the air in the back room always smells like copper.

it’s better than what it used to smell like—death and rot and the wet earth of a grave—but heeseung still hates it. he hates that he’s used to it.

he sits at the heavy oak desk, staring at a stack of gym waivers he isn’t reading. a half-empty glass of dark red liquid sits near his elbow. he hasn’t touched it. he’s been trying to stretch the intervals between feeds. trying to remember what hunger feels like without giving in to it.

it’s his penance.

his secret.

“you’re brooding again,” jake says, tossing a crumpled paper ball at heeseung’s head.

heeseung doesn’t flinch. he catches the paper without looking up.

“i’m thinking. you should try it sometime.”

jake laughs, kicking his feet up onto the leather couch. he’s wiping a smear of blood off his bottom lip with the back of his hand, casual as if it were ketchup.

“thinking is boring. feeding is fun. you missed out tonight, hyung. tourists. downtown. nobody missed them, and they tasted like expensive vodka.”

“disgusting,” sunghoon mutters from the corner. he’s checking his reflection in a knife blade, tilting his head to inspect a hairline fracture in his porcelain skin. “alcohol thins the blood. makes it bitter.”

“adds flavor,” jake argues. “you’re just a snob.”

“i have standards,” sunghoon corrects. “unlike you and jungwon, who would eat a rat if it had a pulse.”

jungwon, who is currently hanging upside down from a pull-up bar in the doorframe like a bat, grins. his teeth look sharper when he’s upside down.

“rats are fast,” jungwon says. “fun to catch.”

heeseung sighs, rubbing his temples.

this is his family. his burden.

he remembers when they were human. he remembers sunghoon skating on ice, not hunting in alleys. he remembers jake struggling with math, not with bloodlust. he remembers jungwon as a kid who scraped his knees, not a predator who could rip a throat out with a smile.

he did this to them.

he saved them from death, yes. but he damned them to this.

and that’s why he spends his nights reading ancient texts, scouring the globe for witches, for alchemy, for anything that might reverse the turn. he wants to give them the one thing they don’t even realize they’ve lost.

humanity.

the heavy metal door swings open.

the temperature in the room drops.

jay walks in.

he doesn’t look at the trio. he walks straight to heeseung’s desk, planting his hands on the wood.

he looks rattled. and jay never looks rattled.

jake stops chewing on his lip. jungwon drops from the bar, landing silently on the balls of his feet. sunghoon puts the knife down.

the shift is instant. the predators sense a disturbance.

“what?” heeseung asks, voice low.

“she’s coming tomorrow,” jay says.

heeseung goes still.

“we talked about this, jay. it’s not her.”

“it is her,” jay snaps. rarely does he raise his voice at heeseung, but tonight, his composure is cracking. “i looked her in the eye. i heard her voice. i asked her about the past and she froze. it’s caroline.”

the name hits the room like a grenade.

jake sits up straight, legs swinging off the couch. “caroline? as in... dead caroline? as in, pile of ashes caroline?”

“impossible,” sunghoon says, standing up. “ni-ki drained her dry. we buried the body ourselves. there was nothing left to reincarnate.”

“nature balances the scales,” jungwon whispers, eyes wide. “maybe she came back for revenge.”

“she’s not a vengeful spirit,” jay says, turning to them. “she’s human. completely human. she doesn’t remember us. she thinks she’s just a girl named y/n who needs boxing lessons because her ex was a piece of shit.”

heeseung stands up slowly.

the room goes quiet.

he walks around the desk, his presence filling the space. heeseung is the oldest. the strongest. the sire. when he moves, the others naturally make space.

“reincarnation,” heeseung says, testing the word like it tastes like poison. “it doesn’t happen. not for people who die the way she did.”

not when i’m trying so hard to find a cure, he thinks. the universe wouldn’t be cruel enough to send her back right when i’m failing.

“i know what i saw,” jay insists. “and if she walks into this gym tomorrow and ni-ki sees her...”

he doesn’t have to finish the sentence.

they all know.

ni-ki hasn’t been the same since 1894. since the night he lost control. he is a volatile, silent weapon of guilt. if he sees the face of the girl he murdered walking around in gym shorts?

he’ll break.

and a broken vampire is a dangerous thing.

“he can’t see her,” heeseung decides instantly. “keep him out of the gym. change his schedule. tell him the pipes burst. i don’t care.”

“he trains at 3 a.m. usually,” jake points out. “she’s coming during the day?”

“3 p.m.,” jay confirms.

“then we’re good,” sunghoon says, leaning back against the wall. “day shift vs. night shift. they’ll never cross paths.”

“unless he decides to come in early,” jungwon points out unhelpfully.

“he won’t,” heeseung says. tone final. “i’ll make sure of it.”

he looks at jay.

“i need to see her first.”

jay nods. “that’s what i thought.”

“if she’s really a doppelgänger... or whatever this is... we need to know. we need to know if she’s a threat to our exposure. or a threat to ni-ki’s sanity.”

heeseung walks to the door, grabbing his coat.

“wait,” jake calls out. “what if she is her? like, really her soul?”

heeseung pauses at the threshold. his hand tightens on the frame.

“then we have a bigger problem than bloodlust,” heeseung says softly.

because if caroline can come back... if death isn’t permanent... then maybe the curse isn’t permanent either.

or maybe, it just means they are destined to kill her all over again.

“keep ni-ki away,” heeseung orders. “i mean it. if he smells her, it’s over.”

he walks out.

the door slams shut.

in the silence left behind, jungwon looks at the others.

“ten bucks says ni-ki finds out by wednesday,” he says.

jake smirks, fangs glinting. “i give it twenty-four hours.”

sunghoon just sighs, picking up his knife again. “this is going to be a disaster.”

the building looks like a bruise against the skyline.

red brick. industrial. grim. it sits on a corner of the city that feels forgotten, sandwiched between an auto body shop and a closed-down warehouse. there’s no neon sign. no "summer special" banner. just a heavy metal door painted a shade of red that’s a little too dark to be cheerful.

crimson ring.

you stand on the sidewalk, gym bag slung over your shoulder, checking your phone.

