Moon 🦦

the bathroom door clicks open just as you're tilting your head back under the spray, eyes closed, steam curling around you in thick, warm clouds.

you don't hear him at first, not over the white noise of water hitting tile, but you feel the shift in the air, the momentary chill as the door opens and closes again.

"baby?" his voice cuts through the haze, soft and questioning.

you peel your eyes open, wiping water from your lashes, and there he is. jake. still in his practice clothes, black hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, gym bag dropped somewhere in the bedroom beyond.

he looks exhausted, shoulders curved inward, but his eyes light up when he sees you behind the frosted glass of the shower door.

"you're home," you say, smiling despite yourself. "i thought you'd be later."

"ended early," he mumbles, already pulling his shirt over his head, revealing the lean muscle underneath, skin glistening with the day's effort "hyungs let me go first."

he steps out of his shorts and underwear in one motion, and you watch because you always watch, because he never fails to make your breath catch.

the shower door slides open, cool air rushing in before his body replaces it, all heat and solid presence.

"missed you," he murmurs, crowding you against the tile, hands finding your waist with the kind of familiarity that comes from months of mapping each other's bodies.

"you saw me this morning," you laugh, but your hands are already sliding up his chest, tracing the lines of his collarbones, the hollow of his throat.

"still missed you," he insists, nose brushing your jaw, lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear "always miss you when i'm not touching you."

the water rains down between you, hot and insistent, and you can feel him hardening against your stomach already, all that coiled tension from practice redirecting itself into something hungrier. but jake has always been patient. jake has always been the type to take his time.

"let me wash you," he says, reaching for the body wash, and you nod because you know what this is.

this is him unwinding. this is him settling back into his skin, into the version of himself that belongs only to you.

he works the soap between his palms until it foams, then spreads it across your shoulders, down your arms, his touch firm but unhurried.

he worships your collarbones, the dip between your breasts, the curve of your waist. every touch says you're mine, you're mine, you're mine.

"turn around," he says, voice dropping lower, and you obey, pressing your palms flat against the tile, letting the water cascade down your spine.

he starts at your neck, thumbs working circles into the tension there, then drifts lower.

his soapy hands glide over your shoulder blades, your ribs, the small of your back. he takes his time with your ass, kneading, spreading, making you squirm against him.

"stay still," he whispers, and there's that tone. the one that makes your stomach flip. "let me take care of you."

"yes," you breathe, forehead resting against the cool tile.

his hands slide between your legs from behind, soapy and slick, and he doesn't rush.

he washes you there too, thorough and intimate, fingers sliding through your folds with casual possession.

you gasp when he brushes your clit, hips jerking involuntarily.

"easy," he soothes, other hand steadying your hip. "i've got you."

he rinses you off then, hands cupping water to pour over your skin, watching the soap spiral down the drain. but he doesn't stop touching you.

his fingers stay between your legs, exploring now, circling your entrance with teasing pressure.

"jake," you whine, pushing back against his hand.

"what, baby?" he sounds amused, lips at your ear. "what do you want?"

"you know what i want."

"mm," he hums, pressing a single finger inside you, curling it just enough to make your knees weak. "i think i do. but i want to hear you say it."

"please," you manage, head falling back against his shoulder. "want you inside me."

"not yet," he says, and withdraws his finger, making you whimper at the loss. "want to play first."

he turns you around then, back against the tile, and his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. he reaches up, adjusting the showerhead, and you realize what he's doing when he detaches it from the holder.

"trust me?" he asks, holding the handheld showerhead like a weapon.

"always," you say, and you mean it.

he starts at your feet, the water pressure dialed to a firm, pulsing stream. he moves it up your calves, your knees, the insides of your thighs.

the sensation is intense, almost too much, a constant drumming pressure that makes your muscles twitch.

"higher," he commands, and you spread your legs wider without thinking, giving him access.

the water hits your pussy and you cry out, hips bucking. it's different from fingers or a tongue, relentless and mechanical, spreading you open with hydraulic force.

jake watches your face, watches your mouth fall open, your eyes roll back.

"look at you," he murmurs, voice thick "taking it so well. such a good girl for me."

the praise sends heat spiraling through you, and you nod frantically, chasing the sensation.

he moves the stream in small circles, focusing the pressure on your clit, and it's overwhelming, too intense, but you don't want him to stop.

"please," you're babbling, hands gripping his shoulders for support. "jake, please, it's too much, please don't stop."

"never," he promises, leaning in to capture your mouth in a kiss that's all teeth and desperation.

"want to watch you come apart like this. want to feel you shaking."

he adjusts the angle, and suddenly the water is hitting that perfect spot, rhythmic and unyielding, and you're climbing fast, so fast, your nails digging into his skin hard enough to leave marks.

"that's it," he encourages, free hand cupping your breast, thumb circling your nipple "let go, baby. i've got you. come for me, y/n. be my good girl and come."

the words push you over, and you shatter against him, crying out his name as your orgasm crashes through you, thighs trembling, vision going white at the edges.

he keeps the water there through it, drawing it out until you're sobbing, oversensitive, pushing at his chest.

"okay, okay," he soothes, turning the pressure down, discarding the showerhead to wrap his arms around you "you did so well. so perfect. feel good?"

"yeah," you gasp, clinging to him, still shaking "yeah, feel good."

he kisses your forehead, your eyelids, the tip of your nose "want more?"

"want you," you say, looking up at him through heavy lashes "want you inside me. please, jake."

he groans, pressing his forehead to yours "fuck, the way you beg for me. kills me every time."

he lifts you then, hands under your thighs, and you wrap your legs around his waist, back against the tile.

the position spreads you open for him, and you can feel him hard and hot against your entrance, still sensitive from your orgasm.

"ready?" he asks, always checking, always caring even when he's trembling with need.

"yes, yes, please," you chant, and he sinks into you in one slow, perfect thrust.

you both moan, the sound echoing off the bathroom walls. he fills you completely, stretching you in that way that burns so perfectly, and he stays there for a moment, forehead pressed to your shoulder, breathing hard.

"you feel incredible," he whispers "so warm. so tight. fuck, baby, you were made for me."

"move," you plead, rolling your hips against him "please, jake, need you to move."

he pulls out slowly, almost all the way, then slams back in, making you cry out.

he sets a rhythm that's deep and deliberate, each thrust angled to hit that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyes.

the water is still running, cooler now, cascading over both of you as he fucks you against the wall. his hands grip your thighs hard enough to bruise, and you hope they do, hope you carry the marks of his fingers for days.

"touch yourself," he commands, voice rough "want to feel you squeeze me when you come again."

you reach between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and the dual sensation of him inside you and your own touch has you climbing fast again, impossibly soon.

"good girl," he praises, watching your hand move "that's it. keep touching yourself. want you to come on my cock, y/n. want to feel you milking me."

his words are filthy and perfect, and you feel yourself tightening around him, the pressure building low in your stomach.

"jake," you warn, voice high and broken.

"come with me," he says, pace faltering, losing his rhythm as he gets close "come with me, baby. let's go together."

he thrusts harder, deeper, hitting that spot with precision, and you shatter, orgasm ripping through you with violent intensity.

you clamp down on him, and he groans your name, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside you, hot and pulsing.

he keeps you pinned there for long moments, both of you shaking, breathing hard, the water washing away the sweat and evidence of what you've done.

he kisses you then, soft and reverent, all the desperation gentled into something tender.

"love you," he whispers against your lips. "love you so much."

"love you too," you say, smiling despite the exhaustion in your bones.

he lowers you carefully, making sure you're steady on your feet before he reaches for the soap again. this time it's just cleaning, gentle and thorough, washing away the day, washing away the intensity until you're both just skin and warmth and easy affection.

he turns off the water and wraps you in a towel, drying your hair with the kind of care that makes your heart ache.

he carries you to bed after, still damp, and curls around you, nose buried in your neck.

"sleep," he murmurs. "i'll be here when you wake up."

you close your eyes, safe in his arms, and let the sound of his breathing lull you under.

⋆˚✿˖°

It was criminal to look at but he is your boyfriend anyways. Those damn sweatpants were insanely bad to your sanity, swaying loosely with every shift of his weight, threatening to slide right off his frame.

You weren't even pretending to read anymore. The book lay forgotten, your gaze fixed on the reflection in the mirror, tracking the path of his hand as it drifted lower, fingers toying with the waistband of his pants.

"Done checking me out?" Riki’s teasing voice cut through the silence.

He met your eyes in the mirror, a smirk playing on his lips. You blinked, caught red-handed, and quickly snapped your gaze back down to the page you hadn't turned in ten minutes. Oh.

"In your dreams," you shot back, rolling your eyes, though the heat rising in your cheeks betrayed you.

Riki just chuckled, turning his back from you as he walked toward the kitchen. "Whatever you say, babe."

You tried to focus on the text, forcing your brain to process the sentences, but it was useless. The image of his hand on his skin engraved in your mind. A moment later, the fridge door opened and closed, and he walked back into the living room.

If you thought the pants were low before, it was nothing compared to now. The gray fabric had slipped another inch, the waistband sitting precariously low, exposing the sharp definition of his hip bones. He stopped in front of you, holding a glass of water in his right hand.

"Babe, do you have other pants? Do you want me to buy one for you?" you asked, pointing out his loose sweatpants. You were genuinely concerned he didn't own clothes that actually fit him anymore.

He lowered the glass, wiping a droplet of water from his lower lip with his thumb. "Nah, I'm good babe. Besides, this is a trend nowadays." He smiled, that infuriatingly handsome, knowing smile, before tilting his head back to finish the water.

Your eyes traced the column of his throat as he swallowed, watching the bob of his Adam's apple. The sharp line of his jaw tensed and relaxed, the side profile illuminated by the afternoon light streaming through the window. He looked so manly, so effortlessly gorgeous by just standing there.

Riki stepped closer, coming to a stop just on the other side of the coffee table. You stared at the waistband of his sweatpants, the way they clung to nothing but air, the elastic band of his boxers clearly visible.

"Riki, pull it up. I swear. You're about to show your ass you know?" you said, your voice tinged with irritation, though it was mostly frustration at how badly you wanted to touch him.

"No. I'm not. Why are you bothered?" He teased, wiggling his eyebrows up and down flirting at you.

"Stop. There's nothing funny. I just don't want you to expose what's mine," you blurted out. The words hung in the air, heavy and possessive. You felt your face flush hot by your sudden confession.

"Possessive are we?" he chuckled, stepping closer to the edge of the table, enjoying your flustered state.

Instead of fixing his pants, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband and tugged them lower, deliberately slow. The gray fabric slid down his thighs, and the outline of his bulge became unmistakably visible, pressing against the front of his boxers.

"What about this?" He laughed, wiggling his eyebrows again, tugging the pants up and down in a rhythmic, mocking motion.

That was it.

You slammed your book shut, the loud thud echoing through the living room. Riki jumped slightly, his eyes widening in surprise at the sudden noise. You didn't say a word. You stood up, the book abandoned on the cushion, and walked around the coffee table until you were standing right in front of him.

Without breaking eye contact, you dropped to your knees. The carpet cushioned your descent as you settled between his legs. He spun around to face you, the movement bringing his crotch level with your face, the heavy outline of his cock inches from your nose.

"W-what is this?" he stammered, as he looked down at you.

"I don't play games, Riki. I'll pull it down for you," you smirked, craning your neck back to look up at him.

He inhaled sharply, his chest heaving as you reached out. You palmed his clothed member, feeling the heat radiating through the cotton, the weight of him filling your hand. You ran your hands up to the waistband of his sweatpants, fingers curling around the elastic, and slowly tugged them down.

He helped you, kicking the gray fabric away impatiently. You immediately reached for the black Calvin Klein boxers, dragging them down his thighs. His cock sprang free, slapping lightly against your cheek as it escaped the fabric. It stood up hard and thick, the tip already glistening with pre-cum, ready for your touch.

You wrapped your hand around the base, feeling the pulse of blood beneath the velvety skin. You stroked him gently, squeezing slightly as you moved your hand up and down. A breathy groan tore from Riki’s throat, his head falling back.

"Fuck," he hissed.

You leaned in, spitting directly onto the head of his cock, letting your saliva mix with the pre-cum. You showed him your tongue, swirling it teasingly before you took him inside your warm, wet mouth. You kept your eyes locked on his face, watching his expression contort with pleasure as you bobbed your head, taking him deeper with every pass.

"F-fuck baby. Your mouth feels good around my dick," he moaned, his hands tangling in your hair, fingers gripping the strands to guide you.

You tightened your palm around the base of his shaft, stroking him in time with the movements of your mouth. You sucked hard, your cheeks hollowing out, focusing on the sensitive ridge just below the head. You could feel every vein on your tongue, the texture of him dragging against the soft wetness of your mouth as he slid deeper.

"Keep going please—" Riki pleaded, his hips buckling forward, pushing your head down, wanting more.

He looked down at you, unable to look away. The sight of his big cock stuffed in your mouth, your pink lips stretched tight around him, was intoxicating. Your mouth glistened with the mixture of your saliva and his dripping pre-cum, strands of it connecting your lips to his shaft as you pulled back. The warmth of your mouth and the wetness of your tongue were sending him to cloud nine, and he knew he was the luckiest man alive to have you on your knees like this.

"You're so pretty around me. Ahh—" he moaned, as he began to fuck your mouth faster.

You gagged around him, the tip of his cock hitting the back of your throat, but you didn't pull away. You gripped his hips harder, your nails digging into his skin to steady yourself as he thrust into your mouth, losing control.

"Please! Please! Please! D-don't stop…" he begged, his voice wrecked.

Riki’s eyes drifted to the side, catching the reflection in the full-body mirror. The visual was filthy and perfect—he could see the way his cock disappeared fast in and out of your pretty mouth, the way your head bobbed furiously as he held your hair in a makeshift ponytail. He groaned again, the reflection in front of him pushing him closer to the edge.

"I'm gonna cum—ngh," he breathed out, his rhythm turning erratic as he continued to fuck your mouth, chasing his release.

You felt him swell in your mouth, getting heavier and fuller. You knew he was close. You released one hand from his hip and reached down to cup his balls, massaging them gently, rolling them in your palm to help him get there faster.

"Shit—F-fuck baby…" he cried out.

He came hard, his hips jerking forward as he buried himself deep in your throat. You felt the warm, salty flood of his seeds dripping inside your throat, coating your tongue. You swallowed around him, desperate to take it all, but there was too much. Some of it escaped the seal of your lips, dripping out of the corner of your mouth and running down your chin, landing straight onto your cleavage, staining the white lace camisole you wore.

Riki stood there for a moment, chest heaving, before he slowly pulled his softening cock from your mouth. He looked down at you, his face flushed with post-orgasmic bliss. He reached out, bringing his thumb to your chin to wipe the semen dripping from your lip. Without hesitation, he brought his thumb to your mouth, pushing it past your lips. You sucked it obediently, swirling your tongue around the digit, making wet, lewd noises as you cleaned him off.

He pulled his thumb free, the wet sound echoing in the quiet room. Then, he dropped to his knees in front of you, ignoring the hardness of the floor. He grabbed the nape of your neck and kissed you harshly, his tongue plunging into your mouth to taste himself on your tongue. It was a messy and possessive kiss.

Riki pulled back, a soft, genuine smile gracing his lips. He reached down, taking your hands from your thighs and placing them back on his semi-hard cock, which twitched at the friction of your touch.

"I will definitely wear more loose pants from now on," he said, his voice husky and sincere.

He wasn't fooling around.

You smiled back at him, your fingers tracing the length of him. Good thing you loved it.

taglist: @hoonguin @jakeycakeys @simjaeyunlvrclub @ni-kiluvzxo @livonianmaia @kristynaaah

The party’s been going on so long that the air has turned moist and the alcohol has begun to taste more like water instead of something dangerous.

Yunjins laughing at something next to you, her eyes half lidded and her limbs moving languidly. If it’s from the weed or the sheer gallons of vodka you’re sure she’s consumed tonight you aren’t entirely sure. What you are sure of though, is that you have definitely far surpassed the thin line between tipsy and black out drunk.

The weed makes your thoughts jumble together like some weird jigsaw puzzle, and every word that you manage to punch out takes way more effort then it probably should.

“But, seriously,” Jungwon starts, his words languid and low, “sex is kind of transactional. At least in this day and age.”

Yunjin attempts to smack his arm but instead she misses him completely and her hand lands between the couch cushions. She doesn’t bother moving it.

“That is sooo not true,” she drags out. “Sex is, like, sacred. Your body is a temple and all that bullshit.”

Jungwon laughs. “Maybe for other women, but I’m not sure if your body could be considered sacred anymore, Yunjin.”

She scoffs, her eyebrows furrowing in what might look like offense, but you know deep down she enjoys the easy banter her and Jungwon always seem to have. “Says the one who sticks his dick into anything that has a pulse!”

You are perfectly content to just listen to their conversation, as it would seem is Sunghoon.

You’d met Sunghoon your freshman year of university when you were still a small town girl in a city that felt way too big for you. He’d sat next to you in your freshman econ class and helped you around the city without so much as a whisper of a complaint, and the two of you had been inseparable ever since.

He’s always been the quiet brooding type, even when you’re around your mutual friends, and that’s become something you’ve found yourself finding comfort in more often than not. His presence is a consistent force in your life, and now that you’re nearing graduation and heading into unknown territory, it’s nice to have something so steady in your life.

That’s why you didn’t argue when he threw his arm around your shoulders and insisted you sit next to him. It’s why you didn’t argue when he offered you the blunt despite knowing you always get way too clingy when you’re high.

Sunghoon is your best friend. You trust him, and you know he feels the same way towards you.

You lean back into his arm, continuing to nurse the beer you’d had for the last hour. It makes your head feel warm and fuzzy in all the right ways, especially after whatever the fuck midterms had been. A disaster would be putting it lightly.

Sunghoon glances at you, his lips still enclosed around the blunt. He takes a drag of it, letting the end glow a bright orange before he pulls it away from his lips and offers it to you.

You accept it graciously, letting the smoke fill your lungs until you’re positive they’ll burst. You’ve never really been a big stoner, not like Ni-ki and Jungwon, but when you do let yourself indulge you always enjoy it.

Sunghoon watches when you exhale, his eyes following the cloud that forces its way from your lips and disperses around the room. For a moment, you think he almost looks impressed.

You laugh, your hand reaching out to shove at his chest gently. “What?” You ask.

He blinks, the movement slow, like he’s working overtime to process that you’d said anything at all. “What?” He echoes.

“You’re looking at me weird,” you mumble, dragging your eyes back to Yunjin and Jungwon. They’re still arguing over whether or not sex is transactional or whatever, and Ni-ki is just watching them like he can’t decide if he’s interested or if he wants them to shut up completely.

Sunghoon chuckles, the sound low and deep. You bring your gaze back up to him and watch as his lips curve up into that same lazy smirk he always seems to wear. Sometimes you wonder if that’s just his natural resting face.

“Was I?” He mumbles, choosing to play dumb. 

You’re not in the right headspace to argue with him, so instead you just sigh and let yourself sink further into the curve of his arm. His thigh is right against yours, the fabric of his jeans rubbing against the thin lining on your tights. If it was anyone else, you’d probably feel a little self-conscious at being so close, but this is Sunghoon. He’s never shied away from physical touch, and at some point it just became another factor in your friendship.

The sound of your name forces your thoughts about Sunghoon to fade into the background, and when you look up Yunjin is staring at you like you’ve said something shocking. Which is weird, because you don’t remember saying anything at all.

“Huh?” You manage, your eyebrows furrowing as you try to work through the cloud in your mind.

Yunjin rolls her eyes but repeats herself anyway. “Do you think sex is transactional?” She asks before throwing a fiery glare at Jungwon. “Or is Jungwon just a grade A asshole?”

…Sex? She’s asking you about sex?

Usually you wouldn’t mind indulging in her less than ethical questions, especially when you’ve had a few drinks, but this one feels a little personal.

It’s not that you haven’t had sex, you have! Plenty of times actually, with a plethora of different men. Boyfriends, casual hook ups, one night stands – you’ve really done it all.

There’s just one teeny, tiny problem.

You can’t finish.

You used to blame it on the men you were seeing. They clearly had no idea how to please a woman and thus you were the one suffering for it. But then you’d tried to get yourself off with your hand and, well…nothing happened. So then you tried a toy and still – nothing.

It didn’t take you long to realize that it was clearly just something wrong with you. You’d self-diagnosed yourself as one of those unlucky women that simply couldn’t orgasm, and yeah, it sucked, but it was your life. How could you miss something you’d never even had anyway?

And it’s not like the buildup isn’t enjoyable, because it definitely is. It just never goes where you want it to, and you always end up feeling dissatisfied after. So you’d stopped trying completely after yet another failed attempt last year and that had been that.

You hadn't sworn off sex completely, you just stopped actively searching for it. And it was nice to not have to fake reaching your peak with every man that found his way into your bed, but that didn’t make the subtle jealousy you felt whenever Yunjin talked about her experiences disappear completely. It just made it more bearable.

You choose to just shrug, taking another sip from the bright red solo cup in your hand. “I’m not sure I’m the right person to ask that question.” You snort.

Yunjin raises a brow, genuine confusion washing over her features, before she seems to finally remember. “Ah,” she breathes, slumping back down into her seat. “Right. I forgot.”

Yunjin is the only person you’d confided in about your problem. She was supportive, of course, but she still sometimes told you that she thought it was all in your head. That you had some kind of mental block when it came to orgasming, but you couldn’t help but feel like that was a little silly. Why would your mind keep you from reaching what most women described as the ultimate pleasure? If it was, then that was just plain cruel.

The conversation starts to move on again, but Sunghoon glances at you and then swiftly brings it back around. 

“Hold on,” he starts, eyebrows furrowed. “What was that about?”

“What was what about?” Yunjin asks.

He pulls his arm away from your shoulders and uses his now free hand to gesture between you and Yunjin. “That,” he insists. “You asked her her thoughts on sex and then just blew past it.”

Yunjin glances at you, meanwhile your cheeks suddenly feel like they're burning. Why does he even care what your thoughts on sex are? It’s a silly question, one that you’ll probably forget anyone even asked in the morning, and yet he’s choosing to focus on the one minute thing you said in the entire debate.

Which wasn’t even anything ground breaking! You just said you wouldn’t be the right person to ask, that was it.

So why is he taking such an interest in it?

“Um,” Yunjin starts, her gaze finding yours before returning to Sunghoon. “Why do you care?”

He doesn’t even falter like you’d expected him to. Instead, he leans back and pulls you closer into his side. “Am I not allowed to be worried for my best friend?”

You swallow and attempt to put some distance between you, but he doesn’t let you. If anything, he just pulls you even closer. All the way until you’re sure you can taste the remnants of cologne on his clothes and the weed on his breath. 

“Sunghoon,” you laugh, the sound coming out more nervous than anything else. “It’s nothing. Don’t get so worked up about it.”

But he doesn’t seem to like that answer either. “So something happened?”

You shake your head. “No, it’s not that–”

“Then what?”

You pause, your mouth suddenly feeling dry. If you had all your inhibitions in check, you probably would’ve resisted telling him in such an open space. Because even though Jungwon and Ni-ki are trying to make it seem like they aren’t listening, you know they are. At least Yunjin doesn’t try to hide her nosiness.

You know that realistically Sunghoon is just worried for you, he is your best friend after all. You’d be worried for him too if he suddenly got weird when the topic of sex got brought up, but still, you wish you were admitting this to him somewhere with a little more privacy.

You lean back into the cushions, your bottom lip finding its way between your teeth. Sunghoon, always so in tune with your emotions, immediately reaches a hand over to smooth down your hair. 

“What is it, sweet girl?” He asks, his voice lowered so that only you can hear him. “You know you can tell me.”

And that’s the thing, you do know. And it should be easy telling him, because you know it’s not like he’ll judge you. If anything, he’ll probably be more sympathetic towards you then Yunjin is.

But, still. There’s something about telling him that makes shame burn deep in your cheekbones.

You shrug, your fingers toying with the edge of your skirt. “It’s embarrassing.”

He grins, all teeth and crinkled eyes. He’s staring at you like you’re something precious, like you’re something he has to handle with care. Not like you’re a grown woman who can make her own decisions when it comes to her sex life – or lack of one.

“Nothing about you is embarrassing.”

That’s what finally breaks you. You sigh, words slightly jumbled together and voice so quiet you’re shocked he can even hear you. “I can’t,” you gesture with your hand lazily. “You know. Finish, or whatever."

He blinks. One moment passes, and then two. You’re on the verge of thinking you’ve somehow made him uncomfortable when suddenly he’s laughing like you’ve said something hilarious. “What?”

Yunjin tosses a pillow at him, but he just lets it hit him square in the chest and doesn’t spare her a glance. “It’s not funny, Sunghoon!” She defends. “It’s a serious condition.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t have time to focus on her because Sunghoon is quickly invading your senses again. “I’m not making fun of you, baby,” he mumbles, lips dangerously close to your ear. “It’s just…cute. That’s all.”

It most definitely is not cute. It’s humiliating, if anything. The one thing you’re supposed to be able to count on your body to do for you, it refuses to. What kind of woman can’t even orgasm?

“No, it's not,” you groan, running a hand down your face. “It’s weird.”

Sunghoon doesn’t say anything to that, but you can tell something in his expression has shifted. He’s eyeing you now like you’re some kind of anomaly he wants to figure out. Like your condition is something that’s piqued his curiosity.

You aren’t entirely sure how you feel about that.

The night continues easily – everybody's too drunk or high to focus on whatever little blip it was you’d had. Even you forget about it after another round of drinks.

But Sunghoon doesn’t. He can’t. 

Even when he goes to bed that night, every time he closes his eyes all he can see is you. His pretty little best friend. Sexually frustrated and somehow thinking there's something wrong with you.

To Sunghoon, that’s utterly absurd. Clearly these men you’ve been with don’t know how to handle you, and that’s not your fault! No, what you need is someone who knows what they’re doing. Someone who will actually listen to what your body needs and doesn’t just chase his own pleasure.

What you need is…him.

And Sunghoon is a good best friend. He always has been. All he’d be doing is helping you, really. Just a friend helping out a friend.

Nothing more, nothing less.

.𖥔 ݁ ˖༄

The next week passes by just like it normally does. You go to class and try not to think about the fact that you definitely bombed your exams. Everytime you walk into a lecture, fear creeps up your spine at the thought of your teacher handing over a test with your name on it.

Sunghoon is there to help you through the anxiety though. He comes to your dorm every night with a bag of nerds gummy clusters and his laptop. 

You always start the night exactly how you plan to. Sunghoon helps you study, you both pretend to give a fuck for an hour or two, and then you end up side by side in your bed watching reruns of your favorite sitcom. It’s a simple routine that you’ve come to cherish, one that you don’t even remember starting. It honestly felt like one day he’d started showing up and then he just…never stopped.

“You know,” you mumble, popping another cluster into your mouth. “I think we’ve watched this show so many times we could probably recite the whole thing.”

Sunghoon shrugs, his glasses hanging off of the bridge of his nose. He reaches up and pushes them back into place without a second thought. “Modern Family is a classic.”

You hum. Modern Family is a classic. “Yeah, true.”

You both lull into silence again after that, your eyes following the screen as one of the characters does something stupid. It makes you laugh despite the fact that you know it’s coming. Sunghoon lets out a huff of breath too, but he seems on edge.

His hand keeps fisting the sheet until his knuckles turn white, and he only does that when something's bothering him. He doesn’t even seem to be paying as much attention to the show as he usually does.

It’s like his thoughts keep wandering and he’s trying to make the stop.

It worries you. The last time you’d seen Sunghoon this anxious was sophomore year, right before he broke up with his girlfriend. He never told you why he did, just that something about the relationship didn’t feel right. 

But, last you checked, he doesn’t have any girlfriends he’s wanting to break up with right now, which means something else is bothering him.

You nudge his shoulder gently, your eyebrows furrowed with concern. “What’s wrong?” You ask.

He blinks, his eyes glued to the laptop before they slowly slide over to you. “Hm?”

You huff out a laugh. “I said what’s wrong? You’ve been acting off ever since we turned the show on. Did something happen?”

You watch as he swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing with the movement. He doesn’t move his gaze from yours, but for some reason you wish he had. He’s looking at you so intensely, eyes searching yours like they hold the answer to the meaning of life.

Sunghoon gets like this sometimes. It’s almost like he’s…holding something back. And whenever you question him on it, he usually just pats your arm and tells you not to worry your pretty little head about it. You stopped questioning it a long time ago.

But he doesn’t do that tonight. Instead, he lets his tongue drag over his lips, and you can’t help the way your eyes flicker down to the movement.

You’re not blind. You know your best friend is ridiculously handsome. You know plenty of girls have gotten jealous and wished that it were them in your place. But your relationship with Sunghoon isn’t like that, he’s just your friend.

Besides, even if you did want him like that, you’d never want to risk your friendship with him. 

His lip's part for a moment, and then close, and then part again. “I…” He trails off, takes a deep breath, and then starts again. “I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

You raise a brow. When did you say something? You try to rack your brain, but you come up empty. You can’t recall anything you said that would be worth bringing it up again. 

“Did I say something?”

His lips break out into a small smile, the curve threatening to reveal the tip of his fangs. “Do you not remember?"

You try to think back to anything you might’ve said, but still, you come up blank. You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, expression scrunched in confusion. “Should I?”

Sunghoon is silent at that. He just looks at you, looks back down at his hands, and then straightens himself up so suddenly he feels like he’s towering over you in bed.

“If you don’t remember,” he murmurs, “then I’ll remind you.”

He leans on the tiniest bit closer, and suddenly it feels like all the air has been sucked from your lungs. You and Sunghoon have been close plenty of times before, but this feels different. This feels almost…intimate.

You swallow, your eyes widening the tiniest bit as you attempt to scoot closer to the headboard. “Hoon…”

“You told me,” he starts, his voice low in that sultry kind of way. “That you’ve never had an orgasm. That you can’t, actually.”

The memory dawns on you then. The party, the alcohol, the weed. You’d somehow unknowingly buried it all the way to the back of your mind without even realizing, and now you’re dealing with the consequences of your big mouth.

You wince. It’s almost embarrassing to hear the words coming out of Sunghoons mouth. Even though you know it’s true, that doesn’t make it any less humiliating.

“Oh,” you mumble. “I did?”

“You did.”

You clear your throat and attempt to look at least a little unbothered. “Well, it’s true so…you don’t need to bring it up again. It’s already embarrassing enough having my best friend know there’s clearly something wrong with me.”

His eyebrows furrow, and for a split second, he almost looks angry. Like the thought of you thinking there’s something wrong with you enrages him.

“Embarrassing?” He scoffs. “It’s not embarrassing. And there’s nothing wrong with you. You just haven’t been with the right kind of guys.”

You probably would’ve agreed with him if you hadn’t also attempted to get yourself there. You literally just cannot do it. It’s not the guys you’re with or anything like that, it’s just you.

“But that’s the thing!” You insist. Any shyness you might’ve had towards the topic before suddenly disappears. “It’s not just the guys. I can’t…I can’t finish on my own either.”

For what it’s worth, that looks like it genuinely makes Sunghoon pause. His eyes widen the tiniest fraction, his movements pausing before he resumes them.

“You can’t…” He glances down to your hands in your lap. 

You roll your eyes, cheeks practically blistering. You’re positive your ears are the same color as a tomato at this point. “No, I can’t. It’s whatever. Can we just finish the show?”

But Sunghoon doesn’t back off. Instead, he reaches behind him and shuts the laptop completely, cutting off whatever noise it was making. He pushes it off of the bed, not even flinching when it clatters violently onto the floor.

“So, let me get this straight,” he starts. You have to resist the urge to roll your eyes. “You’ve never had an orgasm? Like, ever?”

He knows you said at the party that you can’t finish, but he assumed you meant with other guys. Not that you can’t finish at all.

“Yep,” you say, popping the P. Your arms cross over your chest in frustration. You don’t understand why he won’t just let the topic go. Yunjin doesn’t even hound you this much about it! “I’m one of the only girls in the world who can’t finish. Are you done making fun of me now?”

He leans back slightly, his pupils suddenly dilated and his tongue sweeping over his teeth. The tension in the air builds quickly, until it feels like you’re definitely going to choke on it.

Slowly, Sunghoon crawls over until he’s seated right in front of you. He leans back on his heels, studying your face like you’re some kind of expensive art piece. Usually, you don’t mind when he looks at you. In fact, you bask in it. But this feels different. This feels almost hungry.

“You think that there’s something wrong with you?” He asks, voice hushed. Deep.

You swallow, suddenly feeling silly for even admitting that to him. But what other explanation is there outside of you being biologically engineered differently than how you were supposed to? Maybe your mother drank a cup of coffee when she was pregnant and now you’re being forced to suffer for it.

You shrug. “What other explanation is there?”

He brings a hand up to your calf, the tips of his fingers brushing over the skin lightly. The touch feels like ice against your warm skin, and you can’t help the way your breath nearly catches in your throat.

He doesn’t look at you, but you’re staring at him. At the curve of his jaw. The way his bangs fall over his forehead like he styled them to be that perfect. At the freckles dotting his soft skin.

You know your best friend is attractive. You’ve always known.

But this…there’s something about it now that makes your stomach twist with arousal.

His fingers pause at the bottom of your knee, his thumb rubbing soft circles into it. You’re suddenly thankful that you took the time to shave last night.

He shifts, leaning forward just enough that you can smell his cologne. “I think you just…haven’t listened to what your body wants. To what it needs.”

You scoff lightly, but it sounds forced. Honestly, you’re too focused on how his touch feels against your skin to even think about whatever it is he’s saying to you.

“I think I would know what I need.”

He shrugs, tongue flickering out to wet his lips before it slides back into his mouth. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

You pull your legs out of his grip and hug them towards your chest. He doesn’t look shocked when you do it — he just lets his hand land on the bed and looks up at you.

“Why are you bringing this up?” You ask. You hate that you can hear the way your voice sounds so quiet. Shy. You’ve never felt shy around Sunghoon.

He doesn’t say anything for a few moments. Just lets his gaze trail from your eyes down to your chest, to the curve of your hip and all the way back up to the plump of your lips.

He scoots closer slowly, and suddenly his chest is right against your calves. Breathing suddenly feels difficult – like a task instead of something you just do on autopilot. His very presence feels mind consuming.

He’s hesitant for only a moment, something flashing in his eyes, and then he’s tossing it out the window and speaking so clearly you’d almost think there were other people in the room.

“I want to help you.”

You blink. “Help me?”

“Yeah.” He says easily, like those five words hadn’t just changed the trajectory of your friendship in a way you hadn’t been prepared for. “We’re best friends, aren’t we? Best friends help each other.”

Your cheeks flush at the implication. There’s a line between helping your friend and doing something like that for them. This isn’t just him letting you borrow his notes, this is unexplored territory. This is your body, your pleasure – all of it in his hands.

You’d be lying if you said the idea didn’t excite you.

But Sunghoon is your best friend, you can’t do that with him. It’d be wrong, and it’d change your relationship completely. You don’t know if you’d ever even be able to come back from something like that. The idea in general sounds good, even if you’re positive he’s not going to change anything about your condition, but the consequences are too great. You can’t do it. You can’t.

Right?

“What?” You splutter, a nervous laugh forcing itself from your throat. “I’m sorry, are you telling me you want to help me,” you clear your throat, your voice lowering into a hushed whisper, “...orgasm?”

Sunghoon smirks, his canines on full display like he’s some type of predator. “Yeah, I am.”

You blanch, your eyes wide as you stare at him like he’s grown two heads. At this point, you think an extra extremity would probably be less shocking than the words coming out of his mouth.

“Absolutely not,” you say, arms forming an X across your chest. “That’s…I can’t do that with you. It would change too much. Besides, I already told you, I physically cannot do it. I really doubt you’re going to be the one to change that.”

Sunghoon leans back on his hands, his smirk widening just a fraction. Like he’s taking your words as some kind of challenge. It scares you and makes heat swirl in your abdomen just the same.

“So, you're scared?” He asks, tone light and teasing, but there’s an underlying smoothness to it that makes a chill crawl up your spine. “You’re scared that I’ll prove you wrong.”

“I’m not scared.” You scoff.

Sunghoon just shrugs. “You are, and that’s okay. If you want to go the rest of your life without having an orgasm, then that’s your prerogative."

Your eyes narrow at that. You know he’s just trying to rile you up to get what he wants, but you can’t help falling for it anyway. You aren’t scared of what he’ll show you, you just don’t want to mess up your friendship for something you’re positive isn’t possible. It doesn’t matter how big his fucking ego is.

“I’m not scared,” you repeat. “I just know that you aren't going to miraculously be the guy that suddenly helps me finish.”

“You’re positive?”

“Yes.”

His eyes bore into yours – challenging you. Teasing you. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and he knows exactly how this is going to play out, even if you haven’t fully caught up to it.

He has to bite his cheek to keep his smile from getting any bigger. “Prove it then.”

“What?”

He leans forward again, his hands coming up to rest at the top of your knees. Slowly, he forces them apart and makes space for himself between your legs. He doesn’t move into it, just leaves it there like an unspoken promise. “If you really think I’m just going to end up like every other guy, then prove it to me. Prove me wrong.”

You know what he’s doing. You know he knows how competitive you can get. He’s trying to push you into the direction he wants, to mold you like clay into his hands. And you don’t want to fall for it, you really don’t.

But there’s something about the way he’s looking at you – all smug and so sure of himself. You’ve heard the rumors around campus, you know Sunghoons never shied away from his experience in the bedroom, but experience doesn’t matter for you. It’s just your biology.

And if he wants you to prove him wrong so fucking badly, then you will.

You don’t remember surging forward to kiss him – not until your teeth clash and he lets out the smallest sigh of approval. His hands are everywhere immediately – gripping the flesh of your hip, tracing up the line of your spine. 

He kisses you like he’s been waiting for it, like he’s a man starving and you’ve depraved him from any sort of substance. His tongue slides into your mouth easily, and you let out the slightest whine at the feeling.

He groans, his eyes squeezing together tightly. For a moment, you almost think he’s in pain.

“Fuck, that’s right,” he mumbles against your lips. “Prove it to me, baby.”

You kiss him harder, saliva beginning to pool at the corners of your lips. Sunghoon licks it up without a complaint. In fact, you think he’d thank you for it if he could.

His hands under your shirt and onto your hips, rubbing circles into your skin, and then he’s dragging you onto his lap without breaking away from the kiss.

You gasp when you feel his bulge through his sweatpants, the imprint pressing right against your folds. He’s big, you can tell that without even seeing it. The thought of your best friend carrying that around makes butterflies fly somewhere in your stomach.

Sunghoon kisses you deeper, his tongue licking into your mouth. Your mind is spinning from the sensation, and he’s barely touched you outside of kissing. It makes you feel like you’re in high school all over again.

Most men don’t waste their time kissing you like this. They just give you a few pecks and then get right to work using you to chase their own high. It’s become something you’ve learned to expect. But Sunghoon is kissing you like it’s the main event – like he’s been waiting his entire life to do it.

Slowly, he uses his grip on your hips to grind you against his cock, and instant pleasure bursts low in your tummy. The fabric between you does little to dull the feeling of his tip nudging against your clit – if anything, it almost makes it all the more intimate.

“Fuck,” you sigh out, your hands gripping his shirt like you’re trying to ground yourself.

He lets out a chuckle, the sound rumbling from his chest. “Hm?” He hums, moving from your lips to your jaw. “You say something, Sweetheart?”

You bite on your lip to keep yourself from spitting some kind of insult at him. Of course he’s enjoying watching you fall apart from a few measly kisses. But that doesn’t mean anything. You still haven’t cum, and you’re positive you aren’t going to.

“Shut up,” you mumble. Your hands slide up from his chest to his hair, gripping his black locks as he sucks at the sensitive skin around your neck. 

You can feel him smile against your skin, but he doesn't say anything else about it. Instead, he nips gently at your collarbone and then basks in the whimper it pulls from you.

His hips push up into yours again, and the feeling is enough to force your lips to part in pleasure. Hesitantly, you begin to grind into him on your own, your movements erratic compared to the preciseness of his thrusts.

He clicks his tongue, tightening his grip and forcing your hips to still. You immediately whine – completely forgetting that you’re supposed to be embarrassed – but he just shakes his head.

“Is that what you think pleasure is?” He asks, letting his fingertips drag across the bare skin of your stomach. “No wonder you can’t cum.”

You furrow your brows. You have no idea what he’s talking about. “What?” You murmur, the word breathless and whiny. If the entire point of this is to bring you to your peak, you don’t understand why he’s forcing you to stop.

He licks his lips, and you can’t help but notice how red and raw they are. Completely kiss-bitten. It makes you proud that he looks just as wrecked as you’re sure you do.

“You’re not letting yourself get any actual build up,” he explains, tucking a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “You’re chasing something that hasn’t even gotten the chance to form yet.”

You part your lips to respond, maybe fight back, but nothing comes out. Because that’s the closest thing you’ve ever got to an explanation as to why you can’t seem to do something everybody else can. 

You swallow, your posture turning into a slight slouch. “I don’t understand.” You admit quietly.

You’re half expecting him to judge you – maybe laugh. It’s definitely something other men would do. But he doesn’t do any of that. Instead, he pecks you softly on the nose and gently lays you down until your back is flat against the bed.

“You’re thinking too much,” he mumbles, softly tapping your forehead.

You don’t know how to tell him that you don’t know how to not think about it without sounding like a complete loser. But, then you remember that this is your best friend. And if tonight has shown you anything, it’s that he won’t judge you. You could say the dumbest thing and he would still look at you like you mean something to him.

“I don’t know how to stop.” You admit shakily, the words feeling like a losing battle as they come out.

But they seem to catch Sunghoon off guard. He’s hovering above you, eyes staring into yours with so much emotion you nearly choke on it.

This is different from the teasing Sunghoon you’d seen earlier. This Sunghoon genuinely wants to help you. He wants you to be able to experience something as trivial as an orgasm just to help you feel normal. 

This Sunghoon is your best friend.

He kisses you again, but this time it’s slower. Deeper, somehow. This time it feels like he’s kissing you just because he can, and for some reason, you like that.

“Do you trust me?” He asks, his breath ghosting against your wet lips.

You nod at him without a second thought.

He crawls off of you, and the loss of his body is enough to force a breathless whine from your throat. He just shushes you and disappears out of your room. He’s been in your home enough times to know where everything is, but it still leaves you feeling slightly embarrassed at the thought of him looking around your apartment without you. You cleaned yesterday, right? You really hope so.

When he reemerges, he’s holding something long and black. It dangles from his fingers clearly, and the closer you look you realize it’s a piece of black cloth.

“Where’d you find that?” You ask. You probably should be asking what he plans to do with it, but your brain is having trouble processing actual thoughts right now.

He doesn’t respond. Instead, he climbs back into bed with you, and ever so carefully presents the fabric to you.

“You said you don’t know how to turn your brain off, right?” He mumbles, bringing a hand to your thigh. His fingertips ghost over the skin, bringing goosebumps in their wake. “Maybe…Maybe this will help.”

You still aren’t understanding, and he seems to be able to tell by the look of genuine confusion on your face. He chuckles and scoots closer, but this time it seems his confidence has faded the tiniest bit. He looks almost nervous, like he’s riding a bike without training wheels for the first time.

“I don’t get it.” You mumble, letting out a nervous laugh. “How is a piece of fabric going to help?”

He balls up the fabric, eyes lingering on it before he finds your gaze again. “Just let me try something?” He asks.

Part of you is screaming at you to say no. You have no idea what’s going through his mind or what strange fantasy he’s planning to play out with you, and you’re terrified to find out.

But the other part of you…the smaller, braver part, wants you to say fuck it. You’ve already come this far with him, what’s a little more push? Besides, what could it hurt?

Slowly, your head nods up and down. Sunghoon, for what it's worth, doesn’t look smug or happy. He just swallows, his adams apple bobbing as he does, and cautiously makes his way so he’s chest to chest with you.

You watch as he brings the piece of fabric towards your head, and then suddenly your vision is cut off completely. You let out a breath of air as he ties the fabric at the back of your skull gently, his fingers working carefully to make sure he doesn’t catch any of your hair.

The vulnerability makes your core ache something awful. The thought of not being able to see him, not being able to know what his next move is…it’s exhilarating.

Your hands clench your sheets from anticipation, knuckles going a vivid white. 

You hear Sunghoon chuckle, the sound low and breathy, and then he’s moving somewhere you can’t see. You can feel his hands on your thighs still, like he’s trying to keep you grounded. To reassure you that he’s still here. That he’s not leaving.

“You’re so beautiful, you know that?” He murmurs. You feel his hand slowly slide up until he’s reaching the hem of your shorts. He doesn't go under it – just keeps it there. Like he’s teasing you.

You feel yourself flush. “Don’t say things like that.”

