheepishness. You’ve never really considered yourself a sex addict, much less even lustful, but the way your pussy throbs at the sight of his pretty cock makes you think maybe you’ve been wrong about yourself in many ways. You want nothing more but to see how he tastes, or how it’d slap against your tongue. He strokes himself, thumb playing with his own slit, spreading his pre around his thick head.

“No condom, baby, I’m so sorry,” His mouth twists into a pout before he can stop it, eyes wide and miserably apologetic. “I’ll pull out, I promise.”

“I don’t give a fuck, Jake,” you urge him closer to you, hands roaming down his abs. “I need you inside me, please — “

If his cock wasn’t twitching in hand, begging to be inside you, he’d probably let out a chuckle at how cute and eager you look right now, practically squirming and begging underneath him. But he’s no better than you, so he adjusts himself forward, leaning once again before aligning the head against your pussy. He nudges your clit, a gasp tumbling from his mouth at the contact. 

“It will only hurt for a second,” he warns and you swallow, staring at his dick as you wonder if it will even fit at all. “Breathe, baby, okay?” You nod, biting down your lip. 

You lift your hips slightly with the help of his hand against your hip, letting the tip nuzzle against your entrance. He’s breathing heavily, taking one final inhale before he pushes forward and lets the head of his cocks slide past your folds, meeting your gummy walls. You gasp as the stretch, making you tense up and clench around him.

“Fuck, t-that’s so tight — ah —” Jake’s forehead rests against yours, the feeling of your pussy squeezing him in, practically sucking his cock inside until you feel him brushing your cervix. He finally sinks in fully, and all he can think about is trying not to fucking cum right now. Not even 10 seconds in and he’s gone like a horny loser, but seeing you so spread open just for him is undoing him anyway.

He sets a pace, slow to stretch you out, having to bury his head against your neck just to suppress his groans, shallow thrusts getting deeper and deeper. The way his member touches rubs on your walls draws the prettiest whines from you, his name coming out as uneasy breaths as his rhythm picks up. Your hands thread through his hair, pulling him down for another kiss, and so his veiny hand settles beside your head, balancing himself on top of you. You claw at his back when his tongue slips into your mouth, his thrusts growing faster.

“J-Jake,” you whimper, just as he pins your thighs down the bed. Your legs spreading wider pretty much heightens the feeling in your pussy, letting you feel his cock as he begins to pound into you. He shifts slightly, grinding on that soft spot that makes your eyes roll back and whine his name again.

“Y-you’re clenching — shit, you’re clenching too hard, baby —” he moans, sweat dripping down his neck to his chest. His hips snap forward harder and faster, breath coming in ragged gasps. 

Your brain is short-circuiting and your skin is on fire, hot coil tightening in your abdomen. He continues rutting into you, bodies warm and sweaty, while your nails dig deep into his back. “I-I’m coming, Jake — fuck, I’m — “

He steals your mouth for another kiss when you finish, your orgasm striking through you, pussy clenching tight around his dick as you feel white ropes spill into you, full and so fucking hot. “S-shit…” he breathes against your mouth, riding out the last few seconds of your pleasure. 

Jake rests his forehead against yours, catching his breath while his hand caresses your waist so firmly, soothing the skin up and down like a lover. His panting slow down, breathing matching yours as the height of your drives lower, his twitching cock coming to a stop inside you. He pulls out, drawing a wince from him, his cum oozing from your hole as he does. 

“Fuck,” he curses, licking the inside of his cheek. You can only laugh tiredly, wiping the sweat from your forehead.

“I did not fucking mean to,” he clears his throat before looking back up at you, “cum in you.”

You hit his arm without any real force, a tired smile etching on your face as you pull him back down. He kisses you, and you try not to melt at how slow he does it, at how much deeper it is compared to the others. When he pulls away, he presses a softer one on your forehead. He straightens on his knees, sharp yet weary eyes looking over your naked body, enjoying every dip and curve, hand somehow never separating from your thighs and hips. You get sheepish, despite it all, giving a quiet groan when he admires you shamelessly. “Stop staring,”

He can only smile, his hand reaching for yours in which you give. His thumb moving slowly over your knuckles, then he lifts it to his mouth and presses a quiet kiss to your fingers before leaning over to kiss your forehead. He kisses near your temple after, voice low when he speaks again. “I’m gonna go to the store.”

Your brows draw slightly, “Now?”

“Yeah,” he gives you a sly smile, “For Plan B.”

You give him a look, but it barely has any strength behind it. Then you laugh, shaking your head at how ridiculous it sounds. Jake gives you a look back, brows lifting slightly. “What?”

Before you can give a proper answer, you sit up and place your palms against his shoulders, pushing him down the bed. He follows obediently, eyes on yours as you find yourself climbing on top of him, legs bracketing either side of his hips once he’s laid down. His cock twitches against your pussy, slowly growing again.