2:58 pm.

you’re early. you’re always early. anxiety does that to a person.

you consider turning around. sydney would understand. destiny would probably drive the getaway car. you could go home, make pasta, and pretend you didn’t just sign up to get punched in the face for therapy.

but then you remember the dream.

the fire. the shadow. the feeling of being hunted.

power, you tell yourself. you need power.

you push the door open.

the smell hits you first.

it’s not the gross, stale locker room funk you expected. it smells like iron. old leather. bleach. and underneath it all, that same metallic sharp scent you smelled in your kitchen when jay cut his finger.

the air inside is freezing.

like, ac-cranked-to-the-max freezing.

you shiver, stepping fully inside. the gym is cavernous. high ceilings, exposed pipes, rows of heavy bags hanging like carcasses. there are two boxing rings in the center.

and it’s quiet.

not silent—there’s the rhythmic thwack-thwack-thwack of gloves hitting bags, the skip of ropes against rubber mats—but there’s no talking. no music. no laughing.

the men training here are massive. shadows in motion. moving with a speed that makes your eyes hurt if you try to track them too closely.

“you showed up.”

you jump.

jay is leaning against the front desk, arms crossed over his chest. he’s wearing a tank top today, and you try not to stare at the fact that his arms look like they were sculpted out of marble.

he’s smiling, but his eyes are scanning you. carefully.

“told you i would,” you say, gripping your bag tighter.

“most people say that and then ghost.” he pushes off the desk. “glad you’re not most people.”

he gestures for you to follow him.

you walk deeper into the gym, conscious of the way the air seems to ripple as you pass. heads turn. not many. just a few.

a guy with cat-like eyes pauses mid-sit-up to watch you. another one near the water fountain stops filling his bottle, his gaze heavy and unblinking.

you feel like a rabbit walking into a kennel of wolves.

“ignore them,” jay says, voice low. “fresh meat is a novelty around here.”

“comforting.”

“this is heeseung,” jay says, stopping by the first ring. “he runs the place. and he’s the one you have to impress if you want to stay.”

heeseung is inside the ring, unwrapping his hands.

he’s terrifyingly handsome. sharp features, doe eyes that somehow look predatory, and a stillness about him that feels unnatural.

he stops unwrapping. looks up.

locks eyes with you.

and for a second, you feel like he’s reading your entire history. every scar. every fear. every nightmare.

he inhales. slow. deep.

his eyes widen—just a fraction.

he looks at jay. jay gives him a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.

it’s her.

the silent communication is loud enough to deafen you.

“y/n,” heeseung says. his voice is smooth, melodic. “jay says you want to learn how to fight.”

“i want to learn how to not be afraid,” you correct.

heeseung tilts his head.

“fear is good,” he says, walking to the ropes. he moves too gracefully. like gravity doesn’t apply to him. “fear keeps you alive. we don’t teach you to lose it. we teach you to use it.”

he leans over the ropes, looking down at you.

“have you ever hit anything before?”

“no.”

“good. no bad habits to break.” he points to a heavy bag in the back corner, shadowed and isolated. “jay will get you wrapped. show me you can throw a jab without breaking your wrist, and maybe i’ll let you come back tomorrow.”

twenty minutes later, your knuckles ache, your lungs are burning, and you’re pretty sure you’re sweating enough to drown.

jay is a patient teacher. almost too patient.

he touches you like you’re made of glass. correcting your stance with gentle taps, guiding your elbow up without actually grabbing you. his hands are cold. distractingly cold.

“snap it back,” he instructs. “don’t push the bag. hit it and retract. like a whip.”

you throw a jab. the bag barely moves.

“better,” he lies.

“i suck at this,” you pant, wiping hair out of your face.

“you’re new. you’re supposed to suck.” he hands you a water bottle. “take five. breathe.”

you lean against the wall, sliding down until you’re crouching. you close your eyes, trying to center yourself.

the gym has gotten louder. more bodies. more heat.

but then—

it stops.

not the noise. the feeling.

the air in the room drops ten degrees in a single second.

the hair on your arms stands up. your stomach drops, instinct screaming at you to run.

you open your eyes.

across the gym, the back door has opened.

a boy walks in.

he’s tall. lanky. blonde hair falling into his eyes. wearing a black hoodie with the hood up, headphones around his neck.

he doesn’t look at anyone. he walks with a strange, lethal fluidity. like a ghost haunting his own body.

the energy in the room shifts toward him. gravitational.

jay goes stiff beside you.

heeseung stops talking to the guy in the ring.

the boy—ni-ki, your brain supplies, though no one has said his name—walks straight to the furthest corner. he drops his bag. starts wrapping his hands.

he hasn’t looked up once.

but you can’t look away.

there’s something about him. something tragic. something angry.

“y/n,” jay says. his voice is sharp. urgent. “let’s call it a day.”

you blink, turning to him. “what? i just got here.”

“you’re tired. form’s getting sloppy.” he’s already reaching for your gloves, trying to undo the velcro. “come back thursday.”

“jay, i’m fine—”

thud.

the sound echoes through the gym like a gunshot.

you turn.

ni-ki has hit the bag.

he didn’t just hit it. he decimated it. the heavy bag, which must weigh a hundred pounds, swings violently, the chain rattling against the ceiling beam.

he freezes.

his head snaps up.

he breathes in. sharp. audible.

and then, slowly, terrifyingly, he turns.

across the gym, through the dust motes and the smell of sweat, his eyes find you.

time stops.

literally.

your heart stops beating. your lungs stop working.

it’s him.

the shadow. the tilted head. the feeling of fire and forests and teeth.

he stares at you. his face drains of color—what little color he had. his eyes are wide, blown with something that looks like horror. and underneath the horror?

hunger.

he takes a step toward you.

jay steps in front of you. a shield.

“ni-ki,” jay warns. low. dangerous.

ni-ki doesn’t hear him. he’s looking right through jay. right at you.

“caroline?”

the name is a whisper, but it carries across the room like a scream.

you frown, stepping out from behind jay because you’re not the kind of girl who hides, even when every cell in your body is telling you to.

“who?” you ask.

ni-ki flinches. like you slapped him.

he looks at your face. your confused, modern, very alive face.

he looks at the pulse fluttering in your neck.

his hands clench into fists at his sides. tight enough to turn his knuckles white. tight enough to draw blood from his own palms.

the emotion on his face shifts.

grief vanishes. coldness slams down like a steel shutter.

he looks at jay.

“get her out of here,” ni-ki snarls. his voice is rough, unused.

you bristle. “excuse me?”

he looks back at you. eyes dead. cruel.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he says.

“i paid for a membership,” you snap back, adrenaline making you stupid.

he walks toward you.

he moves so fast you don’t even see him cross the floor. one second he’s across the room, the next he’s standing two feet away.

he towers over you. up close, he’s beautiful. and terrifying. he smells like rain and something burnt.

he leans down, right in your face.

“this isn’t a playground,” he whispers. venom dripping from every word. “you’re weak. you’re fragile. and if you stay here...”

his eyes drop to your throat. dark. dilated.

“...you’re going to get hurt.”

he pulls back, shoving his hands in his pockets, and turns his back on you.