His fingers slide up the fabric until he reaches the waistband, and then slowly he slips his fingertips under it and tugs. “Why?” He asks. You can practically feel the smirk that you’re sure is radiating from him. “It’s true.”

You just let out a breath, too focused on the feeling of him dragging your shorts and underwear down the soft skin of your legs. You hear him toss them aside somewhere, and then the room goes very still. 

You swallow uncomfortably, legs closing on instinct. You hate that you can’t see him or even try to guess what he’s thinking. Is he disappointed? Does he not want to do this anymore?

Your hands reach for the blindfold to pull it down, but a sudden grip on your wrist stops you.

“Don’t.” Sunghoon murmurs, his voice low and breathy. 

You freeze, arousal begins to pool in your core, and you listen to him. Your hands fall back to your sides and leave you encased in darkness and anticipation.

Ever so slowly, you hear him move. His hands find your knees and push them apart, exposing your glistening folds to him, and you feel him settle between your thighs.

“Poor baby,” he teases, leaving featherlight kisses on the inside of your thighs. “Never been taken care of properly, huh? No wonder this pretty little pussy is practically dripping for me.” He runs the tip of his finger over your slit, and you shiver at the contact.

“Hoon,” you pant, trying to ignore that it sounds more like a beg than anything else. “Just–Just hurry up and touch me so we can get this over with.”

He has the audacity to chuckle, but makes no move to help subside the growing ache in your stomach. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he thinks this entire thing is funny. 

“So impatient,” he says, clicking his tongue as he does. “This is why you’ve never cum, princess. You’re rushing things. How’s your pretty pussy supposed to finish if you never let her start in the first place?”

You don’t have a reply for that. If anything, it just irritates you that he sounds like he knows what he’s talking about. He totally doesn’t, but still. It’s annoying that he thinks he knows more about your body than you do.

Slowly, he begins to spread your lips, his thumb spreading your arousal. The pad of it catches on your clit for just a split second, but the jolt of pleasure it gives you is enough to force a gasp out of your throat.

He pulls back for just a moment, before finally his mouth is on you fully, licking a stripe from your hole all the way to your clit. Your back arches without warning, a moan pushing its way from your lungs. The suddenness of it forces your brain to go on temporary pause, and all you can focus on is the feeling of his mouth.

He licks you like a man starved, grunts of pleasure falling from his lips as if he's the one being pleasured. “There you go, baby,” he mumbles against you, the noise drowned out by the wet sounds of your sopping pussy. “Feels good, hm?”

You just moan in response, unable to form any actual thoughts. Suddenly you’re almost grateful for the blindfold, because you aren’t sure you’d be able to handle seeing him in between your legs – making a home for himself there as if he always knew he’d end up there.

His hand grips your hip suddenly, fingers digging into the plush skin so hard you’re sure there’ll be marks in the morning. “Tell me,” he gasps, punctuating it by a tug at your clit. “Tell me exactly how good it feels.”

“So–So good,” you manage. “Fuck, it’s good.”

You’ve had men go down on you before, but never like this. Never like it was something they were doing for their own pleasure and not just because they felt obligated.

“I know it is, pretty girl.” He says. You feel his free hand slowly run up your calf and your inner thigh, before his finger is prodding at your entrance and pushing through the tight ring of muscle.

Your head goes fuzzy, hips lifting off the bed and chasing the heat of his mouth and the thrusts of his finger. It’s an overwhelming sensation, one that you’ve never really experienced before. And for one fleeting moment, you think that Sunghoon might have just done the thing he set out to do.

Prove you wrong.

“Fuck,” you whine, your hand searching blindly for his in an attempt to slow him down. “Hoon, slow down–”

He doesn’t listen. Instead, he forces another finger into your hole, stretching you out deliciously and now giving you a moment to breathe.

“I know, baby, I know,” he mumbles, giving your clit another harsh suck. “It’s gonna feel real good here soon.”

Slowly, the coil in your stomach builds and builds. Usually, this would be when you stop, accidentally edging yourself and thinking it was because you just couldn’t orgasm like a normal woman can. But Sunghoon doesn’t. Instead, he works you through it like there’s no place you’d rather be.

You gasp, reaching up and tugging the blindfold off. It falls to the side slowly, and when you look down you see Sunghoon between your legs, his cock in his hand and jerking himself off with slow, languid strokes.

It’s probably the hottest thing you’ve ever seen a guy do.

“Shit, I’m gonna–oh, fuck–”

Sunghoon doesn’t go faster or harder, he just keeps the same pace, until finally you’re spilling over and releasing all over his face, your hole spasming against his fingers. He drinks your release like it’s his own personal ambrosia, groaning through it.

“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs, voice raising in pitch. “Cum all over my face.”

He finishes shortly after you with a small cry, his cum painting your sheets and his hand a milky white.

When it’s over, you're panting like a dog in heat, thighs twitching and sweat beading across your forehead. You don’t even know what to do or say. Your best friend just made you finish for the first time after you’d spent years thinking it just wasn't possible for you. And not only did he bring you to orgasm, he did it without even using his fucking dick.

You could seriously kill him.

Slowly, he climbs up next to you, his own chest heaving from his own orgasm.

“So?” He murmurs.

You glare at him. “Don’t say it.”

He puts his hands up in surrender. “I wasn’t going to say anything.” But the smirk on his face says otherwise.

You’re having a lot of thoughts right now. Mostly that you can’t believe you just let your best friend eat you out.

But mostly that you can’t wait for him to do it again.

Sometimes, on rare occasions, he'll have breakthroughs; he'll find a random ceramic plate at the supermarket, one that has the particularity of- for once- looking decent, and he'll buy it for you, wrapping a little bow around it in guise of covering the price tag.

Other times— well, most of the time, he'll bypass the moodboards and color grades you send him daily— instead finding the ugliest items possible and calling them ‘gorgeous’.

Sunghoon has the taste of an 89 grandma hooked on life support— and he's shameless about it.

He folds everytime he sees something ugly- it's actually starting to become funny. Like this one time, he sent you a link for the ugliest table cloth ever made, called it ‘western vintage’— when it look like it could've been a substitute for toilet paper during the covid pandemic.

To sum up, you wouldn't let him touch your mood boards with a 10'' pole. Sunghoon is incapable of color coordinating things— so much so that you're almost certain he's color blind but just won't say it.

The man thinks neon orange and mustard yellow look good together, for fuck's sake.

But unlike his decoration skills— he's a master at hunting for apartments, that he is.

Ever since you started talking about moving in together— he's taken up a true realtor hobby the way he spends all his time on housing websites. There's not a day that goes by without him sending documents over— scheduling visits, handling it all.

You'd rate him a 12/10 in terms of reliability.

The decoration part though? A minus 78.

Sunghoon's an accomplished man however tacky his taste in household items is— the kind you see and think 'oh damn he's got it under control'. It's not so much about his broad back and big arms- but rather his self restraint, assertiveness and stance. He reeks of success and power even when he parades none of it— which is probably why women (and men) line up to get a taste of him. 

But don't fool yourself, Park Sunghoon indulges in none of that. No no, he keeps to himself— careful and reserved, never letting anyone get too close; he deliberately chooses not to entertain hedonistic habits and instead, surrounds himself with an elite of handpicked, exclusive friends.

You are one of the lucky people Sunghoon chooses to let in— you met by happenstance; during your first year of highschool, back when you'd go back and forth between Seoul and the outskirts to visit your divorced mom, and he just so happened to be on a train with you one day. You spent the next few hours in said train because of technical difficulties, and bonded over the last bottle of water you carried in your bag during a heatwave.

Friendship, sometimes, begins with nothing grander than that.

Over the years, you maintained the same relationship— close but not too close, with enough privacy to allow a drawn line. Sunghoon knew not everything but only a few big secrets of yours— that was how you sustained the equilibrium. You knew most parts of him— his kind, thoughtful and attentive side, inclusive of his darker and broodier side.

But you had no idea what he looked like when he was all in— when there were feelings involved, so naturally you couldn't claim to know him entirely.

You both applied to the same college and hung out any chance you got during the first years, alternating between his home— a high-end penthouse— and yours. Sunghoon was good company, he had good taste in music and movies— knew how to entertain and cook, and had a very specific kind of humor that you so happened to like.

He had long pianist fingers despite being terrible at instruments, he took care of his nails like they were a mirror of his soul— and had tan lines from his expensive Audemars Piquet watch, which he kept religiously in a safe. He wasn't a man of luxury, yet, he liked gifting expensive things to family and in consequence, you.

At the top of the list of things you loved about Park Sunghoon, sat his habit of always skipping songs in his playlist and listening to them all the way through.

He gave a chance to everything, second chances included.

In second was that he could spend hours in a bookstore without buying anything— he never said know to hang outs at the museum and never pretended to like something for convenience.

You could spend hours talking about the things that make Park Sunghoon who he is— the little patterns in his daily life that constituted a special place in yours, by constant exposure.

But what you cant really elaborate on is why you two linked the way you did— why it feels so fusional— yet never transcends the line between platonic and questionable.

In brief, that's how —through a fortunate set of circumstances— you ended up making the decision to live with Park Sunghoon.

        You push the oversized cart through the wide aisles of the furniture store, wheels squeaking against the floor, while Sunghoon walks beside you like he owns the damn place. His broad shoulders brush against yours every few steps, and he's got that half-smirk on his face—the one that says he knows exactly how ridiculous this whole trip is but he's indulging you anyway.

The moodboard you printed out (the one you spent three sleepless nights perfecting on Canva) is crumpled in your free hand, colors and swatches already starting to smear from how many times you've waved it at him like a battle flag.

"Sunghoon, I swear to god, get your nasty eyes off that floral chair before I leave you here," you say, steering the cart sharply away from a display of hideous patterned armchairs that look like they belong in your grandma's attic.

He laughs, low and warm, the sound rumbling through his chest as he reaches over to snag the moodboard from your fingers. "Come on, it's vintage. You said you wanted vintage."

"You're acting like you know anything about 'vintage', give it back to me," you shoot back, snatching the paper back.

Your inside voice is begging to know why you even tolerate this idiot so much— when his taste is actual garbage. But out loud you just roll your eyes and bump the cart into his hip. "Stick to the moodboard. Beige, sage, warm wood tones. Neutral with pops of green. That's the assignment dick face."

Sunghoon leans on the cart handle, his long fingers drumming against the metal. Those fingers that always look too elegant for someone who once tried to convince you neon orange throw pillows were "classy".

He's wearing a simple black t shirt today, stupidly expensive wraparound sunglasses resting on his nose, but he still manages to look like he walked out of a magazine. People keep glancing at him as they pass— women, mostly— and you feel like the little black sheep; like you're somehow gonna get beat up just for standing next to him.

"Fine, fine. Safe, whatever you say boss," he says, but his eyes are already drifting toward a section of overly ornate side tables. "But hear me out—one statement piece. Something with personality."

"Personality for you means ugly," you mutter, but you're smiling. You can't help it— he has such an old-person soul.

You turn into the living room section, rows of sofas stretching out of sight; Sunghoon grabs a throw pillow from a display and holds it up dramatically. It's mustard yellow. Of course it is.

"See? This would look great with the neon orange you're so scared of," he says, wiggling his eyebrows.

"You're colorblind man. I'm calling your mom later and telling her to get you tested." You yank the pillow out of his hands and toss it back onto the shelf with exaggerated disgust. "We're getting the charcoal sectional. It's on the moodboard. Page three. Look at the damn moodboard, Hoon."

He's laughing again, that genuine one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and makes him look younger than the composed, successful version of himself he likes to portray. "You're so bossy when you're nesting. It's cute."

"Fuck off," you say, but there's no heat in it. You're both pushing the cart now, shoulders bumping on purpose. The conversation flows easy, the way it always does with him—l ike slipping into warm water after a long day.

"Okay but seriously," you continue, steering toward the modular sofas, "the sectional has to be big enough for everyone. Housewarming party is happening whether you like it or not. We need space for people to sprawl but also it needs to look good enough for pictures."

"Yeah, sounds right." Sunghoon nods, running a hand through his dark hair. "Speaking of housewarming party, you should send out invites. But we're not doing it the first week. Let's actually unpack before we have seven idiots destroying our new place."

'Our place,' your mind echoes, the words feeling a little too big. This has always been your dream, finding someone you truly hit it off with and move together. But you always thought it would be a girl for some reason... not a 6ft-something man.

"Right. Anyway, Jungwon and Riki are not allowed near the drinks unsupervised. Those two get tipsy off one beer. Remember last time? I don't wanna go through that again."

Sunghoon snorts, grabbing a fabric swatch from a nearby display and rubbing it between his fingers like he's some kind of expert. "Jungwon gets emotional when he's drunk, it's hilarious. We'll put them on snack duty, or water duty. Make them the responsible ones for once."

"Yeah. Let Jay and Heeseung handle the drinks, Jake can DJ or whatever shit he wants to do. Sunoo will probably show up with flowers and make everything look ten times better than we could anyway." You stop the cart in front of a massive L-shaped sectional in a perfect warm gray. It matches the moodboard almost exactly. "This one. This is it. Sit on it."

Sunghoon drops onto the cushions with zero hesitation, spreading his long legs out and patting the spot next to him. "Come test it. Make sure it doesn't hurt your back.”

You sit, sinking into the fabric. It's comfortable, really comfortable. "It's perfect. Soft but not too soft. And at least it doesn't look like a grandma passed away on it."

"Damn okay," he says, but he's grinning. "I still think that one tablecloth had potential."

"That tablecloth looked awful. We're never speaking of it again." You lean back, shoulder to shoulder with him on the display sofa. "Okay, furniture plan: this sectional, the wooden coffee table —not the one with the weird carvings you liked— and those floating shelves for the books. No ugly ceramic stuff unless I approve it first."

He turns his head toward you, close enough that you can smell his cologne— something clean and expensive that always lingers on your clothes after hanging out. "You're really not letting me have any input, huh?"

"Your input is vetoed for life after the neon orange thing. I still have nightmares about that absolute shit of a color combo." You poke his arm, "But fine. You can pick the plants. Within reason. No carnivorous ones or anything that'll die in two weeks because you forget to water them."

Sunghoon's eyes light up like you just handed him the keys to a new luxury car. "Plants? Really? I get full control?"

"Limited control," you correct quickly, already regretting it as you both stand up and start pushing the cart again toward the greenery section. "I'm watching you. One ugly plant and it's going in the trash. No— you're going in the trash."

The plant aisle is a jungle of green— monstera, fiddle leaf figs, snake plants, pothos hanging everywhere. Sunghoon immediately beelines for a dramatic-looking plant with variegated leaves that honestly looks kind of cursed.

"No," you say flatly, grabbing the cart handle to stop him. "That one looks dangerous. Pick something normal."

"It's a prayer plant," he argues, turning the pot around to show you the tag. "It folds its leaves at night. Cute, right? Western vintage."

You burst out laughing, the sound echoing a little too loud in the aisle. A couple nearby glances over, but you don't care.

"You and your fucking western vintage. Get the monstera, it's a classic. Hard to kill and matches the moodboard."

He raises one eyebrow. "You're killing my vision."

"Your vision needs to be euthanized Sunghoon please." But you're smiling as you say it, and you end up compromising on two monsteras and one smaller prayer plant because apparently you're weak.

You load them carefully into the cart, leaves brushing against your arms.

As you wander deeper into the store, the conversation drifts. Sunghoon picks up a set of minimalist ceramic plates— actually decent ones, for once— and holds them up for approval.

"These are... good," you admit grudgingly.

He chuckles, remembering the supermarket plate incident. "See? I can have taste. When I try really hard."

"Rarely. Don't get cocky." You add them to the cart.

Your mind is racing with details: how the apartment will look with his stuff mixed with yours, how his piano (the one he barely plays but keeps because it "looks sophisticated") will fit in the corner, whether the lighting in the new place will make his tan lines even more obvious when he's cooking shirtless like he sometimes does — wait what?

"What about the housewarming menu?" you ask, changing the subject before your thoughts spiral. "Jay will wanna take over the kitchen. We should let him— he's the only one who won't burn water. Jake can bring desserts, Sunoo will handle the vibe and... Heeseung... can sit there— I guess."

Sunghoon nods, pushing the cart with one hand while scrolling through his phone with the other, probably adding things to the apartment checklist you made. "And we keep Jungwon and Riki on hydration duty."

"Exactly. Lightweight kings." You laugh, imagining it.

The cart is filling up— throw blankets in approved colors, a couple of lamps that don't scream "granny's house," some simple glassware. Every item feels like another brick in this new shared life. It's exciting and yet terrifying.

You stop in the bedroom section because, of course you do and Sunghoon eyes a massive bed frame with a dramatic headboard.

"Don't even think about it," you warn. "Simple. Platform bed. No weird carvings."

"But it has presence," he teases, flopping down on the display mattress dramatically. He pats the space beside him again. "Test it with me. Important decision."

You hesitate for half a second— this is how rumors start— before climbing on. The mattress is firm but comfortable.

Sunghoon turns on his side to face you, head propped on his hand.

"Admit it," he says softly, that reserved smile playing on his lips. "This is gonna be good. Even if my taste is shit."

"Your taste is atrocious. But yeah... it's gonna be good. As long as you let me control 90% of the decorating and you keep handling the apartment paperwork like the reliable slave you are."

He laughs quietly. "i’m so good at apartment hunting, right?"

"Exactly." You stare at the ceiling for a moment, both of you lying there on the display bed like idiots. "Party guest list is locked. No randoms. Just the group."

"Deal." Sunghoon sits up, offering you a hand to pull you up too.

You continue through the aisles, banter never stopping and he tries to sneak a hideous abstract sculpture into the cart; you catch him and replace it with a sleek wooden one.

You argue over rug textures— "This one feels like a cloud, Hoon." "It looks like puke."— and laugh until your sides hurt.

By the time the cart is overflowing and you're heading toward checkout, the sun is dipping lower outside the store windows.

You pay (splitting it because that's how you two do things—fair, balanced), and as you wheel everything out toward his car, you can't stop smiling.

Being best friends with a member of the male species, is a really weird thing. See, people tend to view you completely differently when they learn that your best friend is in fact a tall buff guy who happens to be rich. They immediately think, there's no way you're "just friends."

That a guy like him— would never settle for platonic with someone like you. They assume you're fucking, or at least that you're one wrong grocery run away from it.

You've heard the whispers, seen the side-eyes. Hell, even some of the group has thrown in a sly comment or two over the years. But you know where you stand with Sunghoon. Best friends. Ride-or-die. The kind of bond that doesn't need labels to feel solid.

You're both loading the last of the bags into the trunk when Sunghoon's phone buzzes. He pulls it out, checks the screen, and gets this weird little smile, not his usual half-smirk, something you've never seen before. You shrug it off though, it's probably his mom sending another recipe or one of the guys in the group chat. Whatever.

"Everything good?" you ask, tossing the last bag in.

"Yeah," he says, pocketing the phone. "Nothing important."

You head out of the store, arms aching from hauling all the items. Before you can even complain, Sunghoon's already reaching over.

"Let me carry that, you're tired," he says, grabbing the heavier bags like they're nothing.

You trail behind him with the lighter stuff and the plants, both of you looking like a married couple fresh off a furniture run. The thought flickers through your head for half a second and you immediately drop it.

Nope. Not elaborating on that. Giving it any weight just makes shit weird.

But see— you’ve lied a lot from the get go. Since the introduction you’ve said quite a lot of false things— the biggest one being, “it’s purely platonic between me and Park Sunghoon.”

God knows even the most perfect things have cracks in them, right?

The drive back is easy, windows down, your playlist skipping through songs like always because you have the attention span of a goldfish when it comes to music. You're already mentally arranging the living room, trying to picture where the monstera will look best without clashing with his inevitable ugly finds.

"You're not sneaking that funny plant into the main area, by the way," you tell him, poking his arm. "It's going in a corner."

Sunghoon laughs. "You're so dramatic. Jeez."

"Dramatic my ass. It looks like it belongs in a haunted house. We're sticking to the moodboard, dickhead."

He just grins, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. "You're lucky I take care of the actual important stuff. Otherwise you'd be living in a beige prison."

"Beige prison is better than neon orange hell," you shoot back, grinning. "Stick to hunting apartments like a neat freak."

By the time you pull up to your building, the sun's almost gone. Sunghoon kills the engine and helps haul everything upstairs without being asked, the two of you bumping shoulders in the elevator like always.

In 3 weeks, you and Park Sunghoon will be living together, life is good.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

Life is NOT good. Fuck life. You're standing in your bathroom, shivering in a towel after what was supposed to be a quick shower but turned into a goddamn ice bath.

The water went from lukewarm to straight-up arctic in under thirty seconds. No hot water. Again. Your ancient landlord has been "looking into it" for two weeks, which is code for doing absolutely jack shit.

You're tired, your hair is half-washed, and you have a morning lecture tomorrow. So you do the only logical thing: you call Jake.

"Dude, I'm dying. My shower is spitting ice cubes. You're the only one I know who's good with this plumbing crap. Please save me."

Jake laughs on the other end. "Yeah, yeah, I'm on my way. Gimme twenty."

Twenty minutes later there's a knock at your door and you open it to find not just Jake, but the whole circus: Jake with a toolbox, Sunghoon looking unfairly put-together in a black hoodie, and Heeseung trailing behind with a bag of snacks like they're here for a movie night instead of a plumbing emergency.

"You said you were coming, not bringing the entire zoo," you groan, stepping aside to let them in.

Jake grins, already kicking off his shoes. "They were with me when you called. Couldn't leave them behind. Sunghoon said he's an expert at watching other people work, and Heeseung brought chips."

"Team morale," Heeseung adds solemnly, holding up the bag. "Also I'm excellent at moral support."

You wrap your hoodie tighter around yourself. "Fine. Just fix my shit before I freeze to death."

Jake heads straight to the bathroom while you, Sunghoon, and Heeseung camp out in your tiny living room. The conversation flows easy, the way it always does with them.

"Uni is kicking my ass," you complain, flopping onto the couch. "Rent's going up again next month and my part-time job pays like shit. Being an adult is a scam."

"Tell me about it," Heeseung says through a mouthful of chips. "I'm living off instant ramen. My landlord raised the rent too— said it's 'market rate.' Market rate my ass. I'll market rate his ass, see how that goes."

Sunghoon leans against the wall, arms crossed, looking amused. "You two are dramatic. Just move somewhere better."

"Easy for you to say, Mr. Penthouse," you shoot back. "Some of us aren't out here swimming in good credit scores."

From the bathroom, Jake's voice echoes. "Pass me the wrench! And stop complaining about rent—the sink is fixed in like five minutes, watch."

You hear clinking and cursing as Jake works. Sunghoon eventually wanders over to "supervise" (aka stand there looking pretty while Jake does everything). You and Heeseung keep chatting about stupid professors, upcoming deadlines, and how none of you can afford to eat out anymore without feeling guilty.

Jake emerges twenty minutes later, wiping his hands. "Fixed. Your hot water heater was just throwing a tantrum. Should be good now."

"You're a godsend," you tell him, genuinely relieved. "I owe you dinner or something."

"Make it the good ramen, not the cheap shit," Jake says, grinning.

You're all sprawled out now, snacks open, relaxed. Sunghoon sits on the arm of the couch, close enough that you catch a whiff of his cologne— clean, expensive, the same one he's worn for years. For some reason it hits different tonight but you shake it off.

Then, casually, like he's commenting on the weather, Sunghoon says, "By the way, I met someone on that group outing last weekend. Mina. She's cool. We're grabbing coffee sometime."

Ah. Nice?

You blink, forcing a smile. "Oh? That's great, Hoon. She sounds nice. You should go for it."

Inside, there's this weird little twist in your stomach. Not jealousy or anything dramatic—just... off. The type of feeling that makes you want to jackhammer the "?????" button on your keyboard.

You push it down immediately. Supportive friend mode. That's where you stand bitch.

He nods, that reserved smile appearing. "Yeah, we'll see. She's into photography or something. Might be fun."

Jake and Heeseung immediately pile on with teasing questions, the conversation shifting into typical guy shit-talk about dating apps and whatnot. You laugh along, throwing in jokes about Sunghoon's questionable taste in everything except women, apparently.

But that faint twist lingers as you breathe in his cologne again.

You tell yourself it's nothing. Just a weird day. Life's already been kicking your ass with cold showers— you don't need to overthink this too.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

You're the biggest overthinker the world has ever known. It's been one week before move-in and your brain won't shut the fuck up. Ever since Sunghoon casually dropped the Mina news, you've been spiraling in the most ridiculous way possible.

What if he turns into one of those dudes who gets a girlfriend and suddenly disappears? The type who's glued to her 24/7, canceling plans and turning your shared apartment into her second home.

Would she have a problem with you being there? Some girls get weird about their boyfriend living with a female best friend, even if it's been strictly platonic for years…

And honestly? How the hell does someone even start dating a guy knowing he's about to move in with a girl?

Sure, you know there's nothing there, but not everyone gets that. People already assume shit when they see you two together.

You keep telling yourself it's fine, that nothing's going to change, but your brain is a professional at inventing problems that don't exist yet

You're still overthinking it when you meet Sunghoon and the landlord at the new apartment for the final walkthrough.

The place looks even better than you remembered— sunlight pouring in, fresh paint, that perfect spot in the living room for the charcoal sectional. The landlord drones on about the terms, pointing out outlets and explaining the heating system.

You nod along, trying to focus on the important stuff.

Sunghoon's only half there, his phone keeps buzzing and he's texting back with that small, distracted smile. You don't have to ask who it is. Mina. Of course.

"Everything looks good to me," you say, signing your part of the lease after the landlord walks you through the final checklist. Sunghoon signs right after, barely glancing up from his screen before sliding it back.

"Cool," he mutters, typing another reply. "We're good then.”

The landlord leaves and you're both standing in the empty living room, keys in hand. It should feel exciting—this is your place now—but your stomach is doing that stupid twist again.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

Later that night you're both at his current place, surrounded by half-packed boxes, eating takeout on the floor like broke uni students. Except well… you're the only one that's actually broke.

Sunghoon's in a good mood, legs stretched out, picking at his food.

"She's really cool, you know?" he says suddenly, eyes lighting up in that rare, genuine way. "Mina. We talked for like three hours last night. She gets my humor and she's into the same movies. I think you'd like her actually."

You force a smile, swallowing the weird knot in your throat.

"That's awesome, Hoon. I'm happy for you. Seriously. If she puts up with your neon orange taste, she must be a saint."

He chuckles, leaning back against the couch. "She called my prayer plant 'interesting.' That's good right?."

You laugh along, poking at your noodles. "Just don't let her convince you to buy more ugly shit before we move in. I'm not redecorating around someone else's terrible vision."

"Deal." He bumps your shoulder with his. "It'll be fine. You know I wouldn't bring someone around if I thought it'd mess things up."

"Yeah," you say, lying through your teeth. "I'm really happy for you."

Inside, your brain is still overthinking.

What if she hates that he lives with you?

What if things shift and you become the awkward third wheel in your own apartment? But you shove it down. This is Sunghoon. Your best friend.

You know where you stand.

At least erm... you hope you do?

๑ஓ๑ஓ

You don't know where you stand. You don't know whether to stand on top of a cliff or a bridge actually.

One wrong gust of wind and you're either plummeting into the abyss of "i'm jealous because that's MY friend" or swan-diving into the river of "this is fine, everything's fine, I'm totally not spiraling."

Move-in day is pure chaos. Boxes stacked like a Tetris game, bubble wrap popping underfoot, and the scent of new cardboard mixed with Sunghoon's stupidly expensive cologne that's somehow already infiltrating every corner. The charcoal sectional is half-assembled in the living room, looking majestic against the fresh walls, and the monstera plants are perched on the windowsill like leafy green bodyguards.

You're both on the floor surrounded by Ikea instructions that might as well be written in ancient Sumerian; Sunghoon's got that focused look on his face— brows furrowed, fingers turning an allen key —while you're holding up a dubious plank and praying it's not upside down.

"Pass me the weird little L-shaped thing," he says without looking up, hair falling into his eyes.

You toss it over. "This one? Or the torture device thingy?"

He catches it mid-air, smirks. "Both could be torture devices. Have you seen how many screws are left? Feels like we're building a medieval catapult."

You snort, leaning back on your hands. "Knowing your taste, it'll probably end up looking like a medieval catapult anyway"

He laughs and bumps your knee with his. "You love my taste. Admit it. The prayer plant is thriving already. It's a sexy ass plant."

"It's in the corner where no one can see it," you fire back, but you're grinning like an idiot.

This is the good part. The easy part. The two of you knee-deep in cardboard and allen keys, trading insults like always.

You spent the morning blasting your playlist (the one he hates but secretly vibes to anyway), arguing over where the floating shelves should go, and pretending the whole Mina situation wasn't sitting in your stomach like week-old takeout.

For a while, it almost feels normal. Like the last ten years of friendship compressed into one messy, sweaty afternoon of building a life together. He teases you about your obsessive moodboard adherence— you threaten to burn his ugly abstract sculpture if he tries sneaking it in again.

Sunghoon makes you coffee in the new kitchen (because of course he already knows where everything is packed— efficient king) and you both sit on the half-built sectional, shoulders brushing, legs tangled in bubble wrap.

"You're really good at this nesting shit," he says, nudging your foot. "Bossy as hell, but good.”

"Someone has to keep everything in check," you reply, poking his arm.

God, his arms. Why are they like that? Broad and stupidly solid from whatever rich-guy gym routine he does. You yank your brain back by the collar before it starts cataloging his tan lines again. Not today, Satan.

Sunghoon checks his phone at some point; a small, distracted smile creeps onto his face— the same one from the furniture store— and your insides do the twisty thing again. Harder this time.

"Shit, is it already that late?" He runs a hand through his hair. "I've got that thing with Mina tonight, coffee turned into dinner plans."

Of course it did.

You force the smile so hard your cheeks hurt. "Oh yeah? That's cool. Go have fun. I'll figure out where to put the Tv."

He hesitates for half a second, eyes flicking over the disaster zone. "You sure? I can push it back an hour—"

"Nah, go. Seriously. I've got this." Liar. Liar. Liaaaar. You wave him off like the supportive bestie you are, even though your brain is already screaming in 4K surround sound.

Sunghoon stands up, brushes dust off his pants, and gives you a reserved look that makes you feel seen in a way no one else does. "Text me if you need help carrying something. I'll bring reinforcements.”

"Or just more ugly plants," you mutter.

He laughs, leans down to ruffle your hair like you're twelve again, and then he's gone. The door clicks shut behind him and the apartment suddenly feels ten times bigger. Emptier. The monstera leaves rustle in the breeze from the open window like they're gossiping about you.

You sit there on the floor in the half-finished living room, surrounded by half-built furniture and your own thoughts. The charcoal sectional looks perfect, exactly like the moodboard, but now it just feels... off. Like it's waiting for something. Or someone. Probably Mina's perfume or her photography prints or whatever perfect, non-colorblind girl shit she brings to the table.

"Fuck," you whisper to no one, dragging a hand down your face.

Your brain, that treacherous bitch, immediately launches into overdrive.

What if she comes over after the date? What if she stays the night? What if she has amazing taste and suddenly the prayer plant migrates to the center of the room and you have to pretend it doesn't look like a haunted house reject? What if he starts canceling furniture trips and playlist sessions because he's too busy being all couple-y?

Yeah, you're being dramatic. C'mon.

You flop backward onto the rug (the non-puke one, thank you very much) and stare at the ceiling.

You don't know where you stand. Platonic soulmate? Roommate? The girl who's been friend-zoned so hard she's developing altitude sickness from the height of the friend zone? Or—worse—the girl who's been secretly jealous now that someone else might actually take him?

The worst part is you do like Mina from the little he's said. She sounds cool, funny and plus she’s into the same movies. The kind of person who'd probably get along with the group. Which makes this whole internal meltdown even more pathetic.

You groan and roll over, face-planting into a pile of bubble wrap. It pops sadly under your cheek.

"Get your shit together stupid cunt." you mumble to yourself.

But as the sun dips lower and paints the empty walls golden, you stay there on the floor, the apartment half-alive around you, boxes everywhere, plants watching.

You really don't know where you stand. And that terrifies you more than any ugly tablecloth ever could.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

You don't know how the hell a week can feel both brand new and like you've been doing this forever.

Living with Sunghoon is supposed to be the seamless extension of a decade of friendship, right? Best friends turned roommates. Easy. Natural.

Except nothing feels easy when every morning starts with the low hum of his voice through the wall and the sound of running water that makes your brain short-circuit in ways it absolutely should not.

The first full week hits like a fever dream.

Mornings are the worst— or the most dangerous, depending on how honest you're willing to be with yourself. You wake up to the soft clatter of him in the kitchen, the rich smell of coffee already brewing because Sunghoon is that kind of person.

The kind who sets the timer the night before so you both have something decent before uni swallows you whole.

You shuffle out of your room in an oversized hoodie and sleep shorts, hair looking like a bird's nest, and there he is— already dressed in a crisp button-down that somehow makes his shoulders look even broader, sleeves rolled up to his forearms.

"Hey," he says, voice still a little rough from sleep as he slides a mug toward you across the counter. Black with one sugar, exactly how you like it. His fingers brush yours for a second and you pretend it doesn't send a stupid spark up your arm. "Sleep okay? You were tossing around last night. Heard the bed creak."

Jesus Christ, he heard the bed creak? Your face heats up instantly. "Yeah, just... weird dreams. Thanks for the coffee, lifesaver."

Sunghoon leans against the counter, watching you with a quiet, attentive look that always makes you feel like he's seeing more than you want him to. "If the mattress is shit, we can swap rooms. Or I'll order a new topper today. No big deal."

You wave him off, hiding behind the mug. "It's fine, Hoon. Really. Don't go spending your trust fund on my ass."

He chuckles softly, the sound warm and low, and reaches over to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear like it's the most natural thing in the world. "Too late. Already added it to the list. Eat something before you run out the door."

The gesture lingers— his knuckles grazed your cheek for half a second, and now you're standing there like an idiot, heart doing obnoxious cartwheels while he casually plates some eggs and toast.

It's caring. He's always been caring.

But in this apartment, with just the two of you and no group buffer, it feels... different. Intimate in a way that makes your stomach flip and your brain scream abort mission, friend zone only.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

Uni days blur together in the usual mess of lectures, group projects, and shitty campus coffee that you now compare unfavorably to whatever magic Sunghoon brews at home.

You text him between classes— stupid shit, memes, complaints about your professor's monotone voice—and he replies with voice notes that are way too soothing for someone who's probably in the middle of his own packed schedule.

By the time you drag yourself home most afternoons, he's already there or arrives shortly after, shedding his jacket and asking about your day like he actually wants the full rundown.

One evening you come back soaked from a sudden downpour, cursing the weather gods under your breath— Sunghoon takes one look at you dripping all over the entryway and disappears into the bathroom, returning with a towel and one of his hoodies.

"You're gonna catch a cold," he murmurs, draping the towel over your head and rubbing gently. His hands are careful, almost tender, as he dries your hair. "Go change. I'll heat up some soup. Jay sent over extra from his latest kitchen ...experiment."

You stand there like a drowned rat, letting him fuss because fighting it feels pointless when he gets that determined look. "You don't have to baby me, dude. I'm not five."

"Could've fooled me with the way you're shivering." He smiles, that small reserved one that crinkles the corners of his eyes, and gives your shoulder a light squeeze before heading to the kitchen. "Besides, I like taking care of you. Someone has to."

What the fuck does that mean?

You pull on his hoodie— because of course it smells like him, clean and expensive and stupidly comforting—and shuffle back out. He's at the stove, stirring the soup with focused precision, brow slightly furrowed like this is a critical mission. His sleeves are rolled up again, exposing those tan lines from his watch, and the way the muscles in his forearms shift as he works...

You tear your eyes away and hop onto the counter beside him. "Smells good, you're spoiling me this week."

Sunghoon glances over, eyes soft. "That's the plan. You've been stressing about midterms, figured good food might help." He ladles a bowl and hands it to you, fingers brushing again.

Deliberate? Accidental? Your brain doesn't know anymore.

Evenings melt into this weird domestic rhythm. You study on the sectional while he works on his laptop across from you, legs tangled under the coffee table because neither of you moves them. He'll reach over randomly to hand you a snack or adjust the lamp so the light hits your notes better. "Don't strain your eyes," he says one night, voice low and serious. You mumble thanks and try not to notice how close his knee is to yours.

The friendship is still there— solid, easy, full of banter. You roast each other over dinner, recreate ridiculous inside jokes from high school, and bicker like always. But underneath it, something's shifting. Or maybe it's just you. Probably just you and your overthinking ass.

Thursday night is when it really hits. You're exhausted from a brutal day of back-to-back classes and come home to find him fresh out of the shower.

He's in the kitchen again— because Sunghoon cooks when he's thinking— wearing only low-slung sweatpants and no shirt. Bare shoulders still damp, water droplets tracing paths down the smooth lines of his back as he chops vegetables with that same focused expression. The kind where his jaw tightens just a little and his long fingers handle the knife like it's an extension of himself.

You freeze in the doorway like a creep, mouth suddenly dry.

Holy shit. When did his shoulders get like that? Broad, defined, carrying the kind of quiet strength that makes you want to trace them with your fingers and then immediately slap yourself for the thought. He's always been hot, objectively. You knew that. But living together means seeing him like this—post-shower glow, relaxed in your shared space—and your brain is filing it away for later torture.

He looks up, catches you staring, and offers a small smile. "Hey. Rough day? You look like you need a hug dwarf."

Before you can respond, he's crossing the room and pulling you into one of those hugs— one arm wraps around your waist, the other hand cradling the back of your head against his bare chest. He's warm from the shower, skin still slightly damp, and he smells like his body wash and home. "Missed you today," he murmurs against your hair. "Tell me about it while I finish dinner?"

What the— fuck???

You nod against him, arms circling his waist because what else are you supposed to do? It feels too good. Too right. Too fucking ambiguous.

Sunghoon holds you a beat longer than necessary before letting go and returning to the stove like nothing happened.

You perch on a stool, watching him cook and thhat focused look returns— the slight furrow, the way he tastes the sauce and adjusts seasoning with care. "You're really good at this," you say, trying to keep your voice light.

He shrugs, shoulders rolling beautifully. "Learned for moments like this. Can't have you surviving on instant ramen forever, right?”

Your heart does something traitorous. Caring. Always so damn caring.

Later, while you're both on the couch pretending to watch a movie, his phone buzzes. He checks it, that soft smile appearing— the Mina smile—and excuses himself to the balcony. "Gotta take this real quick."

You try to focus on the screen. You really do. But the balcony door doesn't close all the way, and his voice carries on the night breeze.

"...Yeah, I know. This week's been crazy with the move-in, but it's good having her here. Makes the place feel less empty." A pause. "No, she's great, you'd like her. We've been friends forever." Another pause, softer. "Dinner tomorrow sounds perfect, Mina. I'll pick you up after your last class. Can't wait to see you."

The jealousy sparks hot and ugly in your chest, like someone struck a match against your ribs.

She'd like her? We've been friends forever? You know it's true. You know you're the one who's always been there.

But hearing him talk to her in that warm tone while you're sitting here in his hoodie, stomach full of his cooking, makes you want to throw something. Preferably at your own stupid feelings.

You curl tighter into the corner of the sectional, pulling the blanket up like armor. Get a grip. He's allowed to date. You're happy for him. Mostly.

But the spark lingers, fanning into quiet flames every time you picture him with her. Does he hug Mina like that? Does he cook for her like that? Does he tuck her hair back and offer to swap rooms because he heard her bed creak?

You're a bitch. The kind of bitch girlfriends are scared of.

Friday morning brings another intimate routine moment. You're in the bathroom brushing your teeth when he walks in shirtless again, towel slung low on his hips from his shower, hair wet and tousled. "Sorry, forgot my watch," he says casually, reaching past you. His bare arm brushes your shoulder, and you nearly choke on toothpaste.

"No problem," you mumble around the brush, eyes glued to the sink. In the mirror, you catch him glancing at you— soft, concerned, maybe something else. He lingers a second longer than needed.

"You okay? You've been quiet since last night."

Because I overheard you being all boyfriend-y with Mina and now I'm noticing how your shoulders look like they could bench-press my whole body— goofy ass.

"Just tired. Midterms."

He nods, squeezing your shoulder gently. "We'll order in tonight, my treat. And I'll handle the dishes so you can crash early."

"Sunghoon, you don't—"

"I want to," he cuts in, voice firm but kind. That ambiguous caring again, the kind that makes you question every platonic boundary you thought was rock solid.

The rest of the week follows the same pattern: mornings with coffee and subtle touches, days at uni where you text like always, evenings filled with his quiet caretaking. He leaves notes on the fridge ("Leftovers in the blue container—eat this, not the expired yogurt"), covers you with a blanket when you fall asleep studying, and listens to your rants about group project freeloaders with full attention, offering solutions and back rubs that feel way too nice.

By Sunday night, you're both exhausted on the couch, some old movie playing low. His arm drapes casually along the back of it, fingers occasionally brushing your shoulder. You're hyper-aware of every point of contact.

"You've been off," he says quietly during a lull. "Talk to me."

You shrug, heart pounding. "Just adjusting. Living together is... a lot."

He turns toward you, eyes searching. "In a bad way?" There's real worry there, mixed with something deeper. His hand drops to your knee, thumb stroking absently. Caring. So fucking caring it hurts.

"No," you whisper. "Not bad. Just... new.”

Sunghoon smiles, small and reserved, and pulls you into his side. "We'll figure it out, together.”

You lean into him, cheek against his shoulder— bare again because the motherfucker ditched the shirt after his post-gym shower— and let yourself pretend for a minute that the jealousy from the phone call doesn't exist. That the intimacy of shared mornings and his cooking focus and these ambiguous touches are just friendship.

But deep down, you know the spark is growing. You don't know where you stand, but with every caring gesture, every lingering look, every bare-shouldered moment in your new shared life, the line between best friend and something more feels thinner than ever.

And that terrifies you. Because what if he's just being Sunghoon— reliable, thoughtful—and you're the one reading too much into it? What if Mina is the one who gets the clearer version of his heart?

You close your eyes and breathe him in anyway. The week is over, but the confusion is just beginning. Fuck.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

    The housewarming party is supposed to be fun. A celebration. Proof that you and Sunghoon can pull off this whole roommate thing without the universe imploding. Instead, it ‘surprisingly’ feels like stepping into a pressure cooker...

The guys show up right on time, loud as always, turning your half-settled apartment into a proper disaster zone within minutes. Jake bursts through the door first with a ridiculous stack of takeout bags and a speaker already blasting some Travis Scott song. "Housewarming kings! Where's the alcohol? We're christening this place properly."

"Kitchen counter," you call back, laughing despite the knot in your chest that has been tightening all week.

Sunghoon stays right behind you, one hand lightly on your lower back as he steers you out of Jake's path. "Careful, she's been on her feet all day helping set up, don't trample her motherfuckers."

Jake rolls his eyes but grins. "Yes, daddy."

Heeseung and Jay follow, arms loaded with more snacks and drinks, already bickering about some video game. Riki and Jungwon tumble in last, the maknaes immediately claiming the sectional like it is their throne, legs sprawled everywhere. Sunoo arrives with a soft, angelic smile and a bag of fancy desserts that makes everyone cheer.

For a while, it is perfect. The kind of easy energy yo've missed. You're all crammed together, passing plates, roasting each other mercilessly, the apartment filling with laughter and the clink of bottles.

Sunghoon stays close— refilling your drink before you even notice it is low, handing you a plate with your favorite bites arranged neatly because "you always forget to eat when you're hosting." His fingers brush your wrist each time, lingering just enough to make your skin hum.

"Stop hovering, Hoon," you mutter at one point, bumping his shoulder. But there is no heat in it. Secretly, you crave it. That quiet caretaking in front of everyone makes the ambiguous line blur even more.

He just smiles, reserved and warm. "Not hovering. Taking care of my favorite roommate."

"Only roommate," Jungwon teases from the couch, mouth full. "Unless Mina's moving in too?"

The name drops like a rock into still water. Sunghoon chuckles softly but doesn't deny it.

The party ramps up— music thumps, stories from uni and old high school memories fly around the room. You're in the middle of it, trading insults with Jake about his terrible DJ skills, when the doorbell rings again.

Sunghoon's face lights up in that specific way— the small, genuine smile reserved for someone new. "That's her."

Oh.

Mina steps in, pretty in a casual way that somehow makes your oversized hoodie and jeans feel sloppy. She has an easy laugh, a camera bag slung over her shoulder, and flowers in hand because, eh... of course she does. "Hi everyone! Sorry I'm late— traffic was brutal. These are for the new place."

The group greets her warmly; Sunoo immediately pulls her into a conversation about the flowers, Jay offers her a drink, and Riki starts asking about her photography like he's known her for years.

But your eyes are glued to Sunghoon as he greets her.