“I’m trying to be a good boyfriend,” he says under his breath, uneven and clearly strained.

Your lips twitch before you can stop them. “Boyfriend, hm?” you hum as your hands feel his abs underneath your palms, taut at your touch.

Jake throws his head back, Adam's apple bobbing before he mutters a quiet curse. “Jesus Christ,” he whispers, almost laughing under his breath. “You’re gonna kill me.”

Your face heats, not being able to stop the smile that creeps to you. Your hands slide to his chest, and your ass rubs against his hardened length, a soft moan coming out of you when it slides against your wet folds. 

“Later, okay?” is all you say before you manage to slide his cock back inside you, stealing a startled gasp from his throat. 

The next few days have been… a turn.

Not an immediate one, because you are not the kind of person who wakes up one morning and becomes soft just because a boy fucked you to make your thoughts trip over themselves. It starts with stupid things, like letting Jake carry the heavier paper bag when you leave the convenience store instead of wrestling it back from him on principle, or handing him your empty cup before you can think too hard about why your fingers already moved toward him, or looking up from your phone in a parking lot and realizing he has already stepped to the side closest to the road.

The first few times, you still fight it, naturally, and there are moments when you hear your own voice sharpen before you can stop it, asking him whether he thinks you are incapable of holding a bag, opening a door, ordering your own drink, or to even function as a person, but Jake never flinches when your tone gets mean. He never waits for you to become easier. He only looks at you with that patience of his, and says, “I know you can,” like your competence was never in question, and the entire point is not that you cannot do it yourself, but that someone else can do it for you too.

You are used to being needed, to people looking at you when something breaks, when Riki disappears, when your father needs something handled, and you are used to stepping in so quickly. Needing someone has always felt too close to failing, and depending on someone has always felt like handing them a knife and hoping they do not use it on you, but Jake does not treat your reliance like victory, does not look smug when you finally stop arguing, does not make a monument out of every time you let him help. He just helps, and it gives you nothing to push against.

The hot stuff hasn’t ended either. At first, you both did try to be normal for the sake of your upheld pride of refusing to be easy, even to your own boyfriend, and his respect for your decision. It does come to an end right after 4 days it happened, when he comes over again and your father’s never home and Riki’s somewhere you don’t know, having a hot boyfriend in your room would always mean he’d end up pounding into you. Or that you graciously ride him so well that he has to run to the store for Plan B again.

Jake never ever made you feel like you have to do things for him, nor did he ever urge you to have sex with him. There were a few occasions though, when you two might have went against your own moral code when he fucked you in his car in the school parking lot — did you regret it? No. Would it happen again? You hope not.

You might have had a hidden trait that’s been opened after a few nights together. There were a lot of moments when Jake had to take a pause because he genuinely gets scared at how you look at his cock, all excited and famished (sorry for the lack of better term). And his nose, just before he lies down on your bed and lets you sit his face.

You never have prioritized sex, nor did you think there was anything good about having a wet pussy 24/7 other than it was pure lust. You did, however, also find out that you really liked being pushed against Jake’s desk and fucked at the back.

After that, things get a little more cliche, of course. You start expecting his hand at the small of your back when a hallway gets crowded, start assuming he will keep track of where you left your phone, when you start sending him photos of readings with a single question mark and receive back highlighted screenshots, voice notes, and brief explanations. You start asking him to pick you up without building a whole argument on why it’s practical. You start trusting him with the ugly middle parts of your day, not only the polished version you usually hand people.

Then, because you are still princess-y, petty you, you also start getting annoyed when he does not anticipate things fast enough. 

One evening he sits beside you at a café and does not immediately take the extra books from your arms because he is answering Sunghoon’s text, and you feel offended — makes no sense, of course. Now you stand there with your books pressing into your chest, glaring at the side of his head until he finally looks up and pauses. “What?”

“Nothing.”

His gaze drops to the books, then returns to your face, and the slow realization that crosses his expression is so unbearable. Jake reaches for them anyway, careful enough to give you time to refuse, smug enough that you want to kick him, and when you let him take the stack from your arms, he murmurs, “My bad, baby. I’ll be faster next time.”

With Riki, the change makes him jump quietly (of course) in glee. You do not stop worrying, because that would require medical intervention, but you stop overthinking every hour. Sometimes you don’t ask where he is until he tells you first. Riki starts texting more because the texts no longer feel like constant interrogation, and you start responding less as you remember that seventeen is not the same as helpless.

Then one day passes without you talking to him at all. You do not realize it until you are brushing your teeth and your phone lights up with a message from Riki that only says, alive btw. You stare at it for a long second, toothpaste foaming at your mouth, and the first thing you feel is panic because how did you go an entire day without checking — someone will kill you, for sure, right? Then the panic fades into the shape of relief. He is fine, he told you, comfortably at that too.