“leave.”

he walks away.

you stand there, heart hammering against your ribs, cheeks burning with humiliation and anger.

jay puts a hand on your shoulder. “y/n…”

you pull away.

“i’ll see you thursday, jay,” you say, voice shaking but chin up.

you grab your bag and walk out.

you don’t look back.

if you had, you would’ve seen heeseung holding ni-ki back by the shoulder.

and you would’ve seen ni-ki staring at the door you just walked through, looking like he was about to fall to his knees and weep

the door to the gym slams shut behind you, cutting off the smell of iron and the sound of your own humiliation.

you don’t stop walking.

you don’t even check to see if jay followed you out. you just put your head down, shove your hands in your pockets, and go.

the air outside is hot, heavy with exhaust and city noise, but you feel freezing.

it’s the adrenaline crash.

it’s the way his voice sounded. you’re weak. you’re fragile.

it wasn’t just an insult. it sounded like a diagnosis. like he looked at you and saw every bruise you’ve ever hidden, every time you didn’t fight back, every time you made yourself small to survive.

you hate him.

you’ve known him for five minutes, and you hate him.

you turn the corner, walking faster, your sneakers slapping hard against the pavement.

your vision blurs.

“dammit,” you whisper, wiping your eyes aggressively with your sleeve.

you’re not a crier. you survived him—the ex who put you in this mindset—without crying in front of people. you’re not going to let some lanky, emo boxer with a god complex break you down in the first round.

but the tears come anyway. hot and stupid and angry.

you walk the twelve blocks home in a fugue state, seeing nothing but the sidewalk cracks and the memory of those eyes.

caroline.

who the hell is caroline?

and why did he look at you like he wanted to kill you and save you at the same time?

by the time you get to the apartment, your face is dry, but your eyes are puffy.

you unlock the door and step inside.

it’s quiet. destiny isn’t home.

but sydney is on the couch, laptop open, working on a paper. she looks up, smiling, ready to ask how it went—

her smile drops instantly.

“woah,” she says, closing the laptop. “what happened? are you okay?”

you drop your bag on the floor. “i’m fine.”

“you don’t look fine. you look like you just fought a war.”

“i’m quitting,” you say, walking straight to the kitchen to get water. your hands are shaking. “i’m not going back there.”

sydney gets up, following you. “wait, slow down. did you get hurt? did jay—”

“jay was fine,” you snap, opening the fridge. “it’s the other guys. specifically one of them. complete asshole.”

sydney frowns, confused.

her phone buzzes on the counter. once. twice. three times in rapid succession.

she glances at it.

“it’s jay,” she says softly.

you stiffen, chugging the water so you don’t have to speak.

sydney picks up the phone, reading the texts. her eyebrows furrow.

“he says… he’s really sorry,” she reads, looking up at you. “he says ni-ki—that’s the guy?—is… complicated. apparently he has ‘issues’ and didn’t mean to scare you off.”

“he told me i was weak,” you say, slamming the water bottle down. “he told me i didn’t belong there. and then he kicked me out.”

sydney winces. “okay, that’s bad.”

“it’s not just bad, sydney. it’s… it was weird. he knew my name. or he thought he knew my name. he called me caroline.”

sydney pauses, thumb hovering over her screen. “who?”

“i don’t know. an ex, probably. or some girl he traumatized before me.” you laugh, but it sounds brittle. “jay is texting you because he knows he brought me to a place that isn’t safe. and he’s right. i’m not going back.”

sydney looks at the phone again.

“jay says he’ll handle ni-ki. he says heeseung—the owner?—wants you to come back. he says you have potential.”

“tell him to save the sales pitch.”

you push past her, heading for your room.

“y/n, wait—”

“i’m tired, syd. i’m gonna shower.”

“jay’s asking if he can call you,” she calls out to your back. “he sounds really stressed about it. he says please don’t quit over one bad day.”

you stop at your bedroom door.

you think about the gym. the way the air felt. the way heeseung looked at you like a riddle. the way ni-ki looked at you like a ghost.

you’re weak.

maybe he’s right. maybe you are.

maybe walking away is the smart thing to do. the safe thing.

“tell jay,” you say, voice flat, “that i’m over it. and tell his friend he doesn’t have to worry. i won’t be back.”

you shut the door.

you lock it.

you lean your back against the wood, sliding down until you hit the floor.

your phone buzzes in your pocket. probably sydney. probably jay.

you don’t check it.

you just sit there in the dark, knees pulled to your chest, trying to ignore the fact that for the first time in a year, you didn’t feel just fear.

you felt seen.

he’s in his dorm room. lights low. hoodie on. he’s already tried not to think about you tonight. really tried. but it’s useless. it’s been four months now—four months since you first met—two months since you two became more than friends—and every day since, you’ve made it harder to pretend.

you just posted a selfie. nothing wild. just you, looking like you. boho braids, glossed lips, white tank top—he doesn’t even mean to stare, but his thumb freezes mid-scroll.

he always sees your stories first.

always likes them first.

sometimes sends a heart-eyes emoji just to see if you’ll reply. you always do.

but tonight? tonight’s different. because you look good. too good. like that’s what you look like when you’re alone? like he could be there right now, next to you on the couch, your legs over his lap, your laugh echoing down the hall?

he scrolls down.

then back up.

his thumb hovers like not moving will undo what’s already happening in his chest.

or lower.

his palm settles between his legs, not moving yet—just pressing. feeling how hard he’s already getting.

he tells himself not to.

you’d think he was disgusting if you knew.

he never feels like this. he always can ignore it. distract himself. but still… his hand slides under the waistband. fingers wrap around himself, slow. cautious. his eyes flick back to your picture, and his breath catches as he strokes once. again. a little firmer this time.

he thinks about the way your laugh gets softer when you’re tired. how your perfume still lingers on his hoodie from the last time you hugged him. how your tank dips just low enough to show that delicate chain on your collarbone—the one you only wear when you’re home, the one he swears you wore just for him once.

his head tips back.

“fuck… y/n,” he breathes.

he strokes faster now, each thought of you making his grip tighten. his hips lift without meaning to. his mind gets hazy—blurred between memory and imagination.

you, leaning over him.

you, giggling into his ear.

you, moaning his name with that same voice you use when you tease him.

he’s close before he realizes it, jaw clenched, breath short. and when it hits—sharp, fast, sudden—it feels like relief and regret all at once. the feeling of himself spilling out is shameful and relieving all at once.

he exhales hard, hand slowing until it’s done.

he just sits there, hoodie askew, chest heaving.

your selfie still open.

he feels guilty.

he feels good.

he knows he’s going to do it again.

the next day, he sees you before you see him.

just a few seconds. but it’s enough to feel the air punch out of his lungs.

you’re standing in the hallway, talking to someone, smiling that easy smile, hair falling over your shoulder like it’s never had to fight for attention. you look casual—tank and jeans again—but you pull gravity with you when you walk. every eye lands. including his.

especially his.

and then your eyes meet his. and they light up.