He hugs her— not the quick side-hug he gives the guys. A full one, arm around her waist, murmuring something low that makes her smile up at him. His hand lingers on her back the way it sometimes lingers on yours. Caring. Attentive. The same fucking way.

The apartment suddenly feels suffocating. Too small. Too full of their shared space and your racing thoughts.

Every time Sunghoon leans in to say something to her, every shared laugh, every time he makes sure she has food or adjusts the lighting because "the ambiance matters for photos, right?"—it claws at your insides.

Jealousy is not new, but this is sharper. Watching them together in your apartment, on the sectional you tested with him, in the kitchen where he cooked for you shirtless just days ago... it makes the walls close in.

You feel sick to your stomach.

You busy yourself in the kitchen, refilling snacks you obviously dont need to refill, forcing laughs when Jake cracks jokes. Inside, your brain is a fucking circus.

She fits. Look at them. He's glowing. Does he look at you like that? Are you just the comfortable best friend while she gets the real version? Fuck, why does it feel so weird?

Sunghoon catches your eye across the room at one point. His expression shifts— concerned, searching, he excuses himself from Mina mid-sentence and comes over, hand finding your elbow. "You good? You been quiet the last hour."

"Yeah, just tired from playing host," you lie, plastering on a smile. "Go enjoy your guest."

He studies you for a beat too long, thumb stroking your arm. "I'm here if you need anything, yeah?" The words are soft, ambiguous as hell, and they only make the knot worse.

Mina is great. Funny, genuine, easy to talk to. She compliments the place, asks you questions about your classes, even offers to take some group photos.

You hate how much you want to dislike her. The group loves her, Sunghoon keeps glancing between you two like he is hoping you'll click. And you do, on the surface.

But every time he touches her shoulder or laughs at her story, the suffocation grows until you feel like you're drowning in your own living room.

The party winds down eventually. Goodbyes, hugs, promises to do it again soon. Mina leaves with Sunghoon walking her to the elevator, their voices fading down the hall and you stay behind, cleaning up mechanically while the guys filter out with final teasing waves.

When Sunghoon comes back, the apartment is quieter than it has been in hours. Just the two of you, remnants of the party scattered like evidence of a crime scene.

He rolls up his sleeves and starts helping without being asked, gathering empty bottles, wiping counters; the silence stretches, awkward in a way it never used to be.

"You were good tonight," he says eventually, voice low as he dries a glass. "Everyone had a great time. Especially with you running point on the food."

You shrug, tossing napkins into the trash a little harder than necessary. "Team effort. Mina seems nice."

There. You said it. Neutral. Casual. Like it does not feel like swallowing glass.

Sunghoon pauses, setting the glass down. "She is. But... you were off after she got here. Did something happen?"

Yeah, watching you two felt like someone was vacuuming out my soul asshole.

You lean against the counter, arms crossed. "No. Just... first big thing in the new place. Adjusting."

Sunghoon steps closer. Too close. The kitchen light casts shadows on his face, highlighting the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark eyes search yours with that quiet intensity. "Talk to me. Really talk. We've done the small talk thing all week. I know when something's bothering you."

The words hang there— akward small talk dissolving into something deeper, heavier. You can feel the shift in the air, thick and charged while he's giving you that caring look again— the one that makes boundaries feel imaginary.

You exhale shakily. "It's stupid. Seeing you with her... in here. It felt weird. Like I was intruding or something."

He doesn't laugh it off- doesn't pull back. Instead, he moves even closer, hands bracing on the counter on either side of you, caging you in without touching. "Youre not intruding. This is our place. Yours and mine. Mina's... she's new. You've been here through everything."

His voice is low, sincere— one hand lifts to brush your cheek, the same way he did that first morning. "I care about you. A lot. More than I probably let on most days. Living with you has been... good. Better than I expected, i dont want that to change."

Your heart hammers— the touch is gentle, thumb tracing your jaw like he is memorizing it, but it's ambiguous. So fucking ambiguous. Is this how best friends are supposed to comfort?

"Hoon..." you whisper, voice cracking. "What are we doing?"

He doesn't move away, his forehead nearly rests against yours, breath warm. "I know. I dont wanna fuck things up. You're important. The most important person in my life. We’ll figure it out together yeah?"

The conversation pulls you under— no more jokes, no more deflections. You tell him about the overthinking, the jealousy that surprises even you, the way you're scared this is going to get complicated and you'll no longer be his best friend.

You don't tell him about the real jealousy though— the silly, ugly one that makes you want to be in Mina's place— fuck that.

Sunghoon listens without interrupting, nodding, his hand eventually sliding to the back of your neck, massaging gently like he can ease the tension out.

"Im not good at this," he admits quietly when you finish. "Keeping things in neat boxes. With you, it's never been neat. But I don't regret asking you to move in. Not for a second."

You swallow hard. "Me neither. But Mina—"

"Is figuring things out," he finishes. "And so are we. I am not choosing. I'm just... here. With you."

After a while, Sunghoon presses a soft kiss to the top of your head before murmuring, "We'll be okay. Get some sleep. Ive got breakfast covered tomorrow."

You believe him. Mostly. But as you lie in bed later, replaying every touch, every word, the suffocating feeling from the party mixes with a new, fluttering hope.

This is going to get complicated. Really fucking complicated. This is not a friendship. There’s nothing friendly about this relationship.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

The week after the housewarming party drags like hangover you can't shake— everything's heavier now—the air in the apartment, the weight in your chest, the way Sunghoon's caring gestures twist between comfort and confusion.

It's late on a Thursday night when the emergency hits. You stumble through the door well past midnight, soaked from rain again because the universe hates you, eyes burning from hours of staring at a failed group project report your asshole teammates dumped on you last minute. Work-study has been kicking your ass, midterms are breathing down your neck, and everything just... sucks.

You don't even make it to your room before Sunghoon appears in the hallway, still in his lounge clothes, hair slightly messy like he's been waiting up. "Hey. Oop, rough day?" His voice is soft, instantly concerned. He takes one look at your dripping state and the defeated slump of your shoulders and pulls you straight into his arms without asking.

You melt into it before your brain can protest. He's warm, solid, smelling like home and his hand rubs slow circles on your back while the other cradles the back of your head. "Bad day?" he murmurs against your hair. "Tell me about it."

And you do. The words spill out in a messy ramble—shitty group members, endless revisions, the professor who doesn't give a fuck, the way rent's creeping up again.

He listens without interrupting, just holding you tighter, chin resting on top of your head. "You're doing your best. That's enough. I'll help with the report tomorrow if you want. Or we can order your favorite takeout."

The hug lingers— longer than it should. His arms stay wrapped around you, one hand sliding up to stroke your damp hair, thumb brushing your temple in that gentle way that makes your knees feel unreliable. You can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong against your cheek. It feels safe. Too safe.

Too much.

Your brain screams at you— this isn't just friendly. Or is it? Fuck, why does it feel like more every single time?

Maybe because this is highly fucked up— because friends don't act like that while having a girlfriend.

You pull away first, stepping back abruptly even though every cell in your body wants to stay. Confusion floods your face. "Thanks, Hoon. I... I should shower and crash. Sorry for dumping all that on you."

Sunghoon looks at you for a long moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. "You never have to apologize, get some rest. I'm here if you wake up and still feel like shit."

You nod and escape to your room, heart pounding. The hug stays with you long after the hot water runs out— his touch, his voice, the way he makes the bad day feel bearable.

But Mina's name echoes in the back of your mind like a warning. Youre a bitch for feeling this way about her man.

Mina starts coming over more after that. At first it's casual— dinner one night, movie the next. You try to be normal about it. You really do. But hearing her laugh from his room while they watch something on his laptop makes your stomach turn.

Their voices filter through the wall, low and easy, full of inside jokes you're not part of.

You bury yourself in your room with headphones, blasting music to drown them out, or claim you have late study sessions at the library just to avoid the common areas.

Sunghoon notices, of course. He always notices. He leaves little notes on the fridge—"Saved you some pasta. Eat, please."—or texts you during the day asking if you're okay, if you need anything.

One night he waits up again, catching you as you try to slip in quietly after a long day out.

"You've been avoiding the apartment," he says gently, leaning in the doorway to your room. "Is it because of Mina? Or... us?"

You shrug, avoiding his eyes. "Just busy. Uni's brutal right now."

He steps closer, hand reaching out to squeeze your shoulder. That caring touch again— fuck that. "You know you can talk to me, this is still our place. Don't disappear on me."

The words make your chest ache— youu nod, but the avoidance only gets worse.

Then comes the night that shatters whatever fragile denial you have left.

You told them you're going out— meeting a friend for drinks, staying late. You even make a show of getting dressed up and leaving at a reasonable hour. But the "friend" cancels last minute, and instead of finding somewhere else to go, you end up wandering the streets for a while before quietly letting yourself back in.

The apartment's dark except for the faint light coming from Sunghoon's room. His door's cracked open just enough.

You freeze in the hallway when you hear it.

Soft moans— the rhythmic creak of his bed. Mina's breathless laugh turning into a gasp and Sunghoon's low voice murmuring her name.

They think you're out. They have no idea you're standing there like a statue, heart hammering so hard you feel sick.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. The sounds are unmistakable. Intimate. Real.

Your hands fly up to your ears, pressing hard like a child trying to block out a nightmare. It doesn't help, the images flood your brain anyway— his bare shoulders, that focused expression, the way he cares so deeply when he touches someone. Now he's touching her. In your shared apartment. While you stand outside like the pathetic third wheel you've become.

Tears burn your eyes as you tiptoe to your room, shutting the door as quietly as possible. You push your fingers deeper into your ears, curling up on your bed with your face buried in the pillow.

The frustration boils over into quiet, angry sobs. Why does this hurt so much? You knew this would happen. He's dating. You're just the best friend roommate. Get the fuck over it.

But you can't. The sounds eventually fade, but the ache stays. You lie there for hours, replaying every lingering hug, every caring gesture, every ambiguous moment— Sunghoon comforting you after your bad day, the way he pulled you close. The way you pulled away first, confused and scared.

You avoid him even more aggressively after that.

Early mornings to dodge breakfast together. Late nights at cafes pretending to study. Burying yourself in work until your eyes cross. Sunghoon tries— texts, notes, a soft knock on your door asking if you want to watch something— but you keep the walls up.

Inside, your thoughts spiral wildly. He's happy with her. Good for him. But why does hearing them together feel like someone's ripping out a piece of you? This is so fucked.

The apartment that once felt like home now feels like a minefield— every laugh from his room, every time Mina's shoes appear by the door, every lingering glance Sunghoon gives you when he thinks you're not looking —it all builds until you're not sure how much longer you can keep pretending everything's fine.

You don't know where you stand anymore, and the worst part is, Sunghoon still looks at you like he wants to pull you back into one of those long hugs and fix it all. But you're not sure a hug can fix this kind of mess.

Not when your heart's screaming what your mouth refuses to say.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

       The grocery run is supposed to be quick and easy. Just the usual Sunday restock— but obviously everything feels loaded lately, like one wrong word could blow up the fragile peace you've been faking

You're pushing the cart while Sunghoon walks beside you, tossing things in. He's been extra since the night you overheard him and Mina— leaving notes, making sure you eat, checking in with soft "you okay?" texts. It's driving you insane because it feels too much and not enough at the same time.

"Grab the oat milk?" he asks, reaching for his usual protein bars.

You nod, but when he puts another pack of those ugly off-brand snacks in the cart— the ones you hate because they taste like cardboard— you snap.

"Seriously? We talked about this. Stop buying shit we don't need just because it's on sale."

Sunghoon blinks, surprised. "It's not a big deal. I thought you might want options."

"It is a big deal when I'm the one trying to keep the kitchen from turning into a junkyard while you're playing house with Mina every other night." The words fly out sharper than you mean them to. Your voice cracks a little at the end and you hate it.

Sunghoon's jaw tightens. "Playing house? That's what you think this is?"

The aisle feels too narrow. People glance over but you don't care, this is your first real argument as roommates and it's happening under shitty fluorescent lights next to the cereal.

"You've been distant as fuck," he says, voice low but heated. "I try to check on you, you shut me out. I bring Mina around and you disappear. What do you want from me?"

"I don't know!" You grip the cart handle until your knuckles hurt. "I just... everything's weird now and I'm tired, okay?"

He looks hurt- actually hurt. "You think this is easy for me? Watching you pull away?"

You don't answer. You just abandon the cart in the middle of the aisle and walk out to the car, chest tight with regret and anger and that stupid fucking longing you can't kill.

The drive home is silent, when you get back to the apartment you disappear into your room and bury yourself in assignments, headphones on full blast.

An hour later there's a soft knock. Sunghoon opens the door a crack, holding your favorite beer— the expensive one you only treat yourself to on good days.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, stepping inside. "I shouldn't have pushed. And I'm sorry if having Mina here makes you feel like shit. That's not what I want."

You stare at the beer like it's personally attacking you. The domesticity of it— the way he remembered your favorite, the way he's standing in your room trying to fix things after a dumb fight over snacks— hits you like a truck. It feels like couple shit.

You take the bottle with shaky hands. "Thanks. I'm sorry I snapped. I've just been... in my head a lot."

He sits on the edge of your bed, close but not touching. "We're okay?"

"Yeah," you lie, because saying anything else right now would open floodgates you're not ready for. "We're okay."

But as he gives you that small, caring smile and leaves you with the beer, the domestic weight settles heavy in your chest. Fuck. This is getting harder every day.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

          Tonight, you're sitting on the sectional alone tonight, the apartment quiet. Sunghoon's out with Mina again.

Instead of spiraling like usual, your brain drags you back to high school— those early days when everything was simpler and the line between you two hadn't blurred into this mess.

Flashback hits hard— you're fifteen again, stuck on that delayed train with him, sharing the last bottle of water like it's some sacred pact. That's where it started. Friendship born from boredom and bad luck.

Prom night memories flood in. You got rejected by the guy you liked— some idiot who said you were "too much like a sister." You cried in the bathroom until Sunghoon found you— he ditched his own date, showed up in his rented tux with snacks he stole from the refreshments table.

"Fuck him," he'd said, sitting on the gross bathroom floor with you. "You're way better than that loser anyway. We'll dance right here if you want. Or we can bail and get convenience store beer."

You laughed through the tears, he stayed with you all night, no questions, no judgment. Just steady, caring Sunghoon. The same way he held you after your parents' divorce shit got bad—when your mom moved away and you felt like the world was splitting. He'd show up at your door with bad movies and shoulder to cry on.

"You're not alone in this," he told you back then, voice serious even at seventeen. "I got you. Always."

You're yanked back to the present when the front door clicks open— Sunghoon steps in, still in the hoodie he left in earlier— he sees you on the couch and his face softens immediately

"Hey. You're home." He kicks off his shoes and comes over without hesitation, dropping down beside you. "Mina had an early thing tomorrow so I came back. You okay?"

You shrug, "Just thinking about old shit. Prom. When my family was falling apart. You were always there, fixing things."

Sunghoon watches you carefully. "I still am. Even if it feels different now."

The contrast hits like a slap. Back then it was easy— pure support, no jealousy, no hearing him with someone else through the walls. Now every caring gesture feels loaded. Every "I got you" carries new weight.

"You remember when you stayed over after my mom's call about the divorce?" you ask quietly. "We fell asleep watching those terrible horror movies and you held my hand the whole night because I was shaking."

He nods, a small smile tugging at his lips. "Yeah, i remember. I didn't want you to feel alone for even a second."

You swallow hard. "Feels like we're both alone in the same apartment these days."

Sunghoon shifts closer, his knee pressing against yours. "We don't have to be." His hand finds yours, squeezing gently —the same way he did years ago. "I know things are messy... but I'm still here. Like I was back then."

He was your rock in high school, the one who supported you through every rejection, every family crisis. Now that same rock feels like it's cracking under the weight of unspoken feelings and another girl's laughter in his room.

You don't pull your hand away. "I miss how simple it was," you whisper.

"Me too," he admits, thumb stroking the back of your hand. "But we're still us. We'll figure the rest out.”

You want to believe him, you really do. But as the memories of carefree high school support clash with the complicated mess you're living in now, the inside voice won't shut up.

How the fuck do you go back to simple when everything feels this complicated?

You decide it's time to move the fuck on.

At least that's what you tell yourself when you agree to the casual date with Minjun from your psych class. He's cute, funny enough in lectures, and most importantly— he's not Sunghoon. No complicated history, no shared apartment, no Mina in the picture. Just a simple coffee that turns into dinner and maybe a walk.

The kind of thing that might loosen the knot in your chest, right?

You get ready in your room, sliding into a little black top that shows just enough skin to feel good but not desperate. When you step out, Sunghoon's in the kitchen grabbing water, his eyes drag over you slowly— down the curve of your waist, the bare skin at your collarbone, back up to your face. The look is dark. Hungry, almost?

"You going out?" His voice is low, casual on the surface but edged with something more.

"Yeah. Date with Minjun." You grab your bag, trying to sound breezy. "Don't wait up."

He sets the glass down harder than necessary. "Minjun? The guy who sits in the back and barely talks? You sure that's a good idea?"

You raise an eyebrow. "It's just coffee and dinner, Hoon. I'm not marrying him."

Sunghoon steps closer, crowding your space in that way he does without realizing— or maybe he does. His gaze drops for a split second before flicking back up. "Just be careful. Text me if anything feels off, I don't trust random dudes with you."

The protectiveness hits different tonight, it's more than friendly concern. His hand brushes your arm as you pass, fingers lingering on your skin like he wants to pull you right back.

Heat pools low in your stomach. Fuck. Why does he have to look at you like that? Like he wants to ruin you right here against the counter.  Does he even fucking notice?

But you force yourself out the door anyway.

The date is... fine. Minjun's nice. He laughs at your jokes, pays for dinner, walks you to the door like a gentleman.

There's zero spark though. No butterflies, no insane pull that makes you forget how to speak. Every time he touches your lower back, your brain supplies Sunghoon's face instead. Sunghoon's hands. Sunghoon's dark eyes raking over your body.

By the time you get home it's late— the apartment's quiet except for the TV in the living room. Sunghoon's passed out on the couch, one arm slung over his stomach, shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of skin at his waist. His hair's messy, lips slightly parted, chest rising and falling in steady breaths.

You should go to your room.

Instead you stand there like a creep, staring.

The sexual tension from earlier comes rushing back hard— if it was even ever sexual... you imagine waking him up with your mouth on his neck, his hands gripping your hips, that protective growl turning into something filthy while he fucks the confusion out of you right there on the couch.

God, you're pathetic. Heat floods your face and between your thighs.

He looks so good like this— relaxed, vulnerable, broad shoulders taking up half the couch. You want to crawl on top of him. Want to trace those tan lines with your tongue. Want things you definitely shouldn't want from your best friend.

But then the cold slap of reality hits.

He's probably just being a possessive friend. That's all. He has Mina. He laughs with her in his room, fucks her when he thinks you're gone. The protective bullshit tonight? That's just Sunghoon being Sunghoon— the guy who's looked out for you since high school.

Not because he wants you the way you're starting to need him. He's not lying awake thinking about you the same way, he's not burning up with this unbearable tension every time you're in the same room.

You're the one reading too much into lingering touches and dark looks. You're the idiot catching feelings while he's just... comfortable. Possessive because you've always been his safe person, not because he's imagining you naked.

The realization stings like hell. You tear your eyes away from his sleeping form, chest tight, and slip quietly into your room.

You change into an oversized tee and crawl into bed, pressing your thighs together to ease the ache that won't go away. The apartment feels smaller than ever, Sunghoon's right there on the couch, looking like every dirty fantasy you've been trying to kill, and all you can think is how much it hurts that he probably doesn't feel the same.

Get it together.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

Week seven hits like a goddamn freight train. The tension in the apartment has been building since that night you stared at Sunghoon asleep on the couch like a horny idiot. You've been trying—really trying—to keep your distance, burying yourself in assignments and forcing yourself on more "moving on" dates that go nowhere. But the universe has other plans.

See, you were supposed to be gone for the whole weekend. A cheap bus trip with some girls from your program to escape the city and clear your head. But the trip got conveniently canceled last minute— rain washed out the whole thing—so you drag your tired ass back to the apartment Friday night instead, earlier than expected.

You don't even text Sunghoon. Figured he'd be out or chilling alone.

Big fucking mistake.

The second you push the door open, you hear it.

Moans. Loud, breathy, unmistakable. The wet slap of skin. Sunghoon's low groan that shoots straight between your legs before the ache in your chest takes over.

You freeze in the entryway, keys still in your hand.

The door to his room is wide open like they didn't even bother closing it properly, and there they are— Sunghoon fucking Mina on his bed, her legs wrapped around his waist, his bare back flexing with every thrust. His shoulders— the ones you've been fantasizing about—are glistening with sweat. He looks so good it hurts, hips snapping forward, one hand gripping her thigh hard enough to leave marks.

Your stomach drops. A weird, deep aching feeling blooms in your chest and spreads like poison. It's not just jealousy. It's visceral. Like someone's reached in and twisted everything you've been trying to ignore.

Seeing him like this— raw, lost in pleasure, giving someone else what your body has been craving in secret—makes you feel sick and devastated all at once.

"Fuck— Hoon," Mina gasps, and the sound snaps you out of it.

You drop your bag with a loud thud and they both jolt apart. Sunghoon's head whips toward the door, eyes wide with shock and Mina scrambles for the sheet, face flushed.

Sunghoon sits up fast, pulling the blanket over his lap. "Shit— I didn't know you'd be back early."

The concern in his voice only makes it worse. He's still hard, still naked under that sheet, and he's looking at you with that caring expression like he didn't just shatter the last bit of peace in this apartment.

Mina, to her credit, looks mortified. But then she opens her mouth and makes it so much worse. "This is exactly why we need more privacy, Hoon. Maybe... maybe you should think about moving out. Just us having our own space would be better for everyone."

The words hang in the air like a bomb.

Sunghoon doesn't immediately shut it down— no, he hesitates, running a hand through his messy hair, glancing between you two. That split second of silence is enough to light the fuse.

"This was supposed to be our place." The words rip out of you ugly. "You and me, Sunghoon. Not you, me, and your girlfriend. I moved in with you. Not some couple's retreat where I get to walk in on you fucking while I'm supposed to be gone for the weekend. For fucks sake just give a girl a warning?"

Tears burn your eyes but you don't let them fall.

"I've been walking on eggshells for weeks, avoiding my own fucking living room because I can't stand hearing you two. And now you wanna move out? Like I'm the problem here?"

Sunghoon stands up, wrapping the sheet around his waist, looking torn. "That's not— Mina, don't say shit like that right now. This isn't the time."

"But it's true," Mina says quietly, pulling her clothes on. “This situation is weird for everyone."

"Weird?" You laugh, but it sounds broken. "Yeah, it's real fucking weird watching the guy I've been best friends with for years rail his girlfriend in the apartment we picked together. I didn't wanna see that okay?"

You can still see the image of Sunghoon's hips moving, the way his muscles flexed, burned into your brain. Your body reacts even now— traitorous heat mixing with the ache in your chest—and it makes you hate yourself a little more.

And God, you know you’re being a bitch. But it hurts.

Sunghoon steps toward you, "Hey i'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to see that. We should've closed the door, I wasn't thinking—"

"You never are lately," you snap, stepping back. "Not about how this affects me. This was supposed to be our place, Hoon. Remember? The one you said would be good for us. Now it just feels like I'm crashing your relationship."

Mina slips out of the room awkwardly, murmuring something about giving you two space and the door to the apartment clicks shut behind her a minute later.

Sunghoon stands there in nothing but the sheet, looking devastated and guilty and still so fucking attractive it's unfair.

"I didn't agree to anything. I'm not moving out. This is our apartment. I just... I didn't know how to say no to her without making it worse."

You shake your head, the aching feeling spreading until it feels like your ribs are cracking. "Doesn't matter. The fact that you didn't shut it down immediately says enough. I'm gonna go stay somewhere else tonight, I can't be here right now."

He reaches for you but you dodge his hand. The almost-touch burns worse than if he'd actually grabbed you.

"Don't," you whisper. "Not tonight."

You grab your bag and leave before he can say anything else.

The image of him fucking her follows you the whole way down the stairs, mixing with the memory of his heated stare the night of your date. The sexual tension, the protectiveness, the caring touches—they all feel like lies now.

This was supposed to be your place. Yours and his.

Now it just feels like he's playing with a little bit of everything. Does he even know what he’s doing ? Does he even notice how ambiguous he acts?

The cold shoulder lasts for days. You come back the next morning after crashing on a friend's couch, but the apartment feels like a war zone— silent except for tense hallway passings and the occasional awkward "excuse me" when you both reach for the same cabinet.

Sunghoon tries at first. He leaves coffee on the counter with a note that just says "sorry" and your name in his neat handwriting. You dump it down the sink without drinking it, childish as always.

You can feel him noticing the changes. The way you come home later, earbuds always in, the way you don't linger in the kitchen anymore. The way you flinch a little when his door opens. He watches you with those dark eyes, brow furrowed like he's trying to solve a problem he created.

You catch him staring more than once— lingering on your legs when you walk past in shorts, on the way your shirt rides up when you reach for something. The tension hasn't died— oh no, if anything, the fight made it worse— it simmers under every stiff interaction, thick and unbearable.

By day four the silence is killing you both.

Then the power outage hits on Friday night, so convenient. A storm rolls in hard, lights flicker once and die completely, the whole building goes dark, you're in the living room when it happens, laptop dead on your lap, cursing under your breath.

"Shit," Sunghoon mutters from the hallway. He appears a second later with his phone flashlight, looking rumpled in a black t-shirt and sweats. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Your voice is flat, you stand up, but the room feels smaller already.

He disappears for a minute and comes back with candles— emergency ones you both bought during move-in. The warm glow flickers across his face as he sets them on the coffee table. "Old school vibes, huh?"

You don't answer, but you don't leave either.

He scrolls through his phone and connects to a portable speaker. Your old playlist— the one from high school with all the songs you used to listen together— starts playing low; the familiar beats hit you right in the chest.

Sunghoon sits on the other end of the sectional, close enough that you feel the heat from his body. "You've been avoiding me like the plague."

"Can you blame me?" you mutter, pulling your knees up.

He winces. "I fucked up. I should've shut that down immediately, this is our place. I meant that."

The candlelight makes everything feel too intimate, his eyes keep dropping to your mouth, then lower, tracing the neckline of your tank top. You're hyper-aware of every breath he takes, the way his thighs spread when he leans forward. Tension coils tight in your stomach.

You want to climb into his lap and kiss the guilt off his face. Want his hands on you the way they were on her. Want him to ruin the friendship in the best and worst way possible.

"I know things feel different," Sunghoon says suddenly, voice rough and low. "Between us. I can't explain why. It's not just the fight. Living together... it's messing with my head. You walk around and I—" He cuts himself off, running a hand through his hair. "Fuck. I don't know what I'm saying."

Your heart slams against your ribs— he's looking at you like he wants to devour you. It builds slowly—both of you leaning in without deciding to, breaths mingling, his gaze dark and heavy. You can smell his cologne mixed with the rain outside.

His hand brushes your knee, then slides higher, thumb stroking the inside of your thigh in a way that's definitely not platonic and heat rushes through you.

God, just do it. Kiss me. Touch me. Make this aching stop.

Your lips are inches apart, you can feel his breath, warm and shaky. His fingers press firmer on your thigh, grip tightening like he's barely holding back and —

His phone rings. His fucking. phone. rings.

Mina's name lights up the screen, bright and obnoxious in the candlelit dark.

Sunghoon freezes, he glances at it, then back at you, conflict written all over his face— the moment shatters.

You pull back fast, like you've been burned. "Answer it.“

He hesitates, thumb hovering over the screen, but the call keeps ringing.

You stand up on shaky legs. "I'm going to bed. Enjoy the candles."

As you walk away, leaving him sitting there with the phone still ringing, the inside voice screams louder than ever.

He almost kissed you. But he still has her on speed dial. This is so fucking messed up.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

The thought of leaving doesn't hit you all at once. It creeps in slowly, starts the morning after the power outage. You wake up to the sound of Sunghoon moving around the kitchen, probably making coffee like always. The memory of his hand on your thigh, his breath on your lips, the way he looked at you like he was starving— it all crashes back. Then Mina's name lighting up his phone, the almost-kiss interrupted. Again.

You lie in bed staring at the ceiling, chest tight.

This can't keep going on like this. You're torturing yourself every single day in this apartment, the images won't leave your head: him fucking Mina, the candlelight on his face, the way your body still reacts to him even when your brain knows better. You're exhausted from the constant tension, the cold shoulders, the aching want that never gets satisfied.

By noon you're on your laptop in a cafe far from home, scrolling through apartment listings. One-bedrooms. Studios. Anything that doesn't have fucking Park Sunghoon in it. Your hands shake as you save a few that look decent— small, expensive, but far enough away that you might actually breathe again. You tell yourself it's practical, rent is going up anyway. You need space to study. To stop wanting your best friend who's busy railing someone else in the next room.

You don't tell him. Not yet.

The next few days blur— you visit two places after class— one tiny studio with shitty lighting, another slightly better one with a window that overlooks a noisy street. You take pictures, ask questions about leases, and feel a weird mix of relief and grief every time you imagine packing your boxes.

This was supposed to be your place with him, it was also supposed to be purely platonic. But you're too big of a slut, turns out— and so is he.

You start packing in secret. Small things at first—a couple books, some clothes you don't wear often and you hide the boxes under your bed like a coward.

Every time you pass Sunghoon in the hallway the tension flares up again— he'll brush past you a little too close, eyes dark, and your body lights up even as your heart twists.

You catch him staring at your mouth when you're both in the kitchen.

He catches you looking at his bare shoulders after his shower but neither of you says anything— the air so thick with it you could cut it with a knife.

By the end of the week you've put a deposit on a tiny studio two subway stops away. It's smaller, more expensive, and nothing like the home you built here. But it's yours.

You're in the middle of quietly moving some winter clothes into a suitcase when it all comes crashing down.

It's 2am. You can't sleep— ugh again—so you slip into the kitchen for water. The apartment is dark except for the fridge light when you open it, you're standing there in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, barefoot, when Sunghoon appears in the doorway like a ghost.

He's shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on his hips, hair messy from sleep. The sight of him hits you like a punch all tan lines, broad chest, that fucking focused expression even when he's half-awake.

"You're leaving," he says. It's not a question— his voice is rough, raw; he's holding a piece of paper—one of the apartment listing printouts you accidentally left on the counter earlier.

You freeze, glass of water halfway to your mouth. "How did you—"

"I saw the boxes under your bed when I was looking for the spare charger." He steps closer, eyes blazing. "You're actually doing it. You're moving out."

The raw emotions spill before you can stop them.

"Yeah, I am." Your voice cracks. "I can't do this anymore, Sunghoon. I can't keep living here like this—"

Sunghoon looks like you slapped him— the audacity. "You think this is easy for me? You think I don't feel it too?"

"Well you have a fucking girlfriend." The words explode out, loud in the quiet kitchen. "Why do you look at me like that and touch me like that, huh? I just don't get it."

Sunghoon crowds you against the counter before you can escape; his body presses close, one hand gripping your hip, the other bracing on the counter beside you.

"Because I'm scared," he admits, voice low and broken. "I don't want you to leave— God, I don't want you to leave. This was supposed to be our place. You and me. I can't imagine coming home and you not being here."

His forehead drops to yours— breaths mingle. His hand slides under the hem of your t-shirt, palm hot against your bare waist, thumb stroking the skin just under your ribs. You shiver hard as his other hand grips your hip tighter, pulling you flush against him. The outline of his cock presses right where you need it and you have to bite back a moan.

Now that you think about it, the line's always been thin— if this was all it took for you to cross it. You were living in delusion, talking about how platonic you both were.

"Sunghoon..." you whisper, voice trembling.

His fingers trace higher under your shirt, brushing the underside of your breast. Your traitorous nipples harden instantly under the thin fabric and he groans softly, hips rolling against yours in a slow, filthy grind. The friction makes your head spin.

You're so wet already it's embarrassing, thighs pressing together instinctively as he keeps that maddening pressure right against your core.

Why are you so easy?

"Been thinking about touching you like this for so long," he mutters, voice rough, his thumb circles your nipple through your shirt, teasing, while his other hand squeezes your ass, pulling you even harder against his erection. "You have no idea what you do to me. I don't even know why i'm doing this— it's so wrong."

The tension is unbearable, every roll of his hips sends sparks through you, you can feel how thick he is, how much he wants you— your hands grip his shoulders, nails digging into bare skin as you fight the urge to grind back against him. His mouth hovers inches from yours, breath hot, but he doesn't close the gap. Just teases. Torments. His fingers keep playing with your breast, pinching lightly until you whimper.

"Fuck, you're so responsive," he breathes, lips brushing your ear.

You're losing it— the ache between your legs is painful now, your body screaming for more more more— his fingers inside you, his cock, anything. The kitchen counter digs into your back but all you can focus on is the heat of his body, the way he's holding you like he never wants to let go.

But then reality crashes back.

You push him off hard, hands on his chest— he stumbles back a step, breathing ragged, eyes dark with lust, sweatpants tented obscenely.

"You have a girlfriend," you say, voice shaking. Tears burn your eyes. "You can't do shit like this, Sunghoon. You can't touch me like that when she's the one you're actually with. I won't be the other woman in my own fucking apartment."

Sunghoon looks wrecked. "I know. I'm sorry. I just— I don't know what the hell I'm doing anymore. I don't even know..."

"Well, that's the problem. Im not a toy." You wrap your arms around yourself, suddenly cold. "I'm moving out. I already put the deposit down."

Sunghoon steps forward again but stops when you flinch. The raw pain on his face mirrors your own. "Please don't go. We can figure this out. I'll talk to Mina. I'll end it if that's what you want. Just... don't leave."

The admission hangs heavy between you, it should feel like victory. Instead it just hurts more.

You shake your head, tears finally spilling over. "I didn't ask you to leave her. Just don't do this to her, or to me. It's mean— it's useless."

Sunghoon's eyes widen, he looks like he wants to pull you back against him, touch you again until you forget everything else. The tension is still there, pulsing between you like a living thing. But you can't. Not like this.

You step around him, heading for your room. "I'll start packing properly tomorrow. Please don't make this harder than it already is."

He doesn't follow you; but as you close your bedroom door, you hear him curse softly in the kitchen, the sound of something hitting the counter.

๑ஓ๑ஓ

The next few days are hell. You pack in bursts— clothes, books, the stupid little trinkets you bought together during vacations. Every box feels like another nail in the coffin of what you two had.

Sunghoon keeps his distance, but you catch him watching you— the tension never leaves, it's in every hallway pass, every time his fingers brush yours reaching for the same thing. You're both walking around the apartment like it's wired with explosives.

Mina shows up on wednesday evening.

You're in the kitchen making instant ramen when she knocks. Sunghoon's out— probably at the library or avoiding the war zone you both created; she stands in the doorway looking uncomfortable but determined, hair up in a messy bun, wearing one of his hoodies that makes your stomach twist.

"Hey," she says quietly. "Can we talk?"

You almost laugh. Talk? Sure, let's chat about how you’re slowly dying inside while her boyfriend grinds on you in the middle of the night. But you nod and gesture to the couch. The same one where everything almost fell apart.

She sits, twisting her hands in her lap. "I can feel the tension every time I come over. It's not just awkward anymore. It's... heavy. Sunghoon's been distant as hell and I know part of it is because of you two living together. The history. All of it."

You stare at your ramen, appetite gone. Inside, your brain is screaming. 'Yeah, the history where I stupidly want him and he's been touching me like he wants to fuck me senseless while dating you'. But you keep your mouth shut.

"It's complicated," you say instead, voice tight. "We've been best friends forever. Moving in together changed shit. Made boundaries blurry. I'm sorry if it's been weird for you."

Mina nods slowly, eyes shiny. "I appreciate you saying that. I'm not trying to start drama. I just... needed to know if I'm imagining things. The way he looks at you sometimes, the way the air gets when you're both in the same room…”

You swallow hard, forcing yourself not to spill everything. "We're figuring it out. Or trying to. I'm actually looking for my own place soon."

She looks surprised, then a little relieved. "That might be for the best. For all of us." She stands up, pulling the hoodie sleeves over her hands. "This whole situation is messy as fuck. Thanks for talking to me."

She leaves shortly after and you sit on the couch for a long time, the cold ramen forgotten. Not admitting it out loud doesn't make the feelings disappear. If anything, it makes them louder in your head.

You want Park Sunghoon. Deeply. Stupidly. And pretending otherwise is getting harder every day.

Later that night you hear them arguing through the wall. Not the full words— just raised voices, Sunghoon's low and frustrated, Mina's sharper. It goes on for twenty minutes before the front door slams— then silence.

Sunghoon breaks up with her the next day.

He doesn't tell you right away, you find out when her stuff slowly disappears from the apartment— no more extra toothbrush in the bathroom, no camera bag by the door. The relief hits first, warm and guilty— then the guilt eats at you.

You didn't ask him to end it, you told him not to play games. But you still feel like the villain in someone else's story.

You don't talk to Sunghoon after that night— not really. A few mumbled "morning"s and "excuse me"s in the hallway, but nothing real; the guilt and relief and fear sit heavy in the apartment like fog, but you push through it by convincing yourself you need to move on. For real this time.

Sunghoon isn't someone you should want, that's what you keep telling yourself as you tape up another box. You've already ruined too many things— the easy friendship, the roommate balance, even Mina's relationship. Wanting him now feels selfish and messy and doomed.

You need someone simple, someone who doesn't come with years of history and almost-touches that leave you aching for days.

So when Minjun texts asking if you're free this weekend, you say yes before you can overthink it.

The date is... fine. Dull as fuck, actually.

You meet him at a casual ramen place near campus. He's sweet, talking about his classes and some club he's in, laughing at his own jokes a little too hard. You smile and nod, asking the right questions, but your mind keeps drifting.

Sunghoon would've ordered the spicy one without asking. Sunghoon would've remembered you hate scallions. Sunghoon's hand on your thigh felt like fire—Minjun's fingers brushing yours feel like… nothing.

"This is nice," Minjun says halfway through, smiling across the table. "I've been wanting to do this again. You seem... I don't know, more relaxed tonight?"

You force a laugh. "Yeah, just trying new things."

The conversation stays surface-level. Grades, professors, weekend plans. Nothing that makes your heart race, nothing that makes you forget the way Sunghoon's body felt pressed against yours in the kitchen. By the end of dinner you're restless, a weird mix of disappointment and determination swirling in your chest.

On a whim, as you're walking out, you turn to him. "Wanna come back to my place? It's close."

Thot daughter habits never die...

Minjun looks surprised but pleased. "Yeah. I'd like that."

You text Sunghoon quickly on the way: hey, you gonna be home tonight?

His reply comes fast: No, heading to Jay's after the library. Why?

Just checking, you send back. Have fun.

Guilt twists in your stomach, but you shove it down. This is what moving on looks like and Sunghoon doesn't get to ruin this too.

The second you get inside the apartment you pull Minjun to the couch. He's surprised by the suddenness but goes with it, hands settling on your waist as you kiss him.

His lips are soft. Nice. But they don't spark anything wild; his body feels different—leaner, less solid than Sunghoon's broad frame. His hands slide up your sides carefully, almost polite, while your brain cruelly compares every touch.

Sunghoon would've gripped harder. Sunghoon's hands are bigger. Sunghoon's mouth would've been on your neck already, teasing like he knows exactly what you want.

You deepen the kiss anyway, trying to lose yourself in it. Minjun groans softly, pulling you closer until you're straddling his lap; his hands move to your ass, squeezing as he rolls his hips up.

It feels okay. Good, even.

But it's not electric, not the stomach-dropping, thigh-clenching heat you get from just Sunghoon brushing past you in the hallway.

This is fine. This is what normal feels like. You should want this.

Things get hotter fast— Minjun tugs your shirt up, hands sliding over your bare skin, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts. You arch into him, letting his mouth move to your neck, sucking marks that make you gasp; then fingers dip under your bra, teasing your nipples until they harden. He's getting bolder, grinding up against you with clear intent, his hardness pressing right between your legs through your clothes.

You rock against him, chasing friction, but your mind won't shut up.

Sunghoon's cock felt thicker when he was grinding on you. Sunghoon's hands would've been rougher, more desperate. Sunghoon would've already had his fingers inside you, whispering filthy shit in your ear.

The comparisons make you feel guilty and turned on at the same time. You kiss Minjun harder, like you can drown out the thoughts.

He moans into your mouth, one hand slipping down to palm you through your jeans, rubbing with just enough pressure to make your breath hitch. "Fuck, you're so hot," he mutters against your lips, voice shaky with want.

His other hand squeezes your breast, rolling your nipple between his fingers. It feels good, your body even responds, hips moving faster against his hand, but it's missing that soul-crushing intensity. That feeling like you might die if he stops touching you.

You don't notice your phone ringing on the coffee table. Once. Twice. Then silent.

Minjun's hand fumbles with the button of your jeans, breath hot against your neck as he starts tugging them down your hips. You lift up to help him, desperate to feel something real,

— when the front door suddenly flies open.

Sunghoon steps in, keys still in his hand, and freezes mid-step.

For a second he can't even speak. His eyes go wide, mouth slightly open like the air got punched out of him, the color drains from his face as he takes in the scene— Minjun's hands halfway down your jeans, your shirt pushed up, your flushed, guilty expression.

He looks sick to his stomach, like he might actually throw up right there in the entryway.

"What the fuck," he finally chokes out, voice raw and broken. His knuckles are white around the keys.

Minjun scrambles, nearly shoving you off his lap in panic. "Shit—uh, hey man—"

"Get out," Sunghoon cuts him off, eyes locked on you. His voice is cold but you can see the storm behind it.

Minjun doesn't argue. He grabs his jacket and bolts, mumbling an awkward "sorry" as the door slams behind him.

The apartment falls dead silent. Sunghoon stands there, chest rising and falling hard, looking like someone just ripped his heart out and showed it to him.

You pull your shirt down with shaking hands, heart hammering.

The door slams so hard the walls shake— Minjun is gone, but the damage is done. Sunghoon stands there like a statue for three full seconds, then the storm breaks.

"What the actual fuck was that?" His voice starts low but builds fast, shaking with rage and something deeper. He drops his keys on the floor without caring, stepping closer. "You brought him here? To our couch? While I was gone?"

You stand up fast, tugging your clothes back into place, face burning with humiliation and anger. "Ah fuck's sake. You have no right."

"No right?" He laughs, but it's bitter and ugly. "I have every fucking right. This is still my apartment too. And you—" He gestures at you, eyes wild. "You were letting him touch you. His hands were in your jeans, for fuck's sake."

Your chest heaves, the guilt flips into pure fury. "And how many times did I have to hear you fucking Mina in the next room? How many times did I walk in on shit I never wanted to see? You don't get to do that now."

"I ended things with her" he shouts, stepping even closer. The possessiveness rolls off him in waves. "Because every time I touched her I was thinking about you. Because this—" He gestures between you two. "—has been driving me insane for months. And you go and bring some random dude here the second I'm gone?"

You shove his chest, hard, he barely moves. "You don't own me, Sunghoon. We're not together. We're not anything. You made sure of that when you kept messing with me while having a girlfriend. I'm trying to move on because clearly wanting you is the worst mistake I've ever made!"

The words hit him like a slap. For a second his face crumples, then the anger comes back twice as strong.

"Move on?" He laughs again, stepping forward until your back hits the wall. "You think fucking Minjun is moving on? That guy couldn't make you feel half of what I do. I saw the way you looked when I walked in. You weren't even into it y/n!"

"Fuck you," you spit, tears of rage burning your eyes. "At least he doesn't come with ten years of baggage. At least he isn't messy."

Sunghoon's hand goes against the wall beside your head, caging you in. His body is inches from yours, heat radiating off him— the possessiveness is suffocating. "You think I wanted this? We were perfect. Then we moved in together and suddenly I can't stop thinking about you. Your laugh. The way you look in my clothes. How fucking good you feel when you're pressed against me."

You shove him again but he doesn't budge. "Then why didn't you say anything? Why did you keep Mina around like a safety net while you were touching me like you wanted to fuck me?"

"Because i was scared" Sunghoon yells, voice cracking. "Scared of ruining the only real thing I've ever had. You've been my person since high school And now look at us. We've ruined everything anyway."

The argument turns mean, ugly, years of buried shit spilling out.

"You ruined it first," you snap, voice breaking. "Every time you hugged me too long, every time you looked at me like that. You made me feel all of that while you were with someone else. That's cruel, Sunghoon. That's so fucking mean."

His eyes flash with pain. "And you think it didn't hurt me? Hearing you laugh with the guys, watching you pack your shit to leave me? I ended things with Mina because I couldn't keep pretending. But you—" He laughs bitterly. "You ran straight to Minjun. Real mature."

"At least he doesn't make me mad" you scream. Tears are falling freely now. "At least he doesn't make me question every single thing.Was any of it real? Or was I just the safe, comfortable best friend you kept around while you played house with other girls?”