When you tell Jake later, expecting him to make some joke, he only nods and says, “That’s good.” then reaches for your hand like it is the easiest thing in the world. “You did good.”

You don’t have to be soft all at once, nor do you have to surrender your sharpness just to wake up as some easier version of yourself because someone decided to stay. Embarrassingly, it makes your brain turn off when your boyfriend takes the problem from your hands and solves it before you can turn it into another reason to hate yourself. You can still be competent, still be difficult, still be the girl who knows what to do in a crisis, while also being the girl who lets Jake highlight her readings, carry her books, order her coffee, pull her away, and hold her against his chest when she finally remembers it’s okay to be tired.

He does not make you less capable, he just makes you less alone with it. Most importantly, he does not act like the softer version of you is the only one worth liking.

Jake and Riki manage to convince you to go to a house party on a Friday night, which doesn’t take much, weirdly enough.

Riki starts first, of course, he says you never do anything fun, which makes you refuse again. Jake, unfairly, does not argue the same way, who only leans against your kitchen counter with one hand curled around a glass of water, watching you over the rim with that calm expression he gets when he knows you are already halfway annoyed. He tells you “it does not have to be a big thing, we can leave whenever you want. I’ll stay with you the whole time if you want me to”, and if you hate how kind he is. Which makes you say yes.

The house is already full by the time you get there, music pressing through the walls before Jake even parks. Cars line both sides of the street, voices spilling through the open windows, laughter breaking over the bass in uneven bursts — you’re not exactly uncomfortable, only uneasy in a way that this is not something you’re used to, not like how Riki and Jake soothes right in. 

Then Jake’s hand settles at the small of your back. “You okay?” he asks, voice low enough when he leans down to you.

You look at the room in front of you, then at Riki, who is already greeting someone. “This is loud.”

“Because that’s how parties usually work,” Jake’s mouth curves when you give him a look, before his hand rubs the small of your back up and down. “But we can leave.”

That is annoying, mostly because it is thoughtful, and you have learned there is very little to do with Jake’s thoughtfulness except either accept it or be a bitch about it and watch him keep being thoughtful anyway. You glance away before he can catch whatever your face is doing and mutter, “We’ll stay.”

He gets you a drink from the kitchen, not from one of the abandoned cups on the counter but from an unopened bottle in the cooler, twisting the cap and you take it without arguing. 

His friends find you almost immediately. Jungwon lifts his brows when he sees you beside Jake, then smiles. Sunoo says your name with delighted surprise, Jay gives you an exaggeratedly respectful nod that makes you narrow your eyes, and Sunghoon and Heeseung offers you a small, careful smile. They are nicer than you expected them to be, or maybe they have always been nice and you were too busy seeing them as Riki’s friends (with connotation, at that).

Jake does not leave your side at first, and tries to make sure not to make you feel tense. He notices when the kitchen gets too crowded and nudges you toward the living room without making you feel like he is moving you. He notices when someone you barely know tries to pull you into a conversation you clearly do not want and cuts in so smoothly that they don’t even realize. 

For a while, you stay like that, your back against his front, his mouth near your ear every now and then as he leans down to murmur things meant only for you. His eyes flick toward Jay guarding the snack table like a personal estate, toward some boy near the speakers dancing with more confidence than rhythm. You laugh quietly at first, then more openly later on, your head tipping back slightly against his shoulder for half a second as you both judge people’s tipsy decisions.

Someone nearby starts setting up beer pong on a long table, cups arranged into triangles, people crowding around with immediate excitement. You take one look at the cups, the ball bouncing once against the floor, the wet ring marks on the table, and the enthusiasm dies on your face so visibly that Jake folds forward against your shoulder with silent laughter. 

You stop paying attention to the shape of the night, and your guard lowers enough for the party to become just a party, not a list of potential disasters. With his hand on your hip, even when Riki’s off your field of view, you’re less anxious.

He brushes his fingers lightly against your wrist, making you turn to him slightly. “I’ll be quick,” he says. “I’ll just get another drink.”

For a minute, you stand alone near the edge of the living room, watching him disappear through the crowd. You decide to find his friends, partly because they are people you know now, partly because you are not yet the kind of girl who can stand alone in a house full of strangers. 

The hallway is too crowded, so you head for the front door instead, slipping past two people arguing over someone’s car keys and stepping out into the night air. The music dulls behind the walls as you walk down the porch steps and follow the narrow side path around the house. You only remember seeing Jungwon and the others near the backyard earlier, and going through the side seems easier than forcing yourself through the crowd. The side of the house is dim except for the spill of light coming from the backyard, and voices grow clearer the closer you get.