“is that my favorite person?”

he tenses. barely holds in a sigh. because he knows—knows—that you mean it playfully. but after last night, after what he did, it lands different.

you step closer, all confidence and teasing charm. “yang jungwon,” you grin, like his name is a song. “you missed me?”

he should say something back. should joke. should flirt. but all he can think about is your picture. your skin. his hand. and the blanket he had to wash this morning.

“you’re underdressed,” you tease, fingers adjusting his hoodie like you always do.

“so are you,” he says before he can stop himself.

your smile sharpens. like you caught the flicker in his voice.

you lean in. “what are you doing tonight?”

“nothing, i guess.”

“good,” you say. “you’re coming over. i’m cooking.”

“what?”

“kimchi jjigae,” you say. “without mushrooms. i remember you don’t like them.”

he blinks. he’s sure he only mentioned that once.

you’re already walking away, bracelets clinking, hips swaying. “i’ll even get that baby beer you drink. because i’m nice like that.”

he can’t breathe.

💌 you okay wonnie? you said you were here right?

jungwon swipes up on the notification, breath shaky and visible in the freezing cold. of course—of course—right as he’s trying to gather himself before stepping into your apartment, you call him baby.

he’s been standing outside your door for a whole fifteen minutes, forehead pressed to the wood like it might give him answers. it’s pitiful. he knows he’s young. he knows your relationship—the weight of its intimacy, the constant tension, the way you exist so effortlessly beautiful—would make anyone stumble over their words. but this? this is something else. it’s overwhelming. it’s suffocating in the best and worst ways.

he feels powerless. and that’s new. that’s scary.

“lock in, jungwon,” he mutters, fogging up the cold air with his breath. one hand on his chest, trying to calm his racing heart. the other hovering near the waistband of his sweatpants, willing himself to chill the hell out. “and you … lock in too,” he whispers, glaring downward like it’ll help.

three light slaps to the cheeks—for luck. he shakes out his arms, shifts his posture, tries to embody someone who isn’t spiraling. someone cool. confident. maybe even sexy.

he takes a deep breath and presses the doorbell, the cold metal stinging his fingertips.

inside, your soft laughter leaks through the door, tangled with the hum of a movie in the background. his chest tightens at the sound, the warmth of you already pulling him in.

“who is it?” you sing-song, teasing.

jimmy chew—your fluffy companion—barks like he’s on security duty, little tail thumping. “is it wonnie? hmm?” you coo.

the door cracks just enough for you to peek out. even with half your face showing, jungwon feels like he’s about to collapse. how is someone like you even real?

you swing the door open fully, letting the cozy glow of your apartment spill into the icy night. he hesitates before stepping in, like he’s scared to ruin the sanctuary of your space.

“hi,” you whisper, and it sends a full-body shiver down his spine.

“hi,” he breathes, voice soft, smile even softer. he lingers near the doorway, clearly unsure of how to close the space between you.

so you do it for him.

your arms wrap around his waist like second nature, pulling him close. he stiffens at first—like his body forgot how to be held—but slowly, slowly, he melts into you.

“you okay?” you murmur, eyes sweet and teasing, hands featherlight against his back.

he laughs, shaky and quiet. “yeah. totally fine,” he lies, and you both know it.

you brush your thumb across his cheek, grounding him. “you’re adorable when you’re nervous, you know that?”

“adorable?” he repeats, like the word personally offends him—but the pink climbing up his ears gives him away.

“mm-hmm.” you press a kiss to the tip of his nose. he blinks, stunned, like even the smallest parts of him being loved are too much to take in at once.

then you kiss him again, and again—tiny kisses on his cheeks, his jaw, his forehead—until he’s burying his face in your shoulder, flustered beyond belief.

“i’m not good at this,” he mumbles, voice muffled in your hoodie.

“that’s okay,” you say gently, pulling back just enough to look into his eyes. “you don’t have to be.”

and wow—he thinks he could live in this moment forever.

but then you take his hand, lacing your fingers through his and guiding him to the couch. the feel of your palm against his is grounding, but something in his stomach twists—nerves and longing colliding in a way he doesn’t fully understand yet.

it’s all too much. the warmth of your presence, the softness of your touch, the casual way you make him feel like he belongs here.

“i’ll go warm up the food,” you say, giving his hand a gentle squeeze before slipping away. “you’ve probably been starving all day.”

as you turn toward the kitchen, he can’t help it—his eyes follow every step. there’s an ache forming deep in his chest, low and insistent. he reaches out, fingers hooking onto the hem of your hoodie.

“jungwon,” you warn, raising a brow with that fake-serious look that never really works on him.

“yes?” his grin is lazy, playful, fingers still gripping the fabric.

before you can react, he darts forward, fingers brushing against your side in a light tickle.

“don’t you dare!” you squeal, twisting around to swat at his hands.

he laughs—boyish and breathless—as he lunges again, catching you off guard. you both tumble onto the couch, a mess of limbs and laughter, completely losing it.

“jungwon, stop!” you gasp, trying to wriggle away, giggles spilling from your mouth like you can’t help it.

“stop?” he repeats, mock-thinking, eyes glinting with mischief. “mmm… nah.”

chaos. complete chaos. he tickles every sensitive spot he can find while you squirm and squeal and laugh like it’s the best thing in the world. but then—something shifts.

you move just a little. trying to escape. and that slight friction—hips brushing just right—sends a jolt straight through him.

time stops.

jungwon freezes. breath caught. his whole body going still.

his face floods with color as he quickly pulls back, eyes anywhere but yours.

you feel it too. the tension, thick and undeniable now.

“…the food,” you blurt, voice suddenly shaky.

“right. the food,” he echoes, throat dry.

neither of you moves for a second, the silence charged.

then, slowly, you stand, smoothing your hoodie and letting out an awkward little laugh.