Sunghoon's face twists. "Don't say that, for fucks sake. Everything was real. Every fucking second. You're the only person who's ever really known me. The only one I let in. And yeah, I fucked up— i was scared, but don't stand there and pretend you didn't feel it too. Don't pretend you weren't wet for me in the kitchen while I had a girlfriend."

The words are low and dirty, so dirty.

"I hate you," you whisper, but there's no heat left in it— just exhaustion and want and years of love twisted into something painful.

"No you don't." His voice drops, dangerous and desperate. "You love me. Same way I love you."

"I do love you, you asshole" you shout, shoving him again, but this time your hands fist in his shirt instead of pushing away. "I love you so much it makes me sick— I've loved you for years. And I hate it. i hate wanting you. Look at what it's done to us."

Sunghoon's hands are on you instantly, gripping your waist hard enough to bruise. "Then stop running. Stop trying to replace me with guys who don't even know you. You're mine. You've always been mine."

The kiss is desperate and violent. His mouth crashes into yours, all teeth and tongue and pent-up years of want. You kiss him back just as hard, hands yanking at his hair, nails digging into his shoulders— he groans into your mouth, lifting you up like you weigh nothing and pressing you against the wall, your legs wrapping around his waist instinctively.

There's nothing gentle about it. It's angry and messy and perfect, his hips grind against you, hard and insistent, while his mouth devours yours. You bite his bottom lip and he moans, the sound vibrating through your whole body.

His hands are everywhere— squeezing your ass, sliding under your shirt to palm your breasts, thumbs brushing your nipples roughly.

"Fuck, I've wanted this for so long," he growls against your mouth, rolling his hips in a filthy rhythm that makes you whimper. "Wanted to touch you like this. Taste you. Make you mine."

You tug his hair harder, kissing him deeper, tongues sliding together in a desperate battle. The anger hasn't faded, it fuels everything; everything touch feels like punishment and reward at the same time.

The kiss breaks only when you both need air. Sunghoon rests his forehead against yours, breathing ragged, eyes dark with lust and love and fear.

"Don't leave me," he whispers, voice raw. "Please. We'll figure out the rest, but don't go."

You're still wrapped around him, heart pounding, body on fire, the argument left you both stripped bare. Now there's only this—desperate, angry, all-consuming love that's been waiting years to explode.

"I've wanted to touch you like this for so long," he whispers, voice wrecked and trembling. His fingers trace your ribs slowly, reverently, like he's memorizing every dip and curve he's only ever imagined. "Knowing your heart for years and never getting to feel your skin... it's fucking torture."

You shiver hard, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him closer.

This is happening. After all the fights, the almosts, the heartbreak. Finally. "Then touch me," you breathe against his lips. "Stop holding back. I need you."

He groans deep in his chest and kisses you again, slower this time, tongue sliding against yours in long, filthy strokes while his hands push your shirt up and off. The fabric whispers over your skin and hits the floor with a soft sound— the cool air of the apartment hits your bare chest, making your nipples tighten instantly. Sunghoon's gaze drops, hungry and possessive, and he lets out a shaky breath.

"God, look at you." His hands cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, teasing circles until they pebble under his touch. He leans down and takes one into his mouth, sucking gently at first, then harder, tongue flicking over the sensitive peak. The wet heat of his mouth makes you arch off the wall with a moan.

"These are mine," he murmurs against your skin, switching to the other breast, sucking a dark mark right above it. "These pretty tits. Mine to touch. Mine to taste. Mine to mark up so no one else ever gets ideas again."

You're already dripping, thighs pressing together as he maps your body with his mouth and hands. He kisses down your stomach, tongue dipping into your navel, then drops to his knees right there on the living room floor like he physically can't wait another second. His eyes are blown wide with lust and something deeper as he looks up at you, hands sliding your jeans and panties down your legs with agonizing slowness.

He helps you step out of them, then presses his face against your inner thigh, kissing the soft skin there, breathing you in. "Smell so fucking good," he groans, voice muffled. "Been dying to taste this pussy. You can’t even imagine how many times I jerked off thinking about you."

He doesn't tease for long, he's way too desperate for that. His mouth is on you in seconds, tongue sliding through your soaked folds with a deep, satisfied groan that vibrates straight to your clit— the sensation is overwhelming—hot, wet, perfect. You grip his hair tight, head falling back against the wall with a broken moan.

"Shit—Hoon —oh my god," you gasp. His tongue is relentless, licking broad stripes up your slit before circling your clit with precise, devastating flicks. Two thick fingers push inside you slowly, curling just right against that spot that makes your vision blur. He pumps them steadily, scissoring gently to open you up while his mouth sucks on your clit.

The sounds are obscene— the wet slide of his fingers, the filthy noises of his mouth devouring you, your own desperate whimpers echoing in the quiet apartment. He adds a third finger, stretching you beautifully, and the fullness makes your legs shake.

"This pussy is mine," he growls against you, pulling back just enough to speak, lips shiny with your arousal. "So tight. So wet. Only gets like this for me, doesn't it? Not for him. Never for him." He curls his fingers harder, rubbing that spot mercilessly while his tongue flicks faster. "Say it. Tell me who this belongs to."

"You," you moan, hips grinding against his face. "It's yours, Hoon. All yours."

He rewards you by sucking your clit into his mouth hard, fingers pumping faster— the pressure builds fast and overwhelming. Your thighs tremble around his head as the orgasm crashes through you, white-hot and shattering. You cry out his name, clenching around his fingers, soaking his chin and hand, he doesn't stop, licking you through every wave, groaning like tasting your release is the best thing he's ever experienced.

When you finally push his head away, oversensitive and panting, he stands up slowly, kissing up your body— stomach, ribs, breasts, collarbones—until he reaches your mouth. The kiss is filthy, letting you taste yourself on his tongue while his cock presses hot and heavy against your stomach.

Your hands explore him greedily now, pushing his shirt off so you can finally feel his skin. The moment your palms meet his bare chest you both moan— his skin is fever-hot, smooth over hard muscle, tan lines stark under your fingers.

Finally. After knowing every corner of his heart, you get to touch his body. This beautiful skin you've stared at for years. You trace his abs, the V of his hips, his broad shoulders, feeling him shiver under your touch.

Sunghoon's hands are everywhere too— mapping you with the same devotion. "This waist," he murmurs, gripping it tight. "Mine." His palms slide down to your ass, squeezing hard. "This perfect ass. Mine." He cups your breasts again, thumbs flicking your nipples. "These tits. Mine." His fingers dip between your legs, stroking your soaked pussy. "This cunt. All fucking mine."

You wrap your hand around his cock, stroking him slowly, feeling him throb in your grip. He's thick, hot, leaking at the tip. "Yours," you whisper back, kissing him deeply. "I'm yours."

Sunghoon sits on the couch and pulls you on top of him, hands gripping your hips as you straddle his lap. The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, slick and ready. But he doesn't let you sink down right away.

Instead, he grips your hips tighter and starts grinding up against you, sliding his thick length through your soaked folds without entering you. The heavy drag of his cock against your clit makes you whimper, hips jerking involuntarily. He does it again, slower, teasing, letting the head catch against your entrance before sliding back up to rub firmly over your swollen clit.

"Feel that?" he murmurs, voice low and rough, eyes locked on yours. "Feel how hard I am for you?" He grinds up again, coating himself in your wetness, the obscene sound filling the room.

You moan helplessly, rolling your hips to chase the friction, but he keeps control, teasing you mercilessly —sliding the head just inside you before pulling back out, rubbing it in slow circles over your clit until you're shaking.

"Please," you beg, nails digging into his shoulders. "Hoon, please fuck me."

He finally lets you sink down onto him, inch by thick inch. His head falls back with a broken, guttural moan as your walls stretch around him, hot and tight.

"Fuck— baby, calm down," he gasps, fingers digging bruises into your hips. His cock twitches hard inside you, stretching you so perfectly it borders on too much. "I'm gonna cum the second you start riding me if you keep squeezing like that... shit, you feel too good."

You roll your hips experimentally, taking him deeper, watching his face twist in overwhelming pleasure. He looks completely wrecked already— lips parted, eyes half-lidded and glassy, sweat starting to bead on his chest and collarbones. His abs tense under your hands with every movement.

He laughs shakily, the sound turning into a deep groan. "I'm serious— stop, fuck, stop moving for a second. I'm gonna cum too fast. You're choking my cock, baby."

You lean down and kiss him, filthy and deep, tongues sliding messily as you keep rolling your hips in slow, grinding circles. He whines into your mouth, hands sliding to your ass, squeezing hard as he tries to hold back.

Then something in him snaps.

With a low moan he flips you over onto your back on the couch, spreading your legs wide and thrusting back in deep in one smooth motion. The new angle makes you cry out, nails raking down his back. He fucks you hard but intimate, forehead pressed to yours, eyes locked as he pounds into you with deep strokes.

"Mine," he pants between thrusts, kissing you sloppily, tongues tangling in messy, desperate kisses. "This body. This heart. All mine. I don't own you... but you're still mine. Say it."

"I'm yours," you moan, legs wrapped tight around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. "Always have been…. Fuck— harder, Hoon. Please."

He gives it to you, hips snapping faster, one hand reaching between you to rub tight circles on your clit. The couch creaks loudly under you, swea-slick skin slides together obscenely. It's messy and filthy and perfect.

He sucks bruises into your neck and tits while thrusting deep, then kisses you again like he can't stand being apart from your mouth for even a second.

"Love you," Sunghoon groans against your lips, voice breaking as he grinds deep. "Love you so fucking much. Should've said it years ago. Should've made you mine the second we moved in together."

He suddenly slows his thrusts to a torturous grind, pulling almost all the way out before sliding back in so deep you feel him in your stomach. His eyes are dark, possessive, and a little wicked as he watches your face.

"Not yet," he murmurs, voice rough. "I want to feel you fall apart again." He hooks your legs over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half. The new angle lets him hit even deeper, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot with every slow thrust.

You cry out, nails digging into his back. He teases you mercilessly— pulling out until just the tip stays inside, then pushing back in so slowly you can feel every thick inch stretching you open. His thumb circles your clit in lazy strokes, keeping you right on the edge but never letting you fall.

"Please— Hoon, I'm so close," you beg, voice breaking.

He leans down, folding you further, and kisses you filthy and deep. "Not yet, baby. Hold it. I want to feel this tight little pussy flutter around me." You clench around him involuntarily and he groans, forehead dropping to yours. "Fuck— stop squeezing me like that though, or I'm gonna lose it."

But you can't stop. Your walls flutter and pulse around his thick cock, and Sunghoon curses, hips snapping harder.

"Shit— cum for me," he demands, thumb pressing firmer on your clit.

The orgasm hits you like a freight train. You scream his name, back arching off the couch as your pussy clenches violently around him, gushing wetly. The pleasure is blinding, wave after wave crashing through you.

Sunghoon follows with a broken, guttural moan, burying himself as deep as possible. His cock pulses hard, flooding you with long, thick ropes of cum. He keeps thrusting through it, hips jerking uncontrollably as he fills you up, more and more spilling deep inside until it starts leaking out around his cock.

When the last shudder finally leaves both of you, he stays buried inside, breathing hard. A breathy, disbelieving laugh escapes him.

"Fuck... I've never cum this much in my life," he pants, voice hoarse. He pulls out slowly, watching with dark, satisfied eyes as his cum leaks from your swollen pussy. With a low groan he pushes two fingers back inside you, fucking his release deeper.

"Look at that," he murmurs, mesmerized. "So full of me. So fucking gorgeous." He leans down and kisses you softly, tenderly, still pushing his cum back inside with slow strokes of his fingers. "My beautiful girl. All mine. Inside and out.”

He kisses you again, deeper this time, like he never wants to stop.

For a long moment afterward you just lie there, tangled and sweaty and breathing hard. He presses soft, reverent kisses to your face, your neck, your shoulders—gentle now after the storm.

"We're so fucked," you whisper with a tired, sated laugh, fingers tracing patterns on his back.

Sunghoon smiles against your skin, nuzzling closer. "Yeah. But i'm never letting you go again."

…

Eventually, there comes a point where you stop asking who's right and who's wrong because the years blur the details until only the feeling remains. You no longer remember the first offense—only the certainty that if a room catches fire, you'll check whether Nishimura Riki is still inside before you leave.

After all, neither of you ever fought fair— honestly, why would you?

See, mercy is naturally reserved for people you love and indifference is for strangers. Hatred, on the other hand— real hatred—is far more intimate. It learns your habits, memorizes your weaknesses, and waits until you're already bleeding before deciding exactly where to press.

That's the part people never seem to understand.

They like to believe hatred has humble beginnings because it reassures them that it can also be undone; they tell themselves that, given enough patience, enough time, someone will eventually show forgiveness.

But leniency is reserved for those who believe the other deserves it.

You never did.

Nishimura Riki never deserved— nor earned—that leniency.

There's this thing called irony. You've had enough of it, yet it just keeps coming back anyway— unwanted, unprompted—as if it simply can't help itself. As if its sole purpose in life is to ruin yours every single time it decides to show up.

Funnily enough, today is no exception.

The automatic doors of Incheon airport slide open, spitting you and the rest of R3SET into the humid Seoul air. Cameras flash somewhere in the distance— paparazzi already swarming your arrival; Hye-ri walks on your left, Mina on your right, and Sera trails a step behind with her hood pulled low.

You're finally— finally—done with the world tour.

By now, every city has bled into the next; hotels all smelled the same, airport lounges became second homes, and every day dissolved into the same cycle of soundchecks, stages, and performances so loud you had to get your hearing checked on a regular basis. Somewhere along the way, you'd forgotten what it felt like to wake up in the same bed twice.

But today, for the first time in months, you're home.

Which, as irony would have it, is exactly where everything is about to go wrong.

You’re clutching a water bottle in your hand, trying to make sure your face is shielded from the flashes with the other yet your pathetic little instinct says it’s a good idea to reach for your phone when it buzzes in your pocket.

As you glance down to the screen— expecting a welcome-back email from your manager or something absolutely useless like that— you see instead the HYBE logo staring right back at you.

Subject: Year-End Special Collaboration Project – Confirmed Pairing

Your thumb hovers but you already know. Deep in your gut, you fucking know.

But you open it anyway.

...R3SET's Y/n will be paired with ENHYPEN's NI-KI for the 4-minute original dance performance piece. Joint choreography development begins immediately. Mandatory attendance at all scheduled practices, filming days, and rehearsals. Non-compliance will result in...

The rest blurs, it doesn't even matter.

"Fuck." The word slips out under your breath, low and venomous.

Your fingers tighten around the phone until your knuckles crack hard— nails digging crescents into your palm. You keep squeezing until the skin breaks and warm little lines of pain bloom.

Hye-ri notices, her eyes flick to your white-knuckled grip, then away, and Mina's shoulders stiffen. None of your members speak, hah, they know better. Everyone knows talking about the devil is a no-go.

See, some people pray before they sleep, some people do skincare, or meditation. You? You rehearse arguments with Nishimura Riki, you plot his downfall, and you clench your teeth so hard they might break in your mouth.

It's become routine, really, and now you can already hear his stupid voice in your head— sharp, accented, dripping with disgust. "Ugly bitch. Always ruining shit for everyone else."

The same things he's muttered under his breath every time your paths crossed at award shows. The same venom you've always returned by feeding your private hate account the most unflattering behind-the-scenes clips you could find of him.

Usually, if he dared looking smug on stage, you made sure someone clipped the moments he stumbled or looked exhausted.

Petty? Maybe. Satisfying? Abso-fucking-lutely.

A staff member in a Hybe windbreaker rushes past, nearly colliding with you and your shoulder slams into his. Pain flares, but you barely register it, you're too busy being angry.

"Shit— sorry," you mutter automatically, voice flat. The staff blinks at you, startled, but you're already moving again, eyes burning holes into the floor.

Mina finally breaks the silence, voice low enough that only the group can hear. "You good?"

"No." Your laugh is bitter, barely a sound. "They paired me with that fraud, of course I'm not good."

Sera's hand brushes your arm in silent support, but she doesn't say anything. What is there to say? Erm...Good luck? Don't kill each other? The company doesn't care if you hate Riki, they want the drama and the numbers— the "tension" that fans already whisper about in forums.

You force your fingers to unclench, blood dots your palm in tiny red half-moons but you wipe it discreetly on your sweatpants.

The roar of fans and cameras grows louder as you approach the arrival gate— bright lights, screaming voices chanting your name and phones held high are waiting for you. You pull your black facemask up over your nose and mouth in one smooth motion and roll your shoulders back, lift your chin, to let the practiced smile bleed into your eyes even if it never reaches your mouth.

Hye-ri links arms with you on cue, Mina waves with both hands, bright and bubbly and you all fall into formation like muscle memory.

"Y/n unnie! Welcome back!"

"R3SET fighting!"

You bow slightly toward the crowd, eyes crinkling above the mask in the perfect illusion of gratitude. Let's just say, inside, your mind is a storm of curses in three languages.

Nishimura fucking Riki.

You can already picture the first practice: his tall frame taking up way too much space in the studio, that stupid frown, the way he'll deliberately step on your timing just to watch you fail. The way his hands will have to touch you during lifts and turns because the choreographer will demand chemistry you'll never have.

You want to break something. Preferably his ugly nose.

But the cameras are rolling, the fans are watching and on top of everything, the company email has made it very clear— this project is non-negotiable. So you keep smiling behind the mask, waving with one hand while the other stays clenched around your bottle.

'Let's see how long we last before one of us actually tries to kill the other', you think as you move toward the waiting vans.

You already know the answer.

Not long.

You might wonder what brings a woman and a man to such lengths of hatred. And the difficult part is that there's no real explanation; it's just an accumulation really— tiny cuts over years that fester into something grotesque.

One day you're both wide-eyed trainees sweating through sixteen-hour days, and the next you're fantasizing about drop-kicking Nishimura Riki off a stage mid-performance while smiling for the fans.

That's the thing, it's not dramatic movie-villain origin shit. It's the slow poison of shared survival in an industry that chews up kids and spits out Barbie dolls.

A stolen practice slot here, a whispered rumor there, a public meltdown that paints you as the problem while he plays the misunderstood genius, and a TV scandal that ruined everything. Add in sleep deprivation, pressure, and the fact that you both watched each other's dreams nearly die, and boom— they created the perfect nemesis.

By now, you've replayed every second so many times it feels like a greatest-hits album in your brain. Riki’s smug little smirk when he nailed a combo you'd been killing yourself over. The way he'd mutter "amateur" just loud enough for you to hear during evaluations. Your secret satisfaction when his group's early promotions hit minor bumps.

It's all so stupid and so fucking deep at the same time. Because that's the problem with hatred— it doesn't have to make sense to become permanent. Some people have childhood trauma... you just have Nishimura Riki.

The flashbacks hit you sometimes like a bad smell you can't escape. It always starts the same way; elimination day on I-LAND; the lights were way too bright, the cameras too close, and the air felt thick enough to choke on. You remember the way the eliminated trainees stood in that sterile line, faces blank or streaked with tears. Riki's japanese hyung Hajime —his only real anchor in that cutthroat dorm—didn't make the final cut. The announcement echoed through the hall like a death sentence and even now, years later you can still hear it.

The kid had talent, sure, but the system didn't care. It pushed and pushed and pushed until even the strongest cracked under the weight of evaluations, rankings, and endless comparisons.

You were just trying to survive too, right? Everyone was. Thats why you did what you did that day, and why you kept doing it out of pure pettiness.

The company fed you lines about "growth" and "teamwork," when talking about the trainee program, but really it was a meat grinder dressed up in sparkly dresses. Children— literal teenagers—breaking down in practice rooms at 3 am., vomiting from exhaustion, smiling for the livestreams like nothing was wrong. Friendships formed and shattered in the span of a single ranking drop.

Loyalties? Laughable.

You did what you had to do: submitted the feedback that protected your own team. Cold? Maybe. Necessary? In that hellscape, yes.

Riki, though, didn't see it that way. He exploded in the hallway afterward, voice cracking with rage, calling you out in front of everyone. That moment branded him "difficult" and nearly cost him everything. You watched his dream wobble on the edge while yours steadied and the industry kept spinning, indifferent to the bodies it left behind.

Some debuted. Some didn't.

But we’ll get to that story another time.

Back in the present, a couple days passed since you came back to Seoul— you're now sitting in a Hybe conference room turned temporary press hall, legs crossed tightly under the table so no one sees your knee bouncing like it's trying to escape your body.

It's the kickoff press conference for the year-end special collaboration, cameras are everywhere and so are reporters with microphones poised like weapons. Your members are seated a few chairs down, shooting you sympathetic glances when they think the cameras aren't looking.

Across from you, flanked by his members, sits the devil himself: Nishimura Riki.

He looks disgustingly repulsive in his all-black fit— sharp jawline, dyed blond hair styled just right, that stupid tall frame slouched like he owns the room. You want to throw your mic at his head and watch it split open.

The MC, some overly enthusiastic guy in a suit two sizes too tight, beams at the crowd. "Welcome everyone! Today we're excited to announce this groundbreaking collaboration between R3SET and Enhypen! Let's hear from the groups themselves!"

Forced applause ripples through the room and you plaster on your idol smile— eyes bright, lips curved— the works. Inside your head it's a completely different scene:

'Smile wider, you fraudulent prick. I hope your next flip lands on your neck.'

Riki mirrors your expression perfectly. To the cameras, you two look like respectful colleagues but up close? His eyes scream 'I hope you trip on stage and eat shit in front of twenty thousand people.'

The MC shoves a mic toward you first. "Y/n! How do you feel about partnering with Riki for this high-stakes piece?"

You lean forward slightly, voice honey-sweet and professional. "I'm really honored to be working with someone as talented as Riki. We're both dedicated to this, so I know we'll deliver something amazing for the fans."

Translation: 'I would rather gargle battery acid than spend one minute in a practice room with that entitled dance prodigy asshole.'

Riki's turn comes. He chuckles lightly, the sound obviously practiced, but you catch the micro-twitch in his jaw. "Yeah, same. Y/n has great stage presence. Looking forward to creating something cool together."

'Cool?' you think. 'I'll create a crime scene, maybe.'

The MC eats it up. "Ah, such great chemistry already! Let's do a quick joint Q&A. Reporters, go ahead."

A reporter stands. "There have been past rumors of some tension between you two from trainee days. How will you overcome that for this project?"

The room goes a little quieter— your smile doesn't falter, but your nails dig into your thigh under the table.

Riki answers first, voice calm. "Trainee days were tough for everyone. We've both grown a lot since then. Right, Y/n?"

You nod, locking eyes with him. "Absolutely. Water under the bridge, we're focused on the performance now."

Water under the bridge? More like gasoline on a bonfire.

Another reporter asks, "Riki, what's your first impression of working with Y/n?"

He tilts his head, pretending to think. "She's very... determined. Always gives 110%. I respect that."

Determined. Just a way of saying 'ruthless backstabber,' for him.

You jump in before he can enjoy his little jab. "And Riki's technique is insane. It'll be fun pushing each other, right?" Your tone is light, playful even and the audience laughs appreciatively.

The press conference drags on like a hostage situation— they make you do a short segment where you both stand up and demonstrate a basic partner hold for the cameras. His hand lands on your waist— firm and professional, but you can tell he’s dying to take it off. Your skin crawls but you place your hand on his shoulder like the choreographer instructed earlier in rehearsal. Up close, he smells like expensive cologne and it makes nausea rise so violently in your throat that you want to throw up on the spot.

"Relax your grip," he mutters under his breath, smile still plastered on for the flashing cameras. "Or are you trying to claw me in front of everyone?"

"Shut the fuck up and smile, giraffe," you whisper back, voice sugary.

His fingers press harder into your waist— just enough to bruise, not enough for anyone else to notice. You dig your nails into his shoulder in return and the cameras click wildly.

You both separate after the pose, returning to your seats— of course, your members are trying not to laugh nervously while Jake leans over to whisper something to Riki that makes his jaw clench. Good, you hope it breaks.

The MC claps. "Wonderful! Now, let's hear some fan questions!"

A staff member reads one aloud: "What's one thing you're excited to learn from each other?"

You go first this time. "I'm excited to learn Riki's precision in footwork. He's known for it."

And you're also excited to learn how far you can push him before he snaps on camera.

Riki's eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. "Y/n's charisma in performance is next level. I'll definitely pick up some tips on audience connection."

The back-and-forth continues— every compliment laced with venom only the two of you can taste. The audience eats up the "tension" as chemistry.

Oh God, if only they knew you'd spent the van ride here mentally drafting apology tweets for the hypothetical day you actually murder him.

At one point, they project concept art for the performance on a big screen behind you— dark, intense, sensual choreography planned; close partner work, lifts and prolonged eye contact. The MC gushes about it and you nearly choke on your own spit.

Great. Just what you need—his hands all over you while yours fantasize about elbowing him in the ribs until he throws up his organs.

Riki's expression stays neutral, but you swear you see his eye twitch— he probably imagines the same thing in reverse.

Halfway through, they bring out small gifts— matching bracelets symbolizing the collaboration. You have to clasp one on his wrist while cameras zoom in; his skin is warm, you hate it— but he’s obligated to return the favor, fingers brushing yours with shameless disgust.

Then the press conference wraps with more applause and photo ops; you stand side-by-side for group shots, shoulders barely touching but close enough that you can feel his body. His hand brushes your lower back as you pose— publicly supportive, privately a threat.

"After this, I'm blocking your number again," you mutter as the cameras flash.

"Already did that months ago, ugly bitch," he whispers back cheerfully.

As the event ends and staff start herding everyone out, you catch his eye one last time across the room— needless to say, it's pure murder, zero remorse.

You smirk behind your polite nod.

Game on, Riki. Someone's going to break. You just hope it's him. (though if it's you, at least you'll take him down with you.)

The van ride back to the dorm is quiet, your members chat lightly about the schedule while you stare out the window, palm still stinging from earlier, replaying every micro-interaction. His grip. His whisper. That fucking ugly smirk.

Oh god— hatred has turned you into a creature of rage and despair, it’s starting to become pathetic.

You pull out your phone and open the secret hate account; it's time to upload that one blurry shot you sneaked during the photo op where he looks slightly constipated under the bright lights.

Petty? Yes. Therapeutic? Immensely.

For your sake— somewhere across the city, Riki's probably doing the same thing, so it’s only fair. You log into your @nishimurafraud aka “that bitch gotta go” and do your thing, quickly posting the ridiculous picture with the caption, ‘thank you to the fan who snapped this horrible shot of dickimura’.

You laugh to yourself— it’s true that it’s childish and ridiculous but no one will ever know it was you anyway.

Nishimura Riki needs to die.

Not in a cute "hahaha i hate you" way. You mean it in the bone-deep, stomach-churning, 'if I had a knife I'd turn him into human barbecue meat' kind of way.

Every time you picture his stupid face your blood pressure spikes so hard you can hear your heartbeat in your ears. He's not even attractive to you anymore— years of hatred have warped him into this tall, lanky, smug-faced asshole who moves like he's God's gift to dance but looks like a little bitch when he's off-guard.

Ugly on the inside, ugly on the outside. Perfect match.

And now —a few days after— the locked studio on the fifth floor of the Hybe building feels like a prison cell designed specifically to torture you. Soundproof walls, mirrors on every surface, no windows, and a door that clicks shut with a sound that makes your skin crawl.

Just you, him, the choreographer who already left a couple times for a "quick break" (though he’s probably hiding from the murder vibes), and four hours of mandatory choreography creation time.

You stretch in the corner, trying to ignore how his presence sucks all the oxygen out of the room— Riki’s scrolling on his phone like he has all the time in the world, legs spread obnoxiously wide on the floor, he’s wearing a pair of ugly oversized sweats and a chrome hearts tank.

He probably thought he looked oh so good that morning when he got dressed— fun fact, he doesn’t.

"You gonna stand up or just sit there?" you snap, not even bothering to look at him.

"Don't talk to me, just do your job and shut up." he clicks his tongue, knee bouncing, annoyed.

You let out a breathy chuckle, "I don't care about what you want, just stand up and let's get to work. Try not to be a lazy slop for once."

"Oh give me a break," he hisses the second the choreographer is gone, not even looking up. “Start alone if you’re so eager to work.”

What you’re gonna do is start throwing punches.

You laugh humourlessly. "Keep throwing your little fits and maybe they'll finally send you back to Japan, dickface."

His head snaps up, those dark eyes narrowing into slits. "At least I have talent worth exporting. What do you have? Average face, average moves, and a shit personality."

"Fuck you," you spit, stepping into the center of the room. "Let's just get this over with."

The choreographer left a rough structure: heavy partner work, intense eye contact, sharp isolations into fluid lifts. Of course. Because the company wants chemistry. What they're going to get though, is a motherfucking homicide report.

You start with the basics— mirroring footwork. Riki's annoyingly precise, but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of looking impressed, instead, you mutter under your breath, "Stiff as a fucking board. Do you even bend or is your spine made of rebar?"

Riki stops mid-count, turning to you with a glare that makes you want to punch his teeth in. "Stop looking at me and then maybe you’ll realise how off-beat you are… no wonder they paired you with me— someone actually good."

"Good?" You step closer, hands on your hips. "You're sloppy as shit. The only reason it works is because you're young and pretty and the delusional fans like that overgrown baby face. One day that shit's gonna catch up and you'll just be another weirdo doing Tiktoks in your mom's basement."

He barks a laugh that sounds like it hurts. "Coming from you? That's rich. You're mid at best on a good day, repulsive on every other."

The insults fly faster as you run the first section again, every correction turning into verbal evisceration.

"You're rushing the transition, can't keep up, ugly ass?" he sneers during a spin combo.

"Shut up," you fire back. "Fix your damn posture before I break it for you."

By the time you reach the partner lifts, the air is drenched with venom; he has to grip your waist and lift you into a hold, his fingers dig in hard—bruising, punishing. You retaliate by digging your elbow into his shoulder as you balance.

"Watch it," he growls, voice low.

"Make me, bitch."

The lift goes up— for three seconds it's almost beautiful—technically. But then you shove off him harder than necessary on the dismount, and he pushes you back just enough that you stumble.

"You fucking—" You whirl on him, fists clenched.

"What do you want now?" His chest is heaving, face inches from yours. Up close he's even uglier— that stupid mole, the way his lip curls like he smells something rotten. You. "You know what y/n? I hope this stage is where your career dies, that'll finally shut you up. I think you’ve gotten way too comfortable.”

You shove him hard in the chest and he shoves right back. For a split second you're both seconds away from throwing actual punches— knuckles white, breathing ragged, eyes screaming murder. Your heart is pounding with rage and something sickeningly close to adrenaline.

The studio door clicks open before you can use your fists— a staff member walks in, freezing at the sight of you two practically snarling at each other.

"Everything... okay?" the staff asks hesitantly.

You step back first, forcing that professional mask on. "Perfect. Just working through some difficult transitions."

Riki wipes sweat from his brow, smiling like an angel for the staff. "Yeah. Great progress."

The staff nods awkwardly and leaves after reminding you of the schedule— the door locks again and you both exhale like you've been holding your breath for an hour.

"Stay the fuck away from me until we have to touch again," you mutter, grabbing your water bottle.

"Gladly."

The session drags like that for hours— insults layered between actual choreography notes, every touch turning into a power struggle. By the end you're both exhausted, bruised, vibrating with hatred and you leave without a word, slamming the door behind you.

Later that night, in the Enhypen dorm, Riki's sprawled on the couch scrolling through his phone with a scowl that could curdle milk. Jake walks in from the kitchen, humming, clearly in a good mood. He clears his throat, trying to sound casual at first. "So... choreo with Y/n today? I caught some of the teaser clips from the press conference earlier. She looks really good..."

Riki doesn't look up immediately, but his eyebrow twitches. "You're kidding, right?"

Jake continues, slower. "I mean... no, and you're probably gonna laugh but I've been thinking about her a lot lately. I don't know, man, I might... have a bit of a crush. Like, actually considering shooting my shot after this project wraps. She seems cool."

Jungwon, from the hallway, goes, "Oh shit, here we go..."

Riki slowly lowers his phone, staring at Jake like he just confessed to arson— the silence stretches for a beat before he explodes with disbelief "There's 7 billion people on this planet and you chose her? Good job man... nah, good job."

Jake chuckles awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Come on, she's not—"

Jay, overhearing from the other couch, jumps in. "She's not all that bad come on... you're lying to yourself it's dramatic."

"I'm not. She's ugly, bitchy, and dumb. What the fuck could he even see in her." Riki sits up straighter, fully committed and disgusted. "You're seriously just going to forget everything she did? All that... for a mid, ridiculous bitch?"

Sunoo intervenes, rolling his eyes, "You don't need to say all that Riki, don't call her a bitch. Honestly it's not that deep, we were young and..."

"Aaaand i don't care." Riki cuts off. "Good luck Jake, you're gonna regret this. You're gonna get herpes all over your dick— gonna start shooting your intestines straight out of your ass."

Jake is half-chuckling, half-horrified. "Dude... what the hell are you even saying."

"What im saying is, if you pursue that, I'm disowning you as a member. Find someone else. Anyone."

Jay wheezes from the couch. "Let him do whatever he wants to do. Y/n isn't even bad, she's sweet and pretty"

"You're dead wrong," Riki says, dead serious. "While you're at it Jake, do me a favor and take my place in rehearsal so I won't have to lift her disgusting ass again."

The words feel good, cathartic even, he pictures your face during that final shove in the studio and smiles spitefully at the ceiling. The satisfaction slandering your name brings him is unmatched.

Okay, you really didn’t make much of an effort these past few weeks— you’ll admit it. But, to your credit, pretending to tolerate Nishimura Riki was already taking more restraint than you possessed. The company wanted chemistry but come on— let’s be honest, subtlety had never been your strong suit when it came to him.

Back in the R3SET dorm, you’re sprawled across the couch in oversized sweats, phone glowing in your hand like a bomb that just went off. The email from Hybe sits open on the screen, the words burning into your retinas. Hye-ri pads in from the kitchen with two iced americanos, sliding one onto the coffee table before dropping down beside you.

“Oh shit, man, I’m in deep trouble,” you mutter, shoving the phone toward her.

Hye-ri leans over, reading quickly. “What happened?”

You snort despite yourself. “Company just sent me an email… apparently people all over social media are saying me and Nishimura look like we despise each other. Like… hello? Duh? Tell me something I don’t know.”

Hye-ri winces, sipping her drink. “They really need to media train you, oh my god. You need to retake the whole class.”

You chuckle coldly, “This hatred cannot be media trained out of me, Hye-ri,” you say, half-laughing, half-serious, “I’ll drag that motherfucker down, whatever it takes. No one can convince me to stop.”

“Okay but at least be slick about it, Y/n.”

“Hell no. If I start behaving normally these crazy ass fans might start—” you gag dramatically, “—shipping me with him.”

Hye-ri hesitates, then pulls out her own phone with a sympathetic grimace. “Umm… I hate to break it to you, Y/n. Don’t be mad okay? But like… they already do.”

She types quickly, and turns the screen toward you. A random tweet stares back: “Oh i know that angry enemy sex must be sooo good. #yn #niki”

Oh fuck these people, come on.

“Ew what the heck???” You recoil, shoving the phone away like it’s contagious. “Ugh I’m gonna throw up, hold my hair.”

Hye-ri laughs, rubbing your back as you dramatically fake-heave into a pillow. “It’s just delusional fans, unnie. They ship anything that breathes in the same zip code. But yeah… the company’s not wrong about the optics.…”

You sit up, running a hand through your hair. Every interaction with Riki these past weeks had been a masterclass in restraint— smiling for the cameras while imagining shoving him off a balcony— and now Hybe was sniffing around like you’d personally ruined their precious brand synergy.

“They want me to play nice,” you say bitterly, staring at the email again. “But every time I’m in the same room as him it feels like my skin’s on fire. Like my body remembers every shitty thing he’s ever said or done and just… revolts. Literally what do they want me to do for a whole month ?”

Hye-ri lets out an awkward laugh, she knows that topic is highly sensitive and she doesn’t really know how to talk about it. “Well, just don’t talk to him, try to be neutral and don’t bother arguing with him.”

It’s so hard not to argue when Nishimura Riki is another level of messy. The kind that makes your stomach turn and your skin want to peel itself off just from sharing the same air— he’s the toxic spill that contaminates everything it touches.

And since the company doesn’t give a damn about your mutual revulsion— here you are, dragged into another locked studio at 9 PM for a forced 12-hour overnight practice because the higher-ups decided “chemistry needs time” and deadlines don’t care about your desire to see him drop dead.

It’s been a week since the talk in the dorms with Hye-ri, and you tried— god you really tried to follow her advice, but it’s impossible.

The mirrors probably make it worse— every angle reflects his repulsive presence. You can’t escape him. Your skin prickles the second the door locks and it’s just the two of you under the cold lights.

Riki’s already there, scrolling on his phone with that bored expression that says he’d rather be anywhere but near you. It’s a good thing you feel the same way.

The choreographer dips out around midnight with a vague “review the footage yourselves.” Leaving you two in hell. You start the first run-through in silence; during a simple mirroring sequence, his arm brushes yours accidentally and you jerk away like he’s diseased, skin crawling violently.

“Try not to fucking touch me,” you snap. “Are you spatially impaired or something?”

“That’s not even a thing, you idiot. And you think I wanna be touching a backstabbing bitch?” Riki’s lip tighten. “Don’t think i forgot everything you did back then.”

You roll your eyes, “Oh for fuck’s sake, just shut up for once.”

The tall man snaps, he turns to you and looks down with hatred, “No, everyone’s forgetting your little bitch act but I won’t. You sold out Hajime just to save your own ass cause you’re an egoistic idiot… Should I continue or do you actually feel guilty for once?”

The words hit like acid, your blood boils and you whip around, hatred flaring. “And your little public tantrum right after? Exploding in the hallway, screaming at me in front of everyone, nearly tanked my entire evaluation. Don’t act like you were some saint, Riki. We both know you’re the bitch here.”

He stares at you with pure loathing, “Whatever you say, one day you’re gonna have to face it y/n, let’s just finish this shit so I don’t have to look at your face anymore.”

Some time after; the micro-sabotage starts small but vicious. In the next lift sequence, he “missteps,” his foot catching your ankle just enough to make you stumble hard.

Pain shoots up your leg but you recover by raking your nails subtly down his arm as you catch yourself— leaving red lines under his sleeve. Riki hisses but keeps moving, eyes burning.

Your skin crawls every time his hands land on your waist for the holds. It feels violating, wrong. You dig your fingers into his shoulder harder than needed, hoping it bruises deep.

“Disgusting,” you mutter under your breath during one close turn.

You force some semblance of work conversation because the company is monitoring progress, but even that doesn’t work.

“Your count is off on the transition,” you say through gritted teeth, skin prickling as you reset positions.

“Yeah, because you’re rushing it like an amateur,” he replies.

It keeps going until you both have no saliva and inspiration left and around 5 am, during the most intense partner sequence— close holds, prolonged eye contact, bodies pressed together for balance—you both mistime the transition.

Your foot catches his, and his arm wraps around you instinctively as momentum pulls you down. You crash to the practice floor in a tangle of limbs, his body half-covering yours, chests heaving.

For a second, neither of you moves.

His face is inches from yours, sweat-damp hair falling into his eyes. You can feel the heat of him everywhere—thighs, chest, the press of his hand still on your waist.

“Get off me,” you whisper, but your voice comes out rougher than intended.

He doesn’t immediately, his eyes flick down to your mouth with disgust, then back up. “You’re the one still holding my shirt.”

You are, your fingers are fisted in the fabric. You release it like it burned you, bile rising in your throat.

You scramble up, heart pounding with rage— you both avoid eye contact, but the image of his body over yours lingers like a scar until you’re seconds away from throwing up.

Around 6 am, another company email hits and obviously yours is brutal: Y/n’s sections lack conviction. Visible panic affecting flow. Fix immediately or risk replacement.

You read it in the corner, alone, hands starting to shake as the pressure, exhaustion, and years of fighting catch up. Panic claws at your throat so you turn away, trying to breathe through it, hating that you’re cracking even a little.

Riki notices from across the room, of course, he doesn’t comfort— he stays in his corner of the room, a mocking smirk creeping onto his face despite the exhaustion. This, is his favorite sight, he thrives whenever he sees you break even a little.

So all he can do is laugh coldly, he despises you, hates how you get under his skin, hates that he can’t stop seeing images of your younger self betraying him over and over.

But what he loves though— is that you could be begging on your knees and he’d still want you dead.

You push open the studio door a couple hours later, legs like lead and eyes burning from the all-nighter; every muscle screams, your ankle still throbs from that “accidental” trip, and your brain is a delightful cocktail of rage and exhaustion.

You’re thinking about the long nap you’re gonna take as soon as you’re home, when you spot Sim Jake leaning against the wall a few meters down, looking unfairly fresh for this ungodly hour. He’s holding a small paper bag, shifting his weight like a nervous puppy.

“Hey y/n,” he says, offering a shy smile as you approach. “I… uh, grabbed some pastries earlier. Got extra ones I won’t finish. Want some?”

He holds the bag out and you blink at him, brain too fried to compute kindness immediately. Extra my ass, those look suspiciously hand-picked.

Before you can answer, the studio door swings open again— Riki steps out right behind you, tall frame radiating pure irritation— his eyes land on Jake, the pastries, and you standing there and his jaw tightens so hard you’re surprised it doesn’t crack. He huffs loudly- dramatic as ever—shoves his hands in his pockets, and stalks off down the hall without a word.

Jake watches him go, then glances back at your narrowing eyes as they stare at Riki’s retreating back.

He chuckles softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So… about those pastries. And, um… would you maybe wanna grab lunch sometime? When we’re not both half-dead from schedules.” He glances around quickly, making sure no staff is lurking.

So it wasn’t about the pastries at all.

You raise an eyebrow, suspicion kicking in instantly. Is this a trap? Is Riki putting him up to this so he can watch you crash and burn? Some elaborate plot to humiliate you?

“Is there a catch?” you cross your arms.

He shakes his head, sincere. “No catch. Just me.”

You let out a tired but genuine little chuckle. “Mhh okay then. Okay. Lunch sounds good.”

His face lights up like you just handed him a winning lottery ticket and you take a pastry from the bag— still warm—before waving him off to head toward the van waiting downstairs.

Cute. Annoyingly wholesome. The anti-Riki.

Back at the dorm you collapse onto your bed for approximately three seconds before your stomach growls loud enough to wake the dead. Right. Food.

You drag yourself to your laptop, intending to quickly google whether that leftover kimchi jjigae in the fridge is still safe or if it’s entered its “biohazard” era and fingers moving on autopilot, you hit the search bar.

And remember what we said about irony? Well it seems that bitch is the main character in your life— it lives and thrives on your embarrassment.

Your search history pops up first on your phone, snapping you back to reality. Oh well.

nishimura riki dance technique, nishimura riki dancing fancam, nishimura riki best moves, enhypen niki choreography breakdown, nishimura riki footwork analysis

You stare, then you stare harder. Oh you have got to be fucking kidding me.

You’ve forgot to mention this part of the hatred— the one where, no matter how many times you make yourself throw up, you still can’t stop yourself from analyzing the enemy— studying his technique so you can dismantle it during practice.

Riki precision really is…. insane— it hurt to admit but it’s the truth. The way he isolates his movements, the control in those lifts, the ridiculous height giving him lines you had to match or exceed… You’ve been rewatching his clips more than you care to admit, picking apart what makes him good so you could be better.

So you could beat him.

“Fucking hell,” you groan, slamming the laptop shut and face-planting into your pillow.

Stockholm syndrome probably. Yeah.

Needless to say— a few days later you find yourself sitting next to Sim Jake while he talks about different foods he misses from Australia. Interesting— but also existentially confusing, because here’s this cutie pie of a man rambling sweetly about meat pies and Vegemite like it’s the pinnacle of human cuisine— and your brain keeps short-circuiting back to someone’s dancing skills.

“—and honestly the Tim Tams are killer, but nothing beats a proper Aussie burger with beetroot,” Jake says, his knee brushing yours under the table as he leans in a little closer. “You ever tried any of that stuff? I’d love to make you my infamous version sometime.”

You blink, a small smirk tugging at your lips. “Is that an invitation?”

His eyes crinkle, clearly pleased. “It’s definitely an invitation. I make a mean one.” He steals a fry from your plate, holding eye contact the whole time like it’s a dare.

And it’s nice— really nice. Jake feels nice, and safe and everything in between. A good friend.

You laugh, reaching over to snag one of his own fries in retaliation, letting your fingers linger just a second longer than necessary. “Bold move. I see how it is— you lure me in with pastries and now you’re offering private cooking lessons.”

He chuckles, low and easy, shifting so his arm rests along the back of your chair. “What can I say? I like spoiling good company. And you…” His gaze flicks over your face, appreciative. “You make it easy to want to spoil.”

Oh. Oookay. Sim Jake’s got game.

Your stomach does a stupid little flip despite yourself— it’s been so long since anyone looked at you without layers of politeness or pure venom, that the attention feels almost foreign.

“Yeah? Keep talking like that and I might start thinking this lunch is less ‘casual hang’ and more ‘date,’” you tease, tilting your head as you take a sip of your drink, watching him over the rim. You don’t even mean it at first, it just slips out, friendly and teasing.

Much to your surprise Jake doesn’t miss a beat. “Would that be so bad?” he asks, voice playful but with a genuine edge underneath. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this for a while, schedules be damned.”

You feel heat creep up your neck but play it cool, nudging his shoulder with yours. “Ah… dangerous territory, Mr. Australia. I might actually say yes to that burger night you know?”

“Deal then,” he says immediately, his smile widening into something brighter and flirtier.

And who knows? This could be good, right? There’s not shame in wanting to hang out with sweet Jake and get a taste of normal life, burgers and all.

Mid-project evaluation hits like a goddamn truck— and honestly everyone expected it (everyone = you and your own brain).

The conference room feels narrower than usual, air thick with disappointment— suits from the creative team sit across the table like judges at an execution, projecting footage of your latest run-through on the big screen.

The choreography looks technically good in moments— your footwork clean, his lines ridiculous as always—but the notes flashing across the slide are brutal: Lacks cohesion. Emotional disconnect visible. Partner chemistry reads as forced tension rather than intentional fire. Fix by weekend or we reevaluate the performance slot.

You clench your jaw so hard it aches, nails digging into your thighs under the table. Of course it’s not cohesive, how the fuck do they expect magic when every touch makes your skin crawl like you’re hugging a venomous snake?

Riki sits a few seats away, face blank like he’s above it all, but you catch the micro-twitch in his jaw— he hates this as much as you do. Good.

The exec in the middle drones on, voice flat and disappointed. “We’re seeing potential, but the audience needs to feel something. Right now it looks like you two are tolerating each other at best.”

Tolerating? You almost laugh out loud. Try actively plotting each other’s demise between counts.

Your manager shoots you a warning glance, so you force a polite nod, but inside you’re screaming. Even in your twenties, this makes you feel like a kid getting grounded all over again—stuck in detention with the one classmate who ruined every group project. No phone, no freedom, just endless practice until you “get it right.” The infantilizing tone of it all makes your blood boil. You’re professionals… sort of— but sure, they should lock you in a room like misbehaving toddlers.

The meeting is short and soul-crushing. “We’re locking the studio for the full weekend,” one exec says flatly. “No outside schedules. Fix it.”

You don’t even look at Riki as you leave. You don’t need to— the tension follows you both like a shadow.

48 hours to manufacture chemistry out of pure hatred is a flawed way of proceeding. Give it a lifetime— and then maybe just maybe it’ll be enough.

The studio door clicks shut 7 pm that next Friday, the lock engaging like a prison cell. No choreographer. No staff. Just the two of you, mirrors on every wall as you stretch in the corner, trying to ignore how his presence sucks the oxygen out of the room. Riki’s already there, him and that obnoxious slouch.

There’s something you have yet to admit— it’s that you learned Nishimura Riki the way soldiers learn battlefields— every weakness mapped, every tell memorized, every micro-expression a potential opening for attack. You could recognize his silhouette before your own reflection: the tall frame, the slight tilt of his head when he’s about to strike, the way his shoulders tense right before a difficult transition. But no matter how much you study him, you could never pin point why you loathe him so much.

It’s like your ambition had slowly borrowed his face— every late-night practice, every ranking you clawed for, every mirror check— his standard was burned into your brain. This comes from the principle that, there are people you love because they understand you— and then there are people who understand you because they’ve spent years trying to defeat you.

Hatred kept you facing one another long after affection would’ve looked away.

It’s better this way.

Two ugly souls like yours could never be more than rivals.

The first run-through starts in heavy silence— you move into position and Riki does the same. No words are uttered, just eyes tracking every shift of weight, every breath, every subtle adjustment.

You’ve been hanging out a lot with Jake this past week— as often as the schedule allowed, and you’ve started to wonder if giving him a chance was a good think. Technically speaking— Jake was a total sweetheart, he carried his heart on his sleeve, offered amazing advice and had good cooking skills.

But— and here it comes— you really weren’t ready for anything serious. Common excuse really, but that wasn’t an excuse, you just really didn’t have time to waste on trying to flirt with a man. Busy life, it seemed.

Now currently in a very busy session, you watch the precise snap of Riki’s isolations, the way his long limbs cut through the air with infuriating control. Bastard. How does he make it look so effortless?

Your body mirrors him instinctively now— years of obsession making your muscles anticipate his timing even as your mind screams to disrupt it.

Riki circles you during the mirroring sequence, gaze sharp on your footwork— and damn it if you don’t feel it like a physical touch— analyzing, cataloging, judging. When your ankle wobbles slightly from exhaustion, his lip twitches.

The partner section begins a while after, his hands land on your waist for the lift, the contact burning. Your skin crawls with disgust, but your body betrays you— muscles relaxing into the hold for a split second before you catch yourself.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper viciously, bodies pressed together.

“Like what? Like I wanna throw you out the window?” he mutters back, fingers flexing on your waist. “Because that’s exactly what I’m thinking.”

“Liar, your hands are shaking.”

“They’re not shaking, they’re restraining themselves from choking you.”

This is vile. You dig your fingers into his shoulder harder than necessary as he lifts, feeling the muscle tense under your grip and Riki adjusts his stance minutely, correcting for your weight without missing a beat. It’s almost like he knows exactly how you balance, how you breathe through the strain.

You dismount with a shove and and he pushes back just enough on the next turn to throw your timing. Still absolutely no words are uttered, there’s just a silent war in the mirrors— your reflection showing the way your eyes narrow when his hand lingers a fraction too long on your back during a spin.

His reflection shows the tight set of his jaw when your thigh brushes his during a close hold.

You break the moment by “accidentally” stepping on his foot hard enough to make him curse— and from there, insults get more creative and more personal.

“You’re nothing without the company propping you up,” he spits out.

“Says the overrated dance prodigy who throws tantrums when he doesn’t get his way,” you fire back. “Hajime would be embarrassed.”

His eyes flash dangerously. “Leave him out of your fucking mouth.”

The air crackles, you’re both breathing hard, circling each other like fighters in a ring by then. You wouldn’t be honest if you didn’t mention that every lift brings unwanted awareness: the heat of his chest against yours, the strength in his arms that you catalog despite yourself, the way your bodies slot together technically perfect even as your minds revolt.

Your stomach twists with nausea and something worse— betrayal by your own nerves firing at his proximity. You hate this, you hate how the body remembers his grip like muscle memory. You want him to be a shadow, something you never notice, someone who never crosses your mind, but life’s unfair it seems.

The next sequence brings you chest to chest. His hand slides up your back for the hold— punishing. Your body reacts again, traitorous warmth spreading despite the nausea. You hate it. You hate him, you hate him you hate him. You hate yourself more for the split-second where your fingers curl into his shirt like they belong there.

“Get your hands off me properly,” you hiss.

“Make me.”

So you shove him and he shoves right back— petty as always. For a moment it looks like you might actually come to blows— fists clenched, eyes locked in pure murderous intent. You notice the vein in his neck when he’s holding back from shoving you harder— and it’s fascinating how loathing changes a person’s body.

A particularly difficult lift leaves you pressed right against him for balance. His breath fans hot across your collarbone and your heart hammers.

For three terrifying seconds your bodies move in perfect sync, like they understand each other better than you do. Disgust floods you immediately after and you shove away harder. Riki releases you like you’re poison, but not before you feel the slight tremor in his hands.

Betrayed by your own fucking bodies.

Around 2 am., you both call for a break, collapsing on opposite sides of the studio. Your muscles burn like thousand fires. When your phone buzzes, you pick it up, expecting a check-in from Hye-ri.

It’s Jake instead.

Jake: Hey… someone sent me a tweet from your account. Look, I know we’ve only hung out a couple times but I thought things were good. This doesn’t seem like you but the screenshot looks real. I’m pretty disappointed. Maybe we should just… not do lunch anytime soon. Sorry.

You click fast on the screenshot, heart hammering, and when you open it, your mouth drops. It’s a tweet, a singular tweet… of yours???

“i’m gonna break Sim Jake’s heart and he doesn’t even know it 😈😈”

You stare at the screen, dumbfounded.

What. the. fuck?

The tweet is so obviously fake— ridiculous wording, wrong tone, obviously poorly edited. You almost start giggling maniacally, because it definitely lacks effort, but Jake, sweet gullible Jake, bought it.

“Fucking hell,” you whisper, stuck between laughing and crying. Is he really that stupid to think you’d ever be that obvious?? You might need to step up your game.

You: can’t you see it’s edited??? how stupid can you be Jake please 😭😭

Jake: no i took editing classes and that’s not edited.

You stare at the message, blinking hard.

You: tell me you’re joking please.

Jake: no, im not. Take care y/n.

The chat goes quiet and you lower your phone slowly, the pieces clicking into place with icy clarity. That wording, that timing. The way it conveniently blew up your one decent thing right in the middle of this hell.

Nishimura fucking Riki.

Would anyone be surprised? He’s the only one who’s childish enough to attempt to ruin your relationships like that. Absolute lack of skills.

Rage explodes in your chest like a grenade, because who else would be this stupid? Who else would try to ruin every attempt at happiness you made?

You stand up so fast the room spins for a second, storming across the studio toward him. He’s still sitting against the wall, looking annoyingly unbothered.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” you snap, shoving your phone in his face.

Riki glances at the screen, then back up at you with zero remorse, and no intention of hiding. “Didn’t even make anything up. Everyone knows you have a loud mouth… you would’ve said it eventually.”

Your blood boils. “What the actual fuck is wrong with you? I actually liked him.”

“Well i don’t really care about what you like,” he says flatly, pushing himself up to his full height. “So get over yourself.”

He towers over you, but you don’t back down an inch, tilting your chin up defiantly. “You’re so self-centered it’s insane. This had nothing to do with you, Nishimura.”

“Keep talking, Y/n. I don’t give a fuck.” Riki clenches his jaw. “If you wanna be a homie hopper go do that somewhere else, far away from my friends.”

Oh. Now he crossed a hard line. The motherfucker is gonna have to pay.

The slap happens before you can think, your palm connects hard with his cheek, the sound cracking through the empty studio like a whip. Riki’s head snaps to the side and for a second he stills, contemplating his options, his hair falling on his face.

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek and he nods, trying to hold himself back.

Then he grabs your wrist in a vice grip, yanking you closer. It looks like you might actually stab each other— both of you burning with rage, chests heaving, bodies practically vibrating with it. His fingers are tight around your wrist, heat pouring off him and you glare up at him, breath ragged, pulse hammering in your ears.

“Don’t put your hands on me.” Riki says, fingers leaving a white mark on your skin.

“Well next time you call me that, i’ll make sure i’m putting my hands on your lifeless body instead.” you try to escape his grip, but he doesn’t let go.

“Watch it,” he warns, voice low and dangerous, “before I actually lose it.”

“Wouldn’t you love to?” you tilt your head.

“Oh I would.”

The air shifts— you feel it deep down pressing on your ribs as your words hang between you like a challenge

“Then hit me, come on.” Your voice drops, eyes locked on his. “Hit me.”

The second you say that, something ignites in Riki’s gaze— it’s impossible to miss. And god if you don’t love the way you destabilise him.

The grip on your wrist tightens, then loosens by fractions. You’re breathing the same air, faces inches apart, and it’s so filthy— so disgusting. His eyes drop for a split second before snapping back up.

But then Riki lets go of your wrist like it burns him, shoving you back a step as disgust twists across his face, but it doesn’t quite hide the way his breath catches.

“Get out of my face,” he spits, turning away sharply.

Without hesitation, you turn on your heel and storm out of the main studio toward the attached bathroom, slamming the door behind you. The lock clicks and you twist the faucet on full blast before you start scrubbing your wrist like you can erase the ghost of his grip.

The water’s ice-cold but you don’t care. His touch is still there. Burning. Disgusting. You scrub harder, nails digging into your own skin, until your hands are raw and red.

Even then, your stomach twists. Part of you wants to throw up right into the sink— purge the memory of his body against yours, the way your wrist fit perfectly in his hand, the split second where rage had twisted into something darker and heavier.

But beneath the nausea sits an ache low in your gut, something warm and unwelcome that you refuse to name.

No. Absolutely not. I’d rather die.

Eventually you step back into the break room because the company’s made it clear: no leaving the premises. Two couches, a mini-fridge, and dim lights are the only things between you and the devil.

Riki’s already sprawled on the far couch, one arm thrown over his eyes like he can pretend you don’t exist— so you take the opposite one, kicking your shoes off and lying down with your back to him.

Neither of you naps. How could you?

The air is thick with the knowledge that the other person is right there, close enough to stab, close enough to—

You stare at the wall, eyes wide open, hyper-aware of every shift on the other couch. He’s probably plotting how to smother you with a pillow— that would be the most logical thing. Despite the fatigue clawing at you, heavy and bone-deep after the all-night practice, your body stays wired.

Adrenaline and hatred make for terrible bedfellows.

After a long silence, Riki’s voice cuts through the dark. “You know, I thought you’d finally grow up someday and accept that what you did was wrong.”

You don’t turn around. “I don’t really care what you think. I’m trying to rest, so shut up.”

“You’re not.” A pause. “You’re not gonna be able to sleep with me here.”

You huff, “And whose fault is that?”

“Mines.” His tone is almost smug. “You’re scared, right? Scared I’ll hurt you in your sleep. Well just know I wouldn’t hesitate, not even for a second.”

You roll over to face him, propping yourself up on one elbow. “Oh and what would you do? Ruin my relationships like a childish bastard? Or what?”

Riki sits up slowly, manspreading on the opposite couch with deliberate arrogance, he looks almost manly— a shame he’s such an asshole. His eyes lock onto yours across the dim room.

“Oh come on, get over it. You really thought I was gonna let you go out with my friend? You’re funny, Y/n. Really fucking funny.”

“No, I didn’t think so either,” you snap back, sitting up fully now. “But now you’re just gonna have to pay. Im not gonna let a weak boy like you step on me like that.”

“Funny.” He leans back further, maintaining eye contact like it’s a challenge. “What are you gonna do then?”

In one smooth motion you pull out your phone, digging through your photos with angry swipes and you turn the screen toward him, a petty little smile tugging at your lips. It’s a screenshot of a pretty compromising video of him to say the least…

“I got this from a telegram group chat a while back. Didn’t think I’d ever use it but oh well… You wouldn’t want this to get out, right? I mean… everyone knows you’re a disrespectful cunt but this? Oh this is awful.”

You play the first few seconds just to taunt him— it shows young Riki, stressed and exhausted, swearing at staff member during a meltdown— the audio is grainy but clear enough. Deep down you know he was just a kid under crushing pressure, but right now you’re too greedy for revenge to care for ethics.

Riki’s expression hardens instantly. “You wouldn’t.”

“Oh I would, Nishimura.”

“You’re doing all that for some dick?” He laughs, but it’s sharp and bitter. “Damn, I knew you were desperate but wow…”

“Don’t play with me. I’m seconds away from handing that video to a hate account.”

“Goddamnit Y/n, if you’re so eager to get dicked down you could’ve asked anyone else that isn’t my friend. And you sit here and act so surprised like you didn’t have it coming.”

You scoff, you’re not bruised— far from it, but he’s touched a sensitive spot. It’s not like you were ever planning to sleep with Jake, come on, but he doesn’t have to know that.

“Well good job, Nishimura.” Your thumb hovers over the screen. “You and your loud mouth have just earned yourselves another controversy.”

Riki jolts from the couch almost immediately, lunging toward you. You scramble back but he’s faster— in seconds you’re tangled aggressively on the couch as he tries to snatch the phone from your hand. You push, hit him in the chest, elbow him wherever you can reach but he desperately grabs for the device, long limbs pinning you down in the struggle.

“I’ll kill you, Y/n. I swear to god if you posted that shit—”

“I thought you didn’t care about it?” you taunt breathlessly, still fighting him. “You were so confident two seconds ago?”

He grabs your wrist hard then, you push back with everything you have until somehow you’ve got him pinned beneath you on the couch, breathing ragged.

“Do not. Touch me.”

Riki freezes— perhaps he’s an asshole, but even he knows a hard no when he hears one. His hand drops away instantly. “Delete that video,” he warns, voice low and dangerous, “before I ruin your whole life.”

“You already ruined my life by existing, you self-centered prick.”

“Watch me ruin it more. If you post that video, Y/n…”

“Oh god, you’re so dramatic.” You roll your eyes, feigning indifference. You turn off your phone with a deliberate click. “Relax, will you? Don’t get your panties in a bunch.”

Riki stares at you for a long moment, chest still rising and falling sharply, before he pushes himself up and returns to his own couch. “You better delete that shit—I swear if you—”

“Oh shut that thing up.”

The moment fades after that, leaving only heavy silence, you both try to rest again— you lie back down, pulling a thin blanket over yourself, but your eyes refuse to close. You’re too aware of his presence, too on edge.

He’s going to kidnap you in your sleep or something. Poison your water. Smother you. Anything.

But despite every instinct screaming to stay vigilant, exhaustion tugs at the edges of your mind. You breathe slowly, deliberately, trying to force your body to relax. And yet, against all reason, you become hyper-aware of his breathing across the room.

It’s steady at first, then hitches slightly every few minutes— like he’s replaying the fight, or the slap, or the way your bodies had tangled just minutes ago. You analyze it without meaning to, noting the rhythm, the occasional sharp inhale, the way it deepens when he shifts on the couch.

Somehow, despite everything, the sound of Nishimura Riki breathing becomes the only thing you hear in the dark.

You hate it. You listen anyway.

“Oh girl, Nishimura Riki wants to fuck you. Hard.” Hye-ri says from her chair, legs crossed as a makeup artist dusts highlighter across her cheekbones.

It’s been a few days since the whole weekend …thing— it’s gone excessively slow but time pays off, or whatever people say when they’re trying to sound wise. The locked studio torture finally ended, the performance notes improved just enough to satisfy the company, and now here you are— back in the comfort of your group’s dressing room at the company building, getting dolled up for tonight’s award show.

Your members are scattered around the mirrors in various states of glam, chatting and laughing like the weekend from hell never happened.

At least on the surface.

You nearly choke on your coffee. “Hye-ri, what the actual fuck?”

She grins at you through the mirror, completely unbothered, while the makeup artist dabs at the corner of her eye. “I mean, you gotta admit he looks like he wants to eat you up.”

“You’re so gross, I don’t even know why we’re friends…” you mutter, tilting your head so your own artist can blend the eyeshadow.

Even then, the memory of that charged weekend—his grip on your wrist, the way your bodies tangled on the couch, the unwanted ache that still lingers—makes heat crawl up your neck.

Disgusting.

Hye-ri laughs, “Cause we’re both freaked out, duh… but the problem with you is that you draw the line at enemies. Like come on, be young and free— what’s so wrong about a little bit of hate sex?”

Oh, so now she’s resorted to saying these freaky things in front of the staff? Oh my.

“Hye-ri what the fuck??” You whip your head toward her, much to your makeup artist’s annoyance. She gently guides your face back forward with a soft sigh.

“Just face it, Y/n,” Hye-ri continues, waving a hand dramatically. “That man wants you. Bad. But he’s just too… angry all the time. A shame.”

“No he doesn’t. Stop making stuff up.” You glare at her reflection. “And stop talking about him. I’m trying to focus.”

“Yeah yeah you’re avoiding the topic as always, but you’re right— focus on not breaking your legs with those high heels. I swear to god, this company is evil.” She turns toward the makeup artists with a sweet smile. “No offense, you’re a sweetheart.”

“None taken,” the artist replies with a chuckle, carefully applying gloss to your lips. “I know they push you guys a lot. God, I wouldn’t even know how to walk in these heels, Y/n.”

“I don’t even know how I do it either…” you sigh, staring at the deadly stilettos waiting by your chair. “I’m gonna break my legs one day.”

A while after, once the final touches are done, you slip into the high heels. In one smooth motion you stand, testing your balance— strangely enough, the confidence hits almost immediately; the heels make your legs look endless, powerful, like you could conquer the entire red carpet and still have energy left to step on someone’s neck.

Specifically a certain tall asshole’s.

You pull out your phone, snap a quick mirror pic—legs for days, sleek black dress hugging every curve, hair and makeup sharp enough to cut glass— and post it on Twitter with a caption that makes you smirk: “I step on mean boys for a living.”

A bit risky, sure. But you like the thrill of posting something just controversial enough to make people talk.

You put your phone down and turn toward the girls. “Selfie time. We look too good not to.”

Hye-ri and the other girls crowd in happily, striking poses in the mirror; you snap a few group shots— arms around each other, and save it for the staff to post on the group account later.

Eventually, you all gather your things and head out; you strut toward the waiting cars in formation, heels clicking against the floor. Inside the vehicle— you’re chatting with Sera about tonight’s award show— the KGMAs—leaning forward despite the seatbelt as the city lights streak past the tinted windows.

“I’m telling you, if we dont take anything home tonight I’m actually gonna cry. Not on camera, obviously, but later? Full breakdown. We’ve been killing it this year.”

Sera nods, adjusting the strap of her dress. “Same. You especially. That solo stage last month? Insane. They better recognize it.”

With that, your phone buzzes in your lap— you glance down and nearly laugh out loud.

@nriki.mura liked your tweet.

The notification glows mockingly for half a second before vanishing.

Oh my god. Caught him lacking.

You can practically picture it— his thumb slipping, the immediate panic, the frantic un-like. The mental image of Nishimura Riki, Mr. Untouchable himself, accidentally simping over a picture of you is almost too good.

Amused, you open your messages without hesitation.

You: You know i saw you like my tweet right?

Mina, ever the nosy one, leans over your shoulder almost automatically. “You’re talking to Nishimura?”

“Yeah,” you say, chuckling. “He accidentally liked my tweet.”

Hye-ri, from the seat across, perks up immediately. “See??? I was right. He does wanna fuck you.”

“Oh drop it, Hye-ri,” you laugh, shaking your head even as heat creeps up your neck.

Riki texts back almost immediately.

Riki: wtf are you talking about.

You: you just liked my tweet then deleted it, pathetic 😭

Riki: shut your mouth. I thought it was someone else for a second.

You: so you’d like the pic if it wasn’t me?

Riki: Everything you do is ugly because you make it ugly. You’re repulsive, so yeah i’d like if it wasn’t you.

You: Yeah i bet. Even my dancing’s ugly right? Must be why you’re always analyzing it.

Riki: what are you even talking about. Get a grip.

You: I think deep down you’re very jealous of me.

See, that’s a personal conviction you’ve had for years— Riki hides behind all that hatred but there’s a deep respect there. Something he’s never been able to accept but you’ll shove it in his face ever so often.

Riki: Youre funny.

You: yeah yeah, it was envy all along wasn’t it?

Riki: Shutup y/n

You: Shhh, answer me. You want to be me, right?

You: actually don’t answer, i already know the answer.

You drop your phone in your lap with a satisfied smirk as the van slows to a stop at the venue. Got him. Hye-ri glances at you, eyebrow raised. “That whole exchange looked tense as hell. You good?”

“Peachy,” you reply, stepping out carefully.

The heels are already murdering your feet, but you make it look effortless because that’s the job. Paparazzi flashes explode around you as you wave, smile, bow politely toward the chanting fans, all while your mind replays the text thread.

Pathetic, indeed.

Inside, the atmosphere buzzes— you spot Enhypen across the hallway and Jake nods awkwardly in your direction, the unresolved drama still hanging between you like an awkward third wheel.

You have to admit you didn’t really try to fix things or clarify things— if a man jumps to conclusions like this? He’s not worth the hassle.

Riki, standing beside him, glares with professional precision— polite smile for the cameras, murder in his eyes when they flick toward you. You return the energy with a sweet wave.

Eat shit, giraffe.

A little while later you’re called on stage with the girls for a quick pre-award segment. You sit gracefully on the tall stool, bare legs crossed in front of you, the dress riding up just enough to show the deadly heels. You tap your foot distractingly as you chat with the MC, answering questions about your group’s comeback with charm.

“There’s so many things happening for you guys this year! A string of collaborations, new album coming soon, are you excited?” The MC asks you.

“We’re super excited, and we’re sure the fans are gonna love it, we’ve been working hard on it. We can’t wait !” you answer with a gentle smile, looking out at the audience.

All the while, from his seat in the venue, Riki’s forced by the idol image to look at the stage. He’d rather do anything else, but it’d make him look really bad if he didn’t pay attention— unnecessary drama. So he looks, half-listens and nods, almost like he gives one too many fucks. His eyes trace the backdrop, the stage floor, anything really— to not have to look at you.

But after a while, he’s run out of things to observe, so he lets his eyes drop to your hands, the ones clasping the mic like it’s a hammer. You look graceful, a complete opposite of the girl he knows privately— you smile and nod gently, speaking with a calm and polite tone.

No curse words, no filthy mouth.

Then Riki’s attention shifts down, to where your heels are tapping on the floor, rather distractingly. Your legs are classily crossed in front of you, slightly extended, creating a vision of horror in his mind, they’re smooth, reflecting the lights of the venue— and the heels— they’re evil. High, black with a red sole, they look absolutely illegal; not to him though, he doesn’t really care.

But his eyes trail down your ankles, to the way your foot bends, taps and goes back up again. It’s hypnotic, better than having to stare at your face at least. Then your legs uncross, stretch, and Riki’s breath catches for a split second— he straightens in his seat, pinching his thigh through his slacks, and forces his gaze upwards.

Mistake, big one. Because the second he does, he’s looking at your thighs, right where the hem of your dress hikes up. And soon enough— he finds himself unable to tear his eyes away, captivated by the way they lead like a path all the way down to your footwear. Ironic, right?

He keeps telling himself it’s anatomy, bone. Muscle. Fabric. Leather. Anything.

But the first mistake was looking, the second was realizing he wanted to look again.

He slips out during the commercial break almost automatically, heading straight for the bathroom, the door clicks shut behind him and he braces against the sink, stomach churning.

Riki throws up, harsh and sudden, the taste of bile burning his throat. Disgusting. He’s disgusted by the way his body reacts— knows it’s excessive, knows it’s pathetic, but he can’t help it. He needs to throw up in hopes of getting your out of his body, his system.

He couldn’t stop looking at your stupid legs tonight. Ever since that picture you posted.

Heels are something that links to you— you’ve always worn a lot of heels—and he can’t deny that your legs do look aesthetically pleasing in them.

But he despises that he feels this way.

The bathroom mirror reflects someone he doesn’t recognize— a man repulsed not by what he’s seen, but by what he’s felt. It’s to wonder if revulsion and desire are closer relatives than anyone likes to admit.

Riki splashes water on his face, gripping the edges of the sink until his knuckles turn white. Against his better judgment, his mind replays the image: the endless line of your legs, the sharp heel, the way you tapped your foot almost absentmindedly while talking. Clinical, he tells himself. Just observation. Professional obsession. Nothing. more.

And yet, even now, the image lingers.

Heeseung finds him a few minutes later when he returns to the seats. “You okay, man?”

“Yeah,” Riki mutters, forcing a neutral expression. “I’m fine.”

He sits back down, but the thoughts don’t stop. He keeps wondering what it means to feel like this about a part of your body. The hatred is still there, burning strong— but somehow, despite everything, so is something else he refuses to name.

Irony has caught you in its nettles once again. A few days after the award show, you trip on the stairs at the company building, miss a step like a clumsy idiot, and sprain your ankle badly enough that the world tilts sideways. The pain shoots up your leg like fire, sharp and unforgiving. Of course. Because the universe clearly isn’t done laughing at you yet.

Physical therapy becomes your new hell. You can’t come to rehearsals anymore, which means blessed silence from Nishimura Riki for a little while— instead of dealing with his bullshit, you spend the days propped up on your dorm couch, ankle elevated, ice packs rotating, and your nose buried in self-help books.

Atomic Habits. The Body Keeps the Score.

Anything to understand why your brain keeps betraying you with unwanted thoughts about that asshole— his grip, his breathing in the dark break room, the charged way he looked at you after the slap.

Maybe you’re the one who needs fixing, you think bitterly, flipping another page. The books talk about trauma bonding and nervous system regulation, but none of them have a chapter titled “What to do when your mortal enemy makes your stomach ache in ways you refuse to name.”

Eventually the company, with its infinite lack of mercy, decides you’re “habilitated enough.” They shove you into another industry event— heels and all.

Fans lose their minds, flooding social media with concerned threads: “Y/n’s ankle is clearly injured, why is she in stilettos again???”

“Protect her at all costs!!”

“Hybe is evil, make it make sense.”

You see the posts but say nothing. Complaining would get you labeled irresponsible or difficult— so you smile through the pain, walk like everything’s fine, and silently curse the entire system. One day I’ll burn it all down. Preferably while wearing flats.

A couple of hours after that specific event, back in the dorm with your ankle throbbing, your phone lights up.

Riki: is the injury gonna impact our rehearsals

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts.

You: don’t worry you’ll get your 5 minutes of fame eventually just let me fucking heal my leg first

Riki: i’m just asking goddamn

You: yes it is, i can’t dance for a while

Riki: ok well i’ll talk to the choreographer to change the pairs

You: ok

There’s a pause before he sends another message.

Riki: did you leave your charger in the dance studio ?

You: no i didnt ?

Riki: oh okay

You: why the fuck are you even talking to me istg it’s all you do these days

Riki: i’m not i’m just asking stuff about work

You: well you know i never bring my charger

Riki: no i don’t

You: yes you do asshole

Riki: ok and what’s your point?

You: my point is stop talking to me

Riki: no

You: are you trying to make me mad?

Riki: no, is your leg okay?

You: and why do you care

Riki: i don’t. i’m asking if it’s gonna take long to heal because im trying to finish the dance. and why were you even in heels today, are you stupid?

You: cause company told me to.

Riki: and why didn’t you defend yourself

You: cause i can’t hello??

Riki: yes you can, you’re such a pussy sometimes, your legs’ fucked up and they got you walking in heels, and somehow that’s fine with you. It’s stupid.

You: you’re stupid

Riki: you need to stop wearing heels

In response, you snap a quick photo of the heels you’re still wearing— bare legs in the frame, nothing crazy, just skin and straps and the faint bruise blooming around your ankle. You caption it simply: “how about no?”

Riki: why are you sending me this??? wtf y/n delete that shit

You: they’re just legs chill. I know you think i’m disgusting and all but these are just motherfucking legs.

Riki: it’s not that, just delete it. it’s weird

You: nah, deal with it, throw up for all i care

Jokes on you, he did the other day. And because you love pissing him off more than is probably healthy, you send another photo. This one riskier not necessarily explicit though— leg extended, heel dangling from your feet, the angle deliberately provocative.

You: there u go, one more so you can really really throw up

He takes a bit to answer.

Riki: stop sending me that shit

You: aw, is nishimura scared of throwing up or something?

Riki: i don’t even want to. i’m gonna block you

You: don’t even want to what?

Riki: throw up

At the same moment in Riki’s dorm room— it’s quiet except for the hum of the airco. He was sprawled on his bed, phone in hand when the first picture came through. With that, something in his stomach flipped hard— he told himself it was disgust. Pure, simple disgust.

But his body betrayed him completely.

Right now? The second photo hits harder. Your bare legs, the sharp line of the heel, the way it dangles teasingly from your foot makes Riki’s mouth open, he throws the phone on the bed like its burned him, and he smacks his palms on his face, tugging at the roots of his own hair. He loathes it— loathes how quickly he is to replay it in his head, to try and remember every detail because he can’t be caught dead looking back at it.

It’s just goddamn legs. Goddamn heels.

So why is blood rushing south almost immediately? Maybe because irony is the biggest factor in this story— he’s hard within seconds. Riki doesn’t even know why. He’s not a teenager anymore, he can’t just get boners from stupid photos like that— especially not from someone he despises.

Horror slams into him like a truck. What the fuck is wrong with him? He detests it. Detests you. Detests the way his cock twitches at the sight of your stupid legs in those stupid heels.

Riki locks his bedroom door without thinking, breathing ragged. He blames it on the stress, perks of being mister worldwide famous, and grabs his phone to delete the picture— screw that, the whole chat.

He tries to look away. He really does. But against his better judgment, his eyes keep drifting back— and images burn into his retinas.

See, heels have always been your thing — long before this, you wore them constantly, strutting around like you owned every room.

Now? They’re weaponized against him.

Riki opens the chat again, scrolling through the two photos guiltily. Over and over. His hand moves almost absentmindedly to palm himself through his sweatpants, breath hitching.

This isn’t about you. It’s the heels. Just the heels.

He then pulls up pictures of other models in heels, random Instagram posts, anything to convince himself it’s not you. Riki stares at these women’s legs, analyzing their footwear like an expert.

But it doesn’t work.

His mind betrays him completely. The images shift— his brain being the most traitorous creature in the whole world, shows him your heels digging into his back, your legs wrapped around him, plays the sharp click of stilettos against the practice room floor while he fucks you senseless-

“Fuck… you,” he mutters through gritted teeth.

In seconds he’s up and running to the bathroom to throw up for the nth time this month.

Riki relieves himself, hating you more than ever. Hating himself even worse.

The company building feels eerily quiet on your break day as you hobble through the familiar halls with your sprained ankle still wrapped and aching, clutching a thin folder of paperwork you came to retrieve. The quick meeting with the exec goes smoothly enough— some signatures on scheduling adjustments, a few polite nods about “taking it easy,” and the usual nonsense about image management. Nothing you haven’t heard a hundred times before.

You’re almost out the side entrance, already dreaming of crashing on your dorm couch with takeout and zero responsibilities, when you bump straight into Jake.

Literally.

Your good foot catches on the edge of the hallway carpet and you stumble— Jake’s hands shoot out instinctively, steadying you by the elbows before you face-plant. For a second, both of you freeze.

“Shit— sorry,” you mutter, stepping back carefully. Your ankle throbs in protest.

Jake’s eyes drop almost automatically to your injured leg, the careful way you favor it. “Hey… you okay?” His voice stays soft, concerned, but the awkwardness between you thickens the air like smoke.

You haven’t spoken properly since the fake tweet disaster, not a single text, not a single clarification. You can’t say it wasn’t convenient, you’d hate to admit you find no interest in explaining yourself to Jake.

“Yeah. Just… clumsy,” you say, forcing a half-smile. “What are you… erm, doing here on a break day?”

“Picking up some lyric sheets for next week.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing around the empty hallway. After a pause, he adds quietly, “We’ve… um, never really talked about what happened. With the tweet and all.”

You cross your arms, leaning against the wall to take pressure off your ankle. Here we go. “Yeah. About that, you didn’t even let me explain, it was Riki.”

Jake blinks, tilting his head like you spoke another language. “What?”

“It was Riki,” you repeat, irritation already bubbling. “The whole thing was fake, he made it up to fuck with me.”

Jake stays silent for a long moment, processing. Then, almost gently —like he explains something to a child—he says, “Well… I think we gotta talk about this at some point, Y/n.”

“About what?”

“About your obsession with him.”

You stare at him, disbelief shooting through you “Excuse me?”

He can’t be serious right now.

“Y/n, seriously.” Jake’s voice stays calm, patient, which only pisses you off more. “Why would you even come to the conclusion that he’s the one who invented some kind of grand scheme…”

“Because he told me, for fuck’s sake.”

“I don’t know… why would he even do that?” Jake sighs, rubbing his temple. “And if you hate him that much, why’s he all you ever talk about then?”

And there you thought Jake was sweet, turns out he’s just clueless.

“Are you seriously doing this right now?” you scoff.

Right because when has it ever been his business?

“Yeah.” He meets your eyes steadily. “It’s honestly… obvious how Riki’s occupying all your emotional life. You were too caught up in your hatred that you didn’t even notice me, I’m pretty sure.”

“Um? Yes I did. I went out with you, didn’t I?” You laugh, sharp and humorless. “I thought you’d understand that with everything Riki’s done to me, it’s obvious I’m gonna hate him.”

It feels like you’re being scolded for some reason, and you don’t like that. Not one bit.

“You’re obviously hurt and you feel things deeply,” Jake continues, still in that gentle, patronizing tone. “But you gotta wake up and realize how fucked up it all is.”

You feel irritated as fuck, he’s talking to you like you’re a two year old, spelling out basic emotional logic as if you haven’t lived it for years.

The day was going smoothly and now some totally out of line weirdo is making it hard for you to be patient.

“Like, if I ask about your day, you answer in three words,” Jake continues, almost absentmindedly gesturing with his hands. “But if someone mentions him, you suddenly have a whole thesis. He’s said awful things to you and so have you. I just don’t get why you still bother.”

“Well I’m sorry that bothers you, Jakey,” you reply, voice dripping with sarcasm. You tap his shoulder lightly, ironic and vain. “Have a great day, yeah?”

You turn to leave, but Jake’s words keep echoing as you limp down the hallway. He speaks facts, deep down, you know it— come on you’re not that dumb; but what you are though, is too proud to admit out loud.

Even after all this, part of you feels attracted to the violence. Used to it. Addicted, maybe. The constant flight mode becomes your normal— at least it feels more alive than any soft conversation with Jake ever could.

Hatred feels familiar, secure in its own twisted way. It demands nothing soft from you, no vulnerability. That’s just the way things are.

Some people like their food sweet, others don’t like it at all— and prefer eating nails.

Riki’s a master at pretending nothing’s bothering him— he wears indifference like second skin— untouchable, the golden dancer who smiles for cameras and carries the weight of millions without flinching.

He knows something’s essentially missing inside of him, knows he’s looking for something that’s not here, and that will never be. But he constantly tones that part of him down.

That’s why, tonight, in this high-end hotel suite with its dim lights and silk sheets, he tries to slip into that role again.

The girl beneath him is pretty, sweet, all soft curves and gentle laughs, she kisses him back eagerly, fingers threading through his hair as he presses her into the mattress. Her skin is soft, her dimples press against his cheeks when she kisses— and for a while it works.

His hands roam her body, lips trailing down her neck until she sighs his name like a prayer; and he tells himself this is what he wants. He deepens the kiss, hips rolling against hers, heat building in a way that should feel right.

But something shifts.

With that, sudden unease crawls up his spine like ice water, his stomach twists and the air feels wrong. Riki tries to push past it, kissing her harder, hands gripping her waist almost automatically. Focus. She’s pretty. She’s lovely even. She’s not—

It just doesn’t work.

He pulls away after a long silence, considers telling her the usual excuse of ‘it’s not you, it’s me’, but when he opens his eyes it is not her face he sees.

It’s your sharp eyes glaring up at him. Your mouth twisted in that familiar sneer, your hands gripping his forearms.

Riki jumps back like he’s been burned, heart slamming against his ribs. What the fuck.

He’s definitely going crazy, he concludes, the room spinning slightly as panic claws at his throat.

“I— sorry,” he mutters, voice hoarse. He stands up in one smooth motion, running a hand through his messy hair. “I need a minute.”

The girl sits up, confusion flickering across her pretty features, she looks hurt. “Riki… are you okay?”

He forces a soft smile, the one he saves for people who deserve his leniency, sweet. “Yeah. I’m sorry. Got a lot on my mind tonight. Work stuff. I didn’t mean to make you feel like I’m not into this.”

She watches him carefully as he walks to the mini-fridge and grabs a bottle of whiskey. He twists the cap off and takes a long swig, the burn grounding him for half a second.

“It’s fine,” she says quietly, already reaching for her clothes. “I can go if you want.”

Riki feels a pang of guilt. She’s sweet, too sweet for a walking shit-show like him. “No, you don’t have to… I’m really sorry. You’re great. This is on me.”

She dresses slowly, offering him a small, understanding smile. “It’s okay. Really. Take care of yourself, yeah?”

He nods, watching her leave with gentle eyes, the door clicks shut behind her and the silence rushes in like a wave. Riki collapses back onto the bed, bottle in hand, he stares at it for a second like he’s gonna start confessing his sins to it, then he drinks.

He drinks. And drinks. And drinks some more until the edges of the room blur and his thoughts turn hazy.

Tipsy now, he turns on the Tv for noise, he hates the silence, he needs something to focus on. A commercial flashes across the screen— some luxury brand, a model’s legs strutting in high heels. The camera zooms in and Riki instantly buries his face in the covers with a groan.

Eventually, when he’s proper drunk and the world is tilting pleasantly, he decides it’s enough, his stomach hurts.

His phone feels heavy in his hand as he tries to text Heeseung— something incoherent about needing to talk or needing someone to pick him up.

Riki recoils, embarrassed even through the alcohol haze.

He doesn’t need any fucking help.

Or does he? Maybe he does need therapy—

But his thumb slips as he tries to figure that out, and by some force of nature— he ends up calling the very ghost that haunts him instead.

You pick up after a few rings, voice dry and annoyed. “Why the fuck are you calling me?”

Riki tries to click the ‘hangup button’ but his fingers are shaking with adrenaline.

Screw that, on second thought, he doesn’t really try to hang up all that hard…

He laughs instead , low and miserable, rolling onto his back until the ceiling spins. “Are you so mad at me, Y/n?”

You scoff on the other end, “When am I not? Anyway let me repeat myself— why did you call me?”

“Yeah but you’re different mad, I should’ve known…” His words slur together incoherently as he closes his eyes, the room still turning.

“Huh?” your thoughts are a mess of ‘whatthefuckishesaying’

“You don’t even fight with me anymore.” Riki’s voice comes out as a whisper, almost like he knows he’s stepping in a dangerous zone.

He hears you scoff on the other line, all superior and bitchy— and he has to fight not to laugh in your face, because honestly with that level of alcohol in his blood, it would sound much more like a happy giggle than anything else. He doesn’t want that now, does he?

“Are you… drunk?” you suddenly seem to come to your senses.

“Yeah…” He nods stupidly at the ceiling. “But you didn’t insult me today.”

It sort of reminds Riki of when he was a kid— staying underwater in his parents’ swimming pool until there was not an ounce of air left in his lungs. He would push himself deeper, lungs burning, vision spotting, just to see how long he could last before breaking the surface gasping.

That same reckless thrill sits in his chest now, however unrelated— talking to you while drunk feels like holding his breath too long. Dangerous. Addictive.

He knows he should come up for air, but he stays under, waiting for the moment you push him harder.

“Are you a masochist or something? You want me out of your life but here you are basically begging me to insult you.” you huff on the other end.

“I’m not. I kept waiting.” he shakes his head like you can see him.

“Waiting for what, you weirdo?”

Riki’s waiting for the moment you’re finally going to be done with his bullshit and hang up— because he couldn’t possibly bring himself to be the one to do it— blame it on the whiskey.

“For you to start a fight.” he answers solemnly.

“Oh god, you’re so weird. You’re drunk, you’re not even making any sense… just hang up and go fuck yourself.”

“Don’t ignore me. Don’t ignore what I said.” Riki’s voice goes lower, a little firmer maybe.

“I didn’t even see you today, what the fuck are you even talking about?” he can hear you anxiously slap your thigh in annoyance.

“I don’t like it when you ignore me. You piss me off, I piss you off and—”

“Stop conjugating verbs, Nishimura. I don’t have time for your bullshit.” you cut him off, proper angry.

“You know, normal people don’t live like this.” He rolls over clumsily, nearly dropping the phone; he’s not even making any sense, just casually assembling random thoughts that have been in his head and mashing them together in hopes you’ll understand his point.

“Good job genius, thanks for pointing that out. Now call Heeseung or Jay, I’m gonna block you. Or don’t call anyone, I don’t give a fuck if you choke in your sleep or something.”

That’s it, that’s the moment you’re finally done with his bullshit and you’re about to hang up and he’s… confused?

“Don’t block me Y/n wait—” Riki groans, not even realising how pitiful he sounds.

“Literally what the fuck is wrong with you.” you snap. “Why are you being like this, you sound so pathetic.”

After a beat, his mind drifts to different topics he’d like to address, but the only thing he can think of is that little stunt you pulled. “The post you made. Was it about me?” he asks, naively.

You almost laugh, incredulous and also very much embarrassed for him, “What are you even talking about?”

“The one with the heels.”

“No it wasn’t.” you say immediately, hating that he thought it was about him (although it clearly was).

“It waaaas,” he sing-songs, burying his face in his pillow. He’s half trying to hide how affected he was, and half trying to tease you.

“You’re so self-centered it’s insane, it wasn’t even about you.” you chuckle mockingly, “God Nishimura you’re being my little bitch right now, you know that?”

“Stop calling me that. I’m… mean to you. So you step on mean boys. So it was about me,” Riki goes on, persuaded.

“Well do you want me to step on you or something? Cause it sounds like you’re begging for it.”

That’s it. A couple words— he doesn’t even count how many— and he’s sent back to the state he was in a couple days back.