“i’ll… uh. be right back,” you say, trying to sound light but clearly rattled.

as you slip into the kitchen, jungwon sinks back into the couch, a shaky exhale leaving his lips. his hand hovers over his lap, not even daring to touch. the ghost of your body lingers, burning into his skin.

jungwon stares at the ceiling, heart pounding and dick standing at full attention. he doesn’t know how he got here. doesn’t know how you got him here.

he palms himself lightly, jaw clenched. just trying to take the edge off. but one stroke in and he’s panicking. this isn’t normal. this isn’t him.

he yanks his hand away like it’s burned him and throws the nearest blanket over his lap like he’s being exorcised. folds his hands on top of it like some well-behaved sunday school boy. he’s spiraling.

and then you come back.

totally unfazed. like you didn’t just send him spiraling with a giggle and a kiss. you sit down beside him and hand him a bowl, pulling your legs up and settling in like it’s just another movie night.

but it’s not.

you look… unreal. boobs perked perfectly beneath that tiny tank top, pink juicy shorts hugging your ass like they’re clinging for life. jungwon’s pretty sure you’ve been sent to personally torment him.

you scroll through netflix casually, like you don’t know what you’re doing. but when you lean over to grab the remote—reaching just far enough that your shorts ride up—he can’t help himself.

his hand finds the small of your back. he rubs soft circles there without thinking, like touching you will somehow calm the chaos inside him.

you glance back, smiling so sweetly it makes his stomach flip. then—without a word—you lean down and press the softest kiss to his lips.

just a taste.

then another.

and another—this one deeper, slower, your lips lingering like they mean something. he kisses you back without thinking, lips parting just slightly.

but before he can chase more, you pull away.

that same sweet smile on your lips.

you put on a movie. something random—neither of you really pays attention to what. the screen glows in the background, voices mumbling over soft music, but neither of you is watching.

you lean into his side, your head resting gently on his shoulder. one hand slips beneath the blanket, fingers brushing lightly against his arm. his whole body stiffens under the touch, like he’s trying not to combust.

and still—he doesn’t say a word.

because this? this is uncharted territory. for all the kisses and the teasing and the closeness, you and jungwon haven’t gone there yet. not all the way.

it’s never been talked about.

you’ve been so careful. so patient. you’ve never wanted to make him feel pressured, never wanted to put that weight on him. even though you want him—you’ve always tried to respect where he might be. because he’s your baby, yeah, but he’s also your man. and you don’t want him to think you see him as anything less.

so you don’t ask.

you let him lead. let him have his pace. and you just… wait. quietly.

what you don’t know is that jungwon isn’t a virgin—but he wishes he was.

there was someone before you. just one person. one time. it happened fast. he didn’t even think about it. everyone around him had already done it, and he was tired of carrying around this invisible weight, this pressure to prove something he didn’t really understand.

so he did it.

and afterward, all he felt was… wrong. like something sacred had been taken without care. it didn’t hurt, exactly. but it also didn’t feel like anything. just a hollow blur of skin and breath and the knowledge that he didn’t want to do it like that again.

he remembers lying in bed that night, staring at the ceiling—wishing he’d waited. wishing he’d saved himself for someone who made him feel the way you do.

and now here you are. right next to him. smelling like citrus and wearing those damn shorts. your laugh still lingering in the air. and he can’t help but think how much he wants to give himself to you—for real this time. no shame. no confusion. just all of him, in a way he never has before.

but he doesn’t know how to say that.

so he just sits there. breathing you in. letting your touch settle into his skin. letting the silence stretch, warm and full of everything neither of you is ready to say yet.

on screen, the characters talk. a scene shifts. the music swells.

and still—nobody is watching.

you shift slightly, adjusting the blanket as you settle deeper into his side. the heat of his body under the fabric is obvious—tense, nervous, waiting. your fingers brush against his arm again, this time lingering, tracing gentle shapes against the soft cotton of his sleeve.

and then you feel it—that change in the air. that shift.

you glance up.

jungwon’s looking at you.

not with that usual shy smile. not the playful smirk he wears when he’s teasing you or the flustered pout he pulls when he’s overwhelmed.

this is different.

his eyes are softer now. slower. like he’s searching your face for something he can’t put into words. like he wants to say something but doesn’t know if he should. like he’s trying to hand you a piece of himself and isn’t sure if you’ll want it.

you don’t speak.

you just tilt your head slightly, hand still resting against his arm, your thumb now rubbing slow, grounding circles into his skin. you don’t rush him. you just wait.

and after a long moment, he swallows hard.

“there’s something i should probably tell you,” he says quietly, voice barely above the hum of the movie. “about me. about… this.”

your heart skips. but you stay still. open. safe.

“i’m not—” he pauses. looks down at his lap, where the blanket hides the quiet chaos happening underneath. “i’m not a virgin.”

there’s a beat of silence. not because you’re shocked, but because of how he says it. carefully. like it’s something shameful.

“but it wasn’t…” he sighs. runs a hand through his hair, eyes flicking toward the ceiling like it’ll help him find the right words. “it didn’t mean anything. it was just… something i did because i felt like i had to. everyone around me was already talking about it, and i didn’t want to be the only one who hadn’t. so i just… did it.”

your heart aches.

“i did like her” he admits, the words heavier now. “i don’t think she liked me though. it was quick. and when it was over, i felt… gross. like i gave something away that i wasn’t ready to give. and i’ve never told anyone that.”

he looks back at you.

“and then i met you. and i wished—” his voice cracks, just a little. “i wished i waited. for you.”

you don’t even think. you just reach up and cradle his face in your hand, your thumb brushing the side of his cheek. he leans into it like it’s instinct, like he’s been waiting for this moment since the beginning.

“thank you for telling me,” you whisper.

you don’t say “it’s okay.” because it is, obviously—but that’s not what he needs to hear. what he needs is to feel safe. to feel seen. to know that whatever happened before you, it doesn’t change how you feel about him now.

so instead, you press a kiss to his forehead. then to the tip of his nose. then finally to his lips—soft, slow, reverent.

he kisses you back like he’s learning how to love for the first time. and maybe he is.

you pull away just enough to look at him, eyes still locked.

“you don’t have to do anything,” you murmur. “not until you want to. i’m not going anywhere.”

and wow. the way he looks at you after that?

it’s like he’s already given you everything.

for a moment, the room is still. your words hang heavy between you, gentle and grounding.

but jungwon… he doesn’t look relieved. he looks desperate.

his breath hitches. his brows pull together slightly, like he’s trying to hold back something too big to say.

and then, softly—barely above a whisper—

“but i want you.”

your heart stutters.

his eyes flicker between yours, wide and glassy and so full of feeling it makes your chest ache. “i need you,” he says, firmer this time. “right now. i don’t wanna wait anymore.”

your lips part, but before you can speak, he takes your hand in his. carefully. like it’s breakable.

and then—slowly, nervously—he guides it under the blanket, down the soft slope of his stomach, until your palm rests against the thick, hard outline pressing through his sweats.

he’s burning up.

his other hand cups the back of your neck, his touch still gentle even as his breathing turns shaky. “see?” he whispers, eyes locked on yours. “it’s all for you.”

your fingers twitch against him instinctively, and he lets out the quietest moan—half relief, half disbelief.