It’s all so pathetic, and he’s drunk out of his mind, but at the same time it’s you. It’s your fault, you’re doing this to him, you’re making his blood spike like a pervert, you’re dissecting him unknowingly, revealing things he didn’t even know about himself.

Notwithstanding, it’s impossible that it could be you, it has to be something else.

It’s like teenagers when they suddenly discover they have a penis and they wanna jump everything and anything; that’s probably what’s happening. He’s discovered he may or may not have a tendency to… enjoy women wearing heels, and he’s totally projecting.

“Fuck.” Riki throws his head back, palming his forehead. “Don’t say that.”

But his tone of voice only pumps you meaner, “Get off my phone then if you’re not happy. What’s your problem anyway? Can’t handle a little bit of alcohol? You’re a pussy.”

“See? I like you better when you’re like this. Mean.” he breathes out.

“Well get help.”

“I know I should.”

“Yeah you should. Now bye, I’m blocking you.” You hang up without a second thought and it’s over just as fast as it started.

Riki stares at the ceiling, phone still pressed to his ear even after the line goes dead. What the fuck are you doing with his head?

Eventually he grabs his phone again, thumbs clumsy as he opens his notes app— his writing is messy, drunk letters stumbling across the screen.

She blocks peple (people) when it starts to get a little bit intse (intense).

He stares at the words for a long time, the screen blurring. Even drunk, even miserable, he cannot stop cataloging you. Cannot stop thinking about you. And cannot stop adding to the list of things he’s noticed about you.

The hatred burns hotter though. Always has.

Kwn is an amazing artist you know? Especially in that one video clip where she kisses Kehlani near the car and all— that’s just a fact. You love her tracks, her voice, everything. But right now? You beyond hate her.

The past week’s been a blur of physical therapy, awkward silences, and the lingering ghost of Riki’s drunk phone call. He never mentioned it afterward and neither did you; it just sits between you like an unexploded grenade— ignored, but always there. A moment of vulnerability that echoes with a lot of ‘what ifs’.

What if he was under the influence all the time? Would he be softer, funnier with his words? More honest?

Your ankle’s better now, enough for light practice, but the company wastes no time dragging you back into the studio. No mercy. No rest. Just endless work.

That’s why now, you stand in the practice room, mirrors reflecting your slightly stiff posture, the choreographer flipping through self-tapes on his tablet with a deep frown. Riki leans against the wall a few feet away, fiddling with the strings of his sweatpants between his spread legs, looking as unbothered as ever.

The choreographer sighs heavily. “It looks stiff. The company’s not gonna like this at all.” He rubs his temples. “Come on Y/n, you’re usually excellent. I’ve worked with you for years and I’ve never seen you so out of it.” He turns to Riki. “And you, Riki— what’s going on?”

What’s going on, is that a leech is sucking out every ounce of talent out of you and leaving a distracted woman hollowed out by rage.

That’d be the appropriate answer but instead you say force a neutral expression. “It’s just stress.” and you make the mistake of adding, “It’s the song. It’s probably too fast.”

The choreographer looks at his tablet for a beat, thumb hovering over it, then nods slowly. “Well, how about we try something else, yeah? This choreo’s pretty simple. Get a good view, learn it, and I want you guys to prepare it for the end of the evening. I’ll come back when you’re done. Just work through it. This one’s slower and it’ll get you in the right headspace.”

He hands you the tablet but Riki snatches it from your hands almost immediately— ever the childish one. He’s a little bit too confident for someone who called you begging you for insults…

You doubt he even remembers it, but you want to rub it in his face. Instead— because workspace doesn’t allow it— you stay professional, snatching it right back and pressing play.

The opening notes fill the room. ‘Touch Myself’ by Kwn. You let it play for a bit, the rnb beat mellow and nice but when she starts singing it’s a whole different story.

See, the thing is, the lyrics are extremely explicit, pornographic arguably— or maybe you’re just being dramatic but that’s what being too close to Nishimura Riki does to one.

You glance up at the choreographer, wondering if he even speaks enough English to understand “I touch myself just thinking about you.”

Probably not.

Riki’s English is trash, but he knows that much and you see it in the way his jaw tighten.

The other man leaves with a casual wave, dismissing your obvious discomfort and the door clicks shut behind him.

You hate Kwn and her stupid song.

You stand up immediately, crossing your arms, “I’m not doing that.”

“Erm, yes you are,” Riki says flatly, like he’s talking to a toddler.

“Fuck no.”

At that, he rubs his temple, letting out a long exhale.

“They should terminate your contract. Can’t even get over yourself for the sake of your job...” he lets out a small huff, looking down at you like you’re the most ridiculous thing he’s ever seen.

“Have you seen the choreo? Are you really agreeing to this?” you tilt your chin towards the tablet. “That shit is vile. I’m not doing that.”

“Well it’s not like we have a choice. Trust me I’d rather be eating nails right now, Y/n. So get over yourself and just learn the goddamn thing.” he snaps.

You sit back down with a huff and get a good look at the choreo on the tablet. It’s heavily sensual—nothing insane certainly, but paired with the nature of the lyrics… damn. Slow body rolls, close proximity, lingering touches, prolonged eye contact. The kind of performance that sells sex and tension— definitely not something you’d like to be doing with that smug prick. But either way you need to get over yourself, it’s not like you have a choice…

So after a while of sitting there, hearing his annoying breathing, you finally get the hang of it, it’s not really complicated, just an easy routine; the complicated part is the tension you need to bring to it, something you don’t have. Or rather, not in the adequate form.

You stand up and move to the center with him, the mirrors reflecting you both as you start running it. You rehearse a few steps, tablet in hand, trying to figure out the footwork while he watches through the reflection.

“Your other foot, dumbass.” he goes, pointing at your left foot.

You listen, because unfortunately, he is right— it was the left foot; and you move along, following the movements of his body in the glass.

The tension simmers immediately— albeit it not being the required one, it’s still tension right? Every brush of his hand on your waist feels deliberate, every step brings you closer and the lyrics pulse through the speakers like a taunt.

Every now and then, you deliberately sabotage the whole thing, pushing a little on the left until he fumbles it, stepping on his foot while maintaining a neutral stance.

The thing is, and you’ve admitted it— you don’t just hate Riki. You need him to hate you back. It’s that or you’d rather die.

So you push and push, until his pupils drown in anger and he’s seconds away from pinning you to the nearest wall— devoid of any good intentions.

During the chorus is the part when you have to look at each other the most, it’s prolonged eye contact.

You unconsciously lipsync the words “I touch myself just thinking about you” as you focus on the dance and miss a count, distracted by the little something in his eyes.

You’re stupid.

Riki looks right back, eyes dropping your lips as you mouth those filthy words— and he messes up his part a little bit.

“Stop fucking looking at me. Just dance,” he says defensively, voice low.

“Am I supposed to just look at the goddamn ceiling?” you spit back, rolling your eyes.

Riki stops dancing all of a sudden, gets closer, towering over you. “Well I don’t care. Just don’t look at me.”

You follow, the song still playing but you’re both unmoving, “Why does that bother you so much?”

“It doesn’t. You’re just annoying.” His dyed blond hair falls on his forehead, sweaty and so awfully disgustingly delicious you want to die.

Wait what?

“It clearly does if you’re bringing it up.” you distract yourself with counter attacks, it’s easier this way.

“Just stop arguing and listen to me before I—”

“Before you what? Huh?” You get closer, menacing even though hes taller.

He snickers, looking down at you like you’re a crumb under his shoe. “Who do you even think you are, acting like that? You know it’d take me two seconds to make you trip and faceplant right?”

He’s so infuriatingly mocking it sends a chill down your spine, it’s not even the words, it’s the tone itself— like he could push you right now and feel nothing but contempt.

That’s the way things have always been, so why does it feel so confusing?

“Stop talking to me like that.” you glare at him, titling your chin like you can somehow surpass him in height.

“Yeah? What are you gonna do?” he’s so smug it drips with it.

“I swear, Nishimura, I’ll punch you right now.”

Riki looks down at you, a small cruel smirk tugging at at the corner of his mouth, “Go ahead, brat. All yours. Hit me.”

The words shouldn’t sound like this, they shouldn’t sound so dirty. But it’s like lately, all he says has a subtle undertone to it— and why is his voice so goddamn low and velvety?

“Well thanks for the consent, motherfucker.” You push him back hard so he can’t crowd you. “Now get back.”

He grabs your wrist in turn, pushing you close to him menacingly. “I said hit me, not push me. Are you scared of me or something?”

You chuckle, defiant. “Scared? Oh give me a break.”

Riki grabs your fist; you’re surprised he isn’t even flinching at the contact. He tightens your fingers deliberately until you’re ready for a punch, and then holds it over his own cheek.

“Come on. Do it.”

His fingers burn around yours. He’s dying for it, he needs the fight, needs the violence. He craves the collision— the crack of bone, the bloom of pain, the certainty that comes with a hit landed cleanly. Anger is familiar territory— violence is the only conversation he’s ever known how to finish.

“Don’t touch me.” you say, in vain, because it comes out as a breathy plaint.

“We’re way past that.”

“You’re so disgusting. You get off on doing disgusting things like that, don’t you? Fucking pervert.” your eyes are bored in his now, more honest that your bodies have ever been.

Then Riki does something so out of character— yet so him, and your lungs suddenly become a mere accessory rather than organs.

He grabs your throat suddenly, long fingers wrapping around it, squeezing not too tight but firm enough to make your pulse jump under his fingers. The pressure is controlled, thumb pressing lightly against the side of your neck where your heartbeat flutters wildly. His grip’s warm, steady, dangerous and you can feel the restrained power in his hand, the way his fingers flex as if debating how much tighter he could go.

It sends a rush of heat through you despite everything.

“Don’t call me that,” he says, triggered.

His shoulders broaden as he squares himself, every tendon in his forearms standing out beneath taut skin.

Riki’s so close now, nose brushing yours, eyes burning with pure fury, and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t dying from how exhilarating it feels.

“I’ll call you whatever the fuck I want.” You push his buttons on purpose, loving the way his anger tastes— like something filthy and sour on your tongue.

“Fuck you, Y/n.”

There’s a thin line between hatred and desire—and only then, you’re starting to feel it dissolve until you can no longer tell whether the pounding in your chest is fury or fascination, whether you want to shove him away or pull him closer just to understand why he gets beneath your skin like that.

“Mm, fuck me?” You tilt your head, defiant, lips inches from his.

Riki loses it. Air sticks in his lungs and his eyes flutter shut for a split second— he’s forgotten how to breathe now, the words ricochet through him, splintering whatever fragile restraint he’d been clinging to.

His jaw tightens so hard it aches, a muscle feathering beneath his skin as he swallows back something he can’t afford to say.

“Don’t say shit like that.” he goes instead, but it comes out breathy.

“Why? Scared?” You get closer, pushing every button you can reach.

Because close just isn’t close enough— and flustered isn’t nearly flustered enough. Because you want him reeling, struggling to even function, you want him to be putty in your hands— just out of pure spite.

Riki’s stuck between two different worlds— he wants to push you off, watch you fall and trip but at the same time he wants to fuck the attitude right out of you— teach you a lesson.

He doesn’t acknowledge it, but he feels it somewhere low, warmth spreading. He’s too far gone.

Your mouths hover dangerously close, so much so that you can feel his breath, hot and ragged against your lips. His hand tightens slightly on your throat, not hurting, just holding. Claiming almost, in all its irony.

But the choreographer’s voice echoes faintly from the hallway, and you’re both forced to pull away instantly, breathless, chests heaving.

The moment’s over and the bodies are done speaking.

Riki turns sharply and stalks toward the bathroom, fists tight at his sides while you scratch your arm anxiously, nails digging into skin as if you can claw the tension out of your body.

Three days after the practice room incident, Hybe decides to play nice— characteristically… They organize a mandatory “team bonding” dinner for everyone involved in the collaboration project—R3SET, Enhypen, choreographers, and a few other staffs.

The official reason is to “build chemistry” and “celebrate the upcoming performance.”

The real reason, you suspect, is damage control after too many rumors about visible tension between you and Riki.

The company hates bad optics.

“Touch myself” hasn’t really resulted in anything good, apart from fuelling your self hatred.

The choreographer wasn’t exceptionally happy, and so were you— for fucks sake, because of him, you’d been forced to confront that you were an entirely too deprived woman.

It’s true, that’s the only viable answer, you haven’t done anything with anyone in years, and so it’s only natural that any physical touch sends you into a whole different headspace— even if it’s not one you’d desire. Desperate times.

So, the dinner is held at a private restaurant downtown, dim lighting, long wooden tables, expensive hanwoo beef, and enough soju to drown in. You show up with your members, ankle mostly healed but still a little stiff, wearing simple black pants and a sophisticated top. You tell yourself it’ll be just fine, Riki’s most likely forgotten about it already.

But the second you walk in, your eyes find him across the room. You end up near the middle of the long table, directly across from him.

He looks annoying in all black, sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy, his eyes flick to you every few minutes— totally unreadable. You don’t look away, god you never do.

Jake sits a few seats down, trying to make polite conversation with Sera— you wouldn’t fail to mention you’re still slightly annoyed at him, but that feels like background noise compared to the live wire stretching across the table.

Rage is merely just rage when it’s not directed at Nishimura Riki.

Hye-ri leans toward you at one point, whispering, “He keeps staring. You good?”

“I’m fabulous,” you mutter, stabbing a piece of beef harder than necessary.

Riki’s voice cuts through the chatter a moment later, directed at no one in particular but clearly meant for you. “Some people should probably stay off their feet more. Wouldn’t want another dramatic injury right before the performance.”

You smile sweetly, tilting your head. “Some people should probably mind their own fucking business.”

The table quiets a little. Jake shifts uncomfortably and Sunoo coughs into his drink amused.

Riki leans back in his chair, lips curving into that infuriating half-smirk. “Just looking out for the team. Wouldn’t want you to trip on stage because you’re too stubborn to rest properly.”

“Touching,” you reply, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Didn’t know you cared so much about my well-being, Nishimura.”

“I don’t.” His eyes lock onto yours. “I care about the performance not sucking because of you.”

The air crackles and Hye-ri kicks you under the table. Of course you kick her back.

The rest of dinner is a masterclass in passive-aggressive warfare; every time someone mentions the collaboration, Riki finds a way to slip in a subtle jab. Every time, you fire back sharper until by dessert, the tension feels thick enough to choke on.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom just to breathe, splashing some water on your neck— soothing the physical reaction he’s inflicted upon you. When you come out, Riki is leaning against the wall in the hallway, waiting.

“Running away already?” he asks, voice low.

“Fuck off.”

He steps closer, crowding you against the wall without actually touching you. “You’ve been quiet lately. No insults. No nothing. Almost like you’re avoiding me.”

You lift your chin, refusing to back down. “What? You’re gonna beg me for insults again?”

Riki’s jaw tightens and for a second, something dangerous flickers in his eyes, you’re not sure he knows exactly what you’re referring to though. “You wish.”

Then he walks away, leaving you standing there with your heart pounding and your hands clenched into fists.

That night, you dream— you dream like you haven’t dreamt in months. See, you had the habit of dreaming about totally incoherent things, your older brother getting kidnapped by aliens, your step mom catching a cold and growing wings… and that dream doesn’t differ, it’s totally incongruous.

In it, the studio’s empty, mirrors stretching endlessly in every direction, the lights are low and warm. You’re dancing, but it’s no longer really choreography.

Riki’s hands are on your waist, pulling you flush against him— there’s no hatred in the movement this time— only hunger. You shove him, but he spins you around and presses you against the mirror, cold glass against your front, his body hot and solid behind you.

“You talk so much shit,” he whispers against your ear, one hand sliding up your thigh, pushing your skirt higher. “But look at you now.”

You gasp as his fingers find bare skin. “Fuck you.”

“Yeah?” Riki’s voice is rough, dangerous. “You want that?”

In the dream you hate him and want him in equal measure. You push back against him, grinding, feeling how hard he is, his hand wraps around your throat from behind— not tight enough to hurt, but enough to make you arch. His other hand slips between your legs, teasing, stroking, making you moan despite yourself.

“You’re so fucking wet for someone who hates me,” he murmurs, biting your shoulder. “Say it. Say you want me to fuck you.”

“I hate you,” you breathe, but your hips roll back against his hand anyway.

He laughs, low and dark, pressing you harder into the mirror. “Liar.”

The dream shifts and suddenly he has you on the floor, legs wrapped around his waist as he thrusts into you— deep, angry, perfect. Every snap of his hips feels like punishment and reward at once. You scratch down his back, drawing blood and he bites your neck hard enough to leave marks. The mirrors reflect a hundred versions of you two like fucking animals— sweat-slick, desperate, beautiful in the worst way.

“I hate you,” you moan as he fucks you harder.

Riki’s eyes are wild. “Then prove it.”

You wake up gasping, sheets tangled around your legs, heart hammering, and a slick heat between your thighs that makes you want to scream. You sit up in the dark, pressing your palms to your burning face.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The body has always been a terrible liar.

The mind can sharpen hatred into something clean— something so easy to hold. It can rehearse every reason to leave, every wound, every insult, every unforgivable thing. It can swear that this person disgusts you— that you’d sooner bite your own tongue than admit they’re the only thing you want to loose yourself into.

And then your pulse betrays you. Your breath catches when they get too close to the real thing, your pupils widen before your pride has the chance to object. Every nerve ending reaches for what your conscience insists it should reject. The body doesn’t understand morality; it understands chemistry and biology; doesn’t distinguish between danger and desire nearly as well as you’d like to believe.

Maybe that’s why hatred and longing have always lived so close together. Both consume. Both obsess. The difference is thinner than anyone admits— a line so delicate that all it takes is one glance, one accidental touch, one moment of vulnerability, and suddenly you no longer know whether your racing heart is preparing you to fight them or kiss them.

That’s why, after that dream, you avoid him like the plague. The following weeks are a careful dance of deliberate distance; you show up to group meetings late and leave early. You switch practice times when possible, you bury yourself in solo schedules, self-help books (that don’t help with anything actually) and long conversations with Hye-ri that always circle back to the same frustrating question: why does suffering attract you more than living a gentle life?

You delete the drunk call from your call log like it never happened, you tell yourself the dream meant nothing. Just stress. Just exhaustion. Just your body playing cruel tricks.

But the avoidance only makes it worse, every time you catch a glimpse of him in the hallway, your stomach flips. Every time his name comes up in conversation, your jaw tightens.

But today he’s inevitable. Duty calls. And so here you are, stuck in the dance studio again with him.

The choreographer wanted you both to review the latest self-tapes alone— auto-evaluation before the final run throughs. No dancing today, just critique; so you came straight from another schedule, still wearing the black heels from the event and the black skirt they’d told you to wear—because you just couldn’t be bothered to change.

Now they click sharply against the floor as you pace, hands on your hips, eyes glued to the small television screen playing the footage.

Riki stands a few feet away, arms crossed, watching with that same unreadable expression. He’s wearing a goddamn chrome hearts tank top, one that highlights the muscles in his back, makes him look unfairly lean and does a poor job at keeping you focused.

The footage plays— and technically, it’s flawless. The lines are clean, the timing’s sharp. But the chemistry is nonexistent. You both look like you’d rather murder each other than touch, naturally.

You point at the screen. “Your shoulder drops there. Sloppy.”

Riki scoffs. “My shoulder is fine. You’re the one rushing the transition.”

You whirl on him. “At least I commit. You move like you’re scared to touch me. Afraid I’ll stab you in the back or something?”

He steps closer, eyes narrowing. “Maybe I am. We both know what you’re capable of when you want something.”

The jab lands harder than you expect, you feel heat rise in your cheeks. “Fuck you. At least I don’t throw tantrums like a spoiled kid every time things don’t go my way.”

That one hits and Riki’s expression darkens. In response, he pushes you with his arm— not hard, but enough to make you stumble back. Your injured leg buckles slightly, still weak from the sprain. Pain shoots up your ankle and you lose balance, arms flailing.

Riki moves instinctively— ironic isn’t it?— his hands catch you—one on your waist, the other gripping your arm— steadying you before you fall. It’s almost laughable… the force that sent you stumbling is the same one that keeps you upright.

For a moment, everything stops, his touch’s firm but careful. Not the bruising grip from before. Not the angry shove. Just… support. His fingers press lightly against your waist, warm through the thin fabric of your top. It feels almost like pity. Like he’s handling something he doesn’t want to break yet.

The silence stretches until your eyes meet his. His breath is close and for once, thereis no venom in his gaze— just surprise.

You shake him off almost immediately, stepping back like his touch burned you. “Don’t touch me.”

Riki’s hands drop and the mask of indifference slides back into place. “Whatever. Don’t fall and blame me later.”

“Youre the one who just pushed me.” you mutter under your breath, boiling.

The footage loops again and again, but neither of you is really watching anymore. The real performance is happening right here— two people circling each other with words like weapons.

Eventually the tape ends and you exhale sharply. “We’re done. I’m leaving.”

You grab your badge, and purse, turn toward the door in one smooth motion, heels clicking. But when you push the handle, it doesn’t budge. You try again. Nothing.

“What the fuck?” You rattle the door harder. “Did you lock it?”

Riki raises an eyebrow. “Why would I lock it?”

You try again, panic starting to creep in. “Open the damn door, Riki.”

He sighs, walks over, tries the handle and it doesn’t move. “It’s stuck.”

You reach for your phone, heart hammering and you text Hye-ri a hundred times in rapid succession.

Door won’t open. Studio 4. Come get me. Help. HELP. Help. HELPPP. SOS.

But no reply comes, so you call her, it goes straight to voicemail. You text Heeseung next— because what wouldn’t you do for an escape? Still nothing.

"Aren't you gonna do anything??" you turn to Riki.

"My phone's dead" he shrugs.

“I’m gonna call the police, I swear to god,” you mutter, pacing.

Riki rolls his eyes, tapping his foot on the floor repeatedly— the sound grating on your nerves.

“Can you stop tapping on the floor before I eviscerate you?” you snap.

“Get over yourself”

You try the doorknob again, naively. Of course it’s not gonna budge, why would it ? The universe wants you in a secluded room with Nishimura Riki— probably natural selection or something…

You rattle the handle a little harder anyway, as if stubbornness alone might intimidate the lock into cooperating. It doesn’t. It only rewards your efforts with another dull metallic clunk that echoes through the room like it’s laughing at you.

“Why aren’t you charging your goddamn phone anyway? To call people. At least be fucking useful.” you turn to him.

“Cause you’re already doing that, Y/n.” Riki says matter-of-factly.

He leans against the wall, watching you with that infuriating calm— and sweat beads on your skin as you fight the punch that you want to give him.

“Oh god, I hate you,” you finally hiss, stepping closer.

Something in him shifts, not visibly— but you catch it because you’re looking; his shoulders loosen by a fraction, the corner of his mouth threatens to betray him. Your words don’t land like an insult; they settle somewhere far more dangerous.

Hatred’s always been your most honest language with himx Every glare, every cutting remark, every venom-laced sentence means you’ve looked at him long enough to feel something. It means he’s gotten under your skin again. That he’s occupied another corner of your mind he had no business claiming.

To anyone else, your words would sound like rejection.

To Riki, they sound like proof.

Proof that he still affects you.

Proof that indifference’s never been an option.

He lets the silence stretch, savoring the confession hidden beneath the hostility before his gaze locks onto yours, dark with unmistakable satisfaction

“Say that again.”

You step even closer, heels making you taller but still smaller than him. “I. Hate. You.”

His gaze flickers over your expression for a second longer than it should, like he’s memorizing the contradiction in front of him: someone who claims to despise him yet keeps moving closer, someone who throws daggers with their words but refuses to walk away.

Riki looks down and you catch him staring at your legs almost instantly. “Stop looking at my fucking legs, you perv.”

“Well then stop wearing heels in a practice room maybe?”

“I’ve got somewhere to be after this, dipshit.” you roll your eyes, suddenly feeling small under his scrutiny.

“Then put them back on after this, like a normal person.”

“We just came in here to review the footage. Stop acting like I’m dancing in heels or something. Or maybe—who knows— maybe I just like pissing you off.”

“It doesn’t piss me off. It’s just annoying as hell. You make a lot of noise. Walking around like you wanna get my attention or something.”

“Get your attention? Please. You’re ridiculous. You know why I put them on? Because deep down my biggest wish is to step on you with them till you choke and die or something.”

Riki’s breath catches, you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows and he takes a careful step back. The topic of heels is a no-go.

“Stop saying nonsense and just go work on getting someone to open the door.” He sounds slightly breathless.

“I’m trying, fucker.”

“Well try harder, bitch.”

“Keep calling me that name and I’ll really step on you. And I won’t be gentle.” you raise your chin, defiant.

“Oh, cause you think I want you gentle?”

Heat floods your face and chest. Then something dark and dangerous twists in your stomach— equal parts fury and unwanted thrill.

You step closer instead of recoiling, eyes narrowing, lips parting on a sharp, incredulous exhale. The implication hangs between you like smoke—thick, filthy, impossible to ignore. Your mind flashes with vivid, unwanted images: his hands rough, your nails digging in, bodies colliding with nothing soft or kind between you.

The thought disgusts you but it also makes your thighs press together instinctively. How much of a contradiction could you be?

“You’re so perverted it’s disgusting.” you resort to insults, because that’s all you know.

“Perverted? You’re the one who came in here wearing these.”

“They’re just heels. You’re a weirdo. You think I put them on for you or something? Don’t you remember when you called me drunk the other night? You seemed to like them just then.”

Riki freezes. “What are you talking about?”

“Oh, you don’t remember?” You lean into it, savoring the upper hand and sprinkling a little bit of lies. “Nishimura, you called me. Said a bunch of shit. Got really vulnerable. Told me exactly how the heels made you feel, pathetic, really.”

“I didn’t say all that, Y/n. Stop.”

Air’s gone rancid, thick with the stink of want, choking you both, but you only step closer, voice low and taunting. “You did though. You probably wish you could touch them, stop being such a pussy and admit it.”

Riki’s eyes flash and that shakes off the last thread of self control and inhibition, “Yeah? And what if I did?” His voice drops dangerously. “What if I grabbed your thighs and spread them right there? Would you still act like you hate me then?”

What. the. fuck.

There’s the moment, where the truth comes out. Where the line shatters. Where hatred and desire melt together and become one.

There’s no fury like trying to contain such levels of want. Like trying to contain something that was never meant to be contained.

Because the hardest battle was never between you and him, no it was between what you felt and what you were willing to admit.

The space between you vanishes, your back hits the wall. His hand braces beside your head and you tilt your head back until the tip of your nose touches his, heart thundering. “Fuck… I hate you.”

You’re like prey and predator— except you’re the embodiment of both. And in the end, how do you run from something that exists inside you? How do you fight an instinct that is just as much a part of you as the fear trying to resist it?

You’re the one who bares your teeth, the one who strikes first, the one who convinces yourself that staying sharp means staying safe. But you’re also the one who freezes when he gets too close, the one who feels every shift in the air between you, the one whose body reacts before your pride has the chance to intervene.

A contradiction wearing the shape of a person.

You want to win, but you also want to be understood. You want to push him away, but some reckless part of you keeps stepping closer. You hate the power he has over you, yet you keep giving him opportunities to use it.

“I hate you more.” Riki says, comforting the both of you into thinking this is still strictly hatred. “Hate you so bad it hurts.”

Thats when it happens. Between a hitch of breath and a gasp, you loose it.

The kiss is sudden, angry, desperate. Mouths crashing together like a collision— teeth and tongue and pure adrenaline. It’s hate and want— months of a cutthroat chase. Two bodies finally allowing theirselves to feel something other than destruction.

His hand slides into your hair, gripping hard, you bite his bottom lip. He groans into your mouth and presses you harder against the wall.

Your fingers fist in his shirt as Riki’s thigh presses between yours. The kiss is messy, violent, it’s a murder of pride— until there’s nowhere left to hide because he’s all over your body, gripping, binding.

He bites on your lower lip and you bite back just as hard, sinking your teeth into his lip until you taste the sharp metallic tang of blood. He groans into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your chest, and in response he shoves you back against the mirror with enough force to make the glass rattle.

Your back hits the cool surface first. Then the rest of you— shoulders, hips, thighs. The mirror is cold while he’s burning hot. The contrast makes you gasp into his mouth and he takes advantage immediately, tongue sliding deep, claiming, devouring.

One of his hands fists in your hair, yanking your head back so he can kiss you harder, deeper, filthier. You tug right back, fingers twisting in his strands, pulling until he hisses in pain and pleasure.

You’re both predators now. No prey. No bunnies. Just two starving animals finally allowed to tear into each other.

Riki’s thigh presses between your legs, grinding up hard against your core— you roll your hips down to meet him, desperate and violent, chasing friction through your clothes. Every roll of your hips makes the mirror shake behind you and his cock’s already so hard, straining against his pants, pressing insistently against your thigh. You can feel how much he hates how badly he wants this.

“Fuck you,” he snarls against your lips, biting down on your bottom lip in retaliation. “You’re such a brat.”

You moan into his mouth, the sound muffled and broken. He wraps one large hand around your throat and squeezes— not enough to hurt, but enough to make your head spin. The pressure’s perfect, making you clench around nothing, drunk on the pain. Your pulse flutters wildly under his palm and he squeezes a little tighter until you moan louder, the sound vibrating against his fingers.

“There it is…” Riki pants, lips brushing yours, voice dark “See? Your body doesn’t lie. It fucking loves me.”

His cock presses against your clit through the fabric, a delicious friction that makes your head foggy, hands clawing at him for more, more, more and everything. His free hand goes to your ass, digging in and pushing you closer to him, hardness rubbing right where you need him the most. And in second— his mouth’s on your neck, canines poking at your tender skin until you’re moaning, hips moving like they have a mind of their own.

“Look at you— moaning like a desperate little slut just from this.” you feel Riki’s smirk even if you can’t see it.

You try to snap back, but he bites down again and your words dissolve into another broken moan. He laughs, low and mean, grinding harder between your legs.

“Pathetic,” he murmurs, lips trailing down your jaw. “All that hate and your pussy’s still soaking for me.”

The fucker doesn’t even bother taking your clothes off properly. In one rough motion he yanks your skirt up around your waist, the fabric bunching messily and his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties. Then, he rips them clean off with a sharp tear that echoes in the studio, and throws them somewhere. The cool air hits your soaked cunt and you shiver.

He looks down, cock twitching in his pants as he witnesses the sheer amount of wetness coating thighs and pussy. “Fuck” he breathes out, fingers hooking to collect your arousal and toy with it. “Look at that…”

Riki brings his soaked fingers to your mouth and pushes them pas your lips without a second thought. When he feels you suck your juices off of them, his hips jerk, bulge pressing right against your dripping cunt, the front of his pants covered in your arousal.

“Messy girl.” he forces your mouth closed by pressing your cheeks together, “Swallow”

You do— because there’s nothing more exhilarating and humbling that getting a direct taste of what you used to call “hatred.”

“Fuck you— just fuck me already, get this over with.” you say, chin held high like he didn’t just humiliate you.

He smiles tauntingly, frees himself from his pants with impatient hands, cock hard, flushed and leaking. And dammit— you’d never admit it to his face, but he’s big, thick and dripping at the tip. You stare at it for a split second, wondering if it’ll hurt. But you don’t couldn’t care less about the hurt, as long as it makes you feel something.

“You want it?” Riki rasps, lining himself up with your entrance, the head of his cock teasing your soaked folds. You nod, because it’s obvious you do, and he retaliates, “Then beg for it properly, you brat. Or i’ll leave you here dripping and desperate like the pathetic liar you are.”

The words burn through you— your pride screams at you to shove him away, to spit in his face, to keep hating him like you always have. But your body is a merciless traitor— clenching around nothing, dripping down your thighs, aching so badly it hurts. You’re trembling with rage and need, nails digging into his shoulders hard enough to leave marks.

“Fuck you,” you hiss, voice shaking. “Just fuck me already. Please.”

“There it is. See? You’re not that useless.” He nips at your neck, all condescending.

In one brutal thrust he buries himself inside you to the hilt, stretching you open so suddenly and so deep that your head falls back against the mirror with a broken cry. The burn is delicious. He’s thick, hot, and so fucking hard it feels like he’s splitting you apart in the best worst way.

You both groan at the same time. He’s so deep it hurts, you can feel him everywhere, invading your body like a sickness. Your walls clench around him like a vice, wet and greedy and Riki’s head drops to your shoulder with a guttural curse.

“Fuck… so tight,” he groans, voice wrecked. “Your pussy’s choking me. Greedy little cunt— hates me but still sucks me in like it was made for me.”

He starts fucking you hard right away. No warmup. No leniency.

Each thrust slams you back against the mirror, the glass rattling dangerously with every brutal snap of his hips. The sound of skin slapping skin fills the studio, wet and obscene and your heels scrape against the back of his thighs as he drives into you deeper, harder, faster.

But Riki’s eyes keep dropping.

To your legs.

To those fucking heels.

His hand slides down your thigh, gripping the back of your knee and hiking it higher around his waist. His fingers trace the sharp edge of it, thumb pressing into the arch of your foot through the strap.

“These goddamn heels,” he utters against your neck, voice rough and filthy as he pounds into you. “You know what they do to me. You fucking know.”

You hook your leg to his waist, heel digging into the back of his thigh.

“Shit —look at you,” he pants, eyes dark as he fucks you stupid. He can finally admit just how much he loves your legs, anything that’s yours really.

You claw at his back, nails digging through his shirt and hhe yanks your hair, forcing your head back so he can bite down on your exposed throat.

“Say it,” he demands, pounding into you relentlessly. “Say you fucking need this.”

You moan loudly, eyes fluttering. “Fuck… you—”

Riki laughs darkly and slams in harder, hitting that spot inside you that makes stars burst behind your eyelids. “That’s what I thought. Bratty little whore. Can’t even lie properly when I’m balls deep inside you.”

He edges you mercilessly, every time you get close, thighs shaking, walls fluttering around him, he slows down or pulls almost all the way out, leaving you clenching desperately around nothing. You whine, hips chasing him, pride crumbling under the overwhelming need.

“Beg for it,” he taunts, voice rough as gravel. “I know you can do that, can’t you?”

You shake your head, teeth gritted, stubborn to the end even as tears of frustration prick your eyes. “Fuck… you…”

Riki pulls out completely this time, leaving you empty and throbbing. You moan in frustration and snap, before he can say another word, you grab his cock— hot, slick with your arousal—and shove it back inside you yourself, forcing him deep in one rough motion.

Riki groans loudly, forehead dropping to yours and you kiss him viciously, biting his lip again as you roll your hips, taking control for one glorious second.

The pace turns frantic after that— he fucks you like he wants to break you. You meet every thrust with equal violence, legs wrapped tight around his waist.

He wraps his hand around your throat again, squeezing just right as he drives into you harder.

“You gonna cum for me?” he says against your mouth. You let out a pathetic moan at that, “Yeah I know… you’re taking it so well for such a bad girl.”

This time Riki doesn’t stop. The orgasm crashes into you like a freight train, your whole body seizes, walls clamping down around him like a vice as pleasure rips through you in violent waves. You cry out, nails raking down his back, thighs shaking uncontrollably. It feels endless— white-hot, devastating.

The best thing you’ve ever tasted— no matter how hard it is to admit.

Riki follows right after you, burying himself deep with a broken groan. His hips stutter, cock pulsing as he spills inside you, cum painting your walls messily— he keeps thrusting through it, riding out every last twitch, forehead pressed to yours, breath mingling in harsh pants.

For a long moment, the only sounds in the studio are your ragged breathing and the faint creak of the mirror behind you. His cum drips from where you’re connected, painting your thighs in the proof of his need.

Then silence.

Heavy, stunned, devastating silence.

After that day, everything changes—and somehow stays exactly the same. Finding out Heeseung was the one who locked you both in the rehearsal room to mend for yourselves is nothing short of a surprise. But you couldn’t care less— youre way past that, way past pretending you weren’t thriving when the attention Riki gave you was —albeit still embedded within the rage— pleasurable.

You grow addicted to it, almost like an addict coming back to a terrible drug. You’d go to rehab eventually, when there’s finally enough of you left to want saving.

But not today. Today, you let yourself sink deeper— you relish in the ruins of your past, the violence that consumes you.

You know exactly what it does to you— you know how it hollows you out, how it leaves your hands shaking long after the high has worn off, yet you return anyway, chasing the familiar ache because it’s easier than learning how to live without it.

Healing can wait. Right now, there’s still comfort in the catastrophe.

You and Riki continue to ruin each other.

You spread rumors, run your mouth to whomever wants to hear it— rant about how awful he is. He leaks old trainee footage that makes you look difficult; you sabotage a schedule overlap. He makes sure a stylist “accidentally” gives you the wrong outfit for a performance. The company watches, the fans speculate. The hatred becomes public performance and private war.

But the sex never stops.

He strokes himself many times in the following weeks; in the shower, in his bed at night. Even through the thick, choking layer of disgust that never fully leaves him, he cannot stop wanting you. He comes hard every time, hating himself more with every stroke, but he keeps doing it anyway.

Touching happens anytime you can get away with it. In the locked studio again, late at night. He fucks you bent over the piano,

“Fight me while I fuck you,” he groans against your ear, one hand fisted in your hair. “I love it when you’re angry.” You scratch his arms bloody and he only rails you harder.

In the back of a company van after a late schedule, windows fogged up, his hand clamped over your mouth while he rails you from behind; you bite his fingers until they bleed and he calls you his little pain slut.

You don’t even take it personally— you’ve learned to live with the idea that the insults are a mere reflections of your self hatreds. When Riki calls you names, he’s only damning himself for falling into temptation, for needing you the way he does. You let him. Because you hate yourself just as much.

In an empty waiting room during an award show, your dress hiked up, his pants barely undone; he makes you ride him while still wearing your stage heels, the sharp points digging into his thighs as you bounce on his cock. “Look at you,” he pants— although he’ll never tell you just how devastatingly beautiful he finds you, he makes allusions to it, letting you unveil it bit by bit. “Faster, you can do it can’t you?”

Encounters multiply, Riki chokes you until you see stars— it’s a language you master by now. You slap him across the face and he laughs, blood on his lip, before flipping you over and spanking you raw; and every single time you come out bruised, wrecked and markd. He edges you for hours until you’re crying and begging and you end up riding his face until he can’t breathe, grinding down on his tongue like you want to smother him.

It’s violent, ugly; there’s nothing worth wanting about it. Nothing tender. Nothing enviable. Just two people mistaking collision for connection, trying to quiet feelings they’ve never learned to hold without destroying each other.

Your bodies are perfectly aligned. They crave each other with a violence that borders on worship. But your minds? Your souls? They cannot stand each other.

The incompatibility reveals itself slowly, then all at once. The fights grow uglier. The sex grows rougher. The silences between grow heavier.

You start avoiding each other’s eyes even when you’re buried inside one another; the hatred no longer fuels the fire—it poisons it. You hurt each other too deeply, too often, too deliberately— until there’s no coming back from some wounds.

No amount of orgasms can erase the years of betrayal.

One night, after another brutal fuck in a hotel room, you lie beside him in silence. The sheets are tangled around your legs, damp with sweat and his cum is still leaking slowly down your thighs, warm and sticky, a filthy reminder of how deep he’d been inside you just minutes ago. The room smells like sex— musky, salty, desperate. The only light comes from the city glowing through the half-open curtains, casting long shadows across the bed.

You’re both on your backs, shoulders barely touching, staring at the ceiling like it holds answers— your chest rises and falls in shallow, uneven breaths. Your body still hums with the aftershocks— thighs sore, throat raw from his hands, lips swollen from biting and being bitten.

The ache between your legs is deep and satisfying in the worst way.

Riki’s breathing is just as ragged— his hand twitches once like he wants to reach for you, then stills. He doesn’t.

The silence stretches, until finally, you speak, voice hoarse and bitter.

“…This is so fucking stupid.”

Riki lets out a low, humorless laugh that sounds more like a exhale of pain. “Yeah. It is.”

You turn your head slightly, just enough to see his profile in the dim light. His jaw’s tight. A fresh bite mark blooms red on his collarbone— your doing. You feel a twisted sense of satisfaction, then immediate disgust at yourself. He’s not yours, you shouldn’t make him look like he is.

“I don’t know why we keep doing this” you whisper, more to yourself than to him. “Theres no point.”

Riki doesn’t answer right away. He runs a hand over his face, then lets it drop heavily onto the mattress between you.

“Things don’t always have to have a point” he says eventually, voice rough. “we can do things that aren’t… good. Who cares.”

You swallow hard. “I do,” you admit quietly. “I let you fuck me like you want to break me.”

Riki turns his head toward you, his eyes are dark, unreadable. “You do the same thing to me. You know that right? You can say whatever you want but we’ve always been equals.”

A long silence falls again.

You feel the familiar ache in your chest— the one that has nothing to do with the rough sex and everything to do with the fact that this, whatever this is, can never be anything more.

“We’re going to destroy each other,” you say softly, almost sadly.

Riki’s jaw clenches. “Yeah. We are.”

He doesn’t reach for you and you don’t reach for him. You both lie there, bodies still tangled, hearts completely separate, knowing full well that you’ll do it all over again the next time the opportunity arises.

Because that’s just what you do. Because the heart isn’t a courtroom; it doesn’t grant leniency, it only delivers its verdict. And the verdict, in the end, is simple: some people are destined to destroy. You and Riki were never going to be the exception— you were always going to be the cautionary tale.

They had known each other since childhood, childhood sweethearts who had the opportunity to marry and let no one else enter their lives. Everyone at the palace, whether their respective families or the servants, all knew they would end up together.

The young woman was lying on the bed, a book in hand, enjoying the fresh breeze, a rare thing in the summer that was approaching. Y/N looked up when Jake entered the room, accompanied by a metallic clinking.

Usually, he was rather quiet in his movements and loud in his words when he came to greet her with many sweet words. Putting aside her book, the young woman followed his movements through the room, the armor he was still wearing from his training caught the sun's rays.

"Baby, you wouldn't have seen my belt, would you? I can't find it to hang my katanas."

"No," she breathed without taking her eyes off him.

Jake spun around, hands on his hips, wondering where he could have left his belt. No matter how much he talked, his wife wasn't listening, dropping her book to get up from the bed and approach him.

"Are you planning to go back to training?" Y/N asked, pressing against his back, her arms around his waist as he rummaged through the desk drawers.

"I don't plan to go back if I have to hold my katanas and their sheaths with only my two hands. I'm not an octopus, unfortunately."

She placed a kiss on the bare skin of his neck, and Jake finally stopped his search, turning his head in her direction to see her lip caught between her teeth. He turned around completely to face her, his hands finding her hips to press her body against his.

"Baby?"

"Are you tired, or do you still have some energy left for your wife?"

Jake chuckled, finally understanding what she wanted, and tilted his head toward her until his lips brushed against hers, his warm breath washing over her mouth. "Oh, I could even be at death's door, and I'd still have energy for you, sweet thing. Just let me change and…"

Y/N stopped him as he tried to move around her, sliding her fingers into the waistband of his pants to pull him toward her, eliciting a growl from the back of the prince's throat. "You're playing a dangerous game, baby."

"Maybe. But you like it."

He chuckled, pulling her against him and kissing her gently, his hands framing her face. Jake sat on his desk chair, and Y/N settled on his lap, lifting her robe that was in the way. Even though it was hot and she had only put on a thin dress to avoid suffocating.

And even if Jake's armor had quite an effect on her, his chainmail over his shirt prevented her from feeling his warmth, but after a few seconds, she managed to clear a large part of his thighs, the only remaining obstacle being his pants.

Y/N kissed him, the blush of her skin intensified as he held her against him, letting out murmurs and grunts every time her hips moved forward. He shifted her slightly so she could settle on his thigh and lifted it against her intimacy, drawing a moan from her.

Her fingers eagerly undid the ties of his armor, needing to feel him more than anything beneath her. Jake understood what she was trying to do and helped her, letting his armor fall to the ground and his shirt quickly following the same movement so his wife's hands could explore his chest.

Jake had just come from training, so he was still slightly sweaty, not having been able to bathe, but Y/N didn't care, appreciating even more seeing a few strands of hair stuck to his temples and his dilated pupils when he looked at her.

His hand slid under her dress, finding her warm wetness and dragging his fingers against her, making her moan louder. "Baby, let me make you feel good."

Y/N leaned down to kiss his shoulder, moving up toward his neck, while his fingers continued their exploration and his free hand moved to her back to undo the laces of her dress.

Jake couldn't waste another second and slid his hands under her thighs to lift her and stand, leading them to the bed where he laid the young woman down. He pulled on the hem of her dress to bare her, then tossed his pants onto the pile of clothes.

He came to tower over her with his body, burying his face in the hollow of her chest, kissing and sucking her skin with a devouring passion. His calloused hands held her back as he devoured her breast, Y/N rubbed her pelvis against his in search of more friction.

"Jake," she moaned, "I want you."

He removed their underwear, then spread her legs and brought them around his waist, slipping between her thighs. Y/N grabbed his neck to pull his head down and took possession of his lips in a passionate kiss.

She threw her head back as he entered her, leaving small pink crescents on his shoulders from her nails. Jake drew her face toward his and kissed her fiercely, his tongue slipping between her lips to join a fiery kiss to his movements.

Y/N arched against his body, always trying to close the distance between them. Jake was a moaning mess above her, and one of his hands went up to grip the pillow near her head, sinking deeper into her, drawing a cry of pleasure from her.

"Jake, ngh, fuck baby!" It was a wonder whether they were disturbing the rest of the palace's occupants on that floor, but they didn't care at that moment.

Y/N slid one hand into his hair, gripping his dark locks while the other roamed his back, leaving scratch marks. The young woman was the first to reach ecstasy, Jake following shortly after, feeling her intimacy contract around him.

He collapsed beside her on the mattress, pulling her into his arms as they caught their breath. Her book was definitely forgotten on the floor, and Jake had missed half of his training.

"Heeseung is going to yell at me for missing training," he breathed, then placed a kiss on the top of her head. "Worth it." Y/N smiled, snuggling deeper into his arms.

Masterlist

“Are you comfortable?”

You turn to the man sitting beside you inside the Porsche. The man you married without ever knowing much about him. You would be lying if you said that your heart wasn’t racing with anticipation and slight fear.

Of course, you didn’t know what kind of a man he truly was. Appearing kind and polite for a week is really but now that the both of you are finally married with little to no communication, you feared what the kind of man he truly was.

“Yes, don’t worry, Sunghoon-shi—”

“Sunghoon. No need to be formal.” He interrupted as if the formal tone put a wall between the two of you which he didn’t appreciate. You stared at him for a second longer before nodding slightly, facing the window as you watched the trees and buildings zoom past.

Your mind couldn’t rest, racing with thoughts from all over the place. Thoughts like performing the duties of the wedding night, having to live up to his expectations about your sexual acts or maybe, if he is kind enough, he may take pity on you and guide you through it.

You hoped it was the latter.

It wasn’t that you were scared of intimacy. You simply didn’t like the idea of having your first time with someone you didn’t know or cared about. Since you never got in a serious relationship too, you never got your virginity taken away.

“Something on your mind?” You turn to face him again, watching the concern on his face which was directed towards you. “You seem really deep in your mind.” His voice was always something that sent millions of butterflies through your stomach. It wasn’t really deep but carried the husk and roughness which attracted you in like a fly.

“No, don’t worry about it.. Just thinking..” He didn’t press forward, respecting your silence. You were deeply pleased by that.

Soon, the car stopped at a penthouse, just like one of those dramas you used to watch. You did remember your parents informing you about his wealth, but you didn’t think he would be able to afford a luxury penthouse that probably costs more than what you’ll ever earn.

“Like it?” You smile at him lightly, not to seem as rude or a brat. “Woah, it’s really pretty..” He just shook his head, knowing you are just being polite. “You haven’t even entered the building yet, love.”

You froze at the little nickname, your heart pounding. It sounded so natural coming from him, like he has named you inside his head and accidentally let his little secret slip. He turned red instantly and tried to take it back but you simply gave him a small chuckle, not showing any offence in the nickname.

He calmed down and reached out for your hand, guiding you inside the massive wooden doors of the lobby of the penthouse.

You were in such awe of the entire look of the place that you didn’t even realize when you reached the top floor, the whole floor that he owns. “Welcome to my abode, Y/N.” You watch as he opens the door for you, entering after you to watch the huge smile bloom on your face.

Cream coloured walls, beautiful blue furniture, decorations.. It felt like home. “I had it specially redesigned when we got engaged. It looked like a funeral when I was living in it alone.” You burst out laughing and turn to him with wide eyes, “It’s so beautiful!”

He simply chuckled and walked along with you as you inspected every corner of the penthouse. All the worries out of your mind at the moment. It was all so beautiful and comforting that it calmed your nerves perfectly.

“Let’s go to the bedroom..” he took your hand and guided you towards it, opening the door slowly for the grand reveal. Your jaw dropped when your eyes landed inside the room. Ceiling to floor windows, warm rug, a huge bed with enough space for the both of you to fall asleep without it invading either of your personal spaces.

“And if this bed looks uncomfortable, then you can have your own room..”

You shook your head, blush creeping up your cheeks, “I like it.. Anyway we have to..”

He instantly understood what you meant, “We don’t have to do it if you aren’t comfortable.” Your heart felt as if it would burst out from your chest. He was so polite. “I want to complete it today.. At least, we won’t have to lie in front of your parents during the dinners then.”

He walked inside the room, leading you in as he slowly closed the door behind you. “Are you sure, Y/N?” The look of kindness and understanding almost brought tears to your eyes. He looked at you as if you were someone meant to be protected and loved. Worshipped.

“I’m sure, Sunghoon..”

He held your gaze, trying to find any doubt or pressure about this. He didn’t want you to just bear it and move on like it meant nothing. He wanted to make their first time together memorable. “Ok.. May I kiss you?” He leaned in, his nose almost touching yours. “Yes,”

He closed the gap without wasting another second, hands wrapping around your waist. An involuntary moan escaped your lips, eyes fluttering close at the contact. He wasn’t rough but he wasn’t soft either. It was as if he was staking a claim on someone who now belonged to him. His wife.

Your back pressed against the door as your hands snaked around his neck, pulling him closer to you until your breasts pressed against his chest. He groaned into the kiss, leaning down to reach your neck and left trails of fire behind. “Tell me to stop if it gets too much, love.”

You moaned in acknowledgement as you ran your fingers between his silky hair. A yelp escaped from your mouth suddenly as he sucked on a specially sensitive spot. Instead of leaving it be, he attacked it with soft sucking and biting, leaving hickies all over it. “Hoon—” You breathed as his hands reached your back, gently tugging on the zipper of your reception dress.

“May I?” He pulled back, looking at you with blown pupils and a swollen set of lips. You were sure you looked exactly like that too which shot embarrassment into you but his gaze kept you from wandering anywhere else.

“Yess—Sunghoon,” He opened the zipper in a second, pulling the entire dress in one go, leaving you bare from the top. His eyes dropped down your perked nipples, his heart racing madly. “Fuck, you are so beautiful,”

Before you could even understand what he was about to do, you see him lean and take your left nipple inside his mouth, shooting electricity down your body as you moan out and lean back, grabbing the wall for support.

His hand went up to your other breast, giving it the same attention. His thumb rubs your hard nipple in smooth circles, forcing out soft moans and whimpers from you which shot straight to his cock, hardening painfully in his dress pants.

He groaned and pulled back, leading you towards the bed and laid you on your back before he hovered over you, gazing into your eyes with his lust filled ones. “If I keep going, I won’t be able to stop myself, love..”

You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling him into another kiss. “Don’t hold back.. But—” He frowned, tilting his head slightly. “But what?” You gulp, heart pounding inside your ear as heat pooled between your thighs and also on your cheeks. “I’m a virgin..”

You felt him still under your fingertips, going completely silent at your confession. Seeing no reaction from him, you almost panicked because you thought you finally screwed up. Making him think that you won't be up to his expectations— “It’s ok, I will prepare you well..” He pressed a quick peck on your lips before rising up, holding eye contact with you as he started to unbutton his shirt and pants.

“You aren’t disappointed?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “No.. It just means that I will make love with you. Treat you with respect and gentleness.” You didn’t know what he actually meant by that. Weren’t all sex gentle?

He pulled his shirt away, throwing it across the room as the moonlight shines inside. “No one will be able to see us, love.. Keep your eyes on me.” He left his boxers on but you could see the very obvious bulge of his manhood straining against the fabric, making you leak ever more.

He moved down between your legs, pressing a single finger on the wet patch of your lace panty, making your hips twitch into his hands while a hiss erupts from you. “So wet.. All for me, love?”

You nodded, looking down to hold eye contact with him as he smirked and rubbed feather light circles on your clit through your panties, making it even wetter. “Fuck, so good for me, baby.” He pressed a kiss right on your clothed hole, making you moan and hold his hair in your palms, tugging him closer to your heat.

“Impatient, are we?” He shook his head as you moaned out pleas so he could finally remove the panty and press his mouth against your core. “Have you ever masterbated, love?” The question caught you off guard, your cheeks flushing in embarrassment. “N-no..” He practically exploded inside his own boxers.

You were so innocent, yet extremely filthy by the way your hands tugged his hair to close the distance between his mouth and your core. He finally gave into you and peeled the wet fabric off your skin like he was unwraping a gift.

“Fuck—” You whimpered and suddenly felt subconscious about him staring so intensely at your core that you suddenly felt the need to hide yourself. Before you could close your thighs, his hands stopped it as he looked at you.

“Don't hide yourself from me, Y/N.. You are so beautiful.” You blush and hide your face, muttering a small “shut up” before he dove right into your heat, sucking harshly at your clit. A loud scream fell from your lips as your eyes squeezed shut at the intensity of the pleasure that rushed through your body.

Sunghoon smirked, looking at you squirm against him as he alternated between gentle sucking and harsh flicking of his tongue before he gently pushed one digit into your needy cunt.

Your eyes roll to the back of your head as you already feel a tight knot forming in your stomach. You had never felt that way and tried to grab his attention to warn him but he just didn't stop. As if he knew exactly what was about to happen.

“Hoon—!” Your juices gush out with extreme force, draining stamina off your body as he lapped up your release rapidly like a thirsty dog. “Fuck—s’ sweet, baby,”

He got up and push another digit in your burning cunt. The pain was excruciating but he kissed you instantly to take your attention off it as he scissored your insides, trying to loosen it up for his cock. You thrashed against his hold, holding onto his biceps desperately as the overstimulation started creeping onto you.

“You came too quickly, love.. One more.. Can you give me one more?”

He kissed you again, distracting you from the pain as his fingers piston from and to from your needy hole. You cry out in pain and pleasure, tears streaming down your face which he kissed away. “You’re doin’ so good for me, love.”

He kept whispering sweet praises into your ears as he put another finger in, feeling your walls flutter against his fingers, trying their best to accommodate him. “so—tight!” He felt your thighs tremble, your cries get louder, he knew you were close.

“One more for me, baby, you can do that for me, can't you?” You cried out as another harsh orgasm gushed out, drenching his fingers and the sheets under your fingers. Your tears flow like waterfall as he kisses you gently.. lovingly.

“So good, so good for me Y/N.” He wiped your tears and let you rest for a while, wrapping his arms around your waist as he gave no care about his own raging cock which screamed to be released. You needed some time to recover and he would wait forever.

“Ready for another round, baby?” You looked up from his chest as your breathing was finally even again. The look of love, care and adoration in his eyes brought you to tears. “How can you hold so much love for me when you don't even know me, hoon?”

He looked taken aback by the question, his fingers stilling around your waist. You stare at him expectingly, waiting for his answer that you wanted. Because.. How can he?

“I.. loved you since the day we first met..” He smiled, looking down at the bed, as if replaying the day in his mind. “You walked into that restaurant with such a pretty dress, a cute face and.. wearing an adorable expression..”

“I found you really cute.. And so, I fell..”

He looked into your eyes as he finished, smiling the most sincerely you had ever seen on anyone. “I will wait for you until you love me, Y/N.. I will not stop..”

Your lips trembled at such an expression of the purest form of love. He would wait for you. He loves you. He cares.. “Thank you..” He smiled, leaning down to take you into a kiss again as you moan and reciprocate.

You jerk your hips up to meet his, grinding softly as you hear a needy groan from him. “Don't, love..”

“Why not?”

He broke the kiss and held your hips down, forcing you to look at him. “I want to make love to you, Y/N..” Your heart raced with hunger and something more, something which almost looked like.. Trust.

“Please..”

That was all he needed. Without wasting a second, he removed his boxers, making sure you're watching him carefully as his raging cock sprung free. Your eyes widened as you stared at it.

Hot and red, veins popping while pre-cum dripped down it like a leak. “Like it, baby?” You gulp, looking in his eyes with fear which he sensed, smiling softly. “I promise I will be gentle, love. We can still stop, if you want.”

You quickly shook your head, your hands reaching out to touch him curiously. Your hands around his tip as your thumb automatically rubbed circles on the underside of his head, causing him to grab your wrist and groan with his head thrown back.

“Fuc—don't—shit.” You watch his reaction closely, liking how he sounded and looked like he was going to lose his cool. So you continue to do the thing you accidentally did, twisting it gently. He yanked your hands away and pinned you on the bed, panting heavily.

“Don't, darling.. You cannot handle me right now..” You would absolutely be lying if you said that you didn't find that hot. You did. “I need you, hoon—” You breathed out, holding onto his shoulders as he gathered your slick on his cock, lubricating it so it would slide in without hurting you much.

“Baby—this will hurt.. m’kay?” You nodded, taking deep breaths as he slowly pushed his lip inside your needy hole. Your nails instantly dug into his bicep as a scream exploded through your throat. “Wait—ahk!—hoon!” He paused immediately, doing everything in his will to keep himself from digging deeper into your heat.

“I know, baby, I know..” He kissed you all over your face and pushed in inch by inch, distracting you with soft kisses and tons of praises while you were a trembling mess under him. God, he was addicted.

“That's it, baby—” he buried himself inside you completely, groaning at your walls, sucking him greedily, squeezing tightly around him, making him go crazy. The intense pain left you dizzy with a headache as you cry and scream at him to pull out. He remained calm and kept kissing you, not moving an inch and letting you adjust to him completely.

“So good for me, love. So good—” He didn't stop saying how good you were. He knew you needed encouragement and distraction and he was very happy to do the job for you. When you calmed down slightly, he pulled back and looked at you, meeting your teary eyes.

“You ok, Love?” You could only manage to give him a nod, unable to speak a single syllable. “May I move?” You nod again, your fingers tightening around his bicep. He pulled out inch by inch before pushing in again, ever so gently and continued the slow rhythm.

Soon, the pain transformed into pleasure as your scream of mercy turned into pleas of him going faster. Of course, who was Sunghoon to deny that request? He slammed harder against you, holding you like a delicate doll as he rearranged your insides while whispering sweet praises like honey inside your ear.

“Hoon—fuc—I'm close!” You screamed, eyes shut tight as his chain around his neck slapped your chin, driving you crazy. “Come for me, love. Soak me completely..” He sneaked a hand down and rubbed firm circles around your clit, earning another scream from you as your orgasm exploded out onto his cock, milking him dry.

A grunt ripped out his throat as he felt you squeeze his cock for all its worth as he continued pistoning his hips to meet yours. “Where do y—you want it, baby?” Sunghoon asked, looking at you with blown pupils and darkened lust filled eyes.

Sweat beading down his forehead to his chest, making him look extremely hot. Without thinking, you reply, “Stomach, hoon—” He dropped his forehead onto yours, helping you ride out your wave as he neared closer. “Fuck—Y/N—” He pulled out in an instant and gave few harsh strokes to his raging cock as you watch him explode and empty his balls out onto your stomach, painting it with his hot semen.

The both of you moaned in sync as his hot release splashed all across your stomach and chest, marking you as his. “Mine.. baby..” You watch him give himself a few more strokes before he ploppled down beside you, instantly wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face in your hair.

“You did so good, Y/N.. I'm so proud of you.” He gave you small, rewarding pecks, watching as you giggle at the ticklish feeling, trying to dodge his kisses. “I love you, Y/N. And I will wait for as long as you need me to..”

You smile, tears filling your eyes at his words. “Thank you, hoon..”

🏷 Gen taglist : @wooyoungmybelovedhusband @en-injang @h-eva-n @rikisdiheater @heelvcr @heeddungi @boundlesselixirflux @kristynaaah @mybeloveddiary @daydreamer231 @en-muse @wonderikii @firstclassjaylee @rikisblog @nikisleftside [15/50] , Join?

“This movie is not scary,” he said flatly, reaching into the popcorn bowl on your lap without looking away from the screen.

“I never said it was scary. I said it was disturbing. There’s a difference.”

“Well it’s neither.”

“A man is making a suit out of human skin, Sunghoon.”

“I’ve seen worse.”

You looked at him. “Where?”

He paused. “Nature documentaries.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and something shifted in his expression. Barely anything, just the faintest softening in the corner of his eyes. It was so quick you almost missed it. Almost.

That was the thing about Park Sunghoon. On the outside, he was the picture of composure. Unhurried. Unbothered. The kind of person who could be late to his own birthday party and somehow make everyone else feel like they’d arrived too early. He was like that in class, too. Front row, never frantic, taking notes in that annoyingly neat handwriting of his while everyone around him was three lectures behind and quietly spiraling.

You had met him in your first year, in a mandatory elective neither of you wanted to be in. He’d sat next to you because it was the only seat left, and when the professor had asked everyone to introduce themselves to the person beside them, he had looked at you and said—very seriously—"How fast do you think we could get through this syllabus if we actually tried?”

You had been best friends ever since.

It made sense, in the way that certain things just did. You moved at the same pace. You thought the same things were funny. You could sit in silence for hours and it never felt like anything needed to be filled. He was the person you called when something went wrong and also when something went right. Somewhere along the way those two categories had quietly expanded to include everything in between.

Which was fine. Completely fine. You were not in love with your best friend.

You were almost certain.

On screen, Clarice was walking into the dark. You shifted on the couch, tugging the blanket back toward your side, and Sunghoon let you without comment. This meant he wasn’t paying attention. You glanced over at him.

He was looking at the TV, jaw resting on his hand, expression perfectly neutral. His hair was a little messy—he had come straight from practice, changed into a hoodie in your bathroom, and left his back by the door like he always did. There was something easy about having him here. Something that had started feeling dangerously close to necessary.

You looked back at the screen.

That was when it happened.

No warning. No build-up. No cinematic crack of lightning or sudden ringing in your ears. One moment there was the sound of Clarice's heavy breathing, the low ambient noise of your apartment, the rustle of the blanket—

And then there was a voice.

She always laughs like that when she’s actually surprised. Like she tried to hold it in and lost.

You froze.

The voice was his. Not out loud. His mouth hadn’t moved, you looked right at him. But it was unmistakably Sunghoon’s voice, low and even, like he was narrating a novel.

You didn’t move.

She’s been using the same shampoo since second year. I don’t know why I know that.

Your heart stopped. You turned very slowly to look at him. He was still watching the movie. Completely still, completely unaware. The popcorn bowl was between you and he reached into it again without looking and his arm brushed yours and—

Don’t make it weird. Don’t make it weird. You’re fine. She’s just… A pause. She’s right there.

You stared at him, but he didn’t stare back. He watched Anthony Hopkins monologue as if absolutely nothing was happening, as if his internal voice had not just short-circuited your entire brain, and you sat there in the blue light of your TV thinking: what the fuck.

You didn’t sleep well that night. 

Not because of the movie. The movie was fine. Buffalo Bill was unsettling on a conceptual level but you’d watched it twice before and you had a high threshold for cinematic weirdness. No, you didn’t sleep because you laid in bed staring at the ceiling and replayed every single thing you’d heard for the remaining forty minutes of the film.

And there had been a lot.

Her apartment always smells like that candle. I should figure out what scent it is. For no reason.

She’s cold. She’s not going to say anything. She’ll just suffer. I should—and then he’d shifted and tugged part of the blanket over to your side without a word, like he’d just decided something.

Two more weeks until her birthday. I already know what I’m getting her. I’ve known for three months. That’s normal… that's a normal amount of time to know

She’s laughing again. Okay. Cool. I’m fine.

You rolled over and pressed your face into the pillow.

Park Sunghoon. Your best friend. The most unreadable person you had ever met in our life, who apparently had an entire internal monologue dedicated to noticing things about you. Your laugh, your shampoo, your candle, the way you got cold and didn’t say so. And he never let any of it reach his face.

For how long? How long had this been happening?

You thought about the soft look he’d tried to hide when you laughed. You thought about the blanket. You thought about I’ve known for three months, that’s normal—

You groaned into your pillow. This was a lot of information to receive on a Tuesday.

The next morning, you tested it.

Sunghoon had a habit of coming over early on Wednesdays because you both had the same 10 am lecture and he lived closer to your building than campus. It was an arrangement that had started practically and continued sentimentally, which was very on-brand for your entire friendship.

You knocked at 8:52. You opened the door in your oversized sweatshirt and immediately, before he’d even said hello—

She looks good in the mornings. She always looks good in the mornings. Fuck, thats extremly inconvenient.

You felt your face do something. You couldn’t control it.

“What?” he said.

“Nothing.” You stepped back. “I made coffee.”

He came in, dropped his bag, accepted the mug you handed him, and leaned against your kitchen counter with the air of someone who had never experienced a chaotic thought in his life. You watched him over the rim of your own mug and waited.

She’s staring.

It’s fine. She stares sometimes. It means nothing. Don’t read into it. 

… She’s still staring.

“I’m not staring,” you said, more like blurted.

He looked at you. “I didn’t say you were.”

Fuck. “You were thinking it.” You said, which was technically true in the most unhinged way possible.

Sunghoon looked at you for a moment longer than necessary. Then he took a sip of his coffee. “Okay,” he said, in a tone that meant he had filed this away and would return to it later.

You needed a plan.

Here’s what you knew:

Sunghoon was not going to say anything. That was simply not how he worked. He could think about your shampoo and memorize your candle scent and spend three months deciding on a birthday gift and still show up every Wednesday looking like a man without a single complicated feeling. He would do this indefinitely. He would probably take it to his grave.

And you—you, who had spent the better part of a year trying very hard not to notice the way he looked at you sometimes—were not going to wait for a grave.

So you made a decision.

You were going to give Park Sunghoon exactly what he wanted. Piece by piece. Situation by situation, all of it carefully constructed so that he thought it was happening naturally. And at the end of it, he was going to have no choice but to say it out loud.

All you had to do was listen.

It started small. 

Friday night, you invited him to the convenience store. Normal enough, you did this roughly once a week, usually for ramen and whatever snack had rotated its way onto the seasonal shelf. But this time, on the way back, you chose the path along the river instead of the shortcut through the carpark.

It was cold enough that your breath fogged the air. The streetlights caught in the water. You had your hands tucked into your sleeves, thinking that this had been a good idea when Sunghoon’s voice materialized quietly in your head.

I always want to walk this way. She never wants to walk this way.

You looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes. “Isn’t this nicer?”

A beat passed. “Yeah.” He said. He was looking ahead, but something in his shoulders had settled. “It is.”

She remembered.

He didn’t say it out loud, of course he didn’t. But you heard it, warm and quiet, and you had to look away before your face gave you away completely.

The next one was trickier.

You were in the library, 3rd floor, your usual table by the window. While you worked through problem sets, Sunghoon arrived twenty minutes later and folded himself into the seat next to you. He unpacked in silence, which was normal. Then he went quiet in that particular way he had where he was trying to figure something out and didn’t want to ask for help, which you also knew, because you knew all of his silences.

You waited.

I could just ask her. She’d explain it without making me feel stupid. She never makes me feel stupid.

But then she’ll know I didn’t understand the lecture and she’ll—

She won’t care. She genuinely will not give two shits.

Obviously I know that. That’s not the issue, the issue is that shes—

A pause.

She’s the only person I actually want help from. Is that a weird thing to feel this strongly about?

You looked up from your notes. “Do you want me to walk you through the regression model? I had to redo it like twice before it clicked.” Not technically a lie.

Sunghoon looked up at you.

“I’m serious,” you said, keeping your face carefully neutral. “It’s faster if we do it together.”

Something moved behind his eyes. Not readable: it never quite was. But it was there. He slid his notebook across the table toward you. “Okay.”

You worked through it side by side, your handwriting appearing in the margins of his notes, carefully avoiding his various doodles across the page. Your shoulders pressed close together so you could feel the warmth of him. And under everything, you could hear him thinking:

This is my favorite way to study. This is my favorite way to do a lot of things.

Then came the party.

Jungwon’s birthday parties had a reputation. What started as a small gathering with a reasonable headcount always turned into something completely different by 11 pm. More people, more noise, more empty bottles lined up along the windowsill like a timeline of bad decisions. You had been to enough of them to know to eat beforehand.

You arrived a little after 10. Sunghoon was already there—you found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a drink in his hand, talking to someone from his major with the energy of a person attending a very calm business lunch. Completely unbothered. Completely composed.

You felt him notice you before he looked up.

There she is.

Warm. Immediate. Like a reflex he’d long stopped trying to correct.

You made your way over and he handed you a drink without being asked, already knowing. Smirnoff Ice Raspberry. What a gentleman.

“How long have you been here?” You asked him.

“An hour.”

“An hour and you’re already relaxed?” You say, gesturing to what you can clearly tell is not his first drink of the night.

“I’m always relaxed.”

I am not relaxed. Her outfit is so small and I’ve been here an hour just wondering when she would show up and she shows up in that!

You took a sip of your drink to hide your expression.

By eleven, the party had done its inevitable thing. The hallway was full, the music was louder, and someone had started a game in the living room that you’d opted out of on principle. You weren’t really in the mood to kiss random men when you had one pining over you in his head. 

You were on your 3rd drink, warm at the edges, feeling the particular looseness that came from just enough and not too much.

Sunghoon was on something closer to his fifth.

You could tell only because you knew him. To anyone else, he looked exactly the same. Same posture, same unhurried delivery, same expression that gave away absolutely nothing. He was holding his cup with the same quiet authority he held everything. Responding to people in full, measured sentences.

But his thoughts.

She laughed at something. I didn’t hear what it was. Doesn’t matter, I’d listen to her laugh for an unreasonable amount of time and never get tired. I’ve accepted that.

You pressed your lips together and did your best to bite back the blush running towards your cheeks.

Her drink is almost empty. I should—a pause, like he was negotiating with himself—no. That’s too obvious. She can get her own. She doesn’t need me to—

You watched him glance at your cup from across the room, completely imperceptibly, and then look away.

Fuck this. I can’t let anyone here think she’s single. Even though she is. Fuck.

He appeared by your side sixty seconds later and held one out. You took it.

“Thank you!” You said.

“Mhm.” He looked at the room.

She smells like that candle again. She must’ve been home before this. God I’m pathetic.

You stared very hard at a window across the room and reminded yourself to breathe normally.

It got worse—better, actually—as the night went on.

You found a quieter corner of the apartment, as you usually did, and the party moved around you while you stayed still. This was your pattern. Your orbit. Sunghoon stood close enough that your shoulders almost touched and talked to you in that low, even voice of his about nothing important—a lecture, a teammate, something Sunoo had said earlier that had mildly irritated him.

I think about telling her all the time. Like, constantly. It’s become a problem. I’ll be in the middle of something completely unrelated and I’ll just—think about her. The way she argued about things she cares about. The way she falls asleep during movies and then insists she wasn’t sleeping.

She’s always sleeping. I never say anything. I let her have it. I’d let her have everything if that’s what she wanted

Later, the crowd thinned. Someone swapped the music for something slower and the kitchen light cast everything in a warm gold. You were feeling pretty drunk, loose and light and devious, if you were 100% honest.

Because here’s the thing. You had spent the past 2 hours listening to Sunghoon’s internal monologue short-circuit in real time, and the drinks had made you brave, and you decided you were going to have fun.

You turned to face him fully and leaned your shoulder against the wall so you were looking up at him. Close. Closer than you’d normally stand.

“You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m always quiet.”

“More than usual.”

He looked at you. Said nothing, of course. His face was perfectly, infuriatingly composed.

She’s standing really close. Okay, that’s fine. She does that sometimes. It doesn’t mean any—she’s looking at me like that again.

You smiled, slow and deliberate, and watched his jaw shift almost imperceptibly.

“What?” He asked.

“Nothing.” You reached over and fixed the collar of his shirt—it didn’t need fixing. You just did it. Fingers brushing the side of his neck for half a second before you pull your hand back. 

The thought that hit you was instantaneous.

Oh. A pause. Don’t. Do not.

His expression didn’t change. He simply looked at you with the same unhurried calm he looked at everything with and said “Thanks” in a voice that gave you nothing.

You were going to lose your mind. Give me something, asshole!

You shifted closer under the pretense of someone passing behind you and didn’t shift back. Your hand was on his arm now, you could feel the warmth of him through his sleeve.

She’s not moving. She’s not moving and I cant—I need to—Fuck she looks so good tonight. She always looks so good—I’m going to need a cold shower tonight.

“Cold?” He asked.

You tried not to laugh at how well it connected to his thoughts. “A little.” You lied.

He didn’t say anything, but he turned very slightly so his body was angled towards yours, the smallest possible adjustment, like he was trying to do so without admitting he was doing it.

Keep talking, his thoughts said, unprompted. Just keep talking to me. I don’t care what you say, I just wanna—

“Tell me something.” You say.

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

He considered this with great seriousness of someone preparing for war. You watching him think and heard the entire thing unravel. I want to tell her so many things. I want to tell her that I think about her all the time. I want to tell her she’s the first person I want to call when anything bad happens. I want to tell her to touch me and never stop.

“Jungwon’s playlist sucks.” Is what he chose instead.

You laughed. You couldn’t help it. The contrast of his thoughts to the words coming out of his mouth was just too hilarious for you to handle. He watched you laugh and his thought arrived soft and immediate:

There it is.

You looked back up at him, still smiling, and let the moment stretch. Then, slowly, you reached out and took the cup from his hand—just to take a sip, just as an excuse—your fingers overlapping his for a second before he let go.

His entire internal monologue went briefly nonverbal for a moment.

Fuck she has no idea what she’s doing to me. She genuinely cannot know. If she knew she would—she wouldn’t—she doesn’t—

A pause. A long one, actually.

Does she know?

You handed the cup back. Your fingers brushed him again on the pass. Deliberate. Completely deliberate.

I want you so bad.

The thought arrived and made you almost choke on air. It was so helplessly honest that it made your stomach flip. Not chaotic, necessarily, just true. Simple and overwhelming and incredibly sincere and raw.

I’ve wanted you for so long and you’re just standing here and I can’t tell you! Not like this. 

But please don’t move.

You don’t move. Sunghoon stood beside you looking unbothered.

This, you thought, was the most fun you had ever had in your entire life.

Your shared 10 am was held in a wide tiered lecture hall that fit about two hundred students and smell permanently of coffee and resignation. You sat in the same spot every week, middle left. Close enough to see the slides, far enough to feel like you had options. Sunghoon always sat next to you. 

You go there first on Tuesday. When he arrived, he dropped into the seat next to you and pulled out his notebook. You were ready.

You chose to wait until the lecture started, until he was settled. Pen in hand, paying attention the way he always did. 

Then you leaned over, close enough that your shoulder pressed into his and whispered “Can I borrow a pen?”

You had 3 in your bag. He didn’t know that.

He reached into his case without looking and held one out. Your fingers closed around it slowly, over his, just for a second longer than necessary.

Don’t fucking look at her. Look at the slide. There is a slide, dammit.

You settled back into your seat and uncapped the pen like nothing happened. Ten minutes later you leaned in again. “What did he say? I missed it.” Your lips were approximately four inches from his ear. You felt him go very still and you smiled.

She smells so good. Why does she always—focus! He’s talking about monetary policy. Monetary policy. That’s what's important right now.

“Quantitative easing.” he said, in a voice that was completely level. Not even a crack. 

“Thanks,” you murmured, and sat back.

I cannot believe I’m this affected by quantitative easing.

Sunghoon played like he did everything else, with total composure and quiet precision. Like the game was simply a problem being solved in real time. You had been to his matches before but usually with a group. This time you came alone and found a spot near the front and he saw you during warm ups.

You waved.

His expression softened the slightest bit. She’s wearing my hoodie.

You were, in fact, wearing his hoodie. The one he’d left at your place three weeks ago and you’d simply never given it back. You had put it on this morning with full awareness of what you were doing and zero remorse.

That’s my hoodie on her and she looks—I have a game. I have a game in four minutes. Get your fucking shit together.

He focused on the game. You watched him be extraordinary at it with the detached calm of someone who had done it a thousand times, and every few minutes a thought would surface.

Is she still here? She is. Good.

At halftime he jogged to the sideline and grabbed his water bottle and glanced at you once. It was brief, but you smiled as always and tucked your hands into the front pocket of his hoodie.

She’s so cute.

Then he went back to playing.

After the final whistle—they won, 2-1, Sunghoon had assisted in both goals with the energy of a man doing his grocery shopping—he found you at the edge of the field. Hair slightly damp, still catching his breath, looking at you with a gaze like you were the only girl in the world.

“You played great!”

“Thank you.” He said breathlessly.

You reached up and fixed a part of his hair that had fallen across his forehead, the same way you fixed his collar at the party. Easy and unbothered. 

I’m so in love with her it’s embarrassing. And she’s still touching my hair. I will stand here forever. I will stand on this field until the groundskeepers kick me off.

It was a Saturday when it stopped being a game.

Not because you decided it. Not because anything dramatic happened to signal a shift. It was a Saturday and you were making dinner and Sunghoon was in your kitchen, and somewhere between the two of you it just became too much.

It had started normally enough. He texted at five asking if you’d eaten. You hadn’t. He showed up twenty minutes later with groceries and no further explanation, which was so perfectly, infuriatingly him that you hadn’t even questioned it. This was just a thing he did. This was just how he was with you.

The kitchen was warm. You had music on low—something ambient and unhurried. Sunghoon had taken over the stove with the quiet authority he applied to everything while you sat at the counter and handled the easier tasks: chopping, stirring, handing things over when he asked.

It was comfortable, it was always comfortable with him.

But you had spent a week being deliberate about every point of contact and now you were tired and warm and a little undone by the Friday couch moment still sitting in your chest, and tonight you weren't being strategic. Tonight things just kept — happening.

Like the way you leaned over to check on the pan and your arm slid along his. The way he reached past you for the salt and didn't move back immediately. The way the kitchen was small and you were both in it and neither of you seemed to be trying very hard to maintain any kind of distance.

She's everywhere in this apartment, he thought, while stirring something and looking straight ahead. Everything here is her. I come here and it just — feels like her. I don't know what to do with that.

You handed him a spoon without being asked and your fingers touched and the thought that followed was short and unadorned:

I love her.

Not feral. Not desperate. Just true, the way facts were true, the way gravity was true, delivered in the same internal voice he used to note the weather or remember an appointment.

I love her and I don't know how much longer I can—

"You're quiet," you said.

"I'm always quiet."

"Different quiet."

He glanced at you. "You say that a lot."

"Because it keeps being true."

He looked at you for a moment, something unreadable moving behind his eyes, and then looked back at the stove.

You watched him. The line of his shoulders, the careful way he moved, the complete and total composure he maintained at all times like it cost him nothing when you knew — you knew now — exactly what it cost.

You slid off the counter and moved to stand beside him. Not for any reason. Just to be closer.

She's right next to me. She keeps doing this. She's been doing this all week and I—I don't know if she knows what she's doing. I think she might know. Does she know?

You reached past him to adjust the heat on the burner — he was standing right there, you had to reach across him to get to it, your arm brushing his chest for a half second — and when you pulled back you turned your head and found his face much closer than you'd anticipated.

Neither of you moved.

Okay, his brain said, with a kind of strained calm. Okay. This is—She's right there. She's looking at me. I have been in love with her for over a year and she is right there and I—

"Y/N."

His voice came out different. Lower. The composure was still there but something underneath it that wasn't, some thread pulled just tight enough that you could hear it.

"Yeah?" you said.

He looked at you. Really looked — the way he had on the couch on Friday, no pretense, no performance, just Sunghoon looking at you like you were something he'd stopped being able to look away from.

"What are you doing?" he said.

It wasn't accusatory. It was quiet. Genuine. Like he actually needed to know.

And here was the thing — here was the part you hadn't planned for — you opened your mouth to say something easy and deflecting and instead what came out was the truth.

"I don't know anymore," you said. "I think I stopped doing anything on purpose about three days ago."

Something in his face shifted. The last careful layer of it, the one he always kept in reserve, the one you'd never seen him let go of before.

"Three days ago," he repeated.

"The game," you said. "Friday. You were just — you were just being you and I—" you stopped. Laughed a little, helplessly. "I've been driving myself crazy, Sunghoon."

She—

His thought didn't finish. Like his brain had simply stopped processing and switched to something else entirely.

"You've been driving yourself crazy," he said, and something in his voice had shifted too, something dry and disbelieving and warm underneath it. "You've been driving me crazy for a week. You know that, right?"

You looked at him. "Have I?"

"In lecture," he said. "The couch. The game." A pause. "The collar." He said the last one quietly, like it had been living in him since the party and had just now been let out.

"The collar," you repeated innocently.

"You knew what you were doing."

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Y/N."

"Sunghoon."

He looked at you for a long moment, this boy who never cracked, who never rushed, who kept everything behind his eyes until he decided otherwise — and then he decided otherwise.

"I'm in love with you," he said. Simple. Direct. Like he'd taken aim and let go. "I have been for a long time and this week has been the most unhinged experience of my life so if you have something to tell me I really think you should tell me now."

The most unhinged experience of my life. You almost laughed again. He had no idea. "I'm in love with you too," you said. "I have been. For a long time, I think."

He exhaled.

Not dramatically — this was Sunghoon, nothing was ever dramatic — just a slow breath out, like something he'd been holding had finally been set down. His hand came up and found your jaw, tilted your face up toward his, and he looked at you for one long, unhurried moment the way he did everything.

There she is, he thought, soft and certain and final. There she is.

Then he kissed you.

It was warm and quiet and careful and then — when you kissed him back, when your hand found the front of his shirt — not careful at all. His other hand found your waist and pulled you closer and you went, and the food on the stove went briefly unattended, and the music played on low in the background of your apartment that smelled like his candle and yours combined now, that had his bag by the door and his key on the hook, that had been halfway his for a long time already.

His last coherent thought, before everything else: Finally.

He kissed you like a man starved, and after everything you had heard the past couple of weeks, he was starved. His hands tightened on your waist the slightest bit, almost as if he was afraid you would leave.

You wouldn’t dream of it.

Your hands dragged up his shirt and towards the back of his neck, pushing him closer and playing with his hair. Sunghoon let out a shaky breath, which made you smile into the kiss.

“Shut.” Kiss. “Up.” Another kiss. His voice was so low that it shocked you, but you were too busy to even fully notice.

“I didn’t say anything.” You say in between his kisses. Eventually you force yourself to pull away. His face looks like you just slapped him, but you caress his face. “I’m just turning off the stove.”

Sunghoon pursed his lips together. “Right. I forgot. I was kinda distracted.”

You stare at him for a moment, taking him in. His flushed cheeks, his glossy eyes, his hands that refuse to leave your waist. “At the risk of sounding too forward—”

“Be forward. That’s all I’ve wanted this entire week.”

You nod. “Well.. we can go to my room…?”

You barely got the chance to hear his brain fry itself when he smashes his lips back down onto yours. He seems hungrier now, and the thought has you reeling. All you can hear are bits and pieces. Please, and I’m obsessed with you, cross his mind over and over again, but you’re too involved in him to care.

“Is that a yes?”

“It’s a please.”

Sunghoon keeps kissing you as the two of you walk (awkwardly. It’s surprisingly hard to keep a straight line of direction when a man is kissing the shit out of you) to your bedroom. The door was already open, and your bed was already made. The two of you just flopped onto the mattress, not bothering to stop.

He laid above you, moving from your lips to everywhere else. “I’ve been in love with you,” a kiss on the cheek, “since that IKEA argument,” a kiss on your jaw, “when you were wearing that stupid,” kiss on the neck, “fucking,” kiss on your collarbone, “shirt.” He keeps kissing you, mumbling more. “It was the tiniest shirt in existence and you wore it around me.”

“It was the first shirt I saw that day.”

“Well it made me really hard.” He says, looking down at you. 

“Oh, did it now?” You say, a playful smirk on your face. 

He wipes that smirk off with a kiss, trailing back down to the collarbone, sucking on various spots. You choose not to think about how much of a pain it will be to whisk those out of your skin before your shift. Instead, you choose to live in the moment. 

His hands trail from your waist to your sides. “Can I?” He asks, hands incredibly still. You nod, but that’s not enough for him. “Please say it.”

“Yes, Sunghoon.”

He wastes no time in taking your shirt off, throwing it somewhere in your room for you to find later. “So beautiful.” He mumbles, almost incoherently. “Wanted this for so long. You for so long.”

Every word, every kiss, every touch sends sparks up and down your body. You don’t know how you’ve lived without this, but now that you have it you won’t ever give it up. You run your hands under his shirt and on his bare skin, feeling the warmth of the man on top of you. 

It’s barely even a touch, and yet he folds completely. Head in your neck, holding you tightly. You feel the outline of abs and a strong v line, hands going lower and lower. Instead of the obvious, you choose to grab the hem of his shirt and pull it. He instantly moves, allowing you to pull the shirt off him—with his help of course.

You had seen him shirtless before. Sophomore year pool party hosted by Jake. But this is completely different. 2 years of soccer and consistent working out has made this man built. And you were not complaining. 

You grab his jeans and pull him back in, but he stops himself.

“I wanna try something.”

You give him a nod, and he moves to pull down your sweatpants, leaving you in just a bra and underwear. Sunghoons eyes rake over your body in a way that screams adoration. If you had ever thought he didn’t like you, his actions now change your mind immediately.

“Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

“Okay.” You say quietly, unsure of what's to come.

He starts kissing your neck once more, moving down to your collarbone, then shoulder, then sternum. He makes it his mission to kiss every part of you. Your tits, your stomach, your hips. You don’t even realize how far down he is until he plants a kiss right above your underwear.

He goes to one hip, then the other, planting kisses on both. But instead of going where you want him, he goes to your thighs. He starts at the left, gentle kisses up and down your inner thigh, making you squirm. At the right, his kisses are still gentle, but they're closer now. Closer to where you want him. To where he wants to be.

“So beautiful.” He murmurs, finally pressing a kiss to your clothed heat. A delicate kiss, yet it made you squirm. God, this man is the devil.

“Please…” You sigh, not even realizing that you said it.

“Whatever you want.” He hooks a finger around your underwear, dragging the lavender cloth down your legs slowly. He makes sure to actually take them off, and not let them pool around your ankles, and then spreads your legs just a bit. “Are you sure?”

You nod. “I’m sure.”

That's all he needed before he put his mouth on you. Soft kisses that drive you crazy, hands grasping the duvet and teeth biting your lip. The pace is brutally slow, testing the waters. But he speeds up a bit. One hand under your leg, pulling you closer, the other on your clit, making slow circles as he eats you out.

If you thought he kissed you like a man starved, then you would be surprised at how he is once he truly tastes you. Hands grip you tightly, moving faster and faster as his tongue makes you cry out. He laps at your folds, tongue going in and out of you on occasion. You close your legs around his head, and he groans like you just gave him dessert. 

You’re so close, you can feel it. And he can too. But he pulls away at the last moment, wiping at his mouth. 

Sunghoon takes a moment to admire you. Naked from the waist down, a simple bra covering you. You’re panting, desperate to reach the orgasm that was cruelly ripped away from you by the man who almost gave you it.

You give him a look, and he gives you one back. “I’ll eat you out as many times as you want later, but right now I just wanna fuck you.”

“I’m on the pill.” You say.

He closes his eyes for a moment. “Is that enough for you? Cause I’ll go get condoms—”

“It’s enough.” You interrupt him, hand on the buckle of his jeans, slowly unworking it. You don’t think you’ve ever wanted something more than you want him right now. Maybe that’s insane to say, but you don’t care. Not when the most gorgeous man you’ve ever seen is about to fuck you.

The two of you waste no time in taking off his jeans, and then his boxers. He also makes sure to take your bra off too.

You aren’t new to sex. It’s a very straightforward process. But sex with Sunghoon seems different. There's nothing wrong with him, it's just the fact you’ve known him for so long and he’s your best friend, and what if this ruins things?

“Hey.” He says, snapping you out of the trainwreck that is your thoughts. “Are you 100% sure? If you say no then I’ll stop, I promise.”

“It’s not that,” You pause, avoiding eye contact with him and his naked lower half. “I just don’t want this to ruin things.”

His hand goes to your waist, gentle and comforting. “This won’t ruin anything. I’ll still be in love with you after this, probably even more than I am right now.”

You think for a second before nodding. “Okay.”

“You still want this?”

“Yes, Sunghoon.” You say with a faux-annoyed face.

He gives you the most genuine smile as he presses his tip against you. The feeling sends a shock straight to your core, and you’ve never wanted anything more than you do right now. He rubs his tip up and down your folds, letting the pre-cum mix with the wetness that was pooling out of you. 

“I’ll go slow, okay?” Sunghoon pushes in slowly, true to his word. You wince, but not in pain. In pleasure. You’re completely engulfing his tip, and he’s looking at it like it’s the Mona Lisa. “Jesus Christ." His voice is low, gravely, and possibly the sexiest thing you’ve ever heard. 