“i’m yours,” he says, voice barely holding steady. “i want you to touch me.”

your heart is thudding, mouth dry, blood rushing in your ears—but your body? your body knows exactly what to do.

you press your lips to his again, deeper this time, your hand slowly, teasingly tracing the length of him over his sweats. he shudders beneath you, hips twitching slightly, like he can’t believe this is real.

and you can’t either.

because this is jungwon. your jungwon. sweet, shy, responsible. always in control.

but right now? he’s unraveling under your touch.

and he’s never looked more beautiful.

your kisses trail down to his jaw, his neck, tongue flicking against his skin as your hand works him slowly, patiently. his head drops back against the couch, mouth falling open, breath growing heavier with every second.

“fuck,” he whispers, one hand gripping your thigh now, needing something to hold onto.

“you feel so good, baby,” you murmur against his throat, your voice low and sticky-sweet. “been wanting to make you feel good for so long.”

his whole body tenses. “me too. i just—” he sucks in a sharp breath when your palm presses harder. “i didn’t know it could feel like this.”

your heart clenches at that. because you know he’s not just talking about the physical.

and neither are you.

you pull back just enough to look at him—eyes flushed, lips swollen, chest heaving—and you know.

he’s ready.

so when you whisper, “let me take care of you,” he nods, eyes fluttering closed.

because for the first time in his life, giving himself away doesn’t feel like a loss.

it feels like home.

you don’t rush.

you stay right there with him—lips brushing his, fingers moving slow, careful, teasing just enough to keep his breath hitching in his throat. your other hand slides beneath the blanket, resting on his bare stomach now, skin warm and trembling under your palm.

he lifts his hips instinctively, needing more, but he’s still trying to be good. still holding back.

“relax, baby,” you whisper. “let me.”

and he does.

his muscles ease beneath your touch, his head falling gently to the side, exposing more of his neck. you take your time with him, kissing a slow trail across his collarbone, up to the corner of his jaw. you want him to feel it all—not just the pleasure, but the care.

every touch is deliberate.

you slip your hand under the waistband of his sweats, and he chokes on a breath, hips jerking up slightly.

“okay?” you murmur.

he nods fast, too fast. “yeah. yeah, just—fuck.”

you grip him fully now, warm and firm in your hand, and the sound that escapes his throat is broken. his hips buck against your palm, breath shuddering as he throws an arm over his eyes like he can’t even handle being seen like this.

you smile.

“pretty,” you whisper, stroking him slowly, your thumb teasing the sensitive tip. “so pretty like this.”

he groans into his sleeve, the tips of his ears flushed deep red. “you’re gonna kill me.”

you laugh, low and sweet, lips brushing his ear. “not yet.”

he whimpers.

you kiss him again, this time slow and deep and all tongue—your hand working him in long, steady strokes as he melts into the couch. his moans are quiet but constant, like he can’t stop them even if he tried.

he’s not used to being wanted like this. not used to receiving.

and it shows.

every time you praise him—you’re doing so good for me, baby. you’re so perfect. i’ve got you—his breath stutters, his thighs shake, his hand grips your waist a little tighter.

he’s holding on like he’s scared to let go.

and then, breathless, voice breaking—“can i see you?”

you pause.

your heart squeezes in your chest because he sounds so earnest. like he’s not asking to get off—he’s asking to feel closer.

so you nod.

you sit up slightly, fingers slipping under your tank top, and slowly pull it over your head. his eyes widen, mouth parting like he’s seeing something extinct.

you’re bare to him now, chest rising and falling as you let him take you in.

“fuck,” he whispers, sitting up a little, hands moving like he wants to touch but doesn’t want to rush.

you guide his hand to your waist.

“you can touch me,” you say, voice low. “however you want.”

his fingers graze your skin like it might vanish. he palms your chest gently, reverently, and leans in to kiss the top curve, then your collarbone, then between. he takes his time, like he’s mapping you.

“you’re so beautiful,” he breathes.

you whisper back, “thank you.”

and just like that, you’re both shedding pieces of yourselves—layers of clothing, layers of fear. the couch is small, the movie forgotten, the blanket half-fallen.

but the way you’re wrapped in each other? the way he looks at you like you’re both the answer and the question?

it’s everything.

and when he finally slides his hand back down between your thighs, wanting to touch you the way you touched him?

you let him.

you don’t let go of his hand.

even as he touches you. even as his fingertips glide over your waist, your ribs, the curve of your chest. even when his lips trail softly after them, kissing over skin like it’s new, like it matters.

you keep holding on.

because you want him to know—he’s not doing this alone.

his hands shake a little. not from fear, exactly, but from everything else. the weight of this. the quiet ache that’s been building for months. the fact that it’s you—you—and this time, it means something.

your fingers brush his hair back gently as he leans down to kiss you again. slower this time. deeper. his tongue licks into your mouth like he’s hungry but scared to ask for too much. his hips shift against yours and you can feel him, hard and aching, pressed to your thigh. he tries to pull back, tries to be polite, but you don’t let him.

you wrap your legs around his waist and hold him there.

“baby,” you murmur, voice low, “i want you.”

his breath stutters against your lips.

“are you sure?” he asks, barely above a whisper. “i—i don’t wanna mess it up.”

you shake your head. “you won’t.”

“but what if—”

you cut him off with a kiss. then another. and another. soft and slow until he forgets what he was worried about. until all that’s left is how your body feels underneath his. how your hands feel on his skin. how badly he wants to be close.

“we’ll figure it out,” you whisper. “together.”

he nods, eyes glassy.

you help him take the rest of his clothes off, slow and careful, like you’re unwrapping something delicate. like you want him to feel beautiful while it happens. and he does. because you look at him like he’s art. like he’s not just enough—he’s everything.

he slides your shorts down next. his fingers trail slowly along your thighs, then pause.

“can i?” he asks, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

you nod, hand over his.

he touches you like he’s studying you. like he wants to learn every way your body says yes. his fingers slip between your thighs, teasing first—just the outside, gentle and exploratory, until your breath catches. until your hips lift to meet his hand.

and then he finds it. the way you like to be touched.

your soft moan confirms it, and his lips part like he’s stunned.

“you’re… so wet,” he says, voice shaky.

you nod, eyes heavy, mouth parted. “because of you.”

his whole body shivers at that.

you press your palm against his chest—his heart’s pounding so hard it rattles your ribs. he leans forward, forehead resting against yours. your hands roam his back, grounding him as he presses two fingers inside you, slow, steady, watching your face like a prayer.

“does that feel good?” he asks.

“yeah, baby,” you breathe, eyes fluttering. “so good. just like that.”

he keeps going until you’re gasping, until your hips are rolling against his hand and your nails are digging into his shoulder. he watches every second like he wants to remember this for the rest of his life.

and then you’re pulling him in, whispering, “i want you now.”

his breath catches. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you say. “you can have me.”

he swallows hard. nods. you pull the drawer open beside the couch and hand him the condom.

“you came prepared?” he says, blushing.

you smirk. “just in case.”

he tears it open with shaky hands. you help him, gently, rolling it down over him while his eyes squeeze shut like he can’t believe any of this is real.

you kiss his stomach, his chest, his neck—reassuring him with every inch.

and then you guide him between your legs.

he lines himself up, looking down at where your bodies meet.

“are you okay?” he asks, again.

you nod. “come here.”

he pushes in slow.

so slow it almost hurts.

not physically—emotionally.

because you can feel every second of it. every inch. every hesitation. every breathless gasp that leaves his mouth as he sinks into you for the first time.

he hides his face in your neck, panting.

“oh my-,” he whispers. “you feel…”

you kiss his shoulder. “it’s okay. you can move.”

he starts slow. rocking into you gently, trying to stay in control, but the feeling of your body wrapped around him has his hips stuttering almost immediately.

“fuck—i don’t think i’m gonna last,” he says, voice broken.

“it’s okay,” you whisper, holding his face. “just feel me.”

he kisses you again. harder this time. like he needs to. his hips snap forward a little faster. your nails dig into his back.

you wrap your legs tighter around him and he moans into your mouth.

you can feel him unraveling. all the tension, all the longing, all the feelings he’s never said out loud.

and when he finally breaks—shuddering inside you, whispering your name like it’s the only word he knows—you hold him through it.

his body goes still.

his chest rises and falls against yours.

he stays inside you for a long moment, catching his breath, forehead pressed to your cheek.

“sorry,” he whispers. “i wanted to make it last.”

“baby,” you say softly, brushing his hair back. “you don’t have to say sorry. it was perfect.”

he lifts his head just enough to look at you—still breathing hard, lips parted, a little flushed and glassy-eyed.

but there’s something stubborn in his expression now. like he’s not done yet.

before you can say anything else, he’s already shifting down, hand trailing slow over your stomach. he kisses the inside of your knee, your thigh, dragging two fingers through the mess between your legs and letting out a quiet breath like he already knows exactly what he’s about to do.

“just let me,” he mumbles. “i wanna make you feel good too.”

your hips jump at the first touch. sensitive. overstimulated. but not enough to stop him.

his fingers start slow—two, maybe three at first, moving in soft, deliberate circles. it’s different now. more focused. not hurried or clumsy. just pure attention. pure effort. he watches every reaction, every twitch and gasp and stuttered breath, adjusting the pressure like he’s learning you in real time.

“still so wet,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “you gonna cum for me?”

you moan—half a yes, half a sob—and grip his forearm as your back arches.

“come on, pretty,” he coaxes, voice low, thick. “give it to me. let go.”

and you do. you finish hard—hips rolling up into his palm, legs shaking, breath caught in your throat as you cum all over his fingers. loud, messy, so damn wet he can feel it drip down his wrist and it only makes him move faster.

you whimper, eyes fluttering shut, hand still gripping him as your body pulses through it.

he kisses your thigh again. doesn’t even wipe his hand yet. just stares at you like he’s never seen anything so perfect.

and when your breath finally slows, when you open your eyes again, he’s still right there—resting his chin on your stomach, fingers still lazily brushing your skin.

“feel better?” he asks, smiling.

you just nod, dazed and glowing. and this time, he doesn’t say sorry.

because now he knows. it’s not about lasting forever. it’s about getting you there—no matter what.

he smiles. sleepy. dazed. overwhelmed.

and for the first time in his life, jungwon doesn’t feel like he gave something away.

jay

he doesn’t mean to look.

you thought he wasn’t paying attention.

but the moment your shirt lifts — before you even have time to toss it in the hamper — you hear him go quiet. like, dead silent.

you turn around, confused.

he’s sitting up now, remote in one hand, lips parted. just… staring. his entire soul left his body.

“what?” you ask, blinking. “why are you looking at me like that?”

“you…” his voice breaks.

he coughs. clears his throat. blinks like he just came back from war.

“you’ve been hiding those from me?”

you glance down, realize you’re still topless, and laugh — “i thought you weren’t looking.”

he puts the remote down slowly. reverently.

“i wasn’t. and now i’m being punished for it.”

you start reaching for your shirt again, but he stops you.

“no. no, you don’t get to take them away. i just met them.”

you laugh even harder, grabbing a hoodie, but he just looks betrayed. hand on his chest. like he needs a moment.

he’s so serious.

“i’m gonna write about this in my notes app. i just need a second to process. they were so pretty. like. aesthetically. artistically. spiritually.”

you roll your eyes. “you’re being so dramatic.”

he just nods slowly. “i know. and i’m right.”

and later that night, when you’re finally in bed, hoodie zipped to your chin, back turned…

you feel his hand on your waist. his lips near your ear.

“next time… warn me. or don’t. i’ll survive either way. i think.”

(he won’t.)

jake

he was laying on your stomach.

like full face-planted. arms around your waist. humming into your skin, half-asleep, talking nonsense between every other breath.

you thought he was dozing off. so when you finally sit up, lifting your shirt over your head, you don’t think twice.

you’re just changing. grabbing a hoodie. your back’s to him, and it’s dark. no big deal.

until you hear him choke.

“oh.”

you glance over your shoulder. “what?”

he’s sitting up now. like—straight up. eyes wide. cheeks red.

“did i—did you just—i mean, did i see that?”

you pause. blink. realize what he saw.

“oh. yeah,” you say casually. “sorry, i didn’t think you were looking—”

“NO i mean—it’s okay i just—wow.”

you laugh, pulling your hoodie on, but he’s still sitting there like he witnessed a miracle.

“you’re just… walking around with those? like… they’re real?”

you look at him.

he looks at you.

then covers his face with both hands and groans.

“i’m gonna have dreams about this,” he mumbles. “like not even in a gross way. just in a i saw something sacred kind of way.”

you crawl back under the blanket and he immediately wraps himself around you like a koala. kisses your collarbone like he’s trying to prove his love to god.

“you know i’d die for you, right?”

“because of my boobs?”