He continues to push, letting your pussy swallow him whole. When he’s finally in, he looks at you first to make sure you’re ready and that you’re still okay. It’s sweet, but you aren’t in the mood for sweet.

And somehow, he hears you loud and clear. He pulls back almost all the way, until it’s just the tip again, and slams into you. 

It has you gasping for air, grabbing the blanket, the pillow, him. He keeps up the pace. Brutal, yet slow. A harsh slam in, a slow drag out. It’s simultaneously too much and not enough.

“Sunghoon…” You whine.

“You want more?”

You nod, and he obliges immediately, snapping his hips into yours faster. You're moaning and writhing underneath him but he doesn’t stop. After all, this is what you wanted. 

It smells of sex, and the only sound you can hear is skin slapping, your whines, and his little groans. Back and forth and back and forth, it’s too much.

You can feel a pool in your core tightening, and in a moment of pure lust you wrap your legs around him and pull him closer.  “You’re fucking evil.” He almost growls, going faster if that was even possible.

Sunghoon’s as desperate as you are, slamming his hips into yours with strength and precision of a man who worked for this his entire life. You can barely form words, just moans as he goes in and out of you.

You tighten around him and he whines, and it’s the most beautiful sound you’ve ever heard. But you don’t get a chance to focus on that. 

“I know honey, I know. Me too, sweet girl.”

His hips stutter, but he’s back on track, fucking you the way you deserve after weeks of psychological torture and cold showers on his part. He’s dreamed of this more times than you could imagine. But this is better than any dream of his. Because you’re under him, eyes shut in pleasure as he fucks the shit out of you the way he’s wanted for so long.

“I’m close.” You manage, hands grabbing on his biceps.

He speeds up. “You wanna cum?” You nod, a tear falling out of your eye from how good everything feels. As he drags himself in and out of you, a hand falls to your clit, rubbing fast circles. You let out a loud moan, only enticing him to keep going. “Come on honey, cum with me.”

He plays with your folds for a few more seconds before your hips buck without warning, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you come undone over his dick. Your legs shake around his abdomen, and you let out a silent cry. 

“Good girl. I’m so close okay? Where do you want me?” He asks, slowing down just a bit.

You’re still reeling from your orgasm and the fact he’s still fucking you. “Anywhere.”

He places both of his hands around you, caging you in as he pounds into you with no remorse, desperate for a release. He can feel you clenching around him, and that’s what sends him over the edge.

“Fuck!” His hips stutter for the final time, pressing into you fully. His head drops down, almost heavy from the week long torture. As he cums in you, his head drops down, almost heavy. You both don’t move for a bit, just staying still

It’s quiet. The only sound being breathing coming from the both of you.

“Did it ruin it?” He asks, breathlessly with a smirk.

“Fuck off!” You reply, lightly slapping his chest.

It was that very moment where you realized you couldn’t hear his thoughts anymore. You would miss the frantic array of thoughts that would show up when you did something miniscule to him, but you weren’t upset.

Maybe it means he finally said all that he needed to say.

taglist: @wonubug @chccnne @endoll @boptak @seobmoji @u2jwon @seobmoji @jiumeow @kyoteas @heeunleash

You hear him before you see him—always the same: the hurried shuffle of too-big shoes, the frantic slam of a shoulder against the swinging glass door, and the apologetic murmur of “Morning” that barely beats out the time clock.

You don’t even look up from your monitor. “It’s 9:47.”

Sunghoon wheezes into his cubicle—which, of course, is right next to yours. His tie is crooked, his glasses fogged, and his hair’s got a single, infuriatingly perfect curl bouncing on his forehead like it was placed there by angels. 

“Yeah,” He huffs. “Sorry. There was traffic.”

There’s always traffic in Metropolis. But that excuse is wearing thin, especially when he is the only one in the building who acts like he has to physically leap over it. 

You finally glance up, deadpan. “You know who else got stuck in traffic today? Me. Chaewon. The kid from copy who literally rides a unicycle to work. We all still made it to work on time.”

He runs a hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly, like that’s supposed to mean something. And somehow, it always does—with everyone else. Chaewon laughs it off. Riki yells, but only half-heartedly. Even Jake calls him “Jeolla” like it’s an inside joke and not an indictment of his hometown and somehow his incompetence. 

But you?

You are not charmed.

You’re Gotham born and bred. You’ve filed stories from under police tape, from fire escapes, from alleys where the blood was still wet. You didn’t claw your way out of that city just to share a byline with a man who treats deadlines like vague suggestions and shows up to work looking like he just wrestled a tornado.

Again!

“You’ve been late every day this week, Park,” You mutter, turning back to your monitor. “If you’re aiming for a record, congrats. You’re winning.”

He’s quiet for a beat. You think you’ve shut him up, finally. But then—“I’ve never really been good at winning things,” He says softly, almost like he’s talking to himself. 

You glance at him from the corner of your eye. There’s something about the way he says it, not pathetic. Just… strange. Like maybe he means something bigger. You almost ask. 

Almost.

Instead, you scoff and shake your head. “Try winning a Pulitzer. Might help your case.”

He grins again, that irritating, dimpled grin, and unpacks his bag like he didn’t walk in almost an hour later. You hate that he’s always late. You hate that nobody seems to care. You hate that he never has a good excuse, but still somehow gets away with it.

And most of all?

You hate that you’re starting to care enough to notice.

2 ── You hate his "aw shucks" act.

If Park Sunghoon’s lateness is a thorn in your side, then his personality is the knife twisting next to it. 

Not that it’s a bad personality, exactly. That’s the problem. On paper, he’s the perfect coworker—polite, humble, well-liked by every living soul in the building. He holds elevators. He offers to do coffee runs even when it’s pouring. He once helped Heeseung from Archives fix the jammed printer with nothing but a safety pin and a hopeful smile.

People adore him. They smile when he walks into the room. Laugh at his dumb jokes. Trust him. 

You do not.

Because you’ve been watching. You’ve been taking mental notes since week two. That “aw shucks, I’m just a small-town guy from Jeolla” routine is too well rehearsed. No one is that gentle and that oblivious. No one stammers through meetings and then turns in a perfect copy by the end of the day. No one is that clumsy—spilling coffee, tripping over wires—and yet somehow always lands on their feet.

You didn’t come from Gotham to fall for the world’s oldest trick.

So when he chuckles nervously after Chaewon slaps him on the back for landing a quote from the Steel Syndicate leader—a quote you had been chasing for a week—you grit your teeth and mutter:

“Oh, give me a break!”

Sunghoon turns to you, blinking. “Sorry?”

You don’t bother to fake it. “You play the ‘golly gee’ routine, but you’re sharper than you act. And frankly, it’s annoying.”

His brows knit behind his glasses. “I’m not acting.”

You arch an eyebrow. “Right. You just accidentally out-interviewed me and walked away with the best lead we’ve had all quarter.”

He laughs, scratching the back of his neck, all bashful. “I really wasn't trying to one-up you. I just—I guess he liked me?”

You scoff. “Of course he did,” You mumble. “Everyone does. Must be the charm of your down-home, butter-wouldn’t-melt-bullshit!”

“I’m from Jeolla, not Nebraska,” He says, like that explains everything.

You lean forward across your desk, voice low. “I’ve met people from Jeolla. They don’t act like they’ve never heard someone curse before.”

Sunghoon shrinks back slightly, like your words sting, but there’s a twitch of something else in his eyes—like he’s fighting a smile.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse,” He offers gently.

You narrow your eyes. “I save it for when I’m alone. Or keep it in my head. Like right now, for example. Internally? It’s a full symphony of four-letter words.”

He snorts, an actual snort, then claps a hand over his mouth like he’s embarrassed by it. That’s when you realize something terrifying. He’s not pretending to be harmless.

He is harmless.

And that somehow makes it worse.

Because no one is harmless in this job. Not in journalism. Not in Metropolis. Especially not if they’re good at it. And Sunghoon? Despite the dopey smile, the apologies, the way he trips over every desk in the bullpen. Sunghoon is very good at it.

You hate that his small town bullshit works. You hate that it makes people underestimate him. You hate that it almost worked on you. But the worst part? You’re starting to realize it’s not an act. It’s who he is.

And that makes you want to scream.

3 ── You hate how he somehow always gets the exclusive.

There’s something sacred about how the word exclusive in a newsroom. It’s the holy grail—the thing that earns you front pages, corner offices, Pulitzers. You’ve chased exclusives down back alleys, stayed on hold for eons, bribed a coffee-stained secretary with two croissants and a MetroCard just to get one measly quote from a crooked city councilman

But somehow, Park Sunghoon just gets them.

Every. Fucking. Time.

He never brags. That would at least make him bearable. He just shows up—late, of course—shrugs off his coat, and drops a crisp interview transcript on Riki’s desk like he tripped over it on the sidewalk.

It’s infuriating.

You first noticed it during the Union Square train derailment. Superman was spotted hauling survivors out of the wreckage. No reporters got near him. Police kept everyone back. Even Chaewon couldn’t get close. And she's Chaewon!

But the next morning?

There it was: Superman Speaks on Metropolis Disaster by Park Sunghoon.

You stared at the byline like it had personally offended you. Your fingers hovered over your keyboard as you read the quote—exclusive, lengthy, insightful. Too insightful.

“He said that?” You asked Sunghoon across the bullpen.

Sunghoon blinked. “Uh, yeah. He flew by while I was walking back from a source.”

You narrowed your eyes. “And what, he just… pulled you into the sky for a heart-to-heart?”

Sunghoon smiled, bashful. “We’ve talked a few times.”

You nearly choked on your burnt coffee.

A few times?

Since then, it’s been quote after quote. Superman says this. Superman warns that. Every piece is conveniently labeled “as told to Park Sunghoon.” You’ve pitched a dozen stories with solid leads, real impact, and Riki still passes them over in favor of Sunghoon’s Superman exclusives.

You’ve tried to ask how he does it. Casually. Aggressively. Once while both of you were on a stakeout at a warehouse near Suicide Slums, you even offered him your last protein bar if he’d just tell you how the hell he keeps finding Superman.

Sunghoon just smiled. That soft, maddeningly patient smile, and said, “I think he trusts me.”

Trusts him.

Like Superman sits around rating journalists on a Yelp scale.

You stare across the bullpen now, watching Sunghoon quietly type something into his terminal. He looks like a librarian. One of those sleepy, gentle ones who offer you a tissue when you cry reading To Kill a Mockingbird. 

And yet somehow, he gets the hero in blue to spill his guts.

You hate it.

You hate that it makes you question your own work. You hate that you keep looking for the cracks in his story, the thing that explains how he’s doing this. You’ve doubled-checked timestamps. Scrubbed security footage. Asked sources. Nothing adds up. 

No one sees Sunghoon talking to Superman.

And yet Sunghoon knows things. Small details. Direct quotes. Reassurances Superman has never given anyone else.

You lean back in your chair and stare at the ceiling. Either Park Sunghoon is the luckiest man in Metropolis… or he’s hiding something.

And you don’t believe in luck.

4 ── You hate that he doesn't talk shit.

Newsrooms run on gossip.

That’s just a fact.

You don’t survive in this field—not in this city—without learning to weaponise information. It’s part of the culture. You swap barbs while the coffee brews, trade snark over late-night edits, hurl critiques and conspiracies like dodgeballs. Everyone does it. It keeps you sane. Keeps you sharp.

Except Sunghoon.

Sunghoon doesn’t talk shit.

At first, you assumed it was a tactic. A kind of passive power play, let everyone else tear each other down while he keeps his hands clean and his halo polished. You even waited for him to crack. Made space for it.

Chaewon stormed past your desks muttering, “If I have to rewrite one more of Franklin’s clickbait trash, I swear to God—” and you turned to Sunghoon, ready.

Nothing.

He just said, “Franklin’s trying to juggle two kids and night school. He’s doing the best he can.”

You blinked. “That’s your take? Really?”

Sunghoon smiled, easy. “Well, it’s not like yelling about it helps.”

You stared at him for a full beat, then scoffed. “Wow. How do you make ‘reasonable’ sound so smug?”

He laughed. Not mocking. Not defensive. Just… amused.

It keeps happening.

Gina in Copy fakes sick twice in one week to go see her boyfriend in Coast City. Nobody buys it. You expect Sunghoon to at least comment. Something gentle, like “Must be nice to have a love life” but he just covers her calls without being asked.

When Jungwon blows a quote in a city council interview, you hear three people mutter about it near the break room. Sunghoon hears too. You watch his eyes flick in that direction, but he doesn’t engage. He just brings Jungwon a coffee the next morning with no explanation.

You don’t get it.

You’ve worked with assholes and saints and everything in between. But there’s always a crack. A vent. A gripe. A single “Jesus Christ, can you believe this guy?” at happy hour.

Sunghoon? He smiles, he listens. He takes the fall for other people's mistakes, and never once asks for anything in return.

It’s not that he’s quiet. He barks. He just doesn’t bite. 

You should hate it. Actually, no, you do hate it.

Because it makes you feel mean. Makes you feel like every time you roll your eyes or mutter something under your breath, you’re the one slinging mud at a guy who just… doesn’t throw it back.

He’s not better than you. That’s what you tell yourself. He’s not better. He’s just boring. But that’s not true, is it?

Because when Carol’s mom lands in the hospital, he’s the one who quietly organizes a grocery drop-off.

When Riki has a meltdown over a typo in the Sunday headline, Sunghoon doesn’t flinch. He just calmly fixes it. Compliments the new intern’s formatting, and reminds Riki to breathe.

When you come in one morning with three hours of sleep and that coil, pre-caffeine snarl already at your lips, he places a black coffee on your desk without saying a word.

You hate how it makes your chest tighten.

You hate that he makes kindness look easy—not loud or performative or fake, just… part of him.

You hate that you’re starting to notice how often his eyes go soft when someone’s having a bad day.

You hate how your shoulders drop just a little when he walks in.

You hate how, for all the ways he frustrates you, he never gives you a real reason to hate him back.

You tap your pen against your notebook and glances at him—across the bullpen, bent over his desk, tie askew, glasses sliding down, that same stupid curl on his forehead. He’s reading something, mouth twitching like he might laugh, and you watch him longer than you mean to.

You shake yourself.

No.

This is just a strategy. Observation. Knowing your competition. It’s not softness. It’s not a crush. It’s not a slow-burn, late-blooming kind of fondness, the kind that sneaks up on you when you’re too tired to fight it.

It’s not.

You just hate that he doesn’t talk shit. That’s all.

5 ── You hate how he remembers everything you say.

You’re not the type of person who expects people to remember things.

You’ve had too many conversations die halfway through a sentence. Too many men nod politely, only to ask you the same question a week later like they never heard your answer the first time. You’ve learned to file your words under ‘for now’—disposable, temporary, forgettable.

Park Sunghoon doesn’t see it that way.

You noticed it during your first lunch break, maybe two weeks in. You’d been ranting—venting, truly—about how every salad in Metropolis comes pre-drenching in some sort of smug artisanal vinaigrette. You weren’t even talking to him. Just muttering to yourself while stabbing a piece of limp kale in the breakroom.

The next day, he passed you a plain turkey sandwich from the deli on 6th and said, “They don’t just dressing unless you ask. Though you might like it.”

You blinked at him

“You remembered that?” You asked, caught off guard.

Sunghoon shrugged with a smile. “You seemed passionate.”

You were half convinced it was a fluke. But it wasn’t.

Because the pattern kept happening.

You mentioned once—once—that your favorite weather is when it rains but the sun’s still out. A week later, during one of those golden, misty drizzles, he caught up to you on the steps and said, “Looks like your kind of day, huh?”

You told him offhandedly that your least favorite movie trope is the girl tripping while running. Three nights later, you passed each other in the hallways after working late, and he asked if you’d seen the new action flick in theaters. “No tripping heroines, I promise.”

You said that once your dad used to call you ‘kid’ and that no one’s used the word since.

He’s never called you that. But you catch him hesitating once. Mid-sentence. Like it’s on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it.

You don’t know how to feel about that.

Because you never asked him to remember. You never wanted him to.

You’ve known people who remember birthdays because Facebook reminds them. Or likes and dislikes so they can use them later. But Sunghoon? He never uses it. He just stores it. Quietly. Thoughtfully. Like your words matter. Like they’re puzzle pieces he’s collecting, not to solve you, but to understand you.

And maybe that’s what bothers you most.

Because no one’s ever tried to understand you.

Not really.

Gotham trained you to guard your secrets with blood. To keep your walls high, your smile sarcastic, your stories brief and impersonal. But Sunghoon listens like he’s trying to paint a picture of you in his head, one brushstroke at a time.

And you despise it.

You hate that it makes you feel seen. 

You hate that it makes you feel real.

You hate that it makes you wonder how much you’ve remembered about him.

You glance at his desk. Same stupid Superman bobblehead he swore he didn’t buy himself. Same chipped I Heart Korea mug. Same pair of extra reading glasses tucked into the drawer, just in case.

You remember that he doesn’t like spicy food. That he uses semicolons like they’re going out of style. That he hums the theme from Star Wars when he’s writing something he’s proud of.

You remember way too much.

So maybe you don’t hate that he remembers everything you say. Maybe you hate that you’ve started doing it too.

6 ── You hate that he looks at you like he sees you.

There’s a kind of look people give you when they think they know who you are.

Back in Gotham, it was always the same—calculating, wary, sometimes impressed. You were the youngest on the crime desk, the loudest in the pitch room, the one with the sharpest elbows and the thinnest armor. People look at you like a problem to solve or a rival to beat.

But that’s not how Sunghoon looks at you. He looks at you like you’re someone. Not a headline. Not a byline. Not the girl from Gotham with a chip on her shoulder and a pen like a scalpel.

Just you.

And it drives you batshit crazy.

Because it’s not just in meetings, when you sneak up and catch his gaze across the table—it’s in the little moments. When you’re half-asleep at your desk and he walks by with a fresh coffee. When you’re biting your tongue in an argument and he gives you a look like he already knows what you want to say. When you laugh—really laugh—and you see him watching like it’s a rare event he doesn’t want to interrupt.

It’s too much. Too soft. Too honest. You don’t want to be known like that. Not by him. Not by anyone.

But he keeps doing it. Like it’s effortless. Like seeing you, the real you, the messy and angry and guarded parts is just what happens when he looks at someone.

And you hate that you notice it. And you hate that some small, quiet part of you never wants him to stop.

7 ── You hate how nervous he makes you feel.

You’re not nervous around people.

You’ve been yelled at by corrupt mayors. Cornered by gang members for writing the wrong names in the right story. You’ve told a Gotham crime boss to spell his name correctly if he wants to be quoted. You know how to stand your ground, spine straight, heart steady.

But Sunghoon makes you so nervous that you might shit your pants.

Not in the usual nervous way—not in the way bad people do. He doesn’t threaten or belittle or hover too close. No, Sunghoon stands a respectful distance away and still somehow manages to get under your skin. He fidgets when you talk. He laughs at your sarcasm. He listens like he’s memorizing you on purpose. 

And lately… you’ve been messing things up.

You dropped your pen the other day. Three times. In one meeting.

You forgot what you were saying mid-sentence when he looked at you—just looked at you—like the whole room had gone quiet except for you.

You called him Sunghoon and it came out soft, almost breathless, and it startled you. Like your mouth knew something your brain just hadn’t caught up with yet.

When you brushed against him near the elevator, shoulder to shoulder, your pulse stuttered. Not fear. Not irritation. Something else. Then it hit you.

You like him.

God, you like him.

You like his stupid glasses and his kind eyes and the way he always holds the door for people even when they don't say thank you. You like the way he scribbles notes in the margins of his reporter’s notebook and the way he lights up when someone says the words human interest. You like that he takes his job seriously without ever acting like he’s the smartest man in the room.

You like that he’s good. You trust him. And that might scare you more than anything else on this planet.

You hate that he makes you nervous, because it means your guard is down. And you never let your guard down. Especially not for someone like him. Especially not when he might possibly, slightly, maybe, feel the same way.

Because if he does.. if he does… you’re not sure what happens now.

8 ── You hate that he's Superman.

You almost died today.

Not in the dramatic, flashing-lights-before-your-eyes kind of way. More like sudden and sharp. One second, you were walking past LexCorp Tower with a coffee in hand. The next, the sky cracked open with a sound like the earth tearing apart, and something enormous. A ship? A drone? It spiraled out of control and straight into the street.

You didn’t scream. Not at first. Your body froze instead, the kind of instinct that Gotham should’ve removed. Get big, get loud. Scare the monster away from you.

But flight or fight invited a friend to the party. Fawn. And she told you not to move a muscle. To get small. Get still. And pray to Jesus of Nazareth that the monster passes.

It didn’t.

It was coming right for you.

And then, just like every headline you’d ever written about him, Superman was there.

He was a blur at first. Then red. Then blue. Then everything stopped. The drone crumpled against the pavement thirty feet away, a crater the size of a bus sinking into the asphalt. Wind whipped around you, debris in your hair, your coffee exploded on the ground. And in the center of it all, standing perfectly fine like the chaos had bent around him on purpose—

Him. 

Superman.

He turned to you, eyes impossibly soft for someone who could tear steel apart with his bare hands. “Are you hurt?”

You nodded dumbly. Maybe you shook your head. You don’t remember. Your voice wasn’t working.

He gave you a smile, the kind that should’ve made you feel safe. It did. But it also unsettled something deep in your chest. Almost like recognition.

He took off again in a gust of air and cape and godlike power, and you stood there shaking, your hands empty.

That night, you sat cross-legged on your couch with the local news running in the background, half-heartedly typing notes for tomorrow’s article. You watched grainy footage of Superman returning a flaming car to the street like it was a paper toy. You watched people cheering, waving, chanting his name.

You knew he was a hero. You knew he’d saved countless lives. But seeing him up close? Feeling the air shift around him, the sheer weight of him?

It rattled you.

And yet, what kept circling in your brain wasn’t just the blur of the cape or the force of the landing. It was his eyes.

The way he looked at you.

Like he knew you. Like he saw you.

And then your fingers stopped moving.

Because you’d seen that look before.

Early this week. At the Daily Planet. In the elevator, when you’d complained about the vending machine eating your dollar. 

Sunghoon had looked at you like that.

You stared at the paused frame on your screen. Superman mid-turn, mid-expression.

You grabbed your phone, opened the gallery. A photo Jungwon had taken at Chaewon’s birthday last month. Sunghoon, standing beside you with that same crooked smile. Same jawline. Same posture.

Your heart sank.

No.

You looked again. 

You zoomed in.

And all at once, every thing—every late arrival, every exclusive quote, every ‘You okay?’ after a tremor, every ‘How did he know?’—every moment fell into place like puzzle pieces you’d been too close to see. 

Park Sunghoon is Superman.

You sat there frozen, blinking at the screen as a sick kind of heat spread through your chest. You hate that he’s Superman.

Not because he’s dangerous. Not because he lied—though God, he did.

You hate it because you were just starting to fall for Sunghoon. Sweet, awkward, late-to-everything Sunghoon. Now you’re not sure where Sunghoon ends and Superman begins.

And worst of all? You’re not sure which one of them you’re in love with.

9 ── You hate how he touches you.

You told yourself it was for the story.

That inviting Sunghoon over to your apartment—late, after deadline, with a six-pack in the fridge and the lights dimmed just enough to feel casual—was a journalistic strategy. You even made a notepad with scribbled questions, highlighted sources in your phone, and pulled up three articles from the Planet’s archive as “references.”

But deep down, you knew exactly what you were doing.

Sunghoon knocked once. Polite. Timid. He always knocked like he didn’t want to disturb you, even when he had to enter the bullpen three minutes before a press conference with ink on his tie. You opened the door and didn’t let yourself look too long at the way his glasses slid down his nose or how the sleeves of his white button-down were rolled to his forearms.

He stepped in, soft-voiced as ever. “You said you needed help with something?”

“An article,” You said, breezy. “About Superman.”

And God, you said his name like a test.

Sunghoon blinked. Just once. Just barely. But you caught it.

You offered him a beer. You talked. You took notes on nothing. And he sat there—not relaxed, exactly, but trying to act like he was. He always had this charming nervousness to him. But now that you knew—knew—it wasn’t nerves. It was restraint. It was a man constantly folding himself into something smaller to pass unnoticed.

You kept waiting for him to lie.

He didn’t.

So you forced his hand.

You said it like it didn’t cost you anything: “You’re Superman.”

Silence. Stillness. The longest pause you’d ever heard.

He didn’t deny it.

He didn’t laugh it off.

He just looked at you.

And it was like the air in the room shifted. Something cracked open between you. Not hostile. Not afraid. Just honest.

“You’ve known?” He asked quietly.

“I figured it out after the LexCorp thing. The way you looked at me.”

He closed his eyes. Like he was trying to protect you from something—or maybe protect himself from what he already knew was coming next.

“I never meant to lie,” He said. “Not to you.”

“But you did,” You replied. “Every day.”

And you should’ve been furious. You should’ve thrown him out. Written the article. Exposed everything. But you didn’t.

Because all you could think about was the way he looked at you in the cratered street. The way he always hovered a second longer when your hands brushed. The way he saw you—really saw you—even before you ever knew who he was.

And the way he touched you now, when he reached across the table to cover your hand with his own—gentle, grounding, warm.

You hated it.

You hated the way the contact burned up your arm and across your chest like he’d set your blood alight. You hated how steady it felt, how calm, how wanted. You hated the way it made you lean in, just slightly, like gravity was tugging you toward him.

“You’re mad,” He said.

“I should be.”

He swallowed. “Are you?”

You looked at him—really looked—and saw all of it. The weight of two lives. The softness behind the cape. The man who brought you coffee when you were hungover. The man who pulled a collapsing building off a school bus.

Park Sunghoon. Superman. Both. All.

And you hated that he made you feel like this. Hated the way his fingers curled around yours like he’d been waiting to do it for months. Hated that your heart was pounding so loud you were afraid he could hear it.

You stood.

He stood too.

You should’ve said something. Pulled back. Cut it off.

But when he stepped forward, eyes locked on yours—when he hesitated, like he needed your permission—and when you didn’t stop him—

His mouth met yours, and the world dropped out.

You hated the way it made you forget every single reason you were supposed to hate him. Hated the way his hands were patient, reverent, like he was memorizing the shape of you. Hated the way you melted into him like you’d done this a thousand times in another life.

You hated the sound you made when he pressed you gently against the wall. Hated the tremble in your breath when his lips found the spot just beneath your jaw. Hated how badly you wanted him—and not just the cape. Not just the secret.

Him.

Sunghoon.

You pulled him closer.

And in that moment, you didn’t hate anything at all.

You didn’t mean for it to go this far. You meant to confront him. To unearth the truth. To hold him accountable. 

But now his hands are at your waist—warm, grounding, familiar—and he’s kissing you like he’s spent decades thinking about it. Like he’s imagined it in quiet mornings between bylines and burning buildings. Like it’s the one indulgence he never allowed himself to have.

Your fingers twist in the fabric of his shirt. “Tell me to stop,” He breathes against your skin. You don’t. Because you’ve wanted this. Hated how much you’ve wanted this.

Not just tonight. Not just since he walked through your apartment door with that bashful smile and that stupid, careful politeness like he didn’t have a goddamn clue you were about to wreck both of your lives.

No, you’ve wanted this since the second week at the Planet. And you’ve finally got it.

You fist his shirt and push him back against the wall, chest heaving, and when he looks at you with wide eyes and his lips parted, looking so vulnerable in a way that makes your throat ache, something inside of you snaps.

“You’re such a fucking liar.”

His breath stutters. “I didn’t want to—”

You cut him off with your mouth.

And that’s all it takes.

The kiss is desperate. Messy. Teeth knocking, breath uneven. His hands roam over you like he’s been starving for it, like he’s been dreaming about this for years. One palm slides up your back, the other fists in your hair, and you moan against his lips before biting down, just enough to make him groan.

You push him toward the bedroom.

He lets you.

You straddle him the second he hits the bed, pressing your hips down until you feel him twitching beneath his slacks, already hard, already straining. You grind slowly, deliberately, and his head drops back with a strangled sound.

You kiss him again, slower this time. Meaner. Like a punishment. Like retribution for every late arrival, every Superman scoop, every time he looked at you like you hung the fucking moon.

When you break away, you lean down, your mouth brushing his ear. “I hate you.”

His breath catches. His grip on your hips tightens.

“I hate how soft you pretend to be. I had that stupid fucking ‘golly gee’ act like you’re not hiding the most dangerous secret in the world. I hate you.”

“God,” He breathes, almost broken. “Say it again.”

“I hate you, Sunghoon.”

And then his hands are everywhere.

He rolls you over, yanking your shirt off so fast the fabric nearly rips. His mouth crashed to your neck, trailing heat down your collarbone, between your breasts, across your ribs. When he pulls back to look at you, there’s something primal in his gaze. Starved. Worshipful.

“Tell me where you want me,” He rasps.

You lean up on your elbows. “You’re Superman. Figure it out.”

His growl vibrates through your chest before he drops to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging your pants down your thighs. He doesn’t stop to tease. Doesn’t play coy.

His mouth is on you in seconds.

Hot. Wet. Perfect.

You cry out, hips jerking, but his hands grip your thighs and hold you down, unmovable. His tongue flicks in tight, devastating circles, and then he flattens it. Slow and deliberate, until your eyes roll back in your head.

“Fuck—Sunghoon—”

He moans against you, like the sound of his name falling from your lips is the only thing he’s ever wanted.

Your fingers tangle in his hair. “I hate this. I hate how good you are at this.”

He groans again, deeper, louder. You feel him rutting slightly against the mattress like he’s getting off just from tasting you. The thought makes you whine. It’s almost unfair how good he is at this. Like he’s memorized you.

He finds your clit again, circles it with obscene precision, and you arch off the mattress with a sharp gasp.

“You’re close,” He whispers against you. “I can feel it.”

“I’m going to kill you,” You pant.

“I’ll die happy.”

Your orgasm hits like a wave crashing through you, hot and heavy and blinding, You cry out, sharp and breathless, thighs trembling around his head. Sunghoon doesn’t stop. He licks you through it, soft and reverent. Like he wants to savor every second.

You look down at him, wrecked and panting. “I still hate you,” You manage.

He grins, a real one this time, crooked and infuriatingly gorgeous. “Good,” he says. “Then you’ll hate this even more.”

And just like that, he’s crawling back up your body, slotting himself between your legs, the head of his clothes cock nudging against your soaked entrance.

And he’s still hard. Rock fucking hard.

You blink. “Jesus Christ.”

He pulls his pants and boxers down as his smile widens. “Not quite.”

You punch his arm. He laughs, but the sound dies quickly when he lines himself up and pushes in, slow and smooth, inch by inch. You both groan. You clench around him instinctively, and his jaw locks.

“You feel—fuck. Better than I dreamed.”

“You dreamed about this?”

He leans in, kisses you hard. “Every night.”

You’re still trembling from the first wave when Sunghoon pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark, pupils blown wide like he;s been holding back an entire storm.

You arch up into his hands, desperate and aching. His lips descend again. This time with hungry insistence, sucking bruises into your skin—neck, collarbone—a map of possession in deep, dark purples. You try to catch your breath but he pins your arms above your head with one hand, the other trailing fire down your ribs, across your stomach.

“Don’t move,” he commands, voice trembling like it’s torture holding himself back.

His mouth covers yours again, hot and insistent, teeth grazing your bottom lip as his fingers move faster inside you. He kisses and sucks at your neck, marking you like he’s carving your name into his skin. 

You shiver, heart pounding as he works your shirt off you, fingertips trailing across your ribs once more. He’s relentless, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. You’re gasping, trembling under the weight of his touch. You’re still sensitive from the last orgasm he coaxed out of you, be he’s not done. Not even close.

His hands tremble as he touches you. The way he looks at you now—wide eyes, desperate, like he’s about to break—makes something wild flare inside you.

He’s not the untouchable hero tonight. He’s yours. And you own every inch of him.

You kiss him hard, biting his lower lip as you maneuver the both of you until he’s on his back and you’re on top of him. His skin is impossibly warm under your touch, slick with heat and desire.

Sunghoon’s breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling quickly. He presses himself against you, hands tangled in your hair, holding you close like he’s afraid to let go.

You take control, guiding him down until he’s lying back, breathless and vulnerable. You straddle him, sliding your heat against his ache. His hands cup your hips, trembling, and he whimpers softly as you begin to move.

“Fuck,” he groans, voice thick with need. “So good… God, you’re so good…”

His eyes squeeze shut, mouth falling open, exposing raw, desperate pleasure. He’s never been like this, the strong and invincible Superman, not when it comes to you.

He whines when you shift, when you grind, when you tease that sensitive spot that makes him arch into you, hips jerking uncontrollably. Then you sink down onto him.

“Please, don’t stop,” He begs, voice breathy and broken. 

Your hands slide over his chest, feeling the rapid thumb of his heart beneath your palms. He’s lost, undone, and it’s yours to keep. You ride him slowly, building, driving him higher, feeling every shiver and gasp as his pleasure months.

He whimpers your name over and over, voice cracked and raw. “More.” He begs, fingers clutching your hips tighter. You give it to him.

Faster now. Harder. The room fills with the sound of skin sliding, ragged breaths, and his desperate, needy whimpers. When he comes, it’s shuddering and loud—hips bucking wildly, mouth open in a ragged cry. 

You collapse against him, breathless, hearts pounding together in a thunderous rhythm. He pulls you close, lips brushing your hair, whispering your name like a prayer. And you hate that you don’t want this to end.

10 ── You hate that you love him.

You told yourself it wasn’t possible.

Not with Park Sunghoon—Mr. Always-Late, Mr. Aw‑Shucks, Mr. Exclusive‑Scoop Superman. The man who made you roll your eyes before you even opened his email. The man who kept secrets that could’ve rewritten your career. The man you once swore you'd never let in.

And now you’re waking up tangled in his arms, back pressed against his chest, his breath warm against your neck. He’s asleep—still shirtless, still soft beneath the weighted duvet like he’s the one who needs comfort, not the other way around. Your mind whips through all the reasons you shouldn’t feel this calm. This safe. This full.

You hate him.

You hate how he made you laugh at that stupid coffee joke you said while complaining about the crime desk. You hate how he trails kisses along your eyelids when you’re half-awake just to check if you're really real. You hate that he’s Superman—because knowing he could see the world in one blink, yet he chooses to stay here, beside you… it almost hurts.

You roll over carefully and catch his gaze.

He blinks. “Morning.” His voice is rough, like he’s just been dragged out of a dream you wish you were in too.

You raise an eyebrow. “Morning? You know you’re not even supposed to exist before 8, right?”

He grins softly, stretching, then wraps an arm around you again. “I got a day off,” He says. “Superman’s on vacation.”

Your lips twitch. “Vacation. That’s rich.”

He chuckles into your shoulder. “So you don’t mind.”

You scoot back enough to face him. “I mind that you’re gorgeous at 7 a.m. and I can't even hate you for it.”

He quirks his mouth. “Sorry.”

“Oh no, it’s fine.” You tap the bridge of his nose with a finger. “Let the world survive without Superman for one day. Let me hate you slightly less.”

He laughs, and it’s the softest thing in the room. Your chest tightens. You’ve hated him for a lot of things—his lateness, his lies, his speed-of-light heroism—but none of it compares to the strange ache of joy when he smiles at you this way.

“We should get breakfast,” He says, voice low like he’s testing gravity. “I know this place downtown that has killer cinnamon rolls.”

You sit up. Hair messy, pajamas rumpled. You cross your arms. “I hate cinnamon rolls.”

He scowls in mock horror. “No real human hates cinnamon rolls.” Then softer: “Fine. We’ll go anywhere you like.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’ve lived decades off burnt coffee and reuse foam. I don’t crave anything sweet.”

He’s thoughtful for just a beat. “Okay. Black coffee and stale bagels it is.”

A grin tugs at your lips. It’s so utterly him to tease. So… effortless. You're flooded with old habits—cynicism, sarcasm—and they feel braver than you thought.

But then his thumb brushes gently over your hand. And underneath the banter you suddenly realize how loud your heart is.

You clear your throat. “But seriously—I still hate you.” You lie.

He stills beside you. A small smile covers his face.Heartbeat thunders under his palm. “You know,” he says quietly, voice cracking just a little, “I hate how worried I get when you pull investigative duty alone.”

Your gut clenches. “You’ll fly here if anything happens.”

He nods. “In five seconds.”

You stare at him. Really stare. This is not Superman breathing next to you—this is Sunghoon. Vulnerable. Human. Loving.

In that moment, all the hate evaporates.

“We’re a mess,” You laugh softly, looking away.

He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear. “Best mess I’ve ever been in.”

He kisses your temple lightly. Tender. Long. Enough that you’ve lost count of everything you should hate about him.

And you hate that this moment isn’t the end. It’s just the beginning.

taglist: @wonubug @wonwounds @seobmoji @jiumeow @kyoteas @rkvist

it was supposed to be a normal movie night right? just you and jake, tangled up in a mess of blankets on your couch, a half empty bowl of popcorn sitting between you. but the air in the room felt heavy, thick with a tension that had been building for months. jake wasn't watching the screen. he was watching you, his dark eyes tracing the line of your jaw, the way your lips parted slightly as you breathed, the way your oversized shirt slipped off your shoulder.

you knew jake was a bit of a deviant. he didn't exactly hide it from you, his best friend. he’d make offhand, shameless comments about things that should have made you blush, but you’d always laughed them off as jake just being jake. what you didn't know, what you only recently started to piece together, was how deep that fixation went when it came to you.

it started with small things. a look that lingered too long. the way he’d volunteered to do your laundry when you were sick, only for you to notice later that a pair of your lace underwear had mysteriously vanished, never to be found. you’d caught him once, standing in your bedroom when he thought you were in the kitchen, holding a sweater you’d worn the day before, his face buried deep in the fabric, inhaling your scent with a desperate, shaky breath. you hadn't said anything then, too shocked and, if you were being completely honest with yourself, too thrilled by the raw hunger in his eyes to confront him. but tonight, the boundaries were melting away.

jake shifted, shifting closer until his thigh was pressed hard against yours. you could feel the heat radiating off him. when you turned your head to look at him, you found him already staring, his gaze intense, almost agonizingly focused on your mouth.

"you're not even watching," you whispered, your voice cracking slightly under the weight of his stare.

"can't," jake muttered, his voice rougher than usual. "there's something much better to look at right here."

you swallowed hard, your heart hammering against your ribs. "jake, don't do this. we talked about this. we're friends."

"i know," he said, and the sheer desperation in his voice made your stomach flip. he reached out, his long fingers trembling just a little as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind your ear. his thumb brushed against your cheekbone, his skin scorching hot. "i know we're friends, y/n. i swear i try to remember that. but it's driving me fucking insane."

"what is?" you asked, though you already knew the answer.

jake let out a breathless laugh, dropping his hand to rest on the cushion right next to your thigh. "you. everything about you. i spend every single day thinking about you. do you have any idea what i do when i'm alone in my apartment? do you know what i think about?"

you stayed quiet, your breath hitching.

"i think about you," jake confessed, leaning in closer, his scent of cedar and pure warmth overwhelming your senses. "i take your clothes, y/n. that sweater you lost last month? i have it. it's under my pillow. i jerk off into it because it smells like you. i sit on my bed, closing my eyes, imagining it's your hands on me instead of my own. i'm a sick fuck, i know it. i'm a pervert. but i need you so bad it hurts."

the honesty of it, the absolute lack of shame mixed with such raw vulnerability, sent a shivering wave of heat straight to your core. you should have been offended. you should have kicked him out. instead, your thighs rubbed together beneath the blanket, already slick.

"jake," you breathed out, your hands coming up to rest against his chest, feeling the frantic, erratic thumping of his heart. "we can't. if we do this, if we cross this line, there is no going back. i don't want to lose you. you're my best friend."

"i don't want to lose you either," jake said, his forehead coming to rest against yours, his breath mingling with yours. "fucking hell, y/n, you're the best thing in my life. but i'm dying here. just looking at you, touching you like this, it's not enough anymore. i need to feel you. please. just let me have this. let us have this."

"and what happens tomorrow?" you asked, your fingers gripping his shirt, pulling him just a fraction of an inch closer.

"we'll figure it out tomorrow," jake promised, his voice dropping to a needy, pathetic whimper. "just please, y/n. let me." you didn't answer with words. instead, you tilted your head up and closed the small distance between you, pressing your lips to his.

jake let out a choked sound, between a groan and a sob, and instantly took over the kiss. it wasn't a gentle, sweet first kiss. it was a collision. his mouth opened over yours, his tongue sweeping in with a fierce, possessive hunger that left you completely breathless. he gripped your waist with bruising force, pulling you flush against his chest as if he wanted to meld your bodies together.

the popcorn bowl fell to the floor, forgotten, as jake shifted his weight, climbing over you and pinning you to the couch. he broke the kiss for a split second to tear his shirt off, tossing it blindly into the room, before diving right back down to feast on your lips. his skin was burning, slick with a light sweat of pure anticipation.

"y/n, oh god, y/n," jake chanted against your mouth, his hands wandering frantically over your body, bunching up your shirt, his palms rough against your bare skin.

he didn't even wait to take your shorts off. the need in him was too feral, too far gone. he settled himself directly between your thighs, the heavy, rigid length of his erection pressing hard against your center through both layers of your clothes. then, he began to grind.

it was a slow, heavy roll of his hips at first, finding the perfect angle. you let out a loud moan right into his mouth, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist to lock him close. that sound seemed to snap something inside him. the pace turned frantic, desperate, and completely unchecked.

jake dry humped you with a wild, rhythmic urgency that made the entire couch creak beneath you. every downstroke of his hips pressed his hardness perfectly against your aching core, creating a friction so intense you could feel the heat blooming inside you like wildfire. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, biting and sucking at the sensitive skin there, leaving dark marks that you knew would stay for days.

"you feel so good," jake gasped out, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding back. "even through your clothes, you're so warm. y/n, please. look at me."

you forced your heavy eyelids open, staring up into his face. jake looked completely wrecked. his hair was a messy nest, his cheeks were flushed dark red, and his eyes were wide, blown out, and filled with a devotion that made your heart ache just as much as your core.

"i've wanted this for years," jake whispered, his hips continuing their relentless, desperate friction against yours. his movements were getting faster, shorter, his breath hitching as he edged closer to the brink just from the sheer feel of you beneath him. "every single time i looked at you. every time you smiled at me. i'm so sorry i'm like this, y/n. i'm so sorry i'm so dirty for you."

"don't apologize," you whined, arching your back, throwing your head back against the armrest as another heavy roll of his pelvis hit you perfectly. "jake, don't stop. please."

"never," he groaned, his hands moving down to grip your thighs, keeping you pinned, keeping you open for him as he rode your thigh with a pathetic, whimpering sort of desperation. "i'm going to ruin myself for you. i already have."

the sheer friction of his jeans against your thin shorts was driving you insane. you could feel the dampness of your own arousal soaking through the fabric, making the contact even more intense, more electric. jake felt it too. he let out a loud, broken whimper, his hips slamming into yours over and over in a quick, merciless rhythm that had you gripping his bare shoulders for dear life, your nails digging into his skin.

"jake, i'm close, i'm going to," you cried out, your vision blurring as the coil of pleasure tightened to an unbearable point.

"cum for me, y/n. let me feel it," jake begged, his voice cracking. he gave one last, deep, heavy grind, his whole body stiffening as he buried his face in your hair.

the orgasm crashed over you in violent, pulsing waves, making your thighs quiver around his waist. right at that exact moment, with your body squeezing around him through the fabric, jake lost his grip completely. he let out a loud, guttural cry, his hips stuttering into you one, two, three more times before he completely froze, his muscles locking tight as he came hard into his own underwear, the heat of it transferring right through to your skin.

the room fell silent, save for the sound of your loud, synchronized, ragged breathing.

jake collapsed fully against you, his heavy chest rising and falling against yours, his face still hidden in your neck. he didn't move for a long time, just holding you as if you would disappear if he let go. his hands, still resting on your hips, were twitching slightly.

after a few minutes, he slowly lifted his head. the feral, perverted hunger from before was replaced by something incredibly soft, almost anxious. he looked down at you, searching your face, a sudden wave of panic in his eyes.

"did i ruin it?" he whispered, his voice incredibly small. "y/n, please tell me i didn't just ruin everything."

you looked at him, taking in his messy hair, his flushed face, and the absolute devotion shining in his eyes. a soft smile tugged at the corners of your lips. you reached up, cupping his cheek, your thumb wiping away a stray bead of sweat.

"you didn't ruin anything, you idiot," you giggled softly.

jake let out a long, shuddering breath, the tension leaving his shoulders as he leaned heavily into your touch, closing his eyes. "i love you so much. you have no idea. i'm still a creep, though. i'm still keeping that sweater."

you laughed, a bright, bubbly sound that filled the quiet room. "i know you are, jake. we'll talk about your theft problems later. but right now? i think you still owe me a proper round without our clothes on."