“yes. but also your soul.”

sunghoon

he just wanted his charger.

you’d taken it earlier. said he left it in your room. told him to come grab it when he needed it.

he didn’t knock. he thought you were in the kitchen.

so when he pushes the door open and sees you — topless, glowing, towel low on your hips, hair still damp, hand frozen mid-lotion — he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move. just. stares.

your eyes meet. for a second, you both just blink. like a standstill.

and then—“oh my god—” you gasp, arms flying up to cover your chest.

he flinches so hard he nearly drops his phone.

“i’m sorry—i’m so sorry—i thought you were—i didn’t know—i didn’t—”

he steps back, slams the door shut, and stands there. outside your room. in silence. breathing heavy.

you call through the door.

“did you at least grab the charger??”

his voice cracks.

“no. i… i blacked out a little.”

you start laughing, and he wants to crawl into the floor.

he walks back to the living room like he just got hit by a bus. plops on the couch. face flushed. head in hands.

his phone buzzes.

you: “they were nice though right 😌”

him: “don’t do this to me rn”

you: “i’m just saying”

him: “i’m spiraling”

he doesn’t talk about it again until a week later.

you’re cuddling. watching something dumb. his hand on your waist. and he whispers— “i wasn’t trying to see you like that.”

you smile. “i know.”

he exhales.

“but i think about it every day.”

sunoo

he knew you were a little drunk. and he loved it.

you were glowing — cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, giggling at nothing, spinning in his room like the floor was made of clouds.

“this song is so cute,” you hummed, dancing barefoot in your loose, but cropped tee. “you like it?”

“you’re cuter,” he said automatically, phone in hand, recording you from the bed like a proud dad. or a smitten boyfriend. or both.

and then you twirled. just once. dramatic. shirt lifted. boobs out. fully. jiggled in the light.

he screams. like, not a little gasp. a full-bodied, hands-flailing, dramatic-ass scream.

you freeze.

he drops his phone.

“what was that?!”

“what do you mean?” you blinked innocently.

“you just showed me your entire whole everything!”

you laughed. “it was like half a second!”

“HALF A SECOND TOO LONG!.”

he turned his back like it was a crime scene. hands on his hips. pacing.

“do you know what that did to me? i can’t just see those and go back to normal?? i have to live with this memory now???”

you’re still giggling, flopping on the bed.

“are you mad?”

he turns back slowly. shakes his head with deep, dramatic disappointment.

“i’m not mad. i’m… changed.”

you smile at him, hair messy, shirt hanging off your shoulder now, and he just sighs.

“your boobs are pretty,” he said, soft.

“thank you,” you whisper back.

ten minutes later, he’s cuddled into your side, face buried in your chest like nothing happened.

“just so you know,” he mumbles, “those are mine now.”

jungwon

he wakes up slow.

sunlight leaking through the curtains. sheets warm. room still. his head hurts a little, but it’s dull — the kind of ache that tells him he slept too hard, not too little.

your back is to him. face tucked into the pillow. one arm curled under your head, the other hidden beneath the blankets. hair a mess. tank top clinging to your shoulder, twisted near your ribs.

he yawns, stretches, blinks a few times—and then sees it.

he doesn’t even mean to look. he just happens to glance down as he shifts closer. and it’s there.

the curve of your breast. soft in the light. warm against the fabric. and your nipple. completely out.

his breath catches. eyes widen.

he goes still. so still. his body locks up like if he moves too fast, he’ll ruin the moment—or combust.

he stares for maybe two seconds too long. just enough to memorize the shape, the color, the way it’s pressed to the blanket. then he flips over and stares at the ceiling like a freak.

his brain short-circuits.

“you weren’t supposed to see that.”

“but i did.”

“you need to act normal.”

“i can’t.”

he’s spiraling. breathing too carefully. sweating for no reason. his heart’s beating like you just kissed him, but you’re not even awake.

he hears you shift. the blankets rustle. he wonders if you’re about to wake up and ask why he’s being so quiet.

so he gets up. fast. grabs his phone off the floor. stumbles into the kitchen like he’s being chased by demons.

ten minutes later, you walk out half-asleep, tank top still traitorous, rubbing your eyes.

“morning,” you mumble.

he can’t look at you. he sips his tea like it holds the answers.

nods once. “morning.”

you pause. tilt your head. “you okay?”

he nods again. eyes still fixed on his mug.

“…did i say something weird in my sleep?”

“no.”

you raise a brow. he finally glances up—but the second he sees your shirt slipping again, he FLINGS his gaze back down.

“jungwon,” you laugh, catching on. “did you see something?”

he says nothing. just takes a breath and murmurs, “i shouldn’t be seeing this. pausing a bit more before he whispers, “but it was beautiful.”

and that’s all he says.

for the rest of the day, he can’t look at you without blushing.

and for the rest of his life, he never forgets it.

ni-ki

you’re in his room, lights low, legs tangled under the blanket with a half-eaten bag of spicy chips between you.

the tv’s playing something dumb neither of you are watching — both too busy side-eyeing each other between jokes, limbs inching closer, pretending the tension doesn’t exist.

“you’re literally so bad at arguing,” you mutter, tossing a chip at his chest.

he catches it. eats it. shrugs.

“because i’m never wrong.”

you scoff. dramatic. lean back against his headboard like he didn’t just say something delusional.

it’s hot. too hot. the hoodie you’re wearing feels like it’s suffocating you. so you sit up. lift it over your head mid-sentence, not even thinking — just pull it off and toss it to the floor.

you don’t notice how your tank top rises too. you don’t notice how loose the armhole is. you don’t notice that for a split second, your left tit literally says hello to the room.

but he does.

he goes still. chip mid-air. eyes locked on you like he just saw a solar eclipse and isn’t sure if it was real.

you look at him.

“what?”

nothing. no answer. just him blinking.

“…what?” you laugh.

he points at you. expression unreadable. voice low.

“you did that on purpose.”

you blink. “did what?”

“you just flashed me.”

your face scrunches. you look down. your shirt is back in place.

“i didn’t flash you.”

“you did.”

“it was like—maybe a second.”

“that’s all it took,” he says, leaning back. “i’m a changed man now.”

you roll your eyes, dragging the blanket back over you, acting unfazed.

he turns away for a second. exhales. then you hear him mutter, mostly to himself—

“they were so pretty.”

you freeze.

he doesn’t take it back.

just grabs another chip and pops it in his mouth, chewing like he didn’t just say the most devastating sentence of your life.

“you’re annoying,” you say quietly. your voice cracks.

“no, you’re annoying ,” he fires back. “don’t take your clothes off around me if you want me to act normal.”

you laugh. loud. flustered.

he smiles. like he meant to do that. like he’s proud of himself.

and then he says—